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Doom Fucker

It is time for the Doom Slayer to get his revenge on Demons

Steps. Heavy, loud, powerful. Yet, the breathing that heralded them was ragged, intense, and anxious. The scent of fear was acrid and higher, higher than the bemoaning cries of those who lived and delved within the castle.

The purely Gothic hallways stretched on and on, their obsidian walls reflecting the crimson light coming from the sconces, the flames, and the corrupted power coursing through the architecture’s veins, tracing the path ahead.

The further the steps delved, the more refined the adornments became. The more dense the gold became on the statues of the Demons, brandishing spears and weapons. And the more pungent was… The scent of vices and desires.

Still, the steps continued, stomping on the fine dais as they passed through one low-arching threshold, passing by a few braseros tended to by startled servants. And finally, those steps ascended the stairs, meeting with the silk mat that came from the mortal worlds, of origins that intermingled the silk with a bestial pelt at the center.

But the steps continued, the breath ragged, the body moving, the fingers twitching, the jaw clenching, the lungs burning. Many a servant stood on the way, only to be swept aside as the hallways became grander, the number of servants increased… And finally, there was the throne room with the Lord sitting on it.

“Master! Master! He’s here! He’s here!”

“I know,” commented back the Lord, taking another bite of those “peaches”, a fruit that exploded in juice when those sharp teeth dug into the soft flesh before gripping the pit inside and spitting it out. “He is here, at last. It was bound to happen.”

“Wh-What should we do? Sir? I! The guards are ready to intercept him!”

“Tell them to lie down. Open the gates and stay out of the way. If he has mercy on them, they should be thankful and refrain from backstabbing him. Only idiots would try that trick.”

A chuckle followed as the Lord continued to recline on his seat of power, a large throne made of the same obsidian as the walls. But a red drape had been stretched over the central elongated splat, while gold peppered the armrest, with each a jewel as large as a fit at the end.

It was glorious, it was pure luxury, it was… Nothing against the danger that loomed.

But the Lord kept reclining, passing one leg over one armrest, the torso over the other, while his scant armor would do nothing to protect him. His flesh, ashen colored, was largely exposed. Only a harness cinched his chest; his arms had bracers, but the skin tensed from the muscles coiling underneath. And the skirt he wore, well, it was heavy and had many sequins attached to it, but it meant nothing in combat.

Mere exposure, ostentation. That was his armor’s purpose, and today… he hoped, it might not bite him.

“Well. I hope he will not break much,” commented the Lord, watching as his servants began to huddle away, hiding behind their empty baskets or the gifts they were to offer to the Lord. Their impish features didn’t hide the fear or the horror drawn on their emaciated and scaly trait, but the Lord saw it. His red eyes scanned them then… He raised one arm, one hand, and swept. A signal. “Scamper”.

They fled, crying and wailing, hoping for their lives as he was coming, and Demonkind was terribly afraid of him. It would be, it had to be. But it was no denial that the Lord wanted this… And so… As the heavy steps resumed, not of a servant, a guard, a general, or anyone close, the Lord glanced. He felt the aura and smelled the stench of demonic blood before he arrived.

And seeing him in person. What a sight to behold. The Lord had studied that green armor, made by the Demons’ enemy. It was a construction, potentially to harness its wearer. Smart, but foolish. Oh, so foolish as the Lord peered at the bulging muscles visible here and there, setting the confirmation that there was someone alive underneath that armor and pelt.

Already, the arms were lifting the shield and shotgun, a vision so familiar the Lord could see it with his eyes closed. And then, the helmet.

Some data brokerage allowed the Lord to know of the Doom Slayer’s face, of his identity, how he got… here. But the man before was nothing compared to the legend currently walking the halls. Ascending the stairs, stomping on the silk and pelt.

And the Lord’s heart thumped faster as he lifted one arm, still reclining, and… Two metallic barrels cropped up on his left and right, almost on the Slayer’s path. However, they were not weapons or turrets, nor anything dangerous. At least, not to what was assumed to be a human, underneath all the conditioning.

“Welcome. Slayer. I was waiting for you.”

Silence. No. A low grunt as the helmet fixated on the Lord, then back on the… Gifts.

An armor, a perfect copy of what he had.

It had been obtained through careful analysis and reverse engineering. It had been through cautious research that they stripped away what the Maykrs used to control him. Such tricks were not above demons, but the Lord… Was better to show his hand and genuine interests.

Still, the Slayer’s shotgun continued to dance while he scanned the armor. And then, the offered weapon. Another creation, similar to what he used, but more refined. Hell had no end of talented craftsmen.

“You might ask yourself, what is this, or why am I not fighting you? You can scan the whole place, parse my castle, you won’t find any enemy willing to fight you,” said the Lord, huffing and reaching for the basket at his feet, grabbing another peach.

Silence. The shotgun was still pointed at the Lord. But the Slayer approached the Armor, watched where the control unit would be in his original armor… And where it was missing on the provided copy.

“When we heard of you, I was tasked to find a fault in your armor. In yourself, Slayer. I was given the information on your armor and how to exploit it. Instead, I stripped away what the Maykrs used to control you.”

Silence again. But the eyes scanned the Lord before returning to the Armor, taking one of the presented bracers. At least, he wasn’t going to kill him outright.

“I know of your feud with us. I do not… Partake in it, if this would help.”

The shotgun twitched; it didn’t seem to help. Better words had to be employed.

“Argent D’Nur fell. The Maykrs betrayed you. Your crusade leaves you with nowhere else to go but Hell, to kill Demons.”

Shotgun twitching. But less. The Slayer put the bracer back, then went to examine the armor.

“My kind wounded you twice, thrice, if not more. But I offer a pact, something I cannot break, even willingly.”

Nothing. But the shotgun didn’t move from the Lord as he bit into the peach. The fruit’s taste was sweet, cloying, almost dangerous.

