A Deal | Vox x Gen Z Reader
A/N— Decided to turn my little drabble into a little series of one-shots based off of ideas I come up with and any requests y'all may have for it 💅🏻 ALSO a huge thank you to @writteninlunarlight-years for the idea that inspired me to kickstart the series! It's very much 'enemies to lovers' core (kinda, I guess?), but I have no idea how far this will go lol. Hope everyone enjoys this — sorry it took so long :)
Warnings: Reader is implied female, Valentino existing, mentions of souls being owned, reader is close to being an overlord
Word Count: 1,724
Summary: You were a growing threat — and what better way to keep an eye on said threat, than to have you start living under the same roof as three of the most influential overlords in Hell? This is only the beginning. . .
Since your arrival to Hell, things had been nothing short of interesting — from your offers that couldn't be refused, all the way to the demon's that warily approached or backed off when you were near.
It was quite the spectacle.
You were quickly rising within the ranks of Hell, from a mere sinner to damn near an overlord — for all the souls you claimed in a few short months. It was noticeable — your social climbing.
What you hadn't expected was two overlords reaching out in the same day, both itching for some sort of deal.
You'd heard whispers of the feared Radio Demon and practically laughed at the thought of people being scared of him — sure his smile was off-putting, but other than that, you didn't really see the hype.
So when he approached you outside of the Café you'd began to frequent, striking up casual conversation as if you were old friends, you quickly understood what was going on.
He was powerful. You were becoming more powerful. He offered guidance and you knew there was a 'but' coming.
When it dropped, you sighed, before sipping on your warm beverage.
"I can offer you guidance, and in return, I want your soul as a pledge of undying loyalty, my dear!" He made a hand motion, as if he planned on writing your name in the stars — could you even see the stars from Hell?
"I'm sorry — but other than guidance, what do I get out of it? I've done well on my own for the last six months."
Protection. Respect. Free housing. It had almost been tempting — especially the free housing, especially in that economy. . . But in the end, you had told him that you'd think about it.
In reality, you wouldn't.
Giving up your freedom for half the shit you could get on your own? He had you fucked up.
Then there was Vox; the wide open rival of Alastor. You'd actually seen him around, having been in a couple clubs he was coincidentally visiting at the same time.
When he approached you, it was three hours later and you were actively sending a message to the group chat of demons whose souls you owned, over Sinstagram. You were simply reminding them of the consequences if they took the food that CLEARLY had your name written on it.
You didn't care that you were sitting in a restaurant — if any of them touched that leftover sub quarter, you'd kill them, and not in a funny or ironic way. You'd actually kill them double dead with no return.
When you looked up, he questioned your business with 'the fossil' and was met with a blank stare rather than words.
He clarified that he meant Alastor.
"Oh. I don't have any." You replied simply, reading the few messages that popped up on screen.
At the revelation, he was pleased and began listing off all of the things he could provide that Alastor 'would fail miserably at'.
Money. Protection. Respect. A sounding board for ideas. Anything your heart desired. All at a small cost of being under his surveillance almost 24/7.
That snatched your attention away from the two demons who began arguing in their native languages. Did you understand them? Fuck no. Would you be translating that later? Abso-fuckin-lutely.
"And what's in it for you?" You asked the TV demon. You didn't like the thought of being under surveillance and having little to no privacy, but his deal had already been sweetened by Vox not wanting your soul.
"Power all the way around. With my influence, you can be a billion times better than that staticky prick. You'll practically have demons begging on their knees."
"Tempting." You admitted.
"What do you think?"
"Eh, fuck it. Why the hell not?"
From there it was a flurry of events — you remembered eating, but then you were leaving with Vox and then quickly found yourself in a meeting room with the other Veez and shit you had to sign, stating that you wouldn't spill any details of the inner workings of any of the three companies.
Who did he take you for?
Once you read each document thoroughly, making sure it wasn't a contract for your soul, you signed your name on the tablets screen and sat back in your seat, pulling out your phone to begin translating the argument from the beginning.
"Great! Ground rules — our private spaces are off limits unless we explicitly tell you otherwise, that includes bedrooms, offices, and basically everything that isn't a —"
"Uh-huh, got it." You mumbled — snorting at the beyond creative insults that began to flood the screen in English.
"Listen—"
"It's my nap time, TV boy. If you can put this conversation in a text, do it." You sighed, stretching your limbs. They popped as you stood — who showed these fuckers how to make gifs of each other?
Oh.
You did. HA!
"You know I can kill you, right?" Vox questioned, his claws digging into the table.
"So could a really motivated duck — or a Canadian goose. Those things are straight out of Hell, Box."
"It's Vox." He growled.
Ooh spicy. "Whatever —"
"Can you be serious for five minutes?"
"Ok boomer."
His screen glitched and his claws dug further into the desk as he stared at you.
Velvette barked a laugh and looked away from her phone long enough to see Vox on the verge of malfunctioning, a smirk slipping onto her face. "Can we keep her? I like this one."
"This one's more tolerable than the last." Valentino mused, blowing his smoke into the air. He leaned forward in his seat, uncrossing his legs. "And we don't even know her name."
"The name's Y/N. Don't wear it out." You winked before turning around and exiting the door you had been ushered through, however long ago. The moment the door closed, you heard Vox angrily talking with Velvette and Valentino, who were much calmer than the TV overlord.
Oh, this will be fun. A good idea, for sure.
Thirty minutes later, when you were in the room Vox had told you was yours, both Velvette and Valentino followed you on Sinstagram before adding you to the Vees official group chat.
Your first week living with the Vees went by rather quickly — of course, you respected their privacy as requested, spending most of your time in your room or the common areas which mostly consisted of the kitchen, living room, and game room.
Still, you'd managed to piss Vox off three more times, and got Velvette and Valentino to join in without trying.
Velvette quickly picked up your terminology, calling Vox a boomer at any given opportunity. It pissed him off to no end. Valentino had only done it twice, mostly because they both spent a lot of time working and only interacted with Vox when he had the time to.
Within the first seventy-two hours, you noticed the weird obsession Vox had with Alastor and you sarcastically quoted a scene from a movie at dinner that night.
"Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"
And he had looked at you weirdly, pausing mid rant. Later you had to explain to the other two that it was from a movie — and who Agent Romanoff was.
Vox avoided you mostly, which you chalked up to him thinking you were annoying. Good.
By the end of the first month, Velvette had you chilling with her while she worked, usually with you being the sounding board for her ideas.
More often than not, you had good ideas.
That little fact prompted her to throw you a sketch book, telling you to get to work.
You were getting paid to be there, so whatever.
When you weren't with Velvette, you were declining Valentino's countless invitations to sit with him while he worked — you wanted nothing to do with that. Porn wasn't really your thing, even when you were alive, but you had a bunch of friends who were super into it.
Instead you went out alone, claiming you were getting lunch for yourself. You'd get lunch, after making a few deals with wayward demons who would thrive under your influence.
That one particular day, you hadn't noticed either presence behind you, until a fight broke out, causing you to turn around to see Alastor and Vox going at each other's throats — and not in an interesting way.
You somehow broke it up just after Alastor cracked Vox's screen.
"Why the fuck are you here?" You bit out harshly, directed at the two overlords who now stood three feet apart like scolded children, neither pleased to be there.
"You left without saying anything." Vox crossed his arms.
"You hadn't reached out, my dear." Alastor hummed, distastefully glancing over at the TV demon.
You groaned, throwing your head back. "Listen, get the fuck over yourselves! At this rate, I answer to Velvette, not the two of you boomers. Got it?"
Alastors eyes began to twitch as static filled the air, whereas Vox's cracked screen glitched as you walked away.
Later, when Vox approached you, you noticed that his screen was fixed. That was good.
"Got a minute, [Y/N]?" He questioned.
You looked up from the sketch book in hand and nodded, mumbling 'sure' as you closed it. You were tired from the long day.
So his next question caught you off guard.
"Why do you do this to me?"
"Do what?"
"Why do you purposely piss me off? You get along with everyone else, yet you call me names and disrespect my entire existence. Why?"
You sighed, not really having a real answer. "That's just the way I am, how I've always been. . . And in my defense, I call everyone names. . . Not just you. So, don't think you're special, Box—"
"— Vox —"
"I'm a bitch to everyone, just most don't realize it because their bitch scale broke a long time ago. Now, go. I have shit to do that doesn't involve stroking your fragile ego."
Vox wasn't sure what it was, but he knew he was going to keep a closer eye on you. What was so different about you?
You were close enough in biological age to Velvette, yet while there were similarities, there were so many differences. . . He wasn't sure what to think about any of it. Especially with you climbing up the power ladder.
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Let's chat
So, the Winnower. Right?
Today, they finally released the lore on one of the ships that you got if you purchased (pre-ordered?) the annual pass. The ship is called Nacre. As usual with names of things in Destiny, this means something, though I'm currently unsure about the significance of this name in relation to the text of the lore tab.
But the text of this lore tab will cause a billion discussions and people will fervently believe in one side or the other. You'll understand why the moment you start reading the lore tab (I'll go through it a bit later in the text) if you remember the style of Unveiling. It's written in the same style with many references to Unveiling and the author speaks to us post-Witness' defeat (most likely).
I think it's intended to make us discuss and argue, given the inherent unreliability and religiosity of the subject.
But let's go back a little bit. Why the Winnower? Well, the word "Winnower" was finally mentioned in-game by the Witness. When you finish the second encounter in the Salvation's Edge raid, you proceed towards the third, and at one point the Witness will speak (it speaks a lot during the raid):
The rest of the post below:
Many people, upon hearing this, have jumped to the conclusion that the "Winnower" is now confirmed as a real thing; including Byf who made a video about it and now everyone and their grandma believes this fully and is already constructing fanfics about the next big bad.
And it could be true! But to claim that this line specifically confirms the Winnower makes me question people's media literacy. This line is spoken by the Witness. The Witness has both the reason to lie to us, but also the reason to believe in the Winnower. This is unreliable narration 101: the Witness could believe that it serves something else, that the reason it destroyed its own and many other civilisations is because it is following something greater. Obviously the Witness would believe that it's "the first knife" of some godly entity. It's religion. The word of a religious person who believes in a deity is not the proof that the deity exists.
This does not mean that the Winnower is NOT real. We don't know if it is. This only means that we can't use this specific source as proof.
But this line is very interesting to me because of how it's phrased. Initially, I believed that the Witness spoke to us, the Guardians, because that's what it does throughout the raid. But after a few reads, this feels like it's at least partially aimed at the Traveler as well. The third line in particular is interesting: "Each child we save from the game, you again force to play." This feels like it's talking about the Traveler's growing/resurrecting powers, especially about how it resurrected Guardians. We were dead, but then we were forced to play again. It's also speaking about it like the "game" which can be a sort of 4th wall-breaking, but also it could clearly be referring to Unveiling which also calls it playing a game.
The last line is also interesting in this context: "Gods forged us both." Who is "us"? Obviously the Witness considers itself here, but which "gods" forged what else? Does the Witness consider the Traveler to be a god, forging the Guardians? The next line is also weird in this context, telling us that despite gods forging us, "they cannot tell the knife what shape to carve." Either the Witness still doesn't understand the Traveler or the Traveler is not considered as the god because that's the Traveler's whole philosophy: it creates things, but it doesn't tell those things what to do. It would never tell us what shape to carve. So if this is not referring to the Traveler forging Guardians, it might be referring to something else forging the Traveler. Possibly! I am very intrigued by these lines and the line of thinking the Witness uses here.
But let's go back to the Winnower. As I already said, this doesn't prove anything, it only proves that the Witness believes in it. We also know that the Witness believes in this because in the final mission it also told us that it is "the first knife, the edge that carved purpose into being." Later, after its defeat, Mara and Ikora discussed this phrase, which I covered in this post. This discussion also entertained the possibility that there's something else beyond the Witness, something that wielded it as a "knife." Mara and Ikora don't make any conclusions; they discuss the possibility, but they end it with "we don't know."
They discuss it in the context of Unveiling; this lore book is canonically available to read to characters in the game, which is neat! It's been discussed several times now in the lore, and it's discussed here as well. Mara and Ikora have read Unveiling, it's where they've read about "the first knife" concept and are wondering what it all means and if there's a way to figure out the truth in the allegories. Again, they don't know the answer. And neither do we!
