Ah-ah-ah

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Normal

The first thing that Devon was aware of as he regained consciousness, was the cold air sliding across the back of his leg. The second thing was the pressure of his bladder. His eyes had crusted shut the way they always did this time of year, and moving to Florida hadn’t helped that any. He rolled to his back, knuckling at one despite the fact that it tore at his lashes and irritated his lids, and forced the other to open on its own. He’d pay for that later, but he had to see the body that belonged to the weight in the bed next to him.

Our Finest Gifts | 2 of 2

And to think, I almost quit writing forever without giving you this.

So much gore. So much.

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Our Finest Gifts

Part 2 of 2

The smell was the first indication that he was conscious again. The smell was also the first indication that something was very, very wrong. It was the stink of roadkill made ripe by the sun, and maybe turned over with a pitchfork for good measure. It filled his sinuses, spilled into his throat, and set his eyes watering as he gagged. Devon rolled, clutching his side, and slowly opened his eyes.

He was still high, but not high enough. It was too easy to think, even with the electronic clicking of the lights amplified within his ears. There were too many colors. Devon squeezed his eyes shut.
   
“Weeeeeeelly well well. Looks like sleeping beauty finally woke the fuck up. Was startin t’think I’d have to find your faggy ass a prince or somethin’. Shit.”

Our Finest Gifts | 1 of 2

I've been recovering from concussion & contusion. Not at all conducive to writing. I'm mostly better now, but still botching up words & word order. And dropping things.. but that's got little to do with stories. Anyway! I mention this in the hopes that you can forgive me if the following story makes absolutely no sense at all.

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.

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.

Polite Introductions (a smutty short) - noncon

The first version of this took me a week to pound out, and was lost due to asshattery. The second version took a few days, and I'm still not happy with it. However, I'm rusty from having been working entirely too much, so I'm going to be forgiving. Hopefully you can be the same. :3

~Marcus

Story:

Well, let's just call a spade a spade. This isn't a spade. It's tentacle rape. More or less (mostly less). This is what happens when people keep asking for more Nasr.
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The horizon was awash with vivid hues of red and orange, brilliant colors that fell off to pastel pinks and purples as night crept along the sky behind Devon. And though he was facing the sunset, he paid it little mind. Nor did he pay any mind to the silhouettes of the trees that lined the park, stabbing voids of black into the brilliant display. Nor anything that might be lurking just past the corner of his eye.

Surprise (a smutty short) ~warning for gore

Thus the deal was done. The man Francis Michael O’Connol was mortal no more. Uriel wept.
Nasreddin grinned, and was gone.

*

“Deeevvvvvvyyyyyy,” Nasr called out on a long, ascending note, as if calling for a reluctant cat. “Deeee~eeeeevvvy,” he tried again.