#also they way harlan ellison voices him is just so fucking good

[rararasputins-dick-mind-control]

same

[buzzdixonwriter]

You Don’t Say

For me, one of the unforeseen benefits of Facebook and other social media is that it gives me a chance to do rough drafts of ideas, assembling my thoughts and getting feedback before committing to more permanent form.

And sometimes, like asteroids colliding in space, two separate ideas / posts slam into one another and either create something new and unexpected, or else shatter themselves and reveal interesting aspects of their nature heretofore hidden from view.

That happened recently with a pair of Facebook posts I made on Dennis Prager and Harlan Ellison.

Let’s get the turd out of our mouth first.

. . .

Dennis Prager is a purveyor of herpetology lubricants admired by many on the right-leaning-nazi side of the spectrum, primarily because he keeps his mouth closed when chewing.  Half of what he says is repackaged self-evident truths of the “Don’t eat the yellow snow” variety, a quarter is opinions that if not startling original are at least not genuinely harmful, and the remain quarter is egregious bullshit for which he deserves a public pants down spanking.

Hmm, what?  Oh, yes; purely metaphorically, of course.

I long since wrote off Prager as a. utterer of inanities, but recently his turdmongering was forced on my attention by someone who posted a link to Prager’s argument that the “left” (i.e., basically anybody who thinks Auschwitz was a Bad Idea) is inflicting harm on both the American body politic and the universe at large by denying people like Prager the right to drop the N-bomb whenever they feel like it.

As some of you no doubt already knew, Prager is a member of what polite bigots used to refer to as “those of the Hebrew persuasion”.

That a person from an ethnicity that historically suffered hatred so vicious and specifically targeted that a special word had to be created for it (“anti-Semitism” because the original word -- “Jew-hatred” -- was too damned ugly even for bigots to use) now has his knickers in a twist because he’s “not allowed” to use the only other word of equal or greater impact -- also coined specifically by oppressors for expressing unrestrained hate and contempt against those oppressed -- is so rich in irony that all I can do is swipe a phrase from Jim Wright over at Stonekettle Station and say Dennis Prager has “all the self-awareness of a dog licking its own asshole in the middle of the street”.

First off, he’s lying: Neither the “left” nor American law prevents him from dropping the N-bomb whenever he feels like it and I invite him to go down to the intersection of Normandie and Florence in South Central and drop it at the top of his lungs for as long as he is able and please make sure to take plenty of video recorders along because I really wanna see what happens next.

Second, why the fuck would you want to say that? Seriously, other than in an evidentiary context (a cop giving testimony in court, a journalist reporting what some bigoted politician says, etc.), who today gains anything from repeating the word other than inflicting unjustified distress on people who have done nothing to deserve it?

(This is the point where a bunch of alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and say “but whatabout all the times when black people say it?” and to those trolls I’m gonna say STFU & STFD; if you can’t grasp the difference in context then you’re too damned stupid to be allowed out in public except at the end of a leash and with a ball gag in your mouth.)

It’s a word specifically created and designed to be used to brutally oppress people who did nothing to deserve that brutal oppression.  Why would anybody outside that group use it except to participate in that brutal oppression?

. . .

Least there sit any in the cheap seats who presume the above rant was targeted at Dennis Prager simply because he was Jewish, guess again, ya yutzes.

Few writers enjoyed as brilliant and as incendiary a career as Harlan Ellison, and I count myself privileged to have been one of his friends.

Ellison, as many of you know, also was Jewish, a damned tough little bastard, singled out for hatred and abuse as the only Jewish child in his backwater Ohio school, growing up with nerves & balls of chromium, a bona fide Army Ranger, and a writer so honest and fearless that when he wrote about juvenile delinquency in the 1950s he did so by infiltrating and joining a street gang to get first hand experience and insight on the kids who ran in that crowd (and as icing on the cake, James Caan played him in the TV version!).

Top that, Dennis.

Harlan’s electric eclectic career features many highpoints, but the one I want to focus on is his brief 4-year run as TV critic for the legendary Los Angeles Free Press (a.k.a. The Freep) from 1968 to 1972.  