However, we as players have more information than the characters. I'm pretty sure the delay on the lore for Nacre was on purpose, because it would've been confusing to read that before defeating the Witness. The lore tab itself has no clear author; the only way to tell is to speculate based on the style and phrases used. The style will immediately be reminiscent of Unveiling (and the one page in Books of Sorrow when something speaks to Oryx). It's casual and friendly, but persuasive.
Let's read it piece by piece:
Let's chat, shall we? One more nice sit-down for the books.
Did you think you wouldn't hear from me again, after all this? You'd have missed me, I hope—and I would certainly have missed you.
Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved.
Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once.
Are you surprised to hear of it?
Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me.
That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you.
A few points right away. It's telling us that we should chat and that it hopes we didn't think we'd never hear from it again. If this is truthful and can be trusted, then it would be alluding to it speaking to us before, in Unveiling. But we've gone over the debate about Unveiling and who wrote it; most recent information was that it has to have been the Witness and the characters in-game believe so as well. So what's the truth now? I don't know! That's a full sentence. We simply don't know. There are far too many variables, allegories, metaphors and unreliable (and completely unknown) narrators.
Both options could also be true at the same time; if the Witness somehow managed to get a glimpse of the Winnower (in whatever form this entity exists), perhaps the Witness was given a speech of this nature which it could've adopted on purpose to further spread propaganda to others and to convince itself (and others) that it is a part of something greater. Again, we simply don't know.
The author continues telling us that it wants to show us its "beloved." It then goes into a bizarre description of something as "sedimentary necrolite, fossilised in time." I am not sure what this refers to, but it could be referring to the Witness? Because we've "seen that." A "necrolite" is an old term for a type of stinky minerals that form rocks which might be referring to the Witness' obsession to calcify and preserve things as they are; therefore, "fossilised in time." It could also mean something else. Really strange!
Either way, the author does not refer to that, whatever it is, it refers to the universe as a whole. The universe is its beloved. Then it continues and draws back from Unveiling directly. It tells us that it "never much cared for the change of the rules," the rules being the rules of the flower game and the change being the one the Gardener put in the game. It even jokes with "no use in crying over spilled radiolaria," a reference to the fact that previously, the winners of the game were always the Vex.
The interesting bit here is that, if the author was indeed talking about its disregard for the Witness, then the Witness claiming to be "the first knife" the Winnower wielded is not true. If this author is the Winnower, it does not really care about the Witness or its view of the final shape. Hell, the line about Winnower discovering the first knife in Unveiling would then not refer to the Witness at all, but despite that, the Witness believed itself to be that knife. This is why we can't use the Witness' words as any sort of proof, but also we can't use this narrator's words either.
To go back to the change in the rules, another intriguing thing is, in Unveiling, the Winnower appeared to be angry about the change. It's what made it "discover the first knife" and begin the fight with the Gardener. But here, it claims it didn't care about it after all.
I believe this is important to understand that what we're dealing here is not a clear cut truthful chat with a friend. The author of this text, and the author of Unveiling, does not have to tell us the truth and we simply have no clue which one of these statements is truth, if any. Or, it simply changed its mind; perhaps it was angry back then, but now it no longer is, because it realised that the change in rules gave it the ability to speak to us, something it appears to value greatly. And "us" does not just refer to us as Guardians or even humanity, it appears to be referring to all living creatures in the universe. It continues:
I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish.
You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence.
This also seems to be a continuation of its philosophy in Unveiling. About taking and breaking and destroying and whether or not someone is worthy of existence.
Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth.
And this as well, continues with its claims that it is, essentially, neutral. It is not a villain, it's merely stating the truth that sometimes destructive forces can be good. This can also have a second meaning, telling us that it will not be our villain in the game. As in, we will not be fighting against this entity because it's not something that can be fought in the first place, nor does it care to fight. The final paragraph adds:
This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice.
Be seeing you.
Some more references to Unveiling with "same old lovely pattern" and stuff about flowers. And then it ends with telling us that Darkness and Light don't really matter because either way "someone is always making my choice." We can assume this means the choice to violence. And that's true; Darkness and Light, as we've learned, are not moral forces. Many atrocities were committed by Lightbearers, and Darkness users have, throughout the universe, been benevolent.
The author concludes telling us that it will be seeing us.
What does it all mean? We don't know!
I think a lot of people will take this literally; this is the proof of the Winnower, this is the proof that it is preparing to be the next big bad, that we will see it eventually, etc.
I'm personally not sure if the literal reading makes sense, primarily because we have no way to verify anything it said or who sent it and how. But also, if we accept that it is written in the style of Unveiling (which seems fairly obvious), then we also have to accept that it's not entirely reliable or fully truthful. As in, there's a lot of metaphors and philosophy here, rather than facts. Some of it could be facts, but we can't tell which those are.
I also think a lot of people will immediately conclude that this proves the Winnower as a real entity that exists somewhere that will be relevant going forward. Personally, I don't know. I'm not inclined to believe either option just yet. If we knew more about the source of this (and I'm not taking into account the Witness' beliefs), then it would be easier to discuss it, but for me this is just something that remains a mystery for now, in the same way a religion would be. This is what makes it interesting to me.
A reading I'm partial to is that this is a really neat conclusion on that chapter of the story without telling us too many details and facts about a text that, genuinely, reads better if it remains unexplained. There's... something... out there. We can call it the Winnower for simplicity. But this entity is not some sort of big bad physical being that's scheming behind the scenes and directing its pieces around; it does not care. It did not care about the Witness and its final shape, despite the Witness believing, potentialy, that it is enacting exactly what the Winnower wanted, calling itself its "first knife."
This entity is not the way the Witness imagined it or believed in it. This entity does not need to involve itself or even be physical; its adherents are everywhere in the universe, all the time, because "someone is always making my choice." No matter where we go in the universe and how much we explore it, we will eventually find those that choose this. It cannot be removed or defeated. We defeated the Witness, yes, but someone else can always rise up to do something similar. The fight is never done and it's not tied to simply Light and Dark. Our choice is not over because we won here; we could always choose differently in the future.
