Fick Yoi

Dahan can feel Yael’s gaze. It’s heavy, and it sets his circuitry alight. Scandalous and blasphemous as it may be, Dahan’s robes hang completely open, revealing most of his torso. The young Templar is staring right at it. Dim lighting be damned, Dahan can feel the curiosity and tension radiating off the man. In an instant, the training room feels unbearably hot.

“Do you wish to further analyze me?” The young Templar approaches slow and steady. “Be delicate. Not every component within me is resilient.”

Dahan watches as thick fingers cautiously approach. He sighs when they finally make contact with his chest, the touch tentative and unsure. They trail between the valley of his pecs, moving downward at a glacial pace. Just two fingers moving along, pausing suddenly when they meet Dahan’s belt.

“While your gentleness is admirable, you need not be so timid, boy.” Yael’s head snaps up at the term ‘boy’.

“I am not some sort of child,” he spits, brows furrowing in irritation.

“If you were I would not be engaging in this behavior with you. However, you are very young, especially in comparison to myself.”

“I am an astartes, not some bumbling fool.”

“An astute observation,” Dahan croons, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “You are also inexperienced.”

To emphasize this point, Dahan reaches out with two of his arms and begins to trace and rub at various common erogenous zones, watching carefully each time Yael squirms under the touch. His other two arms quickly join in when Yael moans softly. His eyes flutter closed as his breath quickens, and his knees are beginning to tremble as he fights to prove himself.

This is a fruitless endeavor. He falls to his knees with a gasp, and a very obvious bulge is forming beneath his training clothes. His hands race to clutch at Dahan’s sides, warmth leeching into the cool metal of his body.

“Y-you… pervert,” he whispers, face flushing red.

“Perhaps I am. I cannot determine the accuracy at this time, though I see the basis of your hypothesis.” Dahan starts to peel off Yael’s plain black tunic. “After all, I am stimulating a supple young body in a sexual context.” The tunic is thrown off and the pants and underclothes are hastily pulled down. Yael groans as his erection is freed.

“I’m not some slab of meat to toy with.”

“No, you are a spry young man ripe for experimenting. Tell me, boy, have you ever experimented on yourself?”

Yael is slowly guided to lie on his back on the sparring mat, his chest heaving as he fails to keep his cool. “I don’t know what you’re taking about.”

“Of course you do. I would be quite surprised if you had not indulged in yourself. Perhaps you were in a shower and the water felt far too pleasant as it sprayed against a sensitive part of you.” One pair of Dahan’s hands grasp Yael’s hips. “Or maybe you awoke feeling an ache, writhing against the bed until something felt good, so you kept going until it stopped.”

Yael is furiously shaking his head. He freezes when Dahan’s free hands begin to grope and squeeze at various points on his body.

“You have exquisite musculature.” Dahan massages, watching the muscles that aren’t tensed give way under his metal fingers. His fingers clink against the ports across Yael’s body, drawing further interest. “And these systems within you are lovely as well. I can scarcely imagine how it must feel to interface with you.”

“Must you say that with such a perverse intonation?! You are acting strange, Secutor. Too different. Why are you saying such terrible things?”

“Do not worry yourself. I am a man of many facets. The more important matter is that you have much to learn, boy.”

“Not in combat, certainly.”

Dahan doesn’t take the bait. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I cannot compare to an angel of death in that department, now can I?” Yael shakes his head. “You were beautifully molded for your purpose, and you fulfill it so well. That is simply a fact I had to learn to accept. Learning is a glorious thing in the eyes of the Cult Mechanicus, and there is no shame in it. However, there are other matters about which I know vastly more than you.”

A beautiful flush is overtaking Yael’s skin and his cock has started leaking onto his stomach. He appears in the verge of trembling with need, breaths coming in heavy puffs of air that are barely concealing gasps and sighs.

“It seems you require relief. Surely you have alleviated yourself before.”

“I have not! I do not engage in such behavior.” His jaw is clenched tightly in indignation.

“Ah, then that must be the cause. You must be terribly pent up,” he teases. “Your poor body begging for relief you don’t know how to give it. What a sacred, pure and virginal creature you must be.” A thrill courses through Dahan at the thought of breaking in such a beautiful young thing.

“You speak of me as if I am some poor maiden that is treated like an object.”

“For the former half of the comparison you are not dissimilar at all. I simply lack knowledge of an adequate male equivalent for the idea, but wherever that may exist in the vastness of the Imperium, you would certainly be a match. That is precisely why you must be handled gently.”

Dahan brings one hand to Yael’s ass, lightly teasing his entrance. Yael yelps and arches up from the training mats beneath him, his fingers digging into them.

“What are you doing?! You cannot mean to- to defile me! There is no pleasure in such a violation!”

“Oh, but there is. And to further ease your concerns, use of my sexual augmentations is not necessary if you do not wish for it.”

Yael opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, strongly resembling a fish struggling on dry land. He eventually lays back down again, and Dahan secretively reaches to his lubricating source and gathers some to use. Yael bites his lip at the cold lubricant.

“Your entire lower body is tensed. Relax yourself. I will not cause you harm.”

He complies, and Dahan can finally slip in a finger. Yael chokes at the feeling, only to wail as Dahan swiftly located and presses on his prostate. His legs tremble harshly when Dahan starts to slowly move his finger in and out.

The pace is incredibly slow, but Yael is moaning loudly. It picks up in pitch when another finger is added. When the third joins in his face is scrunched up in overwhelm and he is leaking like a broken faucet. Words escape him as he fails to string more than two syllables together.

