#[ deviant: ic ]

[bibuckagenda]

I think it’s crazy that I feel the same way about a hockey team and bucktommy. Like I was excited to go there. I made plans and was so excited to watch and then the fans started being absolute dog shit and suddenly every time I hear their name I can’t stop my nose from wrinkling. Like I was there! I was ready to watch the show!!! And then you had to be awful and my opinion was directly influenced by that.

[optimistpax]

The new tumblr image viewer is so bad… I can’t zoom in to read speech bubbles of comics anymore………….

[hellsmayflower]

"What would happen if you just sit pantless on a TV?"

[vixlenxe]

@prettyboywarrior said: HAURCHEFANT WHY, XAOS ISN'T DOING THIS AS A CHALLENGE

HE KNOWS THAT.

[pa-pa-plasma]

I feel like too many people don't understand that a bad person having normal human traits does not suddenly make them a good person

[missioncoded]

There had hardly been any time to think. Those were the days Connor enjoyed most at the precinct, when he was too busy to be worried about emotions. When he could shut everything down, sort out his tasks and accomplish a mission. Those days weren't as common now after the android revolution, but they still got the occasional busy week -- this was Detroit after all -- and though Hank found them rather tiring much of the time (it was too busy for Connor to consider the mortality of his aging human companion) Detective Reed, it had seemed, had been up for the challenge.

It was too busy for animosity and, with little time for animosity, they found they worked together quite well. Gavin Reed wasn't Connors favourite person to work with but… the man actually took him seriously, for the most part. Not entirely but… more than many of the other officers at least.

There had been an alert blaring in the corner of his eye. Biocompoment #8456w was experiencing a critical error. He'd been shot a few times, though none of them lethal, and the suspect had… it was a blur, even for him. Had she dislodged his regulator? Or… stabbed close enough to it that… there was something wrong with it. He could see the countdown in his HUD. He still had time. He still had--

Androids don't have adrenaline. That requires an adrenal gland. But… their biology was… eerily similar in some cases. What had been ten (fifteen?) minutes, as the suspect had been placed in the back of the car, suddenly crashed down to two and Connor stumbled. Fell to one knee.

He felt… dizzy. Weak. He… Androids don't need to breathe (most of the time -- there were exceptions) and yet he felt starved for oxygen. His chest… hurt. A lot hurt, actually, but unless he was experiencing an error in his optical unit, he wasn't on fire, yet his chest burned. "G-gavin--" he wheezed, LED blaring red, eyes wide in fear, "I need… I need h-help. Something's wr… wrong."

@is-itself-a-deviant

[ruthimages]

[rasafcrged]

@obeydesigned continued from [x]

connor   takes   a   step   back   at   her   statement,   noting   the   clear   discontentedness   in   her   voice   —   she   was   unhappy   with   how   he   had   reacted.   did   she   expect   him   to   feel   grief?   regret?   was   he   supposed   to   shed   a   few   tears   and   frown?   he   looked   to   the   deviant   before   them,   one   that   had   just   recently   shut   down   —   for   good.   he   scanned   it   once   more   to   make   sure   —   there   was   no   signs   of   life.   with   the   slightest   bit   of   indignation   in   his   tone   he   said            ‘   obviously   i’ve   disappointed   you   —   but   i’m   afraid   you’ve   allowed   yourself   to   develop   unrealistic   expectations   of   me.   ’            he   turns   to   face   the   other,   while   his   led   spins   a   clear   yellow,   indicating   he   was   processing   things   with   much   more…   thought,   his   voice   remained   candid   and   his   expression   invariable.            ‘   it   cannot   die   —   it   was   never   alive.   should   i   be   sad   because   a   machine   became   defective   and   stopped   working?   would   you   mourn   a   microwave   if   it   ceased   to   function?   or   a   car   should   it   break   down?   ’

"A microwave is not capable of thought, Connor, a microwave is not possessed of sentience, or capable of recalling memories of things that brought joy, or sadness." But you are. The weight of the unspoken words sat like an anchor on her shoulders, and she forced herself to swallow them down. She knew that what she was doing was dangerous. The risk versus reward didn't balance out, on its face value. He was just one, and she needed to help so many more -- but there was something about him that made her chest ache. An earnestness, the capacity for so much more. There was an empathy in his core that she could not ignore.

"A car does not feel fear if it is being threatened, or end its own existence because it's lost something it loved." Unrealistic expectations? No. She knew, more than he could possibly anticipate, in this moment, with his limited knowledge of her, of what she could expect of him. What she wanted for him. Her gaze shifted from him, to the flickering circle at his brow, to the other officers that were gathering evidence and taking statements on scene. They were more than content to ignore her, and Connor, for the most part - he was little more than an annoyance to most of them, and they were more than happy to pawn dealing with him off on anyone else. She exhaled softly, fingers raking through her hair to gather the strands in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night. "I would mourn any life -- any mind, lost, that was capable of that."

