#she so purdy

[n3rd-qu33n-ffxiv]

Rusted Garden

I'm not super fancy when it comes to gposing, but I do like looking at myself. Probably more than I should. My WoL, Z'itlalli.

[twyllodrus]

The Witcher – 3.01 Shaerrawedd / Wiedźmin – 1.07 Dolina Kwiatów

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

CALLED MY WIFEEEEEE [Mj]

[bortmcjorts]

[ID: a sketchy doodle of wheatley, adventure core, space core, and fact core from portal with human bodies and core heads, colored in de-saturated blue, green, yellow, and pink respectively, except the lights in their eyes being brighter. wheatley is tall and fat, wearing a shirt with the leaves rolled up to his elbows, a tie and vest, dress pants, and converse shoes. adventure core is a little shorter and chubby, wearing a fedora, button up shirt, jacket, jeans, and converse. he has one hand resting on his hip and his eye is half lidded. space core is shorter and fat, wearing a jumpsuit over a collared shirt and converse, and looking up excitedly. fact core is shortest and thin, wearing shirt, sweater vest, bow tie, dress pants, and converse, with his hands behind his back. their outfits are copied from the (unauthorized) musical. end ID]

good morning aperture 🎶

[bbugsy]

better than I could have ever imagined 😸

[happyfunf3tti]

watched the sequel to dirdy birdy and um

[batfossil-fr]

delicious. scrumptious. flavorsome. delectable. yummy

Cyoll

[jordanthecomeback]

Walked past Reza at the record store across the venue like three times and I was SO normal about it.

[thecampjuicebox]

Imnea Despar

Imnea is my BG3 OC, not a Tav

[sweet-beezus]

Fuck you *birbifies my OC*

[housewifebuck]

I would totally love to see your non Fandom art! And I love shoving pics of my pets at ppl

Those are two different Grey cats I swear!

Omg ur dog is broken….

[hydrangeaz]

[deadlynightshcde-a]

guess who's replaying origins for the 86545678 time.

[nctadoll]

         Y’all ever just look at your muse and fall in love ?

[headspace-hotel]

I hate a lot of trends in climate-change-aware nature writing, but this is one I particularly detest: works insisting that we live in a "post-natural" world.

The lostness, bewilderment, aching, and searching in this piece is understood by the author to be an all-consuming and universal dysphoria, when it is actually a highly specific predicament that the author put himself into: He tried to understand the universe exclusively through the point of view of white people.

I mean that Purdy takes the colonizer point of view without realizing that it is a colonizer point of view. He thinks the colonizer point of view is a universal document of the authentic, naive encounter of "humanity" with "nature," instead of burning wreckage left over from the apocalyptic destruction of a rainbow of ideas and cultures.

It feels weird to be talking about this as a white person, but it shouldn't, any more than it should feel weird to say (as a white person) that aliens didn't build the pyramids.

Very little of what he's writing about would exist or make sense without European colonization of the world. Purdy constantly says "we" and "our" in reference to things that are very restricted to a particular cultural point of view, as if totally oblivious to the idea that other cultures and other perspectives even exist. When he searches for historical references to chart "human" relationship with nature, history goes like this: Pre-Christian religion in the British Isles->British monarchy-> George Washington-> Industrial Revolution->Thoreau.

He manages to repeatedly stumble over giant hunks of colonialism embedded in every concept he's thinking about, like boulders obstructing a pathway, and pretends so hard that they don't exist that his points are janky and meandering. For example, his discussion of Helen Macdonald's book H for Hawk, touching upon human identification with the landscape and with non-human "nature," blunders into this:

Those who love (certain parts of) nature are often making a point of preferring it to (certain kinds of) human beings. The problem is not only literary. Macdonald describes an encounter with a retired couple who join her in admiring a valley full of deer, then remark how good it is to see “a real bit of Old England still left, despite all these immigrants coming in.” She does not reply, but is miserable afterward. The meaning of landscapes is always someone’s meaning in particular. Confronted with all of this, Macdonald tries to shake off the complicities of her own identification with the terrain: “I wish that we would not fight for landscapes that remind us of who we think we are. I wish we would fight, instead, for landscapes buzzing and glowing with life in all its variousness.” The alternative that Macdonald wishes for is, of course, not an escape from political-cultural projection onto landscape, but another approach to that same practice — really, the only one a 21st-century cosmopolitan is likely to feel comfortable embracing. 

