Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Look at me.. 

D3rlord3 had been wandering the broken edge of the corrupted chunk for hours—where the terrain looped, pixel seams tore open like wounds, and the cave glitched into colors no place had ever made. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. Even the ambient sounds cut out, leaving only the hollow echo of his footsteps.

Then he found it.

A structure that should not have existed.

A pair of massive golden doors, taller than any build height limit, embedded into a sheer obsidian wall that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The doors were carved with symbols—twisting runes that rearranged themselves if he looked too long, shifting into patterns that felt like memories he had never lived.

Every instinct told him to turn back.

But something tugged him forward.

His hand rose, trembling, and when he pushed against the cold, gilded surface—

The doors opened silently.

Inside was a long hall lit by no torches, yet it glowed with a dim, unnatural yellow radiance. Air moved strangely, like breath escaping from something sleeping too deeply. His boots echoed against the stone. Every step forward made his heartbeat louder, sharper, as if the world were compressing around him.

At the end of the hall stood a figure.

Tall.

Draped in tattered yellow robes that moved without wind.

A mask—expressionless, ancient, cracked—turned toward him with agonizing slowness.

The King in Yellow.

The moment their eyes met—

even if the King had none—

everything shattered. Knowledge poured into him like molten light. Not thoughts. Not memories. Entire universes of meaning collapsed into his skull in an instant.

He saw futures that contradicted themselves. He saw worlds folding inside out.

He saw the shape of fate written like script—but whenever he tried to read a line, it rewrote itself. He saw how the King could change outcomes with a gesture. He understood languages no human could speak. He felt timelines snapping open and slamming shut.

–––

Seconds stretched into eternities.

His knees buckled. Hands clawed at his head. He tasted metal and heard screams—his own, maybe, or echoes from other versions of himself.

His vision flickered like broken frames in a corrupted file.

Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of infinite understanding.

Then—

A jolt. A tear. A static-crack through his mind.

He ripped himself out of the trance with a gasp, collapsing onto the cold stone floor, chest heaving, throat dry. The knowledge still buzzed behind his eyes—too heavy, too vast—like his mind had been forced open and not allowed to close again.

The King tilted his head. A soft, crackling whisper filled the hall, 

…You broke free..? 

D3rlord3 staggered backward on trembling limbs, heart pounding, breath sharp and painful. His mind still thrummed with impossible truths, but through the haze, one thought cut through—

He had to escape. Now. And he had to warn Avery. He couldn't let him also go though this. He needs to–

But the King’s presence followed him like a closing hand.

D3rlord3’s eyes snapped open, and the world felt impossibly sharp—too bright, too loud, like his mind was straining against something it had never known. The visions, the whispers, the endless fracturing of time—they all crashed into him at once, and yet, somehow, he pulled free.

He scrambled backward, heart hammering against his ribs, the cold stone of the floor biting into his palms. “No… no, not this—”

Just get out. Warn Avery. Move.

His hand slammed against the door again—

And something enormous seized him. Multiple void-black arms erupted from the air like a sudden storm, each the size of tree trunks. Cold. Heavy. They clamped around his wrists, his legs, his torso — pinning him in place before he could even gasp.

He thrashed instinctively. The arms didn’t budge.

A low, resonant hum filled the room, vibrating through his bones.

D3rlord3 froze.

He didn’t have to turn around to know who stood behind him now. The air bent toward the presence, Reality thinning under the weight of a being who did not obey its rules.

The King in Yellow stepped closer.

It's robes whispered like paper burning in reverse. A shape too smooth to be human leaned down, the mask inches from D3rlord3’s ear. The world warped — corners folding inward, colors draining to gold.

Even with infinite knowledge pounding in his skull, D3rlord3 realized the most terrifying thing, 

He still had no idea what the King would do next.

Because a being who could alter fate didn’t need logic. Didn’t need rules. Didn’t even need intention.

Any future D3rlord3 imagined could be unmade in an instant.

A breath — cold, unreal — skimmed the side of his jaw.

He shuddered uncontrollably.

You ran, the King whispered, voice fractured across several realities at once. You saw Me… and you ran. And you even managed to look away.. 

“I—” His voice cracked. “I needed to warn—”

Fate bends at my touch, the King murmured. Causes, consequences, escape… all irrelevant. But you escape it.. 

The arms tightened slightly, not enough to hurt — but enough to ensure he knew resistance was pointless.

For a moment, neither moved.

Only the sound of his ragged breathing filled the space.

The King in Yellow tilted it's head, face unreadable.

You have taken my knowledge into yourself.

A hand — gloved, smooth, impossibly heavy — brushed his face.

And yet you do not understand what I want.

D3rlord3’s pulse hammered. “What… what do you want?” The King leaned closer, golden light flickering along the edges of its shape.

"That," the King whispered, "is what we are about to explore."

Did it just talk–

The void arms held him completely still as the world around them folded shut like a closing script.

D3rlord3’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. The air smelled like burned parchment and something sweeter, unplaceable, like the memory of sunlight through a veil. He tried to twist, to fight—but it was no use. Even with the fragment of infinite knowledge still bleeding in his mind, the King in Yellow was beyond calculation. Fate itself was pliant in his hands.

You escaped the first vision, the King whispered, a voice like silk brushing across stone, smooth and unrelenting. But you cannot escape the next.

D3rlord3 shivered. “W-what do you want from me?” His voice cracked, but there was no mockery in the King’s reply.

What I always want, it said softly, almost fondly. To show a mortal… what they cannot yet see. To bind them… in ways their mind fears but their body craves. And you'll be that mortal..

The void arms shifted, sliding across D3rlord3’s back, chest, legs—anchoring him in place, yet caressing with a deliberate, intimate precision. Fear and something darker, something more twistedly thrilling, tangled in his veins. He wanted to resist, to flee—but the King’s influence was subtle, pervasive, a quiet melody that pulled on instincts D3rlord3 hadn’t known he possessed.

Chapter Text

Are you looking? 

The world didn’t open when the King dragged him deeper —

it unfolded.

Reality peeled apart like wet parchment, strips of gold and black curling back as if they were nothing more than pages of a book the King had grown tired of reading.

D3rlord3 didn’t know if they were still in the room, or somewhere carved between the cracks of the universe.

All he knew was that the void arms never loosened. Every breath he took trembled in his chest.

The King in Yellow stood before him now, its many limbs flowing like draped ink, its presence a pressure on the world itself. The mask tilted, studying him, as though he were an equation that kept producing the wrong answer.

You fear what you’ve taken into your mind, it murmured. A mortal should.

His heartbeat hammered so violently he wondered if the King could hear it.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” D3rlord3 breathed. “I–I didn’t mean to..”

No mortal means to. And yet… you survived what should have erased you.

The King reached out — a single finger, gloved and impossibly precise — tapping lightly beneath his chin.

D3rlord3’s vision blurred. A pulse of golden light rippled across his skin, as though the King had struck something unseen inside him.

He gasped, knees buckling. The void arms didn’t let him fall. The King watched every reaction with slow, fascinated delight.

You bend so easily, it whispered.

Your fate. Your fear. Your thoughts. All so malleable.

D3rlord3 squeezed his eyes shut, panting. “What do you want from me? Why–why keep me here? Why not just kill me?”

The King’s laugh wasn’t a sound.

It was a collapse of distance, a folding of time, an electric shiver down his spine.

Kill you? It tilted it's head in amusement. Did it find this funny?! 

No. I have already witnessed every version of your death. There is nothing novel in them.

The mask lowered until the King’s faceless face hovered inches from his own.

But this… you, resisting, trembling, breaking and rebuilding under My influence…

A hand trailed down D3rlord3's chest — not touching flesh, but meaning to, lingering just a breath away. The implication alone made D3rlord3’s breath stutter.

He tried to turn away. The void arms held him still. “Stop–” he choked.

The King hummed. You do not truly wish Me to stop.

That quiet, horrible, almost-fond certainty slid under his skin.

D3rlord3’s pulse leapt. “You’re wrong.”

Am I? The King raised a hand — and the world bent.

Suddenly D3rlord3 saw himself through a hundred fractured angles, 

thrashing against void arms, breathing hard, eyes blown wide with fear and something else he refused to name.

–––

Colors inverted.

Time looped.

A thousand versions of him flickered in and out like lanterns in a storm.

All of them being him trapped. All of them being him under the King’s hand.

His stomach flipped. “Stop–please–just stop—” And the visions shattered. He slumped forward, shaking.

The King caught his chin again, guiding his gaze upward.

You are not broken, it whispered. Not yet.

The void arms shifted — supporting him, repositioning him, holding him as though shaping him into something the King preferred.

D3rlord3’s breath hitched. “Why.. Why me?”

The King’s voice dipped, soft and golden and terrifying, 

Because you looked upon Me…and still managed to run.

A creature with that much fear… and that much will…is worth keeping.

The King leaned in, mask almost brushing his cheek. And I intend to keep you.

Reality trembled around them, folding tighter, sealing D3rlord3 in.

D3rlord3’s heart thundered.

Escape felt impossibly distant now — like a fading dream.

He swallowed hard.

“Avery… I need to warn—”

A hand pressed lightly over his sternum, stopping the words.

Avery cannot reach you here. Nor can you reach him. 

The King’s tone warmed, dark amusement curling at the edges.

And you cannot reach anyone.

Not until I am done.

The void arms held him closer.

The King in Yellow tilted his head, studying the mortal caught in its grasp — its newest fixation, its newest story.

Now, it murmured, a hint of smirk in it's voice, let us continue the exploration, shall we? 

The King’s fingers lifted, and reality loosened like thread pulled from fabric.

In a single, sickening lurch, the warped space around them unraveled—

and the original room snapped back into existence.

D3rlord3 staggered as the floor reformed beneath him, but the void arms didn’t allow him even that small freedom. They dragged him forward, inexorable and cold.

The King in Yellow moved with effortless grace, drifting across the room like a shadow sliding over glass.

Its throne waited—

A towering structure shaped from gold fractals and impossible geometry. Parts of it shifted when he wasn’t looking directly at them. Other parts didn’t exist until the King sat down, robes cascading like living luminescence.

The mask turned toward him.

A single gloved hand lifted.

Snap. 

The sound echoed unnaturally, as if it bounced off the inside of his skull.

The tentacles reacted instantly.

D3rlord3 barely had time to inhale before the void arms yanked him off his feet and pulled him forward. His breath ripped out in a startled gasp as they dragged him across the floor, helpless, weightless, bound.

