Syles

You were First Officer to the Shipmaster, the lady Marmeladov. She was an aged woman, yes, but not dulled, or made any less a sight to behold by her many, many years. In her infinite wisdom, she commanded an egress from the oncoming assault via the command dais; a raised platform of polished metal and stone. An impossible, unachievable egress—or at very least, enough of one to bank starboard, attempting to round on the vessel and give a clear fire pathway.

She was not quick enough to cripple the enemy Cruiser, even if the hits had landed.

The punishment followed immediately thereafter, streaks of artillery racing across the void, lighting up the holo-display's threat recognition.

The Sword-class Frigate escorting your ship tried to intercept the barrage, valiantly taking the Gloriana's attack—you watched through the huge, armoured viewport windows as her void-shields burned back in waves like gossamer, and saw the flash of her reactor collapsing—the air within the vessel causing a rare combustion within the void. It birthed a new star in the endless dark for a fathom of a second, as fire tore through her in her death throes.

Marmeladov seized the opportunity given by a thousand, thousand lives thrown to the nothing and sent a lance at the approaching enemy Cruiser. Only for your ship to be jolted by a hulking laser-battery stampeding across the port side, as the Gloriana took another pot-shot over the ghastly distance it was quickly reducing.

High on the command deck, elevated above the crew on a vaulted loft, you had the perfect view of the slurry of internal dialogue recounting how the void shield seethed at the blow, still standing.

Servitors twitched at their stations on the platform below, some freezing mid-task, others repeating the same motion over and over as if caught in a loop—then, you watched them drop dead under the strain of the machine spirit's protests.

A return volley of lance-fire jetted from your ship, but the angle was wrong; your crews could not account for the enemy Cruiser's steep approaching angle.

Still, the hit caught an accidental mark against the looming Gloriana, even if it only glanced off her immense shielding.

Nigh in tandem, a ghastly lurch rattled your vessel again, sending the void shields to breaking. But the blow upon your ship was not from the assailing Cruiser. It was, instead, the Gloriana's immense artillery that decisively crippled your protective cocoon, slowing you down while the massive vessel charged closer. Marmeladov nearly fried the ship's thruster vectors desperately trying to outmanoeuvre the incoming Gloriana's hulking ram—causing the carcass of your escorting Frigate to be devoured in place of you.

Then, everything got even worse.

Scrawled in plating the size of hive-spires across the Gloriana's bow, the wretched signage of the VIIIth Legion came into view. Just as the traitor Cruiser jammed its snout into the side of the launch bay, bearing with it turned-heretic, skin-wearing abominations.

In response, your vessel's machine spirit screeched. The cogitator interfaces, wired directly into the ship’s systems, sparked up with her anger.

Some fool in the gantry barked a prayer to the Emperor of Mankind. It redoubled among other staff, murmured here and there—not officially, never officially—but often enough that it became a background hum beneath the battle. Wasting time on faith in a situation like this never even occurred to you. There was only action, only following through on your Shipmaster's rapid contingency response. Only her commands to seal as many bulkheads between the bay and everything else as quickly as possible.

There was no decisive reason to board, not when a meagre display of broadside firepower—let alone a few laser-batteries—from the Gloriana could've killed everyone on the ship anyway.

You realised what Marmeladov already knew. Nothing could stop what worse death was coming. No amount of coordination or codifying logistics could stand against the tide hellbent on crashing.

Even then, Shipmaster Marmeladov tried to do something—detonate the artillery stores, have the soldiery collapse as many bridging walkways as possible—but the Night Lords buried their claws in, regardless.

It was simply sport for them.

Howls began to rattle up from the deck plates. Horror running rabid and rife in the innards, still far away enough to maintain proper process, but near enough that the itch of terror had begun to creep up everyone's backs.

The intership vox cut in, then cut out, and finally vaulted across a channel in a flurry of crackles, from one station to another. One section of the ship reported boarders. Another reported nothing at all; then stopped responding entirely. Internal pict-feeds were brought up on the secondary hololithic displays, but instead of clarity, they showed disjointed, flickering scenes: a corridor empty one second, then filled with something tall and jagged the next.

Attempts to hail the Astropathic choirmaster fell dead as the hundred separate vox-links quickly became an overlapping cacophony of gunfire, las-discharge, wet tearing, and screaming. It all blended together as the other officers coordinated sabotage efforts; as much as they could when their proxies were faced with trans-human man-flensers. The orchestra of communications grew louder and louder until each line cut to static, one by one.

They all went out the same way: wet crunching, the scrape of armour against the plated floors, until finally, came the fizzing of dying vox.

Then, at last, silence reigned supreme.

Your Shipmaster insisted upon a last stand, as she was wont to.

First, a remote tripping of the actions. She tried—and tried—and tried, again and again, to override the Ship-spirit's prerogative, but the old girl would not abide the risk of taking her master down with her. Too many years spent with a single person at her helm had made the great vessel fussy over how she died. Ever a stubborn thing. Too spiteful to perish as anyone commanded, itching for a confrontation rather than a gutting, but the great ship would get no say in a matter already decided by the armoured parasites crawling about in her guts.

And so, another contingency was enacted.

In a command deck full of fear-frozen fellow officers and elite staff, it was you who volunteered to manually engage the detonations of the bridge.

No one protested, even knowing it was suicide for you. Namely, because it was suicide for everyone on the deck. The entire structure would crumple in on itself—and yet the task had to be done. Deny the traitors their spoils. Deny them access to the records. Deny them their man-flesh pelts. Take them all down with you.

Your peers opened the blast-doors enough for you to slide through the middle parting, detonator in hand.

The very instant you were out, you were doused in amber warning lights flashing in swirling arcs, warning of a reactor meltdown. Shadows festered in the hallway at the end of the long, open gantry as the lumens flickered in and out of life, painting the cavernous passageway, broad enough to march a whole human regiment through, in strobing confusion.

The ship groaning was no anomaly. It would do that constantly, regardless of whether she was hurt or not: ever a deep, metallic chorus of creaking machinery, thundering engines, and the distant roar of her reactors.

Truthfully, that noise never stopped.

Now, though, it was overpowered—by agony.

There was no sense to the way screams travelled up from the depths below as you crossed the overpass. It had only worsened as you stepped over the threshold into the familiar halls and stopped in your tracks. Somehow, the clamour chased up the pipes, down the vents, and back from the command deck. Sobbing. Wailing. It grew louder and louder, until it all sounded, for a moment, like laughter. Wild, braying laughter. The ship's many veins and capillaries of hollowed steel warped the echoes of panic into every variable of emotion, disfiguring the torture of the lives onboard into senseless racket. Even the ship's architecture made it worse. The arched buttresses, ribbed vaults, and walls covered in worn reliefs allowed for echoes to carry into infinity.

The sound stopped so suddenly you didn't realise it at first.

It wasn't until you noticed just how quickly quiet had swallowed your surroundings, that you swung your gaze back ahead.

Then came the most gutting sight of all.

A ways down, where the winding corridor bent to a junction, you first saw them: saturated in glistening crimson, and tall enough for the strange, back-swept, wing-like protrusions of their helmets to almost scrape the wide passageway's roofing.

The foremost one with the tallest crest had a halberd ending in a grizzly, meat-wet chain-blade rested upon its pauldron.

The lumens flickered for a moment, then returned. It gave the abominable illusion of halos, as plume after plume of heavy condensation vented from their helm grills; accompanied by the chittering, khch-khch-khch of inter-vox-communications bouncing off the walls towards you.

Seeing them, even so far away, had laced you with such a complete and utter wave of mortification that taking a blind step backwards had felt more akin to falling off a canopy deck—as if the ship's artificial gravity had jolted to a sharp corner axis momentarily, before the stabilisation gimbal evened out.

The lumens flickered out again, and when they came back, the midnight-clad monsters were looking directly at you.

Again, the lights seized, leaving you in the dark longer than before. Power armour was by no means a silent thing. It was a sarcophagus of loud metal and hissing servos—which left little room for misinterpreting it growing closer—especially as the racket of sabatons scraping against the decking in a forward rush echoed near.

You ran back toward the command deck, pushing yourself past the burning in your lungs and managing to reach the far side of the gantry.

It was good that you had, because they had quickly approached the rigged section of corridor threshold. One stopped right beside the spot where a steel-wall plate hid the payload's receiver.

You saw now that it had hands nailed to its pauldrons. And Skulls. Skull helms—helms strung to its hips.

What fresh hell must it have crawled out of?

It stopped, and it stared.

Then, it looked right at where a fat swathe of thermoplastic explosives sat, albeit hidden behind clusters of wires and sheets of metal. Regardless, you took the opportunity handed to you with a hale and whole certainty. The destruction would boil the entire corridor, along with those abominable things. It'd send you flying no matter how far you got to the command deck.

But the detonator in your hand did not respond. No matter how many times you mashed at it with your thumb. The mechanism was dead.

And with it, the terms of your fellow crew's deaths were no longer self-made.

Failure was a bitter draught, but there was still one option. Even if it was no longer a complete denial. You only had the thought of escaping beyond the reach of the monsters.

A wave of nausea clawed at your gullet, and you swayed; stumbling but staying on your feet.

You drew your las-pistol from the holster at your hip.

The skull-faced abominations grew closer down the long bridge. They were eager, hunched like predators, and hastening their paces.

You raised the barrel to the soft flesh beneath your chin, and the one at the front with red-tinted mitts tilted its helm at you.

But in that eternal hesitation, the realisation that your crewmen would not know the plan had failed—not until the traitors were on the deck with them—wormed its way into the forefront of your thoughts.

It took little more than that to send you turning your aim from yourself, and to the things ahead instead.

One, two, three bursts of las, bathing the free fall into the ship's guts around you in hellish flashes of molten after-burn. The wretch at the front took the brunt of the marks, but the heavy armour around its torso practically ate the hits.

You aimed higher, going for the head, taking step after back-pedalling step, keeping your reticule straight.

Each successive strike boiled a strip of paint off the brute's helm.

It broke into a sprint, then.

You kept firing, still trying.

Round after round raced at the thing coming for you, striking it, but not slowing it. Your weapon glowed, raging with the rapid fire; but you tried again—again—again—until the power-cell shrieked.

Through your gloves, you could feel the boiling core raging into death. White-hot plasma foamed at the barrel's mouth, leaving you without any means to keep up the act.

You turned.

And ran.

The clang-clang-clang-clang of heavy, plated feet landing and pushing off the grated bridge behind you, triggering some latent memory of an auspecs lock-on warning. Especially with how it grew faster, and faster—closing in, almost on target. Almost on you.

But the thing had too much distance to cover.

You threw yourself into the tiny crack left open of the blast-door, and screamed for Marmeladov to let the great metal wall slam. Shut it—shut it—shut it—make the monsters claw at a meter of steel in their faces.

In a flurry, you ran to your Shipmaster's side, heaving in great gulps of air as panic filled your heart.

You had scarcely got a word out, but in the end, that didn't matter in the slightest.

The blast-door screeched as warning klaxons flashed across the overhead hololith displays, turning the once-disciplined chamber into a raucous hellhole.

Your head had whipped around so fast it stung for a second, and you watched as gauntlets ferreted into a gap in the middle.

For a moment, the sheer insanity of the situation made you wheeze in disbelief.

You glanced to the floor of the threshold, and wedged in the closing panels was a single ceramite boot.

One man rushed to the doorway, holding a las-gun, firing wildly at the opening; clever, and yet mad.

The revving tip of a monstrous glaive came down on him like a guillotine in an instant—sending a deluge of insides spraying outwards on the fall. Then it withdrew, clutched in the red-plated hand of the one you'd shot at. The beast really had been right on your ass as the doors had shut—or hadn't shut—evidently.

You stumbled back in horror, clutching your fried las-pistol as the man crumbled to his knees in a slough of blood.

The rest of the chain-glaive wielder's armoured forearm managed to fit in the steadily widening gap.

A smoke-bomb was tossed from behind it. Everything was swallowed by the haze absurdly fast. In a panic, you pelted your fried las-gun at whatever horrible shadow you thought was moving closer in the smog. The empty weapon pinged off ceramite with a ringing chime. Ceramite, inside the command deck, could only mean one thing. They had made it inside, and they had come for you all.

You forced yourself to swallow a scream.

But the others hadn't swallowed theirs.

That screaming was suddenly everywhere.

Marmeladov had risen from her throne beside you, but could not get far with the ports plugged into her temples. She was yelling for you to find cover, to run—frantically reminding you of the distance to the escape pods. She strained on her leash to the vessel, and you had to resist the urge to unfasten her from the interface. If she were wrested from the cables of the dying spirit, the ship would kill her on the disconnect out of one last show of possessive spite.

She shoved you to flee from the dais, and it pained you to take the step back from her.

But your Shipmaster's orders were law.

You ceded, even if it was agony to uphold her command.

In the carnage, you barely managed to catch yourself from falling off the steps.

You steadied and turned just in time to see one of the hulking, armoured monsters barrel straight toward Marmeladov's junior lieutenant, Dmitri. It seized him by the throat and lifted him effortlessly, his boots kicking above the floor. For a heartbeat, he was still alive—eyes wide, trying to speak—before the gauntlet'd grip tightened. Bone gave way with a crack so wet your guts twisted. His body was discarded, limp, across a far console that shorted out in a cascade of sparks.

The killers were too busy toying with the others to notice you run.

But that proved no easy feat when their bolters started to roar.

Each bullet was a contained detonation, tearing bodies apart from the inside. It hardly even looked like they were aiming; like they were just firing for the fun of it. A man heroically scaling the loft ladder with a rifle in hand was hit mid-rise over the cusp of the floor; his torso ruptured out behind him, ribs and armour fragments surely raining onto the terrified serfs and menials below. Another round floundered across the deck, ricocheted, and exploded at knee height, dropping three crewmen in a spray of bone and shredded uniforms.

The shooting made the lingering blooms of smoke churn, swathing the deck in heavy belted plumes around you. Your mind had stuck on the reek of it: the stink of phisolene, and hot gunpowder—acrid and vile, enmeshed with the smell of burnt flesh—thick on the tepid air like a disease.

It took everything in you to gather your bearings through the chaos and find the vague shape of an enclave, in the form of an auspecs console not far behind you, silhouetted by the haze.

The Second Officer, Rodion Razumikhin, was already there when you weaselled behind the cover.

He had a sidearm clutched to his chest, and he stunk of piss, which was not entirely unexpected. He was never a man of great brawn, nor a good marksman. His mind was his most valuable asset, that, and his ability to appropriately delegate actions among the lesser officers.

He looked at you through filthy, ash-covered hair with eyes bloodshot with tears.

You understood that too, truly.

The only thing that had kept you from that very same hysteria had been adrenaline and anger at it all.

Marmeladov had always cautioned you for your temper; and she was right, being the smarter, wiser woman she was.

You peeked over the cover you and Rodion had both ducked behind, only to see a giant beast standing before Marmeladov's throne.

Impulsively, you'd lunged for Rodion's las-gun, tore it from his fear-clammy grip and stood from behind the console, aiming for that high-crested monster's head.

It hit dead-on enough to make the thing's helm jolt from the blow.

Which made it stop and take a step back from the command dais.

You saw it had both taken out one of Marmeladov's eyes, and shattered her leg. A single, simple kick from one of its huge boots, just to cripple her in her throne even more, no doubt.

Seething at what the beast had done to her, you kept firing; and yet it did nothing, just like before.

It stood there and watched you, as the rest of its abominable comrades continued flensing your colleagues—your friends.

You loosed volleys until the weapon steamed, another las-gun almost dead at your hands once again. All you had needed was one to pierce. Just one. If any of them were to fall, just that one monster's death would have satisfied you for an eternity.

But it had turned to you now, attention hale and whole upon your form.

It lowered the halberd and pointed the huge weapon at Marmeladov.

You hesitated, then.

The beast tilted its head.

Behind the huge glaive tip obscuring her face, for a second, you glimpsed Marmeladov's gaze on you still; tears streaming out of her lone, surviving eye.

You choked back a sob, your aim on the monster faltering as your vision tunnelled and fixed on her.

In that momentary, fleeting lapse, you heard Rodion's death-scream far too late to realise the figure towering over you from behind. Huge gauntlets dug into the back of your heavy coat, and you shrieked at the sudden weightlessness that seized you—kicking, seething, cursing—caught like an animal by the scruff and held aloft.

The red-handed one approached, then, forgetting your Shipmaster for a blessed moment. Hoping to keep the attention off her, you increased your swearing and thrashing, clutched at lens-level with it.

Then a sickening trade occurred, wherein you passed between murderous hands, under more khch-khch-khch of their helm-voxes.

You could hear Marmeladov crying, pleading for mercy—but it was not for herself. She was pleading to the deaf ears of the butchers to at least make it quick for you. That act sent you clawing up at the Night Lord's gusset in a frenzied rage. The suit lining the inside of the ceramite had not looked much different from an imperial flight-suit—so you dug your nails in under the helm-seals and tugged.