It honestly feels like a setup for us going forward, but not for us meeting the Winnower or fighting it; instead, to tell us that if we plan on exploring more of the "beloved" universe, we will always find those we disagree with, those to fight, those who made the other choice. And if we're not careful, we may end up making that choice too. Whatever that entity is, the universe is making its argument for it and it will never truly be defeated. It can't be!
The Witness wanted to end the game. This entity states that the game has to play itself out.
Or it could mean something completely different. I'm not going to claim anything one way or the other and I think it's genuinely really baffling that anyone would try to do so. We all have our preferences for the story, but I don't think any of them are sufficiently backed up and I'm not going to hype myself up for a scenario that will probably never happen. Or we'll be hearing about "bad writing" and "retcons" in a few years time when the Winnower never shows up (or if it does).
The point is that this is a very intriguing piece of lore that fits perfectly with the mystery and religiosity of Unveiling. It's not some huge epic reveal, though it could always be something more in the future. However, we would have to get a lot more information to be able to make that conclusion. Something spoke to us in this lore tab, but we have no way of knowing who or how or why exactly now. We have no way to verify it either; is the author legitimate or is this a scheme from someone else pretending to be it? And even if the author is legitimately some other entity, is it truthful? Can we trust it? Should we? Does it even matter? Is this information important for us to understand our enemies or is this just insight into the philosophy and metaphysics of the setting?
Is the Winnower real? We don't know.
Is Unveiling still an allegorical mystery with some truths that we can't really tell apart from the metaphors? Pretty much yeah.
Is there going to be a lot to discuss about this going forward? Absolutely. It's why I wanted to write about it immediately because it's fascinating and I can't wait to see all the ways people will interpret it. I highly recommend that everyone reads it themselves and compare to Unveiling (and the last two pages of Inspiral).
I just don't want people to subscribe too hard to a single narrative and then get incredibly disappointed if it doesn't happen. There is not a single narrative being promised by this lore tab and we have no confirmed facts. But I'm super excited to see where this goes in the following years. Even if it goes "nowhere" as in this does not end up being setup for some big antagonist 5 years from now, I find it incredible that this was part of the setting. Weird space religions and bizarre entities from beyond the universe are some of my favourite parts of scifi so this whole thing, no matter how it ends, is a 10/10 story for me.
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the stranger the better
pairing: Dieter Bravo x Reader
word count: 5.6k
summary: Dieter gets tentacles. That's the fic.
content/warnings: uhhhh this one has a whole lot: importantly--TENTACLES!, lots of viscous body fluids, slight dubcon due to tentacles with a mind of their own??, buckets of cum, piv, tiv 👀, dieter is a switch, sex parasite, anal, masturbation, body horror, idk they're freaks and it's great, reader has a vulva but gendered language is not used
a/n: this is basically just a crackfic that i've taken far too seriously. Also, shoutout to Ozzie @ozarkthedog for listening to all my dumbass thoughts and helping me finally get this finished!! ☺️😚
Dieter doesn't know exactly how the idea came to him, but he knows the important bits. It was, he reasoned, a sign- nay, a prophecy. He wishes he could replicate the exact cocktail of stimulants and psychedelics that allowed him to see this glimpse into greatness, because the results were eye opening.
Somehow, the universe injected into him an understanding of That Which He Sought.
He sketched it, painted it, utilized every descriptor he could think of, and sat down his PA, Todd, using every medium he had adequate command of to illustrate as clear a picture for his employee as was possible.
He was very thorough.
Todd, who Dieter often found unsettling due to the degree to which he was able to stay entirely un-rattled by anything, raised an eyebrow.
(Dieter didn't want to ruin the moment, but this was a fucking win.)
The PA's first response was "Excuse me, you want me to find you something that definitely doesn't exist because you had a drug-induced hallucination about it?"
On day five of Dieter waxing poetic, Todd needed it to end. He was already well adept at navigating the dark web--this was not the first time Dieter had had him track down something weird--but he had absolutely no doubt that Dieter was about to get scammed for a whole lot of money.
No skin off my nose, he reasoned, and negotiated the definitely-not-legit sale anyway. Whatever Dieter wants, Dieter gets. Hopefully, he'll be willing to accept the truth when no magical prophecy thing materializes at his door.
It's over a month later, when Todd feels confident nothing would turn up, and just as Dieter begins to accept this crushing defeat, that a strange, perfect cube of a parcel arrives.
It was a sleek box that felt somewhere between aluminum and heavy cardstock, with a heavier, equally sleek box inside. Something about it seemed almost extraterrestrial.
Todd placed it on the least cluttered corner of Dieter's immensely cluttered coffee table and made a prompt exit. If this thing was somehow the thing Dieter was after, he didn't want to be present for even a minute of the aftermath.
Hours later, when Dieter discovers the parcel, his heart begins to pound. With shaking hands, he unwraps it.
It's a bitch to open, almost akin to one of those puzzle boxes, but even more confounding. There are no visible seams. No obvious opening. He's halfway ready to take a hammer to it when, all of a sudden, it unfolds itself in elegant, silvery, petal-like plates.
Inside is a glass-like cube. Glass-like, but definitely not glass--it didn't have enough weight to it. Not plastic, either. The density wasn't quite right. Inside the cube is a strange, pulsating something.
It's the thing from his dream.
The pulsing thing is a little revolting, but mostly intriguing. (Todd would argue the reverse.) Shape wise, it's grub-like, maybe a handspan long, with its body made up of many near-identical segments. Both ends of it taper to a rounded bulb, and both ends are absolutely dripping with some sort of viscous fluid. No flared base, Dieter notes, and then decides it’s a nonissue.
As well as being, well, somewhat disgusting, it's also quite beautiful. It's iridescent, reminding him of some kind of shimmery beetle. It looks soft, and with every strange pulse, the sheen catches the light and throws rainbows in all the crevices of its little body.
Dieter immediately pops the weirdest boner.
For a man who's impulse control is about as ingrained as his commitment to abstinence, he's incredibly proud that he manages to wait until after this Friday's particularly tedious production meeting wraps up before getting started.
