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[b][u][center]Heaven Damned 9

Worship

For DuskCypher

By Draconicon[/center][/u][/b]

It was quite possible to be aware of everything, or so the Eternal Council claimed. Certainly, they were able to notice things that others never would, and such was the case today, as Brother Grimm, Death, or the Grim Reaper – depending on who was asking – slept in the arms of his Bishops. Even in slumber, he was aware of things, and that awareness today centered upon the Gilded Palace.

He did not see himself, but rather floated as an ethereal awareness outside of the great structure. He looked at the skies, at the great glimmering lights that were impossible to see on any other planet during the day, but on his burned with an intensity of a thousand-thousand satellites that glittered among the heavens.

It was not stars that he saw, however, but lives. Each collection and concentration of lives throughout the Nephilim Theocracy was visible to him in the glimmering light of souls waiting to be harvested. They were his property, in future or at present, and as such, he knew their exact number, all the way down to the most minute detail.

If he had been anything but what he was, the information would have been overwhelming. As it was, it was nothing more than a curiosity, a simple little thing that amused him as he looked from one star to another, imagining the quadrillions and even quintillions of lives across the university that he would still reap. He had already done so many, and he would continue to do it until the end of time.

And perhaps even after, for he doubted that the other members of the Council would pass before him. Not unless they banded together and removed him as a unified action, and even that would be difficult for them. What, after all, could stop Death?

His view circled around as he felt the sun rising higher, the hours passing, bringing the time of waking closer and closer. He brought his gaze to the Gilded Palace, taking in the sight of his home, and he felt his distant body smile ever so slightly in contentment.

The palace itself was made of white gold, but it was so pale that, without the sun gleaming on it, it ended up looking like bone. In the shadows as the sun continued to rise, it looked like a great headstone that loomed over the rest of the city, and on either side, the wings of his home stretched out into the distance, spreading out and looking like great bat wings around the palace as they swooped up and out.

There was no symbol of his authority over the palace. He didn’t need it; everyone knew who lived there and nobody would dare presume to say that they lived there if they were not one of his Bishops.

The Gilded Palace sprawled outward, its many secondary walls creating courtyards and gardens around the great headstone centerpiece in the middle. Old trees, petrified and artfully shaped just before death into beautiful pieces of pale art, loomed over the walls like guiding structures, and beyond them stood the golems of the Theocracy, powered by the arts of some of the other Eternal Council members.

For they kept watch on each other as much as they did everything else. There was not a member of the Council that did not fear something from the others, for as much as they were gods, they were also once mortal, and that fear of Death never left the majority of them. Only he had shook it, for he was Death.

The coming waking hour drifted closer and closer, and with each passing minute, his awareness swept closer and closer to the palace. Soon, he was hovering over the outer gardens, looking down at the naked Bishops that stood in them, posed in the night like statues and fountains throughout. Their erections, muscles, asses, and more were completely on display, and though there was none to see them but him, they were admired nonetheless.

He felt the heartbeat against his body’s cheek, and knew that the time of dreams was almost done. Death swept over the gardens and into his bedchamber, where things took a turn for the more desirable.

His sleeping quarters were no less than forty feet across, massive as a king’s might have been in the old times, and greater and lusher than any king could have claimed to have had. The room was a perfect circle with four levels, each one staffed with no less than a dozen of his Bishops, most standing at perfect attention with their arms folded behind their backs, their hips thrust forward, their ever-churning sacs pressed upward ever so slightly by their thighs pressed together. Their cocks stood like readied clubs, waiting to be touched and wielded, and their chests were puffed out like proud warriors.

Aside from those standing around the upper levels, attentive and ready, there were those that stood in arranged pairs throughout the rest of the chamber. Some had been posed as if they were about to start rutting each other, while others were stood in near-military salute towards the bed in the center of the room. Still others had frozen as if they had been dancing, their hands on one another and pulling each other close, keeping their cocks modest if nothing else.

In fact, the entire room was filled with those that the monks had trained up and brought to his standards. Muscular felines, long-haired and short, stood like Adonises of the old world all around the chamber, beauty in masculine form pushed to its limit. Not one had said a word in months, if not years, and they were nothing but conduits of pleasure, faith, and power for the Reaper himself.

