sylestine-redacted

[sylestine-redacted]

You take the heat with such grace My boys Douglas and Willow having a harmless tussle on the forest floor, nothing untoward happening here.

[sylestine-redacted]

Gasping and wheezing

By genichiro_cute

[sylestine-redacted]

Me: I’ll write something romantic

Also me: “Your cunt helplessly open.” “Give me your fucking tears.”

Anyways I love writing

[sylestine-redacted]

The Blooded Rite pt 2

f!reader x psyker!astartes

direct continuation of part 1

A/n: hope it's not too repetitive hehe, lmk if you enjoyed

Cw: NSFW, fingering, size difference, overstimulation, intercourse, power dynamics

You walk. Slow. Barefoot now, robe loose, thighs slick with your own need.

You approach the altar like a bride.

When you reach it, he stops behind you.

"Lie down," he says. His voice is lower now. A rasp dragged across your soul. You think you hear teeth behind it.

You obey.

The stone greets your back like breath — warm and yielding in a way it shouldn’t be. It cradles your spine. It hums beneath your shoulder blades. And when your legs fall open, they do so like the petals of a flower preparing to be pollinated.

And he is there.

Crouched. Looming.

Between your thighs.

Not touching. Not even speaking — yet.

Just watching.

Your hips twitch.

And finally, finally, he speaks.

Not in Gothic. Not in Low Speech.

A language that cracks when it lands.

Thick. Wet. Primordial.

The first word isn’t a sound. It’s a penetration.

It drives into your clit like a shockwave, and your whole body jumps.

Your pussy contracts so hard it aches.

Your legs spasm, but you don’t close them.

You can’t. You try, but he’s already between them, his aura holding you open.

“Don’t move,” he growls. “You’re being written.”

Your back arches.

He places his hand on your belly — low. Firm.

And speaks again.

The second word follows on its heels. Short. Bladed.

It slides down the length of your folds like a thumb dragging through soaked cunt, and you feel it bloom in the place just behind your pubic bone, where the body gives up and lets the soul curl up to scream.

Your moan is shredded.

It leaves your mouth like a sob chewed in half.

Your hands scrabble at the altar, finding nothing.

He leans forward.

Not to kiss.

To speak into your cunt.

“You’re ready,” he growls.

And his breath—oh God-Emperor, his breath—brushes your clit as the next phrase falls from his lips.

Not a word now. A sentence.

And you open.

Your cunt flowers, your body reacting like a beast in heat. Your back arches. Your mouth falls open in a wet, broken cry. You don’t just want him inside you — you want to be inhabited. Claimed.

Branded.

His hand presses down on your lower belly.

Flat. Broad. Gauntlet cool against your burning skin, it holds you in place.

"You are the altar now," he says.

And then: another word.

Your womb clenches.

Not pain. Not orgasm. Something worse.

Something better.

It feels like a voice spiraling down into your guts, curling around your uterus like a hand gripping a chalice. Your thighs shake. Your vision flickers. You feel something being written into you.

A phrase. A name.

Not yours.

His.

And then—

He growls.

Not a word.

An animal sound.

Low. Dominant. Possessive.

And you break.

Your cunt grips nothing — hard. Like it expects to be filled. Like it’s screaming why aren’t you inside me? but your mouth is only moaning, sobbing, gasping for air.

Your body is burning.

Sweat pools beneath your back.

Your thighs are shaking so hard they slam against the altar’s edge.

And still—no touch.

Only language. Only breath. Only devotion as invasion.

And then—

He whispers it.

One final word.

And it’s so low, so raw, so deep, it doesn’t hit your ears at all.

It hits your cervix.

It lands inside you like a cock, thick and commanding and perfect. And your whole body goes rigid, your mouth opening in a scream that never comes, your aura shattering outward like a nova.

You don’t just cum.

You convulse.

A full-body, wet, sobbing orgasm that rips out of you like a death scream and birthcry all at once. Your cunt gushes onto the altar, your body spasms uncontrollably, your mind goes white.

Blank.

Gone.

Taken.

And Vaeron?

He leans over you. Massive. Breathing heavy. Eyes burning.

“You're mine now,” he says.

And you are.

...

You don’t remember how long you’ve been lying there.

The altar is soaked beneath your thighs — the stone dark with slick, heat rising in waves off your skin. You’ve gone still, but not from peace.

You’re wrecked.

Your cunt is empty, sore from clenching around nothing. You can still feel his words inside you — phrases echoing through your core like sacred rot. You're wide open. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. And the space inside you?

It aches to be used.

Vaeron stands over you.

Breathing steady.

Massive.

Silent.

You feel the heat from his body before he moves — a furnace that rolls over your skin, oppressive and electric.

And then—

He places his gauntlet on your thigh.

Real.

Touch.

You sob.

The contact isn’t rough. It isn’t sharp. It’s whole. The weight of his hand, the armor still warm from his body, holding you there. A grounding. A command.

“You’re ready now,” he says, voice low, nearly reverent.

You nod — tiny, broken.

“Say it.”

You shiver.

“I’m yours.”

He leans down — mouth at your temple.

“No. Say what you are.”

Your lips tremble.

“I’m…” you swallow. “I’m your altar.”

His breath shudders.

And then — he touches you.

Not just a palm on skin.

His fingers slide down between your legs — slow, deliberate, through the slick heat that’s dripped from you for hours. They part your folds like he’s drawing back the veil of a sacred reliquary. He touches your cunt with weight. With intention.

You arch up into it. You mewl.

And he says nothing.

Because this isn’t fucking.

This is insertion.

He presses two thick, gloved fingers against your entrance.

And waits.

Your body reaches for them.

And he finally — slowly — pushes in.

Real.

Solid.

Filling.

You cry out — wet, loud, grateful — as your cunt spreads for him. There’s no easing into it. No teasing. No question.

He takes your inside the same way he took your mind: slowly, completely, without letting you deny him.

“You’re mine,” he says, thrusting in deeper. “Not just in thought. Not just in obedience.”

His fingers curl.

“You’re mine inside.”

You writhe. Your body can’t stop clenching. You feel his fingers drag over the front wall of your cunt and your body sings. A low, animal whimper escapes your lips.

He fucks you with them. Slow. Thick. Claiming.

No pleasure games.

Just possession.

“You’ve taken my voice into your cunt,” he growls. “Now take my hand. Take my mark.”

He pushes in to the knuckle. You sob. Your hips lift. And he holds there.

You can’t stop shaking. You’re grinding on his fingers now, hips bucking, eyes wet, lips open.

And then he leans over you. One massive hand braced beside your head. The other still buried inside you.

He whispers against your mouth:

“Do you want more?”

You don’t speak.

You nod.

And that’s when he says it.

The final word.

The command.

The trigger.

You don’t understand it.

But your cunt does.

You cum again.

Hard.

Harder than before.

Because now you're filled.

Now he’s inside.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps his fingers in you, pressing, curling, owning.

He keeps his mouth near yours — not kissing.

Breathing you.

“You’ll remember this,” he says. “Every time you cum.”

...

Time passes, or stops. You can't tell.

All you know for sure is that you’re still stretched. Still full.

Two of his massive fingers, gauntleted and hot from your soaked heat, buried deep in your cunt. They press against your front wall with the weight of intention, not thrusting — not anymore — just resting.

Like a sword laid reverently on the altar it just blessed.

Your thighs twitch helplessly.

The ache in your core has shifted. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s glowing. Like a coal banked behind your pubic bone, smoldering, waiting. Every muscle in your pelvis is tight — drawn up around him, like your body’s afraid he’ll leave.

But he doesn’t move.

He watches you.

One hand buried in your cunt.

The other braced beside your head, his looming body caging you in heat and shadow. He’s not just over you — he’s above you. Like the weight of heaven preparing to press down.

You’re panting.

Sweat beads on your collarbone, sliding down between your breasts. Your skin feels raw, not from pain, but from how open your nerves are. Your nipples are red, swollen, aching — stiff from the vault’s chill and your own unmet hunger.

He feels it.

He watches every twitch of your belly, every roll of your hips, every broken gasp you give when you try to move and realize — you’re already moving.

Grinding.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

Your body fucking his fingers without permission.

He smiles.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "You haven’t even noticed what you’re doing."

You sob.

"I—"

"You’re moving like you want to cum." he says, tilting his fingers ever so slightly, just enough to make your cunt flutter around them. "But I haven’t allowed it."

You choke on your breath. Your body jolts — almost enough to make his fingers slide out. But he curls them. Stops you.

"Don’t," he growls.

You freeze.

His fingers press in deeper. Not thrusting. Just settling farther into you, until your walls are stretched so sweetly wide that your legs start to tremble again.

"I want you to hold me."

You do.

Your cunt grips him, obedient and greedy.

"That’s it," he says. "Good altar. Keep me in."

He shifts.

You feel his chest lower, the curve of his abdomen brushing your thighs. His forehead leans into yours.

And he stays there.

Pinned.

Deep.

Full.

Heavy.

"You’re going to feel this for hours," he says. "Maybe days. Maybe longer."

You whimper.

"It’s not about fucking," he continues, voice rasping across your open mouth. "It’s about remaking."

He finally pulls back — an inch.

Then slides back in.

Slow.

You cry out. Your cunt clings. It’s not a thrust — it’s a press. A worshipful sink that leaves you more stretched than before. He fucks you like you’re anointed. Like the only thing more important than his pleasure is your rewriting.

"Do you feel it?" he growls. "Do you feel how I fill you?"

You nod, fast, head tipping back. His mouth brushes your jaw. Not a kiss. Not a mercy.

A claim.

His thrusts stay slow. Deep. Meaningful.

He lets you grind on him, lets your body churn around the shape of his hand, but every time your voice rises, every time your aura pulls tighter—

But he stops.

Every time your cunt starts gathering toward release—

He still you.

"Not yet," he breathes. "No matter how much you need it."

And you do.

Your clit is swollen. Your womb is cramping with the need to be fucked. Every nerve in your skin is tuned to him now. You could cum. You would — if not for him.

But he holds you there.

Stretching.

Grinding.

Keeping you in that sacred not-yet.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You’re about to combust.”

He licks his lips.

"I want to see how long you can stay burning."

...

You're still moving.

You don’t even realize it — not fully — until you hear the wet sound your body makes around his fingers. A slow, obscene suck each time he presses in and draws out, that tells both of you exactly how soaked you are.

He’s fucking you like it’s a lesson.

Like every stroke is a sentence.

Like he’s teaching your body a language only he speaks, and your cunt is the page he writes it on.

His pace is deliberate. No rhythm. No rush.

Just weight. Stretch. Depth.

Fingers so thick they spread you open in a way no cock ever has — not brutal. Total.

You moan.

Low.

Embarrassed.

Desperate.

And he smiles.

“Still not begging,” he murmurs. “You’re proud. Even now.”

He twists his fingers just enough to graze the tender spot inside you. Your whole body locks, breath sucked through your teeth like a scream caught in your ribs.

“You want to cum again.”

You nod. A whimper behind it.

“You want to cum on me.”

You nod harder.

“But you’re not going to ask.”

A broken sob escapes your throat.

He slows down even more.

Your clit is pulsing, untouched, screaming for friction. Your cunt clutches so tightly you swear you can feel the edges of him — every ridge of the gauntlet plates, every movement of his wrist.

“I can feel your walls pulling,” he growls. “Gripping me like they think it’ll make me finish you.”

Your body bucks. It’s involuntary. A twitch. A sobbing thrust of hips.

But he pulls back.

Out.

And your whole body goes cold.

You wail — high and soft, like a child denied water — your hands gripping the altar edge as your cunt flutters, empty again, aching for the press of him.

He leans down.

Mouth to your ear.

Hand flat on your soaked thigh.

Voice like fire pressed into silk:

“This is what devotion feels like.”

You cry.

Real tears.

Not from pain.

From need.

From worship.

From being held just above what you crave, suspended in heat and holiness, with his voice dripping into your head like oil.

He drags his fingers — the ones that were inside you — up your body. Over your hip, your belly, between your breasts, leaving your own slick as a blessing.

Then he presses those two fingers to your mouth.

"Open," he says.

And you do.

You taste yourself.

You taste what he denied you.

And his eyes burn.

“You’re close again,” he says. “I can feel it.”

He lowers himself over you, full weight, body to body, not fucking—just pressing.

“You’re going to stay right there,” he whispers, “until I decide you’re not just mine…”

His voice drops lower.

“...but worthy.”

...

Time passes. You're soaked.

Your skin glows slick with sweat and oil, thighs trembling against the altar’s stone. Your cunt is flushed, glistening, fluttering from the last cruel withdrawal — wanting again, aching again. Your mouth is still slick from his fingers. Your chest heaves.

And he’s above you.

Not just crouched.

Covering.

Vaeron looms with one hand braced beside your head, his broad chest hovering above your breasts, breath hot against your lips. The other hand slides down between your legs again—slow, dominant, claiming—and finds your cunt exactly where he left it:

Ready.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Aura trembling like a candle in high wind.

“I’m going to let you cum,” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through your soaked folds, circling your clit with a touch so deliberate it feels ceremonial.

You choke on a moan.

“But not from friction,” he says.

He stills his hand.