“I will help you offer you weapons, armors, and security in this domain. I will help you hunt the Marauders, the corpses of your former fellows.”

Marauders. Night Sentinels. Resurrected corpses twisted by Hell’s powers. They were powerful, dangerous, and far more numerous than the Slayer. But they were… a menace. An evidence of Hell’s meddling far beyond the war.

And the shotgun lowered. The helmet turned toward the Lord.

“You think I am stupid. You consider this a potential trap. But you know the interest, as you have no way to access the deepest reaches of Hell. Truth is, you need someone to guide you toward your next target. It was through luck and determination that you came here.”

The shotgun… Dropped. Alas, logic. It worked.

Therefore, the Lord pointed at the armor stand.

“Inside the right bracer, there is a device similar to what you use with the information on your next target. They are a facility holding and probably torturing Argentas, like your fellow Night Sentinels.”

Silence.

“I cannot act against it for fear I will be exposed. But if you destroy it, you will find I am right, and I can provide more for you. But you can kill me, here and now.”

The shotgun was raised, pointed at the Lord… But the Slayer grabbed the bracer, lifted it again, and then… Attached it to his belt, letting it dangle like a trinket.

For an instant, the Lord held his breath. It was a gamble. The Slayer could as well kill him, try to ransack the castle, and find the information himself.

It was a possibility the Lord knew of, accounted for. It was all a gamble.

Then… The Shotgun lowered, and the Slayer turned to the copy of the shotgun, the recreation he grabbed from the stand before stomping away. His steps echoed through the halls, leaving the Lord’s heart thumping through his chest in a deafening song, one that continued even when the echoed steps had turned to silence.

“My… Lord? What happened?” dared a voice, slipping through one of the hidden doors. Steadily, the servants were coming back, helping themselves in the rooms while, with a hand motion, the Lord sent the barrels back underground.

“I happened to have dealt with the Slayer momentarily. Confirm with our soldiers that the Slayer has access to our portal network… And never to raise arms against him.”

“Sir?”

“The Slayer is willing to listen.”

-

Many Demons shuddered at the mere mention. No, beyond that, they often lose their control and shoot at the man. It was through sheer discipline and a few quick shots that incidents involving the Demon Slayer were avoided.

However, as time passed and the Slayer returned again and again, those incidents became increasingly sparse. All the while, the Lord’s domain had to be repurposed.

The Demon Slayer didn’t seem to care about the people, but they were allowed to follow him through the portal back to the Castle.

It was… A test. It had been a test; it could only be so. And to answer it, the Lord had to divert a part of his attention to feeding the Argenta that had been kept within the facility, showing a willingness to help.

It was no doubt the Lord was aware of what the Slayer was thinking: “If that alliance were to show any cracks, it wouldn’t take much to shoot you.”

Walking on a tightrope, juggling between the other Lords’ influence, and then on his domain, while facing the Slayer, was an effort not many would be so willing to undergo.

Even now, as the Lord remained lying on his throne, watching the Slayer examining a new addition to his Shield. The current blades had gone dull, so new ones were provided for the Slayer, as well as more reinforcement for his bracer blades.

The Human hadn’t changed his helmet, not that the Lord provided any. But his wariness was palpable, even now.

“Does that suit you? The weapons? Or do you need anything else?” asked the Lord, going for apples this time. A slightly more acidic but pleasant fruit, to his palate.

The Slayer didn’t answer in words; he never did, but he grunted. Then pointed to his front plate, where a significant dent was visible. And his plasma gun, the technology was showing its age. And the butt of it was… Well, almost going to pieces.

A snap, and one of the demonic servants hastily came, trembling, holding out a basket in which the Slayer threw his weapon. Trust.

“We will fix your weapon in no time. I imagine you need the next coordinates. I already sent them to your armor while you were hunting. The portal is ready.”

By then, the Slayer was expected to turn away and move, leaving behind the Castle, the Lord, the Servants… And the many Argentas that were taking refuge there.

But no, this time he stood still and crossed his arms, grunting.

“Hmm? What? Are you curious? About me? Why do I do this?” asked the Lord, answering to each nod or slight changes in the facial expression with another question.

“Good question,” commented the Lord… He pondered, taping his exposed belly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Do you feel hungry?”

No answer, but the fingers twitched.

“Fine. I was merely asking for your comfort. But to your inquiry. I was… Asked to find weaknesses in your armor. But I found… An oddity. A singularity.”

A grunt. Encouraging?

“No matter who tries to control or face you, you crush them. The odds are against you, the world itself might fall on you, but you will prevail. It is not a matter of if but when.”

The Demon took another bite, then dropped the half-eaten fruit.

“I was sure you would come to me, because your crusade will it so. You want us dead and away, for what happened to your world. Your homeworld. I wish I could have stopped this, if it meant avoiding…”

The hands twitched.

“The danger of dealing with you.”

The hands stopped.

“Yes. You are a danger, even now. I know the moment I show a weakness or even show a hint of betrayal, unwillingly, you will kill me, ransack my home, kill my subordinates, and take what is necessary to continue your crusade.”

The Lord even chuckled, shaking his head.

“As it is, I am on borrowed time. I am borrowing as much as possible, as there is no clear way to show you with complete and determined cooperation. Hence, I am doing all this. For you. Do this answer please you?” asked the Lord, raising an osseous eyebrow.

The Slayer didn’t answer. He would never. The information stated that he once spoke, but stopped and closed himself in a mutism. Something the Maykrs must have worsened.

But his eyes, his body, his hands, spoke for him.

Even now, as the Slayer pointed at the Lord, and grunted.

“Hmm? What do you need?” asked the Lord, watching the Slayer approaching, taking the last steps to the throne. Almost a whisper away from the Lord. But he didn’t seem angry or about to crush. He… Was trying to communicate something?

