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The chamber was another anomaly sunk deep in the Vengeful Spirit.
A void. A deliberate wound in the fabric of the ship's mundane reality.
A place stripped bare of function save one: the containment of will.
Its many-faceted walls, floor, and ceiling were seamless black stone, polished until they offered only disorienting, depthless reflections that seemed to shift and writhe just at the edge of perception. The angles where surfaces met were wrong – subtly impossible, defying Euclidean logic, making the vast space feel simultaneously larger and more claustrophobic than it should be. Lines that should have been parallel seemed to curve away into unseen dimensions. Intricate silver symbols – hexagrams, runes of binding, forgotten glyphs – were inlaid into the stone, cold and inert, marking the space but offering no light of their own. The only illumination was ambient, source-less, casting the room in perpetual twilight that clung to the impossible corners like a sentient shadow.
Silence. Absolute. A heavy, suffocating blanket that seemed to press inward from the sealed adamantium door at one end of the vast chamber, absorbing sound in a way that felt fundamentally unnatural. Even the faintest, almost subliminal thrum of the distant ship felt muted, distorted, as if passing through layers of warped space.
The air was unnaturally still. Cold. A tomb-like chill.
Abaddon sat within a complex circle marked in the center of the floor, also inlaid with passive silver. Naked. He faced the chamber's sole entrance, his immense form held in unnerving stillness. It wasn't peace; it was a state of immense, focused pressure, like a star held just shy of collapse. Every line of his massive, pale form spoke of leashed power, of a consciousness withdrawn to wrestle itself in the deepest arena. No energy radiated from him the way it would from a psyker; instead, his very presence exerted a kind of gravity, a sheer weight of being that warped the silence around him, making the stillness feel brittle, ready to shatter.
Khayon served as the ritual's designated anchor. His presence was a required stabilizing counterweight, a psychic bedrock against the immense internal forces Abaddon wrestled with. He wasn't actively channeling or manipulating energies for the Warmaster; his role was primarily one of passive readiness, a potent psychic presence prepared to intervene only if the containment field faltered catastrophically.
Kneeling at the far end of the chamber, opposite the sealed door, clad in exquisite robes that pooled around him on the cold floor, his mind was sharp, observant, attuned to the subtle psychic pressures within the chamber. He looked upon the Warmaster's broad, still back. Maintaining the anchor state required focus, a calm readiness, but left ample capacity for observation. He could feel the immense presence emanating from Abaddon, that colossal will engaged in its profound internal struggle, a fascinating, terrifying spectacle even felt indirectly. The unsettling geometry of the room seemed to press in on his senses, making the passive anchoring feel like balancing on a knife's edge over an abyss.
This ritual was a brutal exercise in self-mastery. Abaddon undertook it periodically to further temper his already formidable will, forcing his consciousness to navigate and dominate the fundamental aspects of his own being: the cold Strategist, the unyielding Tyrant, the subtle Seer, the raw Beast. These weren't separate minds, but inherent facets of his unified mind. The ritual demanded he confront the full force of each within himself, ensuring their perfect integration and his absolute command over their expression. It was dangerous, but Abaddon's will always been strong.
Time bled away, unmarked in the sealed room, its passage feeling strangely elastic within the chamber's warped dimensions.
Khayon remained knelt, his senses extended, monitoring the integrity of the containment field and the ambient psychic resonance. Everything stable. The background hum of the psychic wards remained steady. The immense pressure emanating from Abaddon was constant, controlled. Predictable.
Sargon typically would be overseeing this, his methods steeped in ritualism Khayon found tedious but undeniably effective for containment. Sargon was aboard, but consumed with his own urgent attends. Khayon, confident in his superior grasp of pure sorcery – the Art – had assured his colleague he could serve as an anchor. He respected Sargon's role but considered his approach to psychic containment fundamentally less refined than his own understanding of resonant fields and harmonic stability. Sargon's provided instructions detailed the anchoring protocols and contingency measures thoroughly, yet Khayon, seeing redundancies born of what he deemed superstition, had implemented subtle 'optimizations' to the parameters of the passive containment field itself before the ritual began – adjusting resonant frequencies, refining the symbolic matrix geometry based on his own calculations, trimming the perceived fat to create a more 'efficient' and stable environment.
Of course, Khayon didn't think his brother was a naive fool... but a certain intellectual criticism was present.
A faint, internal flicker of satisfaction warmed him; the field felt clean, perfectly balanced under his initial setup. His role now was simply to be the anchor, the failsafe, and observe the Warmaster's internal triumph from across the chamber.
Then, the chill lessened. Slowly. Khayon noted it, cataloging the change. An unexpected thermal variance? Simultaneously, the oppressive weight of Abaddon's presence shifted. It grew heavier. Denser. Gained a jagged, unstable edge. The steady psychic pressure signature Khayon monitored faltered, a dissonant chord struck in the deep silence, echoing strangely off the impossible angles of the room. Khayon frowned slightly, his passive anchor state becoming instantly more alert. The containment field parameters flickered, stressed by an internal force exceeding predicted limits. He mentally reviewed his 'optimizations' – had he made the field too efficient, allowing for a faster, more volatile internal process?
Progress, he thought, a sliver of unease piercing his confidence. Perhaps unexpectedly rapid progress.
Before the thought could fully settle, the figure in the circle moved.
It was a slow, grinding motion. Stone scraping against stone. Abaddon rose. Unfolding with terrifying deliberation, the sheer power in his frame was evident, muscles shifting like continents under pale skin. He stood. Immense. Naked. Radiating a palpable heat now, his stillness was replaced by a coiled tension that vibrated in the very air, making the shadows in the room seem to deepen and retreat.
Khayon watched, fascination warring now with a dawning apprehension, though pride still whispered that this was merely proof of the ritual's intensity under his superior environmental tuning. Magnificent. The power… Sargon's cautious methods might have dampened this. He felt a thrill, quickly followed by a colder tremor, anticipating the outcome.
With that same unnatural, glacial slowness, Abaddon began to turn.
The movement was mesmerizing. Awful. Each degree revealing more, the oppressive weight of his presence intensifying, cracking the chamber's silence. The inert silver symbols on the walls seemed to absorb the dim light entirely now, plunging the periphery into deeper shadow, making the room's unsettling dimensions feel actively hostile. Khayon held his breath, anchor-mind now fully alert, a silent alarm screaming through his senses.