Deeper, deeper into the room his awareness slipped, finally hovering over the bed. Three Bishops, two dark-furred and one ginger-furred, lay with him. The former two had their heads against his thighs, using them as pillows, while the latter had been his pillow and support for the night. The ginger-furred one was new, but powerful, strong, someone that had been more than suitable for the role of cushion that he had assigned to him.

He looked at himself from the outside. Not for the first time, he imagined what it would be like to see this all the time, to look at himself as he used the Bishops and allowed them to worship him physically rather than from a distance. He wondered what the show would be like, and contemplated giving them the order to take care of him in his sleep beyond merely watching over him.

For those that did not know Death, he imagined that his body would have surprised them. A silver-furred cat was soft enough, hardly the most intimidating of figures, but considering that he stood barely five-foot-nothing in height, he knew that most that saw him without his scythe would have chuckled and moved on despite the musculature of his physical body. The Brother Grimm was hardly someone that looked as if he could rip the universe’s spine out and beat it to death with it, but that was part of the point. None of the members of the Council were as intimidating in appearance as they were on the inside.

And then, the ginger Bishop started to sit up.

The pressure was enough to pull him from his sleep, and he faded into himself, falling through space to land in his body once more.

#

The disturbance of awareness was always jostling for him, no matter how many times he went through it. Death was cradled to a pair of warm pecs as he was lifted from the bed, sat in the cat’s lap with morning wood – or rather, perpetual wood – against his own shaft. He groaned as he opened his eyes, the sunlight finally reaching the Gilded Palace and shining through the ceiling. The moonlight was gentler in his mind, but he supposed that it worked as a wake-up device.

The other Bishops began to stir, the dark-furred ones in his bed moving to take a leg each, while two that had been positioned behind his bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, moved to stand over the headboard. Strong hands reached out, one to each shoulder, and they began the process of the morning massage.

Death rolled his head back, groaning under his breath as he slowly rolled around in the ginger cat’s arms. He faced outward, a thick cock under his balls, his rump pressed firmly against the other feline’s lap. There was no chance that he was going to allow that shaft inside of him, but there was still the pleasure of another’s arousal at being so near him. A feline grin slid across the sides of his muzzle as he reached down, teasing the new Bishop’s shaft.

No groan.

No whimper.

No sudden increase in breathing.

“Yes. You understand. This…this is your holy rod…”

He stroked a finger from the base to the tip, running along the underside and feeling the slow pulse and drip of pre-cum from the shaft. It was eager, wanting more and more attention, and he imagined that the Bishop would have been begging if he were still capable of thought. None of that showed.

Death killed many things. Bodies were the greatest casualties, but the mind was a close second. His Bishops would have been useless if they spent all their time thinking. Better by far to be mindless, to be enslaved to their own bodies. At least then they were amusing for the time that he had them, and they did what they were told rather than being mindful pests.

He stretched out his legs a bit further, the cats in his bed taking hold of his ankles and lifting them slightly. Lips pressed to each toe in turn, working from the smallest at the outside towards the biggest at the inside. They pressed their faces to his soles, kissing down the ball of his foot toward the heel, then – and only then – beginning the process of massaging them. Strong thumbs dug into his heels, the pressure slowly working up from the base towards the toes, and he leaned his head back as the cats behind the headboard of the bed started to work his shoulders with similar precision.

The one that he sat on hugged him around the middle. It was unordered, but the Bishops responded to his unconscious desires as much as his conscious ones, and that was sufficient for him. He was held, allowed to rest against the muscular man beneath him, and he chuckled to himself.

It was Heaven enough for the Brother Grimm. The best things in life were men, and the best men in the world were his, bound on the border between Life and Death, where things could be pushed to their greatest perfection. He reached back again, feeling the man beneath him, tracing the lines of muscles along his thighs, enjoying the swell of the abs that bulged through his stomach. Everything that he cared about was there, enhanced and made better, better, and better still through the efforts of his monks.

