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There’s laughter and swearing again inside the remade Hels Kitchen. The rattle of bones and whiny cries of the bartender mix with the steaming clanks and grunts of the patrons.
And high above it all, the cries of the tortured.
EvilX breathes it in, and waves for another drink. Of course, the asshole Helsknight intercepts his server, and slides into the booth across from him.
“You’re blocking the view, idiot.” he grumbles, and snatches his magma beer back.
“I would have thought you’d be sick of him by now.” Helsknight sits in the booth like he’s ready to strike out at any moment, as if anyone here is dumb enough to challenge him.
Present company excepted, of course. EvilX is older than he is, and their matches are far from fair.
“Never tired of seeing the derp get plowed.” He’s gloating, but he’s fucking earned this. “I put a lot of work into that last season, and he destroyed my world along with it.” Stupid Moon. Stupid clone, linking their codes and servers when he wasn’t paying attention, too caught up in derp coin schemes and holding into the mind-control geas on his other half. “Only right that he pays everyone back after remaking this place.”
Helsknight steals his beer and takes a swig, before making a face and snagging a passing wither skeleton. “Warped punch, and without the stupid umbrella, this time.”
Ghasticlaus whines from behind the bar, but Helsknight ignores the protest.
“Still,” his fingers tap idly against the dirty table. “I am surprised you decided to treat everyone to the use of him. You don’t usually share.”
A blaze steps up to the little platform that serves as a stage, and rams one of his rods into the barely squirming body. He can hear the sizzle of flesh from here, even if it takes several ticks for the screaming to start.
“He’s all mine after,” he growls, not caring that the server jumps and spills Helsknight’s drink as they slam it on the table and run. “Didn’t want to wear myself out before I take him to bed later.”
Helsknight looks both disgusted and intrigued. “This is foreplay for you, isn’t it.” He sips at the neon-blue drink, and finally leans back as the screamer’s voice breaks. “I knew you were evil, but this is far and beyond some of the bizarre sex rituals between the two of you.”
“What?” He nearly chokes on his beer, creamy foam leaking from the top as he slams it down. “They’re not- we don’t-” fuck, are they..?
Helsknight, the bastard, starts ticking off points on his fingers. “Never in front of the Hermits, you keep the helmets on, there’s always some kind of power play, you share frankly insane kinks you won’t even consider trying with anyone else, and you have a private modded world to share sex achievements.” He picks up his drink again, fully convinced that he’s right. “Sex. Rituals.” A sip. “Weirdo.”
“Am not.” EvilX stabs the side of his bottle and tips it to his helmet’s intake, shotgunning the warm beer. It makes his head pleasantly fuzzy, at least for a few moments.
The blaze finishes up, smoke screening the stage for long ticks as it overheats. There are complaints from the side, and Waspsuma buzzes angrily before stomping by, wings clacking to clear the air. There’s another witherman waiting their turn, who motions to Waspsuma, wisely allowing the always-angry clone to take a turn for the inconvenience. Behind them, that weird fox-guy that the derp likes to abuse is waiting as well, curled up like he expects someone to put him up on the stage. Eh, it could happen. But not tonight.
Waspsuma buzzes a question. Yeah, he could handle that. “Sure. Just make sure someone’s got the brewer going. ‘Claus is on drinks tonight, not potions.” It never works well when they ask them to do both.
The stinger comes out, and while EvilX doesn’t care to watch this part, he does want to enjoy it.
“So, how goes rebuilding?”
He asks not because he cares, but so that Helsknight will talk, and he won’t have to. He’s been nursing a powerful hardon since he’d strapped his clone into the iron-bar construction hours ago. The denizens of Hels have been more than willing to take out their frustration of a missing server on a willingly offered body. (No one here is picky enough to care who offered it.) And between the bright flashes of pain and the warm rushes of pleasure -however unwanted- it's been enough to keep him seated, instead of picking fights and working out his own frustrations. Although-
“Sting him harder, Waspy. I can barely feel it through the booze.”
