#these are always wildly unrealistic

[fictionadventurer]

🐵

[fuckyeah-dragrace]

i don't know about you guys but every once in a while i think about middle age white dads trying to show that their feminists by saying they listened to the one song about Victoria's Secret

[hungerpunch]

i hate that you can easily accrue a sleep debt of over 50 hours by not sleeping for one week (a common occurrence for me) but you can only catch up at a GLACIAL fucking pace. for every hour of lost sleep it takes FOUR DAYS of GOOD SLEEP to recover. i'd have to sleep for LITERAL YEARS. oh my god sleep deprivation is going to kill me so young lol

[so-you-melted-22]

i am going to create the most convoluted crossover ever between two fandoms just because two characters look vaguely the same and you can not stop me!

[elainemorisi]

extremely annoying that a shippy dynamic I enjoy v much in a Problematic Fun way is a screaming red flag for bad writing

[mostlysignssomeportents]

“If buying isn’t owning, piracy isn’t stealing”

20 years ago, I got in a (friendly) public spat with Chris Anderson, who was then the editor in chief of Wired. I'd publicly noted my disappointment with glowing Wired reviews of DRM-encumbered digital devices, prompting Anderson to call me unrealistic for expecting the magazine to condemn gadgets for their DRM:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied in public, telling him that he'd misunderstood. This wasn't an issue of ideological purity – it was about good reviewing practice. Wired was telling readers to buy a product because it had features x, y and z, but at any time in the future, without warning, without recourse, the vendor could switch off any of those features:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

I proposed that all Wired endorsements for DRM-encumbered products should come with this disclaimer:

WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.

Wired didn't take me up on this suggestion.

But I was right. The ability to change features, prices, and availability of things you've already paid for is a powerful temptation to corporations. Inkjet printers were always a sleazy business, but once these printers got directly connected to the internet, companies like HP started pushing out "security updates" that modified your printer to make it reject the third-party ink you'd paid for:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Now, this scam wouldn't work if you could just put things back the way they were before the "update," which is where the DRM comes in. A thicket of IP laws make reverse-engineering DRM-encumbered products into a felony. Combine always-on network access with indiscriminate criminalization of user modification, and the enshittification will follow, as surely as night follows day.

This is the root of all the right to repair shenanigans. Sure, companies withhold access to diagnostic codes and parts, but codes can be extracted and parts can be cloned. The real teeth in blocking repair comes from the law, not the tech. The company that makes McDonald's wildly unreliable McFlurry machines makes a fortune charging franchisees to fix these eternally broken appliances. When a third party threatened this racket by reverse-engineering the DRM that blocked independent repair, they got buried in legal threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Everybody loves this racket. In Poland, a team of security researchers at the OhMyHack conference just presented their teardown of the anti-repair features in NEWAG Impuls locomotives. NEWAG boobytrapped their trains to try and detect if they've been independently serviced, and to respond to any unauthorized repairs by bricking themselves:

https://mamot.fr/@q3k@hackerspace.pl/111528162905209453

Poland is part of the EU, meaning that they are required to uphold the provisions of the 2001 EU Copyright Directive, including Article 6, which bans this kind of reverse-engineering. The researchers are planning to present their work again at the Chaos Communications Congress in Hamburg this month – Germany is also a party to the EUCD. The threat to researchers from presenting this work is real – but so is the threat to conferences that host them:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/researchers-face-legal-threats-over-sdmi-hack/

20 years ago, Chris Anderson told me that it was unrealistic to expect tech companies to refuse demands for DRM from the entertainment companies whose media they hoped to play. My argument – then and now – was that any tech company that sells you a gadget that can have its features revoked is defrauding you. You're paying for x, y and z – and if they are contractually required to remove x and y on demand, they are selling you something that you can't rely on, without making that clear to you.

But it's worse than that. When a tech company designs a device for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades, they invite both external and internal parties to demand those downgrades. Like Pavel Chekov says, a phaser on the bridge in Act I is going to go off by Act III. Selling a product that can be remotely, irreversibly, nonconsensually downgraded inevitably results in the worst person at the product-planning meeting proposing to do so. The fact that there are no penalties for doing so makes it impossible for the better people in that meeting to win the ensuing argument, leading to the moral injury of seeing a product you care about reduced to a pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But even if everyone at that table is a swell egg who wouldn't dream of enshittifying the product, the existence of a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature makes the product vulnerable to external actors who will demand that it be used. Back in 2022, Adobe informed its customers that it had lost its deal to include Pantone colors in Photoshop, Illustrator and other "software as a service" packages. As a result, users would now have to start paying a monthly fee to see their own, completed images. Fail to pay the fee and all the Pantone-coded pixels in your artwork would just show up as black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

Adobe blamed this on Pantone, and there was lots of speculation about what had happened. Had Pantone jacked up its price to Adobe, so Adobe passed the price on to its users in the hopes of embarrassing Pantone? Who knows? Who can know? That's the point: you invested in Photoshop, you spent money and time creating images with it, but you have no way to know whether or how you'll be able to access those images in the future. Those terms can change at any time, and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself.

These companies are all run by CEOs who got their MBAs at Darth Vader University, where the first lesson is "I have altered the deal, pray I don't alter it further." Adobe chose to design its software so it would be vulnerable to this kind of demand, and then its customers paid for that choice. Sure, Pantone are dicks, but this is Adobe's fault. They stuck a KICK ME sign to your back, and Pantone obliged.

This keeps happening and it's gonna keep happening. Last week, Playstation owners who'd bought (or "bought") Warner TV shows got messages telling them that Warner had walked away from its deal to sell videos through the Playstation store, and so all the videos they'd paid for were going to be deleted forever. They wouldn't even get refunds (to be clear, refunds would also be bullshit – when I was a bookseller, I didn't get to break into your house and steal the books I'd sold you, not even if I left some cash on your kitchen table).

Sure, Warner is an unbelievably shitty company run by the single most guillotineable executive in all of Southern California, the loathsome David Zaslav, who oversaw the merger of Warner with Discovery. Zaslav is the creep who figured out that he could make more money cancelling completed movies and TV shows and taking a tax writeoff than he stood to make by releasing them:

https://aftermath.site/there-is-no-piracy-without-ownership

Imagine putting years of your life into making a program – showing up on set at 5AM and leaving your kids to get their own breakfast, performing stunts that could maim or kill you, working 16-hour days during the acute phase of the covid pandemic and driving home in the night, only to have this absolute turd of a man delete the program before anyone could see it, forever, to get a minor tax advantage. Talk about moral injury!

But without Sony's complicity in designing a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature into the Playstation, Zaslav's war on art and creative workers would be limited to material that hadn't been released yet. Thanks to Sony's awful choices, David Zaslav can break into your house, steal your movies – and he doesn't even have to leave a twenty on your kitchen table.

The point here – the point I made 20 years ago to Chris Anderson – is that this is the foreseeable, inevitable result of designing devices for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades. Anyone who was paying attention should have figured that out in the GW Bush administration. Anyone who does this today? Absolute flaming garbage.

Sure, Zaslav deserves to be staked out over an anthill and slathered in high-fructose corn syrup. But save the next anthill for the Sony exec who shipped a product that would let Zaslav come into your home and rob you. That piece of shit knew what they were doing and they did it anyway. Fuck them. Sideways. With a brick.

Meanwhile, the studios keep making the case for stealing movies rather than paying for them. As Tyler James Hill wrote: "If buying isn't owning, piracy isn't stealing":

https://bsky.app/profile/tylerjameshill.bsky.social/post/3kflw2lvam42n

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

Image: Alan Levine (modified) https://pxhere.com/en/photo/218986

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[ungeese]

Fan letter has captured my heart (I love outsider pov and the concept of this was so beautifully executed, wholesome af), and I know I am not alone.

But while lots of people talk about Luffy influencing big-brother marine’s choice to steel himself and go back for his brother, I also truly love how every time Luffy makes a chaotic move in that battle, it frees someone.

It’s completely unrealistic, in a sequence that absolutely highlights the terror and horror of war when you can’t hope to compete with the power of the main combatants. But even in that scenario, even in a war in which he himself is wildly outclassed, Luffy brings hope and freedom completely incidentally to the people around him.

The only reason big brother marine is alive to make any choices is because Luffy’s ship falling frees him from beneath Oars Jr’s leg. The only reason the marine brothers aren’t obliterated between Mihawk and Crocodile when they clash is they are tossed aside by Luffy finally freeing Ace.

Luffy isn’t trying to help them. He could not care less for some random marines in that war. But it creates this beautiful aura of freedom that follows Luffy around, and you could say it’s just the Nika-ness of it all for the canon crunchy explanation. But it is just that Luffy is forever and always a force of good in the narrative, and it’s comforting. It doesn’t need to be realistic. I love him.

[miwiheroes]

Bylers, we need to talk about something…

I’ve been having a lot of thoughts pertaining to what will happen in season 5 relating to byler recently, as have we all, but I’ve also been wondering about the audience’s reaction to it if it happens.

