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Avery’s body feels stiff as his eyes slowly open.
He blinks slowly, sluggishly, letting everything come back to him.
Derlord. The book. The gates. That platform…
Avery’s heart drops, and he pushes himself up, even as his body protests. He’s sore, but… he needs to know where he is.
The King in Yellow isn’t here right now. I need to get out of here. I need…
… he needs to leave Derlord here.
Avery shudders just thinking about it. His face burns with shame, but his heart twitches and pounds with terror so vivid and recent that Avery can do nothing but obey it. It feels like just moments ago that the King was looming over him, golden yellow eyes looming like a predator under that helmet. Avery can still feel the pressure inside of him if he tries hard enough, and it makes him nauseous.
He looks around as he climbs off of the… bed?
He’s in a bedroom. The bed is big enough to hold at least a few prop all at once, with silk sheets and soft pillows. The sheets are an opulent red, richer than velvet, but the sight of it just reminds Avery of blood. The drapes around the bed are a golden color that shifts under the light from a large window, and Avery knows immediately that he’ll escape through there.
The sight of forget-me-nots in gold and white vases on the bedside tables makes Avery feel dizzy. He can practically feel the weight of them on his hands, heavier than any sword or promise.
Avery glances down at his hands, and he’s surprised to find a robe draped against his skin. It’s the same golden color as the bed curtains. If it wasn’t for the fact that Avery would rather wear the silk robe than nothing, he’d rip it off right now. He doesn’t want to be in the King’s colors. Not now, not ever. Just thinking about it makes Avery feel worse.
He glances at the space under the bed before fighting the instinct to just hide in the dark crevice until he feels like he’s safe again.
Will he ever feel safe again? The King will always be here, possessing the man that Avery risked everything for. The man that saved Avery. The man that Avery will never see again.
Not really.
The King may inhabit Derlord’s body, but he’ll never be the same. He’ll never look the same. Never sound the same. Never…
Avery wanders to the window and tries to push on the frame, but it doesn’t budge.
Gold trims. I get that this is the King in Yellow’s palace, but… does it all have to be gold and porcelain? The white and gold is getting a bit grating, honestly.
It feels like a hilariously trivial thing to care about given the situation. The color scheme of the place he’s trapped in.
I’m not staying trapped here. I’m running—are you proud of me now, Derlord? I’m doing what you wanted me to from the beginning.
The thought brings tears to his eyes.
Avery takes a step away from the window before swallowing hard. If he can’t open it normally, then he’ll break it open.
Avery glances around the room.
There’s a foot-stool in front of the sofa at the foot of the bed, and a chair by a golden vanity. More gold. But the important thing is that they’ll be heavy.
Avery grabs the chair and starts to haul it to the window before there’s the soft click of a door opening.
The room feels cold all of a sudden, and Avery’s insides feel trapped in ice. He can hear whispers at the edge of the reality, whispers so loud that Avery can’t understand them under the speechless screams.
“Release the chair, my vessel. You shall find it futile to break the window.”
Avery’s shaking.
Avery the Mayo,
bedwars champion,
best fighter in his family,
is shaking.
Avery’s hands grip the chair tight enough to ache, before letting go of it with a clatter. The sound is loud and grating, but the headache that forms at the thought of holding it any longer is even more grating. It puts his head into a vice, and Avery’s thoughts crowd his skull as they turn into a chorus before dying down once he listens.
Great. First he violates my body, and now I can’t even choose what to do for myself.
Did he ever have that choice?
“Good. Is it not easy to give in?”
It’s taunting, even if not intentionally so. Or maybe it is. The King isn’t someone—isn’t something—that Avery can ever hope to understand. He just looks down at the chair, discarded. He feels exhausted all over again. The momentary grasp at freedom shines like an illusion. A candlelight in a vast darkness that Avery will never reach.
Avery crosses his arms, trying to cover as much of his body as he can. The silk robe is only semi-sheer, but Avery would wear dozens of layers in the Nether if it meant never letting the King see his skin again. Avery doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dignify the king with an answer. It earns him a husky sigh. Footsteps come closer, and Avery wants so desperately to run. Wants to desperately to hide anywhere safe. Anywhere that isn’t here. Isn’t now.
A hand brushes Avery’s hips, but he flinches away.
“Don’t—”
“If you are to be my consort,” the king interrupts, and Avery feels frozen with insurmountable horror as those arms slither around his hips, “then you must learn to handle my touch. Do you expect me to present you to my court without laying a hand upon you? Foolish thing. But that is no matter. Calm yourself, my vessel.”
