Your humble wastrel,
~m
P.S. - Warnings for... pretty much everything. This is a Nasr Devon story, and is therefore full of gore and noncon of the worst sorts.
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Our Finest Gifts
Part 1 of 2
Red and orange and yellow. Green and blue. Wide, fuzzy circles of light seemed to sway in his field of vision. Devon watched them dance, fascinated in how they contorted and pulsed, as though respirating at different rates. The fact that they did not keep time with the music playing from the noisy speakers of his laptop made him vaguely queasy, but it didn’t stop Devon staring. He angled to the side, attempting to have them dance in tempo. Perhaps he could undo the churning of his belly.
“. . . Pa rum pum pum pum…”
His voice echoed back at him, hollow and far away. He’d been listening to the same song for what felt like an hour, but every time he went to change it, his laptop seemed to draw further and further away. The cool glare of the screen was a wash of white against the more pleasantly colored lights, and so he turned away from it again. And again.
“. . . Rum pumpum pum…”
His toes slid through something wet as he stepped. Where was it? Where was it? His fingertips scuttled along the mottled wood of the shelf before him. It swayed and undulated in his vision, covered with dancing reflections of dancing lights. He found the orange plastic after a long moment of hunting, his thumb leaving a lurid smear of red across the label of the medicine bottle as he turned it about. The top was off, and the inside proved to be empty even when he dipped two fingers within to be certain.
“Shit,” he spat rudely at the shelf.
Feeling about turned up very little that he wanted. There was a hammer, a piece of wood that might have belonged to a picture frame, a few bent nails. No more pills. He fumbled about, nearly knocking the box of washer detergent from the corner of the shelf, and finally laid claim to the switch blade that he’d laid too far from the bottle. It was cold to the touch, and sticky in his hand. Or maybe his hand was sticky. It was so difficult to keep track.
The music was back. Not that it had gone, but he’d managed to forget about it. It sounded sweet to him, even with the static of a dying speaker. The whining that sought to interrupt it was less pleasant. It came from the dark spot in the center of the room. The void that ate at the dancing of the lights and was now fighting with his music.
“So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum,” Devon sang loudly toward the blackness, hoping to drown out its spiteful efforts. The whining turned to louder whimpers.
Devon’s shoulders slumped, and he heaved a sigh. Swayed. There was little to do but go again to fight the void. To end its darkness. To let in the light and the sound. He shuffled one step closer. Another. The bottoms of his feet were sticky. Itchy. They tickled. Maybe he should cut them off. They wouldn’t tickle anymore of he did. No, no.. First he had to stop the void. He so hated the void.
Devon shuffled and swayed closer to the center of the room. The lights were dancing and shifting. The music seemed so very far. So very distant. He could make out silhouettes and the edges of textures as he stepped nearer. Nearer. The darkness trembled before him. The wide white beam that ran from ground to ceiling was there, a crossboard nailed to it some five feet up. He caught the gleam of teeth in a flicker of orange light. There was the monster, staring at him with one wide eye. Devon had taken the other one earlier.
“Little baby,” Devon sang, all but whimpering. He knew it was not the lyric that was spewing from the speakers of his laptop, but he could no longer hear. It was the next lyric, and that was all that mattered. “Pa rum pumpumpum.”
Skin shifted. Brown with dirt, with life. The thing on the cross simpered. It wanted to end the music. It wanted to suck out the light. It stank. Stank of fear and of filth, of urine and blood. Devon swayed closer, raising his voice in abrupt, shrieking defiance.
“I am a poor boy too, pa rum pumpum pum!”
The thing went quiet. Its eye slid back into the blackness. Devon panted, licking at his lips, and swayed slowly closer. Closer. He hated the void. And yet. And yet. There was something about it. Something.. When he had it under his power. His control. His tongue slid along his lips, little rays of light fracturing away from their soft globes as they speared into the darkness at the center of the room.
“I have no gift to bring,” Devon whispered.
He brought his free hand up, turning his painted fingernails to the tips of the thing’s fingers. His touch lingered there, feeling how slack the other hand was for how it curled. Devon’s index finger unfurled, and he slid the tip along the head of the nail he’d placed in the creature’s palm. It was warm and sticky, the flesh around it hot and so swollen that Devon nearly couldn’t find the nailhead.
