#but then we're really warm

[bunnyboy-juice]

WEEEEEEEEEE

[tumbleweed-run]

Still

Gale/Reader 2nd Person POV

You serve as a cock warmer for Gale back home in Waterdeep.

(Warning: cock warming, creampie, and breeding kink(vague but added for safety)

“Gale,” a whine escapes from you against your will. If you had any sense left you’d be ashamed of how needy you sound, but sense had abandoned you long ago. It feels as if you’ve been like this for hours

“A little longer,” Gale coos distractedly into your ear. Despite his words, he keeps writing with no sign of stopping. 

Despite the fact it isn’t particularly a warm day a thin sheen of perspiration has coated your entire body. Wearily, you drop your head onto Gale’s shoulder and focus on the sounds of the wave crashing below the balcony. A breeze dances across your naked skin, teasing relief for just a brief moment before the air is still once again. You inhale shakily, allowing your eyes to drift shut as you try to relax. Every muscle in your body is drawn, taught with the effort it’s taking not to move. 

Gale seems oblivious but there’s no way he truly could be. (gods you hope not) The only thing that gives him away is his cock, rock hard and buried deeply inside of you. The rest of him seems unaffected and focused on whatever it is he’s writing. Unlike you, he’s fully dressed, only the placket of his trousers is undone, allowing his cock to nestle inside of you.

It’s not painful but gods, do you ache. He feels impossibly deep, as if your bodies have settled around each other and yours has drawn him in further than he’s ever been. There’s a burn deep inside your belly, too, and your half convinced the second Gale begins to move that you’ll come immediately. You want to move so badly, it wouldn’t take much to just rock against him. You’re finding it hard to think of anything else. 

At first, you’d tried teasing him. Fluttering your cunt around his cock in an effort to distract him, but Gale would have none of it. His only acknowledgment of your efforts was a quick pinch to your nipple before dropping his arm down around your waist. He might not be holding you down, but the promise is there if you were brave enough to try moving on him. The closest your daring had gotten was a shiver as you realized. 

So you sit, aching and trying desperately not to whimper as the only movement from Gale is the gentle sway of his arm as he writes. 

You don’t even notice when it stops at first until he drops his quill. The sound like a bomb in the silence. Somehow your body manages to tense even more in anticipation. 

“You’ve been so good for me,” Gale praises softly in your ear, his voice rumbling his chest at your back.

Your body trembles. You’re not sure if it's from anticipation or exhaustion. 

“What do you want my love?” He asks softly, the hand from around your waist gently smoothing up and down your stomach. 

“To move,” you’re nearly begging. 

Gale laughs. “Since you were amazing, how about I move?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead both of his hands drop to your hips as he gently rocks his own upwards. Realistically you know he can go no deeper but the movement alone is such a relief that you almost sob. It doesn’t take much - only a few more thrusts and his hand dipping down between your folds. His fingers barely brush against your clit before you’re sobbing loudly as you come. Gale holds you tight against him, rocking you through the waves of your orgasm. 

Once they subside, your body becomes lax, your muscles no longer willing or able to hold you up. Gale isn’t deterred. Instead, he grips onto your hips and lifts you slightly - beginning to fuck into you in earnest. He’s chasing his own orgasm now, each stroke upwards is simply for his own pleasure. And you allow him body limp, head lulled back onto his broad shoulder jostling with each movement. The slick sounds of his cock pistoning in and out of you fill the room, drowning out even the sounds of the waves below. 

It should be degrading, the way Gale’s using your body. 

You love it. 

“So perfect,” he grunts into your ear, “so perfect and soft for me.”

Everything you know about this man tells you he’s close. From the rippling of his stomach against your back, to the way his moans are punched from him. You’re entire body is bouncing with each thrust, his hands move behind your thighs opening you wider for him. Gale comes with a thrust so hard that his entire chair scrapes against the floor as it moves with the force. You can feel him spending into you, warm pulses paint your insides. You can’t do much but whimper as he pins you against his thighs as he fills you. 

“So perfect,” he whispers this time, a few minutes later as your skin cools in the evening air, “you are so perfect.”

[fisheito]

Edmond tryin to start 4 chapters of [I'm avoiding you for your own good] misunderstandings but eiden's having none of that

[wlw-cryptid]

i- uhm . hgnj, hbgnjmkgh bhnjgmkh you. made me wet. im keeping this in the vault forever

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

be ADHD > make tea > while the tea steeps switch your laundry > might as well fold the new stuff > start folding > my hands are dry > put my little crochet gloves on > realize i'm about to fold something that goes on a hanger > get up to go put it on the coat pile > cat found a spider > kill the spider > cat is now playful > play with cat > oh wait my laundry! > finish folding laundry > cat still wants to play > chase cat > throw ball for cat > sit down bc she called a break > get interested in current Psych episode > hey im really thirsty > get up to get water > MY FUCKING TEA!!!!!

