#you’re just feeding the algorithm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

songbirdseung · 3 months ago

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𝑰𝑵 𝑺𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑰𝑵 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑳𝑻𝑯 / 𝑳𝑬𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑼𝑵𝑮

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

The first day of your period is always the worst. The cramps, the headaches, the mood swings, it’s like your body is actively conspiring against you. And today? Today is no exception.

You’re curled up in bed, swaddled in a blanket like a human burrito, aggressively scrolling through your phone as if the screen personally offended you. Every little thing annoys you: the brightness of your screen, the stupid algorithm feeding you videos you don’t want to see, the fact that even breathing feels like too much effort. Your stomach twists painfully, and you groan, tossing your phone aside dramatically.

The bedroom door creaks open.

"Babe?"

You don’t even look up. "What."

Heeseung pokes his head inside, cautiously scanning the room like he’s entering enemy territory. Which, to be fair, he kind of is. He’s a seasoned soldier in this war, though. He’s survived many battles before. he knows exactly what he’s up against.

"I brought snacks," he announces, stepping in and holding up a bag of your favorite chips in one hand and a bar of chocolate in the other, like some kind of peace offering.

You squint at him. "Do I look like I want snacks?"

He blinks, clearly thrown off. "Yes?"

Wrong answer.

"Heeseung, I’m literally dying, and you think snacks are the solution?" you huff, shifting onto your side and burying your face into your pillow. "I hate everything. I hate life. I hate you."

There’s a pause. "You don’t mean that," he says casually, plopping onto the bed beside you despite your apparent wrath.

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. "Try me."

Heeseung sighs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he gently places the snacks on your nightstand and reaches out to touch your arm. "Wanna punch me?"

You blink. "What?"

"You always say you wanna fight someone when you’re on your period," he says matter-of-factly, adjusting his position to face you better. "So go ahead. Get a free hit in."

You narrow your eyes at him, weighing your options. On one hand, smacking him sounds tempting. On the other, he’s the only source of warmth in this house, and you’re freezing despite being buried under layers of blankets.

You groan in frustration before flopping back onto your back. "No. You’re my personal heater. I need you alive."

Heeseung smirks, clearly pleased with your choice. Without another word, he slides under the blanket and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. His body is warm, unfairly so and his familiar scent of fresh laundry and that faint cologne you love instantly soothes your nerves.

"Better?" he murmurs against your hair, his lips brushing your forehead.

You grumble something unintelligible, but the way you instinctively nuzzle into his chest answers his question for him.

Heeseung chuckles softly. "You’re so dramatic."

You lift your head just enough to glare at him again. "Say that again and see what happens."

He lifts his hands in surrender, but there’s a teasing smile on his lips. "Okay, okay. My bad. You’re not dramatic, you’re just… passionately expressive."

"That’s what I thought." You close your eyes, sighing as another wave of cramps hit you. "This sucks."

"I know, baby," he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "You need anything? A heating pad? More snacks? My soul?"

"Your soul would be nice," you mumble sleepily. "But for now, just shut up and keep being warm."

Heeseung grins, tightening his hold on you. "Anything for you."

There’s a comfortable silence as he rubs gentle circles into your lower back, his warmth and presence easing some of your discomfort. You’re already half-asleep when he whispers, "Love you, even when you’re grumpy."

You hum, the corners of your lips twitching up slightly. "Love you too… but if you breathe too loud, I will smother you in your sleep."

Heeseung just laughs, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

He’s been through this before. He’ll survive.

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #heeseung #lee heeseung #heeseung scenarios #heeseung enhypen #heeseung imagines #heeseung lee #heeseung x reader #heeseung enha #enha heeseung

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niwaart · 18 days ago

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Succubus reader <— spectacular. I need more please…

The city pulsed beneath the midnight haze, a restless, breathless thing. Gotham had seen horrors—Joker’s madness, Bane’s strength, Scarecrow’s terror—but this was different. She wasn’t chaos. She was poetry in motion, a predator wrapped in velvet heat and whispered promises. And she never left a trace. Only lips parted in silent gasps and hearts that beat a little too fast in her wake.

She was the succubus in the shadows, the woman no one could catch.

But Batman had made it personal.

“She’s feeding off civilians,” Bruce growled, the glow of the Batcomputer reflecting in his cold eyes. “This city’s barely holding itself together. She doesn’t belong here.”

“You say that like we can actually catch her,” Tim muttered, arms folded. “She’s... fast. And she knows we’re watching.”

Dick leaned against the wall with a lopsided grin. “Fast? Try intoxicating. I ran into her two nights ago in the East End. Thought I had her cornered. Then she—” He cleared his throat, cheeks pink. “Never mind.”

Jason snorted. “She kissed you, didn’t she?”

“Shut up.”

Damian, ever sour and sharp, narrowed his eyes. “She won’t seduce me. I have discipline.”

“Sure, demon spawn,” Jason teased. “Let’s see how long you last.”

She knew they were coming. She always knew.

The moment she stepped into the moonlight, dressed in crimson silk that clung to every line of her wicked grace, they were already there. Eyes from rooftops, from shadows. She could feel them, each heartbeat like a different flavor on her tongue—Bruce’s grim resolve, Dick’s smirking confidence, Tim’s curiosity, Jason’s barely restrained rage, Damian’s fire.