A long, throaty hisssss came from both the power-armour and its' occupant.

Abruptly, it dropped you.

Air rushed out of your lungs in a heavy thud as you landed squarely on your back, wheezing hiccup after hiccup of torturous oxygen back in.

The red-gauntlet'd one you'd been clawing at looked down at you, twirling its halberd idly as you suffered—only to stop fast with the glaive in a backwards hold. The toothless end of the long handle pressed into your spasming chest, pinning you in place on the deck.

You snarled up at it, squirming wildly enough that your flailing arms knocked the grip of your fallen las-gun.

Palming blindly, you grasped it and brought it up—but not at the beast.

Instead, just as before, you cozied the hollowed barrel into the soft underside of your jaw.

The high-crested murderer apparently did not like that.

All notions of restraint were damned and gone as you pulled the trigger, a hateful sneer painted across your face.

At once, your head swam, whipped to black-speckled serenity for a moment. But not backwards in a warm, wet spray, like it should've when obliterated by a las-round at point-blank.

No, your head was strewn sidelong, looking out across the deck of the body-strewn deck. The entire left half of your skull blistered with acute agony, throbbing and flickering your vision.

You could hardly even feel the red gauntlet that reached down to grab you by the front of your uniform. You couldn't even hear the standard-issue, mass-produced attire buckle and tear almost immediately. The cold of the vessel did not seem to bite your flesh entirely, even as the monster adjusted to tug you airborne by your coat's lapel, instead.

You were up in the high-crested thing's grip, dangling like a little girl's doll. Bleeding, dazed—rendered inert. Distantly, you wondered if this was how servitors felt with their skulls emptied out—but your brain refused to render so much as a single, rockcrete thought beyond that as it throbbed, and throbbed, and throbbed. Grey began to blotch your sight, and it only grew harsher in severity. Those patchy wells of ash fluttered and flickered across your retinas, backgrounded by a quiet so absolute you could only distantly perceive that it cut in and out in long, swelling waves of far-off noise.

Your head rolled back, only vaguely catching shape of Marmeladov through the visual snow creeping in—before the monster's shadow blotted her from view and everything fell to serene, sunless nothing.

It was your hearing that returned first, although it granted only a constant ringing in your ears. Then came feeling, but the only immediate sensation you found yourself plagued by, surpisingly, was blotches of cold.

It was a strange way to discover there was no afterlife. Nor a bright glade, nor a shining palace filled with golden light.

But that was to be expected when death hadn't claimed you as it should've.

You remembered that you gave a pitiful attempt at inhaling, which led you to find that nothing seemed to fill your lungs for seconds. Seconds that felt like minutes—or hours—or years.

Finally, the air surged in with an aching strain, and a creaky, shallow exhale slipped free from you a moment thereafter.

You had tried for another, but began coughing. Blood clogged your nose, making you snort and splutter to clear it, but that decision was quickly regretted. Because, situationally, the stench you found was by far the most jarring one you had come to meet in all your years of Void-faring. Your nose was flooded with the smell of offal and disinfectant. It was beyond organic necrosis. It was more intrinsically terrifying. It was the rank odour of a Medicae chamber.

Against the very laws of nature, the chilled creak of your lungs surged against the pressure in your chest.

A lurch had seized your diaphragm, alongside a bitter rush of air, gasping in shock at the realisation you could breathe properly again.

You were alive.

Then, you were promptly unconscious once more.

When you dragged yourself out of that depthless nothing again, you were here—caged in a monster's quarters.

It has been some time since then.

So far, you had learned the red-handed beast's full name was Jago Sevatarion. But that was no chance uncovering. He had told it to you, in fact—just like he had told you he was the Legion's beloved First Captain; but all you really saw was some gestalt nightmare rendered incarnate.

For a time, that's all he was: a torturer, a gaoler, and a butcher. All pieces culminating to a big, mad, man-thing full of deranged loyalty toward a bigger, madder man-thing; one that Sevatarion couldn't help but boast about. The Night Haunter, the Primarch, Konrad Curze—father, father, father—the Night Haunter, the Primarch, Konrad Curze. A large portion of Sevatarion's traitorous, bootlicking rants orbited his name and his genius... or well, names, more accurately. You have discovered there seems to be many, many, many versions of the same turncoat son of the Emperor, and you were only privy to this due to Sevatarion, who never stopped painting a pict of an unending gamut of contradictions.

It is all, ultimately, a condensed reality you're told by force. Every story he spoke at you when you didn't flinch under his knife.

When it was not about his insane but allegedly genius gene-sire, he raved about a system well outside the Ultima Segmenta—a planet in a chain of numbers—about the killing he did on it—the cousins he butchered. The Primarch he watched die.

The Primarch your Shipmaster served.

The Primarch you had served through her.

You wondered if that was why they had chased your ship down. All that savagery just for meagre gratification, like a sick pervert fondling himself while peeping on someone's daily schedule.

Still, there was something truly horrible about the notion of these behemoths waging war on each other. Never mind the sick glee in Sevatarion's tone as he recounted a throat he had spent a minute sawing through with a stolen blade so dulled from endless killing it was practically a deck plate.

He complained, then, about how thin the skin was. How easy it was to slice open a helmet-less fool's trachea. But through those retellings of a carnage you can scarcely fathom, you took a mental note.

Astartes have vulnerable throats.

He prattled on even more after that, but you were no longer really listening.

Even his voice was horrible.

His accent was somehow nearly comedic with the level of menace it carried. Something about the lower register and the over-correction of sounds, especially his w's—which sounded closer to v's—to say nothing of the fact that he somehow made i's more like y's. Culminating in an accent alike the bow of a ship grating against the hull of another. You didn't get to cover your ears, though you wished you could; it was hard to manage that act of defiance belted down on a chopping block, after all.

Rather unfortunately for Sevatarion, when you're constantly stuck in the den of a rabid beast, the terror of him fondly reminiscing lost its lustre quickly. Especially when a majority of the physical torture doesn't stick, and he only has himself to curse for that miscalculation. All because of your brain damage. Having patches of complete neurological insensitivity across your body was exactly the blessing on a Night Lord's flagship one would think it was.

Still, Sevatarion got bored rather easily.

You're absolutely covered in bruises and long, thin cuts. They were scabbed now, but not all entirely painful when you'd earned them. Some had stung to ripe agony, some had not even registered beyond the press of a blade. He'd checked where your insensitivity extended to after you'd absentmindedly ripped a few fingernails out trying to claw his hand off your wrist.

Thanks to Sevatarion, you discovered your neuropathy was self-contained to extremities, largely.

Unfortunately, it hadn't stopped him from checking routinely these last few visits. He carved into you like a piece of steak to see if the blind spots were growing. As proof of a disgusting concept, he had cut deep horizontal lines at the threshold of each patch, giving himself markers as to where any effort of torment was rendered null and void.

Only then had he let you scamper off into the fresher to lick your numb wounds.

Well... the fresher, at first. But he'd ruined the door soon thereafter. Surely not because you'd impulsively believed it was Night Lord-proof and called him a very, very colourful rainbow of things. He'd bashed the panel in and dragged you out of the false hideaway by the scruff while you tried to bite off his nose. Then, he'd dislocated your fingers, leaving you to fumble around for a few hours; which led to the revelation that it's not easy to pick up a ration bowl with all your digits mangled.

He'd gloated that there were no more places to hide as he set them back. You'd barely managed to fight back the urge to tell him he was wrong. You could fit under his unused cot, or under the holo-projection table, or stow away in the armoury he kept locked, if you could get in.

Still, that didn't negate the fact that your world—which was once a great vessel in a greater woman's charge—was now reduced to the cubby hole of the very thing that stole you away.

You're in rags tied together by two pinwheels and some floss, and the smug bastard was in polished, high-laced boots. It made you miss your uniform dearly. The—for lack of a better word—uniformity of it. The heavy reinforced heel, the tight-fitting undershirt beneath your buttoned jacket and your nice, warm coat.

Honestly, the room was altogether not that bad. Certainly cold, yes, yet there was a surprising lack of human leather hanging around than expected. The only real vulgarity was the tray of knucklebones on the counter of the holo-projection table, which could, hypothetically, be a xeno-animal's.

You knew very well they weren't, though.

You had guessed as much from the first short glance you had at them twenty-three meals ago; and then four meals later, you'd spent a few hours sorting them into matching pairs.

You'd been keeping time, despite the monotony. Sevatarion returned maybe once or twice a standard Terran week, equaling out to seven meal cycles. Whenever he did, you endured those tortures that were quickly growing mundane... and, when he wasn't wielding a dagger and a hypothesis, he ran his mouth about anything and everything. You're not sure which was worse, anymore; truly, you can't really tell the physical agony from the mental. It was always an odd fusion of the two. The only good thing to come out of being forced to converse with him was that he made no call for honourifics, nor titles, like 'sir' or 'my lord' or 'master' although, even if he had made such a demand, you'd have never have stooped to such a level. All the better he hadn't then, ultimately. One less thing to be punished for, though he hardly needed a reason in the end.

He hit you when you didn't respond.

He hit you when you did but he didn't like the answer.

He hit you because he could.

And yet, as of right now, Sevatarion has been oddly quiet.

Currently, he is sitting cross-legged on his cot—the one you have never seen him sleep in even once during your captivity—attending to his disassembled bolter.

You glare while he works, shooting daggers at him in your imagination.

"Something on my face?" Sevatarion rumbles after a long time of saying nothing, yet it's strangely sans a typical baiting edge.

You stay silent at first, scowling.

He grumbles expectantly, and you know he wants a response.

"I'm hungry," leaves you at last.

"Hungry?" Sevatarion scoffs, his focus remaining steadfast on the barrel as he carefully slides a cloth-covered metal rod down it, "You're hungry?"

"Yes," you grunt.

"You've only just eaten," he hisses, pulling the rod out and discarding it mindlessly onto the floor behind him, before pointing toward the empty metal bowl sitting in a little tray-hatch mechanism by the entry blast-door.

"No," you bite out, "I haven't."

"I don't know what grand feasts your old station granted you," he raises a brow, and fixes the action back into place before eyeing down the iron sights, checking his work. "But you're going to keep eating that slop, and you're going to be thankful for it."

"It's not that it's gruel," you say bitterly, "It's that it's not enough."

"You want more?"

"I'm starving."

"...and you think that I ought to care?"

"You're clearly keeping me alive for something," you clench your fists by your sides impotently, "Or are you making this up as you go?"

"I'm only keeping you alive because I haven't decided what I want to make out of your skin, yet," there ought to be more malice to his tone, but it just sounds half-arsed and disinterested—like he's only saying what he thinks will scare you because he can't think of anything more creative.

It occurs to you that this is probably a game to him.

He is keeping a puzzle in his quarters, no different to the ones you once had in yours. Where they had been small, and metal, and made for the sole intention of fighting with, he has in you the same, only larger and made of flesh.

You are a toy to this monster.

"Need to piss," the aforementioned monster announces to thin air and, just like that, any continuity to your thoughts vanishes entirely.

He tosses his bolter heedlessly across the cot and is on his feet in less than the blink of an eye, making a beeline to the fresher. Thanks to the lack of functioning door, you hear—in horrible detail—the long, wet stream of him relieving himself into the vac-toilet.

You look at the fresher, and the shadow he casts under the dull lumen above him. Then, you look at the bolter. It's a sudden glimmer of hope on a string, and you take an ever-so cautious step toward the cot.

It's too easy.

It's too obvious a chance.

Unease hits you like a blow to the chest, acutely aware of how you feel your skin crawl innately.

Sevatarion is leaning against the arch of the fresher doorway when you whip your head around.

"Go on," he hums. "Fetch."

You take a step back, sneering as you say, "There's no rounds in it."

"There might be," he says with a huff, lying rather badly for once.

You frown and stand a little straighter.

He seems to realise you're not going to take the chance and strides back over to his cot, dropping his immense bulk down on it with a small grunt.

Sevatarion simply sits there for a while, doing nothing while he ignores you staring at him, until it apparently irks him enough to speak.

He sighs loudly, purposefully being dramatic, "Well, now I'm bored."

"Good."

"No, not good," he grumbles. "You were supposed to fall for that."

"And I didn't, so what now?"

"I suppose we are going to have a chat," he says, with a strangely bubbly lilt overriding his irritation.

It's a fight not to run across the room and claw madly at the blast-door like a trapped animal. You hate his 'chats' so, so much. It's an excuse for him to vomit up whatever inane stories he wants, and they're always abominable. They're hardly even stories. Every one of them is just some advanced form of psychological torment or violence-based circle-jerking. It's him gloating, and gloating, and gloating eternally; like a recaf-station pissing contest turned up to a quintillion.

Sevatarion says nothing for a while before he offers, "I'll make it interesting this time. Maybe even let you in on a little secret," his black eyes almost sparkle with the conspiracy he offers up, "You know, a bit of gossip—you officers love that stuff, don't you?"

You scowl at him and eye the shut door while thinking of how clawing blindly at the metal sounds like a perfectly good idea.

"Have you ever heard of Eight-Hundred-and-Nine Five, before?"

You're actively trying to stop listening.

"No?" He says for you, before you'd really have time to answer if you'd ever wanted to—which you didn't—even if he's right. "Lucky you, it's a shithole," he digresses quickly, gesticulating while he does so, "But that's besides the point... Naraka, the Captain of the thirteenth company, brought her to heel. Without a single drop of blood, which, for us, is very impressive. The lot of them wouldn't tell a soul how they did it," he tilts his head and raises a scarred brow, a sly, conspiratorial look mapping across his features as he offers, "Would you like to know how?"

"Do I have a choice?" You mutter to yourself, unsure of where exactly this tirade of his is going, but in no position to escape his yammering as per usual.

A slow, creeping smirk rises on Sevatarion's face, replacing the slyness with rabid glee as he leans forward. "Naraka fucked the Planetary-Governor insensible and plastered it live over every pict-feed you could imagine," he barks, grinning like a madman suddenly.

You blink, stunned almost immediately. The concept is impossible, the Legiones Astartes surely do not—

"Twelve Night Lords in one night," he adds dryly, still smiling, "Talk about a close proximity bombardment."

You're only distantly aware you're cringing at him, and then the reality that he's very likely talking out of his ass hits. He's probably spinning stories to discomfort you as a way of amusing himself as usual.

"You're vile—" you snarl, "—and a liar."

"For once," he shoots back, "I'm actually not lying."

"Firstly, that doesn't even make any sense," you hurriedly bite out, squinting at the giant black-eyed deceiver as he pouts crookedly at you. "How would that even work? You mean to tell me that the entire planet went: 'How lewd—everyone quickly—surrender,' and that was that?" You start flailing your hands around in an absurd pantomime to match your tone, then stop abruptly and cross them over your chest, "Secondly, since when do Astartes even—"

You remember exactly what the thing you're arguing with is just as the words leave your mouth, and promptly stop talking.

"Oh?" Sevatarion all but leers, "Do go on."

You glare at him, "No, no—I don't think I will."

"But you were posing such a clear, sensible argument," he tuts, clicking his tongue for effect. "Surely, you wouldn't want to lose."

You stand from where you'd been leaning, clenching your fists by your sides in impotent irritation once again. You move to walk aimlessly to the right—remembering a little late that there's only wall that way—and pivot on your heels leftward, toward the broken door of the fresher.

"I don't care," you call out from where you're standing, stubbornly facing the pulse-shower cubicle.

"Come on," he barks, letting the taunt drag out painfully. "Let's try breaking this discourse down to it's bare components. Simple principles. You remember those from bootcamp, don't you, little officer?"

Oh, he's an insipid bastard of a man-thing—he's got such a vile, condescending way with words. You hate that he calls you little. He knows you do, and he does it even more because of it. Everything he says is a sarcastic leer, a double-edged cheap-shot, a mouth-breathing snark. It makes you wish, on everything you've ever loved or owned or respected, that you had the great strength to beat him to death.

"I'm not dignifying this inane lie," you snap at the open doorway, knowing he's probably sitting there smirking like the smug, over-sized prick he is.

You hear him clicking his tongue again in that annoyingly chiding way he's all but perfected, "All I'm asking is if you really think we don't fuck?"

It's bait on an industrial lure, tied to an adamantium-reinforced rod resting in Sevatarion's greasy, bloodied mitts.

"That is to say... I have," he adds with a snort, and he pauses for a moment before he continues, "Plenty of times, actually."

He's completely delusional.

No one could handle an Astartes—you can't even imagine the proportions of their mass being factored in sexually. Maybe somewhere out there in the galaxy, at least one lunatic follower of the Lectitio Divinitatus might've barked up an Astartes' tree. You can rationalise someone going for the pretty, noble ones with long, flowing hair... but to bark up a Night Lord's?