[rielzero]

sleep token invading my brain and all i can think about is these stupid vampire queer elves doing tender lovin'

anyway wip in between all the other projects on my table

fuck me i guess

[littlehouseoftrinkets]

Okay so like if Noir's universe in the movie is seemingly completely monochrome greyscale, do you think that they have their own naming conventions for all the different values? Being that it's literally their only frame of reference for the world, I think they'd get pretty specific in what they call all the different greys like we do for the chromatic scale. It'd confuse the fuck out of the other spiders too lol, they're used to Noir getting confused by color names but then get utterly baffled themselves when they show him an old b&w photograph and he calls all the tints and shades by names they've never heard of before.

Also with his world being monochrome I'd imagine the people there are REALLY good at separating values that others with color vision might not be able to differentiate. I HC his night vision is way better than most other spiderpeoples too,, while most outsiders wouldn't be able to make out much in the dramatic black shadowing of his universe, to him he could pick out the subtle dark greys that lay within it.

[puckpocketed]

17/12/2023 Pittsburgh Penguins vs Toronto Maple Leafs

The Summer I Fell For Hockey - Sidney Crosby: Perspectives From a Stargazer

It’s the weekend after I decided that ice hockey would have my heart forever, I’ve copped the $22 NHL.tv subscription, and I’m waiting for the Seattle Kraken game at 2. In the meantime, I throw on the Penguins vs Leafs as I make breakfast and coffee. The brief Sportsnet pregame segment blares to life on the livestream feed as I measure out my beans on the scales and crack them open in my manual grinder. It’s a gorgeous Australian summer’s day; balmy warm sunshine and a chill wind to beckon me outside — but I’m at home and I’ve got my squeeze bottle of balsamic glaze for my eggs, and Sidney Crosby is settling in for the face-off.

Crosby is a name I knew long before I watched my very first hockey match. He’s one of those generational talents whose presence alters the landscape of the game, to the point — to borrow a phrase from the Tumblr blogosphere — he breaks containment. He’s more than a name: he’s the face of a franchise, and arguably the entire sport. The myth around this man has me remembering all the other greats that I’ve admired throughout the years. Faker. Roger Federer. In all cases I’ve caught them in the unexpected twilight of their careers, and the addition of Crosby makes it a hat trick. I say ‘twilight’ because they were all holding on to greatness when I first saw them, to the thing they love; ‘unexpected’ because, well, no one thought they’d be around for so long at that point in their careers. I always seem to come upon them in the in-between; while they’re still performing well but they’re not at their peak anymore; when the media and the fans and, seemingly, the entire world has turned a single, searing eye on them to ask, “Why are you still here? Isn’t this going to get embarrassing soon?”

Crosby’s got a lethal backhand shot, same as Federer. He’s a three-time champion looking for one more trophy to herald the swan song of his career, just like when I first began following Faker. If I was making this up, I couldn’t make the poetry of it rhyme as well as this reality. And the Pens aren’t my team the way the Kraken and the Sharks are — but Crosby’s got me by the throat the way all ageing stars do: I look at him with a mix of pity and contempt; respect and awe — and I’m bracing for the impact of when he goes supernova and retires. He’s got his weird routines; peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the same time every game day, the exact same on-ice warmup, and a truly egregious playoffs beard. He’s obsessed with the game, his mind is still sharp and his heart still beats a hungry tattoo against his ribcage, roaring for one last season, one last shot at winning it all — even as his team morphs into something nearly unrecognisable and his body fails to keep up.

“Bias-wrecker” is the phraseology that K-pop fans use for people like Crosby. It means, in short, that though you have your favourites, there’s someone out there who’ll turn your head no matter what. Crosby’s story is what Oscar-bait biopics are made of. On a more personal level Crosby himself is the exact kind of star I’ve always watched: a bit past their prime, revered and reviled all at once, and so fucking interesting that you can’t help but look. So, I can’t not watch the Pens.