When he deems the preparation sufficient, Dahan happily unsheathes himself. He reveals a perfectly crafted cock, painstakingly built to bring optimized pleasure to those being penetrated.

It is designed with a covering made of the highest quality silicone that offers the tiniest bit of give when the receiver squeezes or clamps down. This triggers the nerve sensors, making it genuinely functional for pleasure. The core safely contains all of the more rigid components. He is quite proud of the design, and testing proved it incredibly effective.

One pair of hands goes to Yael’s knees while the other line Dahan up. He looks to the young Templar, who is finally catching his breath thanks to the pause in Dahan’s ministrations. His eyes go wide at the sight of Dahan’s cock.

He whispers, “You intend for that to enter me?”

“It was expressly designed for it.”

“Will it feel as good as your fingers?” He sounds insecure and unsteady. Dahan sighs, the weight of what he is about to do finally hitting him. In his mind he vows to make it as enjoyable for Yael as physically possible.

“It will feel even better.” Yael wiggles his hips in anticipation.

With great caution and gentleness, Dahan begins to press in. First, the soft tip. It is perfectly smooth and tapered, and also actively leaking lubricant. This makes the breach simple. Yael’s body easily surrenders to it.

Next comes an area with subtle ridges that form a ring around the base of the ‘head’. Yael grunts as the ridges tease his entrance on the way in. Now that he is a decent way inside, and this triggers the signal to give a flood of lubricant to ease the passage of what is to come. Yael moans as he is filled, and Dahan is satisfied with the easy slide to the halfway point. The rest of the cock is covered in a texture resembling scales, though they are far larger and softer than real ones would be.

Dahan noted that this texture garners many pleased reactions, and Yael is no different. Each centimeter further draws out a new sound from him. By the time Dahan is all the way in, he is teetering on the edge of release.

“Please,” he whimpers.

“Have patience. Just a minute longer and you will have the relief you need.”

Yael groans in desperation as he is forced to step back from the edge, only to cry out in sheer bliss as Dahan finally starts to move.

“Yes! Fuck! Ohhhh fuck! What is- I can’t- so good!”

Every thrust is accompanied by obscenely wet noises and overwhelmed moans that Dahan can’t get enough of. He knows Yael won’t hold on for very long, so he isn’t surprised when he starts to sob when his cock is finally stroked by one of Dahan’s hands.

“I feel- am I burning? I can’t- ohhhhh I can’t take it! Dahan!”

Dahan moans at how unbelievably tight Yael gets as he comes. He is impressed by the sheer amount Yael lets out onto his own abs as he writhes in pleasure.

Dahan pulls out halfway and roughly strokes himself until the relief protocol initiates. He sighs in blissful satisfaction as even more lubricant is pumped into Yael, the flood of endorphins leaving his remaining flesh wonderfully tingly.

When he fully pulls out, he can’t help but watch how much lubricant leaks out of Yael. The texture is similar enough that it triggers some sort of primal satisfaction in Dahan’s hindbrain. He basks in it for a moment before moving to tend to Yael.

“Can you hear me?”

Esuin is eager and nervous to meet the Chief Librarian again. He served his duties in marriage, but both he and his wife hold no love. She sees others, and now he wishes to as well. But, at the start, a problem arose.

He had no-one. Or at least, that was his assumption. He thought none could catch his attention, especially since being blinded. But then that very train of thought reminded him of the event that caused such an injury, accompanied by ruptured lungs. It was certainly traumatic and unforgettably painful, but something else stuck in Esuin’s memory as well. It is something he is still ashamed of, even after sending out the invitation.

He remembers Hourtain Thorl’s body. The way it was pressed so close inside his armor that saved both of their lives. His willingness to actually bother saving a mortal, even at the risk of harming or killing himself. It was the closest thing to the chivalry and attraction inducing behavior sold to many literate citizens of the imperium Esuin knew. It was also helpful that he had seen Hourtain’s face before, and it was not hard to look at. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But that body. Oh, how tightly it was squeezed in a body glove, how fluidly those muscles moved against Esuin’s skin. He never got to see it, as his eyes had ruptured mere moments before, but it felt so incredibly strong. It was secure, a bulwark against death, a warmth in the vacuum of space.

Footsteps far t heavy and loud to belong to a baseline drag Esuin back to the present. He’s here. He actually accepted the invitation. He has walked into the quarters designated for any rendezvous seen as improper to advertise. This room, and all others like it aboard ships and on outposts, only serve the purpose of sating the sexual urges of members of House Zuma so that they may work undistracted.

“I received your solicitation.” His rich voice makes Esuin shiver.

“And you have come knowing full well what it meant.”

A large, warm hand grabs Esuin’s waist and he gasps. “I do.” Esuin moans as his thin robes are yanked off and tossed aside. He hears them softly hit the floor and idly hopes they weren’t torn in the process. Even if their only purpose was to offer modesty to those en route to a dalliance, they were still well-made.

“Hourtain, I did not know you were a man with such appetites.” The Imperial Fist huffs.

“When you peer into the minds of countless others, you do not always come back unchanged. Your mind was particularly noteworthy for your deeply hidden thoughts about when I had grabbed your arm.” Hourtain leans down, body glove creaking ever so slightly, and whispers directly into Esuin’s ear, “You quite enjoy my size, don’t you?”