He has this weekend off, and gives everyone on his team the weekend off too. When the last person steps out the door, he locks up and promptly gets naked.
If his prophecy is anything to go off of, he expects this to get messy.
The shower pressure is perfect, and the temperature is just right. Slowly, tenderly, he works himself open. Sometimes he does this even when he doesn’t intend to put anything in his ass, sometimes it’s just for the sensation. This time, though, he absolutely does.
He isn’t sure if he should run the -thing- under the tap first, cause it’s dripping so profusely he’s worried he’ll shoot it across the entire length of the bathroom like an errant bar of soap. In case the lubricating properties are necessary to the efficacy of the process, however, he holds it gently but firmly with one hand as he lifts it out of its, fuckin, transparent aluminum box, holding his other hand beneath it.
It’s slippery, that’s for certain. And when he presses it against the rim of his asshole, he experiences a very new feeling.
It wriggles. As if the nose? Tail? Indeterminate-and-hopefully-not-sentient-end of the thing seems to respond with enthusiasm the second it’s within sniffing distance of his favorite hole. He feels it pulse in his hand, gushing more of the fluid. For a moment, he’s certain the thing is going to evade his grasp and slip away but instead, as if burrowing, it slides itself up, up and away.
Dieter suddenly feels very full.
If he’s honest, this isn’t quite how he expected it to go. He thought he’d be more involved, for one. For another, he didn’t realize it would scurry so quickly into his butt. He thought he’d be able to hold onto it a little. Fuck himself with it.
Gently, he presses a finger into himself to see if he can feel where it’s gone. Nothing. He switches from his pointer to his middle finger, slightly longer than the former, and presses even deeper, spreading his cheeks with his fist, sinking in as far as he possibly can.
He doesn’t feel it.
This may be precipitating a (not unfamiliar) ER trip, but he’s not ready to give up yet. Besides, this thing seemed at least a little organic. The likelihood of it perforating his bowel seemed pretty safely nonexistent, so maybe this one can be something of a wait-and-see.
Besides, maybe this is just the process! Little in life was actually straightforward, and his vision was pretty nebulous.
Maybe, to move it along, he needed to start by busting a nut. So he takes his cock in hand and starts pumping, feeling the hot spray of the shower on his back, working out all the kinks.
He’s hard, yes, and it does feel good. But after fifteen minutes of stroking himself, he realizes he isn’t experiencing pleasure, nothing that’s building or arousing, which is in itself a new experience. He can always feel pleasure. It’s the goddamn thing that’s gotten him into trouble more times than he can count.
Now, however, the shower’s started to run cold, his dick’s rubbed raw, and he’s no closer to an orgasm than he is to becoming an elected official. He’s been beaten by his own meat.
It’s absolute bullshit, but as he feels himself start to panic he manages to tamp it down a little. Nothing good will come from spiraling. Instead, he luxuriates in covering his entire body in a particularly wonderful-smelling body oil (for combination pampering and sore skin smoothing) and smokes a fat, fat joint.
This was Tomorrow Dieter’s problem.
He gives himself a couple more half-hearted tugs, just in case the oil makes a difference. It doesn’t, and it kind of burns, but he can at least go to sleep knowing he did the best he could.
Tomorrow’s a fresh start.
He slips into bed, takes a moment to appreciate the fabric against his bare skin. With a sigh, he drifts off to sleep.
Hot midday sunlight blasts through the gaps between the blinds. He should really get some of those non-gappy blinds installed. Or drapes. Nothing beats a good drape.
As he wakes up, something feels… off. He tries to sit up, but there’s something of a mass at his abdomen. He tries to brush it away–probably some detritus he’d left in his bed and forgotten about. Instead, though, the mass doesn’t budge. Instead, he’s suddenly overwhelmed by an intense, blinding pleasure. It hits him and takes over everything, and by the time he comes back down a whole minute later, he’s certain he must’ve just creamed his pants.
He pulls back the covers to check.
Instead of the view he expects; his fat, hard cock, thighs, and tummy coated with cum–he finds a writhing, twisting heap of squirming tentacles.
He must still be dreaming.
Dieter slams his eyelids together. Presses the palms of his hands against his sockets till his vision goes brown and black spotty. Opens them again.
The tentacles are still there.
Not knowing what else to do, he reaches out and touches one of them, gingerly. The same blinding pleasure hits him again. It’s only a gentle touch but already he knows that this isn’t just some wayfaring… squid that’s decided to make a home on his belly.
Nope.
This is definitely a part of him now.
He tries tensing and untensing his core muscles. One tentacle slaps out and hits the bed. Another two tangle themselves together. A fourth smacks against one of his nipples and, with a viscid sucker, pulls a desperate whine from him. Though some of the tips seem to always be emerging from him, he’s able to unfurl even more at will. He’d only noticed seven tentacles at first, then tensed, and a second row exploded from him while the outer layer smacked against the bed like a radial motif made of party horns. He thinks there might be even more. A third layer? A fourth?
When he’s able to relax a little and re-focus his attention, shaking, the inner layer sucks back in and he notices that the outer limbs have the same rainbow iridescence as the thing. Of course. Of course!
It takes time, more than an hour to start separating the new sensations from one another. To divide the writhing limbs and control them each individually. When he finally manages to high-five each of his outer tentacles, one-by-one, he’s certain he has at least enough control to avoid causing injury.
By this point, his cock is aching. He wraps two of the lowest tentacles around his length. The tentacles are thick, but his dick is too. They’re quite cold in a way that’s actually delicious. It feels like the cousin of the sensation he experiences when he slips ice cubes in his ass, only way, way more intense.
Just like that thing, too, the tentacles are dripping with the same viscous slick.
He works himself up. It's so intense, soo much stimulation, he half-expects to cum in a fraction of the usual time.
Instead, he finds himself hours later on the verge of tears, not a single orgasm in sight.
His body simply will not allow him to cum.
It’s miserable, and clearly a horrible, horrible mistake. Will he be like this for the rest of his life, rife with tentacles and unable to clutch at his own pleasure? His dick is sore, having tugged at himself with every limb available. He has sucker marks on his nipples and throat. One tentacle is still squirming around inside his tight little hole and still he can’t reach his peak.
