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Abaddon hummed low in his throat as Todd guided him down the winding staircase, his fingertips grazing the rough, dust-veiled brick with idle curiosity. Todd had promised him a surprise—something grand, something befitting of a demon prince. A throne, he’d said. A seat worthy of his majesty.
How quaint, Abaddon mused. Still, it pleased him. Mortals who remembered their place were a rarity.
The steps flattened into cool stone, and the air grew heavy with incense. Candles crowded every surface of the cavern below, their flames trembling like worshippers too afraid to meet his gaze. The scent—lavender, floral—curled around him as the shadows deepened.
Ahead hung a red curtain, flanked by two kneeling Acolytes. At Todd’s approach, they tugged upon frayed cords, drawing the fabric aside to reveal the chamber beyond.
Wax pooled in the cracks of the stone floor. The lavender scent grew thicker—almost chokingly sweet. At the center of the room sat not a throne—as he'd been promised—but a sumptuous couch, draped in velvet and surrounded by waiting figures. The Acolytes stood in reverent silence, each clutching some offering meant for their master.
Abaddon smiled—a slow, indulgent curl of the mouth. So this is how they worship. It would do, for now. Until he could teach them what a throne really was, and teach them gratitude worthy of his name—kneeling, trembling, whispering thanks for the privilege of simply existing beneath his gaze.
He brushed past Todd with lazy authority, acknowledging him with the barest nod before lowering himself onto the couch. It yielded beneath his weight, soft and comfortable—an earthly luxury meant for those who are simply better. Something resembling a throne would've suited him better. Still, he stretched along it with a hum of idle contentment. Yes. This will do.
One by one, the Acolytes came forward, bowing low as they placed their offerings at his feet—pendants glinting in candlelight, polished fruits, feathers, and bloodied tokens of devotion. He accepted each without question, pleased by their fervor if not their taste. When the last had knelt, he gestured idly for one to feed him the fruit.
His gaze slid toward Todd. “A fine chamber,” he murmured, the words threaded with amusement. “You have pleased me.”
He let his eyes drift shut, sinking back against the seat. It was far larger than his mortal vessel required—wide enough for him to recline fully, limbs outstretched, without brushing the edges. For a moment, his mind wandered, lulled by the flicker of candles and the hum of incense. It was peaceful. Was.
Then—hands. Fingers closing around his wrists, sudden and forceful. His eyes snapped open, a snarl already forming. “Who gave you permission-?!”
Todd’s finger pressed against his lips, silencing him with a soft shh. The insult burned hot in his chest.
“Don’t worry, Abaddon,” Todd murmured, tone calm—almost patronizing. It sparks fury deep in Abaddon's chest. “There are just… certain requirements we must fulfill before the world can end.”
Abaddon’s fury faltered, confusion threading through his composure. His mouth parted to demand an explanation—but Todd only tilted his head toward Loraine, the blonde Acolyte waiting nearby.
When she stepped forward, reaching for his pants, he drew in a sharp breath. “What—surely this is overkill?”
He shifted uneasily as Loraine’s hands moved, stripping away the layers of fabric beneath the watchful eyes of the others. The weight of their stares pressed in on him until he felt as if he were being consumed, not worshipped. His vessel was too frail, too human, he couldn't fight them off if he wanted to—yet curiosity flickered through him all the same. What sort of ritual demanded this? And why, of all things, did it begin with his mortal shell laid bare?
Todd approached then, slow and deliberate. His hands were broad, his touch uncomfortably assured as they mapped the contours of Abaddon’s borrowed flesh—up his sides, across his chest, a hand big enough to wrap around the entirety of his thigh; it's a mimicry of reverence that felt closer to desecration.
Abaddon’s breath caught in his throat. “This isn’t necessary—” he started, voice low and edged, but Todd only smiled, the faintest shake of his head silencing him. The message was clear—he would not be getting out so easily.
His chest seizes as a hand wraps around him, warm and wet. The vessel is a sensitive thing, he finds quickly, and tries to shut his legs. They are opened again, with no problem, by two other Acolytes he hadn't bothered to learn the names of.
A jolt of heat tore through his borrowed flesh, Abaddon's teeth clenching as Todd stroked him from base to tip. For a creature of dominion, obedience came far too easily. It's embarrassing to be watched like this, eyes on every side of him.
His hands move expertly across his skin, they dip and poke and prod at exposed flesh. Fingers dig into his sensitive areas, pulled at them, even.