Abaddon completed the turn.
He faced Khayon fully.
His eyes were open. Staring blankly ahead. Unfocused. Devoid of thought or recognition.
A horrifying emptiness.
Khayon saw it. The absolute wrongness of that vacant stare where the Warmaster's burning intellect should be.
In that instant, the universe tilted. His pride, his satisfaction, his certainty – all shattered like glass. The psychic dissonance screamed in his mind. Catastrophic failure. His failure. What have I done to him? A cold fist clenched around Khayon's hearts, the initial shock manifesting not as self-preservation, but as a sickening dread for Abaddon. Had he broken that magnificent mind? Caused irreparable damage through his arrogance? The thought was colder than the chamber's original chill.
The blankness lasted only a second.
Like shutters snapping open, Abaddon's eyes focused. Directly onto Khayon. The emptiness imploded, replaced by a blazing, predatory awareness so intense it felt like a physical blow. The golden irises burned, incandescent, lit from within by a terrifying, inhuman furnace. There was no strategy here, no tyranny, no insight. Only hunger. Raw, boundless, ancient. Fixing on the only other living thing in the room.
Khayon stared into that gaze, transfixed for another stretched, doubled heartbeat. His own hearts hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden, crushing pressure of the silence. The air crackled. He saw it then, deciphered the feral gleam behind the gold. This wasn't damage. This wasn't madness. This was a purpose. Focused. Undiluted. The need to consume. The will to dominate. The Beast unleashed. Awake.
And the cold clench around Khayon's hearts tightened, shifted, became something sharp and personal. His breath hitched. The back of his neck prickled.
Abaddon's head tilted slightly, a slow, deliberate inclination. Like a predator sighting prey. Assessing. The movement was fluid, serpentine, utterly alien. A low sound vibrated in the air, barely audible, a subterranean growl rumbling deep within the massive chest.
Then, he took a step.
Just one. Towards Khayon. It was maddeningly slow. Each shift of weight, each placement of his bare foot on the cold black stone, seemed to take an eternity. Muscles coiled and uncoiled beneath the deadly pale skin of his three-meter frame – a half-tonne of gene-forged lethality moving with the deliberate grace of something savoring the anticipation. That slowness… it was a torture. Khayon knew Abaddon could cross the chamber in less than a heartbeat, a blur of transhuman speed. This measured pace was intent. It was the stalking tread of something utterly confident in its power, knowing its prey had nowhere to run. Khayon's eyes darted instinctively towards the chamber's exit – the single adamantium door, now impossibly far away at the opposite end of the room, with Abaddon squarely between him and it.
Trapped.
A raw, galvanic shock jolted through Khayon's limbs, breaking his paralysis. He had to move. Now. But not fast. Never fast. Don't provoke it.
His own movements felt sluggish, clumsy, amplified in the crushing silence. He began to rise from his kneeling position, his robes whispering against the stone, pushing up with agonizing slowness, muscles protesting just slightly the sudden demand after hours of stillness. Every tiny shift felt like a betrayal, a signal to the predator across the room. Get to the door. Seal it. Think. His mind raced, thoughts skittering like panicked grox. Lock it in here. Analyze the failure. Reverse it. He could fix this. He had caused it; he would undo it. Sargon... perhaps Sargon's knowledge of bindings might be needed. But no. Khayon preferred to rely on his own intellect. He would solve this himself. He had to.
As he straightened, still moving with that excruciating care, his psychic senses screamed. He couldn't breach the iron wall of Abaddon's conscious mind – that remained inviolate, even now. But the leakage... Where once there was icy control, now there was a blazing inferno just beneath the surface. Raw heat, immense pressure, a chaotic storm of pure, untamed emotion – and it was all focused, laser-like, on him. A wave of primal rage, possessiveness, hunger… it radiated outwards.
Abaddon took another step. Just as slow. Just as deliberate. Closing the twenty-meter gap – a distance that felt both shorter and infinitely longer within this warped space – with horrifying patience.
Khayon finally gained his feet. He took a hesitant step backward, away from the advancing Warmaster, towards the angled wall behind him.
His back met cold, sharp stone. A corner that felt acute, pressing into him. Nowhere further to retreat along this axis.
Abaddon took a third step. Closer. The low growl in his chest deepened, vibrating through Khayon's bones. A shiver ran down Khayon's spine, unwelcome, uncontrollable.
He pressed himself against the unyielding wall, his breath catching in his throat, lungs tight. His skin felt simultaneously hot and cold. He didn't know what it wanted. To kill him? To tear him apart? Or... something else? The uncertainty hammered at his composure, worse than the certainty of violence. That scorching golden gaze held no answers, only the frightening promise of inescapable will.
His mind, frantic, cycled through options. He could use the Art. A binding, a field, something potent enough to hold even this Abaddon, just long enough to reach the door controls.
But the thought died as quickly as it formed, leaving a residue of ash. The chamber itself resisted the idea. The passive silver wards weren't shields, but they were attuned. Designed by Sargon for stability, yes, but Khayon sensed their resonance now, twisted by the ritual's failure, by the presence radiating from Abaddon. Unleashing significant warp energy in here, throwing power against the Warmaster… the feedback could be catastrophic. Unpredictable. It might shatter the very integrity of the sanctum, or worse, amplify the chaos within Abaddon.
And even if it worked… even if he subdued it and escaped… what then? When Abaddon regained control – and Khayon clung desperately to the belief that he would – the Warmaster would know. He would know Khayon had turned sorcery against him, injured his trust. The wrath of the controlled Abaddon might be colder, more calculating, but no less absolute than the frenzy burning in those eyes now.
No. Using the Art was unthinkable. No sorcery. No escape. Just the thing wearing Abaddon's skin, slowly closing the distance, and the cold stone at his back. A vast, echoing void opened within him, swallowing thought, baring an instinct to survive that felt utterly foreign, utterly consuming.
Standing still was death. Or worse.
Running… running was suicide, surely. The distance to the door, past him… impossible. Yet, the alternative…
A choice made of desperate logic.
