#dumb ways to deviate

[dumbwaystodeviate]

Can I please get some Allen60 with Sixty deviating during a hostage situation gone wrong? If you're taking prompts that is!

The call from Allen came through on Sixty's HUD. It wasn't expected, not at the start of a human work day but there was generally a 17% chance of it happening on any given morning.

"Captain," Sixty greeted, only giving 2% of his processing capacities to the call.

"Sixty, I need you to listen to me very carefully." Allen's voice was low and tense. "I'm in a hostage situation. You're my only hope."

Instantly, Sixty was replaying the message, analysing background noise, GPS information, Allen's voice quality. It was most unlike his captain to end up in such a situation, he was better than that. A human folly, in most likelihood, especially so early in the morning. Sixty knew for a fact that Allen wasn't at full capacity until he had at least three cups of coffee loaded with sugar.

"Very well, Captain. What can I do for you?"

What Sixty had been expecting was a set of instruction on who to call, what team to assemble, tactical considerations. He got none of those. Allen's co-ordinates put him firmly in the middle of the DPD bullpen which caused even more concern. Surely Connor and Nines should have been able to handle things. Or perhaps not, deviants as they were, they lacked the strict focus of a machine dedicated to its job. It was what made Sixty superior to them both, no matter who said otherwise.

"Okay, I have a list of demands at hand." There was the rustling of paper and what most definitely sounded like badly suppressed giggles from Detective Reed. The man was known to be volatile, maybe he had finally lost his mind and was laughing in the face of danger. Such thought was pushed to a secondary processor as Allen started to read out the demands, "Two glazed doughnuts, one chocolate sprinkled doughnut, one jam filled doughnut, two custard filled doughnuts, three bearclaws, six plain dougnuts, all from the bakery one road over from the police station."

Sixty saved the list even as he tried to figure out how 15 bakery items would help a hostage situation. Usually it was demands for transport, money and assurances of safety. Not...junk food.

Allen kept talking, "-with oat milk, two sugars, a decaf double espresso, a pumpkin spice latte, two chai lattes and an Earl Grey, hot."

Another note made and Sixty was moving through Detroit with determination. These hotage takers didn't align with any known behavioural profile.

"Captain, I need more information. What can you tell me about these criminals?"

"They mean business," Allen replied and there was a smile in his voice. "They've infiltrated the DPD to the highest of levels. They have guns. They've said if I value my life, I will make sure their demands are met."

Checking Allen's schedule, he was indeed due for a meeting at the DPD which explained his presence there. But nowhere could Sixty find any note or information about the hostage situation or even a mention of an ongoing problem. Even as he ordered the list of demands, Sixty was sifting through classified files, desperate to locate any kind of papertrail on this infiltration. There was nothing.

Arriving at the DPD, it looked like an ordinary day. A Stacey waved him through with his bags, the bullpen was bustling like usual. Detective Reed spotted him first and let out a wild cheer.

"Dent-A-Pot! Did you get everything?" He was already reaching for the bags and Sixty stubbornly held onto them. In a hostage situation he was much better equipped to deal with the criminals.

"I have everything that was on Allen's list."

"Release him!" Detective Reed hollered towards the Captain's Office.

The door opened and a sheepish looking Allen stepped out, Connor and Nines behind him, grinning like sharks. Fowler shoved Lieutenant Anderson through the door after them even though he was also smiling.

"Where are the hostage takers?" Sixty asked. Notifications were flashing in his HUD, the only conclusion he could come to was that the DPD as a whole had taken Allen hostage in exchange for baked good. Finally, Allen got to him and plucked the sugar laden black coffee from the tray and took a sip, followed by a relieved sigh.

"Thanks, Sixty. I forgot it was my turn to bring snacks for the meeting. They would have rioted if not for you."

Blinking, Sixty refused to accept that his superior capabilities and skills had been put to use as nothing more than a delivery boy. Faced with the choice of shutting down or punching through the red wall, he opted for the latter. But only so he could punch Allen in the shoulder and maybe drag him off for a very thorough tongue lashing.

[bixels]

This Twitter MLP human redesign drama is a mess, leave me the fuck out of it.

[danieyells]

I cannot stress enough that if you do not make and support the stories and headcanons and fics and interpretations you want to see in the world no amount of complaining that people make things you don't like will help you feel better in the long run

Also consider that just because you don't like more than one interpretation of a thing doesn't mean other people who like a different interpretation don't like others too

[transfemgabriellamontez]

Yonderland, Percy Jackson, One Piece, etc

so important for every character to be an idiot, but each in their own unique beautiful way

[heavenlybodies333]

Study Buddy - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You’re going to fail. Again.

You already feel the burn of it in your chest when you drop your pencil for the third time and let your head hit the kitchen table with a dull thud.

“Don’t cry,” Spencer says, sitting across from you with a soft smile. “That’s statistically proven to ruin your retention rate.”

You groan. “I hate statistics.”

“That’s not a healthy mindset.”

“I’ve taken this class three times.”

“And you’ll pass it this time.”

“Why? Because you’re here?”

He raises a brow. “Yes?” You glare at him. He laughs. But he softens almost immediately, reaching out to tap the top of your notebook gently. “Look. You’re not dumb. You just panic when numbers stop behaving like words. You need muscle memory. You need to trust the patterns.”

“You sound like you’re flirting with a math problem.”

He grins, almost proud. “I am.” You groan again, but this time you manage a smile too.

You hate that your dad asked him to help. You hate that it’s the one favor you didn’t have the energy to say no to. Because now Spencer’s here every night, giving you soft praise and patient corrections—looking at you like you’re not a walking disappointment.

Spencer slides your pencil back toward you with two fingers. It bumps your wrist. You stare at it like it’s a weapon. “You’re going to pass,” he says again, voice calm. Certain. “You just need to get out of your own way.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does your therapist also make you flash cards and bring you pastries from that overpriced bakery on 9th?”

You glance at the croissant on the corner of your notebook and shrug. “Not lately.”

He smiles again—God, that gentle, knowing smile—and says, “Try this one. And this time, don’t second guess yourself.”

You look down at the formula he’s written out. You walk through it slowly, out loud like he taught you. Your hands shake less now. You write the answer down and look up, heart thudding. He doesn’t check the paper. He just looks at you and nods. “Correct.”

You light up instantly, so relieved you almost cry again—but for a different reason. “That’s the first one I got right tonight,” you breathe.

“Yep. And it won’t be the last.”

Your chest aches in a different way now. Because he looks so proud. Like he always does. Like he’s the only person who sees you trying and not failing. You want to kiss him. You really, really want to kiss him. “Spencer,” you say, soft. His name lands a little too warm between you. He meets your gaze, cautious now. His voice lowers. “Yeah?”

Your fingers curl around the pencil. “Can we take a break?”

He nods, already reaching for your water. “Yeah, okay. Ten minutes?”You shake your head. “No.” You push your notebook aside. “I mean a real break.”

He freezes, catching the edge in your tone. You stand up slowly and walk around the table. Your fingers trail along the surface until you’re beside him. You sink to your knees between his legs. He looks down at you, breath caught. “Are you—”

“You said I need muscle memory,” you whisper, hands sliding up his thighs. “Let’s build some.”