What’s interesting is that Harlan did this while at the same time at the height of his demand as a TV writer.

You got any idea how hard it is to make a living while you’re gnawing on the hand that feeds you?

Harlan may have been crazy, but damn it, he was honest.

Back to the issue at hand.

Recently I’ve been re-reading his TV criticism columns, collected in two volumes, The Glass Teat and The Other Glass Teat.

The depressing thing is that all the evil we see today was in place back in those days, and the same smug pious frauds and their dimbulb marks kept congratulating themselves how wonderful they were as things continued to spiral out of control.

Oh, we've had good moments when we made changes that improved the lot of people who'd previously been marginalized, but the core cancer is still there. Harlan was no cock-eyed sentimentalist -- he was often filled with anger and could vent it spectacularly at deserving targets -- but he did have hope that somehow we could keep nudging the ball further towards the goal lines.

The columns make fascinating reading; they are nowhere near as dated as one might suspect. Sometimes they offer diamond-like brilliant dissections of a particular instant in the cultural gestalt, other times they examine the unseen (well, to most audiences, that is) tides of Hollywood that shape our media, sometimes he turns his attention to bear on seemingly insignificant and forgotten local programming only to show with McLuhan-esque clarity how that tiny piece of seemingly insignificant fluff is symptomatic of a much wider, much vaster, and far more serious problem.

One entry caught my eye in particular, the March 7, 1969 column on a failed ABC pilot called Those Were The Days.

Harlan sat in the studio audience watching the taping of that pilot, and his column praised the courage and insight of producers Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin, the brilliant performances of Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton, and the raw honesty of the pilot’s sharp comedy and writing.

Those of you not in the cheap seats have already realized this was the second failed pilot for what would eventually become All In The Family over at CBS (there was an even earlier original pilot called Justice For All back when Archie and Edith’s last name was Justice, not Bunker.)

I remember the hoopla when All In The Family finally aired in January of 1971 as a mid-season replacement.

You might count Archie Bunker as the white Dolemite insofar as the comedy sprang from the shock of all the crude and vulgar things he said.

Lear and Yorkin were mocking that mindset, belittling bigotry, exposing the Babbittry of millions of “good” Americans who lacked either the self-awareness or the courage to take a long introspective look at themselves and realize how badly they were failing as citizens of this country.

Audiences weren’t supposed to like Archie Bunker.

And that’s where Lear and Yorkin made their fatal mistake.

No, audiences didn’t like Archie.

They loved him.

. . .

Asteroids collide, and sometimes they form new planets, and sometimes they shatter and expose what lies beneath.

Prager’s modern day Babbittry crashed into Harlan’s half-century old anti-Babbittry, and from the explosion a stark truth revealed itself.

It’s almost impossible to make an outlaw a villain in popular media.

No matter how many banks they rob, stages they hold up, sheriffs they shoot, the mere fact that somebody wrote a song / dime novel / movie about ‘em makes them into heroes.

Demi-gods.

People to be admired.

Emulated.

Professional wrestling knows this.

You can never be so big a heel that you won’t have a legion of followers.

And you can turn a heel into a baby face in the blink of an eye and none of the fans will remember the despicable acts the wrassler did just last week.

You put an Archie Bunker on TV, you do not get millions of people to recognize themselves in his hateful / hurtful behavior and change their ways.

Oh, hell no; you get millions of people to applaud him for saying and doing what they say and do in private.

And now that it’s all big and bold and brassy on TV, why it becomes even easier to say it in the privacy of your own home, then over the fence with the neighbors, then in the bar down the street, then on the street itself, and then against people who have done you no harm, who have committed no sin other than the heinous crime of not being exactly like you.

I remember watching and liking All In The Family when it first came on because I, like millions of other Americans, got the joke:  Archie was no hero.

But it wasn’t long before the voices cheering Archie began to drown out the voices laughing at him.