Actually, i’ve been more concerned not about the GA’s reaction, but our reaction to how they handle it. I just want to say beforehand, that I might be projecting my issues with negativity and conflict (i’m a very very optimistic person it’s rough being on social media these days lmao) and I also very much believe that they will make byler canon in some way or another. It just makes sense with the narrative. But I fear we will never be happy with how they do it and we never learn from our previous mistakes lmao

Before season 4 came out, I sort of was a fan of byler, but i was very very casual, as in I didn’t interact with many fan theories, I wasn’t on twitter (still not on there because I have a phobia of negativity eek) and I wasn’t on tumblr, I would occasionally check out the edits and fanarts and I think I was just Aware of it, because I always root for the gay ship to happen ofc..

So when season 4 vol. 1 came out I was excited about the direction they were taking byler, and I could see that it was finally canon that Will was gay, rather than theorised. When season 4 vol. 2 came out, I had not been on sttwt or st tumblr during the time between the volumes because I had other fandoms prioritised around the time. I watched the Van Scene with my parents and suddenly I was acutely aware of just how gay they were (because I always get scared of watching anything queercoded around my parents lmao).

By the end of season 4, I was like YES! this season was amazing for a byler set up next season, although i was more focused on other characters too. I then kind of saw the byler script stuff but not the full extent of it, and I saw many edits and fanarts of them but that was it!

Now it’s 2024 and I have a major hyperfixation on byler, (due to the season 5 bts and the fact stranger things keeps popping up on my fyp it’s crazy) and now I’m on byler tumblr (not twt tho .. sorry) to find all the evidence I can and get all hyped up for s5! But I’ve also seen old posts from around 2022…

Literally every single one was extremely disappointed from season 4 vol. 2, and I was confused, seeing as I was very happy with it and I liked byler (my fave byler scene is from vol. 2 and no it’s not the van scene). If I’m being totally honest, and I might get some hate for this, I think we all had wildly, wildly high expectations and the disappointment was our own doing.

I personally never really judge a show before it’s finished (obviously not sitcoms and shows like that) unless it has really really terrible writing ofc, but I always choose to reserve judgement until all the character arcs are wrapped up and I can look back and see why things were made to be.

I understand the whole anger with Mike’s behaviour towards Will and how Will was treated poorly by him, but isn’t that the point? Mike loving Will back in season 5 would then be more satisfying after all that. It’s a set-up for the next season, no?

I don’t know why or how people thought that Mike would suddenly resolve all his internalised homophobia or something during that season, and I reckon if the whole season had come out at once instead of two volumes (i hate the two volumes thing sm omg) people would have been much happier because we wouldn’t have had time to create insane theories or unrealistic expectations that, let’s be real, were not in line with what we have seen so far with byler.

So, I just want to say that I’m a little afraid for season 5, because I know that byler will likely be canon, but people just won’t be happy because it won’t be in the exact way that they had theorised. Sorry to break it to you, but you, random person on tumblr, are not a screen writer. More specifically, you’re not a screen writer for stranger things.

I think it’s fun to theorise at the moment, but I just want to remind people that this pattern has happened before and we never learn? Like, none of our theories are coming true. Not one of them. Did I theorise the exact van scene? Did I theorise the part at the end where Mike grabs Will’s shoulder? No. But am I happy with those scenes? Hell yeah.

So on the build up to season 5, I just want to caution everyone to not assume that specific things are going to happen when it’s just a result of an echochamber (such as the milkvan breakup scene being right at the beginning or the painting being brought up). You’ll just be angry for no good reason.

The only reasons I’m personally going to be angry with how they handle byler is:

1. If it’s not canon and Will’s love goes unrequited/ he has another love interest somehow…

2. If either of them die after having a relationship during season 5 (bury your gays is stUPID)

3. If one of them dies before the other gets to tell them they love them/ kiss

4. If they get together without Mike apologising (it could be in literally any way, obvious or not) for his poor behaviour.

But that’s it, the rest of it is literally up to them.

Hope ur not too mad, but it just needed to be said.

[fivetrench]

New Wings of Fire sona wow wow wow

His name is Bulrush & he’s a Mudwing/Nightwing hybrid with xanthochromism, which is why he has a pale yellow complexion. I’ll put some more stuff about him below the image description :3

[Image Description: Two digital drawings of a dragon character, the first is a headshot and the second is a full-body illustration. The dragon has various shades of light yellow/green scales, with dark green horns, orange eyes, and long, off-white spines. There are a few small dots of green scales on his face. He has small, circular earrings that match his black lip piercings. In the first drawing, he is depicted looking to the left with a neutral expression. To his left is a piece of text that reads “Bulrush (he/him)”. Below the text is three pride flags, the transmasculine, nonbinary, and aroace flags. Below that is a small color palette, containing all of the dragon’s colors. The background of the drawing is solid white. The second drawing is a full-body image of the dragon, who is looking to the left with the same neutral expression. He’s standing in place, his tail slightly curled upwards and his wings partially folded at his sides. The membrane of his wings is dark green with a few off-white stars speckled near the joints. The background of the drawing is an orange similar to the color of his eyes, and he is outlined in a lighter version of the orange. End ID.]

More info on him below!

Bulrush is a very weak seer, his only ability is getting “feelings” of when bad things are about to happen. Basically there’s always a little hum of dread in his mind, which increases when in crowds, during conflict, right before events, etc. He doesn’t get visions but he does have nightmares, mostly of wildly unrealistic possible futures. He’s very pessimistic and antisocial, both because of his abilities and because he’s just like that. His anxiety and powers kind of merge into a weird mess of symptoms that can’t be differentiated from each other (e.g., his nightmares, increased dread when in crowds, etc). He works as an entomologist in the outskirts of the rainforest, identifying, cataloguing, and preserving insects. He lives in a small hut that’s closer to the Mud Kingdom, where he keeps all of his collections. He prefers the company of bugs and animals over dragons and has a pet Burmese python named Prince (based off of my ball python, Princely :3). Prince is his only official pet, but he often feeds the animals near his home and has names for them. He’s never met his father, a Nightwing named Snaketail, who left Bulrush and his mother when he was an egg. He has a good relationship with his mom, a Mudwing named Crayfish, and visits her in the Mud Kingdom frequently. I’m not sure what I’m going to do for him story-wise, but I’ll probably give him a Rainwing friend since he’s in the rainforest so much!

[lostsyren]

I WATCHED ALL THE EPISODES!!! here are my thoughts on Rafe’s characterisation!! ok spoilers ahead:

I don’t agree with everyone saying rafe is out of character. Firstly, he’s always been insecure. He’s always needed someone to reassure him and be his yes man: (topper, Ward, Barry even Wheezie). So it’d make sense he’d do the same thing with Sofia– asking her for advice, making sure he’s doing the right thing etc etc.

Secondly everyone saying that him not being psycho is out of character doesn’t make any sense. When he was “psycho” he was off his head with coke. In season 3 we see him clean and instead he’s turned to alcohol. So it’d make sense for him to be this drunk, playboy persona and desperately try to cling to the “man of the house” vibe he established in s3.

Thirdly, everyone saying it’s cringe or not correct for him to act soft with Sofia…we don’t know how he acts with a girl. Sure we have fanfic interpretations, but those are often exaggerated and unrealistic. Rafe lowkey seems pathetic and clearly unstable after the death of his dad. He’s seeking comfort in Sofia, that much is obvious, and I’d say that’s pretty spot on for him– especially with how he’s not committing to the relationship (saying she’s just a friend, just a hookup) whilst simultaneously telling her he wants to start a life with her. This back and forth sway from two opposites is very in character of him. Like how he went from trying to kill his sister to feeling guilty, to trying to kill his dad but then saving him. He’s unstable. That doesn’t mean he’s solely angry and violent. It also means he needs an outlet to be vulnerable (and seeing his softer side is such a nice thing guys come on!!)

And finally, everyone saying Sofia is just a cookie cutter “y/n” stereotype is not giving her enough credit. We see her wildly different life, with a big family and her little home on the cut, directly contrasting the massive, devoid of family house that belongs to Rafe. That storyline has sm potential!! Like imagine rafe meeting her family and realising what a family should look like!!! She also clearly doesn’t vibe with his friends and the kooks, and she clearly likes him. The way they’re always touching each other, always near each other, this weirdly codependent relationship has sm layers to explore!! And rafe clearly cares about her, letting her tell him what to do, her little disappointed looks that make him overthink! Everytime they’re on screen, the vibe is undeniable!!

[prolix-yuy]

Crawling Back to You

Pairing: Incubus!Dieter Bravo x Virgin F!Reader

Summary: Have you no idea that you're in deep?

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, religious corruption kink, bastardizing prayers, brief drug use, mentions of alcohol consumption, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, breaking a hymen, descriptions of blood, biting and drawing blood, pheromone incubus anatomy, size difference/kink like whoa, monster transformation, monster fucking, PiV sex, wildly unrealistic sex, kind of dubious consent in the way that she has no idea what she's getting into so Dieter checks in A LOT, consent is sexy and monsters especially should ask for it, Reader has no idea what she's doing when it comes to summoning an incubus.

