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The Dungeon isn’t happy.
It’s an itch under his skin, a bitter taste in his throat that makes him snappish and short, that twists the pleasure of creation into a curl of cruelty. The urge to bring in another warden, to tweak the ravager barriers, just to punish those taking advantage of the game’s limited ai.
The Dungeon didn’t like cheaters.
Tango shakes his head at the name tags in his hand. “They’re not cheating. They’re just.. gaming the system. Just because it’s not intended-”
He bends over the wave of discontent in his stomach. It’s not anger, not yet. But he needs to placate it somehow, keep it from turning truly cruel.
Cheating. Not the way.
Additional mobs is not the way. “You want them to keep playing. If they hate the game, they won’t come back.”
Challenge. Thrill. Heartbeat.
“So find another way to make ‘em excited. I can add more noteblocks to the card system, if you want jumpscares.” He wracks his brain for redstone lines that wont bork up the whole system. “Or we can adjust the hazard system, get their blood pumping-”
It’s the wrong choice of words. The Dungeon is aware, in a way he hadn’t quite intended when he’d wired it and asked it to learn. Arousal curls lower, and he definitely hadn’t meant for the Dungeon to learn this. But the Hermits were inevitable, even moreso than the initial testificating with Zedaph.
Actually, he’s surprised it took this long.
Challenge. Thrill. Blood. Heartbeat.
“I mean, yeah.” He has to laugh, or he’s gonna come in his pants, and he’s already got enough memories of these robes.. “Lemme throw it to chat, and we’ll see -urgk.”
It’s not often, that the Dungeon decides it needs an avatar. It’s like being wrapped in ice and dark wool, everything around him dim and numb, and he barely remembers the first time it had happened, designing the outside towers and his outfit in a hazy evening. At the time he’d put it down as exhaustion, but the feeling is always the same, if occasionally in different strengths.
Tango doesn’t necessarily like being puppeted. Though the Dungeon hasn’t used him for anything he would genuinely protest. Herding the ravagers, smoothing out blocks where its mobs were being tripped up, balancing the flow of the Hermit’s cards and the Dungeon’s Stumbles. He finds if he goes along with it, he has more freedom to nudge it along in less.. hurtful directions.
The Dungeon might be aware, but it’s definitely not a player. It doesn’t understand player limits, and hurts, and emotions. It can mimic some, extrapolate from what it observes while it’s ‘awake’, and above all it doesn’t like to be alone.
It likes to be used. Wants to be run, is greedy to be powered with redstone, to feel it changing and moving, to have its redstone heartbeat pumping wildly. To reach its pinnacle, and free every mob available to its max clank to chase its players.
Tango finds himself entering the Dungeon on level one, his dungeon master slippers nearly soundless as he slides over ice, drawing one ravager from the snow layers it was stuck on to follow until he slips through the tunnel and leaves it behind. He doesn’t remember who was running. The Dungeon knows it was one of its favorites, until they had learned enough to avoid its traps and pitfalls. SomeHermit who can take purposeful advantage of the few game-breaky bits left. Which brings it down to a handful, who Tango can trust to handle even his meddling.
They’ll laugh about it later, he’s sure. He’ll throw whoever it is an extra shard, so even if they don’t make the run, they’ll have another try.
He manages to take note of the empty berry bushes as he’s hurried along, watching for unclaimed treasures and embers, and the lack of keys left to despawn.
There’s a growl growing in his throat, and he doesn’t know where the Dungeon learned it. Or maybe that’s just him, finding a vocalization for the impatience that’s twisting inside. A card plays, and he holds his breath to listen for its owner.
The Dungeon already knows, dragging him in further. Towards the Crypts, skipping easily over the River of Souls, and into his favorite bottleneck.
A figure in black is creeping up the stairs, muttering quietly to himself. The tails of his bandana wave as he disappears around the corner, a gold key in his hand.
Too easy, the Dungeon impresses on him, despite the ravager that lingers on the stairway. It doesn’t even notice as he takes the left-side path, easily following Hypno’s trail. The Hermit goes straight for the Kneeling Man, dropping a key and collecting more treasure dropped from behind it as he darts for the right door, another ravager chasing behind him.