“I had to go to the hardware store to find these long enough, pa rum pum pumpum.”
The demon of the void did not respond, but Devon saw its eye roll open again. He leaned near, breathing in the smell of it. Terror and aged sweat. Devon closed his eyes against the glare of a red light in the distance. His nose bumped to the soiled fabric that wrapped the thing’s head, ensuring its relative silence. He slid the tip of his nose along the coarse fibers, feeling the skin beneath with his lips. It was a deceitful thing. Salty and tempting.
Devon swayed closer, closer, until his chest was pressed to the thing’s chest. He could feel it shiver. He could feel its heart race. Devon turned his head up, trailing nose and lips, and let a soft pant pass through coils of oily hair and into the delicate shell of its ear. His skin was tingling, and his blood was on fire. He slid his tongue out, letting it pass soft over the harder swells of earlobe, tracing out the curves and folds.
“Shall I play for you?”
The void monster gave another piteous whine. Devon wondered if it was cruel of him to keep it trapped as he did. To keep it nailed to a cross in the basement. His stomach gave a flutter, and his cock strained against his jeans. He rocked the swell against the thing’s leg, as though he might somehow make the nagging urge to rut go away. Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it was dangerous. He should have killed it yesterday. He knew that, and yet there it was. There he was. He gave a slower rock of his hips, and hissed against the creature’s gag when his cock slid against his zip. The metal was not painful, but neither was it pleasant.
“You think you’re so clever,” Devon growled. “You thought you would just get away with it.”
The knife was up before he could think to stop it, or even to raise it. His hand had a will of its own, or seemed to. It was righteous, and had come to smite the void and all of the things that sprang from its darkness. And yet.. Yet.. The knife did not plunge into its belly, nor slide across the thing’s grimy little throat. Instead the sharp, angled edge pressed into the skin at the juncture of the elbow, and eased steadily up. The blade was sharp, but Devon was slow for how the world seemed to breathe around him.
The thing screeched against its gag, and Devon hummed for it. The same song that had been playing for an eternity. Maybe more than an hour. Maybe for days. Or years. He watched the blade slide along. He watched it carve skin from flesh as though he were peeling an apple. But apples didn’t bleed. Not even blood that gleamed blue, and orange, and green in the shifting light. Light that reached in to illuminate the scene before him as he cut into the thing. As he cut into the darkness.
“Are you a king?” Devon squeezed his eyes shut, and the knife went still. “Are you my king?” The chest beneath his own heaved. Ribs strained. “Should I worship you?” Devon’s ass clenched, thighs tensing, and he gave a short little buck into the limbs pinned between himself and the beam. The music was coming back.
“They’re like angels,” Devon whispered breathlessly. A children’s choir singing the same song over and over, and over again. “But not you. You thought you could hide with the angels? You thought that, when the world is ending?”
His hips rolled and shifted. His zip grabbed at him. Devon hissed, his eyes rolling open to let in more of the hard angles of variegated light. The knife became inconvenient, and he stored it in the long stretch of seeping arm. The thing wriggled against him, shifting and straining, and Devon’s heart sank a little lower. His stomach lurched, but he ignored its twisting. His blood was hammering, and the urge to buck was painful. His fingers were slick and sticky as he fought with his fly.
“You shouldn’t have thought that,” Devon growled. His hand fumbled past the parting of his zip to grab and squeeze. “There’s no hiding now. There never was.” He pulled his cock free of his jeans and shoved the rumpled denim out of his way. “Not for you,” Devon rumbled into the thing’s ear, leaning close as he pulled along the shaft of his cock. “Not for me.”
He drew the blade from the void creature’s arm as he palmed and stroked, nudging the seeping head of his cock against grimy flesh. The creature screeched against its blindfold. Hellish and awful. Devon’s nose wrinkled, and he bit at its cheek. The gag caught under his teeth, but he didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop. His hips worked, rocking, thrusting, his hand in a rhythmic slide. Eager flicks of wrist had him smearing the thing’s leg as he worked into it. Devon’s teeth eased as the thing’s screeching rolled into muffled sobs.
