Small Hate Ω

Pairing: Ahriman/Sanakht

Someone's reminded me that Sanakht's gotten curiously little attention from me given his big role in the Omnibus. This is an attempt at rectifying that, perhaps, with a little mpreg on top.

1,277 words.

“You want me to die.”

Ahriman’s voice is calm, warm even, as if he wasn’t presenting the gravest of realizations. Sanakht purses his lips and locks his hands over his waist.

“In a sense,” the Khenetai skirts around Ahriman’s claim. Ahriman is paranoid, but that doesn’t have to mean he’s caught wind of Sanakht’s plan, doesn’t have to mean anything.

Still, involuntarily, Sanakht shivers.

“In a deadly sense,” Ahriman says and affords the jackal a faint smile. Sanakht fidgets; he is afraid, and he is not in control. Ahriman is and always has been multitudes more powerful than him, even prior to the crippling of Sanakht’s sixth sense. If the arch-sorcerer wished to kill him, he could do so whenever, in the blink of an eye.

There’s more to his apparent superiority, though; unfortunately, damningly, it speaks to deeper parts of Sanakht, to the animal inside. Uncomfortable heat rolls over the jackal’s shoulders, accompanied by a wave of intrusive, obscene thoughts.

Ahriman knows. Sanakht is sure of it. The master beckons, and the jackal follows, obediently, to keep up his ruse. He comes to Ahriman’s glass desk, and then around it, to where the sorcerer perches lazily in his throne.

“Is it because of the Rubric, or because of what happened to you afterwards?” Ahriman asks. He smells of worn parchment and petrichor, and Sanakht hallucinates, briefly, a hot night spent on sweat-soaked furs.

It is too much.

“You feel weak, crippled, emaciated,” the sorcerer continues, “you have suffered much on my behalf, and I am sorry. But you are not in danger anymore, not for as long as you remain a loyal member of my cabal. I can take care of you.”

Sanakht holds onto the edge of the vitruvian table and presses his thighs together. Ahriman is dangerous, devious, lures him with deceptively gentle words. Sanakht does not need to be taken care of. Sanakht does not want to be taken care of. Does he?

“But you do not trust me,” Ahriman surmises and reaches for the jackal’s hips. Sanakht wants to fight him, wants to kill him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he meekly lets himself be tugged closer to his master. “That is understandable. I offer you proof of my words, a gift of goodwill - a Tutelary. What say you, Sanakht?”

A wet line trails down Sanakht’s inner thigh. It’s been a thousand years of ash and grief, of death and no life; he has not danced for anybody since the death of the Legion, has not been lovingly cherished like the warrior-courtesan he is, has not been taken and bred as Magnus has intended for him.

Now Ahriman offers a remedy. From his scent alone, Sanakht can tell that the arch-sorcerer has lost none of his potency in his long exile.

“A—a Tutelary,” Sanakht’s voice shakes, and then his entire body as Ahriman pulls him onto his lap. The sorcerer is not ungentle, but he is determined, knows what he wants. He lets Sanakht feel his strength, squeezes the jackal’s thighs.

Sanakht leans back, lets his flimsy robe slip open. He wants to feign distaste, apprehension, but his stiffening cock announces clearly a wholly different sentiment.

“A Tutelary,” the sorcerer affirms and pecks Sanakht’s lithe chest, “a shard of my power for a ravishing nefertari.”

Sanakht’s cheeks flush pink at the soft words. He cants his head, parts his black lips, invites the sorcerer with a warm breath; fill me, he begs desperately in his mind, and gracious Ahriman deigns to grant him relief.

What follows is not a kiss, but a bout of force-feeding. On his tongue, Ahriman delivers to the jackal a taste of his aether; with his thumb on Sanakht’s throat, Ahriman makes the little Khenetai swallow every drop of his power. Sanakht drools, gags, suffocates; forcibly, he is brought into full heat by a man he hates, a man he wants more than anything, and his insides spill a river of slick into Ahriman’s lap.

Satisfied, the sorcerer then lifts Sanakht to the glass desk.

On the table, the little jackal is handled rather than loved. Ahriman is driven by purpose, not affection; he works Sanakht’s body like an adorable mechanism, tunes his strings, pushes his buttons. He holds Sanakht to the glass in an oppressive choke; while the jackal coughs and moans, Ahriman uses his free hand to unspool the ribbon binding his robe and begins slowly jerking himself to stiffness. His preparation is brief; as detached as he tries to appear, even Ahzek Ahriman cannot remain cold before a wet, mewling osiron.

Sanakht expects a slow, tender entry. He is given the opposite, and screams when Ahriman hilts himself inside with a forceful shove. It hurts, after so long a celibacy, to be stretched and fucked without mercy. Sanakht kicks, and Ahriman is forced to take him by his legs to keep them spread, keep him docile.

“Easy,” Ahriman tries to shush his little whore, to no avail. Sanakht begs for a break, begs for release, but he is given neither. Instead, Ahriman props his hips up to a better angle; he swings out, and then again inside, and breaches the way to the jackal’s womb.

The copious kohl lining Sanakht’s eyes smudges on a spill of tears. He cries in pain, and in stupid bliss; this is his purpose, he feels, to have his yielding cervix abused and hammered.

“Very tight,” Ahriman growls in between loud, smacking thrusts, “like a virgin, Sanakht.”

Sanakht arches his back, keeps his knees wide apart, and imagines just that: himself as a shy, inexperienced novice, and Ahriman as his teacher, taker, insatiable mate.

I want you to die, Sanakht wants to shriek, but before you do - put me in a veil and stockings, Ahriman, and fuck me like a blushing bride…

As if privy to Sanakht’s deepest thoughts, Ahriman eagerly moves to consummate the imagined wedding. He pulls the little jackal against his rolling hips, against his uncomfortable girth; finally, Sanakht’s small cock throbs and spills white, and Ahriman fucks him through the orgasm, through the tight lock of his womb. At the height of Sanakht’s euphoria, Ahriman too allows himself a moment of spiking pleasure; his come fills the squirming jackal and roots inside, and the seeding is felt immediately by both the master and his willing, whining, gravid consort.

Ahriman pants a strained breath after the ordeal, swings once again into the whimpering warrior, then pulls out as carelessly as he came inside. Filth flows out of Sanakht’s stretched hole; laces of come and slick hang between him and Ahriman’s cock even as the sorcerer collapses back into his throne, sweating.

Sanakht’s legs, no longer held, twitch in the air. He dares run a hand over his bare abdomen; he feels nothing, not yet, but the knowledge that there would be a bump soon pushes him to the brink of another climax. He remembers then that it would be a spawn of hated Ahriman weighing him down, and the thought hurls Sanakht over the edge; exposed, leaking, dirty, he moans his master another servile, spurting orgasm.

Ahriman appears pleased with the sight and his performance. He seems to consider leaving, but then pulls himself back to the jackal, brings his head between his legs. Sanakht chews his lip as Ahriman’s tongue drags over his used entrance.

Truly, Ahriman does take care of his cabal, his companions. Sanakht throws his head back in delight and considers, again, another universe; he wishes for a future less grim, less dark, one in which he could for a thousand years give himself to Ahzek Ahriman to be bred into absolute submission.