[seven-saffodils]

.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru x darling

TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au

gn reader

Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.

You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.

“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach – crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.

He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.

“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.

He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”

He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.

“I’m just another hungry animal…”

Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.

“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”

He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.

Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.

At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.

You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it. 

Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.

You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?

But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.

He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.

You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.

You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you. 

It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.

“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”

The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.

“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”

[igniferous]

' hm, hm ... alright! i'll give you this back. ' is this one of wolfram's very own priceless pieces of clothing? it sure is. yan qing's not going to say how exactly he got his mitts on it, though. all that mattered was there wasn't a single hole or golden thread out of place!

█▐ @tenkoseiensei | ✖ | prompt ( accepting )

Give my muse an object and they’ll rate it 1 - 10.

〝  E X P L A I N Y O U R S E L F ??!!  〞

He’s offended, alarmed and outraged on levels he can’t even begin to fully process yet, and he's absolutely DREADING whatever cursed answer might come out of this degenerate anomaly's mouth !! thanks for nothing yq

!?!?! / 10

[murdrdocs]

sweet as a grape

description. ART DONALDSON lost a match, leading him to sulking at the hotel bar. when you slide up next to him he starts to feel like he won.

includes. SMUT MDNI 18+, submissive art, no challengers spoilers, fem!reader, sex w a stranger, drinking (but no drunk sex), masochism, dry humping, virgin coded/inexperienced art, choking, gagging (self inflicted), brief rimming, slight overstimulation, lots of allusions to masturbation, allusions to edging, art is a fucking freak

wc. 3.6k+

a/n: this is all based on assumption since challengers has yet to be released at time of posting. artwork is nighthawks by edward hopper. title from too sweet by hozier. some plot inspiration taken from @too-deviant's ray bans

Art Donaldson knows he's good at tennis. He knows he's great, and he knows that with greatness comes attention. Reporters always looking to get an exclusive from him, coaches always looking to take credit for the gained speed in his serve, brands, and companies looking to put his face on something, and people throwing themselves at him, begging for even a glance so they would have a story to tell their friends.

He knows this. But it still comes as a shock whenever people prettier than he thinks he deserves turn their attention to him. It's still a shock when you, a being with far too much beauty and grace, slides up next to him.

He smells you before he sees you. A sweet scent wafted to his nose, hitting him against the face with a pleasant slap. Then he senses you, the aura that radiates off of your body. Warm and comforting, even with the blistering heat from out that is attempting to permeate the hotel bar. He doesn't gather the courage to look at you until you speak. And your voice, God there's something about it. Something that makes Art's muscles loosen for the first time in hours, as the smooth lilt of your tone is a nice change of pace from the grunts on the court and the grating ridicule from the reporters asking him about the match, all disappointed faces reminding him that he lost.

But sitting here, on a barstool next to you, Art begins to feel like he won.

"I'll have what he's having," you tell the bartender with absolute confidence. You're leaning on the counter just a bit in an attempt to make your voice clearer, your ass perked up in the air enough to grab Art’s attention. He doesn't mean to look, really, but as he brings his glass to his lips he can't help how his eyes cut to the side briefly.

Besides, the skirt of your dress is long enough to cover your backside.

Art shakes his head. "You don't want what I’m having." He shouldn't be having anything right now. He might have lost his match, but this isn't the end. The alcohol will only slow his recovery, he knows this, but his half-assed reasoning of needing to drown his sorrows took over his mind, settling into his frontal lobe and steering his choices.

The bartender is already sliding a replica of Art's drink your way. You raise it and Art clinks his glass with yours. Then he watches you taste it. It's strong, straight liquor placed on ice which barely does anything to make it smoother, but you take it like a champ. You only take a sip, though, your eyes squeezed shut as it goes down before you place the glass back onto the counter and wave the bartender over again.

You flick your tongue out to catch a drip of liquor that missed your mouth. It’s so pathetic how just that one movement makes Art shift in his seat.

This time, you order something sweeter. Something more your style Art figures. Art doesn't think before he orders one for himself, too, and follows up the order by telling the bartender to place these drinks and any that will follow on his tab.

It doesn't take long before he confirms that you know who he is. But you're subtle about it. Your recognition comes in your glances. The way you narrow your eyes. The way you smile and laugh at his poorly made jokes. The way you ask him how he's doing—your tone a little firmer, as if you'd been in the stands today watching the close match that ultimately led to a loss. And it's then that Art recognizes you, too. 

