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Fear was something every son of Curze knew intimately. They were born into it, molded by its cold grasp. It was in their blood, in the marrow of their bones. They knew the desperate glint in the eyes of their prey—the flicker of hopelessness before the end came. They recognized the choked-off gasp of terror when the shadows came alive, swallowing the unwary whole and leaving behind only bloody remnants of what once was.
Fear was their weapon, their creed. They were its masters, the predators lurking in the dark, shades that struck without mercy. For one of them to feel fear? That was unthinkable. Fear was for the hunted, not the hunters.
But Haarken Worldclaimer had not been bound by the conventions of the VIII Legion for a long time.
The corridor leading to Abaddon’s quarters stretched before him, dimly lit by faint, flickering lumen strips that cast long shadows across the walls. Haarken’s footsteps echoed in the stillness as he walked, his pace hurried. The Warmaster himself had summoned him, and to keep Abaddon waiting was unthinkable. Yet his urgency wasn’t dictated solely by punctuality, nor by the ingrained quickness of a Raptor always accustomed to swift movements.
No, there was something else driving him forward—a knot of fear coiled deep within his chest. It was sickly sweet, twisting his insides in ways he couldn't ignore. It wasn't the kind of fear he was used to, the sharp edge of danger that quickened his reflexes and sharpened his mind. This was different. It was more profound, more primal, and it made his adrenaline surge through his body like a drug. His quickened steps did little to disperse it, and he found himself gripping the familiar weight of his Helspear, his fingers tightening around it to steady the faint tremor in his hands.
Haarken had always felt something when he was near Abaddon. A primitive instinct, like a lesser predator in the presence of an apex hunter. But this was not that familiar, animal fear. This was something more insidious. It was the fear of anticipation, the heady rush that made his dual hearts beat harder and his flesh itch with the need for action.
As he approached the ornate double doors to Abaddon’s study, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. The heavy, black doors were adorned with intricate carvings, their ancient designs untouched by the warp’s corruptive influence. They stood as a testament to the power within, as though even the dark gods themselves dared not alter the heart of the ship—a place where Abaddon’s presence was absolute.
Haarken pushed the doors open, the heavy creak reverberating through the still air. The study beyond was shrouded in darkness so profound that the vaulted ceilings disappeared into the void above. Flickering yellow flames from scattered candles cast trembling light across the room, illuminating fragments of the countless trophies that adorned the walls and floors.
Weapons of ancient design, skulls of long-extinct leviathans, and other grotesque curiosities filled the space with no discernible order. Each object told a story of conquest and death, relics of Abaddon’s relentless campaigns. One could spend hours cataloging the details of the room, tracing the history etched into every artifact. But Haarken’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes instinctively scanned the room, his gaze searching for the only presence that truly mattered.
At the center of the room, behind a massive table, sat Abaddon. He idly flicked through the reports on a holopad. The table before him was as chaotic as the rest of the chamber, cluttered with piles of scrolls, holopads, and ancient tomes stacked haphazardly. Yet even in that disarray, he radiated an aura of authority that demanded respect. There was no mistaking it—he was as formidable here as on the battlefield.
The door shut behind Haarken with a heavy, echoing thud. Abaddon’s hand paused over the holopad. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. The dim lighting did little to soften the weight of his stare; it sharply pierced through the shadows. Haarken stiffened, the air in the room suddenly heavier. The sensation was visceral—he felt exposed, vulnerable under that piercing scrutiny. It sent a cold shiver crawling down his spine.
“My Herald,” Abaddon said, his tone deceptively casual. “It seems you’ve had better success this time in subjugating the Imperial filth than during our… last review.”
Haarken swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He remembered.
The back of his skull colliding with the war table, and the deafening crack that followed. His jaw, shattered and dangling uselessly, as blood flooded his mouth. Abaddon's cock buried deep in his throat, the coppery taste mingling with the suffocating agony. His pet sorcerer’s mocking eyes watching from the shadows, his warp-spawned magic slithering into Haarken’s broken body. It didn’t heal—it violated. Twisting flesh, knitting bones, stitching him back together just enough to endure the punishment.