Lear and Yorkin tried undoing their damage with Maude and The Jeffersons and Good Times and other spinoff shows, but the bigot was out of the bottle.

Archie Bunker, even though written in a way to ridicule his use of bigotry and stereotypes, became a champion and defender of those who clung to said bigotry and stereotypes.

So tell me again why you want to drop that N-bomb, Dennis.

Explain to me -- even while you talk out of both sides of your mouth and claim even if everybody can use they word maybe they shouldn’t use the word -- how that does anything to help anybody…

…other than bigots and hate mongers.

Your argument is as circular as the thumb and forefinger gesture white supremacists use to signal one another, a gesture deliberately chosen because it lets them transgress openly by lying about the truth meaning of their gesture.

And Harlan, you were right about Those Were The Days as it began evolving into All In The Family.  Absolutely brilliant -- but absolutely deadly.

Not airing All In The Family wouldn’t have eliminated racial / ethnic / sexual prejudice in the United States…

…but it would have denied those ideas a voice.

The narcissist always proclaims, “I don’t care what they say about me so long as they spell my name right.”

Well, that’s what we got with Archie Bunker.

None of the bigots cared if we made fun of their ideas…

…just so long as they got their ideas out there.

Because ideas are made legitimate by their presence.

Now clearly, this is a bade that cuts both ways.

Ideas once unthinkable -- liberty and justice for all in the form of racial and gender equality, f’r instance -- need to be championed in public.

But we need to shout down and stamp out the bad ideas.

The United States took their foot off the neck of the defeated white racists after the end of the Civil War, and as a result jim crow came roaring back, and things did not change for millions of Americans for another entire century.

We allowed bigots and hate mongers and slavers to be whitewashed and glorified and forgiven for their crimes against humanity…

…and in the process we allowed them to continue victimizing African-Americans more and more.

Every song about the Ol’ South, every novel glorifying plantation life, every movie showing happy field hands, every statue commemorating murderous traitors as men of honor and principle, every single iteration of that idea made millions of people’s suffering not just possible but inevitable.

. . .

Now this is the point where the alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and ask “did you ever drop the N-word?”

Not in casual conversation, no.

I was born and raised in the South (Appalachia, mostly); my father’s side of the family were almost all Southerners.

Almost all.

My paternal grandmother was born and raised in New Jersey and met my grandfather when both served in the U.S. Army medical corps in WWI.  When my grandfather died in his 40s, my grandmother originally moved back to New Jersey, but her three children (dad and two aunts) felt heartbroken at having to leave their Southern cousins and friends behind so even though she carried no particular love for the South, my grandmother moved her family back and stayed there for the most of her life (she and one of my aunts moved out to California to be near us, but that’s another story for another post).

One thing my grandmother absolutely refused to tolerate was use of the N-bomb anywhere near her, especially under her roof or in the homes of her children.

This included both the -er and -ra variants, because Southern racists who didn’t want to appear as uncultured and as boorish and as bigoted as their backwoods cousins preferred the second pronunciation because they could claim they were actually speaking respectfully about “colored people”.

So I grew up in the rare white Southern home where the N-bomb merely wasn’t used, it was actually denounced as wrong.

Now, don’t go thinking my grandmother was some great paragon of virtue; she wasn’t (she was hell on wheels, in fact, but that’s another story for another post).

But she did recognize there was something wrong with the use of the N-bomb, and whether she demanded her children never use it in any form to keep them from appearing to be boorish, bigoted louts, or whether she just thought it was simple good manners of the golden rule variety not to use it, I dunno.

But I do know we never used it, and when my parents heard our neighbors or schoolmates use it, we were reminded in no uncertain terms that we were never to use it.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t used it.

A couple of decades ago I wrote a screenplay based on the life of Robert Smalls, in particular his incredible escape from Civil War Charleston by hijacking a Confederate gunboat and sailing it right past Ft. Sumter to join the Union fleet, bringing his wife and several other escaping African-Americans with him.

As a skilled harbor pilot, Smalls enjoyed certain privileges other enslaved African-Americans didn’t.

