#don’t ask me about my Instagram algorithm

[rigginsstreet]

This is how billy and Steve are celebrating Easter btw

[kunasthiast]

madness

It started innocently enough.

“Here. Happy anniversary, brat!” 

Sukuna handed you a big ass box (his gift), grinning like he’d just given you the solution to all your life problems. You took it, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Wow, you’re really splurging on me, babe. What’s inside?”

“Just open it.”

“Okay fine –” you tore off the wrapping and blinked. “What the fuck is this?” You asked nicely with shock as you stared at your husband’s gift, utterly baffled.

Because, really. What the fuck was this? Inside the big box… were six smaller boxes.

And as someone who’s chronically online (admit it, the only apps you ever open are twitter – you still refuse to call it ‘X’ – for F1 updates, tumblr, instagram, youtube, and pinterest), your algorithm had NEVER shoved this thing in your face.

Sukuna, on the other hand, looked way too smug about it. Arms crossed, smirk in place, even throwing in a wink for good measure.

“That, my dear wife, is a fucking Labubu.”

“A what?”

 “A Labubu,” he repeated, as if that explained anything.

“Huh?”

“You seriously haven’t heard of it?” Sukuna blinked, feigning shock. “Weird. I thought you were the one most updated between us.”

“Well yeah, but not with… whatever this is,” you narrowed your eyes as you shot back. “Mostly just F1, Stardew, and some new game drops. Not this.”

“Oh well,” he shrugged. “Just open one already.”

“Fine,” you sighed, grabbing a box and tearing into the packaging.

“Huh, why is there another plastic inside?”

“Obviously, because it’s a blind box, brat,” Sukuna replied, his tone dripping with amusement.

“Pfft, why are you so impatient today?”

“I’m just very excited for your reaction”

You narrowed your eyes, again, at your husband and said, “No, really. Tell me, babe.”

“Just open it. Stop stalling.”

“Hmp, fine –” and you ripped the plastic open.

Then you squinted. “What the hell am I looking at?”

Inside was a tiny, goblin-looking creature. You held up the plush toy in your hands, inspecting it like it was an alien artifact. It had big round eyes, sharp little teeth, and fur that made it look like a cross between a mischievous raccoon and... a gremlin.

"It's cute," Sukuna declared, like that was the only justification needed.

“You’re telling me this –”you wiggled the plushie at him, still very skeptical about this whole gift thing, “– is supposed to be cute?”

“Obviously.”

“Sukuna. This thing looks like it’s gonna scam me out of my life savings and then laugh about it.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. “Just like you.”

You gasped, clutching your chest. “Wow. So that’s what you really think of me, huh?”

“Don't act so shocked.” He leaned in, voice dropping to that infuriatingly smug drawl. “You did swindle me into marrying you.”

“Excuse me? I swindled you?”

“Mhm.”

“You literally begged me to marry you.”

“Did I?” He tilted his head, playing dumb.

“Yes.” You crossed your arms, glaring up at him. “You were down bad. It was embarrassing, honestly.”

Sukuna scoffed. “I don’t recall.”

“Should I pull up the texts?”

“Anyway,” he cut you off, reaching for another box inside the box set, “open the other ones. You’ve got five more to go.”

You eyed him warily. Then the box. Then back at him. “…Why do I feel like you just dragged me into some weird collector's cult?”

“It’s not a cult—“

“That’s exactly what someone in a cult would say.”

Sukuna just chuckled and handed you the next box.

You sighed, opening it—because at this point, you might as well embrace your fate. After opening all the boxes, you set them on your shelf, thinking that was that. Oh, if only you know how wrong you were.

A week later, you found yourself scrolling through Labubu forums. You don’t know how it happened. One moment, you were researching out of sheer curiosity – and then it was 3AM. Sukuna was fast asleep beside you, and you were staring at photos of different Labubu plushies and figurines, heart pounding like you’d just discovered a new religion.

Wait… are these actually kinda cute?

No.

No, no, no.

You turned your phone off. Absolutely not. And put in on your bedside table. No way in hell.

But the next day, you found yourself staring at your Tasty Macarons Labubus a little too long. And your husband? Of course, he noticed this.

“Babe.”

No response.

He moved closer, sitting beside you on the couch. “Babe, you’ve been ignoring me. What’s up?”

“…Huh?” This time, you finally tore your gaze away from your shelf and turned towards your husband and said, “Nothing, don’t worry.”

“You sure? You look like you’re about to shut down.”

Ttruth be told, you were debating whether to check out the Have a Seat collection sitting in your cart since 3AM or not. But you’d rather die than admit that to Sukuna.

And then another week passed, and somehow – somehow – your new collection arrived. Your husband took one look at it and raised a brow.

“So that’s why you’ve been out of it all week.”

“What do you mean?” You shot back.

“Babe,” he drawled, smirking. “I knew you’d get addicted,” he simply added with his I-know-everything-about-you tone. “Next thing you know, you’ll be selling your soul to rare editions.”

“Pfft, no way.”

“Uh-huh. Give it two weeks before you start spiraling.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a phase, babe.”

It was not a phase. You were wrong. Sukuna was right. Always right.

Because a week later, you nearly had a breakdown when Sukuna surprised you with three big-ass plush dolls – Angel in Cloud, I Found You, and Catch Me If You Like Me.

“Oh my God, they’re so fucking cute,” you whispered, clutching one to your chest like it was your firstborn.

And your ever-loving husband? He just flashed that signature smirk of his, watching you descend into madness. As if he’s actually supporting (more like enabling) you going crazy over these plush toys.

Another week passed, and you found yourself pressing “checkout” on the Coca-Cola Special Set. Then, not even a week passed but in just 3 days, you went full psycho mode, caving in and splurging on all the special edition Labubus – Wings of Fortune, Happy Halloween, Wings of Fantasy, Fall in Wild… and more.

At this point, your soul had left your body, and you refuse to do the math on how much you had spent. And as they say: denial is a healthy coping mechanism.

By the time your birthday (just a week later passed) rolled around, Sukuna dropped the biggest bomb yet and gifted you four entire boxed collections which are all lined up on the dining table, wrapped with a pretty ribbon.

You gasped. “FOUR?!”

Yes, you were losing your mind. You were in Labubu fucking heaven. This was no longer a phase. This was a full-blown lifestyle.

And your husband? He was just watching. Amused. Satisfied. Like a man who had bet on the right horse.

“You’re so gone,” he smirked.

You clutched your new babies and agreeing with him, “I am so gone.”

But you see, there was one problem. Scratch that, four problems.

After all your collections, the only ones missing were the Mega Sketch Labubu 1000% and the elusive secret plushies from all the pendant sets. I mean what are you even gonna hang on your designer bags for next week? Here’s when your true descent into madness began.

As a woman on a mission, you scoured the internet, joined every damn collector’s group to hunt these secrets down. And after an intense bidding war – finally – you secured the three missing secret plushies.

For… a mere $700.

The cherry on top? Once these plushies came, you ended up opening all boxes and inside were fucking Lafufus. The knock-off ones who don’t even look the exact same.

Of course and obviously, you cried. And Sukuna? Oh bless the Gods everywhere, your husband was pissed. Not just the mildly annoyed kind of pissed – it’s the you-are-the-biggest-dumbass-I’ve-ever-married kind of pissed. In short, he was fucking livid.

“Are you kidding me?” He grumbled, rubbing his temples with one hand and the other patting you on the back with you crying for hours now since you opened those damn boxes. “I told you to double-check before buying from random sellers, dumbass.”

“I did check!”

He shot you a look and said, “For someone who triple-checks F1 rumors, you forgot this one time where it involves your money, brat.”

“I panicked!” You wailed. “The seller said it someone else was gonna buy it if I don’t act fast.”

He exhaled, slow and controlled. “You fucking idiot.” And yes, he’s done with your bullshit. For the next two days, he said nothing about Labubus. Which meant you were suffering in silence.

With your husband being him, even after all that, even after your idiotic decision-making, he still went and did what he does best – spoiling you rotten.

On the third day of Labubu silence, you woke up to a giant box sitting in the middle of your living room.

You gasped, scrambling to tear the wrapping open. And there it was, in all its oversized glory – the Mega Sketch Labubu 1000%. And right next to it? Three, small neatly wrapped packages.

Your hands shook as you opened them. And when you did, your soul left your body. Yes, it was that crazy for you.

Inside were the three secret plushies. The real ones!

You turned to look at Sukuna, eyes wide with tears and disbelief. And yes, you’re on your knees, grabbing the couch for support, “You… you did not. No fucking way this is real!”

Sukuna smirked, arms crossed. “Well, I did, baby. And it’s real. And just so I don’t forget, happy belated birthday, dumbass.”

Still can’t believe that all of this is true, your jaw dropped. “I – HOW?! THESE ARE – THEY’RE LIKE – THEY’RE IMPOSSIBLE TO GET??? IT’S SOLD OUT EVERYWHERE!”

“I have my ways.”

You choked on air. “SUKUNA!”

He just shrugged and leaned on the doorway, looking way too pleased with himself. “Figured I’d complete your collection before you go and do something stupid again.”

You threw yourself at him, clinging to him like a koala, tears in your eyes. “You’re the best husband ever, oh my god.”

“Ugh – get off!” He groaned, trying to pry you off him.

“NOPE! NEVER LETTING GO! You love me so much, it’s actually embarrassing for you”

“Tch. As if.”

“You doooo,” you cooed, snuggling closer. “You got me my dream Labubu even though I made the dumbest purchase of my life.”

Sukuna sighed, but his hand was already under your butt and squeezing them. “Yeah, yeah. You’re still a dumbass, brat.”

You pouted. “Rude.”

And so, with your ultimate Labubu collection complete, you swore you were done. No more. This was it. The final haul.

The next week, your doorbell rang. Sukuna frowned as he stared up from his laptop and called for you, “Babe, did you order something again?”

“Nope!”

You ran towards the door and find another large parcel sitting on your doorstep. And yes, you just remembered, you did order something… when you were sulking over that scamming situation.

You brought the box inside and set it in the middle of your living room. With Sukuna who stopped his reading and raised a brow at you. Giggling, you opened the box and yes inside was an entire Space Molly figurine set.

You turned to Sukuna in slow motion.

He just let out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand down his face. 

“You’re fucking hopeless.”

“Ehh, you still love me.”

a/n: this was one of the reasons why i was gone for a month or two. i was fucking livid with these damn blind boxes. especially, labubus! but thanks heavens, all my blind boxes were gifted to me and i haven't spent a dime yet on any of these blind boxes... and please... this hasn't been edited nor proofread yet aaaa

[p0orbaby]

magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

-

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

-

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

[ruinix]

Quinn with the 'when I say sit on my face, i don't mean hover.'

Lovely anon, do you know how downbad I am? No? Well, I am. Also, are you in my Instagram algorithm??? That phrase kept showing up even if I say ‘not interested’ (I am but you know, I’m trying not to be the whore that I am). Anyway, it’s maybe a bit cringe…I swear I tried...Sorry in advance…😭🧎🏻‍♀️

Perfectly Divine

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Implied Unprotected Sex (use protection, silly), Oral (fem receiving), Face-sitting, Cum eating… 👀

Count: 1106 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re not listening to him. Why are you not listening? Is what he said so hard to understand? Quinn is seriously stunned—utterly flabbergasted—when you try to get out of the bed.

“Quinn, get off me!” You grumble, trying to slip out of his hold, but Quinn is still stronger than you. “This is holding me against my will! Kidnapping! Hostage taking!”