“From me.”

You shudder.

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Because when he says that—

You believe him.

He doesn’t begin with sound.

He begins with breath.

A long exhale across your mouth, your collarbone, your cunt — heat that feels like a hand even before the first syllable lands.

Then he speaks.

One word.

Low. Round. Heavy.

It hits your clit like a drop of molten wax — sharp enough to make you cry out, soft enough to make your whole body arch.

“Again,” he says.

Not to you.

To himself.

Another word.

Your clit jerks. Your cunt squeezes. Your nipples stiffen hard enough to ache.

And your breath stutters.

“Feel that?” he growls. “You’re already on the edge.”

You nod. You’re panting now.

“But you haven’t earned it yet,” he adds. “Not until you say it.”

You whimper. “Say what—?”

He leans down.

Lips almost on yours.

“Say what you are.”

You blink. “I’m—your altar.”

His smile is dark, shining with praise and cruelty.

“No. Not anymore.”

His fingers slide into you.

Deep.

And your whole body locks.

You clench, cunt wet and fluttering, as he presses his palm into your clit.

Still not stroking. Just anchoring.

Then he whispers it.

Not a word in Gothic.

Not a word in any known tongue.

Just his.

The same word that once filled your womb and made your aura shatter like glass.

But this time—

He says it into your mouth.

And your body detonates.

Your orgasm rips through you like a quake — starting in your cunt, shooting up your spine, flattening you to the altar. You don’t scream. You can’t. You sing — in sobs, in broken vowels, in a voice that doesn’t belong to you anymore.

He presses deeper.

You convulse.

Hard.

Your cunt grips his fingers like it’s trying to keep them, like it needs them to survive the heat flooding your center.

You squirt — sudden, soaking, shameful — and he grins against your throat.

“That’s it.”

You twitch again.

A second wave.

No touch added — just the echo of the word still in your mouth, still in your cunt.

Still inside you.

He holds you down.

Not to dominate.

To keep you intact.

“You’re mine now,” he says again. “Every time you cum from now on...”

His voice lowers.

“You’ll remember how I spoke you open.”

...

You’re still twitching.

Your cunt is soaked and slick open, clenching around nothing, your body trying to remember what it was that shattered you. Your legs are limp over the edges of the altar, trembling from within. Your breasts rise and fall with shallow, ragged breaths. There’s wetness between your thighs and tears at the corners of your eyes.

And he’s still inside you.

Two fingers. Curled. Claiming.

But now?

He pulls them out.

Slowly.

Wet.

You whimper, hollowed instantly. You need to be filled again — not with words this time. With him.

He watches your cunt twitch, fluttering open like it’s begging, and finally—finally—he stands.

The redvault light casts him into silhouette: his chest gleaming with oil and sweat, his armor half-unclasped, his cock finally visible — hard, dark-veined, divine.

Thick.

Slicked already with your arousal, like your need has summoned him out of the armor itself.

And when he steps between your legs?

The heat coming off him is so intense it makes your body arch in instinctive reception.

He leans down.

Not to kiss.

To speak into your mouth.

“This is the second rite,” he says. “The inhabiting.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re not here to be fucked.”

He presses the head of his cock to your soaked, swollen entrance.

“You’re here to be entered.”

He doesn’t push in yet.

He just holds himself there.

And you swear you can feel his cock throb against your slit — like it’s tasting you, waiting for permission from him, not you.

“I’m going to mark your body from the inside,” he says. “You’ll feel me every time you walk. Every time you think.”

He lowers himself over you — slowly — letting his full weight kiss your body chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, cock-to-cunt.

“You’ve been spoken into.”

He aligns himself. Not pushing. Not yet.

“Now you’ll be written into.”

Then he says it.

Your name.

Not as it was.

But as he’s renamed you.

A syllable that burns as it lands.

He says it once.

And he enters.

The head of his cock pushes in slow, impossibly thick, stretching your pussy with a burn so sacred you cry out — not in pain. In reception.

Your body parts for him like a prophecy.

You’re wet enough.

You’re open enough.

You’re his.

He sinks in.

Inches.

Slow.

Thick.

Holy.

You sob.

He grits his teeth, breath hot against your neck.

“Your cunt remembers me,” he growls. “It’s meant for this.”

He slides in to the hilt, so deep you feel it behind your ribs.

And stays there.

Not thrusting.

Not moving.

Just filling.

You shake.

He cradles the back of your head, forearm under your spine, his chest pressed to yours.

“This is worship,” he whispers. “This is your body becoming mine.”

...

You don’t know how he fit inside you.

You don’t know how you’re not screaming.

He’s there now — buried deep, cock thick and hot and impossibly heavy, stretching you so wide your inner walls feel like they're wrapped around a column of voice made flesh.

There’s no pain.

Not really.

Only the kind of ache that comes from being pushed past your shape and still asking for more.

You’re full.

So full you can barely breathe.

And he hasn’t even moved.

He’s just inside you, chest pressed to yours, forearm curled around your lower back, holding you still.

Not pinning.

Preserving.

Like he’s afraid you’ll spill.

Your legs are open around his hips — not splayed, not desperate — just parted, pliant, obedient, because your body knows now: this is what you were made to carry.

You tremble beneath him.

You can feel every twitch of his cock inside you.

The veins.

The pulse.

The heat.

It’s in your belly now — a molten pressure behind your navel, so intimate it feels cellular. Like his presence is whispering to your blood.

He speaks again.

Right against your temple.

“Do you feel that?”

You sob.

He shifts — just a fraction.

And you moan.

Because even the smallest movement drags the ridged head of his cock along your walls, and your body doesn’t know whether to collapse or clench.

“You’re stretched around me,” he murmurs. “So tight I can feel every heartbeat.”

He doesn’t thrust.

He sinks.

Another inch.

Slow.

Thick.

Like he’s being absorbed into you.

You cry out — voice sharp, shivering — and he grinds his hips forward, just once, just deep enough to make your thighs kick and your mouth open in a soundless scream.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me in.”

He’s fully inside you now.

And still — he doesn’t move.

His cock pulses inside you.

Your cunt responds, tightening reflexively, hugging him like it’s trying to keep him from ever leaving.

“I can feel your body trying to speak,” he says. “Trying to remember the language I wrote into it.”

You arch up, thighs trembling around his waist.

He leans over you.

Mouth to your jaw.

Chest to your breasts.

Cock deep in your cunt, so far you feel the dull ache of your cervix being kissed.

And he stills you with one hand at the base of your throat.

Not choking.

Just marking the breath he owns.

“You’re going to stay like this,” he murmurs. “Until your body starts to say my name without your mouth.”

Your eyes flutter.

Your aura hums.

His cock throbs.

And your whole body weeps.

Because you’re not being fucked.

You’re being inhabited.

...

You are held open.

Your cunt grips him to the root — every inch of his cock seated deep, hot, thick inside you, your body impaled on him like a relic spiked into sacred earth. There’s no room to move. Your walls stretch around him so tight your breath stutters just trying to accommodate him.

You feel invaded.

Worshipfully.

Utterly.

And still — he doesn't thrust.

He stays still.

Buried.

Claiming.

Your inner muscles twitch around him, helpless and wet, and every flicker of movement inside you draws a groan to your lips — not from stimulation, but from the unbearable weight of his presence.

Then he speaks.

Not aloud.

Not into your ear.

He speaks into your body.

The first word hits low. Somewhere in the bowl of your pelvis — in the soft meat behind your pubic bone where pressure becomes ache. It’s not a sound. It’s a sensation. Like a tongue pressing from the inside out.

You writhe.

Your cunt squeezes him. Your mouth falls open. A cry climbs your throat, but it has no shape.

The second word lands in your ribs.

Your aura fractures around it — too raw, too thin — and you feel your womb spasm with recognition.

Not pleasure.

Submission.

He says another.

And this one — this one — lands in your throat.

You choke. Not on air. On meaning.

Your back arches.

Your nails scratch at the stone of the altar. Your nipples are hard, painfully sensitive, rubbing against his chest with every shallow breath. Your clit pulses untouched.

He feels it.

He groans.

“You’re taking the words,” he growls, breath hot on your temple. “Better than any acolyte I’ve ever wrecked.”

You mewl.

And he says more.

A string now — a litany of psychic syllables, carved into your spine like teeth dragged across sanctified bone.

Each one lands in a new place:

Your inner thighs — twitching open wider.

Your belly — aching with need to be bred.

Your throat — begging silently.

And then he presses forward.

Just a fraction.

Just enough to make your cunt scream around him.

“You feel me?”

You can’t answer.

You’re beyond it.

The words in you have grown too loud.

They’re buzzing now — crawling under your skin, sliding across your nerves like teeth through silk. You feel possessed.

You feel ready.

And your body?

It says his name.

Not aloud. Not even in thought.

But in the grip of your cunt.

In the way your hips arch. The way your tears fall. The way your mouth opens around a sound that isn’t human anymore.

He gasps when he feels it.

“Say it again.”

You sob.

Your body tightens around him, weeping, clenching, answering.

Not a name.

A truth.

That you are his.

That he is inside you in ways that defy language.

That your body doesn’t want to be fucked.

It wants to be spoken through.

...

He starts to move.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

With weight.

He draws his cock out — just halfway.

And for a second you think you might survive this.

But then he slams back in.

Hard.

The sound is obscene — wet, heavy, skin to skin — as your body takes the full length of him again, and your cunt grips like it’s trying to keep him forever.

You scream.

Not in pain.

In recognition.

Because your body has been waiting for this.

And it answers.

He begins to fuck you.

Really fuck you.

Slow at first. Deep. Measured.

Each thrust like a statement.

Each drag out like he’s reading you.

Each push in like he’s correcting your soul.

And with every stroke?

He speaks.

Not in Gothic.

In his language.

Words you can’t comprehend but feel — sliding down your spine, curling under your ribs, punching up through your womb like tongues of fire.

One lands in your throat.

You scream.

Another lands behind your clit.

You convulse.

Another in your belly — a long, thick phrase that rattles your insides like a psalm shouted through cathedral walls.

He slams in again — harder.

Your breath breaks.

“You hear that?” he growls, voice ragged now. “That’s your soul opening.”

You sob. “I—can’t—”

“You will.”

He fucks you harder.

The rhythm builds.

Your breasts bounce.

Your thighs slap against his hips.

His fingers grip your wrists and pin you down to the altar now, not to dominate — to anchor you through what’s coming.

He speaks again.

A word that makes your eyes roll back.

A phrase that makes your aura rupture.

You don’t know where you are anymore.

You're just heat and slick and sound, being used by his voice, being torn by the sacred weight of his body inside yours.

Your cunt starts to flutter again.

Tight. Rhythmic. Frantic.

He feels it.

And slows.

No. No. No.

You sob. Your hips buck. You try to chase the friction, but he controls it now. He rocks into you with brutal patience, cock dragging along every soaked, stretched inch of your cunt until your body is vibrating.

“You’ll cum when your womb says my name,” he says. “Not before.”

You’re gasping. Wrecked. Lost.

He speaks again.

A command.

And your whole body tightens.

Your cunt clenches.

Your thighs jerk.

Your throat sobs.

And he fucks into you harder now — faster — every thrust crushing the altar beneath your back, your own slick making your skin slide against the stone, your body crying for release.

“You’re almost there,” he growls, hips hammering into you now. “I can feel your womb begging.”

He speaks again.

A phrase.

A sentence.

A claim.

And you feel it.

Deep in your gut.

A pressure you can’t name.

A heat that isn’t yours.

An orgasm that’s not about friction anymore.

It’s about submission.

You’re ready.

You’re his.

And he whispers it—

Your true name.

The one he carved into your aura when he first opened you.

And your whole body—

Breaks.

...

It happens when he says your name.

Not the one you were given.

The one he claimed.

It doesn’t hit your ears.

It hits your womb.

Your body reacts like it’s been struck by lightning — back arching off the altar, mouth gaping, breath gone.

Your cunt locks down on him.

Tight. Clenching.

Like your body is trying to memorize the shape of him.

He feels it.

And he keeps going.

Not faster.

Not cruel.

Just inevitable.

He fucks you through the shuddering, sobbing quake that tears through your thighs and belly and chest. You’re crying now — not from pain, not even from joy, but from saturation. From being filled beyond capacity.

And he won’t let you slip under.

He stays inside you, cock dragging slow, thick strokes through your spasming cunt, grinding deep enough to make your toes curl and your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice raw and reverent. “Let your body speak.”

You sob something — no words, just sound.

He fucks you deeper.

“You were made for this,” he says. “For me. For this altar. For this rite.”

Your hips jerk up, instinctive, chasing him.

He grabs your wrists, pins them over your head, presses his mouth to your ear.

And then he starts to write.

Word after word, carved into you with thrusts and voice, syllables flooding your aura, your muscles, your cunt.

You can feel the words like heat:

One lands in your clit — sharp, pulsing, bright as flame.

Another in your nipples — aching, red, erect under his chest.

Another still in your spine — stretching you, straightening you like a relic being prepared for display.

He whispers it all in your ear as he fucks you.

“You’re being transcribed.”

“You’re not flesh. You’re scripture.”

“Every thrust writes another line.”

And your body?