AND THEN HE JUST SEGUES INTO THE NEXT POINT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. Like don't worry about it :) We will simply project onto landscapes in a non-racist way :) because we aren't racist anymore in the 21st century :)

The next book he discusses is Landmarks by Robert MacFarlane, which is basically about how the vocabulary of landscape in English is sterilized and monoculturized, and contrasts that with Scots Gaelic. This is how Purdy explains the thesis of the book:

 Our sense of what lies outside ourselves has been blunted by “capital, apathy, and urbanization” — enemies likely to draw a range of friends, from cultural Marxists to Little Englanders to those who would like to see a bit more effort, please. But behind this scholarly sketch, Macfarlane’s work is testament to a pretheoretical obsession with unfamiliar ways of encountering places. We disenchanted and distracted (post)moderns describe terrain, he complains, in terms of “large, generic units” such as “field,” “hill,” “valley,” and “wood." (...) Many people who have lived intimately with landscapes have had words for nuances of form, texture, and use. Macfarlane’s purpose in Landmarksis to gather these words as proof of how precisely it is possible to name a place, and so, perforce, to know it.

Why is Gaelic endangered? Because of an effort to extinguish its speakers' culture. This article I found on it talks about the history of the language's decline, and it's strikingly similar to what happened to indigenous people in the Americas and Australia, with children being put in schools where they were beaten with sticks for speaking their native language.

This whole essay is about Purdy's general disappointment with nature writing, his craving for an ineffable Something, some sort of magical, primitive identification with the natural world. In the very first paragraph he claims that the pictures of animals on nursery walls are "totemic" and quotes a guy saying that zoos are an "epitaph" to the relationship between people and animals. It's never very clear what he means, but he uses the term "animism" repeatedly, such as when he says this about MacFarlane's goal in writing Landmarks:

His quarry is an animistic sense that Barry Lopez once identified in “the moment when the thing — the hill, the tarn . . . ceases to be a thing, and becomes something that knows we are there."

Given that ambition, Landmarks, which Macfarlane calls a “counter-desecration phrasebook,” can be disappointingly thin as a lexicon. Too many of the terms are simply dialect or Gaelic for some generic form, such as “slope,” “hilltop,” “stream,” or “tuft of grass.” The effect is less pointing out how many things there are to see than cataloguing how many names there are for the same thing.

This is Purdy missing the point, perfectly crystallized as though frozen in amber. He is oblivious to the clear subtext of a language showing a culture's connection to its home, and of the violence against that culture. The Gaelic language doesn't make him feel primal and mystical the way he wants it to, therefore it doesn't mean anything to him. MacFarlane doesn't make him feel a magic animistic connection to nature, therefore his book must have failed at its task.

Who gives a shit? Gaelic isn't FOR you.

He discusses another book about a guy that hikes a bunch of Cherokee trails, but I don't know what to say about that one, observing it through the sludge of the reviewer's unwillingness to recognize that historical context exists. He summarizes his disappointment in a confusing way, using the Gaelic language as a symbol for an obscure and inaccessible place where the answer to your personal emotional cravings lives (???) Then he talks about a kind of epistemicide, or extinction of knowing, of nature, but again, totally oblivious to any relationship to colonization.

Every inhabited continent has been denuded of ecosystems and species. Most North American places have shed wolves, elk, moose, brown bears, panthers, bison, and a variety of fish and wild plants, which were all abundant four hundred years ago. 

Wow, I wonder what happened four hundred years ago?

This writing acts like the dominant Eurocentric attitude towards the world is universal, but the author is haunted by this nameless specter of the possibility of a different way of thinking, which he treats as some kind of mystical, primordial state hidden in the past instead of just a different cultural perspective.

Not only does he not recognize that his own cultural perspective of Nature is dysfunctional and unsatisfying because it was created by exploitation and genocide of other cultures and their symbiotic relationships, he acts like other perspectives don't exist. Take his perspective on forests and the mycorrhizal network:

Wohlleben’s emphasis on interdependence and mutual aid is part of a recent tendency to recast nature in an egalitarian fashion — as cooperative, nonindividualist, and, often enough, hybrid and queer, in contrast to the oaks of generals and kings. Nature does answer faithfully to the imaginative imperatives and limitations of its observers, so it was inevitable that after centuries of viewing forests as kingdoms, then as factories (and, along the way, as cathedrals for Romantic sentiment), the 21st century would discover a networked information system under the leaves and humus, what Wohlleben calls, with an impressive lack of embarrassment, a “wood wide web.”

