#for the female audience

[poutycowboy]

what i wear while pretending to be a pop star in my bedroom! (i’m seventeen — go away gross men) ♡

[noperopesaredope]

I wish we had more female characters like Eleanor Shellstrop. One of the most unlikable people you've ever met. Read a Buzzfeed article on most rude things you can do on a daily basis and decided to use that as a list of goals. Makes everyone's day worse just by being there. Dropped a margarita mix on the ground and tried to pick it up, only to get hit by a row of shopping carts which pushed her into the road where she was hit by a boner pill delivery truck, killing her instantly. Cannot keep a romantic partner despite being bisexual. Had a terrible childhood but will die before she gets therapy. Best employee at a scam company. Just the worst but also can't help but root for her to improve.

Absolute loser. Girl-failure. Bad at almost everything. Literally perfect female character.

[jesterafterdark]

Reblog if you want a hot goth girl to stuff your face until you're too full to move 💕

[dollarstorefern]

*cough* if you hate amber volakis i hate you *cough* (just kidding!) (i’m not.)

[basedandlovepilled]

sexualization of female athletes is so disgusting and it makes me SO mad. a woman can never focus solely on her sport, she also has to make sure her physique looks good in skin tight spandex. and she has to constantly self-monitor to make sure she’s not accidentally flashing the crowd. and even if she’s the most skilled and talented athlete in the world, she still gets dolled up and paraded around like some kind of sexy show pony. it’s seriously ridiculous.

[leclerckiss]

milk & honey ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, established relationship, fluff.

a/n: this is my first uploaded piece on my new blog so please interact, would very much be appreciated.

It is a gentle afternoon in the principality of Monaco: the skies a palette of pale lilac against the quilt of grey clouds in gentle rainfall that lingers with a hint of petrichor, a slow and familiar hustle amongst the streets of smooth stone and Belle Époque architecture where a stray cat wanders her path before disappearing once more into the alcoves of an alley.

After a slow dawn of waking amongst a mess of clean, linen sheets, feathered pillows, and tangled limbs where the heavy, velvet curtains danced serenely in some lovers' waltz, hiding the bedroom in some quiet bask, the both of you enjoyed breakfast over almond croissants, blueberries stolen from one another's plates and your usual café au lait – half a sugar, more milk than deemed necessary, just as Charles knows you love it – before you had walked around the neighbourhood by eleven o'clock to at least feel somewhat productive.

Even when the both of you only wanted to lounge endlessly after returning from Montréal the day before.

Despite finishing 4th and not quite following through in his hopes in securing an awarding podium and a taste of sweet champagne, faced with the recent difficulties of upgrades, he had come to accept and delight in his small succession nonetheless with you by his side, forever proud regardless.

Phones on mute, the rest of society blissfully forgotten and only each other to indulge in, it is pure bliss; perfect heaven.

"Hm, you smell nice," By two o'clock – after a light luncheon on the balcony overlooking the beauty of the Côte d'Azur – you are dozing idly about the plush invitation of the sofa, his voice a hushed murmur near the side of your neck where lips ghost over in something close to a kiss when he speaks.

Charles is half-draped over your own figure, though his weight is comfortably balanced by an elbow against a sewn cushion, some kind of Jardin De Fleurs -inspired embroidery made and gifted by your grandmother, with ankles locked about each other and your soft-skinned palm tracing his shoulder through the white linen of his shirt.

For a moment, a quietude settles between you once more and you welcome the entwined curl of his lithe fingers around your own when his hand drifts higher from the inside of your wrist absently like some unspoken 'I love you' before his mouth meets yours.

It is slow and sweet, the kind of kisses you savour in committing to memory each and every time, and he can taste remnants of sweetened milk & honey tea on your breath that is so apparently mundane but equally unique to you alone.

When your head tilts back against the cushions – hair falling about like an angel's halo – and Charles shifts his own body further, closer, above you, his hands come to cradle either side of your lovely face, his thumbs grazing the delicate line of your cheekbones, his nose brushing lightly against the bridge of your own.

He kisses your brow, then the bridge of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, and finally your mouth again, all in that order, before breaking away for air.

"What was that for?" Voice hardly a demure whisper, you gaze at him through the veil of your lashes in some lovesick delight where your mouth threatens to curve against a hushed giggle, your own touch idly feeling along the carved line of his jaw like intricate marble where a dusting of five o'clock shadow lingers from a few days' worth. You secretly adore it, how it feels.