In a single, explosive movement that shattered the agonizing tension, Khayon launched himself away from the wall. Not towards the door far behind Abaddon, but sideways, trying to skirt around the advancing figure, aiming for the opposite wall, hoping to use the room's strange angles to create distance, to find another path. His robes flared out behind him as he poured every ounce of Astartes speed, every iota of enhanced reflex into the sprint. For a fraction of a second, he dared to hope, putting space between them.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The slow, deliberate predator vanished. Abaddon didn't just move; he erupted. Matching Khayon's vector with impossible agility. The air shifted with the force of his acceleration. That half-tonne frame, moments before moving with glacial patience, intercepted Khayon's desperate dash in a blur that defied physics.
Khayon was fast. Inhumanly fast.
Abaddon was faster.
Before Khayon could reach the relative safety of the far wall, something immense slammed into him from the side. It wasn't a tackle, not a grab, but an impact like a wrecking ball hitting a wall. The force lifted Khayon off his feet, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp, painful burst. Fingers like forged steel clamped onto his upper arm, the pressure instantly numbing, threatening to pulverize bone beneath the fabric. Momentum carried them forward in a sharp trajectory.
Then came the impact. Not a fall, but a slam. Abaddon drove him into the black stone floor with the force of his charge and weight. For one moment Khayon's world exploded into disorientation as his head bounced hard off the surface.
Before Khayon could even process the impact fully, a massive hand seized his head, fingers tangling in his hair, thumb digging into his temple. With inhuman strength, Abaddon lifted Khayon's head off the stone only to slam it back down again. Crack. Pain, sharp and immediate though dulled by Astartes resilience, flared through Khayon's skull. Again. The hand tightened, lifted, slammed. Khayon felt the crunch of cartilage as his nose broke, a wet warmth instantly flooding his face, the coppery tang of blood filling his mouth and nostrils.
The ingrained combat reflexes of an Astartes warrior surged. Pinned beneath half a tonne of a furious demigod was not a position Khayon accepted lightly.
He twitched violently, a sudden, convulsive move that ripped a handful of his own dark hair free, leaving it clutched in Abaddon's fist. In the same instant, Khayon drove his elbow back and up with vicious force, connecting hard against Abaddon's temple. The impact was jarring, a solid crack of bone on bone. Abaddon's head just slightly snapped to the side, his grip loosening for a crucial fraction of a second.
It was enough. Khayon exploited the opening instantly, twisting like an eel, slipping out from under the immense weight. He surged to his feet in a fluid motion, landing in a low crouch, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva, adrenaline surged through his veins.
But Abaddon was already recovered, rising with terrifying speed, his massive frame coiling like a loaded spring. His eyes locked onto Khayon. He lunged, a massive fist whistling through the air where Khayon's head had been a split-second before. Khayon ducked low. Seeing an opening, Khayon lashed out with a powerful sidekick aimed at Abaddon's exposed midsection.
The kick never landed. Abaddon's reflexes were even more than inhuman, even lost in this primal state. His hand shot out, catching Khayon's ankle mid-flight in an unbreakable grip. With a twist and a brutal yank, Abaddon torqued Khayon's leg, throwing him completely off balance. Khayon crashed back down onto the floor, managing to break his fall with both hands – flesh and metal scraping against the stone. Before Khayon could even attempt to recover, Abaddon brought his bare foot down onto Khayon's side. Khayon heard and felt the sickening crunch as multiple ribs gave way under the crushing stomp, a wave of pain washing over him. The blow would have pulped a mortal man instantly. Abaddon was already moving, lunging down towards him again.
The impact took Khayon a couple of meters to the side and he took advantage of it. He tucked and rolled across the floor, putting distance between himself and the descending Warmaster. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. It bought him less than a second. Abaddon crossed the distance in a blur of motion that seemed to defy his sheer bulk. Before Khayon could even attempt to rise further, Abaddon was on him again, slamming into him with the force of a thunderclap, driving him flat onto his stomach and pinning him beneath his hard mass once more. The air rushed from Khayon's lungs, and the brief, desperate hope of escape was extinguished as thoroughly as a candle in a hurricane.
Pinned beneath the crushing weight, face slick with blood, Khayon gasped, fighting the encroaching blackness. The feverish heat of Abaddon's body was an oppressive blanket. This wasn't control. This was a pure, destructive disorder.
Khayon had to stop this. Had to reach him. He opened his mouth, blood bubbling on his lips, trying to form a word, any word. "Ezek-"
Lightning fast, the hand pinning his shoulder released, only for another, equally brutal grip to seize his jaw. Fingers like iron bars clamped around his lower face, digging into the flesh, while two thick digits forced their way into his mouth, hooking hard against the inside of his jawbone, wrenching it open, silencing the half-formed plea. The pressure was immense, threatening dislocation. Fingernails scraped his tongue. He gagged instinctively. Khayon's left hand – the bionic one – fingers scrabbling desperately at the muscular forearm pinning his jaw, trying to pry the crushing grip away, trying to regain some measure of control, however small.
For a fleeting moment, the thought flared: Bite. Sink teeth into flesh.
But the impulse died instantly. Not from lost opportunity – the fingers were still there – but from a deeper, colder calculation. Biting him? Even this… thing? It would be futile, achieve nothing but provoking greater violence. It would shatter the last, fragile hope that Abaddon he knew, might still be reachable somewhere within this havoc. He couldn't risk it. The hesitation cost him nothing because the choice was already made - he was silenced, jaw locked open by that brutal grip, utterly at the mercy of the being above him. Khayon's augmentic hand failed utterly to dislodge the imprisoning limb.
Abaddon's gaze flickered down, noticing the futile efforts of the bionic hand pushing against his forearm. The low growl rumbling in his chest intensified. A new wave of fury entered those incandescent eyes, directed now at the mechanical limb that dared to resist, however ineffectually.
He released Khayon's jaw abruptly, the sudden freedom causing Khayon to gasp, choking on blood. Before Khayon could react, that same hand shot down and seized the offending wrist in an iron grip. His other hand joined it, clamping around the plating.
The voice that followed was a low snarl, ripped from the throat, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of Abaddon's absolute authority, twisted into something primordial and intimidating.
