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Chapter Text

Thelgh is never far from his brothers, but they know how to tell when he wants his privacy. They're even generous enough to grant it- as much as any son of the Hydra can- turning away from him as he leaves the outer proximity of their circle and finds a corner with shadows deep enough to obscure the details of what he desires. He knows from experience on the other end of things that despite their turned backs, they're all very aware of where he's set himself. Of what he's doing. Kyphas, the nosy wretch, is probably turning his sensors up in anticipation.

The idea of being watched isn't as big a deterrent for him as they might think. It doesn't get his blood up, but it's good to know that even in intimate vulnerability he has brothers watching his back. Their presence- aware and alert where he plans to let go- lets him relax back against a wall, his fingers working his codpiece free as he begins to allow his mind to drift.

Thelgh takes himself in hand to the memory of the weight of his rifle in his grasp. The fit of the grip in his palm, grooves worn into it from use. A heavy, comforting weight; all that power gathered in such a sleek, simple form, and he holds the power to direct it.

His lips part under his helmet, breaths so silent his vox doesn't pick them up. Lazy, languid strokes of his hand have pulled him to full hardness, and he works with a sniper's precision to tease pleasure from his flesh as he combs through his memories.

He remembers the jerk of the ship anchored beneath his boots. The way his sights sway and drag across the enemy's windscreen, death reaching out to caress his target before instability pulls it ever so slightly off course. He remembers tightening his finger around the trigger, the rising tension coiling in his gut-

-he'd moan, had he not trained silence so deeply into himself.

Thelgh drags a thumb through a bead of precum then ruts into his palm until he's dripping. The sound of newly slicked flesh on flesh is the loudest sound he's made in days bar the firing of his rifle. And oh, the way his beauty fires. He'd known, the moment he ripped it from that Raven corpse's hands, that he'd taken for himself a marvel of craftsmanship. It hadn't disappointed him. Not then, and not today.

The way it had kicked in his grip, wild and barely tamed, had had his knees going weak. The blood splattering across the Fist's windscreen in the wake of his marksmanship had done even more; he'd been hard and aching in his body-glove the rest of the way down. Throne, his brothers had probably scented it on him until the air of combat turned everything into a haze of smoke, blood, and ashes. They probably smelled it on him again now, heat coiling in his gut, passions aflame by the skill of his weapon.

Another soundless moan parts his lips. His abdomen tenses as he fucks into his hand, tension coiling as he replays the kill on loop. The kick, the spray, the lecherous tingle in his palms as he slid his fellow killer back over his shoulder. The kick- a vision of the Raven Guard, splayed out and glassy eyed, a bloody hole through an eye socket where Thelgh had gotten him through a lens-

His breath hitches, deafeningly loud, as control slips from him and he comes, rutting into his fist. A shudder crawls down his spine, and with it seeps the tension that had been winding his muscles taut. He keeps stroking until he's milked himself dry and pleasure begins to meld into discomfort, then carries on for a moment more until he's sure that every ounce of desire has dripped from his body.

When he returns to his brothers it's clean and composed, no sign of what he'd done lingering on his armor. But they know. They don't acknowledge it- they never do, not with him or with anyone else who takes their pleasure in private- but just as he knows when Kassar slips away to rut into his fist and moan Haltheus' name low enough that he thinks his brothers can't hear him, they know when Thelgh pleasures himself to the skill of his own violence.

Chapter Text

Their prizes squirm in the dark. Pale, small, and so very fragile, they twist in their binds, desperate and futile. A little flock of Ravens, Neophytes all, just ripe enough that the delicacy of transhuman fear- real, sickly, cloying, and so damnably sweet- could be harvested from their minds. It already seeps into the air as confusion mingles with humanity's natural-born fear of the dark, of the unknown.

They have no idea where they are. They have no idea what will be done to them. All they know is that he and his brothers- sons of the VIIIth all, so feared and reviled by those still clinging to the Imperium's rotted hand- have them in their grasp.

Their commander should really have been keeping a better eye on them.

It had been easy to grab their prizes. Some of them had fought, oh yes. Brave little birds, lashing out in first in anger, then in desperation- but it had so quickly melted into horror when they came to realize the difference in strength between themselves and a true Astartes. Pinning them to the dirt, clamping hands over their mouths to stop their frantic cries of alarm…clipping wings. Broken fingers, twisted ankles. The realization had been quick to set in.

Prizes. Yes. Not merely toys to be used and discarded, but objects of value, to be bound and gagged and thrown over a shoulder. A ganger's reward for a job well done. A feast of the senses for the sons of the VIIIth.

Then the fear had started. Cloying, heavy on Nostraman tongues. So thick it could almost be tasted, a cocktail of perversion never meant to be drawn from Astartes. And yet…

And yet. Armored fingers twitch in a halting, half-grab. The Raven he'd ripped from the field lays before him, stripped of its armor and shivering on the cold, dirty floor. Old blood stains, never cleaned, leave coppery flakes on the Neophyte's pale skin as it squirms, twisting its body in its bonds. It's a futile effort- the chains that constrict around it are made to restrain a fully grown Space Marine; no chick of the XIXth would even strain them. He'd made sure of it.

He'd also made sure not to immobilize his prize too quickly. His brothers…they don't play the same way he does. They'd pulled the chains tight around their prizes, constricting until pale skin reddened and the little Ravens could do nothing but accept whatever they'd been given.

He could hear some of them playing, even now. The muffled screams accompanying the wet peeling of flesh as some took their fear by torture; the lurid slap of skin on skin and wretched, desperate sobs as others took theirs through conquest. It's a large chamber, yet the sounds manage to fill it. He's sure it's louder still to their prizes; some gagged, all blindfolded, automatically being trained to rely on their sense of sound for any awareness.

It only means they dose themselves on their brothers' fear instead of just their own.

One of the little Ravens breaks around a moan, unwanted pleasure forced into its body by one of his brothers' cocks. The sound is followed by laughter and jeering, heavily accented and crude in the bluntness of Gothic. Someone congratulates his brother on finding the slut. The Raven is weeping again.

At his feet, his Raven makes a muffled sound of protest around its gag. It was almost cute, but mostly it was just pathetic. He liked that, being able to see the physicality of it.

His fingers twitch again. Inside his armor, his cock aches where it presses against his codpiece, but he's determined to take his time. His Raven flinches automatically when he kneels besides its prone body, an armored hand pressing down over its back. Skin reddens where the clawed tips of his fingers dig in, and he watches the color turn into streaks as he drags downward, trailing his hand over its spine and to its ass. The marks have begun to fade just as he grabs a fistful of flesh and squeezes, delighting in the muffled yelp it makes in response.

It's squirming again, but his grip is strong and the chains are stronger still. No matter how it thrashes, it can't escape the slow, lecherous way he kneads the globe of its ass, a butcher examining a cut of meat. He likes what he finds. Its body is toned, strong. Still young enough that Astartes muscle hasn't hardened into unyielding iron, but defined enough that the shape is round and pleasant. He squeezes it again just to see his claws mark flesh.

Under him, his Raven bucks. It's not frantic yet, but he can scent the moment it registers his fingers pushing between the cleft of its ass and parts his lips in an ugly grin. Cold ceramite brushes against its hole.

Now, he thinks, as it makes a distinctly more distraught noise, it is frantic. He's almost gentle as he pushes his finger in, despite his Raven's body trying to keep him out. Slow, lazy conquest. Let it squirm, let it fight, let it wear itself out- he wants to feel it. The moment the fight leaves its body, the moment it realizes that for all the little freedom he gave it, it's still his prize.

His finger pushes in to the first knuckle. He wonders if his Raven realizes its futile attempts at escape only guide him in deeper. Surely it has to feel it; the dry stretch, the burn of its flesh surrendering to him. It bucks again and his finger sinks in to the hilt. The sound his prize makes is ecstasy; a wretched sob of desperation and fear that has him groaning out his appreciation.

Maybe his brothers had been wrong. Amidst the flock, he'd been the one lucky enough to capture the slut.

Chapter Text

The first time Alpharius had proposed this, Guilliman had denied him out of hand. The Crusade was in full swing, their attentions were in high demand, and they had little time to waste on frivolities. The second time had been much the same, though it was then that Guilliman admitted to himself that perhaps, more privately, he was also disconcerted by the idea itself. He and Alpharius had never been close. That he would make an offer like this to him of all their brothers spoke of a ploy, but for all that he thought of it, he couldn't understand what advantage this would give him. None of his theoreticals met with sound practicals, and so he was left with a growing pile of questions that did nothing but evade answers.

The third time Alpharius had approached him, Guilliman had not refused him so quickly. He'd stopped and thought, eyeing the Headhunter Lord at his brother's flank, and wondered again what could possibly be prompting this proposition.

Alpharius had taken his hesitation for something entirely different, his odd, chromatic eyes shining with what Guilliman could only describe as eagerness.

That too was disconcerting.

And then Alpharius had gotten closer- in front of all their sons, in front of all the mortal officers- and settled a hand on his breastplate. Comfortable. Familiar. As though this were a motion he'd done a hundred and one times and was confident that Guilliman wouldn't pull away. Maybe he was right, because Guilliman felt frozen. His mouth was dry, his tongue an immobile weight. He'd gone to muster forth his third denial when Alpharius dragged his hand down, fingertips brushing over his armor and down to the Ultramarine symbol that locked his belt in place, then looped his fingers around it and tugged.

Damnably aware of the eyes on them, Guilliman had let Alpharius pull him low and whisper his filthy promises into his ear.

And then, to his own surprise, he'd accepted.

At the time he'd told himself it was but a means of getting Alpharius' hands off of him without making a scene in such a public forum and that he'd deny his brother later, in private, but his brother had not given him the chance. When he'd taken Alpharius aside after the meeting to make clear his position on the matter- and to apologize profusely for the false positive- Alpharius hadn't even given him time to speak before grabbing his gorget and pulling him down into a crushing, possessive kiss.

Every time he opened his mouth to try and correct him Alpharius stole the words from his lips, again and again until he'd been herded into his room without a single chance to protest and pushed back against his bed. Alpharius' headhunter was already waiting for them- how had gotten inside?- splayed out over Guilliman's sheets. Omegon, their name had been. One of his brother's best, and now he was stripped down and eyeing Guilliman with the same open lust as his Primarch.

He makes room as Alpharius pushes Guilliman down over the sheets and, in a motion that must have been directed for how quick he'd been to jump on the moment, captures Guilliman's lips with his own.

Omegon kisses just like his Primarch; controlling, possessive, guiding Guilliman's mouth how he wants it with subtle presses of his lips. If Guilliman hadn't known better, he'd think he'd never stopped kissing Alpharius at all.

One of them- maybe both, it's difficult to tell their hands apart like this- is working on his armor. Latches are found and opened with startling efficiency, and his panoply of war is stripped from him piece by piece as he remains the captive of Omegon's clever lips. Time stretches under the Headhunter's command. Guilliman can't say when the last of his armor had been removed, only that he knows he's bare when fingers cup his chin and tip his head back, exposing his throat for Alpharius' mouth.

He groans at the sensation of lips mouthing at his neck. It's been so long since he last had the time or inclination for intimacy that he struggles to recall when he last had someone in Alpharius' position, and now his brother is advantaging himself of that fact with frightening ease. His mouth is warm where it presses to Guilliman's skin, alternating between pressing kisses and sucking bruises. Guilliman goes to reach for him, unsure if he means to push him away or pull him in closer, but Omegon's hand intercepts his, twining their fingers together and pulling it down into the sheets above Guilliman's head.

"Don't worry about that," He whispers against Guilliman's lips, swallowing down the words that follow with another kiss, just as his Primarch did. "Let us take care of you."

Guilliman feels trapped under them in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant, save for the itch in his mind about Omegon's role in all this. He was eager, just as eager as his Primarch- but he was still only an Astartes. There was a depth of difference between him and them, a gap of power that Guilliman would never dare try to cross with his own sons, but Omegon moves with such easy confidence that it's easy to mistake him for Alpharius. He guides Guilliman just as his father does, with experience born of familiarity.

Had they done this before, these two? With Guilliman's brothers? With other Astartes?

A hand wrapping around his cock startles him from his introspection and he feels Alpharius' smile against his neck. "Don't worry about that either," He murmurs, entrusting Omegon to keep Guilliman's lips too busy to answer. His hand, just loose enough to tease, gives Guilliman a lazy pump. "Get up on the bed. I intend to make good on my promises."

Guilliman wants to say that he can't move with them on him like this, but they release him just as the urge to speak crosses his mind. It's almost frightening the way his brother seems to be able to predict him, and more frightening still that Omegon follows his lead so quickly.

Alpharius flashes him an easy smile, his half-lidded eyes speaking of mischief. He steps around Guilliman and he feels the dip of his mattress as his brother climbs into his bed. They're confident he won't run- and again there's wisdom in that confidence, because he swallows thickly, now hyper-aware of the hardness between his legs and the tenderness of over-kissed lips.

"You made grand claims," He says, almost surprised that neither of them had rushed to steal his words away again. They hum in response, amused and unwilling to deny the truth of what he'd said.

When he turns to ease himself fully onto the bed, he sees them sitting together. Omegon is one of Alpharius' larger sons, no doubt sculpted by his surgeons to match his father's features. They're nearly identical- …they are identical. Looking at them, he finds he cannot tell which is which. Both of them have lips tender from kissing him, both of them have somehow found the time to undress in between divesting him of his armor, and both of them sport matching erections, identical even in such intimate regard. The only thing that sets them apart is their positions; one of them has a hand around the other's cock, tugging at it in slow, lazy strokes that remind Guilliman of the same way Alpharius had touched him. He knows from the way Omegon kissed him that that means nothing.

Perhaps his confusion shows on his face because they smile at him as he slowly eases himself next to them, and already they move to maneuver him how they want him.

"You're going to make us work to keep you from worrying, aren't you," One of them asks, though he hardly sounds upset. He breaks from his twin when they let go of his cock and shifts up along the bed, leaning back against Guilliman's collection of pillows with a comfortable sigh. His legs splay out in clear invitation- one made unsubtle by the way he crooks a guiding finger at Guilliman.

It reddens Guilliman's face to comply, but he finds himself doing so anyway. What begins as a somewhat undignified yet stately movement turns indecent as a pressure at his back sends him forward onto his hands and knees.

Theoretical: His brother propositioned him as a direct way to see him humiliated sexually.

Practical: This position is one frequently used by trios engaging with each other sexually; to assign it such a designation was both reductive and unsubstantiated.

Revised theoretical: He does not yet know what his brother desires from this, and he wishes to rectify that.

Revised practical: There is no way to know save to participate.

So Guilliman crawls.

On his knees, between one of the twins' legs, he lets himself again be maneuvered how they like him. Head down, hips up, putting him at level with their cocks on both ends. It's an undignified position- he still can't help but think it despite his first practical- and the one behind him tangles his hand in his hair to guide his head to twin's hardness.

For any faults Guilliman may have, the inability to follow instructions is not one of them. He sets to work on the task he's been given, parting his lips and licking a stripe up the twin's cock. He circles the head with his tongue, drawing on old memories and written description for the nuances of technique and adjusting to the pleased hums he hears from above him. The hand in his hair withdraws, only to be replaced by another. The twin who's cock he parts his lips for settles his hand on his head. They don't pull, don't pet, don't guide- content, it seems, to bask in Guilliman's submission and in a view they aren't likely to ever see again.

