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Morden knows that he is merely a backdrop for them—nothing more than scenery for their theatrics, just something for Cartagia to touch and use and discard when desired. More than anything, he is a possession, he always has been, and Cartagia is being very, very generous in his sharing today.
“ You will be quiet,” says Londo as he pulls his hand free from Morden’s thighs; Morden has learned that they — anyone he’s fucking in the moment, whatever sad lifeform his associates have manuevered him towards now — usually like it when he is loud, when he begs, and it is difficult to hold himself together when instructed to now. Cartagia has him held down, holding Morden tight and close with his bare back against Cartagia’s chest, rubbing Morden carelessly over his appendages, Morden’s arms curled back into Cartagia’s with cruel restraint. “I doubt the Emperor is particularly interested in your pathetic whimpering.”
“Why don’t you ask him,” Morden breathes. “It’s—ah—not good to—”
Cartagia’s back sinks against the wall, and they both gasp at the change of position. Londo moves in, like the predatory swoop of a scavenger bird, to pick Morden up by the hips and spread his legs wide. One appendage of Londo’s slips deep inside, but Londo is looking past Morden’s gaze, his stare locked into Cartagia—partially in bliss, partially out of fear, as if he’s waiting for Cartagia to strike outside of predictability any moment now. Cartagia’s own tentacles entwine with Londo’s as Londo fucks into him, though, and Cartagia’s breathing underneath Morden is growing heavier, so it’s (somewhat) safe to say no one is getting beheaded as long as they obey.
Well. Cartagia would never kill him. Morden is untouchable.
It would be sad to see Londo go, though—they still need him, and more selfishly, he is very good at this.
“I quite like his pathetic whimpering, actually,” Cartagia replies. “Mr. Morden, how good does Mollari feel inside of you?”
Londo shifts around, and Morden’s face contorts—he tries to keep his eyes open, to watch the show he’s being puppeteered into with subservient joy, but it’s too overwhelming, too much for him to bear. His head rolls back, his lips pressing into Cartagia’s neck, peppering him with even more pathetic moans.
“Answer me,” Cartagia orders, but Morden will not be controlled. His associates are in the corner watching, of course. He likes it that way, a reminder of who he truly belongs to.
Cartagia grunts at his defiant lack of response.
“Well, Mr. Morden?” Londo offers, trying to nudge Morden in the right direction, clearly expecting a sliver of Cartagia’s wrath, but Morden only grins at him, that unreachable, empty smile. They both know what it means: he won’t hurt me. Londo is another one of Cartagia’s special things, Cartagia likes him. They’re all entangled in this together, all drowning, hand in hand.
It’s overwhelming, and Cartagia can tell—Morden cries out when he feels Cartagia enter him beside Londo, their tendrils rubbing against one another and against Morden and against all that they’ve ever desired, all that they could ever imagine coveting.
“M—majesty—”
“Ah, he can speak,” laughs Londo, and Morden rolls his eyes. But all of this is an inside joke between Londo and Cartagia, a glass secret, a game where Morden is simply another piece placed on the board, and Morden doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants.
Londo and Cartagia reach a blinding rhythm in Morden, fluttering their woven tendrils in an agonizing upwards drill. With half-closed eyes, Morden looks up—it’s as if he isn’t there, as if they are with one another and the rest of Centauri Prime, the rest of the universe and the fabric of reality, has melted all away.
Even through this, he manages that smile again. There’s a loud screech in the corner—to the others it sounds unintelligible, but Morden can decipher it: good, says his associate, very good.