He'd seen you briefly, just one glance before he was turning back to focus on the match. Your eyes had been covered by a pair of sunglasses then, but at the end of the match when everyone else was cheering for the winner, Art saw you cheering for him. Stood at the entrance to the locker rooms, your stacked bracelets glinting in the sunlight as you clapped. The sound of his blood rushing to his ears had been deafening then, the red in your eyes distorted every image. At the time, he believed that not one clap was in his favor. But yours surely was.

He can't tell if your intentions are really any different than anyone else who has tried to sleep with him, but he doesn't care. Because he just wants you so bad.

And for once in his life, he lets himself have what he wants. He accepts that he's a desired person, even on his off day, and he takes you, possibly the most desirable person he'd ever laid eyes on, upstairs to his room, and lets you have your way with him. 

He lets himself show a side he’s never shown to anyone else before. A side that is only seen when he’s tugging his cock all alone, his mind helpfully conjuring up images as he sped up the flick of his wrist, only to slow his motions down to a stop on his own accord. And he would continue the delicious torture, for as long as his mind and body could conjure, especially if he lost a match. 

This is a more compliant side. Less of a persona he’s put on for the media, and more of a man who just wants to please and be pleased. 

Tonight, with you laying back on his bed and waiting for him, he considers his options. He doesn’t know if he should continue his usual routine of self-inflicted torment. Or if he should give into you completely and lose himself amongst the nectar that’s gathered between your thighs. When he sees the imprint of your arousal, he decides that he’ll go along with whatever you want from him. 

It doesn’t take much for him to live up to his promise. 

You’re lying on your side, your head resting in your hand as you smile up at him lazily. You’d both had your last drink a while ago, and with the way they were spaced out Art doesn’t think you’re drunk. He’s not drunk, but he still feels elated. He feels like a teenage boy when you beckon him over and he complies willingly, crawling towards you until he’s sitting on his haunches. 

You lay on your back, staring up at him, blinking up at him. And Art waits. He waits and waits until he realizes you’re waiting for him to make the first move. 

He bends down and presses his lips to yours. The shape of the kiss is awkward since Art’s position forces your lips to align together at a perpendicular angle. But you don’t mind it. You let the initial press linger for a second before you place one of your hands onto his side and pull him towards you. Art interprets your pull as wanting him to land atop you and he does. 

The bed is large enough that only his feet hang off when he straddles you, placing only the weight of his bottom half over you and holding his top half up with a hand pressed into the mattress. 

His other hand settles on the thin strap of your dress. The material hangs off of the angular end of your shoulder, just close enough to fall off. Art doesn’t know if he initially intended to pull it down or push it back up. But you look up at him, your eyebrows slightly raised. It’s a look he knows well. He’s seen it on many opponents who doubted him. 

You’re challenging him. 

He pulls the strap down and that’s all it takes for you to take his face in both of your hands and pull his lips to yours. You have some unexpected strength in you. Your tug throws Art off of his balance until his chest collides with yours. You’re not deterred at all, your leg hiking up over Art’s hip as you press your foot into his lower back. 

Your dress must have slipped up somewhere along the way because Art can feel the warmth of your center pressing against his pants. He does it subconsciously, not even realizing what he’s doing until you reciprocate the movement, but he’s grinding into you with long and languid swipes of his boner into your arousal. 

There comes a point where the two of you need to pull your lips away from the other. But Art stubbornly doesn’t want to. His lungs ache for a breath. His head screams at him, telling him that kissing you can’t be more important than breathing. But for a moment there, just a single moment, Art believes that it is. 

When you pull away first, Art tries not to take it personally. 

“Will you fuck me?” You ask him through your breaths. Your question takes Art by surprise. Your words are so blunt. A little crude. But they stiffen the pressure in his trousers. He likes how assertive you are. It has his head spinning and somehow he manages to hide how desperate he is in his reply. 

“Only if you ride me.” 

Not much can be hidden whenever you’re on top of him. 

You’re staring down at him, likely with a view not too dissimilar from Birdseye. Art knows that like this, he’s probably spread out before you like he’s on an examination table. From the heavens, you’re able to notice every single thing about him that you choose to. 

The way his breath hitches when you sink on him. The way he’s a little lost behind the eyes, the two big blue windows unfocused enough to suggest how much pleasure he’s getting from this. He starts to feel a little insecure, but then you bring a graceful hand down and push his damp blond hair off of his forehead, providing the ventilation needed. 

Gratefully, his eyes fall closed and his head tips back. You bring your hand down to cup his cheek and Art instinctively turns his head just enough to place a blind kiss into the center of your palm. 

“Will you look at me, Art?” 

You ask him so politely, your voice just as sweet as it was earlier in the night when he’d only been imagining something like this. He wishes you were a little firmer with him, but he still obeys, slowly peeling his eyes open. 