For example, he was allowed to go about the streets of Charleston unescorted…

…provided he wore a big diamond shaped brass tag around his neck.

Like a dog.

The tag indicated to slave catcher patrols that he was one of the “good” ones, that he could be trusted because he was helping his masters in their struggle against the Union by guiding blockade runners into the safety of Charleston harbor.

But knowing Southerners the way I do, and knowing the kind of low class good ol’ boy types they recruited for such jobs, I couldn’t imagine the slave catcher patrols being particularly courteous to him, even when they knew they had to let him pass because clearly he had the protection of some high positioned muckamuck.  

And I could easily imagine them flinging the N-bomb at him with great glee, taunting him, daring him to act “uppity” so they could beat the crap out of him and teach him some manners and remind him of his place.

So I used the word in their dialog in my script.

Would I use that word today?

Probably not.

It’s not that crucial to the story, and if the viewer doesn’t grasp the concept that these are bigoted bully scum from their actions and attitude, then I’ve failed my job as a writer.

Have I ever quoted people who dropped the N-bomb?

Yeah, I have, in the past.

I’ve quoted Richard Pryor and Blazing Saddles and Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction.

I would excuse it then as the aforementioned evidentiary context but ya know what?  I don’t quote those lines anymore.

I still think Pryor is hilarious and will recommend his routines to anyone I think might be interested, but he as a member of the African-American community at large (because like any other ethnic group, African-Americans have numerous sub-cultures and sub-communities among them), he could say things in a way neither I nor any other white person could say them.

(And, yeah, there’s a big debate going on to this very day among African-Americans about the appropriateness of that word and you know what?  Whatever decision African-Americans reach for themselves is their business and should not involve any input whatsoever from we white folk; we not only can’t use the word, we can’t even comment on how they choose to use it.  Period.  Full stop.)

Blazing Saddles when it came out used the N-bomb to be deliberately transgressive, to make a sympathetic point re how unfairly African-Americans were treated.

All well and good.

But nine years earlier there had been a movie called A Patch Of Blue and while it wasn’t a raucous comedy like Blazing Saddles it tried making a point about race relations in America and it was a really. Really good movie and it made some important points but today is virtually unwatchable not because of any flaws in it but because the times have changed.

Ditto Blazing Saddles.

We don’t need to approach the problem that way any more.

Quentin Tarantino?  I really like what he does as a director and a screenwriter but his use of the N-bomb to show us how transgressive his characters are is really shallow.  I have a strong feeling his movies are going to be considered embarrassingly passé’ in a generation or two, much the same way as benign-yet-stereotypical characters in 1940s movies render many of them passé’ today.  

Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction lose nothing by changing the N-word to something else.  

Maybe an argument could be made for its use in Django Unchained or The Hateful 8 but even there I think substituting another word wouldn’t significantly change the tenor or tone of either movie.

So I stop quoting those lines from Tarantino’s films, at least not fully.

I can admire his skill / talent / craft without signing off on his problematic elements.

Let me offer an analogy: If a creator can get the same dramatic effect by pretending to shoot somebody but not actually blasting them with a gun, then they can get the same dramatic effect by using something evocative of the N-bomb without actually dropping it.

(By the way, for those who may be curious, my mother was from Naples and a bona fide card carrying member of Mussolini’s Fascist Youth Brigade, but that’s another story for another post.)

. . .

We are plunging into a new cultural conflict -- and while I think there will be violence, I don’t see it being violence on the scale or level of political organization as the Civil War -- and we can only win by refusing to let the bigots and the hate mongers spew their bullshit in the marketplace of ideas.

There is no compromise with an oppressor.

Stand up to it every time you encounter it.

Make it unthinkable, never acceptable. 

  © Buzz Dixon

[skittidyne]

so uh. daisuga tentacle sex. set in the bbac verse. i don’t want to say anything else here that might incriminate myself further. 

Daichi knows enough about magic to know that angels and demons don’t mix.