He takes them into his mouth, wrapping his lips around their cockhead and teasing the slit with his tongue. Back and forth, a slow slide of skin against skin that lets him taste the bead of precum that he licks clean before it can fully form. It's bitter, but he finds he doesn't mind the taste.

Behind him, he hears the snap of a cap being popped and feels his cheeks being pulled apart. A cold wetness drizzles between them, dripping over his hole and down between his legs; a sensation that would have made him shudder for its strangeness had a hand not dipped down and smoothed the excess liquid away with a little hum of apology. That sensation is distinctly more pleasant. He hums his own approval around the cock in his mouth and notes the way it makes the twin in front of him swear in a language he doesn't know.

Between Guilliman's legs, his hardness throbs. Denied attention it pulls at his, but when he adjusts himself to try and sneak a hand between his legs, the twin in front of him leans forward and stops him with a hand at his bicep. "Ignore it," He instructs. Then, softer, "We said we'd take care of you."

Guilliman supposes his expression must lose some of its bite when he makes it with his lips wrapped around a cock, because the only response he receives to it is a squeeze around the muscle of his arm. Requesting, not demanding. Just as he had so many times today, he obeys. His hand drops back down to the sheets, bracing himself as he raises his hips in a bid to have at least one of them relieve some of the need growing in his core, and tries to ignore the pleased smile the twin in front of him makes as he eases himself back against his throne of pillows.

The twin behind him pets his ass- patronizing enough that he half assumes that one to be Alpharius off the motion alone- and spreads him again. Guilliman knows the heat rising to his face must be visible against his pale complexion, but if it brings the twin in front of him any joy to see him flustered they know not to voice it.

He begins to bob his head, taking them deeper into his mouth. The hand on his head is a comforting weight, automatically easing him lower by its presence alone, down until he's fed half of them into his mouth. If they feel anything about the measured pace takes them at, they know not to voice that either.

Behind him, he feels fingers pressing against his hole. They circle, warming his flesh and the liquid they'd used to slick him, slow and easy. One presses against his rim, pushing against the barrier of muscle, and Guilliman relaxes his body to accept the intrusion, smiling around the weight in his mouth at the sharp intake of breath above him.

There's a moment of stillness.

Guilliman looks up between his lashes and finds that twin glancing at his double, a wordless exchange that ends with them flashing a grin at him that- had Guilliman been more inclined to dramatics- he could have sworn looked hungry.

"We did promise," They tell him, then fist his hair and thrust themselves in him to the hilt. He gags around them, his muffled sound of protest twisting into a wordless curse when he feels a cock pressing against his hole.

This isn't how that's supposed to work- there's supposed to be a moment of preparation, not a dash of oil and a probing press of fingers. Alpharius- or Omegon, whoever kneels behind him- isn't that much smaller than he is, it won't-

-it does.

They'd slicked their cock at some point, he realizes that when it pushes into him with less resistance than he'd expected. Or maybe he's just loose- something in the oil designed to relax muscle, maybe. A subliminal command they'd managed to sneak past his mental defenses? Or maybe they'd primed him for this somehow. Something to explain why the way they rock into him, pushing him open around their sudden entry, makes his knees weak and pulls a moan from him, unbidden.

"Throne," The twin behind him groans. "Still thinking." They grab his hips and pull him back onto their cock, hilting themselves the same as their twin.

Guilliman moans again, muffled by the cock that presses his throat open around it. He'd be scrabbling at that twin's thighs if he didn't need his hands to keep himself upright. The sudden, dual intrusion has his head spinning and his cock leaking between his legs. Warmth blooms in his gut, suffusing his limbs with a desire that had before only been a dim flame. He's so full.

Above him, one of them chuckles. "I told you he'd be good for this."

"I recall you wanting his mind a bit emptier?"

"We have time."

The words are purred with such open desire that it make Guilliman's cock throb. He doesn't know which of them speaks, only that the breach of protocol is unacceptable either way- and that he wants it badly enough that just hearing them speak the words has his cock weeping precum onto the sheets.

Groaning around the heft in his mouth, he tries to move, to indicate to the twins that his moment of protest is over. He can take it- he wants to take it. He'd wanted it since they'd gotten their mouths on him and now he needs them to do something- to use him, to fuck him, to make good on every word of filth Alpharius had purred into his ear like a demon of temptation from old Terran myths.

The one behind him moves first, drawing his hips back in a slow, teasing drag that has Guilliman instinctively clenching down around him. In his hair, the guiding hand loosens from a pull to simply a grip just as he's roughly fucked into again, shoving him down on the cock in his throat. He gags around it, a reflex he thought he didn't have, and coughs openly when it draws back.

They set a punishing rhythm, each one fucking into him as the other begins to pull back, driving him into each other in perfect synchronicity. He's given barely a moment to breathe and none at all to think. His world narrows down to the slapping of skin on skin and the wet, filthy sounds his body makes as its used. There's no end to the sensation; one of them is always taking him, filling him up, pushing him into their twin's waiting thrust- a practiced back and forth. They move with such obvious experience; perhaps it should alarm him, but he can't hold the thought for long enough to worry.

His cock bobs between his legs, untouched. Reaching for it doesn't cross his mind, the sensation is already so much as is. Each time his hole is pushed into that twin's cock drags against his prostate, a punishing edge to the never-ending stimulation that has him moaning his pleasure around the other's shaft. That twin uses him like a toy, a cocksleeve, fucking his throat with deep, heavy thrusts that he struggles to breathe around. He drools around them, unable to find the time to swallow. Spit slicks their cock and his chin, making the sounds of their coupling loud and wet in the privacy of his chambers.

Were there guards at his door?

The thought is fucked from him as soon as it forms.

One of the twins curses again, in that same language as before. He only knows it's the one in front of him because of the way they suddenly pull out of his mouth, their hand working themselves at a greedy tempo as they hold him in place by his hair. A moment later they groan, cock jumping as they finish on his face. Thick, white stripes paint across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, smearing when they drag him close enough to rut against the mess they'd made of him. They work themselves through their orgasm like this, shallowly fucking into their fist and grinding against the filth on his face. Each tug of their hand dirties him further, their cockhead coaxed into dripping the last of its spend onto his cheek in a base, primal symbol of ownership.

Guilliman is so lost in the shocking luridness of it that he only registers their true completion when the warmth of their length no longer rests on his face- and then finds himself shocked again by the crudeness of the way they slap their cock against his cheek, idly admiring the view.

In the moment's reprieve he has from their punishment he feels the edge of indignation begin to well up inside of him, matched only with the way desire curls up alongside it. Both worsen as the twin wipes his cock off on Guilliman's lips, making only a cursory attempt at cleaning himself before he leans forward and reaches for his double.

Above him, Guilliman hears the sound of Alpharius and Omegon's messy kiss.

He pants, fighting the urge to lick his lips clean. This animal claim on him shouldn't be doing this to him, but he remembers the taste of cum on his tongue and gives in to his urge to chase it- to the approval of the men above him. He doesn't understand the words they speak, only that the tone expresses their delight, and in a moment of weakness he betrays himself.

"Alpharius," He breathes, calling for his brother, and both of them look to him with twinned smiles on their faces.

"Yes?"

They ask it in unison, perfectly in stride. Had they not been on opposite ends of him, he thinks he'd have struggled to tell if more than one of them had even spoken.

'What have you done to me,' He wants to ask. 'Even in this moment of reprieve, I feel like I can't think. My body aches. I've never felt need so dangerously before.'

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. It would be just like his brother to introduce a drug into his own system just to dose Guilliman, but the thought means nothing to him in this moment. He tries to open his mouth, to speak his questions, but just as when they'd started, one of them steals his words away. Guided by the hand around its base, their cock brushes against his mouth and he parts his lips on instinct, letting them slide themselves home inside of him. His eyes flutter, then shut as he revels in the renewed fullness.

One of them swipes their fingers through the mess on his face; he hears the sound of parting lips and then of sucking.

Throne.

He stops trying to think.

Chapter Text

"Let us introduce the little serpent to the consequences of reneging on a deal."

Excrucias had spoken those words to him when Phalk'ir had first been dragged aboard his ship. Despite his thrashing rage and his insistence that he'd broken from his irreverent brothers, from the twin-killers, the damn traitors, he'd been forced down to his knees at blade and bolter-point, a show of abasement made at the foot of the Chaos Lord's throne.

Two of his Captains- or whatever equivalent rank Excrucias has given his favored minions- yet grip Phalk'ir's arms despite the very real threat of all the weapons in the room. When their guards are down and they're foolish enough to loosen their hold on him, he'll kill them. He swears it. Them, then the pompous, gilded brute in front of him.

Excrucias eyes him from where he sits on his throne. His posture is easy, relaxed, as though commanding this forced submission of Phalk'ir is to be no more difficult than bringing a stubborn dog to heel. Just like Phalk'ir, he too was helmetless, his elbow propped up on one of the throne's arms, head tipped to the side so he could rest his cheek atop his closed fist. Between the golden features of his mask, his eyes bore into his captive.

Something about the swirl of colors in them makes Phalk'ir feel ill. The defiance he'd been careful to etch onto his face cracks with the faintest downward twitch of his lip.

Excrucias' mask doesn't hide the way his lips peel into a smile behind jagged, golden teeth.

"You and your brothers still owe me dues," He says, amusement evident in his voice as much as it had been in his smile.

'They're not my brothers anymore,' Phalk'ir tries to protest, but looking at the Chaos Lord makes his tongue feel leaden in his mouth. The grimace that had before only been implied now fully blooms on his lips and he twitches his head away, breaking eye contact.

"They're not my brothers anymore," He spits out now that the words aren't locked in his throat.

Someone grabs his jaw, claws digging into his cheeks as they force his gaze back to meet their Lord's. For a single, stupid moment he thinks about squeezing his eyes shut- but then his eyes meet Excrucias' again and the urge becomes a memory.

The Chaos Lord shrugs, his golden armor glittering in the rose-tinted lights of his throne room. "They were your brothers when you came to me, and so you will pay their dues regardless."

'That isn't fair,' Is Phalk'ir's first, almost childish thought. Then, more urgently, 'I won't.'

Excrucias is still smiling, as if he knows exactly what thoughts run through Phalk'ir's mind.

"Look at me," The Chaos Lord commands. As though Phalk'ir could look away with the hand gripping his face-

But there was no pressure at his jaw. When had they let go? More importantly, why was he so slow to disobey?

He tries to put name to the colors he sees swirling in Excrucias' eyes, but the moment one grows vibrant enough to identify, he looses it. That same sickening feeling is back, the cotton-dullness in his mind and the weakness in his limbs. He tries to command their movement, so sure he could muster up the urge to look away, but the response his body gives is distant, as though his awareness of himself is being filtered through water. Limbs twitch weakly against the hands that hold them, but he barely feels the restraint.

"I will be taking my payment of you," Excrucias continues, leaning forward. The melody of his voice is alarmingly clear despite the way everything else sounds distant and faded. "And you will give it willingly-"

He wouldn't.

"-you will," Excrucias corrects without breaking stride. "Because you will want it."

Something in Phalk'ir's mind tries to ring a peal of warning, but he can't muster the will to grasp at his own alarm and finds it quick to slip through his fingers. He can feel his body going slack, the meager resistance he'd put up with his twitches stolen from him by heavy numbness. Excrucias looms above him, their eyes still locked together. He swears he can almost make out their colors.

Something brushes against his lips. "Open," Excrucias commands, and in the moment it takes Phalk'ir's mind to generate a protest, he finds that his lips have already parted.

Armored fingers take his invitation and push into his mouth. Phalk'ir is distantly aware of the coldness of them, of the coppery, unpleasant taste of dried blood that follows them as they rub against his tongue. Back and forth, a slow, sensual exploration that pushes them deeper on each stroke until they come to rest atop it, levering his jaw wider with the pressure.

A sound builds in his throat; a protest, surely.

"Not a protest," Comes the melody of Excrucias' voice. "You just like the taste."

He likes the taste. His tongue squirms out from under armored fingers and begins to lick around them, chasing the sweetness of Astartes lifeblood. When they're generous enough to loosen their pressure on his jaw he wraps his lips around them and sucks, trying to draw them in deeper. They thrust lazily into his mouth, a distracting tempo. The sound in his throat spills out and Phalk'ir moans around Excrucias' fingers.

Excrucias still holds his gaze captive as he uses his mouth, but for all that Phalk'ir wants to taste more of his fingers, a hazy sense of disgust yet coils in his gut. Distantly, he thinks he should want to pull away, but he can't bring himself to break contact.

He moans again, dismayed, when Excrucias pulls spit-slick fingers from his mouth and instead cups his cheek with them. His lips stay parted as his world once again narrows down to the Chaos Lord's gaze.

"You look good like this, little Hydra."

…He does? He feels foolish. A son of the XXth blindly chasing minor pleasures. He thinks he wants to shut his mouth, he thinks he wants to leave.

"Of course you don't," Excrucias corrects, stroking a thumb over his cheek. "You want to stay here."

He wants to stay here. Disgust uncoils from within him, leaving nothing but a pleasant haze and a far-away sensation of want.

When he feels something warm push into his mouth, he closes his lips around it automatically. Excrucias still stares at him. His head swirls with those same colors. A weight pushes past his palate, thick and heavy, and it slides past an inactive gag reflex and into his throat. He thinks he likes the taste of this too.

The hand on his cheek keeps him looking up at Excrucias-

"At your Lord."

-at his Lord, as someone settles their hand atop his shaved scalp and pushes him down until his nose is pressed against his Lord's gleaming plate. His throat constricts as he tries to swallow. The weight inside of his mouth is addicting.

At his sides, his arms hang limp. His body kneels, half slumped, balanced only by the presence of his Lord's cock as his head is guided up and down his shaft.

Far away, the muffled sound of someone speaking just barely reaches his ears.

"𝖳𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇."

His Lord's voice comes through clearly; his words the most important thing in the room. "What else did you expect from the twentieth?" His cheek is patted fondly. "But we have him now. Don't we, little Hydra?"

Phalk'ir moans his assent as best he can around the cock in his mouth. All he wants is to keep earning his Lord's pleasure, to pay back every debt he'd accrued. His body is a tool for his Lord to use to his ends, and there's no greater pleasure than letting him have it.

Chapter Text

The rattling of chains lets him know that his Raven is aware he's entered its cage. Clamped around its wrists, a set of manacles pull its arms up above its head and connects them to the chain that suspends it, pulling its lithe body taut as it struggles to keep its footing. He's shortened the chain enough for it to be uncomfortable, not quite a hang but only just. Bare feet strain to touch the ground, balancing on toe-tip in an effort to relieve the weight on its shoulders- and perhaps in a bid to maintain some of its dignity instead of hanging in front of its captor like a peace of meat.

The novelty of giving it even that little bit of freedom has yet to wear off.

It had started defiantly, for all that his first foray into playing with it had begun with its fear. Once it knew what he had planned- what he liked- it had gotten a bit braver. It tried to fight, for all that a Neophyte could fight against a fully grown Astartes, and act as though it were unaffected by him. It never managed to hold the act by the time he was done.