Death, for all that he had the job to bring the end of life to many things, also had the perk of being able to enjoy life to its fullest. He enjoyed the lives of his Bishops, most certainly.

The massaging hands continued their work, and other Bishops stepped forward, surrounding the bed on all sides. Some lucky few – a rare calico male, a black and white spotted creature, and a green and black striped one – slid closer still, pressing their lips to his arms, his chest, his stomach, his nipples. They caressed him, worshiped him, enjoyed him as much as the featureless, emotionless creatures could.

Each touch stirred him further towards wakefulness, and soon enough, he was as awake as he was going to get. His cock stood out from between his legs, morning wood seizing him with need and desire. He groaned as he curled his toes, freezing the two dark-furred hands against his soles, and they pulled their hands back at the unspoken signal.

It was going to be a long day today, as far as he was concerned. There was a meeting between the Council and another, smaller celestial body today. Some Republic on the far end of space wished to meet with the leaders of the Theocracy to hammer out some agreement or other. He imagined that he’d remember more of the details as he woke up further, as the time for the meeting came closer. If nothing else, Pestilence would be sure to tell him what was going on; she had a head for details that few others could match.

For now, however…

He cast his gaze around. Not that one, nor that one – yes, the calico, he decided.

“Open.”

The other Bishops moved, giving the calico the place of devotion in the center of the bed between Death’s legs. The silver-furred feline smiled to himself as he slid off the ginger cat’s lap, his shaft hard as could be as he took the calico’s face between his hands and drew him closer, closer, closer still.

“Worship.”

Was the verbal command needed? Not at all. The various Bishops knew what he needed and were so tied into his own aura that there was no need to say anything for them to know what was required of them. It did not mean that it wasn’t pleasurable to give the order, however, and he took great pleasure in saying it.

The calico leaned in, his blinded eyes and deafened ears nonetheless aware of what he was doing. Cock. Cock was before him, the cock of his god, and he was hungry for it.

The soft kiss, smack of the lips, and then the suction of eager tongue and throat guided Death’s cock to one of its many homes. He leaned his head back again, resting it against the ginger cat’s hard pecs, feeling their support as that mouth went down, down, down his cock, going all the way to the base. The experienced Bishops knew what was required of them, and they did it well.

Bob.

Bob.

Bob.

Up and down the calico cat went, swallowing every time that he reached the bottom and coming up for air a half-second later, clearly enjoying himself with every swallow. There was no hesitation to take the whole thing, no fear or anxiety. The Bishops had been trained out of that, feeling nothing but the need to serve and the need for pleasure. Death had made the consequences of failing to teach a Bishop such things quite clear, and his followers had learned the hard way how to keep up with his desires.

“Mmm…”

Death allowed the worship to continue, idly reaching around to the other Bishops. One received the pleasure of his touch to his chest, tweaking soft nipples with a pinch to keep them hard. Another had a few strokes of his godly touch, pulling a shaft closer to an orgasm that would never come. Another had his ass stroked, squeezed, groped, spread.

For all that the cats were lustful, for all that they served without complaint, for all that they worshiped him with everything they had, they had no reaction. No grunt, no huff, no sudden hiss through their teeth. They were dead to everything but sex and his commands, and they filled him…

With faith.

The Brother Grimm closed his eyes with a smile. With each wet bob of the calico’s lips along his shaft, he could feel the faith of the universe around him. He could [i]feel[/i] the fear and the lust and the sheer understanding of his existence burning in the space between stars. Every mortal that lived within the Theocracy – and every outside it, for that matter – knew that death existed, and that Death wielded it as he would.

Disease could be cured.

Famine could be held at bay.

Death was unstoppable, and the faith and fear of all existence was his through the presence of his Bishops.

Suck.

Suck.

Suck.

Each wet slurp took him right to the edge as only a god could feel. For the Reaper, for any of the Eternal Council, there was no limitation to pleasure the way that mortals felt it. There was no need to pause, no need to recover. He could take all day, or he could cum perpetually if he so felt the urge to. He could drown the Bishop between his legs with an endless flood of cum, feeling the spasms of the other man’s death around his cock if it tickled his fancy. And there had been times that he had done just that in the past, using the half-alive bodies of his Bishops as a means of testing out things that he was curious about.