The Lord straightened himself, the eyebrows raised. But the grunts continued. Then continued until the Lord stood up.

And… The Slayer sat in his stead, taking his role.

The Slayer sat, his arms on the armrests, and had his visor fixated on the Lord.

Lord… Who chuckled, then erupted into laughter, reaching for his forehead.

“That’s… That’s all you wanted?” he asked, between fits, wheezing and trying to control himself. A vain effort, but an effort nonetheless shown as he took deep breaths, eased, relaxed… And finally sighed, on the mute and silent Human.

“Well. You can sit on it. It is not so comfortable. You can guess why I avoid sitting on my throne,” commented the Lord, nodding and taking one step back. “You can have it. If that’s what you wanted to test.”

Then… As amused as before, the Lord saw the Slayer raise his index finger and twirl it.

“I must… Dance?” laughed the Lord, again. He turned on himself, in a pose similar to a ballerina from the mortal realms. Before he bowed forward.

“There is no point in trying to anger me, Slayer. But your attempt is amusing. You can continue to test me.”

There was a grunt. But then, the Slayer stood up. He relaxed his grip, looked at the Lord, his visor focused… And then stomped away, ready for his next crusade.

“Amusing.”

-

Amusing were the attempts of the Slayer to get on the Lord’s bad side. In a way, it seemed the Human had become… Unwilling to kill him? Was he looking for justification or something else? Such an idea was a mere guess, an opportune notion coming from the Lord’s inquisitive mind.

But as the Slayer returned, he willingly tested the Lord.

First was the request for the Lord to bring the Slayer’s weapons, carrying the guns in a basket like the servants. Then, there were the requests for more weapons, for the excesses the Lord indulged in.

It devolved, with a list provided by the Argentas, explaining they were speaking on their kind and the Slayer’s behalf about changing their quarters, making them better. Soon enough, more of the Castle’s resources were spent on the “refugees” imposed onto the Lord.

Luckily enough, the places the Slayer ruined were ripe with resources and could be taken.

It could be considered like a blossoming alliance, a symbiotic relationship.

Except for the Slayer’s constant probing, bringing even another Lord to the throne room.

Just so the Slayer could kill it before the Lord’s eyes, an attempt at testing.

The blood splatter had been a mess to clean, but the traces had been removed from the pelt and silk by the time the Slayer returned… This time, with leather? He was only holding a little square of leather, which he handed directly to the Lord before sitting and grunting.

“What? Wearing it? It is… So small,” considered the Lord, no longer having to spend time to understand the Slayer’s grunts.

Still, the Lord examined the fabric that was… Well, a loincloth? Ought to be. Though the size was so small, it could be considered a handkerchief. One that was so small, it was barely covering the Lord’s palm.

More grunts.

“You never cease to amuse me. But fine.”

Still amused and somewhat curious, the Lord held the loincloth as he removed his armor. Ostentatious to a fault, the metal wasn’t coming off as easily as practical armors. Nevertheless, the buckles were giving away soon enough under the Demon’s touch, the attachments undoing, the straps dropping. The shoulder pads were the first, followed by the bracers, the boots, and the leg protections. Then, as the harness dropped, the Slayer’s visor seemed fixated on the Demon.

On a body that was ashen, yes. But muscular and lean. Rather long, more lanky than natural humans, with protruding bones along the articulations or the back. Even the Demon’s face was close to that, in a sense, he had a few human traits, but modified to a point he could be compared to a Marauder’s appearance: human but twisted. The cheeks were gaunt, the cheekbones jutting, the red eyes sunken, the head covered with horns and spikes until the scalp was barely visible under the dark growth.

It all culminated as his fingers descended along his elongated waist, going to his belt and skirt, which he dropped, revealing his genitals.

Genitals that were… Imposing. Clearer, but still ashen, maybe like wood ashes… The Lord’s genitals were long and impressive, reaching kneelength for an individual that was beyond human standards. The cock itself was uncut, but the flesh was bulbous and “spiky”, with a few protrusion along the veiny length.

As for the testicles, they were low hanging, inside a glabrous scrotum that wasn’t even presenting a raphe. It was… Like a perfect pouch, with two orbs inside the size of oranges. And the Lord, unafraid of exposing it, had his hands on his waist… Then he unfurled the loincloth, placing it above his genitals. However, the leather was so thin that it was impossible for it to fit around his waist. Therefore, the Lord had to hold out the leather square that was… Well, barely covering a fourth of the genitals. No. Way less.

And he laughed, chuckled as the Slayer examined him.

“Here we are. I hope this little joke satisfied you,” laughed the Lord.

And he laughed again, watching the fist close and the Human grunt.

Indulging the Slayer, the Lord approached then, his osseous heel digging into the mat and tiles while he came, closer and closer… Until he was only a breath away, and the Slayer extended one hand.

That was new, strange. But before the Lord could question himself on what to do, the Slayer had his hands going underneath the Lord’s ballsack, reaching for it. The greasy gauntlet wasn’t what was expected, nor was it a gentle lover’s touch. But it was not a crushing grip, for which the Lord was somewhat grateful.

The fingers, cold and metallic, danced on the glabrous skin. They lifted it, touched it, stroked it. And then, with a sigh, the Lord felt blood rush to his groin. It was a natural reflex, but the darker and redder cocktip started to present itself as the foreskin receded, pulled by the blood throbbing through.

“You got me, here, Slayer. You are satisfied with your inquiry?” asked the Lord, almost ready to see the Slayer release his grip and send him away with one hand movement. But no, the Slayer remained fixated on the sight. On this… On the Lord’s cock slowly throbbing, erect… Powerful as it rose and pushed upward, reaching a bend in an approximation of an erection, not fully there.

A grunt.

“What do you mean? You are curious?”

Another grunt.

