#everlasting haze needs to fucking exist

[juliasesame]

I don’t normally vent on this account, but I feel like given the subject, this has to be posted here instead of my alt.

I really feel like a failure right now.

I have plans for multiple projects that I need to make, but I either don’t have the energy or I’m forced into using programs that are completely out of my depth.

I know some of you are probably thinking, “oh, you idiot, what are you doing? Just learn Godot or something, it’s easy” but I have put more energy into learning how Godot works than I am willing to admit, and I still barely understand it.

Frankly, I wish I didn't have to understand it, I just want my art to be out there in the world just like how I have it envisioned in my head.

As much as I wish I had a team of people who could help me with my projects, I wouldn't even have a way to pay them.

[scnsuality]

No matter where it came from, all Luca knew was that he loved his boyfriend's sexual side just as much as the moments of lovingness, care and protective affection. Maybe he was just as twisted as Daniel (or at least would've been looked at as such by most people), because while those two sides of their relationship were nigh impossible to compare, Luca genuinely felt just as happy and fulfilled in either. The other man wasn't the only one with two sides to him; it wasn't like Luca was a treasured prince the one moment and an abused victim the next. Even if most people wouldn't understand, he was equally content being the object of Daniel's romantic affection, as well as his possession to use without abandon, without bothering to ask for consent or to give Luca's body a break. Being a means to the end of satisfying Daniel's everlasting carnal hunger was providing him with a sense of fulfilment, of purpose, and even of pride knowing that he was the one to please this man, to provide him with what he needed - more often than not, a warm hole to fuck and claim with his seed.

It was indeed difficult to always be prepared for when his lover would unleash that bestial lust unto him - even with the rule of thumb that when in doubt, Daniel was always horny. Fortunately, even when Luca was forced to take his boyfriend's monster cock dry, lubrication was usually soon provided when the hunk would breed him, a feeling Luca had gotten addicted to not just for the slickness it provided. Being claimed by Daniel in this way, feeling the other's load fill him up, provided a unique pleasure all on its own. And just like his libido, Daniel's balls seemed similarly difficult to drain. With how frequently and how much the other came inside him, Luca knew it was impossible to keep it all in sometimes, having grown equally fond of the feeling when Daniel's seed would start spilling from his thoroughly fucked hole.

Luca's pleas turned into muffled whines and whimpers, breathing through the pain that mixed with intense pleasure when he felt the rest of his lover's horse cock claim him. He could feel Daniel's muscular torso pressed against his own smaller frame, and with hazed eyes gave himself completely into the other's hands, submitting his body and his entire being to his boyfriend's desires. Right here and now, Luca existed only to be pounded and bred by Daniel, a pretty little fuck toy made to have his hole filled as the other wished. He didn't start talking again either when the other's hand moved away from his mouth, heated moans and whimpers coming over Luca's lips instead as he was being railed. His own length was rock-hard by now as well, though the younger man did not focus on that right now; his entire being, his whole purpose right now was Daniel's satisfaction, and all Luca could focus on was the feeling of that hand on his throat, the other's body holding his own close, and that giant length pounding away at his needy insides, promising to fill him with the seed he so craved.

Maybe it was all the porn he'd watched in his life, maybe it was his slightly-below-average IQ, maybe it was some sort of mixed up combination of personality disorders; whatever the case was, Daniel's sexual side was truly something to behold in contrast to the rest of his personality. Sure, Luca sometimes cried and whined from the pain, but that only ever seemed to egg him on more - he loved every sound that the other made, no matter the circumstances. But the longer they'd been together, the better Luca had gotten at predicting and preparing for him. Though there were plenty of times he'd be taken by surprise. That being said, Daniel didn't know how Luca did it, to him it was like magic - he could fuck Luca relentlessly for hours the day and night before and by the time he mounted him the next day, the other was tight and ready for him, even in energy levels. It was something that only made him more devoted to the smaller man because he'd never had a lover like Luca. Hell, nobody had ever loved him like Luca did.

