Work Text:
The chime was a violation. A sharp sound sliced through the dust-mottled silence of Khayon's quarters. He had been granted a suite on the officers' deck, a space of tarnished luxury. Carved, dark-wood paneling, a rug whose crimson threads were dulled by a film of grime, the ghost of some old, violent spill. He had yet to impose his will upon the room's memories. For now, he sat on a floor cushion, the silk of his robes a cool whisper against his skin. He knew the summons.
The doors hissed open, and the room's geometry fractured. Abaddon filled the doorway, his presence a physical law unto itself. The black of his bodysuit drank the lumen-light, defining a landscape of muscle that was too vast for mortal architecture. His dark hair was pulled back into a rugged Cthonian knot, baring the strong line of his jaw. His unhealthy pale skin was a stark contrast to the olive tones of Khayon's. His otherworldly eyes took in the room, Khayon, the dust, the disarray, and filed it all away in a glance. Behind him, a cruder, harder echo, stood Kibre. The nascent horns on his brow were dark commas in the dim light, and his own skin shared Abaddon's pallor. Kibre's yellow, animal eyes, with their unsettling vertical pupils, met Khayon's, and he gave a nod.
Abaddon took a step inside, the deck plates seeming to sigh under his mass. Kibre sealed the doors, plunging the three of them into a shared, pressurized quiet.
"The map," Abaddon said. Not a question.
Khayon gestured to the low table beside him, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. "It is not a map, Ezekyle. It's a fragment. A whisper." He watched Abaddon move, not with a warrior's stride, but with the fluid, deliberate grace of a stalking panther. The sight was hypnotic. Khayon's gaze traced the long line of Abaddon's back, the impossible breadth of his shoulders, the way the tight fabric of the suit defined the dense muscle of his thigh. He was a creature of perfect, brutal design. A problem to be solved. A power to be mastered. Or submitted to. The thought was a spark of heat, low in his gut.
"I have it from a contract, a time ago," Khayon said, rising in a smooth uncoiling of his limbs. He went to a chest, feeling the heat of Abaddon's stare on his back, a focused pressure as real as a touch. He drew out a stiff, brittle sheet of flayed skin.
He turned, holding it out. Abaddon did not take it but moved closer, his sheer proximity forcing Khayon to take a half-step back until the edge of the writing desk pressed against his hips. Abaddon's golden eyes were not on the map.
"You seem distracted, Iskandar." Abaddon's voice was a low murmur. "Does my presence disrupt your focus?"
Khayon's breath hitched. He had been caught staring, his fascination laid bare. A flush of heat crept up his neck, a feeling so rare it was disorienting. He held Abaddon's gaze, his pride warring with the physical truth of his attraction. "Your presence is a… gravitational force, Ezekyle. It would be foolish not to account for it."
A slow smile touched Abaddon's lips, showing the glint of sharp teeth. He saw it. He saw everything. "And can you?" he asked, his voice dropping lower still, becoming a velvet rasp that scraped along Khayon's nerves. "Can you account for it? Or does it pull you off your axis?" He glanced past Khayon, a flicker of gold toward the silent figure of Kibre. A command given without a word.
"My axis is my own," Khayon said, the words a little too sharp, a defense against the sudden sense of being seen.
"Is it?" Abaddon took the final step, closing the space between them entirely. The heat from his body was a furnace. To his right, Khayon heard the soft scrape as Kibre began to move, a deliberate patrol around the room, his lupine eyes fixed on Khayon. He was being herded.
"This path you offer," Abaddon continued, his voice a velvet purr. "It requires a guide with absolute discipline." His hand came up, hovering a breath away from Khayon's cheek. "And yet, you watch me like a hungry man." His gaze flickered to Kibre again, who had stopped now, flanking Khayon, his presence a wall of feral intent. "Look at him, Iskandar. Falkus feels no conflict. He wants, and he obeys."
Kibre's lips peeled back in a silent snarl, his yellow eyes burning. It was not threatening - it was affirming.
Abaddon's fingers finally made contact, tracing the line of Khayon's jaw. "But you… you are a labyrinth of wants and denials. A storm of pride and intellect and… this." His thumb brushed over Khayon's lower lip. "This hunger. Tell me, sorcerer, when faced with a power you desire, how absolute is your control?"
Khayon did not pull away. He met the challenge with a cool smile.
"Control is not the absence of hunger, Ezekyle," his voice was soft. He turned his head just enough to press his lips against the pad of Abaddon's thumb. "It is the mastery of it." He could feel the heat from Kibre's body at his back. He was bracketed. "A complex tool… that can reshape the galaxy."