“No–wait—!”

His protest didn’t matter.

He was carried straight toward the throne.

The King didn’t move. Didn’t reach. It simply watched with that cold, impossible patience as its limbs did the work for it, guiding their chosen mortal into place with practiced certainty.

The tentacles lifted him—

—and set him down on the King’s lap.

Not gently. Not roughly.

Just inevitably.

D3rlord3 stiffened instantly, heat flooding his face. He tried to jerk away on instinct, but the void arms tightened across his torso and thighs, locking him in position. He couldn’t so much as turn his head fully.

The King leaned back slightly, as though settling him more comfortably.

Golden light rippled along the edges of its mask.

You struggle so beautifully, it murmured. It makes me wanna.. 'Eat you up'. Thats how the saying goes, doesn't it? 

A hand—heavy, gloved, immovable—rested against his hip, anchoring him firmly where the King wanted him. The tentacles shifted to accommodate the new posture, wrapping tighter around his arms and chest, pinning him against the eldritch monarch’s form.

D3rlord3’s breath hitched uncontrollably.

He could feel its presence everywhere, 

the unnatural stillness of the King beneath him,

the hum of cosmic energy radiating from the throne, the faint whisper of its robes against his armoured legs.

He tried again to pull away. The King’s hand pressed him back down with casual authority.

Do not fear this place, the King said softly.

This throne shapes fate.

And now… it shapes you. For me. 

It tilted its masked face closer, breath brushing his jaw like a cold promise.

Settle, mortal. Your struggle only makes Me hold you tighter.

The tentacles obeyed—winding, restraining, securing him even more securely in the King’s lap.

D3rlord3 swallowed hard, pulse frantic and trapped. "Y–you better let me go!—"

The King in Yellow rested its other hand on his trembling shoulder, a mockery of gentleness—and the room seemed to close in around them, sealing him in with no path left to run.

D3rlord3 thrashed in the King’s lap, tugging at the void arms, straining against the impossible weight of the tentacles and the unyielding power beneath him.

“I–I said l–let me go!” he gasped, voice trembling, eyes wide. His muscles burned from resisting, but it was hopeless. Every movement the King allowed only seemed to tighten the hold, as if the struggle itself amused it—yet…

The King’s mask tilted slightly, a subtle shift, but its presence pressed down like the weight of a collapsing sky. And D3rlord3 felt it in the way the golden light around the throne flickered.

Not amused.

The words barely formed in his throat before panic and dread chased them down. Desperation clawed at him. If he couldn’t fight… maybe he could bargain. Maybe… maybe there was a way to reason with a being that could fold reality at a whim.

“I—I can help you! I can—whatever you want—just let me go! Please, I—”

Before the plea could finish, a tentacle shot forward like a striking viper. Dark, impossibly smooth, and cold as space, it wrapped around his face, covering his mouth. D3rlord3 struggled, but it was useless. His words muffled into a strangled gasp, and the weight of the King pressed him down, inexorable.

The King leaned forward slightly, mask nearly touching his temple.

Silence, it said, isn’t empty. It’s where you will learn to listen.

D3rlord3’s heart thundered. He tried to twist, to push back, but every instinct, every reflex, was met with precise, unyielding control. The tentacles held him fast, wrapping over his arms, chest, and legs, leaving him pinned, restrained, overwhelmed.

He could barely breathe under the pressure, yet he could feel the subtle, deliberate movements of the King around him; shifting, observing, a predator savoring the futility of his resistance.

He swallowed, mouth dry, realizing that negotiation had no place here. Every attempt to reason was snuffed out before it could exist. The King did not bargain. It commanded. And in its domain, command was law.

“You cannot reason with me,” it murmured, its voice sliding through him like molten metal. The king’s true voice was cold, dark, and golden.

“You cannot escape Me. You can only endure… or break.”

D3rlord3’s limbs shook, chest heaving, eyes watering under the suffocating presence of the tentacles and the King’s absolute control. And somewhere, buried under terror, dread, and the pulsing heat of proximity, a different, more terrifying thought crept into his mind:

"This is not punishment."

The King adjusted, letting D3rlord3 feel the full weight of its presence while still keeping him utterly bound, the tentacles covering his mouth as a silent reminder; resistance is… inconsequential.

And the throne room, with its impossible geometry, the flicker of gold, and the omnipresent hum of power, seemed to close around them both, leaving D3rlord3 suspended in a space where nothing but the King’s will mattered.

Chapter Text

Keep looking.

The tentacle over his mouth tightened, silencing even the muffled fragments of breath that escaped him. D3rlord3’s eyes widened, panic spiking hard and fast in his chest. He struggled again—furious, desperate—but it only made the void arms constrict with terrifying precision, like the King was demonstrating how little his resistance mattered. 

The King in Yellow watched him.

Not with anger.

Not with amusement.

But with a deep, consuming focus, as though every twitch of D3rlord3’s body was a line of scripture being rewritten before its eyes.

"You resist because you think you still have a choice."

The words weren’t spoken aloud. They sank into his mind, heavy and unavoidable, like an ancient truth carved into stone.

"But choice left you the moment you looked upon Me."

The King’s gloved hand slid from his shoulder to the side of his jaw, fingers tracing the line of his face with unnervingly deliberate gentleness. D3rlord3 tried to jerk away; the King’s hand followed effortlessly, never letting him escape the contact.

It tilted his head slightly, examining him like a relic recovered from a forgotten age.

"You are trembling."

Its voice brushed the edge of his thoughts, curling around them like smoke.

D3rlord3 made a choked, furious sound behind the tentacle clamped over his mouth, but the King only leaned closer, its mask inches from his skin. A faint glow radiated from beneath its robes, golden and warm, as if the King itself was beginning to burn hotter.

The throne beneath them shifted — expanding, tightening, twisting its fractal geometry to accommodate the new posture the King was shaping him into. The room pulsed with each movement, responding to the King’s mood like a living organism.

D3rlord3 shook his head violently, trying to deny everything—the closeness, the pressure, the terrifying intimacy of being held in place on the King’s lap like a prize claimed.

The King’s hand followed his movement again, thumb brushing under his eye in a gesture that was almost tender.

"Do not lie to yourself", it whispered.

"Mortals have such fragile truths."

The tentacle across his mouth loosened—just enough for him to gasp in a sharp breath.

And the moment he had air, he tried.

“Y-you’re wrong,” he rasped, voice shaking. “I’m not—I’m not what you think. I don’t want—”

The King snapped its fingers.

And the tentacle clamped down again harder. 

A soundless command, effortless and final.

"Enough."

The word struck through him like an electric current. Every tentacle froze, tightened, and then held him perfectly still.

His body wasn’t his anymore.

His breath wasn’t his anymore.

Even his thoughts trembled under the weight of the King’s presence pressing closer.

“You speak,” the King murmured softly, mask dipping to his cheek, “as if your desire matters more than My will.”

D3rlord3’s pulse hammered helplessly against the tentacle inside his mouth. Brushing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. 

The King’s arms—real arms, not the void ones or slimy tentacles—wrapped around him now, drawing him fully against its chest. He felt the unnatural stillness of the being beneath him, the faint warmth seeping through its robes, the hum of something vast and impossible resonating like a heartbeat that wasn’t a heartbeat.

The King exhaled—a cold, golden breath that slid down his neck and made him shiver violently.

The void arms adjusted, one looping around his waist, another supporting his back, another settling over his thighs as if bracing him for something inevitable.

D3rlord3’s mind raced.

He had to keep fighting.

He had to—

But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could barely think.

And the King knew it.

"Good," it murmured. "You are beginning to understand."

The King leaned back against the throne, settling D3rlord3 more securely in its lap, pressing him closer, as though this was simply where he belonged.

The King’s voice softened, sinking directly into his bones.

"You are mine."

D3rlord3’s breath hitched—a sharp, terrified sound smothered against the tentacle still covering his mouth.

The King continued, tone quiet, almost reverent, "And I do not allow what is Mine to leave."

The room pulsed in agreement.

The throne hummed beneath them.

And the void arms tightened, as if sealing the decree into his flesh.

–––

D3rlord3’s lungs strained against the pressure coiling around him.

The tentacles didn’t just restrain him now — they mapped him, sliding with slow, deliberate precision along every line of tension in his body.

Not touching in a way that hurt, but in a way that left nowhere to breathe, nowhere to think.

Every movement he made, even the smallest twitch of defiance, was answered instantly, 

a constriction here, a tightening there, a smooth coil tightening across his ribs until the air hitched in his throat.

Pinned in the King’s lap, he could feel everything — the steady, unshakable stillness of the creature beneath him, the hum of energy radiating through its form, the subtle pulse that was not a heartbeat but something older. Something that made his nerves spark like static.

He tried to pull his mouth free from the tentacle silencing him, but the moment he moved, another tendril brushed along his jaw — feather-light and deliberate.

His body jolted at the sudden sensation, hypersensitive from fear and adrenaline.

The King felt it.

D3rlord3 knew it felt it.

Because the masked face tilted just slightly, and the voice that followed unfurled through him like warm smoke:

“You react so easily.”

More tentacles slid along his arms and sides — not hurting, not even restraining more, but overwhelming him with sensation, too many points of contact at once.

A brush along his shoulder.

A tight curl around his thigh.

A gliding presence at the nape of his neck.

Each one sent a different jolt through him, his body unable to predict where the next touch would land, unable to adjust, unable to hide what each new sensation pulled from him.

His breath hitched again, involuntary.

The King’s hold tightened in response, as though savoring the way he reacted.

“You are not built for silence, my little mortal..”

The voice thrummed low, curling through him like a hand around his spine.

The tentacle across his mouth pressed gently but firmly, ensuring he couldn’t answer even if he tried.

Another glided beneath his chin, tilting his head just enough that the King’s masked face hovered near his cheek.

Every nerve in D3rlord3’s body lit up at once.

Too close.

Too much.

Too many sensations at once — tightness, warmth, pressure, the impossible smoothness of the restraints, the subtle vibration of energy humming through them.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force some control back into his own body.

But the King was relentless.

A tentacle traced down his side, slow enough to feel every nerve it woke beneath the skin.

Another circled his waist, tightening just to the edge of what he could handle.

Another slid along his back, finding the exact spot that made him gasp into the tentacle over his mouth.

His body twisted involuntarily, overstimulated by the sheer number of sensations flooding him at once.

The King exhaled softly — not quite a laugh, but something like dark amusement.

“You feel everything.”