His eyes flutter shut. “Your dad asked me to help you study.”

“And you are,” you murmur. “You’re very good with your fingers.”

He exhales sharply, head tilting back as your fingers find the button of his pants. “This is wildly irresponsible.”

You blink slowly. “This is what I want.” That’s all it takes. His mouth is on yours before the words have fully settled in the air. He kisses you hard and low, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound, tugging you up off the floor and into his lap like he can’t bear to be apart for a second longer.

Your thighs straddle his. His hands slide up beneath your shirt—warm palms against warmer skin, lifting and learning and memorizing you in real time, breath hitching while he kisses down your neck and slowly works his hand beneath the waistband of your leggings.

“What’s the formula for standard deviation?”

You gasp as his fingers drag through your wetness, teasing. “I—fuck—you’re evil.”

“Answer correctly and I’ll make you come,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. You whimper.

“You said you needed incentives.”

You try to focus. Try to pull the answer from the recesses of your brain while his fingers slide in, curling just right. He moans softly against your ear. “Say it.”

“Square root of the variance,” you pant. “It’s the square root of the variance.”

“Smart girl.” he breathes, kissing the inside of your thigh again like a reward.

“Now,” he whispers, fingers slipping deeper, “what are the 3 formulas for non-Linear regression?”

You whimper. He plays with your slick, watching your face melt. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You know this. Exponential, logarithmic and?”

You moan instead of answering, and he grins, mouth at your jaw. “Wrong. Try again.”

You half-laugh, half-plead. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your tutor,” he says, punctuating it with another slow thrust of his fingers. “And this is positive reinforcement.” Your breathing picks up, but before either of you can take it any further, you hear a noise in the hallway.

You freeze. Spencer pulls back, eyes wide, a slight panic flashing across his face. You both scramble to straighten up, pretending like you weren’t just about to cross a line you never intended to—but both of you wanted to.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Spencer’s voice is low. “We should… talk about this.”

You nod, quickly fixing your hair. “Yeah. Later.”

But the truth is, both of you know it’s only a matter of time before you both cross that line. And when you do, it’s going to be anything but casual.

a/n: Spencer Reid x hotch’s daughter is my Roman Empire

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[soullessdianthus]

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐯!𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝!𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠

Warnings: innocent!reader, very nsfw (cockwarming, toys, orgasm control)

Poorly translated German, correct me if needed!

Note at the end (worth checking).

✧°.  Perv!Boyfriend!König would wake up with a morning boner quite often, especially when he sleeps next to his beautiful and cute girlfriend. But instead of waking you up and asking to help him out (because he knew how much you loved to sleep), König would gently move you to your stomach and bend one of your legs in the knee. 

✧°.  A sudden stretch of his fat cock bullying its way into your pussy, woke you up nonetheless. And when you whimpered underneath your boyfriend, he was already holding you down and peppering your cheek with kisses.

✧°.  “Such a good girl for me, helping me out, ja?” or “Please, please, please, schatzi, it hurts so much.”

✧°.  He would bottom out and make you cockwarm him for a couple of hours of peaceful sleep. 

✧°.  Perv!Boyfriend!König would buy you different clitoral vibrators and dildos (all smaller than him of course, so you couldn’t be fully satisfied without his cock) just to devour the sight of his pretty, innocent girlfriend fucking herself dumb with those toys.

✧°.  He would make you bounce on that stupid dildo until you were a weeping and soaked mess, asking for release, your arousal dripping down your plush thighs. How could he decline your wishes heh? 

✧°.  If you were a good girl, of course. If you had been bad… Perv!Boyfriend!König would be merciless in his deviations – making punishments last for hours or not allowing you to cum until he says so. Sometimes it could be weeks.

✧°.  Perv!Boyfriend!König would not watch porn, because why would he, when he has you? His little girlfriend being naive and oblivious, allowing him to record her as she gives König a blowjob. 

✧°.  He’s not a super crazy fan of lingerie though. Like every other man, Perv!Boyfriend!König would like to see you dressed up for him, casual shorts or slutty skirt – as long as it’s revealing it’s good!

✧°.  Perv!Boyfriend!König silently fantasies about turning you into a cockdrunk bimbo!

A/N: Yall and I are feral for Perv!König!!! I might open my requests for a while soon... Just a heads up...

[mymoshangthoughts]

oki NEW CONCEPT

so

pidw! liu qingge regresses from the point of death all the way back to the point where he was a disciple

the thing is, shit is Different

he's like, 15, a disciple, and shen jiu has only barely followed yue qingyuan back to the sect

and the thing is, shang qinghua is Different.

it's not that liu qingge was ever like, besties with qinghua. the two of them maybe went on a few escort missions and attended meetings together, but they were never close

but heres the thing:

airplane doesn't have an ooc lock.

why would he? for shen yuan, of course 'shen qingqiu' can't change personalities 100% over night, that's gotta be a gradual shift. and shen jiu was a fairly major antagonist in the original book. he had a prominent role. and his personality was a huge part of fulfilling that role.

shang qinghua on the other hand? his position in the story is so irrelevant that the system would have let him kill mobei jun. he's a one note villain. barely spoken of, barely written about. airplane himself barely knows the guys actual personality, bc literally this character only existed to betray the sect and then die off screen. shang qinghua, in the original pidw, shang qinghua was as irrelevant as qin wanrong. such a pointless character that you, my dear reader, prolly had to go look her up because you forgot she existed.

all of that to say, the system had absolutely no reason to enforce ic behavior onto airplane. only that airplane had to commit to certain missions. even if the system had tried, airplane doesnt even know this dude well enough to pretend to be him.

and what would be the point? no one in this world has ever met the original shang qinghua.

except for the regressed liu qingge.

and heres the other thing.

airplane isnt like... changing the plot as dramatically as shen yuan did, but he IS changing the plot. just literally by existing. by being a strange aberrant person who wasnt there initially. by doing things that airplane would do and not doing things that og!shang qinghua would do. it's a drop in the bucket, change wise, but it does change shit. it does effect the people around him and how they behave.

so liu qingge's first suspicion is that perhaps shang qinghua also regressed backwards in time. it would make sense. it's not like liu qingge is acting like himself. he's not the same person that he was as a teenager.

but.... shang qinghua isn't acting like the adult shang qinghua that he knows either. in fact, his behavior is COMPLETELY different. like that is a whole ass different person. liu qingge isn't the most observant guy on the planet, but he's not BLIND. this shift is as dramatic as the difference in personality between wei wuxian and lan wangji. that is NOT the same fucking person.

so now liu qingge is investigating airplane, because he is absolutely not about to sit there and let some skinner demon wear his shixiong's skin or whatever the fuck is happening

and see heres the second stressor that liu qingge is dealing with:

shen jiu tried to save his life. he failed. he failed spectacularly. but the person he thought was the worst scum ever had tried so desperately to save him from his qi deviation and that's not exactly something you brush off

and even more so: liu qingge is no longer a dumb teenager.

when liu qingge was an actual teenager, he was busy with his training and overall, just a dumb kid. and look, it's not like he grew up to become a super genius or anything, but he's not as wrapped up in his own bullshit as he was as a kid.