He also knows, in order: his boyfriend is kinda sorta partially angelic and not in the sense that he’s pretty or sweet, Suga has a really fucking weird job, and that this particular job involves a love spirit.

Daichi also knows that typed spirits tend to be annoying to take care of, and that the last love spirit incident had involved French maids and high heels.

This one doesn’t, sadly.

This one just involves Suga begging in that pretty, saccharine voice that doesn’t work on Daichi, and batting those big doe eyes that do work on Daichi, that he needs help with something. No, he can’t ask Tadashi, because Tadashi is too young to be dealing with love spirits. Yes, he needs help, because someone got the bright idea to try to make a chimera out of a ghost. No, he can’t ask Kei, because that’s unfair to him to bring up a love spirit/demon hybrid when he’s still sorting out his own shit. No, he absolutely will not ask Tooru or Iwaizumi. That’s just a no.

Daichi says yes.

Daichi says yes because Suga coyly informs him that it could get spicy, and he’d feel better with Daichi around, and honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s falling for any of this. They’re past the point that they have to dance around subjects. If Suga needs help with something, then he needs help, and Daichi will do it if he can.

Suga had explained, in explicit and great detail, what exactly they would be dealing with. Love spirits can give you a contact high, plus create concentrated aphrodisiacs, though he doubts this chimera could do much on that front. Demons can only have settled forms with time and practice, something Daichi has rather taken for granted in the cases of dealing with Kuroo, so there would probably be creative definitions of the term ‘limb’.

He’s expecting tentacles.

He got tentacles.

“We have to subdue it, not kill it,” Suga reminds him when Daichi reaches for his dogtags. “We’re getting paid to return this pet, not smear it on the ground.” Which is why Suga needed help at all.

Daichi takes one last steeling breath to remind himself that he’s about to try to seduce what looks, for all intents and purposes, like a be-tentacle’d pink blob. He doesn’t want to think about why someone created this. He doesn’t want to think about someone keeping this.

Suga, of course, doesn’t bat an eye, because Suga isn’t fazed by anything short of the apocalypse anymore and Suga also tends to forget that Daichi isn’t as into the magical community as he is. Suga disrobes, folding his coat neatly, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Suga,” Daichi says, eyes on the wriggling mass before them, “you’re sure this isn’t going to go somewhere weird, right?”

“It’s going somewhere weird, Daichi,” Suga deadpans.

“I mean—we’re not in danger, are we?”

“It’s part love spirit, which are harmless themselves and get off on others getting off, and part demon. It’s not an incubus or succubus. It doesn’t even have a mouth.”

Daichi thinks of Harlan Ellison as he pulls off his own coat. Maybe he should have taken Suga up on the blindfold offer. “And, just as a point of curiosity, what if certain parties can’t get it up in front of the tentacle jello mold?”

Suga rolls his eyes, but fondly, and that reassures Daichi on some level that must be a cosmic joke. Suga strides over to the beast—it’s about waist-high and despite having no visible eyes, it very clearly recoils from his approach—and grabs one of the tentacles.

Suga pets over it a few times, as if to reassure it of his intentions, and while it still quivers in fear before him, it also melts a little, too. It makes a sound that Daichi would certainly call a purr, and he hates himself for it.

Faster than Daichi would expect, another one of the tentacles whips around and curls itself around Suga’s thigh. He stumbles, forward, and it catches him with another. “Not exactly shy, are you?” Suga asks, and it wiggles happily.

And then tries to shove a tentacle in his mouth.

Suga splutters and grabs it, reeling back with a wet gasp, and Daichi can’t help but stare when he sees all the faintly pink and shining slickness smeared around Suga’s mouth. He licks it off his lips with the air of a very solemn researcher. “It’s supposed to taste like whatever you like. Daichi, come try this!”

And he waves the tentacle and splatters more of that pinkish goop over his face and neck.

“You’re going to stain your clothes,” Daichi points out, rooted to the spot.