“And I have not even begun.”

–––

The first sob tore out of him without warning.

It hit his throat raw, vibrating desperately against the tentacle still pressed over his mouth. He couldn’t even cry properly — every sound came out strangled, choked, pathetic. Drool and tears smeared together on his face, slipping down in uneven, hot trails.

He shook his head, tried to swallow the sobs, tried to breathe around the pressure sealing his lips — but the King had him trapped too tightly, the tentacle unyielding and the rest of them moving over him with unbearable precision.

They traced under his arms, down his ribs, behind his knees — every sensitive place, every spot that made his muscles jump and twitch uncontrollably. The sensation was maddening, pleasurable in a way that stripped him of all dignity, all composure, all ability to hold himself together.

His body jerked every time a tendril slid across a nerve, and soon he was gasping in silent pleasure-tinged sobs, humiliated beyond belief, thrashing helplessly as tears streamed harder down his cheeks.

“Mmm—! Mmmph—! N-no—!”

His muffled cries dissolved into broken whimpers.

It was too much.

Too fast.

Too many sensations at once.

He tried to beg — tried to shake his head or lift his hands or do anything — but the tentacles pinned him tight against the King’s lap, forcing him to feel every brush, every slide, every teasing stroke.

Mercy.

He needed mercy.

He didn’t care how pathetic he sounded anymore.

He sobbed harder, body collapsing forward as much as the restraints allowed. His whole form quivered as he tried to plead behind the tentacle gagging his mouth. His eyes almost rolling back inside his head because of the lack of breath he had. 

“—mmmph—! Mmm—mmph…!”

The King in Yellow watched him fall apart with a stillness that felt ancient and cruel.

Amusement shimmered along the edges of its mask — subtle, but unmistakable. The air vibrated with its satisfaction.

“Ah…”

The King’s voice rippled through the chamber like warm honey poured over cold marble.

“So easily undone.”

A gloved hand traced the curve of D3rlord3’s trembling back, almost soothing — if the tentacles weren’t tormenting him mercilessly.

His sobs came faster when one tendril brushed directly along a spot that made him jolt violently. He couldn’t stop squirming, couldn’t stop the humiliating whimpers and groans that shook his ribs and chest.

He was begging now in movements alone — in the frantic twitch of his shoulders, in the way his legs kicked uselessly, in the desperate tilt of his head as he tried to escape the overstimulating assault.

The King’s grip tightened in response.

Another snap of its fingers.

The tentacles obeyed instantly.

They sped up.

D3rlord3’s entire body convulsed in overstimulation, a strangled, hysterical whimper ripping helplessly from deep in his chest. Tears flowed freely now — hot, relentless streams dripping onto the King’s robes.

His vision blurred.

His lungs burned.

His pride was gone.

He was openly, shamelessly begging for mercy now — even if the tentacle over his mouth made the words nothing but pitiful, muffled sounds.

“Beautiful,” the King murmured, leaning close enough that its breath brushed the wet corner of his eye.

“Break for Me.”

And the tentacles obeyed the command without mercy.

Chapter Text

You're still looking, right..?

The chamber felt alive the moment the doors sealed shut behind D3rlord3—warm, pulsing, breathing with the same slow, predatory rhythm as the entity that ruled it.

The King did not speak at first.

It didn’t have to.

Its presence pressed against D3rlord3 like a tidal wave—ancient, intelligent, and impossibly aware of every tremor beneath his skin. Shadows rippled behind the creature as if answering some silent command, and D3rlord3’s breath hitched despite his attempts to steady it.

D3rlord3 had faced horrors, survived battles, and stared death in the eyes without flinching.

Yet this—being under The King’s full attention—stripped every practiced layer of composure from him.

“Come here,” the creature murmured, voice nothing but velvet wrapped around steel.

D3rlord3 obeyed before he could think, drawn forward by something deeper than instinct. The King lowered itself until its face hovered near his neck, the air trembling with every slow inhale it took. One of its tendrils lifted—featherlight at first—brushing the side of D3rlord3’s jaw as though mapping the heat beneath his skin.

The touch wasn’t forceful.

It was worse—deliberate.

A low sound escaped him before he could swallow it. And his cock began straining against his armour. 

The King noticed.

“How easily your body answers me…” it mused, amusement coiling through its tone.

More tendrils rose from behind it, drifting through the air like curious hands. They grazed over D3rlord3’s arms, his sides, the back of his neck—everywhere at once, each touch maddeningly gentle, as if designed to test how long he could remain composed.

He lasted only seconds.

His knees weakened. A quiet, helpless noise slipped from his throat. His face burned with humiliation as he tried to brace against the sensation, tried to force his voice steady.

But The King moved closer, its breath ghosting over his cheek as the chamber darkened around them.

“Struggling already?” it whispered, voice almost tender. “How sweet.”

The tendrils traced him in slow, spiraling patterns—never cruel, never harsh, but overwhelming in their precision. Each movement teased the edges of sensation, pushing him toward a breaking point he had no name for.

D3rlord3 bit down a sob, but the sound still trembled out of him, soft and raw.

The King made a pleased, low hum.

“Oh…"

"You are unraveling so beautifully.”

Its tendrils tightened their slow, rhythmic movements—gentle, relentless, intimate in a way that stole thought from his mind. D3rlord3’s breath shattered, his composure slipping with every trembling gasp.

“P-please…” he whispered before he could stop himself.

The King’s smile deepened.

“Yes,” it purred. “Beg for me again.”

Shame scorched him—but so did the relief of finally yielding. His voice broke as he whispered,

“Please… I can’t—mmph.. I can’t handle more…”

A soft chuckle echoed through the chamber, vibrating right through his spine.

“That’s exactly why,” The King breathed, “I will not stop, my mortal Knight.”

And with that, the tendrils moved—not harsher, but faster, surrounding him completely, swallowing every last scrap of resistance he had left.

The last thing he saw was The King watching him with molten, delighted hunger—as if D3rlord3’s unraveling was the finest offering it had ever received.

–––

The tendrils encircled D3rlord3 like living chains, their slick surfaces gliding over his body with a possessive insistence that made his skin prickle. He stood there, frozen in the chamber's dim glow, his chest heaving as the creature's gaze bored into him, savoring every flicker of doubt on his face.

The King leaned in closer, its form a towering shadow that dwarfed him, exuding an aura of unyielding ownership. "Mine," it hissed softly, the word laced with dark satisfaction. "Every twitch, every gasp—you belong to me now."

D3rlord3's throat tightened, shame flooding his veins like molten lead. He was a warrior, forged in fire and blood, yet here he quivered like a leaf under this thing's touch. His hands clenched at his sides, but the tendrils anticipated him, coiling around his wrists and pinning them gently but firmly behind his back. 

Helplessness crashed over him, raw and exposing, stripping away the illusion of control.

Another tendril slithered up to his face, its tip probing at his lips. He tried to turn away, but another wrapped around his jaw, forcing his mouth open just enough. The intruder pushed inside, thick and insistent, filling his mouth with its warm, pulsing length. It didn't thrust or choke him—not yet—but it wiggled deliberately, the tip brushing the roof of his mouth and flicking against his tongue in light, teasing strokes that sent unwanted sparks through his nerves.

A muffled whimper escaped around it, his cheeks burning with humiliation as saliva gathered at the corners of his lips. The King chuckled, low and cruel, its eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "Look at you, so vulnerable, so eager to please even when you fight it."

More tendrils joined the assault, their movements shifting from mere caresses to targeted torments. Two slinked under his armored tunic, seeking out the sensitive planes of his pectorals. 

They dragged feather-light across the firm muscles, circling his nipples with agonizing slowness. The tips flicked and pinched, not hard enough to hurt, but precise enough to ignite a fire of pleasurable agony that made his back arch involuntarily.

D3rlord3's body jerked, a choked groan bubbling up around the tendril in his mouth, twisted with desperation. His nipples hardened under the relentless teasing, each stroke sending jolts straight to his core, amplifying the shame of his own arousal. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears of frustration and embarrassment pricking at the corners.

But the King noticed everything.

"Oh? does that feel good, my knight?" it purred, voice dripping with possessive mockery. "Your body betrays you so sweetly. I could do this for hours, watch you squirm and beg while I claim what's mine."

The torment spread lower. Another pair of tendrils wormed their way to his stomach, slipping beneath the edges of his armor to trace the taut skin there. They scribbled in rapid, wiggling patterns across his abs—dipping into his navel and swirling around it with merciless precision. 

The teasing touches and light tickling was unbearable, a cascade of involuntary shudders rippling through him, his muscles clenching uselessly against the invasion.

He thrashed weakly, bound arms straining, but the tendrils only held him tighter, their grip a reminder of his utter vulnerability. Whimpers forced its way out, garbled and wet around the one in his mouth, his face flushed crimson with the indignity of it all. 

How could something so simple unravel him like this?

Shame coiled in his gut, hot and suffocating, as his body convulsed in helpless spasms.

But The King wasn't done. The tendrils ventured bolder, sliding down to his thighs. They pushed between his legs, their tips dancing along the inner seams, skimming the sensitive flesh just above his knees and inching upward. 

The touches there was excruciating—light scratches and prods that made his thighs quiver uncontrollably, forcing his legs to buckle as waves of sensation overwhelmed him.

"M-mmhp—p-please," he managed to mumble around the intruder, the word slurred and broken, tears streaming down his cheeks now. 

Vulnerability stripped him bare; he was no hero here, just a trembling mess under The King's sadistic whims.

The creature's laughter echoed, rich with ownership. "Beg all you want, my knight. It only makes me want to break you more. You're mine to shatter and rebuild."

Minutes stretched into an eternity of torment, the teasing relentless, pushing him to the edge of sanity. His body shook with exhausted groans and whimpers, every nerve alight, his mind fracturing under the weight of his exposure. Finally, as his resistance crumbled to dust, the tendrils shifted with purpose.

They turned forceful, their tips hooking into the clasps and seams of his armor. Metal groaned and tore as they ripped it away piece by piece—the chestplate yanked free, exposing his heaving chest; greaves shredded from his legs, leaving him in tattered undergarments. 

The destruction was deliberate, possessive, as if marking him by destroying the barriers between them.

Naked and exposed, D3rlord3 trembled violently, the chamber's warm air kissing his sweat-slicked skin and aching flesh. The tendrils didn't pause; two thick ones wrapped around his ankles, yanking his legs apart with unyielding strength. 