Charles smiles – all beautiful, revealed dimples and a glimmer in his eyes that remind of leaves in late August – and brushes a stray hair behind the shell of your ear. He takes a moment, his gaze lingering about the lines of your visage as if falling in love again, everyday. "For no particular reason, ma chérie, just because I want to."

Then he is leaning down to meet you again just as you welcome the embrace without question, only allowing yourself to melt further into the serenity of some lovesick truth as your arms drape about his shoulders faintly.

"Je pense..." Charles' mouth drifts down from yours slowly in a trail of kisses about your chin in his verbalised albeit quiet musings before lips slant together again and he encourages you to open for him, tasting, feeling, his tongue teasing over yours in a caress, "That I don't need a reason to kiss you."

In some silent, earnest contentment, you agree, because you could never refuse or object to the intimacy of his kisses and touches.

Mouth curving upwards against his, you let your fingertips feel the trimmed, soft hairs at his nape against tousled brunet tresses whilst breathing him in: Ombré Nomade cologne, hints of something akin to cedarwood against raspberry, incense and warm amber, against his natural pheromones. Home.

Feeling the lean muscles against his back through the soft fabric, toying only subtly with the subtle drag of teeth against his plush lower-lip whilst your eyes remain blissfully closed, you meet the faintest resonance of a sound from the back of his throat like a purr when he sucks upon your tongue with the same touch of loving.

"Vous êtes si belle," He sighs the compliments against you in sweet nothings and unabashed confessions, his own touch ghosting over the curves of your waist through the ivory, lace camisole hugging your physique, thumbs fleeting over the jut of your hip-bone before drifting higher once more.

It is when idle strokes are felt over your rib cage that you unconsciously emit a breathless, flushed sound of laughter against him before you can help yourself, instinctively shrinking against the touch whilst earning a look from him as he draws away fractionally with arched brows.

"Ticklish, are we, ma chérie?"

Your mouth parts for a retort or quick dismissal out of bashfulness – even when you know that he already knows too, given the Monégasque has the privilege to know each intimate, secretive and wholehearted truth about you – though the words die on your tongue the moment his fingertips continue their ministrations over your sides.

You cannot stop the serenade of laughter from leaving you, not when you are entirely vulnerable beneath, and a warmth settles in your chest when the corners of his eyes crinkle in a genuine smile as he continues tickling you.

"Arrêt–" A breathless gasp of imploration, palms that reach to try and draw him away with a shove at his chest though your rosé cheeks hurt from the depth of your raw, honest smiles, "Charles." ꒰ stop ꒱

Chuckling lowly, the man offers you the respite of mercy as he comes to a halt and kisses the corner of your mouth intimately, instead allowing his hands to feel the curve of your lower-back and the notches of your vertebrae until eyes meet in the peace of the afternoon, otherwise silent save for the lull of Lana del Rey from the kitchenette radio.

"Je t'aime." ꒰ i love you ꒱

He kisses you again and it is rich in his responding, ardent devotion to you, letting the faint remnants of your lipstick smear his own mouth like the prints you leave on hand-written love letters of cursive Française just for him in your diaries, the cashmere throw forgotten about your feet on the other end of the chaise lounge whilst rain continues.

"Je t'aime aussi, pour toujours." ꒰ i love you too, forever ꒱

[epiphainie]

honestly every time i remember buck is canonically bi and is dating a man now i get so 😳😳😳 about it. like in our fandom sphere it's easy to say he's been bi-coded for years and joke with all the "wbk"s but i genuinely think people are missing what a gamble it was for ABC to pick up a show from another network and go this route with a main character that the majority of the audiences wasn't as percipient about.

buck's case is so singular imo because there are still certain - silent - rules to queer rep in mainstream media. the audiences are almost always clued-in on a character being queer early, for example. it's either shown immediately or mentioned in conversation in those first few scenes/eps the characters are established. if a character is not out, then they are not out to the rest of the characters, not the audience. if a character doesn't know they're queer yet - or ready to accept it - again, the audience knows, the story/foreshadowing is clear about it.

i can't think of a single other example where a main character - who's been nominally straight for multiple seasons - realizes they're queer later in life like this. where it wasn't planned beforehand, wasn't an explicitly or intentionally threaded storyline, wasn't just a one-liner saying "oh yeah ofc he kissed men before" ofc i didn't watch all television ever created in the history of television but i genuinely think this was such a pioneering writing choice mainstream tv hasn't done before. i wish we could all have been more happy with it instead of *gestures* all this.

