#low tide

[dk-thrive]

Twilight Blue. 5:23 to 5:33 am. 52º F, with light rain. May 14, 2026. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. (@dkct25)

[mollybeenoel]

[huariqueje]

Low Tide Antics - Antonia Tyz Peeples

American , b. 1957 -

Oil on linen , 30 x 40 in.

[edinburgh-by-the-sea]

eventide

[zerokissingbooth]

tartaglia/gn!reader, no gendered terms used for reader, hes horny and down bad, masturbation, masochism implied, scent kink implied, he comes quick bc he was pent up

minors/ageless blogs dnf/dni

Recently, Tartaglia's found it hard to think about anything not you. He's been trying to finish paperwork for the past two hours, but his pants have been painfully tight and he's about to snap the very nice pen you bought him in half from how aroused he is.

You had dropped by earlier that day, kissing him so sweetly and promising to see him later for dinner, and all he could think about was the scent of mint clinging to your skin. He desperately wanted to press you against his desk, inhale the smell as his hands roamed...

His dick twitches against his slacks. Fuck it, he thinks, pushing papers aside and making sure the door is locked. He doesn't want to have a grunt or, Celestia forbid, another colleague walk in with his cock in hand. Pantalone already gets flack for doting on his 'favored asset', he doesn't want to find out what would be said about him.

Tartaglia has been around a few times, especially when he was a fresh grunt in the barracks with the other fresh Fatui soldiers, but sex with you was something he cherished. You understood him on a level that drove him crazy: your touch alone could make him cum after a while.

"Shit," he grunts, a stuttered breath leaving him as he finally palms himself. Tartaglia unbuttons his pants and sighs in relief as his dick meets the cool air, the head flushed a bright red as pre oozes at the tip. The dry scrape of his glove against sensitive flesh makes a soft sigh shudder out of him, the uncomfortable sensation just becoming a blurred mess in his increasing arousal. He squeezes his dick just enough to where it hurts and his leg jolts at the thought of it being your hand.

He strokes himself, yearning more for your touch and words. Through the dry burn of his gloved hand, his mind clings to the fading mint in the room. He wants to feel your nails dig deep grooves into his skin, blood stuck under your nails as he ravishes you in your shared bed. He wants you to make him hurt, make him feel it, all while he gives you nothing but pleasure and sensation. He wants to bite you and kiss the mark afterwards while you leave him bruised and battered. A sensation of pain and pleasure for his fucked-up mental.

The one time he wore a cockring while bringing you to orgasm over and over was a high he has since craved; balls aching to release but no, not now. Not when you still had energy to give.

"S-shit," is what he manages to moan out before he's cumming, hips jerking up as he rocks his tip against the rough palm of his gloved hand. It burns and he can feel a dribble of drool from the corner of his mouth as he pulls his hand away, a thin sticky line of cum connecting the fabric to his dick. Tartaglia pants as he comes down from the arousal, idly wondering if you'd be oh so kind and allow him to worship your body when he finally comes home. He'd be a fool to think not.

[grandboute]

Bretagne éternelle

et encore bon anniversaire @amertumedelamer pour une nouvelle année haute en couleurs !

[moonbeampixels]

The low tide 🌕

[biostatprof]

A long Magoito beach