The challenge hung in the air. Abaddon's glowing eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with a renewed, predatory interest.
"A bold claim," Abaddon murmured. His hand slid from Khayon's jaw, his fingers wrapping around the column of his throat. The grip was not violent, but it was absolute. His thumb rested over Khayon's pulse, feeling the traitorous beat.
Before Khayon could answer, a heavy weight settled on his right shoulder. He glanced down. Kibre's hand, his pale skin stark against the dark silk, rested there. The fingers, tipped with black claws, were a daemonic weight. A claim being staked. It was not Kibre's will, but an extension of Abaddon's, a second point of pressure in the suffocating geometry of their trap.
The air in Khayon's lungs seemed to turn to lead. He was pinned. The scent of them, the clean, metallic tang of Abaddon, the raw, musky scent of Kibre was a suffocating perfume.
"You are a path," Khayon finally breathed. His eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on Abaddon's. "And I am deciding if you lead to salvation… or to an even more damnation."
"And there," Abaddon purred, his thumb pressing harder against Khayon's pulse, "is the flaw in your control. You still believe you are the one who chooses."
Khayon forced a laugh, a dry, tight sound. "I always choose."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Abaddon's grip on his throat loosened, became a caress, and he took a deliberate step back. The sudden release of pressure was a void that pulled at Khayon. The room opened up, an illusion of freedom. Abaddon's golden eyes held him, issuing a silent challenge. Come, then. Reclaim your ground.
Pride, sharp and foolish, answered. Khayon pushed himself away from the desk, stepping forward into the center of the room to face Abaddon as an equal, the brittle map forgotten. It was a mistake. The move was exactly what they wanted. As he moved, so did Kibre. A shadow detaching itself from the wall. Before Khayon could react to it, Kibre's hands settled on his hips. The grip was firm, anchoring him. Khayon's breath hissed through his teeth.
Abaddon stepped forward again, his immense form eclipsing the light, his slow smile returning. He had ceded a pace only to gain a mile. He was close enough now that Khayon could see the faint lines etched at the corners of his golden eyes, and could feel the warmth of his breath.
"You choose," he murmured, his voice a seductive poison. His hands came up, not to restrain, but to explore. His fingers brushed against Khayon's chest before finding the silk knot that held his robes closed. "But do you want to choose, Iskandar?" His knuckles grazed the bare skin beneath the fabric, sending a tremor through his body. "Or does the thought of a will stronger than your own… does that not feel like a relief? Tell me the truth. Do you want to choose? Or do you simply want to be chosen?"
Khayon's mind raced, searching for a counter, a riposte, a way to reclaim the initiative. He could feel Kibre pressed against his back, the heat of two bodies slowly roasting him alive. He lifted a hand, intending to push Abaddon's away, but it was a half-hearted gesture. Instead, his fingers curled over Abaddon's wrist, a weak attempt to halt the slow work of untying his robes.
"To be chosen by a worthy power is an elevation," Khayon said, his voice a low, strained thing. "Not a submission."
"An excellent distinction," Abaddon agreed, his voice thick with amusement. "Then allow me to elevate you."
The knot gave way.
The two sides of the silk robe fell open. The cool, recycled air of the room was a shock against Khayon's heated skin. He heard a low sound from behind him, an intake of breath from Kibre, his hands tightened on Khayon's hips, pressing into the flesh in a gesture that was now purely possessive. He wanted this. But he waited. His discipline, that simple thing Abaddon had praised, held him in check. A hound on a leash.
Abaddon's gaze dropped from Khayon's face, a slow, deliberate inventory. His hands followed, pushing the silk from Khayon's shoulders. The heavy fabric slithered down his arms and pooled at his feet, leaving him naked between the two. Abaddon's gaze continued its descent. His smile widened, losing all its courtly pretense and becoming something sharp and savage.
"It seems the flesh has a wisdom your intellect refuses," he murmured.
Khayon's face flushed a dark, furious crimson.
Abaddon looked over Khayon's shoulder, his golden eyes locking with Kibre's hungry, yellow stare. He tilted his head, a minute gesture of permission.
Kibre's restraint snapped. One of his clawed hands slid from Khayon's hip to cup his ass, squeezing with a bruising force. The other snaked around his waist, splaying across his stomach, the rough calluses an abrasive caress. A growl rumbled in Kibre's chest. Simultaneously, Abaddon's hands began their own assault. He gripped Khayon's sides, fingers digging in, turning him slightly. Khayon gasped, his head falling back. He was the game itself, a territory being claimed, and the hunt had just begun.