Listen, I don't think this is accurate to how Europeans thought of forests throughout time, let alone "humanity" in general. The emphasis of power and competition in ecosystems emerged after Darwin, in collusion with capitalism and "race science." Trees have been symbols of life, wisdom and selflessness, and regarded as sacred or even sentient, for centuries before that. But on top of that, this is just blatantly pretending that only white people's ideas count as ideas.

It's the same dreck as all the other "literary" writing about climate change: self-pityingly and unproductively mourning "Nature" and a fantasized "wild" state of the Earth, ignoring colonialism, treating human influence of any kind on other life forms as something that either destroys them or makes them soft and "tame."

I'm tired of reading nature writing from people that obviously do not go outside, or if they do, they do it in such a suffocatingly regimented, goal-oriented way that they can't just sit outside and relax.

Maybe I shouldn't be such a hater if I want to do nature writing. But my love of nature is WHY I am a hater.

[awritessomething]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 | brock purdy x fem!reader

requests

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | after the loss at the Super Bowl, Brock is understandably mad. His wife is there for him.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | smut, pre-established relationship, use of Y/N, piv, unprotected sex, riding, switch!brock, soft!dom!reader, oral m!receiving, fingering, pet names, swearing praise, crying, lots of aftercare, fluff, angsty, sad!brock

My birthday was recently and the first thing I said on it was (no joke) “Brock purdy has a fat ass” WHAT.

Touchdown.

The long game that had been 22-19 (49ers lead) was ruined. The score was now 22-25. The Kansas City Chiefs won the Super Bowl. Cameras panned to where the Chiefs celebrated. They showed Taylor Swift celebrating in the crowd.

They didn’t show the way Brock Purdys wife just immediately dropped to her seat. She put her head in her hands. It wasn’t that she was the one who was sad, it was that she was sad for Brock. He had played amazingly and it was all seemingly for nothing.

Everything was painful after that. The interviews, the autographs, everything. Y/N had pushed her way through the crowds to get to her husband. A security guard who hadn’t recognized her tried to stop her, but he failed. Brock was still a little bit in shock from the loss. Three seconds. Three seconds from a win.

The second that Y/N had his arms around him, it took everything not to break down. He clung to his wife, hiding his face in her hair as he tried not to shake so much. His arms were around her as his fingers were curling around her sweater.

She pulled back slightly to look at him, running her hand through his hair. She kissed him, feeling how shaky his breathing was. He was sweaty and a little bit gross smelling, but that was the least of her concerns.

The moment that they had the opportunity, the couple left. They went back to their hotel. Y/N held onto his hand, pushing her way through the crowds of fans or paparazzi. She wasn’t too worried about her reputation. Her elbow went out, jabbing anyone who got in their way as they went to their hotel.

Brock kept his eyes on her to try and ignore whatever else was happening. They went up to their hotel room and then she kissed him again.

“You did amazing today, baby.” She whispered to him. Brock rested his forehead against hers and sighed.

“I didn’t win though. It was just three se-”

“Shh, you did great.” She put her finger to his lips. She gave him a smile. “Think of it like this: you were three seconds away from winning.” She tried to reword it, but it kind of just sounded the same. Brock frowned.

“I need a shower.”

“Yeah, you do.” She laughed lightly and put her hand on his chest to push him towards the washroom. She opened the door for him and ran the water. It was rare for Brock to be getting the princess treatment. It wasn’t like he was going to complain though. Brock sat on the toilet seat while he waited. She stood beside the shower door, occasionally checking the water with her hand. She motioned for him to come.

Brock walked over to his wife. She looked up at him. Her hand touched his chest again as she frowned, feeling horrible for what he was experiencing. She pulled his shirt off of him. It was a bit of a hassle seeing as Brock was a 6’1 quarterback and she was… not. She had to do a bit of a hop to get it off of his arms.

He was unbelievably sore from the game. His whole body ached and he just wanted to lay down. Y/N got her husband under the water once she was also undressed. He looked down at her like she was the only reason why he was alive. Y/N knew how Brock wanted to just sit down and rest for a moment. She stepped out of the shower and snooped around for a moment. She found a little chair thing that seemed to be for old people or something. She grabbed it and got it in the shower.

“What is that?” Brock was confused when his wife walked into the shower, wrestling with some chair. She grunted and set it down, stumbling. Brock grabbed her waist to keep her from slipping.

“Sit.” She muttered, pointing at the chair. He frowned.

“Y/N-”

“Sit your ass in the chair.”