The King’s arms are covered by armor again, at least, but the thin robe around Avery doesn’t feel nearly thick enough to separate the their bodies. Being close enough to feel the King pressed against Avery’s back makes him feel light, and it feels once more like none of him is clean. Like he’s being pressed against that golden tile again, his clothes being ripped off, his body being manhandled still while the King’s cock—
Avery’s gaze is fixed on the floor as lips press to his neck.
“Calm yourself. Must I do it for you? Would you calm if I looked more like him?”
“Keep his—keep his voice out of your mouth,” Avery snaps, tears rimming his eyes. Fuck, this is pathetic. Derlord wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t stand here wallowing in his own emotions.
“Avery?”
His heart drops.
No.
No—
“Don’t use his voice!” Avery shouts again, and he twists to punch the King, stumbling back against the window. The King doesn’t stumble back, but his head snaps to the side, falling slightly as he’s punched like a limp corpse. The armor isn’t the same as Derlord’s old armor. It’s still golden, and it’s still Roman-style armor, but now the cape draped over his shoulder is yellow and embroidered with golden laurel and vines near the outer edges. The clasp holding it is that same symbol that had been on the platform. The same symbol that makes Avery’s heart stop. Not to mention the patterns that emboss the armor. Forget-me-nots, eyes, vines, laurels…
“If that is what you wish.” A pause, then the head slowly lifts. Those yellow eyes meet Avery’s, and he feels the weight of those moments trapped beneath the king. Feels the tentacles that wrapped around his limbs. Feels— “Unless you wish to meet my court dressed like this, I suggest you find proper attire, my vessel. It would be a shame if they had to see you so bare. People may see me as an ungracious king. An ungracious lover. So dress yourself. Clothes wait in your wardrobe. I shall retrieve you shortly, regardless of what you choose to wear.”
You’re not my lover, Avery thinks, but he just lets his head fall. Who is even here with them? The only people who should be able to enter this realm are Avery and Derlord. Isn’t that how this was supposed to go? I hope no one else ever finds this place. For all of our sakes.
No one deserves to be in this prison. In this torture. In this realm of endless torment, where everything shifts and twists and turns and the only truth is that there is no truth, just what the King in Yellow dictates. Where a church might trap you for hours, and the only thing you want to do is finally drown and never come back up.
Avery’s eyes burn, and he lifts a hand to scrub at his face.
A cold, metallic hand brushes Avery’s face, and he tries to swat it away before tentacles wrap around his wrists and a body pins his to the window. It makes horror snap to life inside of Avery, enveloping his heart and brain and bones and making him thrash.
“No! No—I’ll change, I’ll—”
Avery’s voice is cut off as lips press to his.
Yellow eyes search Avery’s as the King kissing Avery. It’s anything but intimate. It’s empty, and humiliating. It doesn’t help that the tentacles shift around Avery’s wrists, never giving him a moment to forget of their intrusion.
Avery feels sick as the King tilts his head, yellow crest falling like a plume behind his head. Avery gags, and when the King pulls away Avery shoves and writhes until he’s stumbling away to lean on the vanity, knocking off several bottles. His disgust feels volatile; Avery can only heave while it passes, lightheaded and afraid.
“You are safe here,” the King murmurs, but Avery feels anything but safe. He feels anything but safe. He feels anything but safe.
That loops in Avery’s head as the King’s footsteps slowly make their way to the door.
When it shuts, Avery feels himself shaking.
You are safe here.
Nothing can hurt you.
Nothing can follow you here.
Here where twin suns sing
And strange moons—
Avery heaves. He lets his head drop on the vanity, legs giving out as he sobs. The words bring no comfort. They bring no trance, but they bring no comfort. No escape. Avery wishes for but a moment that he was back there, before he banishes the thought. Derlord wouldn’t want that for me. Derek wouldn’t want that for me.
But he wouldn’t want this, either.
Avery sits there for a while before numbly pushing himself up and glancing at the window before wandering to a large bookshelf. Wood painted white, with golden depictions of slimes on the outside. The glittering trim ripples and swirls.
You are real, Avery reminds himself as he opens it. It’s mostly dresses and robes. Long, silken, all either yellow or gold. But tucked at the back are a few familiar articles.
… he tore these. On the platform. He…
Avery reaches for his old shirt. It’s tucked away like a memory. When he brings it up to his nose, it smells like…
Nothing.
Avery stares at the white fabric, eyes dripping with tears.
Avery takes a deep breath before edging out of the silk robe. It feels sickening to look down at himself. The gold from the King’s cum is gone, but… how long has it even been?
Anger blazes hot under Avery’s skin, but he tries to staunch it.
How much time has he stolen from me? How long was I in that trance? How long does the king expect this to work?
I’ll get out of here somehow. Whatever it take. I’ll do it for you, Derlord.
I’ll do it for your memory.
All that’s left of him.
