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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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Show & Tell
$LAYYYTER
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
titsay
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Xuebing Du
The Bowery Presents
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@skittles-reduction
This child who came to my house tonight is literally the funniest human being on the planet. She complimented me on having both lollipops and mini Three Musketeers available because "a lot of houses these days don't give you a fruit flavor option." She was very solemn about this.
it’s 2026 so we can stop referring to bras solely by their cup size, right? everyone knows that cup sizes change depending on the band size right and thus are meaningless when mentioned on their own, right? that a 38B has a larger boob volume than a 32D, right? that “D cups” are actually pretty small in the grand scheme of things, right??? that the number on a bra size is your ribcage measurement in inches so if someone wears a size medium it’s impossible for them to have a band size over 36, right?????????? right???????????
please learn this
⋆˙⟡ JACK ABBOT witnesses a new side to his girlfriend after her bra breaks
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI big boobed!reader, curvy/plus-sized!reader implied, "i'll pay for it", teasing, dirty talk, breast & nipple play, dry humping, mentions of previous smutty time, kinda brat!reader ? she's annoyed, pet names (doll, honey, baby, pretty girl), swearing, no other physical descriptions of reader, no use of y/n, dual pov, (1.9k wc)
layout inspired by my angel @mariasont
MASTERLIST
── ⋆˙⟡
Jack wasn't prepared for his front door slamming just before eight pm on his night off. And he definitely wasn't expecting the annoyed groan reverberating off the walls as you stomped your way to the lounge. It was a stark contrast to the soft humming he was usually graced with the second you walked through his door.
He sat up straighter, muting the TV to give you his undivided attention. You barely glanced his way as you walked through the threshold, and he couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising at the sight of you.
Your grey scrub top was slightly twisted and riding up, exposing a sliver of your stomach that he itched to trace. A cute pout had taken your face hostage—your lower lip jutting out and brows furrowed, making it difficult for him to suppress a smile. All humour vanished as his eyes fell to your chest; your full breasts hanging without support, pebbled nipples calling for his mouth. The tightening of his pants was immediate, along with the jealous fire that heated him from the inside out—who else had seen you in this state?
It was a losing battle for him as he tried to keep his eyes off the way your boobs bounced as you walked towards him. Honestly, he didn't know why he even bothered.
GOLDIIII AHSOUGHGOHAGOJAG THIS HAD ME GIGGLING BLUSHING KICKING MY FEET MY QUEEEEEENNNNN
Frank Castle is unexpectedly gentle… 18+ SMUT Masterlist
GIF BY @amhrosina
𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆
𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘕𝘋𝘖𝘕 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘒 𝘟 𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘕𝘐𝘊 𝘐𝘓𝘓𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚!𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋𝘌𝘙
summary: 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶
warnings! 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱, 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘤 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘩𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘮𝘪𝘢, 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘺𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢, 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴/𝘫𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘺, 𝘴𝘢𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣, 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳
𝘸𝘤: 𝟐.𝟐𝑲+
I love some med school and/or 30s-40s rabbot love stories. but I think I'm mostly enamored with present rabbot. because even after jack getting married once and losing his love and losing his leg and going through whatever else he went through in the army and whatever he's going through now. that even after robby with COVID, and adamson, and his commitment issues and abandonment issues, and his multiple failed relationships, and his ever increasing struggle with his own mind. they found love. they found each other and it worked.
not before it, but despite of
I just got. The single funniest dm I've ever received in my entire life
Characters in media fighting back against the mind control:
name a more iconic duo than me and procrastination. go ahead, i’ll wait.
of course you will
john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.
you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.
today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?
no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
DO NOT DOWNLOAD TUMBLR it will install a virus on your device called tumblr
Both of You
Andrew "Pope" Cody x F!Reader
5.8k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: discussions of Smurf; self-hate; feelings of worthlessness and being undeserving; not canon or canon timeline compliant; foreplay; allusions to oral sex, reader receiving; dad!Andrew; pregnancy; getting pregnant while on the pill; quickest mention of being sick (nobody is and nothing is described); soft; soft; soft; soft; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: As you and Andrew stroll along the beach Christmas evening you have one last present left to give him.
AN: I don't know friends lol. This one feels particularly meh to me for some reason. Maybe it's just because I'm so blah and meh right now. Maybe it just is meh. 😂 In any event, I had a chunk of this drafted so I just went ahead and finished it up, and so we're having Christmas in May. This is set on Christmas day but there's nothing religious about it, and I tried to keep it so that it doesn't necessarily say or imply that reader celebrates Christmas, especially in any religious sense, it's more about Andrew and his Christmas and it being a holiday. I don't think I have much more to say about it lol. I stuck with Andrew again because it feels so soft and right. I hope it's fluffy and cute and okay and that you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support!! ♥️
If he did this little smile into a mouth thing™️ in front of me I'd cease to exist 🤠:
It's Andrew's first real Christmas.
"No matter how bad it got, at least I never idolized a billionaire"
Poster spotted in Melbourne
Smitten
1.3k - Fluff
Soap drags Ghost to a cat cafe.
"This might be the stupidest thing you've dragged me to yet," Ghost pulls into an empty space at the back of the parking lot. A strip mall lays out in front of them. A brewery and a nail salon bookend their destination.
"Aw, come on," Soap grins, "Gaz swears they've got great tea and-"
"I don't fancy my tea full of cat hair." Ghost shoots back before putting the truck in park.
“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.
writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.
using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.
long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.
“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.
italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.
stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.
because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.
anyway. fuck ai.
The anonymous button is not for hate messages and death threats! It’s for confessing your love and asking stupid questions!