Abaddon's mouth descended, crashing down onto his. It was not a kiss; it was an invasion, hot and silencing. As Abaddon plundered his mouth, Kibre's teeth scraped lightly over his shoulder, a non-committal taste test. His fingers discovered that a hard squeeze of Khayon's inner thigh made him whimper, and he returned to the spot again and again, his claws adding a thrilling, dangerous edge.
Abaddon pulled back, a string of saliva connecting their lips. Khayon's eyes were unfocused, his painted face a mask of stunned desire.
"He likes it rough, Falkus," Abaddon stated, a tactical observation. He looked down, his gaze fixing on one of the gold rings piercing Khayon's flesh. He took the small hoop between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it, sending a bolt of sensation through Khayon. A strangled moan tore from his throat and his back arched, grinding his ass into Kibre's hard groin.
Kibre smirked, his own excitement feeding on Khayon's response. He mimicked his commander, his free hand finding Khayon's other nipple, his clawed fingers twisting and pinching the sensitive flesh until pleasure became a painful flood.
"What do you want, Iskandar?" Abaddon's voice was a velvet rasp against his ear. He pushed his hips forward, letting Khayon feel the thick ridge of his own erection through the thin material of his bodysuit. "This is what you want, isn't it? To be taken? To be used? Tell me."
Khayon could only shake his head. From behind him came the rasping sound of a zipper. Kibre, his patience gone, had pulled down the long closure of his bodysuit. His cock sprang free, swollen and hard, the skin a pale purple. He shoved himself against Khayon's back, rubbing the blunt head of his cock along the cleft of Khayon's ass.
The sight of Kibre's hunger, the feel of Abaddon's controlled power, the memory of what that power felt like inside him - it shattered the last of Khayon's resistance. His mind was gone, replaced by a singular craving. His hand reached out, fingers fumbled against the front of Abaddon's bodysuit, searching. They found the cold metal tab of the zipper.
His eyes, wide and pleading, locked with Abaddon's triumphant gaze. He wasn't choosing. He was begging.
With a jerky motion, Khayon pulled. The zipper parted and the black material fell away, exposing a landscape of pale, scarred flesh. The sheer scale of him was breathtaking. His chest was a vast, sculpted shield of muscle, his abdomen a rigid landscape of corded sinew. A choked sound escaped Khayon's lips. Ezekyle was the damnation he craved.
Abaddon's hands came down on his shoulders, the grip iron-hard. "Yes," he rumbled, voice thick with satisfaction. "That is the look I wanted."
Freed from their confines, both Cthonians became a storm of sensation. Kibre shoved his bodysuit down to his hips. He pressed his naked chest against Khayon's back, the friction of skin on skin felt electric. Khayon was a sliver of olive between two unhealthily white frames. He was trapped, and he had never felt so free. He writhed, no longer fighting, only feeling. His hands, bold with desperation, reached out. One hand grasped Kibre's hard shaft, eliciting a sharp hiss. His other reached for Abaddon, wrapping around the base of his thick length, the heat of it searing, the weight of it staggering.
Kibre's focus shifted. His clawed hand left Khayon's hip and slid lower, tracing the cleft of his ass. The claws, so recently a threat, now became instruments of exquisite exploration. They traced the sensitive rim of his hole. He gasped, his hips bucking instinctively back against the probing touch.
"Impatient, Falkus," Abaddon noted, his voice a low thrum of amusement. He watched Kibre's exploration with an owner's pride. He leaned down, his mouth once again finding the shell of Khayon's ear. "He wants in. Should we let him, Iskandar? To be filled by my hound while I hold you? While you hold me?"
He punctuated the question by taking Khayon's hand in his own and stroking them both up the length of his cock, forcing Khayon to feel every inch of what was waiting for him.
"Yes," Khayon choked out, raw and broken. "Please… fuck me."
The plea, the final surrender, hung in the air like blood in water. Abaddon's smile was predatory. He had what he wanted. He pushed Khayon forward, bending him slightly at the waist, an offering.
"You hear that, Falkus? He begs so prettily."
Khayon, beyond shame, tried to widen his stance. But his body was not enough. He reached into the sea of his own power. A faint, violet shimmer coalesced, weeping into reality - a slick, viscous fluid smelling faintly of ozone. He had meant to summon just enough. But his control was a memory. The liquid came in a flood, coating his ass and thighs in a thick, glistening coat.