When the King comes back, Avery is looking out the window. He can’t see out of it well, but…
A city is out there. A city grand beyond any builds Avery has seen. The streets remind Avery of the place where he was chased by that… that thing in the darkness. What he can see, anyway. It’s hard.
He’s in a palace. At least—it seems like a palace. It’s tall. Taller than anything Avery has been in. He’s high up in the palace, near the front. Maybe center stage. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Not unless it helps him escape.
Avery takes a deep breath and lifts his gaze to look at Derlord.
You’re getting into something that isn’t worth getting into.
“How did you get… how did you find a court?” Avery asks, although he still feels his body involuntarily tense as the King steps over. Avery turns to face the King and glances at the arm that’s offered to him before shuffling forward, ignoring it. He talks towards the door instead, although the footsteps behind him make his blood run colder than a tundra. He feels like he’s the leader of a funeral precession.
The corpse stationed in the very front for memorial.
The King does not answer Avery’s question.
When Avery steps through the doors, he’s surprised how tall everything is. The room was big, yeah, roomy, but not too inanely large.
He could be stacked several times and he still wouldn’t reach the top of this hallway.
It makes Avery feel indescribably small, and he slouches as the King’s arm slithers around Avery’s. The metal is cold and empty, and Avery feels so achingly empty. So achingly lonely. There is no Derlord to save him from this. There’s no one to save. No one to protect him but himself in these uncharitable halls.
Avery takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. He just lets himself be tugged through the halls, through towering gates and rooms beyond comprehension. Towering pillars of yellow stone and marble. Wall mounts filled with unfragrant flowers. Drapes and curtains of gold-embroidered fabric. It’s opulent beyond description, and yet, it creates only a hollow sense of confinement. A gilded cage is just as cold as steel, and Avery is so very cold.
Suddenly, Avery is hit with a dizziness that makes his legs feel weak.
He clings to the arm around his before remembering who it’s attached to, but the King is already chuckling lowly and helping Avery stand.
“Caution, my vessel. This is not a place for minds like yours.”
Avery’s face feels hot with frustration and humiliation, but he lets himself be helped up, even as his skin crawls with disgust.
The sound of voices fills his ears.
Avery’s head snaps up, and he looks into the room before them, the door a wide arch. They step out directly onto a platform, and Avery stops for a moment as he stares at the room before them.
It’s a hall greater than anything Avery has seen. The scale makes him feel lightheaded, but worse, the floor level is completely filled with people. Thousands of faces shift in the crowd, and not one seems to match the others. A million subjects clad in shades of yellow and black, some with veils or masks or hoods but still armed with eyes that burn into Avery. On the stage level is a table, where several nobles sit, all wearing cloaks and masks. On the dias, level with the hall that Avery and the King in Yellow stepped out of, is two thrones.
Don’t make me sit with him. Don’t make me be seen with—with him. Don’t make people think I’m just his toy.
Avery’s knees start to buckle before the King starts to tug him towards one of the thrones. It’s smaller, although the golden material looks just as hard aside from the soft cushions. Of course the consort’s throne would be padded. Wouldn’t want his vessel getting bruised.
Avery feels nauseous as the King stands before Avery and presses a kiss to his head before pushing him to sit with a hand on either shoulder.
“You need not participate. Any of my decisions will fly over your head, my dearest. Simply sit there. Appear flawless, though you so effortlessly achieve such a task by merely existing.”
The praise tastes like ash; Avery’s hands shake in his lap as he looks down at the floor. Don’t acknowledge them. Don’t meet anyone’s gaze. Fight it. Fight this. This isn’t who you are. You aren’t anyone’s property.
Those words run through Avery’s skull as the crowd goes quiet and the King starts to speak. He’s delivering some sort of speech, but Avery can’t focus. His mind wanders, and he feels himself shaking as he tries to plot using this time that he’s been given to remain unbothered by the King. This place is huge—can the King sense everything that happens? With all of these people? Avery glances up at them all before letting his eyes dart downwards. Surely not. I just have to wait for a chance where I’m alone and he’s occupied.
“—and as the rightful ruler of Carcosa, I’ve taken a consort to my side. He shall become familiar. I hope to have him at my whims at any time necessary. Any crimes against my consort are to be seen as crimes against the throne. My vessel. Come here.”
Avery’s head snaps up, and it takes a second to realize he’s the one being spoken to. Avery’s thoughts screech to a halt, and he glances at the crowd before staring at the King. They can see Avery just fine from here—why does he have to stand by the King? The thought makes dread pool in his stomach, but he shakily stands and hovers by the throne, looking down at the floor. He could try to run right now. He should try to run. But the crowd is thick, and he is scared. There’s no point in trying if he’s sure to be caught. Better to wait for a time where he won’t be so closely monitored.
