BONES OF BLACK MARROW

by oxfordRoulette

Summary:

Dirk summons a demon for the exclusive purpose of 'cathartic boning.' He gets what he wants.

NOTE: This fic is ergodic (think House of Leaves), which means it cannot be downloaded for offline perusal on your kindle/pdf reader. Also has CYOA elements, so clicking “Entire Work” will make the fic impossible to read.

Notes:

Some fyis:
-If you’re reading on mobile, note that this fic was made with wider screens in mind, so flip it turnways for maximum enjoyment.
-I am 95% sure the only browser this will not solidly work in is Opera Mini. Don't read this in Opera Mini.
-Pretty sure my svg hoster gets flagged by corporate firewalls because I'm routing it through the cheapest domain name money could buy (five bucks for ten years, bitch!!!), so if some of the "images" are broken then stop reading fic at work/school, slacker.
-This will have three “parts,” but there will be an undetermined amount of mini-chapters separating the parts. I consider a “part” to be a big trippy sex scene.

Have fun, relax, lay back, enjoy the ride.

Chapter 1: FOLLOWED

"So I summoned a demon the other day," says Rose, sipping her latte.

"Lies," you say, circling the rim of your coffee mug (black, dark roast) with your pointer finger. "You're as stiffly atheist as I am. You're the pressed, over-bleached laundry of atheism."

"Funny thing, that," says Rose. "Turns out all religions are correct, it's all about what you give your heart to. And I gave my heart to the deuterocanonical mythos surrounding Catholicism, as it apparently contains a tall, dark, and handsome demon lady with dog ears who knew all my sins and whispered filthy black scriptures in my ears."

"You summoned a demon and you fucked it."

"What else are you supposed to do with a demon."

"You summoned a non-canonical Catholic furry demon and you fucked it."

"I can’t resist the classics. Besides, Rabbi Klien always warned Roxy and I not to fuck with the shedim."

You sit at a table with your paternal half-sister, during one of your bi-weekly get-togethers. She bitches about her Latin doctoral studies, you bitch about your fancy millennial Silicon Valley programmer job, you drink overpriced local coffee in your overpriced local coffeeshop and ignore the background hum of the surrounding crowd. Usually you two tend to stick towards logical over-analysis taking sharp downward turns into self-manufactured anxiety, but today you’re apparently veering onto the fantasy land freeway, speeding towards imagination town.

“Rose,” you say, solemnly. “You should have at least summoned and fucked the Steed of Famine.”

She digs out her phone from her purse, unlocks it. “I knew you’d be sarcastic to hide your disdain, so I snapped a picture. I believe you will find sufficient evidence to sow seeds of doubt in your worldview.”

She shows you the image. Rose’s face is in the foreground, fuzzy, grinning open mouthed and making a peace sign, the camera tilted up at an unattractive angle that looks up her nostrils. The focus is on the thing behind her.

A massive wolf stands on her queen sized bed, her mattress barely big enough to fit the span of its legs. The animal is pitch black, a true and infinite darkness with no discernible features. All you can recognize on its great form are the eyes, pure white and pupilless, staring through the camera and seemingly into your soul. If you squint at it, you get the impression its wagging its tail.

All religion is bullshit. If it were real, you’d leap at the chance to fuck some giant monster thing. You’d summon a demon in a hot second. There is an annoying flicker of hope in you as you look at that image, one that does not crush your worldview or change your perception on religion, but one that sparks a flame and a want for the possibility of some otherworldly dick.

Rose gives you a brief overview of what went down, sans the grody sex details: the demon appeared mostly human at first, then transformed for the fuckfest. Afterwards, the two of them played video games and ordered vegetarian pizza, and when Rose woke up the next morning her demon was gone. Some of the details are too strange and weird for her to be pulling your leg (unless if she planned it like that, to trick you, and this is some ultimate fifth dimension mindgame prank). Like the demon’s name. And how her hobbies included electric bass and gardening.

The story she tells makes it sound like a trashy internet hookup, except you're guaranteed not to be ghosted and/or disappointed and also your demon might be a furry. Worth dooming your immortal soul to hell for? Absol-fucking-lutely.