Kibre let out a harsh, appreciative growl at the sight. He dipped his clawed fingers into the sorcerous slick, his yellow eyes glowing with feral glee.
Abaddon chuckled. "So eager you make yourself wet for us, witch?" he murmured, his voice dripping with condescending affection. He tightened his grip on Khayon's hips, holding him steady. "Don't keep him waiting, Falkus."
Kibre needed no further encouragement. He coated himself with the viscous fluid and positioned himself behind Khayon. There was no gentle probing, no patient stretching; he drove forward in a rough thrust.
Khayon's body seized. A sharp groan was torn from his throat as Kibre's cock pushed into him, hips bucked, his mind reeling from the sudden invasion. But his body, slicked and ready, betrayed him again. It stretched, it yielded, and it took that offering.
The rough pounding was a world unto itself, but Abaddon was not one to be ignored. He let the rhythm build, let Khayon lose himself in the brutal cadence of Kibre's fucking, and then when Khayon's mind was nothing but sensation, he acted. With a grunt of effort, Abaddon seized him, lifting him from Kibre's cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoed in the sudden quiet.
Khayon moaned out at the loss, a needy sound. Before he could reorient, Abaddon slammed him down backward onto the writing desk. The impact was jarring, scattering a few of the data-slates and papers to the floor. Abaddon didn't just lay him down: he arranged him, shoving him back until his shoulders were at the very edge, his neck and head hanging completely off, his dark hair brushing the stained rug. The blood rushed to his head, the world turning into a dizzying, inverted landscape.
Kibre was on him in an instant, he moved between Khayon's legs, pushing them wide and pinning them to the desk, his cock still slick with Khayon's own sorcery, ready to reclaim their prize from a new angle.
But Abaddon stepped into the space by Khayon's hanging head. He looked down, a giant looming in an upside-down world. His massive cock hung before Khayon's face, a pendulum of obscene power, close enough to touch.
"A change in perspective, Iskandar," Abaddon's voice was a low growl. "You wanted elevation. This is it. Now you can look up at what you truly serve."
Khayon's hands, clumsy with desperation, came up. His fingers wrapped around the thick, hot shaft, it was heavier, denser than he remembered and pulsing slightly.
He had never done this. Never been allowed this intimacy, this form of submission. But now, seeing it, holding it, he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. He pulled at it, guiding the swollen head toward his waiting mouth.
Abaddon watched, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "That's it," he murmured, his voice a low, approving purr. "Show me how you worship, witch."
Khayon didn't need to be told twice. He pushed himself up slightly, his neck straining, and took the head of Abaddon's cock into his mouth. His jaw stretched as he engulfed the thick flesh, the taste of him - salt, metal, and pure power - flooding his senses. A guttural sound of pleasure rumbled deep in Abaddon's chest, a vibration that Khayon felt through his hands, still wrapped around the base of the shaft.
While Khayon was occupied, Abaddon's hands were not idle. He reached down, his fingers finding the gold rings in Khayon's nipples. He rolled them lazy, tormenting caress that sent shivers of pleasure through Khayon's body.
Kibre, meanwhile, took this surrender as his cue. He drove into Khayon again, wrapping his clawed hands around Khayon's thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, holding him in place. He began to fuck with a steady rhythm. The combination was overwhelming. The brutal, rhythmic pounding from Kibre, the deliberate torment of Abaddon's fingers on his nipples, and the thick, hot weight of Abaddon's cock filling his mouth. Khayon was stretched, filled, and claimed from every angle. He could only whimper, his sounds muffled by the flesh in his mouth, his body a conduit for the Cthonians' lust. He was their altar, and this was their profane worship. And in the deepest, most shameful part of his soul, he knew he had never felt so complete.
While Khayon focused on his task, Kibre grabbed one of Khayon's ankles, hoisting his leg up over his shoulder, and drove into Khayon from below in powerful thrusts that lifted his hips from the desk. His other hand found Khayon's own painfully hard cock, his clawed fingers wrapping around the shaft in a tight grip that was both a promise and a denial. Khayon gagged, a wet, choking sound, but his hands remained locked on Abaddon's shaft. It filled his mouth completely, the head pressing against the back of his throat, triggering a gag reflex he suppressed.
"Listen to that," Abaddon's voice was a coarse, mocking purr. "The great sorcerer, who converses with daemons and shapes reality, is reduced to this. A mouth full of my cock. Perhaps this is your true calling after all."