"Defiance."
The single word was both an accusation and a sentence. Abaddon leaned closer then. His voice dropped to a possessive rasp that scraped directly against Khayon's auditory nerves.
"You are mine. To break as I wish."
The declaration hung in the air, absolute and chilling. Then, with a sound of tearing plasteel and servos screaming, Abaddon simply pulled. Not bent, not crushed, but ripped the mechanical limb apart by his strength. Joints sheared, plating buckled and tore, wires snapped, sparking. He tore the hand from the wrist and the forearm from the complex mechanisms near the elbow, rending the intricate device into ruined components with horrifying ease. He held the mangled hand aloft for a second before casting the wreckage aside with utter disdain. The message was ruthlessly clear: resistance, in any form, would be unmade. Property would be broken at the owner's pleasure.
Khayon stared at the ruined limb, then back up at the incandescent temper in Abaddon's gaze. Khayon had often sought Abaddon's controlled dominance. But this… this was different. Stripped bare. Raw. There was no calculation in those eyes, no hint of the cold Abaddon using pleasure or pain as a tool. This was a meaningless force unleashed, focused entirely on him. On possessing, on breaking, on consuming.
And yet deep within the unsettling, something else stirred. A dark, unhealthy flicker of fascination. A perverse thrill. He had always desired to be under Abaddon, to feel the full weight of his presence, his will. He had just never imagined it like this. Uncontrolled. Utterly dominant in a way that had nothing to do with command or intent, only raw instinct. The part of him that craved submission, that thrilled at being owned, responded on a basal level, even as his mind screamed warnings. The familiar heat, the familiar weight… they sparked a conditioned desire, now horribly twisted by the barbarity and the startling knowledge that the mind directing it was lost in the storm. It was horrifying. It was degrading.
And somewhere, deep down, buried beneath layers of fear and self-preservation, a treacherous part of Khayon found it dangerously, sickeningly hot.
This internal contradiction warred within him, a dizzying spiral of trepidation and excitement. His psychic senses brushed tentatively against the edges of that mental inferno again. He could feel the rampaging fire just beyond the veil, the chaotic tempest where Abaddon's disciplined mind usually resided. The temptation to push further, to see inside, was immense, a scholar's desperate curiosity mingling with a need to understand. But even that glancing contact felt like staring into a plasma reactor. Trying to truly enter that maelstrom now…
Yet… the realization crystallized. Physical resistance was futile. Intervention was impossible. Escape was unthinkable. Continuing to fight back only invited more destruction, more pain – pain that barely mattered and served no purpose now but to fuel the rage above him. There was only one path left, terrible and uncertain as it was. Submission. Not like the offering he sometimes made, but a desperate attempt to appease the beast, to channel its ruinous force into a different kind of violation.
He couldn't stop the need to dominate radiating from Abaddon, but perhaps he could redirect it. Offer a target that aligned, however perversely, with established patterns. It was a gamble based on the hope that even this primal state retained some echo of their shared history, some instinct beyond pure devastation. It was an anxious thought, born of despair and that weird excitement. To deliberately invite that..? But what other choice remained?
He forced his body, pinned and aching, to relax fractionally beneath the immense weight. It was an effort of will, fighting every instinct screaming at him to struggle. He let the tension drain from his limbs, allowing Abaddon's mass to settle more fully. Then he shifted his hips. Not pushing up, not resisting, but a subtle, deliberate movement. A slight widening of his legs, a tilt of his pelvis. It was the hint of the posture of surrender he had offered willingly before, now dredged up from the depths of hopelessness. A silent, dangerous plea whispered in the language of the body: take this instead. Let this be the outlet for your flame. It felt obscene, humiliating, offered under duress and the shadow of annihilation, yet laced with that treacherous thrill.
The shift registered instantly. Abaddon's gaze snapped down, fixing on the subtle movement beneath him. The low growl rumbling in Abaddon's chest changed pitch, deepening into something guttural, almost approving. The raw, possessive energy radiating from him intensified, focusing sharply on the offered vulnerability.
He understood. On some base, instinctual level, the gesture has registered. One massive hand shifted from Khayon's shoulder, sliding down his back. The pressure wasn't designed for pain, but for leverage, forcing Khayon's hips higher, arching his body further against the stone floor.
Simultaneously, the other hand clamped around Khayon's neck, fingers digging in like talons, cutting off his air supply not completely, but enough to make him gasp. He lifted Khayon's upper body slightly off the floor, forcing his spine into a sharp arch, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, utterly dominated. Abaddon lowered his head then, the heat of his breath washing over Khayon's bloodied face, those molten eyes mere inches away. The voice came again, a low growl that vibrated with power, each syllable resonating with the force of command, yet raw, stripped of calculation.
"Weakness... submits to strength."
The words, simple but undeniably Abaddon's, vibrated through Khayon's skull. Pinned in that helpless position, throat constricted, Khayon felt the world narrow to the crushing weight above, the feverish heat, and the focus of those eyes. Fear warred with a sudden jolt of pure, unadulterated lust that shot through him, hot and sinful. His own cock, traitorous flesh, hardened, an undeniable physical response to the utter subjugation, the power being exerted over him. The pain in his face, the ruin of his arm, the menace – none of it mattered in that instant, eclipsed by the horrifying thrill of this Abaddon accepting his desperate, debased offering. It was wrong, yet his body responded with an ingrained eagerness that left him breathless and disgusted with himself, even as the heat pooled low in his stomach, a treacherous counterpoint to the cold anxiety gripping his soul. He was on the verge, balanced on a knife edge between annihilation and a violation he was starting to shamefully crave.
Abaddon didn't speak, didn't acknowledge the offering with words. Action was the only language understood in this state.
With impatient force, Abaddon grabbed the remnants of Khayon's torn robes bunched around his frame and ripped them away completely, exposing Khayon's lower body, the sound of tearing fabric appeared too harsh. His hands immediately descended, not exploring, but claiming. Fingers dug hard into the flesh of Khayon's thighs, forcing them wider apart, pinning them to the floor.