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

cosplay of daji妲己, a famous ancient chinese beauty transformed from the famous chinese yaoguai, jiuweihu九尾狐, i.e. nine tail fox (coser is shiba chongchuan十八重川)

[eldoradofineng]

Translated some yapper yapping (from Tuulos gig)

[nicolegendary]

sorry to do this but I saw a picture of dean winchester that...... I shan't speak.

[tumbleweed-run]

Academia

Female!Tav, Professor Kink

Your breath caught as you froze in the doorway.

It was unreasonable how beautiful Gale was. Always, but especially just now as he sat, distracted, behind a large ornate desk. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of colors across his face as he focused on writing something. 

Gale had accepted a teaching position with Blackstaff, upgrading his position with the academy from consultant to professor. Term hadn’t begun yet, instead he was in the building preparing his new office and making lesson plans. You’d hoped to lure him away for a late lunch, as this would be your last chance to do so, but the sight before you had propelled your brain in another direction entirely.

His robes were nowhere to be seen, likely hung properly on the back of the door as the room was quite warm. Instead, Gale was down to his shirt and trousers. His sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, which was possibly the most erotic thing you’d ever seen. Compounded by the fact that his hair was half up, keeping it from his face as he wrote. 

The pooling of heat low in your belly had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. 

Gale, of course, chose that exact moment to look up from his writing, not as oblivious to the world as you’d thought. He was laying down his quill, a smile breaking out on his lovely face when he too froze. His eyes darkened with whatever it was he saw on your face. 

He recovered his composure quickly and carefully finished putting the quill in its place. You couldn’t help but follow Gale’s movements as he closed the ink pot and put that away as well. He seemed very much aware of your gaze as his next step was to lean back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Close the door,” he ordered by way of greeting.

You were very proud of yourself for swallowing down the whimper this new position had nearly dragged from your throat. But while you were busy proverbially patting yourself on the back for your vocal restraint, your body had obeyed the order he’d issued.

“Come here,” Gale directed. The hand he stretched out for you betrayed any bite to his words. 

Happily, you took it, allowing him to pull you around the side of the desk until were by his side. Only then did Gale turn his body, his knees now bracketed your legs. He looked up at you, hand still holding yours, and searched your face as he asked. 

“What can I do for you, darling?”

The memory of why you’d actually come here flittered out of your mind. Instead, a thousand ideas, each less appropriate than the one before, flooded your brain. 

“I want to suck your cock, please, professor,” was what spilled from your lips finally.

Gale inhaled sharply at your words, nostrils flaring. 

Your cheeks flamed as you suddenly remembered every time you’d gotten a little crush on one of your own professors growing up. You’d had a similar thought months ago when Gale had accepted his new position, but they were just silly memories then. Now you realized exactly how dangerous this new profession of Gale’s was. 

Without warning, Gale yanked on your arm, toppling you forward so you were forced to catch yourself on the arms of his chair. Your faces were now inches apart, and you found yourself greedily inhaling each of his exhales. His eyes searched yours, flicking back and forth quickly until they stilled. His whole face relaxed for a moment before morphing into something a bit harder than you were used to. 

Not harder. Sterner.

“Then I suggest you make it worth the interruption. I am quite busy,” he directed brusquely.  

“Ye-yes, sir,” you stammered, realizing he was playing along with you. 

You barely felt any pain as your knees collided with the stone floor. If the bulge in his pants was any indication, Gale was just as affected by the situation as you were. Quickly, you opened the laces of his trousers. A bit too eagerly, perhaps, because his hand threaded through your hair, and he gave a sharp tug. 

“Gently,” he warned, “I do need to look presentable later.”

Slowing down your hands was near torture, but eventually, you managed to undo his pants and free Gale’s cock. You gave no warning before swallowing him down and Gale moaned. His whole body tensed for a moment, hand tugging in your hair once again before he relaxed - legs stretching out on either side of you. 

You eagerly worked him with your mouth, one hand grasping the base of his cock to work what you couldn’t comfortably fit. Maybe you should have been ashamed of the drool that escaped your lips, cascading down your own fist but you couldn’t bring yourself to be. Instead, you sucked and licked at Gale’s cock until your jaw began to ache. 

Gale groaned above you, his breaths growing louder and more labored the longer you worked him. His hand in your hair flexed, occasionally tugging but mostly just there as if to anchor him. You could feel the muscles in his thighs flex around you as well. 

You snuck a glance up at him from under your lashes and found him watching you. Gale snuck a hand under your chin and tilted your face just slightly upwards to make maintaining eye contact easier. You were barely able to keep his cock in your mouth as he did, forced to still your ministrations. 