Khayon gagged, a wet, choking sound, but his hands remained locked on Abaddon's shaft, trying to pull him deeper. He hit the limit of his flesh, the unyielding cartilage of his jaw and throat refusing to give more.
Frustration, hot and sharp, cut through the haze of pleasure. This was not enough. In a flash of desperate inspiration, he reached again for his power, not for the simple conjuration of slickness, but for the deeper, more intimate art of the flesh. Biomancy. He focused his will inward, commanding his own body to yield.
The skin on his throat writhed. It was a grotesque sight. The muscles and cartilage shifted under his psychic command, the line of his jaw unhinging slightly, his throat widening unnaturally. There was no pain, only a strange, plastic sensation of being remade from within.
Abaddon let out a low, surprised hiss. He had felt the shift, the sudden yielding in Khayon's throat. He looked down and saw the skin of Khayon's neck bulging, straining in a way that was not human, stretched taut over the full, obscene thickness of his cock. He had not expected this. This was a new level of devotion. Arousal, dark and powerful, surged through him. He gripped Khayon's hair tighter and began to fuck his throat in earnest, his hips driving forward with a new purpose.
From below, Kibre barked a laugh. He felt the way Khayon's cock pulsed and twitched in his hand. "He's remaking himself for you, my lord," Kibre growled, his voice thick with a mix of awe and vulgar amusement. "His cock is about to burst just from the taste of yours."
Abaddon grunted, a strained sound of his own pleasure. He pulled back slightly, slowing the pace to a deep rhythm. This was too exquisite to rush. The warm, thick shaft slid deeper than Khayon thought possible, the prominent veins a textured touch against the newly pliable walls of his throat. A series of wet, gulping sounds escaped the seal of his lips as he fought to accommodate the slow rhythm.
Saliva, unable to be swallowed against such an invasion, began to pool and spill from the corners of his stretched mouth. Gravity took it, and it traced hot, slick trails down his inverted cheeks, mingling with the sweat beading on his skin. It ran into the kohl and antimony that decorated his eyes, and the dark makeup began to smear, to run in black rivulets toward his temples and into his hair. The carefully constructed mask of the sorcerer was being dissolved, washed away by the vulgar reality of the act.
Abaddon watched, transfixed. He saw the grotesque and beautiful display of utter submission in the way the skin of Khayon's throat moved, a visible testament to the violence being done. He lifted one hand from the desk and wrapped it around Khayon's neck, not to choke, but to feel. His thumb rested on the front of Khayon's throat, his fingers spread wide. The sensation was intoxicating. He could feel it all: the slide and retreat of his own shaft, the desperate, reflexive swallowing of the muscles within, the faint, frantic drumming of Khayon's pulse against his fingertips. It was the ultimate expression of control, to feel his own power from both the inside and the out, to hold the vessel and be the thing that filled it.
"Look at the mess he's making," Kibre rasped, his voice a mix of admiration and desire. He had slowed his own rhythm to match his master's, a grinding rotation of his hips that was pure torment. "He's drowning in you, my lord. Crying black tears."
Abaddon's lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral grin. "It is a worthy tribute," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down, his free hand stroking the grotesquely bulging skin of Khayon's throat. "Clever witch. You've found a use for your gifts that truly matters."
Khayon's hands, which had been clutching Abaddon's shaft, slid down to grip his hips, knuckles white, holding on as if he were drowning.
The dual assault stretched on. Abaddon savored every inch, every wet gulp. Kibre's cock rolled inside Khayon, a pressure that promised a release it never gave. The claws on Kibre's free hand scraped lightly up and down the length of Khayon's straining erection, a feather-light touch that was more torturous than any pain, keeping him perpetually on the edge of a climax that was not his to claim.
Abaddon and Kibre exchanged a look over Khayon's writhing body - a shared, silent understanding between two predators enjoying their kill.
Finally, with a low groan that was equal parts pleasure and frustration, Abaddon pulled out. The sound of his withdrawal was wet and obscene. He took a single step back.
Khayon collapsed, a violent, retching cough wracked his body as his throat tried to expel the saliva and taste of Abaddon. A thick, mucus-slick drool mixed with smeared makeup streamed from his lips, up his face. He gasped for air, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a ruin of his former composure. His head lolled to the side, his swollen lips parting, already seeking the return of that overwhelming presence. Abaddon watched him, his own breathing heavy, his cock still weeping. The sight of Khayon, so thoroughly debased and still so hungry, was the ultimate victory. He began a slow walk around the edge of the desk. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of a rib before finding one of the gold rings piercing Khayon's nipple. He toyed with it, rolling the metal between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way Khayon's breath hitched, the way his hips tried to buck against Kibre's hold.