Esuin flushes bright red and nods, heat pooling on his cheeks and spreading down to his core. He hadn’t even acknowledged those thoughts consciously until months after the incident, yet here he is being read like an open book.

He yelps when he is suddenly picked up and held close to Hourtain’s chest. The sizable mass of it against him creates a strong urge to rut against the man, but such undignified behavior would shame House Zuma. That shred of dignity goes to die at the squeak Esuin lets out when Hourtain nibbles on his earlobe, breath hot against his neck.

Hourtain’s hands start to wander, tracing every inch in Esuin’s skin. The bed screeches in protest as he sits down on the edge of it and places Esuin in his lap. Esuin bites his lip when he feels Hourtain’s sizable erection pressing against his ass through the body glove.

Yet, Hourtain isn’t acting on it. No, instead he is slowly stripping his body glove while avoiding jostling Esuin too much. The body glove drops to the floor with a thud, and Esuin basks in the warmth of skin on skin. His hands itch to explore, and he indulges that urge when Hourtain resumes his own expedition.

He finds scar tissue and ports, he feels thick cords of muscle that flex under his palms, and he finds smatterings of hair trailing from Hourtain’s navel. On each inhale, he smells hints of incense, fresh ink, and sweat.

Hourtain’s touch is heavy, claiming every bit of Esuin’s body while he bites and sucks Esuin’s sensitive ears. Esuin is drowning in his touch, his body embraced and sinking into the depths of the sea of Hourtain.

Esuin squirms in Hourtain’s lap from how hot and insistent Hourtain’s cock is against the cleft of his ass. “Something wrong, navigator?” The warmth of his breath and salacious tone of voice make Esuin buck his hips. He moans at the friction he feels against Hourtain’s abs.

When Hourtain drags him closer, pressing him tightly against his massive form, Esuin is helpless. He ruts against Hourtain and whines, nerves set alight with a pleasure so free he could weep.

Hourtain thrusts slowly, leaving a trail of wetness that makes Esuin squirm in a mixture of embarrassment and desire. The slow drag of skin against such a sensitive part of his body floods him with adrenaline to the point that he’s trembling.

“Hourtain!”

“Relax yourself,” he whispers, a tingling sensation through Esuin’s body quickly following. “Surrender to me.”

Calloused hands grasp Esuin’s hips and caress the skin. Goosebumps break out across his entire body, leaving him a war zone of hot and cold. Searing heat burns in his core and face, but his arms and legs are frigid as every hair stands on end. Every part of him not in direct contact with Hourtain feels terribly exposed.

“Hourtain, please!” he cries, desperate for relief from these conflicting sensations.

“Give in. Let go.”

Esuin sobs, nerves short-circuiting as the contrasting stimuli send him into freefall. He trembles through the orgasm, gasping when Hourtain moans and a new cascade of warmth covers his back.

Crixus was obviously uncomfortable. His face portrayed some form of seething hatred, but Mashda can’t exactly tell what it is directed towards. Though, he does have a suspicion. A lack of control. The way he is exposed. Mashda can could feel the cool air of the room brush over his heated skin, passing him by before reaching Crixus.

Crixus’ most vulnerable of parts exposed fully, ropes keeping his thick legs wide open, his wrists bound above his head. Mashda humming is in the dark, shuffling by as he eagerly prepares and occasionally stealing glances at the altar.

At the same time, Mashda is preparing the proper materials for the ritual to perfection. The dark gods demand no less, and Slaanesh is especially demanding. She Who Thirsts expects precision, proper symbols, and exacting runes carved or drawn.

Crixus is squirming, then hisses, “Will you just get on with it, Mashda?” He’s looking into the darkness near Mashda, but not quite in the right spot.

“This requires precision, Crixus. Everything must be aligned so that both you and the gods may enjoy it.”

Mashda finally approaches the altar, looking into Crixus’ eyes. He finds them enchanting even when he is displeased. Bowl of blessed water and cloth in hand, he begins to bath Crixus’ entire body in patterns of radiating circles.

Cirxus huffs as he’s bathed, but he is slowly relaxing. He takes a few deep breaths as Mashda moves lower. This ritual had been proposed as a way for him to strengthen his men’s connection to Slaanesh, and a way to help Mashda. All of this is true, but there was also a small part that just wanted to make Crixus feel good. Crixus’ eyes close his eyes and grumbles too softly for Mashda to hear.

“Beautiful,” Mashda whispers, not wanting to disturb the air. He can feel power already beginning to trickle into the palms of his hands, the tingling of each point of contact with Crixus forcing him to struggle to steady his breath. Slaanesh is watching closely. A new level of excess is being reached for Crixus, and this pleases them.

“What’s in this water, Mashda?” he asks looking down at him and frowning.

“Nothing is in it. It was prayed over and blessed, but nothing more.”

He finishes the cleaning by gently, tenderly washing Crixus’ face. “Slaanesh is taking notice. Be proud.”

The bowl and cloth are set down, and a large jar of oils is picked up. It is ornately decorated and smells delightful, reminiscent of a forest clearing filled with fresh blooms.

Mashda scoops out a healthy amount and begins to cover Crixus’ skin. It feels quite good, like what would be done in a very expensive bathhouse. Mashda begins to massage, his breathing falling into a slow, trancelike rhythm with the chimes swaying mildly in the mostly still air of the cavern.

Crixus’s body began to relax, his breathing becoming less panicked as he lays his head back. Mashda is pleased as he slowly melts into the touch and closes his eyes, exhaling and drifting into a gentle, sleepy state.