“We have them because we can fuck, too. We do not have much need, since our armies are immortal and infinite. But we can do it for pleasure. It has been…. Years since I indulged it in,” commented the Lord, shaking his head with a slight grin.

Another grunt.

“You can think of it as a joke. And this is true. I wouldn’t mind learning about the human way. I have my fair share with Argenta and other worlds, but humans. No… You, the Slayer?”

The fingers dug into the testicles, not aggressively. But the other hand twitched. And a grunt.

“Sadly. It is me and a select few. Not every general is yearning for this. Worse, a few of my potential partners were felled by you.”

The pressure on the scrotum heightened, the fingers dancing on the skin, pinching it further.

But the pleasure, the sight tension, was an edge the Lord was familiar with. And he sighed, feeling his cock throbbing harder, with more blood rushing to it.

His cock pointed up, with the spikes seemingly growing without even piercing the skin’s surface. No… They wouldn’t hurt; they were soft, soft like feline spines.

Nevertheless, the Lord was fully aware of what was happening below and with a glance, he confirmed even a droplet of precum had coalesced at his cocktip, forming a perfect bead that ran along and down the cock’s underside.

The musky aroma, similar to sulfur and iron, filled the room, the place, the air itself until it was all the Lord could breathe: his own scent, his own stench of needs and desire. And he glanced at the sitting Slayer, watching and noting the visor still fixated on him.

“I do not accuse you by any means. It wasn’t personal, it was… Business for you. But shall you say we have our… own business?” asked the Lord, chuckling to himself and putting his hand on his hips.

The hands stopped. The fist clenched and unclenched. The visor barely moved. But there was a grunt. A confirmation.

“I have a room ready.”

By room, the Lord meant, of course, his bedroom. But it wasn’t a detail he felt forced to divulge. Rather, he merely walked the Slayer to the place, strutting around with a lack of care, despite his erection pointing the way forward.

“I know you’d prefer Succubus. Sadly, those were… Killed in an extermination, eons ago,” commented the Lord, shrugging. “Females. Their bodies would have befit you and the Argenta, I presume. But we will never know.”

It was true, all true. But the Slayer didn’t comment. Or so, he grunted. But it was less of an affirmation, more of a “move along” grunt he was so talented in giving.

Even when they entered the opulent bedroom, passing by an open threshold and through a purple veil made of silk to a place that had… Well, many beds, each located on different levels of stairs. In between, a red water ran through, thinner than blood, but having a strange smell that confirmed it wasn’t merely “water”.

Dangling chandeliers, of bones and steel, brought that same eerie crimson that bathed the castle. Blue Ivy, growing from the top down, added itself to the dangling drapes, forming sometimes thin walls as they reached for the water.

In a way, if all the castle had been gothic and ordained, that room was pure chaos with Hell’s nature mixed in the architecture.

“Hmmm… which bed? Do you have a preference for the padding? Soft? Hard? In between?” commented the Lord, one hand to his chin and his heels clicking on the floor as he advanced amidst the row, glancing at the traces of furniture merged with the stone. But he heard a bed creak and a grunt.

A turn and…

“The first choice. It’s good enough,” shrugged the Lord, tagging along, climbing the few steps to the bed and finding the Doom Slayer rolling against it, his armor… Oddly out of place.

“I suggest you strip before we do anything. Unless you want your blades to play with the mattress,” laughed the Lord, watching something that was almost unheard of. No, unseen. Through all the years he’d been studying the Slayer, it was the first time he saw him… At a loss. No, confused.

The Slayer was incapable of resting and relaxing? It was not improbable. It was… Logical.

And so, the Lord stepped away, and turned his back, feeling his erection go down and a bit of his excitation, replaced by endearment.

“I will not watch you strip. Take your time,” commented the Lord, glancing at the ceiling, with the few windows dug through the stone, revealing the sunless sky above.

Then, at the other unmade bed, the one he used one day ago. His servants had forgotten it? Still, the Lord joined his hands behind his back and heard… yes, a grunt.

And he turned.

“Need help?”

His smile was carnivorous, treacherous. But it was meant to be genuine as the Lord turned to see the Slayer stripped of his cape, of his bracers, boots…. Even on his frontal chest piece. Remained then the Helmet and the… Pants.

Obviously, the pants. And the Slayer had one hand opening above them, forthcoming.

“Oh. So you want me to remove it for you? How ludicrous,” said the Lord, his voice suave but still mocking. Without the blades, there was less danger in poking fun at the Slayer. Even if his strength was not to ignore.

Even now, it was impossible to deny the Slayer had endured his fair share of battle. That chest was peppered with scars and hair, the arms tensing and uncoiling regularly. And those fists, they might not be as big as the Lord’s. But they were calloused, covered with scars, and had signs of fractures.

Dangerous mittens.

Mittens, the Lord tried his best to ignore as he reached for the Slayer’s pants, touching and examining the mechanisms. It was one thing to know the schematics to the tip of the finger, able to detect whatever point of failure had led to the armor partially breaking down. But nothing like feeling the heat emanating from someone else’s body, someone as threatening, as dangerous.

The Lord’s breath was quick, almost raspy, as he touched the belt, found the metal lock, and pressed on it. Steam escaped from the mechanism as the pressure was released. The belt slipped, dropped. Then, it was the turn to the articulations, liberating each knee. The frontal protections were quickly removed, revealing the scars-striken body below. Such a wondrous and deviant body.

Then, it was the back, pulled and pushed away, while the Lord started to inhale the Slayer’s aroma, letting his nose tingle with that touch of powder.

“You smell great, Slayer,” he dared to comment, ignoring the grunt as he finally moved to the secured codpiece. It was ironic that the armor was so centered about the codpiece, making it almost the most difficult prize to reach.