Kibre looked up, his yellow, slitted eyes questioning.
Abaddon met his gaze and gave a single, curt nod. "Enough."
Kibre pulled out of Khayon in a smooth motion. The sudden emptiness was a profound shock. Khayon whimpered a lost, needy sound. His legs fell from Kibre's shoulders to lie limply on the desk.
Then he felt a new pressure. Abaddon had moved into the space Kibre had vacated. He pushed Khayon's legs further. Khayon looked up at him through blurry, smeared eyes, his hearts hammering against his ribs.
Abaddon placed his hands on Khayon's inner thighs, his grip firm, possessive. He looked down at the slick, glistening entrance that had been so thoroughly prepared for him.
"You took my hound well," Abaddon murmured, his voice a low, approving purr.
He positioned the thick, heavy head of his cock at Khayon's opening and pushed forward. A deep, guttural moan was torn from Khayon's throat. It wasn't a sound of pain but of overwhelming fullness. Abaddon watched his face and grinned. "Yes," he whispered. "That's the look. Like your soul is trying to crawl out through your eyes." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of Khayon's body, and began to move. He set a hard, driving pace, his hips slamming into Khayon with a force that made the ornate, heavy desk beneath them groan and shudder. A thin crack appeared in the dark wood near one of the legs.
Khayon's head thrashed on the desk, his legs wrapping around Abaddon's waist, trying to pull him impossibly deeper. His hands gripped the edges of the desk, knuckles white. Kibre, watching from the side, let out a low whistle of appreciation. He reached out, his clawed hand trailing lightly over Khayon's straining abdomen. The desk gave a loud crack, one leg splintering, the whole structure lurching dangerously to one side.
With a curse, Abaddon stilled his hips. He was not going to be denied by a piece of failing furniture. He wrapped his arms around Khayon's torso, lifting him clean off the desk. Khayon let out a surprised yelp, his legs instinctively clamping tighter around Abaddon's waist. Then Abaddon moved, turning and dumping Khayon face down onto the stained rug. The landing was rough and jarring, but Khayon barely noticed. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his ass high in the air, presenting himself without a moment's hesitation.
For a moment, the two sons of Horus stood on either side of Khayon, who impatiently took a submissive pose, briefly exchanging glances.
Abaddon moved behind him, his massive frame a shadow that blotted out the light. He drove back into Khayon without preamble, the angle raw and deep, his cock sliding home with a wet, meaty slap of flesh on flesh. The sound was obscene, brutally intimate. "Better," Abaddon growled, his voice a low rumble. "Now I can really fuck you."
He set a punishing, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving Khayon's face into the grimy fibers of the rug. His hands came down on Khayon's back, one gripping his hip to hold him steady, the other splayed between his shoulder blades, pressing him down. He bit at Khayon's shoulder, his sharp teeth tearing the skin, marking him as his own.
Kibre moved closer, his own excitement a palpable, musky scent in the air. He knelt by Khayon's head, his daemonic eyes glowing. He grabbed a fistful of Khayon's dark hair, yanking his head back and twisting it to the side, forcing Khayon to look up at his face, to see the raw hunger there, the sharp, brutal lines so like Abaddon's.
"Look at me," Kibre snarled, his voice thick and rough. "Watch me while he breaks you." With his free hand, he wrapped his long, clawed fingers around his own cock and began to jerk himself off, his pace matching the violent rhythm of Abaddon's fucking. The sight of his master taking what he had only warmed up, the sounds of Khayon's helpless, breathy moans - it was all the encouragement he needed.
Abaddon leaned down, his mouth hot against Khayon's ear. "Feel that? That's me. That's mine. You'll feel me inside you for days." He squeezed Khayon's hip, his fingers digging in, leaving bruises. "You'll ache every time you sit, and you'll remember who put that ache there."
The raw, filthy words were a fresh wave of arousal. All shame was gone, burned away by the sheer, overwhelming reality of the moment. Khayon was participating, his hips bucking back to meet each harsh thrust, his voice a constant stream of high, keening moans and broken pleas.
"More," he sobbed, his face pressed into the wool of the rug. "Please, harder… fuck me… fuck me."