Abaddon’s voice above him, slicing through the haze of pain, just barely tinted with cold, deep rage, reciting each one of his failures with each thrust.
“Do you understand the weight of your failures now?”
Each word punctuated with a heavy, sharp pain as Abaddon tears him apart even more. Haarken’s vision blurred, involuntary tears streaking down his face. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, erratic and painful, each heart constricting in its own panicked rhythm.
“I will show you what true fear feels like." Abaddon's voice feels deafeningly loud. The sorcerer obeyed, his vile magic forcing Haarken’s shattered jaw to mend. His body convulsed as his flesh reformed, every nerve alight with unnatural pain, each break and tear felt in reverse. And just as the torment began to subside, as the broken pieces of him were pieced back together, Abaddon’s hand clamped down, crushing his jaw again with terrifying ease. His throat was torn apart once more.
Haarken’s scream then was unlike any he’d ever made—a raw sound dragged from the depths of his soul. A sound he hadn’t known he was capable of. His thoughts had dissolved into a single, all-encompassing truth.
I will die here. I will die. I will die.
His world had shrunk to that moment: the unrelenting grip, the blood filling his lungs, the humiliation of being reduced to nothing. Choking. Shattered. Disgraced. He had been ready to welcome death, to end the nightmare.
But Abaddon’s voice cut through the chaos. “Are you feeling it, Herald? That is what my enemies should feel.”
Haarken’s hearts hammered in his chest, each beat a brutal reminder of his panic. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus—only feel the blind, helpless terror consuming him. His body screamed at him to fight back, to move, to do something, but nothing happened. His arms were useless, broken at the start of the punishment. Any attempt to shift sent jagged bone scraping against the table and the sharp edges tore deeper into his flesh.
The weight on his chest grew worse, pressing him down until he could hardly tell where pressure stopped and pain began. Then came the sound. A wet crack. His ribs gave way under Abaddon’s hand. The pain that followed was unlike anything else, sharp and deep, radiating outward as shards of bone dug into his lungs. Haarken tried to breathe, but the attempt failed. Blood filled the empty space where air should have been. It surged up into his throat, mixing with the blood already leaking from his torn windpipe. It spilled from his mouth in thin streams, dripping from his chin and pooling beneath his head.
He couldn’t stop shaking. Each involuntary movement only worsened the pain. His body was breaking apart, piece by piece. His hearts still beat, though each pulse felt weaker than the last. Through the haze of pain and blood, Haarken’s eyes locked on Abaddon. The Warmaster towered over him, expression cold, his voice steady and unaffected. He didn’t care. Haarken’s suffering was nothing more than a means to an end.
The sorcerer stood nearby, watching with a faint smirk. His faintly glowing eyes followed every spasm, every labored breath. Haarken could feel the sorcerer’s focus, a chilling presence that seeped into his bones. The insufferable Tizcan wasn’t here to stop this. He was making sure it continued. Keeping Haarken alive just enough to endure more.
“You will die when I say so.” Abaddon’s voice was crushingly calm, leaving no room for defiance. “Only when you’ve felt the full extent of my displeasure.”
The words drove through Haarken as deeply as any wound. His instincts still refused to shut down, clinging to the fragile thread of life the sorcerer allowed him to keep. But it wasn’t living. It was nothing more than an extension of the torment.
In the present moment, Haarken found no words. This wasn't like him. He always knew what to say, and how to present himself, but now cold fear gripped his chest. Beads of sweat slid down his back, unwelcome in the heavy stillness of the room.
Somehow, it felt right.
“I see that my lesson was good for you, Herald,” Abaddon said, his tone carrying an air of unquestionable authority. He leaned back into his black metal chair—a throne in everything but name. The dark steel seemed molded to his towering form, jagged spikes enveloping him like a halo of blades. “I have already seen the reports.”
Haarken’s thoughts raced. Was this another test? Another subtle push to see if he would stumble again? His gaze darted to the shadows, searching for that damned sorcerer. Would he step out now, ready to prolong the punishment if Abaddon so commanded? The thought twisted in his gut, sending a pang of nausea through him.