Gale kept your eyes locked as he experimentally rolled his hips, the head of his cock butting against your hard palate. He did this a few times. You desperately wished he would release your chin so you could reposition your mouth, allowing him access to fuck your throat. But instead, he gently pulled you away from him. You whimpered when you were finally forced to let his cock fall from your lips. 

“Up,” he ordered, voice rough. 

You stood, absentmindedly wiping your hand on your own pants. 

Gale stood once you were fully up, his body came flush against yours. It made it all the more easy for him to manuever you backwards against the desk. He leaned down towards you, and for a second you thought he was about to kiss you. Right up until his lips ghosted across your cheek to your ear. 

“Pull down your pants and turn around,” he rumbled quietly into your ear. 

You frowned at the kiss you weren’t granted but even still you were quickly undoing your pants. You didn’t give a single shit if you looked presentable later, your clothes were suddenly an unacceptable barrier between the two of you, and you worked quickly. Gale didn’t back away as you turned, instead you were forced to jostle against him. The length of his cock dragged against your clothes the entire time. 

He didn’t wait for you to pull down your trousers. Instead, he grabbed hold of them and pulled them down to your thighs. You barely had a moment to register this before Gale was pressing you down over the desk, hand firm between your shoulder blades. He shifted behind you and you felt his cock slot into place along the cleft of your ass. 

The pressure on your back turned to a gently caressing motion. You tried to turn your head to look at him but your own hair impeded your vision. 

“Be a good girl and keep quiet,” Gale directed, “we don’t want anyone to know you’re letting your professor fuck you over his desk.”

Your thighs involuntarily clamped together at his words. Gale felt it if the light rumble of laughter from above was any indication. 

You could feel him take hold of his cock a moment before he angled it between your thighs. He didn’t bother to try to press inside of you. Instead, he drug his cock slowly between your folds allowing to head to brush against your clit, forcing a whimper out of you each time it did. You bit back the noise the best you could and only once he rubbed against you and you managed nothing more than a sharp intake of breath did Gale finally realign himself to press into you. 

He moved slowly as he pressed into you. No matter how wet you were, without any preparation, his cock felt impossibly blunt and impossibly thick. You could feel a dull ache as he continued working into you. You were panting through your nose by the time Gale bottomed out, hips flush against your ass. Not with pain, but instead with the control you were issuing upon your body. Demanding your hips not just snap back against him so he would finally get to fucking you. 

Gale seemed to read your mind, and his hands moved to hold your hips in place, pinned against the edge fo the desk. He held that position for what seemed like forever. You bit back several demands to move that you wanted to issue, instead focusing on the way the parchment you were plastered against fluttered with each of your breaths. 

Finally, he began to move. Slowly, no doubt still wary of hurting you. But each movement was quicker than the one before until the room was filled with the sound of Gale’s skin colliding with yours. Each thrust forcing out a tiny grunt from you, barely more than a puff of breath. 

You gripped the edge of the desk near your hips for leverage as you pressed back against Gale. Pressing up on your tiptoes the angle changed, and the first thrust forced a whimper from your lips. Audibly you clamped your teeth together, trying to swallow back the noises you desperately wanted to make. Gale either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was fucking into you quickly now, his own grunts sounding punched from his chest. He was close. 

Ignoring the aching of your calves, you kept onto your toes. You could feel your own orgasm building. Gale shifted behind you until he was leaning over your back, one of his hands leaving your hip to snake beneath you. Taking advantage of the new space you’d created beneath you, he worked his fingers between your legs. At the first brush of his fingertip against your clit you forgot yourself and moaned loudly. 

Gale froze instantly.

You cringed, swearing you could hear the forbidden sounds still echoing off the stone walls. 

You held still as well. Hoping he’d forgive you and take your renewed silence as an apology. 

“Please, professor” you whispered after it appeared Gale was never going to move again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. Please,” you begged. 

“Not another sound,” Gale warned.

As if to make a point, it was his fingers that moved first. Rubbing against your clit lightly, daring you to so much as whimper at the sensation. You managed to bite back each down, eyes slamming shut with the effort. 

“Good girl,” Gale praised in a hushed tone, as he kept up with his fingers against your clit, cock still buried motionlessly inside of you. The walls of your cunt fluttered at his praise.

Your orgasm built quickly at his touch but no amount of wiggling around his cock brought the relief you were looking for. By this point you were sweating, the papers you were laying on undoubtedly ruined. But gods, you wanted them to be. Wanted Gale to have to look at the sweat smudged ink and relive this moment over and over in this room.