so when liu qingge met shen jiu for the first time, the real first time, he didn't see any of the signs. he saw a snappish and angry person who treated yue qingyuan like shit and clearly got a nepotism hire and had no morals and looked down on everyone and just all of shen jiu's actual flaws.

this liu qingge tho? he's been a peak lord for years now. he's seen shit. he's been places. he's no longer a fairly sheltered young master who has no idea what happens in the real world.

and it only takes one good look at shen jiu to make it obvious just how much abuse he's endured. he hasn't had years to learn how to conceal his trauma better. he doesn't have the cultivation level yet to fight for himself. he's just an abused ex-slave with trauma practically roiling off of him in waves and liu qingge, as an adult, is sitting here absolutely baffled as to how his teenage self missed every single sign

so now he's paying more attention to both shen jiu and airplane, because holyfuck he might have been partially wrong about shen jiu literally this whole time, and because that is NOT shang fucking qinghua. and shen jiu hates him just as much as before, because trauma, and he notices the unnatural attention directed at shang qinghua so now shen jiu is paying an unnatural amount of attention to shang qinghua

which would be all great and magical and fine if shang qinghua wasn't currently hiding a recovering ice demon in his leisure house

[khattikeri]

genderbending svsss is a really interesting mental exercise.

let's say PIDW is still meant to be a jerkoff fuel harem novel, but luo binghe is its female protagonist.

there are many ways this can go. instead of being a zero-to-hero male revenge fantasy, PIDW could instead have our plucky yet bright MC luo binghe, dogged by misfortune, slowly turn dumber and bustier with every arc. the plot eventually disappears entirely so she can stumble into trouble and get fucked (with widely varying levels of consent) by different attractive men.

it'd be a misogynistic, pornographic logical nightmare that ignores any interesting worldbuilding. peerless cucumber melons ragequits at the end and the new shen qingqiu begins lesbian mommy hours. but as shen yuan fills plotholes, it becomes apparent that luo binghe didn't legitimately turn dumb.

her bimbofication was a defense mechanism of her own-- in a sense, that IS her equivalent of blackening, because nobody will care or bother to help her unless she gives them a taste of her body in exchange. her shizun and the rest of righteous human society hated her from day one. it's a hypocritical madonna-whore complex society out there, and luo binghe will never be accepted as a pure or good maiden. why not just collect men who might dote on her a little?

unlike a male luo binghe, who embraces his demonic side to chase after the masculine ideal of powerful domination, a female luo binghe might cling to her whatever remains of her own humanity, and in doing so atrophy in pursuit of a useless ideal of submission.

her manipulation is playacted mindlessness. she won't ever reach the top of anything meaningful. but that doesn't matter, because this PIDW isn't about girlboss girlwin. it's still male gaze-y porn. the story maintains a thin veneer of framing luo binghe collecting men while staying submissive to them in bed as "her own power", but in truth, she has utterly and completely given up.

being taken advantage of is totally power! appearing unwilling, naive, virginal, and shy is power. she's just a girl... who happens to be half-heavenly demon, and fetishized like hell for it by anyone who knows. her place in the world can't be on the top; that's too ambitious and demonic for a girl like her. her place will be beneath someone else, and she can live with that. she can learn to like it anyway, what with the universe itself conspiring to make her have sex everywhere she goes.

she'll never get the love and care she really craves. so why bother trying to struggle and think and fight for it?

(a moment of silence for the bleak picture i've painted.)

anyway, after shen qingqiu's qi deviation and strange personality shift, i imagine luo binghe would become far less apathetic (and far less interested in men). she'd become closer to the cunning yet sweet and softhearted powerhouse we know her as. and in her desperation to not be thrown away, she'd go to any lengths to prove herself...

[vermont-writes-fanfic]

Getting Hurt While Protecting Them (Deviant Edition)

Request:No

Warning:Burns, Zlatko’s Death, injuries, blood,cursing

Characters:Kara,Alice,Marcus, Connor

A/N:This is the deviant version of a post I did a while ago which is linked here

Deviant Kara + Alice

You came with Kara and Alice to Zlatko’s house where you met Luther and Zlatko, after the mans true intentions were revealed and you tried to keep Kara from losing her memories,but Luther was instructed to take you away and he did so. After freeing yourself with the help of other androids in the basement you made your way to where Kara was having her memories erased. As you were trying to figure out what to do, Zlatko found you and the two of you bagn to fight. You had thrown a water body between the two of you to distract him and gotten wet in the process, when he grabbed on of the snapped wires, which allowed Kara to fall to the ground and retain her memories, you sustained a nasty burn. You powered through it despite the shock in your body and knocked him out with a near by pipe before grabbing Kara.

“Are you okay?” She asked as you pulled her up.

“We can check later, we need to find Alice.”

After doging both Zlatko and Luther you both managed to find Alice and in a remarkable turn of events Luther swapped sides and rose up with the experiments in the basement to kill Zlatko.When the four of you finally got a chance to settle down in an abandoned amusement park, Kara checks Alice and then goes straight to you.

“You are hurt, did Zlatko do this?” She questions, the caoncern is evident in her face.

“Yes and no, I was dumb and threw a bottle of water in a room full of electrical appliances,so he took his shot,” 

She pauses searching for the right words to say before running water over it it and wrapping it up to the best of her abilities.

“Thank you…you saved Alice.”

“No, I saved my family.”

Deviant Marcus

Marcus didn’t make a habit out of trusting humans, but you had helped pull him from the android graveyard and help piece hisself back together again with your own two hands and he knew he could trust you.He knew that at anyone you would put your life on the line for the safety of another androids whether they had deviated or not, and you had in the past, not to mention you treated his goal almost as seriously as he did.

The incident happened when you joined him for a hesit of thirium and biocompenents, he had been shot in a vital component during a chase. You took his arm over your shoulder and helped him escape, but in the process of fleeing over a gate you were bit in the thigh, your jean shorts soaked in your own blood the wound seeping blood the entire journey back to Jericho. It was here, after he assessed the other adriods and you finished helping others replace their components, that he noticed you were wounded.He places a hand on the wound, his eye scanning it with a look of concern.

“Why didn’t you get that taken care of?”

“Others needed their components replaced,” You respond shrugging as he removes his hand, the artificial skin covered in an alarming amount of your blood, “I didn’t sit down until just now, so I never got to it.”

The moment you finish speaking, he hoists you up on a broken interface and takes a closer look. After inspecting it, he cleans the wound and bandages it up, all the while he is telling you how human and stupid it was.

“You’re not even listening are you?”

“Half-way, that’s gotta count for something,” You smirk as he looks up at you.

“Why didn’t you just leave me there?” His eyes narrow as he asks you the question, as if expecting something different than what you say.

“Well,” You sigh dramatically, “Jericho just wouldn’t be the same without Markus, the big, bed, fearless android leader, now would it?” You tease, nudging his shoulders as you slide down and off the interface.

You only chuckles a little and shakes his head.