He’s instantly grateful that he did. Because for just a brief second, he forgot just how divine the image above him was. 

Your body is almost completely bare since the top half of your dress has been pulled down to reveal your tits. They shake with each movement. With each controlled way you sink down onto him. In the same way he’s in his element on the court, he figures that you’re in your element here. You look so natural like this, stripped by the wish to satisfy your most basic need. But you’re so good at this. He wonders if you’d had as much practice at this as he has with his craft. Not that it matters to him, especially since any previous practice you could have had would have only contributed to this time, making it as heavenly as it could possibly be. But Art thinks he wants to practice this, like this, with you more often. 

The way your cunt takes him in is hidden by the skirt of your dress. With a hand more shaky than expected, Art lifts the hem and the sight he’s blessed with makes him dizzy. He has to take a controlled breath, look away, and then come back to it. 

Your pussy is so pretty. He can’t see much from this angle, and he wishes he could see more, but he can both see and feel how wet you are. In a risky move, you’d allowed Art to forgo a condom and he sincerely hopes he won’t regret it later. The last thing he needs during the height of his career is a bastard with his eyes and a monthly check written to a one-night stand. But when he’s able to feel you intimately and see how your essence is shining his dick, he can’t regret anything. 

Everything seems like it was meant to be at this moment. Even the damned neon ball that escaped his racket by just an inch that brought him to the bar this evening anyway. 

“Here,” you mumble. Art doesn’t know exactly what you’re referencing until you knock his hand away and replace it with your own. You lift your dress over your head and throw it to the floor where it joins Art’s already discarded clothes. Now you’re both even in terms of nudity. But the fields are definitely still uneven. 

You have complete control in this setting. Art doesn’t mind it one bit. 

You reach your hands down and take Art’s grasp in yours, directing his rough palms up to your body. You place his touch on your waist, but getting the feeling that he’s allowed to touch more than that, he lifts his hands up and grazes his fingertips over your erect nipples. 

Your reaction is appreciative so Art does the movement again. He’s amid his third swipe when he remembers something. The magic button one of his old hitting partners told him about one afternoon during unwanted locker room talk. 

He sticks two fingers into his mouth, unable to help the way he stuffs them a little too far back. He only stops when he gags just once, and then he pulls the digits out, satisfied by how slick they are, and brings them between your thighs. 

It takes a moment for him to find it. He curses under his breath when he misses the first time, and grunts when he misses it the second time, but the third time is the charm. He presses at first, attempting to see if he’d found it. And when your hips jerk, he begins to draw on his memory and starts circling your clit. 

You moan, your head tipping back as you start to ride Art with more fervor. More passion is behind the way you move your hips. More determination is in the way your hands press into his torso to ground yourself. You have one hand below his navel, manicured nails scratching his happy trail while your other hand slides up higher and higher. 

And just when Art thinks you’re going to reach your target, you stop. The base of your hand presses into the top of Art’s sternum while your fingers lay across his collarbones. You’re so close. Just a little …

“Higher. Please.” 

You don’t say anything, you don’t give him a look, you just do as he says. You push your hand up higher until you find the other end of the magnet. 

When your fingers wrap around his throat, Art groans from deep in his stomach. It comes from a place he’s only ever accessed during an intense game. Never during something like this. Briefly, he wonders if this could be considered a game. But if it is, it’s one he’s losing. He’s not even bothering to fight back. You’re dominating him and he likes it. Hell, he fucking adores it. 

You’re the one in control here, so it’s only natural that Art asks for your permission to cum. 

The need steadily approaches, pushing through his body, working its way through the maze until it finds the end which leads directly up into you. 

“‘m close,” he warns. “Can I cum? Please? Will you make me cum?” 

You nod fervently. Art sighs, he relaxes into the bed with a delusional belief that he’ll get to cum any moment now. 

Your words clear things up for him. “Make me cum first, Art. Then I’ll return the favor. Deal?” 

He doesn’t pout or complain. He just agrees. “Deal.” 

He uses his free hand to grip your hip and speeds up his touch on your clit. His fingerpads slip down just a bit to gather more wetness, and then he brings his touch right back up and settles it right onto the part of your clit that protrudes the most. 

The sight of you cumming is so beautiful. Just this one hit, this one time, is surely enough to make Art addicted. While he watches you cum, taking in the way your chest pushes your tits out and your head throws back, revealing the gorgeous line of your neck, he thinks that he wouldn’t mind if you had his kid. As long as it guaranteed that you would always be in his life. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to make his sex-hazed thought a reality as you pull off of him, ignoring the way your cunt is gripping him with resistance. You settle beside him, sitting with your legs tucked under you. Your hand comes to Art’s cock, and it only takes a few strokes before his hips are lifting and he’s cumming. 