These days, its captivity had sunken in a bit deeper.

Short-cropped black hair had grown out, long and pretty and softer than his own had ever been. It cascades down its back, stark against the paleness of its flesh, and sticks to skin dampened by pain and effort. Still, its hair- and body- remain relatively clean, courtesy of the slaves he'd commanded to tend to his prize; so unlike his brothers, who liked seeing the pretty sons of the XIXth wallowing in the filth of their captivity. He much prefers his pristine once he's done with it; a fresh canvas for him to admire and paint anew.

The dark strip of cloth tied around its eyes catches its hair, bunching it up around the fabric. Originally, it had tossed its head like a bull trying to get the blindfold off, squirming against its bonds in an effort to pull it against the skin of his arms and drag it free. It used to curse at him when he approached, promising retribution, swearing its brothers would come and that he'd pay for every indignity visited upon him and his fellow Neophytes.

These days, when he enters its cage it's still and silent, the front of its blindfold already damp with tears. He supposes it must have realized that its words had all been hollow threats. Its brothers were not coming to save it, and so now it belongs to him. A plaything. A prize. And it sounds so very pretty when it weeps.

Like every son of the VIIIth, he likes fear. The sharp ecstasy of transhuman terror is one of the sweetest things that can be harvested from Neophytes, so yes, he likes the fear- but he loves the tears. Nothing compares to seeing despair writ plainly across a captive's face as tear tracks and hearing it in every sob that wrenches itself from their chest. It becomes a heady combination of fear and submission that gets him going more than simple torture ever does, doubly so because he knows how to make this particular Raven want it, and knows it hates itself for that want.

He steps up to his prize and watches the uneven rise and fall of its chest as it tries to keep itself in check. Its head turns blindly, trying to follow him- but twitches away when he reaches up to brush its cheek with the backs of his fingers. He coos at it, fond, and drags his hands down the soft, supple flesh of its flanks. He'd found such a pretty prize. Prettier now that it had grown its hair out and hung bare for him to touch and admire. All that smooth, hairless skin on display; his to leer at, his to mark.

He squeezes its flanks and takes a dose of pleasure in the way that makes it squirm. Where it once would have tried to kick him for the offense, now it simply hangs there.

"Beautiful Raven," He purrs. His voice is a harsh thing in the ugly tones of Gothic; rough and guttural, not made to speak such a blunt language- but his prize doesn't speak his tongue, and so he must adapt if he wishes for it to know his thoughts. "Do your arms not hurt, hanging there?"

It knows by now the game he wants it to play, and so it bites its lip and dips its head in a minuscule nod.

He can see the damp patches on its blindfold spreading and doesn't bother holding back a smile. Watching the not-so-hidden tears is a tease- tantalizing in the way it hides the lurid details yet shows him exactly what he wants.

"Poor thing." Trailing his hands down its body, he brushes over its hips and down to its muscled legs. His hands linger there, fingers curling around the backs of its thighs and ever so slightly pulling it closer. The chains rattle. He hears its breath hitch. "Do you want me to help you?"

It nods again, its breaths coming faster now. He can feel it trembling in his grip, its body caught between its ingrained instinct to fight and the knowledge that- if it did- it would receive far worse than this feigned kindness. The room seems to quiet as it parts its lips.

"…Please," It breathes, thighs flexing under his hands as it tries to lift its legs despite the awkward angle he had pulled it into.

This is an old, familiar game. He likes it, truly he does, but perhaps it's time he introduces something new, forces some fresh tears from his prize. "Please?" He echoes, and his Raven freezes, caught off guard by the unexpected question. He'd gone off script; that was dangerous.

Soft lips form shapelessly around soundless words. His poor pet is confused, afraid to say the wrong thing. He should help it.

"Please, what? I do not read minds, my Raven." He swears he can hear the beginnings of a sob building in its throat.

"Please help me," It tries, voice trembling, and then- when he doesn't move- "Please lift me up. I- it hurts. I want a reprieve, I want-" Its teeth abruptly find the inner flesh of its lip and bite. A smear of humiliation begins to spread across its cheeks and down its neck, flushing it a pretty pink.

"-I want," It tries again, haltingly, "I want to feel good."

Oh, clever Raven! What a beautiful thing he'd caught himself, so eager to please now that it had broken for him. He hikes its thighs up around his waist and grins at the sob that finally breaks free of its throat when it feels his clothed erection tease its ass. It weeps openly at its own submission and the inevitability of its defilement, tears finally breaking free of their confines to drip messily down its cheeks. But for all its dramatics, it still can't help but relax as he eases the weight from its overburdened arms, letting him carry the weight of its body for it in brief reprieve.

For all that this was a game, the things it begged for were always very, very real.

Chapter Text

The world is always vibrant at a party.

The Wolves call it a feast, the Dark Angels call it a rowdy mess, but they both eat and drink and loosen their inhibitions enough that, feasibly, it could be called a party. The Wolves are hosting tonight, stealing their cousins away into the large halls of the Fang and plying them with Mjød and roasted meat, with Skjald's tales and boisterous recountings of their joint victory. Fires roar in the hearths, warming the packs of Astartes that mingle together at the feasting tables and in the fur pallets that line the room's edges.

The hall is massive, and the sheer number of Astartes that have congregated within its walls fill it with sound. Cheering, cajoling, songs, and stories. The Wolves are the loudest as is typical, but there are more than a few Dark Angels deep in their cups who've taken up the Wolves' boisterous drinking songs and now make good-natured fools of themselves, an arm around their cousin's shoulder and their tankard lifted high in the air.

Amongst this wide-spread collection of happy drunks is one particular Dark Angel surrounded by a pack of doting Wolves. The youth- early into his first century of service- had made the mistake of daring to be boisterous in the company of cousins more skilled at the art than he, and now he pays a happy price. Tankards of Mjød are passed into his hand as fast as he can down them- and the youth is quick indeed- as the surrounding Wolves cheer their encouragement and jostle his shoulders.

This makeshift contest of fortitude had started somewhat more gainly, but now it has evolved into an excuse to see how much Mjød could be passed to this son of the Ist before he lost his appetite for it.

He'd been careful at the start, draining each tankard to the very dregs, but drunkenness and jostling wolves have made him sloppy. When he tips his head back and drinks, Mjød sloshes past the rim and trickles from his mouth, dampening his neatly groomed beard in a manner that would have been unpleasant had he not been so distracted.

He still startles when he feels lips on his jaw chasing the droplets. Alarm makes him cough, breaking his carefully cultivated rhythm, and when he pulls his tankard from his lips to demand an explanation, he finds himself unable to speak. Maybe it's because someone's lips are on his, warm and demanding as they kiss the aftertaste of Mjød from his mouth.

Perhaps this is customary with the Wolves. They're drunk, he knows this in a distant, fuzzy way. This is simply good natured-

Someone reaches between his legs. Calloused hands palm him through his off-duty robes, and he gasps his surprise against the Wolf at his lips.

He can feel the pack moving around him, maneuvering him until they can lay him out over a portion of the table they've swept free of food and cutlery. He goes, willing in the same way he'd been willing to let them ply him with drink, but with distinctly less understanding. They hike him up until his body lays fully on the table, and when he looks up- back?- he meets the wide-eyed gaze of one of his brothers.

Someone is mouthing at his neck, fangs scraping skin. There are hands everywhere on him; between his legs, rubbing at the growing hardness there, on his thighs, pulling them apart so their pack leader can settle between them, on his chest, groping at him through the fabric of his robes. His mind churns, trying to make everything line up.

His brother looks appalled.

One of the Wolves grins down at him- the one settled between his legs. "Do you want us to keep going?"

…Does he? Their hands are warm and strong, and he likes the way a pleasant tingle follows everywhere they touch. But his brother's expression has turned into one of open disgust and it makes something hot twist inside his gut. Shame, he thinks. Surely it must be.

"I-" He tries, but his mouth has gone dry. He licks his lips, eyes flicking between the Wolf over him and the brother behind him. "Not…here?"

The words are met with laughter; still good natured, he thinks, despite the way they're ignored in favor of the Wolf between his legs grinding down on him. He groans, letting the pack spread his legs wider and start pawing at his robes. At their prompting, he lifts his arms and arches his back to allow them the freedom to pull some of his clothing from him, eagerly drinking in the way their hands feel on bare skin as they pet him approvingly.

Someone's hand squeezes his breast, another's is rolling the hardened bud of a nipple between their fingers. He whimpers at the unfamiliar sensation, hips bucking. The tent in his pants is both unfamiliar and impossible to ignore, and each time he rolls his hips against the hard body between his legs he feels a jolt of molten pleasure sink into his gut and meld with the shame of his brother's gaze.

"'Not here,'" One of the Wolves echoes his words with a deep, mocking laugh. "When his body begs for it like this."

Warmth closes around his nipple and he cries out when fangs scrape the tender flesh. He feels more than hears the way they mouth "Greedy wench," against his skin. It should register as indignity, but something in their tone makes the insult go directly to his cock.

The pack leader bares his fangs at him in a grin that speaks of a predator's desire. "You liked that, eh, cub? Does your brother watching get you hard?"

"I- no!" The denial is automatic, but the hardness between his legs renders it moot.

"Bad liar. Angvar!" The pack leader barks something in Fenrisian and one of the Wolves touching him peels away. When he looks back to his brother, he sees them half out of their seat. That same Wolf keeps them steady, arms locked around their waist as their mouth presses just under their ear- whispering or kissing, he can't tell from where he lays.

They keep his brother watching him as his clothes are pulled from him in their entirety and he's placed on display for the Wolves' admiration. The pack takes its pleasure in his drunken sensitivity, teasing delicate noises from his throat that an Astartes has no place making- and each time he breaks around a whimper, they mock him for it.

When their pack leader pushes into him, he snarls something in their native tongue that has the pack laughing and undoing the laces of their trousers.

"He called you a good hole, cub," One of them translates. "Tight and wet and greedy. Told us not to wait, because he was going to let you milk him dry."

True to his words, the pack leader's hands on him are greedy. He fucks him hard and fast, pulling louder and louder sounds from him until a crowd has gathered to watch the way they claim him. Someone undoes the strings of their trousers and pushes their cock towards him; they call him a "Natural slut" when he takes it in hand and begins to pump. Someone else drags his head to the side by his hair and pushes themselves past his lips.

He swears he can hear the accented sounds of Calibanite speech over the raucous sounds the Wolves make, and the disgust he imagines in their tones pushes him further into the all-enveloping desire that has him parting his legs and presenting himself for the taking.

More than one Wolf in the crowd works themselves to the sight of him. They say things in Fenrisian he doesn't understand, and more in low Gothic that has him flushing to the tips of his ears. He hears exactly what they want to do to him, every filthy word about filling him with their seed, about keeping him chained to their bedside so they could have a trained slut whenever they wished, about how he should thank them for the honor when his mouth is free. More still shout suggestions- encouragement. They tell the Wolves on him that they should make him cry or choke on their cocks, or simply demand they fuck into him harder.

He's lost track of who is where. Someone finishes across his face, adding to the mess of cum that paints tanned flesh, only to have their place immediately taken by someone who slides their cock into his waiting mouth. He feels a flood of warmth as another Wolf finishes inside him and pulls out, leaving their cum to leak down his thighs. Someone grabs his legs under the knees and pulls them back, putting his twitching, dripping hole on display. Another round of laughter follows as he pushes his hips up, waiting for the next Wolf to take their place and fuck their brothers' cum back inside of him, but he remains damnably empty.

Humiliation grows the longer his sloppy hole is put on display and he makes a pitiful, pleading sound around the length in his mouth.

"Don't keep your brother waiting," Someone calls, and their words are followed by a sharp wolf-whistle.

His head spins. Brother? His brother? Is that who's gaze he can feel on him, hot and judgemental?

Armored hands settle on his thighs, then slide up to just under his knees, taking the responsibility of keeping them pressed back from whatever Wolf had put him on display.

"Filthy," Comes an acidic, distinctly Calibatine tone. The sting of it is shameful in the way it makes his cock drool over his stomach. "A whorish, wretched display."

Fuck. He's getting dizzy- he thinks he could come from those words alone, but then his brother's cock nudges his hole and he's moaning his desperation as loudly as he can. Please, he tries to say with a little twitch of his hips. More.

"Calling you my brother disgusts me."

They push into him with a single, rough thrust, uncaring of how it might sting. It doesn't- he's been worked so loose and wet that his brother slides in without resistance. He relishes the sound of disgust that they make, abdomen tensing around a flash of pleasure- and he comes to the humiliation that flares when they spit on where their flesh joins with his.

Chapter Text

Alpharius turns the vial over in his hands, watching the colors ripple through the glass. The dim light of the sanctum does nothing to dull its shine; he doubts anything ever would when a Primarch's blood swirls somewhere in that mix of colors.

His blood.

…Well. Not his. Not yet. It would be his when he drunk it down, when he allowed the memories of his Primarch to overwrite his and shape him according to the need of the Legion.

Alpharius- the real Alpharius- had pressed it into his hand mere minutes ago, his father's hands warm where they'd cupped his and closed them around this priceless honor. He'd whispered to him of the grandness of his expectations, lips brushing across the shell of his ear in tempting secrecy, then smiled at him and withdrawn.

The privacy he'd been given was both a blessing and a curse. Having his Primarch here, even in passing, had made the honor a monumentous thing. Now that he was alone with nothing but the vial and his thoughts, it had become something else.

He hesitated to call it tentative, but that he'd waited at all to drink was a sign of something, he was sure. Had others like him who'd been called to this high honor also waited in the dark, staring at the mixture of alchemy and blood they held in their hands? It was such a small thing, barely enough to sip, yet it would remake him.

His finger circles the stopper. His hearts are pounding. He feels, almost intimately, the way they circulate his blood through his body with each dual pump of their chambers.

A pop sounds as he opens the vial with the flick of a finger. The stopper swings open on its hinges, and Alpharius- not yet, but soon- swirls it, then brings it up to his nose. He sniffs, once. Shaven brows furrow. He sniffs again.

It smells of nothing. The color alone could captivate, and yet where he'd expected to scent the rich, heady blood of a Primarch, he's greeted with absolutely nothing.

His lips twitch. He supposes that it's appropriate; for all their Legion plays into its dramatics they'd not be so quick to betray what exists within this vial should someone who wasn't meant to grabs hold of it. The swirl of colors only tantalizes because he knows what is mixed within it, and knows that it will soon be inside of him.

Throne, the thought is enough to tease.

Perhaps the Primarch had given him space because he knew what this meant to his sons. The weight of transformation, of ingesting his blood. Surely he didn't have time to wait for each Astartes who he bestowed this honor upon to explore his gift and come to terms with what it meant for them as individuals- even if the change was not permanent.

He hopes, selfishly, that it tastes of him. That if he did not have the pleasure of scenting the richness of demigod blood, he could at least sense it another way.

Glass comes to rest upon parted lips.

One swallow. That's all. He knows, somehow, that he isn't supposed to linger with it.

He listens to the dual rhythm of his hearts for a moment more. He recalls his name, and all other names he'd taken for the sake of the Legion. He breathes, and knows the next exhale that comes from this body won't be his.

The vial tips up and releases its contents into his waiting mouth.