Luca never made him feel bad about not understanding things, in fact, more often than not, Luca would understand exactly what he was trying to do or say or ask for without him having to do or say much to begin with. Luca got him. He never picked random and unnecessary fights just to 'spice things up'. No, he loved Daniel back as much as the tall jock did him. "Uh-uh," he breathed, reaching forward, wrapping a hand around Luca's mouth and pulling the other up so his chest was against his boyfriend's back as the remainder of his massive cock sank inside of him, "Shut the fuck up," he breathed into Luca's ear as he started to thrust into the other's semi-ready entrance, forcing Luca's legs open a little more with his own so he could get just the right positioning to start thrusting in earnest and building up a rhythm, "You just need to take my cock right now, baby, not talk," the other would understand that what Daniel needed more than anything was to just be inside of him. He needed the physical connection and that carnal release that only Luca could give. Luca would know this was Daniel's unique way of showing how much he'd missed him and been thinking about him through the day and all he wanted was to focus on feeling every part of him, physically reuniting with him, and, in a way, 're-claiming' Luca as his now that he was home.

He found the right angle and the right pace and it wasn't long before he was deeply pounding his boyfriend right there in their kitchen. Not that every surface of their apartment hadn't already been christened at one point or another. His hand had slowly moved from being around Luca's mouth to find itself wrapped around his throat, now and then squeezing just enough to choke Luca for a few seconds before releasing. His other hand had made it's way up under Luca's shirt, groping at the other's chest, even daring to play with his nipples until they were hard. "My sweet breeding toy," he growled into the other's ear, "Got such a big fucking load for you, baby."

[sidpah]

Kali Yuga

With all of Kali’s mad handiwork visible in every corner on any given day, at peace I welcome the extinction of humanity.  It’s okay.  Dinosaurs are plenty happy with no more their thick ungainly forms lumbering down fern, starving.  We too can calcify into fossils for a new race to unearth with knowing curiosity, and just a tinge of pity.  No urge to pass on traits, ill predispositions, weakness and paranoias, hard-sought insights and half-absorbed insults, when we could make a clean break for a million years.  Allow the Earth to spin back.  Release its pent up rage at us insane parasitic intellectuals with our plots of conquest and manipulation.  She just needs some time alone to cry off her desperate toxic woes…

Well, goodbye to Us with pink cheeks and black socks in 21 years.  Cloud of ash will remedy the warming of the globe. Drawn to each other’s bulk, mighty rocks collide – Sparks and debris in satellite-cluttered no-space – asteroid diving into one aquamarine puddle spraying steam craters for the next incarnation to visit and measure with awe.  Because it probably won’t be There yet.  Still one step closer to the curtain wrapped up with applause by the Jolly Laughing Jester God of Everything.

Why shoot rockets into space when we’re all, right now, hurtling straight through it?  We’ll all get there eventually…

While here on Earth, civilization is collapsing. Capitalism running rampant, an outdated system, a failed experiment hanging on like the last sinewy threads of a vestigial tale being excised and left behind for the betterment of the species; anachronistic intolerant religious dogma enforced as a code of laws for believers and nonbelievers alike should be stoned to death at the public’s behest like the condemned heretics, adulterers and liberated women of centuries past, rather than being lauded as the hallmark of a true patriot, or most moral of politicalized beings… While the few last acres of unspoiled wilderness are bulldozed to raise cattle to be eviscerated and hacked to bits and sold to Americans already obese, plaque-veined and lacking the empathic compassion of an even marginally evolved species…

The world as we know it is heating up, burning down, melting, being washed away, bombed by soulless drones steered by soulless drones, irradiated, shredded, chewed up and shat out. Why bother fighting against the tide at all? Surely inertia has already taken over. Why not fiddle while everything we once loved turns into one giant cinder, again, for the first time before our eyes?

Nothing changes because everything changes so there is no stability like there’s no Golden Age that ever was or ever will be. Constant transformation. Slow, steady, brutal and beautiful… We’re afloat amidst the torrents of disintegration and Walmartification.