“Help me take this off,” Suga coos, and Daichi has never seen buttons come undone so fast before. It’s a minor miracle nothing rips. Suga shrugs out of his shirt, and the tentacles greedily slide up his legs next, smearing over dark denim and cupping his crotch. “It’s really well-behaved. Is this how you want to do it?”

Suga had given Daichi two options: Suga distracts it, probably winds up in a puddle of his own juices somewhere, and Daichi herds the thing into their pen. Or, Daichi and Suga team up, and they both grab it after it’s exhausted, presumably because together they’ll still be able to move. Divide its attention, supposedly. Suga hadn’t pressured Daichi either way, and had made sure this job was alright with him to begin with, but Daichi hadn’t given him an answer yet.

The air smells sickly sweet and he is morbidly fascinated by Suga covered in that shiny goop.

It’d be smarter to have Suga in working order, in case Daichi needs help, right?

“Oh, it wasn’t supposed to be able to cast thralls,” Suga pouts. The nearest tentacle again tries to insert itself into his mouth, and he bats it away. It recoils with an unmistakable whine. He grabs it again, and soothes over it, like he’s petting a small animal or something.

Then, he shifts his hand, and it’s less petting and more stroking.

Suga keeps an eye on Daichi—trying very hard to seem like he’s not, which kind of makes it cuter—and casually jacks off the tentacle in his grip. His hand is covered and dripping with slickness, running down his wrist, and the tentacles around his thighs rub eagerly against him. “Pants off, these are getting tight,” he politely tells it, and he’s hardly done with the sentence before it’s deftly unbuttoning his jeans and yanking them down. Suga stumbles forward, and this time it doesn’t catch him.

He faceplants directly into the monster of the day’s pulsating body.

Suga rears back with a wet gasp, covered in that shining liquid, up into his hair and down his exposed thighs. He wipes frantically at his face, smearing it away from his mouth and eyes, and tries to stumble back. Daichi catches him, and the tentacle beast politely removes Suga’s pants from around his ankles.

Suga is a little more immune to it than Daichi should be, but that’s pushing it. “Well, shit,” Suga slurs, and his raspy voice goes straight to Daichi’s growing arousal. “‘Kay, I’m… I’m a lost cause now…” Suga turns his head, nosing shamelessly at Daichi’s neck, otherwise limp in his arms.

“Are you okay?”

“Juuuust fine,” Suga tells him. He sounds drunk. Daichi supposes it could be similar, though drunk Suga is usually sleepier and more prone to absolutely adorable secret-spilling. (Maybe he should get his hopes up.) “It tastes like cinnamon, Daichi. And you smell so fucking good.”

“That’s because you made me wear cologne on a monster-hunting job,” Daichi replies, somehow sounding far more composed than he feels. His eyes remain on Suga’s desperately tented briefs.

“I like the way you smell,” Suga tells him like this is a secret.

Daichi follows the way a tentacle winds its way up Suga’s leg, leaving a trail of pinkish slickness as it goes. It’s halfway up his thigh when Suga cants his hips upward, seeking its touch.

The Daichi Stays Out Of The Action plan largely hinged upon Daichi staying far enough away to avoid the worst of any weird sex pollen shit and allowing Suga to, as it were, act as distraction. Daichi is already pretty sure he has a buzz, or whatever the terminology is. He is definitely hard, and his nose burns a little from the sweet smell in the air.

He’s kind of curious what it tastes like for him.

“Join me?” Suga purrs against his throat.

Daichi wants to. So he does.

Still bracing Suga upright, he reaches out with one hand, and a tentacle eagerly reaches back. It’s cooler to the touch than he expects, and the slickness has about the same consistency of lube, though no surprise there. “Are we supposed to use this as lube?” he can’t help but ask.

Suga laughs like a drunk sack of potatoes. Daichi doesn’t know how the simile works, but it does, because Daichi is going to cut himself some slack with his remaining sobriety. “Y’know how, in college, you hear about dumb guys doing shit like putting booze up their asses to get drunk?”

“What the fuck kind of college experience did you have?!”

“I didn’t,” Suga tells him and pats at his chest. “You should take your shirt off.”

