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His inventory is filled with bundles, all of them filled with necessities he had managed to scrounge up from the small 5-by-5 dirt house. He was being generous, calling it a house; it was more of a torn-down hut, but it served its purpose just fine.
The walls were covered with papers pinned with small, sharp rocks he embedded into the dirt, the squid ink already bleeding through the thin pages; the floors scuffed from continuous pacing; and the pitiful excuse for a bed, made from old hay, sat in the corner.
His armour is dented from accidentally stumbling into the cave walls, trying to run away the first time around, and he doesn’t have the time or sanity to be mining in the nether to find netherite.
D3rlord knows what he's running from. It's obvious; he can't outrun or outsmart The King, but it was worth the peace of mind.
The setting sun and rising moon mock him as he stalks out of his dilapidated base into the wilderness.
He was a smart man, yes, but he was as indecisive as he was intelligent. He despised that part of himself, yet he couldn't bring himself to change. Change was foreign, a dangerous territory he couldn't bear to face. Not with the knowledge that every step he takes, every action done by his body might ripple into something unimaginable.
So, he doesn't change.
He leaves the hut when both celestial figures are in the sky. The sun and moon, forever orbiting each other, surrounded by dying stars.
He pins all of his notes because he can't decide what to burn and what to keep.
He knew his unwillingness to choose would bring his ruin, and yet, he went back, time and time again. Back to golden doors, to golden light.
It was stupid of him to go back to those doors. But he was a proud and stubborn—some would argue mad in the head—but something always compelled him to go back, to crawl back and kneel to those iridescent robes, savor the trailing fingers that morphed into claws as they brushed his bare skin.
Deadly hands that held him so gently, so saturated in unbridled love obsession-
D3rlord unsheathes his xiphos and hacks at a tree to try and hack away those thoughts from his mind. The tree creaks and splinters underneath the force, but nothing helps filter out the onslaught of memories of The King.
Hostile mobs watch warily from the sidelines, leaving the man shrouded in golden dusk alone.
Not afraid, no; they are mindless mobs that attack no matter the circumstance. They do not know fear.
But there's something wrong with that player. Stay away. Stay away, and you'll be spared. Because the thing clinging to him is too much of a risk even for the undead, for the nonexistent, for the unnatural.
It hurts to defy their code, but the pain and suffering they are so used to becomes unimaginable.
Black mist surrounds the armor-clad man, pulsing and writhing in time with his breathing. One brave creeper stalks forward, but within a split second, the hissing stops, and a green, furry head is thrown back into the darkness, separated from its quickly decaying body.
D3rlord is none the wiser.
D3rlord is left panting once the tree is less of a trunk and more of a thin pole oak wood. His tanned features are dusted pink underneath his helmet, and not just from exertion.
Tired?
A disembodied voice tinged with amusement echoes through his throbbing head. It's reminiscent of the chiming bells of his old town square, the voices of his childhood bringing unwanted tears to his eyes. They sting.
He wipes them away with the back of his dirtied gloves and walks away. To where? He’s not too sure himself.
He walks until his knees creak and his chest aches with each breath from the too-tight bindings. How long has it been since he's changed them? He'd hack them off if the threat of blood loss wasn't looming over his head.
"Fuck off." He snaps into thin air. He must look like a goddamn lunatic. It's not as bad as actually seeing His face and having infinite knowledge jammed into his brain.
It still hurts like a bitch.
The sound of droplets hitting stone, similar to an infuriating tutting start behind him. His voice is hoarse from years of refusing to speak, but the insult felt justified.
The sound gets further and further away the more he walks, but he'd gamble his own life before thinking he escaped. Ridiculous.
It goes quiet again. D3rlord stops and waits, listening for anything, something, before continuing.
He passes jungles and forests full of sleeping animals, and hostile mobs that refuse to come within 10 blocks of his radius. Plain biomes were the easiest, the stars acting as his guides and fireflies as his company.
Hours pass, the moon now above him and the stars bright as ever, and he stops in the middle of a bamboo forest. D3rlord finds a small clearing with a river gushing with fresh water, not too far away. He notes the distance and walks back to the clearing.
He listens. Nothing. But He is there with him. He always is.
With shaking fingers, D3rlord makes a tent using the thick bamboo as a base. It was a shabby-looking thing with knots that might just unwind for the fun of it. They creak loudly in the silence of the night, knots denting the softer parts of the bamboo.
He lights a campfire with some of the spare flint and feeds it dead leaves and branches. The fire roars as he pokes it absent-mindedly.
He takes off his helmet with a sigh, almost running his hand through his hair. He stops mid-air, remembering that his gloves are still caked with dirt.
Glancing at the rushing river and back at himself. He’s filthy, and his injuries are at risk of infection the longer he waits.
He has around a day or two before it becomes untreatable, even with potions. Not that he has the resources anyway.
Grabbing a few rolls of fresh bandages and a change of underclothes, D3rlord heads toward the river. Each step feels like sinking in quicksand.
With resignation, he steps into the freezing waters, letting the clear liquid flow past his feet. The water reflects the moonlight, letting him be surrounded by small constellations as he bathes.
He starts by stripping the soiled bandages and keeping them in one spot. He’ll dig a hole to bury them later.
The off-white colour of the bandages is stark against his tan skin.
D3rlord rests against the cold and damp rocks, letting the water pressure soothe his aching muscles. Unbeknownst to him, The King strolled behind him.
Thoroughly enjoying the sight of his knight.
"I don't- stop," the pleas are hoarse and barely audible, but D3rlord couldn't find it in himself to be sincere.