And she craved every one of them.

Dick cornered her near Crime Alley, acrobat’s grace bringing him down just behind her.

“You don’t belong here,” he said. His voice was steady, but his heart stuttered.

She turned, slow and languid, lips curled in amusement. “Neither do you, Nightwing.”

Her eyes glowed like embers. Her hand reached out—not grabbing, not attacking, just brushing his jaw with fingers like silk and sin.

His breath hitched.

She leaned in, her voice a whisper against his neck. “You should smile more, pretty boy.”

Then she was gone. He was left breathless, flushed, and empty-handed. "not again! damn it!"

Jason tracked her through the Narrows, Red Hood’s guns holstered but ready. She stood in a ruined cathedral, framed by shattered glass and silver moonlight.

“End of the road,” he said, voice rough.

She smiled, stepping into his space. “You like chasing monsters, don’t you?”

Jason didn’t move when her hand slid over his chestplate. His body betrayed him. Muscles locked. Heat pooled in his core. Her eyes held his like a vice, voice curling around his mind like smoke.

“I like the broken ones,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

She vanished.

He swore and punched the wall.

Tim used logic, algorithms, heat signatures. He almost had her.

Then she showed up in his safehouse.

“You’re clever,” she said, circling him like a dream, “but tired.”

“I’m not tired,” he snapped, stepping back.

She pressed a hand to his chest. “Liar.”

He blinked—and her lips were inches from his. The warmth of her touch sapped the will from his limbs. Her eyes shimmered with something unearthly, and the part of his mind screaming ‘danger’ was smothered under desire.

He closed his eyes—

—and opened them to an empty room.

She caught Damian off guard. No seduction. Just standing on the rooftop of Wayne Tower, waiting.

“You're not immune,” she said when he drew his blade.

He advanced. “I am focused.”

But when she touched his arm, fire licked up his spine.

“You wear rage like a crown,” she purred. “But you’re still just a boy.”

“I am not—” His voice cracked.

She kissed his cheek with a phantom’s softness. “I’ll let you grow into something lovely.”

He stood frozen as she vanished like mist.

Bruce didn’t come for her. She came to him.

The Batcave was dark, lit only by the blue glow of screens. She walked through it like it was her throne room.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said, voice low.

“I know what you are,” he replied, standing firm. “And I won’t let you win.”

She smiled. “You already did. Every time I touch them... every time their hearts race... you're the one who feels it most. You want me gone because I tempt you.”

Bruce said nothing.

She walked to him, closer than anyone should. He didn’t move.

“You can’t stop desire, Batman,” she whispered. “You only cage it. And cages rust.”

He blinked—and she was gone.

They never caught her.

Every time they came close, she slipped away with a kiss or a whisper. And Gotham, dark and desperate, welcomed her like an old lover.

She wasn’t a villain. Not really.

She was temptation incarnate.

And she wasn’t leaving.

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angelaness · 2 months ago

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140525

Ways to Shift the Angle || It's all about perspective.

1. Go outside ugly.

No makeup. No cute outfit. Just step out. Feel the wind. Notice the clouds like they’re watching you back. You’re not there to be seen, you’re there to see, aka you're right as a HUMAN.

2. Drink water with dramatic flair.

Pour it into your prettiest glass. Add lemon, cucumber, or mint if you’re extra. Sip it like it’s holy. Because it is. Hydration is a rebuke to the decay.

3. Unfollow the perfect. Follow the real.

Curate your feed like a gallery. If it doesn’t make you dream bigger or breathe deeper, cut it. You become what you consume.

My moto has always been See it, be it.

4. Romanticize something stupid.

Fold laundry like a French film heroine. Wash dishes like you’re in a music video. Make it art. You don’t need permission, you have free will!!!!

5. Make something and let it suck.

Doodle, paint, sing badly, dance worse, write shit poetry and convince yourself you're freaking Edgar Allan Poe. Expression is not a talent contest, it’s your soul stretching its arms. There so many ways to do that.

6. Touch grass... but like, really touch it.

Like fr. Sit with your bare legs on the ground. Let dirt under your nails(you can clean it l8r, it ain't gonna kill you) Be wild. You’re not a screen. You’re skin and blood and thunder.

7. Talk to yourself with tenderness.

You’ve survived every ugly day so far. That deserves softness. Praise yourself out loud like you would your best friend.

8. Write a letter to the girl you’ll be in a year.

Tell her what you hope for. What you’re scared of. What you’re trying. Then seal it. Hide it. Come back to it later and weep at your own growth.

9. Watch a movie you loved at 13.

Feel how it hits different. That’s -perspective- seeing the same story with new eyes, older eyes, wiser eyes.

10. Do something the algorithm doesn’t care about.

Learn to knit. Bake bread (!!!!). Read a dusty book. These aren’t for clout. They’re for soul.

You don’t need a full rebrand. You need a tilt. A reframe. A second glance.

Your life isn’t just a reel of wasted time. It’s a painting in progress. And even the mess matters. Every shade. Every smudge. Every layer.

