Chapter Text
“Strip.” Avery strips.
“Drool.” Avery drools.
“Jerk off.” Avery leans back on his hands, spreads his pussy and shoves two fingers inside him carelessly.
“Suck me off.” Avery sucks Hastur off.
“Fuck, man!” One of the nobles cheers on, jabbing his arm into the air, a mug of beer still tightly choked in his grip. “How’d you get your bitch so obedient?” The contents splash out, landing on the carpet, by Avery’s knees, forever bruised shades of blue and purple; all too well acquainted with the weight of his body against the filthy floor. Avery breathes in hesitantly, looking up at the King for approval, mouth still enveloped around cock. Hastur is not looking at him. The question is lost in the air as his attention is directed somewhere across the room, where a bunch of already-drunk guys toss apples and other miscellaneous fruit over the dining table. The King yells out something incomprehensible, maybe some type of jeer, as he instinctively curls his fist around Avery’s hair. Avery winces, only a little, before hollowing his cheeks and taking the King’s cock all the way to the base, burying his nose in his pelvis. He whines as Hastur makes a noise of approval. He has to play nice, or else Hastur will hurt him.
Instead he imagines, as always, Derek. Derek gently kissing him, caressing him, guiding him along the shaft of his cock. Derek would have taken his virginity so nicely. Derek would have held him close as he slowly split Avery apart inch by inch. Derek would’ve pressed his lips against his spine and laced their fingers together. In the palace, he doesn’t have much but his imagination, and he does his best to commit everything about Avery to memory. His touch. His scent. The rippling muscles underneath his skin when Derek would slowly stroke Avery to completion, thumbing his clit and fingering his cunt. He shouldn’t have waited. He should’ve given up his virginity to the only man who would’ve valued it and fucked it out of his easy, willing body.
He’s wet. Arousal pools between his thighs. Like a dog, Avery wedges his pussy between Hastur’s boot and ankle, humping the space desperately. “Man!” Another noble speaks up, drawling in that stupid royal accent. “What the fuck, he’s like a dog!” He laughs, petting Avery’s head like he would an animal’s. The King scoffs. He’s getting bored, Avery can tell. Out of a sense of desperation, Avery’s hands reach up to caress the King’s balls, which he does his best to imagine are Derek’s, stroking them with one and rolling it in his palm in the other. He doesn’t make eye contact. He’s not entertaining enough. It isn’t long before the King has some attendants summoned, whisking Avery away to his cell.
.
.
,
Avery breathes in the dust of the burlap sack held over his head. He takes one, shaky pull of breath through his mouth before panting it all out by his mouth. He repeats this process an infinite series of times, his naked, bound legs blood-bloated from inactivity. His stomach churns. He’s hungry. Avery hasn’t eaten since the beginning of the week, and what little he’d been allowed to have, he’s since thrown up in little bits of ugly yellow chunks on the corner of the awful dungeon the King keeps him in. Not because he couldn’t keep it down, although Hastur doesn’t feed him much other than leftovers near the brink of expiry, but for a more desperate reason. The less he has in his stomach, the easier it is for the King to fuck him.
Avery waits patiently now. He knows that the King comes at least thrice a week, but the long gap between his last visit tells him that now should be Friday, and the last day after he saw the King must be Monday. Monday, Friday, Sunday. That’s Avery’s best guess at keeping time. He hasn’t seen the sun in days. Months. Could be a year.
He hears footsteps. Then keys, and the rusty swing open of the door.
“He will be down soon.”
Avery likes to imagine that the reason the King picked him is arbitrary. That the King ultimately is just a sadistic tyrant who wishes to exert his power even amongst the most innocent. But Avery knows better – it's because he can have babies. Most women aren't strong enough to contend with Hastur's desires, so it has to be a man, but men cannot give birth. Avery can. Avery was born with a puffy, wet cunt and a womb meant to bear children. Children that should've been Derek’s. He thinks back to the day they last saw each other. Derek, sprinting after the carriage that carted him off to the palace, promising to find him, to find a way to bring him back. Doubt fills Avery's heart. Not doubt in Derek, he could never, but doubt that Derek would want him like this. Bred full of another man's seed, purity stolen by the King. A shell of himself. A tied up, helpless shell of himself that desperately vies for the King's attention, because attention means safety. Footsteps return, only this time they are heavier.
“On your hands and knees.”
Avery obeys. He hitches his hips up, grinding his cunt against where he knows Hastur's dick is. He feels it wedge against his pussy lips, drooling all over, ridged with veins that feel almost alien in nature. Is he being a good boy? Will Derek feed him? Derek. Derek, not Hastur, because imagining the King between his legs instead of his love is torture worse than remaining confined here. “Daddy…” He moans, feeling the head of his cock catch against his clit. He makes a point of crushing it against the slit of Hastur's cock, where precum dribbles profusely. The King grunts, and Avery can't tell what expression he's got on because of the sack over his head, but he's got a good idea the King's at least a little amused. He moans again, a little louder this time, letting his pink pussy lips lap and suckle at the head, never quite pushing through. “Need your babies in me,” Derek. He needs Derek's babies in him. Not Hastur's. “Wanna feel you cum in my pussy.”
“Ha.” The King snorts derisively.
“Don't play, Daddy…” He whines, voice muffled by the burlap. “I've been aching for your cock all week.”