And I don’t pray… because I am not a total hypocrite… but I hope to remain aware, incorporeally if not still present in body, to observe the next changing of the guard…  

The militaries and militants all watch the same sky go black as we forever lose sight of that beautiful roaring star always taken for granted.  The Hummers and factory farms and all the glittery shops of Rodeo Drive are covered in dust three feet high… raging black waters lap up to consume skyscrapers, vacant city streets, penitentiaries and recruiting offices and diamond mines and barricaded gubernatorial mansions and all else that was rightfully theirs… man cannot exist without the water’s blessing… Radioactive isotopes have all the lives they need to reconcile their potential with their old nasty habits… And the wealthy politicos run miles toward the Earth’s core only to find it no brighter or warmer underground… and their profligate rations keep them conscious just long enough to wonder what the last thoughts of a species should be.  What’s a fitting tribute to millennia of nanotechnology and astral-travel and eco-destruction collapsing in on itself with all the majestic pulchritude of the avenging cosmos laying it to waste?  In these hours they can replay their home movies of cause and effect and their best-of campaign reels as tribute to their own everlasting insanity and those thoughts are a waste, inconsequential, frivolous and self-righteous. Perfect in their own scared helpless childish innocence… thinking there could ever be an end to this unyielding consciousness… Those of us who know, we laugh as it crumbles down!      

But what is a fitting soundtrack for this, Kali’s Yuga? Perhaps something delicate, fragile, treading lightly on the rotting floorboards of our childhood home, yet bold and violent and horrifying like those things lurking in the basement of our collective subconscious, because that subconscious is enacted upon and brought to light every day by genocidal sociopaths drunk on power and bloodlust, and belligerent boyfriends drunk on whiskey and self-loathing…

Something in a constant state of decay, audibly crumbling into dust of 0s and 1s, while also meditative, psychedelic, entrancing and eternal. Repetitious, mesmeric, entraining as a shamanic ritual, her sound should transmute the mental state of the listener to something either more base and earthy thick with congealing plasma and mud and thumping of hooves trampling earth, or more transcendent and ethereal, striving for the sublime vibrational perfection of OM… Anything to break us from this fucking retina-display haze of tablets, smart phones and laptop screens impersonating valid experience. Whether it’s a Zen monk staring out over a vast, barren rock garden or the same monk struck across the shoulders by his master’s keisaku. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. Because it’s something else. And we need something else… desperately. Churn it out like you’re exorcising a demonic presence! Because this whole goddamned world possesses us every second with biased pseudo-facts or jaded propaganda slander. Deceptive slogans spouted out with the religious fervor of a true Blind Believer to coerce a gullible populace into feeding its children toxic food, destroying its ecosystem in the quest for more energy to power its enormous gaudy SUVs and microwave ovens and convincing them that perpetual war for the sake of profit and resources is the only thing that will keep their families safe and ultimately bring about everlasting sustainable peace…

But most of all, it must have a sense of humor. Since that Jolly Laughing Jester God of Everything is constantly forgetting himself as he playacts a hundred billion roles at the same time, forgetting too his dispassionate air.  Stifling all existence with his thoughts and dreams, his professions and aspirations.  His constant birth and death; his constant peerless life.  Of course he’s Jolly, laughing at his own tears! He can laugh always because he can see clearly through them! The Jester God eats his weight in his own bodies every living hour… Why else could he be Laughing all the time?

What we really need is communion, compassion not only for other humans but for all the species who share this planet with us and whom we see as little more than commodity, nuisance or intriguing curiosity. We need non-romantic love that cares about other people, even if they refuse to rub their genitals against ours, for the simple fact that just like every other species of animal on the Earth, they are just like us and want only to be free of pain, fear, and all the other causes of suffering… What we need is a fucking revolution, political, spiritual, emotional… We need the mass’s willingness to reach the saturation point… As a species we need to embrace the necessary doubt and uncertainty and vast uncomfortable change, creating a hospitable environment in which these things can exist, and maybe one day thrive…

Until then, what’s left to do but to wait for it all to fall down around us… And hope only that the next incarnation has learned from the mistakes of its extinct forbearers…

[gaybeardedmen]

Read “ Sell Your Soul “ on Archive of Our Own. Support me here.

Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game) Relationship: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison Characters: Reaper | Gabriel ReyesSoldier: 76 | Jack Morrison Additional Tags: Tentacles, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Blood and Injury, Excessive Cum, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning Language: English

Jack Morrison was known to the world as a man of meticulous research. Meticulous meaning a great attention to detail, for example, in his younger years at the very peak of Overwatch, Jack Morrison had been so meticulous about a freshly shaven face he would wake an hour earlier than needed to inspect and shave himself.

Time had not diminished such an principal piece of himself as it often did when one aged.