Perspective is more than a trick of the eye. It’s a rebellion. A soft uprising against despair. It says, yes, this sucks right now, but it’s not the whole story. You are not the rot. You are the artist holding the brush, choosing what to do next.

I don't believe everything happens for a reason. But I do believe in reshaping the meaning of things that happen.

So next time you’re lying there, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers, waiting for a sign, turn the paper. Turn yourself. A few degrees is all it takes.

And suddenly, what looked like the end… is just the start of something strange and beautiful.

#angelaness #girlblogging #this is a girlblog #motivation #girlblog aesthetic #wonyoungism #that girl #glow up #it girl #pink pilates princess

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p0orbaby · 1 month ago

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Can I request for Leah? Leah & reader having sex for the first time post reader giving birth.

Leah being super awkward with bringing it up as doesn’t want to pressure reader. Then, reader surprising her with a baby free night & some sexy time ;)

18+, you know the drill

Her fingers are inside you already. Two, maybe three. You’re not sure. You’ve lost count. She’s laughing under her breath—mean little puffs of air against your jaw—and you can’t tell if it’s at you or just the fact that this is actually happening.

You’re on your back. The bed is crooked because one of the legs is loose and she’s fucking you like she wants it to break. Her hair’s tied back but a bit’s come loose and it keeps sticking to her cheek, damp from sweat. She ignores it. She ignores everything that isn’t your thighs around her ribs or the way you keep grabbing the sheets l as if that’s going to save you.

“Still so fucking tight,” she mutters, mostly to herself, like it’s a complaint.

You want to say it’s because you gave birth six weeks ago and haven’t had anything up there since, but your mouth’s too busy gasping like you’re being murdered in a stylish, well-lit way. You haven’t made noise like this in months. Maybe since New Year’s. You’re not sure. It’s all blurred now. A fog of nappies, leaky tits, and wondering if your fanny will ever feel like yours again.

“Was starting to think you’d never let me touch you like this again,” she says, and it’s not a joke, but it lands like one.

You twist your fingers into her hair and tug until she groans into your neck.

The baby’s at her mum’s. You told her he needed a change of scenery. That he misses the smell of Yorkshire Tea and Harpic bleach and her mum’s wood-burning stove. That you miss silence. But you lied—a little. You wanted this. Just this. Her, inside you, no lullabies playing off a Spotify algorithm. No baby monitor blinking red on the nightstand. No wet wipes on the headboard.

Just skin. Sweat. Spit. Release.

“You’re such a bitch when you’re horny,” you pant, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

You do. You love that she holds back until she’s sure you’re ready. You love that when you said “he’s gone for the night” she didn’t pounce—just stared, half-sceptical, half-relieved, then waited for you to move first. You love that now she’s got you pinned, she’s stopped pretending to be gentle.

You’re soaked. Actually soaked. She pulls her hand out and you hear it. That wet slap sound. She smirks.

“Missed this cunt.”

You snort. “Didn’t miss your language.”

She licks her fingers, bites down on the tip of one. “Liar.”

You’ve been different lately. Still you, but not. More tired. Less flirty. You wear your dressing gown open because it’s easier for feeding. You haven’t shaved your legs in a week. She doesn’t care. She still stares at your tits in the morning like they’re sacred. You catch her doing it while she’s brushing her teeth. She never mentions it.

“Gonna make you come like five times. Make up for lost time.”

“You’ve never made me come five times in your life.”

She’s smiling. Not wide, but that thin, cocky one that starts in one corner of her mouth and drags across like it’s pulling teeth. “Baby, I’ve been edging myself over you for seven bloody weeks. I’m due.”

You laugh. You hate that word—baby—when it’s not about the actual baby. But when she says it like this, chest to chest, voice low, fingers inside you again, you forgive it.

The angle shifts. She’s knelt now. Pulls your hips up into her lap like you’re a ragdoll. Like she owns every joint and every sound. You moan and it sounds rude. Ungrateful. Full of swears you can’t form.

“Look at you,” she says, dragging her fingers over your clit like she’s tuning a radio. “So fucking wet. And for what?”

“For my wife,” you say, breathless, sarcastic, wanting to be pinned again.

She obliges.

The headboard knocks the wall.

You wince. “Neighbours—”

“They’re at Glasto.”

You grin. Filthy. She grins back. Not romantic. Animal.

And then she bends down like she’s starving and your cunt owes her money. You don’t even get a warning. One hand anchoring your hip, the other dragging down your inner thigh like she’s inspecting you for quality control. Her mouth’s already on you. Wet, warm, loud. She makes noise when she eats you. Always has. It’s obscene.

You say her name like a swear word.

You try to close your legs. She doesn’t let you. Grips your thigh and shoves it back up so wide you’re almost cramping. You haven’t stretched like this since you were in labour.

You laugh, out of breath. “You’re gonna dislocate my hip.”

She lifts her head for half a second, glistening. “I’ll call physio in the morning.”

Then back in. Tongue flat, lazy. She does it slowly, like she’s got hours, like she’s paid for the night.

You’re close again, which is ridiculous. It’s been like six minutes. Seven, tops.

She hums against you and you slap the headboard. Not for effect. Just something to hold onto.