You press your lips to his while he releases, stroking him determinedly while you kiss him messily, lots of saliva and tongue swapping between the both of you. When your hand around his throat tightens just a bit, Art’s hips stutter, and his cock twitches in your hand. He can feel you grin against his lips. 

“Let me clean you up?” You ask him with the prettiest smile. He’s dazed when he nods, not really knowing what he’d just agreed to. When you settle between his legs, Art almost backs out. He’s still sensitive, he knows it without you even touching him. But it’s rude to push a pretty girl away when she’s offering to use her mouth on him. 

So he sits through it. 

He fists the bed sheets and tries to swallow his groans whenever you lick the cum off of his torso. He accidentally whimpers when you wrap your lips around his tip. And he can’t hold off the deep moan that pushes out of him when you allow his cock to sink into your mouth. 

This cavern is different than the last. A little rougher, but the constant pressure and warmth from your tongue is comforting. He was already softening whenever you first took him in your mouth, but his dick is allowed a single moment of rest. He hardens inside of your mouth, and when he’s ready, you start to suck him off. 

It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s close. But he can’t really hold off when you use your hands to push his legs a little further apart, and you abandon his dick for a brief second to bring your tongue lower, pushing the muscle along his pink-clenched rim before you drift back up. Art’s gasp is pitiful. Even to his own ears, he sounds like something out of a porno, his voice wobbling as he moans, sounding like he’ll cry at any moment. 

His back arches and he decides he needs more of you. He takes a bit more control, even though it happens accidentally. He presses a hand into the back of your head and rams his cock up into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat more than once and triggering your gag reflex. 

When he cums this time, it’s in your mouth, and you suck him clean again. He moans your name all the while, the syllables becoming more broken each time he repeats it. He thinks he’s praising you, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. For a second there, he doesn’t even know where he is. 

Then, when he comes down, he’s silent. He’s like a cat with the way he shudders. He’s absolutely spent, labored breathing reverberating throughout the otherwise silent hotel room. You slide up to his chest, laying your head in the center. Your hand has been taken off of his neck and delicately placed into his hair. 

You play with the curls for a second before speaking. 

“You okay?” 

He nods, letting himself catch his breath a little more before he speaks. 

“Yeah. More than okay. You?” He brings a hand to your back, pulling you closer to him. You’re staring up at him from his chest, and like this, you look innocent. Heavy eyes blinking up at him, your lips pulled into a smile. 

You hum affirmatively. “Shower? Or bath?” 

Art laughs a little when he says, “Bath. Definitely a bath.” He knows that his legs would be a little too shaky to withstand a shower, and as he follows you into the bathroom, his suspicions are confirmed. He’s satisfied to see you struggle a bit with stepping into the tub. 

Sex with you was fucking amazing, and somehow, the ease with the two of you hasn’t diminished. You’re both sober, any alcohol that could have remained in your systems definitely been expelled by now, but you’re just as charming. And Art is just as relaxed around you. 

He thinks that he could exist with you for a while. 

When he awakes on his own the morning after, he thinks he was too wishful the night before. Maybe he’d been reading way too much into something that was solely a one-night stand. He sits at the edge of the bed, head hung and tail tucked, but then his mood improves just a bit when he sees your panties laid forgotten on the floor. Even when he throws them with the rest of his clothes from his suitcase, he doesn’t let his mood improve too much. 

He has pissed, showered, and is standing over the sink to brush his teeth when he sees your note attached to the mirror. 

had to leave. thought you had things to do. call me sometime. or come visit. room 1046, here until tomorrow. xx

The note is placed carefully with the rest of his belongings. 

[kidasthings]

Noa and Mae: A Taboo Affair?

Hi, there! Kida checking in again with yet another controversy - you've been warned.

I see a lot of people on Tumblr and Reddit pointing out that a Noa/Mae (#NoMae?) pairing would be at best controversial, at worst beastiality.

I mean, he IS a CGI ape, right?

Not so fast.

I'd like to break down a few points, if I Mae (pun intended!), and address this argument. I'll be using a few of the comments I've seen on the web already to do so, on the part of the dissenters to the pairing.

1st Argument: "Planet of the Apes wouldn't show a kiss between a human and an ape. Ew."

Reply: Oh, they already have, my friend. Not in the full-blown sense, but they definitely did film Zira and Taylor kissing lips to muzzle in 1968. You can view that lovely bit here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEp7yunwVF8

I apologize in advance for impinging on your delicate simian sensibilities. #sorrynotsorry

2nd Argument: "Why would they even depict a human/ape couple? Humans and apes can't even reproduce in the franchise."