But like every treacherous trial, the reward was all the more tempting as the Lord noted the steam escaping from the lock mechanism. He removed the final part, the “thong”-like part, until the Slayer’s genitals dropped and were deliciously exposed.

Those testicles were fuzzy, heavy, massive, and downright unusual for a human. They were disproportionate to the body, enough for the Lord to glance at those low-hanging fruits and coin them on the body improvement made to the Slayer by the Maykrs.

The cock? It was similarly monstrous and daring. It did not have the spines like the other demons, or the metallic improvement of those who compensate.

In return, however, it was bright red with a defined tip, the cut foreskin leaving a relatively smooth and bare organ, without any distinct frenum or wrinkles. It was clean, proper… But it smelled. Reeked of human musk, of human fluids.

“I am glad the Maykrs never dared to maim such a prize,” commented the Lord, approaching his mouth to the organ, extending a long and tentacle-like tongue he wrapped around the spire. Spire that was, with each grunt from the slayer, growing stiff, rigid, and higher. Higher, and with it more of that stench that permeated the Human’s hairy groin, from the tufty pubes to the testicles.

And the Lord, unable to resist, pushed the cocktip against his lips, finding the flavor all the more intense. And yet, revealing hints of an aftertaste, something that was almost refined. Almost… Adequate for a place of vices and perversions.

“My… My,” said the Lord, prying his lips away after one minute of sampling. He couldn’t even stop licking them, trying to mix his saliva with the remnants of precum sticking to the tongue. “You are… Unique.”

A grunt and a slightly tilted head. He didn’t know?

The Lord chuckled, leaning forward, pressing his cheekbones against the stiff shaft while he stroked it, his red eyes fixated on the Slayer himself, trying to peer through the helmet’s visor to get a glimpse of the Human’s emotions.

“It might be something from the Maykrs. Or naturally coming from you. But you are… Unique.”

As he commented, the Lord retreated, passed a clawed digit along the Human’s cock’s underside, pushing the organ higher and higher to align it with his mouth again. But this time, without the surprise, the Lord had enough willpower to offer a chaste kiss merely. An irony within Hell.

“Your flavor has something strange, tantalizing. It takes me so much just to resist it. If it were a lesser Demon? They’d be unable to resist you. Whatever orders you have, whatever desires you need. They would answer it as soon as they tasted this… Gift. Slayer. Truly. This is your most dangerous weapon in Hell, and you’ve never bothered to employ it?”

A grunt. But the Slayer didn’t close his fists. No, he crossed his arms, his head still tilted.

“With it, you could crush us all. Make us thrive under your heels, as long as that flavor is bestowed to us, in smell or…” said the Lord, trembling as he took another lick, already feeling the tingle when he wasn’t actively licking it. “Or taste. This is a weapon.”

A scoff. And a hand reaching for the Lord’s head, gripping it with those dangerous mittens. However, far from crushing the Lord’s skull, it was rather guiding the Lord in… Taking the length in.

An order, an effort, that was barely resisted by the Lord as he gladly, greedily, and with many gargles, swallowed the cock itself until it bulged within his throat.

It proved, by that instant, the Lord did not need air as he didn’t choke. In return, he began to suck on the organ, his lips outstretched and somewhat pulled as the Slayer began to pump his hips, akin to the same killing machine he’d been. Rather, this time, the silent human was fucking a Demon’s mouth, and the sound of his testicles hitting the Lord’s chin filled the room as much as the Lord’s moans as he was filled by that desired and pleasant cock.

One… he couldn’t resist licking, not even when he was pulled back enough for the tip to get free. Even at that instant, his tongue would dart, coil, stroke, explore, and leave no place untouched as, even with the saliva coating it, the flavor remained as strong as before. No, even stronger.

It was a drug. A poison. An addiction of a new type, form, and substance. His red eyes couldn’t stop focusing on it, watching the veins bulging under the red skin or watching the thick mushroom-tip throb with each of the Slayer’s heartbeat.

“Ahh… Such a drug, Slayer. I am almost… At the limit of my will. My wits are eroding from this perfume. Please… Take it away or I shall lose myself and you an ally.”

Even then, the Lord wanted nothing more than to lose himself, to have his face pressed against those genitals that were so defiantly simple, unadorned, and yet capable of breaking his will.

An end that was almost fitting, desired… And nary arriving the moment the Slayer pressed his cock against the Lord’s face and forced the Demon’s face against the base of that cock, where the precum would be accumulating as much as the sweat; the place where the separation between the genitals was the thinnest, and therefore where the flavor was its strongest.

Enough for the Lord’s eyes to roll, for the red to almost disappear behind closed lids while a long breath filled the lungs… And ended with a satisfied sigh.

“Such ecstasy. I… Could live smelling it.”

A grunt. No, two more.

“Yes… Yes… on the condition I do not betray you. I had no reason to do so before, not at that moment. But now? Why would I hastily throw away what is a boon given to this place? Argent energy? Or any other form of riches? They will soon mean nothing if you were to employ this.”

No. It would upend Hell’s careful systems. If something as strong and pungent were released, as addictive, no Lord would resist. Everything would crumble. Probably the Slayer’s crusade would end.

And so… As the Lord leaned, kissing one orb a kiss while lifting the second, he sighed.

“Slayer… If you use this. No one… No one will resist you. Not even can’t- Urff!”

Stopped through his proclamation, the Lord was pushed away, his head hitting the bed. And somehow, it was not the end of the Slayer’s hasty actions.

As the Lord was pushed aside, forced onto his posterior and back, he watched as the Slayer grunted and pointed to the bed, urging the Lord to climb on it, and then… What? Lay on it?

“What do you plan to-… Oh.”

