Nothing in Pink

I've been sick. And well.. well. More well than sick, but predictably sick. The irony of being more well than ill is that I spend my well time doing things other than write. Things I hadn't ever thought I would be able to do. So this is good on one hand, but on the other.. I'm not making enough time to write. And now Felix is here, and I am spending even less time writing (but Felix is here! Yay!). The long and the short of it? I'm as sporadic and unpredictable as ever, and you're just going to have to forgive me (or throw rocks at my window and piss on my lawn).

Anyway! Have a smut. It's Nasr & Devon, so mind the noncon tag.
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    There was little that was reassuring about the nothingness. Devon might have called it black, and it really was black at first, but then it was void. A blip in his perceptions that was entirely unaccounted for. Even the deep sleep of too much heroin was easier to reconcile than the nothingness that Nasreddin so seemed to enjoy inflicting upon him. It was frightening to wake from, to try and gather his wits only to realize that, for all intents and purposes, he’d been dead. Not that Nasr gave him the time to dwell in that terror.

    Now, for instance, Devon had just enough time to recognize that he was once again aware of himself before he was made to endure the gut wrenching realization that he was being fucked awake. Moreso, Nasr seemed to have been at it for some time.

    Devon’s knees ached from where they dug into a half-dead mattress, and his ass was raw and burning. Nasr bumped from behind again, thrusting impossibly deep, and Devon was all at once grateful he’d been in that state of nothing when the demon had taken to tearing him wide. The one thing that made the void bearable was the knowledge that sometimes he did not want to be around for the shit that was going down.

    “God fucking dammit,” Devon spat into the coarse fibers of the exposed mattress.

    “Nnn” Nasr crooned as he thrust sharply forward, “‘bout time your lazy ass woke up. Thought I was gonna have to put you inna goddamn tower or some shit.”

    Devon leaned forward, his ragged nails catching along the mattress. “Oh, fuck-- Ah! Not so goddamn hard!”

    “Yanno you like me hard, Devy-boy.”

    Nasr’s fingers tightened at Devon’s hips, drawing the man back with another wet squelch and smack of skin. Devon winced as Nasr’s balls came crashing against his own. He braced his brow to the rattling bed, eyed the sides of his nails as Nasr panted against his spine, and scowled as a coil of fury tightened itself about the heavy lump of despair buried deep in his chest.

    “You fucking -ow!- painted my goddamn nails pink?!”

    A looping scale of giggles sounded past Devon’s shoulder. His brow rocked against the bed, mouth in peevish scrawl, gaze slipping up past his shoulder. Nasr puckered his overly large mouth and sucked at the air, his cock sawing back at a burning angle.

    “Pink for my pretty, pretty princess.”

    Devon hissed through his teeth. He sucked a pooling of spittle from the corner of his mouth, and squawked as Nasr drove forward again. Too deep. He felt oddly numbed along the edges of pain near the surface, and decidedly ill from the way things inside were shifting about. His toes curled against the thin fabric of his socks, and he gripped at the bed as he struggled up onto his hands.

    “Thought we wa-ah!- we was gonna go some place nice.”

    “S’a nice place.”

    The jagged ends of Nasr’s nails dug against Devon’s pale skin, raising raw, burning tracks along his nerves. The demon drew back and out with a low rumble, giving Devon a split second of relief. A split second in which muscles twitched and breath shuddered, in which the burning sensation dissipated inward, and his eyes squeezed shut. Then came another sharp stabbing, another painful stretching, the edges numbed from friction, and his stomach churning. Devon groaned thickly and turned his face into the mattress.

    “Real fuckin’ nice,” Nasr growled.

    “Goddammit.”

    “Aww. Wassa matter, Devy-wevvy? Ainchu enjoyin’ yourself?”

    “Nnn.no. Hurry up and finish. Wanna go get some fries.”

    “Ain’t jiggly enough, huh fatass?” A fresh burst of sting and heat popped across his nerves, and Devon yalped loudly for the strike of Nasr’s hand.

    “Fffffuck.”