But not today. Not today.

He rested his hands at his side, enjoying the slow, almost ritualistic slurps around his shaft, the eager lips pressed firmly along his cock as it went down again, and again, and again. Each time that it reached the base, he felt the rough tongue pressing against the underside of his cock, pressing firmly there as it went back up, only to flick up over his urethra as it reached the head. Then it went down again.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

The persistent pattern was unchanging, never-ending, and it left his cock throbbing with want and need. He squeezed his fingers in the sheets, feeling his pleasure rising, his balls coming up with the impending orgasm.

He chose not to stop it.

Any mortal would have gagged from the sudden burst of seed down their throat, but the calico Bishop had left that behind. He swallowed, his throat clenching again and again around his god’s cock. Each swallow pulled a little more seed from the Reaper, leaving him feeling half-satiated for a few moments. He almost reached out to pet the Bishop’s head as a reward, stopping himself before he did.

What was the point, really? They would not remember. They would only feel it for a moment, and then they would be lost to the sea of arousal and want once more, thinking of nothing but the next touch that they could get from him. There was really very little point in giving them anything extra.

The calico pulled back once the dribbling had stopped. As soon as he had moved out of the way, the dark-furred ones that had been responsible for massaging his legs took his place. They pressed their nostrils against his sac, gently supporting his legs on their shoulders as they kissed his balls. Their lips were softer, gentler, and their breath was a soft, regular huff against the base of his cock as they worshiped him and cleaned the last of his pleasure from the base of his cock.

Death let them work, looking up at the hole in the ceiling and the sky past it. Within his body, he couldn’t see the stars of life at the far end of the universe quite so clearly as he could while he was sleeping, but he could still see hints of it when he pushed himself. The world around him was filled with others that had come for the meeting, both those that worshiped him and the rest of the Council, and those that had come for the meeting itself. Their souls glittered to him, their lives bright for all that they would be brief.

Well, all but six shone that way.

He could see the presence of the other members of the Eternal Council, all gathered in different palaces across the planet Babylon. They were waking, just as he was, and they would come to the meeting when they were suitably prepared. He doubted that they were so eagerly woken as he was, considering that they had come from their own planets for the meeting at hand, and they were not so eager for the touch of life to wake them the way that he was – well, most were not – but they would be taking their own vices for their pleasure.

He imagined that he had at least an hour. An hour would be long enough.

“Present.”

The ball-licking stopped, and every Bishop in the room began the journey to the foot of his bed. Dozens of them arranged themselves before him, standing between five-foot-eight and six-foot-three. They were all taller than him, not a single one of them anything less than a giant compared to his own meager height, and their cocks ranged from nine inches to a full foot and change.

It was like looking at a line of disciplined warriors that had been turned out in desperation, becoming worshipful whores due to having no other option. It was…sensuality at its purest form for him, and he loved it.

Without a word from him, they turned on the spot, presenting their asses to him. They leaned forward, touching their toes, and then reached back to spread their cheeks, each one waiting for him to make a decision to use them.

Not one had the sloppiness to have a loose hole. All of them had taken care to make sure that they were as tight as they could be, without a hint of the use that they were put through on a daily basis. They could have passed inspection in the holy churches as virgins if they were put to the test, though none of them were anywhere close to that.

Death walked down the line, feeling one muscular rump after another. Each one had the fullness that he craved, the bubble-butt muscle that meant that they would hug his cock like nothing else once he was inside of them. He groped them, helped them spread them, showed off that tight little pucker between each set of cheeks, and then moved on.

He reached down to fondle their sacs, too, feeling the weight of never cumming that had added to them. They were so full, so needy, and he imagined that if any of them were given half a chance, they would blow their loads all over the walls. Yet, that was impossible for now. Their urge for completion had been replaced with an urge for constant pleasure, and that had killed their ability to finish, to climax.

Death was rather proud of that little touch. Few would have imagined tweaking a living being that way, he thought.