Throne, the taste… A Primarch's lifeblood flows across his tongue and down his gullet and his body reacts to that near indescribable ecstasy as though he'd been run through with want. Sparks dance across his nerves, his body seizes- he doesn't know if it's his mind or the alchemy but he swears he can see bursts of color bloom in the air. Nectar sweat, the blood burns as it goes down. It spreads the veins of its heat through his body, sublimating itself into the very fiber of his being. Its hold is inescapable. It envelops him fully as his body works to metabolize it, trans-human physiology guiding its path to his remaking.

Glass shatters on the floor. His hands clutch at his throat where the heat burns strongest. A part of his Primarch is inside of him, remaking him- he can feel the way the serum crawls its way through his mind even now. Memories not his own flood into his vision, blooming in fragments within his mind, and he wonders if somewhere on this ship, his Primarch feels the way his memories begin to write over another's.

It's addicting. It's recreation in the fullest way. He swears he can still taste his Primarch on his tongue, can feel his vitae pooling in his gut. He wishes, foolishly, that he could have taken a part of it intravenously just to know he'd melded his Primarch's blood with his. The thought of the fire being pushed through his body by the beating of his hearts parts his lips around a silent moan.

To want this so deeply must be a sign.

Newly implanted memories begin to lose their sense of otherness. Familiarity takes root alongside the heat. Every nerve in his body sings with it, and he shuts his eyes to revel in the blood-wrought change.

And then it settles. The heat fades, the colors cease their bloom, the room goes from the birthplace of a demigod to simply another room.

Alpharius opens his eyes, breathes out, and smiles.

Chapter Text

[The camera flickers to life. In its lenses, the primary subject kneels in an interrogation chamber. One Astartes unit, medium build, average height; pale and possessed of short-cropped blond hair typical of his Chapter. His arms are locked behind his back; the camera tilts down to the flex of muscle as the subject tries to work himself free of his bonds, then up his arms to linger on the tattoo on his shoulder. Imperial Fist iconography.]

"Identify yourself."

[The camera pulls out to grab the entirety of the primary subject in its focus. He looks at someone out of frame, and the camera pans around him to keep his expression in view. Another typicality; rage.]

"Sergeant Maxim Damroth; Imperial Fists Third Company. You'll get no more from me, traitors."

[The primary subject spits, and the camera follows the motion past the wet smear on the ground and over to the teal, ceramite boot near it. It begins to pan up, revealing a rippling pattern of scales-]

[Alternative footage is spliced in. The primary subject remains in focus, kneeling in the same interrogation chamber. Its bindings remain in place, but a new addition has been made. Zooming in, the camera focuses on the silver collar locked around the subject's throat. His name has been engraved into it, and in the space between the first and last protrudes the link for a chain. A hydra charm dangles from it, bouncing when the subject tries to jerk away from the camera. A rattle of chain links accompanies the movement, and the camera zooms back out.]

[The subject's chain, now drawn taut, connects to the ground in front of him. His attempt to escape the lenses stopped short before he could fully raise himself from the bow he was forced into.]

"Identify yourself."

[The camera's angle shifts as its operator drops into a crouch. Lenses zoom on the primary subject's expression. One typicality; rage, and a new atypicality; embarrassment. The subject's cheeks show heightened blood flow, easily mistaken as a neurological reaction to anger were he not avoiding the camera.]

"Sergeant Maxim Damroth; Imperial Fists Third Company."

[An armored hand enters the frame. It flicks the charm at the primary subject's neck and he jerks away again, baring his teeth in a customary display of anger. Something out of frame clicks. The subject's eyes widen almost imperceptibly-]

[Another splice. The camera is zoomed in close, focused on the collar around the primary subject's neck. It heaves as he breathes, heavy and laborious. Silver mettle glints as it catches the light. The hydra charm bounces against the hollow of his throat. The muted slap of skin on skin comes from somewhere out of frame, and when a shadow falls over the subject's face and his jaw is worked wide enough to peak into frame, a groan briefly overtakes the soundscape.]

"Identify yourself."

[The collar accentuates the bob of the primary subject's throat as he swallows heavily.]

"Sergeant- Sergeant Maxim Damroth; Imperial Fists Th- Throne- Third Company-"

[The camera begins to pan down, filling its lenses with sweat-sheened skin. Slow, with the intention to tantalize, it drags to the subject's heaving chest, then down to rippling abdominal muscles, and finally to the hardness that stands proud between the subject's legs. It pauses there, allowing the audience an eyeful of his cock. Average length and girth for an Astartes of his build, unexceptional save for the silver ring locked tight around its base and the piercing that decorates its tip, unmistakable for the Legion iconography it bares.]

[The camera lingers, showing off the way the subject's cock bounces with each thrust and the way it drools precum around its piercing, then begins to move again. It rotates around the subject, bringing a hint of teal scales into view-]

[The footage splices again. The primary subject is fully in focus this time, his body put on display for the lenses and the audience. Two suction pumps have been affixed over his nipples, clear so that the camera has a generous view, but they remain deactivated. What draws the eye in this shot is the length of silicone that disappears between the subject's legs. Generously slicked, it makes wet, unsubtle noises each time he rocks his hips against it in small, aborted twitches.]

[Someone begins to step into frame, and the camera adjusts to keep them just out of view save for the hand that reaches down to grab the primary subject's chest, fondling the muscle with exaggerated affection.]

"Identify yourself."

[The typical baring of the subject's teeth is marred in efficacy by the continuous sounds of him failing to restrain himself from grinding against the toy inside of him.]

"Throne damn you all to hell-"

[Another hand sneaks around the subject's shoulder, twisting to show the camera the remote it holds. A finger depresses its activation key. The primary subject gasps. He lurches in his bonds as the passive pressure of the pumps begins to tease sensitive flesh with a new, rhythmic suction. The hand at his breast massages it in time with the pumps' suction, and the camera briefly flicks down to showcase the way it makes the subject's thighs tense and has him clenching down on his toy.]

"S-Sergeant Maxim Damroth; Imperial Fists-" [The subject pauses to bite down on his inner cheek, likely in suppression of a moan.] "-Third Company-"

[Yet another splice. The primary subject's chest takes up the scene, glossy with sweat. His pert, swollen nipples are framed to catch the eye- not for the lingering bruises of the suction pumps, but for the newest piercings he's been decorated with. A silver ring dangles from each nipple, linked together by three dangling lengths of delicate chain. They sway lazily with each of the subject's breaths.]

[Once again a hand enters the scene to grab the primary subject's breast. He visibly tenses, then exhales and relaxes into the touch. Each gentle knead makes the chains jingle together, and when fingers reach down to pinch and twist freshly pierced and oversensitive nipples, the subject groans with want. The camera zooms in on the secondary subject's hand as it trails down to tangle itself between the silver chains.]

"Identify yourself."

[The primary subject does not respond right away. This is an irregularity. A prompting tug is given to his piercings and he jolts, openly overwhelmed by the sensation. Speech is an afterthought.]

"…Sergeant Maxim Damroth-"

[Another prompting tug. The primary subject's chains- both those dangling from his chest and the one locked to his collar- clatter as a shudder overtakes him. Focus appears hard to come by as the subject's words begin to slur.]

"Imperial Fists… Third company."

[A helmeted chin comes to rest upon the primary subject's shoulder, cut off at the mouth by the angle of the camera before it can reveal more than simply its presence. Armored hands cup the primary subject's breasts, rewarding his compliance with slow, easy stimulation. They press them together, purposefully showing off the way sedentary captivity has turned hardened muscle soft and supple, and flick the chains to make them catch the light. The subject has completely eased into the touch, leaning into it as far as his collar allows. The camera pans up, pulling the audience from his chest to his mouth as it begins to form around a new word, unprompted-]

[Footage splices. Another close shot; the camera is situated to the side of the primary subject's neck. The flesh above his collar is distended, bulging around a heft that thrusts eagerly into his waiting throat. The hydra charm dangles freely, swaying with the subject's movement. He's not just being taken; he's reciprocating. He bobs his head, helping guide his captor's cock into his mouth again and again, and his helpless moan briefly overtakes the messy sounds of his conquering.]

[Spittle drips messily down the primary subject's chin. The details of his defilement are kept just out of frame, heard but not seen; an implication meant to tantalize. The splice has clearly left out the first half of the scene, the creators choosing to instead focus on the sudden way the secondary subject grabs the side of the primary's face and push themselves in to the hilt. He doesn't gag, but the bulge in his throat twitches and he chokes around it. Seed begins trickling into frame, mixing with the mess on his chin and dripping down his neck. His throat bobs as he tries to swallow. Once, twice; each failed attempt makes more of a mess of him.]

[He attempts it a third time when the heft in his throat withdraws, then he bows forward into frame. Plush lips are swollen; this isn't the first time he's put his mouth to use today, but evidently it's been the messiest. He coughs, letting the last of what he couldn't swallow drip from his mouth.]

"Identify yourself."

[The subject's brows furrow. He moves his mouth as if to speak, then stops. Leaning forward is precarious with his arms bound behind his back, but he bows into the pull of his collar and rests his forehead against an armored thigh.]

"Identify yourself."

[The second prompting seems to motivate him to find his words.]

"I am…Maxim Damroth."

[No rank. No company. The voice that questions him- the same every time, down to its inflection- does not repeat the question. Instead, the secondary subject cups his cheek and eases his face up. Where eyes had once gazed upon his captors with hate, now they look up in longing. He parts his lips obediently as a cock is guided to them, and swallows it down with a contented moan-]

[More footage splices in. The primary subject in bent forward, his cheek pressed into the ground and his hips in the air. The chain clipped to his collar has been removed from the floor. No force holds him down; he presents himself of his own volition. Behind him, in full view for the first time, kneels an Alpha Legionnaire, and they've wound his chain around their hand like a leash. Fully armored save for their codpiece, they rest their free hand on the subject's hips and fuck into him, hard and fast.]

[The camera pans to where they join, lifting to get a better perspective of the way the subject's hole greedily takes every thrust. The Alpha Legionnaire palms the globes of his ass then pulls them open, aiding the lenses. The camera lingers for a moment, letting the audience see the pounding rhythm that pulls those needy, open-throated noises from their captive.]

[As if by unspoken cue, the Alpha Legionnaire yanks on the subject's leash and the camera drags its leering lenses across his body as he arches up, dragged by his collar. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, dripping its need yet denied attention and forbidden release by the ring clasped around its base. Onward, to abdominal muscles that strain to keep it balanced, and up to arms that yet remain bound behind its back. The camera slows as it pans across the tattoo on its shoulder, then drags back down to its chest to showcase the way each thrust has the chains pierced to its nipples dancing.]

[For the first time, the camera's operator moves to interact with the scene, reaching into frame to grab one of the chains and pull. The subject sobs at the stimulation, unable to twist into or away from it with the way his collar and chain pull him taut. The operator strokes their finger along the chain, following it up to the ring that pierces the subject's nipple. Hooking their finger through it, they twist and tug again, letting the way the Alpha Legionnaire's thrusts move the subject's body do the work of teasing him with the pressure of it.]

[The sounds the subject is making are desperate. It was a son of Dorn and yet it has been brought so low that its captors only needed to twist the delicate symbols of its captivity to have it tensing and coming dry. The ring around its cock ensures it no relief, leaving it hard and aching as the camera's operator withdraws from the scene and allows the Alpha Legionnaire to shove the primary subject back down against the floor.]

[The camera finally drags itself to the subject's face. It drools, open-mouthed and overstimulated, onto the cold, metal floor. The hydra charm clinks against its collar with each thrust. Far from the proud son of the VIIth that it had been when the camera had first started filming, now it looks little better than a blissed out slut. A toy. A pet. It no longer tries to stop the sounds that spill from it, letting its pleasure fill the room as it's bent over and taken.]

"Identify yourself."

[There's no hesitation this time, bar the subject's struggle to form a coherent thought as the last lingering vestiges of its resistance are fucked out of it.]

"I- I am yours…!"

"Again."

"I a-am- Throne- I am yours-!"

"Good boy."

[Th-

              -e cam er-

                                 -a -

                                                   ]

The dataslate cracks under ceramite-armored fingers, artifacts fragmenting the screen. Sound distorts then cuts out, finally silencing those damnable, humiliating noises. The Captain of the Imperial Fists' Third Company stares in disgust at the shattered remnants of technology that had mysteriously appeared on and had now died at his desk.

Around him, his officers- bar the one he had had to replace, the one he had thought dead- stare at the broken dataslate.

It is beyond salvaging. His anger has likely just cost him his brother's life, if he even had a life to live if whatever heretical conditioning he had just witnessed had sunken in beyond just skin-deep. Slowly, marshaling his fury, he opens his gauntlet. Chips of metal and glass fall from his fingers. He pushes the entire pile of unusable technology towards his senior tech marine.

He doesn't say a word. None of them do. They know better than to expect to find anything on the dataslate; even if it could be repaired, the Alpha Legion would have not send them this taunt if they were not sure they had made it untraceable.

He thinks of the hazy, sex-drunk look he had seen in his brother's eyes the moment before he'd crushed the dataslate and swears he'll find a way to either pull him free or put him down. Whatever it took to save him.

Chapter Text

The beast on Quartus is so damnably heavy.

He should have been more cautious- they all should have been. They'd walked themselves into a trap under-armed and overconfident and the Warp creature had battered them down with horrific ease. Decimus, Emperor damn his rashness, had gone down first, his grapple caught in the beast's paws and flung out, hurling him against the wall like a child's toy. Valius, momentarily distracted by the sound of splintering ceramite, had nearly been crushed under the beast's fist- a fate saved for Quartus and his shield after he had shoved his brother aside.

The sheer weight of it had ground him into the dirt, and it had spent a moment idly clawing at his shield with what- insultingly- had only felt like a fraction of its strength as its free paw swiped wildly at Valius. Quartus had wanted to yell at him to run for Decimus while it was busy trying to rip his shield from him like an overeager dog, but it had crushed the breath from his lungs when it levered its weight onto its forearm and pressed.

Valius, bless his quick mind, had taken the chance to run. He'd gotten within a pace of Decimus when something erupted from the ground and coiled, snakelike and blindingly fast, around his leg. Vibrantly blue and glowing with warp matter, the tentacle had whipped Valius to the dirt. Quartus had heard him swear- one of his clipped, formal little expletives- and gun his chainsword.

The sound died as quickly as it had begun. Quartus tried to angle himself to check on his brother's condition, but the beast filled his view and consumed his attention. It pressed on him again, and he swore he could hear ceramite cracking. Then it bounced. A little hop, front paws off, then on, like a puppy trying to make sense of its new toy.

Something cracked under it. Quartus wasn't sure if it was armor or bones or both, only that the world bloomed crimson as agony burst across his chest. A strangled sound left his throat; he only knew by the way it makes his throat feel raw, because the pounding of his heartbeats in his ears had drowned out everything else.

A fist came down on his chest and the world darkened. Damnable, malicious creature-! He willed himself to move and grab his fallen blade, but the beast lowered what passed for its head to meet his helm and- in a gesture so calculated as to imply intelligence- took his body in hand and squeezed.

He'd lost consciousness to the sound of someone shouting his name.