Quinn bursts out laughing. Fuck, you’re so silly sometimes. It’s never a dull moment with you, even when you are suddenly on a different wavelength. No, not even, especially. Quinn holds you closer, hand resting over your middle, pulling you closer against his chest.

Soon, your laughter follows—a beautiful mix of giggles and chuckles. Your sound makes him warm all over. When you crane your head so your lips graze his cheek, your hand  entwining with his, the other holding his jaw, Quinn almost forgets why he was holding you in the first place. You trickster.

“You’re distracting me,” he growls softly in your ear. Your little squeak makes him chuckle as he nips at your nape, your shoulders, your jaw. “You can’t get out of this.”

“Quinn,” you whine, “we just had sex. I’m sensitive! Plus I’ve already sat on your face earlier.”

“Sat,” he scoffs. “Sure.”

“Is that attitude?” You twist around so quickly, beautiful eyes narrowing, lips pouting, hair still very much disheveled from your earlier rounds, your nail scratching over his chest. “Don’t scoff at me, Quintin.”

Quintin. His first name. Fuck, it sounds so good.

Quinn sighs, pulling you closer, hooking your thigh over his hip. “Sorry.”

You both groan when his cock graze your pussy lips. Quinn’s member rousing. Yours quivering, leaking with your arousal and his cum. Oh, right. He filled you up so good, didn’t he? Quinn presses against your pussy, feels your entrance pulse, sees your hooded eyes.

“Again? I’m tired,” you whine, protesting but it’s you who reaches his cock to press it against your hole. “I’m so full, Q.”

Are you? You’ve already wasted a lot of his cum. Already so spent for the day. Quinn knows that. He fucking knows that. Despite wanting to pound into you, to fuck you until the next morning—and the through the whole day—he needs to hold back.

That’s why he fucking needs you to sit on his face. Right now.

“Then why is your pussy begging for more?” Quinn asks, eyes hooded, watching every shuddering breaths that escapes your lips. “But I know. You’re busy tomo—”

“Quinn, shut up.” You grab his cheeks and kiss him so sloppily. “I’m so sore, Quinny,” you whine when his tip teases your entrance.

You keep protesting, but it’s you who pushes your hips, chasing after his dick, seeking more and more.

“Sit on my face, my love.” Quinn whispers. His words echo in his ears. Does it with yours? Does his voice rattle your soul as much as yours with his?

“But…” You still hesitate.

You’re rarely hesitant. But when you are, you are. Like he will be turned off by you. Like he will care about your filled up pussy. Like he will suddenly be disgusted with you when he could very much lick the ground you walk on, kiss the pebbles of sweat on your body. Oh, he got you. Silly girl. Just breathe and you already have him hard and begging for a fuck.

“Trust me,” Quinn pleads, pressing his forehead against yours. His nose touches yours. He can see the little fear in your eyes, the doubt, before it dissipates into lust. “There we go.”

He gives you a small peck on your blushing cheek. “And, my Love, when I say sit on my face, I don’t mean hover.”

The wanton moan that escapes your lips is Quinn’s last straw. He could just fuck you. It would be too easy. Just one thrust and he’ll be inside your pussy. Just one kiss and he’ll have you begging for it—sore or not. But he doesn’t. Not when you finally agree.

Quinn helps you over him. His hands glide and grip your skin. He can feel your shivers and trembles as you kneel over his face, legs beautifully parted for him to see your flushed pussy, too used and fucked.

“Quinn,” you whimper, hands planting on the headboard.

He mutters your name like a prayer and when you lower your pussy to his face, he knows his Goddess—you—answered.

He gives your clit a small kiss, tongue flatting over your trembling slit. The way you squeal and say it made his heart flutter faster and faster in his chest. You taste divine. His cum combines with yours. Salty, musky, and somehow sweet.

This is what he fucking wants. He needed—still needs—this for so long. To be able to savor what he has done to you. To know how perfect your pussy would be with his fucking cum that he has never dared to taste before.

Fuck.

Oh, his love of his life. So perfect, so delectable, so fucking divine.

He's so happy that you’re not hovering. So happy that you finally listened. So happy that you’re grinding your pussy against his lips, using his nose to your clit, letting him hear every moan, groan, and whimper that escapes you. So happy to feel your weight on him.

He grips your thighs securing to him as he slips his tongue in your pussy, tasting more of you and him.

More.

Quinn thinks he should have done this earlier. Should have filled you with more cum and not let you argue and waste a single droplet. Should have feasted on you, stained and dirtied by him. Fuck. He needs more.

For every gulp and lick, your pussy tightens around his tongue, squeezing out his cum and your addicting arousal. Quinn can feel your thighs quiver, your pathetic attempt to escape him.

Oh, you can’t.

He won’t have it.

 He needs you to come. He needs to feel you rob him of air as he does when he wrapped his fingers round your neck as he fucked into you.

He needs this.

Fuck. He’s so hard.

Maybe he can convince you for another round—rounds—of him buried deep in your pussy. Maybe he can persuade you not to attend the appointments you got tomorrow. Maybe he can just fuck you, clean you with his tongue, then fuck you again. Again. And fucking again.

Because this is not enough.

God, he’s so selfish. So fucking selfish.

He needs more and more of everything you can give him. His life is yours. Forever.

[beholdthebangs]

No Touching

Sebastian x F!Reader

~ 18+ ~

Synopsis: Smut - Sebastian, hoping to participate in some escapism by taking his motorcycle out for a late-night ride, is instead talked into bringing you with him. How’s he supposed to long for you when you’re wrapped around him, hands all over him as he drives you through quiet highways? How’s he supposed to focus on anything else? Your persistence is maddening, but it also results in a little pit stop as Sebastian reaches his limit.

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: dirty talk, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex, choking, praise, smoking

A/N: Finally finished one of my oldest drafts, yay! This is fully the result of my instagram algorithm feeding me hot bikers, though I’ve only scratched the surface of the kinks those men have given me.

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Some people cope with the constant onslaught of shit thrown at them with therapy. Some choose drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence. All Sebastian has ever needed is his motorcycle… and drugs, but mostly his motorcycle.

There’s nothing like the feeling of cool air hitting his face to break him out of a spiral. It’d been his coping mechanism ever since he got his motorcycle years ago and long rides had formed into a weekly habit so long as the weather allowed it. When he drove over to Zuzu City from his home in the mountains, he felt so distanced from this small town. The two places couldn’t be less alike, and there was pretty much no chance he would ever run into someone he knew. He could exist among so many people and blend in, not be perceived for just a moment. Those moments were rare in the valley.

More often than not, he wouldn’t venture out quite that far. Sebastian often preferred to wander down empty highways lit sparsely with street lamps, no destination in mind. On shorter drives, he’d leave his helmet and jacket behind and let his guard down, the feeling of rushing air tangling his hair, smacking him in the face and waving the fabric of his shirt around wildly somewhat of a treat for him. Because yeah, safety is important, but what is life without a little risk? Even without the fear of dying adding some exhilaration to the experience, it was always nice to get out of his house, outside of the somewhat suffocating atmosphere of the community he resided in, and have time to himself to just stop thinking so much. Many of the rides this year had been less about escaping the small town he lived in and more about escaping the racing thoughts he’d been burdened with… the thoughts he’d had ever since he met you.

So Sebastian carefully rolls his bike out of the garage and over the crunchy, fire-colored leaves littering the ground, preparing for another late-night ride. He gives the motorcycle a quick once-over, making sure it’s ready to go and brushing off some of the dust that had accumulated on the metallic black body with a soft rag. As he turns to dig his helmet out of the garage, he hears none other than the voice of his troubles.

“What are you up to?”

He turns back to see you only feet away, a palm running over the outside of the gas tank, the exact spot he’d just wiped down moments ago. It’s dark, long past the early autumn sunset, but the overhead light outside the front door lends just enough vision for him to make out your sweet smile. Your baby-blue worn jeans cling to your ankles, tucked into your black boots. Despite the seasonal chill, you wear a short sleeved shirt with a low neck. He supposes he can’t pass too much judgment as he also has a thin t-shirt on, but only until he can grab his jacket. Yoba knows facing the wind at highway speeds would feel brutal this time of year.

Retreating back through the open garage door, he tucks his matching helmet to his side. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to touch someone’s bike without asking?”

With a subtle roll of your eyes and a grin on your face, you pull back and cross your arms over your chest, the curve of your breasts growing more prominent with the motion. Sebastian struggles to pull his eyes away. “Where are you going?”

He shrugs. “Why do you want to know?”

“Maybe I want to go with.”

He takes the opportunity to rake his eyes down your body more egregiously. “You’re not dressed for it. You have short sleeves.” You look pointedly at his own arms, muscular and tattooed—and bare. “I’m going to put a jacket on,” he explains, exasperated. As if you should be clued in on his internal monologue. He knows it’s ridiculous, but he can’t help but act annoyed with you. You wear his patience thin so effortlessly.

“And you don’t own a second jacket?”

Sebastian hums, leaning against the wall behind him. “You really wanna go?”

“Yep. You promised you’d take me sometime.”

Seb shouldn’t be held to things he said when he was in a better mood. He’d been looking forward to cranking up the volume on his stereo and listening to some emo shit that would make his mom inquire about his mental health if he had done it in the comfort of his room. But here you are once again, ruining all his plans. Instead of snapping back, he simply turns away, grabbing two leather jackets and another helmet before pulling the garage door closed. Dropping all but his old leather jacket that had grown too small for him since he started helping his mom out with some manual labor woodworking projects, he holds it open for you. You turn your back to him, shimmying your arms through the sleeves with his help. He does the same with his own jacket, then sets a helmet on your head and straps it securely under your chin.

He lifts the visor up for you, revealing your eyes. “Do I look cool?” you ask with your hands shoved in the pockets of his worn jacket, his hands still lingering on your helmet.

Sebastian pauses then pulls back, looking at you at an arms length. While you tend to lack an edge in your appearance, the added apparel does bring something new to your vibe. “You look cool,” he finally confirms. Throwing his own helmet on, he asks, “Do I?”

You move closer, fumbling with his helmet and eventually pushing the visor up. Your eyes meet again, sharing a gaze Sebastian can’t deny the intensity of. Your fingers glide across the undone zipper of his jacket, gaze flickering down to break the contact. Finally you snarkily conclude, “No,” with a quick wink before moving away completely. Sebastian scowls, though he can’t help but take in a breath, your scent mixed with that of his old beloved jacket lagging behind as you close the distance with his bike. “Can I touch it?” you ask this time.

“You can touch it,” he answers quickly, because it doesn’t matter—you can touch whatever you want as long as it belongs to him. He’s intoxicated by the way you look and your scent mixed with his, something primal inside him feeling so possessive over you now that he’s marked you as his own in some way. He wants to tell himself to snap out of it, but Yoba does he like the thoughts clouding his head.

You climb carefully onto the back, leaving space for Sebastian to sit in front of you. He tugs on the sides of your borrowed jacket, zipping it up to your chin. As he takes his place, both of you swing your visors down. He starts the bike with a purr and the motion vibrates through your bodies. Even after all this time, Seb can feel the power of it between his legs, and he wonders what it feels like between yours, not used to the dull roar of the idle bike. He revs the engine a couple times and your arms fly around his torso, gripping him for dear life as he takes off down the dirt path toward the paved road.

Despite your presence, he does as he had set out to do and turns up his music, able to hear it clearly despite the wind rushing by his ears and the loud engine of his bike as you weave down the backroads. If he ignores the feeling of your tight grasp against his stomach and the heat of your chest pressed to his back, riding feels just like it always has. Part of him prefers not to ignore it though. He kind of likes the way you’re holding him like he’s your only hope.