Someone would dare risk a broom-closet jaunt with a mad son of a madder father?

No one would want to fuck one, except maybe a suicidal moron, let alone fuck him. If Sevatarion has fucked something—which you doubt—it was probably by rape. And they probably died afterwards. For their sake, you hope they were dead beforehand. Being in the same room with him is torment on its own, so the thought of being under him grants you a glimpse into an otherworldly agony. He'd be insufferable. He's even visually off-putting, just to top it all off. A good part of Sevatarion's face is a mess of scars. His mouth's crooked. He slouches like a hunchback. His hair looks like shit. There's enough bags around his big, mean-looking, beady eyes to fill an entire embarkation-deck. To say nothing of the fact he smells a bit like a woman's sanitary bin—sure, he's well-muscled enough to make a baseline dock-worker look like a lanky teenage girl in comparison, but that's where any objective attractiveness ends. Which, ultimately, means the only things remotely palatable about Sevatarion are his big arms and big arse.

And so, you swallow the proverbial hook and come storming out of the fresher, waggling your finger at him in a fury.

"Now, I know you're full of it—" you growl, taking hurried steps to get up in his face as your temper boils over against your better judgment, "—and I'm too hungry to go along with this groxshit."

"I'm not lying," he's still sitting, and yet he's at your standing eye-line. All pitch-black sclera and furrowed brows, an arm's reach from your own.

You roll your eyes and snap, "Yes, you are!"

"I know something that could resolve both those issues," he says, face flat and expressionless suddenly, "Give me your mouth."

"What?"

"You heard me," Sevatarion's face contorts from a statue's into a bared-teeth, cadaver grin, "I'll get you another ration if I get your tongue on my cock."

"You're joking," stunned, you blink repeatedly, hoping despite yourself, that it's another one of his daft games he's playing at, "This is one of your sick jokes."

"I don't joke around about proving others wrong," he says through his sharp jaws.

"So, so..." you start, flabbergasted, "...you want me to whore myself out to the butcher of my crew-mates? My Shipmaster?"

"It's not like their opinions matter," Sevatarion's smile finally falls away to a leering smirk, "They're dead."

Vitriol mangles your voice into a ragged hiss, "Yes, and you made sure of that, didn't you?"

"Not my fault your Cruiser didn't scamper away fast enough," he scoffs.

"You have no concept of integrity, do you?"

"Not even a scrap."

"There's something deeply wrong with you," comes your hissed reply.

"You can't even imagine," Sevatarion breathes out in a strangely tired manner.

You can imagine.

In fact, you'd love to tell him every little detail of how deplorable you think he is. How conniving, how utterly stupid and violent—how he's a slimy wretch that only exists to smirk at his own snide comments and skin babes in their cradles.

Irrationally, you fail to rein in the urge to spit at him, and it almost appears as if he wholly expects the saliva that flies in his direction.

He doesn't even flinch.

It lands well enough, right on the corner of his mouth; he grumbles, and—and licks the corner of his lips clean.

You recoil in disgusted disbelief, so unsettled enough by his behaviour that the words you wanted to yell in his face come out a decent bit quieter than you intended, "I'm... I'm not sucking you off."

"Then you'll be going hungry," he says, and pointedly spits on the floor.

It lands just shy of your foot and sizzles against the steel-plated floor, filling the room with the slightest reek of sulphur. A fresh wave of horror dawns upon you. His saliva isn't saliva. It's—it's acid—

"It's that simple," he states, at last.

It's a threat in and of itself, even as the liquid fizzles out impotently and leaves a pitted black stain on the metal.

You weigh your options: Claw at a chance to remain even slightly able to control your situation, but debase yourself wholly—or drag your heels the entire time and rely on his whims for nothing, but slowly start starving away. Both outcomes would bear fruit, both would be torment. There's no fork in the road that leads to a solid victory. It will be a fight the whole way, no matter which path you take.

At least with assenting to this, you keep some condition on your bones.

You sigh, and don't bother to keep the frown from your face as you drop to a kneel.

"Finally, you make a sensible choice," he rasps.

Up close, you realise belatedly that his pants are some sort of blackened leather. Human, perhaps, but for some reason you don't think so. It feels impossible to manage such a tedious stitching job with a person's skin. You think back on all the grazes and nicks you've had and how easy your flesh tears. How did they make anything with it, let alone pants? But you've never stitched anything beyond a patch in your life, let alone skin, so your assumptions fall to a moot point conclusion.

Loose leather draws tight around his huge thighs as he adjusts his seating, and interface ports—like the ones you'd seen on the Shipmaster's temples—distort the leather in solid, rounded mounds.

You completely disregard the distortion higher up his legs, leaning left and resting upward in a long, sweeping shine of distended black.

The pants are low and sit up on his middle-hip, which is largely out of place compared to Imperial standards. They are weirdly proportioned, too. They make his long legs look thicker than they actually are. It's nothing like standard officer uniform, which is high-waisted and cinched in. You suppose both would look absurd on a body so densely muscled.

You have no idea where to even start to undo the catches.

His terrible taste in attire actually explains a lot about the wretched tunic he's forced you to wear.

You're about to go on a mental tirade about the shortness of your tunic, before your attention snags on him undoing the latch of his pants.

They part disgustingly low, and disgustingly easy. It's sleazy—especially when your eyes trace down a coarse line of hair that's somehow darker than the leather.

A long, fat swell of erection flags out of the pants and up onto his navel along with it.

It is distressingly large.

Suddenly, every ounce of his behaviour makes complete and total sense. If you were his size, with a dick this big, you'd be a prick, too. But that realisation still doesn't even get close to remedying any of the deep-seated loathing you have for him, though.

He holds his cock by the base, tilts himself, and slaps the side of his fat shaft against your cheek.

"Open your mouth," he rasps.

Begrudgingly, you oblige—and he takes full use of the allowance, adjusting himself to rub the underside of his swollen glans across your tongue.

"Lick," he says next.

And you do.

It's vaguely salty, though that's not unusual. His isn't the first dick you've sucked, after all. Well, he's the first Astartes, at least... but he tastes pretty standard, if for the heavier smell of something distinctly earthy pervading your senses. It's almost reminiscent of a hot, chemical dampness, like an engine room when the sprinklers go off.

His hand comes to rest on the crown of your head abruptly, "Now, suck."

It's a unique sort of panic that suddenly chills your bones. You feel stuck, unable to breathe—like you're locked in the stuffy, muscled cage of his thighs rather than kneeling between them.

The stubborn part of your brain digs itself heel-deep in the dirt and refuses to budge.

You pull your tongue back and frown, "No, just tongue."

"You offered your mouth," Sevatarion notes flatly. "Stop being difficult and suck."

"You said tongue."

"You know what I meant," he snarls abruptly, jutting the tip of himself against your lips with a small buck.

Still frowning, you rear back and grit out, "I bite."

"You're going to bite the cock that feeds you?"

You scowl up at him, "You said—"

"You're not that stupid," he interrupts, glaring down at you with his eyes squinted into black slits, "You wanted more rations, I gave you a way to earn it, and you agreed to this."

"I bite," you say again, mulishly, trying to pull away even further, only to be reined back in by his fingers bunching up a handful of your hair.

"Just gives me an excuse to rip all your teeth out, I guess."

"Wouldn't undo what I'd do," you say with a heady defiance, frowning at him from your low spot with the fat heft of his member to your cheek.

"After your teeth go," he starts, talking as if you're not there and he's simply plotting aloud to a hidden audience. "I think I'll let the Atramentar use you as a chew-toy."

You're confused, "The... what?"

"My brothers," he clarifies, pausing his weird recounting of nonsense events as if he's cluing you in for your next lines of script. "You've met them already, little officer."

"Who?"

"You said you remembered the deck," he pouts, his tone almost like a sing-song for an absurd moment, "You said you remembered what happened to your friends."

For a moment, you're too bemused by his change of behaviour to even think straight. He only talks like this when there's a knife in his hand, and you're on his cutting board, and—oh, oh. He's being serious. He's not raving, he's genuinely plotting aloud like it's a torture session. An interrogation. Like he had the first time you were sliced bloody. He's fuming. Suppose it's expected of an entitled man-thing whose dick isn't being slobbered on after the promise of it happening.

You don't even bother replying at this point.

You know better, now.

"I imagine they'd love to see you again," he says with an airy huff, "Wonder what they would do to a stubborn little shithead like you—maybe they'll beat the twelve-in-a-night record..." The mask of impassive detachment drops on his face is a cold, cold statue, "Or maybe they'll just eat you alive."

You cringe.

"Don't like the sound of that, do you?" Sevatarion's mangled lip curls, breaking the straight-faced horror into a clear pict of irritation, "Play nice, and a sore jaw's the worst you'll be dealing with."

He jostles himself by the base, letting the thickness of his cock sit up straight in the webbing between his pointer and thumb.

"Now," Sevatarion spits, his voice a rough thing as he shifts his hips so that the tip of his length rests on your lips again. "Warm this up for me, would you?"

You begrudgingly open your mouth and close it around him, and Sevatarion is quick to take the ground offered. He starts rolling his hips, keeping you in place with a huge palm right across the back of your head.

There's too much of him to fit, and the grip you take around the lower half of his cock barely manages to keep him from sliding too deep. His cock's hot, too—it's unnatural, it's—it's as if his ambient temperature is five degrees higher than your own.

It's a struggle just to breathe steadily through your nose, to say nothing of the war you're waging against your own gag-reflex. It's almost impossible not to choke while he fucks your mouth. You try to steady yourself by placing a free hand on his leather-covered thigh, and garble out a curse when the spongy tip jars into your epiglottis.

You jerk, and your hand around his cock slips—covered by his—and then it's not. It's sliding up, and then a thumb slips into your mouth alongside his own cock; adjusting, hooking over your bottom teeth.

The manoeuvre locks you in place, with a mouth forced wide.

He's doing it to make a point, he's doing it for insurance, he's doing it to all but face-fuck you.

The entire situation is a mess.

He keeps pumping his hips, and you make awful, half-choked protests at each of his choppy thrusts forward.

His short-cut tunic hides a majority of his upper body away, but you catch glimpses of scar-mottled flesh with every rock of his hips forward.

Your jaw aches under the strain of Sevatarion's pace and his hold, and there's spit and pre-cum sloppily roping down your chin. It's not as if he cares, though. He's acting like no more than a rutting animal, taking every chance he can for himself.

You thrash backwards, and surprisingly, he lets you off him—the hand in your mouth withdraws, whereas the one on your head stays.

"A-At least... l-let me do it myself," you harrumph loudly, throat irritated by the numerous attempts to fuck into it.

"With no teeth?"

You nod sluggishly, beyond frustrated with the fact that you have to cede.

"Good," he says with a long, satisfied hum. "Let me back in."

You do, rather hatefully.

It takes every bit of composure you have to not go back on your promise and nip the fat, rounded end of his cock off out of spite. As if by some cruel irony, that thought arrives at the exact moment you accidentally allow too much to slide in.

Pointedly, you gag and try to drag your head back, despite the big mitt on your scalp. He, surprisingly, lets you cough up a stringing mess of bubbling saliva.

"I'm just too big for you," he tuts, with a heavy, faux sincerity, "Aren't I?"

You try to mentally talk yourself out of giving in to the urge of sticking him back in and chomping once again. Instead, you try to focus on getting him off. The sooner it's over, the better. You gather back enough willpower to lick over the tip of him, watching the pumping of your own hand around the middle. The salty flashes of pre-cum across your tongue aren't at all helping you disassociate, though, so you eye the rest of him.

He's lifted his tunic up to his stomach with his free hand, fully displaying the menagerie of brutal-looking old wounds he has. It's all solid, gene-forged muscle, but there are hints his underbelly is actually soft in places. You wonder where the skin's thinnest aside from his gullet, and where a blade could punch through best. You let your gaze drift, going from his belly button to the long, dark trail arrowing down from it to his groin.

"Your head's too small to fit me," he notes with a gravely chuff of amusement, "Too much space wasted on useless brain matter."

You try to sit up a little, letting his leaking cock lean against your cheek as you do.

The manoeuvre stings your ego almost immediately, because the wretched press of your own thighs as you adjust your angle feels horribly wet.

You can't be—you refuse—there's no way this is happening.

You wriggle again, just to be sure, and a dull, persistent throb makes itself known alongside a vile slickness. The realisation makes you freeze, and leaves you staring blankly at his navel as he keeps petting your hair.

"Oh, you're not talking back anymore?" Sevatarion ventures, purposefully nasty. "Am I not worth the words? Or are you just... too busy?"

"Busy... tryin' t-tuh—get t-this over with," you sloppily manage, irritated—refusing to let his awful voice register, just pressing forward, pulling back—letting rigid heat fill your mouth to the brim and slide out. Trying to ignore the smell of sex pervading your nose, with the same nonplussed discipline you'd maintained hearing other cadets fucking in the barracks. Let him tire himself out with his rambling, and hopefully finish faster. It feels like it's been hours. How long do these overgrown fools last? It can't be for a lack of trying. You're trying to make it good, so he's done quicker, and you're fed sooner. Fuck, you're hungry. At this point you'd swallow the monster's load if only to rob him of an extra meal. It's vile and it makes your stomach twist in disgust, but it is ultimately for survival. You'd do just about anything to spite him and live a little less starved, at this point.

"Zec te jaesha yahsshan," ["I like how you look when you lick,"] he groans suddenly, and it breaks you from your reverie—you glance up with his cock still in your mouth as he says, "Juthica te vey athasavi darnitha na." ["Keep staring at me with those angry eyes."]

You furrow your brows, unsure if you'd misheard him and were simply hallucinating a string of gibberish. Then it clicks. He's yapping the lunacy he thinks passes for language. The one he'd had before he was elevated to sapience with Gothic. Nostraman. It's harsh in his mouth despite the flowing, almost smooth sounds some of the words make. As if they're mangled by his overgrown lungs and his sandpaper gullet. It might've been a lovely thing on a human's tongue, but it garners nothing but a feeling of discomfort on his. He's probably saying something vile, laden with threats and insults. It's probably another one of his disgusting stories. Hell, it's probably very creative slurs. They don't count if you can't make sense of them. You learned that very early in your career. But that fact never meant you couldn't retaliate as if you did understand.

You let his cock slide out and scowl up at him, baring your teeth, "S-Stop speaking that drivel or I'll—"

He doesn't react like you thought he would, he just pets you more and interrupts you, "Or you'll what? You'll stop?" He ruffles the top of your head, urging you to take him back inside your mouth with a long, heavy stroke through your hair. "You'll give up your meal just because you don't like my mother-tongue?"

You try to shake him off, and for a blessed instant the hand's gone. Until it isn't, it's—it's holding you by the chin, and his thumb is prodding at your lips. Sevatarion forces it in behind them, but you keep your jaw clenched, leaving him to trace against the front of your gums.

He huffs out an exaggerated sigh, "Fine, but you should know... I was close," and immediately, his taunt works. You loathe yourself for it, but still let your maw open just a little.

With that, his frown quickly evaporates into a lopsided smirk, and he starts pumping his thumb into your mouth like he's done with his cock for the past hour.

"Jus' fuggin geh i' ovah wif," you garble out, your words mangled around his probing.

"That's the spirit," he rasps, straight-faced.

Sevatarion traces your back molars, then doubles back and depresses the top of your tongue.

"Varre vel ar'sun yoshun ivi?" ["Who's my wild little slave?"] He says, and you parse out what sounds like a questioning inflection in his tone as he slides his thumb in down to the webbing and groans, "Jasca, jasca, te ashilla." ["Yes, yes, you are."]

You gag, about to give in to instinct and let your jaws close down hard on the invading digit, but it retreats rather abruptly—replaced by the tip of him nudging your lips, trying for an entrance again.

You don't let him in.

Instead, you sneer and pump your fist up the length of him with long jerks.

Gritting your teeth in anger, you hide the seething scowl painted across your face against the base of his cock. You start to lick—but pull back prematurely when the coarse black hair around it irritates your cheek.

So instead, you lap at the underside, veined but far less annoyingly textured as the base. The only issue is that the angle makes his cock sit up against your forehead, and you try to ignore the obscene proportion of it quite literally weighing on you.

He tugs you back, then growls, "Te niateyia'shia, jaeshai ma jarcu vel." [You're disobedient, but I like the fight.]

You're about to protest to whatever nonsense he's grumbling, but it's clear your stalling has gone on long enough. You hatefully allow him to line his cock back up to your mouth, before sliding himself back in.

Sevatarion makes the next few thrusts messy on purpose, punishing you for ignoring him earlier.

Soon, you're gurgling curses around the meat of him with each breath you manage to steal, while he rams into your mouth in earnest. It's hard to even think with him carrying on like this, let alone breathe properly, but watching his chest rise and fall manages to let you wander off mentally enough to bear it.