—

    —

       —

Quartus wakes to less pain than he'd expected. Truthfully, he's surprised he woke at all, let alone not in agony. Automatically he goes to try and catalogue the damage done to him, but the instinctual process of cataloguing his injures comes to a grinding halt as he realizes that what he feels isn't a lack of pain- it's numbness. He groans, trying to prop himself up on an elbow to examine himself visually-

-…there is still a weight on him. He blinks, willing his mind to adjust faster, and stutters out a swear that would have had Vespasius cuffing his ear had their Chaplain-to-be heard it fall from his lips. The beast yet looms over him, claws pinning his arms to the stone. From its maw, a writhing mass of drool-slick tendrils spills forward onto his chest, soaking his armor in shockingly blue saliva. Wherever it drags its formless imitation of a tongue, the numbness follows, and Quartus realizes with disgust the origins of his painless wakening.

He tries to buck against it, but the tendrils drooling onto his chest press down and hold him fast.

"Quartus!"

Two voices call his name at the same time; one in relief, the other in triumph. His head drops back to the stone, taking in the world from this upside-down perspective. Through staticky helmet-cams and a broken eye lens he sees his brothers. Battered, bruised, pinned down- but mercifully alive.

The beast's Warp-spawned tentacles are upon them, coiling around their limbs and holding them fast. Both struggle against their bonds, but the tentacles ease into their movements with gentle pushes that nullify any leverage they have; it must be maddening to struggle against. He can see the way Decimus rages, futilely thrashing in his bonds.

"Quartus!" Decimus shouts again. "What in the nine hells is it doing to you?!"

The beast grunts, the thing passing for its head lifting to stare at the source of the newly ignited commotion. Its tendrils drag after it, dripping their numbing saliva across Quartus' helmet. He grimaces as it begins to seep through damaged seals.

"I don't know," He calls back. "It…numbs me, with its appendages-"

"Is that why you do not fight back?" Decimus asks, and Valius hisses at him.

"His ribs, brother!"

"He could yet try!"

"And puncture a lung? Choke to death on his blood in front of us? What a noble death that would be-"

"More noble than choking to death on Warp-spawn drool?"

The beast makes a warning rumble. How, Quartus doesn't know. It has no mouth to speak of, but the portal on its back flashes to life in response to its irritation. A sickly cascade of blues and purples dance in the air. As if in response to the stimulation, the tentacles binding his brothers begin to twist and curl, crawling up their bodies like snakes.

"Quiet yourselves," He warns, twisting his head away from the tendril that probes at his helmet in response to the sound. Logically, he knows that Decimus rages out of concern. Out of fear for his safety- but he can see the way the situation gnaws at him at Valius both, and the way the futility of their struggles drives their ire to verbal conflict.

Decimus, ever the contrarian, decides to push his luck. He demands the beast's attention with a string of words so damningly vile that Quartus imagines bearing witness to them alone is cause for repentance-

-Decimus chokes. Abruptly, without warning. Quartus snaps his gaze back to him in time to see a tentacle levering into his mouth, his face guard hanging by a hinge- broken. Valius swears- instinctual, but loud, and Quartus bites down on his lip to keep his own silence as he watches his brother's helmet get ripped free and his mouth stuffed with Warp-matter.

Color pulses in the air. The tentacles drag both of his brothers down into the dirt. More of their fellows bloom from the stone floor, twisting themselves around his brothers' bodies and lashing them down.

Quartus bites down on another sound when he sees one of the tentacles push between Valius' legs.

Then his vision is full of purple flesh and vibrant ichor as the beast drags its tendrils across his broken helm- down this time, past his drool-slicked chest and to-

To-

Oh Throne. No-

Two tendrils twist around his thighs and force them apart. Silently, he screams at his body to undo the indignity, but his armor is broken and his body is numb and unwilling to obey him. The beast warbles a pleased sound. Quartus swears it sounds like laughter.

Muffled sounds of protest start up behind him, but his world has selfishly- shamefully- narrowed down to the tendril that dips between his parted legs to drool over his codpiece. His arms flex helplessly under its claws. It drags the tendril over him in mocking imitation of a lover's teasing caress before curling it around the connective straps and ripping his codpiece free, flinging it somewhere distant to be discarded in the dark.

The tendril lays itself over his crotch. He's mercifully soft. He doesn't know if he could live with himself if this- this abomination managed to coax something beyond disgust from him. It lingers there, drooling wetness onto his bodyglove, twisting itself in a slow, sensual curl around his length as if- …as if rubbing its secretion into him.

Quartus stares, aghast, as his bodyglove heats, then begins to dissolve.

It almost refuses to compute. This can't be happening.

When the thing it drooled onto him touches skin, it produces that same, damning numbness as before. It keeps working itself against his bodyglove until enough has melted away to allow it access to him, then rears back to admire its work.

Throne. It hasn't- it hasn't even done anything yet and he was already losing his mind, ascribing human emotion to a beast.

…He shouldn't have thought anything. As if in response to that small, almost-relief, the beast lowers its tendrils to his crotch and loops one around his cock. He swears. It's slick and soft- warm, pulsing from within with a soothing, tempting rhythm. All it does is hold him at first, coiling around his soft length until the idle pulsing sensation begins to coax heat from him in turn.

Damn it- damn it and damn him. He can feel himself getting hard in its hold. The numbness isn't helping; it saps all sensations but the base, physical pleasure of its touch. When it tightens its coil and tugs, he follows it with an aborted twitch of his hips.

Emperor please forgive him, he was too weak to fight it off-

The beast makes another of its pleased noises and dips its head down. Another tendril slips further down between his legs, teasing his hole. He tries to clench down, his first instinct to deny it its conquest of him- but his body fails him even in this, and it pushes past the ring of muscle with damnable ease. His body- the weak, traitorous thing- opens itself to it, letting it push its writhing tendril deeper into his guts. He feels another nudge his hole and squeezes his eyes shut; a last, pitifully weak defense.

They're everywhere on him now, slowly seeking entry to every hole he has. Two twist together and snake into his helmet to fill his mouth. Another stretches the rim of his hole and makes room for itself alongside its two brothers, all three drooling their fluids into him as they piston in and out of him in synchronous rhythm. One, thinner than the others, pushes its tip into his cockhead and begins fucking into him there. That sensation has his thighs straining against the tendrils, muscles tensing as unfamiliar and unwanted pleasure tries to force them shut against what quickly becomes overwhelming sensation.

He moans around the barrier of the tendrils in his mouth.

The beast chuffs, then uses some of its spare tendrils to tip his head back at his brothers. Tentacles work them through their bodygloves, rubbing and stroking, thrusting when other tentacles push their thighs together to give them a channel to fuck. Both of them are hard, leaking into their bodygloves. When they see him staring, both are quick to look away.

Chapter Text

Kassar knows what his brothers do in the shadows. The shy didn't stay that way for long in the Unsung- not these days, when privacy was such a rare commodity that even trysting didn't merit it, not fully. None of the Harrow strays far from its core when it isn't necessary, so yes, Kassar knows more than he'd ever intended to learn about his men's stress-relieving habits.

He hears in too-intimate detail the way Haltheus groans his appreciation for Ges'khir and the scrape of ceramite as he's hauled up and fucked against the wall, how the twins make A'khassor come apart between them, the quiet, muffled sounds of D'sakh putting Sha'dor on his knees and taking his mouth. Quietest of all is Thelgh, who takes his pleasures rarely and only after battle, the noises he makes limited to heavy breaths and the sound of him working his cock. Kassar's heard them all. He isn't shy, but nor is he overly interested the way Kyphas is.

Sex is, thankfully, nothing to make a commotion out of. All of them know exactly what the others like, and partners are rotated through based on mutual need, desire, or simple whim.

Perhaps that's why, when Kassar stands and issues an order for Krowl to follow him, his Harrow stares.

Krowl is never Kassar's first choice. Throne, he's not even Kassar's fifteenth. But he takes orders and he doesn't talk, and that's all Kassar needs right now.

"You're not-" Kyphas starts, breaking around an incredulous chuckle. "You're not serious?"

Kassar shrugs. "Serious enough."

Kyphas hadn't needed to ask. He would be listening to them in a moment anyway, but Kassar is tactful enough not to point out the way his brother flouts what meager bounds of privacy they still have left between each other. Instead, he turns and heads for the nearest empty corner, ignoring the way Kyphas is already working to tune his helmet's sensors in anticipation.

Krowl is on his feet, moving into step behind Kassar with the same automatic obedience he always shows. When Kassar turns to lean back against a wall, Krowl stops a pace away and stands, statue-like, waiting for new orders.

"Kneel."

Krowl does, going heavily to both knees. Even like this he comes up to Kassar's chest, and Kassar guides him lower with a hand on his shoulder until he's resting on his haunches and closer to being level with Kassar's groin.

"Unbuckle me."

Large hands instantly rise to his belt, undoing latches and clasps with the steady precision that Kassar expects from everyone in his Harrow. His belt is unlooped from around his waist at the same time as his codpiece is worked free, and Krowl sets both aside on the ground at a distance that wouldn't see them disturbed if either he or Kassar jostled each other.

A gesture at his bodyglove is all the order Krowl needs to unzip it and pull Kassar's length out, but he stops there, awaiting another set of orders with Kassar's cock still held in his hand. The size of his hand alone is slowly working Kassar up to half mast, and he grunts at Krowl to tighten his grip before trying a shallow, experimental thrust.

It's not particularly pleasant as far as these things go. Krowl's armored hand is cold and dry, and Kassar's cock drags against it in a way that's just on the wrong side of rough- but it's friction, and he pushes into it in an effort to tease himself to hardness.

Krowl doesn't respond to Kassar fucking his fist. He's statue-like without an order to follow, and only adds his participation when Kassar demands it from behind clenched teeth.

He's not skilled, but he doesn't have to be. His hand envelops Kassar's cock, effortlessly stimulating it with each rough movement. Kassar wonders what it says about him that Krowl's fumbling, too-tight grip is managing to work him up faster than Sha'dor's clever mouth ever has, and- after a moment of consideration- decides he doesn't care to think about that right now.

Ceramite rings against stone as Kassar lets his head loll back against the wall.

Krowl works him steadily and without complaint, and Kassar finds himself reminded of one of the few times another of the Harrow had dragged their brute of a brother off to the shadows. He'd heard him fuck Makhor before; had heard how his relentless, machine-like pace had made their Naysmith scream his pleasure. He'd seen the end result; how Makhor had collapsed bonelessly into Krowl's grip, dripping and twitching around his cock as Krowl kept pistoning into him, still set on obeying his last-given order.

For a brief moment Kassar considers ordering Krowl inside of him, but quickly sets aside the idea. He wants something simple tonight, and being fucked to tears isn't it.

"Helmet off," He orders, and Krowl's free hand comes up to obey him. His helmet unseals with a hiss and he sets it aside near Kassar's belt and codpiece.

Krowl's face is as brutish as the rest of him. Wide-set features and a square jaw set him apart from those of their brotherhood who ape their father. His empty expression somehow makes the lack of scarring on his face all the more strange, as if seeing him unblemished yet unexpressive is wrong somehow. The only parts of him with a hint of life in them are his eyes. There's focus in them; it's not directed, but he's not unaware.

Kassar pushes Krowl's hand off him and notes the way his expression- even his eyes- don't so much as twitch. It'd be unnerving if he wasn't Kassar's brother, and if he didn't know that Krowl would obey his orders to the grave if that's where they took him. Having him on his knees like this was almost appealing.

He takes his cock in hand and pushes it against his brother's mouth, smearing precum across his lips with each slow, shallow rut. The wetness smooths his passage and when a roll of his hips catches his cockhead on Krowl's lip and parts them, his brother takes that as a silent order and opens his mouth for Kassar's pleasure.

He doesn't push in right away. Instead he teases himself on Krowl's slicked lips and pushes a boot between his brother's legs.

He's soft. Kassar can only guess it's because nothing he'd ordered Krowl to do necessitated him getting hard.

Krowl keeps his mouth open, slaved to the order he was given. It's tempting to indulge in him, but he holds himself like an amateur and Kassar's in no rush to explain to A'khassor that he'd cut his cock open on Krowl's teeth. Not only would it make for a poor ending to this tryst, but their Apothecary would never let him live it down. Worse, Kyphas would know.

"Tongue out," Kassar grunts, "And mind your teeth."

Krowl adjusts.

Kassar pushes his fingers into Krowl's mouth, probing. He tests the invitation his brother has made of himself and- upon finding it satisfactory- withdraws his fingers and inserts his cock. Again he tries not to think about the way pushing into the wet heat of Krowl's unresponsive mouth is doing more for him than Sha'dor's, or D'sakh's, or even Phalk'ir's.

Of the three, Sha'dor was by far the most talented. He'd known how to move his tongue in ways that had Kassar swearing behind clenched teeth and doubling over, his self control nearly overwhelmed. D'sakh had been notable for the trust he'd given Kassar, laying them both out on their sides so each could take the other into their mouth and exchange a mutual pleasure. Phalk'ir he'd just enjoyed shutting up, fucking so deep into his throat that he'd been gagging on it, drooling messily around Kassar's heft and blinking tears away.

They were the most notable times he'd had a brother's mouth, and they'd been undeniably good, but Krowl…

Throne. He really doesn't want to think about why having Krowl sit still and take it like he has no other purpose beyond what Kassar orders him to do is getting him this worked up. It's almost embarrassing the way he's already leaking precum into his brother's mouth- and how watching it spill out over his lips and down his chin only makes Kassar's dick more interested.

Krowl's mouth is inviting if only in how obedient it is. Kassar feeds him his cock and meets no resistance, no reaction, not even when he pushes his hips flush with Krowl's face and grinds into his mouth. It's good. Better than good; having a cocksleeve that doesn't think letting Kassar fuck its face is going to make him come embarrassingly quickly if he isn't careful-

He groans and swears he can hear the clicking of Kyphas' lenses adjusting in response.

His cock drips as he pulls out of Krowl's mouth and he coaxes his jaw wider with a thumb to admire the way his precum looks when it's decorating his tongue. Still he gets no reaction. His brother is immobile, obedient, and he keeps his mouth open.

How is Kassar supposed to resist.

A hand wrapped around the base of his cock helps guide it back to Krowl's lips and Kassar issues a new order as he eases way back into his brother's mouth.

"Suck."

Krowl, as always, obeys.

Chapter Text

The sound of the door locking is deafeningly loud in the silence of Usiel's quarters.

That little barrier cuts the room and its occupants off from the outside world, creating a private little bubble all Dhargon's own. The object of his interests- his reason for throwing aside all risk of censure and sneaking through the Dark Angel barracks in the dead of night- sleeps only feet away, curled under his blankets. He's half on his back, brown hair splayed around him like a halo. The hint of pale skin that peaks out over his collar begs to be exposed.

At his side, Dhargon's fingers twitch with the urge to touch.

It's a stupid thing to want. If his brothers knew what he was doing in the name of getting his hands on something soft they'd laugh him out of the Chapter- but he can't help it. Every time his mind is given space to think it ends up drifting back to the way it had felt to hold Usiel down in the practice cages, and the thought of getting to touch him, skin to skin, is driving Dhargon to madness.

Fuck his brothers. This is something he wants, and he's going to take it. Who cares if it's stupid- that he's strong enough to move to make it his is reason enough to indulge. It's what they all do.

This isn't weakness, Dhargon reiterates to himself as he moves to the edge of Usiel's bed.