Though he’d planned to go into the city, he cuts it short to avoid trapping you on his bike in case you’re not enjoying it, since it’s hard to check in over all the noise. Instead, he decides to head toward an overlook he loves going to, especially when he doesn’t have the time to drive all the way into the city or the patience to deal with all the people there. Pulling into the familiar dirt patch, he stops right where the trees thin to give a glimpse of the city from the top of the mountains. As he shuts off the engine, the quiet of the night is overwhelming. He’d grown so used to the noise of his bike and the blaring guitar through the speakers that the sound of dried rustling leaves in the wind and crickets chirping somewhere beyond the trees is a new, exposed feeling.

Seb climbs off, holding his hand out to assist you. You take it, wobbling on your feet as your body shivers. “You okay?” he questions, sliding the visor of his helmet up to see you better. All you can manage is a nod.

He slips the strap tucked under your chin undone, helping you pull the helmet off. Your hair is strewn wildly around your head, and though Sebastian is well aware of the curse of helmet hair, he can’t help but shake his head at how you manage to pull it off. You run a hand along your head in an attempt to tame your locks. Seb sets the helmet on his propped up bike before reaching over and combing his hand through your hair to gently pull the knots free. You freeze, eyeing him, but he doesn’t linger long enough to meet your gaze. Instead, he pulls his helmet off, resting it next to yours, and shakes his head wildly. His black hair flies around his face and instead of fixing his fringe to fall before his eyes, he simply pushes it back and it lays along either side of his head, shorter pieces framing the edges of his face. You’re still staring and he can feel it.

“What’d you think of the ride?” he inquires.

“Fast,” you breathe. He opens his mouth to apologize for his driving but is cut off. “Freeing. That was so fun.” He grins. You understand it. You understand him.

“It never gets old,” he assures you, turning to look out over the cliff at the city. You slowly move to stand next to him, facing the array of lights sticking out in the vast natural landscape. “Do you miss living there?”

You shake your head as Seb watches you from the corner of his eye. “It’s better in Pelican Town.”

Sebastian’s face falls. He can feel himself grasping onto the last of his dreams. He’d envisioned himself finding a cheap apartment, a new job that really fulfilled him, living life alone for a while. He’d never had the full autonomy to do whatever he wanted anytime he wanted. Maybe he’d meet new friends through work, or at a bar, and maybe he’d meet someone special, too. He’d thought it was surely more likely to happen in Zuzu City than the quaint town he’d spent so much time in where nothing ever changed. Until you.

“If I were you, I never would have left.”

“It’s not all it’s supposed to be,” you sigh. “I felt lonelier surrounded by all those people than I do now. No one cares about you here like they do at home.”

“Really?” You nod, but Seb shrugs. “I don’t think that would be the case for me.”

“You’d be surprised.” He turns to look at you, standing next to him in his old jacket, sleeves hanging past your wrists. “It’s hard to be someone when you’re in the city. You’ve already got so many friends and family in Pelican Town.”

“I’m just…looking for something more than that,” he admits.

“What more is there?”

He crosses his arms, turning back to the silhouette of the city. What more isn’t there? “I think it’s different for me here than it is for you. People talk to me because there’s a sense of obligation. My family didn’t choose me. My friends barely chose me, either. There are only so many kids running around the valley at once. If I can start something in the city, it’ll feel like I really earned it. I wouldn’t mind having someone to come home to every night, either.”

“Maybe you should look at it as fate. How amazing is it that these people you love all happen to be in a tiny little town where you are? That’s impressive.”

He notices the way you skirt around his last statement in particular. Maybe there’s no solace in that area that you can offer him. He pushes the gnawing feeling aside as much as he can. “I just think something will always feel like it’s missing as long as I stay.” Sebastian pulls out a cigarette, fumbling around in his jacket pocket to find his lighter. With a couple flicks, he lights the end and takes a deep breath before letting the smoke bleed out from between his lips. “So… you’re completely fulfilled now that you moved to Pelican Town, right?”

You chuckle. “Something like that.”

“What’s your secret?”

“I just got so busy that I didn’t have time to think about what I was missing anymore.”

He nods as if seriously considering that route. And honestly, it’s not that bad a plan. “And what are you missing?”

You hesitate, surveying the distant city as you speak. “It’s hard not to feel like an outsider. Everyone has known each other for so long that it’s hard to find an opening in a group, I guess.”

“I consider you a part of my friend group,” Seb replies.

“I am, but… it’s not the same. When people see you without Sam, they wonder where he is. No one looks at you without me and wonders where I am, you know?”

The idea warms his heart. Maybe it’s a little twisted of him—you’re pouring your insecurities out and he can’t help but think about the idea of you and him… so inseparable that it feels unnatural for you to be apart, even to others. “Are you trying to tell me you want to hang out more?”

You giggle. “Sure. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace Sam.”

“I’m not looking for a replacement. There’s a lot that Sam can’t do for me.”

You quirk an eyebrow up, looking over to meet his gaze which hasn’t strayed from you in a while. He sucks in another drag from his cigarette. “Oh yeah? Like what?” He shrugs, refusing to elaborate further. He’s exposed himself plenty for one day and you’ve avoided that topic once in this conversation. He won’t make you do it again.

Sebastian finishes his cigarette, stomping it out and shoving the butt in his pocket to throw away when he gets home. “It’s getting late. We should head back.” He holds out your helmet before pulling on his own. When you spend too much time trying to tighten the strap, he makes quick work of it without another word before climbing on his bike and starting it back up. You climb on behind him and rest your palms on his chest, elbows draped over his shoulders. He takes off, the air a little thicker with tension than it had felt before. He can’t even begin to ignore the feel of you against his back, or the way your hands creep over the fabric of his t-shirt. Surely you can feel his heart threatening to beat out of his chest at the contact.

He turns over your discussion in his head, reading into the silence more than the words. If he were having a conversation with someone he had a romantic interest in (and he was), he would bring up romance. He’d lean into subtle flirtation. You didn’t. Maybe he should take it as an indicator that you don’t feel the same for him. That should be a relief. He’d spent the better part of his life planning and working, saving every cent he could to escape into the downtown only miles down the highway and leave the bleak, boring Pelican Town behind. Then you moved here and you began bothering him, gifting him cool rocks you’d found in the mines residing in his backyard, talking to him about whatever he pleased. The sound of footsteps scuffling down the wooden steps toward his bedroom always had him waiting with bated breath, hoping it would be you who swung the door open and interrupted his work. You made him smile and you made the stupid town feel alive.

He’s been conflicted between what he’s always wanted and what he wants right now. He’s stuck trying to figure out if you want it too. It would be so much easier to simply ask you what it is you’re searching for in spending time with him, but that’s far too exposing for the man’s taste. He could’ve pushed the point harder with you back there, but all the bad outcomes are too scary to make the elusive good outcome worth the risk. When faced with opportunity, he continually chooses the path of ignorance and coping with the consequences in favor of avoiding any uncomfortable conversations. And while he hates the feeling of unknown, he hates the idea of confrontation even more.

You pull away for a second and the fear of your hands leaving his torso scare him back into the moment. He can’t help the gasp of air he sucks in when your hands go to his thighs, running up and down the tight denim covering them. Your palm begins to venture a bit too close to his crotch for comfort and he grabs it, placing it on his stomach as if to silently ask you to just hold on. Surely you don’t understand what you’re doing, and the fact that he’s so head-over-heels for you doesn’t help his focus. Even now, fingers absentmindedly running over his abdomen, all the senses in his body are going crazy. Moving lower, lower, until they sneak below the hem and begin tracing over the line of hair on his stomach leading to the growing bulge in his pants.

“What are you doing?” he shouts over the wind and music, turning his head as much as possible while still keeping an eye on the road. Either you don’t hear him or you ignore him, because he gets nothing in return but the persistence of your fingers tracing imaginary lines over his abdomen. That’s not something a friend does. And here he was, wondering if you felt anything toward him.

He grips the handlebars hard, knuckles turning white with the force as he attempts to brush off your movements. His breathing is ragged, the skin of his abdomen burning under your fingertips. Without warning, Seb pulls off the road onto a side path that loops through the surrounding woods just outside Pelican Town. Once he comes to a stop, he kills the engine to avoid having to yell over the noise of it. Turning over his shoulder, he says, “New rule. No touching.”

“No touching?” you ask with a scoff. “That’s kind of difficult given the circumstances.”

“No…touching with your fingers,” he amends.

You undo the strap under your chin, pulling your helmet off and setting it on the ground as you climb to your feet. Standing to the side of Sebastian, you put your palms to the front of his shoulders and give him a small push, forcing him to lean back as he stares at you. The movement gives you enough space to climb on his lap, carefully straddling him. You push open his visor to reveal his eyes, wide as he tries to comprehend what you’re doing. You raise your hands as if to surrender. “So… this is allowed?”

He gulps, hoping the motion is hidden by his helmet obscuring most of his face. It must be so painfully obvious that the game you’re playing is having the desired effect on him, your heat pressed right on his bulge. Sebastian reaches out and grabs your hips, excusing the action as helping you stabilize yourself as you balance yourself precariously on his bike.

“That’s not allowed,” you tsk, tapping his fingers pressed into the skin of your side.

“The rules don’t apply to me,” he mutters, hardly able to form words at this point.

“No?” Seb shakes his head, not able to meet your eye as he looks at your chest so close to his face. “What are you going to do with that privilege?”

His mouth opens but no sound comes out. You reach over and unstrap his helmet, helping him out of it and dropping it at the wheels of the motorcycle. He’s dumbfounded and he certainly looks it, gazing up at you with your hair highlighted by the dim streetlight making its way between the trees separating you from the main road. “I wasn’t completely honest before,” you admit. “I’m missing more than just acceptance. I’m missing romance… and sex.”

“Sex,” he repeats, like he needs to say it to confirm that it’s correct. Like you surely had said something else and he’d just misheard you.

“Sex. I’m missing the excitement of some hot, surprisingly muscular,” your hand slips under his jacket, feeling his biceps through the thin cotton of his shirt, “tattooed bad boy underneath me.”

“You have a type?” he chuckles, hands slowly moving around your waist to rest on your ass.

“I do now.”

Sebastian tilts his chin up, looking down his nose at you through half-lidded eyes. His pupils are dark, part of his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, the skin around it turning white with the pressure he places on the delicate skin. All of his energy is being used to resist; this isn’t the time or place. He’s never thought of you as a one night stand and the expectations for your first time together had always been much more romantic. That didn’t mean he hadn’t spent countless nights rubbing a load out onto his stomach thinking about all the ways he’d fuck you. Because Yoba does he want to right now. But he’s a romantic underneath all the longing and hormones and he can’t make love to you in the middle of the woods and risk someone coming across it. He can’t.

Your head dips down just slightly, just enough to look at him through your long eyelashes. Your lips are pouted, so soft and pink and ready for his. Your tongue darts out just for a moment, running over your bottom lip, and that’s it.

“Fuck it.” His hand reaches toward you, fingers on the back of your neck while his palm cradles your cheek, and he has just enough grip to pull you down to crash his lips against yours. He’s respectful at first, giving you open-mouthed kisses but keeping his tongue to himself, satisfied with tasting the sweet spit from your lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, letting your tongue wander into his mouth and that boundary leaves him. It’s even better this way, able to explore the inside of your mouth and overpower you though you have the upper hand, remaining on his lap. His fingers curl into the fat of your ass, moving you back and forth over his hardening cock restrained by denim, teasing him as he aches for more. Your little moans as his pants provide friction against your clothed clit only fuel him, and he’s sure nothing exists in the world besides you right now as his hips rise to meet yours.