He walked down the line to the end of it, where a white-furred feline that was an old favorite waited. Old, unfortunately, was becoming a keyword. For all that the Bishops had been pulled from the line of mortals and improved, they were still mortal. They were able to age, and despite being given a longer lifespan with the various improvements that they were put through, they would still die.

The white-furred cat was showing signs of degradation, too. His muscles were still strong, and he had looked fine at a distance on the upper floors, but now that Death had the chance to see him up close, it was clear that certain parts were starting to sag, that the flesh was starting to loosen, and no amount of hard muscle would keep the Bishop from showing the impending wrinkles of age.

It was not particularly sensual to him, and he shook his head.

There was no command. It was unneeded. The white-furred cat stood and walked away, disappearing down a side door from the bedchamber. He would decide whether the time had come for Death to take that one later, or if he might indulge the white cat in the gardens for a time. If nothing else, it would give him something to think about after he had finished with the meeting today.

The meeting. He sighed under his breath, rubbing his forehead. Every time that it came to mind, he was reminded of the lack of time that he really had. For all that the Grim Reaper could kill anything that lived, time still took the chance to kill itself and leave him with less.

He looked down the line again. Eventually, he picked a soft-furred shorthair, pulling the cat from the line and bending him over the foot of the bed. The other cat’s tail went up and all the others fell to their knees, worshiping him with their legs spread and their cocks dripping like faithful fountains.

In silence, he spread the cheeks, lowering his cock between them. The soft squish of muscle and flesh against his shaft was all he needed to keep him fully aroused.

“Relax.”

Another unnecessary command, but again, given for the pleasure of commanding another. Death leaned over his larger companion, sliding his cock against the loosening hole. A little bit open, now, just a little bit to give the illusion of someone well-fingered. He pushed forward –

“Mmm…”

And he enjoyed the feeling of the welcoming inner walls clenching down on him already. Nothing to slow him down, just everything there to enjoy. He rolled his hips forward, grinding against the other male, feeling that ass clenching, squeezing, pushing back against him. Without a word, the silent Bishop pushed back to ride him, grinding on him, putting out every effort to worship him even from below.

They thrust together, him forward, the Bishop back. His hips clapped against the cat’s ass, the cheeks giving one quaking bounce before settling again. The near-supernatural level of control that the Bishop had over his hole, clenching and squeezing and milking Death’s cock the way that he did, was satisfaction incarnate.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

It didn’t take long for him to build up a head of steam, thrusting away and using the Bishop as he was meant to be used. Every thrust, every deep hilting, linked him to both his own pleasure, his own life, in a way that nothing else did. For him, sex was more than just pleasure, more than just the body having its fun. It was nothing less than his way of feeling [i]alive[/i], and he groaned as he humped harder, faster.

Clap, clap, clap went those cheeks against his ass, and he groaned as he all but laid over the other feline. The soft, regulated breathing of all the Bishops around and under him made it feel like he was alone in his bedchamber, like there was nothing but objects around, but the heated flesh beneath him, sweaty despite the calm, was a link to life.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He could feel that hole stretching around his cock, sucking against his dick and pulling out with it before he jammed his cock back inside. He felt the constant milking within, better than any unindoctrinated individual could have been. He smelled the warmth of life and the heat of the other men around him. It was as good as it could get.

He growled, gritting his teeth as he wrapped his arms around his Bishop, pulling the feline against his chest as much as he could. His own muscles were no slouch, and he managed to drag the other male upright, humping him from behind, faster, harder, deeper. One hand went down to that shaft, squeezing it, pulling at it, reminding himself of the feeling of another living person with him.

“Nnnngh…”

Death could have lost himself to this all day, could have held himself against one Bishop after another, submerging himself in their warmth. He could have enjoyed himself for endless hours, and there were days when he had done that very thing.

[i]But not today…damn it all…[/i]

With one last grunt, he hilted himself in that hard rump, slamming in as deep as he could go. His balls jumped, his cock sprayed, and it was done. The pleasure rushed through him, satiating him for a few seconds, but by the time that he had pulled out, it was done. He shook his head, feeling the urges and the slight despair that came with them rising once more, but unlike his Bishops, he did have control. He did have the capability to ignore it for the sake of doing what needed to be done.