Tango takes the left-side door, a thrum from hazard open making him shiver. Hypno is watching in front of himself, never noticing him trailing behind, even though he hasn’t bothered with any of the potions in his inventory. Over the lava pits and soulsand, no hesitation at all as he chooses his path, crouch-jumps along while muttering under his breath, calm enough that Tango knows he’s feeling pretty in control here, familiar as he is with the workings of the level.
Hypno pauses on the bridge, draws another ravager towards him and ducks down into Rusty’s retreat.
The Dungeon fumes when Hypno pops back up, using the deepslate bridge to jump right over the aggro’d ravager, running for the open leaf parkour and disappearing from Tango’s sight into the water area. Tango wants to be so proud of Hypno, using the obstacles and hazards to complete his run.
The Dungeon doesn’t agree. Darkness closes in around him, though there are no wardens on this level. The ice of level 1 burns in his arms, numbs his legs as he marches through the wall, hidden access corridor linking his furious march over to the other side of the ship, just in time to nearly lose his grip entirely.
Hypno stands on the rail of the ship, a grin on his face as he checks that the rear hazard is closed. “All good, Davey Jones is not active,” and he dives into the still waters, setting off the shrieker there. The Dungeon slams the mentioned hazard open with prejudice, though Davey Jones misses by pixels as Hypno makes the shore and dashes to the doors of level 3, dropping his key in the barrel.
Seething anger grips him, the Dungeon stymied again and pushing at its restrictions. Restrictions he doesn’t have, but here inside of it, he doesn’t have access to the redstone. Hypno is already gone as the doors open for the Dungeon Master, the heartbeat of the Dungeon warring with the moving heartbeats of the wardens milling below.
The only thing that stills his stomping feet is the immediate sniffing of wardens near the stairway. His fear of sonic obliteration seems to make it through to the Dungeon; not the fear itself, he thinks, but his struggle to break free of its grip to avoid it.
Instead he pants in the hallway, half-blinded and shaking from an inner cold that he has no business feeling. The Dungeon tracks Hypno’s progress past the wardens, still upset about its futile defenses, and at the same time querying him relentlessly in its own way.
Heartbeat too slow. Catch player. Master takes, player pays. Dungeon wins.
“We’ve had this conversation.” And that’s as crazy as anything else these days, that he’s arguing with his own game. “The Dungeon wins when we play it. Not because they die, or they make it out with an artifact. Being played is winning.”
Player cheats. Player dodges all traps, escapes all mobs. Player punished. Master punishes.
“Whoa, now. We don’t-” his voice disappears along with his sight, and he almost falls to his knees with inelegant emotions pushed into him.
Frustration. Pride and anger. The love of a game well played, and disappointment when it’s not played correctly.
Master corrects. Like with the First One.
Oooh, boy. Tango groans, hardly hearing the sound himself over the nearby wail of a shrieker. The Dungeon loved Zedaph, had assigned him a special place in its memory as the First Player to run the dungeon, before it had ever opened.
And he and Zedaph, well. They had maybe celebrated a few things a bit.. enthusiastically, in some very inadvisable places.
Namely, inside the Dungeon. Before it was “the Dungeon”, and still only a game, not yet given the sentience Hermits sometimes assigned their creations. He was screwed.
He strikes that thought as the Dungeon chimes and shivers, its artifact found. His body moves without permission, backs into a convenient corner of the dark stairwell.
Hypno is screwed. And by the looks of it, he’s the one about to do the screwificating.
Hypno doesn’t dare cheer as he picks up the artifact, very, very aware of the clank he’d just generated, along with giving away his position to the nearby wardens. He’s just got to make it back up 2 levels, and he’ll have another win in the bag.
He’s not sure he’ll make it. Even sneaking, the wardens are highly upset, growling and sniffing. He hopes there’s a slime in the area. There are definitely bats. The dungeon seems even darker than before, an oppressive weight behind it that makes him feel like he’s being watched.