Sebastian parts with you, one palm pressing to the center of your chest as he carefully pushes you back until you’re lying over the gas tank, head tilted up toward the twinkling stars illuminating the night sky. He unzips the leather jacket and lets himself feel over your torso through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. Over your hips, your waist, your stomach, the curves of your breasts. His hand settles loosely around your neck, strained as you’re stretched over his bike. He won’t apply pressure. He just needs to see how good you look with his veiny hand serving as your necklace. He’d cum imagining you in similar positions before but it’s even better than he ever thought. “You’re so beautiful.”

You look down your body at him. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks, babe.” Pulling back, he pats the side of your thigh and you climb off him with his help. He follows, propping his bike on the kickstand and backing you into a tree only a few feet off the dirt path. His height now aids him in taking charge, looking down at you, both breathing heavily before reconnecting. Your foot slides up the side of his leg and he grabs underneath your knee, pinning it at his hip as he grinds into you. Seb’s fingers are looped into your hair, tangling into it and using it to pull you impossibly close.

His lips begin to wander. They leave sloppy, wet kisses down your chin to your neck, lingering in certain spots so long that he’s expecting you to swat him away, but you don’t. You let him mark you in such an exposed place and it drives him crazy to know that you’re going to have to go to great lengths to hide the evidence from everyone in town or show them what you let him do to you. His teeth nip at your skin until you’re whimpering, back arched against the thick trunk behind you. He moves his attacks downward, lifting the hem of your shirt under the leather jacket he lent you. Seb peppers kisses over the top of your breasts for a moment before pushing your bra up, adding it to the fabric bunched up in his hand and exposing your tits. He has to distance himself for just a moment to take in the view of your nipples, taut in the cool air of the night, surrounded by the leather of his old jacket. He couldn’t have imagined a more amazing sight if he tried. You’re biting on your lip as he surveys you, and Yoba, he could bust in his pants right now. He could die happy right now.

But he takes into consideration your anxious mewls and moves back in, licking circles around your nipples and letting the cool air meet the hot saliva he leaves on them before finally taking one in his mouth and sucking, flicking his pierced tongue over the bud and basking in the sounds you make in response. His other hand unbuttons your jeans and slips inside, over your panties, tracing over your slit. Even without putting any pressure on it, he can feel the wet fabric and he wants to sink his fingers inside and feel you. The only thing more appealing is to wait until you’re desperate for it.

Your fingers run through his hair, pulling on the messy strands as you arch into his mouth, grinding your hips on his hand in hopes of finding some much needed friction. Sebastian holds out on you for as long as he can bear, paying close attention to your other nipple as he runs his digit lightly over your covered clit. Falling to his knees, he licks a long line down your stomach, past your belly button and lands at the waistband of your jeans. You pull your bra back over your breasts to cover yourself, his head no longer blocking the view from anyone who may wander across this quiet backroad, but Sebastian stops in his tracks. “Mm-mmm, keep your tits out.”

“What if someone sees?” you ask, your voice almost a whisper. He can’t hold back a laugh as you pretend you haven’t been moaning with no regard to the noise level for the past few minutes.

“You chose to do this here,” he retorts. “That’s the risk.”

“Sebby,” you whine pleadingly. He rolls his eyes at the nickname, hoping the blush spreading over his face isn’t obvious to you.

“Haven’t you figured out that I’m making the rules?” He gets back on his feet, helping you out of his jacket despite your weak protests. He pulls off your shirt and unhooks your bra, pulling the straps down your arms. You’re clearly afraid he’s going to leave you completely exposed as a consequence of your earlier action, but he’s not that mean. He lets you slide his jacket back on, and though your nipples are still out for his viewing, at least you can cover yourself should any onlookers pass by. Though the risk of being caught does add to the blood throbbing through his dick, he isn’t about to share such a beautiful sight with anyone else.

You accept your fate without complaint and, satisfied, Sebastian kneels back down in front of you and slides your jeans down your legs. You step out of them with his help, left in your wet panties before him. He can’t help but let his tongue glide over your clothed slit, able to get a taste of you through it and his eyes roll back for a moment. You ask him to touch you as if he has any self control left, already pushing your panties aside and laying his tongue flat over your clit, flicking the tip against it as you let out a strangled moan, taken aback by the speed at which he works. The sweet wetness is heavenly and his middle finger slips into you, curling toward himself as he feels your slick pussy envelope his digit. Sebastian could eat you out forever so long as you continue to fill his ear with those pathetic whimpers, so completely under his control and eager to have given it over to him.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into you, adding a second finger and pumping it in and out, wet leaking down his palm with the additional finger forcing your pussy to squeeze around him. He helps you lift your leg over his shoulder, boot hanging down his back as your otherwise bare leg drapes across his body. The change allows him to reach deeper, his tongue swirling over your heat faster, mixed with eager sucks and nips at your clit with careful consideration for the placement of his tongue piercing as you go a little wilder each time the silver ball drags across your swollen bud. You hold his face to you, fingers tugging at his hair as if that’s what keeps him nose-deep in your sweet cunt. Your hips writhe on top of him, riding his fingers and his talented mouth as if it’s the only thing that has ever mattered. Sebastian is pretty sure that’s true.

The way your body jolts forward, head hanging over his, it’s obvious you’re on the edge of orgasm. Your delicate pink walls suck his fingers in, the pads of his digits stuck to the spot inside you that makes your toes curl as he frantically flicks his tongue across your clit. The force of the knot in your stomach coming undone requires Sebastian to continue working your cunt while he holds you up against the tree, keeping you on your foot despite your trembling leg threatening to collapse beneath you. When you release his hair, obviously expecting him to pull back, you yelp as his assault on your clit and g-spot continues. “Seb!” you gasp out.

“Behave,” he coos, pulling away just long enough to get the words out. Your core, hypersensitive as you try to come down from such an intense high, isn’t taking Seb’s tongue as well as it was before. Your hips buck wildly, pinned to the tree with your leg still stuck over the man’s taut shoulder. Strangled whimpers leave your parted lips and he can’t help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he hears you struggle to follow orders. You have a tendency to be sassy with him, but fuck does it turn him on to see you so sweet, so eager to please him now that he’s gotten you naked and dripping. Sebastian slowly, painstakingly pulls his fingers from your tight hole, leaving your clit with a sloppy kiss and sets your other foot back on the ground before pulling himself back up to stand before you.

He takes his jacket off, throwing it in the direction of his bike. Lifting his shirt, he wipes his mouth off, sweet slick of your pussy being collected by the soft black cotton of it before he pulls it over his head and tosses it away. Sebastian’s pupils are blown out as he licks his lips, looking down at you. Despite eating you out for as long as you could bear, he still has a hunger apparent to both of you.

He ducks his head down, lips inches from yours as he looks between them and your big, pure eyes. “Let’s give those legs a break, yeah? Did so good for me.”

You nod hesitantly, eyelids fluttering closed as he closes the gap to kiss you and let you taste the remnants of mess you left on his face. The feeling of Sebastian’s hands under your knees is the only warning he gives you before pulling upward. You scramble to catch yourself but soon realize he’s got a tight grip on you, using the tree trunk to aid him. Your pussy, panties having slid back into place, sits against the denim-clad bulge Sebastian sports. He can practically feel you wet his jeans with your first orgasm and can’t pass up the opportunity to hump into you as his tongue fights itself between your lips.

“Need you,” you pant between heated nips.

Sebastian shifts your weight into one arm, using his newly freed hand to clumsily unbutton his jeans and slide his thumb into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free himself from the restraints. He pulls your panties to the side and runs his length between your lips. He could melt from the warmth running over his cock and seemingly spreading into his stomach. Waiting another second feels so impossible so he makes quick work of lifting you another couple inches and positioning his thick tip at your entrance, letting you slip back down into his arms as his cock pushes its way between your silky walls.

Sebastian lets out a moan brewing deep in his throat. He’d spent hours alone in his bed imagining this moment with you and while it’s so much different than he’d ever thought it would be, the sight of your chest heaving under his leather jacket, your hair messy from the bark of the tree trunk behind you, and the heavenly way your cunt squeezes around him is something he would never wish to change. Your gasp as he slides in is a sound that will reverberate around his brain for days. Pulling his hips back, he thrusts into you again and holds you tight to him, lingering as he’s bottomed out inside you.

“You feel so good,” he whimpers against your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut so you can’t see them rolled back. “Fuck, why’d we wait so long to do this?”

“You wouldn’t make a move.”

Sebastian thinks back to all the times he felt he was pretty overt with you, coming back nearly empty-handed. Maybe he had hidden it all more than he thought. “I’ll make a move in the future,” he instead promises. You giggle. “Thought about your cunt for so long.” Sebastian sets his pace, nice and slow so he can bask in the feel of how wet you are, how your warmth pulls him in as his hips grind against your thighs.

“As good as you imagined?”

“So much better.”

You wrap your arms tight around Sebastian’s neck, fingers dragging along the taut skin of his upper back as you kiss him. He’s lost all restraint now, content in giving you messy kisses as he fucks into you. And while he wishes he could tell you over and over how sexy you look in nothing but his old leather jacket, how tight you are around his cock, how bad he’s craved this since he met you, he’d rather let you shut him up like this. Even though he’s fighting back an orgasm, desperate to prolong this moment as long as possible, he lets himself take in the sensation of this thing he’d dreamed about for months.

“Feels so goood,” you whine, chest heaving as you press the back of your head to the tree trunk behind you. Your hair is tangling into the bark as he thrusts into you, body bouncing and grinding on his cock like you were made for it. Having you in his grasp like this has Sebastian’s mind spinning. He’s losing himself to lust, even more than before, and all the dirty things he’s done to you in his mind are swirling around and fuck, he’s just gonna do it.

He pulls out, carefully setting you down with your boots flat on the ground. You look inquisitively at him, almost like you’re afraid to ask if he’d cum yet. He chuckles to himself a little. So timid, when just a few minutes ago, you were trying to grab his dick through his jeans as he was driving you 80 miles an hour down the highway on a bike. “C’mere,” he gestures, walking back to the dirt path where his motorcycle remains propped up with the kickstand. He tests it with a heavy hand, trying to wobble it back and forth. Not much movement, even despite it being settled on soil. As you walk up behind him, he wraps an arm around your waist, slipped under the jacket you still wear, and leans down for a kiss before spinning you to stand in front of him and pressing on your lower back until you’re ass-up, bent over the seat of his shiny black bike.

Sebastian runs a hand down your side, leaning into you as he works to position his cock between your slightly parted thighs. “You like the bad-boy look so much, with the piercings and tattoos and motorcycle… well, I thought maybe you’d wanna get fucked on it. Huh?”

He can practically hear your nervous swallow. Just as he positions his tip at your tight hole do you nod, moaning as he pushes himself inside from behind. His eyes roll back as the feel of your tight cunt envelopes him again, feeling so much deeper now. Your moans are heavier like he’s hitting the little spot inside you and as he stands, he admires how sexy you look and how nice your ass presses against his hips with every thrust, peaking out from under the oversized jacket. You grab onto the top of the bike, anywhere you can get a grip, stabilizing yourself against his harsh movements. Seb grabs your hips, pulling you back in time to meet his. The only thing that could make this better is if you’d kept your helmet on, but fuck, your pretty little face looking over your shoulder, lips parted, isn’t something he could bear to cover even for the sake of his fetish.