Huge lungs surely reside behind those big muscles, you've heard there's more than one set in there—thanks to a Medicae novice's idle ranting a few years ago. You try to remember any other curious facts about Astartes, but the only thing that comes to mind is that they have two hearts. You can't feel two heartbeats on your tongue. Maybe only one of his hearts pumps blood to his cock, then.

You glance up higher, seeking his face next.

And almost start crying tears of joy when you find he's started chewing on the collar of his tunic. It shuts him up, and you're finally free of the incessant filth he lets leave his lips. He's shut his eyes, too, and with them, the rest of his face relaxes in a completely new way that makes a majority of the lines smooth out with it.

He's... much easier to deal with like this. Much easier to look at, too. It's almost bearable, even if he's still bucking into your mouth and screwing up your rhythm.

Taking the risk, you rock a little against yourself again.

You're definitely wet, now. No need to check twice. It's far gone enough that you can even feel your clit in the mess where it's sandwiched between the tight press of your thighs.

It's impossible to veer away from the urge to roll your hips, especially when Sevatarion's heavy breathing covers your own.

The motion of you bobbing your head forward synchronises with your grinding with agonising perfection. It's a spark in your vision that glimmers with every wet slide of his cock into your mouth. The fat length of him jerks a little, appreciatively, when you let your tongue swipe the underside on the back-draw. If only he'd been this quiet from the start. You'd have given him a good reason to work with you on this.

He pets you like he had earlier, letting you pull your mouth off him with a slimy gasp and lap at the side. There's a thick, raised vein webbing across it, and he hums contentedly behind the fabric in his mouth with still-shut eyes when you let the flat of your tongue drag a wide lick across the surface. He tugs your hair a tad to give you the message he wants back in, and you grumble, but acquiesce and take the length of him into your mouth again.

Sevatarion's not being a prick, currently—and to prove a point, you actually allow him to fuck into your maw this time. It frees up your neck and lets you focus on much more important matters. Namely, the rush of bliss your heel grazing your cunt gives you—you're hyperaware of the pressure, fleeting as it is—and you wonder, in some mad desperation, if he'd notice your hand leaving his thigh and travelling south. Maybe he'd turn your distraction into some even more twisted debasement as punishment, or if he'd just let you. You suspect the foul butcher would take it as an invitation to get his cock really wet.

Strung out on both air and sense, the prospect doesn't send you into a rage as it should. Funnily, it's just like Sevatarion said: he's too big. From the sheer swell of meat in your mouth, you have a hunch he really, truly, wouldn't be able to fit, no matter how hard he pressed in—so maybe there's a victory in that. You imagine his face all screwed up with that sulking, sour look of his as he were to try.

It's a satisfying pict of the imagination, thinking of him suffering; one only made worse by your continued rocking. You hope it's agony for him, you hope he whines—his gnarled maw all twisted up, rutting his fat cock against you vainly—he'll let you steal a hiss out of his lungs when you fuck yourself down to the hilt...

Hold on, wait.

What?

The sinew behind your eyes aches as your mind backpedals, but the hand on your head tightens in your hair.

Wait, no—you... you don't want to fuck him. He's abominable and soaked in the blood of your peers. He's a beast. You don't know where these thoughts are coming from.

You swear you don't want to—you don't want him—bouncing you on his lap, holding you up in those huge arms and dropping you on him again, and again, and again.

Where is this coming from? Why are you...

You're not even aware of the fact that he's opened his eyes until you hear him moan, and you look up.

You see him digging his teeth into his bottom lip. Something is trailing down his philtrum in a thick, dark line.

Is.. is that blood?

He rolls his pelvis, and you gag, trying to snatch another look—before your attempt is thwarted by the hand dragging you forward.

The shock from the sudden amount of dick in your mouth makes your sight glue head-on.

Sevatarion's cock twitches abruptly, then starts pulsing hard as molten heat fills the meagre space of your maw. With it, a long, haggard groan slides from his gullet. The thigh you were using as a sure, stable fulcrum starts shaking alongside the sharp, upward stutter of his hips.

He holds your head there for a moment while you gurgle. His cock's in deep enough that tears start to well up involuntarily in the corners of your eyes, and your vision jerks with the reflex to convulse. Your taste-buds are covered in bitter tasting spend. It's gross, it's thick—it's hot like tar. It's too much to keep a mere mouthful of, and you choke loudly, and fuck does your entire postnasal cavity burn.

When he finally lets go of your head, you pull back violently.

Your mouth's still full of semen, your nose feels like it's full of bile, and you're two seconds away from retching. Any plotting you'd had regarding eating the mess of cum bloating your cheeks immediately evaporates.

"Mmm... now be good and swallow that, little officer," he moans, looking absolutely debauched. The collar of his tunic is covered in slobber, his face is flushed all the way up from his neck in some weird, mauve-tinged blotching; and he's showing off a crooked grin that makes him look even more like an rabid beast than usual. There's... nothing on his top lip, no proof of the blood you thought you saw— "Go on... swallow what didn't go up your nose."

You let the thick, milky slurry of cum drain straight out of your mouth and onto the floor with a deliberate disregard.

He raises a brow and grumbles as his finish paints the ground between his legs.

"Swallowing wa–ah—" you start, but cough, "W-Wusn't... part of the deal," and it's not easy to find a level voice as you focus on spitting out the leftovers.

"Next time you're going to be," Sevatarion shoots back smoothly.

"I w-won't."

"Yes, you will."

"N-Nuh... it tastes bad."

"I don't care," he suddenly detonates, his scar pulling taut as he sneers. "You'll gargle my load to the tune of the Iter Imperiale, if I fucking tell you to."

"I'll spew it b-back up on your lap," you snap in return, stand, and consciously try not to make any tell-tale changes in your walk—despite the warm-wet glaze of excitement slathered between your thighs.

"I really should just kill you," he sighs, finally.

You fight not to acknowledge the blacked-out eyes burning holes into your back, as you head to the fresher to rinse your tongue. Sure, not having a sightline on him that makes your skin itch, but you can't bear the taste of him any longer.

You harrumph loudly, turning the handle before leaning down to start lapping at the rusty-tasting water jetting out of the tap in erratic bursts of varied water pressure. After spitting a few times, you roll your tongue around and find it blessedly cum-free. So, you lean over to the vac-toilet, grab a handful of paper, and wipe your mouth dry.

Then you pause, and reach down to wipe between your thighs with the same crumpled tissues before tossing, and then actioning the venting of the bowl. It's the best you'll get for a destruction of proof. You smile triumphantly, swallowing down the distant spice of metallic water lingering in your maw, before you call out, "I want that extra ration, now."

Silence reigns for a good while, and you stand a little straighter—unsettled by the fact he does not answer.

Carefully, ever so carefully, you pad backwards and peer out from behind the dented door of the fresher.

Across the room, Sevatarion is sprawled on his back, still half off the cot with his softened cock hanging out of his leathers—his eyes are shut, and despite the crease between his brows, the rest of his face is slack as it'd been when he was not too far off from blowing a load.

You realise this is what an Astartes looks like asleep.

Flat on her back, Erebus' serf laid bare before him. Somewhere along the way, she'd become 'Erebus' serf', not 'Erebus' personal serf'. Every day the lines blurred more and more, between duty and lust.

The fine brush held so delicately in his fingers tickled over her left nipple, his other hand pinching and tugging at her right. Golden wax, barely warm gathered and dried on her skin, marking her. With each finished stroke, pleasure thrummed through her spine and made her clench around nothing.

She was flushed bright red, unable to look at him, her eyes fluttering and flicking from candle to candle lit around the room. The behavior was excused, so long as her soft lips stayed parted and she let free her soft gasps and whimpers. Sooner or later, she'd be able to look at him during these moments of passion.

He smiled at her, twisting her nipple and earning a drawn out whine as he finished another symbol. Her left breast was thoroughly covered in them now, the Prince of Pleasure's power running through her. She shivered and trembled as though on the brink of orgasm already and he hadn't even begun on the right.

"Such a pretty jewel," he purred. Her eyes flicked to him, irises appearing black in low light. "To think, we've only just begun." His hand cupped her right breast, giving it a gentle squeeze as he rubbed his thumb over the nipple.

She could only whine and arch into his hand in response, trembling as her eyes rolled back. Bliss filled her, bliss as hot as a dying star. Her stomach trembled and her heels dug into the soft pillows laid under her body as she came.

"So soon?" He laughed, swirling his brush in the warm wax, preventing it from drying and hardening. "We've barely just begun, my jewel."

She made a soft noise, pressing her thighs together as she sank back. His large hand continued toying with her unpainted breast, soft despite being an Astartes. Her chest rose and fell with every deep breath, still twitching even as the orgasm passed.

It was always like this with him, with his rituals. Ink, wax, silks. He indulged himself and his gods as much as he gave her everything she wanted. As little as she cared for his gods, she would always find herself crawling back into his open arms.

He tugged on her nipple, pulling it up and guiding her spine to arch. Her other twinged as though in sympathy and she gasped as pleasure ran through her. Her head tipped back, her neck exposed as her hands clutched the silk under her bare body.

Chuckling softly, he released the tender nipple as he slid his brush from the wax. The clumped bristles dragged together as he began drawing around her breast. Each finishing stroke, each dotted mark, each twist of the brush left her trembling with want.

Sweat beaded the further he continued, working in a slow spiral up her breast. He didn't stop or falter when she trembled with a fresh orgasm, pinching the stiff and aching nipple of her fully painted breast. Even the lightest touch of his fingertip was enough to send her over again.

Her thighs were coated with her own slick once he finished the right breast, admiring the gold now painting her skin. He'd done such brilliant work, not a fleck out of place. The reactions were beautiful. She'd never been quite so noisy before, losing herself in these rapturous feelings bestowed upon her.

He brushed the pads of his fingers over her stiff nipples and she came. He pinched and twisted them and she came. He rubbed them soothingly and she came.

Every touch unwound her. She was helpless to it, her hands grabbing his forearms and her nails biting his skin to no avail. Her writhing did nothing to let her escape, trapped under his bulk.

Bowing his head low, he breathed cool air over the flushed skin. She wailed in response, arching up and latching onto his broad shoulders. Trembles wracked her body, her legs kicking helplessly at nothing in her weak attempt to escape.

He chuckled at her, circling one tender nipple as he let his breath fan over the other. She all but sobbed, tears falling from the corners of her eyes. Candles flared, illuminating her fully and she screamed her pleasure when the symbols began to glow.

White-hot pleasure coursed through her. Inescapable until he would end the ritual. She sobbed, chest trembling, thighs clutching, cunt empty and already dripping. He didn't need to check to see if she was loose - the Prince would ensure pleasure for all their loyal followers and Erebus was the most loyal of followers.

"So pretty," he purred. She mumbled a babbled response, tongue heavy in her own mouth. "All mine to serve alongside."

Too much milk. Too much stretch. Too much pulsing heat between your legs.

The baby within you turned lazily, brushing some unknown limb against your insides, and you whimpered.

“’-'Kunaa…,” you moaned, half-conscious. Your fingers were already moving softly, carefully, trying not to betray yourself. You cupped one heavy breast in your palm, the flesh so swollen it ached to the touch, the skin slick with sweat. The pressure helped. Just a little.

Milk welled beneath your thumb. Your nipple throbbed. Another gasp slipped out of you.

“Please…”

His hair was damp with blood. One of his forearms bore fresh claw marks, though his skin had already begun to knit itself closed. His true form was fully present and slightly coiled, muscles shifting under flesh that shimmered like dark stone. His four burning eyes locked onto you.

And that was when he heard you.

Sukuna stood in the arch of the doorway. Massive and silent as usual.... but changed.

He said nothing at first.

Because you were perfect.

Laid bare across his offerings. Swollen belly rising like a dome of life between your thighs. Your fingers still on your breast, pinching for relief, your other hand trailing down, still slick from the milk you hadn’t had time to clean.

And Sukuna’s mouths fell open.

The one on his face parted with god-like reverence, his tongue dragging along one fang like he wanted to taste your breath.

The one on his belly—large, hungry, lined in thick, muscular lips—opened in a slow, groaning sigh. Its tongue unrolled just an inch. Enough to drip.

Tears shined in the corners of your eyes.

You weren’t crying. But you were gorgeously soft, vulnerable, and so fucking divine in that moment that Sukuna couldn’t move.

Not yet.

“Ohhh, wife…” he breathed, voice thick with hunger and something dangerous.

You startled, eyes opening, fingers jerking back from your chest in sudden shame—but it was too late. He’d seen. Every drop. Every gasp.

“Did I say,” he said, stepping forward slowly, “you could touch what’s mine?”

You tried to speak. Failed. He was already above you now, his weight shifting through the space, lowering slowly. A clawed hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, guiding it back to your own breast.

“No,” he whispered, “don’t stop. Let me see it again.”

You flushed, breath catching.

“Don’t hide that from me. Not this. Not when you’re perfect like this.”

He knelt beside you.

And you felt all of him. That shift in pressure, the presence of a god folding his massive body beside yours like a dragon curling around gold. His lower arms slid beneath your thighs, spreading them just enough to expose the heat of you, barely touched, still leaking with need.

His upper hands moved to your chest, palm-mouthed now, and hovered infront of you, tongues flicking.

“Look at them,” he murmured. “They want to help you. Want to taste what you tried to hide.”

You whimpered, breath hitching as his fingers brushed your swollen breast—barely—but it was enough. A sharp pulse of milk released and his eyes snapped open wider.

“So greedy,” he growled, smiling.

The first palm cupped your breast.

The mouth opened against your skin, lips wrapping around the slope like it could kiss the ache away. Its tongue pressed gently into the underside of your nipple, lapping in slow, wet strokes. It didn’t suck—yet. Just tasted gently. And your hips bucked at the sensation.

“You feel that?” Sukuna rasped. “That’s what happens when you keep your suffering from me. My body aches with you. My hands starve with you.”

The second palm found your other breast.

This one didn’t wait. It suckled immediately. Tight suction, so perfectly rhythmic. And it wasn’t just any mouth, of course—it was his mouth. His. Guided by his breath, his will. You could feel the pull down to your womb, your entire body reacting like instinct.

Milk flooded the mouth and it moaned against your skin.

Sukuna growled from all his mouths.

“That’s it. That’s mine. That’s what I fucking made.”

His main mouth kissed your throat, slow and dragging, teeth grazing. The belly-mouth was open now, breathing against your swollen stomach, warm air fogging your skin.

“I should let them drink until you’re dry,” he whispered against your neck. “Let them worship you while I watch. But I’m too fucking jealous for that.”

The mouths at your breasts sucked harder in response, and you cried out writhing, completely overwhelmed. Your belly twitched. Your thighs clenched around nothing.

And still, he wasn’t done.

A lower hand slid towards the soaked space between your thighs, his fingers reaching and parting your slick folds like peeling back petals. The mouth in that palm kissed your inner thigh, then higher. A little tongue flicked, savoring the wet already gathered.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured. “Again. Do you even know you’re doing it anymore?”

You shook your head. Your breath came in sobs. You were held down by mouths alone—your body fed upon, worshipped, drained, fucking adored. The pressure in your breasts finally began to ease, but only to be replaced by the maddening swell of arousal.

Sukuna smiled.

“Let me help you, wife,” he murmured. “Let me relieve what I gave you.”

You were outright panting now. Milk coating your breasts. Thighs shaking. Lips parted in some soundless plea as his mouths suckled and tasted and claimed.

His palm-mouths continued their careful worship—one still feeding at your breast, the other licking away the milk it missed, trailing down to kiss the sensitive underside. His fingers never stopped exploring, re-mapping the places you trembled the hardest, groaned the loudest, leaked the most.

And all the while… the belly-mouth had waited.

Patient. Breathing. Wanting.

Its thick, fleshy lips pulsed now, spreading just slightly wider with each of your heartbeats. A long, warm tongue slithered out—strong and broad, different than his other ones. This one was dense. And intimate. The kind of tongue that was made to hold weight.

Sukuna looked down at you, face unreadable, all four eyes focused as he hovered over your middle.

“He's been patient,” he said softly. “That mouth never takes without permission.”

A pause. One enormous hand rested on the swell of your stomach, palm flat, thumb brushing over the mark his child had made beneath your skin.

“But you’re leaking. And it’s hungry.”

The belly-mouth groaned.

It was a low, ancient sound. A rumble. Gratitude, maybe.

Then he moved around you.

Sukuna adjusted you like you weighed nothing. He placed one arm beneath your back, lifting your hips slightly. The other cradled your belly. He curled around you fully—protective, slow—until that great mouth pressed flat against your bump, lips parted just wide enough to take the curve of it in.

And then—

The tongue licked.

A slow, wet stroke from navel to ribcage.

Fuuucking worshipful.

You cried out.

It was perfect. So much surface at once, so warm, so wet.

Your belly responded with a ripple. A faint movement beneath your skin. A limb shifting. Something inside acknowledging the mouth now pressed to the outer shell of its world.