Reply: They can't? News to me. There was a Hum-Ape written into the early scripts and screen tests for Beneath the Planet of the Apes in 1970. Seems the Planet of the Apes franchise truly thought it was worth exploring back then. You can read all about that little guy right here: https://planetoftheapes.fandom.com/wiki/Hum-Ape

Aww, just look at that adorable lack of face-fur!

3rd Argument: "The audience of today isn't ready for that kind of thing."

Reply: And the audience in the 1960's/early 1970's was? I didn't know we became even more conservative 50+ years later. I'll be sure to adjust my high neckline and clutch my pearls in absolute horror at the thought of all of those deviant libertines living before me. Excuse me, I must go confront my parents about this.

BUT, before I do, I do want to point out we seemed to accept an on-screen kiss between Goliath (a gargoyle) and Elisa (a human) during a certain Disney children's cartoon show in the 1990's - anyone remember that?

Disgusting. I bet his breath smelled like rancid pigeon.

Additionally, we have more recent films such as Avatar, The Shape of Water - which won 4 Academy Awards, including best picture (not bad for a human and a fish-man pairing), and Beauty and the Beast.

And hey, if a living monster is not your thing, you could always opt for Warm Bodies. Think female human and male zombie. Necrophilia, anyone?

4th Argument: "Okay, fine, I see your point on the Taylor/Zira thing. But that only worked out because it was a human in a monkey suit, and we all sort of knew that. It didn't make it so strange. As for the other films you listed, well, those creatures don't actually exist so it's out of the realm of true possibility anyway. Noa is depicted as a real chimp, and him getting with Mae just makes it hit too close to home for comfort."

Reply: #Ishetho? Let's take a good look at what a "real chimp" looks like:

He's so damn Chimpy.

Okay, now let's look at our leading man--er, ape:

Looks like Chimpy had a love-child with Owen Teague. #shudder

As you can see, the two are pretty different. Chimpy has a true muzzle and a mouth that curves around it. Noa has a flatter, human face with an actual nose bridge and wider-spaced eyes.

And the EYES. My god. If you don't see the humanity in those baby-blues you might want to get checked for psychopathy. Besides that, Chimpy lacks eye-whites and has rounder eyes than Noa. Additionally, that pronounced brow ridge on Chimpy has thunder clouds gathering beneath it. Don't get me started on the ear comparison between the two, I'm sure it goes without saying!

Anyway, I think it can be safely stated that no chimp alive on this earth looks like Noa. He's too physically humanized to resemble an actual chimpanzee of the typical zoo variety. Thus, I would place him safely in the category of fish-man, the tall, blue cat creatures from Avatar, and those barbaric blue aliens that keep cropping up on certain ice planets in books #ifyouknowwhatImean.

---------------------

All that said, everyone can ship what they want. If you want Noa playing house with Caesar, never mind that trifling little timeline issue, you go with your fine self and write that fanfiction. Create an account on DeviantArt.com and fill it with their anthropomorphic babies who eventually grow up to be the first ape astronauts. Someone out there is going to love it and eat it up, I promise you.

For the points above, this is about Noa and Mae. They've got something, something tangible. Whether or not it becomes canon is yet to be seen.

For now, it lives on in our minds. With our inner eye, we can see it just fine.

[ersatz-ostrich]

DBH Headcanons: Getting Your Wisdom Teeth Removed

Connor, RK900, Markus, Simon, and Gavin x gn!reader

Some headcanons about what it would be like to be taken care of by some of the characters of Detroit: Become Human while recovering from getting your wisdom teeth removed. Inspired by, well, getting my wisdom teeth removed.

[A/N]: I got my wisdom teeth out a while back and it honestly wasn't as bad as I'd heard from other people. My mouth tasted funny for a while, though.

Connor:

Chances are, you’ve already briefed him on your wisdom teeth procedure and everything that happens before and after

By the time the actual surgery rolls around, he’s downloaded every bit of information about pre-op and post-op

And he’s not going to hesitate to bother you remind you about everything

“Don’t forget to wear comfortable shoes and clothing.” “Y/N, you can’t have any food or water 8 hours before the surgery.” “Y/N, please refrain from strenuous exercise in the 24 hours before your surgery.”