Never would he willingly enter a situation without planning accordingly; whether it was the mundane activity of creating a list of groceries, with a written note to coupons and restocked shops, or the more exhilarating and controversy research towards the rituals of demon summoning. He had memorized the standard set of several demons and their sigils of summoning, spent hours with a pinched brow, eyes straining from the hours spent staring at the taboo documents, waiting for God, if he truly existed, to strike him down for his treachery.

Jacks toes curl against the hardwood floor, skin prickling at the cold. He was shirtless, chest cold along the circle lines of red, wet paint smeared along his body; delicate, scarred fingers mimicked the pattern of the demons sigil onto his chest, his breath caught in his throat during the act. He wondered vaguely how it would feel for the demon to be summoned to stand before a shirtless, shivering, aging man.

Jack supposed he wouldn’t feel anything. Whatever demon he summoned may feel disgust or annoyance at the mortal with a want that was considerably more cliche than a kiss in summers fine rain.

The anticipation would kill him. Jack had never felt more frightened as thick, clumsy fingers struck a match to light the ritual candles he’d made himself; they were of a deep crimson wax, smelt of cinnamon, and had a thick black wick. The candle itself was not important to the ritual, a fact that Jack did not come across during his meticulous demonic research. In his research, Jack believed the candle had to represent the malevolent spirit he wished to summon: pink for lust, blue for sorrow, yellow for human nature, and red for the everlasting.

The anticipation, as the seconds of an old clock ticked down louder than the blood rushing through his ears, was a killer. Jack felt more fright when it came to lighting the ritual candles, a deep crimson wax with a black wick,  than when he’d once stared down the barrel of a shotgun. Fingers strike the match, and for once, Jack Morrison acted without thought to consequence.

“Know I call to you … “ Swallowing thickly, the man knelt, fingers smoothed alongside the burning candle, wax coated his fingers unnaturally quick, and the markings on his chest began to bleed. In the moment he did not know the true extent of summoning, only knowing the vaguest want could derail him. “Think of me, think of me. So mote it be.” How silly he felt. So mote it be, as if he were a fictitious character in a low-budget indie film, whose writers had long since given up the research in demonic summoning, choosing instead to copy verbatim the spells written by a modern days witch, attempting to summon a demon.

The ringing in his ears a distracting white noise, silence was a buzzing white noise as striking blue eyes track the flame of a ritual candle; the red wax pooling from the burning wick, his legs swayed side to side as the flame of the candle, and he fell to his knees in dubious defeat. Dedicated research, his years spent searching for the key of immortality, waisted and lost in his failure. He would not summon a demon, a creature of pure religious superstition, and Jack Morrison had never felt foolishness this way; unable to breath, eyes clenched shut until furrowed brows and the corners of his eyes burned with salty tears. He was pathetic, time would take him, and the world would know him as a failure throughout life: the soldier program, Strike Commander of Overwatch, Soldier 76, and an witless man seeking immortality.

Through his tears, his body shook with his regrets, and only a cool touch to his cheek, where claws curled against the side of Jacks cheek to raise his gaze, forced eyes open wide and frightful. Breath catching in his throat, his bottom lip quivered, and Jack did not recoil from the oddity he saw in fear the claws like pins in his face would rip and disfigure him.

“What are you,” he spoke barely above a whisper, looking to the mass before him. He could not get a good look at the creature, it’s body seemed to change shape the second he managed to focus on the last form it took; at one moment the creature was a normal man, standing tall and prideful above him, and the next he was a beast with a thousand teeth and millions of eyes blinking, their irises spinning clockwise. He had summoned an enigma in a greedful haze, and the fear that settled in his gut was a solid ball of ice refusing to melt, prolonged by the entity.

“You summoned me.” The creature’s voice was a rasp of words, as if its vocal cords were buried beneath gravel. “... For what reason have you brought The Reaper back.” The mass formed a face, detached from a body, shifting like smoke, and Jack was only able to focus on his face; well-structured jawline with facial hair that looked softer than anything he’d ever touched before, and unlike the mass of eyes ever shifting and bright red behind him, the two on the human face  were beautiful.

Jack Morrison had never felt love like this. His heart had never sung loudly. Soul-mates were a cliche, but the man felt he had been made to serve this entity; to love and hold him, and kiss what figure held its form long enough.

“Immortality.” Jack cleared his throat. Years of research, planning, dedication to an archaic craft would not be forgotten in lieu of coquettish grins to a lovecraftian beauty.