“Why are people putting alcohol up their asses, Suga?” Daichi asks, only halfway distracted by the tentacle monster shuffling closer with gross squelching noises.

“It bypasses the liver, and you get drunk, like, instantly. You also get alcohol poisoning and die, like, instantly.”

Daichi has forgotten why they’re talking about this. He’s mesmerized by the wet slide of the tentacle’s tip between his fingers. It’s a little softer than a dick, but harder than silicone, and the way it moves. No wonder Suga had been so enraptured.

“If you put this up your ass, you’re gonna be high and horny into next week,” Suga tells him and pats his chest again. He adds something else, about most love spirits not making this kind of shit, or something; Suga trails off just before Daichi’s attention does, and they both end up watching the way Daichi grasps the tentacle and allows it to thrust into his fist.

“It’s so…” Daichi doesn’t know how to finish it. His skin kind of tingles where it touches, but it’s fun to touch. It feels so strong. It’s not quite as thick as he or Suga, but there are a couple of various other sizes, and who knows what else tentacle monsters can do.

Suga grabs another and slicks both his hands with it. “This could be some fun finger painting,” he says as he draws his fingers down his own chest.

“Fun couples bonding activity.”

“Isn’t it?!” Suga exclaims with delight.

He finally leans his weight up and off Daichi, though he is instantly supported again by a thicker tentacle wrapped around his waist. Another slides up to cup him through his briefs, and Suga groans, rocking shamelessly into it. Daichi steps forward, wraps his arms around Suga’s waist right above the tentacle, and hooks his chin over his shoulder so he can watch.

“Have it take that off for you,” Daichi whispers in Suga’s ear before biting down on the shell of it. Suga moans this time.

“Undress,” Suga orders, and the tentacle beast purrs even more loudly, eagerly complying.

More tentacles circle around him, however, and begin pushing at Daichi’s shirt. They have to separate to do so, and Suga turns, then sinks down to his knees. He reclines against the tentacle beast, legs cocked wide, and it trails the tips of many tentacles over his skin, drawing wet, gleaming lines Daichi wants to follow with his tongue.

He pulls his shirt over his head with help, and by then, it already has his pants around his thighs. Suga crooks a finger and Daichi steps out of his pants, and towards him. The tentacle chimera should be sated by an orgasm or two, feeding off of the sexual high as well as come, and Daichi is more than happy to help by this point.

Suga tilts his head up to Daichi and his mouth falls open, tongue out.

A tentacle beats Daichi anywhere, however, and Suga makes a startled noise as it finally gets what it wants. He doesn’t usually have much of a gag reflex; Daichi is both worried and shamefully turned on by the sound of Suga gagging, even if it’s not on his cock.

Suga pulls the tentacle out of his mouth, saliva and pinkish goop running down his chin, and sucks in a wet breath. “Are you okay?” Daichi asks, cupping his face, pushing his hair out from his eyes, checking him over for signs of actual distress.

“It tastes like a shot of fireball,” Suga tells him, high as a fucking kite by now. His eyes are blown huge, lidded, cheeks flushed a beautiful rosy color. Suga opens his mouth again, this time pulling his hand free from another tentacle in order to pull Daichi closer. “Let me taste you next.”

Daichi wouldn’t want to disappoint, now would he. With more than a little help, he shimmies out of his pants and boxers, and Suga is leaning up and forward to mouth at his cock before Daichi can blink.

First: he notices immediately the difference between feeling that weird slickness and Suga’s own spit. Second: it feels really fucking good. Third: Suga is in no mood to tease, licking over Daichi just a few times before guiding him down and swallowing around him.

Daichi groans and cards his fingers back through Suga’s sweaty, slick hair.

Several come up to try to push themselves into Daichi’s mouth, too, but he bats them away and they take the hint. He does get the pink shit smeared over his lips, however, and he can’t help but taste; it tastes like watermelon, light and fruity, and Daichi finds himself wanting more just for the sheer novelty of it.

