#full disclosure this doesn't get as sticky as i wanted :

[psychedelic-ink]

For your weekday sleepover: What are your spicier headcanons for Dieter? We know the man is a little sex gremlin, but gimme the nitty gritty of getting down and dirty with that man, and what you'd expect (if you so please, anyway, lol)

ohhhhhhhhhh thank you for asking bby 👀👀 and full disclosure, I might've gotten carried away lmaodfbvgf Honestly, I can just go on and on about Dieter's sexual habits ❤️‍🔥 I'm in love with this mess of a man

sleepover weekend

🌶️ s p i c y 🌶️ headcanons under the cut

warnings: minors dni, some of these are f!reader, mentions of sex toys, spit, choking, weed, just the typical things you would expect of this man

Alright, this one isn't particularly spicy (very mild spice) but I like to think he enjoys being kissed on his inner thighs. It's just so sensitive, and when your kiss-swollen, wet, lips start to trails a

Of course, you need to expect toys. Not just for you but for himself as well. Dildos, vibrators, nipple clamps, anal plugs, any size, shape, and form. Sometimes he'll buy things impulsively, or if he's high as a kite. Those, he doesn't really end up using (ahem an 8.7-inch tentacle dildo, he still hasn't had the pleasure to use it yet.)

This man is messy as hell and no one can convince me otherwise. He'll purposefully make a show of letting spit drip to your already wet pussy and eat you out in the loudest way possible. If you get embarrassed he'll start working his fingers into you as well, getting even louder because he's a brat like that.

Choking/breath play. He adores feeling how tight you get when you struggle to breathe. Not something he does often, but on his bad days, he loves it.

For me Dieter is a switch, so you better believe some days he's going to nuzzle your neck and ask you to take care of him in the most adorable way possible. He's loud and likes to watch you work him open with your fingers, at first he'll beg you to go slow, wanting to feel everything in full intensity, but when you're actually inside of him, he'll moan for you to go faster, harder.

He becomes a babbling mess when you tell I'm how good he is, or how good he feels. This man's praise kink is off the charts and is the quickest way for you to garner him speechless.

One of Dieter's favorite things to do is getting high and completely indulge himself in the act of sin. He gets extra worked up then, even when alone. Multiple times he humped the air until the front of his boxers was a sticky mess. He swears he comes untouched every time, just rolling his hips and feeling the fabric against his skin.

If he's getting high with you, he loves to take it slow. He loves the way you clench and grind yourself into his broad palm, begging for his cock. He especially loves kissing you during those times, swallowing your moans and pleas, your tongues twisting and dancing together.

Dieter likes edging himself. He'll hold on until the very last second and then allows himself to let go. Most of the time he does this with a small bullet vibrator pressed snug against his cock, or he'll stroke himself with an anal plug stretching him. But he secretly enjoys it when his body just can't hold back anymore and comes, he thoroughly enjoys the sensation of his orgasm being ripped away from him, and the thrill of release without meaning to.

[probablynanobots]

If you want to go up, look to the creatures in the sky but don't leave the fam behind - Daedalus and Icarus

Particles are all influenced by one another. Some influences are big and obvious to us.

The sun shines down hot and bright.

Storms of rain and snow roll in with clouds and heavy winds.

Some influences aren't technically visible, but we can see the effects they have on us. These ones can sometimes be trouble, because everyone understands things in their own unique way.

Gravity keeps us on the the earth.

Compasses point to magnetic North.

Air pressure, temperature, humidity, altitude; all of these are different pressures from different influences that change how each of us interact with the world.

The way that humans record that information changes as we discover more resources. Before writing, there were song, dance, rhyme and rhythm. My experience with Greek and Roman mythology made me aware of Icarus. Some folks may know him from Kid Icarus the video game. This kid and his dad are stuck somewhere. Somewhere they don't want to be, that's dangerous for them. And the people in charge of this place won't let them leave.

The place that they were stuck was made of walls. Every direction was blocked with walls, excepted up. The only creatures that could be in the Labyrinth were either tiny diggers and climbers, or birds.

Now the thing that most humans do when they are stuck somewhere... actually, the thing that ALMOST EVERY LIVING THING does when it is stuck somewhere is try to find a way to more space. Every available resource must become an asset or be left behind.

So this kid and his dad, they get those birds, and the dad makes great big wings out of them. The birds did not get a seat at the table during the making of this particular plan. The dad was pretty good at this sort of thing, so the wings actually worked. More or less. They had some limitations, since the only available sticky stuff was wax from the bees.

There were two big rules.

1. Don't go too high, because the wax will melt if too much sun is on it for too long.

2. Don't fly too low, because the sea water will make the feathers heavy if the spray hits them too many times.

Now, in the original story, Icarus beefs it. The kid doesn't follow the rules, and flies too high because it is just too dang fun.