He dangled there, spread wide and helpless, thighs quaking from the strain and lingering teases, his most intimate areas bared to The King's hungry gaze.

"Perfect," The King murmured, drifting closer, its tendrils still teasing his oversensitive body. "Now, truly mine. Tremble for me, my broken warrior. The real fun begins."

–––

The chamber was silent except for the ragged symphony of D3rlord3’s own breathing and whimpers but also the soft, slick sound of the tendrils moving over his skin. 

He hung in their unbreakable grasp, every muscle pulled taut, his body a canvas of exposed vulnerability. The King’s amorphous form drifted closer, a shadow given sentience, its presence both terrifying and electrifying.

A new tendril, thicker and more purposeful than the teasing others, slid from the core of The King’s darkness. It was slick with a warm, glistening moisture, its width daunting as it moved with a predator’s grace toward his exposed hips. D3rlord3’s breath hitched, a silent plea and a surrender caught in his throat.

“Shhh, my warrior,” The King’s voice was a decadent rumble that vibrated through the very air, sinking into D3rlord3’s bones. “This is not your end. It is your awakening. You will feel everything.”

The thick appendage pressed against him, a blunt, insistent pressure against his most private entrance. He tensed instinctively, a lifetime of battle-hardened reflexes screaming to clench, to fight, to resist this ultimate invasion. But his body, traitorously, was alight with a strange, humming anticipation, "A-anngh!~ m–mph-f-fuc-nhk!~"

The tendrils around his ankles and wrists held him firm, a relentless and absolute reminder of his powerlessness. He was theirs.

“Let go,” The King commanded, its voice dropping to a hypnotic whisper. “And let me in.”

With a shuddering exhale, D3rlord3 did. He stopped fighting the tension in his muscles, his body going pliant in their grasp. It was all the permission the entity needed.

The tendril pushed forward.

It was a slow, inexorable breach, a stretching fullness that stole the air from his lungs. A sharp cry, torn from deep within him, echoed in the chamber—a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation. The initial shock of penetration was immense, a burning stretch that quickly melted into something else entirely. The slickness of the tendril eased its passage, and as it sank deeper, a new, shocking wave of pleasure began to crest, overwhelming the discomfort.

The King let out a low, approving hum. “There. You see?”

It began to move. Slow at first.. But then immensely fast. 

The first thrust was a testing stroke, a deliberate slide that buried its impressive length inside him. D3rlord3’s head fell back, a garbled moan escaping his lips. The tendril retreated almost completely, leaving him achingly empty for a split second before driving back in, harder this time. The force of it lifted his suspended body slightly, jolting through him.

Oh, gods.

It wasn’t just the overwhelming fullness, the way it stretched him so completely. It was the texture. The tendril wasn’t smooth; it was lined with subtle, rippling ridges and bumps that moved in a peristaltic rhythm against his searingly sensitive inner walls. Each thrust was a cascade of friction, a thousand tiny points of contact stroking and milking him from the inside out.

And then it found its mark.

The next deep, driving plunge hit a place within him that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy straight up his spine. His eyes, wide and unseeing, rolled back. A broken, keening wail was ripped from his throat. His prostate.

Every subsequent thrust was a precise, unforgiving assault on that singular bundle of nerves. Pleasure, sharp and blinding, radiated out from his core, turning his bones to liquid fire and short-circuiting every thought in his head.

He was being fucked stupid. The world narrowed to the rhythm of the taking—the sound of wet, pounding flesh, the creak of the tendrils holding him aloft, his own desperate, wanton cries. His mind, once sharp with strategy and defiance, was now a blank slate of sensation. There was no past, no future, only the present, all-consuming now of being filled, claimed, and utterly unraveled.

The King watched, its form pulsating with a dark satisfaction. It increased its pace, the thrusts becoming faster, more powerful, pistoning into D3rlord3 with a brutal, exhilarating force. With every deep, bottoming-out plunge, a distinct, soft bulge pushed out against the taut skin of D3rlord3’s lower abdomen. 

He could see it, the visible proof of the immense intrusion, a rounded shape gliding beneath his skin, inside his stomach, with every movement. The sight was so lewd, so devastatingly erotic, that it pushed him even further toward the edge.

A primal need for anchor, for something to cling to in this storm of pleasure, overwhelmed him. His hands, held by the thinner tendrils, strained against them. As if reading his very soul, the tendrils binding his wrists loosened their grip just enough.

With a desperate, sobbing gasp, D3rlord3 reached out. His fingers, trembling violently, sought the only solid form in the swirling darkness—The King. They sank into the surprisingly firm, cool surface of its core and golden yellow robes behind him. He clung on, his knuckles white, his entire body convulsing with the relentless, pleasure-pain of the fucking.

A deep, resonant chuckle vibrated through the form D3rlord3 clung to. It found it amusing. 

The confession shattered something in D3rlord3. He wasn’t just being used; he was connecting. He was holding onto the very source of his destruction and his ecstasy, and in that paradox, he found a terrifying thrill. He clung tighter, his face pressing against the dark mass, his body yielding completely to the phenomenal power of the thrusts.

The tendril pistoned into him, a machine of perfect pleasure, nailing his prostate with unerring accuracy on every single drive. The bulge in his stomach appeared and disappeared in a rapid, hypnotic rhythm everytime the appendage thrusted inside. 

After what felt like eternity, the tendrils and tentacles inside his mouth finally slipped out. But now, he was babbling, incoherent pleas and praises mingling together. “More… p-please… d-don’t stop..!~ can’t… oh f–fuck! N-ngh!~”

His own cock, laying against his stomach, was a throbbing, neglected ache, leaking pre-cum steadily onto his stomach with every world-shattering impact. He was hurtling toward his peak, a climax built not from touch, but from the sheer, brutal, internal stimulation. 

But it wasn't enough. He needed more to climax but this stupid entity wouldn't let him! 

The King’s voice was a dark caress in his mind, a teasing and mocking sound. “Hm? Do you want to surrender, my mortal knight?”

F–fuck.. He might actually cry on the spot if this stupid King doesn't let him cum.. 

"Don't worry.. You'll just need to hold on for a bit longer," It teased as it stroked a sharp, obsidian black and clawed hand over D3rlord3's inner thigh. 

Chapter Text

Don’t look away now…

D3rlord3 didn’t breathe so much as stumble through every inhale — each one too sharp, too shallow, like his lungs were glitching along with the rest of him. He wasn’t used to this. Pressure. Expectation. The moment was already happening. Already speeding ahead of him. Already pulling him into a gravity he’d never trained for.. The way it curled his feet, the way it made him arch his spine while it refused to let go.. It made him feel even more small. 

He wasn’t built for this kind of intensity.

Not the physical weight of it, he was already a norm to physical things like fighting — but not the emotional kind.

He didn’t know where to put his hands at first. Didn’t know where to put his eyes. Everything felt too loud — it's breath, his heartbeat, the way the air tightened around them. It all hit at once, a rush that made him forget how to sequence his own thoughts.

And then the thought dissolved. They all did. Every one of his normally clean, precise lines of thinking tangled themselves into a knot so tight he couldn’t tell which strand belonged to which feeling.

He’d never felt this kind of heat before — the kind that wasn’t anger or adrenaline but something molten, sliding under his skin and locking up his breathing. They were touching him and it was— gods, it was too much, not enough, and overwhelmingly real.

His mind kept skipping, stuttering like a corrupted file, 

Don’t mess up. It's watching you. Don’t freeze. Don't get scared. Don’t— oh fuck—

D3rlord3 didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until the pressure in his chest and stomach forced a gasp through his lips — sharp, uneven, too loud in the quiet between them. Another whimper escaped his mouth again. 

He didn’t know if he wanted to pull them closer or step back and reboot himself. And the worst part? It wasn't telling him what to do. It wasn't guiding him with instructions or commands. It was just… looking at him like it wanted him. Like it believed he could handle something he wasn’t sure he could.

It made his thighs quivered everytime it's large hand scraped over his inner thighs. 

His palm slid up the King’s arm — muscles coiled like steel beneath warm skin — and he gripped, desperate for something to hold onto before his knees betrayed him. His breath fanned against their skin, unsteady, unsure, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. There was a momentum now, one he wasn’t prepared for, one he didn’t know how to control.

But the King didn’t let him.

A hand — large, commanding, sure — closed around D3rlord3’s wrist, stopping him mid-motion. Not harshly. Not cruelly. But deliberately. Intentionally. A denial, not a rejection.

D3rlord3 froze, breath catching.

The King held his wrist just long enough to make him feel the message in the gesture.. 

A tremor ran through him. Not cold. Not fear. Something rawer.

Oh gods.. It wouldn't.. He doesn't think it'll do that, right?–

Everything felt wrong and too right at the same time: the heat of the King’s body so close, the strong scent of iron and something warmer, the soft drag of their breaths mixing in the narrow space between them. 

Then suddenly, the kings large and obsidian black hands moved away from his thighs – to his waist. 

His throat tightened. It's hands were on him now too — grounding him, setting every nerve alight. He felt like he was burning from the inside out, but it wasn’t pain. It was sensation finally being allowed to exist.

He didn’t speak — couldn’t. The words jammed in his throat, melted before they reached his tongue. So he let the silence fill with his breathing, with their closeness, with the dizzying, terrifying, exhilarating realization that he wanted more.

He didn’t know what he was doing. But he couldn't stop it

Why won’t it let me..?

I can’t… I can’t think—

The King’s gaze pinned him in place, heavy enough to feel like a touch. It sent another wave of heat crawling up D3rlord3’s neck, blooming across his cheeks until he felt feverish.

He tried again — not grabbing, just reaching, fingers brushing toward the King’s forearm like instinct, like a reflex he couldn’t override.

And again, the King stopped him, voice low, steady, 

“Not there, little mortal.”

The words nearly buckled him.

D3rlord3’s legs wobbled. His lungs failed to keep up. Every nerve in him screamed for something to anchor to — something solid, something bigger, something that wouldn’t move even when he felt like he might fall apart.

But the King wasn’t going to let him escape into stability.

The first thrust and moment was sudden. D3rlord3 didn't have any time to adjust or think. The pressure in his stomach was even more greater than last time. 

"A-angh!~ F–fuck! M–mmhp! M-my sto-Ach!~m–mach..!~" D3rlord3 couldn't hold his needy moans, groans, and whimpers any longer. 