When you come this time, you grab a pillow and bite it. You taste fabric softener and tears. Possibly yours.

She pulls back, mouth wet, cheeks flushed. “Still think five’s unrealistic?”

You squint at her. “Your mum has to bring the baby back in the morning.”

“So?”

“So I need to be able to walk to the door.”

She smiles, slow. “You can crawl.” Then dives back in.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso x reader

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nonushu · 11 months ago

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things svt would do to you (this is just for fun) - ot13

genre: fluff | wc: it’s jot notes | ot13 (separately) x reader a/n: self indulgent ??? you’ll never know 🤗

seungcheol - would drag you or 🥰princess carry🥰 you out your shared home

jeonghan - put his COLD feet on your leg while you’re both sleeping or relaxing

joshua - become the BIGGEST pick-me for you…

jun - feed you cat food on accident

hoshi - would tell everyone you can breakdance (you can’t)

wonwoo - drop his controller on your face while you’re laying on his lap

wooozi - forgot you were sleeping in the car and locked you inside

minghao - steals your clothes and styles it better (10000000000000000x offense taken)

mingyu - sacrifice you in a haunted house 🙄

dokyeom - shamelessly uses your toothbrush (nana tour 😭)

seungkwan - i feel like he’d get all sassy because you corrected his mental math

vernon - leech off of your spotify account and ruin your algorithm (i’d never complain)

dino - would write a SUPER long apology text because he thought you were mad at him for taking your lunch

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thefemigirl · 7 months ago

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★ Reset Your YouTube

With the new year approaching, there’s a buzz in the air. It’s the perfect time to reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re heading. This year doesn’t have to look like the last one. If you’re planning a glow-up, stepping into a new mindset, or just becoming the person you’ve always wanted to be, here’s a method that can genuinely change the game: your YouTube feed.

Let’s be real, YouTube isn’t just entertainment. It’s also one of the most powerful platforms for self-improvement and learning. But if your feed is filled with videos that no longer serve your goals, it’s time to take charge and reset.

▸ Step 1: Unsubscribe From the Old You

First things first, go through your subscriptions and be brutally honest with yourself. Ask, “How often do I watch content from this channel? Does this align with who I’m becoming?”

Don’t worry about missing out. This isn’t about cutting off enjoyment—it’s about making space for growth.

Personal Example: I used to be subscribed to a lot of gaming channels because they were my go-to for entertainment. But now? I’m focusing on building my best self, so I said goodbye.

▸ Step 2: Hit the Reset Button

If you’re ready to go extreme (and trust me, this works wonders), delete your YouTube watch history. This is your ultimate clean slate.

Here’s how: Go to your YouTube settings, click “Manage All Activity,” and clear your watch history.

Why this works: YouTube’s algorithm will stop showing you videos based on your past habits. This means no more random recommendations that pull you back into old habits.

Pro Tip: Pair this with your new subscriptions to train the algorithm into showing you content that inspires and uplifts.

▸ Step 3: Subscribe to the Future You

This is the fun part. Fill your feed with creators who embody the energy you want to bring into the new year. Look for channels that motivate you, teach you, and align with your goals for 2025.

Being a femi girl, I will recommend some channels that are personally helping me upgrade myself:

Tam Kaur ▹ link

Alonna Elaine ▹ link

Bahja Abdi ▹ link

Adama Lorna ▹ link

Maya Galore ▹ link

Jillz Guerin ▹ link

Kisha Alejandra ▹ link

Thewizardliz ▹ link

Estelle Richter ▹ link

Simonesquared ▹ link

How to Find More: Search for videos with keywords like “level up,” “self-improvement,” “becoming her,” or “glow up in 2025.” Spend time exploring until you find creators who truly resonate with your vision.

▸ Step 4: Set Boundaries for Entertainment

It’s okay to watch fun and lighthearted content too, but be intentional. Ask yourself, “Is this adding value to my life?” If not, consider limiting your time with it.

Create playlists: Dedicate a playlist to motivational and growth-oriented videos. This will be your go-to space when you need a boost.

Schedule your entertainment: Watch for enjoyment, but don’t let it consume hours that could be spent learning or creating.

Resetting your YouTube feed might seem like a small change, but trust me, it’s powerful. When you surround yourself with content that aligns with your goals, you’re reinforcing the mindset and habits that will take you there!

So, I wish you the best of luck,

#youtube #it girl #it girl energy #growth #self growth #self improvement #self development #self love #becoming that girl #girlboss #girlblog #girlblogging #advice #book rec #self esteem #studyblr #tumblr girls #girlhood #womanhood

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curlysswirlywirly · 14 days ago

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THE PERFECT HERO

⋆ IZUKU MIDORIYA has a very difficult time looking anywhere else but your soft, pink, glossy lips when he sees you now. he genuinely can’t stop thinking about you and hates himself for it. you were always spectacular, even back when you were just fifteen year olds at ua, but now you’re larger than theory, too bright for his brain to process entirely. he remembers that your jokes were always funnier than they had any right to be, he remembers that your technique always flawless. you were top of the class in every department except written strategy, and he helped with that, sliding his annotated notebooks into your desk during lunch insisting nervously that it wasn’t a big deal. but it WAS a big deal. you never teased him for his neat handwriting or the fact that he color-coded your strengths in pastel highlighters, which he appreciated. you were loud about your admiration for your classmates, loud about his worth in a way he couldn’t be for himself yet.