Notes: Like most things Dieter's involved in, it takes twice as long but you reap the most rewards. A little late for Halloween, but spooky season is 24/7 and I needed to put this out into the world as soon as possible. Very special gold star mutual thanks due to @ezrasbirdie who gave me the prompt for this story and then talked me through some of the ideas she had. Religious corruption kink is super new for me, not being raised in a formal religion, but it was incredibly interesting to explore in this way. Apologies for the sacrilege, friends, it's all in the pursuit of sexyness.

A big disclaimer! This is not a blueprint for losing your virginity! This is some wildly unrealistic sex, especially for someone who has never experienced PiV intercourse before! Please be safe and careful with your bodies. While we thirst over these scenarios and would love to take monster cocks, always practice safe and fun sex with partners who care about your comfort.

A second disclaimer that in this fic, the Reader defines losing her virginity as experiencing penetrative sex and breaking her unbroken hymen. Virginity does not look the same for every person, and each individual's circumstances may be very different. Virginity is also a social construct that has some gross stigmas around it, which we'll be briefly addressing. I've also kept the reader's age unspecified (18+ of course) but that she has gone to college, so whatever age you may be reading this, your own sexual journey moves at your pace and if/when you define that you've passed this milestone, that's the right time for you.

Cross-posted on AO3

The lines chalked into your hardwood floors glow with a sudden and panic-inducing heat, smoldering as a phantom breeze whips around your kneeling body. The lights in your apartment flicker and dim as a sooty haze hangs around your ankles. Springing to your feet, you frantically search for something to smear the careful symbols to nonsense while a crackle of electricity raises all of the hair on the back of your arms and neck.

It’s much too late to go back now.

Something pulls in the center of your chest as the room expands and contracts like a great beast breathing. You try to stand strong but the tremble in your frame chatters your teeth. Suddenly the room plunges into darkness, and a crack echoes in your ears before the light swells back to full strength. Bracing yourself for what may be in the circle you foolishly copied, you peel open your eyes. 

Then, your mouth falls open, because never in your wildest dreams did you expect Dieter Bravo, famous actor, to be sitting in the middle of your half-assed summoning circle.

“What the fuck?”

He looks just as bewildered as you do, cross-legged on the floor and pulling his lips from a turquoise bong cradled in his lap. He’s wearing sunglasses - did you spirit him here from halfway around the world? - and an open silk bathrobe patterned with roaring tigers. The waterfall of folds bundle in his lap, and for a mouth-drying moment you wonder if he’s got anything on beneath. Then he shifts, billowing a cloud of skunky smoke at your ceiling and placing the bong at arms length. 

Well, he is wearing socks at least, pulled halfway up his legs and under Crocs. You don’t know whether to laugh or choke on your tongue.

“What the fuck to you too,” he grumbles, creakily getting to his feet and dusting little frills of ash from his shoulders. It’s now easy to see he’s sporting tiny black boxer briefs, and your eyes fight to land anywhere but there. They finally find the book, opened to the page you scoffed over until your finished glass of wine goaded you on.

“This can’t be happening,” you finally squeak out, shifting on the balls of your feet as you spin and press your fingers into your cheeks. 

“Sure is,” Dieter says, one hand on his hip and looking at you with naked curiosity. He’s swept back the robe on one side, showing off the shapely curve of his thigh, the soft definition of his stomach, how large his hands…

“I didn’t…I couldn’t have…you…go back,” you stammer, heart and head pounding. Does this mean you’re a witch? Did you honestly summon something with a book you rented from the library? Nothing makes sense with this man staring at you - practically leering - as you contemplate whether you’re having a dusty-old-book-based hallucination.

“Breathe, baby,” Dieter purrs, hands making soothing motions in the air between you. Taking in a big breath and letting it out explosively, you follow Dieter’s motions to sit down with him. The floor is hard and unforgiving on your bottom, but you criss-cross-applesauce with him as he leans back on his hands.

“Normally when I show up, people aren’t all that surprised,” he says, and his voice is raspy and sonorous in the room. You swallow hard, finding comfort in twisting the hem of your pajama shirt in your palms.

“Well, it’s pretty damn surprising to have THE Dieter Bravo in my living room,” you say, a momentary swell of pride when you realize your sarcasm hasn’t flown the coop with your sanity. Dieter chuckles, tilting his head onto one shoulder.

“Who were you expecting?” 

“Honestly, no one. Nothing,” you lie. Half-lie. You were hoping for something pretty specific.

“Very cute, but let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on here. I know exactly what you were hoping would pop up in this pretty little circle of yours.” 

Your eyes wander to his inner thigh, then snap to a symbol on the floor. 

“I thought…” You sigh, ducking your head. “I thought I was summoning some sort of…sexy demon. At least that’s what the book said.” 

“An incubus,” Dieter offers, and you nod. 

“But clearly something went wrong, because you’re here, somehow.” You scrub a hand over your face. “No idea how I messed up this bad. I didn’t even know you could mess up this badly.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Dieter says in a carefree voice. “Mess up, that is.” You arch an eyebrow at him.

“But I got…you.”

Dieter leans forward, elbows on his knees as he cocks his head with a knowing smile. In the dim light of your apartment his eyes seem even darker than before.

“Exactly what you asked for. At your service.” He tips his head, tongue slipping from between his plush lips to swipe along his full lower one. A sudden patter of arousal grips your hips, and he half closes his eyes and breathes deep.

“That can’t…you’re Dieter Bravo.”

“Yes.”

“You’re an…incubus.”

“Also yes.”

The next question blurts out of your mouth too quickly to stop.

“Why?”

His laugh is just as quick and breaks some of the tension digging into your spine. The warmth of it wraps your head in cotton, smiling along. 

“Oh, starlet, I should be pissed as hell to be pulled away from that fantastic party I was about to ruin, but this is turning out to be much more fun.” Your cheeks warm at the affectionate name. “How many people do you think summon incubi these days? A demon’s gotta get by.” He’s sliding closer to the edge of the circle but not moving past it. A small voice in the back of your mind notes that he might not be able to.

“So…acting,” you say, not without a little smirk. He seems to like that, smile stretching wider and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“What, should I be slinging burgers?” he asks with another snort of laughter. “C’mon, don’t tell me it doesn’t make sense. Beautiful people, sex appeal galore, fast living and high octane relationships? I haven’t been hungry in ages.”

Your hands still in your lap, studying your fingers as you let the silence linger. Dieter allows it for a time before his voice pulls you back.

“But you summoned, and I came. You must have a reason.” 

Now that the silly half-buzzed fantasy is mere feet from you, saying it aloud is daunting.

“You’ll…you won’t get it.” 

His eyebrows lift in slow surprise. 

“Try me.”

You're turned on more than you’ve ever experienced in your life, and Dieter’s nostrils flare as his jaw ticks.

“I was having a drink. A couple,” you correct, the dregs of the bottle giving you away. “And I was just hating the way I was feeling about everything going on and I looked at this book and it seemed like a funny thing, to try and summon a demon…”

“Incubus, get it right,” Dieter purrs, and the air thickens.

“I didn’t think it would work,” you protest, hands coming up to cradle your temples. 

“But you hoped, enough to do all this work on the one day of the year when magic is easiest to grasp,” he teases, tilting his head to the side to catch your eye. It’s definitely not helping the situation that he’s Dieter Bravo, solid C-list star who’d captured your attention in more than one of his movies. Thoughts of his dark eyes and full lips drew your hands down your body on more than one occasion before…

Dieter growls low and frustrated. “Let’s cut to the chase, starlet. You’re laying out a buffet and I can’t even have a taste.” You blink owlishly at him before he smirks, licking an incisor. “I can smell how much you want me.”

Shock slams your mouth shut, face burning. Your traitorous body has failed you again.

“You called and I answered. I’m still in your circle, so you could send me away, but I doubt you know how to do that.”

He’s right. You’ve trapped him here. With little old you.

“Or, you could tell me what you really wanted when you spent all this time writing all these little symbols so carefully.” Dieter’s fingers dance along the chalk lines, smile turning cheekier. Steeling yourself, you let the truth out into open air.

“I called you because…I’ve never had anyone before.” 

Dieter’s face remains cooly neutral, but you can see his nostrils flare briefly. 

“You’ve never…”

You shrug, self-deprecating smile cutting through the awkwardness.

“I’ve done some things, by myself, but never…I’ve never had sex with anyone in the…classical way.” The words are starched and wooden but hit a chord with Dieter. He repositions to sit back on his knees, hands splayed on his bare thighs. The smooth expanse of his chest begs to be touched.

“I thought I smelled something special here, and I was oh so right,” he rasps, nipping at his lower lip while he drags his eyes over your body. “Human virginity is a social construct, but inexperience in pleasure? Being allowed to revel in your body discovering all the ways it can feel? That is a rare treat.” 

You don’t expect the sudden rush of emotions at Dieter’s eagerness. Years of people either finding you broken or fetishizing your “purity” had given you an even larger complex than you thought. 

“It’s not…fucked up that I’m doing this?” you ask. 

“What sounds better to you, letting some Chad fumble through trying to pleasure you when his dick can barely handle your sweet cunt, or allowing someone with centuries of experience give you everything you ever desired?”