“Perfect. Just breathe with me. When it is time to go further, we will know.”

Mashda sinks his fingers into the muscle, gently working out the tension. He smiles to himself at how much tension Crixus holds in his core and his shoulders, to the point that he can see it before he even reaches there.

Cirxus let out a less than refined sound the tension melting away, his body accepting the gentle attention eagerly. It becomes clear that he is beginning to fall asleep as he lay there, completely submissive. Certainly not to Slaanesh, but maybe, hopefully, to Mashda himself.

Mashda feels a familiar tug in the energies around him. His breathing comes to perfectly match Crixus’. It’s time. He is deeply impressed by the speed, and admits in the confines of his mind that it is very attractive.

His hands trail lower and lower, reaching Crixus’ thighs as he begins to ease him into the transition as best he can.

Crixus is stirred from his stupor, looking up with eyes half lidded and watching Mashda massaging over his thighs, “S’nice.” He mumbles, his words slightly slurred.

“That’s good. That’s very good. I will be trailing closer now, so just relax.” He smiles, relieved that Crixus isn’t nearly as tense and flighty as he feared.

His hands move, feeling the muscle that allows the thighs to be pulled together. It is notably a bit tense due to Crixus’ position, so he carefully begins to work on the area, knowing just how sensitive the area is for nearly everyone.

Crixus whimpers when the area is rubbed, his tdick twitching and swelling the second the area is gently rubbed and massaged. Mashda eagerly watches the arousal beginning to drool from his cunt as he squeezes his eyes shut again.

Mashda sighs in joy, quickly grabbing a ritual vessel to place between Crixus’ legs to collect as much as he can before resuming his work.

He begins to move even further inward, a fresh scoop of oil applied as he just barely avoids touching where the arousal is coming from.

“Are you prepared for the sigils?”

Crixus nods. “I’m prepared, just… just get to it.” He grumbles while looking up at him with a blush gracing his cheeks

“Of course. Just know, it may become intense.”

A finger presses directly on Crixus’ tdick, denotating the center of the sigil. He then begins to trace and draw sigils with perfect ease, knowing exactly where to move. He carefully watches for how Crixus reacts to the sudden influx of nonstop stimulation.

Crixus gasps in surprise. “Is it good?” Mashda asks, breaking his concentration for a moment before focusing back in. The sigils are becoming more intense to draw. Even when not drawn in something visible, he can still feel the draw, his breath quickening before he can rope it back in. The chimes ring more frequently as a breeze stirs with no clear origin, and he knows his desire cannot be hidden by his ritual robes any longer. The ornately embroidered purple fabric is beautiful, but it is certainly not thick.

Crixus begins to sob as the first orgasm hits hard, continuing to do so through the consecutive ones brought on by the gentle rubbing and painting. Mashda is achingly hard, his patience being tested like never before.

“Ohhh, Crixus. You are so beautiful.” Mashda knows he looks to be in a trance, or perhaps under the effect of something powerful.

In his mind he can feel the whispers of Slaanesh, distant for he is unworthy of full attention, but close enough that the words take shape. They whisper ways to empower those under Crixus’ command, and a frenzy of activity echoes back from those men.

Mashda clutches the altar so hard his knuckles turn white, eyes closed as he feels power creeping between his hands, every sob making it grow stronger.

Crixus groans as he is hit by another orgasm racking his body, thrashing and sobbing as his cunt clenching on nothing, cum and slick filling the vessel to the brim as he wiggles around in an effort to find some relief from the constant, gentle pleasure. His tdick is too swollen to sit comfortably in its hood anymore

“Crixus… tell me. Do you wish to embrace me? To unite with me fully? If you do, say it, and I shall make it so.” The touching stops, Mashda’s hands instead going to clutch the vessel, ready to set it down and replace it with a fresh one if Crixus chooses to say no

“I need you, please, do not torment me further.” He pleads, desperation apparent.

“Then I shall give you everything.” He slips off the ritual robes, not caring where they fall. He quickly slicks himself up to an obscene degree using the vessel, then moves it out of the way.

His hands shake subtly as he grabs the ritual tie, a fine rope of golden colored threads, and loops it under Crixus’ hips. He carefully wraps it around his own, tying it in place to symbolically bind himself to Crixus. The similarities to certain wedding rituals makes his hearts race even harder as he slowly, oh so slowly, slips in.

Crixus whines, “Please, please, deeper, I need more.” He begs, only the tip is pressed inside. He’s trembling as he clenches around Mashda, pleading, “Do what you must, impregnate me, I don’t care.”

Those words alone send the building energy sparking like mad, the abnormal excess pleasing Slaanesh greatly. Mashda’s hands feel like they are on fire as he works to disperse the gifted power as Crixus wanted, but he quickly gives up and presses deeper, one hand tugging the tie around them that much tighter. Crixus moans and cries out as he is fucked, each thrust sliding deeper and deeper until Mashda knows he is kissing his cervix.

Mashda maneuvers himself to properly rest atop Crixus on the altar, the sacred oils coating his skin. Some part of his warp-altered nature makes his horns itch to be locked in combat, to have earned this in some way through bloodshed and the proving of his worth.

Since he cannot do that, he begins to experiment, trying to the best possible way to pleasure Crixus, to learn every response and commit his body to memory. Perhaps there is some motivation that he fears he will never experience this again, but that is quickly overwritten by the unbelievable bliss that tears a moan from his throat so loud it would embarrass most of the uninitiated.