The Lord’s smile grew again as he was on his backside and elbows, observing the Slayer climbing on the bed and… Squatting above the Lord’s erection, his body at work. The thighs tensed, and the hamstrings bulged. But in the end, the Slayer was above the Lord’s cock, with his balls almost dangling against the Demon’s cock, while said cock was… Well, almost reaching the Human’s puckered entrance. Finding the tight muscles, finding the virgin rim, and the unprepared entrance.

“You might want to reconsider this action. You have never-… Hmph. Fine,” said the Lord, watching the clenched fist.

More than that, he felt the tight rim pressed against his wide tip, forcing on the shaft like an unyielding door, an unyielding passage. Leaving only one of two options: the door opened. Or the Demon’s cock would be crushed.

And soon, the pain was palpable for the Lord as he watched the Slayer’s contracted and focused expression through the visor, as he sensed the muscles coiling on those arms.

“You… Should… Relax,” heaved the Lord, gripping the dirty sheets and sighing, his legs stretching further.

A grunt.

“Yes. Breathe. Slow. Slower. Or you’ll crush it.”

For a moment, the pressure continued. The Lord was about to guess the Slayer was indeed looking to crush his cock. But the pressure, the pain, the weight, it ended. And the Slayer readjusted his posture, going back to squatting above… But with one inch above the Demon’s cock.

However, this time, he was slower. And his entrance had been smeared with demonic precum. Only remained for the muscles to relax, for the tension to ease, for the control to be released.

“Breathe… Let it… Go. Do not… Control it,” said the Lord, trying to guide the Doom Slayer into stopping his brutal attempt and doing something that was… Better.

Better, as finally, after much encouragement, the muscles, the rim, the hole itself, relaxed. And the Demon’s cock could start to push against it and then… Press inside.

A hiss.

“You never took a cook, Slayer. This is a first time. One that hurts without experience and preparation. But I think you can out-HRMPH!”

This time, it was the Lord to grunt, to hiss, to moan, and to have his horns pierce the mattress as he felt the Slayer’s groin hips lower brutally, and with it, more of the Demon’s cock delved within the velvety, a bit too dry, and extremely tense tunnel.

With it, his spines followed, while his precum flowed in ample amounts in the orifice, trying to quench the flesh that had been unprepared and would never yield.

The Lord’s red eyes almost bulged. His entire shape tensed like a bowstring. And for a moment, the pressure continued as the Doom Slayer lowered himself, hellbent on enduring the pain and taking the Demon inside him.

Folly as it was, it was… Not surprising. It was something you’d expect from the human whose crusade had been to take Hell by himself.

Therefore, as the pressure reached its apex, and the Lord watched the Slayer’s genitals drop on his belly, then the posterior… The red eyes met with the visor, and the moment was marked by the two individuals’ heaving breaths.

“That was… Dangerous. Someone with a lesser body… Might have died, Slayer,” chuckled the Lord, giving off a hint of worry. The Slayer remained seated, his belly visible bulging from the Lord’s outstanding erection, marking the veiny length from within, but no traces of the spines that covered the length.

A grunt.

“Well, Slayer. To continue, it is a matter of going up and down. Are you certain you can endure this?” asked the Lord, offering a glimmering smile.

One he swallowed back, feeling his joy turn to ashes as the Slayer lifted his hips again. With it, the Slayer’s inner walls remained as tight as on the descent. Meaning, the spines were pulled along. Not osseous, they merely bent the other way due to the pressure on them, making the Lord wince and narrowly cry out in pain.

Such experience, such sensation, it was overwhelming as he watched the Slayer’s ascension until the cocktip was almost out… And… The Slayer descended.

Again, the descent felt like a hit. No, it felt like the Slayer was pummeling the Lord’s belly with his testicles. The cry that followed, then, was pain without pleasure. Without satisfaction, the Slayer returned to his back and forth. As his body, turned machine by the Maykrs, became a tool to use and abuse, to break and redo.

He wasn’t waiting for the Lord to catch his breath. He wasn’t waiting for the Lord to find pleasure. He wasn’t even waiting for himself to relax.

It was… Brutal.

It was… Violence.

And it was through it that the Lord found himself wanting and yearning. It was through it that the Lord found the limit of pain and where, beyond it, it became bliss. Where it became an addiction, a sensation he desired to experience again, through the Slayer’s hand.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t shared. Such things were not to be found in Hell.

And so… As the pummeling hastened. As the hips pistoned so quickly, the precum started to spurt free like a faucet… Well, the Lord began to moan and groan. His eyes had been rolling for so long, but now they were almost fixed to the back of his head.

His limbs burned like they had been devoured by hellfire. And his entire self was a broken thing, broken and breaking by the Slayer’s hand as he wasn’t… Willing. To stop.

At all.

How long did it last? How long did the Lord last? How long did the Slayer last?

It was no surprise the Slayer lasted the longest, his cock erect but without finding any release or shot. He found the Lord scrambling for his wits, forced to ejaculate once by an orgasm outright stolen from him. One followed by many more as the Slayer proved himself relentless and an unstoppable force of nature.

For hours, it continued. For hours; it stretched… Until finally, the Slayer pulled free.

With a grunt, the Slayer pulled away, leaving his asshole gaped and dripping with demonic cum. His cock was still hard, his testicles red from hitting. And below, the Lord was a mess. Fluids were all over his groin, saliva dripped from his mouth. And if he was gaunt before, he looked downright ill as the Slayer’s visor was above that face. And a grunt.

“Give me… A moment,” mumbled the Lord.

Wrong answer. Not the one the Slayer had been looking to get as he grabbed the Lord by the skull. He gripped that face hard, the fingers digging into the ashen skin. And one moment later, the Slayer was fucking the Lord’s face, taking that throat until he was to cum.

How long?

It took a long time, such a long time the Lord was starting to lose track of time. No, had lost it after more than five minutes of ceaseless face-fucking, of feeling the Slayer’s nuts smacking against his head.