“I summoned it while smashed on a Wednesday night and by fooling around with the dictation of my own pseudo-translated version of Frontinus’ Strategemata,” says Rose, finishing her drink. “I decided to use only female words for a certain passage. Anyway, turns out if you only read the verbs aloud you get a sexy lady demon.”

You frown. “What? That makes no sense. Strategemata predates Catholicism by a fucking mile.”

Rose leans forward, over the table, eager to spill all. “See, here’s the thing, the content doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you read aloud. It’s all about the language. All you need to summon a demon is a gendered language, a couple paragraphs that you personally translated into that language in a way that prioritizes the words of a certain gender, and then speak only a specific grammar device aloud. Verbs summon females, nouns summon males, and I suppose adverbs and adjectives are wildcard or somewhere else on the gender spectrum. I believe the demon you receive is based less on the content of the text and more on the dialect of whatever you’re reading. I, for one, was using Renaissance Latin. Therefore, Catholic demon.”

Sounds easy enough. All you have to do is copy-paste a couple paragraphs from the Wikipedia article of the day into your autoresponder, have it translate the sentences into the language of your choice, then only read aloud the nouns.

“Sweet,” you say. “And here I thought it’d require some blood sacrifices, a pentagram, and Marilyn Manson tunes played backwards.”

"And you will have to read your passage while sitting within a plain circle, drawn in whatever you have handy," she says. "It separates our world from the 'other,' a symbolic infinity keeping you safe while drawing a border between us and The Unknown. Most cultures have a bit of a supernatural circle fetish, so this generally works for everything."

“Huh.”

"Is this going to consume you?" asks Rose. "You're getting that look on your face like it's going to consume you."

"It's not going to consume me."

It consumes you. You spend the next two weeks taking PTO and doing nothing but reading demonology books. You sleep for four to six hours every night. You take no breaks. You neglect your usual cardio and do ellipticals in order to have your book reading hand free. You eat a lot of Annie's Organic & Natural Mac and Cheese, because Dave got a box of 12 on sale at Costco for you.

You can do this due to possessing one of those overpaid startup jobs with outrageous perks, one of which includes infinite vacation time. It's a fair tradeoff for a 70 hour workweek (not ordered by your bosses-- it's of your own insane volition). You miss out on the catered lunches, but you think it's worth it for the chance to touch dicks with a supernatural entity.

You are determined to do this right. You will not be some boneheaded Faustian warning story. You are going to write up a demon-binding contract that you will not lose your soul for, go to hell for, or allow for any loopholes within. They will sign your list of demands and they will be indentured to you with no repercussions, forced to go through infinite iterations of sexing whenever you want it. They will be unable to exploit the contract, because you’re going to make it watertight and perfect.

This is what takes the bulk of the time. You write every statement of your sex demon contract in logic to help yourself work through exploits, A → B ⊨ ¬B → ¬A and all that. When you’ve over thought every ounce of it, you have eight double sided pages, typed with 14 point font, no margins, TNR, single spaced, and clear circle bullet points. Yeah. You’re ready.

You decide to summon this in your living room. You have a one-bedroom, in one of those fancy post-gentrification built apartments. There’s a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom with a massive jacuzzi sized tub that you basically live in, and entryway/livingroom combo. You try to keep it clean, but you have a hard time not throwing your shit on the floor all the time. You figure the demon won’t care. You at least made your bed. And prepped your body.

You washed the bejezus out of your butthole and ate some nu-mag liquid diet for the past 24 hours, so you are goddamn amped for a giant demon cock to slam past the safe ranges of assholery and slide into squeaky-clean, unclaimed territory. You're ready to be ravished. You're ready to be plundered. You're ready to fuckin' boned. 'Disappointed' will not even begin to describe your mood if this doesn't end up working. You might actually show up at Rose's fire escape window with your shitty katana at sunset and menacingly cast a shadow into her living room if this doesn't work. That's one hell of a goddamn threat, is what it is.

You buy some chalk from the corner store, and sit crosslegged on the smooth wood in your entryway. You draw a circle around yourself, contract on your lap. You whip out your phone, copying the first couple paragraphs from the Project Gutenberg copy of Venus in Furs, then pasting it into your “smart home” input console, an app you built for your autoresponder.

You stare at the text, flashing in the white box, and think about what language “you’ll” translate it into.