Crixus cries out even louder, his eyes rolling back as his back arches, the restraints straining under his strength, “Please!” Is all he could manage to say.

“Crixus! Ohhhh you are truly a blessing. I must- the gods have- I am unworthy of such gifts, yet I have been given them.” Every thought escapes his head but one; pleasure Crixus so well he may even choose to stay. Not trapped on one planet, no, but with Mashda himself.

The desire is so strong that he doesn’t realize that every word pouring blinding from his mouth between moans is either “Crixus” or “stay”. He is shaking from pleasure, but he is even more desperate to please the beautiful man on the altar beneath him.

Crixus sobs and comes yet again, taking deep, desperate breaths and trying to speak coherently, something it seems he is no longer capable of. The sinfully blissful squeeze of Crixus forcefully, and rather unexpectedly, drags a climax from Mashda, who crushes his lips against Crixus’. The vibrations of the guttural sounds trying to escape him buzz through Mashda’s head as he clings to Crixus for dear life.

Crixus whines as he milks Mashda dry, clenching and trembling. His eyes close tightly and he further presses his lips to Mashda’s. Mashda’s hearts slam against his ribs at a familiar feeling from long ago. The ritual is very successful, and the powers at be intend to wring him dry. He allows himself to be overtaken, tears pouring down his face as his body seemingly short circuits, forcing every last drop from him in a drawn out struggle that has him trembling harshly.

It feels like hours worth of an onslaught, and when it finally ends, Mashda finds the rope around them was fully tightened, locking him inside as he collapses onto Crixus’ chest. He struggles to breathe again, his body needing time to reorient in his own skin as his hips are pointlessly trying to rock despite his exhaustion.

Crixus is trembling as he lies there, breathing shakily and briefly looking up at the ceiling, then closing his eyes once more. Mashda listens closely to his soft panting. He then mindlessly runs his fingers through Crixus’ hair, not really paying attention to what exactly he’s doing. He simply basks in the warmth of another astartes and the softness of his hair.

When Crixus groans softly, Mashda blinks in surprise. Crixus’ cunt clenches tight around Mashda, dragging out an exhausted moan. “Mashda…”

“… Yes, Crixus?” His voice is unsteady and quiet.

“I’m too old to lay on an altar like this for so long, take me to bed.”

Mashda springs up, groaning as he shifts inside Crixus, hips still bound. “Ah! Of course. Allow me to- I must remedy this.” He frantically unties them, hands unsteady as he leans back and prepares to try to stand on his own legs again. He eventually succeeds in untying them.

Mashda manages to stand and not fall over. He stumbles a bit when he grabs his robe and puts it back on, and struggles when he grabs the one used for Crixus.

“Here, put this on. More decent for the unworthy to see.” He tries his best to help Crixus up after fully untying him.

Crixus tugs his robes on, groaning in soft discomfort and he slowly standing, huffing softly while rubbing his hips and thighs. Mashda not-so-subtly holds a vessel beneath him as he stands, face red and smiling as he catches everything. “Don’t mind me,” he mutters. “Just a moment and we can retire to my chambers. If you wish, of course, I do not mean to presume your desired location.”

“Your room is perfect.” He mumbles, visibly blushing and looking away from the mess that is being collected from him, “I just want to rest beside you.”

Music is crooning out from the speaker set in the corner of the room. It’s old, creating crackles between the notes of the violin. Every sound from the piano feels rich and full, and it is clearly helping Sacha relax.

The commissar isn’t fully calm, but the music has made a notable improvement. That, combined with incense with a heavy focus on lavender, is slowly easing his nerves. Dha’vim can only imagine how intimidating this prospect of intimacy must be for him, given what bits and pieces he has learned of Sacha’s past regarding the subject. The urge to hold him close and reassure him is strong, but Dha’vim waits for Sacha to progress this contact beyond simple cuddling.

That is, if he ever does. Earlier he had managed to rather frantically convey his desire to be intimate later in the night before rushing off to fulfill more of his duties, but had not specified a timeline for it. Dha’vim doesn’t need much sleep, as all astartes can go without for far longer than a human, but he does worry about Sacha.

The man clearly hasn’t rested properly in some time, but the only articles of clothing he has removed are his hat and boots. Meanwhile, Dha’vim had fully removed his armor and chaplain ornaments hours ago, leaving him lounging on his bed in simple robes. Still, he waits.

Dha’vim nearly leaps from his corporeal form in joy when he feels a tentative tug on his robes, a gasp of elation escaping as he pulls it from his shoulders. He has to drag his awareness back down into his body, focusing on how the fabric pulls against his skin. He shivers at the texture, feeling himself starting to get aroused.

He drops the robe off the edge of the bed, feeling the soft, breathable sheets beneath him. Sacha’s eye widens significantly as he stares. His face is hard to read, but the nervousness is still there.

Then, with slightly unsteady hands, he begins to unbutton his coat. Dha’vim has to hold back from kissing him, the amount of trust in such a simple action leaving him equal parts humble and lustful.

“Thank you, Sacha. Thank you.” The man looks utterly perplexed.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Because you are placing trust in me.”

“It’s… just unbuttoning a coat.”

Dha’vim smiles. “You and I are both well aware that there is more significance to it. For both of us. No matter how strange it may sound, this means something to me.”