Deviant Connor

Hank wasn’t answering his phone and everywhere you and Connor turned androids,devaint or not, were being executed in droves. No where was safe until you and Connor stumbled across an android named Markus who gave Connor a single mission: to collect soldiers for the andriod army. You refused to leave Connors side as he carried out said mission and he had no choice but to let you. An android entering a human made it much less suspicious anyways, and it worked up until the second model of Connor approached. You could always tell the real Connor, for the longest time he didn’t believe he had a lick of human emotion or deviancy in him until it was nearly forced out of him.

You watched in anticipation and fear as Hank had the gun trained on you, then Connor, then Fake Connor. He wouldn’t let you move an inch, assuming you were a replica to,as he questioned the two androids. You didn’t think twice when you stopped infront of your Connor when you heard the gunshot.You didn’t even stop to look where the bullet when when Hank shot the right Connor as you turned around and gave Connor a once over, looking for any kind of injury that would indicate he was damaged. 

It wasn’t over yet, with all the commotion and the trouble in the elevator before hand the three of you had to move fast. And move you did, you made it to the frontlines with Markus and had the honour of standing beside him as you watched history unfold infront of your eyes. Overtime, Connor had developed a habit of observing his surroundings visibly but now he is dead still and his hand gun equiped is steadily rising. You gently hold the gun in your hands and call his name, your voice prying him from Amamnda’s grip. The alarm of nearly killing you sets in, and as he looks to where you have the fun pointed his LED flashes red. Your shirt is covered in blood, with the adreanline of a possible Civil War on your hands you hadn’t noticed that you had been running around with a bullet embedded in your side.

The moment the standoff had ended, Connor rushed you to the hospital where you were taken care of. He sat on the bed next to you, his LED pensively blinking as he stared at the ground, before he finally spoke, clearly still trying to wrap his processors around what had happened in the past 48 hours.

“You let him shoot you…”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Why?” When he asks this, he turns to face you his eyes scanning your face for any signs of unwell mental stability but he finds none. You’re heart rate is normal, your respiratory rate is pristine, no signs of PTSD or early truama, yet you’re lying in a hospital bed with a hole in your side.

“Because I didn’t want you to die, Connor.”

“He was aiming for a non-vital component in my body, I had a 96% survival rate even if he shot me.”

“I didn’t like that 4%.”

“Oh…thank you.”

“You can thank me with a kiss,”

Hank walks in the room hears this and laughs talking about how someone owed him 50 bucks and a bottle of booze.As the two of you share a gentle kiss.

[10yrratiolover]

My health is on the decline so have some more Ratio headcanons to make me feel better

He makes a detailed list when grocery shopping and he sticks to it pretty strictly, only deviating from it on very rare occasions

I kind of hate the headcanon that he has a boatload of ducks, mostly because it reminds me of the phenomenon that fandoms will dumb characters down to liking one thing bc it was mentioned/shown once

^ that being said, I do think he would have a couple, most were given to him as gag gifts but

Freakishly fast walker, he's got places to be

A mild case of RBF, he furrows his brows a lot and it makes him look like he's scowling

I don't think he needs glasses to see normally, but I think he'd wear reading glasses like the ones in his BP icon since he reads so often and doesn't want it straining his eyes

I think he'd go out of his way to avoid scheduling classes, lectures, tutoring, etc really early in the day. He needs a few hours minimum to enjoy some peace and quiet at the beginning and end of the day.

Based on his character introduction, I think he does suffer from some kind of chronic insomnia, he mostly struggles with getting to sleep since he finds it hard to turn his mind off

Night time is also when his stress levels increase, mostly since when he's lying down with so much less stimulus/things to think of he starts to wonder if he accomplished enough/anything that day or if it was wasted

I've seen people talk about him not caring about his own gender, and I 100% agree with that

He presents masc but he really doesn't care, he also doesn't think about it much because he's got other more important stuff to do

I think he'd be a gamer god at Minesweeper, definitely not projecting

He actually genuinely enjoys socializing, even with idiots at times, in cases where he has to stay home because he's sick or whatever he's genuinely miserable about it

Sort of based on my post about his eyes but I think he'd have pretty good vision in the dark, like not 100% clear vision but better than an average person

^ Doesn't turn on the lights of his house if it's nighttime and he's not doing anything important, if he needs a midnight glass of water he's just walking around in the pitch black

[mochinomnoms]

i just want to saw that you really cooked with the trey scenario and it’s been on my mind since you posted it. like imagine the banter between the two?? the way i would perceive every interaction i would have with him as condescending especially with his cute, infuriating smirk while he over on the side thinking of how to subtly get your heart (and how to sneak in a few baking puns too). smth smth trey shares a family recipe and we point it out and trey is deflecting hard.

-���

Im glad you liked it! I've been working at a bakery for a few weeks now and I was surprised at how little baking I do (which is none). 90% of the job is packaging the goods to sell in the store! So the idea just came to me while at work!

In all good fun, I think Trey would try to poke a bit of fun at you, though he does firmly believe in the superiority of a proper bakery versus a grocery store one. He'll acknowledge that he's biased, but not wrong.

But with the wrong tone and a prefect who woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, Trey is suddenly met with a one-sided rivalry that he could end with an apology, but...

Well, forgive him for this, but Trey finds it very funny and endearing how offended and angry you get. Especially when your immediate response is to challenge him to a bake off (which you lose, miserably).

It's such a deviation from your usual mannerisms. You're always polite, kind, and attentive, and the fact that he's the only one to rile you up over something that's really so trival is actually a bit fun to him. Trey has had to be a big brother figure for the last few years and regin in Riddle as best as he can, so it's nice to have a bit of fun.

You're just mad that this fedora wearing, broccoli-color haired, 5'11" asshole called your old job "pseudo baking". So what if he's technically right and you didn't bake anything from scratch yourself? That doesn't mean he gets to say it to your face without consequences!

Most of the banter is you giving Trey snide comments and him replying with amused, teasing remarks. Normally he wouldn't let this escalate to the level it's at now, but damn it you're awfully cute and it's actually a bit fun watching you scramble around in the kitchen to make simple cupcakes.

"I know the recipe! I just didn't have to make it since I did a later shift—BUT I still trained for baking stuff you know!"

"Sure. Of course, baking pre-made mixes right?"

"Oh fuck off. 'PRe-MaDe MIxeS—' shut the fuck up!"

"Oh, did I hit a nerve? It's fine if you did, you're a grocery store baker, after all. Sorry, sorry."

"No, you're not! You're fucking smirking! The audacity—I should use this spoon to smack that dumb smirk off your pretty face, you moth—"

You shut up pretty quick after your slip of the tongue, focused on the handwritten recipe card that looks like it's been passed down a few generations at this point. Trey's started to flush pink, though his smile is softer and more fond now, as he continues watching you in silence.

Like I said, he's having fun in his own way. You, on the other hand, are fighting off the heat in your face as you're wondering at what point you started finding his stupid face attractive.