It responds.

You cum again.

Harder.

Worse.

Sacred.

Your walls clamp so tight around him you swear you’ll tear. Your cunt gushes, slick flooding over his cock, dripping down to the altar like oil offered to the divine.

You scream.

You can’t stop.

Your voice is his now.

And he speaks over it.

His mouth on your throat.

“You’re mine.”

His cock drives deeper.

“You’ll never forget this shape.”

Another thrust.

Another line.

“You’ll dream in my language. Bleed in my syllables.”

He fucks you harder — not fast. Firm.

Claiming you like he’s staking a flag in wet ground.

And you?

You keep breaking.

Again.

Again.

Until you’re not a woman anymore.

You’re a text.

An object of worship.

A relic still twitching under the hand of its maker.

And finally — finally — he stills.

Still inside you.

Still deep.

Breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

And he whispers the last line.

“I’ve written you down.”

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

Ty for reading <3 this was... tough XD still not 100% happy but.. still turned on

(〃ﾉωﾉ)

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @iluminatka16 @thisuserislilsilly

[sylestine-redacted]

(⸝⸝0⸝⸝0⸝⸝)

handsy

[sylestine-redacted]

Full

The Wolf caught the Hare again

[sylestine-redacted]

Awake.

Roboute Guilliman/ f reader

Tw: sexual content: fingering, oral, power imbalance.

Guilliman wakes after almost 10 millennia and needs to work off some stress.

Guilliman seethed.

The imperium was rotten.

Decayed right down to it's putrid core.

The imperial truth had warped into the very thing they had fought so hard to smother and now corruption seeped through the cracks into everything he and his brothers had killed and died for.

Roboute paced in his office, the armour of fate heavy on his body as he strode back and forth. Clenching his fists and grinding his teeth, he bit back the urge to flip his giant desk and scatter the high stacks of reports and data slates across the burnished floor of the Mccragges honour.

Striding over to the table he gripped the edge, a grim smile sneaking across his face as the wood creaked beneath his grip. Finger tightening, the surface splintered and whined, the edge gave way with chunks of mahogany and steel bending and snapping beneath the ceramite.

With a low snarl, Guilliman wretched his hands away. The omega symbols hanging from the wall fluttered as he stormed past, resuming his pacing. A million thoughts flooded through his mind as he strode about the office, discontentment and fury boiling in his gut with each heavy step.

He wanted to rage.

He wanted to snap.

To vent his fury against the wretches who turned everything to ash.

A knock.

"Enter" Guilliman barked, his voice sharp.

An Astartes pushed through, warm light glinting from his helm as he propped the door open silently. The Primarch watched as a woman stepped through the gap with a large silver platter clutched in her hands, struggling slightly under the weight. Upon it were a large decanter and sizable goblet, along with various sliced meats and fruits. She looked up at the marine and nodded slightly before turning her gaze to Guilliman, no fear in her eyes and a soft smile upon her lips. Ultramarine blue clung to her curves in a soft dress that shifted with every slight movement and the laced bodice strained as she took a deep breath

"Refreshments, my lord?"

Oh? Now this was interesting.

Roboute held her gaze for a moment, feeling the knot in his gut twist uncomfortably. With a vague wave he sent the Astartes away, the door closing with a soft click. Watching the woman for a moment longer, he stepped around the desk, taking a seat in a high backed chair.

He saw her eyes linger on the splintered wood for a split second before she followed him around, standing next to him and offering the tray, her hands were tiny compared to his as he reached down and scooped up the goblet. She blinked up at him through long lashes, that soft smile still playing across her lips.

From where he sat, he could see right down your-

"Is all well, my lord?"

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You stood hesitantly as the Astartes raised his fist and clattered it against the door, regretting your dress choice as you glanced down, hearing the corset popping as you breathed.

"Enter" came a harsh response.

Gulping you followed the marine as he opened the door and gestured you through. The tray felt like dead weight in your hands as you hefted it in your grip, rattling the decanter and glass.

You glanced up at the ultramarine, nodding your thanks before stepping past him into the room. It was simpler than you were expecting; large banners adorned the iron walls beside towering book cases and warm lights flickered from their sconces, towards the rear of the room stood a long, tall desk of dark wood and metal bordering.

And in the centre, glaring down at you was the Primarch.

Roboute Guilliman stood towering in the armour of fate. Gold trim and screaming Aquila's adorned blue adamantium beneath ceremite ablatives and polished plasteel. Cobalt blue eyes peered at you with a small frown and he waved the guard away. You found yourself enraptured, unable to look away as Guilliman's frown deepened before he strode past you and seated himself in a large ornate chair.

Following him round, yours eyes drifted, finding the splintered edge of the desk. The metal had been creased like clay, deep finger marks embedded in its surface. Looking back at the primarch, you found him focused on you and you hurried to take our place by his side, holding the tray up offering it to him.

His large hand swept over the tray, clutching the goblet between armoured fingers. You blinked up at him, even seated he was taller than you and had to tilt his head to look down at you. His eyes wandered and you froze as they drifted down your face, lingering on your lips before trailing down to your chest, straining against your dress. His expression darkened for a second and you flushed.

Primarch's don't think about... That?

Right?

"is all well, my lord?"

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Guilliman reluctantly dragged himself away from your chest back to your face. A blush was creeping across your cheeks and he could hear your heart rate increase.

The anger he had felt before had dulled to a simmer. Still bubbling beneath the surface it was now tinged with something foreign, but not all together unfamiliar. Returning to a galaxy in the brink of chaos has stoked his ire.

And something else, it seemed.

"Do I frighten you?" He queried, raising the goblet to his lips.

You shook your head slightly. "No, my lord. I am not frightened"

"Really? Then why is your heart beating so fast?"

Roboute smirked slightly as you flustered and stumbled over your words. He allowed you to stammer for a minute, mulling over your reaction to his wandering eye before chuckling and placing the goblet on on the desk.

"Well? What has made you so nervous, little serf"

He lent towards you and reached out, brushing a stand of hair back from your face and relishing how you twitched under the touch. He withdrew and you released a shuddering breath, feeling your heart leap into your throat.

"Nothing, my lord. I just came to deliver this to you, in case you had an appetite after returning to us from Mccragge" you gulped.

"An appetite?"

The chair groaned under the weight of the primarch as he slouched backwards. The blush darkened across your face and your breaths came short and shallow. He smirked before catching himself.

10 millennium and this is what he has sunk to?

He shrugged off the thought. Thousands of years of stasis was bound to throw him off, he simply needed to subdue these feelings before he returned to Terra.

And you were so pretty, smiling like that.

"And what appetite have you come here to appease?"

You stared at him, mouth agape slightly as he spoke.

"My lord, I dont-"

The tray clattered to the ground as his giant hand reached out and clasped your arm, pulling you into his lap and against his chest as he reclined backwards.

"I rage against the fall of the imperium as it threatens to crumble beneath my fingers" he muttered, his grip tightening slightly. "I find myself surrounded by fools and traitors. After 10 thousand years, my appetite is not for food"

"What do you want?" Your voice cracked in fear under the fiery gaze of Guilliman, arm going numb from the bite of plasteel into your skin.

"I want control"

His grip finally slacked, moving to grasp your chin, pulling your eye line up towards his face.

"Control?" Voice a whisper, you softened under his touch. Up close you could see the fine lines that radiated near his eyes and the deep scar around his throat.

He looked strained, almost tired.

"Do you want to serve" his other hand found you hip whilst the hand on your chin tugged you closer. His lips brushed over yours and you could taste the sweet wine he had sipped. "Do you want to serve your lord?"

"I do"

His lips crashed against yours in a heated kiss. His size leaving you breathless as his mouth moved against yours, messy, sloppy. His tongue pushed into your mouth and his hand slipped from your chin to the back of your head, keeping you close as he tasted you.

Feeling brave, you sucked on his tongue and felt your body shake as he groaned low in his chest. Clutching the gorget armour near his throat you pulled yourself against him, feeling his riveted fingers slide over the fat of your ass.

"Let me serve you, my lord Guilliman"

Your voice was husky, mumbled against his jaw as you pulled away to press a soft kiss to his skin.

"Use me, my lord"

That was all it took.

With a low growl, the primarch picked you up and slammed you on his desk, finally scattering the mountain of reports like he'd been itching to do all day.

But that wasn't his focus, not anymore.

A giant hand either side of your body, you lay flat against the cold tabletop. Roboute hovered over you with dark eyes and a heaving chest. The armour groaned and hummed, servos kicking in as he leant down and pressed his mouth to your throat lapping and nibbling at the skin. You palmed through his crop of short hair, tugging him closer as you lost yourself beneath his touch.

He moved slowly down, placing bruises across your soft skin before attacking your chest, pulling apart the lacing before lathing his tongue across a sensitive nipple.

"M-my lord haaa-"

Cold fingers found your legs as he worked across your chest, the tips of the metal digits dancing under your dress and along the muscle, Squeezing at your thighs. Roboute pulled back, admiring the trail of welts he had marred you with and squeezed your legs again.

"Everyone will know what I did to you" he murmured, flipping your dress skirt over your waist.

You squeaked, attempting to cover yourself only for his strong grip to wretch your legs apart with ease and then press his thumb against the soaked spot on your pants.

"Don't get shy now, you wanted this"

A shudder wracked your body as he ripped your underwear away, tossing the shreds aside.

Kneeling in front of his desk Guilliman began to mouth his way up your leg, switching between gentle kisses and firm bites, before soothing the mark with his tongue. He trailed his teeth from your knee and up towards your core, hands still locked in place keeping you pried open.

"My lord I don't think-"

"Good, don't think, just lay there"

Your back arched as he swiped his tongue across your core, sparks shooting up your body. He paused, gauging your reaction before diving back in. His tongue swiped and glided through your slick, lapping at your hole before flicking across your clit. Your hips bucked and you clawed at his hair as he licked another long stripe across your dripping cunt and you heard him groan, the sound reverberating through you.

"So sweet, look at this little cunt just despite to please me"

One of Guilliman's hands slipped from your leg and you jerked as you felt the cold press of steel against your entrance. It felt like ice against your skin as he teased the tip into your hole.

"No, I can't take that!"

The primarch smirked, catching your eye as you looked down and watched him slowly slide the gauntleted digit inside you.

"Can't you?"

Your head lolled backwards as you felt the ridges and groves of the armour slide against your walls. You sighed at the stretch, breathing deeply as the burn slowly subsided to a feeling of delicious fullness.

"Look at that"

Flitting your eyes down for a split second, you saw Roboute staring as your body accepted his finger.

"Just made for it, weren't you"

He rose from his kneeling position, leaning back over you to catch your lips as he began to drag his finger in and out of you slowly. You whined with each rough thrust, his movements getting harsher and his voice becoming rougher.

"So many pathetic men ruling the imperium" he grunted against your mouth, hips rutting against the table as he drove his finger into you. "All seeking to gain something from me, wanting glory and power" he curled his finger, brushing it against your G spot whilst gliding his palm across your clit. You keened, tears slowly spilling from your eyes as you clutched his face desperately trying to deepen the kiss.

"But you? You just want to serve, don't you girl" he pressed another finger into you, smothering your cries as he drove his tongue against yours. Pulling back, he watched the drool and tears trickle down your face.

"Yes, yes lord roboute!"

"Listen to how desperate you are to please your primarch"

You cried out as he rubbed both fingers into your walls, the edge of each joint stimulating you and working lights behind your clenched eyes. The room was filled with the wet slap of metal against your dripping cunt, your wailing and the primarch's breathy grunts.

"That's it, cum for me, cum for your lord" the table was grinding against the floor as roboute's hips jerked against it with each movement of his hand.

His other hand rubbed against your face as he grabbed you by the cheeks, forcing you to look at him through blurry eyes. He looked wild, eye dark with desire and a muscle clenching in his jaw.

"Do as you're told and cum"

You threw your head back, feeling your body falling off the edge, only to have it wretched back.

"Look at me" he growled. "Look at me as you finish"

With a strangled cry muffled by his auramite palm you came, your cunt constricting around his fingers and your body shaking with exertion.

"Good girl" Roboute soothed, slowly pulling his fingers out and holding them up in the dim light. They shone with glistening wetness as he turned them to show you your slick dripping between the bolts and rivets.

"Look at the mess you've made"

Gasping and still shuddering, Guilliman kissed your sweat soaked forehead before rising to his full height, grasping your dress and ripping a portion off.

Propping yourself up on your elbows you sniffled and stared up at the primarch, watching him wipe your mess off his gauntlets with the tatters of your dress. He looked back at you, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"I um, what would you like me to do now, Lord Guilliman?"

Seating himself back in his chair, he rested his chin in his palm, looking you up and down as you sat, legs spread across his desk. Releasing a sigh, he reached out and grabbed a yellowing piece of parchment, gesturing to the messy pile scattered across the floor.

"You stay right there. I may have a need for you when I am done with all of this."

"Yes, lord Guilliman."

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Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @lemon-russ @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst @kit-williams @iluminatka16 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @bookandyarndragon @thisuserislilsilly @vithralith @absynthe-mind @saintsylestine

[sylestine-redacted]

The Great Angel by grimdarkcomics

[sylestine-redacted]

The Angels Vault pt 3

Part 1 here | Part 2 here

f!reader x Sanguinius

A/n: limited wing play I'm sorry - ya girl is WRESTLING with describing these bad boys. So yeah... mainly just riding his face and looking good while doing it.