That lone brown eye, warm like sweet chocolate, stares right into Dha’vim’s soul. That gaze is piercing, but not in a harsh way. Curious rather than suspicious. Analytical, but not detached. Eventually it seems he found what he was looking for. He slowly peels off the coat, face growing red as he does. When he sets it down on the floor, it lands with a light thud. Beneath it is a layer of fur trimmed armor in a style Dha’vim isn’t familiar with.

His focus returns to Sacha when the man leans in close, and he finally gets to close the distance with a kiss. It’s soft, slow, and quiet. He feels Sacha sigh into it, air breezing against his lips as he presses closer. Ever so slowly more skin meets the layer of Sacha’s armor, and Dha’vim can’t help but moan as it is removed.

It clatters to the floor, muffled slightly by the threadbare rug worn down from years of pacing. “Thank you. Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.” Dha’vim pulls back, seeing a surprisingly narrow waist hidden by the heavy layers. Dha’vim lightly caresses it, only to see Sacha curl in slightly, pulling away with a shy look on his face.

“Should I not touch there? Forgive me, my treasure.”

“It’s not that. I just- it’s difficult.” He grabs the retreating hand, and Dha’vim eagerly watches as it is guided to cup that waist.

His hand is so large in comparison. He feels heat radiating beneath his palm, accompanied by the rise and fall of breathing. A deep breath in and a shirt and undershirt are yanked off and tossed aside.

Dha’vim greedily drinks in the sight. He takes in every scar and patch of black hair. He carefully observes the curve of each muscle. The quickening of Sacha’s breathing is even more noticeable without any barriers in the way. A blush is creeping across his pale skin.

“May I use my mouth?” Sacha nods, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Dha’vim adjusts so he is holding himself over Sacha, the leans down to pepper kisses across his torso. He hears the sheets rustle as Sacha grips them, the grip growing tighter when the kisses reach the chest.

Sacha loudly gasps when a nipple is kissed, sending a thrill of pleasure through Dha’vim. He quickly, though still very gently, takes it into his mouth. The deep groan it earns is immensely satisfying, pushing him to lightly suck until he is satisfied with the treatment given.

As soon as he pulls back, he immediately goes to the other. Heat scorches through him when Sacha starts panting, each breath a struggle through every gasp and poorly contained noise.

When the belt is hastily undone, Dha’vim rushes to make room. Sacha moves at a glacial pace, carefully and cautiously pulling off his pants. He sighs deeply when they’re off, and mindlessly pulls off his socks. When he hesitates at the waistband of his underwear, thighs pressing tightly together, Dha’vim kisses his knee.

“Take your time, my treasure. I can wait as much as you need for this gift to be given.”

His face screws up in confusion, though his cheeks are still quite red. “What are you talking about?” Dha’vim is puzzled by the apparent lack of understanding.

“You are sharing this with me, as I am sharing with you.” He pulls at the hem of his own, waiting for a nod before he removes it. Sacha stares in visible shock, then swiftly redirects his gaze right into Dha’vim’s eyes. “There is no need for shame or doubt here, only pleasure. Even if it may be frightening to initiate. Please, Sacha, let me please you.”

Still hesitating. Dha’vim thinks through what he could do to make things easier, searching through his many years of experience for the best option. Suddenly, it hits him.

“What if I started by licking you through the underwear?”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“It lets you keep them on while also creating a soft barrier. It also makes the sensations less intense, which would be good to start.”

Sacha hesitates, taking several deep breaths before gradually parting his thighs. The heady scent of arousal hits Dha’vim hard, guiding him to lean down and place his first tentative lick across the fabric. Sacha lets out a squeak at the contact, and Dha’vim melts at such a precious sound coming from such a strong, well-built man.

Dha’vim starts to set a pace, licking in time with his hips rocking and grinding against the mattress so as not to throw himself off. He quickly starts to get a taste of Sacha due to how much he is leaking through the fabric.

One of Sacha’s hands races to cover his mouth, muffling the sounds attempting to pour from his lips. Dha’vim pulls back slightly to briefly breathe, feeling the air to be much cooler on his face.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, Sacha.” Thighs slam shut on Dha’vim’s head and Sacha quickly covers his face. “What’s wrong? I promise you taste good. I love it.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I love it. Please, let me taste you again. Please, Sacha, my treasure.” His thighs relax, and Dha’vim’s hearts jump into his throat when he hastily pulls off his underwear before covering much of his face again. “Thank you. Ohhh, thank you. Just look how hard you are, that can’t be comfortable. Let me fix that for you. If something feels wrong, tell me. Otherwise, let yourself relax.”

Dha’vim dives in, quickly going to suck Sacha’s cock. His chin is quickly soaked as he listens to Sacha grunt and groan into his hand until he eventually can’t keep it contained. Dha’vim hums as he sucks, and Sacha cries out at the vibrations. His hands race back down to the sheets, though one finds its way into the pitch black coils of Dha’vim’s hair. He starts to rock up into Dha’vim’s mouth, and Dha’vim eagerly cycles between sucking and slowly licking until his tongue slips inside. Sacha gasps loudly the first time it enters, clamping down harshly while his hips buck.

Dha’vim has to pin his hips down, holding him steady and only allowing for softer thrusts so he won’t get thrown off rhythm. The moment Sacha’s voice starts to get higher in pitch, he starts focusing in on his cock.

“Dha’vim! I feel- I’m going to-oh no! I’ll- wait! Dha’vim!”

Sacha weeps, and Dha’vim would be utterly entranced if it weren’t for something equally as incredible. He moans as his entire lower face is soaked, and before he knows it, he is hurtling over the edge.