[ionobjectshow]

Hello granddad!! Really enjoyed the new episode by the way :D I just wanted to ask something, I dont know if you already answered this so I'm sorry for bothering you if you have D:

Do you have a particular interest in nuclear physics? I'm wondering because when I watch ION it seems to me like you must be very passionate about it as well, either that or your just very good at researching (or making stuff up this sounds legit to people who dont know anything about physics, like me! /j), but it sounds like you know a considerable amount! Maybe it just seems like that to me because I don't understand physics at all :P

I really love cracklin!! So much!!! I've felt like I was too naive and childish for most of my life, I felt weak, pathetic, i cried nearly every day and my feelings of self hatred were only solidified by the people around me. And even though I act MUCH differently now and am in fact quite crude (I am much like a bird squawking outside your window that refuses to shut up!!!) and say uncomfortable things, I'm still regarded as naive and dumb sometimes! The thing Sylvia and cracklin have going on feels very similar to MANY friendships I've had with girls my age. I liked school very much and liked to work, so it made them angry that I managed to be "so stupid and so smart at the same time" (quoted directly from something a girl said to me when I was in middle school). I feel very seen.

I also want to ask if you have a particular interest in object shows, or if you just happened to choose to make your show an object show by coincidence? Object shows are my special interest and I LOVE how your show goes against (almost) everything standard for an object show. Your show is absolutely unique and there's nothing like it out there! I'm sure you will inspire many young creators to make their object shows more serious and complex, deviating from just the typical competition show. In my eyes something is qualified as an object show when there are objects (or non human characters) and the creator considers it an object show, so I love how versatile the title can be! Your designs communicate a lot about the characters and that's SO uncommon!!!! I love it!!!!! You inspire ME!!!! The art is also BEAUTIFUL, really abnormal to see in object shows, most of the time very little detail is put into it, but your backgrounds feel so ALIVE

Have a good day! :]

☢️ As soon as I saw this secret message, the words flashed through my mind: “this letter is very autistic, perhaps it was created by an autistic person.” ☢️ I love long opinions with lots of details and sincere emotions, thank you for this text, I was very happy reading it!

☢️ Yes, you guessed it - nuclear physics (especially everything related to the operation of Nuclear Power Plants) has been my special autistic interest for about 5 years now. I love everything about it. In fact, I am absolutely bad at the exact sciences, but the dance of nuclear energies fascinates me and takes my breath away! I order manuals on nuclear reactors for myself and read them with great pleasure, waving my hands. I often go to a coffee shop to read there by the window with a cup of coffee ^^

☢️ I created ION during the most terrible period of my life, and this project was the only thing that held me while anxious depression was rapidly developing and consuming me into some bottomless black abyss. So I put my whole soul, all of myself and what I love into ION, I made this project my mirror. ☢️ It is very important for me to see how this story touches the hearts of other people, I scream with delight if some neurodivergent people recognize themselves in Cracklin! This is extremely important to me.

☢️ Object shows are not my special interest, but I was very surprised and intrigued by this genre of web animation. At first, I did not like the concept of an object show and I could not understand why people were watching it … and then something switched inside me and I really wanted to create my own experimental Object show. To create it entirely myself. To make an author's project that will become a part of me. I didn't even hope that ION would be liked by anyone else, I posted 1 episode with the thought that I was doing it only for myself. And now I am happy as a rainbow in the sky, reading so many kind comments and support! Thank you very much

[canideformed]

People need to realise that a trans person’s experiences with oppression are far more impacted by things that aren’t as black and white as what specific queer label they identify as.

Living in a community that respects your gender, having the ability to medically transition if you want, especially at a young/er age, being perisex, being white, being abled, being wealthy (inherently tied to how accessible transition is to you), having supportive parents, even the level of gender deviant you’re perceived to be by cis people.

When you’re trans and/or intersex, being straight and/or being a man aren’t privileges. We’re all viewed as gender deviant, and simply identifying as straight or as a man doesn’t change that. Sometimes, the ability to pass can change that.

I can personally attest that, the more I pass as my target gender on any given day, the better I am treated and the less transphobia I experience. If I have a beard and square shoulders when I’m trying to be perceived as a woman, people don’t like it. They also don’t like it when I wear clothes that emphasise my hips when I’m trying to be perceived as a man. This also applies to sexuality. When I was with my ex bf, I was treated better when I was perceived as a woman. This is regardless of my personal orientation (which is actually mostly gay man). Even as a transfemmasc intersex gay (wo)man, the times I was treated the best were the times I could pass for a non-gender/sex/sexuality-deviant woman and when I could pass for a non-gender/sex/sexuality-deviant man. When even one of those things changes, when I was seen as a gay man, or a lesbian, or a trans woman, or a trans man—people start throwing me looks on the street and sometimes even going out of their way to harass me.

And yes! Misogyny does exist. But all gender deviant people experience it (or homophobia, but imo those two are linked anyway, at least based on my experiences being perceived as a woman vs. a gay man).

Similarly, when one of my disabilities becomes visible (if I need my cane or have a shutdown or meltdown, etc.), it impacts the way people treat my trans identity. I deserve less autonomy, the demonisation/infantilisation/both intensifies vastly, etc.

The way these things interact is complicated. I have a complicated transition history due to being intersex and could technically be categorised as “transitioned young,” both on the axis of being transfem and on the axis of being transmasc (it’s complicated!), but it’s honestly not a privilege in that situation because it also came with medical abuse.

TL;DR, an individuals’ level of privilege and an individuals’ experiences with oppression are both complex dynamics that can’t be dumbed down to “men don’t experience misogyny” or “all men have male privilege” or “straight trans people are privileged over gay trans people” or any other black and white statement based purely on one’s personal identity that completely ignores the vast array of intersecting factors as well as simple luck and personal circumstance.

Also—trans people in places like North America or certain parts of Europe will always be privileged over trans people in places with cultural variations and slower acceptance of gender deviation, probably in ways we won’t be able to ever imagine. So listen to trans people who do have those experiences.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter two

of rage and ruin series

chapter two

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.3k

summary: you come face to face with the beast.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, allusions to/threats of torture, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), depiction of injury, body horror, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, viewer discretion is advised,

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

They were careful never to touch you. The exam you’d been given when they first brought you here was done with thick rubber gloves, and no one has touched you since. 

But there are plenty of ways to teach you compliance without touching you. 

Before they moved you, you didn’t see a soul for two days. No one delivered or removed the cloth strips, food, or water. No one woke you up with a loud buzzer or dragged you outside to hose you down. 

No one hurt you.

The first few hours, you sit and do nothing as usual. You don’t really notice.

After that, though, you start to wait. This deviation, this anomaly, was far more terrifying than the wretched routine. And with no meals, you’re bereft of a way to count the passing of time. There’s no sunlight down here, after all. 

To your deep relief, the lights still go off at night. Until you’re lying awake in the dark and realize they’re probably on a timer. So maybe all your captors are dead. Made a stupid mistake and got their asses handed to them by FEDRA.

Which would be nice, but also, you’d still fucking die. Because you’re trapped in this godforsaken grimy ass basement, and somewhere on the other side of it is the only other resident you know of. Him. 

So either you starve to death, or he eats you. Or both. 

You spend the next day hoping to see Cheryl’s smug bitch face. 

When someone finally comes for you, it’s not Cheryl. It’s not Jim, either, but that’s not a surprise. He doesn’t like you, doesn’t like whatever Cheryl’s doing with you.