Death reached out, and from the far end of the room, a great scythe floated. As white as bone, it was made of something older than that, something that felt all the more primal even to him. It felt like something that wasn’t quite of this world, but rather, something of the next. It was his weapon, his great reaping tool, and it was what gave him his title as much as he gave it its power.

He touched it, and his body changed. Fur and flesh became bone. The silver cat became nothing more than a skeleton. No muscle, no great shift in size came with the transformation. If anything, he was almost more approachable as a skeleton than he was in his more ‘mortal’ form. And yet, for anyone that came close, they would understand that he was not merely some decorative, tiny version of the end.

He was the End.

He was Death.

All around him, the Bishops shrank away as he took on his skeletal form. Even they, in all their devotion, could not entirely stand him when he was like this. They shivered, shook, and trembled around him, their masked faces no longer entirely able to look at him. Their cocks throbbed, but the veins along the side diminished, their arousal challenged, though not entirely beaten.

It grew worse as the Cloak of Despair wrapped itself around his shoulders, forming a color that was beyond the mortal eye, but carried a shade all its own. It cast a veil of wrongness, of emptiness, of conclusion and unchanging end with it, and there were few that could see him garbed in it without falling to their knees. Death knew it, and used it regularly to make mortals understand their place.

Then, he cast the scythe away. He let it fall, and his fur returned to him as the scythe landed on the bed.

It would come when he called. All the weapons of the Eternal Council would. He did not need it with him for the meeting, as far as he was concerned. The presence of the Council alone would be intimidating enough. Instead, he gathered himself, held his arms out as one of the Bishops brought him garments of state, and allowed himself to be dressed before leaving the chamber.

#

In the silent bedchamber, one of the Bishops stirred. The ginger-furred cat that had once been known as Noah looked left, right, left. The constant lust that had burned in its loins faded from its consciousness, suppressed by a strange golden light that burned behind its eyes. None of the other Bishops took notice of its movement; they were all drowning in their devotion to their master.

The ginger cat looked at the scythe on the bed. A command echoed in its head, calling to it, pulling at the old threads that the cat had pledged itself to years ago, so long ago now that time did not have meaning enough to define it.

[i]Touch.[/i]

The cat reached out. One finger hesitated at the pointed tip of the scythe, some piece of the feline’s old life remembering the tales of the Reaper. Death came to all, and nothing could stop it.

[i]Touch.[/i]

But the cat’s mind, body, and soul had been dedicated to another far before the Reaper had reached out to take him, and that other had control now. The cat reached out and laid its finger upon the edge of the blade. The same golden light that burned behind its eyes flickered at its fingertips, reaching out and infusing itself into the blade. For half a second, a very different, very foreign light gleamed in the bedchamber of the Reaper.

And then, the cat disappeared.

The Reaper’s Scythe fed on anything but Reaper itself, and the Bishop, though claimed by the Reaper, was no exception. His body turned to dust, and the dust turned to atoms. The atoms themselves were broken to pieces, shattered harmlessly as the life in them was taken away. In less than a second, the cat that had once gone by the name of Noah was gone, and the room was silent once more.

For all that the death of the cat went unremarked in the Gilded Palace, however, something had been set in motion. And that something would carry consequences that were beyond the scope of all involved, no matter who they might be. The universe, after all, equally loved both change and consistency. It welcomed things that shook the status quo, and it would never remain entirely the same. Those that sought to hold it in place would, eventually, find their iron grip shaken loose.

Yet, for those that would seek to change things too far, there were other sorts of consequences…

[b][u][center]The End[/center][/u][/b]

Summary: The Reaper is introduced, as is his harem of Bishops.

Tags: M/M, M/M/M, Massage, Anal, Oral, Blowjob, Ball Worship, Size Difference, Mind Control, Semi-God, Reaper, Edging, Chastity, Orgasm, Cum, Cat, All Cats, Harem, Muscles, Kissing,