Waspsuma and Ghasticlaus curse at him, but who cares? His world, his rules.
Hels signals for another round of drinks, and glares at the red-eyed Mumbo that changes his mind and skirts far around their booth.
“You’re going to have to chip in at some point, you know.” Helsknight tells him.
EvilX waves at the stage. “Already have.” He suppresses a shiver at the burn of multiple stings across his back and down his thighs, and refuses to press a hand to his desperate cock. “We have the bar back, at spawn this time, and you all can burn the rest of the world for all I care. If you need resources, then make a list - I’ll have the derp fill a few chests after I’ve had my fun tonight.”
“Hmm. You’d give him access to creative? After this?”
He rolls his eyes. “After everyone has worn him out and I’ve fucked him stupid again? Sure. He might even beg me for the chance to be useful,” he sneers, remembering the pathetic attempts at begging his clone usually gives him. “Maybe I’ll let him wear a skirt and ride me after.”
Ghasticlaus makes a suggestion, that gets everyone at the bar laughing or making clamouring noises of approval.
“Yeah, okay.” The image of his clone with his hands attached to a straightbar, helmet on and a tiny maid’s dress is pretty nice. And it makes the derp moan despairingly, even before the foxy brat cracks his whip. “He’s mine to fuck, but you can throw shit in his way.” One of the more loyal Evil Minions pantomimes a certain action. “Sure. Get him down without touching, and you can come on him.”
“So generous,” Helsknight mocks, accepting his new drink. “Sure hope it doesn’t backfire on you.”
“Why don’t you take a turn with the derp, and stop being a little bitch,” EvilX shoots back, eyeing his new beer warily. “He isn’t even crying anymore, go make him choke on your dick.” He raises his voice, even though he knows everyone is listening. “And someone teach that kid how to whip a derp properly.”
Helsknight leaves his drink behind, and EvilX immediately sticks a spicy nethershroom into it. But it gives him back an unobstructed view of the stage.
His derp of a clone is still strung between the two iron bar pillars, hanging from his wrists and hips, ankles spread wide to make room for any takers. The grey helmet hangs between swollen shoulders that will have to be reset into their sockets soon. Some woman he doesn’t immediately recognise is adjusting fox-man’s grip on the whip handle while giving him directions, and the next strike lands squarely across the derp’s spine, snapping the helmet up into a shout as loud as the whip’s preceding crack.
Fire bursts down his back, but the scream echoes on and on in his head.
Did you think he wouldn’t raise his hand against you, given the chance? The betrayal stings deep, but the irony isn’t lost on either of them.
His clone doesn’t answer, not when the whip comes down again, and again. The kid chickens out after that, to jeers and a few catcalls, but he’s leaving with the blonde woman's hand on the back of his neck, so he doesn’t seem to hear them.
And then Helsknight steps onto the stage, and the piglin brute who was waiting steps back in a hurry. A wither skeleton takes his place, hesitantly saluting Helsknight with its stone sword. The knight sneers at the attempt at placation, and taps at the now-silent grey helmet.
“Lift your head and take your punishment with honor,” he mocks, and EvilX relishes the too-brief moment of recognition and hope, that absolutely shatters when the visor lifts. Helsknight doesn’t waste a moment, his cock already in hand and feeding it immediately into the broken-open maw of the helmet.
EvilX swears, and comes in his fucking pants. He slaps a hand over himself too late, but the gurgling yelp and the helpless little twitches of a body he knows like his own is just too good not to enjoy. The wither skeleton is smart enough to move to stand between the derp’s muscular legs, and the moment its bony fist breeches that stretched hole, the wither effect rolls through like an electric shock. Black veins of wither crawl over pale skin, and the convulsions are enough to make even Helsknight let out a tight moan, before he fucks the helmet like he finally means it.