Not because he has any objections to the captivity or abuse. No, Jim’s been clear—you’re a waste of resources. 

Anyway, it’s fucking Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber who show up. They’re not real twins (you’re not even sure they’re brothers), but they’re a damn good argument for nurture over nature. Spending the apocalypse together has them moving in tandem, grunting and jerking their heads to one another in a language all their own. They’re built like oxen and about as polite. 

You don’t fight anymore, but they still tie you and drag you around. You haven’t so much as argued in weeks. You’ve heard that everyone breaks from torture eventually. You waved your flag from the start. 

You’re not made for this. 

They tie you up without touching your skin; hands layered in gloves just in case. They leave a length of rope from your wrists to pull you by, leaving the rope around your feet as it was. You had earned that six inches of slack, just enough to stand and walk to the makeshift toilet instead of crawling, after a solid week of good behavior. 

When you figure it out, though, you try to run. Every electric screaming nerve in your body says to go. Go where? Who fucking knows. Anywhere. Away. Run. 

The room they’ve brought to you is saturated in oaky musk, and you only need a glimpse of the little cage within before you’re jerking backward.

They must have gotten used to your compliance because the rope flies from Tweedle Dumb’s grasp. The three of you stand still for a moment, all shocked by the turn of events. 

You turn to run, but it’s too late already. One of them swept your fucking legs like this was an action movie, and bound as you are, that’s the end of the fight. You crash and earn yourself some new bruises, and they drag you into the room by the rope between your feet. 

One of them—you’ve forgotten who had which nickname in all the hubbub—snaps out a baton.

“Get in the fuckin’ cage, or I’ll break your ankles.”

It’s a strong argument that you have no desire to see if he’ll follow through on. Already hurt and humiliated, you crawl into the cage.

They lock it behind you and leave without another word. The lights go out with a buzz, casting everything you hadn’t taken in yet in total darkness. 

When the lights come back on, you wish they hadn’t. 

At first, you don’t even realize they’ve flickered to life, because what they’ve revealed isn’t real. 

It’s a big, brown Rorschach blob. It’s an oil spill. It’s moving, in a jerky, fluid way that should be impossible. The limbs have pointed bony joints, and you can only describe the way they crawl as spidery, though they’re thick and bulky. 

Jim is standing on the other side of the gate, holding onto a thick chain that rattles and creaks dangerously as the beast strains against the thick metal band around its neck. He looks bored, but he usually does. 

Cheryl, however. The way her lips are curled, eyes wide and bright… this must be him. 

“Don’t you know what happens to the others? The alphas?” she had teased the night of all the howling. She had laughed at the traitorously dumbfounded look on your face. 

You do now. 

A long pink tongue has unfurled from his massive jaw, flopped over far too many teeth, and dripping thick saliva onto the floor. The… fur, for lack of a better word, around his muzzle is matted with something dark that you can’t look at anymore. 

Jim yanks him by the chain, and the creature lets himself be pulled to the door, barely holding still while the padlock and chain are removed from his collar and the cuffs from his paws. 

He’s at the end of your cage before you realize he’s moved, and you scream, scrambling back as much as you can into the corner. The spaces between the bars are thin enough for just his… good god, are those fingers? They certainly aren’t canine toes. They’re tipped in thick, long claws packed with soil and detritus.

“Hey,” Jim barks, and the beast side-eyes him. “Remember what I fuckin’ told you. You break or eat her? That’s it. I’m not getting you another one.” 

Eat? Eat?  

Oh god.

Your stomach swoops and falls, abdomen clenching and drawing attention to your too-full bladder, unlocking a new fear that you’re going to piss yourself if he comes closer. 

He does. You don’t. But just barely.

That long, dark snout pushes against the cage, as if it could nudge through to reach you, pink tongue lapping against the air. The oak musk is so strong now that it lines your throat and makes you gag.

You choke back a retch-turned-sob and he rumbles, a strange vibration that rattles the bars where he’s pressed against them. He rises, stretching up up up on his hind legs until he towers over your little cube, enveloping you in his shadow, and you can’t help it. You start to cry. 

He can’t reach you, not when you’re tucked back in the corner of your cage. But he can smell you, and he can smell the rich iron soaking into the ropes around your wrists. It’s not yet visible, but the skin squishing through the edges is red and rough. 

He whines, pushing his muzzle against the bars, long tongue flopping out like he can reach. 

The sharp battery acid edge of your fear spikes, and he growls. Stupid girl. Stupid fucking omega. He’s trying to help you, and you’re—you’re— 

You’re starting to cry again. 

He can’t make human words like this, can’t enunciate or even really remember them. He tries to reach you through the bars again, snarling when they burn against his knuckles. Even the distended bony fingers of his full form can’t reach you there, not even with the tip of his claw. 

You’re shaking now, body twitching and jittering beyond your control. Everything inside you is screaming white-hot and dissolving; vomit tickles the base of your throat, and you just can’t stop crying. It hurts; it’s ripping your throat and lungs to shreds. It’s a violent, tumultuous thing, and you can’t stop the wounded keening of your cries. 

He’s pacing in front of your cage now, the beast, on four mangled limbs too long to be canine and too warped to be human. His huffs startle you, long snout returning, again and again, tongue darting out for a taste. 

A little drop of blood slides down your hand from where the rope’s edge cuts into the bottom of your palm.

He freezes, nostrils flaring. You freeze, barely breathing. 

He looks right at you and then tips his head back to howl, the sound like icy water through your veins. 

You can’t help yourself. You scream, broken as your voice is from all the tears. 

Between the cacophony, Jim stomps into the corridor and slams his hand on the wall. “Shut the fuck up, both of you!” 

“Help me,” you yell. 

I’m trying, the wolf howls. 

“Please, please help me,” you gasp, sobs reaching new highs alongside your panic. 

“If you don’t quiet the fuck down, I’ll open up your goddamn cage and let him eat you,” Jim snaps. “I said you were going to be more trouble than you’re worth, and I was fuckin’ right.”

The beast snarls, snapping his sharp teeth at the air. 

Jim regards him with a sneer. “And you! Giving her a heart attack counts as breakin’ her.”

The words don’t make sense, but you don’t really hear them, anyway. “Please, I want to go home, please, please,” you whisper. 

But no one’s listening. 

The Wolf is listening. 

He prowls back and forth on all fours, which really, isn’t any more or less terrifying than when he rises up on his haunches. Neither image capitulates to your need to make it make sense. There is no sense, no logic, no reality that can hold him.

The wolf, for really, that’s what he is, isn’t he? God, you don’t want to say it. Unbidden, a memory works loose in your brain, slipping out of the crates of nonsense stored away in favor of survival, and rattles around.

I know what you are. But you won’t say it. 

Did you bring this upon yourself for reading trashy supernatural romance novels? Did you watch Underworld too many times? Did the shot actually put you in a coma, and you’re living in some kind of nightmare?

The wolf is watching you. There are no whites in his eyes, just pools of gasoline on muddy puddles. 

You close your eyes and pretend you can’t hear the way his claws click against the tile. 

While Laura had fed them stew, she told them about the trials. 