Last year when Faker got reverse swept by his old rival and schoolmate Deft, I laughed and cried — both for him and at him. It was close, and the burn of defeat was all the more bittersweet for it. Today, in some throwaway match in the middle of the NHL’s regular season, it’s not close at all. The Leafs notably have their best scorer benched due to illness, and just a few days ago the Pens won a marathon 12 round shootout against the Habs. Theoretically, with morale high and Auston Matthews MIA, this should at least be competitive. Instead, I sit in the Penguins’ liveblog tag and watch the despondent posts roll in as goal after goal is left unanswered.

The Pens power play, which hinges on the Malkin-Crosby battery, is underperforming by a country mile this season. I don’t need to know the stat to tell. In the microcosm of this singular game, the gaps are evident. If I was an unkind reporter, I’d probably say: they fumble passes to each other and seem unwilling to shoot when they do connect; they’re shaken each time they lose possession of the puck and sloppy to recover. But there’s more to this story than the 0-7 scoreline — it doesn’t exist in a vacuum, nothing ever does.

The game is as close to bloody as a game can get without any blood being drawn. I watch hit after hit, checks that verge on illegality, penalties that never get called. Memorably, there’s Crosby getting high sticked behind the goal, and the refs completely missing it. Within five minutes, gloves get dropped for the first brawl of the match. It isn’t the last. Multiple almost-incidents thicken the air, the buzz of unbroken violence a constant threat in the background.

A small tangent: this is how frustration manifests itself in ice hockey. I think that’s why I’m so drawn to it; why I fell so hard and fast after I watched my first fight. Tennis players break their rackets, gamers slam their desks, but hockey players try to punch each other’s lights out. There’s something so real and embodied about the controlled violence of it — the unspoken rules, the way refs will let them play out until someone hits the ice, the implicit finality of a fight being truly over once it’s over, the players accepting the results and consequences no matter what.

Ethically, I don’t believe in retributive justice; but artistically, aesthetically, and in the most literary sense? As I’ve said before in a shitpost: there’s a beauty and a narrative resonance to the way hockey players go about it. There’s honour in putting your body on the line for a teammate, spilling blood to demonstrate that you’ll defend your brothers on the ice, dropping gloves and taking the penalty to show the other team that you won’t tolerate disrespect and you see their wrongs even if the refs didn’t. The game buzzer sounds with the Pens getting shut out of the scoreboard, and though they aren’t my team I’m there with the fans who are live blogging the loss and my heart is breaking with them.

In esports, we have this running joke about international tournaments: we say “the script is really good this year” whenever something too good or too interesting to be real happens, something from right out of a movie plot, all-is-lost to rising action to climax to denouement. I hope, for the Penguins and for Crosby and Letang and Malkin — for the core that Crosby’s managed to take with him this far into the twilight of his career — that this is their all-is-lost moment. This year at Worlds, coming back from last year’s devastating loss and a half-year injury that kept him from playing, Faker won his fourth championship and hoisted the Summoner’s Cup one more time. Roger Federer retired long after his last Grand Slam win; but his last match was played right beside his beloved friend and rival Rafael Nadal — after years of being plagued with injuries, he went out on his own terms.

I don’t know enough about hockey yet to actually make a sound prediction on where the Pens will fall on the table at the end of all this, I don’t know if that day will ever come. But it’s been just over a week, and I’m all-in on this wondrous, brutal sport, and what I do know about is story arcs, and stargazing, and that real life sometimes rhymes.

All I can say is — I hope the script is good this year, I hope that Crosby gets his denouement.

[karda]

hi i hope ur ok ily

MICHAELLLLLL AUGHG

live dog reaction to me seeing this at work

[josecariohca]

.

[dragon-subway]

so my desk is right by the window facing west so i get the afternoon and evening sun (my bed is sheilded from this by my wardrobe) and i just got my hair cut all the way down soooo due to the way i usually sit ive been enjoying the sun warming up the back of my head neck n shoulders n its been super nice, especially since its spring and anywhere outside the direct sunlight is actually still pretty chilly

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i love driving on perilous roads at night when it's just me and my good friend Cars Behind Me

[paranorahjones]

you know it's bad when you start journaling about him

[silverselfshippingchaos]

husband... he's so cute...

[twilightarcade]

that's a weird dog

[unnonexistence]

just finished reading the witness for the dead for the first time (i think it permanently altered my brain chemistry) and celehar's dreadful mustard-yellow coat is killing me. it's given as a kindness. he doesn't want it but he needs it. the colour is terrible on him. it fits him perfectly. it doesn't suit his position at all. he takes it off at the first opportunity and leaves it at home. he wishes for it again when he's going through his ordeal. the colour is too stubborn to dye over. it's a fine coat, but it's of no use to him. he takes it to a secondhand store and it sells the first day.