Then, one hand slid down, rough and demanding, cupping Khayon's arse. There was no tenderness, no seduction, just assertion of ownership. Fingers pressed hard, spreading the cheeks apart, revealing the tight clench of muscle beneath. Khayon shuddered involuntarily, a tremor that was equal parts trepidation and unwelcome anticipation. He could feel the thick heaviness of Abaddon's erection pressing against his buttocks, a promise of imminent, forceful violation.
Khayon squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself, his mind an unfamiliar mix of fear and a sickening pulse of heat low in his gut.
The thought flickered through Khayon's mind – biomancy. Just a touch. Enough to ease this, to make it bearable, guide it towards something more enjoyable. But the memory of the ruined arm, the chilling finality of Abaddon's words, stopped him – any perceived defiance, any attempt to control even his own body's response, would likely invite only greater wrath. He was property. Property didn't prepare itself; it endured what was done to it.
Abaddon shifted above him, a predator settling over its prey. The blunt pressure of his cockhead nudged insistently against Khayon's tightly closed entrance. There was no finesse, no attempt at preparation, only raw, driving need. He pushed forward, hard.
Khayon's breath hitched, his body resisting the force. It was like being impaled on hot iron. Abaddon snarled, a low sound of frustration, incensed by the resistance. He didn't relent. He simply applied more pressure a grinding force against the stubborn barrier. Khayon could feel the thickness forcing its way, stretching him agonizingly. Then, with a sudden surge of overwhelming power, Abaddon drove forward.
It wasn't penetration; it was invasion. A brutal rending sensation that ripped a choked gasp from Khayon's throat. The pain was sharp, raw friction against unyielding tissue, but it was the sheer force of the entry that stole his breath, the feeling of being split open, overwhelmed. Abaddon didn't pause, didn't allow for any adjustment. He plunged deeper in, burying almost his entire length within Khayon's body, filling him completely, stretching him taut like a bowstring. Khayon's back arched involuntarily, a strangled sound caught in his throat, the undeniable flare of arousal coiling tight within him.
There was no moment to acclimatize. Abaddon began fucking him immediately, a relentless piston-like rhythm driven by unthinking impulse. Each thrust was a jarring collision, grinding Khayon's body against the stone floor, forcing ragged gasps past his lips. The friction was raw, searing, amplified by the lack of any preparation, yet overshadowed by the power driving into him again and again.
Abaddon's hands weren't idle; they moved over Khayon's pinned form with rough possessiveness, fingers digging into hipbones, clamping onto his side, leaving trails of angry red pressure marks on his skin. It wasn't exploration; it was the handling of an object, a reinforcement of ownership. Khayon remained trapped, impaled, his body forced to endure this assault. The psychic emanations pouring off Abaddon weren't just heat and rage anymore; Khayon could feel the overwhelming tide of animal lust, undirected by intellect, focused solely on the act of taking, of using the body beneath him as a vessel. It was a terrifyingly naked display of need, stripped of all pretense.
Abaddon's pace was punishing. He pounded into Khayon, each impact echoing wetly in the chamber, driving Khayon's face harder against the stone. The thick shaft ground against torn insides, a cruel friction that sent waves of conflicting signals through Khayon's nervous system – a sharp ache overlaid with sparks of perverse, conditioned pleasure.
Abaddon's breath came in slow but harsh pants, the sound animalistic against Khayon's ear. His grip on Khayon's hips tightened, fingers bruising flesh, anchoring him firmly as he used Khayon's body with single-minded intensity. Sweat beaded on Abaddon's back, mingling with the blood, smeared between them, creating a primal slickness.
Khayon feels the heavy slap of Abaddon's stomach against his own arse with every deep, driving thrust. His psychic senses picked up the undiluted waves of raw lust emanating from the mind above – no thought, no strategy, just the imperative to take, to possess, to dominate this hole, this body beneath him. It was terrifying in its simplicity, its utter lack of restraint. Khayon's own involuntary gasps turned into moans as the pounding continued, his body abused, yet undeniably responding to the power claiming him.
Abaddon's movements grew more frantic. He seemed lost in the act, driven purely by the need to dominate, to imprint his possession onto Khayon's very being. The angle shifted as Abaddon braced one hand flat on Khayon's lower back, pressing down with immense force while using his hips to drive deeper. The impacts were jarring, bone-rattling, each one forcing a low groan from Khayon that was lost in the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh. Khayon could feel the thick, rigid length moving inside him, stretching, filling, owning every inch. It was ownership made brutally, physically manifest, and the part of him, the part that had always yearned for Abaddon's absolute power, couldn't entirely distinguish this from the controlled dominance he usually craved.
Abaddon's hand shot up, clamping around Khayon's throat again. Hard. The air cut off sharply. Khayon's groan turned into a desperate gasp. Oxygen deprivation added a new layer of panic to the sensory overload. Abaddon didn't relent, maintaining the crushing pressure on his windpipe while his hips continued their rhythm. He fucked Khayon like an animal, mindless and savage, while simultaneously choking the life out of him. Khayon's body bucked uselessly beneath the weight, hand scrabbling weakly at the arm cutting off his air. The sounds escaping him now weren't gasps or groans, but high-pitched, desperate whimpers.
The raw, animalistic need radiating from Abaddon intensified, the psychic heat becoming almost unbearable, scorching Khayon's senses. He felt the thick cock grinding deeper, hitting something vital inside, and the combination of the hard fucking, the oxygen starvation, and the sheer overwhelming situation tipped him over the edge. A tremor seized his body. His cock, untouched, pulsed between the floor and his own abs. He was going to cum, helpless and broken, purely from the force of the violation, choked into submission beneath the Warmaster's beasty passion. The thought itself was the final degradation, the final surrender, and yet, it sent another wave of fire through his veins.
The release hit Khayon, convulsion ripped through his form. A strangled wheeze escaped past the pressure on his throat as ropes of seed pulsed out, spilling onto the stone beneath him, fouling the tattered remnants of his robes. The release offered no pleasure, only a deeper layer of humiliation.
Abaddon didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. The choking grip remained locked, the relentless pounding inside Khayon didn't change the rhythm. Khayon's spent orgasm was utterly irrelevant. He continued to fuck the trembling, gasping form beneath him with the same intensity.