You're fluent in French in order to talk to the overseas AI guys, but French is so fucking blasé in regards to demon summoning. It's like Latin Lite. You are not getting shown up by Rose.

You're about a JLPT Level 2 in Japanese, which you mostly use to watch low budget hentai from a purely academic standpoint. You know from said ventures that summoning a Japanese demon sounds like a horrifying descent into scare territory real, real fast. Worst case is you summon a bunch of hungry ghosts who proceed to eat you. Not your kink. Besides, you're not sure how the Male/Female thing would work in a language without gendered words.

That leaves Modern Standard Arabic, which you took exactly one semester of in college. You struggled with it, the moon and sun letters and shit, which means you had to dump it immediately. You dump anything that doesn't come easy to you. But you know the alphabet, and you can say critical verbless phrases such as ‘My mother is in the car.’ Whatever you get with an Arabic summoning can't be that different from Judeo-Christian canon. Right? Right.

"Hey, autoresponder," you say.

"'Sup," says your autoresponder, from the speaker in your living room. It has your voice.

You accent the consonants clearly so it can understand you. "Translate input text: phone into Arabic. Fuzzy judgment: living language. Output: voice protocol. Select from nouns only.”

It thinks for a while, concatenating different online translation softwares and tons of webcrawler and language learning programs that you coded yourself. "Dialect?"

"Modern Standard Arabic."

"Incompatible. Choose another selection?"

The prosody is mangled on your autoresponder's reply-- emphasis makes it sound like a polite question instead of the type of harshly formed accusation you prefer. You memorize the sentence and make a mental note to either re-record the vocals or mess with the synthesizer some more.

Anyway, what the fuck does incompatible mean. Like it's too 21st century for the text you chose? You're boned without MSA. Literally all you know about Arabic dialects is that there are hundreds of them, and they're different enough to make your basic vocabulary knowledge base completely useless. You try to remember where your freshman year Arabic professor was from. Somewhere in the Levant, probably.

"Levant... tine Arabic," you guess.

Apparently you picked the right answer. Your autoresponder begins making the "processing" noise, a series of pleasant clicks you slapped together in Audacity. After a few seconds, it switches to 'hold please' music, a 4x slowed down version of Girl From Ipanema with twenty six distorted jpegs in MPEG format layered over it that you also slapped together in Audacity, which indicates your responder needs to think for a while.

While you wait, you take the time to read through the Wikipedia article for Levantine Arabic, which appears to be the parent categorization of at least five other dialects, not to mention being some ancient spawn of Aramaic's loins. What is your autoresponder doing with this? Making some deranged, concatenated Frankenstein language from all the listed dialects on Wikipedia? Or using some kind of ancient Syriac/Aramaic lexicon? You're logging into your local AR instance and pulling up the debug logs on your phone when your autoresponder begins translating.

Your own voice echoes through the speakers, reading off the parsed scripture in... something that sure sounds like Arabic. You turn the screen off on your phone and focus on listening, trying to pick out any words you know. There ain't a one. You don't even hear the "al" particle anywhere, although that might be due to it reading only the root word. Well this is going just fucking dandy. You think about telling the AR to stop, but you're curious to see what this gets you. A whole buffet of mythologies and religions originate in the Levant, this could turn out to be pretty cool.

Silence hangs in the room when your autoresponder finishes. Then, you hear a knock.

You blink at the circle. You expected the demon to rise out of the floor, or something. Not a polite knock on your door.

You get up to answer. You look through the peephole before opening. A guy about your age stands in the apartment hallway, with his hands shoved in his front sweatshirt pocket.

You open the door for him. He's almost exactly your height, maybe an inch taller. Skin is a little dark, hair is a lot dark, eyes are a friendly green and magnified a bit by thick framed glasses. He's got on socks and sandals and tiny 1980s-esque sport shorts, all of which give him a Michael Cera in Juno vibe. He's beaming at you like he's coming in for a job interview.

Cute? Yeah. Fuckable? Very. You're reconsidering bottoming on this one. Although if he turns into a giant wolf or something you suppose the point is moot.

“Hello,” he says. “You called for me?”