“Pa rum pum pum pum,” Devon whispered.
The music was reaching through the dark. It tangled with the lights. It was light. The light was sound. There was rushing in his ears, and his cock was sending pulses of feeling through his entire body. Feeling that speared up his spine, through the base of his skull, and plunged down again from throat to chest. His toes curled, and he rutted eagerly.
Chest crushed to chest. Devon’s fingers found ribs. The hellish thing was so thin. So delicate seeming. He dug his knuckles into the gaps between the slender curves of bone. His knife grazed negligently as he felt, leaving little nicks and slices in its wake. More spots to glimmer red and orange and yellow. Green and blue. He liked the red the best.
Devon let go of his cock. He pressed it to the thing’s leg and thrust again and again. The soft skin slid, smoothed by slick dribbles of precum, aggravated by the dirt and grime clinging to his prey’s leg. But that grit and grind as as tantalizing as the slide and stroke. Devon sought the hard edge of bone, the soft shift of muscle and fat around it.
Devon’s hand instead located itself to the beam, grasping for purchase as he took to rocking and rutting hard, bruising no doubt. The thing was sobbing near his ear. Devon bit at it again. Again. Skin stretched, muscle compressed, bone resisted. Fabric stole the spittle from his lips, and mingled it with the cool damp of that which it had stolen from the thing. Devon bit it again, tasting blood. His, or the miserable creature’s?
The music was gone. The darkness was back. Devon’s pulse quickened.
“You won’t win,” he whispered between heaving pants. He drove his cock forward, ass clenching, and scarcely drew back before tensing forward again. “I won’t let you win.”
His heart hammered to fill the silence. A wash of red slid across his vision, and for a moment everything was clear: The spots of grease on the floor. The drain near the base of the post. The Christmas lights that were strung in layer after layer around the room. The old washer, the remains of the dryer. The hardware where the clothesline once was. The clothesline that helped bind the boy he’d nailed to his makeshift cross. The boy who was missing bits and pieces, but still alive. Who was sane enough to be terrified in those moments. Who wept as Devon’s cock drove against his leg. As Devon’s teeth dug at cheeks that had been thick with baby fat not so long ago. For one moment, one instant, not even so long as a heartbeat, Devon saw. And he was that boy. And that boy was him.
The moment spun, teetered, and was gone. Devon’s breath hiccuped, but returned all too soon. The clarity was forgotten. The darkness was again at the center of the room, where even the numerous lights could not touch it. The music was returning. Devon jerked erratically, his cock twitching, his fingers digging. He wanted to cum. Wanted it so badly. He whimpered and panted against the creature’s cheek. Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he? There was so much built up. So much pressure. So much longing. But that burn was steady and no longer mounting. The promise of release was just out of reach, and his cock began to ache in unpleasant ways. Devon’s hips slowed, then stilled. The thing simpered near his ear.
“Nonono,” Devon whispered.
He hugged the post. Hugged the body between himself and the wide wooden beam. He crushed close, one arm slung tight, and drew the knife down the ladder of the creature’s ribs. He slid it between one pair, and then the next. The blade was so sharp, and the flesh gave so easily. The thing gave a muffled cry of surprise to its gag, and then a pained groan. The sound of the knife working the flesh was too loud against the music, but Devon sank it in again. Again. His hand was warm, and slippery, and he was distantly aware that he’d cut his own fingers. Their blood was mixing. Would he die? Would he become that thing?
The heart that beat so rapidly in the chest beneath his own began to slow. Its rise and fall tapered off in time. Devon crushed himself closer, intent on smothering it even as it bled out. Even as it drowned on its own blood. His knife sank in again. Again. His fingers stung. It was becoming difficult to hold the thing.
“I played my best for him,” Devon croaked.
The music was so loud as the body on the post went slack. Slowly at first, and then all at once it was still. Dead and cooling. So much meat. The colors of the shifting lights burst through the darkness. Red and orange and yellow. Green and blue. Devon tilted. His feet were wet. His hands too. His stomach gave another churn. He was so thirst. Red and orange and yellow. The ground rushed up to meet him. The music roared in his ears, perfect past the static. Devon gave himself to it. He was floating. The lights were all about him, washing him clean. Touching him as the music rippled through.