He sat.

Y/N grabbed the mini shampoo bottles and sat on his lap. She looked at him and touched his cheek softly before sighing. She stood back up for a moment and got the shower head. She held it in one hand, the shampoo bottles in the other.

Brock looked at his wife, his brows knit together. He looked like a sad puppy. She set the shampoo bottles down between their bodies so she could use both hands. She got his hair completely soaked. Her fingers ran through his hair and he let out a groan, head falling forward into her shoulder. She kissed his collarbone and then got the shampoo, rubbing it into his scalp. She massaged his scalp, her manicured nails scraping against his skin, relieving him of some of his tension. His fingers gripped at her hips.

Y/N whispered soft praises to her husband as she felt him begin to calm down in her arms. She kissed his collarbone softly and his cheeks too. His nose was her personal favorite to kiss.

She had washed him completely. His hair, his face, his whole body. Her hands hadn’t missed a single spot of him. They got out of the shower. Brock promised to repay her another time. She knew that he just meant he would repay her with a shower like that. She found that funny, since he did it often.

They laid down together in their hotel bed. Brock’s hair was still wet. Y/N had put her hair into the shower cap, since her hair had been perfectly fine before. They laid there in silence. She had her arms around him. His head was on her chest, nose nestled in the valley between her breasts.

Brocks fingers ran down Y/Ns waist, brushing over the bump of her hip showing where her bone was. Y/N shifted slightly beneath him. He lifted his head slightly.

“Whats wrong?” He asked, concerned.

“Nothing, baby. Aren’t you tired though?”

“Mm… not too tired for you.” He smiled and leaned down to kiss her. The first smile of the night. How could she resist? She kissed him back, fingers pushing into his damp hair. Y/N put her hand on him and managed to push him onto his back. It was easier to push him around in bed than on the field.

Her knees were on both sides of his legs. She arched her back and her chest pressed against his as their kisses grew more desperate. Brock, who was normally the top, was of course trying to get over her again. She tsked softly and kept him under her.

“You did enough work today. Let me take care of you, ok?” She whispered against his lips. Brock groaned and his eyes screwed shut as he felt her press her palm against his crotch. He bucked his hips up towards her hand. Y/N smiled and then pulled away, making her way between his legs. She pulled off his pajama bottoms and threw them aside. Brock watched her with glazed over eyes.

Her hand wrapped around his cock and his eyes screwed shut. It had been a while since they had sex. He had been too busy at practice and she had been working a lot recently. It must’ve been close to two or three months since the last time they had a chance to even touch themselves.

Y/N leaned forward and kissed his tip. He was long, maybe around 7.5 inches, yet on the slightly thinner side. There was a vein that went from the base of his cock and almost to his tip. His tip was a pretty soft pink. There was a beauty mark right on the spot where the tip of her nose ended up when she deep-throated him.

Brock reached down and stroked her hair softly as she took him into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around his cock. She treated him as if she was an artist and he was a sugar cube that she wanted to carve artwork into without turning it into just powder. Brock’s head fell back in complete and utter bliss. She knew exactly how to please him. On many occasions, when Brock was away for a longer time, he would try to mimic what she did. He would try to do the things she did to him. She tried the way she gave him handjobs, but it was harder to cum by his own hand.

Y/N knew his body like the back of her own hand. Brock forced his eyes open as he gazed down at her, his eyes filled with just pure adoration. He loved his wife more than anything. She looked up at him as she sucked on his tip. Then she lowered her head back down. The tip of her nose pushed against that beauty mark.

Her hands gave his balls a soft squeeze, urging him to cum. Brock’s back arched slightly off the bed as he bit his lip. He had his hand on the back of her head as he was about to push her head a bit. She took his hand off of her head and just held if instead. Her eyes met his as she held his hand. The soft and loving act mixed with the way their bodies connected in such an intimate way was enough for Brock to be pushed over the edge.

His climax swept over him in waves, and she could taste it. Not waves as in the soft waves on a lake made by some rain, but the waves in the middle of the North Sea. Brock went to pull his hand away to try to hold back his moans, but she didn’t allow it. His head fell to the side as he panted and groaned. A whine came from his lips the moment she pulled off of him.

“Thank you,” Brock whispered as his wife stuck out her tongue to show that she swallowed. It wasn’t like he would do anything if she didn’t swallow, it was just out of habit. His hands reached for her desperately, in need of her warmth, in need of her love and attention.