“Yeah,” you say, figuring the coincidence is too much to cast doubt on at the moment. "I'll invite you in once you swear to my itemized list of demands."

He sighs, shoulders sagging. "Oh no. There's really no need! You honestly don't have to fret about it! If I ever rustle your scruples I swear it's by accident."

He has one hell of an accent. It’s either some Deep South Bayou Bullshit you haven't heard of or a cartoonish parody of an African wildgame hunter in the 1900s.

"Shove it," you say, waving your contract in front of his face. "Now get comfy, this might take a-"

The demon proceeds to snatch the papers out of your hand, crumples them up into a ball, tilts his head back, and swallows the entire list in one comically exaggerated gulp. Alright.

The demon shakes his head, like he just got punched and is trying to regain clarity. He reaches into his sweatshirt pocket, and pulls out one of those cheap free click pens you can get at funeral homes. He beams at you. "You want to dance the horizontal foxtrot? It's been a while. But I'm real happy to be of service. Although I'm not certain I can do the puppet related items. Thank Christ they were optional! Where would you like my name?"

You guess he "digested" the information, because you requested an oddly specific signature on your contract. It's cool that he swallowed the list, you made copies. You can always take them to hell and request a demon lawyer to represent you in court if he breaks the rules, probably. You point at your right shoulder, tilting it towards him, and the demon bends to write his name on you. Of course it’s one of those loopy shwoopy Arabic calligraphy signatures, where all the letters are printed over each other and your dumb ass uncultured thinkpan can’t figure out what’s what. You squint at it, when he’s finished.

“Okay. I see a… Jeeeyk.”

He frowns. "You must not be very worldly. You can call me Jake English."

“Pleasure. My name’s Dirk Strider.”

"Now let me in and we can begin checking off all the wonderful things on your list."

You offer him your arm, to escort him. He puts his hand to his mouth in mock-surprise. "My my. What a gentleman."

He takes your arm, and you pull him inside, locking the door behind him. "So what's with the accent? Are you some kind of sex demon of Victorian colonialism?"

"I don't know! Am I a demon of colonialism, white boy?"

“Point,” you say, taking his arm again when you’ve fully secured your apartment-soon-to-be-sex-dungeon. “You want anything to drink.”

He beams at you. “No thank you! I think you’re ready to bluster into what you want headfirst. I won’t belay you with such trivials!”

“Thank you kindly.”

He kicks off his sandals in the entryway, which is considerate, then allows you to guide him to your room. Your bedroom's not as decked out as the rest of your apartment— you keep most of your art and posters and junk in the other rooms, preferring your sleep space to contain only a large bed and an even bigger window. The walk-in closet that leads to your bathroom is where you keep your clothing and excess trinkets. On a normal day, you have a bunch of arthouse puppetry tools and hilarious phallic stuffed animals scattered about, but you make it a habit of hiding them when you have hookups. Freaks 'em out too much.

He sits on the edge of your bed without your urging. You sit down next to him. He takes the opportunity to scoot in close, press his fingers to your chin, tilt your head around.

"You were very clever in your papers," he says, quirking your head, examining you like an entomologist. "You want the loss of control with the element of surprise, yet without the danger of being hurt. You want to get unstuck from that head of yours. You want, quote, 'the physical absence of worry and anxiety, the descent into sexual illusion, tl;dr trippy shit', end quote. To do that I must change your perceptions, sweetheart. Let me carve love letters on the skin of your eyelids."

"Whatever you need to do to get off, I guess," you state.

He tugs off his sweatshirt. Tosses it aside. Combs his fingers through his hair to get it back into that hipster isosceles triangle shape. He's got on a Ms. Marvel t-shirt— a big lightning bolt over blue. You reach out, rest your hand on his waist. The cloth is soft, almost velvety. You inch your fingers up under the hem, but Jake places his hand over yours.

"Don't be hasty. Let's shoot the breeze," he says, shifting closer to you. Your thigh presses to his. "I am always down to be ogled. But I like being seen by The Followed as more than a piece of meat!"

"The What Now," you ask, dryly. He doesn't answer. He reaches out and takes off your shades, which you always consider a rather intimate act, but literally no one else does so you always pretend that it's cool. You're cool. It's cool.

Here's where he kisses you.