Staring at you does nothing to stave off his orgasm, so he instead accepts his defeat and leans into it. His chest presses to your back, one hand snaking its way over your hipbone to rub at your clit while the other takes hold of your neck again. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just needs to keep you close as he speeds up and coaxes out his orgasm. “Gonna be thinking about this for a long time,” he says with a breathy laugh, still in shock that he’s got you in this position out in the middle of nowhere. “Can you be a good girl and cum on my cock right now?” You whine, incoherent, but Seb doesn’t ask you to repeat it. He instead attaches his teeth to the tender spot on your neck already bruised from earlier. You grind back against him, your volume far past reasonable as you whimper his name and groan with every thrust.

Seb finally slows, taking his time to feel you pulse around his throbby length, finally holding tight to your neck as you gasp out for him. “Come f’r me, babe, fuck! That feels so good. M’ gonna cum, too. Keep goin’, keep squeezing my cock.” Seb buries his face into your hair, heavy breaths warming your neck as you cum and only a moment later, he’s nearly frozen inside you as spurts of cum shoot from his pink tip toward your cervix. “Shit, baby…. Your cunt is so fucking amazing.”

When he’s thoroughly milked his cock with your pussy, he pulls out, excruciatingly slow. The rush of white that floods out of you as he tucks his cock back into his boxers and rezips his jeans threatens to reset him, primal urges flooding his brain as he watches it drip down your thighs while you push yourself back up to stand. Seb steals one last stroke down your body before letting his palm settle on your ass, giving it one little smack before you turn to him, on your tiptoes to rest a peck to his lips. “That was fun,” you giggle.

“I’ve got a lot more to say about it than ‘fun,’” he nudges back. “Why don’t you stay undressed and I’ll drive us back like this?” You elbow him, walking past him to retrieve your clothing strewn about the ground. He watches you redress, trying to take in every moment of your exposed skin that he can since you refuse to live a little and ride naked down the little bit of highway left between here and home. Once you’re clothed again, he’s ready with your helmet, holding it over your head as you stand in front of him. He takes a kiss before sliding it on and securing the strap under your chin. He quickly does the same for himself, climbing on the bike and starting it up while you settle in behind him.

“No funny business this time,” Sebastian shouts over the motor.

“Can’t hear you,” you sing back, wrapping your arms over his stomach as he rolls his eyes, unable to stifle the goofy grin all across his face.

So Sebastian drives the remaining ten minutes home, going speed limit the entire way because your body feels better against his back than the enjoyment of an extra 30 miles per hour of wind hitting his torso. He pulls up to the garage in front of his house, turning the bike off and helping you out of your helmet. The temperature has dropped substantially since you’d first left, seemingly gone unnoticed at your little pit stop as you’d both been preoccupied with other things. “You can keep the jacket for now,” Seb offers, “as long as you go on another drive with me sometime.”

You reach out, shaking his hand to accept the proposition. “Give me a day and time. I’ll be there.”

“Want me to walk you home?”

You shake your head. “It’s not far. I’ll be fine.”

Sebastian hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “…Do you want to come inside?”

You blush, enough for Seb to see even in the moonlight. “I don’t know if I have the energy to do that again. I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out the second my head hits the pillow.”

“I’m happy to sleep if you are.” After all that, Seb certainly needs a substantial rest and truthfully, he just wants to get you in his bed and snuggle into you all night. “Plus, I can help you out with all those marks on your neck in the morning.”

“Wh—“ You lean over, looking into the side mirror of the motorcycle to examine your neck, quickly spotting the purpling bruise forming on the side. Seb’s pretty sure he can see the indent of his teeth embedded somewhere in there. You stand up, lips pressed together but you’re clearly hiding a smirk. “Fine. I’ll sleep here if you cover up your mess.” Seb sticks his hand out, shaking yours again to concede to your terms. They’re more than fair.

[hi-itsanniemarie]

You Keep Smiling Like That

Pairing: Bella Ramsey x You

Rating: Fluffy one shot

A/N: This was a request from the lovely @girrrllidkuhh1 :) Love a little Bella moment! Enjoy <3

Bella didn’t have any social media. Like, none. No Instagram, no Twitter, not even a burner TikTok account. They said it was for their sanity, and honestly, you respected it. Admirable, really. That didn’t stop you from sending them approximately seventy-five links a week, though. Even if they never opened them.

Because while Bella was out here being beautifully mysterious and offline, your For You Page had basically become a 24/7 Bella content machine. Interview clips, behind-the-scenes bloopers, fan edits with dramatic music and devastating slow-mo transitions. But there was one TikTok, the one with them doing that thing that and smirking at the camera, that had literally made you drop your phone every time you saw it.

You didn’t even realize you’d been giggling at another one until Bella looked up from the book they were reading beside you on the couch.

“Okay, what is it?” they asked, eyes narrowing slightly, but with a smile tugging at their lips. “You keep smiling like that.”

“Like what?” you replied, quickly locking your screen as if that would erase the edit now permanently burned into your brain.

“That smug little grin. The one that usually means you’ve seen something ridiculous or chaotic or… slightly illegal.”

You shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “It’s nothing. Just… TikTok being TikTok.”

Bella raised a brow. “Was it a cat dressed like Shakespeare again?”

“No.”

“Lizards wearing tiny hats?”

“Nope.”

“Then it’s one of those videos again, isn’t it?”

You blinked. “What do you mean by those videos?”

Bella smirked knowingly. “The ones where I walk into a room in slow motion and some trending song plays like I’m the second coming of a Greek god.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you do know about the edits?”

“Oh, I don’t see them,” they said, flipping a page like this was no big deal. “But I’ve been around you long enough to know the signs. The sudden silence. The suspicious smile. The blushing.”

“I do not blush.”

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

You groaned, burying your face in a pillow. “They just keep showing up on my FYP, okay? I don’t ask for them. The algorithm just… knows.”

Bella laughed, warm and low. They set the book down and shifted to face you.

“You know,” they said, nudging your knee with theirs, “you could just watch the real thing instead of all those edits.”

You peeked at them. “What, like follow you around with dramatic lighting and a sexy song playing in the background?”

“No,” they said, leaning in slightly, “like look at me like that when I’m actually here.”

They were close now, close enough that you could feel their breath, soft and slow against your cheek. Their eyes flicked to your mouth for just a second, and it was all the permission you needed.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t sweet. It was heat and curiosity and months of pretending you hadn’t been imagining this. Their lips met yours with intent, firm and steady, like they already knew exactly how you’d taste. You parted for them without thinking, the kiss deepening fast, messy in the best way. Their hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers dragging just enough to make your skin buzz.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced. But god, it was good.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing was uneven, and Bella looked completely unfazed, like they hadn’t just short-circuited your entire nervous system.

“Better than a thirst trap?” they murmured, lips still close enough to brush yours.

You laughed softly, dazed. “Unfair question.”

They tilted their head, eyes glittering. “Why’s that?”

“Because the thirst trap never pressed me up against the couch and made me forget my own name.”

Bella grinned, slow and dangerous. “Well then,” they said, “maybe you should stop watching them… and let me give you something better to replay.”

And just like that, your heart was racing again, but this time, it wasn't from some video on your screen. It was from them. Right here. The real thing.

[fedrifan78]

req for a one shot where ferran has baby fever every time he looks at pedri interacting with kids

[ofc they’ve been dating for a while alr]

“are you ready?”

masterlist requested by: @facesblurry summary: ferran has baby fever. word count: 1054 genre: fluff

Ferran never used to notice babies. Not on planes, not in restaurants, not in the stands when the match ended and players carried their toddlers around in mini kits. He didn’t coo or stop walking or nudge whoever was next to him and say, look at that one. But lately… lately, something had shifted.

It started innocently. A teammate brought his daughter to training one afternoon, waddling around the pitch in a little dress and clutching a juice box with both hands. Ferran barely glanced at her. Until she turned, smiled up at him, and shouted, “Hola!”

His heart didn’t stand a chance.

That night, he found himself scrolling through Instagram reels of babies mispronouncing words or hugging puppies. The algorithm caught on fast. The next day, Ferran caught himself lingering too long outside a baby clothing store, eyeing a set of tiny shoes that looked exactly like the ones Pedri wore sometimes.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a phase. A hormonal episode. Maybe he needed more sleep.

But then Pedri walked into their apartment wearing one of Ferran’s hoodies, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp and curling, and Ferran couldn’t stop staring. His brain short-circuited.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Pedri asked, tugging the sleeves over his hands and flopping on the couch.

“Nothing,” Ferran said quickly, tossing his phone aside. “Just thinking.”

Pedri narrowed his eyes. “About what?”

Ferran opened his mouth, shut it again, then stood. “Do you want coffee? I’m making coffee.”

“You’re deflecting,” Pedri called after him. “And you never drink coffee.”

Ferran boiled the water anyway. His hands were shaking slightly.

The next time they kissed, Ferran pulled back halfway through, stared at Pedri’s mouth, and blurted, “Would you want kids?”

Pedri froze. “What?”

“Not now,” Ferran said, panicking. “Not like, tomorrow. Just someday.”

Pedri sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That’s random.”

“I know,” Ferran said. “I just… I saw this video earlier. There was this dad feeding his baby, and the baby kept spitting the food back out and laughing, and the dad just looked so… happy. Like it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Pedri blinked slowly. “You cried at a baby video, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t cry,” Ferran mumbled. “I teared up. Slightly.”

Pedri was silent for a beat, then said softly, “You want to be a dad.”

Ferran groaned and buried his face in Pedri’s chest. “I don’t know. I think I do. I think I’m freaking out.”

Pedri curled a hand behind Ferran’s neck. “Why would that freak you out?”

“Because I don’t even know if that’s something I can have,” Ferran said, voice muffled. “With the job. The pressure. And you. I don’t know if it’s something you’d ever want. Or if I’m selfish for wanting it with you.”

Pedri didn’t speak for a long time. Just ran his hand slowly down Ferran’s back, drawing patterns with his fingertips.

“I’ve thought about it,” he said eventually. “But it’s not something I let myself think about often. You know. Because of the same reasons.”

Ferran lifted his head. “But have you thought about it with me?”

Pedri’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah. I have.”

Ferran’s throat closed. “You’re sure?”

Pedri gave him a small smile, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “You’d be a really good papá, Ferri.”

“I’d lose my mind,” Ferran said immediately. “I’d be that parent who keeps every drawing. I’d film everything too.”

Pedri laughed. “You already do that with my interviews.”

“You’re cute when you talk about football,” Ferran said defensively.

“You’re worse when I talk about you in them.”

Ferran sat back, grinning. “I take pride in that.”

They didn’t talk about it much after that. At least not directly. But the shift was there. Ferran watched Pedri hold a teammate’s baby after a match and felt his whole chest bloom. Pedri looked a little nervous at first, but then the baby giggled and tugged at his collar, and he smiled wide, easy, warm.

That night, Ferran saved the clip someone had posted of it. Watched it three times in bed.

“You’re obsessed,” Pedri said, crawling in beside him.

“Can you blame me?” Ferran replied, showing him the screen. “Look at you. That smile.”

Pedri rolled his eyes and slid under the covers. “You’re unbearable.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” Pedri said without hesitation.

Ferran turned off the phone. His chest felt full again, but not in the scary way. Just full.

It wasn’t until a month later, during an interview, that Ferran saw it written on Pedri’s face too.