When you come out of surgery loopy on anesthesia, he sits with you in recovery and tries to talk you through it (even though you don’t remember a lick of what either of you said)

I’d say he’s a mother hen post-op, but more like a worrywart type

He’d buy all kinds of liquid foods for you and is constantly asking about your pain levels

Gets a lot of weird looks in the supermarket while he’s checking out the soup aisle

“That’s not a domestic android I’ve ever seen…”

He’s definitely on top of your antibiotics schedule, and if you need it, pain meds

Makes sure you’re regularly irrigating the wounds if you need it 

If you’re ever worried or insecure about swelling and discomfort post-op, Connor is there to smother you in kisses

Nines:

As a deviant, he isn’t as much of a mother hen as Connor, probably because he’s more self-assured in his ability to take care of you as well as your ability to take care of yourself when you can

He wouldn’t hover as much as Connor but he’d definitely download information about the procedure before you go

Coming out of the operation, you knock out again for a bit in recovery and Nines insists on staying with you, covering you with his jacket and letting you rest your head on his shoulder

If Connor got weird looks while in the supermarket buying things for you and picking up your prescriptions, Nines sticks out like a sore thumb

Like he’s clearly not a domestic/service android so he confuses a lot of shoppers and employees as he browses the aisles and fills his basket with cans of soup, oats, and ice cream

“Why on earth is a police investigator android buying soup on a Friday morning?”

If you’re in pain, he’ll do everything to comfort you

Pain meds, ice cream, cuddles, your comfort movies and shows, anything for you

He doesn’t seem outwardly clingy or affectionate but he’s such a softy

Markus:

This obviously isn’t his first rodeo

If you’re scared going into the surgery, he’s with you all the way until the nurses put you to sleep

Cruises through post-op no matter what state you’re in due to the sedative

At home, he’s got you covered

No need to break out the cans of mush—he’s got you covered with homemade soups, the softest scrambled eggs you’ve ever had, soft pasta dishes, you name it

With Markus, you’ll never miss a dose of antibiotics

If you’re in pain, worry not

Markus has your pain meds, blankets, and infinite cuddles

He’ll have your favorite flavors of ice cream on hand

Straight out of the tub if you feel so inclined

Simon:

He might not be a caregiver like Markus but he was once a domestic and childcare android

Calms your nerves going into the operation and when you’re all woozy post-op he’s right by your side

Coming out of the operation, it doesn’t matter if you look like if Alvin the Chipmunk got into a fistfight and lost—Simon’s there to shower you in kisses and envelop you in hugs

Like Markus, you’ll never have to worry about the liquid and soft food diet

If the pain’s too much, Simon will be your arms and legs for the time being

He’s a wizard with chores and errands

It’s like you never even got your wisdom teeth out

Gavin:

Would totally take off work to help you recover

Which, given how competitive he is at work, would probably seem like an anomaly to his coworkers

“I’ve never seen Reed take off for more than a day or two at a time. Shit, he’d come into work sick so long as he wasn’t actively dying,” Says Tina

“I’ve had to wrangle that fucker into his car more times than I can count to prevent him from coming into work injured,” Grumbles Fowler

“Hopefully he’ll take this time to rest as well as take care of someone else.”

Would record the stuff you say coming out of sedative in post-op for the memories (and for you both to laugh at when you recover)

I don’t see him being as great of a cook as Markus or Simon, but he’s definitely able to cook to support himself and you

Of course, he’d get you all the ice cream you want

He knows what it feels like to be in pain and cranky so he does everything he can to either comfort you or give you space to get through it

If you wanted it, he’d cuddle with you while you spend the day reading or watching your comfort shows and sipping on smoothies (no straws allowed, of course)

To anyone getting their wisdom teeth out soon, good luck! To anyone recovering from the surgery, feel better soon! Hope you enjoyed reading this silly little compilation of HCs! See you next time x

[missioncoded]

connor did not sulk.

he was a state of the art android, cyberlife's most advanced model prior to the revolution (and how would that work now? it had been a year, they were releasing bioparts, thirium, patches, bug fixes and more, but... androids eventually shut down. they eventually broke. would there never be a new android again? would they be a short-lived race of people? he-- now wasn't the time to think of such things). he was capable of so much more than people expected, he'd rarely actually shown all of his capabilities, even to hank.

he did not sulk. this... was not sulking.

it just... wasn't fair. sure, he understood it all logically. officer miller was having a family emergency, and hank was out sick. detective reed needed someone to accompany him in this stakeout, and captain fowler had explicitly told him to "get his shit together" and "learn to play nice with the androids" which.... connor had to agree with. and connor... he was not made to be a desk jockey, as they called it. he was restless. he needed to be doing something. 

“doing something” apparently meant sitting in a car with the human that hated him the most in the world. waiting. there was nothing worse than waiting, in connor's opinion. thirium hummed in his veins, urging him to go, to hunt, to achieve, to do.... something. anything.

maybe desk work wasn't so bad after all. at least he could.... no, no, that was a lie. huffing, he pulled out his coin, rolling it back and forth over his left hand. then, when even that became boring (you can only recalibrate so much) he instead began massaging the scar on the inside of his right palm. the cold, he'd noted, made it act up more than usual. "I can't tell which is more....." mind numbing? torturous? monotonous? " quiet. desk duty, or this. you're certain we can't take a look around the premises, detective?" of course he knew why they couldn't but... well, at least a chase would give him something to do.

something. anything. "how do hu-- how do people normally occupy their minds while forced to sit and wait?"