“Foolish.” The Reaper snarled, claws travel across Jacks face featherlight, hooking the corner of his mouth and parting his lips with his index and middle finger. The entity seemed to be in thought, a low and rumbling growl leaving the mass of life signifying his thought. “You will do. Stay on your knees, mortal.”

“Why?” he asked, but The Reaper offered no answer. Jack sat on his knees in awe as the mass formed into a man, and his eyes were not tricked or deceived by a captivating, ever shifting figure any longer. The face he had admired became hidden away, tucked behind a mask of sharpened bone and dark shadows, a low and soft whine left Jack, his mouth held open no longer by claws, but two tentacles that squirmed against the back of his throat.

He gagged and The Reaper chuckled, Jacks stomach clenched and his toes curled. He doesn’t remember getting naked, but then again, he hadn’t remembered The Reaper entering the room. It had happened, and he wasn’t opposed to it just … happening.

A hand slipped down his chest and fingers curled around the base of his cock, playing a very dangerous game with the demon that had demanded him stilled and ragdolled; with Jacks jaw stretched wide by very thin smoke tendrils blacker than tar. Jack prayed that his immortality would taste just as sweet as the cock fucking his mouth and be as pleasurable too. Breathing heavily through his nose, he managed two quick pumps on his aching cock before the demon rammed suddenly into his mouth, burying his nose against a thick patch of curled public hair. Jack gagged on his thick dick, choking. The Reaper paid him no mind, it seemed he didn’t care if the immortal suffocated on his cock, if anything the idea of blue lips and watching life leave the white man’s eyes turned him on, his body shuddering.

“Be ... still.” Snarled the demon whose fingers curled into Jacks white hair, claws scraping harshly against his scalp. Thrusting his hips roughly, the black tentacles widened the immortals mouth to the point the corners of which threatened to unwravel like the seams of a fine silk dress; saliva dribbled thickly onto the demons pubes, and tears sprung from the corners of blue eyes half-lidded. The tips of smog tentacles curled around the demons shaft, jacking The Reaper off within the soft and warm confines of Jacks mouth, and Jack had never felt as used and full before; this was better than sucking cock, to be treated like a glorified fleshlight was a fantasy he had not thought of even in his younger years, and to feel the twist of tentacles in his mouth stroking off a cock, their tips sliding across the slit of its head, drove Jack wild.

He wondered how much semen The Reaper would fill him with. If he would pump him until his stomach bulge, tongue shriveled from the amount of cum he’d happily swallow.

Aroused by the pain, Jack groaned, the heavy weight of cock on his tongue and the weightless sensation of tentacles was becoming  an oasis of pleasure to a man who found himself in a dry spell of sex, where three quick pumps of his cock once had him flaccid with thick ropes of semen between his fingers would now have him achingly hard, disobedient and wanton.

Thrusting into his hand, his hips rocked slowly to make the pleasure of friction from calloused palms last, soft blues flickered up to stare at his counters thousand-eyed crimson glare. The Reaper’s claws curled even tighter into the mortals aged hair and pulled back his head harshly, freeing his cock from the confines of his velvet mouth with a soft pop, and a thick trail of saliva connecting the head of his cock to Jacks bottom lip.

With a snarl too low and inhuman to be attractive, although Jack found his balls tingling and hips thrusting weakly from the noise that sent frightful shivers along his spine, Reaper pulled Jack up from his knees to a full stand. Claws came to rest on either side of his boney hip, seemingly thousands of red, distorted eyes studied Jacks demeanor; the immortals cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet red, his breathing heavy, chest falling and rising rapidly from arousal, and his cock stood aching and hard with white beads of precum leaking from the tip. Jack curled his fingers tightly around the base of his cock, moaning softly, his bottom lip quivered. “-- Reaper.”

Tentacles whipped the air, the demon clearly agitated that the man found any pleasure in being treated like the fuck toy he intended him to be. Immortality would come at the price of a demon, he had warned the mortals that sought his powers before, often it was their souls to be the price, claimed by The Reaper to be used; The Reaper had been alone for eons, and he would claim Jacks body over soul, he would rather fuck him whenever and however he wanted,  with cock and tentacles alike, than claim his spirit.