his admiration never went away. it mutated, gained complexity, got messier when you got taller and braver and wore lip gloss that glinted in a way he didn’t know how to categorize. even now, he corrects inaccuracies on your hero wiki page during sleepless nights, anecdotes about your first joint patrol, quotes he remembers you mumbling while dozing off in class, habits you still have. you always crack your knuckles before a solo mission. you always write thank-you cards to your support engineers by hand. you always give 103%. he remembers all of it. he’s never forgotten a second of it. he stumbles around you, hands flailing, throat dry, and you make it worse. he can’t look at you when you speak too earnestly. he can’t focus when you nudge his arm or put your sunglasses on his head like it’s normal. it’s not normal, you’re just not normal anymore. you touch him when you laugh, you praise him publicly, you once called him your favorite hero to train with in a q&a and he blacked out, phone slipping from his hand, heart going ballistic in his chest. your praise has always been disproportionate. too bright, too sweet, too difficult to forget. too, too, too, TOO MUCH!!! his twitter algorithm feeds him your campaigns because he either favorites, likes or re-watches everything having to do with you at least five times. your lectures, blurry fan cams of you entering summits in custom couture. he thinks he might love you. not hero-love either, literal, actual, pink hearts sweeping over his head love. but that’s laughable, ridiculous, stupid, impossible.the list of synonyms for never going to happen goes on. you are mythic now. he tries not to read your interviews anymore, they make this unbearable fixation of his worse in ways he doesn’t have language for.

⋆ SHOTO TODOROKI used to catch you watching him between class drills, your eyes darting away too fast, cheeks flushed warm even before he’d even have a chance to say anything. you’d stammer when he asked to pair with you or when he asked what you were doing for lunch, always polite and sweet, but visibly rattled every time he held eye contact with such intensity. he used to wonder why you couldn’t just look at him the way you looked at everyone else, now he understands it a little better. you don’t look at him the way you look at others because you don’t speak to him the way you speak to others. he liked the way you reacted to him, and he likes it even more that you never outgrew your virus on him. back then, he didn’t know what to do with the feeling that came from being wanted by someone so genuine. he will never admit to this with his own words, but he finds a kind of selfish comfort in that. you’ve grown in every direction possible for a pro-hero. your name is on magazines, your commentary is quoted in political circles, your photoshoots stop traffic. but only he still gets the version of you that looks down and fidgets when he compliments your work. maybe it’s terrible of him, but he likes that you still get nervous around him. he thinks about your pretty, manicured hands when you sign autographs, no ring on your finger, yet.

he thinks about your back when you turn to leave press events before him, maybe he might one day see more of that, who knows. he will admit that he likes the backless gowns the best, only to you. at the last gala, he had one hand on the small of your back as you made your way down the press lane, guiding you half a step in front of him in a sort of presentation of yourself, but only to those deserving. one of which, by his own silent decree, none of them were. you were already tilting into him slightly from the pressure of his hand when the strap of your gown slipped slightly. you’d stopped breathing the moment his fingers met your shoulder and didn’t start again until he swept the pad of his thumb over the fabric just once to settle it, then let his hand slide down lazily back to the curve of your waist where he left it without ceremony. your chin dipped slightly, but you didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to. you didn’t thank him, and he wouldn’t have liked it if you had. you were walking again before he’d decided to, all calm movements and glossy lips that parted just enough to let out a quiet exhale he caught more than heard.

he thinks about what it would feel like to have you every day, less as performance and more as possession. just the trusted, shared things between you too. zipping you into those gowns instead of waiting for you at the car. lifting them over your head instead of watching you pose in them from beside a backdrop. sharing a bathroom sink in the early evening while you pin your hair up so it doesn't leave impressions on the pillow. he can see you in his dress shirt and nothing else, biting the cap off your gloss while asking if he’s coming back to bed anytime soon. he can see himself kneeling on the cool tile floor just to mouth at the insides of your thighs while you tell him he’s getting your robe wet.