Gale, perhaps out of pity or selfishness, finally began thrusting into you again. It only took three sharp thrusts for you to come with a silent scream. Your mouth hung open, but no sound or air was able to force its way out. Above you, Gale came with a whispered curse, both hands holding tightly to your hips once more as he buried himself inside of you. 

After a moment, he collapsed against your back, both of you panting in rhythm. Your ribs expanding while his contracted. Over and over until your breaths slowed. 

Gale’s grip on your hips grew gentle as he held you still and pulled his half-softened cock from you. You snorted a laugh, both your hair and the papers rustling with your breath as you felt the mess of your combined orgasms drip down your thigh. You heard more than saw Gale collapse back into his chair, and after a moment, he pulled you back into his lap. Unaware or uncaring of the mess. 

[poutycowboy]

makes me feel like an angel that fell from heaven

[menace-bitch]

Lana Del Rey pill case ౨ৎ

[thekintsugikids]

saw patrick striptease in albany and haven’t stopped thinking about it since …….

[lunamond]

The actual problem with the Alyssa/Daemon sex scene is NOT the mother/son incest BUT the fact that they went for the boring and cowardly "what if this emotionally stunted manchild has mummy issues" option when the "what if this emotionally stunted manchild is mad he didn't get to fuck his brother" option was RIGHT THERE.

[polydeuces]

𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊

𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚎: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯 ; Dexter Morgan x Fem! Reader (Cult Leader)

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; You linger in Dexter Morgan’s shadows, close enough to feel the darkness he hides so well. You know his secrets, his rituals, the thrill he keeps hidden from the world. Silently, you wait for that perfect moment to step into his path—so he can finally see that he’s been hunted all along.

𝔠𝔴 / 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; (688words) mentions of cults, stalking, potential violence, intrusive thoughts, and elements of psychological tension.

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

He was supposed to be the predator.

You’d watched him for a year now, the man who walked through the world with an all too familiar blend of invisibility and quiet command. Dexter Morgan, a blood–spatter analyst by day and something far more dangerous by night. But those were his surface-level disguises. You’d begun to peel back the layers, unraveling the nuances of a man who navigated life in the shadows, just as you have for so many years now.

It started innocently enough—fleeting moments when you’d caught sight of him on the crowded Miami streets, merging into the sea of faces like he belonged there. But you knew better. You knew what it was to wear masks, to walk amoung people undetected, unseen and unnoticed. There was something about him, the way he looked at the world, made him all the more intriguing.

So you watched. Carefully, hidden, with a patience you’d honed over years of practice, you observed him as he slipped out of his office at night, slightly tense in his gaze, focused, distant, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. Often times, you’d follow him to the places he frequented; his home, abandoned warehouses, places where the thin line between light and darkness blurred. You learned his routines, the way he’d pull his signature black gloves onto his hands, the way his eyes would sweep across the streets with a meticulous attention to detail before stepping into his own hidden rituals.

It fascinated you.. his dance, this performance between worlds. His life was a careful balance of precision and secrecy. And then there were his victims. You’d seen him work, watched from the edges as he sized up those he deemed worthy enough. You hadn’t intervened— after all, it wasn’t about them. It was about him. You needed to understand his purpose, what drove him and what rulebook or code tethered him to this life.

You began to study his life beyond the night as well, picking up pieces of Dexter Morgan, the man, the father, the blood-spatter analyst, the widower, the mask. You’d slip into his world unnoticed, lingering at places he went during the day; you listened to his colleagues, his sister and the casual comments that painted a picture of someone, friendly, yet distant, the “nice guy” who kept to himself.

You learned his patterns, his preferences, even the small, old habits he indulged in when he thought no one was watching. You uncovered the Dexter he showed to the world, the façade that kept his true nature hidden.

But you could see it—the subtle tension in his jaw, the guarded look in his eyes that surfaced when someone got too close, the small tells of a hidden life. The knowledge inside you—the kind of intimacy that was both exhilarating and forbidden—you knew him in a way no one else did, knew him not by the lies he told, but by the silence he kept.

So, you kept waiting, biding your time. You wanted him to know that he been seen, that he wasn’t as invisible as he thought. You wanted him to understand that he was no longer the only one who lived by a code of shadows. You watched him for countless nights—slipping in and out of his world like a phantom, leaving a sense of unease that you knew would begin to gnaw at him.

Until finally, one night, you decided it was time.

do not repost/duplicate on other sites. © polydeuces 2024.

note; i have a taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added !

important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show.