“Rum pumpum pum…”
Red and orange. And red. Red.
“. . . Pa rum pum pum pum…”
His voice echoed back at him, hollow and far away. He’d been listening to the same song for what felt like an hour, but every time he went to change it, his laptop seemed to draw further and further away. The cool glare of the screen was a wash of white against the more pleasantly colored lights, and so he turned away from it again. And again.
“. . . Rum pumpum pum…”
His toes slid through something wet as he stepped. Where was it? Where was it? His fingertips scuttled along the mottled wood of the shelf before him. It swayed and undulated in his vision, covered with dancing reflections of dancing lights. He found the orange plastic after a long moment of hunting, his thumb leaving a lurid smear of red across the label of the medicine bottle as he turned it about. The top was off, and the inside proved to be empty even when he dipped two fingers within to be certain.
“Shit,” he spat rudely at the shelf.
Feeling about turned up very little that he wanted. There was a hammer, a piece of wood that might have belonged to a picture frame, a few bent nails. No more pills. He fumbled about, nearly knocking the box of washer detergent from the corner of the shelf, and finally laid claim to the switch blade that he’d laid too far from the bottle. It was cold to the touch, and sticky in his hand. Or maybe his hand was sticky. It was so difficult to keep track.
The music was back. Not that it had gone, but he’d managed to forget about it. It sounded sweet to him, even with the static of a dying speaker. The whining that sought to interrupt it was less pleasant. It came from the dark spot in the center of the room. The void that ate at the dancing of the lights and was now fighting with his music.
“So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum,” Devon sang loudly toward the blackness, hoping to drown out its spiteful efforts. The whining turned to louder whimpers.
Devon’s shoulders slumped, and he heaved a sigh. Swayed. There was little to do but go again to fight the void. To end its darkness. To let in the light and the sound. He shuffled one step closer. Another. The bottoms of his feet were sticky. Itchy. They tickled. Maybe he should cut them off. They wouldn’t tickle anymore of he did. No, no.. First he had to stop the void. He so hated the void.
Devon shuffled and swayed closer to the center of the room. The lights were dancing and shifting. The music seemed so very far. So very distant. He could make out silhouettes and the edges of textures as he stepped nearer. Nearer. The darkness trembled before him. The wide white beam that ran from ground to ceiling was there, a crossboard nailed to it some five feet up. He caught the gleam of teeth in a flicker of orange light. There was the monster, staring at him with one wide eye. Devon had taken the other one earlier.
“Little baby,” Devon sang, all but whimpering. He knew it was not the lyric that was spewing from the speakers of his laptop, but he could no longer hear. It was the next lyric, and that was all that mattered. “Pa rum pumpumpum.”
Skin shifted. Brown with dirt, with life. The thing on the cross simpered. It wanted to end the music. It wanted to suck out the light. It stank. Stank of fear and of filth, of urine and blood. Devon swayed closer, raising his voice in abrupt, shrieking defiance.
“I am a poor boy too, pa rum pumpum pum!”
The thing went quiet. Its eye slid back into the blackness. Devon panted, licking at his lips, and swayed slowly closer. Closer. He hated the void. And yet. And yet. There was something about it. Something.. When he had it under his power. His control. His tongue slid along his lips, little rays of light fracturing away from their soft globes as they speared into the darkness at the center of the room.
“I have no gift to bring,” Devon whispered.
He brought his free hand up, turning his painted fingernails to the tips of the thing’s fingers. His touch lingered there, feeling how slack the other hand was for how it curled. Devon’s index finger unfurled, and he slid the tip along the head of the nail he’d placed in the creature’s palm. It was warm and sticky, the flesh around it hot and so swollen that Devon nearly couldn’t find the nailhead.
“I had to go to the hardware store to find these long enough, pa rum pum pumpum.”
The demon of the void did not respond, but Devon saw its eye roll open again. He leaned near, breathing in the smell of it. Terror and aged sweat. Devon closed his eyes against the glare of a red light in the distance. His nose bumped to the soiled fabric that wrapped the thing’s head, ensuring its relative silence. He slid the tip of his nose along the coarse fibers, feeling the skin beneath with his lips. It was a deceitful thing. Salty and tempting.