The sound of wet, percussive impacts filled the room, a visceral drumbeat of flesh slapping against flesh. Abaddon's breathing was harsh and ragged now, Kibre's own grunts grew louder, his hand mowed on his shaft. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and Khayon's ozone-tinged lubricant. Khayon's own cock, slick and untouched, bobbed frantically with every impact, the head weeping onto the filthy rug.
The pressure built inside him, a coiling knot of overstimulation. He couldn't hold back. His mind shattered into a million points of white-hot light. His back arched like a bow, lifting his hips off to meet Abaddon's driving thrusts. A long, shuddering cry was torn from his throat, a sound of mindless release. He came in a series of convulsive spurts, hot cum splashing onto the dark wool beneath him. For a moment, his body went rigid, locked in the throes of his climax. Then he collapsed and lay there, twitching, gasping, lost in the aftershocks.
Abaddon felt the tight, involuntary clenching of Khayon's hole around his cock, a greedy milking that sent a jolt of fire, he let out a low, possessive growl, a tremor running through his massive frame. He was close, so close, but he stilled his hips, remaining buried to the hilt inside the spasming sorcerer, savoring the feeling of Khayon's release.
Kibre, watching it all, let out a strangled snarl of his own, his hand moving faster on his shaft. "Broke him without touching his cock," he rasped, his voice thick with envy and awe. "Just from being fucked by you. Spilled himself on the floor."
Abaddon chuckled and began to move again, a rotation of his hips inside a still-quivering hole. The aftershocks of Khayon's orgasm made the slick walls of his ass clench and pulse, an exquisite, maddening sensation. "Look at him. Spent. Used up. And still gripping me like his life depends on it."
Khayon whimpered. He was a ruin, a landscape of pure sensation. The world had been reduced to this: the smell of their sweat, the rough texture of the rug, and the feeling of being filled. He twisted his head, his face a mess of smeared makeup, tears, and spit, and looked at Kibre. But his words weren't for him. "My lord…" he gasped, his voice a raw, broken whisper. The sound was so fervent, so utterly stripped of pride, that Kibre's hand faltered on his own cock. He stared, his yellow eyes wide. "Don't… don't stop. Please… breed me."
Kibre let out a choked, gagging sound, his own climax forgotten. He watched as a tremor ran through Abaddon's frame.
Khayon pushed himself up slightly on his trembling arms, trying to give Abaddon a better angle. "Fill me with your seed," he sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of pure, undiluted need. "I want to feel you inside me… I want to be marked… your broodmare, my lord… please…"
"Yes." Kibre snarled, his voice a raw encouragement. "Fill him up. Fucking ruin him!"
Abaddon's slow, controlled grinding erupted into a frenzy. He was no longer fucking Khayon - he was trying to drive him through the floor, to fuse their bodies into one. His hips slammed forward in frantic thrusts, each one deeper and harder than the last. He grabbed Khayon's hips, his fingers digging in like talons, lifting him slightly to meet the full, devastating force of his assault.
He felt the orgasm building, he drove forward with a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt, pumped into Khayon's ravaged hole, a gushing flood. Abaddon stayed buried deep inside him, his cock still twitching. He shuddered, his breathing harsh and ragged, and continued a slow, lazy rhythm, grinding his seed deeper into Khayon's guts. "Good wizard," he grunted, licking a stripe up Khayon's sweat-slicked back. "Took it all. My good, loyal witch."
Kibre, who had been watching the entire spectacle with a mixture of raw hunger and reverence, finally found his voice. His cock was slick and dripping, his eyes burning with an almost painful need. "My lord," he began, his voice rough and strained. "He's… he's full of you. Look at him."
Abaddon chuckled, a dark, pleased sound. He pulled out of Khayon with an obscene, wet squelch, revealing the sorcerer's utterly violated hole. It was a ruin, stretched and gaping, the pink, abused flesh weeping cum.
Kibre took a half-step forward, his own need a palpable force. "My lord," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Let me add to it. Let me fill him too."
Abaddon looked from Kibre's desperate face to Khayon's trembling form. He considered it for a moment, then a slow smirk spread across his lips. "You've been a good hound, Falkus," he said, his tone magnanimous. "Go on. Take your share."
Kibre didn't need to be told twice. He lunged forward, practically falling on top of Khayon, his hands grabbing the sorcerer's hips. He positioned his cock at the dripping, ravaged entrance. The sight of Abaddon's cum leaking from the hole he was about to enter was an incredible, visceral thrill.