You usually enjoy a bit of buildup before a first kiss, and this comes with none. Once your shades are gone, he simply leans in and pecks you on the lips. But damn, he's plush. The simple kiss is soft, tender, lingering… You'd go so far as to call it lovely.

He smells very good, too. Nostalgic. He smells exactly like that time when you were forced to go to Unitarian Universalist summer camp at age fifteen because Dave ironically volunteered as a councilor there, and you got tasked with putting out the camp bonfire that night because you knew how, and the irresponsible-in-retrospect adults left you alone with the simmering ashes, and you laid down next to the pit smoke and charcoal and stared up at the milky way unclouded by light pollution and felt how little you were in the grand scheme of things and contemplated your future and dreamt about becoming a superstar programmer. Either that, or he smells like cigarettes and you're just projecting.

He pulls back, and smiles at you.

"So! About me! I love movies and comic books. And I like skulls and bones and going to the gun range. America's so great," he says. He sets your shades on the ground, near his sweatshirt. He presses his hand to your cheek, then slides it back, so the soft part of his wrist is pressed to your skin. You feel his pulse, which is very human. "I don't have a job or any such nonsense. But I want money for my hobbies so I do things like this. Or I put on some panties and take some fancy pictures and barter my discarded underoos on reddit for five hundred bucks a pop."

"Solid business practice," you say, and that's only half sarcastic. You’re a little confused as to why the demon needs money. Can’t they just vaporize into hell when they’re low on cash?

He leans in again. Another soft kiss. He gives you a small slip of tongue, like a snake, then pulls back. Your heart flutters.

"I love traveling and exploring, but I'm plumb terrible at it so I decided it's more fun to day dream. Or to delve into other people and see what rip roaring adventures they have up their sleeves for me. Much safer that way."

He kisses you again, so gentle, a saccharine sweet moment of frenching. You're kissing like lovers on a park bench. You're getting antsy for more, frustration feeding your sex drive.

"What do you do?" he asks.

"Natural-language processing," you say. You have a preprepared set of phrases to describe what you do to the uneducated, but it comes out more dumbed down than normal. "I… I make the voice box on self-driving cars talk at you."

"Ain't that a hot knife through butter," he says, seemingly impressed with you. "I'm a bit of a pop culture patriot, so I'm up to snuff on the artificial intelligence tropes. Can't help drawing the connections!"

"I'm not making some evil HAL 9000 robot bullshit," you say. "I'm making benign Siri clones for rich Elon Musk types."

"Sorry," he says, blinking innocently at you. “I guess I assume that my gentleman callers are of a certain dystopian disposition. Now, I think we’ve dallied long enough. Rest your head on the pillow and hold very still, and I’ll take you somewhere fantastic.”

You lay down, and he follows your descent, propping himself up over you. He wiggles his fingers, rests them against your left sideburn. He finds a notch there, the latch to a jewelry box, and pulls your face open like a swinging Fabergé egg.

What the fuck.

You and Jake sit atop a perfect mirror of how you were positioned on your bed, although there is nothing but black night and starry beads to support your back.
Your back pulses against your bed, you throw your head into the pillow, and your vision goes black with seizure. Jake watches you spasm, without touching you.