    “What? Y’want more?” Nasr thrust hard, deep, and lingered with a long, rocking grind.

    “No I don’t fucking want more! I wanna go have a normal goddamn life! How many times we been over this? I don’t wanna fuckin’ well--” he broke off with a loud yalp. Nasr’s hand had left another stinging print on the curve of his ass, this time to the opposite side. A heated interlude between thrusts. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ well wake up with you fuckin’ me all the goddamn time,” he very nearly whined.

    “Then stop fuckin’ sleepin’ when I’m fuckin’ you, Dev-o!” Nasr giggled, cackled, and gave a jarring, sharper thrust.

    Fabric whispered and rustled behind Devon. Something airy brushed along his spine, tickling through the thin fabric of his shirt. His breath roiled about between his sinuses and his lungs, his chest seemingly confused as to whether it should be expanding or collapsing. He choked on the air, swallowed more snot than spit, and fought with the lump that was growing at the root of his tongue.

    He was made to rock harder, and faster. Made to endure the constant pounding of Nasr’s boney hips. Made to bruise and to cry. Though really, it wasn’t so bad. Even with the awful pink nail polish, it wasn’t so bad. He’d endured worse. He wasn’t bleeding from a million little cuts, wasn’t suspended from hooks, didn’t have any bones broken. It was just Nasr, too fast and too hard and too deep. Too goddamn hot. And pink nail polish. And screeking bed frame. And rustling like dried leaves. Whispers of touch at his sides and back.

    “Pretty, pretty princess,” Nasr crowed from behind Devon, voice nearly shrill, breathy from the force and vigor of his rutting.

    “Oh fuck you! Fuck right the fuck off you goddamn asshole I ain’t no goddamn--.” Again Devon was forced to cut himself short. Another twist of his head and cracking open of eye in an attempt to peer behind him had revealed a gauzy pink cloud. It was swaying and jerking about in response to their rocking, brushing now and again against the faded black of Devon’s shirt. “A goddamn tutu? Where the fuck do you even get this shit?!”

    “At the pretty, pretty princess mall!”

    Nasr cackled again. Delighted seeming in the manic dance of sound. His nails dug into the outsides of Devon’s thighs, low near his folded knees, and then pulled upward with a raising of puffy welts and ribbons of brightly colored blood. Devon howled, indignation replaced by the sting and burn of a fresh wave of pain. He tucked his face into his arm, eyes watering.

    “Shoulda bought yourself a goddamn princess while you was there.” Saved him the pain.

    “Naw. I gotchu. Yer the prettiest princess in the whole goddamn land.” Nasr took to cackling again. He punctuated his words with another rude jostling.

    “Oh, fuck. Just fucking finish already!”

    “So fuckin’ hungry fer it, huh Devy, huh? Know you like it. Fuckin’ want my dick inside you all the goddamn time. Princess Faggy Whore.”

    More cackling. More whispers of the tutu. Devon dug his fingers against the jarring mattress, clawing at the rolls of abused fibers. Nasr rocked him harder and drove in deep again. Caught at his hips to haul him up, up, so that he was suspended at an awkward angle. His neck strained, and his chest heaved, and his back ached. His brain informed him of all of these things with a determinedness to avoid the most obvious hurts. The agony that had rubbed his nerves into apathy.

    “Tutus is for ballerinas,” Devon croaked.

    Nasr cackled again. Loud and wild and raucous.

    “Princess Ballerina Faggy Whore.”

    Nasr set Devon’s knees back to the bed. His heat laid itself along Devon’s back, trapping the tutu and provoking another fresh wave of sweat from Devon’s pores. Devon groaned for the close press, and his breath caught when Nasr’s hand left his hip to instead grab and squeeze at Devon’s cock. To paw and pinch with his fingertips, seeming to punish the sluggish stiffening even as it occurred. Devon whimpered through the roof of his mouth.

    “C’mon, Dev,” Nasr whispered heatedly along Devon’s cheek, “yanno you like it. Yanno you want more. C’mon, c’mon.”