Something about the way Usiel's face has softened in his sleep is…appealing for reasons he can't put name to, and it makes his stomach twist with something he knows is want but feels like shame. Softness is antithetical to what his Chapter is- to what he is. And yet, when he reaches out and slides a lock of hair behind one of Usiel's ears, he knows he'll go mad if he doesn't take it.

And he can take it. Can turn softness into conquest if he wants to.

Besides, he'd already come all this way; he wasn't going to let himself wimp out just because the thought of getting a bit of skin to skin in a weird way was making him feel- …feel something. He wasn't sure what. He wasn't going to care right now either, or he really would be worthy of laughter.

In one smooth motion he pulls Usiel's blankets to the floor. Predictably he's fully clothed, even when he sleeps, and the rustle of fabric as he adjusts to the sudden loss of warmth is almost as loud as the pounding of Dhargon's hearts. Usiel's brows knit, and Dhargon smooths the crease out with a thumb.

Not gentle, just making him look how he wanted him. Unaware. Vulnerable.

Another flash of unnamed emotion is pushed down as Dhargon eases himself into the bed. The foresight to come in nothing but a bodyglove and a helmet was serving him well. The bed dips, but doesn't bow, and Usiel barely reacts when Dhargon throws a leg over him and settles atop his waist to admire the view from a little higher up. Usiel looks good like this, spread pliant under him. The little rise and fall of his chest is a lure and the way his shirt's lowest button has come undone is the hook.

How could anyone expect not to get caught.

Dhargon's fingers sneak their way under the hem of Usiel's shirt, and the first brush of skin to skin feels electric. A conquest and a taboo concentrated in his fingertips, then blooming across his palms as he presses them flat to Usiel's sides and begins easing them up his body in slow, greedy exploration. A grin tugs at his lips, more instinctive than genuine, twitching them up into an unsteady expression. Stupid becomes daring as he finally, finally lays his hands on the skin that had been tempting him into action, and he revels in the casual dominance of it. Usiel doesn't protest because he can't. He lays back, unaware of the way Dhargon indulges in tracing each dip of his torso as he pulls his shirt higher with each probing press of his hands.

He's just as soft as Dhargon had imagine he'd be. Supple, smooth- nearly hairless; it feels good to touch him. The dip of his flanks accept Dhargon's hands so readily, tempting him to settle them there and simply hold him. He guides his hands over their curves and up to Usiel's stomach, letting his fingers trail across relaxed muscles and press, ever so slightly, against his flesh, privately delighting in the small way it gives against him. Higher still, across his fused ribs. His shirt follows Dhargon's hands up until they brush against his chest, then pause.

It isn't inhibition that stills his hands, but greed.

Dhargon wants to see the skin he touches. He wants to taste it. He can feel the subtle way Usiel's body eases into each probing press of his hands and wants, desperately, to set his eyes on it. Worse, he sees the way Usiel's lips have parted, plump and tempting, around small, almost inaudible breaths, and wants to taste them.

He can feel his own breaths echoing heavily in his helmet as he gets his hands around it and begins to ease it off. The sensation of sliding it over his head is nearly as intimate as the way he'd touched Usiel, and the unpleasant feeling of vulnerability that comes with being so exposed is only tempered by the knowledge that the only other person in this room was fast asleep. After he opens his eyes and blinks to adjust them to the dark, he finds that Usiel looks just as appealing when he sees him without a lens display in the way.

He ignores that thought in favor of getting his hands on him again.

Cupping Usiel's cheek is easy despite the way the gentleness of the motion makes his stomach flop. Usiel eases into this touch just the same as all the others, unconsciously pressing into the palm of his hand. It's even easier to turn his face up so that Dhargon can see the way his lips curve under the sweeping press of his thumb as he runs it over his lower lip, teasing them apart. He can feel little, vulnerable breaths tickling his skin and dips his head to get a taste.

Pressing their lips together feels like the height of taboo when it's done so gently. Just another thing he can't help but indulge in.

His hands work at the buttons of Usiel's shirt as he explores his mouth, guiding him open with slow, lazy kisses. Truthfully he spends more time indulging in the plushness of his lips than properly kissing him, taking his pleasure in the way they feel pressed against his own.

He doesn't know if the kissing is a distraction from the careful way he undoes Usiel's shirt or if being careful with his shirt is a distraction from the way he eagerly swallows every little breath Usiel makes, but he soon finds himself pulling back to admire his handiwork- both the smooth expanse of skin he's exposed for his viewing pleasure and the glistening, well-kissed lips that beg to be taken again. And, well. Dhargon's never been a man capable of ignoring his wants.

He catches Usiel's lips with his own again, guiding them into a few more indulgent kisses as his hands resume their eager exploration. They don't pause at Usiel's chest this time. Without the barrier of cloth in the way they're quick to grab his pecs and knead, letting him feel the way sleep relaxes his muscles and turns every part of him soft and pliant.

In another moment of greed he humors the idea of fucking them.

He wants, in a way he usually only does for a stimm and a fight, to feel his cock brushing Usiel's lips each time he pushes it between his tits. But he also wants, in that same way, to keep kissing him. The idea of pulling his mouth off of Usiel for even a moment is unconscionable.

Some part of him still rails against this. Says that this…gentleness doesn't become him. But Usiel feels so good under him, and that would be worrying if he wasn't shoving the thought aside so it didn't ruin the moment.

He takes another, languid kiss, then moves lower. More kisses press to his jawline, then his throat, trailing down as Dhargon lets his hands roam. The scar that winds around Usiel's throat he lavishes with attention, as if by getting his mouth on his neck and sucking bruises over knife-cuts he could somehow overwrite its claim with his own. A needy little sound escapes Usiel as Dhargon kisses the winged skull set center over his throat, and he rewards it with another press of his lips.

Hands come to rest in the dips of Usiel's flanks again, stroking the skin there. He wants to see more, to touch more, his greed once again driving him to further undress the object of his desires.

Dhargon slides himself off Usiel's hips in favor of hooking his fingers in Usiel's waistband and pulling down, easing his sleeping body into the sensation with more lazy kisses. Collarbone, chest, then lower as he guides Usiel's trousers down over his knees. Stomach, just above the trail that leads down to his cock. Hips, where the definition of muscle is softened by a healthy layer of fat. He kisses him there again, just for the novelty of it, then trails lower again.

Pants are discarded somewhere in the darkness and Dhargon wastes no time running his hands over Usiel's thighs, marveling at the uncoiled strength he can feel under the softness that his fingers press into. The subtle way they tense when Usiel groans and shifts under him sends a bolt of need straight between his legs.

Another thing to pretend he'll think about later instead of not at all.

A kiss is pressed to Usiel's leg, just over the Nostraman writing that trails up his inner thigh. His cock is half hard and close enough that if Dhargon turns his head he could kiss that too, and the thought is tempting- but he wants his mouth somewhere else tonight. When Usiel's thighs relax into his hold he spreads them open, their pliancy another temptation that settles in his core. He can't decide if he wants to push them together and fuck them or settle in between them and get his mouth on them- but he's already parted them, and the view is such a nice one.

Usiel's head has turned to the side and a flush has crept across his cheeks and down his neck, vibrant against his pale skin despite the darkness. His chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful pace, but his breaths are deep and his hips move in the dazed, half-urge of the sleeping; whatever he dreams of when he feels Dhargon touch him is pleasant enough to chase. Small, needy sounds fall freely from his lips when Dhargon squeezes the flesh of his thighs. When he eases himself between them, he has to pet them soothingly to tease pliancy back into their owner and keep them laying limp instead of twitching shut around him.

So desperate for contact…

Dhargon settles his hands on Usiel's hips again. They feel made for that purpose; to be held by him, their curves encouraging him to linger and grab. He tightens his grip and watches skin indent under his fingers. Usiel shifts under his hands, then relaxes as Dhargon pulls their bodies together. His legs splay open over Dhargon's thighs, and though they do that at Dhargon's behest, it feels like an invitation all the same.

Bowing over Usiel, Dhargon reaches for where he knows he keeps his oil. To muster the will to take a hand off him for even a moment feels herculean in its difficulty.

The little bottle is grabbed, uncapped, and warmed in Dhargon's palm before he sits back and spills a more-than-generous amount over Usiel hole. More still is squeezed out over his fingers, and he warms it further by rubbing them together when he hears the small, uncomfortable noise Usiel makes below him. He's quick to toss the bottle aside and get a hand on his hips again, rubbing soothing circles into the skin there with a thumb.

He waits just long enough for Usiel to settle into the comfort of the sensation before dragging his hand up to his cock. Maybe it's weird for him to marvel that he's soft even here, but the thought announces itself unbidden and lodges somewhere that won't let him shake it loose.

An oil-slicked finger rests against Usiel's entrance.

It's one thing to fondle him, to grab at the softness of his belly and thighs while he sleeps, but it's another to take his unconscious responses as invitation to fuck him. It hadn't been in the plan. The plan, for all that he ever planned anything, had been to get in, cop a feel, maybe jack off, then get out. It definitely didn't call for the way Dhargon strokes him and takes advantage of the way Usiel's body relaxes to push his finger in.

Usiel's eyes flutter. Plush lips form around a quiet moan.

Throne, it's not fair. Usiel's not even awake but he has Dhargon by the throat; he's soft everywhere. He takes Dhargon without so much as a twitch away, teasing him with his tight heat. He wants his cock in that before he leaves- needs it in a way he knows will haunt him if he doesn't indulge. Slow and purposeful; he wants to fuck Usiel so deep he'll still be leaking the results when he wakes up.

Another finger circles the rim of his hole and, when it meets no resistance, joins the first. Usiel makes another of his little noises, pleasant dreams sending his hips to chase Dhargon's fingers. Whatever part of his brain that translates pliancy as conquest and conquest as victory floods him with delight in response.

Time to revise that plan.

Chapter Text

Horus always looks commanding when he takes to his throne. Their brother has a presence all his own, a charisma that even in his simplest moments makes him a force that commands respect. To look upon Horus is to know loyalty; not from force, or fear, but awe. Desire, raw and pure. He makes others want to follow him, and does so with an effortless, strategic grace that rivals the best of their brotherhood. When he takes full advantage of his talent, he might even begin to rival their Father.

None are immune to it. Even the Lords of the XXth, for all their pride, feel the urge to kneel when Horus presents himself in all his glory.

They are not, however, frequently of a mind to do so.

That Horus has guided them both to their knees before him this day is a rarity indeed. Rarer still for the way they've allowed him to command them so openly, in the sweeping vastness of the Vengeful Spirit's bridge.

It had been emptied, of course. A condition of their submission, presented as a request their brother would dare not refuse lest he present himself as discourteous. Horus had flashed his charming grin and waved the crew away without a second thought, upending the days of hundreds of mortals and Astartes alike, just for the chance to have his brothers how he wanted them.

On their knees, in front of his throne.

They present an identical mirror of each other, from their matching set of scaled plate to the easy smiles set into both of their faces. They look up to Horus with half-lidded eyes, letting desire write itself openly on their features and in the way they each settle a hand on one of Horus' thighs, fingers placed just inwards enough to be suggestive, but not indecent.

He accepts the touch like it's his due, lounging back against his throne and exuding the easy confidence of a man secure in his control. His legs are spread wide enough to admit both their armored forms between them, and they'd taken the invitation as soon as it was given, following the unspoken order in synchrony that had placed a fond smile on their brother's lips.

Horus always liked it when he didn't have to speak to have his commands obeyed. Incentive and confidence went a long way in pleasing him, and he lets that pleasure be known in his voice when he taps his thigh and purrs Alpharius' name.

"Come here," He coaxes, and the Lords of the XXth catch the indescribably subtle shift in his focus.

He tests them. So confident is he that he knows his brothers that he believes he can tell them apart- that the secret of them, now revealed to him, can be lifted like a veil whenever he so chooses. He thinks he has their measure.

They think they ought to nurture that misconception.

Allowing Horus to have exactly what he wishes, they give him a tell.

It's nothing grand, a twitch of expression that's gone as quickly as it comes. Any other brother would think it a reaction to being pressed by the weight of Horus' focus, if they even noticed it at all. Not Horus. They see the way his grin widens as Alpharius begins to slide his hand further up his thigh and know that they have him.

"Brother." Horus speaks fondly, allowing the reprimand to soften into something bordering affection. "You would play your games with me?"

Alpharius' smile widens into something mischievous. "Games?" He asks, and his tone speaks of innocence despite the way his eyes gleam.

Horus sets his hand over his. It speaks to his aura that such a small motion can make Alpharius' hearts skip a beat, even as Horus guides his hand back to its original position on his thigh. The reprimand is gentle, the denial fond.

"I would have the correct brother answer when I call."

They both know what Horus thinks when he sets his eyes on Omegon and sees the little shudder that runs down his spine. He thinks that his beloved brother, that Alpharius, the secretive face of the XXth, delights in being caught by him- and only by him. That the brother he'd found and introduced to the Imperium takes his pleasure in being known by the man he'd first entrusted with his name.

In truth, Omegon enjoys the deception. To be falsely called by his twin's name is a pleasure almost exclusively his own, and Alpharius likes watching him bloom under the lie.

Omegon leans forward into the hand that reaches to cup his face, adopting an insouciant smile overtop his quiet amusement. "How did you know," He asks as Horus guides him in.

The casual dominance of the gesture extends beyond it, and Omegon works to free Horus from the confines of his armor even as he pushes his cheek into his brother's hand.

Horus' eyes glint. "That would be telling."

He pats Omegon's cheek, then rests his hands on the armrests of his throne. From where they kneel, he looks every bit the conquering warlord; a man content to survey his spoils of war, safe in the knowledge that they would work to please him.

And, to his credit, they do.

Omegon presses forward with the confidence they know Horus likes and takes him into his mouth. He presents his obedience eagerly, using his hand on what he cannot reach with his mouth. Alpharius waits for the permissive flick of Horus' fingers before trying to join him, but one of Horus' boots presses between his legs and stops him before he can get too close.

"Omegon," Horus chides. He manages to sound imperious even now, with his cock buried in one of his brother's mouths.

Alpharius looks up at his brother through his lashes. "Horus."

"Do you like seeing your brother pleasing me?" It's a filthy question presented casually, as though speaking of the man kneeling between his legs was no more unbecoming than making mention of the weather.

"Of course," Alpharius says, then suppresses a gasp as Horus' boot grinds against him.

Between Horus' legs, he hears Omegon moan, and knows it's from the deception more than the weight of their brother in his throat.

"And," Horus continues, his voice level and his tone inviting. "Do you think you deserve to join him?"

Were Alpharius in a different position, he'd expect this to be a trap. Even now it has the makings of one, presented to lure the object of Horus' attention into the response he desires. He makes a show of swallowing thickly, letting Horus see the bob of his throat.

"I think," He begins, allowing a bit of heat to slip past the mischief writ upon his face. "That I would like to. I won't apologize for our nature, but my brother and I know a way to make it up to you, Warmaster."

They both note the way Horus stiffens at the use of his title, briefly taken off guard by this newly given respect. The moment is there and gone in a blink, and Horus once again becomes that magnetic warlord confident in the taking of his due, relaxing against his throne and making a pleased rumble somewhere deep in his chest.