The wax melts, the kid falls, and poor Dad is left to fly to safety while mourning his only son.

From the view point of someone from around my time and place in the world, this is more than a little dark. Dude abandoned his boy. Why wouldn't he try to help him? Where is the parental desire to sacrifice yourself for your child?

RE: Trapped Humans RE: Every available resource must become an asset or be left behind.

Sometimes we trap people and we know we are doing it. When people build literal walls around us and between us. When people gerrymander around neighborhoods and keep us from being able to properly share resources among the people that have them and the people that need them. The more resources that are cut off from us, the less we can afford to carry with us when we try to move forward. Some of us were lucky enough that all we left behind were pleasant memories. Some of us are forced to leave behind material things, like heirloom furniture or extra luggage. Some of us are forced to leave behind more. Our people. Our ONLY memories. Our homes and all the ways that we would walk to the market on a cool morning at the beginning of spring.

Now, full disclosure, I am a lucky one. And when I say "we" and "our," I know that my story has been a light hearted coming of age type novel. But I know that OUR STORIES have a lot more depth than that, with villains that turn into heroes, or heroes that aren't all we thought they were. We have regular people accomplishing extraordinary things and we have incredible people that are being put in terrible danger.

Things are always changing, but if you cut off every exit from someone chances are they will realize that they don't actually have anything left to leave behind. Except you.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @butsamsd donated $50, and requested Sam/Dean/Jack. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After the craziness of their Halloween hunt, it’s good to be back in Kansas. Dean isn’t totally whole, probably won’t be for a while--Sam knows what it’s like to be possessed better than just about anyone else alive, he knows what the aftereffects are. Still, the hunt--getting out of his room, getting away from it all--Sam knows that it helped, too, and Dean’s happier on that drive home than he’s been in weeks, and even the crowd of cars parked up in front of the bunker don’t dim his grin, still wheedling Sam to try to get him to agree to a couple costume, for some future Halloween Dean’s thinking they might both see.

“Daphne and Velma,” Dean offers, parking the Impala in her pride of place down in the garage, and Sam squints at him, trying not to laugh, says, “Which one of us is Velma?” and Dean says, reproachfully, “Sam, please take this seriously,” and Sam looks around the empty garage, and pulls Dean in by that stupid plaid jacket, and kisses him soft, right there, because they’re--home. They’re finally home.

Dean blinks at him, when he pulls back. Surprised, uncertainly pleased. They haven’t really messed around, since he got Dean back from Michael. There was that first night, desperate and pressing together, and they had to be near-silent and it was more of an insane desperate renewing of something they’d both always promised each other than something that actually felt good. Otherwise--Dean too hurt, and trying to pretend he wasn’t, and the bunker too full, and things not right. Things still aren’t right but Sam thinks they can both live with them. “Think I’ll take a shower,” Sam says, pulling back to his side of the bench seat. “Then--my room?”

Dean breathes, presses Sam’s hand low on the bench where no one would be able to see, even if there were someone in the garage with them. “Sounds good to me, Sammy,” he says, and Sam squeezes his thumb, and gets out and heads into the bunker, smiling at the few refugees he sees, thinking--this is it. They really are home, at last.

Not all that many people around, really. Mom’s gone, like she usually is anymore, and Sam’s long-since reconciled himself to it. Cas in the wind, too, and what’s left is a half-dozen of the people Sam’s been training who aren’t on hunts, and he and Dean got back late enough that most of them are in bed, anyway, in the bunked-out rooms they reserved for themselves. Just Roland left up, manning the phones and watching Friends reruns on Netflix, and Sam waves at him but doesn’t stop, because--because Dean’s going to be waiting for him, and that knowledge is a heavy beating thrum in Sam’s blood.

Shower room’s empty, thank god. Sam strips out of the nerd gear, drops it all on the bench below the towel rack. Under the showerhead, that instant blast of heat and pressure carving the lingering worry of the hunt out of his shoulders, and he stands there for a second, soaking. Imagining. Dean, in his room, in the gold light. Dean’s skin under his hands. Everything else falling away. He drags his hands through his hair, decides to wash it another day because he can’t wait another ten minutes, and when he turns around under the stream of water there’s--Jack, standing there in his pajamas and bare feet, watching him.

Sam starts, moves a little out of the water. “Jack, hey,” he says, smiling--a little awkward, he bets, but Jack probably can’t tell. The showers are old-school open pans, not exactly private, but most people know not to just come in and watch when someone else is using them. Then again, Jack’s not most people. “You all right? Thought you were asleep.”

“I’m okay,” Jack says, and smiles. A little wan, maybe, a little pale, but he’s been different since Lucifer stole his grace. Sam’s still rinsing off suds, and Jack tracks his eyes down Sam’s body--deliberate, really looking, and Sam goes still. Jack nods, like he’s made a decision, and looks Sam in the eye. “Sam, I’d like it if we could have sex.”