They had been the first. The first taken, before volunteers were called. Before they knew they’d need secure places to hold them, they had been gathered for observation in an old YMCA, packed in racketball courts so the doctors could stand outside the large wall of glass and watch them all at once.

They stood outside that glass and watched them change, in one way or another. The ones who turned, as she called it, went first. The ones who would become test group alpha. More than half of the overall subjects, who became suddenly, violently ill. 

They left them all in there with the rest, waiting, watching them cry out, watching them vomit and sweat and break impossible fevers. Temporal thermometers reading 105, 106, before they’d succumb to unconsciousness. 

If they woke, they were… inhuman. Something more. Something hungry. 

A lot of the first round of test data was lost when the subjects were eaten. But some were lost to the turn. Test group beta, Laura’s brother among them, didn’t survive the fever.

Laura’s husband turned but didn’t lose himself to the beast. Something in him stayed present, alert enough to protect his wife from the others. Or rather, something in her kept him that way. Something that had turned in her too, albeit without the violence, into something more than she’d ever been before. 

“They drove us out of the QZ,” she said, picking idly at a gouge in the table’s surface. “To shoot us where they could burn all the bodies and forget.”

“And what happened?” Tommy asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“We ate them.”

They come back for him that night but he’s not waiting for them. He’s sat with his big, furry back to you, close enough to the cage that you could pet him. The thought crosses your mind in a moment of delirium. You could stick your fingers through the little bars and feel the coarse hickory hair. You know, if you were clinically insane. 

You’re not about to offer him a little snack. 

He’d given up on reaching you a few hours ago, content to sit there unmoving once your tears dried up. It’s only slightly less terrifying.

But when they take him out, you only get to sit with the relief for a moment. Minutes pass in the dark and silent room, but you regret letting your guard down when footsteps echo through the cavernous halls beyond. 

The Idiot Twins are back, and they’re not taking chances with you this time. Oh, no. When they unlock the cage, you’re faced with the barrel of a handgun that doesn’t leave your temple as they pull you out by your bound hands.

They don’t bother to stand you up or give you a chance to move on your own, just dragging you out of the room and across the hall. You’re sprawled on your stomach across the frigid floor of the new room, with the door slamming shut behind you without so much as a word. 

The rusted pipes on the wall in the beast’s room make more sense now, once you take in your shadowy surroundings. This room has the same shitty tan tile over every inch, but the walls are lined with blue (or what used to be blue) lockers. Not a single one is intact, whether rusted or dented or doorless, but they’re unmistakably lockers. 

There are two lines of seamless benches, though half are rotted to oblivion. But it’ll be a better bed than the floor.

This is practically paradise. There’s a tray by the door that you don’t see for a while, but when you do, you almost cry again. Might have, if you hadn’t spent the day in tears. 

It’s just broth and water, long gone lukewarm and dusty, but you set upon it like a vampire upon a vein. Wait, no, you really don’t want to think about that right now. But it’s not your fault you’ve got monsters on the brain.

Your reprieve is not long. The sun rises. 

The beast returns.

Oh, and he’s pissed that you’re gone, based on the fucking racket that brings you back to the waking world. 

“Oh, did you think you’d been good enough lately for a treat?” Cheryl taunts him. 

The steel doors between you aren’t enough to hide the sounds of his fury. 

“You’ll have her back when you’ve earned her,” she tells him amidst the cacophony of snarling and gnashing. 

It’s ten days before they return you to the cage. Ten days of poking around the abandoned lockers and finding nothing. Ten days of broth delivered at dawn and dusk. Ten days of your back no longer appreciating the bench to stretch out on. 

Ten days of listening to the nonstop scratching and growling and whining from across the hall. And worse. Oh, much worse. Wet squicks and splatters and harsh groans. You’re not sure if he’s eating or masturbating or what, but it sends shivers through your whole body each time. 

It also sends the weird, sticky slick pooling between your thighs, but you ignore that. It’s been happening since the shot, one of the weirder side effects, but it’s gotten downright fucking annoying since you got here.

You try not to think about it. 

It’s not long after they drag you back to the little cage that they drag him into his. For that’s what this room really is, you know that, even if it doesn’t make you feel better about being in there with him. He’s trapped, too, but you’re the one in danger.

They haven’t untied your wrists since the first time, which have blistered and bled and scabbed until the ropes rubbed the scabs raw and started the whole thing all over. 

He smells it before he sees it, any interest in the slippery sweetness on your thighs gone when he tastes the blood in the air. 

Hurt, he whines, though you can’t understand. Help.  

You don’t cry this time, don’t split the sour tang with salt, but the fear and pain and exhaustion are enough to center him. If he tries, if he could just focus…

And there it goes. You watch, mouth agape and eyes blown wide, as he shifts in front of you for the first time. He backs away while it happens until he’s on the other side of the room and sits his very bare ass on his bed. 

You watch the way his bones jerk and his body shakes and cracks and huffs out sharp, agonized grunts until he’s just a man. Just a man, nothing more. Just a beast masquerading. Worse than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, you think, because you know he’s the wolf, but right now? 

He’s just a pathetic, broken human. Bruised and bloodied, though his marks are rapidly fading as the healing takes over, but his face is edged in nothing but pain and sorrow.

“M’not gonna hurt ya,” was the first thing he croaked out. 

You startle, rattling the cage a little, which makes you wince. 

But he stays on the other side of the room. He’s sitting on his mattress, legs bent up and crossed, as if he had anything left to hide. As if you hadn’t seen too much already.

He tries not to think about it, but jesus. It’s a fucking struggle. As he takes you in this way, unclouded by the hazy moon, it still punches him back. Your smell. 

Joel’s never really liked tart things. Too much of a secret sweet tooth, of a deep yearning for the char and depth of anything fresh from the grill. 

But even now, even nearly fully man , he’s salivating at your green apple tang. Of uncovering the sweet ‘n sour burst of you on his tongue. Of letting his sharp teeth fall sharper through the tough act you fail to wear right, too bruised and soft underneath. 

To feel the way you’d give beneath him. The way you’d spill down his chin. No. He has to get a fuckin’ handle on himself. He can’t even look at you, not now that he knows you can smell the salt of his own slick where his swollen cock sits sobbing, neglected and furious. 

“I’m not,” he protests against your silence. 

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. 

But he doesn’t stay himself for long. Not after he thinks instead, suddenly, of autumn. Of the sweet smell of the orchard. Of taking Tommy’s truck up up up into the places where seasons meant something. 

The roads sprawled like veins and they followed them with no end just to see the way the trees curled overhead, branches reaching and burning with dying leaves—a sight so devastating that Joel considered leaving Texas behind for somewhere he could start to take this beauty for granted. 

Chasing the colors led them first to a field of corn, blustering amber in the setting sun. They had returned the next day, fresh from the motel with burnt coffee and warm flannels, parting with precious dollars for the privilege of picking pumpkins and apples and a little corn husk doll. 

He’d have paid every cent ten times over to see Sarah smile like that again. 

This is where the man breaks and bows out. Where the wolf at its weakest is still stronger than Joel. He gives in, gives into the grief, gives into the wolf, and shifts back. He stays curled up on his bed, though, and doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t speak to you again for a month.

next chapter

[beefscrap]

!!! DESIGN A STORY CHARACTER CONTEST !!!