They were being asked about life outside football, and Pedri said something about being happy, about feeling grounded. The interviewer joked about family, and Ferran watched Pedri glance sideways, eyes flicking to where Ferran was sitting off camera. It was half a second.

But Ferran knew him. He saw it.

Afterward, as they walked back to the car, Ferran took Pedri’s hand without a word.

“Was it obvious?” Pedri asked.

“Only to me,” Ferran said.

Pedri looked relieved. “Good.”

“You still want to wait, right?” Ferran asked quietly. “For all of it. The talking. The planning. The figuring it out.”

“Yeah,” Pedri said. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t want it.”

Ferran squeezed his hand. “Same.”

They were still young. Still playing at the highest level. Still figuring out who they were and what they wanted in the quiet moments between matches and training sessions and the noise of the world.

But sometimes, in the morning, Ferran would wake up and find Pedri curled into his side, face soft, arms wrapped around Ferran’s waist, and all he could think about was what it would feel like to wake up to this ten years from now, with a small human kicking both of them in the ribs.

And sometimes, when Ferran pressed a kiss to Pedri’s temple and whispered goodnight, Pedri would open one eye and say, “I wonder if our kids would be like you or me.”

Ferran would kiss him again, smiling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Pedri would grin. “Not bad. Just dangerous.”

And Ferran… Ferran would fall asleep feeling like maybe, just maybe, the future wasn’t as far away as it seemed.

- sofía ✎ᝰ.

[goodwitchhour]

stephen nedoroscik boyfriend headcanons

requested: yes / no

summary: what the title says baby !!!!

cw: idk man it’s mainly just some fluff!

notes: quickly wanted to do this while writing all of your stephen requests!! promise they’ll be up soon but uni is taking up a lot of my time for the next two weeks would also like to add that I am not, in any way, trying to disrespect stephen OR his 8-year relationship (tess ur an icon and ily, pls share ur secrets for having such a good relationship bc ya girl is desperate), this is purely for funsies & obvs fictional!!! let me know if yall want another part & what your own hcs are! okay byeeeeee

stephen nedoroscik x reader ♡

he fell first. he knows straight away if he likes someone and if he does then thats that and it was no different with you. he didn't have eyes for anyone else, especially after he learnt that you liked him as well

my guy is a little spoon. sometimes he’ll be the big spoon but he also really just wants a cuddle

speaking of.. hugs! all! the! time! will hug you from behind if you’re busy doing something or when one of you have just come home he’ll scoop you up like it’s the easiest thing ever

honestly can’t imagine ever fighting with him likeeee if one of you is upset then he’ll make sure you talk it out! will sit down with you and would be SO patient but he also won’t force you to talk it out if you’re not ready to — either way yall won’t be getting into a screaming match bc frankly I think he’d rather die

on the other hand, if the relationship is more new & fresh he might be hesitant to bring up problems in fear of potentially ruining or making things awkward between you

but once you become more comfortable with each other and your relationship he finds it much easier to come to you, especially because the trust between you is much stronger

will send you videos when he’s at practice! or he’ll actually facetime you and just be on call until it’s basically time to go back home to you! and if you're not busy then you're coming with him to the gym!!

sends you memes all the time! like if you go a few days without checking your dms on instagram or tiktok, trust that he has flooded with them with cursed posts

he will also send you photos & videos of kyushu ALL THE TIME!!! and if he’s away, he’ll ask to facetime just so he can say hi to him lol

will teach you how to play chess and will teach you about his favourite rubiks cube algorithms

will also teach you how to play rocket league if you don’t already know, like will do the whole sit you on his lap and put his hands on yours as his teaches you the controls

speaking of lap sitting, one of his love languages is physical touch fr! if you’re at home he’s practically smothering you but if yall are in public he needs to at least still hold hands or have a hand on your leg/arm/shoulder. he isn’t big on pda really but he also needs to be on your space in some way so it’s something he has to try & balance lmfao

like the scorpio he is, he’s very intense in his love for you! like he’ll keep things private about specific relationship details but he’ll still talk about you all. the. time. without compromising said privacy!! he gets especially good at keeping this balance during the olympics when the press are all over him

if you’re a gymnast like him then he loves training with you!! will help you with routines and vice versa

if you’re just a regular lil person then he loves hearing about your job! always ready for you to come home and unload on him about your day

andddd if you’re famous in some capacity then trust he’s the MOST supportive of you and your career!! like he is your n.1 cheerleader!! (side note… stephen x famous!reader anyone??)

[strip-weathers]

How have your feelings on the fandom as a whole changed?

Oh dear this will be long..but thank you for the ask!

By this answer I don’t hate on anyone and I don’t want to upset anyone! I’m not going to hate on anyone and I’d never do that. I’m just saying my opinion!

And if you gonna read it to the end, thank you so much for that. ❤️ this is also a part of my venting. I felt very scared to say it out loud because I’m scared that people are going to hate on me because of this. I hope you guys won’t and you’ll understand me. 💙

Also if you’d like to discuss on anything I just wrote down, don’t worry and discuss with me about that! Just DM me and we can discuss!

My feelings about this fandom changed a lot. Before, like from 2017 (even lower years) probably to 2021 the fandom was something different. People were kind, respectful, nearly every Cars or Planes blogs got attention and people interacted with them. They were simply enjoying the time being there and also people’s ideas and creations. They were simply talking about head cannons and also enjoying that. And I’ve been happily enjoying that too.

But after that 2021 year, I have a feeling it changed a lot. Lots of well known people left, or they stopped posting maybe because they’re busy in their lives or they just ran out of ideas or they’re not interested in this fandom anymore. And still lot of people quitting and leaving this fandom.

Amount of people on Instagram? Very small. Amount of people on TikTok? Also very small. Amount of people on Tumblr? A little bit more cause probably most of them don’t have Insta. I feel like this fandom is getting smaller and more closed and people don’t want to interact. (Maybe they’re shy? Not sure.)

Also these days there’s one big issue, attention. Lot of attention as likes, comments, shares (reblogs for Tumblr) get only those well known people in the fandom. But not those small accounts or blogs (including me). But why? Why small artists don’t get attention we should get for work we do? Where’s the problem? Maybe the algorithm of the app or the app doesn’t let us be seen on people’s dashboards and fyp? Or is that because we draw something people are not interested in? Or maybe they don’t like us? I’m not sure about that but it’s sad to see it.

I also want people from fandom to know that I’m here. I want them to know that I also like this franchise. I want them to known that I’m drawing and writing about Cars and Planes. I want them to know that I’m also part of this fandom and I want them to know that they can reach me or interact with me without any worries.

And I did find lot of great friends and moots I’m glad and happy for. You guys are amazing and thank you for being in contact with me and interacting with me. I really appreciate it! Also all people who like, share (regblog) or comment my posts, thank you for that!

There’s also another issue in this fandom. Some people who may not be in the fandom (I’m not sure about that) just draw cars or planes randomly and post it and everyone are interacting as hell and it goes viral. And that’s all. But those who are here for longer time (also including me) post as much as they can but they never get any attention and interactions. Why? Where’s the problem? I’m trying to be as active as possible (for example here on Tumblr) and I get some attention (and I appreciate it) but not as much as other artists. I find it very unfair.

And the last one issue is that these days people ship characters that shouldn’t be shipped. 🚫By this part I’m not hating on lgbt community🚫

Yeah, some ships I do understand like Filmore and Sarge or Finn McMissile and Leland Turbo and some other ships. (Dont worry I also can see some cute ships with Cars or Planes and maybe I’ll show them some day owo.) But there are some ships that shouldn’t be. Like Strip and Chick. I’m sorry but in all honesty I hate this ship. You can’t just ship a married race car with mean race car. Why don’t yall give Chick some lady car? Like Natalie? I don’t get why do people ship them.

But I’m not here to hate on anyone! I’m not going to hate on anyone! People can do anything they want and I understand that. But I just don’t get this case and it’s so disturbing for me.

So in overall I sometimes feel like if you’re not friends with well known people in this fandom who would help you get viral, you’re not gonna be famous or well known in this fandom.

Again thank you for reading this into the end and have nice day / night!

[rigginsstreet]

I love Instagram showing you who likes a post cuz why am I seeing Matt bomer liking a reel of some guy with a butt plug

[melleberry]

PLEASE READ TO HELP A DISABLED QUEER ARTIST IN A BAD SITUATION.

I've been posting my art online since 2004. Unfortunately, due to mental illness, stress, symptomatic skill decay, and chronic pain, my work has had slow progress and even slower recognition. I've never been able to break past more than a couple hundred followers except on platforms where one or two non-art posts gained traction.

I'm in my 30s, and I've lost multiple jobs due to my illnesses. I'm trying to find a long-term solution, but I can't even find a temp job. My back pain has gotten so bad I can barely move-- It's complicated, but I'm currently stuck in a very abusive living situation and have to hop between two households bi-weekly just to survive. I have bills to pay, a beautiful tuxedo cat to feed and care for, groceries, monthly expenses, my phone even got turned off this month.

Obviously, I'm grateful for those who have helped me. But every time I post about needing help, it either gets suppressed by the algorithm, or it gets plenty of notes, with no results. I've been barely half active on tumblr since the spice ban, I've moved from Deviantart, to here, to Twitter and Instagram, to Tiktok, and sometimes bluesky. Now, most of these platforms make it impossible to gain any traction as an artist.

So I'm asking, please, whatever you can do-- share, reblog, like, a dollar, every little bit helps. I need at least 500$ to try and cover my bills, and I already have a stack of commissions I need to finish. I'm putting all my links under this post. You can also follow me on all my platforms, linked in my bio card! Thank you for reading!

[justjams2003]

Fast Pace- 3

Summary: You're a hard-working Chef in Paris and after a freak accident run-in with Carlos Sainz, your life makes a 180. Let's just say with a certain agreement, you get your bills paid and in return stand in as Carlos' girlfriend for the press. But will you be able to handle the pressure and ensure the lines don't blur?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Carlos Sainz x Sugar Baby!Reader

Warnings: I've aged up Carlos, he is 33 in this fic.Smoking, smut, sexual themes, age difference, manipulation, control, slight obsession, tell me if I missed any

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @s-silk

Taglist: @httpjeonlicious, @f1lov3r, @messersandmesses, @hollie911, @oriconde08

Word count: 2,6k

Masterlist

Part 2~Part 4

His eyes pierce you like an ice-pick to the brain. Dark like a storm and prowling your mind, trying to pry an answer from you. He looks like a model, posing for a magazine cover. He’s leaned back, sipping from his wine, hair perfectly in place and his broad shoulders lure you in. Those coal-brown eyes don’t beg for you to say yes, but command you.  

How you wish now that you could your friends and beg them to reply for you. But you can’t. You have to pull up your big-girl pants. He’s read you back to front like some cheap pamphlet. You’ve never told anyone about your big dreams. You’ve kept it under wraps, a daydream that keeps you busy when the nights are too long. The only one that really knows is your Instagram algorithm, which constantly shows you other people living your dream.  

Is it too vapid of you? To only want the sweet life and not want to work for it? It’s not that you haven’t tried. You’ve spent three years working your ass off in that damn restaurant and nothing has come from it. You’ve not gotten a single raise, no other higher up, fancier, restaurants have wanted to take you in.  

Your lip is caught in your teeth, and you can’t help but blush at the thought. “Would it make me lackadaisical? A floozy? Lazy?” You ask, unsure if you're asking for his approval or trying to convince yourself. He smirks and shakes his head, then takes your hand. “Quite the opposite, it would make you smart. If you take this opportunity, then you’ll get an advantage that other girls could only dream of.”  