He smiles and swallows down a hysterical giggle, remembering the jokes they’ve told about Tango and his pet Dungeon. About how it Watches just as much as Tango does, and sometimes not as nicely. He doesn’t put much stock in it, but that’s as dangerous sometimes as placing too much faith in their builds.
Especially one so drenched in Hermit blood.
He shivers, and tells himself it’s the cold and the nearby sniffling of wardens, winding his way slowly toward the level’s exit. He’s mostly blind, navigating by feel and the few ticks that the effect wanes, until he can reach the main landing, and sneak-jump up the stairs.
There’s a figure on the stairs, waiting in the dark to pounce, and for a heart-falling moment he thinks the run is doomed.
Except the figure is player-sized, not a warden, though the darkness around their crown gave them the illusion of the blind mob. It stalks towards him, following when he backs up, and then strong hands are pinning him to the wall ruthlessly.
“Uh, hey there, are-mfgh!”
His hesitant greeting is cut off by another’s mouth, and it’s only the pixels between them that lets him recognise Tango. Who’s kissing him like one of his regular partners, tongue forcing its way into his mouth and body pressing him against the cold sculk wall, a stairblock catching his ankle..
Hypno thinks at first that Tango’s eyes are closed, the blue light of this season missing, and wonders how the Dungeon Master could have mistaken him for another Hermit. He tries to push back, to regain a little control, finally freeing his mouth to pant upwards as Tango bites down his chin and onto his neck.
“Whoa there, I think you’ve got the wrong-”
The oversized hood falls back, and Tango’s eyes aren’t closed, they’re completely black.
“We even had to pick a new safeword! Can’t use red, black or blue this season, I mean, come on! Who else’s boyfriend changes his eye color so often?”
Zedaph’s friendly gripe suddenly makes more sense, and combined with some of the not-so-whispering gossip around the waiting room fills out a map he didn’t know he had needed.
Not that the knowing helps explain what’s going on any more than it did ticks ago. Or why Tango’s hands are under his chestplate and inside his shirt, and his inventory - how even? Dungeon Master or no, that’s some-
His thoughts stutter out as his card-gifted diamond armor drops to the floor and he’s spun around, the back of his hand smacking the deepslate to save his face from doing the same. Hypno manages a quickly gasped “wha?” before his pants are yanked to his knees.
In the middle of the hallway, between wardens and ravagers, and he’s not prepared at all, not even a weak potion in his pocket. He’d already nearly maxed his clank out, but this was the furthest end to his run he could imagine. He has to think fast, take what he already knows and make it work for him, just like…
Just like Decked Out. Think on his feet, juke when he needs to. Survive.
Hypno twists under demanding hands, not to get away, but to give himself enough room to turn around, to get his own hands on his aggressor, to push open loose robes and sink to his knees between Tango and the wall. Sitting on his heels, braced against the polished blackstone stairs that line the hallway.
To buy himself time - time enough so that they both don’t regret this later.
“Potion,” he demands in as steady a voice as he can, knowing from the other Hermit’s stories of their ‘Dungeon Lackey’ that Tango carries them with him. He leans in to blow hotly against the front of Tango’s trousers, making it clear what he intends to do - to pay - for the concession.
Tango growls above him, pressing forward before allowing Hypno’s hands to roam upwards, to loosen the belt and pull the Dungeon Master’s waistband down. He hears the dull click of an inventory access, and scoops up the falling bottle before it hits the floor. The dull red sheen of a speed potion makes him wince, but it's all the time he has to spare before Tango is pushing into his mouth, already hard and uncaring of any usual niceties.
He has to make another quick decision. He can use his hands to control Tango’s rough thrusting, and save his throat. Or he can let him have his way, let saliva do its best there, and prep himself for what’s to come. Speed wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it’s better than weakness or slowness.
Hypno drops his hands along with Tango’s pants, fumbling at the not-as-familiar curved handle of a splash potion. He slaps it between his hands, catching as much of the quickly-evaporating potion as he can, and brings his fingers back to open himself. The speed effect nearly makes him stab himself, until he finds the control needed to relax into his own intrusion. The focus helps distract him from the almost clumsy forced blowjob - somewhere between his inattention and Tango’s possible possession by his own build, they’re neither of them trying to make it pleasurable.