Y/N hummed in response to his thanks. She leaned down and kissed him again, making him taste himself on her tongue. Brock grunted at the taste. Her hand was already around his cock again, slowly jerking him off. He jolted at the extra stimulation. His hand instinctively grabbed her wrist as his eyes rolled back.

Slowly but surely, Y/N managed to ease herself onto his cock. About halfway down, she was whimpering and burying her face in the crook of his neck. No matter how much they did this, she couldn’t get used to the sheer length of him. Brock closed his eyes as his hands gripped her hips, urging her to take him further. She slid down the other half with just a quick drop.

“Oh my- fuck!” She moaned and her nails dug into his shoulder. The man who sat under her looked at her, eyes half lidded. His eyes were clouded with love and desire. He leaned forward to kiss her while he tightened his grip on her waist to guide her to slowly roll her hips on his. Y/N trembled but eventually the stinging pain went away. Her eyes rolled back from the way he filled her up completely. His ring was cold on her ass. Her ring was cold on the nape of his neck.

Brock grunted as he thrusted weakly up into her. He was too tired for much of an effort.

He promised to himself and to his wife that he would make it up. He would last longer. Being only three or so minutes in, he was already fighting back his orgasm. His nose was in the crook of her neck as he held his wife as close as possible. Usually, their sex had a bit more energy. Not tonight. Just the soft rolling and grinding of their hips. Y/N had her eyes closed as she let out quiet breathy moans. Just the feeling of him that close could get her to cum.

Brock had let go of her hips. He was basically just hugging her now. His arms were around her waist. His breathing grew more ragged as time went on. She knew his body far too well. She knew what every type of his breathing meant and she knew he was close. His cock twitched inside of her.

“Come on, B.” She whispered to him, kissing his neck softly before leaning back to look at him. His cheeks were red, his lips were puffy. He looked absolutely flawless. His chest was heaving and his eyes screwed shut as he instinctively tried to hide his face from her as he was about to cum. Y/N grabbed his wrists and just held his hands, not allowing him to hide.

Brock’s orgasm hit him like a truck. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body twitched. His hips bucked up into her and she nearly fell off of him, but she grabbed the headboard to stay stable.

Y/N continued rolling her hips for a moment longer to help him ride out his orgasm. His eyes shot open as his abs rolled and his muscles flexed. He held her still.

“Did you cum?” He asked once he had calmed.

“Its ok, baby. Tonight was about you.” She reminded him softly. Brock frowned and pulled her off of his cock.

“No, come on. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He muttered as he laid her on the bed. He moved so that he was behind her. Y/N had her back pressed against his chest. His hand slipped down between her thighs.

Her back arched the moment he touched her clit. His hands were aching and his muscles screamed in protest, but he still pushed two fingers into her entrance. She swallowed him up gladly. Brock kissed her jaw as he pumped his fingers deep into her.

“Brock- baby, I cant-” Y/N gasped as her thighs shook and clamped around his hand. He used his other hand to pin her hips to him, taking away her ability to move. It was times like these that she realized that he could really push her around without even blinking.

His thumb toyed with her clit as he added a third finger into her pussy. She gasped and her whole body shook. Brock smirked and sped up.

Her eyes closed as she leaned her head back onto his shoulder. It wasn’t just Y/N who knew his body. Brock knew hers. He knew this was her trying to prepare herself to cum. He also knew he didn’t want her to be all that prepared. His fingers curled and she nearly screamed his name. He immediately clasped his other hand over her mouth to muffle her a bit.

Her hips bucked up into his hand, riding his fingers as she came. Brock hummed in satisfaction and then pulled out his fingers. He kissed her softly, then kicked his fingers clean as he stood up and went to grab a towel.

Even though he had been the one being comforted earlier, he always wanted to be the one to treat her after sex. He cleaned off her body with the wet cloth and then did the same for himself. He dried her off, then himself. Always himself second. Wife first.

Brock climbed into the bed with her and for once, neither minded the overwhelming smell. Her arms were immediately around him as she laid on him for a second. Then she sat up.

“Are you feeling any better?” Y/N asked him softly. Brock cleared his throat nervously. He knew he couldn’t successfully lie to her. May as well try though.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He lied through his teeth. Y/N opened her arms. Brock frowned, then he moved into them. They hugged, but she never let go. The continuing feeling of her love and the warmth of her comfort was too much. He finally broke down, sobbing as he held her.

They both knew it was bound to happen. Her fingers raked through his short hair as she worked to comfort him. Maybe the next Super Bowl would work in his favor.