There’s the quiet ring of metal scraping, and Avery lifts his gaze a bit to glare weakly at the King. He’s…
No. No, I’m not—I am not doing that.
He’s patting his lap. He actually expects Avery to sit in his lap like a dog? After what happened at that platform? The thought makes him feel sick, and Avery takes a step back before a hand catches his wrist.
No, not a hand.
A tentacle.
It curls cool and firm around Avery’s wrist, and his legs start to shake more than before as he starts to panic.
Then, the King leans over the arm of the chair and darkly murmurs, “If you do not obey, I will take you right here, regardless of who watches. Unless you wish to become a spectacle, then you will sit. Right here.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Avery glances between the King’s lap and the crowd.
His eyes burn and his face burns and his skin burns as he shuffles around the throne and sits at the very edge of the King’s lap.
He hates this, but he’s not going to be raped in front of thousands of people.
A cheer starts in the crowd and Avery flinches, trying futilely to push away before arms wrap around his waist and he’s pulled flush against the King. It’s enough to make his brain shut down, engulfed in panic. It turns his breaths to tremors and his eyes to oceans and his heart to a rabbit thrashing in a snare. But the King doesn’t let go.
“Please don’t,” Avery chokes out, but he’s met by only silence from the King.
“I may do to you whatever I please. You are my concubine. Not my queen.”
A hand rests splayed on Avery’s stomach, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to reel in disgust, a gag is clawing its way up his throat, and he’s doing his very best to fight it, but fuck—
Suddenly the world spins as the King stands, pulling Avery into a bridal carry.
He’s going to take you somewhere to fuck you, part of Avery whispers, and he believes it without a doubt. And he panics.
Avery thrashes and tries to catch the King with an elbow, straining to grab the sword at his waist, but Avery’s held still by thick, oozing tentacles, more viscous than before. The gold sheen rubs off on Avery, but he’s too preoccupied with trying to escape.
“Stop touch—mmph!”
A tentacle shoves it’s way into Avery’s throat again, and he feels on the verge of passing out. The King is going to fuck him again and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Avery isn’t even a consort for the King—he’s just a fleshlight.
Avery’s breath hitches and he sobs as the king opens a door before stepping through and setting Avery in a plush chair. He shrinks back, heart pounding, but the King only cups his face.
One second passes. Then another. Avery slowly opens his eyes and blearily looks up at the King in Yellow, tears still falling. After a few seconds, the tentacle slowly slides out of Avery’s mouth, and the others pull away. Avery wastes no time wrenching himself back and starting to frantically wipe his mouth.
“Calm yourself, my vessel. You’ve met my subjects, now you will meet my court. I have business to conduct.”
Business?
Avery blearily turns to look at the table before him. It’s…
A war table. Avery and the King are at the head of the table, and seats are along the sides. Stacks of papers litter it.
This isn’t possible. We’re still in the pocket realm, there’s no…
How are there even people at all?
Avery goes still as people start to file into the room. The lords from before. Is this the king’s court? Their masked faces all burn into Avery’s brain; he sinks into the chair whenever one of them looks directly at him.
Why do they care?
Never with affection. Only with endless greed, burning curiosity, insatiable hunger. As if the only thing keeping them from ripping him apart is the King standing beside Avery.
The thought only makes him feel more sick.
I don’t owe you anything, Avery thinks, doing his best to glare at the King. You’re the reason I’m here in the first place.
Avery pulls his legs up eventually, but the King doesn’t protest it, so Avery rests his head on an arm and lets himself start to doze off, even if the King’s voice sends his nerves flaring.
When he’s gently picked up, he does his best to pretend he’s asleep, even if the King can probably sense that he’s not. He doesn’t… think there’s a limit to his knowledge. Avery doubts it, anyway.
When Avery is settled back into bed, he feels a kiss press against his forehead.
“Rest. You may wander the palace later. Though you may not leave, I will not confine you to my chambers. I am a benevolent king. I can assure you of that.”
Benevolent?
He’s anything but benevolent. But Avery doesn’t say that.
When Avery hears metallic footsteps leave the room, proceeded by the door clicking shut, he sits up and looks down at his clothes.
… he doesn’t have any shoes.
He wouldn’t put anything here that could hurt my feet and then not give me shoes, Avery tells himself as he stands and pushes at the window some more. Then again, not much can hurt Avery’s feet. Slimes are resilient. Even if they’re… “simple.”
Using that word, the one that the King had used, puts a horrible taste in his mouth. Avery takes a deep breath and lets it out to clear the disgust that clings to his tongue like the taste of the King’s tentacles.
He pushes one last time before stepping away and pressing his palms to his eyes.