He continues, trying to convince you. “Model work isn’t easy, it will be ruthless, even with my influence. If it helps, I promise I won’t do everything for you, not that I could. But I’m certain if those agencies see you, they’ll want you immediately, as it happened with me.” He caresses each of your knuckles and his words go right to your head.  

“And there would be conditions?” You ask, truly you’d already been convinced. All you really can think of now is your safety. “Naturally, you know how those lawyers are. NDAs, and certain other requirements, from both our sides.” His words are so smooth and play exactly to your heartstrings. The struggle in your mind seems to crumble with each soft sweep of his thumb on his hand.  

You stare him down, trying to see any lies or hidden agreements but you get nothing but sincerity. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.” His face lights up in a huge grin and seems to almost jump in his seat. “You won’t regret it, princesa. I’ll make sure of it.” He places small butterfly kisses all over your hand. His stubble tickles and you can’t help but let the giggles fly from your mouth.  

“You won’t need for another thing, ever again.”  

Screaming is heard through the phone. You can’t help but laugh at your best friends’ reactions all while you soak up the feeling of being snuggled up in bed on a Thursday morning. “Tell us more. Right now.” Jas demands through the phone. “Well, after I agreed to the whole thing, he got us celebration crème brûlée, another one of my favourites.” They gasp and then scream again.  

You had set your Instagram radar to follow everything related to Carlos, and your phone is going crazy. There are already so many photos circulating around the internet. There are photos of him and you at dinner, luckily though you can’t really see your face.

Rumours circulate of who this new mysterious girl could be. If you’re new or if it’s a long-term thing. Then, of course, people mostly upset because Carlos might not be single anymore. There are other people too, excited to finally see him with someone.  

You can’t help but sigh, is this really what you’re getting yourself into? Are you really ready for people speculating about every single aspect of your life? Are you ready to allow yourself to be given to the public like that? More importantly, are you ready to share him? You can’t help but wonder if the fans will like you? Will they accept you or will you ruin his reputation? 

“We’re so proud of you for saying yes, it is what we would have said,” Jas says again and you can’t help but laugh. “And we’re also very proud that you didn’t make it easy for him.” Ilsa comments and you know she’s thinking more long term than Jasmine or yourself. You’re scared to even tell them of the things people are saying. Should you be shocked that this feels normal already?  

 “Then, after the date, he asked for my bank information and then proceeded to deposit me 5,000 euros. He called it a down payment. And a taste of what is to come.” They proceed to scream once more and roll your eyes at them. You’re happier now to have the water apartment for another month. Not that you need it, looking at the F1 calendar.  

A knock is heard at the door. “Uh, girls, I have to go. I’ll text you guys all the deeds at the end of the day.” They say their goodbyes and their goodluck’s. You throw the sheets you’ve had since university to the side and run over, expecting some sort of package or invoice, you throw open the door not looking to see who is outside.  

“Carlos, hi,” you smile, now feeling incredibly self-conscious about the pyjamas you’re wearing. The shorts have a few holes in, and the shirt is stained more than you’d like to admit. “Good morning, hermosa. I hope I did not wake you, no?” Those earth-brown eyes scan over every inch of your form and a smirk creeps across his face.

“Don’t laugh at me, you’re early. You said the flight was at nine and I haven’t gotten ready yet,” a blush coats your cheeks as his charming grin grows wider. “I am not laughing at you, hermosa. Quite the opposite, you look...” he’s holding back, you can see it in his eyes. Already you can tell he wears his heart on his sleeve.  

Carlos’ mind is somewhere else, and his eyes are glued to you. He then snaps out of it, “May I come in?” He asks and now you’re really blushing. The place is small and rundown, the paint is peeling, and you’ve given up on trying to get rid of the musk that the building carries. Not to mention, the place is a mess after your frantic packing last night.  

“Yes, uh, please excuse the mess.” His eyes don’t even glance at any of the strewn-around clothes or dirty dishes. His hand naturally falls to your waist, pulling you closer and then placing a small kiss on the crown of your head. You can’t help but notice how perfectly you fit into his side. After he sits down by your small kitchen counter you notice the things he’s carrying in his hands.  

A packet of paper, and a leather bag. “You can make yourself comfortable while I go get ready.” Again, you go to leave but you’re pulled back by the wrist. In one quick motion, you find yourself standing between his strong legs. He holds up the bag for you, “I’ve brought you something to wear. And don’t bother packing, we’ll buy anything you need there.”  

You go to protest, but he gives you a sharp look, a similar one from last night. The look that fuels and tames the fire in your body all at the same time. And yet, you keep your mouth shut and follow his instructions.  

The hoodie is huge on you, it hangs on the middle of your thigh and the sleeves hang over your hands. It’s bright red with black shoulders and the Ferrari logo is unmistakable. You pair it with plain black leggings and sneakers. You hold the cap, that came with, in your hands, and already you feel a bit showy. 

You walk out and Carlos’ eyes immediately snaps to you. Those stormy eyes of his instantly go even darker. He rakes his hand through those dark locks of his as if he needs to ground himself. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” You give a playful scoff, but he shakes his head. He stands up and takes the cap you’re holding from you.  

“I must disagree; I want everyone to know you’re mine now.” He picks up the hat and places it comfortably on your head. His gaze is strong, and you scrunch your nose, unsure if he approves of your appearance. You hadn’t bothered with too much makeup. Your reaction causes something you’d compare to an animalistic growl come from him.  

“He esperado tanto por esto.” His Spanish tongue is something that should be illegal, simply because of the way he makes you feel. You’re certain he could call you a hideous beast and you’d still fall to your knees. “You have no idea what you do to me, mi amor.” His finger just lightly grazes your cheek and you’re entirely mesmerized by the way he stares into my soul. As if you’re a prize he’s been yearning for all his life.  

In desperate need to hide yourself from his burning gaze, you switch the topic, in fear that he might find something wrong with you if he looks long enough. “What’s with the papers?” He looks almost annoyed to be doing something other than admiring you. “It is courtesy of my lawyers. The NDA we had talked about last night.” He takes your hand and guides you to the seat next to him.  

“It’s more to protect the public image than anything. I don’t think it’s needed, but you know how they can be, no?” He jokes while you read it through. If you had a lawyer, you would’ve had them read it through, but you don’t. So, instead in a leap of faith, you sign it without much thought. You can hear your mother yelling at you in your mind.  

“Alright, are we ready to go then?” You ask, not wanting to think more about the legal side of this all. More so just excited to jump into this new life. Excited to see all these new places you two are going to together. He raises his brow at you, “Are you sure that you’re ready?” He asks, taking his hand in yours and you have to hide your smile.  

“Or, is my pretty girl eager to join me in the public eye?” He shoots you a wink and a blush creeps across your cheek. You can’t help but blush your lip and hide yourself from him. How does he always know just what is going on in your mind? “I knew I chose right; other girls would be so scared to face those vultures. But I can see....”  

He seems to trail off, gently caressing your cheek. “Hmm, yes, what do you see?” You bite your lip and flutter your eyes, loving any sort of physical attention from him. He then shoots you a wink before shaking his head. “Come, we’re going to be late.” He stands up from his seat, taking your hand and dragging you out the door.  

“No, please, Carlos! You can’t do that to me!” You whine, though it’s all fun and games. Still, Carlos mutters under his breath, as always in Spanish. A language that you now consider learning. Just to know what he’s saying about you.  

“What are you doing, hermosa?” He asks, watching as you pull out your phone and look at the Instagram again. Ilsa likes to say you’re addicted; you just like to say you’re connected. This, however, isn’t exactly something that you wanted him to know about. A bit embarrassed more than anything scared that he’ll judge you for your extreme consumerism.  

You hide behind your hair, “Nothing,” you mutter immediately turning your phone off. He rolls his eyes at you, then wraps his hand around your waist. He then drags you across the seat, right next to him. He then takes your thigh closest to him and drapes it over his leg. His hand stays there, rubbing soothing circles. “Give it here,” he says, his eyes stern and his hand held out.  

This time you don’t give in and just cross your hands, staring him down. Your phone is your safe space and not even your closest friends are allowed to see it. “Niña terca,” he mutters under his breath, his jaw locking tight.

“If you give it to me now, I’ll buy you a new one.” Your own jaw this time hangs open. This time you give in with a huff and hand him the old 2017 Samsung, already open. Is this how it’ll always be? How much of yourself are you willing to give to him, for your future? 

A smirk crawls on his face, that smile of his could stop traffic. If he were to be charged with a crime, he could simply flash the judge that smile, and they’d free him of all charges. “You like seeing what they say?” Your ears are bright red and wish the earth would swallow you whole. You give a small shrug, “It’s all I used to have time for.”  

“But you don’t post that much, no?” He asks, and you can see him going through your account. “I don’t have anything to post.” Carlos shakes his head. “I must disagree, mi amor. Your beauty should be seen by everyone. But we will make sure that you have too much content, no?” His sweet whispers are something that you’ve been yearning for all your life. 

 “Why don’t we do, what do the people call it?” You furrow your brows, there is a language and generation barrier. You can’t help but smirk at his word choice. “The younger people you mean? Oh, lord, what have I gotten myself into?” You say, referring to the age gap between you two. How lucky aren’t you? As if you’d been written into the perfect book, no plot turns, no villains, nothing.  

This time it’s him who blushes, “No, no, no, hermosa. What do they say? Where you post the kissing instead of letting them find out slowly?” A loud laugh escapes your lips and he too blushes and can’t help but laugh. “A hard launch?” He laughs, this time, he is the one hiding his face in the rook of your neck.  

“Yes, yes, just like so.” There is a moment of silence between the two of you as consider it in your mind. “You mean it? You don’t want to see how the team reacts first? To see how the fans react?” Your voice goes quiet, insecure about your worthiness of him. “I’m sure. I’m sure of you. I’m sure of us.” You don’t deny him and allow him to take the photo.  

He takes a few photos. One with his face still hiding in the crook of your neck, the next where your head sits on his shoulder while you stare up at him. In the last he’s placing a kiss on your forehead, the 55-logo hard to miss.

While you choose the photos to post, you can’t help but see just how much adoration you look at him. In your deepest heart, you hope he doesn’t see it too. He can’t know just how excited you are for this. How much you already like him, and how you’re enjoying his company more than his money.  

You posted the pictures with the caption, “I like a fast pace too.” Of course, with Carlos tagged. He then posts it on his story. And after the rest of the car ride, he tucks both of your phones away and makes sure you get to know each other as much as possible.  

My taglist is open! If you wish to be tagged in this story alone, please comment or reblog with the words 'tag'. And if you wish to be tagged in all my posts please comment or reblog with the words 'tag all'.

[shrimpothy]

literally what is the good in reporting "scammers". if it actually was a scammer great job they'll make another account and go on with their day. some probably wont notice if they're running multiple scams but if you managed to get an actual persons account deleted they have to make a new account prove that they're in an active war site go through the vetting process write a new fucking paragraph about their trauma (if they don't have it on hand already with how many accounts are scamjacketed and deactivated constantly) and regain their meager ass place in the algorithm. for daring to mildly inconvenience a tumblr user. i'm going insane

pls read all the way thru!!