The belly-mouth groaned again, even louder. Starving now.

And then it opened wider.

It didn’t try to devour. Didn’t unhinge like some beast.

It simply enveloped you further. Pressed itself fully to the swell of your stomach, tongue stroking with long, slow laps, lips sliding over skin in wet circles, drinking the sweat and milk and lingering remnants of where you’d touched yourself.

“Yes,” Sukuna growled above you, voice full of hunger and pride. “Feed on her. Worship what she carries.”

Your hands reached for anything—his face, his wrist, the fur under your back—but you were already unraveling.

The sensation was overwhelming.

Suckling on your belly. Heat between your legs. His other mouths still grazing your breasts, flicking over sore, milk-slick nipples in lazy little circles. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

It was his altar.

His meal.

His shrine.

And this. This was his worship.

“You feel that, wife?” he whispered. “That’s my second mouth loving what I made in you. That’s what you get for carrying my legacy.”

The belly-mouth moaned louder, tongue swirling over your belly button, then lazily fucking into it, lips kissing every stretched vein and glowing mark. Your womb tightened, your cunt clenched on nothing, and a wave of pressure rolled through your spine.

“Perfect girl,” he murmured. “You take everything I give, don’t you?”

You whimpered softly.

Every part of you was trembling now, one leg thrown over his thigh for leverage, but you had none. Your focus was centered on the massive cock throbbing between your cheeks, leaking against your skin.

“They’ve had their turn,” he murmured, glancing down at the mouths on his palms and belly, each of them content, feeding or suckling or panting in joy. “Now I take what’s mine.”

He pulled your hips back just a little, adjusting your angle, his belly still pressed to yours, the mouth there murmuring low whispers into your womb like lullabies for the child inside.

And then—

He lined up.

His cock, thick and hot, slid through the slick mess his palm-mouth left behind, grinding between your folds, soaking in your heat.

You whined, pressing back, trying to push him in.

“Easy,” he rasped. “I’ll split you if I go too fast.”

But your pussy was ready. Greedy. Open and twitching and overwhelmingly soaked. And when he pressed in, juuust the head, it sank in with a low, squelch.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” Sukuna groaned. “Still tight. Still trying to keep me out.”

You feel him twitching, heavy, hot, barely restrained. Every instinct in his cursed body wants to drive into you. Bury himself to the hilt and take. But his hands are trembling from the effort not to.

Because you’ve gone soft in his arms.

Because your thighs are already spasming.

Because you whispered his name like a prayer, and he’s not going to desecrate his shrine before the first candle’s even lit.

He curls his body around yours tighter, cradling your belly in one hand, pulling your leg higher with the other. You’re nearly folded into him, his size engulfing yours like armor, like scaffolding, like safety. The belly-mouth is still latched to the swell of your stomach, humming softly as it laps slow patterns over the taut skin, almost purring in rhythm with your heartbeat.

“Shhh,” Sukuna breathes against your neck, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you.”

One of his upper hands slides down between your legs. Just for your clit. Two fingers, the tips rough and callused, begin to rub you in slow, deliberate circles.

“You’re too tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Still soft from the milk. Still wet from my mouths. But inside…”

He presses in another inch—just a little more. Your breath stutters.

“Still scared,” he breathes. “Still not sure.”

But then he presses a kiss to your temple. Just his lips. Nothing more.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “You don’t have to take all of me at once. Let me give it to you slow. Let me work you open.”

He begins to move, rocking his hips in shallow rolls, dragging the head of his cock in and out of your entrance. Each motion stretches you a little more, opens you just a bit deeper, your body yielding to the weight of him the way it did the first time.

His fingers at your clit work the perfect rhythm. Never too fast and never, ever stopping. His touch is relentless and exact. Calculated to keep your body soft and wet and begging.

The belly-mouth groans louder now, the tongue stroking in wider, slower circles across your belly, matching the rhythm of your breath, your pulse, the rise and fall of your moans.

And when you finally push back—your hips lifting slightly, your body accepting more of him—he rewards you.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “Let me in. Let your cunt take what it was made for.”

He pushes in deeper.

Halfway now.

You sob, gripping at his thick arm, your belly taut and trembling between you. Your walls grip him, fluttering in protest and pleasure, and Sukuna moans, biting down on his own forearm to keep from coming too soon.

“You make me fucking stupid,” he snarls. “So tight around me I can’t even think.”

But he doesn’t lose control.

Not yet.

He moves again—grinding back into the overworked meat. Rocking in slow circles, hips rolling as his cock pushes deeper, dragging along your walls like it’s memorizing them. His fingers never leave your clit, and your orgasm crests.

Warm. Swelling. Deep.

“Cum for me first,” he whispers. “Before I give you the rest. Before I fuck you full again.”

You do.

Right when he asks.

You cum with a trembling sob, your body softening around him completely. Welcoming. Inviting, really. The tension you’d been holding onto in your belly, your thighs, your breath? Completely gone.

And only then—only then—does Sukuna let go.

“Good girl,” he groans, his voice turning rough, possessive. “Now take the rest of me. Take every inch.”

He thrusts.

All the way in.

All the way.

And he stays there.

For a moment. Just breathing.

The belly-mouth was wide open now, its thick lips spread across the underside of your bump, tongue flattened, making deep, rumbling sounds.

Purring.

The impossible, guttural sound vibrated through your womb, through your belly, to your clit, through his cock. You gasped as the pressure shifted, your thighs twitching with overwhelmed pleasure as the two sensations—cock inside, mouth outside—locked into perfect rhythm.

“Feel that?” Sukuna whispered, bowed over you, lips against your neck. “It knows I’m in. It feels me in you.”

His hands curled around you tighter. One still braced under your thigh, holding you open wide. The other on your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing the swollen weight just enough to send a pulse of milk beading at the nipple.

You whined.

“You’re full everywhere,” he growled. “Your tits, your womb, your fucking pussy. All mine.”

Then he began to move his full weight in you.

Slow strokes at first, only pulling back halfway, then sliding back in, thick and wet and stretching you all over again. And again. His belly-mouth groaned louder every time his cock rubbed just beneath it. It didn’t stop purring.

It sounded possessive.

Insatiable.

Your belly shifted with each thrust—small tremors rippling across the taut skin, and that mouth licked every inch it could reach, as though it were trying to calm the child inside while Sukuna made you take every fucking inch of him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded helplessly. One hand behind you, gripping his arm. The other cupping your belly, fingers brushing against the warm, worshipping lips of that other mouth.

“You want more?” he said. “You want me to fuck you while my mouth sings to the baby you gave me?”

The belly-mouth growled, in agreement, it seemed.

He thrust deeper now. Harder. The wet sound of your cunt clenching around him filled the chamber. Milk smeared down your chest. His breath was rough in your ear, his teeth gritting from the restraint it took not to cum too fast.

“You’re going to make me lose my fucking mind,” he snarled. “You feel what you’re doing to me, wife? What your cunt does around me now that I’ve stuffed it full once?”

You couldn’t answer. Just moaned. Let him fuck you deeper. Let the belly-mouth purr louder, like it was singing some ancient blessing as your pussy squeezed down, ravenous.

“Good,” he growled. “Let it sing. Let it feel what I made. You’re not just my shrine, you’re my fucking altar. And I’m going to fuck you like I’m praying with every thrust.”

The belly-mouth groaned again—baser now, like it was swallowing every pulse, every little kick from the child inside your womb as his cock knocked rhythmically beneath it.

“They feel it too,” he murmured. “The baby. My mouth. All of me. They feel us together.”

You moaned, dazed and teary, your belly cradled in his hands while his cock fucked you slow, wet, deep. Every thrust pushed you forward, made your breasts sway, your body ripple from the pressure.

The belly-mouth opened wide now.

It began to feed.

Not just licking. Not just worshipping. But pulling. It's mouth sealed fully over your womb, tongue pressing firm, lips sucking gentle, steady pulses in time with the rhythm of your body.

Like it was drinking the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Like it was trying to taste the moment he came inside you again.

And Sukuna—

He felt it.

His body shuddered. His hips jerked. His breath caught.

“I’m close,” he growled. “Fuck. I’m going to cum inside you princess. Deep. So fucking deep you’ll feel it in your spine.”

You sobbed out a moan, incoherent, needy, every part of you full, and still somehow aching for more.

His cock twitched. His hands tightened.

The belly-mouth growled. Its tongue flattened, mouth pulsing, lips dragging lower, lower, lower until it was kissing the top of his cock from the outside, feeling it throb inside you.

And then—

“Take it—take all of it—”

He came.

Violently.

With a feral snarl, Sukuna buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed, filling your stretched cunt until you felt it press up inside claiming every last inch.

The belly-mouth drank the moment, tongue moving like it was tasting the orgasm as it happened from within and without.

You came again with a soft moan barely escaping your lips as your cunt clenched down on him, milking the last spurts of his release.

He shook infront you.

All four arms holding you like a treasure, like a cradle, like a shrine statue come alive.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t.

His cock still throbbed inside you.

The belly-mouth finally slowed, lips softening, tongue giving gentle, warm licks to your belly like it was soothing a child after a tantrum.

“That’s it,” Sukuna whispered, mouth against your neck, voice raw, spent. “My shrine. My wife. Full again.”

His hand moved down your belly.

The palm-mouth pressed a last kiss to your lower abdomen.

Then everything went still.

Just the heat between your thighs, his cock still nestled deep.

Just the slow licking of his belly-mouth.

Just his breathing in your hair.

And the purring.

The steady, low, sacred purr of a beast who had fed well.

----------------

*cut to him taking you to the bath*

*taking to the child in your belly*

*kissing your womb*

*whisper what he’s going to do to you when you’re healed*

He flirts. You resist. He keeps pushing, with all his charisma and gusto. And one day, finally, you let go.

He talks to you while he fucks you, makes you say filthy things, calls you “beautiful” with the same tone he uses when talking about battle formations. He respects you. But not enough to stop.

“You’ve got such high ideals, don’t you? Look at you now. Bent over my lap with your tongue out. Tell me again how words shape empires.”

And then Loken walks in.

Summoned? By accident? Doesn’t matter. He sees you.

You.

Half-undressed. Sobbing on Tarik’s cock. Face flushed. And he freezes. Tarik smirks and keeps fucking you. And Abaddon, already in the corner, says nothing. He just watches, golden eyes ravenous. One gloved hand stroking the thick bulge in his armor.

Loken stands there, stunned.

This isn’t right.

You’re not supposed to be used. You’re supposed to speak for humanity. Represent truth. You’re someone he respects.

But you look at him and you don’t stop.

“You’re letting him…?”

“Yes, Garviel. Watch.”

Tarik makes you say Loken’s name. Beg him to stay.

Maybe he tries to leave.

Maybe Abaddon blocks the door.

Maybe Loken stays and watches your face as you’re split open and realizes he doesn’t just want to protect you.

He wants to ruin you too.

Powers:

I'm leaving out her DF cause for the purposes of this the ability to swim would cover the same narrative purpose fuck off Kaido's flagship as a wind logia if youve read her story. Also her brother can live or alternatively still die and have his DF reincarnate not directly in front of her for more and worse angst because she has not inherited an echo of his will.

She has Observation Haki to the Gods. Awakened as a very tiny tot; some of her earliest memories are learning how to use it. She manifested the beginnings of Advanced Observation trying to evade being grabbed by Kaido. She saw but she couldn't move fast enough. It's strong enough that she's able to figure out the technicalities of Advanced Armament and Advanced Conquerors of how they're done even though she didn't have the skill to so at the time

Her Second Haki is one that hasn't manifested in her family since third great Grandpa His Royal Majesty Helene Ulysses, Conquers/Supreme King. which she awakened at Kaido. Who thought it was funny. She can control it in that she's not using it accidentally anymore. With enough practice/combat experience she has the potential to use the advanced form.

Her final awakening is Armament Haki. Weakest of the three but with a lot of practice could get the advanced form. She's inclined to be precision fighter using surgical amounts based on her observation rather than going full body to shield and coating her weapons/fists.

Haki strength enough to keep feet at a Yonko level battle aura but an intentional light return swat with conquers haki from Kaido knocked her into the bulkhead but didn't knock her out when she awakened it.

Meg is Strong on a physical level. only partially secretly trained the first time she saw combat she tore a swath through waiters pleasures and gifters and injured one Headliner(Apoo deserves being stabbed). Without the color of armament.

Full combat potential: at full adult height, completed training, and power in one piece setting she'd be on par with a yonko comander or a very strong WG Marine Vice Admiral.

Favored Weapons: This girl given the option has soooo many knives on her person at all times. she was taught knife work because they're easily conceiled about her person. hair ornament? if it's not a knife it's a lock pick. Equaly good with throwing knives and knife fighting. I doubt the templars would let either fly on their ship but fully legal mariage by abduction and lack of seccussful escape or rescue with in 7days was a concern she had to deal with since she first began to bleed. and with her shit dad rescue was not something that would have happened. Given the opportunity she'd like to learn more staff work and branch out into pole arms. Something other than her overabundance of holdouts.

She was taught to dance, not just the whole courtly stuff but more sensual belly dancing types stuff ostensibly to prepare her muscles for the important work of birthing healthy royal babies. The other half of the true reason was to hide and mask the trained predatory quality in her movements. She wouldn't be trying to hide that warrior quality, wouldn't be able to if she tried from warriors of their caliber. I cant picture the Crusade not noticing from the other direction though. "The most important duty of a royal woman is to bear her husband's heirs. I was taught certain dances held to strengthen the muscles used in child birth but they are not seemly for any man but a husband to behold."

Personality:

Megara is devastatingly intelligent self taught student of anything she can get her hands on. Her mother taught her politics and how to rule because one day. Her father who was a raging misogynist by the standards of a country I homebrewd from ancient Greece and Rome despised her size strength and intelligence and tried to curtail it. her mother ensured her daughter learned in secret. Her memory isn't edatic, however she was able to integrate all the knowledge in the royal library before she turned 17.

As you might guess for someone with ridiculous haki she's abundantly blessed in the will department and self-mastery department

Her father was a cruel petty stupid honor-less s.o.b. and Meg has spent her whole life deliberately and intentionally actively choosing to be the opposite. If it kills her, so be it. She will not be him, nor his todies, nor the broken pallid shrunken reflection of herself he did hid damnedest to reduice her to.

One of the most telling lines I wrote regarding Meg when she's backed into a corner is "There is no submission in your surrender and no surrender in your submission." (I feel like this is something Chaplin would latch on to)

Meg's Word is Her Bond. Her oath once given binds her in chains of her own will. If the other party breaks oath they'd better watch out though. If the agreement isn't null and void she's not above going full Fae and fucking over by the letter of the agreement. A sign she really likes someone is that she'll keep not just the letter but the spirit of an agreement.

She loves with fierce loyalty and is protective over those she cares for. (Girl would probably roll with the salamanders temperament wise)

She is a kind person by nature and when duty doesn't afford her the space to be kind or it is not safe to show kindness she refuses to be cruel. Distantly polite and serene.

She is ruthlessly protective of her people and anyone who may have the right to call upon her as a leader/ruler/nakama. She is fully aware of how fucked up the world is. If she can protect those who have the right to call upon her for aid without screwing those outside her care over, she will. But her people's protection come first over and above everything else, even her own needs.

Views The Heavenly Tribute, Monthly payments to yonko, and Imperial tithes the same way. Protection money. What is the best ratio of protection to cost to retribution? She views the great pirate lords and The WG are much the same. the WG is more stable with better press, but pirates are at least honest their depredations. The Imperium of Man has more firepower to bring to bare than either put together.

If she has no one to lead, no nation to protect, she would be happy simply in a job that allowed her to be the competent highly intelligent person that she is. In a space where she isn't made to feel like a freak for her size, strength and powers. (Co-opted into being an analyst or rememberancer for the ultramarines, posibly a dream job under the cross over circumstances.)

not quite personality but Kaido and Black Maria left her with a lot of sexual trauma. Put that on top of being made to believe that she was undesirable and a freak no one would want to take to wife by her father and his couriers? Not a great combinations when memories of being forced to take pleasure in the attacks on her are blending in nightmares with Yan!Black Templar Crusade

Appearance:

Meg's 3m/9' 11" tall built like a curvy brick shit house. Her country is based on Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome pretty heavily and her Real World Ethnicity would be Greek. Her explosion of dark brown curls are normaly pulled back into very lady like clasical styles or put into a thick single braid that reaches just to her waist. She has medium to lightly tanned Olive complexion. Her eyes are blue hazel a mixture of blue grey and green that is a dominate trait that runs through the royal family.(Descendants of the unclaimed royal bastard left behind who took over when the previous royal family left for the Holy Land on top of the Red Line. Meg has glimpsed at a distance Celestial Dragons at the one Revelry she attended with the same eyes as her family. It's one of the things no one talks about. With her Color of Observation, the trip was hell.)