As if reading his mind, Suga pulls off his cock with a gasp and yanks Daichi down to his level. Their teeth click when they first try to kiss, but Suga tilts his head to better accommodate, and then things even out. They kiss open-mouthed and sloppy and filthy. A tentacle runs over Suga’s cheek, and Daichi tastes watermelon again, and soon he tilts his head to chase that instead.

Suga quickly grabs his jaw and shoves his fingers into Daichi’s mouth instead. Daichi groans and sucks on them, savoring the flavor, the press of Suga’s fingers against his tongue. At first, he thinks Suga is the one with his hand around his cock, too, but then Daichi realizes that Suga does not actually have that many hands.

Suga releases his jaw, and reaches down to the tentacle enveloping Daichi’s cock. Daichi groans, desperate, against his fingers. Arousal curls low in his belly, warring with the hot buzz of the chimera’s goop. He wants to come, he wants to get rid of the strange feeling, but more than that he wants to chase the feeling. He wants to get lost in it.

Suga, however, keeps Daichi grounded.

He pulls his fingers free of his mouth, trailing the wet digits down his chin and then his throat, and whispers against his mouth, “You’re going to come for me, Daichi. You’re going to be so fucking good for me, and I love you so fucking much. You’re doing so good, helping me with this.”

“Fuck,” Daichi pants against him. Suga winds him up better than any magical monster ever could. “Fuck, Koushi,” Daichi groans and his thrusts stutter into the matching grasps of the tentacle and Suga’s hand.

Suga surprises him and moans loudly against Daichi’s mouth, and comes into the grip of another tentacle. Come drips down around the tentacle, mixing prettily with the pink goop everywhere, and Suga gasps and keens as it keeps going. Daichi, enraptured, is blindsided by his own orgasm.

It isn’t exactly more intense than usual, but there’s something desperate about the way he climaxes, like he’d die without it. It takes forever, a high, cresting wave of pleasure, and Suga kisses him through it even as his hand stills and the tentacle takes over.

By the time the tentacles are withdrawing, dripping white, Daichi has slumped forward into Suga’s arms, feeling rather numb.

“Thought sex demons were supposed to give you multiple rounds,” he mutters, sluggish, into Suga’s shoulder.

“It will, but you can’t stand that,” Suga tells him, and rubs his back. “C’mon, up, you gotta get away from this before it takes it as an invitation.”

“What ‘bout you?” Daichi asks. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to move ever again.

“I got this. I’m a little sturdier than you, and I’m not the one who always falls asleep after an orgasm.”

“No, you just fall asleep during.”

“I got this,” Suga repeats and kisses Daichi’s temple.

Despite the fact that he trips and faceplants onto the monster again in an effort to corral it properly, now that it’s sated and just as exhausted as they are, Suga successfully wins. He captures the tentacle monster, they’re going to get paid, and Daichi still believes his brain is oozing out of his ears.

They end up sleeping two hours in Daichi’s car until the monster’s owner swings by to pick it up, has mercy on them, and gets them an uber home.

When Tooru checks them over the next day, he can’t breathe for how hard he’s laughing, but they get the prognosis anyway: they’ll both be high and painfully horny for another twelve hours at least. But they got paid handsomely, both of them have the day off, and Suga keeps eyeing Tooru’s couch like he’s about to mount Daichi on top of it. Tooru quickly sends them home. Daichi would have paid a significant amount of money to know Suga’s exact thought process, potentially as inspiration for later that night.

After washing thoroughly, and nearly fucking in the shower, they end up breaking their own marathon sex records twice over.

And Daichi ends up breaking Suga’s own record of longest period sleeping, too, which amuses him enough that he doesn’t make too many jokes about what he dubs The Second Love Spirit Incident.

“It wasn’t a love spirit,” Daichi mutters, angrily, into his pillow.

“If we call it the chimera incident, Kei is going to die a little more on the inside each time. He doesn’t have much left, Daichi.”

“Come back to bed.”

“Daichi, I think your dick will fall off if you try to get hard again.”

Daichi proves him wrong.