"I hope your tongue is as clever in practice as it is in theory." He grins and pats his thigh in invitation. "Come, show me what you're good for."

Alpharius obeys.

Omegon pulls off Horus' cock with an obscene sound. A thin string of spittle yet connects it to his lips, and Alpharius breaks it with his tongue before bowing low to press a hot, opened mouth kiss to their brother's length. Omegon echoes him, and they fall into a mirror of each other's efforts. They lick and suck, cataloguing each way they make Horus respond to their mouths.

They learn that he likes it when they play at eager submission. His fists had clenched on his armrests when Alpharius had taken him into his mouth deep enough to choke while Omegon had knelt lower and pressed his lips to where his twin couldn't reach. It had only been a moment, a tease of what Alpharius' mouth could provide him, but when he'd drawn off of Horus and licked his lips, cocky despite his submission, Horus had been leaking.

He'd guided Alpharius back down with a hand on his head, praising the quality of their work but telling them they weren't yet done; and so they'd pressed their mouths to him again and discovered more.

Horus had liked it best when their lips met on his cock, when they'd been distracted by each other and kissed sloppily around him. But they never left him wanting. He'd commanded them kneel for him and they had, turning their lust for each other into service of him each time they both chased the same drop of precum and meet each other's mouths.

They know he delights in their sameness- a sameness he thinks only he can parse. They humor him, clasping their hands around his cock and stroking him as they lean into each other and chase the taste of him in each other's mouths. They kiss for his pleasure- and their own- letting Horus see what he has made of them.

Both of them are hard inside their armor. Both of them ignore it, and know that Horus delights in that too.

He's kind enough to present a leg for them to grind on, but all three of them know it's because he wants to see the way he affects them. To see his brothers, so proud and secretive- reduced to openly grinding on what he pushes between their thighs.

They do, of course. Small, needy ruts of their hips that only serve to tease. In their armor, they get no relief.

They learn, then, that Horus likes hearing them moan around him. That he grinds his leg against them whenever they twitch their hips down in hopes of making them break around a gasp and grins his delight whenever he succeeds.

They also learn who's name he first calls when he gets close.

"Alpharius," Horus grunts, voice tight with controlled desire. Omegon moans his acknowledgement and they both note how Horus' eyes shine at what he sees as the automatic honesty of it.

The first time he comes it's into Omegon's mouth. It leaks from the corners of his lips as he draws back, keeping it trapped in his mouth until Alpharius catches him and takes his share of their prize. Above them Horus groans his approval as he watches their performance. He fists his cock, working himself up to hardness at the sight of his brothers enjoying the taste of him.

They take turns after that. Horus is generous enough to allow it, claiming Alpharius' mouth second and letting them both share in the third, painting their faces with his spend. He lets them rise then, one at a time, kissing the taste of himself off of their lips before pushing them back down to their knees.

He's hard again, Primarch stamina insatiable. The twins have yet to come once, and they know Horus can see the way it's taking its toll on them. Some of their grace has been abandoned in the face of their desire. Their faces, so often schooled into neutrality or half-amused mischief, now flush with need. They still smile slyly up at Horus, making a display of themselves for his pleasure- but an undercurrent of want runs through it, and they can't restrain themselves forever.

"One more," Horus promises as he guides their mouths back to his cock. "And you'll get your reward."

Chapter Text

People often assume that Valdor hates the Primarchs. This assumption is a poor one. To say he hates them is to reduce the complexity of his distaste to a simple, insufficient word; Valdor does not hate the Primarchs. He only hates one.

The worst of their 'brotherhood,' insufferably so. The first to ever walk the halls of the palace, the first to ever be graced with The Emperor's focus, the first to kill one of Valdor's men, and who- in his damnable displays of hubris- was the first to contrive an attack on his maker. The first to try flash his serpent's smile at Valdor in appeasement. The first to try and rip him from his duties to The Emperor for naught but his amusement.

The first to ever put a leash about his neck.

Valdor had never forgotten what it had felt like to have the Primarch of the XXth beneath his spear tip and at his mercies. The smugness on Alpharius' face had never left him, not even so close to death. A twitch and Valdor could have relieved The Emperor of one of the only mistakes he'd ever made.

At the time, staying his hand was his greatest regret.

Now, it was failing to notice the danger in the hands Alpharius had looped around his neck. There'd been a weight, a click, and then they'd withdrawn, a leash held fast between them.

At first, Valdor had just stared. In shock? In outrage?

Then Alpharius had flashed his serpent's smile and tugged, and everything had fallen apart.

This wasn't the first time Alpharius had coaxed Valdor into bed, but it was the first where he hadn't been swayed by the hate that Alpharius knows how to pull from him like no other. Never before had Alpharius shown the barefaced cheek needed to try and coax him with a collar.

Never before had he thought it would work.

Now Alpharius lounges back against his throne of pillows, making a king of himself when he should know he's nothing but a tool. Yet he holds Valdor's leash in hand, looped loosely around his palm, and wields it to expert effect. He commands Valdor's pace with the same effortless skill as- Throne forgive him for saying it- his maker. Valdor doesn't know why he allows it, only that each time the collar's weight readjusts around his neck he can't help but follow-

A sharp tug pulls him from ruminations, and he bares his teeth when he sees Alpharius leveling an insouciant little smile at him.

"Constantin- don't tell me you're distracted?"

Alpharius winds more of the leash around a finger and crooks it, pulling Valdor in with barely a hint of pressure at his neck.

Valdor opens his mouth to retort, but a silencing finger presses itself against his lips.

"Uh-uh," Alpharius tuts. "Good dogs don't speak."

Valdor wrenches his head away, lip curling. His leash goes taught in the Primarch's grip. "I am not your dog," He bites, and regrets it when he sees the way his denial pulls Alpharius' grin wider.

"Our dog?" He offers as correction, his tone so insufferably smug it makes Valdor want to take his throat in hand and squeeze until the only thing that comes out is a wheeze. "The family pet. Fitting, maybe I should get this engraved."

He palms Valdor's collar with mock affection, then drops his hand down to his thighs. They part, and his fingers tap them in invitation that turns to command when he pulls Valdor down by his leash.

"Enough stalling, Constantin. Get back to work."

How Alpharius has the gall to issue such orders, Valdor will never know.

He hates how easy it is to brace himself and lean into the weight around his neck, bowing to the Primarch lounging in his makeshift throne. He hates the way his body craves the command. Sinking back into Alpharius makes the Primarch moan, and he hates the sound of that too. He wants, desperately, to flip him over and push his face into the sheets, to take him hard and fast until he has him weeping with overstimulation and begging him to stop. He wants to hold him so tightly he bruises and wants to fuck the memory of the pain in so deep that Alpharius knows never to try this again- but he's a slave to the collar around his neck and he hates that most of all.

When Alpharius loops a guiding leg around his waist and pulls him close, he follows that command too.

The pace the Primarch demands of him is a rough one, as though he knows what Valdor wants and seeks to pervert it- to take what ought to be a punishment and pull pleasure from it. From him. He moans freely as Valdor fucks him, taunting him with his enjoyment. There's no mutuality- Valdor gives, Alpharius takes, making Valdor complicit in their mutual defilement.

The way Alpharius leans into the contact is obscene. He opens himself so willingly, taking Valdor with damning ease- less a tool, more a whore, and Valdor finds that he hates that too.

If Alpharius let himself be broken down into what he was meant to be instead of reaching beyond the bounds of his station, he'd have made a perfect hole. Hot, tight, squeezing Valdor in just the right way to make him want to push deeper. His hips are the perfect size to grab, they'd be easy handles to help pull him down onto Valdor's cock- to hold him still when he tried to squirm away. But instead he commands the obscenities of his body like they're a gift, forcing Valdor to bow low in service of his pleasure instead of the other way around.

His leash is tugged and he goes lower still, down to his elbows. He can feel Alpharius' breath tickle his ear when he makes his demands for more.

What else can Valdor do but obey that guiding lead and rut into the Primarch like an animal? He fucks him with a strength that would have broken a mortal in half, but Alpharius still sounds so damnably, insufferably, smug. He injects it into his moans, letting them spill from his lips like poisoned honey.

Valdor yearns to bite them- to silence him with his mouth if his hands cannot perform the deed, but something about the weight of the collar keeps him from lashing out, chaining his fury as much as it does his body.

A well aimed thrust has Alpharius clenching around him, and Valdor sinks his teeth into the meat of his neck just to muffle the way his body responds to it. Beneath him, he feels more than hears Alpharius' breathless laugh.

"Rabid beast," He breathes, looping his arms around Valdor's neck and pulling him close in some mockery of affection. "Did my Father never teach you not to bite?"

Valdor knows it doesn't help his case when he merely growls his displeasure into Alpharius' skin and keeps rutting.

If he squeezes his eyes shut he can almost pretend the noises Alpharius makes are of desperate, needy pain, unwanted yet forced upon him- but the fantasy is shattered by the pressure around his neck and the way Alpharius clings to him instead of trying to crawl away.

The hold they both have on him is maddening. For all that he'd snapped a denial of it, he very much feels like a collared hound with the way he services Alpharius with his cock. Their only points of contact are those that Alpharius initiates, trusting to Valdor's odd submission to keep his hands to himself; an animal brought to rut and used.

It's just one more thing to hate.

He adjusts them both, spreading Alpharius' thighs with his own in a way he knows from experience will have the Primarch angling his hips up for him. For more- and for all that Valdor despises his own obedience, he gives it gladly in this moment.

He relishes the way the smugness plastered on Alpharius' face breaks around a shock of pleasure as this new angle lets Valdor fuck him deeper still.

"Constantin," Alpharius gasps, his nails digging into Valdor's back. His embrace tightens. Valdor can feel the way he shudders as each thrust hits something inside of him that has him arching against Valdor, the leash pulled taut in an unending demand for more.

It feels good to fuck the arrogance from him, to feel his control slip. The leash still commands Valdor but he presses into the bounds of its control and gives Alpharius more than he bargained for with a hard, punishing pace that makes the Primarch cry his name again and again. He sings it like a mantra; Valdor could almost delude himself into thinking he was begging.

He knows when Alpharius peaks by the way he clenches around him, his whole body tensing as release overtakes him and he spills between their bodies. Valdor doesn't relent, pounding into him with the intent to see tears. If pain will not serve him in that endeavor tonight, then pleasure will.

Alpharius calls his name again, a strangled "Constantin-!" that sounds caught between a reprimand and a moan.

Valdor ignores him, biting down harder on the flesh between his teeth.

He treads a thin line between obedience and defiance, a tightrope walk that makes the weight around his neck feel heavier with each swaying step. He wants, in a way that only Alpharius drives him to want, to fuck the ego from him. To use whatever means available to see him broken down. Reduced. Reminded of his place.

He knows, distantly, that Alpharius goads him using his hate as a weapon. That each time he falls into bed with him and forces his legs open, the tears Alpharius sheds are serpentine. Fake. He puts on a pretty act, but neither of them are stupid.

This has always been Alpharius' game, and when the weight around his neck becomes so heavy that it feels as though it's impossible to move under the force of its control, he knows he's been pulled into a new version of it.

He stills above Alpharius, panting hard. He aches where he's buried inside of him, and he groans when Alpharius lazily rocks his hips down.

The leash is wound tight around the Primarch's hand again, its renewed aura of command absolute. A pointed tug gets Valdor to pull his teeth from his neck, and another sends him sitting back on his haunches.

Despite the way Alpharius had just used him- and been used, if only for a moment- he retakes his plush throne with ease. He doesn't look at all put out by the cum dripping down his stomach or the man still hilted inside of him, pressed so close their hips touch. If anything, he looks eminently pleased by his own defilement- no doubt because of the way he had coaxed Valdor into it.

Despite this, Alpharius sighs, affecting disappointment despite the way his eyes gleam with amusement.

"Off," He orders, flicking the leash.

The gesture shouldn't go directly to Valdor's dick, but it does, and he sees the way Alpharius smirks at the way he feels it twitch inside of him.

Damnably aware of the weight around his neck, he obeys.

His body protests the sudden absence of tight, wet heat. He does his best to martial his expression into something stoic, but knows the Primarch likely sees through his efforts with the same ease that Valdor sees through his games.

Alpharius looks him up and down, gaze lingering on his flushed cock. Need, no different than Valdor's, burns in his eyes.

"If I let you finish, are you going to remember how to behave?" Alpharius asks, giving the leash some slack.

He bows his head in silent agreement, and when Alpharius pushes his foot between Valdor's legs, he doesn't even need to be prompted to start rutting against it.

Valdor hates Alpharus, but most of all he hates how he wants him.

Chapter Text

Vulkan eases back against his couch. It's a soft thing, sturdy enough to hold the forms of more than one Primarch yet built to a standard of comfort. The wooden frame is carved with elegant, Nocturnian patterns, and the fabric of the upholstery is a thin, breathable material, dyed the same shade of green as his power armor.

He doesn't sink into the couch despite the weight of his armor, but its plushness welcomes him as he gets himself comfortable and hooks his arms over the backrest.

It's a position that speaks of comfort. To the eyes of the brother that stands before him, he knows it also speaks of vulnerability.

Mortarion watches him from behind the security of his panoply. His hood, pulled low, casts a shadow over his face that doesn't quite manage to dull the piercing gold hue of his eyes. They stare at Vulkan from over his rebreather, the one spark of vibrancy on his otherwise faded personage.

Vulkan notes the way those eyes linger on his arms and the openness in his posture. It would take him longer than usual to go for a weapon, positioned as he is. Should they come to blows- an event that Vulkan sorely hopes does not come to pass and yet knows Mortarion suspects as a potentiality- he would be at a disadvantage. He also, importantly, could not reach out to touch Mortarion without making an obvious movement.

But his brother would not appreciate him so openly stating his intent to put him at ease, so he hides it behind the veil of his own comfort and trusts that Mortarion will see to the truth of it.

They watch each other in silence that stretches overlong.

Vulkan, for all that he wishes to extend an open hand to his brother, knows that Mortarion bristles at nearly every attempt at social intimacy. He doesn't know if he discomforts his brother when he looks at him, yet worries that, if he looks away, he would be offering an unintended insult. He'd resolved to follow Mortarion's lead, and Mortarion was staring, so he was too.

He tries for a smile. A small quirk of his lips, framing it with a softened brow that he knows puts baselines at ease.

With Mortarion, all it does is make an eye twitch.

The rasp of his respirator and the quiet hum of power armor fill the room in lieu of voices. Vulkan longs to break the silence, but isn't sure how.

A few thin wisps of white hair fall across Mortarion's face as he turns his head to survey the rest of the room. He'd looked it over before entering and again when Vulkan had invited him to make himself comfortable; now he stands and busies himself with a third examination before he turns his narrowed gaze back to Vulkan.

His respirator clicks. "Why."

Mortarion's voice is deep and dry, filled with a suspicion that turns it as acidic as the poisons he drinks. He does not elaborate on his question, and while Vulkan has a few safe assumptions he does not want to chance an incorrect guess- though neither does he wish to ask for clarification and earn Mortarion's irritation should he assume the request a mocking one.

Vulkan wets his lips and sees Mortarion's eyes snap to the motion.