Heat gathered low in his gut, a molten knot of pleasure that refused to settle. The longer it went on, the harder he pulled at the hands restraining him—each breath rougher, each sound pulled unwillingly from his throat. Todd's hands worked expertly against his skin, Abaddon felt like he was falling apart. Crumbling.
He wants to curse at him—at all of them—but finds he can't trust his voice to make more than small, gasping noises. Sound blurred; he could hear only his own pulse, frantic and furious.
The pleasure is bubbling, now, Abaddon hiccuping at the feeling. “This isssss-!” He pauses to take a gasp of air, "Different.” He clenches his teeth, “fuck.”
Todd had a smirk on his face, like he thinks something is funny. As if this is amusing to him. Abaddon snarls, but any protest turns to ash on his tongue when Todd squeezes him. He hadn't experienced anything like it before, the vessel felt—other. Hot and warm; every nerve on fire. Noises slip from his throat, uninvited and thoroughly humiliating.
It's as though Todd has already acquaintanced himself with the weaknesses of his mortal flesh.
Abaddon’s vision wavers, the edges of reality softening and smudging. His limbs feel heavy and foreign, the vessel trembling with a need he refuses to acknowledge. It is abhorrent—this surrender, this trembling vulnerability—but his body refuses to obey him, answering instead to sensation and instinct.
He hates it. He wants to hate it.
Hates the way breath stutters in his chest. Hates the warmth pooling under his ribs like lava. Hates the soft, breathless sound that escapes him when Todd’s touch shifts, thumbing at his tip in a way that has him tensing—it’s not pain, not fear, something far more damning. Mortifying.
His pride splinters. He is a creature carved from sin, from dark, reduced to shaking under mortal hands and mortal nerves, his own body betraying him with every twitch and gasp. He is writhing. The air is suffocating, thick with heat and humiliation; he wants to pull away, to rise, to command as he had just moments before—yet his spine only curls tighter, shuddering under a wave of sensation that bends him inward.
Todd’s smirk deepens—smug, knowing, unbearably human. “You're doing so good, my liege.”
Abaddon’s glare is meant to be venom, but his eyes won’t stay sharp; they flicker, heavy-lidded, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears. His jaw locks, teeth grinding, desperate to cling to whatever dignity remains when his own voice betrays him in tiny, ragged breaths. It's getting harder to hold on by the second.
“This body,” he tries, though the words shake, “is—treacherous. As- ahh-!” The pitch in his tone is humiliating. “Are you.”
It comes out smaller than he intends, threaded with something dangerously close to need. His fingers curl against restraint, not in defiance but in desperation—needing something solid to hold himself to, before he simply comes apart under the weight of feeling. He doesn't know how he is being undone so completely by something such as this.
He is not built for this. For surrender. For fragility. For want. For humanity.
And Todd must know it. He can see the way the human revels in his helplessness, in having more power than his deity.
That, above all, is what makes Abaddon’s chest twist—shame and white fire braided so tightly together that he can’t tell where humiliation ends and fury begins.
Someone laughs softly—indistinct, a murmur against the blur of heat in his skull—and Abaddon’s face burns. He doesn’t dare lift his eyes, even to tell them off. His focus is completely and the hand around his cock, touches ping-ponging between too light and too rough.
Despite the fury and the pride and the loathing curling inside his ribs, something in him tightens with anticipation rather than dread. His gut feels pressure unlike anything he's dealt with before—it thrums under his skin, it squirms into every crevice of his being. Humanity digs its claws deeper.
He clings to breath, to coherence, to the last trembling threads of self-control—knowing they are slipping, knowing he is losing the shape of himself moment by breathless, humiliating moment.
He doesn’t know where to put his hate. It coils in him like a wounded serpent, striking at nothing, at everything, at himself. Rage burns, but there is no strength to wield it. It collapses in on itself, molten and useless, drowned in the helpless urgency twisting low in his body. Todd is working him efficiently.
He can’t think. Not properly. Thoughts spark and gutter, too bright, too brief—pride, fear, indignation, an ache he doesn’t have a name for. Each one flares and dies before he can seize it, leaving him stranded in sensation and humiliation, breath hitching like he is something fragile. “Satan-” he gasps, knees jerking in attempts to draw up, to close around and relieve such pressure.
His throat closes. His chest tightens. The world narrows to heat and pounding blood and a pressure rising too fast, too sharp. He would demand for control back if he could form the words—not freedom, not mercy, just control. Anything to stop being ruled by this unfamiliar hunger that trembles through him like a fault line about to break. Instead, all that leaves him is a multitude of whimpers and half-gibberish commands.