Okay. That won’t work. What else can I do? Is the King in Yellow going to be waiting right outside? If not… maybe I can try to find a way out of here.
The castle feels endlessly tall, but Avery doesn’t have a limit to how far he can fall and survive. Worse case scenario, he has to reshape himself. Not so hard.
Avery hesitates at the door, though.
What will he do if he sees me try to escape?
…Avery can only guess. Can only imagine those cold hands wrapping around his arms or spreading his thighs. Can only imagine that invasive cock making room for itself where it isn’t welcome. But if he never tries to escape, then he’ll never be free. If he gives up before he even tries, then there will be no chance to win.
Avery twists the knob and steps outside. Empty halls greet him.
Avery can think more clearly without the King at his side, instilling an innate kind of fear into Avery. He can think and fear, but also plan.
There’s a courtyard around the palace. At least—he’d seen something like one the gate had stretched high, but Avery can climb. He just needs to get to a window or stairs or…
The main hall that the King had brought Avery down leads to the main palace, so… where does the stairwell by the room lead? And the windows…
Avery wanders to one of the windows. Glass, golden frames… most likely just as impenetrable as the bedroom windows. Avery had broken netherite, but his hands had felt numb after. He wouldn’t be able to climb with numb hands, plus, the King might catch him.
Avery’s eyes catch on something, and his heart stops.
The church.
Avery’s moving before he can think. Down what feels like hundreds of stairs. Onto a balcony that overlooks the church. More stairs. A golden doorway, just tall enough for Avery. When he pushes it open, his eyes immediately scan the grass.
There they are.
Avery stumbles to the signs and clutches one, tears immediately rising in his eyes. He tries to smack a hand over his mouth, but a sob escapes before he can muffle it. Why did the King in Yellow leave this? What could he stand to gain from it?
“I’m sorry,” Avery chokes out as tears blur his vision. “I’m sorry, Derlord. I failed. I failed! I couldn’t—I couldn’t save you. You tried to save me, and I couldn’t even manage the same. I’m sorry, Derek…”
You are real.
You are special.
Avery is nothing. Nothing but a failure. He was never as fast or as smart as Derek, and now Derek is gone forever. Because of him.
Avery’s head drops against the sign and he clings onto it as tightly as he can, even when the wood faintly creaks. He sobs against it until he’s sure that he’s spent a lifetime sitting there. Time feels… difficult here. He only knows that it’s time to go when the sound of a door sliding open hits his ears. When the grass crunches closer and closer. When an icy hand lays itself upon his shoulder.
“I know what will help you, my vessel. You need only relax and let yourself enjoy it.”
Avery’s heart drops. Before he can think, he’s choking out, “No…” but he’s already being pulled up. “No! It’s not going to help, just leave me here!”
A tentacle curls around Avery’s waist, and he panics before grasping the handle of the King’s sword and wrenching it from the sheathe. The weight is familiar. Welcome.
Avery twists and swings it with all of his strength. The King stumbles back, and Avery feels victorious for only a moment. He has a fighting chance. He has—
A scream wrenches itself from him as his head suddenly feels caught in a vice. A thousand thoughts at once, a thousand feelings, a thousand eyes all burning into his senses. Thousands of thoughts, none of which are his.
The sword slips from Avery’s hands as his knees give out. He grips his hair and tries not to yell again, but the pain flares and a breathless wail spits the air. The pain only fades when a hand tilts Avery’s head back and cruel lips meet his. He groans as the King kisses him, the pressure in his head ebbing as the pressure on their lips strengthens. When Avery reluctantly leans into it, the pain dulls completely. Avery’s hands slowly slide from his hair, and they’re immediately caught by smooth tentacles.
When the King pulls Avery to his feet as the kiss breaks, Avery doesn’t fight it. Even as tears drip down his face.
“I see that I’ve made an error,” the King sighs as hands slide under Avery’s clothes, caressing his waist and chest and making the fabric bunch up. The touch is enough to make a pathetic sound of terror leave Avery, closer to a warble than anything human. “I should not have given you these clothes. They remind you far too much of your life before here. I will correct this mistake.”
Avery flinches as the clothes are slowly torn off, pulling up his legs to shield his body. The King wants him to enjoy this… maybe he can beg for leeway. Even if he feels sick from the thought.
“Inside, please,” he chokes out, and he watches the King slowly tilt his head, the yellow plume of feathers for his helmet spilling to the side. Avery shudders, repeating, “If we’re going to do this… I’d rather do it inside the room. Please.”
It makes him feel sick to beg for even a shred of dignity, but he doesn’t to risk anyone seeing him like this. The King’s eyes soften, and he pulls Avery into another stomach-churning kiss.