"I…desired to," Vulkan begins, and tries not to let too much of his caution seep into his voice. What little manages to tint his tone already has Mortarion bristling. "The offer was made in earnest, my brother. I would know you, if you would only let me."

"Why," Mortarion asks again, and this time the question is easier to parse.

Vulkan tries another smile and considers it a victory when Mortarion doesn't grimace at him. "Brotherhood, in part. I would know all of you in this way- but I do not wish to dissemble, even if by accident." Vulkan's gaze rises to catch his brother's. "I requested this of you because I wanted it, and because I thought you might as well, to whatever degree you find comfortable."

"To whatever degree I find comfortable," Mortarion echoes. "Meaning?"

"That I will ask no more of you than you are willing to give. If all you wish to do is sit by me, I will accept it happily. If you do not wish to participate at all, I will not judge you for your departure."

Mortarion's eyes narrow further as he thinks the offer over. Vulkan does not doubt his interest; that he'd humored Vulkan's invitation to share intimacy at all spoke clearly to that. The Pale King would not have come here just to deny him.

Still, seeing Mortarion reaching for his scythe has Vulkan commanding his body to stillness. He would not tense and offer insult, both for the sake of his brother and for the standards of hospitality he means to uphold.

Silence is a brutal weapon, but there is beauty in its violent, utilitarian form. It gleams in the firelight as Mortarion wraps armored fingers around its haft and pulls it from his back, twisting it in his grip with practiced fluidity until he holds it upright. It clinks as he rests it on the ground. Vulkan sees his grip tighten around it as he holds some silent debate within his own mind- then he strides forward, quick despite the bulk of his armor, and leans the weapon against one of the couch's armrests in an echo of the trust Vulkan had shown him.

A burst of fondness warms Vulkan's chest. He has to remind himself to stay still, lest his desire to pull his brother into an embrace be acted upon in a manner he surely would surely not approve of.

He does not speak his thanks, but when Mortarion's fingers slip off his weapon and he steps away from it, Vulkan makes sure to catch his gaze and offer him another soft smile.

That Mortarion does not break eye contact upon seeing his expression feels like another victory.

Instead his brother captures his gaze with his own, staring into the glowing embers of his eyes with something akin to a challenge- but Vulkan can't miss the trepidation that lurks beneath it. It's a subtle thing, buried beneath Mortarion's pride, but Vulkan is intimately familiar with the way people look at him with any emotion aligned to fear. He picks it out, notes it, and considers offering another honest reassurance-

But before he can decide on a course of action, Mortarion is climbing onto the couch and lowering himself down into Vulkan's lap.

That- …that, Vulkan did not expect.

It's clearly not a position Mortarion is entirely comfortable with. He sits stiffly, his hands twitching as though he isn't sure where to rest them. Their armor creates an awkward barrier between them, further accentuating Mortarion's second problem. He's one of their taller brothers; when they stand shoulder to shoulder, he inches out above Vulkan by a hair's width. That height is another thing he struggles to make sense of in this new position, unsure if he should bow to meet Vulkan's level or sit upright and let himself rise a head and some change above him.

"Intimacy…" Mortarion lets the word drip from his lips like venom. Discomfort lends his tone more bite than usual. He still has yet to settle his hands anywhere comfortable, but he's made the decision not to stoop.

His weight rests lightly on Vulkan despite the bulk of his armor, as if he eschews this new form of contact. Vulkan suspects that he'd pushed himself to a relative extreme with this just the same as he did in all things- as show of endurance, testing his will the way he tested his body with his poisons.

Vulkan isn't sure if he likes that, but it's only supposition. His brother may simply be…awkward.

"You could rest your hands on me," He offers as guidance.

"I know how this works," Mortarion snaps, but he rests his hands on Vulkan's breastplate despite his display of irritation. "Besides. 'To whatever degree I find comfortable,' remember?"

Vulkan nods.

A rattling exhale is Mortarion's only response. His gaze has dropped from Vulkan's face down to where his hands rest on Vulkan's chest, fingers splayed over warm metal. Some of the tenseness in his whipcord frame has eased, though only just.

Vulkan finds himself overcome with a desire to reach out to him. He has never been one to restrain his affections, but Mortarion always expressed a discomfort with the kind of physicality Vulkan longs to lavish on his brothers. The embrace he had offered him upon their first meeting had been enough to illicit open disgust.

Efforts were being made on both their parts in this moment.

Behind the backrest, Vulkan's fingers twitch. "Brother, may I touch-"

"No." The denial is instant. Mortarion hisses the word without even looking up, but Vulkan feels him tense again.

A moment passes between them. Vulkan doesn't move; neither does Mortarion.

To Vulkan, the silence feels oppressive; he wonders if his brother feels the same. Perhaps not entirely, because when Vulkan proves his willingness to respect Mortarion's denial, his brother relaxes again. He slowly comes to rest his full weight on Vulkan's lap, another gesture of trust that has his hearts racing.

"You wanted to know me, so sit still and learn."

Armored hands slide up Vulkan's breastplate and over his gorget. There is…an attempt at sensuality, made as though the knowledge was there but the experience wasn't, and that sets a fluttering in Vulkan's chest. He only hopes Mortarion doesn't notice the way his fondness must soften his expression when his brother's hands come to rest by his neck.

They linger there, contemplative. One shifts up, adjusting to cup Vulkan's jaw. Mortarion presses his fingers into the skin beneath them, golden eyes narrowed on those small points of contact. They twitch to follow the way skin indents under his thumb as he sweeps it over Vulkan's cheek and brushes it across his lower lip.

Vulkan looks to his brother's face and sees his jaw working under his mask and his brow furrowed. There's a sharp focus in him that Vulkan inexplicably finds charming.

Mortarion's eyes flick up to meet his and issue a silent warning. Vulkan thinks it a chastisement for the fondness that his brother must have no doubt read in him, but finds his assumption quickly corrected when Mortarion pulls his free hand off his neck. It reaches up to depress some mechanism in his rebreather and it unseals with a pneumatic hiss. Odd, near-colorless vapors flow from it as he pulls it from his face to reveal strong, pale features made gaunt by malnourishment and a constant inhalation of toxins. Scars that Vulkan had only ever seen half of now lay exposed in full. Chemical burns and lacerations, peeled skin and partially exposed muscle, all crossed with the subtle lines of a Primarch's thwarted attempt at healing.

Vulkan finds his eyes drawn to his lips. They're thin and chapped, drawn up into a permanent sneer by a deep scar and currently pressed together into a thin line of displeasure that threatens to turn into a frown. An adjustment in Mortarion's jaw pulls them into an odd expression and Vulkan realizes he must be biting on his inner lip.

It's almost shocking to be able to see so much of Mortarion's face. How much has he grown used to expressing behind the privacy of his rebreather? Is he even aware of the expressions he makes? Aware of the way he makes Vulkan want to lurch forward and kiss the worry from him?

His body must have tensed beneath Mortarion for his brother abruptly sneers and drops his rebreather at Vulkan's side in favor of placing a hand on his chest and shoving him further against the backrest.

"Don't," Mortarion hisses. His voice is clearer without the metallic rasp of the rebreather in the way.

Vulkan purposefully lets his body ease into Mortarion's manipulation of it, an animal rolling to show its belly in submission. "I did not mean anything by it," He begins, but finds his words abandoning him when Mortarion tips his chin up and leans in close. He swallows thickly and sees Mortarion follow the bob of his throat.

A thin strand of hair falls across Vulkan's cheek. Mortarion drags his gaze back to his. "I know."

And then his brother's lips are on his.

He kisses slowly, with little grace and even less experience. His grip is tight on Vulkan's jaw, holding him steady as Mortarion begins his exploration. There's nothing soft about him, but each time their lips press together it makes something in Vulkan's hearts flutter. Mortarion presses himself against him with the same determination he shows in battle, as if he wants nothing more than to master this art in a single, breathless kiss.

There's something sensual about the trust Mortarion shows in doing this, in letting Vulkan see the vulnerability of his face and his inexperience. Again he finds himself wanting to take Mortarion in his arms, but he keeps himself steady and allows his brother this new experience of intimacy at the pace he sees fit to set.

Mortarion's mouth tastes of something acrid and chemical, and when his tongue swipes across Vulkan's lips he's quick to chase the taste.

Their tongues brush together and Mortarion breaks from him with a gasp, cheeks flushed and lips glistening. He stares at Vulkan for half a moment before dipping down and crushing their lips together again.

Slow exploration is abandoned. The Lord of Death swallows down Vulkan's pleased rumble and lets his tongue be guided into Vulkan's mouth. He holds Vulkan's face with both hands, silver hair falling from its confines to surround them like a veil. It's soft on Vulkan's skin where his brother's lips are rough and demanding, adapting to this new talent with the quick skill that only a Primarch can manage.

Mortarion keeps them pulled together until the world grows dizzy. He breaks only to allow Vulkan a breath of air before dipping back down for more.

Vulkan can feel his brother's grip tighten and the way his breath hitches suddenly. A flash of alarm rings clear in his mind, but Mortarion refuses to draw away. He treats this intimacy as a test of endurance, demanding the most of his laboring lungs and the brother beneath him.

But his lungs do labor. Vulkan can feel it when Mortarion seizes above him and breaks away, eyes squeezed shut and groping blindly for his rebreather. He labors with the struggle of the drowning, and Vulkan breaks from the rule of stillness he'd followed until now and pushes his brother's mask into his searching hands.

It speaks to Mortarion's need that he isn't instantly reprimanded for the aid or for the steadying hand he places on Mortarion's hip.

His brother pushes his rebreather over his mouth and sucks in a deep, rattling breath. Vapor spills from the seams where it isn't sealed properly against skin, the color more vibrant than when he'd first removed it.

"…Mortation," Vulkan chances, rubbing his hand up and down his brother's armored flank. "Are you well?"

A grimace is his answer, exposed now that Mortarion has dropped his rebreather back down. He breathes heavily, but he doesn't seem harmed.

"Fine," He grunts. "But that's the end of things."

Vulkan quirks a brow. His hand stills its soothing motions. "Because you needed to breathe from your mask? Or because you no longer wish to continue?"

Mortarion must have finally noticed Vulkan's hand on him. He's quick to swat it off. "Because I'll choke if I don't and you'll choke if I do."

"And if I do not find that such a difficult price to pay?" Vulkan gathers Mortarion's rebreather in his hand again. Lingering curls of vapor swirl in the air as he holds it up to his brother. "I may not be famed for endurance in the same way you are, but I am still a Primarch. I will not break."

Mortarion looks skeptical. "Break? No. Convulse, more likely. Your throat will close and you'll struggle to breathe. It will feel like fire floods your lungs."

"I am accustomed to the bite of flames."

"Not like this."

"And if I wish to experience it?"

"Then you're a fool," Mortarion snaps, then grimaces. His jaw works in the way that tells Vulkan he's chewing on the inside of his lip again. A moment of thought later and he sighs. "Why."

Vulkan shrugs. "Because I would like to keep kissing you. I said I would know you in this way, and I stand by that statement. And if this-" He holds up the rebreather. "-Is such a vital part of you, I would know you through it too."

He isn't sure how to describe what Mortarion's face does when he's finished speaking. Too many emotions flood it for him to make any sense of them, mixing together into an odd expression that his brother is quick to replace with something approaching his usual frown. He takes his rebreather back from Vulkan and turns it over in his hand, staring at its interior.

"Your sons won't forgive me if I kill you."

"Then it is a good thing I will not die."

He counts it as another victory when his brother snorts in something approaching amusement.

"Cocky and stupid," Mortarion chastises, but his usual acidic bite is absent. He presses his rebreather over Vulkan's mouth and commands him, "Breathe."

Vulkan does. He trusts that Mortarion will know when it's enough and so takes deep, steady breaths.

True to his brother's words, the vapors burn as he inhales them. His body screams its rejection as he keeps drawing more into his lungs, and he finds his focus by locking his gaze with Mortarion's narrowed, golden eyes.

Heat burns in them as surely as it burns in Vulkan's chest. The pain and the pressure of the rebreather pressing into his skin is unbearably intimate; he almost doesn't want his brother to ever pull it away.

Each breath pushes the heat around his body. It melts into his skin, fusing with him in a way that feels inviolable. The first breath of clean air he takes as the rebreather is pulled back is both agony and relief, but he only gets the one. Mortarion's mouth sets upon him, and Vulkan can't help the way he moans when he feels Mortarion stealing the poisoned air from his lungs.

The kiss is a heated thing in an entirely different way than before. Passion and pain meld into something Vulkan can't separate. He lets Mortarion tip his head back and settle a hand over his throat- and only understands why when he feels the way the poison begins the true test of its effects. Breathing becomes a challenge irrelevant of the way his brother takes his mouth, and the muscles of his throat tense as his body tries and fails to pull in the oxygen it needs to function.

Vulkan is a Primarch, his biology is meant to withstand such things, but it's as though the poison has emptied his lungs. They burn, demanding air he cannot give them. Around his neck, Mortarion's fingers peel down the collar of his bodyglove and press themselves armor to skin.

Another failed attempt at drawing in a breath and his brother groans into his mouth.

The world in front of Vulkan's eyes has begun to swim. His brother's mouth is still on him, the coolness of his lips the only relief Vulkan has from the burn that has suffused his body. He tries to keep his hands to himself, he truly does, but the animal part of his brain that fears death by suffocation has them grabbing Mortarion by the hips and holding tight.

Blackness dances at the edges of his vision.

He thinks, distantly, that he can feel his brother's tongue in his mouth.

He still trusts him. Mortarion had intimate knowledge of his poisons- he would not let him die.

Vulkan gives him his faith even as Mortarion drinks in each struggling not-breath and kisses his lips until they're tender. He holds Vulkan over the edge of the abyss, pushing him as far as he can go before the coolness of his lips suddenly vanishes and leaves Vulkan wanting.

He tries to make a questioning sound but nothing comes out. Instead, fingers push into his mouth and hold it open for the cool flood of liquid that suddenly gets poured down his throat.

To cough is instinctive, but his mouth is forced shut and his nose pinched until a baser, more urgent instinct commands him to swallow. It's one of the most difficult things he's ever done. His body feels like it's rejecting the liquid, shutting his throat to deny it all but a slow, trickling entry. It takes an eternity for it to make it down his gullet, but whatever it had been loosens his throat just enough to let him claw in a deep, shuddering breath.

He feels like a drowning man breaching the waves. Sweat drips down his face and- for the first time in his life- his armor feels too hot. The damning pressure in his throat is gone but the heat still remains, threatening to build to an inferno and shut him tight again.

Mortarion stares at him. His eyes gleam, alight with an interest Vulkan has never seen on him before. When he speaks, his voice dips low into registers that Vulkan's oxygen-starved mind translates as lust.

"A quarter dose of antitoxin; enough for momentary relief. I could give you the rest now, or…" A pale tongue wets his lips. "I could work you through the rest of what I introduced to your system. Let it peak and dose you again."

He pets fondly over Vulkan's exposed throat, and Vulkan shudders at the twisted intimacy of it.

"There's enough in you to keep you here for hours."

Vulkan can already feel his throat beginning to tighten again, but he sends his brother an open grin and finds it matched with something wide-eyed and eager.

"My night is free," He pushes out from a raw, protesting throat.

"No," Mortarion corrects as his air flow crawls to a stop. "Your night is mine."