Nothing, nothing, inside him didn't want this. He craved the feeling of nothing and everything, pressed against him. He craved the inhuman touch that made him feel alive; wanted.
The King, in a much more humanoid form, is still large enough to dwarf D3rlord's own frame.
Even with The King's imposing figure, D3rlord still refuses to look at His face, but that instead makes him much more attentive to His wandering hands. And he isn't sure which is the better choice.
Stop?
The King purrs, pressing D3rlord's back into His chest. Black, barely materialized claw-like hands drag down his bare sides, his breath hitching as they stop and rest at the dips of his waist. His bare chest heaves, enlarged breasts hang heavy, and he hates. He doesn't have time to think before The King's voice rings out once again.
Do you want me to stop, my dear?
In the corner of his eyes, he can see the flowing golden robes beneath the water, beneath him. Not weighted down by water, but floating like jellyfish under the sea.
Small black tendrils escape underneath the flowing robes to slowly circle his ankles and calves. The possessive little things that don't even try restraining him because they know he wouldn't try to resist their hold.
The King's hands wander once again, one wrapping all around D3rlord's torso as the other eases down to his thigh. D3rlord lets out an ugly sound, one he swears he didn't know he could make, as the claws against his skin blunted before his eyes to sneak beneath the wet loincloth.
Some humans would consider this blasphemy.
The King hums as He presses two fingers in the space right between his thighs. D3rlord's hips cant upwards to chase the feeling without his permission.
This is wrong, so, so wrong. He shouldn't be enjoying this; he shouldn't be stifling whimpers behind his palm as inhuman fingers massage slow circles around his clit. His fingers shouldn't be scrambling to find purchase on those golden robes. He shouldn't be able to grasp the eldritch being in the first place if He didn't wish for it.
Letting your --- please you, instead of the other way around.
The King's voice was unstable, but so minutely that D3rlord wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't listening so intently. His words send a stab of pain behind his shut eyes as D3rlord only heard something akin to steel bars screeching across tar.
Another appendage, another hand maybe, covered D3rlord’s eyes, warmth cascading over half his face.
His head is tilted to one side, his neck bared to The King's mouth. The sharp ends of His teeth puncture his shoulder, yet no blood stains his skin.
D3rlord muffles a scream when he feels a larger tendril prod against him, as if testing if he would be able to take it.
His hips twitch, trying to pull away before he does something embarrassing, like grind down instead.
But he didn’t; he’s better than that. He knew better than to act like that, but it's getting harder and harder to rationalize.
Then it pulls away and he—honest to fucking God—whines at the lost. He’s mortified at himself. He hears the subtle chuckle from behind him, and with the will of someone who looked this being in the eyes, he scooped up the crystal clear water around them and splashed it behind him like a petulant child.
The King doesn’t splutter or berate him; instead, He laughs.
His laugh is the splatter of rain on a sunny day. Contradictory, but D3rlord cant stop listening to it. It is the clash of his sword against another. The chilling shrill made him want to kneel and bolt at the same time.
The feeling of shame doesn’t last long, not when he’s being manhandled (eldritch-handled?) to face the King instead of the thick bamboo jungle across the river.
D3rlord buries his face into The King's nape, or something adjacent to it, just before he glimpses His face.
It's easier like this, no? For humans, that is. With his back arched and face buried in those golden robes, the thick tendril is back and rutting against his slick hole.
D3rlord shudders in His lap, the river still lapping past their hips.
There’s no slap of skin against skin that people usually attribute these kinds of activities to. The King doesn’t have human skin, not even in this form, so only the sounds of pleasure from a man unused to the onslaught on his body echoed through the empty jungle.
And if someone were to wander into the jungle unannounced, they would hear the whistling of trees and creaks of branches that seemed to be in tune with the low whimpers coming from the riverbank.
D3rlord grips the golden cloth just like how The King claws grip onto his thighs, keeping him spread and speared on rigorous tentacles.
The King whispers sweet nothings into his ears, fantasies he thought were long gone and buried, and it makes his thoughts melt away like honey dripping off the wooden wand, the ridges trying their best to keep the viscous fluid from falling, but ultimately fail in the end.
For once, he doesn't think, doesn’t plan. He lets his mind become foggy, and takes what's given-
So pretty for me, my dear.
Pretty? Is he pretty? People have called him rugged, or handsome, or somewhere on that spectrum. But pretty? His large frame intimidates anyone who looks at him, which looks small within His grasp; the scars, old and new, that mar his tan body, which He caresses each one with a reverent hand.
He’s not pretty.
It should infuriate him to be associated with that word at all.
So when he slicks up further, making the tentacle glide even further inside him, he chokes out a moan of disbelief.
Fuck, this was humiliating.
He feels the tendril curl into him at a faster pace, pressing against the entrance of his womb. He makes the mistake of looking down and seeing his skin bulge underneath the strain.
He could feel the tentacle writhe around each time it ‘bottomed out’. The tentacles were infinitely long, and the limit was simply how much he could take.
More black slips out underneath The King's robes, winding up his arms and pulling them to cross gently behind his back. They circle his clit and areolas, tugging and teasing until D3rlord has tears pooling in his waterline from the overstimulation.
He’s left with nothing to balance himself, and he falls flat against the King’s front, cheek smushed against the fabric as his body is thrust into without abandon.
The King hums appreciatively at the limp body lying sprawled on his lap. Such fragile creatures, humans, passing out from something as simple as the peak of pleasure.
His knight is not a regular mortal after all, especially not after meeting Him.
He’s fascinated.
Aren't you?