Sam drops his washcloth with a splat. “What?”

Jack smiles, soft. “I thought that might seem weird,” he says, easy, but he also--strips off his t-shirt, and his pajama pants, and then he’s--jesus, naked, all of him right there, and he steps up into the shower pan and walks closer, makes Sam back up against the wall out of pure shock. “I know that isn’t the way our relationship has been going, but I think it’s something I need.”

“Jack,” Sam starts, and can only--laugh, kind of, like it’s some weird demented joke. “Buddy, this isn’t--I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

A tiny beat. Jack licks his lips. He’s not in the stream of still-running water and his body’s all smooth, pale. Perfect. Sam glances down, can’t help it, and Jack’s dick isn’t hard--just another perfect piece of him, soft and pink and curved gently over his balls, in a sparse nest of fine hair barely darker than the golden hair on his head. Cherub, Sam thinks, not for the first time, and then Jack puts his hand square in the center of Sam’s chest, over his sternum. Sam hitches in air, completely thrown. “I’ve just been thinking,” Jack says, softer. “All of the--stuff. Humans get to learn all of this when they’re growing up, but I’m already grown up and no one would ever--no one would get that. Nobody understands.”

“That’s--” Sam starts, and grabs Jack’s wrist. Soft, slipping under his wet hand. “You have to get to know people, Jack. Girls, or--or boys, I guess. Your own age, you know? This stuff doesn’t just happen automatically.”

“No one else is sixteen months old with a fully functional body and brain,” Jack says, reproachful, and Sam doesn’t have a lot to say to that, but then Jack’s mouth twists, somehow--sad. “I just want--I want to know what it’s like. At least once.”

Sam frowns--what does that mean?--but Jack shakes his head, and moves in closer, and puts both hands on Sam’s chest. “Sam,” he says, soft, and Sam should--should push him away, should demand answers, should ask why Jack doesn’t think he has other chances--only the door opens, and Dean says, “Sammy, what’s taking so long,” and Sam looks up over Jack’s head to find Dean there in the bathroom doorway, mouth half-open, staring at them.

“Dean,” Jack says, sounding glad. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, I am,” Dean says, slowly, and looks Sam in the eyes. He shakes his head, not knowing what to say. Dean’s in his undershirt, flannel pants, and he takes a step closer. “What’s up, kiddo?”

“I want to know what sex is like,” Jack says, again, firm, and Dean’s face does a thing that’d make Sam laugh any other time. “I asked Sam, but I want to know from you, too.”

“Kid,” Dean starts, but Jack shakes his head, looks back and forth between them, says, impossibly, “I know that you both have sex. With each other, I mean. It shouldn’t be a big deal for you to show me.”

“How did you know that?” Sam says, past the weird ringing in his ears. God, the shower’s still running. He shuts it off, and Dean’s just staring at Jack, his mouth set and his eyes narrow.

“My senses were better when I had my grace,” Jack says, shrugging, and looks up at Sam. “Castiel said I shouldn’t mention it, but it seems like--you know what you’re doing.” He looks at Dean, while Sam’s trying to dig himself out of the pit of what both of those statements mean. “I just...” he says, and he’s--so lost little kid, for a second. Immensely young, and sad, and Dean’s face changes again, settles.

“Why us?” Dean says, guarded.

Jack shrugs, again. He doesn’t even look turned on--just miserable, and there’s a wry curve to his mouth. “Who else could I trust?” he says, and Sam puts a hand on his bare shoulder. Something’s going on--something they should dig into.

Dean tips his head back a little, looks at Jack with full attention. His lips part, after a second, like he’s seeing something Sam doesn’t, and there’s a wash of compassion across his face. He looks up at Sam, and Sam thinks, something unlocking under his chest--this isn’t a good idea. They’re going to do it anyway.

*

The door to Sam’s room locks behind them. Silent, but Jack’s not nervous because he doesn’t know what to expect. Other than-- “I watched a pornographic video,” he says, and Dean closes his eyes and mutters jesus christ. “But it had a woman and a man, and I guess we can’t do those same things.”

“Some of ‘em,” Dean says, easy, and Sam leans his back against the door, holding his towel around his waist with what remains of his strength. Dean pulls Jack into the middle of the room, looks at him steady. “Jack. What are you--what do want to get out of this?”

Good question--better question than a lot of the ones Sam has. Jack frowns, seems like he really thinks about it. “I want to know--I mean, I’ve--with my hand,” he says, unexpectedly shy. Sam drags in a deep breath, imagining it. “But I don’t know what it’s like with someone else. In books they say it’s better with someone who loves you. You and Sam have that.”