Against his forehead, too, when the Slayer threw him on the bed, and narrowly sat on his face, intending on fucking that throat in the alignment.

Those testicles, fuzzy and hairy, were like mortal boulders hitting and leaving sore spots in their wakes as they smacked, hit, beat… And left behind their stench, sticking to the Lord’s face, to his nose, to his lips as much as the frothing precum coming all over his gaunt traits.

And during no time was he allowed to rest.

He wasn’t given respite as long as the Slayer wasn’t done with himself.

And the result was a constant “plap” echoing through the bedroom, the corridors, the domain itself. Completed with huffs and grunts, with muffled groans, with sighs… All culminating, of course, with the Slayer holding and narrowly crushing the Demon’s jaws with his bare hands as he held him tightly.

So tight, the Human’s articulations whitened. Every articulation, every part of the Slayer’s body. Every part of the Human was then overtaken by that potent orgasm… By that sudden jet of cum pouring free from his cock and groin right for inside the Lord’s throat and belly.

One jet completed by many others as the Human’s testicles, clenched and pulled, dropped again to smack the Lord’s face, only then to be pulled once more. Again… Each time, the jet was digging deeper, repainting in white the Demon’s guts, filling them. Filling them with pure Slayer spunk, up until that thin and elongated belly showed traces of inflation. The muscles were erased first, then the skin stretched, then the tension arose across the entire Lord’s body, his fingers and hands twitching, while the pressure kept incrementing from that ceaseless flow.

The skin rounded up. The flat surface gained that bump that seemed then to protrude, and then be a graft on the Lord’s belly. The surface, glabrous, was covered with sweat that seemed to reflect the light as that plumpness became more and more obtrusive to movement, to action, to combat itself.

And then… With a growl, the Slayer pulled away.

But the deed was done, the damage inflicted as the Lord remained silent and dazed, huffing like a beast of burden, following old reflexes as those red eyes were fixated on the Slayer upside down. The legs were too tense, too sore. The arms couldn’t fully wrap over that portly belly, swelled to impossible proportions.

But that face… Oh, that face was changing. It contorted, with a tongue starting to coil, to dance, to collect whatever remnants of the Slayer’s spunk to bring it to his lips. And the Lord grinned, chuckled… And then sighed.

“I have… An idea for you, to finish your crusade. Slayer… But first… Fuck me. Until you are done.”

-

“Our Lords will receive you shortly. Shall I le-”

“I won’t wait like any commoner. Lead the way, Slave.”

With a growl, the Duke stomped. His hoofed steps hit the tiled floor before the well-dressed Human. A slave, he assumed, though there were no collars to be seen. Nevertheless, the hulking Demon had no fear for a slave, only for the Slayer that had overtaken that Domain.

It was known the Slayer had someone there, a mere Lord, acting as a friend and ally, weaponizing the monstrous Human to take down his enemies.

But lately… It had gone too far, too quickly. And the Duke couldn’t stop licking his lips, his elongated elk-like face mixing absolute ire and irrepentant hunger.

“Well… As you wish. But the sight-”

“The sight will be your guts if you do not bend to my will, slave,” growled the Duke as his fingers twitched. Strength… He could break that slave’s skull.

“As you wish. Follow me.”

“Good. Your master ought to teach you manners,” said the Demon, scoffing as he strutted behind the Human, glancing at the corridors they passed by.

And something struck the armored Duke, clad in ebony and gold, as they passed by the massive arches leading to furnaces, workshops, and other areas. They were all turned off. The pipes were shut down, the red energy almost dissipated as they were crossed through another set of empty workshops, without even the lowest of Demons to man them.

Factually, most Demons were gone. Away.

More than that, the air was sick with a stench of deviance and sex. The Duke never assumed the Lord to be one to partake in such desires. He had never shown such inclination, or it would have been easier to compel the Lord in his researches.

Still, the fingers dancing through the air… The Duke watched, his curiosity tainted by fear.

Had the Slayer gone as far as to slay them all? Remove all traces of Demons within the Castle? No. The scouts continued to say the Castle was active and exporting that “Nectar” that had inundated the market, turning most Demons into addicts. Into slaves of a liquid, of a perfume, of an aroma that was definitely not from Hell.

No one knew the composition or origin, except the source, potentially the Lord. Was it linked?

“How long until we reach them?”

“Sorry. The place is quite large. We have been expanding lately, to accommodate our new production line,” commented the demure Human, nodding to himself.

“Tschh. Can’t you be more useful?” asked the Duke, his dark eyes focused on the meek and weak creature, watching it nod but not… Tremble? “I will take some nectar. From your Lord’s generosity.”

“Yes… As every guest is allowed. But it will in our Lord’s presence, since you desired so much to see them.”

The Duke scoffed, his lips licked but still dry. Always dry, always drying up unless he could get a drop of that Nectar. He shouldn’t have sampled it. But the perfume had been such a tantalizing presence. And now, like the many others, he was… Doomed.

Fated to want it.

Steadily, the corridors shifted and the architecture with it. The halls were grander, but so was grander the perfume of sex. And then of the nectar, of the aroma, of the flow that had been satisfying much of the Demons’ appetites as of late. And with a glance to his right, the Duke finally saw a Demon.

Leashed. Attached. Controlled like a mere slave. By Humans?

The Duke blinked, almost ready to stop, surprised by the sight of humans… In armor. Humans. Humans wielding weapons, training, and fighting against a Demon who seemed to indulge and talk to them in a gurgling voice.

Preposterous.

But so were the sights of Demons acting as butlers, servants, and then more. Visions that seemed to grow as the dark obsidian became marble and the dark and red theme shifted to blue, gray, and silver. As the place became less industrious but… Lively. Remnants of an old age for Hell itself.

Nevertheless, the Duke frowned and frowned some more, trying to compose with what he was shown. Until he couldn’t shake it.