⋆ KATSUKI BAKUGO knows how stupid it is, really. he knows how far beneath you he sounds when he thinks things like she stood close to me once or she asked me something about my gauntlets during that tower breach or i know what perfume she wore at the tokyo exhibit because it stayed on the collar of my jacket for hours after she hugged me. it’s sooooo pathetic to him. he’s one of the highest-ranking heroes in the country and he still looks like he’s waiting for permission to want you. he’ll touch you only when necessity requires. he’ll do it cleanly in a way that seems like it never meant anything anyway. but later he’ll replay it in his mind, hating himself for needing it so bad he might actually go insane. he #requiresthat. you’re one of those things that doesn’t get less intense with time. every fight, every press appearance where you wear something drop-dead gorgeous and smile with your eyes half-lidded. he likes that you never play dumb and that you never play anything. your confidence is unnerving because it’s real. you say things like bakugo’s my favorite sparring partner, he hits hard but listens into microphones not knowing it caused a five-day-long spiral he had to drink himself out of. he doesn't talk to you much because he knows he won’t be able to stop once he starts. you once leaned over him in a press box to whisper something stupid, probably about someone’s outfit but your mouth was too close to his ear and he didn’t catch a word. you smiled when he turned to look at you and asked if he was even listening, and all he could do was nod like an idiot because of course he was but also no, not really. he was just trying to survive the sound of your voice. he wants you something ugly. raw i mean aww. most likely not even in the way anyone else does (expect shoto). he wants you in his passenger seat, eating something greasy and kissing him between bites. he’s not a natural flirt. you make jokes and he just huffs, arms crossed, trying not to give away how much he likes the sound of your laugh. he keeps his hands at his sides so he doesn’t grab your waist and spin you around like he wants to. he calls you ridiculous when your dress has a slit up the side, but only because marry me would come out too fast if he opened his mouth any wider.

he’s not proud of how quick his thumb moves to hit report on the thirstier tiktok comments, how often he screens your name before bed just to make sure there’s no new photo dump he hasn’t memorized yet. he’s not even active on social media like that, he doesn’t even follow you. always says it’s for “professional boundaries” but still manages to watch your entire panel circuit in 4k, on mute, rewinding to the part where you tilt your head, laugh into your palm, say thank you for asking, that mission was rough but bakugo really kept us afloat with that stupid soft look like he didn’t hear about it from five different people already.

he hates your plus ones. the sleazy, rich guys you let tag along and the smug way they hover when you show up to award balls or summit dinners, hand loosely on your waist when they earned no right. he hates that you don’t push them off and he hates even more that they exist at all!

he once saw someone call you mommy under a slow-mo clip of your face turning in profile during a red carpet walkthrough. he sat in his car for ten minutes after practice and flagged the comment three times from separate burner accounts. for spam, for harassment, for misleading information. misleading because that’s his face to want. his version of you to think about. his midnight fantasy when he’s bruised and too wired to sleep and you posted something with a slit. you’d probably laugh if you knew. ask him if he’s the morality police now. maybe lean in real close and tell him to stop looking if he doesn’t like what he sees. but that’s the problem. you’re the only thing he does like looking at.

⋆ TENYA IIDA didn’t mean to sleep with you the first time. or the second time. or the third and fourth and fifth. obviously it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. he’s the thirteenth-ranked hero in japan. nationally beloved, awarded, revered, no scandals, no exposés, no mistresses or mistress rumors, and yet he still thinks he should be getting a tax break for the way you sigh into his mouth when you ride him after state dinners. you had made it embarrassingly clear that you’d wanted him since ua, back when you used to trail him through hallways in your regulation skirt and nudge his elbow with your pencil when he was getting too righteous over team grades. you were always bold with him, something about his discipline seemed to bring out your worst, and he let it. he remembers those weeks before finals where you sat on his desk instead of in your seat, swinging one leg, telling him you studied better when people looked at you. you never stopped saying things like that. it got worse after graduation, worse when your suits got tighter, worse when your agency grew legs and broke through city lines, worse when you started sitting beside him at joint events with that look that said you knew exactly what you did to his blood pressure.

now you share a bed most nights. sometimes his place or sometimes yours. you show up in silk, in nothing, in one of his pressed undershirts and boxer briefs and stretch your arms when you know he’s looking. he tells himself that this is temporary, harmless even. after all, it’s not really breaking code if nobody reports it and neither of you ever say what it is, right? that’s part of the charm. no one else has seen the number-four hero panting, flushed, bare from the waist up. no one else gets your early-morning stretch and your raspberry jam kisses and the way you say tenya under your breath, sweet and amused and all his. you call him ‘sir’ when no one’s listening and moan when he tells you to behave.

there’s a photograph on his phone he’s never shown anyone, one you took in his bed last spring your hair was tousled, rosy cheeks warm from the bath, cotton sheets slung low around your waist and his glasses resting crooked on your face because you insisted you looked smarter in them. he has the original file backed up three different ways. he opens it more often than he opens his schedule. you never push and demand he announce or solidify the legitimacy of your frequent intimacy, even if you know it would make him feel better. you never even ask what it means when you press your knee between his thighs under a hotel blanket and call him tenya instead of iida, when you link your ankle behind his at embassy debriefs and whisper things that make his face go tight and red. it isn’t a game for you, you want him plainly, always have. you once told him his mind was the sexiest thing about him and then proved it, mouth parted, head tilted, cooing quiet into his throat until he nearly forgot where he was.

you don’t kiss and tell. there are no leaks, no gossip, and no rumors except the ones people dream up when you two arrive to panels in separate vehicles but leave in one. he should have said no, he did say no! on the first time. but then you asked if he wanted you to leave and he didn’t and he hasn’t, not once. you pull him in by the belt loop when you want him closer. you fix his glasses for him before he testifies. you say things like you’re my favorite boy in the room and pretend it’s a joke but look up through your lashes anyway. he’s never touched you in daylight. he’s never so much as brushed your cheek in public. but everyone can tell something’s off when you sit too far apart, when your shared silence on stage is a little too loaded, when you both leave early from post-conference mixers and his hair is messed up the next morning.

he takes pride in the fact that you chose him, that you keep choosing him, and that when the doors close and your heels come off, it’s his bed, his hands, his name. always his.