Sam catches Dean’s eye. “Yeah,” Dean says, gruff, and then turns his full attention onto Jack, and smiles. Small, but full of promise. “You say the second you want anything to stop, all right?” he says, and his voice is--Sam’s gut revs, because he knows that voice. Dean, when he’s not laying it on thick as a charmer but when he knows someone wants him, and Jack blinks and nods, eager, and Dean lifts both hands and strokes his thumbs along Jack’s smooth jaw, gentle and easy, and then ducks and inch and kisses him, smooth and confident and simple, and Sam feels like the bottom drops out of his stomach.

Dean knows how to kiss. Sam knows that better than just about anyone, too. Jack makes a startled noise, clutches alternately at Dean’s shirt, his arms, and when Dean pulls back to let him breathe Jack’s chest is already heaving, his face all surprise. “Good?” Dean says, and Jack nods, more jerky than before, and Dean smiles at him, cupping his face. “Good,” Dean says, and catches Sam’s eye, and Sam walks over while Dean kisses Jack again, smooth, and again, soft and constant pressure, and Sam thinks with a burst of total insanity--this is like when Dean taught him to kiss, what feels like a million years ago--and he walks up behind Jack and holds his waist, watches up close. Soft, but insistent, and Jack’s hand creeps up to Dean’s neck like instinct’s driving it, his mouth following Dean’s lead like he’s learned everything they taught him, quick and eager. Dean makes a small, approving sound, and runs his knuckles over Jack’s cheek, and on the next press in he opens Jack’s mouth with his own and Sam sees the wet glance of Dean’s tongue and Jack moans, startled, and Sam dips and presses a kiss to his neck, says, “God, that’s good, Jack--you’re doing so good.”

Dean pulls back, mutters jesus again--grabs the back of Sam’s head and pulls him down and kisses him, too, over Jack’s shoulder, and Sam’s pulled close enough that his dick presses into Jack’s ass, and he breathes hot into Dean’s mouth and rubs his thumb in that soft sweet spot just below his ear, and god, this is--weird, weird, so goddamn weird but it doesn’t feel wrong, and Sam’s done a lot in his life that felt wrong and he knows the difference.

“Wow,” Jack says, small, and Dean laughs, pulls back from Sam and cups Jack’s cheek.

“Wow is right,” Dean says, warm with promise, and Sam knows then--whatever Jack wants, they’ll give him. They taught him everything else. It doesn’t have to be anything more than what it is. Anyway--it’s not like it’s something that’d come between Dean and Sam. Nothing ever will again.

Dean looks at Sam, expression as soft as though he heard the thought. “You ready for more?” he says, and Jack nods, so eager it makes Sam grin. Yeah, he’s ready. It’s going to be a good night.

[nyehilismwriting]

Thank you for helping me with the light theme mode! Can I ask another thing? It's not a coding-related one this time! Can you tell us tips on how to plan choices-based games? Like, how to be organized with so many choices, romance options, paths. I'm sorry if I am bothering you, feel free to ignore me if you want!! 😅

hmm i'm not sure I'll have that much of use to say - while there are all kinds of writing tips and advice out there, and I'll recommend some programmes and such that I find useful, it's really all about figuring out your own process & what works for you.

my advice would be to get at least a little bit comfortable with writing branching fiction in concept, and the kind of thinking required for coding: personally, I think it's a good idea to try a smaller project to practise ideas and coding on, something that you don't intend to share.

second, much as i personally hate outlining and planning, turns out it does help - me, at least. it doesn't have to be super precise, but to have notes of what needs to happen in each branch, what information the player needs to receive, what interactions they need to have, etc - having a loose outline really helps me keep track of that, as well as maintaining consistent pacing across branches. i pretty much just have a google doc with branches colour coded, but ik some people get really sophisticated with things.

that being said, it helps not to be too rigid - a lot of my smaller branches, in particular in dialogue, come from me just vibing and following the flow of the scene, and that works for me, helps keep me interested and I think makes the interactions more dynamic and natural.

third (fourth? idk) - ambition is a good thing, especially when it keeps you interested, but there's a balance between ambition and needlessly overstretching yourself. too many branches will inevitably lead to less indepth content for each branch, just 'cause you won't have the time or inclination to provide equal content. it's up to you to decide what constitutes 'too many branches', tho - whether that's lots of ros, or a massive range of choices, or a blank slate mc with a huge range of personality options. everyone's limits are different.

obsidian - a notes app with lots of functionalities including a mindmap type screen that's apparently v good for plotting (full disclosure I haven't messed w this one much but it comes highly recommended)

miro - mindmaps!! good for plotting heavily branching stories, you can colour code and add sticky notes and all sorts

trello - also a good organisational tool, i use it for to-do lists when editing and such