@is-itself-a-deviant : gavin

[sirserpentine]

"Mad?" Pentious repeated softly, slowly raising his hand from Angel's waist to cup and caress his cheek as their foreheads touched. His worries were tangible, but so was his gratefulness. For Angel to go this far for their shared dream when he was already under a dastardly contract... Pentious smiled, reassuringly.

"I'm not mad, Dear, not in the slightest. I'm just..."

Excited. Nervous. Scared. Petrified, even. Talking about it brought up all those stifled feelings and memories from so long ago. The hope and following disappointment. Long nights, crying, trying, begging, waiting. Trying and waiting and trying and waiting until it was certainly impossible.

But it would be different this time, he reminded himself. He and Angel knew it would be ever since examining the fine prints of Pentious' own deal. He wouldn't be unfortunate anymore. Success was guaranteed for him, and now it was also for Angel.

What had happened before wouldn't happen to Angel. He wouldn't end up crushed as their hopes diminished, he wouldn't cease to function when their prayers weren't answered. He wouldn't grow to resent himself, and Pentious, and not be able to even look at him...

Right?

Pentious pulled the other Sinner closer to himself. "...I want you to be happy too, I want this for us sssso much," Pentious assured, now holding Angel's face in both hands and peering into his mismatched eyes, his own twinkling with a whirlwind of emotions. "You're brilliant for finding a way around your contract," he continued. "And if the new deal... if it... I- just pleassse tell me if I can do anything to help pay the debt, alright?"

He couldn't begin to imagine what Angel could have signed off. Money, even a ludicrous amount of it would be easy compared to things some Overlords demanded. But Pentious would do anything to help. Stand beside him through it. Angel was worth it. What they had was worth it. And what they could have; Their family could- would be too.

"...Perhaps we shouldn't stop at just one then, hm?" Pentious said after a pause, quirking a playful eyebrow and laughing through a sniffle that tried to escape. "Just one baby, I mean. I like the sound of keeping that bug off of you... and the amorous congresssss to get there."

This....hadn't really been the way he was expecting it would go. Angel Dust had gone so out of his way to make sure this could be a possibility for them both, to the point of putting himself at potential risk. He had thought that Pentious would be filled with absolute joy at the potential to have something he had craved since his living days, but instead he was met with nothing but concern.

He understood it. He wasn't mad about it. Hell was a scary place, and raising a child here would be even scarier. There were going to be plenty of obstacles to overcome. The biggest one of which Pentious was so concerned about, Angel blushing and resting his forehead against the snakes, lips quirking up into a slight smile. '

"About that. Uh....kind of? Sort of?" There had only been one demon (okay, technically two) that would ever have the potential to go against Valentino. It just so happened to help that Angel Dust had lived with all three of those fuckers before moving into the hotel. Vox. It had always been obvious that Vox wasn't a fan of Angel Dust, no matter how much money the porn star made the Vees. He knew that Vox had jealousy issues, and that he was just as scared of losing Val as he had been due to losing Alastor.

It surprisingly hadn't been that challenging. Angel had already sat and had a talk with Lucifer, mostly because he consisted of the most power in Hell. The King had not been on board at first, but knowing how much work Angel had put into redemption, knowing that Angel had been a humongous part of Charlie's success, he had felt that he owed a favor. That had been step one.

Vox had been step two. The television demon had seemed beyond annoyed that Angel was bothering him in his office, without Val, but as soon as Angel had said what he had needed, Vox had been practically buzzing with ways to get on it. He knew where Valentino kept his contracts. He was intelligent enough to find the loopholes. He had made a deal that insured that Angel could not get hurt as long as he was with child.

The only complication had been what Vox had wanted in return. He couldn't just promise to never come to work, because his own contract went against that. He couldn't deny Valentino his needs, because his contract went against that. What he had given Vox would go exactly against why Lucifer had gifted him in the first place, but that wasn't ever going to be spoken of. Ever.

"Let's just say ah'm protected now. Valentino can't lay a hand on meh'. At least....not in an abusive way." He frowned at this, though Sir Pentious had known what he was getting into when dating the likes of Angel Dust. "He can't hit meh', as long as ah'm pregnant. It ain't able tah' happen. And uh, let's just say that that's guaranteed, considering th' person ah' made th' deal with kind of....watches everything he does?" He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Don't get mad at meh' f' it, Pen. Ah' just...ah' want yeh' tah' be happy. F' us tah' be happy. We deserve this, don't we?"