A part of him knew this fear was beneath him, an indulgence he shouldn’t allow. But his body remembered too vividly. His flesh, broken and pieced back together more times than he could count, screamed at him to flee. It remembered the pain, the helplessness, and it begged him to escape before it happened again.
“No,” he thought, forcing reason through the storm of panic. “The Warmaster is fair. I have not done anything to deserve punishment.”
As if reading his frantic thoughts, Abaddon spoke again. “It brought me no pleasure to punish you. But you must understand—it was necessary.”
The words cut through the suffocating air—a statement of fact, delivered without emotion. Haarken swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his body tense. He didn’t dare respond, didn’t trust his voice not to betray the fear still clawing at his insides.
Abaddon did not move, did not raise a hand - his presence alone was enough to hold Haarken in place.
“You’re afraid.” His voice was measured and terrifyingly calm. “Good. It means you remember.”
Haarken clenched his jaw. He did not speak. To say anything would be to admit to the shameful mixture of delight and terror coursing through his veins.
“Yet here you stand, unharmed. No blade at your throat. No punishment awaiting you. And still, you tremble.” Abaddon's golden eyes gleamed predatorily in the dim light. “Why?”
Haarken hated that he had no answer. He hated that his body still braced for the agony that did not come. Hated that he found himself, despite all of it, eagerly anticipating the certainty of pain.
“You thought you understood your place,” Abaddon continued, his low voice filling the vast chamber. “But now you see the truth. It isn’t pain that binds you to me, Haarken. It never was. Fear is merely the foundation.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm on the throne’s black steel. “It is I who decides what you are. I who shape you, break you, make you whole again. Every piece of you exists because I allow it. You survived because I wished it. You stand here now because I have chosen not to destroy you. That should terrify you more than anything.”
Haarken swallowed, throat dry.
“You feared my wrath, yet you should have feared my favor.” Abaddon’s voice dropped to something almost indulgent.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, without ever raising his voice, Abaddon issued a final command.
“Come here.”
Before Abaddon’s words even registered in Haarken’s frantic mind, his legs moved. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but an instinctive response. In a few quick strides, he approached the throne, his knees hitting the cold floor with a dull thud as he bowed low before the Warmaster. For a fleeting moment, he felt grateful that the position hid his face from Abaddon’s piercing gaze—those eyes that always seemed to strip him bare, leaving nowhere to hide.
But the reprieve didn’t last. A powerful hand seized his collar, jerking him upward with ease. The sudden motion forced Haarken to meet Abaddon’s eyes, glowing faintly with cruel amusement.
“I told you to approach,” Abaddon said. “But if you are so eager to debase yourself before me, then do it.”
The words hung in the air. Haarken didn’t need clarification. He felt the pressure of Abaddon’s hand resting just above his carotid artery—a silent reminder of how easily his Warmaster could crush the life from him. It wasn’t just a command. It was a test.
Raw fear gripped him in full now. His body moved before his mind could catch up. Dropping back to his knees, Haarken pressed his forehead to the floor. The black, polished ceramite of Abaddon's boots reflected the dim light of the chamber as if mocking him with their perfection. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, and then the overwhelming desperation took over.
Lowering himself further, Haarken dragged his tongue along the smooth surface of Abaddon’s boot. The taste of ceramite and armor polish filled his mouth, sharp and bitter. Shame coiled in his gut, twisting tighter with each movement. The act was humiliating, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Every fiber of his being poured into this one grotesque display of submission. He needed Abaddon to see that he understood, that he had learned his place. Like an animal submitting to a stronger predator, he bowed and debased himself, hoping it was enough to appease the Warmaster.
When he finally dared to raise his head, his eyes met Abaddon’s. The Warmaster’s expression was unreadable for a moment, but then his lips curled into a cold, wicked grin that sent a chill down Haarken’s spine.
“Is that what you think I want?” Abaddon asked, his voice laced with disdain. “Your pitiful groveling?” He scoffed, his tone turning colder. “I have plenty of slaves. I have no need for another one.”