It feels pathetic to admit that Avery is somewhat relieved when he’s pulled into the King’s firm hold. At least that way he’s assaulted in private instead of in front of people. The sheer amount of care that the King uses as he lays Avery in bed and strips himself of his armor would be romantic if it were Derlord. When the King reaches for his helmet, Avery looks away without even thinking. He doesn’t want to see Derlord’s face. Not without his permission. It feels too intimate. More intimate than the cock that presses up against Avery’s groin, probing before pressing inside. Avery feels tears running down his face, but he doesn’t struggle. He feels only worse for it. He’s just… letting this happen. But what’s the point of fighting something that will happen whether he struggles or not. He’s just straining himself, risking the King being rougher, when he doesn’t need to. The King won’t be rough if Avery doesn’t fight. Avery doesn’t know how he knows—and maybe he doesn’t, maybe he just wants to justify why he goes limp and takes it—but he knows.
Avery lets the King lift his hips and press ever closer. Lets himself be pulled into a limp kiss as golden pre mixes with his insides. Avery can feel his slime squeeze weakly past the King’s cock. Can feel each vein glide against his insides. It’s so easy to feel it when he’s forcing his eyes shut. It’s so easy to pretend that the squelching is anything else. That it’s not his slime being displaced. That it’s not part of him coating the King’s cock as it slides back and forth endlessly. But the voice always brings him back. Reminds him where he is. What he is.
I am nothing.
Avery’s legs are pulled over the King’s shoulders; Avery can’t help the loud cry that leaves him as the King presses farther, cock invading so much deeper than before. Avery didn’t think that was possible, and yet he feels like it’s fucking his brain directly. The breathless groans that leave Avery are humiliating, even more than the King’s endless monologue.
“As useful of a vessel you’d have been, you make a perfect concubine.”
“You squeeze my so well, my vessel.”
“You serve your role so well…”
“Such an exquisite follower for your king.”
“Though you’d make an even more excellent one should you bear my heirs…”
The thought of having kids with the King brings back the same nausea that Avery had felt the first time he was raped. He reflectively tries to pull away, but he’s yanked back and the King begins to thrust harder, pushing sounds of protest from Avery’s lips, even if there’s no pain. There doesn’t need to be pain for the sex to suddenly feel horrendous. It had from the start, but it had been tolerable mere moments ago. Just something that Avery had to suffer through. Now—now he feels sick, and he has to cover his mouth to keep himself from heaving.
Avery has laid eggs before. Any slime that’s really lived has laid eggs, at least if they’re an adult. It was uncomfortable to feel something pressing and shifting inside of him like that. He could always feel the eggs, right until the end of the month, when he finally laid them. He’s not even sure how to describe it. It was amazing, although he might’ve just felt like that because he was finally getting the things out of him. It’s… hah. It’s embarrassing to admit, but he was jerking off the whole time. The eggs all came out easily, though, so clearly it wasn’t a bad idea to do that. Avery just ate them once he calmed down, which was… weird, but not awful. It tasted the same as licking his fingers or something.
Avery can’t imagine having eggs with the King around.
Just the thought of the King being around while Avery is that weak makes him feel lightheaded, but the terror at the thought of him trying to fuck Avery while he’s carrying makes Avery heave. Avery chokes out, “No!” just picturing it.
And if the King tried to take the eggs? To force Avery to raise slimelings with the King in this place?
Avery’s thoughts are interrupted as the King grinds forward with a groan and cums. It’s warm against Avery’s insides, like an acidic infestation, but it distracts Avery. He can almost imagine that it’s Derlord’s. That the kisses being pressed to every inch of Avery’s skin as just from Derlord. That they’re safe, far from the King. That the man carefully pulling out and settling Avery against the pillows to spoon is someone who truly loves him. Who knows all of his flaws but loves him for each and every one.
The King is not that man.
The King, who is doing all of this for revenge. The King, who sees Avery as a vessel. A tool. The King, who destroyed Derek and Avery’s future together and stole away the pieces.
The muscular body that rests against Avery’s back was Derlord’s, but now it’s just the cruel puppet of a sadistic god. A god whose arms wrap gently around Avery and whose hand rubs his belly with endless platitudes of touch; a mimicry of affection and love.
Avery doesn’t know why he lets it happen. Why he lets himself be lulled to sleep there.
Avery’s eyes flutter open eventually, and he is alone.
Avery rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling while a hand comes to rest on his stomach. The cum is still there, though cooled. It glistens inside of him, glittering embarrassingly inside of him. Is this why the King is so adamant about fucking Avery? To claim him? How many times would he need to he fucked for him to be permanently gold? To be stained with it.
Avery spots movement and sits up.
“You’re still here.”