Cw: oral, face riding, praise

He lay beneath you like a living altar—chest bare, wings splayed wide across the bedding, golden hair a tousled halo around his flushed, beautiful face.

His lips were still slick from your last orgasm. His cock lay heavy and untouched, forgotten in his own act of worship.

But his eyes—

Those eyes hadn’t left you for a second.

“Climb on my face,” he said again, voice thick, warm.

“Make me suffer for it.”

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You smiled.

And then you moved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Crawling up the length of his massive body with a grace that was half-sin, half-offering.

Your palms pressed into the muscle of his abdomen as you slid forward, the heat of his skin a trail of temptation. Your thighs parted around him. One knee at his hip. The other at his waist.

You rolled your hips—once, just enough for him to feel your slick against his stomach—and his breath hitched.

“Are you teasing me?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer.

You just crawled higher.

You arched your back as you passed over his ribs, letting him see. Letting him watch the sway of your breasts, the drag of your inner thighs against his skin, the trail of wetness you left across his abdomen.

"Gods…” he breathed. “You’re going to kill me.”

You grinned. Kept moving. Your pace slow, sensual—like you were savoring the terrain of him. Making him feel the loss of every inch of your body the moment it left his chest. Making him miss you before he even had you.

And all the while, you watched him.

The way his jaw clenched.

The way his hands flexed against the sheets.

The way his wings trembled—barely—but enough for you to notice.

By the time you straddled his shoulders, hovering just above his mouth, your slick cunt only inches from his lips, his eyes were black with hunger, gold eaten by need.

You stopped.

Just short.

Hovering.

He groaned.

“You’re dripping. I can see it.”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

You gave a little sway of your hips, your slick glistening in the low light.

“Maybe I am.”

His hands twitched. He wanted to grab you. Hold you down. But he didn’t.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice strained.

“Crawling over me like I belong to you. Like you know I’d let you do anything.”

You dipped a little lower. Just enough for your folds to brush the edge of his lips.

His breath caught.

“You want to smother me, little one?” he murmured. “You want to ride my face until I can’t breathe?”

You didn’t answer.

You just lowered. Slow. Steady. Until your slick slit pressed flush against his waiting mouth.

His groan was immediate. Deep. Desperate.

His tongue slid out to greet you—one firm lick from your entrance to your clit—and your thighs twitched in response.

You didn’t grind. Not yet.

You just sat there. Heavy. Letting your full weight rest over his mouth.

“Yes…” he moaned, barely audible.

“Like that. Fuck, yes. Sit on me. Use me. Let me taste you until you forget your own name.”

You reached down behind you, bracing your hands on his chest. His wings shifted behind him, slow and reverent, like folding petals.

Then you moved.

A single, deliberate grind of your hips across his tongue—slick and slow, dragging your wetness along the line of his mouth.

He groaned like a man breaking apart.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered between strokes.

“Did teasing me make you drip like this?”

You rolled your hips again—stronger this time.

His hands rose—finally—to your thighs, not to force, but to steady. To feel.

And his tongue?

His tongue started to work.

Deliberate. Controlled. Every movement calibrated to your need. Every lick a silent vow.

“Ride me,” he breathed between strokes. “Show me how good it feels to be underneath you. Owned by your body.”

You did.

You rocked forward.

Then back.

You shuddered as his lips caught your clit, sucked it—gently, firmly—then released it with a wet, hot sound that made your breath stutter.

“That’s it…” he moaned. “Don’t hold back. Grind your cunt on my face. Drown me in it.”

You moaned aloud, thighs tensing, pleasure starting to rise again, slow and sharp.

“Look at you,” he whispered between licks. “So powerful. So fucking beautiful when you use me.”

And gods help you, but you started to believe it.

You rolled your hips harder.

Sat heavier.

His tongue flicked faster now—still controlled, but urgent.

And the pressure—gods, the pressure—built.

“Let go,” he begged. “Cum on my mouth. Drown me in it.”

...

You ground against his mouth in slow, deliberate circles—wet and heavy, your clit dragging over his tongue in slick, reverent friction. His lips worshipped you. His breath came in groans, half-muffled against your folds. His hands, once idle, had crept up to your hips, holding you, stroking gently.

But he still wasn’t pushing. Not yet.

Because you hadn’t given him permission.

And gods—now he was losing it.

Your rhythm slowed again, just enough to keep yourself on edge. Just enough to keep him starving. You stopped moving altogether for a moment, resting full weight on his mouth, just letting him taste.

His tongue flicked. Eager. Pleading.

“Please…” he whispered into your cunt. “Please, little one. Let me make you cum. Let me take you apart.”

You didn’t move.

He growled.

His fingers dug harder into your hips—then slid down, cupping your ass, squeezing, spreading you. Not rough. But assertive. His reverence hadn’t left.

It had just changed form.

"You’re teasing an angel,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Sitting pretty on my face, riding slow, not letting me have you—gods.”

You moaned, still rocking your hips just enough to feel it. Just enough to keep him hungry.

And that’s when you felt them—

The wings.

They moved behind you—graceful, purposeful. One vast appendage unfurled and curled in close, its leading edge brushing up the length of your thigh in a slow, seductive stroke. Feathers—soft, impossibly fine—dragged upward, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath your ass, the whisper of texture making you gasp.

The other wing stretched higher, fanning outward in a broad arc before folding in—cradling your back in a slow, deliberate press. The downy inner barbs skimmed your shoulder blades, your spine, a hush of sensation that made your nipples tighten and your cunt throb harder against his mouth.

“Still not cumming?” he said, voice thick with tension, muffled by your slick. “Then I’ll help you. Since you’re too sweet to finish the job.”

And he moved.

Fingers curled, anchoring you tighter. His wings pulled you down—gently, but firmly, until your cunt pressed flush to his mouth with no space, no air, just him.

And then—

His seized your hips and started guiding you. Rocking you against his face. Using you like a holy thing. A vessel. A sacrament. And though it was his hands that directed the motion, it was the unyielding grip of his wings that kept you bound to him, held in place like an offering.

One wrapped low across the backs of your thighs, pulling you downward with soft insistence, feathers gliding between your legs. The sensation was maddening: warm, supple, plush along your soaked folds, brushing in time with the rhythm of his tongue.

The other wing stayed high—curled across your back like an embrace, feathers slipping between your shoulder blades and lower, cupping your ribs, ghosting over your nipples with maddening slowness. Every beat of the wing shifted pressure—soft one moment, firm the next—until it felt like your whole torso was being stroked in rhythm with his mouth.

He groaned into your cunt.

“You’re not going anywhere now,” he said against your clit, breath hot. “You’ve teased me enough. Let me devour you properly.”

His tongue plunged deep—sinuous and greedy. His wings moved with him now, pressing and stroking, every inch of downy coverage mapped to your nerve endings like he’d studied your body in his dreams.

And he fucked you with his mouth.

With his whole face.

His nose pressed against your clit, tongue inside you, hands dragging you along his mouth like he wanted to memorize the taste of you coming undone.

“Yes,” he groaned between licks. “There. Right there. You feel it now, don’t you?”

“You can’t stop it this time.”

You sobbed, fingers digging into his hair, thighs shaking as the pressure built again—hotter, sharper, unstoppable.

“Cum on my face.”

“Make it messy.”

“Let me fucking drown.”

And gods, you wanted to. Your body pulsed. Your stomach clenched. Your mouth dropped open, breath shattering in ragged moans.

“That’s it,” he growled. “You’re so close. I can feel it—don’t you dare stop now.”

“You made me beg. Now let me have it.”

His mouth was everywhere—tongue pushing deep, lips sucking your clit with obscene focus—and his hands had become vices on your hips, pulling you down to meet every thrust of his tongue, every desperate flick of his mouth.

But it was his wings that undid you.

One pressed along your spine again, slow and possessive, feathers brushing the nape of your neck, then sweeping downward—over the dip of your back, the swell of your ass, until the primary feathers cradled you. A down-soft edge slipped between your legs again, stroking your inner thighs and teasing slickness into a trembling mess.

The other wing moved opposite—sliding across your chest, pinning you in a velvet press against his body. The tip brushed your nipples, once—twice—and the way they peaked made your breath stutter. The contact was gentle, almost reverent… but relentless. He kept stroking you, wing to wing, flank to flank, rhythm synced with every obscene flick of his tongue.

You gasped, helpless, grinding against his face now without shame—without hesitation.

And Sanguinius?

He groaned into you.

“That’s it,” he whispered between licks. “Use me.”

“Fuck my mouth. Cum for me. Let me feel it.”

His voice vibrated through your cunt—deep, warm, insistent.

The wings stroked your body with eerie precision. One coiled gently around your waist, holding you in place. Another curled under your ass, lifting slightly, making every grind press deeper.

You moaned aloud, loud and raw.

“Please—”

You didn’t even know what you were begging for.

He knew.

“Yes,” he growled. “Give it to me. Don’t hold back. I want it all.”

His mouth sealed tight over your clit. His hands rocked you. His wings anchored you in place, feathered limbs shifting you down harder into his face. The softness made you ache. The contrast—his firm tongue, his gentle wings—shattered you.

It hit—

Like a flood.

Your orgasm crashed over you with full, body-shaking force. Your thighs clenched around his head. Your hands buried in his hair. You sobbed out something that wasn’t even words.

And he didn’t stop.

He moaned into you—drinking it, licking you through it, like your pleasure was something sacred.

The feathers stroked your nipples harder now—wet with sweat, hypersensitive—and the pressure just kept climbing, even through your peak.

“More,” he growled. “Give me more.”

And gods, you did.

You came again—still riding his face, your body overwhelmed, overstimulated, worshipped until you shattered.

Your cries went high and breathless. Your cunt throbbed against his mouth.

And still—he licked.

He pressed soft kisses now, slow and reverent, as the wings began to cradle you.

One wrapped under your ass now, lifting you slightly with a sinuous flex. The other curled against your stomach and breasts, feathers slick with your sweat, brushing wet peaks in the aftermath. The press of wings against your skin was everywhere: holding, cradling, stroking.

You collapsed forward, arms trembling, body spent.

And Sanguinius?

He held you.

His hands loosened. His wings folded around you. His mouth—wet, flushed, smiling—breathed against your thigh.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

“That’s what I wanted.”

“You. Ruined. Radiant.”

He kissed your inner thigh, then higher.

Then right over your still-sensitive clit.

“So fucking good,” he breathed. “So perfect when you give in.”

You moaned, breathless, raw.

And his wings drew tighter—cocooning you in gold and heat and velvet softness.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

“You’re not done yet.”

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

Ty for reading as always!!

(´－ω－)人

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @iluminatka16 @vithralith @mooniequeen

[sylestine-redacted]

The Blooded Right

f!reader x psyker!astartes

A/n: hnhhnnnhnjn psychic foreplay ... did I cook? Or am I delusional. Lmk lol. Again I maxed out the blocks on this godforsaken site so.... I'm pasting as much as I can and wherever it leaves off, it leaves off. You'll get the rest tomorrow. Or on ao3 if I post this draft heh. Also angel face riding coming!! Tweaking some wing play scenes for max visceral effect so sorry and tysm for reading!

(/_;)/~~

Cw: NSFW, dubcon, sexual content, mind breaking?

^this is basically what happens to you.

---

The vault door seals behind you with a wet hiss, the clang echoing off stone like a closing mouth. You’re alone now—at least, that’s what the order said. Observation. One Astartes. Simple.

But the air is thick. Not sacred. Not clean. It smells like heat and breath and the coppery tang of spent blood. The humidity clings to your skin beneath your sanctioned robes, and the dataslate in your grip feels too slick. You press your thumb to the seal rune.

Focus. You’re trained. You’re prepared.

You are not prepared for the way he’s watching you.

Sergeant Vaeron stands at the chamber’s center—partially unarmored, gauntlets still on, sweat glistening along exposed muscle. His frame is carved in brutality and blood-ritual, and for a moment he doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

Neither do you.

You open the slate. Begin the protocol.

“Subject: Sergeant Vaeron, Blood Angels, post-combat psychic bleed—”

Your words feel hollow.

The slate flickers. The reading pulses unstable.

7.3 millirems. Flux breach. Unshielded transmission.

You look up. He’s moved.

You didn’t hear him.

He’s close. Two steps from you. Too large. Too silent.

You can feel the weight of him before he speaks. It’s not just physical. Not just the creak of warplate or the groan of his boots. It’s in your head. A hum behind your teeth, just beneath perception — like the vibration of a tuning fork driven straight into your spine.

He hasn’t touched you yet. Not really.

But the air is heavy with the promise of it.

You try to step back.

You don’t.

Instead, you swallow. Hard. Your lips are dry. Your skin too warm beneath your collar. The vault’s heat feels like it's pressing in, trying to wring something out of you.

Sergeant Vaeron’s gaze never leaves you. His eyes are not gentle. Not curious. They are consuming. When he speaks, it’s with the kind of patience that terrifies you more than a snarl would.