“The couch … bend over that armrest. Now.” The Reaper demanded of him, releasing the painful grip he held on Jacks hair. Cool trickles of moisture dripped along his neck and it took Jack a moment to realize The Reaper’s claws had pricked his scalp, causing him to bleed, leaving stands of white hair to fall to the floor and his shoulders.

In a trance Jack moved to the back of the room, bare feet dragged unhurried against the ground as he made his way to the couch. Before his attempt at summoning a demon, Jack had pushed the piece of furniture against the wall, having wanted more room for the summoning. Now bent over with his forearms resting against the armrest, Jack blinked lazily, the slightest smirk pulled on his lips as he shook his ass to tantalize the other. “I’m--” Breathlessly he moaned, teeth catching his bottom lip and biting hard, thrusting forward to rut against the couch. Legs quivered at the friction, his hole clenched in anticipation. “-- I’m ready. Take me.”

With another snarl and lashing tentacles, the air crackling with annoyance, The Reaper stepped forward, his hand curled around the base of his cock and he slapped his dick between Jacks spread cheeks. “Shut up, Morrison.” The two tentacles that spread his cheeks writhed in fervor of the warm flesh of Jacks flushed skin, cupping either of his perfect cheeks to spread him even more, showing how deliciously his hole quivered under a lustful gaze.

The Reaper licked his lips, his tongue was long and smog like, and his eyes focused on the mans tight, quivering, wanting hole. Jack mewled pathetically, arching his back as the two tentacles massaging him spread his ass further apart mimicking the feel of hands while a third coming to prod curiously at his tight hole; the third tentacle was wet and cold, clearly meant to prepare him for a cock that changed thickness and length at The Reaper’s will, seemingly a very rare kindness from the other that saw him as nothing more than a fuck toy and who became annoyed at Jack touching himself.

Jack didn’t believe The Reaper saw him as a toy, he had to find him interesting. There had to be something that made him decide he was worth what trouble came with immortality.

Without much warning above a few testing, lazy prods, the tentacle slipped completely inside of him. Jack bit his lip harder, his mouth going agape as a moan ripped from his throat; the slick squelching sound of the tentacle slipping in and out of his ass filled the room, the sensation would remain cold, wet, and slick, even as Jack began rocking back in an attempt create friction. He was torn between humping the couch and begging for a second or even third tentacle to fuck him senseless.

“Reaper! Reaper, please,” Jack croaked, voice raw from moaning and throat sore from being mouth fucked. ���Please.”

Quickly the tentacle was removed and slick leaked freely and plentiful down his thighs. Whatever The Reaper used as lubricant he used so excessively, and Jack mewled at the loss of stretch.

Then a hand slapped his left cheek harsh, causing him to yelp, claws pricking the soft flesh of his rump, and then The Reaper slammed his cock into his prepared hole with a grunt. Jack groaned, hissed, moaned and arched his back, “Ye -- yes.” Breath coming quickly, he hardly noticed the tentacles that wrapped around his biceps and thighs or the tentacles that slithered along his shaft, curling and cupping his balls, to furious jerk him off.

The Reaper groaned, claws digging carelessly into the mortals back, drawing blood as he fucked Jack senseless. Deep, fast, and rough, the pace was just as relentless as it was inhuman. Too fast for Jack to find a perfect rhythm to grind back, tears streamed freely down Jacks flushed cheeks, in more pain than pleasure, but still he cried out desperately for more. As he fucked him, thousands of red eyes examined his body, littered in scars and age, The Reaper had little care for confidence in appearance; as sweat gave Jack a sheen, he noticed a fine sprinkling of freckles along his shoulders, and through the mass of wiggling tentacles massaging his spread cheeks, he noticed a thin pink scar that ended just across his right buttcheek.

Curious, The Reaper cocked his head to the side, eyes squinting. Jack Morrison’s bodily imperfections were cute.

“More! More!” Jack cried out, sobbing pitifully as The Reaper claimed his hole, thick ropes of cum shooting from his cock, coating the couch and more. “Please … more, fill me and fuck me. I’m yours, Reaper...” Jack fell flat against the armrest, his toes curling against the cold floor beneath them, becoming a little less than a fuck doll as his cum coated his abdomen and dripped down his balls. The tentacles refused to stop jerking him off, going faster now, squeezing his balls tightly, trying to milk him for all he was worth.