Devon swayed closer, closer, until his chest was pressed to the thing’s chest. He could feel it shiver. He could feel its heart race. Devon turned his head up, trailing nose and lips, and let a soft pant pass through coils of oily hair and into the delicate shell of its ear. His skin was tingling, and his blood was on fire. He slid his tongue out, letting it pass soft over the harder swells of earlobe, tracing out the curves and folds.
“Shall I play for you?”
The void monster gave another piteous whine. Devon wondered if it was cruel of him to keep it trapped as he did. To keep it nailed to a cross in the basement. His stomach gave a flutter, and his cock strained against his jeans. He rocked the swell against the thing’s leg, as though he might somehow make the nagging urge to rut go away. Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it was dangerous. He should have killed it yesterday. He knew that, and yet there it was. There he was. He gave a slower rock of his hips, and hissed against the creature’s gag when his cock slid against his zip. The metal was not painful, but neither was it pleasant.
“You think you’re so clever,” Devon growled. “You thought you would just get away with it.”
The knife was up before he could think to stop it, or even to raise it. His hand had a will of its own, or seemed to. It was righteous, and had come to smite the void and all of the things that sprang from its darkness. And yet.. Yet.. The knife did not plunge into its belly, nor slide across the thing’s grimy little throat. Instead the sharp, angled edge pressed into the skin at the juncture of the elbow, and eased steadily up. The blade was sharp, but Devon was slow for how the world seemed to breathe around him.
The thing screeched against its gag, and Devon hummed for it. The same song that had been playing for an eternity. Maybe more than an hour. Maybe for days. Or years. He watched the blade slide along. He watched it carve skin from flesh as though he were peeling an apple. But apples didn’t bleed. Not even blood that gleamed blue, and orange, and green in the shifting light. Light that reached in to illuminate the scene before him as he cut into the thing. As he cut into the darkness.
“Are you a king?” Devon squeezed his eyes shut, and the knife went still. “Are you my king?” The chest beneath his own heaved. Ribs strained. “Should I worship you?” Devon’s ass clenched, thighs tensing, and he gave a short little buck into the limbs pinned between himself and the beam. The music was coming back.
“They’re like angels,” Devon whispered breathlessly. A children’s choir singing the same song over and over, and over again. “But not you. You thought you could hide with the angels? You thought that, when the world is ending?”
His hips rolled and shifted. His zip grabbed at him. Devon hissed, his eyes rolling open to let in more of the hard angles of variegated light. The knife became inconvenient, and he stored it in the long stretch of seeping arm. The thing wriggled against him, shifting and straining, and Devon’s heart sank a little lower. His stomach lurched, but he ignored its twisting. His blood was hammering, and the urge to buck was painful. His fingers were slick and sticky as he fought with his fly.
“You shouldn’t have thought that,” Devon growled. His hand fumbled past the parting of his zip to grab and squeeze. “There’s no hiding now. There never was.” He pulled his cock free of his jeans and shoved the rumpled denim out of his way. “Not for you,” Devon rumbled into the thing’s ear, leaning close as he pulled along the shaft of his cock. “Not for me.”
He drew the blade from the void creature’s arm as he palmed and stroked, nudging the seeping head of his cock against grimy flesh. The creature screeched against its blindfold. Hellish and awful. Devon’s nose wrinkled, and he bit at its cheek. The gag caught under his teeth, but he didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop. His hips worked, rocking, thrusting, his hand in a rhythmic slide. Eager flicks of wrist had him smearing the thing’s leg as he worked into it. Devon’s teeth eased as the thing’s screeching rolled into muffled sobs.
“Pa rum pum pum pum,” Devon whispered.
The music was reaching through the dark. It tangled with the lights. It was light. The light was sound. There was rushing in his ears, and his cock was sending pulses of feeling through his entire body. Feeling that speared up his spine, through the base of his skull, and plunged down again from throat to chest. His toes curled, and he rutted eagerly.