Your aforementioned cunt knows which one she wants.

“May I ask why you’ve waited until now?” he says, interrupting your railroading thoughts. Shyness and shame clouds your eyes.

“My parents were very religious. Lots of ‘thou shalt nots’ and ‘obey thys’. But I wanted to be a good daughter. So badly.” Dieter’s eyes are darkening as you speak, fingers pressing divots into his thighs. “So I did everything they said. Followed all the rules. And I grew up their perfect little girl. Never got caught sneaking out with a boy, never drank or smoked or anything.” 

“How…boring,” Dieter comments. It stings between your shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much all I heard when I went to college. That I was boring for not liking weed. A buzzkill because I was nervous about breaking rules. And sex…”

Here you swallow, your lower lip trembling before you bite it back. 

“I thought I was doing everything right. Everyone told me I was doing everything right. And then I get into the real world and nobody wants…” Looking up you catch a softer expression on Dieter’s face, true understanding blunting the lust.

“How have these fumbling fools tried to pleasure you?” he asks, and maybe the wine is still thrumming in your veins (it’s not), but your tongue is looser than it’s ever been.

“Grinding mostly. I think they’ve…cum…but I don’t. Not like when I do it myself.” 

Dieter snarls softly. “Fuckers,” he rumbles, an oncoming thunderclap crackled with electricity. 

“Every time I feel like I’m damaged goods,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I thought maybe this would…fix me.”

The lights in the room dip low as Dieter chuckles. Darkness seems drawn to him, settling around his shoulders like a fine stole.

“Betrayed by the God you worshiped so faithfully,” he muses, rolling his shoulders and licking his lips. “Don’t worry, starlet, I’ll take care of you tonight.”

“Can I…do anything for you?” you ask. Dieter’s smile softens, tutting quietly.

“Believe me, you’ll be perfect,” he praises, the heat in your cheeks even more unbearable. “Like I said, I’m rarely hungry anymore, but your arousal will be delicious. I’ll gorge myself on your peaks and leave you sated…and ruined for any after me.”

That should be a warning. It only makes your want greater.

“Okay,” you breathe out. Dieter’s smile widening again. Are his teeth…sharper?

“Now we can fuck to our heart’s content in this summoning circle here,” Dieter says, tapping his finger in the air. Motes of copper light and sparks rain down from an invisible barrier. “I’ve had more challenging obstacles. But if you would like me at my best, break the circle starlet.”

Standing back up, you retrieve a cloth from your kitchen table. When you return Dieter is standing in the center, prowling ever so slightly in his tiny prison. You move to wipe the line connecting the circle when…

“Are other celebrities incubi?” you ask, kneeling in front of him with open curiosity on your face. Dieter’s predatory smile quickly shuffles to confused and incredulous.

“I mean, maybe, I don’t keep close tabs.”

“Tom Hiddleston could totally be one. Or Robert Downey Jr. Heck, maybe Marvel just employs incubi to keep their revenue going…” Leaning down, you move to wipe the mark. 

“Strange little starlet,” Dieter chuckles, and a warm breeze tickles the back of your neck. With one swipe the circle is broken.

“Hannah Waddingham would totally be…” you start to say, nerves tumbling words from your lips, but thankfully Dieter’s stop them. 

He moves so quickly for a moment you’re sure he’s going to devour you, tear you limb from limb for imprisoning him. Instead he crashes your mouths together, hand firm on the back of your neck as his broad shoulders press you on your back. His hips slot between your thighs so smoothly you’re arching into them before you can think straight. Once your head is carefully lowered to the floor his hands find your wrists and press them above your head, maneuvering your thighs to wrap you around his waist. The dizzying feat of agility pales in comparison to his kiss.

Dieter commands your mouth to submit, tongue hot and lewd between your lips. You’re afraid you’ll choke on your own but he strokes delicate paths into the lush depths that keep you barely breathing. His lips are plush and yielding, pulling away to drag against the corner of your mouth or teasing the edge of your lips. And his teeth. You’d had boys clack against you, or press them harshly against your lips. Dieter knows exactly when to scrape them against your tongue, how much pressure to put with your lower lip trapped, the anticipation of them sliding against your skin before he dives in again. 

“What a soft, pretty thing you are,” he rasps, and there’s a deep grinding quality to his voice now. Like stones moving slowly past one another, it vibrates straight to your clit as he inhales deeply behind your ear. 

“Dieter…” you manage, his face lifting from his ecstasy to study your own. His eyes are somehow losing the edge of white, expanding into inky blackness. He lazily laps at his lower lip, and when you lean up to kiss his chin he snarls and presses deep into your apex.

“I’m sorry, starlet, I forgot you’ve been waiting to break promises,” he teases, sliding a hand down to knead at your ass. As quickly as you were laid out you’re suddenly in the air, legs wrapped around Dieter’s waist as he carries you out of your living room. His strength has you feeling light as a feather, barely a nuisance as he searches out a place for his plans.

“The bedroom.” You motion to a half-opened door and Dieter’s knowing smile precludes entering. 

“Eager, aren’t we? What if I wanted to lay you out for everyone to see?”

The image of your body laid bare, covered in moonlight and monstrous hands, flutters your eyes as the bedroom door shuts behind you.

“No, tonight you will remain in my confessional,” he says, kneeling down on the bed and letting you fall back into the mess of pillows and sheets. 

“You’re very fond of religious metaphor,” you rib, rubbing your thighs together as Dieter sheds the robe and his Crocs, a brief moment of clarity bubbling a giggle up your throat. Dieter’s motions slow as he regards you again, kneeling between your legs.

“Maybe I am rather fond of…corruption,” he husks, the word lighting on your skin like sparks. “Maybe I like seeing you forsake all for me.” 

If he asked, you just might. The high of his attention is so great.

“But in this moment, what I mean is we will speak no lies in this room.” His hands trail down your thighs, and now your body remembers it has no experience from here. You shake, heart pounding as Dieter crawls up your body with only brief brushes to guide his way. “My promise is that you will know pleasure as great as I can offer. And you will tell me everything you think, and feel.”

He hovers over your body, broad enough to block the paltry light through your window.

“Would you like to be pleasured?”

“Yes, Dieter, please.” 

His smile is wicked, and the scrape of his fingernails up your ribcage arches your back. In a fluid slide of his fingers your shirt is over your head and tossed into darkness, leaving you bare-chested under him. He hums with appreciation as his face descends, curved nose dragging along your tender skin. Time hangs in the balance as you tense for what may come, but Dieter only traces dizzying paths with the tip of his nose and the fullness of his lips. Up one side of your ribs, placing kisses at intervals, then along the underside of your breast. His hot breath warms skin, nipples hardening sharp and sensitive at the scratch of his facial hair. Then down the center of your stomach, a long and cyclical detour around your bellybutton. Stomach trembling, he hushes you as his fingers slide under your waistband and bunch your sleep shorts and underwear in his hands. 

Another fluid drag and you’re nude, still swimming in endorphins at Dieter’s skilled touch. It’s only when hot palms wrap around your knees and begin easing them apart do you balk. Instinctively you clamp your legs together, heat flooding your face. Dieter tuts, smoothing his hands up and down your jittery thighs.

“What are you afraid of, starlet?” he asks, ghosting his fingers over the apex of your sex. Just the brush against your mound steals your voice, that same hot shame and anxiety pulling you in on yourself. When you don’t answer, Dieter commands more firmly, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Dragging your eyes from the ceiling back to him doesn’t help. He’s all mischievous eyes and knowing smiles, pressing a kiss to both of your knees as he rests his chin on them. 

“I can make it easier for you,” he says, fingers finding a soft crease in your hip and stroking along it. “Give you something for the nerves, for any pain. I’ll only let you feel good here with me.” 

You take two more grounding breaths and ease the pressure on your knees.

“”Sorry, I’m just…no one’s ever…” you say, but before you can explain your woeful inexperience he’s wedging his way between your legs and holding your thighs open in his firm tight grip. 

“I’m the first to taste this forbidden fruit?” he asks, and you clench involuntarily. He waits as you gather yourself enough to nod. A deep, dark chuckle falls from his lips. “Starlet, you have no idea what you’re in for tonight.”

The question claws up your throat but no sooner has he glanced at your pussy he’s diving in to press his tongue deep and sweeping through your folds. The velvet slither arches your back off the bed, a strangled cry earning a satisfied hum between your legs.

“Holy shit, Dieter, oh my god,” you rasp as he flicks his tongue in fast swipes over your clit. It’s foreign and taboo, so much wetter and softer than your fingers and you can barely stop your hips from bucking into his mouth. One hand presses you down to the bed, his chin tilting up to catch your eye. Slick shines his mouth, and your pussy throbs when you realize his eyes are the shiny black of nightmares and creatures used to the dark. 