“You came alone.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, slowly. “The brief—said solo observation. Psychic bleed calibration. Nothing invasive.”

He tilts his head. You hate how beautiful he is in stillness. Like a statue carved to house something holy. Or dangerous.

“You were sent to observe me,” he says. “But you didn’t consider what I might observe in return.”

The heat behind your ears flares.

“I’m not—” you start, but your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “You’re exuding post-combat residue. That’s all. It’s not deliberate.”

“No,” he agrees, and takes a half step forward.

You almost step back. Almost.

But something holds you.

Not his hands. Not yet.

Just the air. The weight. The hum of his presence through the warp. Like his soul is already brushing yours, testing for give.

“My intent isn’t required,” he murmurs. “Your reaction is enough.”

You realize your hands are clenched at your sides. White-knuckled. And the slick heat between your thighs has nothing to do with the sanctum’s humidity.

His gauntlet moves—slowly—toward your face. Not to touch. Just to hover. You feel the heat of it before it arrives. Inches from your cheek. Close enough you can feel the tremor in your breath reflected in his armor.

“If I pressed,” he says, eyes locking with yours, “right now. Just a single finger. Would you move?”

You don’t know.

Your body’s frozen, caught between terror and a need you don’t understand. You feel yourself tilting, slowly, into him without meaning to.

Your voice is barely audible. “I should.”

“But you won’t.”

He’s right.

You won’t.

...

You tell yourself you’re still in control.

That if he touched you—really touched you—you’d move. Pull away. Reassert distance. Protocol. Dignity.

But right now, with his hand floating just inches from your cheek, with his voice inside your chest like a second heartbeat… you don’t move. You barely breathe.

He watches you like an apothecary inspecting a volatile compound. No urgency. No emotion. Just purpose.

You want him to speak again.

You’re terrified he will.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says softly. “It’s loud. Everything you’re trying to hide… it echoes.”

The tips of his gauntleted fingers drift down, tracing nothing—just a phantom trail through air—until they hover near your collarbone. You feel your own pulse there. Fast. Rhythmic.

His eyes lower. Just slightly. Just enough to make you ache.

“Do you know how many of your kind scream when I’m this close?” he murmurs. “Psychic bleed makes them raw. It tears them open. I don’t even have to try.”

You swallow. Hard.

“Why not me?” you ask. It slips out. You hate yourself for the question.

He doesn’t smile. He steps closer.

Close enough that the front of your robes brushes his bare chest. You feel the heat radiating from his skin—impossibly hot, like a furnace banked behind flesh.

“You aren’t resisting,” he says. His voice is low, like confession. “You’re receiving. You’re taking me in like breath.”

His hand finally lowers. Not to touch. Just to settle, just barely, on the curve of your shoulder. The gauntlet’s weight is light—too light for what he could do. It’s the choice of restraint that sends a tremor down your spine.

You feel the pressure of his thumb—not moving, just resting there. Like the threat of being claimed. Like he's waiting to see how your body answers him.

And it does.

Your breath stutters. Your thighs tighten. A flicker in the warp shivers between your hips like a warning you already ignored.

“I should report this,” you whisper.

His gaze doesn’t flicker.

“But you won’t,” he says, and you feel the words where his hand rests. As if they’re seeping into your skin. Carving themselves there.

“You came here for data,” he adds, “but you didn’t bring your shields up. You didn’t guard your thoughts. You didn’t consider what it would feel like to be seen.”

The worst part is—he’s right.

You thought yourself a quiet observer. A minor tool in some Inquisitorial machine.

But he’s looking at you like you’re something holy.

Or sacrificial.

His hand rises again. Slower this time. You don’t flinch when the back of his fingers brush your cheek. Not a slap. Not a stroke. Just contact. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your lips part without permission.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He doesn’t have to.

“I won’t mark you,” he says, voice a prayer-shaped promise. “Not yet. I want to see how long you can stand to be this close… before you ask.”

He leans in, breath brushing your mouth. Still no contact.

“You will,” he murmurs.

...

You can’t feel your hands anymore.

They’re still at your sides — not bound, not restrained — but the blood’s gone somewhere else. Deeper. Lower. You feel hollowed out behind your navel. Full of waiting.

He hasn't moved.

His forehead hovers just short of touching yours, his breath warm across your lips, deep and measured. You hate that you know how it tastes now — not in your mouth, but in your thoughts. You hate more that your body leans into it.

“You're vibrating,” he says. “Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But in the warp—”

His fingers twitch, just slightly, against your collarbone. The contact is so light it might be imagined, but your knees still lock to keep you upright.

“—you’re ringing.”

He says it like he’s describing a relic. Or a weapon warming in its case.

You try to speak. Try to drag your thoughts back into language.

But the words fail. Your tongue is heavy. Your breath keeps pausing, like your lungs are waiting for a command that hasn’t come.

And he sees it.

“Does your Inquisitor know,” he whispers, “how easily you shudder under pressure?”

You shake your head. Reflexive. Your mouth opens, lips parting to deny it — but you never get the chance.

He doesn’t kiss you. Still.

But his thumb brushes just barely along the edge of your lower lip. Just one pass. No force. Just texture.

You flinch.

Not away.

Into it.

The sound that escapes you is too soft. Too close to a need.

He holds there. Thumb resting against your mouth. Not in it. Not yet. Just a promise. A presence.

You realize your hips have shifted forward, the movement so slow you didn’t feel it happen. There’s barely a hand’s width between your belly and his now. He doesn’t close it. He lets you drift closer. As if your body has to earn the contact.

And still he waits.

"You haven’t asked,” he murmurs.

Your chest hitches.

“I don’t—”

He cuts you off with silence. A tilt of his head. A breath that brushes the shell of your ear and makes your whole body pulse downward.

“You don’t have to say the words,” he says. “Not yet.”

His gauntlet rises again, moves with ceremony — not like a man touching a woman, but like a priest preparing a sacred object for the flame. He drags two gloved fingers along the side of your throat. Just a line. From jaw to clavicle. Your pulse follows the path.

“You’re soft here,” he says, almost to himself. “Delicate.”

You want to hate how wet you are now. How your thighs feel slick just from his voice.

His fingers stop just above your sternum. They hover. Waiting.

"Tell me," he says, voice barely audible, "where it hurts to be touched."

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to.

He already knows.

...

You're not breathing right.

It’s shallow now. Not panicked — not yet — but caught, high in your chest, like your lungs are afraid to move too much, lest they brush him. He’s still inches away, his breath painting your lips, his presence a pressure behind your eyes.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he says, low and steady. “It’s louder now than when I was bleeding in the pit.”

You flinch. Just barely. But his eyes catch it.

“No shame in it. A heart should race before it's taken apart.”

You try to speak. Try to find Inquisitorial voice, the clinical tone that keeps you safe.

“This isn’t protocol.”

“It is now,” he says, without hesitation.

You open your mouth to protest — and his hand moves, not to silence you, but to brush his thumb again across your lower lip again. Slower this time. A longer pass. He presses just enough to feel the softness of it, the give.

“You don’t even bite me for that,” he murmurs. “Not even a flinch. Just breath and heat.”

“I should report you,” you whisper, but your voice is already gone. Even you don’t believe it.

His smile is slow. Not smug. Not cruel. Knowing.

“You could,” he says. “They might even listen. But they’ll ask you to describe it. What I did. What I didn’t do.”

His thumb drags down, tracing the slope of your chin, then along your jaw. Your eyes flutter.

“And you’d start to sweat right there in the chamber, wouldn’t you?” he continues. “Trying to find words for how it felt to stand here. Trembling. Wet. Open.”

You gasp — not from the filth of it, but from the truth.

He leans in closer. The air between you all but disappears.

“Tell me what you're feeling.”

You swallow. “Overloaded.”

“That’s not a feeling,” he says. “That’s a shield cracking. Try again.”

“I…” You close your eyes. “You’re inside me.”

He laughs — not mocking, but low and rich. “That’s better. And I haven’t even touched what matters yet.”

His gauntlet rises. You watch it move like prey watching a fang lower. It hovers at your throat.

"Here?" he asks.

You nod.

“Say it.”

You hesitate. But the silence is worse.

“Yes.”

His fingers graze your throat. Just enough for the heat of him to wrap around it. Not a grip. Not even a hold. But intent. His touch tells your body what it could become under him.

And your whole body answers.

“You want me to press,” he says. “Even if you don’t know why.”

He leans in, his voice a hush against your ear.

“Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”

You nod.

He doesn't answer right away. He inhales.

“You smell like obedience. Like fear twisted into arousal and left to steep.”

His hand shifts — no pressure, no rush. Just a slow drag of his gloved fingers down the centerline of your chest. The weight of it ghosts over your breastbone, and you almost arch into it.

“I see a vessel,” he continues, “aching to be filled. Not just with me. With meaning. You came here thinking you were the one observing.”

He tilts your chin again, thumb back at your lips.

“But you’re the one being read. Every breath. Every twitch. Every filthy little pulse I can feel between your thighs when I so much as speak.”

You whimper. You try not to. But it comes out anyway — thin, helpless.

His voice softens, but the words cut deeper.

“You're going to beg me. Eventually. And I won’t have to demand it. You’ll offer it. Because that’s what you’re made for. Not for observation. For submission.”

His forehead lowers to yours.

His hand doesn’t move. But your whole body shakes around the lack of touch.

“Not yet,” he says, almost gentle. “But close.”

And you believe him.

You’re so close, you can taste it like copper behind your teeth.

...

You’re starting to understand why they sent you alone.

The Inquisitor didn’t say it, of course. No one ever does. But you can feel it now — in the way he watches you, the way your body wants to tremble but refuses to in case he notices.

They weren’t sending you to observe him.

They were sending you to see if you broke like the others.

He hasn’t even touched you properly, but your mouth is already dry, your thighs damp, and your psychic field is—God-Emperor preserve you—singing under the weight of him.

Vaeron inches closer, silent, sure.

"You think this is new," he says. His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s inside you already — not quite psychic, not quite spoken, more like a pulse in the warp that speaks in want.

“It’s not?” you whisper.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a bare shift of muscle. A memory, maybe.

“I’ve had psykers in this vault before,” he says. “Four. No—five. Acolytes. Adepts. One Null.”

He leans down — slow enough to give you time to flee. You don’t.

“They all said the same thing. ‘It’s too much.’ ‘It’s too close.’ ‘Something’s leaking out of you.’”

He raises his hand again — that gauntlet, blackened, massive — and floats it just above your chest.

“I didn’t leak,” he says. “They spilled.”

Your breath stutters. You try not to picture it — young psykers shaking in their boots, their shields shredded by presence alone, panting, weeping, speaking in tongues as their auras snapped open like cracked vessels.

“Did you touch them?” you ask, your voice too soft, shamefully curious.

He huffs once. Not quite a laugh.

“I didn’t have to. One of them orgasmed the moment I said her name. Another bit clean through her own tongue just to stop herself from asking me to taste her.”

You shudder. You hate how your thighs twitch when you imagine it. Hate more the way your breath catches in your throat when you wonder—will I be worse?

His hand hovers over your heart now. Not pressing. Just radiating presence.

“But you…” he says, almost to himself, “you’re different.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just lowers his hand slowly, dragging it down the center of your chest until it reaches your stomach. Your whole body seizes under it. There’s no pressure. But you feel it like a claim.

“You haven’t tried to stop me,” he murmurs. “You haven’t shielded. Haven’t screamed.”

He leans in again. His mouth beside your ear now. Each word a hot brand.

“Do you know what you’ve done instead?”

You shake your head. Your breath shakes with it.

“You’ve opened. You’re letting me in. Letting me read you.”

You can’t deny it.

Your aura is fluttering around his touch like wings caught in slow flame. You feel your pulse in places you shouldn’t. You feel wet and warm and compliant.

“I’m not like them,” you say, but you don’t know if you’re denying or begging.

“No,” he whispers. “You’re not.”

And then, softer still, like a benediction:

“You’ll last longer,” he says, eyes locked to yours. “Which means I get to unmake you slow.”

The words don’t hit like a slap. They don’t even land all at once. They sink. They slide down your throat like blood-warm wine, thick with meaning, thick with intent.

You should move.

But instead, you breathe him in.

And he waits.

He doesn’t close the space. He doesn’t press further.

Because he doesn't need to.

The silence stretches — not awkward, not still. It’s alive. Breathing. You feel it against your skin like steam rising off sanctified oil. The air between you grows heavier. Charged. Psychic tension crawls along your nerves like a tongue made of smoke.

He watches you — not with cruelty, not even with lust.

With hunger. Monastic. Measured. Merciless.

“You haven’t flinched,” he says at last, voice almost contemplative. “Not really. Not the way they did.”

You blink. Your voice is thin. “They?”

He shifts — not much. Just the tilt of his head. The weight of his gaze sharpens.

“The others. The psykers they sent before you. Full of shields and chants and trembling lectures about protocol.”

His tone cools.

“They cracked the moment I looked too long.”

He steps closer now — not fast, but with certainty. Like you are no longer someone he’s deciding to approach. You are something already chosen.

“I like you better,” he says. “You haven’t spoken a ward since you arrived.”

“I didn’t think I needed one,” you whisper.