He needs a fucking break.
And maybe some food.
He checks the time. It’s later than he thought, nearly dinnertime. He’s spent his entire day on this.
He starts to formulate a new plan. Order food. Eat. Hydrate. Maybe he’ll scroll through his phone for booty calls and see if he can pinpoint one single person who might not get him sent away to Area 51. Maybe it makes a difference with another person?
He barely thinks as he fills up his virtual bag and places an order. Leaves a massive tip because he’s getting into hangry territory and needs his food now.
He shoots Todd a quick ‘I have tentacles now’ text, and closes his eyes.
It’s been a long day. A bit slow, which makes you itchy, but it hasn’t been too bad.
You’re about to call it a night. Grab yourself a bite to eat, and curl up at home.
Then your phone vibrates in your hand.
A delivery order pings on your phone and the tip is substantial. It’s incredibly close to you, too. You accept immediately, not wanting anyone else to get to it first. The tip alone can keep you afloat till after rent is due.
You rush, heading to the restaurant and, miracle of miracles, it’s a quiet night. The restaurant’s already working on the order and it’s only a matter of minutes before it’s ready to go.
Twenty minutes from accepting the order, you’re walking up the footpath through a well-manicured succulent garden. The house is ostentatious. An enormous lazy river wraps around the home, and you have to cross over a bridge to get to the fucking door . When you get closer, though, you notice surprisingly beautiful carvings, spandrels, and various other decorative details that make it more than just a generic multi-million dollar cookie cutter home. It’s weird, but it has personality to it.
You get to the door and check the order details. It’s not a no-contact delivery. Instead, the message reads:
very sleepy. need food. 1) knock, if no answer 2) ring doorbell, if no answer 3) bring me food and wake me up and i’ll double the tip for your trouble the door code is 6969
Frankly, it seems a great way to get lured in by a wealthy eccentric and hunted for sport, or recruited to join a cult, or something else equally unfortunate. But self-preservation has never been a priority for you, and life is made to be lived.
You knock. You really want him to open the door himself. Even with permission, going in feels like an enormous invasion, and especially if this guy is sleeping, you really don’t want to tiptoe through this stranger's house.
On the other hand, though, you really can’t see yourself turning down that tip, if it comes to that. Definitely lends itself to your ‘this person is crazy’ theory, but you’re committed. You’re seeing this through.
You knock a second time and wait. Nothing.
Thankfully, after ringing the doorbell, you hear the shuffle of soft footsteps. The lock clicks and turns, and a moment later, you’re face to face with a rather disheveled individual.
His hair is mussed, sticking out in all directions, and, you realize, he looks familiar.
But it only takes a moment to forget that thought entirely.
At first, you hadn’t noticed that anything amiss. He was wearing a striped dressing gown over a crop top and sweats. The stripes, though, looked like they were rippling. And it wasn’t an actual crop top, either, no; the shirt had just been pulled up to accommodate what was on his midsection.
It took every effort not to drop the bag of food when you realize what it is.
“Oh,” he says, noticing your expression. He rubs at his temple, infinitely exhausted as he looks you up and down.
“You’re-” you start.
“Yeah, I’m Dieter Bravo-” he finishes.
You blink, shaking your head. He is in fact Dieter Bravo, you realize, but that doesn’t seem like the most significant thing happening here. “You’re covered in tentacles.”
“Oh,” he says again. “Yeah. I guess they are tentacles."
“Um, are they… yours?”
He shrugs, disinterested.
You fumble to find something to say, instead giving up and thrusting his bag towards him.
He takes it after a moment.
“Thanks,” he says, not making eye contact.
Apparently, putting on a robe was this man’s idea of concealing them. Now, he’s not trying to be discreet. The tentacles unfurl, most of them hanging heavy from his abdomen, nearly brushing the floor. Several, however, reach into the food bag and withdraw a burrito and a sauce container.
"Are they--" you watch as two of the tentacles start to unwrap the burrito. The foil tears a bit more than he intends, and then he dunks it a little too heavily into the sauce, which shoots out from the grasp of another tentacle. Salsa verde splatters everywhere. The limbs’ movements are apparently uncontrolled. "Are the tentacles new.. to you?"
He sighs. "Yeah. They just showed up this morning."
You’re not sure what to say. “Huh,” you venture.
“Yeah,” he agrees. But then he looks at you, surveys you, and narrows his eyes. He seems like he’s weighing something.
“Uh, this might be weird, what with this-” he gestures at the tentacles, “Situation. But-”
He hesitates, and you nod, encouraging. “But what?”
Dieter winces. Takes a deep breath, and lets it out.
“Do you wanna have sex with me?”
You look at him. At his tentacles. This is admittedly a lot. It’s almost certainly a bad idea.
But you made a promise to yourself and to your best friend years ago: If you ever have an opportunity to fuck an entity that has tentacles, you’d better say yes.
And it’s Dieter Fucking Bravo. You’re not backing down now.
“Yes I do.”
It starts surprisingly gently. You lean towards him and he cups your cheek in a broad hand, pulling you in.
This isn’t your first time kissing a stranger. If you’re honest, it’s something of a hobby of yours, so the experience of feeling a new give-and-take was familiar despite its novelty.
What you’d never experienced before, however, was that from the first moment his tongue stroked into your mouth, you felt the most delicious pull.
You were already a little excited, but before even a moment had passed, you now felt yourself drench. Your pussy was drooling, the slick pooling between your legs.
You’re certain he can feel it too.
What had been a look of pleasure and curiosity twisted into absolute hunger. You swear you can see his eyes dilating. After a moment, you’re certain yours must be, too. The room suddenly feels too bright.
Whatever disinterest he’d shown when you’d turned up at his door has dissolved, replaced with an urgent enthusiasm. “Fuck I’ve been needing this all day.”
From the front door, all down the hallway to the bedroom, a trail of clothing marks your path.
Between kisses he explains.
“Ever since-” a kiss, “the tentacles–”
You grab him by the hair and he moans.
“I can’t cum. I’ve tried, for hours-”
You hop on one leg and then the other, peeling your socks off as Dieter steadies you by the waist.