“I’d be a horrible king to starve my consort.” The King walks to the bed and offers an arm, eyes slowly scanning Avery. The room is… darker than before. The armor doesn’t glint as brightly, which is what clues Avery to it. It’s… better, he guesses. His eyes wander to the fixture overhead, with flames flickering dimly in the lanterns. The window doesn’t seem to let in as much light, either, although the glass doesn’t look tinted. It feels like some illusory attempt at homeliness. Avery reluctantly scoots out of bed, ignoring the arm and walking over to the wardrobe. He’s grateful that he’s never minded looking particularly feminine, because it makes it feel a bit more comfortable as he pulls on a silk robe that’s inside of the closet. He puts shorts on, too, and he tries to situate it all so it doesn’t leave him too exposed. Only then does he reluctantly face the King.
“What food is there?”
“Anything you could wish for,” the King hums, offering his arm once again. Avery doesn’t take it. He crosses his arms and pulls them close, trying to ignore the man leading him forward like a prize-winning animal. The halls seem to twist and loom in ways unimaginable, but somehow the King leads Avery to a dining room that towers overhead. The chamber is filled with talking from dozens of figures along the long table, drinking and chattering. Suddenly, Avery is very grateful that he decided to dress as modestly as his clothes allow.
He hesitates at the chair beside the King. The only one open. They’re both stationed at the head of the banquet hall, but there’s only one plate. Is he going to let Derlord’s body starve? Or will a God’s presence sustain it?
… it’s enough to make Avery think, although he doesn’t like it. Considering that Derlord might be allowed to wither away… it makes his heart drop in a way that makes his breathing feel strained.
Avery’s body twitches away as the King in Yellow guides him to sit.
The King is already filling the plate and setting it between them, and Avery is… curious. Beef, chicken liver, roasted vegetables, lamb…
Avery eyes it suspiciously as the King starts to cut it up and raises a fork to offer a bite to Avery. It smells amazing, and he knows that realistically, it’s a lot of what his body needs. He hasn’t eaten all day, but it’s not like he doesn’t eat much normally. Plus, slimes can go a while without eating. But… he does need to eat something. Even if he hasn’t gotten hungry in this place yet, he doesn’t want to risk it. Not when he can’t just forage for food.
Avery lets the King feed him. It’s uncomfortable, and it makes Avery hesitate at every bite, but it’s effortless. The King takes bites of it too, occasionally, which is relieving a bit. Derlord won’t starve. The King in Yellow even lets Avery have some sort of sweet cake after, although Avery regrets it a bit as he meets the King’s softened gaze. It holds so much affection that it feels nearly confining. It makes Avery curl in on himself, and he awkwardly sips on the goblet of… fruit juice? It’s not rum or vodka or anything, but it’s also not water. The King has wine. Why does Avery have juice?
Well… not like he can really drink water.
This works I guess.
When dinner is adjourned, Avery doesn’t want to go back to the room. The halls are dark, and part of him doesn’t want to leave the warmth of the dining hall. Everything suddenly feels wrong—colder, darker. Like everything has been drained of warmth.
Would anyone save me if I asked?
Avery desperately reaches out to try to catch someone’s wrist—
He watches them step away, casting a glance at him before wordlessly retreating. Avery’s hand is closed around nothing but air.
What? There’s no way I missed, what’s—
“Come now, my vessel, lest I need to tire you before bed.”
Avery’s eyes flick to the armored figure waiting by the door, but he he doesn’t want to go just yet. Just…
Avery reluctantly snatches a honeyed pinecone from a small bowl before following after the King.
This hall doesn’t have anything for him, anyway. He can’t escape when the king is here.
… he’ll get out eventually though. Right?
That thought lingers in his mind even when he lies down in the bed. He keeps his back to the King, lying on his side, but it still feels like they’re too close, even with several feet between them.
It certainly feels like too close when the King’s arms wrap around Avery’s waist and the King starts to lay kisses across Avery’s skin.
“I’m tired,” he whispers, but his voice breaks as exhaustion and depression mix. The King won’t stop. He never will. Not for Avery. Avery is just his consort, after all.
“Then rest. Sleep. I will not force you to remain awake if you’re willing to offer yourself to me.”
It makes Avery’s stomach clench with disgust, but he slowly strips and lies back down while facing away from the King. Maybe…
“Can we do it without speaking? I’d prefer that.”
… is it wrong? Is it wrong to pretend that it’s Derlord? That his not-so-old goal, his savior, his friend. That a man he never even dated is the one fucking him? He just wants to pretend it’s not the King. He can’t—he can’t stand this. He’s been raped three times in two days, and he just wants it to stop already. How much longer will he be forced to endure this for the King’s entertainment? How long until Avery can’t take it?