He is not meant to feel like this. Mortals flail in desire, in instinct, in the tyranny of flesh—but not him. Never him. Him. Abaddon.
And yet. Yet, here he is, drowning. Heady pleasure crashes over him in waves;it steals the breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping, wanting.
He swallows a sound—gods, even that feels too human—and the humiliation digs deeper, burrowing under skin, under bone, rooting itself in the softest place inside him, a place unlike the ones that remembers what it is like to have power, to be unbent.
He is bent now. Strained to breaking. He thinks the Acolytes are cooing at him, he's tensing harder now.
And the worst part is the treacherous sliver of longing threaded through the panic. That small, shameful part that clings not to escape, but to the overwhelming rush itself, craving the surrender he swears he does not want. A hiccup is drawn from him, his gut clenching so hard it hurt.
His lips part, searching for breath or curse or warning—but nothing comes. Just a trembling exhale, thin and shaken, as though he’s being hollowed out from the inside. He doesn't even have the words to warn them of what is going to become of him.
He feels the precipice approaching, something vast and wanting, curling around him like heat rising from fire. “Please-” it barely breaks past the tightness in his throat.
The word is a crack in him, hairline and branching outward. The moment it leaves his mouth, everything inside him buckles.
There is no warning. No dignity. No time to brace.
Something detonates through him — not pleasure, not pain, both and neither, a blinding white crash that strips him down to raw nerve and instinct. It rips the breath from him, gibberish sounds rush from his throat, hollowing him out so violently it feels like the universe is collapsing on top of him. It is almost vicious the way his orgasm tears through him.
For an instant, he isn't worshipped, or desecrated, or holy, or not, he isn’t even Abaddon.
He isn’t anything.
Just heat and shaking and a helpless, shattered rush that swallows thought whole, leaving him clinging to the sensation like a creature drowning with no surface left to swim toward.
He gasps as if the world has stolen language and breath at once. His body trembles uncontrollably, a tremor born not of weakness, but of devastation; of ruin. As if the vessel is trying to remember how to live after coming undone so violently.
He can hear them — faint coos, murmurs, reverent verses sweetened to honey. The Acolytes.
He wants to curse them. To lash out. To rise in fury so terrible it would scour the room clean.
Instead, all he manages is a shudder.
And then the world rushes back in—too quickly, too sharply—sensation hitting him again before he’s even begun to recover. Overwhelm crashes into the tender place just reopened, nerves sparking like frayed wires in water. His eyes shoot open, “that's—”
His fingers curl uselessly, a soft sound breaking from him before he can swallow it. Breath scatters from his lungs, every inhale a trembling plea his pride can’t outrun.
It is too much. Too raw. Too sensitive.
And still it does not stop.
There is no mercy here—only the slow, relentless unraveling of a thing that believed itself better, now learning what it means to be bent past that worship into something that resembled humanity.
There's no time to rebuild walls. No time to remember divinity, the lack thereof. Just sensation, humiliation, trembling need and fear twined so tightly there is no telling where one ends and the other begins. “It's too much!” Abaddon thrashes, Todd only hums, Loraine smiles like that's the best thing she's been told.
“It hurts.” The confession scrapes out of him, small and raw. Something shifts beside him—weight, heat, presence—and then the world presses down from yet another direction. Too many hands, too much warmth, voices murmuring devotion like a litany meant to drown him.
Todd has let go of him in favor of lubing his fingers and pressing at his hole. Lorraine has taken to replacing Todd's hands with her cunt, warm and wrapped tightly around him. There are others, more hands, more feelings.
He doesn't know where to focus. Every point of contact flares like fire under his skin, nerves screaming with pleasure that has curdled into something sharper, desperate, unbearable.
He can't breathe.
Every inhale shakes. Every exhale catches in his chest. His body jolts at every touch, overwhelmed to the point where sensation stops being distinguishable and becomes one vast, crushing wave that devours him whole.
A chorus rises around him — soft laughter, reverent whispers, the rustle of cloth and skin. They touch him like he's holy and helpless at once, like unraveling him is worship. Like they are the good that makes him, like he might bless them if they break him down a bit more.
He tries to lift his head. It falls back, boneless.
He tries to speak. Only a choking whine escapes, humiliating and thin.