~

is it weird that what makes me the most certain that they’re actually scam bots the fact that they would choose tumblr in the first place. like let me go to emo faggot land, a site that is believed to be dead by most people and is lowkey infamous for its bot problem, to get help. it makes more sense to post something like that on tiktok, instagram, xiaohongshu, etc. or at least imo.

in the event that families are actually flocking here in an attempt to receive help, someone should tell them that they’re likely to be ignored and assumed to be a bot. if you’re gonna support a scam, tell these accounts to catfish people on sugar daddy apps to get donations. there are lonely rich dudes willing to pay to just talk to people. or shit, asking a findom to get their subs to donate could work too.

~

but on a more serious note, it’s generally safer, and better for everyone involved, to help people through legit organizations (like pcrf, map, unicef, unwra, wfp, wck, rescue, etc.) anyways, as these are actual nonprofits and welfare programs and they have potential to reach more than just one family at a time, which is ultimately more effective and efficient when it comes to saving palestine as a whole. it’s secure and safer to trust.

not all people are moral, a lot of humans use whatever they can to their advantage. if someone wants money, even if they don’t remotely need it, they will find a way to get it.

the internet has been littered with scams since its conception.

do not trust strangers with your account information, do not trust strangers with your money, do not trust strangers on the internet, do not trust strangers. full stop.

remember, dead internet theory isn’t a theory anymore. bots have already begun to reign supreme.

~

anyways,

here’s more links to some helpful resources in regards to being confident in your efforts to support palestine.

protect palestine - essentially a palestinian support masterlist

palestinian solidarity campaign

the blop - big list of protests, not just for palestine but still useful and relevant

click to help /li ‼️- this one is great for my fellow broke and/or depressed bitches that lack the funds or energy to contribute more significantly but still want to help out. you best believe that activism burnout is real and prevalent, which is another thing this is good for

is it legit? - read charity reviews and ratings

us campaign for palestinian rights

decolonize palestine - learn about palestine and its culture! history, literature, myth busting, and more

palestine legal - if you need lawful help in your support efforts. this is especially important with the kidnappings of activists that’s been occurring as of late

heal palestine

build palestine’s list of trusted orgs

muslims around the world - they’re international but i linked their palestinian donation page specifically

un crisis relief for gaza

donate stock or crypto to project hope

wear the peace - clothes as activism. all profits go to gazan aid

penny appeal

doctors without borders - helps over 70 different countries, including palestine, ukraine, sudan, and the democratic republic of congo

sign up to volunteer at helping hand for relief and development

impactive - app for organizing and volunteering

turn up activism - app for youth activism

BDS movement

apps and sites to help with your boycotting: no thanks, boycott for peace, goods unite us, uplift

aweea’s list of palestinian owned businesses in USA, CANADA, UK, and AU

shop palestine

actions you can take to help

[adrienaline-rushed-art]

HEYYY HEYEYY

The animation contest I entered is wrapping up between today and tomorrow!

I need your help! Bbno$ is asking for audience input on the winner of the contest…. There’s a glaringly unanimous answer as of right now (and that’s FINE IM NOT GONNA BE MAD AT A LOSS hoWevEr—) I’d hate to think I lost a chance if at least being considered as a finalist just because of a shit algorithm

Anyone who has an Instagram and or tik tok, it’s be a HUGE HELP if you could leave a comment tagging me in his comments and maybe even interacting with my post

To clarify, I’m not trying to force a win by vote (I actually don’t know how I feel about that method to begin with) rather, I want help with visibility. I don’t want something I put this much effort into to make me feel regret for not trying harder to push it forward (I ain’t no giver upper)

Is that… weird to ask for?? I hope not 🥹💞 but here are the links if you’re on board:

Bbno$ winner vote tik tok post: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8rdnffn/

My tik tok upload: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8rdwBB4/

My animation post on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DKxIiTtsy6B/?igsh=Y3VsZHllZmt1MThj

I’d be eternally grateful 🙏

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Adrien (@adrienaline_rushed_art)

[orphiclovers]

Not orv related but kinda new to Tumblr so like what is the behaviour 101 on Tumblr , can I get a few tips , i desperately wanna interact but idk

Okay, I knew I would get something like this. You're already doing pretty well, in that you have a profile pic and have figured out the ask function, so good job. 

Orphiclovers’ guide to Tumblr 101:

1.The number one crucial step that EVERYONE should do, even if you don’t care about the rest. CHANGE YOUR PROFILE PIC to ANYTHING that's not the default one (Though not your face. We don’t generally do that here.) The reason to do this is because it’s almost impossible to tell apart a just created blog from a porn bot. If you haven’t encountered one yet, you will. They're a big thing on tumblr, a completely blank blog created by a bot (sometimes with an attractive woman as the profile pic) that follows you and and sends you ‘hot singles in your area’ type scam messages. If you get one, don’t click any links! Under the message there will be a prompt saying ‘mark this as spam?’ click that and tumblr will automatically report and block the blog.  Some people with huge bot infestations automatically block any blank blog to be safe, and you don’t want that accidentally happening to you, so CHANGE YOUR PROFILE PIC!

2. The other essential blog customization thing is go to Blog Settings>turn off ‘share posts you like’ and ‘share the tumblrs you’re following’. This will hide your likes and the people you follow from every other user. Basically everyone turns this off to have privacy. Otherwise noisy fucks like me can come to your blog and look at all that.

3. You ALSO need to go to Settings>Dashboard>scroll to Prefrences> disable ‘Best Stuff First.’ Having your dashboard (that’s what we call the “Following” tab on Home where you see all the posts) be in chronological order is objectively the best way to be on Tumblr. This is the one social media that doesn’t shove the algorithm down your throat, enjoy it to the fullest. I have never in my life clicked on the ‘Explore’ tab except by accident, and the ‘For You’ tab is also controversial. I don’t recommend it. You can learn to use tumblr with no algorithms and you will feel better.

4. Okay, but there’s like two posts on my dashboard, what do I do? You need to follow people, friend. Go to the search bar and enter a tag for a fandom or character you like. That’s ‘#kim dokja’ or ‘#honkai star rail’ - unlike instagram, you can put spaces between words. It’s not case sensitive, so #Kim Dokja #kim dokja and #KIM DOKJA is all the same to tumblr. I recommend going in tags and not just ‘kim dokja’ because tumblr’s search system is often wonky.

5. Now, scroll through the posts and follow the blogs. That’s it. Now their new posts will show up at the top of your dashboard. Currently, I follow 119 blogs and that’s a pretty decent number. I get new posts every couple of minutes, and if there are no new posts I exit the app. No endless doomscrolling. Also, all the people I follow actually post stuff I want to see.

6. You mentioned wanting to make friends and that brings me to my next tip: Reblog. Reblog, reblog, reblog. Every post you want to click ‘like’ on you should reblog instead. Everytime you want to comment you should reblog instead (and put the comment in the tags).

7. This will put their post on your blog. Most of the posts you see on your dashboard are posts the people you follow have reblogged. It’s hard to wrap your head around, but it’s essential tumblr stuff so I will try to explain it in detail.

Reblogging etiquette

8. Blank reblogs are fine.

9. If you want to say something like ‘good art!!’ or ‘wow I love this theory so much’ put that in the tags of your reblog. The original poster will see the tags you have added, and also anyone who follows you will see the post + your tags. But if they reblog a post from you, your tags don’t come with unless they decide to manually copy them (which people don’t usually do unless they want to respond to something you said in the tags. Then they will copy the tags and put <- prev as in ‘previous’ and respond to them. This is like a whispered conversation you have on op’s post but they will still be able to see all of it so be mindful.) Some people also use the tag system to organize their blogs.

For example, if you reblog art of kim dokja, in the tags you can put ‘#wowowow I’m drooling thank you op, #kim dokja, #orv, #orv fanart’. Theoretically now when you or anyone else goes to your blog’s search function can search #orv fanart and see all the original posts you have made and the stuff you have reblogged with the tag #orv fanart.

Now I will address some common concerns people have before reblogging. “Am I reblogging too many posts in a row??? Won’t the people who follow me get annoyed???” No, they will not 99% of the time. And if they do, they can unfollow you. But okay, if you’re worried about this you can put your reblogs in a queue. Here’s how tumblr themselves describe it: ‘The queue lets you stagger posts over a period of hours or days. It's an easy way to keep your blog active and consistent.’ Basically if you tell it to it will automatically post the stuff you can put in the queue every hour or 15 minutes or whatever you want the interval to be. Check it out.

“Won’t reblogging posts bury my own posts and prevent them from being seen???” No. All the posts you reblog are probably long buried in the OP’s blog too. But as long as they get passed around in reblogs they will get new eyes on them, forever. Also, you can reblog your own posts if you want them put on your followers dash again (usually tagging this as #srb or #self reblog). They will also still be in the tags you put on them originally. Myself, I tag all my posts as #my posts or #my art so anyone visiting my blog can easily check for those specifically (though I don’t know if anyone does…lol. Lmk.)

 “Okay, but I have so many different interests, won’t people hate seeing random reblogged posts about stuff they’re not interested in?” They can deal or unfollow you. But okay, some people create ‘sideblogs’ for every fandom they’re in. This functions as almost a fully fledged seperate blog. For example, you can’t easily tell if a blog you follow is a main one or a sideblog, or what their main blog is (unless they tell you). You only can’t like or follow or send an ask from a sideblog.

In general you don’t add stuff to the text part of a reblog unless you have something significant to add and/or are mutuals with the OP. Mutuals is when you both follow each other. I’m guessing you’re asking me how to get people to follow you back and to that I say idk man. Make posts and talk to them in reblogs and it will naturally happen. 

Also, asks are fun, send people asks (and enable them in setting on your own blog.)

10. Also, give your blog a description and a title. It’s just nice customization. The title can be a quote you like and the description anything you want to tell someone about yourself. Look at how other blogs do it. I think nickname/pronouns/list of fandoms is pretty standard.

Let me know if you want to ask anything else :)

[meret118]

My algorithm knew I was pregnant the day I took a positive test – and the trauma content followed

This behaviour — ‘when you unconsciously scroll more slowly over certain posts’ — is known in the search engine optimisation (SEO) world as ‘dwell time’. But crude metrics on people’s dwell time risk glossing over some uncomfortable truths: by lingering, people are not necessarily liking the content they are seeing. In the early stages of my pregnancy, my Instagram and TikTok accounts knew I was only sharing or hitting the ‘like’ button on wholesome content about becoming a mother. The platforms had more than enough information to avoid torturing me; they knew full well what I wanted to see and when I wanted to see it. But they chose to ignore the data they had. They chose to be cruel.

This is not a new phenomenon. As Washington Post writer and then-new dad Geoffrey A. Fowler similarly described, within weeks of posting pictures of his new baby to Instagram, his Explore Page began showing him ‘babies with severe and uncommon health conditions, preying on my new-parent vulnerability to the suffering of children. My baby album was becoming a nightmare machine’. He, too, had lingered. And while I don’t believe social media use can ever be risk-free, I have to ask: isn’t there a danger in recommending content to people who are not engaging with it beyond dwell time?

. . .

What I’ll be taking away from this experience is a healthy reminder that social media platforms do not reflect reality. We typically talk about the concept of ‘social media versus reality’ in relation to the content people share, which can depict enviable lifestyles. But we must also apply this notion to the mechanics of the platforms we use. Through their recommendation algorithms, social media platforms take elements of the truth but then distort and reflect them back to us, kind of like a funhouse mirror rather than a normal one. It doesn’t matter so much when platforms do this with trivial subjects, but this distortion matters when it comes to our health, our bodies, and with the things that make us most vulnerable.

www.glamourmagazine.co.uk/article/pregnant-algorithms

--------

So glad I never joined facebook etc.