Height Comparison for Meg including her full adult one piece badass the fuck did you do to the cube squared law Anime style height. In a cross over I see her max height topping out 3m. Compared to Firstborn Astartes, Primaris Astartes, Dorn, and Vulkan's most ambitious height according to a brief parusial of Redit. but the brick shit house that is Vulcan might be more acuratly closer to Meg's Full One Piece Badass Height? Feel like the WG Lore Bible might be missing some details when it comes to bio stats. Primarch heights are all over the damn place except for the twins who are short enough that when everyone's wearing armor they blend seamlessly into their legion. Also Admirals and Garp are all Dorn sized?

When it comes to Meg's build Stjepan Sejic's Wonder Woman comes pretty dang close. She has a similar mix of height and curves and muscles.

Sanguinius stood near your desk, his silhouette all grace and weightless threat. Even without his warplate, without a blade in hand, he was nothing short of cathedral—wings relaxed but wide, head tilted slightly, as though he were studying something in amber. Light moved through his hair like fire through silk.

And Perturabo—fuck. He was the opposite. Where the Angel was radiance, the Lord of Iron was gravity made skin. A monument of cold presence and slow, inevitable pressure. He didn’t just stand. He braced. Like a wall preparing to be tested. His armor was absent too, though the undersuit did little to hide the brutality of his build—shoulders like carved bastions, jaw locked like a siege engine at rest.

You couldn’t move. Your body had forgotten what movement was.

You stared.

They stared back.

Then you saw it—between them, open and unfolded, delicate and criminal.

Your journal.

The one that was sealed behind triple-encrypted locks, buried in a false compartment, encrypted with old Terran dialects and keyed to a blood-activated stasis field.

It lay open.

Pages exposed.

Ink still dark.

No one had spoken yet.

You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like a snapped lock.

You’d been studied before—inspected by generals, interviewed by psykers, scanned by astartes. But this was different.

They weren’t trying to understand your work.

They were trying to understand you.

Sanguinius was the first to move.

He turned, slowly, carefully, as though not to startle you—though that was absurd. His existence was enough to unravel anyone with sense. He moved with the kind of beauty that didn’t feel real, the kind that broke the rules of perception. You could hear your own heart beating against your ribs like it wanted out.

“You write with reverence,” he said.

His voice was low, but not soft. No, never soft. Sanguinius didn’t whisper—he intimated. Every syllable curled like a blessing meant to burn.

“I didn’t—” Your voice failed. You swallowed. Tried again. “It wasn’t meant for anyone.”

Perturabo’s gaze hadn’t moved. His eyes were steel and ice, locked on you, unflinching.

“Clearly,” he said. “You assumed no one would find it.”

His voice was deeper. A slow grind of stone against stone. But beneath it—intelligence, sharp as razors. You’d written about it. The way he carried logic like a weapon. The way he didn’t see people, only systems.

You took a step back.

Only one.

His eyes followed.

Sanguinius, now holding the journal, flipped a page with one finger.

“I don’t think you ever truly expected privacy,” he said. “You wrote for silence, yes. But also… for discovery.”

Your lungs tightened.

“No—”

“You wrote desire into every line,” Sanguinius continued. “Even when you disguised it as analysis. Observation. Psychological extrapolation. You watched us.”

He turned the page again.

“And then you imagined us.”

You were shaking, but it wasn't from fear.

It was awe, that treacherous cousin to terror. The kind that made cults and martyrs out of those who should’ve run. The kind of awe you weren’t built to survive.

Perturabo finally stepped forward.

Just one step.

The deckplate responded with enough vibration to remind you what kind of thing had moved.

“I’ve read your file,” he said. “Your official assignments. The discrepancies in your posted hours. The omissions in your public records.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I had to make space,” you said, too fast. “I—I needed the time to write—”

“You made space to fantasize,” he corrected.

The second silence was worse.

You could feel the heat rising under your skin, the cold sweat of shame threading your collar. You’d catalogued their strategies, their styles of war, their most famous speeches. But you’d also written—carelessly, stupidly—about Sanguinius’s mouth. About Perturabo’s hands. About the difference between love and domination and how both might be found in them.

“I was… studying,” you managed.

“No,” Sanguinius said, smiling faintly. “You were dreaming.”

And now they were closer.

You hadn’t seen them move, but the space between you was a threadbare breath. Sanguinius’s wings curled ever so slightly around the edge of your vision. Perturabo loomed behind your right shoulder, a vast, cold certainty.

You had no weapons. No escape. Just pages filled with proof that you’d imagined this—wanted this.

Sanguinius turned the page.

You hadn’t moved. You weren’t sure you could. Heat prickled at the base of your spine, instinct clamoring in two directions at once. Run—or kneel.

He spoke again.

“‘He moves like a cathedral in collapse. Beautiful. Inevitable.’”

His voice didn’t rise. He wasn’t reading to shame. He read the words like they were sacred.

Perturabo hadn’t looked at the page. His eyes were on you still. Curious in the way an architect is curious about whether a structure will hold.

“You buried this,” he rumbled. “Six encryption layers. Physical locks. Biometric verification. Most would’ve missed it.”

Most weren’t Primarchs.

You swallowed.

“It wasn’t meant to be found.”

“Then you were careless,” he said, voice dry. “Or very sure no one would bother looking.”

Sanguinius closed the journal with care, holding it in one hand as he turned to face you fully.

“You imagined things,” he said. “Detailed things. My breath on your skin. My hands against your ribs. The sound I might make when I come undone.”

You flinched. Visibly.

Sanguinius tilted his head, eyes sharp and brilliant. “You gave us names. Gave us shape. You spoke about us like we were already inside you.”

A pause.

“Now we want to see what that looks like, when it’s no longer theory.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace.

“I’ve been watched by millions,” he said. “Worshipped. Feared. You looked at me and wondered what I taste like when I’m breaking.”

Your mouth went dry.

Behind you, Perturabo's voice dropped into your left ear. Closer now.

“You speculated how long I’d take to undo you,” he said. “Measured it in hours. Predicted the pace of my hands. The bruises. The ache.”

A shiver passed through your spine before you could stop it.

"You’re not the first mortal to think about it," Sanguinius said. "But you’re the first who dared write it like a truth. As if it already happened. As if you could remember it."

He looked down, briefly, at your throat. Then back to your eyes.

“That’s the part I keep circling,” he said. “Why does it feel like memory?”

Perturabo was still at your back. Somehow even closer. His presence rolled off him like pressure in the bones. You weren’t being touched, but your nerves had already committed the illusion of contact.

"Tell us what you want," he said. "Now that you’ve been read."

You should have stayed quiet.

That was the last thought you had before you spoke again—quiet, daring, beyond doomed.

“If you’re watching me breathe,” you said, “then touch me. Count them yourself.”

A mistake. But you didn’t take it back.

Sanguinius moved first.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften the moment. He stepped in, and the floor might as well have bowed under his weight. You felt it—the change in pressure, the way the room tilted toward him.

One hand rose, slowly. His palm met your chest, just below the collar. Each finger rested across your sternum like it belonged there.

His hand dwarfed you.

He didn’t speak.

Behind you, Perturabo’s hand grazed from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His palm dwarfed the base of your skull, thumb curving along the edge of your throat. You swayed—forward, instinctively—only to find Sanguinius still there, unmoved, waiting.

“You’re trembling,” Perturabo said.

“I know.”

“I approve.”

Then he crouched, and his other hand closed around your hip.

You weren’t prepared for the scale of it. His fingers spanned too much, wrapping easily around the curve of your body, holding you in place like you’d been drafted into some massive machine.

Sanguinius leaned in and let his nose skim the side of your jaw, mouth open, breath warm. His voice dropped lower.

“You said I’d break you with grace,” he whispered. “I want to see if you were right.”

Perturabo pulled.

He shifted you back, against him, pressing your spine to his chest. The wall of his body caught you without strain. You felt his thigh against yours, solid and wide, the slope of his hips unmistakably real. Sanguinius stepped in close at the same time, boxing you between them.

Between heaven and iron.

Between creation and undoing.

Sanguinius lowered his mouth to yours, and still didn’t kiss you. His lips hovered. His voice was the only thing that touched.

“Beg.”

The word landed like a slap.

You sucked in breath—but your throat closed.

One of Perturabo’s hands left your hip. It dropped, slow and deliberate, to the front of your trousers. No exploration. Just pressure. Flat-palmed, absolute pressure.

“Speak,” he said. “Or I keep my hand here and do nothing.”

You broke without a fight.

“Please.”

It came out hoarse. Needy.

The sound of something cracking in its own center.

Sanguinius kissed you.

No softness. No warning. His mouth met yours with the kind of hunger you’d only ever described in metaphor—collapse, rapture, a cathedral struck by lightning. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation. He held your jaw like a chalice. He kissed you like it was a confession.

And behind you, Perturabo rewarded you.

His hand moved—fingers sliding over fabric, finding the heat that had been waiting. The press of his palm grew firmer,. His breath brushed the side of your neck, and his voice stayed steady.

“You imagined this,” he said. “Now feel what your writing never captured.”

Sanguinius broke the kiss. Just long enough to speak.

“We’re not done.”

You felt it then: a shift in the rhythm between them. Something wordless, coordinated. As if you were no longer being touched by two men, but maneuvered by something older than language.

Perturabo’s hand came to your waistband. His fingers moved with intent—two motions, and the fastenings gave. He peeled the fabric down your hips with a grip made for more brutal tasks. Your skin lit up in the wake of it, a line of awareness following the path of his knuckles.

He didn’t pause to ask.

He shifted his stance, broad enough to crowd you forward into Sanguinius’s reach even more. You felt him behind you—heat and density, an immovable wall of muscle and breath. The back of his hand brushed your thigh as he adjusted your footing.

Ahead of you, Sanguinius took your chin in one hand.

His thumb traced the line of your jaw while his other hand gathered the fabric at your collar. He gave it one slow pull.

The seam gave way.

It didn’t rip like fabric should. It came apart the way silk splits under flame. You felt the collar loosen, then the air kiss your chest.

“You’re better like this,” he said. His gaze followed the curve of your sternum. “Uncovered. Honest.”

The shirt slipped from your arms. You let it fall.

Behind you, your trousers hit the floor. You stepped free only when Perturabo nudged your calf with the side of his foot. The weight of him pressed against your back for a moment—steady, wordless approval.

Sanguinius looked you over again. His eyes roamed as if taking measure of something he’d been picturing for hours.

His fingers ghosted along your navel.

“You imagined this part differently,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

“I thought… it’d feel like being stripped.”

“And now?”

“It feels like being claimed.”

A sound breaks through Perturabo—hunger, low in his chest. He moved again, stepping to one side so you stood between them. His hand slid from your hip to your lower abdomen, pausing just above where you ached.

“Next time,” he said, “tell us sooner.”

Sanguinius smiled. “Or write it better.”

Sanguinius leaned in and kissed your throat. A low brush of lips beneath your ear. You gasped—once—and felt the curve of a smile press against your skin.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he murmured. “We liked it better when you were narrating.”

Beside you, Perturabo’s hand cupped your hip. He stood close—closer than breath—his free palm settling just below your navel. The tips of his fingers drifted lower, tracing the edge of your sensitivity without pushing yet.

“Speak,” he said. “As if we’re not here.”

Sanguinius’s tongue grazed the underside of your jaw. “As if you’re writing. But louder.”

Your voice came thin, but real.

“I’m between them now,” you whispered. “Sanguinius in front of me. Perturabo behind.”

“Full names,” Sanguinius said softly. “Make it formal.”

“Primarch of the Blood Angels,” you said, voice trembling. “He’s kissing down my throat like he’s blessing the space before he devours it.”

“Mmm,” Sanguinius hummed. “Better.”

“Primarch of the Iron Warriors,” you continued, “his hand is at my waist, mapping tension. Pressure increasing... but controlled. No—c-calculated.”

Perturabo’s thumb dipped lower. Your hips shifted. He followed, dragging his touch through heat, over slick. You broke rhythm but forced yourself to keep speaking.

“His fingers are—he’s—fuck—he’s not stroking, he’s… measuring. Like tension in a beam. Like he wants to—god—snap it just to feel the failure rate.”

Sanguinius’s hands framed your ribcage now. He bent, kissed between your breasts, dragged his lips toward the center of your chest.

“Tone,” he said. “You’re losing it.”

“I—fuck—”

“That’s not tone,” Perturabo growled.

His fingers pressed inward. You moaned, sharper this time, your spine catching against his chest as he began to work you.

“You wrote that I’d use time like a tool,” he said. “So narrate how long it takes before you beg.”

Sanguinius’s mouth latched to your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make your voice falter again.

You blinked hard.

“Sanguinius, your mouth is—on me. Not—not soft. Warmer than I thought it would be, but—sharp. Teeth. He’s using his teeth, and I’m—I’m not ready for that—”

He bit.

You cried out, but you caught it too late.

“I’ll write that part down,” he whispered. “When I’m finished.”

Perturabo’s fingers curled—first one, then two—sliding inside to the hilt with ease. There was no warning. He didn’t ask. He adjusted his grip on your thigh with his other hand, anchoring your legs, and began moving.

"Say it,” he ordered. “Tell your imaginary audience what I’m doing.”

“Your hand is in me now, and—I—I can’t keep my hips still. I-it’s—fuck, you’re curling your—” you gasped. “Your palm is flush to me. Ah! Pressure… d-deeper now. Each motion tighter than the last.”

Sanguinius switched sides. His mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue moving in circles that spiraled outward.

You felt him smile when you moaned again.

"You're losing structure,” he said against your skin. “Sloppy prose.”

“I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Perturabo forced his thick fingers deeper, curling them until your hips jerked against his hand.

“Say what you want next,” he growled. “End the sentence correctly.”

You could barely see straight. Heat bloomed behind your eyes. Your mouth fell open, words half-formed.

“I want…”

The world narrowed to their hands, their mouths, the sound of breath caught between pain and reverence.

“I w-want… I want them both" you gasped. "I-inside me. At the same time. Please.”

That made them still.

“Both of us?” Sanguinius repeated, voice low.

You nodded—barely. Your mouth wouldn’t form the words again.

Behind you, Perturabo’s hand came to the small of your back. He pressed, and your spine arched instinctively. Your breath caught as your balance shifted.

“On your knees,” he said, gesturing to your bunk.

Sanguinius caught your hand as you moved—guided you into place as if positioning a delicate tool. You folded forward, forearms pressed to the mattress, chest low. He knelt in front of you, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking beneath your lip.

“You’re going to feel us both,” he murmured. “But first, we stretch. We shape. We make the space.”

Behind you, Perturabo dropped to his knees. You felt the heat of his body along your thighs, the weight of his hands spreading you—wider, until your hips ached from the angle.

You were bent forward now. Knees braced wide, thighs trembling from how high they’d lifted your hips. Pillows added beneath your chest cradled your weight, but it wasn't enought to brace you against the heat of the two bodies closing in.

Sanguinius knelt in front of you, thighs spread, cock flushed and resting heavy against his stomach, waiting. One hand rested at the back of your head. The other traced your mouth, down your jaw, calming you with nothing but presence.

Perturabo was still behind you.

Larger than belief, knees straddling your legs now, one hand firm on your hip, the other moving between your cheeks, spreading you gently.

His voice came low, right behind your ear.

“You’ve never taken anything here.”

You shook your head.

Sanguinius spoke before you could answer.

“But they're asking for both of us.” His voice was soft—like pity, or prayer. “That means they learn how, now.”

You felt it.

A pause.

A slick fingertip—hot from his skin—pressing lower.

Perturabo didn’t thrust.

He just made contact.

A single circle around your rim.

Then a second.

Then pressure.

Enough to breach.

You tensed.

Your breath caught in your chest.

Sanguinius’s hand moved back to your jaw, guiding your face to his.

He didn’t kiss you.

He just breathed with you.

Deep. Slow.

Until you matched it.

Then—behind you—the first inch slipped in.

Perturabo’s voice didn’t rise.

“You’re gripping hard.”

“They’ve never taken anything like you,” Sanguinius murmured, brushing his fingers down your throat. “Or anyone like you.”

Perturabo stayed still. Entirely. Just his fingertip inside your ass.

Nothing else.

“Hold it,” he said.

And you did.

It burned—tight, unfamiliar, so unlike the warmth between your legs that had already learned to take. This was unbroken space, and he was entering it like a surveyor.

Your body wanted to resist.

But the weight of Sanguinius in front of you calmed it—his hand on your cheek, his cock against your mouth, not demanding yet, just present.

Your hips eased.

And the first finger slipped deeper.

“Good,” Perturabo said.

“You’ll tell us when you’re ready for two.”

---

One finger.

That was all it took to knock the words out of you.

It didn’t hurt—but it burned.