“As much as I appreciate your hedonistic tendencies,” The King purrs, cupping one of Avery’s asscheeks and spreading it apart, running a thumb down the crack and circling over another, very different hole. “I am up for another kind of amusement tonight.”
“Daddy? Wait – oh! Wrong hole, wrong hole, wrong hole!” Avery squeals as the cock he's grown so accustomed to sheathing in his pussy is now earnestly nursed by his tight, unwilling asshole. “No, Daddy, please!” He moans, though it isn't their first time doing anal. It isn’t his first time at all, actually, he’s done this a million times to preserve his virginity before marrying Derek. It is so, so rare that Derek - no fuck, Hastur, he’s got to stop switching them in his head - does use his tiny cunt, however. Something about driving Avery mad through his butt, watching those chubby swollen folds quiver, begging to be used as Avery miserably swallows up the King fucking the wrong hole. Avery never complains. He only begs.
The King groans in his ear, slapping his ass for good measure. “All your holes are the correct ones, boy. I use them as I please.”
“No!” Avery whines, face smushed against the cold dungeon floor and the burlap. “Want your babies, please!” He adds.
He supposes it isn't practical - Avery can barely take the King up the cunt anyway. Despite being obligated to provide an heir, Hastur’s cock almost slips out of Avery every time they default to anal. Avery gets exhilarated every time he sees the bulge poke inches above his navel. When he was with Derek, he swore he could feel it tickling his lungs, that it could probably reach his brain. It must’ve been something to see Avery start screaming in delight as he looks down at the protrusion at his stomach. Derek used to have to clamp a hand on his mouth or stuff panties or really anything. Avery used to go mad everytime he got fucked, and he can barely believe how lucky he was each time he ground back on Derek’s cock, sticky strings of precum and frothy lube connecting them as Derek rained hell on Avery’s raw sphincter. And he was loving too. It should’ve been Derek.
“Harder! Harder, Derek, cum in me!”
“…” The King’s thrusts halt.
Oh.
“Derek?”
“No, wait, Hastur, I can explain! Wait, please, I promise you I-“
“You speak of other men? Were you not a virgin when I first handled you and your womb?”
“No! I was, I was a virgin in the cunt at least, please, wait, my King, you have to believe me!”
“Silence!” The King’s voice booms. Shoving off Avery from where he’d gripped him by his hips, he stands up, slamming a fist against the stone walls. Tremors echo from where he’d hit the surface. “I knew you took these proclivities too easily.”
“No, my King! I just wanted to please you, and bear your child, please!” Avery spouts off as many pleasing things as he can think of, trying to curry favor. It does not work.
“Speak no longer. I wish to not hear your voice, now that I know the truth.” He growls. Turning on his heel, he marches up the dungeon stairs and slams the cell door shut. For a moment, there is silence. Then Avery’s heart drops as he hears the sounds of chains, more than one. He squirms. “No! Please!” But his cries and flinching are useless. He is bound at the neck by the stone wall, like a dog tethered to a fence. The second chain goes around the cell gates, locking shut with an ominous click, to ensure no one else enters.
“I shall think of a creative punishment for you.” Hastur states. “I will make you regret having ever lied to me.” He adds, before storming off.
.
.
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Avery’s rations for the next week are nothing but water and what seems to be boiled wheat, most of which are more chaff than grain, the husks getting caught in between his shaking teeth. He’s cold. Hastur has never provided him with any other clothes except for the burlap sack over his head, relying instead on the warmth of their breeding to keep Avery heated. But now there is none of that. No one talks to Avery. No one checks up on him. His lips are glued shut from dryness and misuse. The further the weeks stretch, the thinner the rations grow. Does Hastur plan to kill him from starvation? He hopes not. Perhaps he plans a public execution, and wants Avery to look as sickly as possible, so that no one would feel sorry for him upon his death. But that can’t be it, can it? The King is smart, that much, Avery knows. This is hardly a creative punishment. And Avery holds out some hope that his status is what keeps him alive. It has to be. Primordial, eldritch beings like him need to bear offspring somehow.
One night, he hears the celldoors swing open with footsteps he’s heard before, but never here. A familiar, calming scent he remembers from days past.
“Is it… is it really you?” He croaks out, dehydration getting the better of his voice.
“Yes, yes; it’s me, Avery. It’s Derek. I came, just like I promised.” Immediately, Derek rushes to his side, unclamping the chains and freeing Avery. “What did he do to you? Oh, oh, Avery, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner, I-“ At a loss for words, he throws himself and his arms over Avery in a deep embrace and pulling off the sack. Though dark, Avery’s eyes squint, trying to adjust to the firelight. As his vision comes into focus, making out Derek’s features, his armor, relief floods Avery, weakly raising his arms to embrace back. “This is horrible,” Derek says, taking off his cape and arranging it over Avery’s shivering body. “What has he done to you?” But something’s wrong. How did Derek only find him now? The cell was chained too, and no one had access to the key. No one knew about this dungeon. No one would tell, and none of this information would’ve reached Derek, unless…
The cell door slams shut.
“It would be a better question to ask what I haven’t.” The King’s voice resounds deeply, coming at them from all sides, though he is nowhere to be seen. “So this is the Derek you had the gall to think of whence I was inside you, Avery. I did promise a creative punishment, did I not?”