The King's pace was steady but fast, moving D3rlord3 up and down easily on the large, slimey tendril. D3rlord3's eyes rolled back in ecstasy as his moans and whimpers grew even louder. D3rlord3's eyes began watering up with tears of ecstasy and embarrassment as drool began also dripping from the corners of his mouth aswell.

"A-angh!~ s-slow down– AH!~ F–FUCK!! H-harder..!~ n-ngh!"

"You seem to be giving out lots of cute reactions, my mortal knight. It's so adorable."

The sound of groans and moans were loud and the slick sound of skin sliding against skin was also loud. D3rlord3's panting was heavy and hot. 

When was this stupid entity going to let him cum?! He might actually die!–

His thighs quivered and his body trembled. His stomach bulged softly underneath his skin everytime the tendril inside him thrusted dead on. The sight was so lewd, so devastatingly erotic, and so much more that it pushed him even further toward the edge.

It increased its pace, the thrusts becoming faster, more powerful, pistoning into D3rlord3 with a brutal, exhilarating force. This just made his eyes roll even back, a colour scope of sparkles exploded behind his eyes and the corner of his eyes. He might actually pass out.. 

And then suddenly–the King snapped his fingers. 

The tentacles and tendrils began emerging again from the shadows. It's slimey and obsidian black colours matched the King's hands as they began edging closer. 

"N-no! N-not agai–A-AH!~ f-fuck!~" D3rlord3 tried to talk but the tendril inside him made it hard to do. The open tendrils and tentacles began dripping slimey substances that the tendril inside him had from before as many of them inched closer to his aching flesh resting weakly and trembling slightly against his stomach. 

Some of them curled around his thighs and held them even more open as a small one; with ridges and bumps inched closer to his tip and brushed against it. 

D3rlord3 shuddered and moaned even more. The duel sensation of him getting fucked stupid on a tentacle and another tendril teasing his tip was to much, "a-aho!~ f-f-fuck!!~ n-ngh–m-mmph!~"

His aching flesh spurts pre-cum weakly as the small tendril with the small bumps suddenly slithered inside his tip as it began moving up and down. Moving up and out of his tip before slamming back down inside his tip. The ridges and bumps were too much for D3rlord3 to handle as he spilled, "A-AAaah~ FU–FUCK!!~" the cum splattered against his stomach and chest. 

D3rlord3’s limbs shook, chest heaving as he panted, eyes watering under the suffocating presence of the tentacles and the King’s absolute control, "h-haah.. I-I need a b-break.. N-ngh.."

"Don't worry, my mortal knight. I'll give you and your cute mortal body the break it needs." The King then slid its hand over D3rlord3's slicked stomach and chest as it inched it's long, sharp and clawed fingers closer to D3rlord3's mouth. 

"Lick and taste what you made. What we made together."

Chapter Text

Keep looking at me..

D3rlord3 didn’t sleep.

He barely even rested.

The chamber around him was steeped in a deep, smoldering quiet—the kind that wasn’t peaceful, but heavy, as though silence itself had gained weight. The fireplace had dwindled down to a slow, pulsating glow, the embers breathing in and out like a creature half-asleep. The dim light painted the walls in shifting oranges and dark golds, every flicker reshaping the shadows into new, uncertain forms.

Fuck.. He still remembered how he licked of his own fluids off the kings slender and sharp fingers like a whore. It was messy, impulsive, and mostly just an excuse to humiliate him as it wiped the remaining smudge of seamen off his lips when it was done.

What the hell was wrong with him?! That was so fucking embarrassing!

This entity definitely liked his humiliation, doesn't it?! 

The room should have felt protective, wrapped in warmth and stone. But to him, it felt too large, too open, too full of places where thoughts could echo back at him.

His mind had not stopped since the council chamber.

It hadn’t slowed.

It hadn’t softened.

Every memory from earlier hammered at him in broken pieces—the hungry but soft stares, the high expectations, the sudden realization that every pair of eyes in that hall had waited for him to be someone he had never been prepared to be. His breath kept catching at random moments, chest tightening as though a rope he couldn’t see was being pulled tighter and tighter with each exhale.

He lay rigid on the enormous bed, far too small for it, the blankets twisted around his body in a way that felt more like entanglement than comfort. His fingertips dug into the fabric as a restless tremor worked its way through his hands, a tremor he couldn’t force to stop no matter how tightly he clenched his fists. This stupid entity still kept his armoured boots and helmet on even if it was fucking him! How crazy is this King?! 

Nothing felt still inside him.

Nothing felt quiet.

He needed something—anything—to pull him back into his body.

A low, controlled sound broke the air.

A footstep.

Then another.

Measured, deliberate, impossibly steady.

The King moved with the weight of certainty, a heaviness that didn’t feel oppressive so much as inevitable. It's footsteps were slow but unwavering, the kind that suggested it didn’t question the land beneath it—never had, never would. It's presence entered the room first, like a shift in the air pressure, and only then did it's shape emerge from the dimness.

D3rlord3 swallowed hard, instinctively pulling in a breath that shook before he could stop it. “Still awake,” the King said. It's voice dripping like molten gold. 

It's voice was low, warm in a dark, dangerously soothing way. Not comforting—never comforting—but grounding. It carried the kind of control that made D3rlord3’s pulse stutter, the kind that left no space for lies or weak denials.

D3rlord3 nodded, though the motion felt stiff and too quick. His throat tightened again, refusing to let out anything more than a thin, shaky exhale.

The King didn’t push. It didn’t question.

Instead, it moved closer with a kind of patient certainty that made the room feel smaller.

–––

Then—unexpectedly, impossibly—it lowered himself onto the floor beside the bed. The shift of it's weight was silent but somehow resonant, as though the floor recognized who now sat upon it. It rested his forearms on his knees, posture relaxed but still exuding the power of someone who could dominate a room even while sitting.

D3rlord3 could feel the King’s warmth from this close. It radiated off it's body, subtle but unwavering, brushing against D3rlord3’s skin like heat reaching across a short distance. It made his breath catch again—this time for a different reason.

“Your thoughts are loud,” the King murmured, eyes fixed on him with an unreadable depth. “They spill out of you without permission.”

Something inside D3rlord3 crumpled a little at those words.

“I don’t know how to stop them,” D3rlord3 whispered. The words came out thin, stretched tight with strain. “It’s like they’re… pushing at me. All at once. Like I’m going to break apart if I don’t hold onto something.”

The King studied him in stillness, the firelight catching on the angles of it's face, making it look like something carved from warmth and shadow. It's gaze held no mockery, no impatience—only a deep, almost unsettling attentiveness, as if every stutter in D3rlord3’s breathing was a detail worth noting.

“What you felt today would crush a weaker male mortal,” the King said softly. “Expectations sharpen like blades when you are unaccustomed to standing beneath them.”

A pause. A slow inhale.

“You were thrown into a world built on pressure. You walked through it regardless. That alone is more than most could manage their first day.”

But praise didn’t settle him.

Not when his mind still buzzed violently, an unending static.

His hands trembled again, harder this time. He looked at it helplessly, frustrated that he couldn’t force them into stillness. Something inside him whispered for something tangible, something unshakable. His gaze darted around the room, desperate for an anchor.

Then he saw it.

The King’s arm—strong, sculpted, unmoving in the dim firelight. Muscles sat beneath thick skin, defined even in shadow, every line shaped by strength and years of discipline. It looked so steady, so solid, so completely unaffected by the chaos that rattled D3rlord3’s bones.

His hand moved before he could think.

Slowly.

Uncertainly.

As if drawn to warmth without conscious choice.

His fingers reached for the King’s forearm, trembling just above the surface, chasing the promise of steadiness—

But before he could touch, the King’s hand closed around his wrist.

The grip was sure, firm, absolute. Not painful—just a gentle confinement that made D3rlord3’s breath halt mid-chest, body going utterly still at the sudden contact.

The King lifted it's gaze, it's eyes narrowing with a curiosity that felt like scrutiny and something deeper.

“What,” he said quietly, “are you reaching for?”

D3rlord3’s voice faltered. “I… I needed something to hold onto.”

“Something,” the King echoed. It's thumb rested lightly against the inside of D3rlord3’s wrist, as though feeling the frantic pulse trembling beneath the skin. “Or someone?”

Heat flooded D3rlord3’s face, his heartbeat ricocheting through his entire body. He lowered his gaze, unable to hold the King’s stare.

“…someone,” D3rlord3 admitted, barely audible.

The King’s breath left it in a slow exhale, a sound that wrapped around D3rlord3 like warm shadow.

“You reach for me without yet understanding the gravity of that choice,” the King murmured, his tone soft but carrying a firm undercurrent. “You seek steadiness from the one thing in this room that will not bend for you.”

It tightened it's hold on D3rlord3’s wrist—not enough to hurt, just enough to steady, enough to claim the moment.

When D3rlord3 tried to withdraw, the King didn’t let him.

It's grip held him in place, gentle but resolute.

Then, with deliberate slowness, the King guided D3rlord3’s hand toward it's forearm—not pulling him forward, but leading him with a measured authority that sent a tremor down D3rlord3’s spine.

“If you need something to hold onto,” the King whispered, voice low and warm, “then understand what it is you’re anchoring yourself to.”

It's thumb brushed the underside of D3rlord3’s wrist again, a slow, grounding stroke that released a wave of warmth through him.

It placed D3rlord3’s trembling fingers against it's forearm.

Heat. Firmness. Unshakable solidity beneath warm skin.

The world—his world—steadied.

D3rlord3’s fingers curled instinctively, clinging, seeking, anchoring himself in the King’s quiet strength. The tremor in his breathing eased, just barely, but enough for the King to notice.

–––

The King’s eyes softened—not with tenderness, but with observation, as though it were witnessing something unfold exactly as he expected.

“Good,” he said softly. “Breathe.”

So D3rlord3 did.

Slow, shaky, uneven breaths that gradually found a rhythm. The King didn’t let go of his wrist, didn’t pull his arm away, didn’t break the fragile contact that steadied him.

It held him there—gently, firmly, deliberately—until the worst of the trembling faded.

And even then…

The King still didn’t release him. 

The King watched him for a long, quiet moment — long enough for D3rlord3’s breath to stutter again, though for an entirely different reason. Then, without warning, the King rose from the floor in one fluid, unhurried motion.

The mattress dipped under it's weight as it climbed onto the bed, not with grace but with the heavy confidence of someone who knew it belonged wherever it chose to be.

D3rlord3’s eyes widened as the King’s body eclipsed it's own, strong arms and broad frame settling beside him — and then over him — until warmth and weight pressed him gently but firmly into the bedding.