A deep, unfamiliar pressure blooming through the center of your spine. A slow spread, outward, like something sacred being pried open after centuries sealed shut.

Perturabo held you still from behind, hand heavy on your hip, guiding every tremble in your muscles. His other hand—gloved in slick warmth—never moved fast. That single finger stayed seated in your ass, not pressing further, not retreating. Just present. Waiting.

“You’re breathing too shallow,” he said behind you. “You need to let it in.”

In front of you, Sanguinius still kneeling like a statue carved for worship, his cock thick and flushed just inches from your mouth.

His voice was soft, but close.

“You’ve written about us.”

His fingers stroked your jaw. “Described our hands, our strength, our patience. You said we’d never break a subject too early.”

He tilted your chin up.

“Were you right about us?”

You nodded.

Sanguinius rewarded you with a kiss to your tongue. His entire godly mouth pressed open, slow and wet, like his breath was meant to sink into you. When he pulled back, your mouth stayed parted.

He smiled.

“Good.”

Behind you, Perturabo pressed forward—he didn't add another finger, he just shifted forward. A deeper curve. You gasped.

“That’s better,” he said, voice low. “Your hips are learning.”

You clenched—reflexively—but his finger didn’t budge. You could feel how easily he could force his way further, how absurdly controlled he was being. And you felt the slick start to gather between your thighs again, despite the pressure.

Sanguinius saw it.

His fingers dropped lower, stroking the soft flesh just above your clit, watching how you twitched beneath the touch. He didn’t press. He traced. Like he was drawing breath through you.

Behind you: movement.

Another press.

Two fingers now.

The stretch came with a soft, wet sound and a deeper weight. You sobbed—from immense yearning.

From the helpless knowledge that you could take more. You needed more.

“That’s the shape,” Perturabo said. “Right there. Let them adjust. Don’t touch them yet.”

Sanguinius froze. His eyes stayed on your face.

You didn’t want him to stop.

You wanted his fingers on your clit.

You wanted his cock in your mouth.

You wanted something while your ass stretched slowly around something thicker than anything you'd ever taken.

But they didn't press on.

Sanguinius leaned forward slightly, brushing your hair back from your damp temple with a slow, reverent hand. His cock rested just beneath your mouth now—flushed, swollen, completely still.

“Tell us,” he said softly. “You don’t get more unless you say it. Out loud.”

Behind you, Perturabo’s fingers moved again—just a breath deeper—but didn’t pull back.

He was waiting too.

Both of them.

Sanguinius’s voice dropped lower, right against your mouth.

“Do you want to be opened more? Used? Filled until your legs give out?”

“Then speak. Tell us. Now.”

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could think.

"Yes—fuck, yes—please. I’ll do anything. I-I’ll say everything—just please, let me feel you—"

The words broke against the back of your throat. Offered.

Consecrated.

Sanguinius went still—then exhaled once, slow and clean, like someone breathing in a storm he’d been waiting years to walk through.

Behind you, Perturabo made a sound—low and sharp, a breath through clenched teeth—and his fingers finally slid deeper. Inexorable. You moaned. You felt your ass stretch wider, hotter, twitching helplessly around the press of his hand.

“You’ll feel us,” he said. “You’ll confess it as it happens.”

“They will,” Sanguinius agreed, his voice silken as marble polished under years of fingers. “They'll tell us when their body splits to fit us both.”

He lifted his cock to your lips. You opened instantly—no hesitation now—and he pressed in, slow, the head sliding across your tongue, past your teeth, into the wet heat of your mouth.

Your throat constricted.

He didn’t stop.

He knew your limits better than you did.

Behind you, Perturabo added a third finger.

You choked.

Sanguinius slid out again, barely, letting you breathe—but not releasing your chin. His hand held you in place. Your tongue still wet with him, your jaw trembling.

“Say it,” he said. “With me in your mouth, with him inside your ass—say what you feel.”

You sobbed—but the words came.

“I-I’m being—stretched. Front and back. His fingers are too deep—I can’t breathe—but I want more. I want all of it. I want to feel full.”

Sanguinius smiled. Wicked.

“You don’t know full yet.”

Perturabo shifted behind you, pulling his fingers out with a slow, wet sound that left your rim twitching, open, begging. You gasped at the emptiness—only for something far heavier to nudge against you.

His cock.

Just resting there.

A weight. A warning.

A promise.

Sanguinius cupped your face again.

“They asked. They’ll take it. They’ll say every inch.”

Perturabo lined himself up.

One hand on your hip.

The other braced to catch you when your body gave out.

One breath—half swallowed around the head of Sanguinius’s cock, your lips parted, tongue slick and aching—and then—

Perturabo pushed in.

The blunt head of his cock met your rim, already loose from his fingers, already trembling. The first inch came with a wet, impossible stretch—your whole body clenching, hips twitching, your hands clawing at the sheets. Your moan was muffled, full around Sanguinius’s cock.

He didn’t let you pull away.

He held your face, gently, almost lovingly, watching your eyes water as you gagged just slightly around him, your jaw trembling but determined.

Behind you, inch by inch, Perturabo sank deeper.

The sheer density of it was unthinkable.

The kind of stretch that makes your eyes roll back. That makes you forget the last thing you said. That makes your knees shake and your spine want to lift away from your own skin.

Sanguinius watched you like a priest at the altar.

“You’re taking him,” he whispered.

Thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re opening. Look at you.”

“They're tight,” Perturabo growled, voice barely human behind you. “Too tight.”

But he didn’t stop.

He adjusted your hips, tipped you just slightly, angled you for himself—and the next thrust made your whole body pitch forward, but Sanguinius caught you, filled your mouth deeper, until your gag reflex folded under obedience.

“They can take it,” Sanguinius said, voice thick with something more than desire. “They want to take it. Don’t you?”

You nodded, whimpering around him.

Mouth full.

Ass stretching.

Nothing left empty.

“Say it,” he demanded, still stroking your face. “Even if you choke.”

You gasped, coughed, voice shattered—

“I—I fee—fu–ch. I can'—mo—he’s s– goin'—fu-ck—y' bof'—”

Another thrust from Perturabo cut the words in half.

Another roll of Sanguinius’s hips claimed your throat in full.

And you were gone.

Suspended.

Opened where no one else had ever touched you.

And not a single inch wasted.

---

They moved in counter-rhythm.

When Sanguinius pulled back to let you breathe, Perturabo pushed in deeper.

When your throat spasmed around the angel’s cock, your ass clenched tight around the forgemaster’s thickness—and the sound that tore from you was part scream, part psalm.

You didn’t just feel full.

You felt possessed.

Like the inside of your body was no longer your own—held open, owned, worked open from both ends by beings who weren’t just fucking you—

—they were studying you.

Refining you.

“They clench when you thrust,” Sanguinius murmured, voice like wet silk, hand stroking your temple. “Every time. Like they're fighting to keep us both in.”

“They won’t win that fight,” Perturabo growled. His grip on your hips tightened—and the next thrust made your legs go soft. “They'll break before I slow.”

But they didn’t break you. Oh no.

They held you there.

Between them.

Sanguinius’s cock sliding past your lips, down your throat, slow and forgiving, until you learned to take it deeper—

Perturabo’s cock pounding up into you with the kind of weight that made the bed frame groan under both their bodies—

—and you, suspended, a trembling bridge between ruin and rapture.

You tried to speak—but there was no air.

Only moans.

Only wet sounds.

Only slick, heat, stretch, sweat, friction, praise.

Sanguinius leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he cradled your skull.

“Tell us when it hits.”

You tried.

But you were too close.

Your body was coming undone—

Orgasm tearing through your gut, clenching your ass, your thighs, your throat, everything at once—

“Th—fuck—the—I'—”

And they didn’t stop.

Climax ripped through you like a break in the hull—every nerve exposed, wet, raw, open.

You sagged between them, muscles loose, throat fluttering around Sanguinius’s cock, ass clenching weakly around Perturabo’s.

And for a breathless second, they held you.

Like a prize. Like a perfect ruin.

“They’re shaking,” Sanguinius whispered, voice thick with something reverent.

“They think they're done,” Perturabo said. His voice was rough now, and lower. “They're wrong.”

They moved.

Not with the slow caution of before.

Not now.

Now, your body was soft.

Stretched.

Ready.

Now they fucked you like they owned the rights.

Sanguinius thrust forward again—long, deep, groaning as your throat spasmed helplessly around him. His cock hit the back of your throat with every push, but you didn’t gag anymore.

Your body didn’t resist.

It learned.

Behind you, Perturabo’s cock slammed into your ass with weight, the wet slap of his hips against your skin sharp and rhythmic, like hammer strokes on iron.

“Still tight,” he grunted. “Even now.”

“They’ll hold,” Sanguinius said. “They were made to.”

You moaned—a wrecked sound. A desperate, high sob around the cock splitting your throat, your back arched too far, your ass angled up to take everything Perturabo gave you.

And they gave it.

They worked you now.

Fucked you like a machine with two operators—

Perfect rhythm, no wasted motion.

Each thrust built on the one before.

And still they spoke.

“Tell us,” Sanguinius breathed. “Even now. Even like this.”

You tried—your voice a ruined little rasp.

“t'—too m'. You' st-i- insi'—b'of you—I—I’ cummin' agai'—oh fuck—agai'—”

And that’s when they really started to move.

When they pushed you into the second orgasm without slowing.

You couldn’t hold it.

You didn’t want to.

You came again, body convulsing between them—

Mouth stretched, ass flooded with pressure, thighs soaked with slick and sweat and something messier.

You collapsed, but they kept you upright.

Your spine wasn’t holding you up anymore.

They were.

---

You were fucking wrecked now, but not done—limp in the arms of gods, twitching with aftershocks, too wrecked to speak but still trying to move, still pressing back into their cocks like there was anything left of you to give.

And so, they gave more.

Sanguinius was the one who moved first. He slid from your mouth with a wet sound that left your jaw slack, lips shining.

He caught your face in both hands.

Leaned down.

Kissed you—slow, full, as if sealing something between your teeth.

Behind you, Perturabo pulled out.

You sobbed.

Your ass clenched at the loss, your hips bucked, but his hands were already on your waist, heavy, solid—turning you.

Lifting you, like sculpture being repositioned.

Perturabo laid you back like he was resetting a stone for a second strike.

Sanguinius didn’t speak at first. But he looked at you, eyes burning gold as he settled between your legs.

He hooked your legs over his forearms—one massive arm under each thigh—lifting your hips slightly, angling your cunt upward toward the impossibly thick cock he now held in his hand.

He lined up.

And leaned in.

You couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

He tipped your chin toward him anyway.

“I remember what you wrote,” he said, voice too soft to survive this close to your skin.

“You described the weight of my cock without ever having felt it.”

The head of it pressed against your entrance—slick, hot, patient.

“You wrote: he wouldn’t be gentle. But he wouldn’t rush. He’d make me say what it felt like, even when I couldn’t breathe.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t kind.

“So say it.”

He pushed in.

Slow. So controlled.

But still too thick—the kind of stretch that made your ribs feel too tight, your belly start to lift, your whole cunt pull taut around the first few inches.

You moaned.

“Say it,” he repeated.

You tried—choked on the words as they came out—

“H-hurts—no, not—just—f-ull—fuck—I-I can’t think—”

Sanguinius breathed deep.

His hips didn’t stop.

He fed another inch into you, until your cunt was trembling wide around him, your slick coating his cock and your thighs, your hands scrambling for purpose in the bedding.

“You wrote that I’d stretch you so deep it would feel like I was fucking your stomach.”

“You said it would feel holy.”

He sank all the way in.

You screamed.

Shredded.

“Say it now,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“Say what your body’s saying.”

“Or I’ll stop. Right here. Right now.”

Your voice broke.

“I-I-I f-feel it—all of it—your cock’s inside—too deep, it’s too fucking—oh god, you’re in me—everywhere—I-I’m not—there’s no room—”

He kissed you.

“There never was.”

And then he started to move.

His rhythm wasn’t fast.

It was precise.

Every thrust angled perfectly upward, filling the space you didn’t know you had, the blunt head of his cock brushing some bright, ruined part of you that made your mouth open with every stroke—

And then you heard it.

“He wouldn’t be gentle.”

The voice came from behind.

From the foot of the bed.

You couldn’t turn your head—you were pinned, stretched, sobbing around the cock fucking you deeper and deeper.

But you knew.

Perturabo was reading.

“He wouldn’t be gentle. But he wouldn’t hurt me. Not more than I asked for.”

You sobbed again—louder this time.

Sanguinius leaned down, kissed your open mouth, your throat, your collarbone. He was so deep now you could barely breathe, your cunt stretched to its absolute edge.

“Don’t stop there,” Sanguinius murmured. “They need to hear this.”

“He’d split me open. Not to ruin me—”

“—but to prove I could hold them both.”

You cried out, your legs shaking, hips bucking—trying to run, to thrust, to something—but you couldn’t.

“They begged for this.”

He wasn’t reading now.

He was speaking.

“They begged with their pen. With their hands. They wrote that their cunt would take us both—eventually.”

“Now they're halfway there.”

Sanguinius thrust again.

You keened—sharp, wet, wrecked.

“What’s it feel like now?” he asked, his voice low, breath against your ear. “Now that it’s not on the page?”

You choked the answer out—

“I..It’s—so so much—I’m s'full— so fucking full—I can’t—h-he’s reading it while you’re—while you’re—”

You came.

Hard.

Loud.

With no rhythm, no elegance—just desperate clenching, cunt spasming around Sanguinius’s cock, whole body shaking beneath his weight.

He didn’t stop.

Not yet.

Behind him, Perturabo flipped a page.

Then... he says it.

“I want to be so full of them I forget how to fake it.”

Silence.

You went very, very still. Orgasm barely subsiding.

“That’s what you wrote,” he added. “At the end. Before it all stopped.”

Sanguinius’s hands slid lower—beneath your knees now, adjusting your legs, your thighs spread even wider, presenting your body to the one holding your words.

“They weren’t faking,” Sanguinius murmured into your ear.

“No,” Perturabo agreed. “But they were waiting.”

He set the journal aside.

“They wrote the moment.”

“Now we’ll finish it.”

You knew what was coming.

You felt Sanguinius shift under you—his hips rolling just enough to grind his cock deeper inside your cunt, your whole body jolting in his lap.

Then he sat up.

One arm snaked under your back, pulling you into his lap, into his body, onto his cock—your legs spread across his hips, trembling in the air, nothing to anchor to but him.

“There,” he murmured. “This is better.”

He was fully reclined back now, your cunt speared down onto him, your belly taut, your ribs rising with every shaky breath as you tried to recover—

But you didn’t get the chance.

You felt him.

Perturabo was behind you now.

You didn’t see him move, but his hands were already at your hips. One braced your waist. The other guided his cock down between your cheeks, lower, steady—searching for the entrance he’d already opened.

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

They already knew what your body was saying.

Your legs were wide. Your cunt was full. And now your ass was being parted again—your body taken back to the edge of what it had barely survived.

You felt the tip press in.

Slow. No rush.

He was going to fit, and you were going to take him.

“Too much?” Sanguinius asked, smiling as you clenched down on him.

“Or is it finally enough?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken, breathless yes—

And then Perturabo pushed deeper.

You were already slick. Already loose.

But the head of his cock still stretched you all over again, the angle sharper now, your chest caught between him and Sanguinius, your cunt and ass slowly filled again, together—

And you squealed. High and trembling.

“Too much—they’re both—I-I can’t—oh, f-fuck—you’re both—”

“Yes,” Sanguinius whispered into your throat, “say it.”

“Say it like you wrote it.”

You couldn’t. Not fully.

Your voice broke. Your mouth stayed open, lips shaking, unable to form what your body was already screaming.

So Perturabo said it for you.

“They wrote that they wanted to be used like this.”

He began to thrust, deep into your ass—

And Sanguinius met it, grinding up into your cunt—

And you were caught between them now.

Each one using you.

Each one feeling the other’s cock move inside you, divided by only a thin wall of flesh.

You couldn’t move.

You didn’t want to.

You just hung there, impaled on both of them, twitching between thrusts—and that’s when you saw it.

The journal.

Still open.

Balanced in one of Perturabo’s massive hands.

He hadn’t stopped reading.

He was reading between thrusts.

And he was choosing lines now.

The ones you never meant anyone to see.

“Page twelve,” he said flatly. “You wrote: ‘I want one of them inside me while the other watches. Then I want them to trade places—until I forget which is which.’”

Sanguinius chuckled low in your throat.

“Too late for that.”

His cock pulsed inside you. You could feel his breath in your ear, slow and steady, his rhythm syncing with the drag of Perturabo’s cock behind you—deep, deep, filling your ass so wide your jaw trembled trying to follow the sensation.

“Page seventeen,” Perturabo said.

He adjusted his grip.

Fucked deeper.

“‘If they use me long enough, I won’t be able to lie. My body will say everything I won’t.’”