“Sacha! Ohhhhh, you did so well. Mmmhmmm. So good.”

“Dha’vim, I- I’m so sorry.” He sounds genuinely panicked.

“Why in the world are you apologizing?”

“I just- there’s no way you did not notice.”

“That you squirted? Yes, I did. I’m quite flattered.”

“Excuse me? I what?”

“I fear the name is a bit self-explanatory.” Dha’vim can’t help but chuckle as he slowly collects himself. He lazily wipes his mouth, watching several emotions flash across Sacha’s face.

“You enjoyed it?”

“Of course. I would be happy to enjoy it every day of my life. With you, obviously. But listen to me, high off of release saying things I shouldn’t right now.”

“No, say it.”

Dha’vim meets Sacha’s eyes and finds a certainty there that quickly breaks his resolve. “I have already seen quite a lot with you. Heard various pieces of your story. But I would like to see the rest of it through.” He crawls his way up to lie beside him. “I must sound like an idiot, asking to marry you after one good release, though I must admit it was quite lovely.”

Sacha’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly, not unlike a fish struggling on dry land. Emotions war on his face until it eventually settles on determination. “And yet I accept.”

Quintus desperately wants to part his robes, but there is a sense of fear at the thought. Fear that the more Marneus sees, the less he will like. Fear of the overwhelming importance of such an act. Fear that the time isn’t right.

It’s too late to back out now, or rather, it feels that way to a less than perfectly rational part of Quintus’ brain. Marneus is right over him, creating large dips in the mattress with where his forearms rest, bracketed around Quintus’ hips. He’s wearing nothing but a comfortable pair of black pants, showing a familiar scar over one of his hearts that draws Quintus’ attention.

The small bits of armor Quintus normally wears are all off, and his mechadendrite lays inert beneath him, cushioned by pillows and soft fabric. Tightly clenched hands are all that’s keeping the red robes closed. He feels how overheated his face is, and knows it must be painfully obvious to Marneus.

“We don’t have to do this if you aren’t comfortable. It’s alright, Quintus.” Marneus’ gaze is soft and unexpectedly kind. For one so hardened by constant war, there is a warmth to him like the sun on a crisp winter morning.

“I wish to. The significance is what brings me hesitation.”

“Tell me more about that. I want to understand.”

“The sacred stigmata… It is the merging of flesh and machine in a form only the mechanicus posses. To simply show it to any unknown outsider is considered -kllkk- heresy.” Quintus slowly parts the robes, shivering in anxiety when the hood slips off of his head to reveal the skull cap in place of his hair. Arms are slipped out of sleeves, then a glove pulled off and set aside. “As the name states, it is sacred. It is a precious thing, something to be protected and-“

The words die in a gasp when a kiss is placed upon bare skin. Quintus tangles his fingers in the sheets, arching up into scarred lips and gasping again when they return. The uninterrupted touch of another hasn’t been felt on this skin in over a century, and the sensation is overwhelming.

“What are you- Marneus! What is this? Why?” Marneus lifts his gaze, meeting Quintus’ and holding it with a reverent look on his face.

“You told me it is sacred, so allow me to worship.”

The moan torn from Quintus is a desperate one. When kiss after kiss is placed onto machine and skin alike, gasps and whines join in to leave no room for silence. “Marneus. Marneus! Oh, be careful. Careful. Sensitive!”

Hands race from sheets to short grey hair when the kisses turn from chaste to wet and messy. Tubing is toyed with by tongue and teeth, wires are traced by calloused fingers, and bruises are sucked to the surface of pallid skin.

Over and over Quintus feels his breath reflexively hitch despite having mechanical lungs. Overwhelmed noises pour from him in an endless stream while he desperately tries and fails to maintain even a shred of his composure. His eye flutters shut and his lens powers off without even thinking, too lost in everything he feels. After a rather loud cry, the kisses briefly stop, but the large and warm hands keep moving.

“I know, I know. Just let go, little love.” The kisses resume, now interspersed with shushing and sweet murmurings. “Look at you. You’re letting me see and feel all of you, letting me learn how beautiful every part of you is.”

Quintus lets those words sink in. It isn’t easy, but eventually they do. He stretches his legs, focusing on the feeling of every piece moving as it needs to. His hips shift, and the weight of them is heavy from all of the metal composing them. He was once afraid of incompatibility in matters of passion, knowing that most of his lower half is fully mechanized. He had feared that, perhaps, preferences wouldn’t align. Now there is only relief.

These blessed machines are not seen as flaws or desecrations to Marneus. They are respected as they should be, and Quintus feels an ache in his chest born from affection for the man.

“Eyes on me, Quintus.” There is a moment of hesitation before compliance. When Quintus sees Marneus staring up at him with an unmistakable intensity, he can’t help but shiver. “Good.”

Marneus’ hands trail up to cup Quintus’ face, then begins to gently trace the wires and tubes that sink into his skull, then the metal covering across the entirety of where hair once was. His touch is so soft, and the pace is slow and mesmerizing. Quintus cautiously brings his fingers to the back of Marneus’ neck, then pauses.

A slight smile briefly flashes across Marneus’ lips. “Proceed. Don’t be shy.”

Quintus pulls Marneus in for a kiss, relaxing into the very familiar feeling of lips pressing against his rebreather. They are trailing across the full surface, occasionally pausing to explore sharp angles and corners. Each press is slow and sweet, bringing a scalding heat to the flesh of Quintus’ face at the haptic feedback.