It wasn’t crushing, not truly, but enveloping, surrounding him on all sides like a living barrier that allowed no escape. The King’s chest rested against his own, his thigh trapping one of D3rlord3’s legs beneath its heat, it's breath warm against the nape of D3rlord3’s neck.

“Stop shaking,” the King murmured, voice rumbling through him.

“I’m right here. You’re not going anywhere.”

And under the steady, feline heaviness of it — the warm, grounding weight of a creature settling exactly where it wanted — D3rlord3 finally felt his body give in, breath leaving him in a trembling exhale as the last of the panic melted into the sheets below them.

Chapter Text

Why are you looking for someone else..? 

The mattress dipped again—this time with the full, unapologetic weight of a creature far too large to be sharing such a small sleeping space. D3rlord3 had just enough time to inhale before the King practically folded itself down over him, settling into the bed with the lazy certainty of something that had never once been told 'no.' and D3rlord3 let out a muffled noise as the enormous shadow settled over him. 

The impact sent a soft whump through the blankets as D3rlord3 was pushed deeper into them, squished flat beneath the king’s sprawling mass. It didn’t feel graceful or practiced; if anything, it felt deliberate in its casual disregard for personal space, like a huge cat deciding its chosen spot was exactly where it would be—and that its chosen spot happened to be directly on top of him.

The king adjusted only slightly, shifting until it found a comfortable angle. 

D3rlord3 made a startled, choked sound as the air was momentarily squeezed out of him. D3rlord3 tried to squirm out from under the heavy warmth pressing him into the blankets, but the king shifted lazily, one forearm draping across D3rlord3’s torso like a heavy wooden beam. The forearm alone was larger than both of his arms put together, and once it settled, it didn’t move again, solid and immovable as carved stone.

“Don’t move,” it rumbled, voice thick with exhaustion, the words warm against the back of D3rlord3’s neck. “You’ll fall off the edge if you do.”

“I—I wasn’t going to fall,” he managed to mumble into the pillow, though it didn’t matter; the king’s weight pressed half the words back into his throat, he tried to wiggle a bit just enough to breathe. His thoughts tumbled over each other again—His thoughts spun in chaotic loops, stumbling over themselves. 

He wasn’t used to this kind of closeness, this kind of pressure—physical or otherwise. It felt like being held down by a mountain that didn’t even realize it was a mountain, that simply existed and expected the world to shift around it, 

the strange buzzing sensation from being pinned down by someone who radiated power without even trying.

The king didn’t respond. Didn’t budge. It's weight was warm, steady, completely unmoving—like it'd decided D3rlord3 was simply a part of the bedding now. It merely exhaled—slow, heavy, final—and that alone shifted even more weight onto D3rlord3’s back. 

He tried to shift a little, if only to regain the ability to breathe properly, but the moment he did, the king lazily tightened its grip. Not harshly, not threateningly, just… decisively. A reminder of how much stronger it was, how easy it would be for it to keep him, to take him, exactly where it wanted without expending a single extra ounce of energy.

D3rlord3’s hands searched instinctively for something to anchor himself to, something stable to hold onto so he wouldn’t panic. The blankets slipped through his fingers. The edge of the pillow was too small. 

The only thing within reach were the king’s forearm and the side of its thick wrist—but when his fingers brushed against its skin, the king shifted, moving its arm just enough to keep him from getting a proper grasp.

“No clinging, my dear mortal,” it muttered, half-asleep but amused. “You’ll tangle yourself.”

D3rlord3 froze instantly, the tips of his fingers curling back in embarrassment. He wasn’t even trying to cling—he was trying not to lose his mind—Yup. Just that. Nothing else. Instead, he clutched the blanket again, knuckles whitening as he tried to steady his breathing. 

He could feel the king’s breaths behind him, heavy and deep, each one rolling through its chest and into his back like a slow-moving tide. It wasn’t comforting—not to him. It was simply overwhelming.

“Relax,” the king murmured, already half asleep again. “If I wanted to crush you, I’d have done it properly.”

That’s.. That's not reassuring at all, D3rlord3 thought, his heart hammering as the king’s slow, steady breaths rumbled against his back. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move—afraid that any wrong shift would cause the king to sprawl even heavier.

The room fell quiet except for the crackling fire and the soft, rhythmic sound of the king drifting into deeper sleep.

Pinned beneath it, D3rlord3 stared wide-eyed at the far wall. He wasn’t sure if he should stay tense or try relaxing. Every time he tested a tiny movement, the king instinctively adjusted, pressing him down more firmly, as if its body had a mind of its own for keeping him in place. 

At one point, one of the king’s tendrils—even heavier than its arm—flopped across D3rlord3’s own legs, sealing off any last thought of escape.

Either way, escaping was definitely not happening tonight.

–––

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time felt blurred under the king’s warm weight. The fire crackled softly at the side of the room, casting flickering gold across the stone walls. Shadows danced over the king’s sprawling shape, making it look even larger, even more like a creature that belonged on a battlefield or a throne—but not a bed meant for two.

D3rlord3 swallowed hard, unsure if he was trapped, guarded, or simply serving as the unwilling pillow of a creature far too powerful to argue with.

For now, all he could do was lie there, crushed gently but undeniably, and hope morning would bring space to breathe.

D3rlord3 tried to steady his breathing, but every inhale felt shallow beneath the king’s oppressive weight. It wasn’t painful—just inescapable. The kind of pressure that reminded him how small he truly was compared to the creature draped over him. 

His mind kept looping through the day: the first encounter in the throne room, the King's whispers, it's unreadable glare whenever D3rlord3 kept thrashing on it's lap.

Especially when he kept calling out Avery's name when he was getting.. Ahem.. By the king in it's throne room. 

“…Avery…”

D3rlord3 didn’t mean to think the name out loud. It slipped out in a tiny whisper, barely breath, barely sound—just a desperate attempt to distract himself from the heat and the crushing stillness.

The king’s entire body went rigid. As well as D3rlord3 in fear. 

Uh oh.. He fucked up big time. 

Not violently—nothing sudden or dangerous—just a slow, unmistakable tightening. Its breath paused for a beat, lingering in the air behind D3rlord3’s ear like a held growl that never fully formed. Then the weight shifted, not to relieve pressure but to reclaim it, settling even heavier across D3rlord3’s back and legs, pressing him deeper into the bedding as though reminding him exactly who he was beneath.

“Why..” the king murmured, its voice low and rough with a cold edge, “are you saying that name while lying under me?”

D3rlord3 stiffened. “I—I didn’t mean— It just slipped out—”

“You think and talk about that mortal too much,” the king continued, the rumble of its chest vibrating through D3rlord3’s spine. “You call out his name but not mine. I don’t like it.”

D3rlord3 blinked rapidly into the pillow, one of the king’s tentacles curled a fraction tighter around his legs, not painfully, just decisively—another barrier, another reminder. He could feel the heat radiating from the king’s chest as it leaned in closer, shadow swallowing his entire form.

“He was only—” D3rlord3 tried.

“I don’t care what he goes through because of me.”

The king’s voice dropped lower, quieter, but far more intense. “You don’t speak his name. Not with me here, nor when you’re here in my chambers.”

D3rlord3’s pulse thudded hard against the pillow. The king wasn’t yelling. It wasn’t roaring. It wasn’t even raising its voice. But the weight of its displeasure settled over him like another blanket—thick, heavy, suffocating in its own way.

The king exhaled through its nose, slow and steady, as though forcing itself to relax—but its arm didn’t loosen from around D3rlord3’s middle. If anything, the grip became more deliberate.

“You,” it muttered, almost to itself, “are under my protection right now. Not his. Not anyone’s.”

D3rlord3 didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He just lay there, swallowed by warmth and authority that felt far too close, far too aware.

Only after several long breaths did the king shift again, settling its chin atop D3rlord3’s shoulder—not gently, not harshly, but possessively enough to make its point without saying another word.

"I want to make love with you again. But here. In my chambers. Under my protection and where I can see you and your gorgeous, mortal body."

He’d said Avery’s name. Out loud. Under the king. His stomach flipped, heat prickling across his forehead as a thin layer of sweat formed instantly. Great. Perfect. Fantastic, he cursed silently, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Why would I say that now?? Why am I like this? His heart thudded fast and uneven, each beat louder than the last as he kept absolutely still, hoping—praying—that the king’s sudden stillness wouldn’t turn into something worse. I’m so definitely screwed, he thought, the words echoing sharply inside his head.

Chapter Text

I'm listening.. 

The pressure didn’t ease when the King settled over him.

If anything, the weight grew heavier, spreading across D3rlord3’s chest and stomach until the mattress dipped sharply beneath them both. The blankets were pulled taut around his sides, trapping him in a cocoon of soft fabric with the King’s enormous form draped over him like a living barricade.

Breathing wasn’t hard, but every breath had to be careful—soft, shallow, precise—because if he inhaled too deeply, the King pushed slightly more of its weight downward as though reminding him who dictated the rhythm of the room.

The chamber glowed in low amber light from lanterns hanging on thick chains. Their flames flickered lazily, reflecting off the gold engravings on the walls. Shadows pooled in the corners like liquid, shifting whenever the King moved the slightest inch.

The air felt thick.

Dense.

Quiet in a way that made sound feel disobedient.

D3rlord3 lay stiff beneath the King, unsure where to look. The creature’s broad shoulders framed his entire field of vision, blocking out the canopy above the bed. Every exhale from the King reverberated faintly through the mattress, vibrating against D3rlord3’s ribs.

The King’s head dipped lower, pressing its forehead—solid, inescapable—close enough that D3rlord3 could feel the faint chill of its breath.

“You still refuse,” the King murmured, its voice a low rumble.

D3rlord3 blinked rapidly. “R–Refuse…? Refuse w-what..?”

The King’s eyes narrowed at once.

A deep, unimpressed exhale shot out from its chest—half growl, half dramatic sigh—like a massive cat fed up with a smaller creature not understanding something extremely obvious.

Its weight shifted deliberately, pinning D3rlord3 more firmly into the bed. The mattress let out a long, strained groan. The King didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Don't act foolish, mortal. You know what I mean.” it insisted.

D3rlord3 did not know at all.

Still, he tried shifting again, and the King responded instantly—a massive forearm pushing down beside his head, the shadows curling around the edges of the blankets as if preparing to tie him in place.

The King’s face hovered above his, expression carved from irritation and regal certainty.