After several more thrusts that felt like they were tearing Khayon apart from the inside, Abaddon suddenly changed tactics. He released Khayon's throat, grabbed his shoulders, and flipped him over onto his back with contemptuous ease. Khayon landed hard again, the impact jarring his already battered frame. He lay there, blinking up through a fog of pain and smeared blood, utterly exposed. Abaddon loomed over him, a terrifying pale visage against the dim light. His massive frame glistened with sweat, muscles coiled, the unnatural heat rolling off him. His eyes burned down at Khayon, devoid of recognition, filled only with that inhuman hunger. The expression on his face wasn't rage anymore - it was something more focused, the look of a predator utterly consumed by its instinct, regarding its prey with absolute possessiveness before the next stage of consumption. Then, his hands shot down again, clamping around Khayon's throat once more, thumbs pressing hard against his windpipe, lifting his head slightly off the floor, forcing Khayon's gaze to meet his. The pressure wasn't just choking this time; it felt like his neck might snap under the sheer, unrestrained power in that grip.
Abaddon continued to fuck him in this new position, the angle different, deeper somehow, each thrust a brutal reminder of his helplessness. Khayon stared up into those eyes, vision swimming. The world narrowed to the feverish heat above him, the relentless invasion below, and the intensity of that gaze. Vertebrae grated under the force twisting his neck. Black spots danced before his eyes. A detached part of his mind registered the physiological signs of imminent death if the pressure and angle continue to increase. How long would this continue if he were merely a corpse? The morbid curiosity was a fleeting distraction. His remaining hand, the flesh-and-blood one, came up weakly, trying to push at the massive wrist locked around his throat, trying to alleviate the suffocating pressure.
It was a mistake.
The golden eyes narrowed fractionally. The low growl returned. Abaddon released his throat only to deliver a vicious backhand slap across Khayon's already broken face. The sound cracked through the chamber. Khayon's head snapped sideways, slamming hard against the stone floor yet again. Fresh pain exploded behind his eyes, momentarily eclipsing even the struggle for air. But the slap achieved its purpose – Abaddon's both hands moved to Khayon's hips, digging in hard.
Khayon was drowning. Drowning in the raw, unfiltered psychic heat pouring off Abaddon, a tangible pressure that felt like being too close to a sun gone nova. It saturated his senses, overwhelming the pain from his shattered face and bruised body, the ruin of his arm, the rough frictions. His own thoughts fragmented, coherent analysis dissolving into pure sensation. He wheezed, breath rasping in his damaged throat, unable to draw enough air, yet unable to stop the sounds escaping him – broken moans torn from his chest with each impact, whimpers forced out by the cruel touches. The feverish warmth of Abaddon's skin against his, the crushing weight, the relentless rhythm driving into him – it was becoming his entire reality.
At some point, Abaddon shifted, leaning down further. His face lowered, hovering just above Khayon's neck. He felt the brush of Abaddon's nose against the side of his throat, he inhaled the familiar scent of ash and steel overlaid with the sharp tang of sweat and something wilder, more feral. For a fleeting, disorienting second – a memory of another Abaddon, controlled, deliberate, whose proximity had always carried a different kind of danger, a different kind of promise. The thought made his hearts seem to sink deeper for a second. Abaddon didn't nuzzle him. He opened his mouth, revealing sharp fangs, and bit down. Teeth punched through skin and muscle on the side of Khayon's neck. Adrenaline-overloaded blood welled up, filling Abaddon's mouth, spilling down Khayon's neck and shoulder, staining the black stone darker. Abaddon seemed to revel in it, teeth locked, growling deep in his chest as he tasted the lifeblood, tasted the complex swirl of terror, pain, and twisted desire flooding Khayon's system, transmitted through the vitae itself.
Abaddon finally pulled back from the bite, his mouth smeared crimson, a growl of satisfaction vibrating in his chest. His eyes, glazed with feral intensity, fixed on Khayon's face, watching the mixture of suffering, fear, and awe play across his features. Then, driven by that same animalistic impulse, he lowered his head again, towards the juncture of Khayon's neck and shoulder. Another bite, fangs sinking deep, clamping down with savage force. Khayon hissed, body thrashing uselessly beneath Abaddon's weight. The angle was awkward, pulling the skin taut. As Abaddon continued his thrusts, the movement combined with the locked jaw threatened to rip flesh away entirely.
Yet, through the red haze, that strange, perverse current persisted. Being marked like this, claimed so violently, possessed so completely by this unrestrained force of nature wearing Abaddon's skin... it tapped into something deep and broken within him. He was nothing but meat, an object for this primal power to consume, yet somehow, horrifyingly, that complete objectification felt like the ultimate form of attention from him. It was madness. It was annihilation. And it was undeniably, intensely stimulating.
Abaddon lost in the rhythm of possession. Khayon felt overwhelmed by the sensory assault – the tearing pain inside him, the bruising grip everywhere, the coppery taste of his own blood, the suffocating heat, the sheer presence of the being raping him. His moans became incoherent, ragged sounds torn from his lips. He writhed weakly beneath Abaddon, no longer fighting, simply reacting, his body a canvas for the Warmaster's unleashed passion.
The psychic inferno radiating from Abaddon was palpable, a storm of raw need and possessive rage that Khayon absorbed helplessly.
Abaddon opened his mouth, fangs bared, saliva mixed with Khayon's blood dripping down his chin. He didn't speak. He bit again. Savagely. This time on the already brutalized flesh near Khayon's collarbone. Teeth sank deep, grinding, tearing. Khayon screams as he feels the fibers of his muscles ripping. Blood flowed freely, hot and sticky, pooling on his chest, soaking into the remnants of his robes, painting Abaddon's face and chest crimson. The metallic tang filled the air. Abaddon seemed to feed on the pain, on the blood, his thrusts becoming even more aggressive, hammering into Khayon with devastating force, utterly consumed by the act of claiming his bloodied, broken prize.