Then the kisses trail down, and Quintus’ hands lose their place. Down, down, and even further down. From neck to chest, chest to stomach, and Quintus chokes back a screech when Marneus teasingly nips at a sharply exposed augmetic in his hips. It is part of the replacement for his pelvis, allowing his legs to function, and the skin above it is both thin and sensitive.

Marneus apologetically kisses the spot before continuing his journey downward. A deep, aching need settles into Quintus’ entire body, setting his blood on fire.

“Marneus, why this? I can’t- this is something I am -klllkkkl- unable to return.”

“I’m doing this because I want to. No more, no less. Tell me, do you want it?” Quintus feels his sublimely crafted heart begin to race harder than ever, and he knows Marneus can hear it as he waits for a response.

“I- affirm- yes. Yes, please. I need you.”

“You have me.” Marneus pulls the last bit of clothing aside with great care, then kisses just at the base of Quintus’ cock.

He slowly trails kisses everywhere but where Quintus needs him, sparking up a deep ache. Quintus places his hands over Marneus’. He feels every callus and scar, focusing his mind in a desperate attempt to not start helplessly bucking his hips.

When a kiss is finally placed onto his cock, Quintus whimpers. Then, without warning, Marneus takes him into his mouth.

“Marneus! Omnissiah bless! So-ohhhhhhhhh! So much! I- please- Marneus!” Quintus is overtaken by a full-body shiver when Marneus, due to his much larger size, easily slides down to the base.

He briefly wonders what Marneus must be feeling, if maybe he is uncomfortable due to a lack of attention to his own body, only to realize by the rustling of fabric that he is grinding against the mattress. When he moans, Quintus feels every vibration, and reflexively tighten his grip on Marneus’ hands.

Every sound Marneus makes is utterly obscene. Each muffled moan, and every instance of even the slightest bit of suction, frays Quintus’ nerves, chipping away at the dam of his restraint. Leaks and cracks are already forming, and somehow, any movement of Marneus’ tongue magnifies them tenfold.

Quintus meets Marneus’ eye, and the look leveled his way nearly pushes him over the edge. There is both desire and an icy confidence in his gaze. Marneus looks ready and willing to consume Quintus whole, and Quintus would be a liar if he denied his willingness to serve himself on a silver platter.

“Marneus…” He hums in acknowledgment and Quintus’ legs shake in pleasure. “Where shall I- arrive?” He begins lightly bobbing his head and the pressure rapidly builds. “Inside?” Quintus can’t for out more words than that, especially not when Marneus hums again, this time in agreement. “That will- it is- soon. Ah! Quite soon! Ohhhhh I’m close!”

Quintus writhes against the sheets, eventually ending up with his legs slung over Marneus’ shoulders. For a moment he worries about causing discomfort when his heels dig into his upper back, but before he can even think to check in, the dam breaks.

Quintus sobs as his release takes him, quickly devolving into the mechanicus equivalent of hiccuping. His bionic lungs stutter and soft beeps escape each time. Through the haze he finds that Marneus has moved his legs, crawled back up the bed, and is cupping his face. His own organic eye is half-lidded in bliss.

Quintus goes to cover his face, a tear slipping from his eye. Marneus gently brushes the hand aside. “Beautiful.”

“What?” Quintus whispers.

The abilities of a psyker must be maintained through mental focus and emotional control. In heightened states, they can fluctuate or go out of control.

It can result in unintended utilization of any number of the abilities a psyker has in their arsenal, from ones they didn’t know they had to ones they have mastered.

Varro whines into his pillow as he clumsily strokes himself. It’s an unfamiliar experience, so he’s running on instincts he often prided himself on stamping down. The memory of Mephiston is replaying in his mind on repeat, and it has been driving him mad for weeks.

He hikes his hips up, practically presenting himself to the cold, empty room. He slowly spreads his legs, remembering how gentle Mephiston was when he did it. A shiver races down his spine and his legs subtly shake.

“Varro.”

He gasps in shock at the realization. Another mind is reaching his, merging senses and sharing thoughts. A crashing wave of shame hits when the revelation does not temper his desire. Quite the opposite.

“Have you missed me?

“Yes! Mephiston. Yes. It’s been agony without you.”

“I feel the same, Varro. There was not a time where my mind was free to wander that it did not eventually land on you.”

Varro moans loudly enough to shock himself as he struggles to work with his body. For a master biomancer, he feels woefully inexperienced.

“Do not feel ashamed, Varro. Let me guide you.”

“Please!”

“Slow down. I understand you may not wish to, but it is needed.” Varro complies after hesitating for a moment. “Good. As you move, focus on what you feel. Be aware of how each part of you responds to touch.”

Varro focuses in much like he does when intending to use his abilities. A whine is pulled from his throat when he pays attention to the head, and his hips reflexively buck into his hand.

“Keep doing that. Your body knows what to do.” Varro starts fucking his own hand, face burning at Mephiston’s seductive, slightly breathless tone and the fact that he has an audience. “Gorgeous.”

“Mephiston, I think- ah! I’m- it feels so good! I’m getting close!”

“That is wonderful. Remember to breathe. That’s it.”

“Mephiston- I’m going to- I’m coming!”

Varro partially collapses as release hits him, every muscle tensing until they release. An utterly debauched moan is let out into his pillow as he feels his head go foggy. It takes several minutes to collect himself, but eventually his focus returns.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Of course I did.”