"Look at this mess," Kibre snarled, a filthy laugh bubbling up from his chest. "Fucking overflowing with him. And now you're going to take mine too."
He drove in without ceremony, his cock sliding into the slick, overflowing passage with a wet, sloppy sound. Khayon hissed out, a high, thin sound of a fresh wave of sensation. The feeling of Kibre's cock pushing into him, forcing warm seed deeper, was a new kind of violation, a new level of degradation. He whimpered, a broken, helpless sound, as Kibre began to fuck him with desperate energy, determined to add his own mark to the beautiful, filthy ruin his commander had already made.
Abaddon leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his massive chest. He watched, a smug, satisfied smirk on his lips, as Kibre pounded into their prize. The sounds were glorious: the wet, sloppy slap of flesh, the harsh, ragged breathing, Khayon's endless, broken whimpers.
"That's it, Falkus," Abaddon's voice was a low, encouraging rumble. "Fuck our little witch. Make him take it. Make him remember his place."
Kibre, emboldened, let out a guttural laugh. He reached forward, his clawed hand grabbing a fistful of Khayon's hair and yanking his head back. He twisted Khayon's head to the side, forcing him to look at him, their faces inches apart.
"You like this, don't you?" Kibre snarled, his yellow eyes burning with a feral light. "You like being our fucking hole. Our little cum-dump." He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in, his mouth crashing down on Khayon's. It was a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, their spit and drool mingling, Kibre's long, daemonic tongue plunging into Khayon's mouth, a brutal mimicry of what was happening at his other end.
Khayon couldn't fight. He couldn't even think. He just whimpered into the kiss, his body a conduit for their pleasure.
Kibre broke the kiss with a wet smack, he looked down at Khayon's face, a ruin of smeared makeup and tears, and drool, and he laughed again, a sound of pure, triumphant filth. "Look at you," he snarled. "You're a fucking mess. Our mess."
A few more hard thrusts and Kibre's body went rigid. A low, guttural moan was torn from his throat as he came, his own thick seed flooding into the already overflowing hole. He pumped into Khayon, again and again, the combined volume of their loads was too much. A thick, white mixture of cum and slick began to leak out of Khayon's abused hole, running down his thighs and pooling on the rug.
With a final, shuddering gasp, Kibre pulled out. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching. Then he collapsed to his knees behind Khayon, his head bowed, his breathing hoarse.
Khayon lay on the floor, a boneless, trembling wreck. He was no longer held, no longer restrained, but he couldn't move. He was a landscape of sensation, a territory that had been brutally conquered, claimed, and marked. He whimpered softly, a lost, broken sound in the sudden, ringing silence of the room.
The only sounds were the harsh, ragged breaths of three Astartes in a ruined room. The air was thick with the scent of them, a primal cocktail of sweat, spilled seed, and Khayon's own faint, ozonic magic. Abaddon pushed himself off the desk, his movements slow and deliberate, the picture of sated power. He looked down at the scene: Kibre on his knees, head bowed, spent and panting; and Khayon, an olive-skinned sprawl on the dark rug, a beautiful, filthy mess of fluids and smeared makeup. His ass was a wreck, weeping a thick, milky mixture of their release onto the floor.
A low chuckle rumbled in Abaddon's chest. "A job well done, Falkus," he said, his voice a husky purr. "He takes it well."
Kibre looked up, his eyes still glazed with lust. A slow, fanged smile spread across his face. "He does, my lord," he rasped.
Khayon shivered on the floor, he tried to push himself up, but his muscles were jelly, his body a trembling, aching ruin. He could only manage a soft, pathetic whimper.
Abaddon's gaze fell on him, his golden eyes glowing with a proprietary warmth. The hunt was over. The kill had been made. Now it was time to claim the prize. He walked over to where Khayon lay, his heavy footfalls the only sound in the room. He looked down at the sorcerer's wrecked form, at the way his body still twitched with the aftershocks of their fucking.
"You have done well, Iskandar." Abaddon's voice was a low, intimate rumble, for Khayon's ears alone.
He bent down, his tall frame eclipsing the light. He slid one arm under Khayon's back, the other under his knees, and lifted him from the floor. Khayon's head lolled back, his body cradled against Abaddon's chest. He looked up into those molten eyes, and for the first time that night, he saw something other than hunger and dominance. He saw possession. He saw satisfaction. He saw the look of a king surveying his most prized treasure.
"Come," Abaddon said, his voice a soft command. "Let's get you cleaned up. You've earned your rest."