⋆ DENKI KAMINARI AND HANTA SERO like every photo within minutes of you posting, quotes your captions like gospel, publicly thirst. half of denki’s explore page is you, the other half is people dressing like you, talking like you, trying to analyze your powers or trace your skincare. you replied with a tongue-out emoji to one of his comments a few months ago and he still brings it up when he’s drunk. he’s not delusional, he knows you’re miles above his league. not just in rank either, though you are, comfortably, more elite than most of your former class. but in appeal, magnetism, and aura that never feels manufactured. he says damn, she’s like if moonlight could punch someone through a building. sero said that doesn’t make any sense, and then bookmarked the tiktok that made him think of it.

sero plays it cooler, but only slightly. he’s the type to send you your own screenshots like yo is this from the west coast tour? cause wtf you snapped. he comments on your photos with too many emojis. he uses the word slay because he knows it makes you laugh. calls you queen and and mami interchangeably. he’s been a fan so long it doesn’t even feel ironic. if anything, it’s loyalty.

one time you called them the funniest men in japan and neither of them have recovered. they’ve watched every interview, read every profile, sent each other mirror selfies when you wore their merch on accident. they bring you up in interviews and pretend it was prompted. sero once corrected a fan’s misquote about your quirk and got ratioed in the replies by shippers. they are your biggest supporters. unapologetically, and everyone knows it. you flash a smile and they fold like twin lawn chairs. if you ever asked, they’d carry your bags, bring your mic, moderate your comment sections, fight your exes. anything. you’re their hero’s hero.

and you play alllll the way into it. call them my boys when they hype you up online. toss them kisses at events. let denki hold your phone and sero carry your heels when the night runs long. they’d never take it too far. but they’s never take it for granted either.

⋆ DABI wants to ruin you but he also wants to watch you work. how your throat bobs when you speak through your comms, how you frown when things don’t go as planned and smile when they suddenly do. you’re too good to exist in his world but you stay in it anyway, just long enough. he knows you hate the paparazzi because you said so in an offhand tweet at 2:37 a.m that got deleted twenty minutes later. he knows you hate being followed and yet you always look good from behind. he’s never met a hero who blushes when she taunts, whose lashes flutter when she flies backward from impact. he sees you in battle more than anyone else. no one’s been sent to chase him as often. not hawks, not endeavor. you. always you. you show up late, show up alone, always say his name in a whisper tone that loves.

he never liked heroes. he hated the ones on the cereal boxes or the ones whose endorsements played between commercials for tamagotchis and toy weapons. he hated the smiling plastic men who gave his little brother pats on the head and fake smiles that never touched their eyes. they were always lying. the posture, the slogans, the straight white teeth and the press-trained cadence, all of it was lies. he figured out young that being a hero didn’t mean saving people it meant being adored for doing the bare minimum.

he saw your agency’s debut video the night it dropped. your whole roster standing under spotlights, suits pressed, posture militant. you stepped forward when they introduced your name. so flawless, so clean. you had your little speech memorized. low heels, perfect arch. hair up but a few strands loose. so delicate, so controlled. so perfect. you were everything he despised, of course. but damn.

you think your location history is private but it’s not. you think your apartment is secure but it’s not. he’s watched you come home at 2am, slip off your shoes in the dark, lean against the fridge while waiting for something to heat. he likes the guys you bring home even less than he likes heroes. they don’t get you and they don’t touch you right.

he’d do it right, he’d take his time. he’d start slow, tell you what he thinks of those little live interviews you do, he’d put his mouth where your hero name is tattooed on your hip and say your real one instead.

he knows you feel it too. you want someone to ruin your image. you want someone who sees what’s under the surface and wants you anyway. he thinks about how much of a scandal it would be. how bad it’d look for you. thinks about how you’d let it happen again.

you like tight dresses and fine jewelry and dresses that cling to your hips and leave your back completely open. he likes them too. he speaks low when you’re close. tells you you’re looking better than usual, asks if you’re getting stronger just to impress him, tells you to stay a little longer next time. says you fight prettier when your hair’s up. calls you miss universe wnd princess when you roll your eyes and put distance between you. you’ve hit him hard enough to fracture a rib. you’ve also hesitated once. that’s all he needed. he wants to show up at your door just to see if you’d open it. he imagines catching you just out the shower and seeing how flustered you get, towel slipping, hair soaked. he wants to take you someplace no hero should go, make you forget your own agency’s name. he wants you to say his name when you come, because you mean it. because it could be real.

he’s not shy about any of this. he touches your wrist when he parries, lets his palm linger on your hip when you slip during hand-to-hand and try to catch yourself on him. breathes against your neck when he pins you. this is flirting! you’re not soft or naive but you keep letting him walk away and he’s decided that means something. you always look over your shoulder once. once during the fight, once after it ends. no one notices except him. he doesn’t show mercy to anyone else but he never burns where it’ll scar. says it’s because he wants you spotless for when he finally pulls you down and ruins you right. you really shouldn’t entertain it, nor should you get warm when he says your name in a room that’s already on fire. you’ll come around. you always make the first move. he’s counting on it.