He regrets that, just a bit. As he chokes on a particularly deep thrust, the back of his head held gently but firmly in place. A thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, smearing the trail of saliva there, and he doesn’t have the heart to look up, to see how hard Tango is fighting this. Or if he’s fighting at all.
At least the temporary lack of air has him clenching down on his own wet fingers, helping him push further in, to wiggle down against his hand as his cock brushes Tango’s diamond boot.
He can’t help his moan at the little bit of friction. Wanted or no, he’ll try to make this as good as he can for both of them, and that means leaning into what he can find. Enjoying what he can, and not fighting. Just in case.. in case Tango isn’t aware of what’s going on.
Tango pulls his head back, and he keeps his mouth lax instead of sucking, his drool slick and shiny against the cock that bounces against his tongue.
“Turn around and bend over.” Tango’s voice is an unfamiliar growl, deeper than usual and almost as echo-y as the noteblocks hidden beneath the dungeon. If he wasn’t sure before, he is now.
Strong, stone-roughened hands yank him up, forgo any sort of steadying hold to spin him back towards the hallway’s walls, and force him over the decorative stair. The flickering heat of the nearby candle is there and gone as he bends his head down and drops his elbows and wills himself to relax. A hand pushes on his spine, urging his chest nearly to the lower step, almost distracting him from the wet heat at his ass, and the tinkle of another splash potion breaking against deepslate.
He has no time to freeze, confused for a moment as a finger tugs at his hole and then Tango pushes himself inside, not nearly as fast or hard as Hypno had expected after everything else. He’s tight, and it aches, but the slow breeching is something he can handle, something-
Something slow. Hypno pants into the polished blackstone, and focuses on the curl of warmth in his chest, blinking to stall the tears as he realizes that Tango had doused himself with the last potion.
It’s enough to let him push back, to help control the slide, to ease any doubt in Tango’s mind that he would hold a grudge for what wasn’t fully his to control. To moan a little louder than he usually would, rest his knees on his elbows and steady himself for whatever the Dungeon decides to give them both.
Tango holds himself back as much as he can, which isn’t as much as he’d like. He can’t tell if Hypno’s caught on at all, or if he’s just taking it as a given that this is just another surprise of a late-stage run.
The splash potion only gives him a bare minute of slowness, enough to keep from hurting Hypno overtly, or so he hopes.
The Dungeon doesn’t seem to mind, just as long as he’s still moving, still keeping Hypno’s head down and still in control.
Correction. Heartbeat. Training. Play.
He has no idea how to tell Hypno what’s going on. What nebulous reasoning the Dungeon has to claim he’s ‘running it wrong’, or how he’s supposed to correct it.
Or if the Dungeon thinks this is all it takes.
Hypno moans, and Tango isn’t paying attention but the Dungeon is, his arm moving without his direction to knock Hypno’s arm when it reaches down, thunking it against the fancy chiseled block beside them. Hypno bucks back into his next thrust, and Tango mentally smacks himself for being so tied up in his head that he’s not taking what care he can of his unwitting partner.
Enough that he’s already too close when he leans down against Hypno’s back, pushing him even further against the cold hallway stair that wasn't really meant for this. He doesn’t know what to say, except that the Dungeon still has his control.
“Don’t break the run,” his voice isn’t his, except that it is, and is echoed by another Stumble somewhere outside of this hallway. “Rules aren’t meant to be dodged. You’ve been warned.”
Warned of what? What else can the Dungeon do, without its runners? Without him?
Orgasm takes him by surprise, though his knees are locked, his hips pressed firmly against Hypno’s, grinding mindlessly as his partner squirms beneath him. Fuck, had he even- was he-
Hypno’s hands are braced against the polished blackstone, his head bowed so much the knot of his bandana is bumping the sculk block walls. The Dungeon wants him punished, but he thinks this is far enough, to force on a friend.