The roiling pain and fear and despair are as delicious as the next orgasm it pulls from him. Void, he’s going to need a new set of pants after this, or a quick respawn. Someone wisely throws a regen potion instead of healing, not that he cares about damaging some of the patrons. Helsknight nods at the blaze at the edge of the stage, and nobody asks him but they’re all watching eagerly as a blaze rod stretches out and flicks the tip of the derp’s cock.
The body flinches hard, and the wither skeleton pulls its arm back before it’s torn off. Helsknight has shoved the helmet all the way into his armor, making it look like the weirdest codpiece in existence, and something flashes gold at his hand as the derp comes with a tortured convulsion, jets of come splashing across Helsknight’s boots before a shower of golden particles explodes around them both.
Helsknight steps back and tucks himself away, leaving the grey helmet to bob and hang limply, come and drool dripping to the floor to mix with the other substances already staining it. Ghasticlaus screams, and someone throws a few more potions at the derp, taking care of the last few ticks of wither effect and sealing a few of the worst bleeding welts.
EvilX doesn’t even try to hide how pleased he is. “Fuck,” he drawls, as Helsknight retakes his seat. “I should have made you go first. That felt amazing.”
Helsknight snorts, picking up his drink and scowling at the added shroom. “Sex. Rituals.” he pronounces, as if he can make EvilX agree with him. “I’m not sure that I should be surprised that you keep that link open between you in order to take pleasure from it.”
“Works both ways,” EvilX lets slip, and then decides to share, because it makes Helsknight uncomfortable. “I get off on pain. He gets off on me getting off. Extra special if I can make him come from the pain, too.”
“Or in spite of it, I suppose.” Helsknight looks ill just saying it, which is a win in his book.
“You should try it with your guy.” He only vaguely understands the animosity Helsknight has anytime he brings up their other half. “If nothing else, you can bug him for duels whenever you want, instead of hunting him down or wrecking the arena every time you’re hot to fight.”
Helsknight throws the ruined drink at him, even more put out when EvilX laughs, and refuses to rise. “Go claim your bride, before someone else ruins your wedding night,” he mocks, as if EvilX is some sort of patient new husband, waiting for permission. Which could be an interesting roleplay to think about later.
“You’re just jealous,” he accuses without heat, still reveling in the exhausted pain and discomfort from his other half. “Welsknight wouldn’t let you get half as far as this derp does.”
The glower he gets is almost priceless. “We have standards,” Helsknight snarls, before stomping away, clearing the aisle as he marches with perfect posture straight to the exit.
EvilX chortles, knowing that they both know he’s right. Wels is more the sort to prefer chastity play, or king-and-knight type honor-bonding. Maybe he can talk the derp into including Welsknight at some point, and see if he’s got a kink hidden that he can blackmail Helsknight with.
Regardless, there’s still the derp to have tonight. EvilX rises, mildly amused that the drink thrown on him nearly covers the fact that he came in his pants. The way to the stage clears for him, and he takes the chance to stroll around his derp, admiring the welts and burns and bruises, and the panting almost-there moans that come with every tortured breath.
“Helsknight says I should claim my bride,” he announces, amused at the confused but quickly-nodding idiots. “Should I check first, if my wife is a virgin on her wedding night?”
There’s a few nervous titters, and a man with no skin over raw and exposed musculature asks the minion drinking beside him if he’d missed the ceremony. Someone throws a wilted poppy on the stage, and then a wither rose follows it. EvilX crushes the both beneath his boot.
Ghasticlaus cheers from behind the bar, and the offer of free drinks brings a wave of even more confused and eager to please congratulations and well-wishes. It’s ridiculous, but this is Hels, and its denizens were never the brightest. Case in point, the brute that hands him a sweetberry cocktail. He glares at the offending drink, until Ghasticlaus flicks the idiot with a straw that then gets added to the glass. He’s not about to make even more of a mess of himself trying to drink around ice cubes and his helmet intake, even if he does enjoy the smoky liquor he wasn’t expecting in the sweet drink.