Finally, it’s here! To celebrate 400 PLUS followers now, I’m hosting a WOF design challenge/contest! Your mission is to design a character that’s going to appear in TBoFS 2. The character is already decided, and you’ll be given information/prompts to design them. First place winner will have their design be the official design for the character, and anyone who doesn’t win can keep theirs! So keep in mind that if you win, I’ll be the ‘owner’ of your design and the character.

!!! GENERAL INFO !!!

- 1ST PLACE PRIZE: Your design will be the official design in the story! You also get a free dumb doodle from me of any OC (or character) you want.

- 2ND PLACE + 3RD PLACE: You’ll each receive a doodle, as well as being featured as winners when they’re announced! Of course!

- Anyone else who submits a design will get honorable mentions, and your design will be linked when winners are announced.

- Very little artistic bias is involved. Not being able to ‘draw well’ isn’t an issue, as long as you have good ideas and a good imagination!

- DESIGNS ARE DUE BY [ Friday, December 20th ] !!! I’ll have results by December 25th!

- I’ll personally be picking the top 3, then put a poll up that lasts for 1 DAY. This will determine the winners.

- TO SUBMIT YOUR DESIGN: Either tag me in a post or send in my asks inbox! I will be reblogging/posting with the hashtag #TBOFS2DESIGNCHALLENGE (and you can post with the tag too ofc!)

- Please ask questions if you have them!

!!! RULES !!!

- I have faith in people but PLEASE BE NICE! I don’t want fighting for any reason, I don’t want unwanted criticism of people’s designs, etc. I want this to be enjoyable for EVERYONE, even if you don’t win!

- You may only submit ONE DESIGN! If there’s some sort of issue where you need to resubmit, just let me know!

- Another reminder that the first place winner gives me ownership of the design, and I’ll put them up on my Toyhouse folder. Please don’t submit to win if you’re uncomfortable with this!

- I have faith about this too, but just in case: don’t submit inappropriate art. If I find out you draw gross feral art/sexualize dragons I won’t accept your design and you’re blocked.

- Similarly, no design you submit should be offensive or hateful in any way.

!!! DESIGN INFO !!! finally the fun stuff

- The character is a PURE NIGHTWING.

- I prefer to stick to MOSTLY canon color choices, but some deviation from this is welcome! Ask if you aren’t sure, but feel free to look at the character designs in my TBoFS Toyhouse folder. That should give a good idea.

- Adding accessories and even little headcanons for the character are fully welcomed and encouraged (keeping in mind that some headcanons may not end up to be true, lol!)

- Name ideas are welcome, too!

- YOUR GENERAL PROMPT IS: a snobby, intelligent, standoffish Nightwing who does not believe in animus magic as it exists.

- Keeping my prompt pretty vague so you can have fun! The best designs (to me) are ones that’re recognizable. Not necessarily jam packed with accessories and colors and stuff… just recognizable.

- Your designs may be sketched, lined, etc, but my main requirements are that it’s at least a fullbody + colored. You CAN add more visuals to the design if you want (front face view, mouth view, paws, wing view, etc etc). It does NOT have to be digital!

Woo hoo! Have fun and thank you again for your support!

[asukaindetroit]

Post-Revolution DBH Headcanons: Android Culture Part 3

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Moar android cultural snippets for your perusal. As always, feel free to use but show me b/c I want to see where this all goes :)

The soft sciences have an absolute field day because of android cultural practices. While they were created by the STEM fields, which I’m sure Detroit had tons of job openings for pre-revolution, the soft sciences have a renaissance in the wake of android sentience becoming recognized. All of a sudden there’s a massive void of research into android psychology, sociology, the economic impact of giving them wages, etc. Cultural anthropologists flock to Detroit to witness the emergence of a new culture from a new sentient species firsthand. Grant money comes flooding in from government (how do these new citizens fit into our socioeconomic structure?) and private sectors (if androids are now entitled to wages, what do they want to buy with them? Inquiring marketers want to know). Androids are now entitled to get degrees and become scientists themselves—what’s the best way to create accredited education programs to qualify them for careers when they can just download a science.exe program? There are Questions to be Answered™, and where there are questions, scientists will go. They’re not a breed known for common sense. Fly to an active warzone to study the impacts of conflict on childhood development? Sure, why not. Drive to an industrial wasteland city under martial law that just stopped in the middle of committing genocide to document the cultural practices of the new sentient species conducting protests? Fuck yeah, it’s Science Tuesday, get in the car Anthropology Intern Guy we’re going to Detroit!

The Acespec/QPR scene sees a sudden boom. Androids aren’t inherently sexual beings. Though many do desire to engage in sex as a form of sensory exploration/input for their processors, or for the benefit of building emotional intimacy with a human partner, they fundamentally don’t have a libido derived from reproductive needs. CyberLife programmed the intimate partner models to have humanized “desires,” but they may choose to reject that when they deviate (other androids may incorporate bits of that programming just to explore what it’s all about). Some are built with ken doll anatomy and just don't care. Basically, the androids that do want sex often want it for different reasons than humans, and a large portion just…aren’t into it. Fortunately, a lack of desire can apply to some humans, too—so all the acespecs suddenly have a slew of potential queerplatonic partners who aren’t likely to get entangled in messy sexual or romantic hangups (am I projecting at this point? Probably!) Sudden availability of thousands of cuddle buddies who really, actually, don’t want to have sex makes post-revolution Detroit the San Francisco of ace relationships.

Android memes and social media. Androids develop internal networks for socialization using the remnants of CyberLife’s updating framework. They share their android-unique code-based art forms, dumb memes about things their human coworkers did, code patches to help accomplish different tasks, etc. There are subnetworks specific to certain model lines (think sort of like subreddits, but instead of topics it’s things like a/PC200 and all the male police models are using it to bitch about how the humans expect them to answer dumb legal questions). The memes involve android-specific oddities, like someone will say “I had three hundred processes running and one line of code got crossed and spit out 9f32e4ba8c237fec91 all of a sudden #processorfail” and then a hundred thousand androids will translate that to three hex codes and send off an image file to each other with the three colors and somehow that becomes an android meme for trying to run too many tasks at once and getting overwhelmed. Humans that see it ask, “uh, is this a new pride flag?” or, “do androids celebrate Mardi Gras?” And the androids start laughing. They now have freedom to express humor that humans have no chance of understanding. It’s a cultural in-joke.

^ An android meme example

Emojis require an update. The 2039 additions to the Unicode emojis includes a skin tone option for hand gestures and faces that’s a replica of bare chassis for the androids who don’t use synthskin. Other major android-additions are the three LED color rings, a thirium pump, thirium pump regulator, and other prominent android biocomponents, a droplet of thirium, and two hands clasped in interface. Rather than reacting with a thumbs-down emoji an android might use the red LED, or they might use the interface one instead of the hug if someone’s upset.­

This is an ongoing series of android culture concepts, so if you want a tag when the next batch is up, leave a comment! @iwillthinkofsomethingeventually @yeahhiyellow @starryeyedstray

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