A sudden, convulsive shudder ran through Abaddon's massive frame. The grip on Khayon's hips became bone-crushingly tight, anchoring him. Abaddon threw his head back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, echoing off the angles of the chamber – a sound of pure, untamed power reaching its zenith. Viscosity flooded Khayon's ravaged insides, which felt less like release and more like another violation, another brand of ownership placed deep within him. Khayon barely registered it through the haze of pain, blood loss, and sensory overload. Abaddon's body remained rigid for a one long moment, locked inside him. The pounding stopped, but the weight remained, the silence broken only by Abaddon's harsh, ragged breathing and Khayon's own weak, shuddering gasps. The storm hadn't broken; it had merely climaxed. And the frightening realization settled into Khayon's battered consciousness. This was unlikely to be the end.
Predictably, it wasn't.
The brief pause was only a gathering of force, a momentary lull before the tempest resumed. Abaddon shuddered again, a snarl rumbling in his chest, and began to move once more. The rhythm was slower now, but heavier, each thrust grinding, possessive. His mass pressed down relentlessly, pinning Khayon beneath him like a trophy. His hands resumed their exploration, fingers digging into flesh, leaving patterns of bruises that mapped his ownership. The biting started again too, sharp nips and deeper clamps along Khayon's jawline, his shoulders, anywhere his teeth could reach, marking him, tasting him, reinforcing the fact of his possession.
Khayon's existence dissolved further into a fever dream – the searing heat emanating from Abaddon, the constant, rubbing pressure inside him, the bursts of pain from the bites, the coppery tang of blood, the suffocating weight. Time ceased to have meaning; there was only the endless cycle of violation, the overwhelming presence of the being above him. His mind, once sharp and analytical, felt fractured. Coherent thought became impossible, replaced by raw, conflicting impulses. He was losing himself, his consciousness blurring at the edges, threatening to merge with Abaddon's wildfire.
Khayon became little more than a rag doll beneath the relentless onslaught. Abaddon moved him as whim dictated, yanking him into different positions with contemptuous strength. He has flipped Khayon onto his stomach again, one leg wrenched up at an unnatural angle, joints screaming in protest even through the haze. Then onto his side, Abaddon's massive body pressed him down, pinning his remaining arm uselessly. Fingers pinched sensitive flesh, twisted limbs, if exploring the limits of endurance with cruel curiosity, all while the brutal fucking continued, unabated. They were a tangle of overheated flesh on the slick, stained floor, two apex beings reduced to something far more base.
Khayon barely registered the world beyond the immediate sensations. His mind floated, detached. He felt another orgasm building, distant and disconnected from conscious thought, a purely physiological response to the unending stimulation and violation. When it came, it was a weak spasm, barely noticeable amidst the larger agony, spilling uselessly onto the already fouled stone. Pain? Pleasure? The distinction had ceased to exist. He was simply enduring.
It was into this tableau of ravishment that the chamber's single adamantium door hissed open. Khayon, whose head happened to be turned towards the entrance during one of Abaddon's rough repositionings, saw it first through a shroud of blood and pain-induced tears. A figure stood silhouetted against the corridor light beyond. Sargon. He must have sensed the protracted length of the ritual and come to investigate. Sargon's gaze swept the room, taking in the scene – the discarded bionic arm, the torn robes, the smeared floor – before landing on the entangled figures. His eyes, usually filled with fervent belief, widened. For a heartbeat, a desperate, fragile spark of hope ignited in the wreckage of Khayon's mind. Rescue. Sargon would intervene. He would use something to quell this, to bring Abaddon back. Their eyes met across the distance – Khayon's wide with pain and a desperate plea, Sargon's unreadable, assessing. Then, without a word, without a gesture, Sargon simply turned. The adamantium door hissed shut behind him, the heavy thump of the seals engaging echoing like a death knell in the chamber.
He was alone again. Alone with the horrifying consequence of his own arrogance, trapped beneath the thing that wore Abaddon's face.
The heavy thump of the door sealing seemed to echo endlessly in Khayon's mind a final punctuation mark on his abandonment. Sargon wasn't coming back. No one was coming. He was utterly alone with… this. The realization settled deep in his bones, colder than the stone floor. There would be no rescue, no intervention. Khayon stared blankly at the sealed door for a long moment.
Something within him seemed to… shift. Not break but surrender on a level deeper than conscious thought. If resistance invited only more pain, if hope was a lie, what was left? Only the raw sensations flooded his system. His thoughts, already fragmented, grew slower, lazier, drifting on the tide of unstoppable stimuli. The sharp edges of fear began to blur, mingling disturbingly with the persistent thrum of arousal. Was this truly so bad? A detached, irrational part of his mind whispered the question. Wasn't this proximity, this absolute focus, this complete possession, a twisted reflection of what he had always craved? To belong so utterly to Abaddon, to be consumed by his power… The thought was insane, born of trauma and desperation, yet it resonated with a dark, undeniable truth buried deep within his devotion. He was afraid, yes – terrified for himself, terrified for what had become of Ezekyle – but beneath the dread, beneath the pain, that perverse fascination grew stronger, fueled by the sheer, unrestrained power pouring into him, claiming him, marking him as his. He was nothing but meat, a thing to be used, but he was Abaddon's meat. And perhaps… perhaps that was enough.
Khayon had no idea how long it lasted. Time warped and stretched, rendered meaningless by the unending assault. Days could have passed, or mere minutes drawn out into an eternity of sensation. His only clock was the state of his own transhuman frame, and the readings were dire. He could faintly register the deep, bone-aching weariness, the leaden drag in his remaining limbs. If he possessed the clarity to perform a self-assessment, he would catalogue fractures spiderwebbing across vertebrae and ribs, several of which are definitely broken, deep contusions blooming across his skin where rough hands had gripped and pinned. He'd note the crust of drying blood matting his hair, plastering his ruined face, smeared thick across his neck and shoulders from the savage, unrestrained bites. He might even register, with detached alarm, how perilously close he skated to the absolute limits of Astartes endurance, the point where even genetically engineered flesh begins to irrevocably fail. He might have wondered, with morbid curiosity, about the limits of Abaddon's own stamina. But Khayon knew none of this, saw none of it, registered nothing beyond the immediate, overwhelming present. He was lost, adrift in a sea of conflicting stimuli, his consciousness submerged beneath the relentless tide of the Warmaster's possession.