“I–I… I d-don’t understand,” D3rlord3 whispered, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You do not understand?” the King repeated slowly, as though tasting the words and finding them unpleasant. “Bold lie.”

“I-It’s not a lie!”

“You come before me,” it said, “and still refuse to offer it. Brave.”

Its tone made brave sound dangerously close to foolish.

D3rlord3 felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. This was bad. The King wasn’t angry—not exactly.

It was worse.

It was disappointed.

And possessive.

A kind of possessive that wasn’t about affection, but territory—like the King believed D3rlord3 was already under its influence and was offended he hadn’t acted like it.

The King reared back slightly—not away, just enough to stare at him more intensely. The light caught its eyes, turning the slitted pupils into sharp, glowing lines.

“You enter my chambers,” it said, voice thick with weight. “You accept my claim over your presence here. You allow me to place you where I wish—and yet…”

Its tentacle-like shadows flicked behind it, restless, coiling.

“…you still refuse the most basic acknowledgment.”

D3rlord3’s pulse stuttered. “I–I’m not refusing! I don’t know what you want!”

Another silence.

A long silence.

So long the lanterns crackled softly in the background, filling the space the King refused to, as if even the fire felt awkward.

The King finally let out a deep, rumbling growl—not threatening, but profoundly annoyed. It pressed its weight down harder, the blankets bunching around D3rlord3’s sides until he truly couldn’t move anything above his elbows.

“You test me,” the King muttered. “You pretend not to understand. You push boundaries.”

D3rlord3 swallowed. “I’m truly not—”

“Hm.”

A sharp, cutting sound.

Displeased.

“As bold as ever,” the King muttered, almost to itself. “You pretend ignorance. You tease.”

D3rlord3’s heart skipped and face flushed slightly. “I–I’m not t-teasing!”

The King resumed pacing over him—not on the floor, but shifting above him like a cat kneading a pillow, adjusting its position until it was absolutely certain D3rlord3 could not escape even in thought.

Its claws clicked faintly on the wooden bedframe.

“You wish to hear the sound from your own voice,” the King murmured. “You want to play stubborn.”

D3rlord3 shook his head frantically. “I–I really don’t—”

The King stopped suddenly.

Its expression froze.

Its posture stiffened.

Its eyes widened by a fraction.

“…You truly do not know..?” it questioned.

This time, the disbelief wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t mocking.

It was genuine, startled confusion. D3rlord3 carefully nodded.

It had never… told him.

The King stared at D3rlord3 with a look that could only be described as offended by its own mistake. A soft, sharp exhale left it, like the huff of an enormous cat whose dignity had taken a single, devastating blow.

The King sat back slightly—not removing the pressure, simply adjusting it—its huge hands planting on either side of D3rlord3’s shoulders. Its shadowy-tendrils flicked sharply once, like an offended twitch.

“I assumed you knew,” it muttered, sounding insulted at itself. “Everyone knows.”

“I-I didn’t,” D3rlord3 whispered. "I'm.. N–not like your– F-followers."

It straightened, shoulders lifting stiffly like a massive beast whose dignity had taken a sudden, unwanted blow. Its claws didn’t come out, but its pride certainly did.

It stared at D3rlord3, offended on four different levels, none of which D3rlord3 could identify or control.

The King inhaled sharply through its nose. The sound was unmistakably sulky.

A giant, ancient, extremely powerful creature… sulking.

It closed its eyes for a moment, gathering whatever remained of its dignity. When it opened them again, its posture had regained some regal stiffness.

“Very well,” it said, lowering its head again until its breath cooled the air above D3rlord3’s cheek. “Listen closely.”

The room stilled.

The shadows quieted.

Not even the lanterns dared flicker.

The King’s voice dropped to a low, resonant rumble that filled the chamber:

“My name is Hastur.”

The name pulsed through the air like a shift in gravity.

Then the King leaned even closer—close enough that the mattress bent deeper under its weight, close enough that D3rlord3 could see faint patterns of gold veining beneath its dark skin.

Its voice dropped to a command, soft but absolute, 

“Say it."

What..?–

"My name. Say it out loud, before.. I make you scream it myself.”

WHAT!? 

Chapter Text

Only listen to me.. 

It's expression wasn’t angry—anger would’ve been easier. This was something sharper, something simmering and territorial, controlled only by the thinnest thread of discipline. It's gaze landed on D3rlord3 and didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t soften. It was as if it were counting every breath D3rlord3 took… and deciding which ones itowned.

“My knight,” it said—low, controlled, but trembling around the edges. “You don’t walk away from me like that.”

D3rlord3 leaned back, not out of fear, but because his body moved before his mind could catch up. His back found the edge of a soft pillow, cool against his spine but increasingly getting warmer because of his body heat. The King followed without speeding up, each lean slow and deliberate, almost casual—yet it's presence pressed down like gravity itself had chosen sides.

D3rlord3 felt his pulse jump in his throat, embarrassing heat rising across his ears. He hated how obvious it must have looked. And he hated even more that the King noticed instantly.

“D3rlord3” the King said, voice low enough that the air itself seemed to tighten around the syllables. "Look at me."

He did—because disobeying somehow felt impossible. The King’s eyes swept over him, taking in every detail, every twitch, every place D3rlord3’s composure faltered. And it did falter. His breath stuttered; his fingers curled against the sheet beneath him, searching for something solid to hold onto. He could feel his heartbeat in the tips of his ears.

It's hand came up—not grabbing, just hovering near D3rlord3’s jaw, close enough to feel the heat of it. The restraint in that gesture was worse than any force.

“You’re mine to look at,” it murmured. “Mine to approach. Mine to touch.”

it's eyes flicked briefly to D3rlord3’s lips, then back up. “And I decide who gets close to you.”

D3rlord3 swallowed, throat tight. The King noticed—even that tiny movement—and something flared in it's expression, a flash of pride and satisfaction.

D3rlord3 opened his mouth to speak, but the King took another lean forward and the sound died in his throat. The King wasn’t touching him, not even close—but it felt like it was already too near, like the air between them was charged and alive.

“You have no idea,” it whispered, leaning in just enough for it's breath to ghost across D3rlord3’s cheek, “how hard it is to keep myself from dragging you closer.”

“You don’t say other's name with that tone,” the King continued, eyes darkening. “Not when I’m the one who earned it.”

It wasn’t touching him yet, but the threat—the promise—hung in the air, thick and electric. D3rlord3’s cheeks warmed. “I—I wasn’t—I just—”

“And before tonight ends…” it's voice dropped, possessive and final,

“I want to hear you say my name. I want to hear you scream it.”

–––

The King leaned in—not touching him, but close enough that D3rlord3 felt the warmth radiating off it in waves. It's breath brushed against D3rlord3’s cheek, sending a shiver right down his spine. D3rlord3 gripped the sheets tighter, fingers tensing, trying to ground himself before his knees betrayed him.

The King’s eyes flickered down to the way he was holding on, and something hungry, proud, and deeply possessive sparked in It.

“Are you flustered?” the King asked softly, almost teasing—but not quite. The question held weight. Command. Knowledge.

“N-no,” D3rlord3 managed, voice embarrassingly thin. A slow smile curved the King’s mouth—dangerously satisfied. “Don’t lie to me.”

D3rlord3’s fingers slipped off the sheets for a moment—his hands felt too warm, too shaky. He didn’t know where to look. His heartbeat was loud, embarrassingly loud. The King saw it all, drank it in like it was exactly the reaction he wanted.

The kings long, slender and obsidian black hands suddenly rested on his hips as it pulled him embarrassingly close. The blanket on top of him almost fully fell off, revealing his half naked form. 

D3rlord3 only had his armoured boots and helmet because the King's tentacles and tendrils decided to be jerks and rip them off back in the throne room–He felt even more exposed.

"Say my name.." It whispered out. 

"W-what–" D3rlord3 looked back at it. Confused. 

"I said, say my name." It whispered out a bit harsher as it pulled D3rlord3 even more closer to it's crotch. Dangerously close. 

"H-Hastur..?–" 

The King’s tendrils surged back without warning, coiling around D3rlord3’s wrists and ankles before he could even react. They slammed his hands down against the mattress with a force that stole his breath, the impact echoing through his arms. Instinct made his muscles tense, flexing hard as he pulled against the restraints—but the tendrils only tightened, unyielding, almost taunting.

A sharp, frustrated but embarrassed breath caught in his throat.

Great...Now he was really trapped.

How in all the realms was he supposed to get out of this..?–

Suddenly, the King began positioning himself behind D3rlord3. Uh oh–

The King's slender hands wrapped around D3rlord3's thighs as it pushed and bent his legs back–making his legs press against his stomach and chest while his, now, aching member sat between his legs, limp. 

He's definitely not going to survive this.. 

–––

The first thrust came immediately as D3rlord3 tensed up which made his muscles flex and stomach clench tightly, "A-AGH!~ O-OH FUC-SH!~"

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the taking—the sound of wet, pounding flesh, the creak of the tendrils holding him aloft, his own desperate, wanton cries, "A-AH!~ F–FUCK ME H-HAH–ARDER!!~ 

His mind, once sharp with strategy and defiance, was now a blank slate of sensation.

The King watched, its form pulsating with a dark satisfaction. It increased its pace, the thrusts becoming faster, more powerful, pistoning into D3rlord3 with a brutal, exhilarating force. With every deep, bottoming-out plunge, a distinct, soft bulge pushed out against the taut skin of D3rlord3’s lower abdomen, "N-NGH!~"

His nipples hardened under the relentless thrusts and cold air, each thrust sending jolts straight to his core, amplifying the shame of his own arousal. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears of embarrassment and arousal pricking at the corners.

But the King noticed everything.

"Oh? does that feel good, my knight?" it purred, voice dripping with possessive mockery. "Your body betrays you so sweetly. I could do this for hours, watch you squirm and beg while I claim what's mine."

D3rlord3 tried to open his eyes but heat surged through him, scattering color across the dark. As well as sparks of color danced in the corners of his sight. 

"O-OH!~ N-ngh!~ h-hah!~ f–FUCK!!~" The pressure was intense for D3rlord3. He couldn't even find the right words to describe it. It felt like his brain was going and about to explode. Drool began pooling in the corners of his mouth. 