“No more—” It comes out sputtered, childlike. Words trip on his tongue and fall down his throat. It's nothing like the command it should be. “I can’t—nnnnnsatan-”
The hands don’t stop.
His body moves without him, shuddering, seized by aftershocks that don’t end, that keep spiraling tighter and sharper until pleasure and panic fuse into a trembling, blinding haze. His thoughts dissolve. His pride frays. It shouldn't, it's what he is— pride, greed, just. Sin.
But they aren’t just touching him—they are claiming him, drowning him in sensation until he can no longer remember where he ends and the mortal shell begins.
His second peak is approaching swiftly this time, spurred on by the thrumming in his bones, in his marrow. Todd's fingers inside of him are foreign, prodding, poking. Loraine has his face in her hands, wiping the tears from his eyes with her thumbs.
He's saying something, or maybe it's nonsensical babbling. He doesn't know. All he knows is the pleasure coursing through him, tightening his gut and his limbs. White-hot fire flashes behind his eyelids, his back arching off the velvet couch.
He shouts, the fingers inside him are pressing on something, it's good, it's good, it's too much. If anything in the history of everything has been too much, this is it.
He doesn’t notice the moment he comes again. There is no clear peak, no break—just a sudden, terrible after, as though his body was the aftershocks of an earthquake.
No breath will come. He's too tense.
His lungs seize, locked in his ribs like a cage too tight to expand. His whole body stays strained, trembling, every muscle wound so tight he feels he might simply snap along the grain of himself.
It hurts.
Not the sharp hurt of violence or punishment—no, this is worse. A deep, wracking ache that blooms in the hollow of his bones and burns outward, its heat tangled with shame and unwanted sweetness until he can’t tell them apart. Words spill from his throat, whimpering and uneven. He just wants to be done.
A low sound pulls from his throat—hardly a voice at all, soft and ragged and humiliatingly human. He shakes as though the tension has nowhere else to go, every muscle begging for rest he isn’t granted.
A hand cups his cheek with a reverence that should soothe, but instead it tears a shudder through him—nerves flayed open, sensitivity a punishment in itself. Warm breath skims his jaw, gentle and reverent, kisses pressed along untouched skin.
His body doesn’t know whether to flee or melt; it chooses both, collapsing inward, leaning helplessly despite himself.
Todd hums, voice syrup-soft and unbearably calm. “You’re holding on so well, my prince. Just a little longer. We just need two more and it’ll all be over. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Abaddon convulses with the sound alone. He must be dying—there’s no mortal reason for sensation to twist like this, for need and dread to claw him apart. The world feels thin at the edges. He feels thin, like one tangled thread unraveling entirely.
“I can’t,” he chokes, voice breaking like something fragile dropped. His breath stabs at his ribs, tears streaking hot and soundless. “I really- I can’t.”
The fingers inside him press harder, it has him gasping sharply. White stutters across his vision.
“You can, you just need some coaxing.” Todd replies. Abaddon thinks he must be full of it, he has to be.
He's not.
Every movement around him comes with a hellish sensation, Abaddon oversensitive and thrashing. The fingers inside him press as hard as they can against that spot inside him, it's has him questioning what he knows as divine, as holy.
It hurts, yet it's not punishment. It doesn't carry any stinging or burning, it's just heat. He's sweating, he can feel it, he can feel everything. Todd's fingers, Loraine still wrapped around him, a hand on his chest, another tracing his scar, fingers wiping the tears from his face.
He doesn't know where one sensation ends and another begins.
A tremor rips through Abaddon, violent enough to steal any sound bubbling in his throat. His grip on reality slips like sand bleeding from the crevices of fingers. His body betrays him, tumbling toward that unbearable brink again even as his mind claws backward, desperate for stillness. His muscles flutter, lock, surrender in pulses he can’t control. Every inhale snags like a snare tightening; every exhale dissolves into a whimper he bites down before it breaks free.
No relief comes. Only the slow, inevitable draw—like a tide dragging him out to sea, inexorable and patient, promising a horizon he’s terrified to reach. There are dots in his vision, he's sure he would've passed out by now if he could.
The pressure rolls through him again—deeper, sharper, maddeningly precise—and his vision whites out around the edges. Heat coils up his spine, molten and choking, like his body has already begun the climb and left his mind scrambling behind. It hurts. It hurts. Lorraine seems to be overjoyed with the thought of carrying his seed inside her.
“I can’t,” he tries again, but it’s barely breath, barely sound—more air than speech, a plea swallowed by sensation. A prayer not met with mercy by his gods.