“Been jacking off all day-,” he peels his own shirt off, hands flying frantically to make quick work of his clothes, “But I think I need someone else. My body just won’t work. Been hard as fucking rock but nothing happens-”
You slip an arm around his waist and drag your teeth along his collar, grinning when he melts into you.
“You poor thing,” you tell him, and you look in his eyes when you make your promise; “I’ll try and help, much as I can.”
"Amazing," He grins. “I feel better already.”
Dieter’s entirely bare, but you’re still wearing clothing. Something, you both realise, is passing between you. It’s a strange electricity that heightens every sensation. You feel the scruff of his beard against your cheek, you feel your underwear soaked. When he pinches at your nipple, you nearly howl at the pleasure that washes over you.
As you feel each touch, the sensation builds in a way that’s totally alien to you. He shoves a hand in your pants and groans when he feels the thatch of hair at your cunt. He rubs two fingers along your slit, not stimulating your clit and not even trying to. He’s just warming up what feels like every single nerve ending in your entire vulva till you’re bucking against him.
He pulls his hand away and touches a finger to his tongue, tasting you. Two tentacles make fast work of the button of your jeans. Another wraps around your waist, lifting you up from the floor and suspending you in the air to peel the denim from you, unceremoniously tossing the garment behind you somewhere.
He’s fully naked. His cock hangs heavy and a little to the right, and there’s so much precum, it streams down his thigh where his tip meets the flesh of his leg.
You reach forward and wrap your fist around him. At your touch, he shudders. It’s a beautiful, desperate noise, and already, there’s so much more slick leaking out of him that any suspicion that this amount of oozy fluid isn’t normal is entirely confirmed. You wrap your hand around his length and he melts into your touch with a whine.
The tentacles wrap around you. You’re not sure how many there are, and their movement is fast and intentional. The man in front of you is essentially a walking sex toy from your sickest, wettest dreams, and you will not waste this.
You reach for one of the tentacles, whatever is nearest to you. For a moment you think it’ll pull out of your grasp, but then it relaxes at your grip. You stick your tongue out and lick the tip, getting the suckers at the end nice and wet. Then, you realize it’s superfluous; the tentacles themselves are already leaking, oozing a pearlescent, cum-like fluid. For all you know, it is cum.
With your thumb, you swirl the slick around one of the larger suckers, and look Dieter right in the eye when you pull one of your bra cups down and press the sucker against your nipple. With barely a flick of effort, a tendril unhooks your bra, pulling it off of you before slicking up your other nipple and pulling a throaty moan from you.
His breath catches just watching you. It’s perfect suction, slick and firm and oh-so steady.
“How many do you think you can take?” He asks, pink-faced and restless. The flush is so endearing. He looks desperate.
“Give me all you’ve got,” you tell him.
He whines and hisses. You think he might be deliberating, but after a moment it’s like a switch has flipped, releasing any inhibitions he may have held onto, unlocking his filthy tongue.
“Lemme see that wet little snatch,” he purrs, “That’s it, open those legs for me-”
As if simply willing it–and that may as well be all that it takes–you both watch as one of the fat tentacles splits from the tip, sticky goo trailing between the trifurcated ends like an aloe vera leaf sliced apart. The three new tips writhe apart before slamming into your mouth. Two others pluck at your skin, marring the soft flesh of your inner thighs.
You yelp, muffled, as your legs are spread wide by slick, strong limbs, smaller tendrils prodding at your slick panties before giving up and tearing them apart. Elastic slips loose from your hips, and the gusset of the underwear is a ragged hole.
He steps closer, holds you effortlessly. You’re suspended by a whole mass of tentacles, the suckers pulsating against your skin, dark purple blooms beginning to bruise beneath them. Dieter’s face is so close to your cunt, your first instinct is to close your legs. He holds them open further, though, and breathes deep. “You smell like a fucking dream,” he praises, running a think finger along your folds, dipping in gently, stroking along you, finding where you’re most sensitive.
After a thorough examination, he steps back. “Gonna play with you, baby,” he tells you.
"Jesus Christ", you breathe. The tentacles in your mouth slip out and another tentacle presses at your opening. It slips with a lewd squelch and little resistance, pumps in a couple times, and pulls out to wrap around Dieter’s cock. He strokes himself with the slippery tentacle and lets out a groan.
"Feels like fucking heaven," he breathes, and another tentacle replaces the first, plunging into your cunt and pulsating, filling you so nicely, making you shake.
You fight against the flutter of your eyelids. There’s so much sensation it’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you need to see him. Need to see this.
“Can you feel with them?” you ask, “With the tentacles?”
“Hmm,” he ponders, “Yes, but–” he slips a second tentacle in with the one already probing your hole and you feel very full. They twist and turn, writhing, pumping in and out of you. You’ve barely gotten started but you can already feel yourself start to build. At this rate, you’ll be squirting all over him in absolutely no time at all.
“I feel it,” he tells you, “And it feels really good, like, fuuuckkk–but it feels like it’s not just me controlling them. It is me, but it’s more than just me. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“Then don’t,” you smile, “Just fuck yourself with them the same way you’re fucking me.”
He lets out another whine. It’s cute, really. Only a minute ago he’d been telling you what to do, and with the slightest prodding, he seems eager to obey. You could get far too used to this.
“C’mon, baby,” you coax, your hips canting, thrusting against the slippery tentacles pressing deeper, deeper-, “Keep going just like that. And open yourself up, too.”
He groans, and two tentacles move around him to start spreading his cheeks. A third prods tenderly at his hole.
Just as a third tentacle presses into your cunt, and another is gently pressing it’s suckers up your throat and holding you in place, Dieter is rendered incoherent as one thick tentacle shoves its way into him. Immediately, he sees stars. If this was the result of an entire day of edging, it was more than worth it.
You’re rutting against the tentacles that are fucking you, meeting each thrust. There’s a pulse pumping through each limb, making you feel impossibly full. When you look at Dieter, you’re certain you can see the bulge of a tentacle in his belly, filling him up so full.
You barely have time to process the build of your arousal before the tip of one of the tentacles suckers against your clit and another twists inside you, hits you in just the right way, and you tip over.