Chest crushed to chest. Devon’s fingers found ribs. The hellish thing was so thin. So delicate seeming. He dug his knuckles into the gaps between the slender curves of bone. His knife grazed negligently as he felt, leaving little nicks and slices in its wake. More spots to glimmer red and orange and yellow. Green and blue. He liked the red the best.
Devon let go of his cock. He pressed it to the thing’s leg and thrust again and again. The soft skin slid, smoothed by slick dribbles of precum, aggravated by the dirt and grime clinging to his prey’s leg. But that grit and grind as as tantalizing as the slide and stroke. Devon sought the hard edge of bone, the soft shift of muscle and fat around it.
Devon’s hand instead located itself to the beam, grasping for purchase as he took to rocking and rutting hard, bruising no doubt. The thing was sobbing near his ear. Devon bit at it again. Again. Skin stretched, muscle compressed, bone resisted. Fabric stole the spittle from his lips, and mingled it with the cool damp of that which it had stolen from the thing. Devon bit it again, tasting blood. His, or the miserable creature’s?
The music was gone. The darkness was back. Devon’s pulse quickened.
“You won’t win,” he whispered between heaving pants. He drove his cock forward, ass clenching, and scarcely drew back before tensing forward again. “I won’t let you win.”
His heart hammered to fill the silence. A wash of red slid across his vision, and for a moment everything was clear: The spots of grease on the floor. The drain near the base of the post. The Christmas lights that were strung in layer after layer around the room. The old washer, the remains of the dryer. The hardware where the clothesline once was. The clothesline that helped bind the boy he’d nailed to his makeshift cross. The boy who was missing bits and pieces, but still alive. Who was sane enough to be terrified in those moments. Who wept as Devon’s cock drove against his leg. As Devon’s teeth dug at cheeks that had been thick with baby fat not so long ago. For one moment, one instant, not even so long as a heartbeat, Devon saw. And he was that boy. And that boy was him.
The moment spun, teetered, and was gone. Devon’s breath hiccuped, but returned all too soon. The clarity was forgotten. The darkness was again at the center of the room, where even the numerous lights could not touch it. The music was returning. Devon jerked erratically, his cock twitching, his fingers digging. He wanted to cum. Wanted it so badly. He whimpered and panted against the creature’s cheek. Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he? There was so much built up. So much pressure. So much longing. But that burn was steady and no longer mounting. The promise of release was just out of reach, and his cock began to ache in unpleasant ways. Devon’s hips slowed, then stilled. The thing simpered near his ear.
“Nonono,” Devon whispered.
He hugged the post. Hugged the body between himself and the wide wooden beam. He crushed close, one arm slung tight, and drew the knife down the ladder of the creature’s ribs. He slid it between one pair, and then the next. The blade was so sharp, and the flesh gave so easily. The thing gave a muffled cry of surprise to its gag, and then a pained groan. The sound of the knife working the flesh was too loud against the music, but Devon sank it in again. Again. His hand was warm, and slippery, and he was distantly aware that he’d cut his own fingers. Their blood was mixing. Would he die? Would he become that thing?
The heart that beat so rapidly in the chest beneath his own began to slow. Its rise and fall tapered off in time. Devon crushed himself closer, intent on smothering it even as it bled out. Even as it drowned on its own blood. His knife sank in again. Again. His fingers stung. It was becoming difficult to hold the thing.
“I played my best for him,” Devon croaked.
The music was so loud as the body on the post went slack. Slowly at first, and then all at once it was still. Dead and cooling. So much meat. The colors of the shifting lights burst through the darkness. Red and orange and yellow. Green and blue. Devon tilted. His feet were wet. His hands too. His stomach gave another churn. He was so thirst. Red and orange and yellow. The ground rushed up to meet him. The music roared in his ears, perfect past the static. Devon gave himself to it. He was floating. The lights were all about him, washing him clean. Touching him as the music rippled through.
“Rum pumpum pum…”
Red and orange. And red. Red.
Delicious delicious delicious. I think Devon is about ready to earn some devil horns of his own >:}
ReplyDeleteNow hurry up with the next part >:D
ReplyDeletelovely *w*
ReplyDeleteMy name is Devyn...this frightens me sometimes but I can't stop o.o
ReplyDelete