Todd’s breath grazes his ear, reverent as prayer. “Yes you can,” he whispers, as though it’s fate. “You’re so strong, Abaddon. We're doing this for you.”
Abaddon thinks he may be hysterical. It felt less like burning and more like cramping now. His vessel jerks at every touch, overwhelmed and sensitive. “Ju-hnnngggg just onennnnhhh- more?” He asked, bottom lip trembling. He’s barely aware of his own voice—how it cracks, how it slurs around the edges of the plea. His words sound distant, as if someone else is speaking through him. Maybe someone is.
The tremor in his chest has become constant now, each breath a fragile, trembling thing caught halfway between a sob and a whine. His body no longer obeys him; it reacts on instinct alone, every nerve alive and screaming.
“Just one more,” Todd repeats, “I promise,” quiet and steady, as if saying it enough times might comfort the demon below him. Every inch of Abaddon’s skin feels scalded beneath the weight of the everything happening around him.
Loraine is still wrapped around him, fingers ghosting over her belly. The other Acolytes are brushing the drool from his lips, pressing reverent kisses to his skin. Someone is telling him how good he's doing.
He doesn’t know if it’s the words, or the tone, or simply exhaustion, but something inside him wavers. A shiver runs the length of his body, followed by a sound that could be a sigh or a whine. His fingers twitch helplessly against the couch, reaching for something—any anchor—but finding only velvet and the ache in his muscles. The tremor builds again, slow and heavy, until he feels it in his teeth, in his bones.
It's harder to get there. His peak rises before suddenly dropping, like his body rejects the very thought of going through it again. It happens over and over, Abaddon tensing and sobbing with every rise before going limp and catching his breath during every drop. It's torture. He knows torture, he lived it, breathed it for thousands of years, and this has made it quite high for him on the torture spectrum.
He’s trapped in the rhythm of it—rising, falling, rising again. Each aborted swell leaves him weaker, trembling harder, his body shaking from the effort of trying and failing to find an end. The tension has settled deep in his spine, refusing to release him. Every breath catches.
He wants it to stop. He wants it to end. But the cruel rhythm of near-release keeps dragging him back to the brink, only to drop him again into the aching hollow below. It’s maddening—worse than any blade, worse than the pits. It's different. It's not pain, not really, but it hurts.
Todd seems frustrated, another Acolyte has since pressed a hand to Abaddon's mouth. Ah. It seemed as though he had started talking and babbling at some point.
His voice breaks apart behind the hand. Small sounds escape him, hoarse and pleading, barely human. He jerks once, twice, muscles spasming, before slumping against the couch again, chest heaving. It feels like Todd is trying to dig into his very soul—if he had one.
His thoughts have melted into static, words dissolving before they can form. The world narrows to noise and color—heat blooming from his very marrow, the pulse in his throat like thunder. For a heartbeat, he forgets how to breathe. Something inside him gives with a soundless snap, too sudden to brace against, and a raw, guttural scream tears itself free. Every nerve burns white-hot, every muscle locked in a rictus of tension until it feels like his body might shatter from the strain.
He can't get down. His body won't stop tensing. It locks, and locks, and locks.
Then, silence—broken only by his gasps. He slumps back against the velvet, shaking, the air thick and heavy in his lungs. The aftershocks ripple through him in uneven waves, his thoughts stuttering to catch up to what’s just happened. It’s over—he tells himself it’s over—but his body doesn’t feel it yet.
He’s trembling too hard to move, breath coming in ragged bursts. The world tilts in and out of focus: soft voices, footsteps, the low hum of someone speaking his name like a prayer. It all blends together, too distant to grasp. He feels wrung out, emptied, his own heartbeat echoing loud in his ears.
The last thing he knows before he's out is the hands brushing sweat and tears from his face.
When he finally blinks his eyes open, awareness presses down like weight made real—the warmth of bodies around him, the heavy scent of incense and iron. His throat burns, raw from the sounds he doesn’t remember making. He is sore.
For a long moment, he just lies there, trembling.
Shame comes last, creeping in like a tide: quiet, suffocating, inevitable. He feels the stickiness on his skin before he can name it. He doesn't want to name it.
He pushes himself upright.
The room is still. Bodies lie scattered where they fell, the warmth gone from them long ago. Blood pools on the stone, mingling with melted wax until the floor glistens like glass. The candles have long since gone out, and the room was quite dark if not for the cracks in the ceiling.
The apocalypse, it seems, started without him.