Cum spurts from you, your entire body convulsing. You try to close your thighs, try to pull away from the sensation, but you’re still being held aloft and spread out, fully bared. Instead of stopping or slowing, the tentacles only fuck into you faster and deeper. You can’t stop coming, certain at this point you’ve made a whole damn puddle on the floor beneath you.
Dieter watches, transfixed by the entire show that’s played out before him. He’s red-faced, his skin mottled with purple bruises, cock so hard it looks painful, and has a trio of tendrils ass-fucking him.
When your orgasm finally, finally tapers off, you almost expect your holds to release you. A new hunger stirs in you, though, and when you’re still held tight, you’re oddly grateful for it.
Dieter lowers you, pulling you towards him. He kisses you, open-mouthed and messy, groaning into it. After a few moments he pulls away from you, slick lipped and panting. When he speaks, his voice is raspy and desperate, a monstrous echo following it to create a bizarre, two-tone sound.
The tentacles that aren’t already on or in you both start whipping around, grabbing for purchase and pulling away as if they can’t make up their mind.
Dieter pushes you back. Starts to withdraw.
You hold him in place.
Now you can see his eyes.
They’re totally black. Even the sclerae are gone, murky with inky swirls, glassy and wide and beautiful.
“I- I think you need to leave,” he begs, “It’s too much. They’re taking too much from me.”
You reach out to put a hand on his cheek, and he leans in for a moment before flinching away.
“No!” He hisses, “You need to go. It feels too good, it won’t let me stop. I won’t be able to stop. I don’t know how far it’ll go, but if you don’t leave, I don’t think I can stop it.”
Warmth and clarity floods you. You’re not sure how much is your own mind, and how much is this thing that’s taken over, but it’s sweet, really.
He thinks you could stop if you wanted to.
“It’s okay,” you assure him, and you feel the way he melts, feel the way the tentacles stop fighting and start wrapping around your limbs again, their grasp pulling tighter and tighter, “You take what you need.”
With a sob, he lets go.
The tentacles set you down. Your legs shake, and you barely have time to blink before he’s on you. Any distance you had is gone now, his hands grasping at you, his body flush against yours. You can feel the weight of his cock against your thigh, the strength of his arms holding you. He’s steadying you, or maybe steadying himself. The skin-to-skin contact feels so fucking good and, if the way his hands fly all over you, you’re certain he feels it too.
One big hand grabs at your breast, the other clutching the flesh of your hip. He grinds against you, messy and sticky and so, so delicious.
He settles you back against a surface, seats you and spreads your legs with his strong hands. A tentacle grabs at your jaw almost tenderly, plucking at the skin, holding you gently.
Dieter lines up his cock and sinks into you, groaning at the hot wet clutch that sucks him in. The surrounding tendrils wrap around you both. You’re certain there are still tentacles fucking into him, but you think another might join, right at the same time you feel the slippery tip of one prodding at your own asshole.
You relax into it, nod to let him know you’re ready, and moan as you feel the slimy length penetrate you. Dieter moans, too, entirely lost in the sensation.
He fucks you fast and deep. You’ve never felt fullness like this before. The pump of the tentacles into both you and Dieter matches his rhythm.
“Fuck-” he croaks, desperate, “Think I’m getting close-”
“That’s it, baby,” you soothe, “Makin’ me feel so fucking good. Come on, baby, come for me-”
He pulls you into him, presses his lips to your in a kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, longer and deeper than it has any right to be. It’s a tentacle, too, you realize, and you moan into the suckers that have started pulling at your tongue. It’s disgusting and absolutely exquisite.
He only manages two more thrusts before he explodes.
You feel his balls pulse, cum flooding your cunt. The tentacles pulse too, though, and soon your mouth is full, your ass, his ass. Like fireworks popping off in quick succession, every tentacle unloads, one after the next, painting the entire room in dripping swaths of cum.
He lets out a noise that sounds like something between a sob and a laugh, final blessed release at last reaching him.
Dieter pulls out, but continues rocking against you, humping your thigh as his alien limbs continue to surge with spend.
After several long, sticky minutes, you unfurl from one another. With some distance between you, you’re able to see the damage that’s been done. The room is a disaster. You can literally see cum dripping from the ceiling.
Dieter’s looking around the room, too, but he doesn’t look concerned. No, he looks impressed.
“Well shit,” he surveys everything around him. “That was fun.”
You’re still catching your breath as he rummages around and procures a stash box. You can see a variety of substances; baggies filled with powder, assorted pills, a few things you don’t recognise, and a fat pouch full of bud.
He rolls a joint, licks the paper, packs it, and sparks it.
“So, uh-” you start, unsure where you’re going with it.
He beats you to it.
“You wanna stay over?”
You stare at him.
“I mean, it just seems rude to send someone home after sharing some life-altering tentacle sex, right?”
“I was unaware there was standard etiquette regarding tentacle sex.”
He shrugs. “All etiquette is just made up, right?”
A glob of cum drips from the ceiling and lands with a dull splat against the top of your head.
You burst out laughing.
Dieter’s eyes crinkle, and he’s laughing too.
He passes you the joint. You take it, wiping cum from your forehead.
“All right,” you tell him, “I’ll stay over.”
Dieter checks his phone, pulls up Todd’s text thread.
Beneath his tentacles text is Read 1:43pm. He rolls his eyes and follows it up.
you remember those cleaners? the good ones? the crime scene ones?
I need em
soon as they’re free
promise it’s not a crime scene this time
there’s just a lot of cum
After you’re both showered, you go to Dieter’s spare bedroom. Hazy from the weed and exhausted from the hands-down weirdest and best sex of your life, you collapse together.
Dieter’s tentacles look different. Smaller, maybe? Less hungry. Sated.
You fall asleep with his tentacles around you.
When you wake up, his arms are around you instead, holding you close. His abdomen is bare, only skin left.
You start to wriggle, to turn over, but something’s in your way.
There’s something at your abdomen, blocking your movements.
Dieter begins to stir. He stretches, rubs his eyes, and takes you in.
“Babe-” he grins, “You’ve gotta fuck me with those!”
Your own set of shimmering tentacles slip and writhe from your body. You pull him close, suddenly hungry, and get to work.
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