“No god here, sweetheart. Only me. Only take my name in vain,” he growls, and the rush of blood in your ears speeds up when you realize the hand pressed on your abdomen spans the width of your hips. Black-tipped claws indent the flesh, prickling your skin just shy of pain. Dipping low again, Dieter swirls at your entrance and prods in, nose pressed tight to the button of your pleasure. The supple stretch is unfamiliar, pulling at a primal need to let him fill you. It tightens your thighs and shudders you against him as he forces you down again, the bite of claws a sharper warning. His jaw doesn’t stop, plunging and delving into you as deep as he can manage. 

“Dieter, it’s never…oh fuck, it’s never felt this good before, please…please, I can’t stand it,” you beg, a rush of slick coating his tongue. Now a true snarl seeds your cunt, and in the charcoal dark his silhouette thickens, shoulders broadening under your knees. He pushes you further up the bed, pulling even greater cries from your chest. Dragging his tongue from your sopping hole, he sucks greedily on your clit, hands wrapped around your waist to lift you half off the bed. Suspended and flowing with arousal, your hands unclench from the sheets and circle his wrists. The skin is hot under your palms, and they dig deeper in at your scrabbling touch. It’s not enough, so with a boldness you pull from a dizzying depth you bury your fingers in his curls. 

At first touch they’re soft. Long enough to wind around your fingers. You give a gentle tug and swear you feel a shudder around you. But as you bury them deeper another sensation tickles your palm. Something unyielding and curved, smooth like bone. Two protrusions fit in the webbing of your thumb and forefinger, short enough that the blunt tip brushes your knuckles. Horns, you think. A demon is eating me out and he has horns. And where you might have tried to wake yourself from a nightmare at this thought, instead you wrap your fingers around them and tug.

Like lightning something changes in Dieter. His lips tear from you with a roar that fills the room, your mind, spreading like forest fire and drying your mouth out. You hold on as he drops you back to the bed, the sound still ripping from his throat. Then there’s pain, supernova-like in intensity and scorching through arousal and fear. Your eyes snap down to Dieter’s mouth, but it’s no longer defiling your pussy. It’s clamped hard on your inner thigh, air puffing sharply through his nose. The pain radiates, and you realize he’s bit you. Not an overzealous love bite, you can feel the puncture of incisors and pump of blood into his mouth, the same pattern as your racing heart. Your hands release his horns, pushing you up as your mouth drops open in horror. 

“Dieter,” you gasp, but with his horns released the pressure abates. His eyes open slowly, catching your terrified face. The curve of his brow morphs from surprise to apology to determination. Then a thumb presses firmly to your clit and circles it, washing pain away with pleasure teetering right on the edge. His fangs remain in your thigh as you stare at him, incredulity on your face but pleasure rocking your hips. He adds pressure to the bite again, speeding up his fingers as your brain struggles to differentiate one from the other. 

Then, just as your spine begins tingling and your fingers go numb, one slick finger penetrates your cunt, smooth and deep, barely noticeable compared to the symphony of sensations. Like a reward, Dieter gives you the final stroke that crashes your orgasm over him, slamming you back to the bed as pain and pleasure and shame and exhilaration floods your brain. You barely register Dieter’s jaw releasing, fingers working you through your orgasm as the slow laps of his tongue lull you back to your body. Every muscle quivers, attempts to sit up failing twice before you manage to come up to your elbows. 

Between your legs Dieter is pressing devotions to the spot he bit, open-mouthed kisses with peeks of tongue soothing the injury. His finger is still inside, a lazy caress of your walls foreign but not unpleasant. Finally he lifts up to his knees and turns his attention back to your face.

“I’m sorry, starlet, you got me a little too riled up there. I’ve fixed it, but you might be sore tomorrow.” A bloom of teeth circle your inner thigh, but no blood oozes out. You felt the pop, felt him inside you, and somehow he’s taken it back. “Can’t have you injured because of me, not very professional.”

“I hope it stays,” you pant, fingertips tracing the dark marks. The tenderness arcs down your spine. 

“Fuck, you’re made for sin, starlet,” Dieter purrs, and now your attention can turn back to him. Grounding yourself with a healthy, “oh fuck,” is the only way you can fathom what he’s become.

He towers over you even kneeling, broad body only more tantalizing as he’s grown in stature. The well-known triangle tattoos you’d seen in paparazzi photos are joined by swirling patterns up and down his arms, concentric rings and text you can’t read patterning his skin. Where only wild curls were before now jut two smooth horns, curved away from his face and looking suspiciously similar to a goat’s. His skin almost steams in the room, wisps of smoke or condensation haloing his silhouette like an ominous aura. 

Then his hand flexes again and you realize how full you are with just one finger inside, even observing how thick and wicked they’ve become.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and there’s only a hint of teasing now as he works his finger inside.

“It’s…okay,” you gasp, staring at the place where you’re connected. His thumb ghosts over your clit again, but so soon after your high it’s over sensitive, making you hiss and tremble. 

“Shhh, starlet, just relax. Thought it would be better to take advantage of the pain.” With a final stroke that lights up your nerves he slips out, holding his fingers up for you to see. They’re wet with your arousal and a little blood, a lot less than you thought. “Now that’s out of the way, we can take our time giving you the best fuck of your life.” With a knowing smile, he pops his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. 

“Fuck, you really are…an incubus,” you say, acquainting yourself with the dull ache of your loss. There isn’t much fanfare, no swelling of emotion. If anything, breaking your hymen is probably the least memorable part of your night. Dieter’s smile falters briefly, and in a dizzying turn of events he shrinks back, closing in on himself. Ducking his head, you might think he was embarrassed, or shy. It looks stranger than the horns on him.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Touching the horns got me a little too worked up. Let me open you up on my fingers for a little while longer, that’ll give me enough time to…change back.” His smile is sheepish now, hands roaming your thighs and stomach. Instead of the skin-crawling terror you thought that would instill, you’re practically preening under his touch.

“Is this you? This form?” you ask, and you let your boldness move to your hands. You stroke your fingertips over his, investigating the smoothness of his claws, how the joints of his fingers are more pronounced than yours. He scoffs an uncomfortable laugh.

“Uh yeah, mostly. But you’ll have a lot more fun bragging that you lost your virginity to THE Dieter Bravo,” he redirects, shaking his head like he’s annoyed he’s not that man yet. 

In your brief and paltry handful of intimate moments, you never considered yourself bold. You’d let men touch you until your discomfort was too much, or your embarrassment pulled to the forefront. You never asked for the touches you enjoyed, or sought out the pleasures you dreamed of. But now, with a creature that’s endearingly vulnerable before you, your voice is finally strong enough to be heard.

“I’d like you to stay this way,” you say. Sitting up further, you skim your hands up his arms to cup his face. Your touch snarls his lip briefly before he settles.

“You can’t handle that, starlet. I’ve kept my human form reasonable, but you will not be able to take my cock,” Dieter husks. Tugging your wrist down to his waist, you palm him through fabric barely able to contain him. Thick and long in your hand, he drops his head and thrusts against you and gets bigger.

“Ruin me, then,” you whisper, filthy and naive into his ear. “I’ve waited all this time, saved myself for no one but you. Make me take no lover but you. Make me pray to you for ecstasy.” Leaning in to the metaphor rewards you. With a dangerous rumble he pushes you flat on your back, one hand wrapped around your throat.

“You want this, starlet? All of it?” he grits out, sickening cracks and pops echoing in the room. His hips force yours wide, planting his other hand by your head and carefully watching your face. The shine of his fangs whips your heart into a gallop, more ink dancing on his skin as he transforms from something beautiful to something magnificent. The room darkens perplexingly until you realize wings spread from his shoulders, thin light gleaming through the stretched web of skin. His aura crackles with molten motes, a whiff of fire and smoke making a home in your lungs. When he looks back at you, half familiar and half transcendent, his roguish smile brings one to your lips.

“Strange little thing, wet and ready for me,” he croons, removing his hand from your throat. A rip of stitching signals he’s as nude as you are now, and your eyes widen when the heavy length of his cock rests on your mound, curving past your navel and thicker than your hand can circle. 

“Say you want Dieter Bravo back, and I’ll have just as much fun wrecking you in that form,” he says, but there’s something cautious between you now. A shimmer of anxiety and distrust. You’re holding a thread of something truer than he intended to give you, and if you drop it you’ll never find it again.

“Can you help me make it feel good?” you ask, sliding your palms along his chest. Without proper pupils it’s hard to track his expression, but you think it’s awestruck.

“Of course, starlet. You’ve learned to cum from pleasure and pain, but I won’t have you suffer more than necessary.” Dieter leans down and cups your head, bringing your nose to his neck right where it meets his shoulder. “Breathe,” he instructs, and you inhale deep. Below the smoke and heat you smell sweet new earth, lush and fruitful. It makes your mouth water, clutching at his shoulders as he begins rocking his hips against yours. His monstrous cock slips in the wet mess between your legs, slicking the underside generously.

“Fuck, you arousal is so delicious, I could taste you for centuries,” Dieter whispers. Lifting up, he smiles at your dazed expression and wandering hands. They trace his features, lingering on his lips. “How are you feeling now?” 

You want him inside you, filling you up to bursting, to breaking. The need is hotter, all-encompassing. It’s surety that he won’t hurt you, that you’ll be shown pleasure beyond anything you’ve experienced. It’s lust but also trust. 