He shudders and clutches the sheets as the King presses inside and starts to slowly thrust. All the way in, then almost all the way out. Derlord would be so gentle. He’d be worried to hurt Avery, maybe, even if Avery is stronger. He’d whisper sweet words while holding Avery like porcelain and slowly pleasuring him. And Derlord would make it feel so good…
You’re doing amazing, Avery.
There you go… you take me so well.
I’ve been waiting for this since I looked through those gates.
I knew I’d love you, Avery.
Just a little more…
I know you can take my cum, Avery. Don’t you want to be filled?
He’d ask before everything, and he’d be so sweet about it. So sweet and shy, but so dominant.
Do you want to pull out, Avery? I can if you want, just tell me…
Avery’s brows knit as he feels his insides be slowly, carefully rearranged. He can practically hear Derlord’s voice against his ear. His breath against his skin. Fingers carefully hold onto Avery’s hips, and Avery can imagine Derlord’s legs twining with his. Avery’s eyes slide shut as he lets his body rock against the sheets. He can imagine that he’s in a dim, comfortable home that he and Derlord made after escaping. That they live together now, safe and sound. That Derlord is still…
Avery’s head falls forward a bit, and he lets out a shaky moan as Delord keeps slowly thrusting. He feels so good when Avery just focuses…
“Der—Derek…”.
Derlord suddenly stops, and Avery nearly whines before his eyes slide open.
Wait—
“Hastur.”
“… what?”
A tentacle wraps around Avery’s throat, and he cries out as pain starts to thrum in his skull jagged enough to make Avery smell the pain. He can’t help the way his body writhes against the sheets. The pain shoots right through him, enough to make Avery feel tilted with vertigo and enough to make him twitch from the pain. Avery groans and tries to cling to the sheets, but a tentacle wraps around his wrists and yanks them away.
“Say my name, my vessel. Hastur. Say it.”
The pain flares as the King in Yellow thrusts hard, and Avery screams. Tears roll down his face as he heaves from the pain, gagging on nothing; Avery can barely even form words.
“Haaah! Hastur! Hastur, m’sorry Hastur, I’m—hrk!”
Avery feels his body locking up and jerking before the pain suddenly stops. He can barely think as the King… as Hastur keeps moving, cock carving its place into Avery. When Hastur cums, even the residual pain fades out completely, as if Avery is being rewarded. The warmth feels filthy, and Avery keeps retching until a tentacle shoves its way down his throat and settles deep and thick enough to keep Avery from being able to gag.
“Silence. Speak not. You seemingly need to learn your place as my consort. I have been too kind to you. This, like your clothing issue, shall be remedied. I understand your infatuation for this useless body, but I will never condone this. You dare say the name of another man while in bed with your king?”
Hastur pulls out before pushing back inside, and Avery’s heart drops.
No. Nonono—
“I will let you rest when you’ve earned your place. Not a moment before. Ready your pleas, my vessel. If they prove unsatisfactory, then another round will pass between us until your answer is satisfactory.”
It’s exhausting just to think about, and Avery can’t staunch a fragile sob.
They don’t stop until late into the night. Avery doesn’t hurt, but his whole body feels strained and his insides are practically glowing with gold. His head is spinning so badly that he can barely see, but Hastur looms overhead.
“I love you, I’m sorry,” Avery whispers, sniffling, but there’s an unsatisfied hum. “I’m your consort. Your property. I’ll never even think of Derek romantically; you’re all I want. You’re all I need. The… the perfect king.”
There’s a deep sigh before Avery is freed. Hastur pulls out, and Avery blearily meets those eyes, barely able to see through his tears.
“Say it again. Worship me.”
“You’re all I need, Hastur, I’ll never need—I’ll never need anyone or anything else or—or even think of leaving. You’re my benevolent king, and… I’m grateful to be lucky enough to be your consort.”
Tentacles slide away, and Avery collapses against the bed. His whole body feels limp and unresponsive through the tears and the chemicals circulating in his system. Avery blinks hard as a kiss presses rough and needy to his lips, and Hastur lays against Avery as he slowly sinks deeper into his head, high off of… everything. Avery just wants to sleep. He can barely breathe through the tears, although would that really be that bad right now? His belly and abdomen are stained a shimmering gold, and it’s splattered across the exterior of his abdomen.
“Each morn’ you will worship me within the church. I’ve given you far too much freedom for a mere consort… but no longer. You are mine, my vessel. Your freedom is mine to give. You will stay in here unless permitted by me to leave. Forget him. Forget Derlord. He is nothing to you, my vessel. A mere stepping stone in my glory. Nothing worthy of your time.”
The King… Hastur… he keeps speaking longer, but Avery’s hit with vertigo; he can’t fight it before his body finally gives out and darkness envelops him.