And you did.

You said everything.

Not in words.

In the way your cunt clenched.

The way your thighs trembled.

The helpless way your ass squeezed around him, drawing him in, like you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Sanguinius moaned.

“Fuck—they're trying to cum again.”

“From the reading?”

“Or from us?”

“From both,” he said. “Their whole body’s agreeing.”

“Give them another.”

Another page turned.

You were panting now, cock after cock pushing through your center like punctuation.

“Page twenty-one,” Perturabo said, voice quieter.

“‘When they finally cum inside me, I want it to feel like I’ve been rewritten. Like I belong to them now, because I gave them everything I was.’”

And then—they both thrust.

Harder now.

The rhythm wasn’t careful anymore.

Sanguinius was pounding up into your cunt, grip bruising your thighs—his moans rough and open, gold hair sticking to your skin.

Perturabo was slamming into your ass, voice a low growl, journal still open in one hand while his hips drove forward like a sentence with no punctuation left.

Your body seized.

Your cunt went tight.

Your ass pulled him deeper—because your body couldn’t lie anymore.

You were going to cum again.

And then—they slowed.

The rhythm didn’t stop.

But the urgency fell away.

“You have a voice again, don’t you?” Sanguinius whispered, soft and low.

You tried to respond.

Just a whimper. Just heat.

But then Perturabo moved.

His thrust sank in deep and still.

He flipped to the last page.

He reached past your ribs—hand out.

And showed you the journal.

“You’re going to read this one,” he said.

“Out loud.”

You froze.

Sanguinius smiled above you, his breath warm on your cheek.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re already open. Just let it out.”

Perturabo held the journal in front of you.

Still seated in your ass.

Pressed deep. The stretch never letting up.

Sanguinius didn’t withdraw either—he stayed sheathed inside you, hands cupping your breasts now, your belly tight against his as he waited.

You looked down.

The words were yours.

Unedited. Ugly. Real.

Your hand shook.

You started reading.

“I—I think—” your voice caught, wet, thick with heat. “If they ever t-take me like this, I won’t be able to go back.”

A breath. A thrust.

“Nn—not t’my work. Not to the others. Not to myself.”

Your voice cracked again—they were both perfectly still inside you, and reading your own words while they held you there made your whole body feel exposed, filthy, true.

“Because i-it won’t be pretend anymore.”

“Because I’ll know —fuck, nnnh—w-what it feels like t'be ruined for real.”

They didn’t speak.

They just thrust together—once, deep, synchronized, and your body shook as it teetered on the edge of another orgasm, your voice giving way to a noise that wasn’t even language anymore.

But you finished it.

You had to.

“N'if they cum inside me, I want it to stay.”

“I— I wanna f-feel it later—long after they’re gone. I want it to change the way I move— the way I… f-fucking breathe.”

“So I–I never forget who I belonged to when they... filled me.”

Sanguinius’s chest rose and fell beneath you.

His breath warm against your ear.

His cock twitching deep in your cunt, thick and aching, every pulse like a heartbeat between your thighs.

Behind you, Perturabo’s cock was buried in your ass, the stretch still obscene, still brutal, his hands bruising your waist—but he hadn’t moved.

Neither of them had.

You were held. Impaled. Owned.

But not finished.

They waited.

And you knew why.

“Say it,” Sanguinius murmured, his voice ragged now. “Say what you want.”

“You’ve written enough.”

“Now speak it.”

You tried to move.

You couldn’t.

Not without them.

You tried to speak.

Your mouth opened—then closed again.

You felt everything.

Their heat.

Their weight.

Your own heartbeat, pounding between your legs, your cunt clenching around Sanguinius, your ass spasming around Perturabo’s cock—

And still they didn’t fucking move.

“You asked to be ruined,” Perturabo said behind you, voice rough like a blade pulled from stone.

“You’ll have to ask for the end too.”

The heat built.

Pressure.

Your orgasm was coiled there—just there—but it wouldn’t break without the final push.

Without them.

Without this.

You sobbed once.

And then:

“Please.”

It came out cracked. Desperate.

They didn’t move.

“Say it,” Sanguinius breathed. “What do you want?”

You swallowed hard.

And your voice came back—shaking and honest.

“Please cum inside me.”

“I want it.”

“I want to feel you both—I–I want to feel it later—I want to know you were there—that you filled me—that I won’t forget it—I can’t forget it—”

And they moved.

Together.

Finally.

Sanguinius fucked up into your cunt, cock thick and slick and unrelenting, while Perturabo drove into your ass, pace punishing, rhythm brutal, as if your body were a sentence they were pounding to its final punctuation.

You screamed.

You begged.

And they fucked you through it.

Until your body shook apart, your orgasm tearing through you again, your cunt clenching, your ass seizing around them both—

And then they came.

Inside you.

At the same time.

You felt it.

Felt Sanguinius pulse inside your cunt, hot and thick, flooding you, leaking out around his cock almost immediately as your walls spasmed through your orgasm—

Felt Perturabo drive deep into your ass, cock jerking as his release hit, so much heat you could feel it fill you, the pressure making your belly ache, your whole body go still—

Except your eyes.

They were wide.

You’d never felt this full.

You didn’t know you could.

And for one stretched, ruined, unbreathing moment—

You belonged to nothing but that heat.

Cum inside both your holes.

Held there.

Kept.

No words.

No pages.

Just heat and breath and their hands still on you, still inside you, like they weren’t ready to let you go yet.

Like they weren’t finished.

---------to be continued?--------

Tysm for reading (*´ω｀*) ... i am ridiculous.

When his duties led him to Caliban, he had immediately noticed something…different in Lion, his brother. It was small, almost imperceptible, from his greetings to his way of showing his usual works, at least the bones he wanted to show, at least.

It was more like his smell was different, not from oils or soaps but from something far deeper than mere product.

His duties allowed him enough time to study this subtle change, and, in his surprise, he realized how sloppy his brother had become.

He had seen him, clear as day, Lion cornering a small little thing all trembling and full of fear. The lion paw resting on her small head and, with a gentleness that was foreign even for him, caressing it, like trying to make her less scared of him, even when the grip on her broom gave away the opposite intent. When he finally released her, she fled away like from a beast, leaving the lord alone with his gaze still in your direction, like he was hoping you could turn away and look at him.

Leman could not resist hiding a grin; he had imagined everything but this!

And the little one…aaaw, as skittish as a mouse!

A small serf that knew nothing but work, it obviously had never crossed her mind that someone like Lion could find her entertaining or to be his love interest. But who could even know that Lion could love properly?

You were just oh so cute, always stumbling with your words, scared even to breathe under the watchful gaze of Lion or the now curious one of Leman, and so adorable in every small mistake you could make. Honestly, if the lion hadn't eaten you up already, the wolf would have gotten you under his paw.

Which leads us to now.

"Pl-please," you said with those big fat tears scarring your face, "I wo-won't tell my-my lord! Please stop! It hurt!"

"It will stop hurting, little mouse," Leman said with a fake kindness, a soft kiss on your head while he kept pushing you down, forcing your body to take all of his length. "You just need to relax and let me handle it."

Something between a cry and a moan came out from you when his fingers started pinching your clit to force some more arousal on you. He could feel your muscle clenching on him, and even if you cried to stop it, it was obvious that your body was enjoying being filled by a Primarch cock.

"I bet Lion did not do any of this to you, did he? Nah, I bet it never crossed his mind to fill you up good!"

He barked a laugh when he noticed your shocked expression from the bulge in your womb. Really, his brother was stupid or far too knightly to have not tried to have you like this!

His ears sharpened between your sobs and strangled moan, and another laugh erupted from his chest.

"AH! Speak of the devil…"

Lion wasn't as schematic or precise as Guilliman or Rogal; he did not find joy in straight lines and precise calculus. Yet, knowing your daily schedules like a prayer helped his mind to track you, to know if something was happening around him, and, in this case, he had noticed how late you were for your nightly duties.

Strong footsteps like thunder echoed behind the wooden doors; your panicked expression was hilarious for the old wolf, and it became even funnier when the massive figure of the lion appeared. His daily robes, elegant in their own way, must have been scattered somewhere behind him, and now he was covered only by some pants and a long white shirt.

It was just a handful of seconds, enough for him to understand the scene in front of his eyes.

"Ah! Welcome, brother! Nice for you to join us!"

Leman spoke between his teeth, ignoring your struggle to cover yourself. It didn't help that the wolf kept on pushing his cock between your legs.

"…what…are you doing?" Lion's nostrils enlarged with every breath, and his finger twitched in rage.

"What do you think? I'm taking a sample of this little mouse…" Leman released one of your legs only to remove your hand; he wanted Lion to see how good he was making you feel, even with those small protests from you.

"Bastard…" snarled Lion, looking enraged by the scene in front of him. "Who gave you the—"

"Ah, cut it out, old cat! You wanted to do this too. You're angry because I took the initiative."

With so little effort from his arms and a swift move, he released your pussy from his manhood; a pool of juice started to erupt from you, making your flesh glisten like a small jewel. The muscles of your vulva started to spasm from the sudden loss of the intruder, and even if a small cry came from your little mouth, it was clear that down there everything was beyond enjoyable. You gasped and panted, in pain or pleasure, who knows who, and your face was covered in a deep red.

Lion gulped silently; the thought that Leman was the one giving you that effect was infuriating, but it did make an effect on him from the bulge in his pants.

"Wolves share their catch, brother," spoke Leman again, holding you up and showing more of that dripping cunt between your legs. "And I would love to share this with you…"

Your blood turns to ice in your veins, and your face loses every color that it could possess. "No, this could not be real," you thought. "Surely this is a terrible nightmare, and I will wake up soon." Your eyes tried to search for some sympathy or mercy on your lord's face, but what you saw scared you more.

His eyes were focused on you, that small hole that Leman had been abusing for who knows how long, and his mind screamed to make his presence disappear from there, that everything of you belonged to him and not to his brother.

His was the face of a predator.

He closed the door with one kick and marched toward you, freeing his manhood from his prison of fabric, and the view made you almost faint from the fear.

"No! "No, no, please, my lord!" You begged while he grasped your hips from lemon clutches, positioning himself. "Please, don't do it. I—!!!"

Leman gave you at least the care to not force himself up inside of you. Lion, however, fueled by the sole intention to reclaim what was his, did not have that same care. He forced himself in you without giving you time to adjust or to accommodate his largeness, finding the task quite easy thanks to Leman stretching from before. You wanted to scream and struggle, but the pain, the grip from the wolf, and fear completely blocked you. Your mouth moved like a fish, gasping for air, while Leman's hands started to massage your breast and nipples, like trying to help you adjust.

"She's…very tight…"

"Do you want to complain about it?"

As a response, Lion just started to move. Or better, he started to move you against him, moving you up and down with so little regard.

It was horrifying. He was big, terrifyingly big; you could feel every vein, every pulse from his manhood against your organs, convulsing against your flesh. His hands force your tights up, allowing him to reach every small part of you that his length allowed him to. A small kind gesture from him was to remove you from Leman's hands, ripping you away from his grasp and starting to fuck you even more, forcing you down on him. It almost seemed an embrace, but your sobs of pain and disgust were nothing of the kind of lovely.

"Look at this!" Leman admired by stroking himself, "I guess you were waiting for the right moment, brother?"

"…Shut…up….you fool…"

"Don't I deserve praise for my help?"

Lion growled; he didn't like to share, but Leman did have a point…after all, he had fantasized about taking you like he wanted.

"…The other hole."

"W-wha—" you tried to speak, finding back some lucidity in that moment of heat and confusion. Lion stopped his stroke only to give Leman access to your arse, moving away your buttlocks and showing your small and pinky anus, which contorted a few times from the surprise.

"Wait, wait, please!" You begged, hearing Leman spitting on his finger, "That—that's not for—"

He forced your butt cheeks more open, creating a small gap, and that was enough for him to insert one finger in. You screamed for the pain and for the intrusion, his finger moving inside out to prepare it for the real deal. He kept on doing it until your scream became hiccups of pain and displeasure, your small hand gripping for comfort on Lion's shoulders.

"Please! Please stop! It's too much! Too much, please!"

"Hush hush, little mouse… relax and enjoy…" Lion's words were meant to be reassuring, but you could enjoy so little when both of your entrances were tortured. Then you felt something big and round and…

You started to trash again. looking at Leman with a fearful and begging look.

"I don't want this! I don't want this; please don't! I—"

But your pleas came to deaf ears when his length slowly entered your anus, forcing another muscle to go over its limit for him. You lost your voice again, a strangled scream; your voice started to get sore, and your eyes were wide open from the burning of your skin getting stretched to that volume.

"Oof…" Leman sighed, moving a few inches just to adjust between his and Lion's presence inside your organs. "Throne…two primarchs… She's a blessing!"

He laughed again, this time lower than before, while Lion felt the sudden change of pressure, admitting that it was quite the sensation. Your muscle now spasmed uncontrollably round him, gripping and pulling like vines against him, begging him to move. Leman sighed with a sense of relief; you were so small and warm around him, like a blanket made of flesh.

Lion was smart to hold you closer to him, but he wondered if now sharing was a considerable option.

They give you a few minutes to adjust, then the ministrations start again, slow and precise from Lion, who was trying to open your cervix to give him more room for his length, and fastly cruel from Leman, who wanted to remake your anus in his shape, just to make sure no one could give you the same experience as him.

You held on to them, your voice now reduced to some moans and sobs of pleasure and pain, your lower parts screaming for some peace and freedom from the attack of the two demigods. Lion held you, thinking you might faint at some point, while Leman held your ass open to have more room to maneuver himself. It was an obscene view: your belly full of not one but two enormous dicks that fought for movements, your cunt that dripped arousal to get as much lubrication as possible, while your anus instead glittered with its occupant's precum.

It was painful, it was scary, it was… nice?

When did it start to get nice? You weren't sure; at some point you stopped sobbing, your voice capable only of emitting some wanton sound and sigh of pleasure. The few syllables that could come out were only to express how good your body started to feel and how, finally, you were accepting both of them. And they got the message quite well.

"She's adjusting…" mutters Lion, feeling your nails sinking in his muscle.

"Once we're done," slurred Leman. "I bet she won't search for anyone else."

Those words were cruel, but he was right. Your pussy and ass were completely fucked up; there was no way you could find any pleasure from someone except them.

"I don't…trust anyone…" Lion rumbled again, gripping your hips tightly.

"Figure," responded Leman, "then release one hand from your ass and expose your little and fragile neck." "We better fix this then."

You woke up from the ecstasy with confusion, looking at them, worrying about their next move, and, without warning, lion teeth sank into your neck to the point that you felt, alongside the sweats, blood starting to drip from the area. Your little hands now stopped holding on to him, now trying to detach him from you with punches and slaps, mouthing in the stingy feelings of his canine scarring your skin.

When he removed his maw from your abused skin, a clear red and bloody ring made with his mouth was now on your body, and by the look of it, it would need time to heal, and it would leave a mark too. You were ready to cry again when Leman moved your hand to the side to get space for himself.

"N-noo…" You moaned in pain. "No, please… everyone…people…"

"Oh, but, sweetheart," the wolf started with that same fake sweet tone, "we have to mark you. How else is everyone going to know you’re us?”

Those were the last words he said before his fangs marked you to the other side, mirroring Lion One.

The pain was almost the same as Lion's bite, but that gave Leman the chance to move again inside of you, forcing out a cry-moan from your mouth. Feeling the competition, the brother did not lose a second to start roaming again your womanhood with his length, rubbing a small spot that made you once again forget what was happening and started to build up again the knot that your mind had so much tried to erase.

You could have fought it as much as you wanted, but your body was responding again from nna their attention, from the licks on your wounds, from their push in your bodies, and from the attention their hands gave you. And you didn't wanwant,it;u didn't wanwant show that you were feeling good being so full of their cocks, that this torture was good an, and thatu were so close to an orgasm because of it. Unfortunately, the grip from your muscles and the sudden incincrease cries gave you away on toem.

"She's close…" muttered Leman. "I'm going to cum inside of her…"

"Like…you would do otherwise," growled Lion, feelings his own orgasm approaching.

The wolf laughed again, higher, only to stop for a groan and another roll of his dick inside of you, now his hips touching your butt with some sweaty slaps. Lion's thrusts were so strong that his and your pelvis were almost touching, lost completely in the perspective of making you full of his cum. practically making you drip for days with it.

The idea crossed your mind, and…and then the knot was undone. Your vision turned white, the sounds became muffled, and you were sure you must have dragged out some blood on your master's back.

The two were relentless to fulfill their task; a few minutes after you, they came, forcing your body to take once again more of them than you could. Your belly now full of their semen, a hot wave engulfed you completely, almost making you fear you could start to lose some even from your nose. When you were finally released from their grip, all of that white goo erupted from your pussy and ass, a puddle of cum and your arousal that drenched the carpet.