“Can you kiss me?” is what you say, and Dieter’s smile is a touch softer before he leans down and claims your lips. 

You swear you hear a hiss when he touches you, his skin scorching but not enough to burn. Parting his lips and nudging your jaw open, he traces the inside of your lower one with the tip of his tongue. One hand cups the back of your head, cradling you to his mouth, and with a forbidden thrill you realize his hands are now large enough that his fingertips caress the perimeter of your face. The threatening pressure of claws in your skin arcs arousal back in your cunt, winding your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he orders, and with a magnificent beat of bat wings his silhouette glows with dancing light much like a breath sparking fire to life. The warm hue of his human skin has gilded to gold, tattoos moving along the dips and peaks of his body. Eyes black and fathomless, his smile is a lifeboat in a raging ocean. He lets the heavy weight of his tongue wet his lower lip as your eyes widen, hefty cock lifting from your mound to press at your entrance. Scrabbling fear overtakes you, and you clutch at Dieter’s shoulders as the pressure mounts. 

“Again, starlet,” he croons, but his voice is the rumbling of great stones moving over one another as you inhale deep of his scent. Cool water pours through your limbs, easing your muscles and letting your legs drop open wide. His other hand presses at your lower back and arches you off the bed, resting your thighs atop his own. Then, with a controlled push his head breaches you, wrenching a wrecked moan from deep in your chest. He stops as soon as he’s engulfed in your heat, the only betrayal of his own state residing in the long exhale of breath that tickles across your chest.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Tell me if you need me to stop,” he grits out, but you shake your head and roll your hips. It’s sloppy, inexperienced, but he moves ever so slightly within you and it punches a groan from between Dieter’s clenched teeth. 

“Please, Dieter, more,” you beg, his claws tightening around you again. Another measured advance, another wail, more snarling and groaning from the creature stuffing himself inside you. Whatever aphrodisiac he’s fed you is working magnificently. You’re full, the pressure intense, but the pain is dull and quiet. He’s watching where you’re joined so closely, stretched obscenely around his cock, waiting for your thighs to unclench before backing out and pressing deeper in. 

“Touch your clit,” he gasps, “Rub that pretty clit so you can take all of me.”

Your fingers are nowhere as decadent as his tongue but they pull bursts of ecstasy close to the surface. Venturing a look down, you’re dismayed to see he’s barely halfway there, so much more of his pulsing cock still to take. He already feels like he’s in your stomach, battering against your lungs. Tears spring to your eyes, lower lip wobbling.

“It’s not going to work,” you whisper, and even with the knowledge that Dieter could turn human at any point you still wallow in the rejection you anticipate. Not good enough for anyone, not even the person you called for.

“Shhh,” Dieter soothes, easing you back down to the bed. He tugs over pillows to tuck under your hips before covering you with his body, still looking in your eyes even at his towering height. “Breathe. Do you want me to stop? I can let you rest, change back to my human form. If you can take all of this…” His hips twitch forward, a soft cry tumbling out. “...then you can take my human cock perfectly.” With a tenderness your eyes water for, he strokes his thumb along your cheek. “Do you want me to stop?”

It’s already so much, so intense and mind-blowing, but you can’t help yourself. 

“I want all of it, Dieter,” you say, consequences be damned.

Much in the same way touching his horns unleashed something in Dieter, hearing those words unlocks something even more primal and greedy in his face. Dropping down to his elbows, he presses your face against his neck. 

“Bite,” he orders, the word igniting every pleasure center in your body. “Hard, starlet, give me one as good as I gave you.” The words are barely out before you sink your teeth into the crook of his neck, but instead of blood or other ichor you’re flooded with pleasure. The sensation rips an orgasm out of you, hips bucking on his cock. You register Dieter pulling out to the tip before slamming his hips into yours, seating himself fully inside your throbbing cunt. You don’t know how your body makes room for him, how you’re not screaming (well, maybe screaming some), but he’s inside you and littering your body with, “oh fuck, oh fuuuuucks” as he swirls his hips. 

“I did it,” you coo in pleasure-dipped delirium, head flopping back on a pillow as Dieter starts thrusting into you in slow passes.

“You sure fucking did sweetheart, look at that perfect pussy taking my monster cock,” he praises, now sliding along your clit with focus. The overstimulation rolls right into desire again as your cunt learns how to gorge itself on pleasure. 

“It feels…good,” you say, bearing down on his thrusts to meet him with a little more force. He purrs in admiration, starting to speed up ever so slightly. 

“Yeah? Like how good you feel all stuffed full?” Dieter asks but it’s nonsense now, his focus pulling between your face and his cock pumping in and out of you. There’s a little more pain now, places where his cock brushes that zip sharp up your spine, but it’s far from unpleasant. In fact, you might like it. Maybe really like it. 

“More, Dieter. Want to feel you. Please,” you moan, restraint flickering in Dieter’s eyes. 

“Fuck, baby, you can’t say shit like that when I’m so deep in you, I won’t be able to…” His thought falls off as his thrusts speed up, a little more force at the end each time. It’s kissing at something devastating inside, something clawing its way to the surface through years of shame and dread.

“Please Dieter, I’ll beg for it. I’ll…” Your brain wraps around a wicked idea. “I’ll pray for it.”

That does the trick. Dieter’s lips curl back in a snarl as he rears up to his knees, wings spreading to fill the room with only him. Hands gripping your hips, he looks down at you not like a lover, but like a fallen god. 

“Then do it, starlet,” he challenges. His smile is cool, but his cock twitches in your cunt. You have him. 

“Glory be to you, Dieter,” you say, and hellfire light erupts around him. Dragging himself out of your cunt, he holds tight as a bowstring.

“And to your…fucking massive cock,” you continue, eyes rolling back as he fills you to the brim. “And to your true form, in all its beauty,” you add, softer now, drawing his eyes back up to you. Time hangs as he studies your face before dipping down and sealing your lips with a kiss that means too much for words. When he lifts away you finish the prayer.

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.”

Dieter’s smile glints.

“A-fucking-men,” he rasps, giving you just enough time to press your hands against the headboard before he starts railing you. 

You’re lost in pleasure and ache and sin and Dieter pounding recklessly into your cunt. His grip paints bruises along your waist, battering thighs marking the inside of your hips. His claws dig into your flesh and sharp scrapes tighten your nipples. Hands roam up over your breasts, around your neck, pressing your wrists into the bed as ominous splintering and cracks echo in your ears. 

“Another before I cum on your tits, sweetheart,” he pants, spitting down onto your clit and circling it with vigor. You cry out, hips bucking as the thickness of his cock impedes on your quivering walls. “It’s so close baby, just cum around me. Let me feel you cum on all my cock this time.” 

“I can’t,” you cry out, shaking and sobbing around him. Dieter tuts, his rapidly increasing slap-slap-slap of thrusts maddening. 

“You can, and you will starlet. You didn’t think you’d take my cock. I didn’t think you’d take it, and look at you now. So you’re going to cum. You’re going to cum now.”

The order shakes the room, pictures rattling on the wall as a final flick hurtles you off into oblivion with Dieter’s roaring triumph right behind. He’s somehow still fucking his cock into you even though you’re so tight it almost hurts to be cumming so good. A final crackling roar and you’re achingly empty, followed by a hot splash of cum across your stomach. Then another cresting your breast, and more and more until you’re covered in it, sticky trails sliding to pool in your bellybutton and drip over your sides onto the covers. Dieter is gasping above you, glowing like a sacred artifact as he pumps the last drops from his cock. 

You close your eyes once and it’s a mistake. As soon as you let your eyelids touch exhaustion grips you, fighting your desperate attempts to reopen them. It’s battling this bone-deep tired when you experience Dieter’s return to a human form. The horns receding, tattoos fading to just the ones that grace tabloid pages. The wings fold away, and soon a sexy as hell rumpled and soft body replaces the supernatural one. 

“Wore you out, starlet?” Dieter Bravo asks, kneeling between your parted knees with a rakish smile. You try to return it with a nod but your whole body is heavy, the mess barely bothering you. Dieter hums thoughtfully, and in a few moments a warm washcloth is cleaning up his cum.

“Side effect of my influence, helps a lot in the moment but it’s got some pretty strong sedative properties. Good for a speedy exit.” His chuckle sounds faraway now, even as you try to clutch at it.

“Stay,” you manage to croak out, hands seeking his body. You find his hair again, nose buried in your sex as he licks softly at your folds. The building ache there creeps back down to something dull and manageable.

“Our contract is up, can’t stay once you’ve given me what I’m owed.” Dieter’s lips start leaving small kisses along your abdomen, fingers soothing your skin. “Even if it was very, very good.”

“Please,” you try again, racking your rapidly puttying mind for anything to keep his hands on you. 

“Even when you say it so sweetly,” Dieter says, but there’s melancholy now. It glances off your fingertips as sleep pulls you under. 

In the between world of dreams, you think he says something more to you, but Morpheus snatches it away. 

Hail, starlet, full of grace, Dieter is with thee. 