miiiight do a part two idk

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #my hero academia x reader #deku x reader #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #iida x reader #kaminari x reader #sero x reader #dabi x reader

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vyva-melinkolya · 9 months ago

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we all agree that the push towards short form, vertical video (tiktok/reels/shorts) is ruining fucking everything right? Tiktok has been useful for the dissemination of political information (e.g Gaza) i’ll give it that, but that feels moreso a result of meta and twitters algorithms being just a little *more*’evil and censor happy. And i want to make it very clear that my hatred for tiktok has nothing to do with the fact that it was a product of a Chinese company, because i see a lot of critiques relying on some sort of sinophobic conspiracy. On the contrary, it’s what tiktok has become in the vacuum of western popular culture and marketing that makes me fearful.

I know that every generation faces a new, polarizing technology and inevitably, there are those among said generation who will critique it. That is the nature of things. However, there is also something to be said about how, with the acceleration of technology (running parallel to the acceleration of capitalism, acceleration towards collapse etc), each coming generation faces an increasingly more malevolent “advancement”. TLDR, i’m going to talk my shit.

I’m going to speak on the aspect that is most relavent to me, as a musician. I am petrified by what short form video is doing to music and to musicians. I think that tiktok provides the illusion of making music and being a musician more “accessible” while actually pouring gasoline on the fire that the pop music machine had already started. Standards for what popular culture “expects” from music are being doubled and tripled. Let’s talk about song length. Success and marketability favoring shorter songs is not something new, it has been the trend for decades. But with short form video, it goes even further. You’re not just hearing the same song over and over on the radio, you’re hearing the same 15-30 seconds of the same song over and over again. This in-turn, starts to influence the way people write music, persuading people to make songs that *could* have that 15 second appeal. There is an art to pop music, there is an art to writing a catchy hook—this is something else. We weren’t meant to hear or understand music like that. There are so many songs from reels that i found annoying, until i heard them in their full context. It’s insidious. It makes everything feel like a fucking commercial, even if nothing is being advertised.

I’m going to pull directly from someone else’s experiences, someone who’s music seems to be everywhere on short form videos. The ambient musician My Head Is Empty has a hundred million streams on the song “i was only temporary”. Despite that exposure, they experience “never ending copywrite issues” and have “received death threats” by people who refuse to credit them when using their song. Pulling a quote here, from a comment on their own post

“vyva_melinkolya unfortunately it just gets worse. i saw a bot content page that steals pod cast footage and spams dozens of videos with my song stolen, comment on a "motivation" spam content , who actually made a post telling people the name of my song, and the previous page i mentioned, the pod cast spam commented on that video saying "Bro stop don't give out the sauce. this audio helps me pull numbers brooo" - so people are actively INTENTIONALLY stealing it and telling people to not credit me. like. u can't make this stuff up”

Beyond this, My Head Is Empty feels frustrated that despite all this exposure, the rest of their work (nine albums) as a musician remains under appreciated, and i think that frustration is 100% valid. People cannot fully appreciate music, or even understand it as a work of art created by another human, when it’s taken so far out of its context. Again, the soul being sucked out of art by “the machine” isn’t anything new but, this is a whole other level. Being a musician is more expensive than ever, streaming earns you fractions of a cent etc, it all feeds into itself.

When a song or a musician i love deeply finds its way on to tiktok (let’s use Duster’s “Stars Will Fall”, one of my favorite songs ever as an example)I am not upset that i cant “gatekeep” it anymore. I’m not upset by the idea of something I love and hold dearly finding a larger audience. I AM upset in the manner in which it is being disseminated. I’m upset with art I hold dear to me being chopped up and used as “trending audio”. When I saw Duster in concert recently, lStars Will Fall” was the song I was most looking forward to hearing. It was the last song they played, and it was the song seemly everyone chose to talk loudly over. The audience was mostly people my age and younger. This complaint might come off as petty or pretentious or cliche, i frankly do not give a shit.

Let’s talk about how musicians are expected to promote music on tiktok/reels. This is a matter of opinion, at the risk of sounding very pretentious: the “POV we are x band from x” “My label says i need x followers before x” “posting this video until c musician notices me”. I understand that some of it is in jest but, what the fuck? When did this become the norm? I do not blame anyone for promoting their music like this, but we should want more for ourselves. I’ve always said being a musician is deeply embarassing, inherently. If being a musician is inherently embarassing then what is this? I dont have a solution for this, and the music industry has always been ugly and bloodthirsty and seldom fruitful— but i feel like the very small amount of dignity we had as artists is now lost and I cant fucking stand it. Artists seem to promote the same single with dozens of reels over the course of months, hoping that something sticks. I dont want to sound like i’m shaming or, again, sound like i can provide a solution. I’m just very fucking sorry that it seems like this is “the way”. And personally, i’m scared that if i dont “get with the program”, im going to fail.

Again, all of this speaks to larger trends in entertainment industry and even larger trends in capitalism. But i’m just airing specifics right now because frankly? I cant take it anymore.

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