He continues to kiss you sweet and gentle, like he’s reciprocating a crush for the first time. He inches his fingers up your shirt, and the sensation is impossibly strong. It's giving you the ASMR tingles not just in the back of your head, but all the way along your spine. You tangle your fingers in his hair and hold him close. Behind the lids of your eyes, you still see the stars all around you. It’s as though you’re absorbed in the night.		He grabs a fistful of your hair and forces you to accept a kiss, which you are very enthusiastic about. He bites your lip and licks the side of your mouth and makes out with you all feral and possessive. He pulls your head back, to expose your neck, and presses heavy kisses down your throat. It gives you such a thrill to let a creature you just met have access to one of the most vulnerable part of you. You hope it leaves marks.
He presses his hand gently between your legs, slides his hand over your jeans, rubs your cock until you're fully erect. You loll your head back and let him.	Well, my spacial awareness flew the fucking coup when we blasted off into space. I feel like you grew another four arms. But you look the same. I can't-	He digs his fingers into your skin, underneath your shirt, and you feel him scratch down your spine with blunt nails. The pressure’s perfect, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you shiver.
He dips his hand under your waistband, strokes your shaft.	-ah, fuck-	He nudges aside your t-shirt and sinks his teeth into your shoulder.
He separates from you to pull off your shirt, then undresses you. You kick your pants off, which vanish into the starry night. You're completely fucking naked, while he's still wearing everything. It gives you a great inverse power high, like you're here to serve him.	-I can't tell what's happening. Explain how this works. Im magic! *double pistols and a wink* Thanks, asshole. Also, don't stop doing that thing. The thing on the right. The thing on the left is okay, I guess.	He forces you to sit up with him. Grabs your head and presses it against those dumb gym shorts, scratchy parachute cloth against your cheek. Like the obedient little hellhound you are, you mouth his cock through the fabric. It's obvious he's not wearing underwear. You run your tongue up the length of his erection, tasting the fake plasticness of manmade clothing. This is so… exceedingly dirty. You kind of love it.
		You nestle your head further between his legs. His shorts are scanty enough that you can nudge the fabric aside with your mouth, like panties. You get at his balls. You're absolutely intending to lick and suck where the sun don’t shine. But you get distracted by the star of the show, and decide to pull off his shorts to get a good view of everything first. He's big, exactly how you wanted it. Uncut, too. You gently slide his foreskin back over the head. For the first time, he actually reacts to what you're doing to him: he briefly squeezes you between his legs. An encouraging thigh-hug.
	Youve been through a real number of hands. A vessel for a lot of lust. Grindr will do that to you. But its not all nothings and empty hearts. Youve felt more love than a cat in the sunshine. Have I? I don't think that's true. I just like dick. I once sucked so much dick I got TMJ. I hope you dont mind a bit more jaw exercise! Not at all, sweetheart.	He looks plenty clean. You slip your mouth over him, holding him steady at the base, and you get a feel for him by poking around with your tongue. Mappin’ the lay of the land and all. You've conveniently been undressed by his gentler side, so it feels wonderful when he presses his palm to the blade of your bare shoulder. His skin is burning hot, a pleasant detail. You press down, take him in, try to focus on nothing in particular as you activate those legendary DiStri blowjob skills.
		You realize, when you're managing to communicate with a cock shoved down your throat, that he's reading your thoughts.

Invaded mental boundaries or no, you keep sucking his cock. You love giving head too much.	You want to see if someone can parse the unparseable. Besides you of course. It will probably relieve you to note that i cannot possibly delve through all your alleyways and corridors and crannies! I could spend an aeon in here and not get to explore it all.	Oh, shit, if you think about it real hard, you can simultaneously split your thoughts and actions in two. Neat.
You lick at the tip, cover your teeth with your lip, get as far down as you can without stressing yourself out about deepthroating, then back up. Wash, rinse, repeat.	Fine. Maybe I do want someone to unravel me. And maybe I'm so fucking obtuse I have to summon a demon to get my dark fantasy of "open communication" fulfilled. But while I desire it, the romance of having a sexual spirit reading your every thought is best meant for the imagination. In reality it makes me feel ill, invaded. High and mighty of you to assume that this is real at all.	You duck down, gently pulling one of his balls into your mouth, toying with it. You think he makes a pleased humming noise, but it's hard to tell.
You get your hand in on the action, twisting in the space where your mouth can't go.	I perceive it as real, and I will remember it in a way that will probably affect my psyche, so doesn't that make it so? *Winks at you twice rapidly*. Do you really want to have an argument about this fatalistic fuckery while engaging in lustful behavior? Yes. This is high quality foreplay. I love being degraded through philosophical self examination. It's diamonds.jpg down there. Secondly, I am relishing the chance to have a dialectic while I literally have your entire dick in my mouth. This is the fucking tops. Haha you are a card. So then let me be a gentleman and ask with a plain emerald green voice on top of all this imaginary nonsense. What next Strider? What would you like to do?	You shift to give the same treatment to the other, working his shaft with your hand while you mess around.
Just slam my ass into the star filled floor and fuck me already.	Fuck it, I want me inside *you.*	Jake. We’re going black diamonds here. Advanced techniques. Please do the weirdest, mindbendiest thing you can manage.