Before Haarken could respond, Abaddon’s hand shot out again. With effortless strength, he dragged the Herald upright, holding him in place as though he weighed nothing. Haarken’s frantic eyes darted, his breathing shallow and erratic. Abaddon leaned in closer, his gaze boring into Haarken’s soul, stripping away every layer of composure.
“My Herald is not a groveling slave, and I am not a petty warlord to be appeased by such base displays,” Abaddon said, his voice cutting through the tension with cold authority. His hand moved, resting briefly on Haarken’s chest before sliding down to the groin plate of his armor. Ceramite-clad fingers found the clasps and undid them with startling ease, each unhurried motion precise. “Serve me with dignity, as your position commands.”
Haarken’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, deafening, each pulse a reminder of the fragile line he walked. His body worked against itself, every muscle straining, his blood surging with an intoxicating mix of adrenaline and confusion. The sensation of Abaddon’s forceful and controlled touch sent waves of heat through him, though he didn’t understand why. His flesh, scarred and imperfect, remembered all too vividly the agonies it had endured. It remembered being broken and pieced back together, each razor-thin incision a lingering echo of punishment, every fracture a reminder of what happened to those who disappointed the Warmaster.
Yet, from those cracks and scars, something else seeped forth. It wasn’t terror, though it should have been. It was something darker, something shameful. An unwelcome, consuming desire.
He must have been cursed. That damned sorcerer. It was the only explanation. The only way to make sense of the swirling, confusing emotions now consuming him. His mind rejected it, but his body betrayed him.
Abaddon’s grip didn’t falter. Haarken could feel the weight of his Warmaster’s golden eyes fixed on him. They studied him, dissected him, reading every twitch of his body, every flicker of emotion that crossed his face. Haarken’s breath hitched as he realized Abaddon wasn’t merely observing—he was waiting. Waiting for Haarken to act.
Haarken’s instincts were screaming at him to do something, anything, to relieve it. And so, in one practiced, fluid motion, he lifted himself. His hearts pounded harder as he moved, the rush of adrenaline now boiling into a panic. He settled into the Warmaster’s lap, his armored form pressing against Abaddon’s massive frame. The gesture was bold, even reckless. It felt like crossing a line he didn’t fully understand, and for a brief moment, all he could think about was the swift, brutal retaliation he expected to follow.
The desperation of that thought gripped him, and his face must have betrayed the pang of terror coursing through him. He braced for the blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, his gaze met Abaddon’s again, and he caught a flicker of something new in the Warmaster’s stoic features. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—a glint of satisfaction.
The realization sent another rush of emotions through Haarken, a volatile mix of shame and relief that left him trembling. Whatever Abaddon saw in him; it was enough—for now. Emboldened by this unspoken confirmation, he tore at his bodyglove with his talons with ease, shredding the thin barrier separating their bodies.
Haarken felt the hot press of Abaddon’s cock against his backside, and with it, the sharp return of fear. It coiled tightly in his chest, suffocating him and dragging his mind back to memories of torment. He swallowed hard, his throat aching at the phantom sensation of when it had been torn apart by the same thick shaft that now was between his thighs. It was big, too big even for an Astartes to accommodate. Yet, somehow, the fear didn’t deter him. No, it spurred him. Pain was familiar to Haarken. It was punishment when he failed, but it was also a gift—a mark of his Warmaster’s attention, his approval. Pain was something he could endure, even welcome, if it served a greater purpose.
Abaddon didn’t move, didn’t unleash the fury that always simmered beneath his cold, calculating exterior. Instead, he leaned back into his dark steel throne, his massive frame relaxing into its unyielding surface. His expression was unmoving, his golden eyes expectantly fixed on Haarken.
The overwhelming mixture of fear and want now surged through Haarken’s veins. It was a heady brew that clouded his thoughts but sharpened his focus. Under the unrelenting gaze of his Warmaster, Haarken rose, letting the cock press more firmly against his ass. There was no time to prepare, no chance to steel himself for what was to come. And deep within, he didn’t want to prepare. It felt right—proper—to be overwhelmed by Abaddon. To be torn apart again, not as punishment, but by his Warmaster’s command.