A beat.

His eyes flare — just slightly.

“You do.”

Your whole body answers that. Your spine locks. Your belly tightens. Between your legs, a fresh pulse of wetness shames you, slick and wanting.

He doesn't move.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not still. Not calm. But you haven’t run.”

“I’m trained.”

“No.” His voice cuts low, velvet edged with shadow. “You’re curious.”

You want to deny it. But you don’t.

You can’t.

He takes one final step — and now there’s nothing between you but breath. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t reach. Just stands close enough that your aura bends toward his without your consent.

“You’re already unraveling,” he says. “Bit by bit.”

He looks at your mouth when he says it. Not with lewdness. With precision. Like he’s counting the number of ways he could unmake your voice, your breath, your self.

“Still holding on,” he murmurs. “But the question is… for how long?”

Your lips part.

Nothing comes out.

And he smiles.

Dark. Patient.

Then:

“You’re holding together,” he says.

And you realize:

He’s ready to test that.

...

His voice is velvet filth, spoken low, shaped by a mouth that could crush or comfort — and would do either with the same steady reverence. You stand before him, thighs trembling, breath feathering in your chest like a caged bird.

“I admire that,” he says. “But we both know it won’t last.”

His gauntlet rises again, slow as a rite. He doesn’t touch you. Just holds his hand palm-out over your sternum, as if your heartbeat is something he can weigh with his will alone.

And maybe he can.

“I’m going to speak to parts of you,” he says, “that no one else knows how to reach.”

You shudder.

“I’m not going to touch you. Not yet. Not your skin, not your cunt, not your throat. But I will make you feel me.”

The breath between you is tight. Thin. Measured.

“You’ll remain silent,” he murmurs, “or you fail. Do you understand?”

You nod. He doesn’t accept it.

“Say it.”

Your voice is threadbare. “Yes. I understand.”

His eyes burn brighter — not cruel. Hungry.

And then he speaks.

Not in Low Gothic. Not even High. It's older. Wet and bone-deep, a ritual tongue, thick with pressure. The words don’t strike your ears. They strike your gut. Your womb. Your spine.

The first word lands between your legs.

It doesn’t touch you — and yet you feel your clit twitch. You feel a throb deepen, like your body is trying to pull something in that isn’t even there.

Your breath skips.

The second word slides behind your sternum.

You feel your nipples tighten, heat flushing over your chest like a hand was pressed to your breast and squeezed gently. You don’t move. But your aura flares. Your thighs instinctively press tighter together.

He sees it.

But he doesn’t smile.

The third word—

Oh, throne. It lands in your throat, slick and inside. Your mouth opens, just slightly, and you feel your tongue move without meaning to — as if trying to say it back.

Your breath rushes through your teeth.

He steps closer.

"Still silent," he says, voice like dark wine. “Good.”

He raises his hand again, and though he doesn't touch you, you feel pressure bloom in your aura — a phantom palm across your lower stomach, gentle, circular. Teasing.

You bite your lip. Hard.

Another word. Harsher now. It tastes like metal and heat, and when it lands, your knees tremble. You feel a flush crawl up your inner thighs — no contact, no stimulation, just command.

“You’re soaking,” he says, gaze unmoving. “I can smell it now.”

You make a soft noise — involuntary. Barely a sound.

His hand stops.

He tilts his head.

“That wasn’t silence.”

You gasp. “It was—reflex—”

He leans in.

“Reflex is still surrender, little psyker. You felt it. And you gave me sound.”

Your whole body aches. Your fingers twitch with the need to grip something. But there's nothing. Just him. And the air between you, charged like a thunderhead.

“Do you want mercy?” he asks, quieter now. “Or more?”

More. More.

But you can’t say it.

He tilts your chin with two gloved fingers. Not gently. Not roughly. Just inevitably.

“Say it. You’ve already lost. Might as well earn your next command.”

Your lips part.

You don’t speak.

Not yet.

But your breath… your trembling… your aura pulsing like a drumbeat around him—

You’re already his.

...

"You’re holding together,” he says, voice molten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The heat between your legs is already dangerous. If he touches you—

No. When he doesn’t touch you, and your body still screams for it—that’s worse.

He waits. Not patient. Focused. Like a surgeon preparing to carve.

Then he says:

“I want you to feel it in your chest this time.”

You blink.

“Where?”

He doesn’t answer.

He speaks.

The word is longer than the last. A different dialect—thicker, older. You don’t hear it. You receive it. The syllables roll into you like a heavy, wet tongue sliding through the meat of your nerves.

And your nipples—

Throne.

They harden so fast it hurts. A spike of sensation straight through the tips, like someone pinched them. No—kneaded. Like a mouth, slow and greedy, sucking with long, rhythmic pulls.

You cry out.

His eyes narrow. “Again.”

He speaks a second word, almost overlapping the last, and the pressure doubles. It’s not just arousal. It’s possession. You can feel a phantom grip twisting at both nipples, pulling them taut like a string being drawn from the center of your chest straight into his palm.

You’re panting now. Mouth open. Lips trembling.

“You said no touching—” you choke.

“I’m not touching you,” he says, calm. “Not yet.”

Your legs shake. You press your thighs together, chasing friction, but it only makes the sensations worse—deeper. Your cunt pulses once, then again, as if it’s remembering what it’s like to be filled.

And he hasn’t moved an inch.

“Stop—” you start.

His brow rises, just slightly.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, and his voice is so calm, so dangerous, it makes your clit throb.

Your lips twist. Just slightly. "You're predictable for something so ancient."

It slips out before you can stop yourself.

And then—he grins.

Wide. White. Hungry.

The temperature drops. Or maybe it rises. Your skin flushes from the inside out.

He steps forward, and though he doesn’t touch you, you feel something curl in the air—a tightening of your aura, a pressure that pushes up behind your nipples and flicks them from inside.

You stagger.

His voice sharpens, like steel dragging slow across glass.

“You think you’re clever.”

Another word. This one cuts through you—jagged and slow, and the moment it lands your whole chest pulls tight, nipples aching, throbbing, wet now, like you’ve been suckled for hours.

You whimper, then moan, then bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I think,” you manage, “you’re—obsessed with watching me not beg.”

He laughs—actually laughs, low and real, like you surprised him.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you want to know what I love more?”

His voice drops.

“The moment a psyker stops using language.”

Your thoughts blur. The stimulation isn’t just pain or pleasure anymore. It’s layered—memory, pressure, heat, voice. You feel it all inside your chest like your body’s being sung open.

And your nipples—oh, Throne—twist again, like invisible thumbs are teasing the tips just shy of cruelty.

You can't stop the way your hips rock forward, your thighs twitching, your mouth open and breathing like you're being fucked through your breasts alone.

“Don’t speak,” he commands, softer now. “Just listen.”

Then: another word.

This one is longer, slower, almost coaxing.

And your nipples pulse.

You sob.

Your cunt clenches empty.

And for one split second, you feel your body tip forward into orgasm—but you catch yourself. Pull back.

He sees it.

“Oh,” he murmurs, so quietly it barely registers, “you’re trying to save it.”

His grin is merciless now.

“I admire that. But you should know…”

He leans in. Not touching. But close enough for you to taste the vow in his voice.

“I’m going to take that choice from you.”

...

“You almost came.”

His voice is low. Not disappointed.

Amused.

“I felt it. The pull in your aura. The flare behind your eyes. You were ready to soak yourself over nothing but language.”

You can’t look at him. Your breath stutters. Your nipples are aching — not sensitive. Desperate. You want to cup them, squeeze them, anything to finish the sensation spiraling in your chest, but you don’t move.

And that pleases him.

“You’re holding it,” he says. “That little peak. Right there.”

He doesn’t touch you.

He speaks.

Another word, crooned like a prayer. Your nipples twitch. You feel that phantom heat again, circling, stroking — not inside you, no, just under your skin. Just deep enough to feel your cunt spasm once, as if it’s grasping for something that isn’t there.

You bite back the moan.

“I want to see how many times I can make your body try,” he says, “before your mind catches up.”

Another word.

Your back arches.

This time, your vision flashes.

White. Bright. Your aura spikes.

You almost fall.

He catches your chin. Not rough. But firm. Gauntlet fingers cool against your jaw.

“Still no hands. No lips. Not even breath on your chest. Just the sound of me.”

Your thighs are wet now — you know you’ve soaked through your underthings. Your nipples are throbbing like they’ve been worked for hours, every imagined lick, every psychic pinch, stored in your bones like heat.

And still—no release.

You let out a small, broken sound.

He chuckles.

“You’ll cum soon,” he promises. “But not from want. Not from pressure. From need.”

He leans closer.

Whispers in your ear:

“When you beg me — really beg me — then I’ll let you scream.”

And he speaks again.

A new word.

Low. Lush. Like the taste of fingers pulled from a wet mouth.

And you whimper, shoulders shaking, as your body bucks once — dry, desperate.

No orgasm.

But so close it hurts.

...

Your body has no idea what’s real anymore.

The pressure in your chest has eclipsed logic. Your nipples are hard, red, wet with sweat and imagined mouths. The phantom stimulation is so vivid now that you swear you feel teeth — not biting, just grazing, tugging at the peak with aching precision.

It’s not pain. It’s intent.

Every part of you is being handled without being touched.

Vaeron’s words have filled you so many times that your body doesn’t seem to care whether it’s voice or hand anymore. You’re reacting the same way: shaking, flushed, dripping.

You can’t remember the last time you had friction between your thighs.

But somehow, your clit is screaming for him. Like it knows. Like it recognizes his speech as ownership.

And then it happens.

He speaks again — a new word, thicker than the others, slow and dragged through some psychic current that thrums inside your cunt like it belongs there.

And everything tightens.

Your clit pulses.

Your belly contracts.

Your breasts feel dragged upward, nipples pulled by phantom hands, as if someone’s behind you with a mouth on one and fingers rolling the other in perfect, punishing rhythm.

It spirals.

Your thighs lock.

Your mouth opens.

You see stars behind your eyes — that blooming white noise that means your orgasm is coming, it's coming—

And then—

It doesn’t.

Your body wants. But your mind can’t. There’s no push, no permission, no command.

It’s like balancing at the tip of a blade.

Every muscle in you is ready.

But the fall never comes.

And it hurts.

Your body jerks once, instinctive, like a reflex that can’t complete. Your cunt clenches—hard—but it’s empty. Denied.

Your nipples throb, teased beyond logic, and your whole aura wails — like a song cut off mid-note.

And Vaeron?

He watches it happen.

Watches you stall at the peak, lips parted, a tremble rolling through you like thunder — and says, softly:

“One.”

You gasp.

“One what?”

He leans in.

“One denial.”

You collapse forward slightly, panting. Your knees threaten to give. But you hold.

Barely.

You’re crying now.

Tiny, helpless tears from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain.

From what was taken.

He steps in closer. His gauntlet hovers over your chest again, so close you feel the heat through your robe.

“You thought I’d give it to you.”

You manage a breath.

He leans in.

“You thought I’d let you break.”

...

You’re still standing. Somehow.

Your thighs are shaking. Your nipples ache with an absence that feels like mourning. Your clit throbs once every few seconds, like it’s begging for friction, for finish, for anything.

But all he gave you was a word.

And all he took was your orgasm.

You’d curse him—if your mouth would work.

Instead, your breath stutters in shallow gasps, your hands half-raised like they’re reaching for something, for him, without your permission. You didn’t mean to look at him like that.

But you do.

And he sees it.

Vaeron steps close again. No gauntlet this time — just voice.

“You know why you didn’t cum,” he says.

You shake your head, helpless.

“You didn’t ask.”

He brushes his hand near your face — not touching, just letting your skin sense the pass of him.

“You waited,” he murmurs, “but you didn’t surrender.”

You manage a sound — half sob, half wordless plea. You want to fight back. You want to say You never told me to.

But he already knows.

He steps behind you again. And speaks.

One word.

And your nerves answer.

This time, you feel it in your hips — a slow, building warmth between the curve of your ass and the wet seam of your cunt, like a palm spreading open over both.

No pressure. No invasion.

Just heat.

Another word.

Your aura shudders.

Your spine curves slightly without meaning to, your ass tipping back as your body invites what isn’t there. As if your cunt recognizes the shape of him in absence.

“See?” he says, still behind you. “You’re listening better now.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“Your cunt’s smarter than your mouth.”

You moan — low and broken. You hate how good it feels to be spoken through.

He steps close. Not touching. Not yet.

But you feel his breath near your shoulder.

“Let me speak to it directly.”

You tremble.

Then he says a new word.

And this one — this one — you feel inside.

Your cunt contracts. Hard.

Not painful. Not cruel. Just startled. Like a sudden suck, like your own body just inhaled around nothing.

Your mouth falls open.

And he doesn’t even wait for the moan.

He speaks again.

Two words this time.

They twist inside you — not just in your pussy now, but in your belly, your thighs, your chest. You feel them stirring your womb, coiling pressure there like a hand reaching deep, curling behind bone.

You buck forward.

But nothing happens.

Your orgasm builds.

And stalls.

Again.

He steps close, nearly brushing your back.

“No,” he whispers. “Not yet.”

Your knees buckle.