The Reaper complied to the request of more, gripping tightly to Jacks shoulders as he fucked him ruthlessly, claws raking down his back, following old scars and threatening to reopen them. Blood bloomed where his hands had been, thin lines of red, and the sound of balls slapping against bare ass and Jacks pitiful, weak whimpering broke the demon. “Mine.” He snarled, “All mine!” The Reapers hips flushed to his ass, he came with an loud and inhuman growl, bending to bite viciously into the shoulder of the man. Teeth ripped at tender flesh, ever eager to mark the mortal-now-immortal and steal the delicious taste of human blood that bloomed on the tip of his tongue. Sweeter than cotton candy.

The Reaper bit even harder.

He filled Jack until his stomach began to expand from his spunk, cum dripped from his asshole, coating The Reapers pubic hair just as it slid along Jacks thighs. “You are mine! A toy to be fucked and you are nothing without me.” He snarled between the chunk of shoulder he refused to release from sharpened teeth, giving several rough thrusts into Jack as he rode out his own orgasm, the slick squelch of semen having filled the man, now leaking freely from his abused hole had the demon debate on a second round.

He wasn’t known for comply completely with sexual wants, taking what he had wanted when it was given, and The Reaper vanished with another slap to the ass of the immortal motionless, bleeding from head to back, and whimpering pathetically against the couch.

The old man, exhausted and soaked with sweat and blood, panted heavily against the couch. Spreading himself, Jack Morrison closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of semen slowly dripping from his abused hole, and the cool prick of blood along his backside. With each uncomfortable stream, he whimpered, forcing a body exhausted and used to push itself over the armrest and collapse stomach first onto the couch.

The semen in his stomach shifted, even when he had subjected himself to mindless nights of sex, where his goal was not in the pleasure of two people, but rather to be completely and utterly filled and forgotten, no feeling of being full had been so persistent as this.

Jack could feel his cock twitching at the sensation, though he found he had little energy to slip a hand between himself and the couch. For now he would sleep, cheek pressed against the surface of a seat cushion too uncomfortable to be used while naked, enamored with the demon that had claimed that he would be nothing, but had treated him with a sexual kindness Jack Morrison had not granted himself in years.

[deadstockpoetry]

The note exists

The brightness in your head made the night turn to day, And i’m stuck in an everlasting cycle of hate, Theres no part of me that wants to keep on living vicariously, Through your mannerisms and decisions it's not fair to me, Pair with me someone who hates the same things I do, Then kick me in the stomach and tell me to find something new, Life is just a mess that needs a cleaning up, But instead of brooms we choose to use guns and knives that cut, Maybe I need to do a little spring cleaning of my own, This place is hell and I refuse to ever call it home, Peers ignore me conversations tend to bore me, Whores are horny fuckboys are worse but that’s another story, This is like life is someone decided to take out all the fun, The rhythm of my life is has a bpm of negative one, I can’t stop listening to what they say to me, I fix situations by breaking and wasting glee, My only choice is too drink myself stupid, And pray to god in my drunken haze i’m struck by fucking cupid, Use this as what I can see as maybe an apology, A letter giving everything I own to some kind of prodigy, Every word i’ve ever written compressed into a fortune, Worth more to me than money because my pride is not important, This moment is just smaller problems killing what I worked to gain, I hope my brain gives up and I lay dead in a sewer drain, Maybe a train will hit me and my face won’t be seen again, A body so deformed that you couldn’t ID me, My existance wouldn’t matter i’m just a piece of scenery, Rotting into a dry state hopefully I can help, Maybe a tree will grow inside me when I can’t grow hope inside myself. Emergency calls police lined up watching over me, Loaded 44 magnum near my corpse and i’ve bloated heaps, But alas I couldn’t do it i’m far too scared of death, I’ll embrace the foul taste of life until no breath is left, My curiosity will kill me honestly so let's respect, Fate and the ways it will take me and leave nothing left, I have no will but I can legally write one out, I have a letter that I hope I never have to leave around, The contents of the letter upset me when I think back, On the pain I had when I tried to write these damned facts, My family doesn’t need it they need their son, But on the other hand I can’t stand to be a burden, My conclusion will never be fit and the useless will stay shit, Stomach grumbling it’s been days since I fed it, But for now I have nothing and the words I say should be erased, Lets hope to christ I manage to make it through the day.