Haarken planted his feet firmly, braced his legs, and stilled his breath. His body trembled slightly, nerves aflame with anticipation and dread. He knew he couldn’t truly be ready for what awaited him, but he forced himself to meet it anyway. Abaddon’s face remained impassive, his expression unreadable, as if he were carefully observing every moment, every movement. Only when Haarken started lowering himself onto his cock a slight twitch of his upper lip betrayed the pleasure he was feeling.
Haarken’s body screamed in protest as the impossible stretch began. Sharp pain lanced through him, as he felt his flesh stretch thin to accommodate his Warmaster. It felt as if he were impaling himself, his body instinctively fighting against the intrusion, almost tearing as it resisted. Then, with a sharp ache and a sickening pop, something deep inside him gave way. A faint trickle of blood followed, easing the dull throbbing pain just enough for him to breathe again.
And yet, what should have been pure, unrelenting terror wasn’t. Instead, a surge of shameful pleasure coursed through him, drowning out his fear with something far more confusing. As he lowered himself he relished in the feeling of being pinned by Abaddon’s will, and the feeling of his cock spearing through his insides. It felt unnatural, impossible, and yet so right – to be slowly, but inevitably reshaped into what his Warmaster required.
Abaddon’s hands, which had been resting on the throne’s armrests, tightened. His fingers dug into the unyielding metal as Haarken finally lowered himself to a hilt. The Herald crouched over him, his pale thighs glistening with faint streaks of crimson where blood had smeared against his skin. Blood trickled down his chin from where he had bitten through his lower lip, the coppery taste filling his mouth as he fought to restrain himself. Haarken’s pale cheeks were faintly flushed, his breath ragged, his entire body tense as he struggled to suppress the sounds threatening to escape him.
Every inch of his body hurt, but the pain didn’t matter. To Haarken, it was irrelevant—no, it was necessary. He was exactly where he was meant to be, fulfilling a purpose greater than himself. All that mattered was the exhilarating sensation of Abaddon’s cock slowly sliding in and out of him. The blood that had poured from his wounds was already drying, crusted, and cracking as his body regenerated. But the healing was fleeting—Abaddon’s movements reopened the gashes again and again, fresh rivulets of crimson streaking his pale, scarred skin. Each slow, deliberate drag of his battered insides against his Warmaster’s cock brought another wave of pleasure.
Haarken had let go of any pretense, any lingering shred of self-consciousness. He basked entirely in the moment, reveling in Abaddon’s approving gaze. It was rare and fleeting, but each time the Warmaster’s impassive features shifted—each flicker of genuine pleasure he elicited—Haarken felt a rush of vindication. He lived for that. He craved it more than anything else.
Without warning, Abaddon moved. His massive hands gripped Haarken with unrelenting force, lifting and slamming him back down. The sound of cracking ceramite echoed through the chamber as Haarken’s pauldrons crumbled under the sheer strength of the grip. Abaddon buried his cock deep inside him, hot bursts of release filling him to the brim. He felt it drip out of his hole, mixed with his cold blood. The sensation burned like fire, searing pain shooting through him as if his torn insides were being branded. Yet even in that agony, there was something deeper—a twisted satisfaction in the knowledge that Abaddon’s very essence now mingled with his own. His body, regenerating at a furious pace, absorbed the Warmaster’s mark into the raw, scabbing wounds. It was permanent. He was claimed, body and soul, and the realization sent a shudder of ecstasy through him.
That ecstasy coursed through every nerve, driving him to the edge of his endurance. His muscles, taut and exhausted, trembled violently. The sensation built to a crescendo, finally escaping in a loud, desperate wail that echoed through the chamber—a stark contrast to Abaddon’s silence. The Warmaster remained stoic, his satisfaction marked only by subtle shifts in his expression, as though his contentment was far too vast to express in any audible way.
When the waves of sensation finally subsided, Haarken was left trembling, his body heavy with exhaustion. His vision blurred, but as it cleared, he saw Abaddon’s piercing golden eyes fixed on him with an expectant gaze. The heavy, oppressive silence stretched for a moment before the Warmaster’s voice cut through it like a blade.
“Again.”