At some point, amidst the infinity violation, Khayon vaguely surfaced into a semblance of awareness. It wasn't a return to clarity, more a brief flicker. He registered his position – somehow, he was on his knees again, his arse was raised high though bent forward, his chest, shoulders, and battered face pressed against the slick, fouled black stone floor. Then, the awareness sharpened as Abaddon's massive hand closed around his neck again. Tighter. Colder, despite the radiating heat. Like an iron vise tightening with slow, inexorable pressure. It lasted far too long. Khayon could feel his own pulse hammering frantically against the constricting fingers, his carotid artery throbbing desperately beneath the unyielding pressure. Seconds stretched into agonizing eternities. The dim light of the chamber began to darken further at the periphery of his vision, tunneling inwards. He had no strength left to resist, not even the weak flapping of his remaining hand. He wasn't even sure if he had the will to resist anymore. That part of him felt distant, submerged. Abaddon's brutality jarring his body, grinding his ruined face further into the pool of his own blood and drool, staining the floor. He didn't know when he'd started drooling; it was just another degradation lost in the overwhelming whole.
The grip tightened further, a final, inexorable turn of the screw. Darkness rushed in, swallowing the last vestiges of thought, of sensation, of self. Finally, mercifully, oblivion claimed him. Khayon went limp beneath the Warmaster, falling into unconsciousness.
When Khayon woke up, Abaddon was gone. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sticky, glued shut with the dried blood that had dripped from the gash on his forehead. He attempted to lift his remaining arm, but the muscles screamed in protest, every fiber howling at the slightest hint of movement. A profound, bone-deep fatigue had settled over him, anchoring him to the to the cold stone, which seemed to suck the heat out of him. For a long while, he just lay there, sprawled amidst the wreckage of his robes and his dignity, trying to gather the barest minimum of strength. Finally, summoning reserves he didn't know he possessed, he managed to lift his right hand, fingers trembling, to wipe the crusted gore from his eyelids. He blinked slowly, painfully, his vision swimming. He was still alone in the same impossible room, lying exactly where Abaddon had left him when... finished? Had the storm passed? Had he come back to himself? Was Ezekyle alright? The questions flickered weakly in his battered mind. He tried to push himself up, intending to sit, but the movement sent jolts of agony through his abused body, and his bare skin peeled away from the floor with a faint, tacky sound. The black stone was sticky, coated in a drying, grotesque mixture of sweat, blood, spilled seed, and Khayon didn't want to contemplate what else. Defeated for the moment, he simply let himself fall back, rolling slowly onto his back with a groan. He stared up at the ceiling, at the confusing angles. His own reflection stared back from the polished, multifaceted surfaces – a broken, ravaged thing. Ugly. Devastated. Violated. Abused.
Khayon didn't know how long he had lain there – only that the world had stopped shifting around him. Time no longer cracked like lightning behind his eyes. The pain had dulled, settled in like an old companion.
Then the door opened. A hiss of depressurized air. A cold gust that prickled along his raw skin. Khayon turned his head with effort. Sargon stood there, the light catching on the polished surface of his armor. His gaze dropped to the ruined figure on the floor.
A voice issued from the gargoyles on his pauldrons, a voice echoing from their sculpted maws.
"You live."
Khayon's throat was dry and bruised. His voice was gravel.
"Where is Ezekyle?" He coughed, tried again. "Is he – whole?"
Sargon didn't move. "He is. Though displeased. You ripped him out of his life for three days. Without warning."
Khayon blinked. "…Three days?" He rasped weakly. "That… thing," he muttered, more to himself than to Sargon. "It lasted three days?"
"Tell me, Khayon," the gargoyle voice said, its tone dipped in venomous amusement. "Did the ritual meet your expectations? Or did you enjoy your little… improvement too much to notice the consequences?"
Khayon's lips curled. A wave of unfiltered power surged outward from him, silent and sudden. Sargon's form was flung backward, the gargoyles shrieking in disarray as he struck the wall outside the door. The door hissed and slammed shut before the priest could recover.
Khayon exhaled slowly, the taste of blood still in his mouth. He closed his eyes. Alone again.
Abaddon's hands rested on the rail before the hololithic star chart, fingertips tapping in thought. His bodyglove clung to him like a second skin, black against the obsidian lines of his frame, unarmored, but no less commanding. His eyes watched the drift of warfleets through voidspace, the red arcs of campaign routes, the ghostly bloom of warp storms on the fringe. He did not turn when he senses presence behind him.
Khayon stepped closer, silent, his gait slower than usual. He had cleaned himself - bare skin scrubbed of dried blood, fresh robes of black and gold. His hair was damp. His eyes red-rimmed, tired were downcast. He came to a stop two paces behind the Warmaster, and for a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Khayon murmured, voice tight.
“Ezekyle.”
Abaddon didn’t answer.
“I came to-” Khayon cleared his throat. “To apologize. For the consequences of my suggestions. I thought I understood the mechanics of the ritual. I didn't foresee-”
Still, Abaddon did not speak. He tilted his head slightly. Not in anger. In thought.
Khayon pressed on, quieter.
“If I had known it would… take you like that, I would never have-”
“You did know,” Abaddon said, his voice like a blade sheathed in silk. Still not looking at him. “You simply didn’t believe it could happen with you.”
Silence again. A long one.
Then Khayon whispered, almost inaudibly,
“Yes.”
He stood there, guilt pouring from every line of his body, arms clasped in front of him like a penitent, shoulders bowed. Abaddon’s fingers flexed once against the railing. Then he stepped back.
With a movement strangely gentle for a man of his mass, he placed one arm - just one, but it was enough - across Khayon’s shoulder. A brief pull, a weight, a moment of contact. It grounded more than it restrained. His voice was low.
“You are not punished. Because you’ve already been taught.”
Khayon didn’t respond. He just stood there, eyes closed, lips drawn tight. The guilt was still there. But so was the warmth of the arm around him.
Abaddon's arm tightened, just slightly. Not a full embrace - but he drew Khayon in until their bodies touched.
Khayon stiffened at first, startled by the rare gesture. But then he leaned into it. His eyes closed. The knot in his chest didn't loosen, not entirely but it no longer choked.
Abaddon’s voice came again, low and close to his ear.
“You survived. So did I.” A pause. “That is enough.”
Khayon turned his face slightly toward him, as if to speak but no words came. None were needed.
They watched the stars together for a while.