“What is happening here, Human? Who is your Master? Where is he?”

“My Masters are ahead. You can see them… Now.”

The stench of Nectar had grown heavy and heady. Worse, it had made the Duke unable to resist the yearning to smack his lips and lick them. But it was true… The corridors ended, and through the threshold, the Duke could see… What looked like a throne room. Just like on the many worlds conquered by the Demons.

However, the sight was peculiar as instead of seeing a flock of Humans bowing down, or servants ready to give him his nectar… The Duke only saw… Demons.

Demons bowing down and away from him, scraping on their knees and elbows like mere pets, to show their posteriors. Plump, large, muscular, fat, saggy, firm, humongous, small. All types of demons, of all sorts, were exposed as such, keeping their postures while rune-forged chains attached their genitals to the floor.

And amidst that vision, none seemed displeased or pulling against their shackles. Their laments were closer to blubbering begging, from all sorts of languages and origins: Hell Knights, Baron of Hell, Mancubus, Vassagos, even one of the few Marauders.

They were all attached, bending over, begging and wailing for attention as they were shaking their posteriors, exposing their gaping and dripping orifices, awaiting something, for someone.

“The Duke is here! Just like you expected!”

Expected?

“Expected?” scoffed the Duke, advancing, passing by the Human as he observed the rows of broken and bound Demons. Was it the Doom Slayer’s feat? Breaking and rendering them useless? A new end. Maybe the Slayer had mellowed out and could be exploited, thought the Lord as he advanced, ascending the marble steps and the blue mat as he watched the top of the throne show its presence.

But as his ascension continued, he saw… The Doom Slayer.

His helmet couldn’t be mistaken, discolored-green plates and a visor with an impeccable sheen.

However, everything else that was the Doom Slayer, from the armor to the weapons, was gone.

The Human was naked, exposed, ready to be killed. And so, the Duke’s fingers twitched. He wanted so bad to sprint and decapitate that smug bastard. But as soon as he saw that hairy chest, the Duke sniffed… And was lost.

To that perfume, to that stench, that aroma. His mouth dropped, his legs trembled. And then, he gazed down to see the swollen and pathetic slave currently locked between the Slayer’s legs.

“Well. Here you are, Doom Slayer. Exposed and weak. It’s… I came here to kill the Lord. But it’ll be a pleasure to remove your presence from our realm.”

A gruff.

The Duke scoffed, hearing such… Primitive vocalization.

But not as primitive as the sound of someone’s throat being released, of throatslime and cum being swallowed, and a tongue darting free.

“The Slayer says you should start worshiping him if you want to be part of his harem.”

It was the Demon between the Slayer’s legs. But as he turned his head, the Duke recognized him. The former Lord. The one who had been enjoined to study the Slayer’s armor. The one who betrayed his kin.

He looked different, with a nose ring, a tongue piercing… With his body swollen and comely, seemingly befitting a whore and nothing more. Worse, it was the satisfied expression the “Lord” had while his body had been covered with all sorts of human etchings and primitive alphabet.

“What… ? Absurd. I will not bend the knee for a Human. He is worthless, and so are you. I will remove you,” said the Duke, though he couldn’t stop himself from… Licking his lips, he felt the hunger at his tongue tip.

“You want some Nectar, do you? Here’s the source.”

With that, the Lord presented the Human’s shaft, the reddish tip. And without a hint of shame, he licked the white bead forming at the tip. One drop. But the mere smell was enough to make the Duke understand: that was the Nectar. The pure, unrefined, unadulterated Nectar. In comparison, everything he had sampled and tried before was a watered-down version of what could be considered… Human cum.

And the Lord continued to lick it, squatting between the Slayer’s legs while stroking his heavy moobs.

A growl.

“Great idea… I will tell him,” said the Lord, chuckling and turning to the Duke. “The Slayer says it’s fine you won’t bend the knee for him.”

“Smart of-”

“He prefers to see you crawling on the floor.”

With that, the Lord impaled his throat on the Human’s humongous cock. He gargled, gurgled. But in the end, he did more than suck and gargle down that cock. Sure enough he did, his throat bulging so much and his stomach already starting to fill up from that cum that continued to pour, again and again.

But beyond that, the Lord raised one hand to his posterior as he turned toward the Duke. And somehow, there was… That hole.

Gaping, swollen, vertically split.

It was a cunt, one human-conquered cunt. One that had been coated with fluids and was dripping from it.

And though the Duke frowned at the sight, at watching those fingers plunge within the swollen orifice, tugging and yanking on it, his nostrils still caught whiff of that “Nectar”.

Nectar, he was forced to watch dribble and drop, forming a doll-up mount before it collapsed into a puddle that was steadily absorbed by the evacuation drains by the throne.

And then… As the Duke huffed, about to take one step, he heard the schlorp from the Lord’s throat releasing his grip… And the Demon glancing over his shoulder, inserting another finger inside his ruined orifice.

“Suck it up. You want Nectar? Take it from here,” said the Lord, chuckling and showing his smoothed teeth.

The Duke huffed, growled, then shook his head.

“I shall… Not… Lower myself to this,” he said, his voice tense.

And yet, it did not take him longer than a minute, of watching that pathetic display of a former Lord choking on a human cock, guided by the Slayer’s grunts, to go on his knees.

Only two minutes for him to crawl closer, his nose up and tongue out.

Only three for him to build up the courage to approach his lips, his tongue, his face.

And one second then… To start licking, kissing, and slurping the cum that was oozing from that ruined asshole.

He wasn’t the first. Nor would he be the last. But as the Lord kept choking on the Slayer’s cock, unable to speak or release himself, there was only one speaking voice amidst the throne room that was of importance.

One gruff, gravely, deep, powerful.

“That’s how you should serve,” he said, patting his first Slut and betrayer, happy of his new way to conquer Hell.