Favorite runner, the Dungeon agrees, smug and content now. Not that Tango believes it for an instant. Every Hermit has been the Dungeon’s ‘favorite’ once they’re inside. True. The bastard build confirms, its accounting of the Hermits fuzzy and indistinct, its knowledge of them more their play styles than any visual input.
The Dungeon brushes the thought away, satisfied that its point has been made. Tango stomps the tiny ‘how’ down as far as it will go, already pulling back, leaving Hypno to fall forward on his own, his knees luckily falling on crumpled pants before hitting the front edge of the stairs. His own hands pull up the elegantly stitched trousers, tucking his spent cock away and rearranging his robe to its normal flare.
He has no idea what to say, and the Dungeon is tugging him away, eager to return him to the heart of it all, and to watch over its finish. The hood comes back up, and from beneath the shadow he can silently watch the slump of dark shoulders, the wispy hairs fallen free of the bandana, and the arm that tucks itself between the body and the wall.
Come splashes against the sculk block wall, and the last thing Tango sees before reentering the hidden passageway is the matching drip onto black pants.
Hypno rests his forehead against the cool sculk blocks, thankful for the soft give of them after the roughness of everything else. There’s come dripping from his ass, his knees are being slowly cut into two on the edge of the stair, and he’s not entirely certain his legs will hold him if he stands up now.
But Tango’s footsteps are fading away, outside of the level, if he’s got his bearing right. Far enough, and then the sound of rockets firing, and he’s alone again.
Or.. at least as alone as he always is, inside of Decked Out.
Inside of a build that’s watching him, and judging how he plays.
His laughter bounces eerily off the walls as he falls backwards onto his bare ass, uncaring of the come and potion remnants that smear into the polished deepslate. Let someone else wonder what caused it, he thinks, and laughs harder.
“Fucked by the dungeon,” he gasps, trying to get ahold of himself, of the tiny panicking voice that tells him he should be running far, far away, and never returning. He already knows he’ll ignore it. “Who woulda thought.”
And forces himself back to his feet, finding his diamond armor and two extra crowns in his inventory. He pulls up his soiled pants, thankful only now that there’s a respawn waiting for him, and he won’t have to do a complete walk of shame home after this. With his armor re-equipped, he gathers himself to complete his run, entirely unsurprised when the vex catch him in the level one crypts.
There’s no sign of Tango when he exits the fancy door into the main lobby. Only Etho playing parkour along the row of snow layers against the wall, his deckbox resting atop the shards barrel to claim the next spot in line.
Hypno waves to him, and while he waits for his friend to finish whatever challenge he’d set himself, plops an ender chest against the wall, and pulls out his own private shulker box. He picks two potions out, debating how much to say, how much to give away or if he should just say directly.
Etho seems to notice something off about him anyway.
“Caught by the clank, huh.” A dark eye follows him as he puts the shulker box away, and mines up the ender chest. “Tough run.”
Hypno has to smile at that. “You have no idea.” He juggles the thick potion a few ticks, knowing the basic hue was recognizable enough at a glance. “And, uh.. “ Stars above, what really can he say? He doesn’t want pity, or platitudes, and he definitely doesn’t want to create animosity towards Tango. Or the game, for that matter, seeing as they’re about to start the last phase, and then it will be all over.
He tosses the bottle at Etho, along with the weakness one potion. “You might want these, it’s a little.. testy, today.”
A barely-there wink from a hidden redstone eye, and both are tossed right back to him. “Have my own, but thanks for the thought. The Dungeon and I have an.. understanding.” And with that Etho punches his shulker and drops a shard into the barrel, just as the reset message booms out.
Etho flicks two fingers from his forehead in farewell. “You heard ‘em, ‘the Dungeon is ready for its next victim’,” he echoes. “You should take the night off, and if nothing goes wrong with my runs, maybe don’t be surprised if you’ve got a few extra shards when you return tomorrow.”
And he saunters off through the open door, just before it swallows him up, leaving Hypno to flush and swallow heavily in the empty lobby at the metaphorical end crystal he’d been left.