“Alright, then.” He tosses the glass, not caring if it hits someone or shatters. “My spawn for your life, my sword for your safety, my pickaxe for your comfort. Till the next world, or the Void take us.” It doesn’t exactly fit them, but trite vows rarely fit anyone, really.
“My dick for your hole,” someone calls out, and the laughter covers whoever was crass enough to say it.
Lightning flashes around the stage, and a fire or two light up before drinks are sacrificed to put them out.
“And for that, I now take my bride and consummate our marriage in private.” he spits, and pulls an enchanted knife to delete the chains. There’s a sullen quietness to his clone that he wouldn’t mind exploring further, especially once it tries to hide from his anger. “Hope you all had your fun, because it’s over now.”
“Thanks, Jeff,” someone mutters, and there’s a few thumps behind him as he focuses on the ones in front of him. The derp spills to the floor as his bonds disappear, a pathetic pile of twitching bruises and akimbo limbs. And the derp’s ass sticks up enticingly, even after his ankles are knocked free, just begging for something to fill it. His gloves reach out of their own accord, pulling bare hips up, and catching on a deeper wound on his back, still sluggishly bleeding.
Stubborn, like the rest of him. It’s too tempting to pass up, rutting his cock up against that swollen, abused hole. He doesn’t have to care about whatever leftover loads are smearing against his pants, they’re trash anyway. The derp groans as he rocks, and it’s a tease for their audience, but it’s also a point that he’s making, that this world and everything in it is his; his to take, and his to control. Bottles clatter against the stage, a diamond, and a few gold nuggets. Like it’s some kind of show.
“Fuck him proper now, boss!” his favorite minion calls, and yeah, he can do that. He can give them one last taste of what he has, what he’ll keep, now that there’s no more Hermitcraft to run off to, no more Hermits to steal his other half away from him.
The derp is still breathless when he turns him over, helmet thunking against the polished blackstone stage. One more thing kept for himself, that he is the only one to see their face. There’s an unhealed burn on his derp’s abdomen, not quite covering a deeper stab wound, and surrounded by bruises and shallower scratches.
His hand finds it easily, and the spectators cheer when he sticks a finger in. His eyes are on the derp’s visor, and the foggy glass running with condensation inside.
“Don’t think he saved his ass for the wedding,” he says, more to his derp than those moving for a better view of the stage. “Maybe I should find a virgin hole to fuck, instead.”
Their cocks both kick with the threat, and he doesn’t need anyone else to tell him that ‘his new bride likes it’. He can taste the anticipation, the building anxiety and thrill from the man beneath him; the pain and knowledge that there will soon be more. It’s enough to get him close again, to make his hands clumsy as he drops his pants and slicks his cock with cooling come and warm blood. To make his own breath catch at the searing feel of his cock entering a beating, bleeding wound-
The house has gone silent. His chest aches in a way he doesn’t expect. There’s a gasp, and somewhere a door slams shut. He can’t breathe.
Xisuma sits up, cradling EvilX on his lap, cock still buried in his guts. There’s an enchanted amethyst shard in his chest, half buried in flesh already turning to code. His bloody hand releases it, only to grab at EvilX’s neck, and reel him in.
“You haven’t kissed the bride yet,” his voice echoes aloud and in his head. “Come closer, EvilX.”
Their helmets ring and crack, and both of their hearts are pierced by the shard, chests together as they were once one. The code pulls at them, yanks at bonded flesh, two halves of a whole that have been apart longer than they were ever together.
“How..?” he can barely ask.
Xisuma’s eyes smile behind his visor, and it’s still only them. Always has been.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” their breath is a whisper between them. “Consider this a divorce.”
He realizes too late what Xisuma has done. That not only are their linked lives over, but the world is set to hardcore, and there is no recovering it.
The world goes black.