He catches you this time. Gauntlet around your waist. Holding you upright.

Not out of kindness.

Out of design.

“You'll cum,” he breathes into your ear, “when you understand what it's for.”

The words shiver down your spine like oil. Not hot. Not cold. Total.

You try to nod, try to answer, but your throat doesn’t work. Every nerve is pulled taut, straining toward something just beyond climax, just beyond permission. Your cunt is soaked, flushed, writhing against nothing. Your nipples feel swollen, tuned, like his mouth should be on them right now, dragging you through some wet, ruined prayer.

But he hasn’t moved.

He just watches.

He speaks again.

“You’re not a woman in heat,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re not here to be fucked.”

He steps around you — not pacing, not stalking. Circling. The way a priest circles the altar.

“You’re here to be opened.”

Another word.

Not his name. Not yours.

Just sound — spoken like a secret and spat like a curse.

Your knees buckle. Your cunt contracts, hard and fast. You almost cry out—almost—but you bite it back and clench your teeth.

And he sees it.

“Oh, you're still trying,” he murmurs. “Still clutching your pride like it’s a ward against my voice.”

He steps in behind you.

“Let me make it simple.”

He doesn’t touch you.

He speaks into you.

And this time, it’s plural. A phrase. A sequence of sound that rides your aura like a brand, pressing into the shape of your hips, your breasts, your womb — shaping your nerves like wet clay.

You seize.

Your mouth falls open. A sound leaves your throat — not a word. Not a moan.

Something in between.

He smiles.

“There it is. That’s your first language slipping.”

You pant. You sob. You try to grind your thighs together, but he senses it.

He stops speaking.

The pressure vanishes.

You’re left gasping.

Empty.

Unfinished.

He crouches now, gauntlet bracing your waist, and you feel his breath curl against your lips as he growls:

“I want to see your climax strip the language from your mouth.”

You stare at him, wrecked.

“Please,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. Cold. Loving. Immovable.

“You’re still using words.”

He leans back.

And speaks again.

Your nipples jerk. Your cunt spasms. Your aura screams.

And yet — no orgasm.

No release.

Just more unraveling.

And in your sob, your breathless tremble, the broken syllable that leaves your throat like the beginning of nothing, you begin to understand:

You won’t cum because you want it.

You’ll cum when your body gives up speech entirely.

When you are his language now.

...

Your knees hit the stone.

Not from weakness — not only. From gravity. From the weight of his words still echoing in your chest, your cunt, your skull.

You don’t remember falling.

You only remember the moment your breath left you — when he said the last phrase and your nipples jerked so hard you gasped and clenched like he’d shoved two fingers inside you.

But there was nothing.

Still nothing.

And that emptiness is becoming too loud to bear.

He's still crouching in front of you.

Massive.

Armored.

Looming.

The red glow of the vault paints the hard lines of his chest, the edge of his cheekbone, the glint of sweat trailing between muscle plates. He fills your vision, fills your breath, fills the room.

You feel tiny beneath him.

Not just in scale — in purpose.

Your aura crawls toward him like it needs to touch his.

He tilts his head as he watches you, then slowly lifts one gauntleted hand and hovers it over your chest.

Not touching.

Blessing.

“You’re almost ready,” he murmurs.

Your mouth opens, your lips form something — a syllable, a sob — but you can’t finish it.

He sees that.

He waited for that.

“You feel that?” he says.

His voice is closer now. You feel the syllables on your tongue like sacrament.

“That silence. That failure of language. That’s the beginning of truth.”

You’re panting.

Moaning.

Glassy-eyed.

He leans forward — his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“Do you want my voice inside you?”

You nod.

He growls.

“No.”

You freeze.

“You offer nothing,” he says, low and slow. “You are already mine.”

He lowers his hand. One finger hovers an inch from your sternum. The heat of it radiates like promise.

Then he speaks.

Not one word.

A series. A litany. The words roll from his mouth like thunder swallowed by velvet — ancient, wet, holy. And your body answers.

Your nipples spike. Your womb contracts. Your clit pulses so hard you gasp.

You can’t breathe.

His gauntlet lowers.

Hovers between your thighs.

Still not touching.

But the air there is hot now — pressure forming around your cunt like a hand made of voice.

And you feel it.

Slide inside.

Not real. Not imagined.

Spoken.

You sob.

And then—he leans in.

His lips brush the shell of your ear. His hand settles at the back of your neck — heavy, warm, claiming.

And he says one final word.

You don’t know what it means.

But your body does.

You shatter.

No scream. No plea.

Just sound.

A deep, raw, animal noise, ripped from the base of your throat — wet and helpless — as your cunt grips around nothing, milking air, spasming so hard you feel it in your spine.

Your body convulses.

Your nipples ache with release. Your chest trembles. Your mouth opens—

And nothing but broken moans spill out.

No words.

No thought.

Only obedience.

Only offering.

You collapse into him, breathing ragged, body still twitching, aura fluttering like the last gasps of flame on sacred oil.

And Vaeron?

He holds you.

Not softly.

But completely.

His lips brush your temple. Not as reward.

As claim.

“Now,” he says, voice dark and full of triumph.

“Now you understand.”

...

You’re still kneeling.

Not by choice anymore — you don’t remember what choice felt like. Your breath is slow, staggered. Your thighs are shaking. There’s a fresh trickle of wetness sliding down your inner leg, your robe soaked from your own body’s shattering. You dripped for him. You opened.

And you’re still open.

Wide in your chest. Loose in your mind. Quiet in your aura.

And that’s why he doesn't step away.

Vaeron stays crouched, looming in front of you like a god made real, all armor and bare muscle and sweat, glowing in the redvault light like he belongs inside you now.

He cups your jaw with one gauntleted hand — slow, firm, possessive.

Not lifting.

Just holding you up.

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

And he loves that.

“You’re quieter now,” he says.

His thumb strokes beneath your chin.

“Not because you’re afraid. Not because you’re silenced.”

His voice lowers.

“But because you’ve been heard.”

You blink, tears wet at the corners of your lashes. Your mouth is open just slightly, lips red from biting, breath still fluttering against the metal of his glove.

“You understand what you are now.”

You nod — slow, heavy.

“You’re not a psyker anymore,” he says, brushing his fingers back through your hair, gripping the roots for just a second. “You’re not a reader of data. Not a tool of the Inquisition.”

He leans closer.

“You are my conduit.”

Your aura flutters.

“You’ll cum again,” he murmurs. “Not for pleasure. Not even for need.”

He brings his forehead to yours, still crouched, still towering, and breathes into your mouth.

“You’ll cum when I say the words I haven't even taught you yet.”

You shiver.

Because he’s right.

You feel it in your womb, in your thighs, in your mind.

You're still responding.

He brushes a hand down your chest, flat-palmed over your heart, leaving heat in its wake.

“I’m going to say them soon,” he says. “A second language. The one only you will learn.”

Your breath hitches.

“And when I do…”

He lowers his mouth to your ear.

“You’ll beg to have it carved into you.”

His hand slides beneath your jaw and lifts you.

Not fast. Not rough.

He raises you from your knees like an offering, his gaze locked on you as if your body is the site of some sacred mystery.

You stumble.

He catches you.

Of course he does.

Then he turns you.

And you see it.

The altar.

A raised slab of red-veined stone at the heart of the vault. Its surface is worn smooth by centuries of blood and oil and skin. It glows faintly — not from tech. From use.

You freeze.

But his hand presses to the small of your back.

“Go,” he says.

And your body — yours, but no longer fully owned — obeys.

---

My app is breaking... hope you liked this walking red flag lolol.

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21

[sylestine-redacted]

Raven by Emmanuel Viola

[sylestine-redacted]

The Blooded Rite

f!reader x psyker!astartes

A/n: hnhhnnnhnjn psychic foreplay ... did I cook? Or am I delusional. Lmk lol. Again I maxed out the blocks on this godforsaken site so.... I'm pasting as much as I can and wherever it leaves off, it leaves off. You'll get the rest tomorrow. Or on ao3 if I post this draft heh. Also angel face riding coming!! Tweaking some wing play scenes for max visceral effect so sorry and tysm for reading!

(/_;)/~~

Cw: NSFW, dubcon, sexual content, mind breaking?

^this is basically what happens to you.

---

The vault door seals behind you with a wet hiss, the clang echoing off stone like a closing mouth. You’re alone now—at least, that’s what the order said. Observation. One Astartes. Simple.

But the air is thick. Not sacred. Not clean. It smells like heat and breath and the coppery tang of spent blood. The humidity clings to your skin beneath your sanctioned robes, and the dataslate in your grip feels too slick. You press your thumb to the seal rune.

Focus. You’re trained. You’re prepared.

You are not prepared for the way he’s watching you.

Sergeant Vaeron stands at the chamber’s center—partially unarmored, gauntlets still on, sweat glistening along exposed muscle. His frame is carved in brutality and blood-ritual, and for a moment he doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

Neither do you.

You open the slate. Begin the protocol.

“Subject: Sergeant Vaeron, Blood Angels, post-combat psychic bleed—”

Your words feel hollow.

The slate flickers. The reading pulses unstable.

7.3 millirems. Flux breach. Unshielded transmission.

You look up. He’s moved.

You didn’t hear him.

He’s close. Two steps from you. Too large. Too silent.

You can feel the weight of him before he speaks. It’s not just physical. Not just the creak of warplate or the groan of his boots. It’s in your head. A hum behind your teeth, just beneath perception — like the vibration of a tuning fork driven straight into your spine.

He hasn’t touched you yet. Not really.

But the air is heavy with the promise of it.

You try to step back.

You don’t.

Instead, you swallow. Hard. Your lips are dry. Your skin too warm beneath your collar. The vault’s heat feels like it's pressing in, trying to wring something out of you.

Sergeant Vaeron’s gaze never leaves you. His eyes are not gentle. Not curious. They are consuming. When he speaks, it’s with the kind of patience that terrifies you more than a snarl would.

“You came alone.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, slowly. “The brief—said solo observation. Psychic bleed calibration. Nothing invasive.”

He tilts his head. You hate how beautiful he is in stillness. Like a statue carved to house something holy. Or dangerous.

“You were sent to observe me,” he says. “But you didn’t consider what I might observe in return.”

The heat behind your ears flares.

“I’m not—” you start, but your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “You’re exuding post-combat residue. That’s all. It’s not deliberate.”

“No,” he agrees, and takes a half step forward.

You almost step back. Almost.

But something holds you.

Not his hands. Not yet.

Just the air. The weight. The hum of his presence through the warp. Like his soul is already brushing yours, testing for give.

“My intent isn’t required,” he murmurs. “Your reaction is enough.”

You realize your hands are clenched at your sides. White-knuckled. And the slick heat between your thighs has nothing to do with the sanctum’s humidity.

His gauntlet moves—slowly—toward your face. Not to touch. Just to hover. You feel the heat of it before it arrives. Inches from your cheek. Close enough you can feel the tremor in your breath reflected in his armor.

“If I pressed,” he says, eyes locking with yours, “right now. Just a single finger. Would you move?”

You don’t know.

Your body’s frozen, caught between terror and a need you don’t understand. You feel yourself tilting, slowly, into him without meaning to.

Your voice is barely audible. “I should.”

“But you won’t.”

He’s right.

You won’t.

...

You tell yourself you’re still in control.

That if he touched you—really touched you—you’d move. Pull away. Reassert distance. Protocol. Dignity.

But right now, with his hand floating just inches from your cheek, with his voice inside your chest like a second heartbeat… you don’t move. You barely breathe.

He watches you like an apothecary inspecting a volatile compound. No urgency. No emotion. Just purpose.

You want him to speak again.

You’re terrified he will.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says softly. “It’s loud. Everything you’re trying to hide… it echoes.”

The tips of his gauntleted fingers drift down, tracing nothing—just a phantom trail through air—until they hover near your collarbone. You feel your own pulse there. Fast. Rhythmic.

His eyes lower. Just slightly. Just enough to make you ache.

“Do you know how many of your kind scream when I’m this close?” he murmurs. “Psychic bleed makes them raw. It tears them open. I don’t even have to try.”

You swallow. Hard.

“Why not me?” you ask. It slips out. You hate yourself for the question.

He doesn’t smile. He steps closer.

Close enough that the front of your robes brushes his bare chest. You feel the heat radiating from his skin—impossibly hot, like a furnace banked behind flesh.

“You aren’t resisting,” he says. His voice is low, like confession. “You’re receiving. You’re taking me in like breath.”

His hand finally lowers. Not to touch. Just to settle, just barely, on the curve of your shoulder. The gauntlet’s weight is light—too light for what he could do. It’s the choice of restraint that sends a tremor down your spine.

You feel the pressure of his thumb—not moving, just resting there. Like the threat of being claimed. Like he's waiting to see how your body answers him.

And it does.

Your breath stutters. Your thighs tighten. A flicker in the warp shivers between your hips like a warning you already ignored.

“I should report this,” you whisper.

His gaze doesn’t flicker.

“But you won’t,” he says, and you feel the words where his hand rests. As if they’re seeping into your skin. Carving themselves there.

“You came here for data,” he adds, “but you didn’t bring your shields up. You didn’t guard your thoughts. You didn’t consider what it would feel like to be seen.”