This might be the silliest thing I’ve ever…well, hmm…

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, all those delectable orgasms you gave me.

Holy starlet, bringer of…something special.

Pray for this sinner.

There’s blood on your sheets when you wake, though less than you expected. There’s also less pain, though the ache takes your breath away when you sit up too fast. Hobbling to the bathroom with the cool pink of morning light guiding, you inspect your body in the mirror. 

You don’t look much different than before. Some strange notion of losing your virginity making you suddenly appear “mature” is dashed away. Maybe there’s a little glint of a secret in your eye, but not much more. Actually, surprisingly not much more. You expected bruises, scratches along your body and love bites marring your landscape. Instead your canvas is unblemished, no marks or injuries to hide. It’s almost as if he’d never been there.

Sitting down on the toilet, you wonder if maybe he wasn’t. That you dreamt up debauchery due to food poisoning or someone spiking the punch at the Halloween party. You couldn’t possibly have summoned an incubus. 

A dark mark inside your thigh catches your attention, and any doubts dissipate. A ring of teeth, four larger fangs prominent, marrs the inside of your thigh. Brushing your fingertips over the circle, the skittering thrill of those memories settle in your chest. 

You ride on the endorphins for a few days, a handful of people noticing. A work friend tries to interrogate you on it but “a lady never tells” is a saucy enough reply for her to give an approving look. You buy a new bed online, the base of yours splintered to ruin, but you keep the cracked headboard like a souvenir.

Online dating doesn’t seem as daunting now that you’re not so worried about the dreaded “first time.” You even accept a few dates, meet some generally nice men with generally boring personalities. They don’t make your heart race like a certain celebrity whose name you googled briefly before slamming your laptop shut. They certainly don’t kiss like him, or make sexy little jokes or terrify you as much as intrigue you. 

So for a while you try to move on. There’s no other option, right? Dieter Bravo the Movie Star would never give you a second thought. Dieter Bravo the Incubus surely has better things to do, more lascivious living. So you try to find something even remotely like what you felt that night.

It’s mid-November when you find yourself sitting on your living room floor again, piece of chalk in hand. You lit candles this time, bought black lace lingerie, made yourself up to feel pretty. It doesn’t help your shaking hands as you pull the rug off the summoning circle. Touching up a few spots, you settle by the broken line where you released Dieter. It all popped off when you completed the circle last time, so with a deep breath and a swipe of the chalk, you reconnect the chalk.

And you wait.

And wait.

A bulb in a lamp flickers but it’s brief. An errant breeze almost snuffs out a candle. But nothing happens. Your knees are sore, eyes watering but you blink the tears away. 

It was a long shot, you have to admit. A fluke chance, never to be repeated. You’ll have to settle for something bland, safe, loving but…

Nothing like Dieter.

You’re about to get up from the floor when one other idea tempts you. Something you thought he might have said before leaving you ruined.

Pray for this sinner.

Clasping your hands in your lap, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. 

It’s been a long time since you last prayed.

“Dieter…” you whisper. The fine hairs on your neck rise up, but you press on.

“Dieter, I pray to thee,” you continue, closing your eyes. “Come to me in my hour of need.”

A pause, then a final entreaty. “Please.”

A rumble creeps into your body, tiny puffs of candles snuffing out reaching your ears. You dare not open your eyes yet, too hopeful for disappointment. Instead you wait, and hope.

A hot hand, thick fingered and human, slides up your chest, over your throat and cups your chin. Relief floods your body, melting back against a solid chest and chuckling lips.

“Hello, starlet,” Dieter croons in your ear, wrapping his arm around your waist and tucking his head into the crook of your neck. Your fingers search for curls, burying in his hair as you lace your fingers with his.

“You came,” you breathe, sparks igniting on your skin as he presses a line of kisses from your shoulder to your ear.

“How could I not, when you prayed so sweetly?” he teases, tugging you back to sit in the cradle of his crossed legs. “Smart of you to try the circle, but outside of all hallow’s eve you don’t have access to enough power for that trick.”

“But you came,” you repeat, turning your face into Dieter’s ministrations. He nips at the side of your jaw, soothing it with his lips before murmuring a confession into your skin.

“I hoped you would call again.”

A thick emotion swells in your chest, and you spin in his grasp to crash your mouths together. The momentum knocks him backwards to the floor, letting you straddle his waist and feast on his ample lips. His hands roam your back, reverent in their paths. When you break to suck in lungfuls of sweet air he leans up to mouth at your neck, possessive hand on your ass urging you to grind against him.

“Have you let anyone else fuck you?” he growls. To your delight the anxiety and trepidation that colored your first encounter is nowhere in sight. You smile wolfishly down at him.

“How could I? You’ve ruined me for any man,” you tease, and under your body he writhes, the whites of his eyes trading for inky black. “Plus, one time is hardly enough to know if I even like sex. I’ve barely begun to explore.”

The fangs flash between his kiss-swollen lips, and under the promise of any delight you desire you glimpse the even more exciting fondness that will draw you back to him again and again.

“Then we have a lot of work to do.”

END

Crawlin' back to you Ever thought of callin' when You've had a few? 'Cause I always do Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now, I've thought it through

The Arctic Monkeys, "Do I Wanna Know?"

[dontbelasagnax]

*curling like a cat against your ankles* Lasaganie, more Codywan headcanons?? 🥺👉👈 (only if you gave them/want to share of course. thank you, you’re amazing and I love you :3c)

I am late but I come bearing gifts in the shape of the codywan headcanons you asked for!!! And I love you too 🫶

- In a no order 66 setting, Obi-Wan has a caf mug that he considers to be Cody's. This would be normal except Obi-Wan bought it during the war and always meant to find the occasion to give it to him but never got around to it. That's to say he's exceedingly normal about this cup. Especially when Cody starts spending time around his apartment and Obi-Wan serves him caf in it. For the first time. Then all the other times as well. Feeling his heart crack open seeing Cody with His Designated Mug. A mug Obi-Wan's perhaps had too much time to place too much sentimental value onto. He's perfectly normal about it and doesn't act weird at all.

(more headcanons under the cut. it's a bit long)

- Cody is a hopeless romantic but won't ever admit it. He loves romance novels and holofilms. From trashy to highly acclaimed, sweet to stuffed with depravity, he enjoys them all. They're just a spot of escapism for him. A fantastical tale to distract himself from the toll of war when the night cycle is quiet and grief is loud. The stories are all so wildly outlandishly unrealistic to him. He's a clone. There's no future for him outside his role in the war effort.

And then one fateful campaign they're on their feet for a full tenday before they encounter an outcropping with flora and fauna that, finally, aren't actively trying to kill them and they are able to set up a tentative base of operation while planetside.

General Kenobi insists everyone rest while they can. Cody lost his bedroll to some sort of carnivorous plant along the way. General Kenobi acts like it's an affront to his very livelihood when Cody tries to sleep on the ground of their shared tent. Cody is tired. He doesn't have the energy to fight back on something so stupid. Which means they have to share a bedroll. His general's bedroll. Where they're physically incapable of both laying on the little mat unless they're plastered together. Cuddling.

It's the best sleep of his life.

...Exactly like how the romance novels describe it.

He's not dumb. He's been aware that he's in love with his general. He just thought the romance novels were all embellishing to a ridiculous degree and none of it was actually... realistic.

But if the romance novels are right about this, what else is just as magical in reality?

And maybe, just maybe, could there be some hope for a glimmer of a chance for him to pursue something else with Obi-Wan after the war, if they both make it that far?

- I am fully of the belief that, in a Tatooine husbands setting, the husband bit is a complete accident. Ben is stopping by for a quick pantry restock at the Pica Oaisis marketplace when it happens. He's lived at his hut long enough for the vendors here to have a familiarity with him so it's not exactly a surprise when one says to him, "Who's the shadow of a fella that's hangin' with you lately?" They mean well, he knows. And still, it's his business. He thinks his answer is quite crafty.

He says, "He's my partner," and leaves it at that. Partner could mean anything. Alas, either an older man living in an isolated hut with another older man implies a particular thing about their relationship or the vendors have a flair for the romantic because he quickly comes to discover on his next trips to the marketplace that he has a husband. Of all the assumptions one could make, it's certainly the most harmless and... he finds he likes it. Being seen as Cody's husband. It's all awfully embarrassing and he doesn't dare tell Cody any of it.

Cody discovers it for himself a few weeks later on a solo trip to the market to pick up some feed for Rooh.

"Here to do your husband's bidding?" a vendor asks and Cody blinks.

He blinks again. "Come again?" he says.

"Ben your husband; you're running his errand?"

His first instinct is to correct them, tell them he and Ben aren't married. But how would he even begin describe their relationship? After a few seconds deliberating he decides he's better off going with it. What harm could it do? Besides, on the ride home, he finds he kind of likes it.

And that's how they become husbands. Well, the beginning of it, anyhow.

[sirfrogsworth]

I've been watching the show 9-1-1 since it first aired 8 seasons ago. I have come to call it my "guilty pleasure" show.

Because it is stupid.

And ridiculous.

And wildly unrealistic.

And spectacular.