    Devon trembled as his heart went dropping lower, the heat knotting in his gut. It speared through his thighs and between his legs, though the swelling of his cock returned some of the feeling from behind. The slick and wet dribbled and oozed across the backs of his balls, where it dripped away or cooled along his skin. The sensation was oddly enticing, and Devon grunted as his cock gave another pulse, stiffening further into Nasr’s twisting grip.

    “Fuckin’ hurts,” Devon rasped in protest. Everything hurt. Even getting hard hurt.. and yet he was still hard. Hard and seeping as Nasr’s gropes and pinches turned to a proper tug and stroke.

    “Yeahyeahyeah,” Nasr hissed in reply, his voice hot against Devon’s ear. “Hurts good. Hurts real good, huh, you sick fuck?” Nasr’s cock drove in deep, his hips tucking flush again. “You like that? Y’want more?”

    “Oh god,” Devon lurched.

    His elbows dug against the bed. His fingers curled. Devon trembled as a fresh wave of sweat swept along his skin. He gasped as Nasr’s fingers curled, grasping, and his wrist flicked for a steady feeding. A more vigorous and rhythmic stroke that had Devon moaning between the soft slips of keening that he didn’t mean to make.

    “Ain’t no god here, Dev,” Nasr rumbled.

    Teeth caught at Devon’s ear, inciting a new wave of fire. Fire that spread down along his throat and the side of his neck; fire that jerked a shiver through his spine. Devon panted, gasping raggedly at the humid air. His knees dug against the bed, then eased a little wider. Facilitated the way he tipped into the working of Nasr’s hand. Though it pressed him tighter about the movement of the man’s cock, the rewarding vigor of Nasr’s stroking was worth it.

    “Fuck,” Devon groaned.

    Nasr groaned wordlessly in response, hot against the back of Devon’s ear. It was a low, rumbling sound that brought with it the arrival of the man’s climax. He swelled, spasming, and jarred his hips flush against Devon’s ass once again. Then came the burning. The part that Devon hated. The copious filling that scalded deep from the inside out. Devon was left wailing, yowling, trembling and shuddering as Nasr’s hand twitched, squeezed, and Devon came in the midst of the demon’s lingering rutting, the constant, seemingly unending tide of heat and fluid swelling. His climax was swift and unremarkable, though the golden bursts of pleasure along the backs of his eyes helped assuage his insulted senses.

    Nasr laughed, breathy and grating, and continued to rock. Slow and slower, until at last he stilled. He remained hard, remained lodged deep within Devon, his weight draped along the slope of Devon’s back. Teeth bit at Devon’s ear again, his shoulder, and Nasr’s tongue found the back of his jaw.

    “There ya go, princess” Nasr drawled.

    Teeth prickled at skin again, tongue lapping a moment later. Nasr finally drew back, leaving Devon feeling slack. Leaving a devastatingly hollow, empty sensation to wash over him. He collapsed more toward the bed, his legs slowly, slowly stretching out. He felt numb in some places, and cramped in others. Stretched in the wrong places, impinged in worse. He sagged into the cooling puddle of his own cum, and hissed through his teeth as a generous trickle seeped from his ass, sticky in its cling.

    “I fucking hate you so fucking much,” Devon muttered, his voice tight as it parted from his lips.

    “Love you too, Pookie.”

    Nasr bent close, planted a wet smack of a kiss to Devon’s cheek, and then bounced the bed generously in his retreat. Devon’s eyes rolled shut, and his body gave another tremble, a fatigued shiver. He listened to Nasr’s languid footsteps in the hall, to the pop of electricity and the subsequent nattering of the television.

    Devon’s heart finally slowed, and his breathing evened out. He hurt all over, hot in some places, cold in others. An hour later, he was listening to a new television program, but he still couldn’t get up. Couldn’t make himself move even as he felt himself begin to stick to the bed. At some point, though he could not say when, he finally fell asleep. It was a pained and fitful sleep, accented with pink nail polish and a crumpled, soiled tutu, but it was the sleep of the living. Sleep with nightmares and snoring and the occasional twitch of limb. Ever so much better than the nothingness.