D3rlord3's eyes rolled back as he clenched down harder, his thighs trembling. His knees immediately buckled as they rested on the King's shoulders. This gave the King a more higher advantage as it began thrusting into D3rlord3 even faster, "A-AH!~ M-MY STO-AH!~ STOOH–MACH!~ N-NO–NOT AGAIN!~"

The King leaned down as it it's long, slimey and black tongue spilled out and licked a long stripe up D3rlord3's neck before settling inside his mouth. It was warm and wet, "M-MMHP!~ N-NGH–NGHM!~"

The kiss was sloppy but possessive. Like the King didn't want to let go as it's thrusts became faster. D3rlord3 was on the edge, just one more push, one more thrust and it'll all be over. 

But.. It never came. The King held him on longer. Agonizingly. 

D3rlord3's aching member leaned more pre-cum onto his stomach as multiple tentacles and tendrils reappeared again and began teasing D3rlord3 out of his mind. More colours exploded in the corners of his eyes. 

He.. He might actually pass out if this stupid entity doesn't let him cum..!

The King's shaft hit D3rlord3's prostate directly and head on which made saliva pool down from his mouth as the kiss insensified with possessiveness. 

"Say my name."

Chapter Text

Don't make me say it again.. 

D3rlord3’s breath caught again as Hastur lowered Itself even further, the bed giving beneath their combined weight. The closeness wasn’t just physical anymore — it was atmospheric, a total shift in pressure that made every hair on D3rlord3’s arms stand rigid. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he was certain Hastur could hear each trembling pulse.

The King’s claws flexed subtly against the sheets beside him, slow and deliberate. Not touching him, but terribly close — close enough that D3rlord3 felt the whisper of displaced air with every minimal movement. It was a reminder. A warning. A promise.

The air thickened—heavy, humming, almost electric—as if even the walls recognized the presence of a thing that did not simply enter a space, but claimed it. Hastur didn’t speak at first; It simply stood there, watching D3rlord3 beneath it with that unreadable, golden, unblinking gaze.

D3rlord3’s breath hitched.

It noticed.

Hastur watched him with predatory patience. It didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. It simply hovered over him, letting the silence stretch until it wrapped around D3rlord3 like a second skin. Its golden eyes glinted with a strange, simmering hunger—not for flesh, but for compliance, for the sound of Its name on the mouth that dared to hesitate.

Hastur tilted Its head, studying him with a patience that was almost predatory.

“You’re avoiding My eyes,” It murmured.

D3rlord3's breath stuttered. He hadn’t realized he was.

He forced himself to look up—

—and immediately regretted it.

“D3rlord3.”

Just his name. But spoken in that deep, resonant voice that slipped under the skin like a command, not a greeting.

D3rlord3's throat tightened. He had been prepared—he thought he was prepared—for this conversation. This confrontation. But standing beneath that gaze now, his carefully arranged composure wavered. His mind spun with thoughts he couldn’t untangle. Heat built under his skin, pooling low, rising fast.

“Your silence is loud,” Hastur murmured suddenly.

D3rlord3 tried to look away — even for a second — but Hastur’s voice followed him like a shadow, and he froze.

The King’s golden eyes narrowed with a sort of delighted cruelty.

Not malicious — just impossibly, divinely confident. It reveled in every flinch, every breath, every flicker of hesitation.

“You think withholding My name will spare you,” Hastur continued softly, Its voice brushing down the side of D3rlord3’s neck like a slow exhale. “But all it does… is make you easier to see through.”

–––

Hastur shifted Its knee forward on the mattress, nudging against the edge of D3rlord3’s inner thigh and caging him even more securely. Derlorde inhaled sharply, his back pressing instinctively into the mattress, unable to retreat any further, "A-ah–Ahgn..~"

“Ah,” Hastur whispered, picking up every tiny reaction effortlessly. “There it is.”

D3rlord3’s breath shuddered out of him. “W-wha–what…?”

Hastur’s smile deepened.

Slow. Predatory.

Far too pleased.

“That response,” It said simply.

The heat behind D3rlord3's ribs spiked, unraveling any attempt at composure he had left. “I—I’m not d-doing anything—”

“You’re doing everything,” Hastur interrupted, voice low and impossibly smooth. “You tremble. You react. You break. All because I am near you.”

Hastur’s eyes gleamed with a slow, simmering possessiveness that made D3rlord3’s knees tighten around it's shoulders. It leaned closer, so close that D3rlord3 had to tilt his head back to keep eye contact. 

Hastur noticed that too.

Of course It did.

A low hum of amusement vibrated in It's throat. “Flustered?” It asked softly, though Its tone said It already knew the answer.

D3rlord3 opened his mouth to argue—to deny, defend, anything—but his voice caught in his throat. Hastur leaned down, lowering Its face to D3rlord3’s level. The closeness was dizzying. Its breath brushed his cheek like a ghost of a touch.

“You were fine speaking and moaning boldly before,” It murmured, almost teasingly. “Where did that confidence go?”

His fingers curled. There was nowhere to step back, not unless he wanted to brush against the bed behind him. Trapped between soft sheets, tentacles and a being that could unmake empires with a word, D3rlord3 felt impossibly small—and yet the wild hammering of his heart wasn’t fear.

Hastur’s hand lifted as if It were about to touch him.

D3rlord3's breath caught—

“I only asked one name of you today,” It said quietly. Its voice had dropped to a whisper made of smoke and gravity. “And you refused Me.”

D3rlord3 swallowed hard. “I— I didn’t refuse—”

Hastur’s eyes narrowed, a flash of sharpness breaking through Its calm. “Say it,” It commanded. “Say My name. Now.”

D3rlord3 could feel the warmth of Its breath ghosting along his jaw. Even that tiny sensation sent a sharp, shivering awareness racing down his spine. His fingers twitched against the sheets, desperate for something to ground himself with, but Hastur’s looming weight above him made him too unsure to move, too afraid that reaching out would be seen as a challenge.

The bed dipped further as Hastur leaned in, pressing more of Its weight near D3rlord3's hip. The shift forced their bodies closer, trapping him in a space filled with heat and shadows and the quiet, suffocating demand of a king who had never been denied.

“You’re trembling again,” Hastur murmured, the words brushing his skin like velvet dragged across a sensitive edge.

“I—” D3rlord3's voice cracked embarrassingly, dissolving into a breath instead of a sentence. His pulse kicked up hard, almost painfully. “I-It’s… not intentional.”

A slow, deep hum of dark amusement spilled from the King’s chest.

“I know,” It answered, low and smooth. “That’s why I permit it.”

D3rlord3's face burned. He hated how the words made something twist sharply in his stomach—something hot, something humiliating, something that made him want to look away even though he couldn’t. Hastur’s hand shifted on the mattress, claws lightly scraping the torn fabric near D3rlord3's chest. Not touching him. Just reminding him that they could.

–––

The King dipped Its head lower, until D3rlord3 felt the soft, deliberate brush of Its cheek under his sensitive and vulnerable neck and throat. The contact was barely there—light enough that he wasn’t sure if he imagined it. 

“Say My name,” Hastur whispered.

This time the command was softer. But it struck deeper, somehow, as if the gentleness carried more weight than force ever could.

D3rlord3 swallowed. His throat felt tight, constricted, almost aching with the effort of speaking.

“I…”

He inhaled sharply.

“…can’t.”

Silence.

Heavy, thick, dangerous.

D3rlord3's pulse tripped over itself. His throat worked, but the word wouldn’t come out—not when he was this close, not when Its voice wrapped around him like invisible chains. His thoughts grew muddled, tangled, slipping away before he could grab them.

Hastur’s expression darkened with slow, deliberate displeasure.

“You hesitate,” It whispered, “and yet you tremble for Me.”

D3rlord3 felt heat crawl all the way up his neck. “I-I'm not!—”

“You are,” Hastur cut in, stepping forward that final inch. Its body was flush against his now, pinning him to the edge of the bed without lifting a single finger. “Your heartbeat betrays you.”

D3rlord3 shut his eyes, mortified, overwhelmed, unable to think clearly under Its scrutiny.

Hastur leaned in, Its lips beside his ear.

“Look at Me,” It breathed.

D3rlord3's eyes snapped open instantly.

Hastur smiled—a slow, satisfied, terribly smug curve of Its mouth.

“Good,” It said. “You can obey.”

D3rlord3's face burned. Every breath felt too loud, too hot, too revealing. And Hastur reveled in every second of it.

–––

Then, without warning, It pressed one hand to the mattress beside his hip and leaned in closer with a single, smooth motion—Its immense form crowding in, caging him with effortless dominance. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, sending D3rlord3 sliding helplessly closer.

The King didn’t crush him—but It did press close enough that D3rlord3 felt surrounded, enveloped, claimed. Like a giant cat pinning down something small and precious, simply because It could.

D3rlord3's thoughts went completely, utterly blank.

Hastur didn’t move for a long moment. It only stared at him, Its gold eyes narrowing by a fraction. The air grew colder around them, though the warmth of Its body nearly burned against his. D3rlord3 could feel his own chest rising too quickly, his breaths uneven, his jaw clenched tight with a mixture of panic and something he refused to name.

Then the King shifted Its weight, slowly lowering Its body until Its chest was nearly pressed to D3rlord3's. Not crushing—just enclosing him fully, like a shadow swallowing a candle.

The tentacles and tendrils made it even worse. 

“You will,” Hastur murmured, Its voice barely above a breath, “say My name even if your voice fails you now.”

D3rlord3's eyes widened. Heat curled low in his stomach again, dizzying and unwelcome.

Hastur’s lips brushed a fraction closer to his ear.

“I will hear it,” It promised.

D3rlord3 squeezed his eyes shut, mortified but slightly aroused. “Please… n-ngh..~”

Hastur tilted Its head, leaning down just enough that Its forehead nearly touched his. The space between them held a single breath.

“Open your eyes,” It commanded softly. “I want to see you.”

D3rlord3 obeyed before thinking, his lashes lifting slowly.

Hastur’s gaze caught him instantly — sharp, bright, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with possession.

“Good,” It purred. "Very good."

A tremor ran visibly through D3rlord3's body.

Hastur noticed immediately.

It lowered Its voice even further — a murmur so soft it was almost tender, if it weren’t wrapped in such consuming authority.

“You are ready,” It said.

D3rlord3's breath hitched. “R-ready… for what?”

Hastur leaned closer until Its lips hovered just above his cheek, not touching, only claiming the space.

“For whatever comes next,” the King whispered.

“And you will not look away from Me when it happens.”

D3rlord3 felt the words settle in his chest like heat pooling under his ribs, dizzying and impossible to ignore.

Hastur’s final whisper brushed across his skin like a spark:

“Now… let Me hear your voice.”