The show constantly challenges itself to create more and more insane disasters and crazy emergencies. And you'd think they'd eventually run out of ideas. But then some writer is like "what about a bee tornado?" and I just think "why the hell am I still watching this?"

Because it's a tornado made of beeeeeees.

This show is what Snakes on a Plane should have been.

"I'm tired of these monkey fighting bees in this Monday-to-Friday tornado!"

Now people are discovering this crazy-ass show and I feel like that smug hipster that knew about it beforehand.

Along with like 10 million other regular viewers.

It's actually very popular and always has been. But I guess a new batch of folks discovered it.

I think the most ridiculous part is not the bee tornados or the flying bouncy house or the anger sandwiches.

It's that oscar winning actress Angela Bassett is the show's lead and gives an acting master class every week on the goddamn bee tornado show.

[justsescape]

I want to see Asuka treated like a barn cow and milked consistently.-

"Another nineteen inches added to my bust measurement today," Asuka declared proudly. The tape measure was so tightly wound across her gigantic breasts that flesh was bulging around its length. "HA! No other cow in this barn can even hope to compare to my greatness. I am the best and most productive cow this barn has ever known!"

Asuka's body was downright unrealistically proportioned. Her arms and legs were so slender that they could have led her through a career in ballet -- but her boobs were like beanbag chairs, draping over her fragile figure like they aimed to cover it entirely. In her stall, she had taken up a habit of sitting atop one of her many, many filled milk barrels and letting her bust simply spread across her thighs and droop down until her downturned nipples grazed against her toes. Come nightfall, she never asked for a blanket. Slipping beneath her overdeveloped chest was like sleeping underneath a thick down comforter.

"Oooof... carrying the weight of this business makes my back hurt in more ways than one." Asuka had long since traded her Evangelion's hair clips for a cow-eared headband. The rest of her outfit was similar: cowprint thigh-highs, cowprint gloves, and a cowbell dangling from a collar around her neck. Practically the only thing that she couldn't cover up were her titanic tits. An entire alphabet's worth of bras trembled in fear at the mere thought of it. "But if my milk is the best, then it's my duty to serve the clueless masses!"

The measuring tape retracted from Asuka's chest as a pair of manhole-sized, clear plastic cones clung themselves to her oversized nipples. They didn't always land in the same place each day; familiar red rings still marred her pale skin as mementos of the previous week's sessions. The staff never let them fade completely. No one produced more milk than her.

"Would you hurry up and start already?!" Asuka's arms flailed as wildly as they could -- perhaps to overcompensate for all the ways the rest of her body now couldn't. The cowbell rang dully with every little tilt of her head. "It's not like I can drag my boobs down to the milking machine and do it myself! You know I would if I could, just so I wouldn't have to put up with you incompetent morons!"

Attached to the plastic cones were a pair of tubes that slunk lazily over the fence surrounding Asuka's stall. They snaked and coiled through the thoroughfare of the barn, into a door that was consistently ajar, and down a flight of stairs into an underground repository. Somewhere in the dark, they connected themselves to the barn's central milking machine. It was a towering, modular, deafening system -- like a server farm stacked on top of another server farm. Multiple clean-suit technicians ran around its perimeter, barking orders and readings and jargon at one another. Perhaps this was the job of the least-endowed cows.

The entire complex began to buzz. It took every ounce of power the barn could muster to service Asuka's outrageously productive breasts.

"Here it goes!" Asuka's toes curled in anticipation; her hands dug into her bust, skin bulging in between her fingers. "I'm ready!"

BZZZZZZZZZZZ!

It was less like a pump and more like a vacuum. Milk didn't come out of Asuka's nipples in rhythmic spurts, but in a hydrant-like flow that resembled that of a pressure washer. Her product coursed violently through the tubes like water through a fire fighter's hose. Other cows in the neighboring stalls -- some with D cups, some with beach balls, but none bigger than Asuka herself -- gripped their own fences as they watched the tubes jostle and shake against the hay-covered ground in the thoroughfare.

"MMMMMMMMF!~" A bit lip; trembling knees. Asuka's hands clutched the barrel she sat upon like she was a pilot gripping an ejected seat. "How... h-how does this f-feel... even... nnNNNnnfff~... even better every time...?!"

Down in the underground, the technicians rapidly exchanged full barrels of milk for empty ones. They stacked atop one another against the walls -- almost like the beer cans in Misato's apartment. Years ago, that was the place Asuka called home. Now she wouldn't be able to fit through the front door.

"Nnnngh... I... I can't... I c-can't st-stop myself... m... mmMMmmm... moooOOOOoooo~..."

Beads of sweat clung to the tips of Asuka's bangs. She panted like she had just run a marathon -- but the marathon of milking had only just begun.

[pets001]

Scene: The kitchen. The cat, Mr. Whiskers, is sitting on the counter, staring intently at his owner, Sarah, who is making breakfast.] ___________ Sarah: [stirring eggs in a pan] Oh, look at you, Mr. Whiskers. So, are you gonna just sit there and watch me cook, or are you gonna help? Mr. Whiskers: [giving her a flat stare] Help? Please. I’m here to observe your tragic attempts at feeding me. And frankly, it's an embarrassment. Sarah: [laughs] What are you talking about? I’m a great cook! I make you fresh food all the time! Mr. Whiskers: [slow blink] Yeah, fresh food that’s… [pauses]... mostly from cans. You know, that’s a very low bar. Sarah: [rolling her eyes] Oh, come on! You love your canned food! Mr. Whiskers: [sniffs the air dramatically] Canned food is the fast food of the feline world. Where’s the gourmet? Where’s the culinary art? I want a sushi-grade tuna. A salmon filet. A delicately seasoned quail... Maybe a sprinkle of catnip for flair. Sarah: [laughs] Oh, sure. Let me just go catch a quail in the backyard for you. You know, like I do every morning. Mr. Whiskers: [mock gasp] You don’t catch them? Ugh, pathetic. Well, while you’re at it, don’t forget to season it with patience and a dash of dignity... Sarah: [teasing] Dignity? You’re a cat who licks his butt in front of guests. That’s dignity? Mr. Whiskers: [pauses, then flicks tail] I prefer to think of it as... self-care. Sarah: [laughing hard] You’re unbelievable. Mr. Whiskers: [glaring] And you’re about to serve me eggs. Eggs, Sarah. The most basic food known to mankind. Have you no respect for my palate? Sarah: [smirking] You’re lucky I don’t just give you dry kibble. Mr. Whiskers: [shudders dramatically] Kibble?! The horror... [puts paw to forehead as if fainting] I could never. Sarah: [scooping eggs onto a plate] Well, you’d better eat them, because it’s either this or the vet bills again. Your stomach's been making sounds I don’t even want to describe. Mr. Whiskers: [sniffs plate skeptically] Sounds? If by sounds you mean “the call of my ancestors,” then yes. That’s exactly what you’re hearing. Sarah: [laughing] Sure, that’s totally what it is. I’m sure the "call of your ancestors" wants eggs. Mr. Whiskers: [stares down at eggs] I suppose I’ll eat these... today. But mark my words, Sarah: tomorrow, I’m demanding caviar. Sarah: [pretending to be shocked] Oh, absolutely! I’ll get right on that. [winks] Maybe I can convince the grocery store to carry a little "cat caviar." Mr. Whiskers: [eyes narrow] You better. [licks paw] Because, remember: I can always find a new owner. You’re lucky I like you. Sarah: [laughing as she walks away] Well, enjoy your eggs, Mr. Whiskers. I guess you do have standards... even if they are wildly unrealistic. Mr. Whiskers: [muttering to himself as he starts eating] I’m tolerating this. For now. __________ Fresh Meow Deals

[thesepaintedhands]

The WGA and AMPTP have reached a tentative deal to end the writer's strike 146 days after it started.

This is incredible news. As someone in the film and TV industry, I'm thrilled and I applaud the members of the WGA for their tenacity. They truly showed up and fought to make things better for future generations of writers, and they deserve everything they asked for (and hopefully won) with this deal. Fingers crossed that a similar deal will be reached soon between the AMPTP and SAG-AFTRA to end the actor's strike.

That being said, as someone working in VFX, I'm imploring everyone to be kind to VFX artists in the coming months. We all want the industry to make a comeback and to be part of bringing back the media we all know and love, but I can guarantee that the big studios of the AMPTP that contract out work to smaller VFX shops like mine are now going to try to make up as much lost revenue as possible. Shows that had production grind to a standstill are going to come back on condensed schedules, and since all the smaller shops have been hit hard by the strikes, they're going to take up as much work as possible. And VFX folks don't have unions. We don't have protections against gross amounts of overtime to stop the client studios from simply pulling a show from us if we can't bend over for a wildly unrealistic production schedule.

Again, I'm thrilled the WGA strike has an end in sight, but I'm also mentally preparing for a sucky few months ahead for myself and my friends and colleagues in post-production. And the work will suffer for it; it always does. So if the CG in your favorite shows or that movie you're looking forward to looks kind of wonky in the coming year, please be kind to the VFX artists. We're always doing the best we can with what we're given, and I think we're about to be given a lot less than usual.