The worst part is—he’s right.

You thought yourself a quiet observer. A minor tool in some Inquisitorial machine.

But he’s looking at you like you’re something holy.

Or sacrificial.

His hand rises again. Slower this time. You don’t flinch when the back of his fingers brush your cheek. Not a slap. Not a stroke. Just contact. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your lips part without permission.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He doesn’t have to.

“I won’t mark you,” he says, voice a prayer-shaped promise. “Not yet. I want to see how long you can stand to be this close… before you ask.”

He leans in, breath brushing your mouth. Still no contact.

“You will,” he murmurs.

...

You can’t feel your hands anymore.

They’re still at your sides — not bound, not restrained — but the blood’s gone somewhere else. Deeper. Lower. You feel hollowed out behind your navel. Full of waiting.

He hasn't moved.

His forehead hovers just short of touching yours, his breath warm across your lips, deep and measured. You hate that you know how it tastes now — not in your mouth, but in your thoughts. You hate more that your body leans into it.

“You're vibrating,” he says. “Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But in the warp—”

His fingers twitch, just slightly, against your collarbone. The contact is so light it might be imagined, but your knees still lock to keep you upright.

“—you’re ringing.”

He says it like he’s describing a relic. Or a weapon warming in its case.

You try to speak. Try to drag your thoughts back into language.

But the words fail. Your tongue is heavy. Your breath keeps pausing, like your lungs are waiting for a command that hasn’t come.

And he sees it.

“Does your Inquisitor know,” he whispers, “how easily you shudder under pressure?”

You shake your head. Reflexive. Your mouth opens, lips parting to deny it — but you never get the chance.

He doesn’t kiss you. Still.

But his thumb brushes just barely along the edge of your lower lip. Just one pass. No force. Just texture.

You flinch.

Not away.

Into it.

The sound that escapes you is too soft. Too close to a need.

He holds there. Thumb resting against your mouth. Not in it. Not yet. Just a promise. A presence.

You realize your hips have shifted forward, the movement so slow you didn’t feel it happen. There’s barely a hand’s width between your belly and his now. He doesn’t close it. He lets you drift closer. As if your body has to earn the contact.

And still he waits.

"You haven’t asked,” he murmurs.

Your chest hitches.

“I don’t—”

He cuts you off with silence. A tilt of his head. A breath that brushes the shell of your ear and makes your whole body pulse downward.

“You don’t have to say the words,” he says. “Not yet.”

His gauntlet rises again, moves with ceremony — not like a man touching a woman, but like a priest preparing a sacred object for the flame. He drags two gloved fingers along the side of your throat. Just a line. From jaw to clavicle. Your pulse follows the path.

“You’re soft here,” he says, almost to himself. “Delicate.”

You want to hate how wet you are now. How your thighs feel slick just from his voice.

His fingers stop just above your sternum. They hover. Waiting.

"Tell me," he says, voice barely audible, "where it hurts to be touched."

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to.

He already knows.

...

You're not breathing right.

It’s shallow now. Not panicked — not yet — but caught, high in your chest, like your lungs are afraid to move too much, lest they brush him. He’s still inches away, his breath painting your lips, his presence a pressure behind your eyes.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he says, low and steady. “It’s louder now than when I was bleeding in the pit.”

You flinch. Just barely. But his eyes catch it.

“No shame in it. A heart should race before it's taken apart.”

You try to speak. Try to find Inquisitorial voice, the clinical tone that keeps you safe.

“This isn’t protocol.”

“It is now,” he says, without hesitation.

You open your mouth to protest — and his hand moves, not to silence you, but to brush his thumb again across your lower lip again. Slower this time. A longer pass. He presses just enough to feel the softness of it, the give.

“You don’t even bite me for that,” he murmurs. “Not even a flinch. Just breath and heat.”

“I should report you,” you whisper, but your voice is already gone. Even you don’t believe it.

His smile is slow. Not smug. Not cruel. Knowing.

“You could,” he says. “They might even listen. But they’ll ask you to describe it. What I did. What I didn’t do.”

His thumb drags down, tracing the slope of your chin, then along your jaw. Your eyes flutter.

“And you’d start to sweat right there in the chamber, wouldn’t you?” he continues. “Trying to find words for how it felt to stand here. Trembling. Wet. Open.”

You gasp — not from the filth of it, but from the truth.

He leans in closer. The air between you all but disappears.

“Tell me what you're feeling.”

You swallow. “Overloaded.”

“That’s not a feeling,” he says. “That’s a shield cracking. Try again.”

“I…” You close your eyes. “You’re inside me.”

He laughs — not mocking, but low and rich. “That’s better. And I haven’t even touched what matters yet.”

His gauntlet rises. You watch it move like prey watching a fang lower. It hovers at your throat.

"Here?" he asks.

You nod.

“Say it.”

You hesitate. But the silence is worse.

“Yes.”

His fingers graze your throat. Just enough for the heat of him to wrap around it. Not a grip. Not even a hold. But intent. His touch tells your body what it could become under him.

And your whole body answers.

“You want me to press,” he says. “Even if you don’t know why.”

He leans in, his voice a hush against your ear.

“Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”

You nod.

He doesn't answer right away. He inhales.

“You smell like obedience. Like fear twisted into arousal and left to steep.”

His hand shifts — no pressure, no rush. Just a slow drag of his gloved fingers down the centerline of your chest. The weight of it ghosts over your breastbone, and you almost arch into it.

“I see a vessel,” he continues, “aching to be filled. Not just with me. With meaning. You came here thinking you were the one observing.”

He tilts your chin again, thumb back at your lips.

“But you’re the one being read. Every breath. Every twitch. Every filthy little pulse I can feel between your thighs when I so much as speak.”

You whimper. You try not to. But it comes out anyway — thin, helpless.

His voice softens, but the words cut deeper.

“You're going to beg me. Eventually. And I won’t have to demand it. You’ll offer it. Because that’s what you’re made for. Not for observation. For submission.”

His forehead lowers to yours.

His hand doesn’t move. But your whole body shakes around the lack of touch.

“Not yet,” he says, almost gentle. “But close.”

And you believe him.

You’re so close, you can taste it like copper behind your teeth.

...

You’re starting to understand why they sent you alone.

The Inquisitor didn’t say it, of course. No one ever does. But you can feel it now — in the way he watches you, the way your body wants to tremble but refuses to in case he notices.

They weren’t sending you to observe him.

They were sending you to see if you broke like the others.

He hasn’t even touched you properly, but your mouth is already dry, your thighs damp, and your psychic field is—God-Emperor preserve you—singing under the weight of him.

Vaeron inches closer, silent, sure.

"You think this is new," he says. His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s inside you already — not quite psychic, not quite spoken, more like a pulse in the warp that speaks in want.

“It’s not?” you whisper.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a bare shift of muscle. A memory, maybe.

“I’ve had psykers in this vault before,” he says. “Four. No—five. Acolytes. Adepts. One Null.”

He leans down — slow enough to give you time to flee. You don’t.

“They all said the same thing. ‘It’s too much.’ ‘It’s too close.’ ‘Something’s leaking out of you.’”

He raises his hand again — that gauntlet, blackened, massive — and floats it just above your chest.

“I didn’t leak,” he says. “They spilled.”

Your breath stutters. You try not to picture it — young psykers shaking in their boots, their shields shredded by presence alone, panting, weeping, speaking in tongues as their auras snapped open like cracked vessels.

“Did you touch them?” you ask, your voice too soft, shamefully curious.

He huffs once. Not quite a laugh.

“I didn’t have to. One of them orgasmed the moment I said her name. Another bit clean through her own tongue just to stop herself from asking me to taste her.”

You shudder. You hate how your thighs twitch when you imagine it. Hate more the way your breath catches in your throat when you wonder—will I be worse?

His hand hovers over your heart now. Not pressing. Just radiating presence.

“But you…” he says, almost to himself, “you’re different.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just lowers his hand slowly, dragging it down the center of your chest until it reaches your stomach. Your whole body seizes under it. There’s no pressure. But you feel it like a claim.

“You haven’t tried to stop me,” he murmurs. “You haven’t shielded. Haven’t screamed.”

He leans in again. His mouth beside your ear now. Each word a hot brand.

“Do you know what you’ve done instead?”

You shake your head. Your breath shakes with it.

“You’ve opened. You’re letting me in. Letting me read you.”

You can’t deny it.

Your aura is fluttering around his touch like wings caught in slow flame. You feel your pulse in places you shouldn’t. You feel wet and warm and compliant.

“I’m not like them,” you say, but you don’t know if you’re denying or begging.

“No,” he whispers. “You’re not.”

And then, softer still, like a benediction:

“You’ll last longer,” he says, eyes locked to yours. “Which means I get to unmake you slow.”

The words don’t hit like a slap. They don’t even land all at once. They sink. They slide down your throat like blood-warm wine, thick with meaning, thick with intent.

You should move.

But instead, you breathe him in.

And he waits.

He doesn’t close the space. He doesn’t press further.

Because he doesn't need to.

The silence stretches — not awkward, not still. It’s alive. Breathing. You feel it against your skin like steam rising off sanctified oil. The air between you grows heavier. Charged. Psychic tension crawls along your nerves like a tongue made of smoke.

He watches you — not with cruelty, not even with lust.

With hunger. Monastic. Measured. Merciless.

“You haven’t flinched,” he says at last, voice almost contemplative. “Not really. Not the way they did.”

You blink. Your voice is thin. “They?”

He shifts — not much. Just the tilt of his head. The weight of his gaze sharpens.

“The others. The psykers they sent before you. Full of shields and chants and trembling lectures about protocol.”

His tone cools.

“They cracked the moment I looked too long.”

He steps closer now — not fast, but with certainty. Like you are no longer someone he’s deciding to approach. You are something already chosen.

“I like you better,” he says. “You haven’t spoken a ward since you arrived.”

“I didn’t think I needed one,” you whisper.

A beat.

His eyes flare — just slightly.

“You do.”

Your whole body answers that. Your spine locks. Your belly tightens. Between your legs, a fresh pulse of wetness shames you, slick and wanting.

He doesn't move.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not still. Not calm. But you haven’t run.”

“I’m trained.”

“No.” His voice cuts low, velvet edged with shadow. “You’re curious.”

You want to deny it. But you don’t.

You can’t.

He takes one final step — and now there’s nothing between you but breath. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t reach. Just stands close enough that your aura bends toward his without your consent.

“You’re already unraveling,” he says. “Bit by bit.”

He looks at your mouth when he says it. Not with lewdness. With precision. Like he’s counting the number of ways he could unmake your voice, your breath, your self.

“Still holding on,” he murmurs. “But the question is… for how long?”

Your lips part.

Nothing comes out.

And he smiles.

Dark. Patient.

Then:

“You’re holding together,” he says.

And you realize:

He’s ready to test that.

...

His voice is velvet filth, spoken low, shaped by a mouth that could crush or comfort — and would do either with the same steady reverence. You stand before him, thighs trembling, breath feathering in your chest like a caged bird.

“I admire that,” he says. “But we both know it won’t last.”

His gauntlet rises again, slow as a rite. He doesn’t touch you. Just holds his hand palm-out over your sternum, as if your heartbeat is something he can weigh with his will alone.

And maybe he can.

“I’m going to speak to parts of you,” he says, “that no one else knows how to reach.”

You shudder.

“I’m not going to touch you. Not yet. Not your skin, not your cunt, not your throat. But I will make you feel me.”

The breath between you is tight. Thin. Measured.

“You’ll remain silent,” he murmurs, “or you fail. Do you understand?”

You nod. He doesn’t accept it.

“Say it.”

Your voice is threadbare. “Yes. I understand.”

His eyes burn brighter — not cruel. Hungry.

And then he speaks.

Not in Low Gothic. Not even High. It's older. Wet and bone-deep, a ritual tongue, thick with pressure. The words don’t strike your ears. They strike your gut. Your womb. Your spine.

The first word lands between your legs.

It doesn’t touch you — and yet you feel your clit twitch. You feel a throb deepen, like your body is trying to pull something in that isn’t even there.

Your breath skips.

The second word slides behind your sternum.

You feel your nipples tighten, heat flushing over your chest like a hand was pressed to your breast and squeezed gently. You don’t move. But your aura flares. Your thighs instinctively press tighter together.

He sees it.

But he doesn’t smile.

The third word—

Oh, throne. It lands in your throat, slick and inside. Your mouth opens, just slightly, and you feel your tongue move without meaning to — as if trying to say it back.

Your breath rushes through your teeth.

He steps closer.

"Still silent," he says, voice like dark wine. “Good.”

He raises his hand again, and though he doesn't touch you, you feel pressure bloom in your aura — a phantom palm across your lower stomach, gentle, circular. Teasing.

You bite your lip. Hard.

Another word. Harsher now. It tastes like metal and heat, and when it lands, your knees tremble. You feel a flush crawl up your inner thighs — no contact, no stimulation, just command.

“You’re soaking,” he says, gaze unmoving. “I can smell it now.”

You make a soft noise — involuntary. Barely a sound.

His hand stops.

He tilts his head.

“That wasn’t silence.”

You gasp. “It was—reflex—”

He leans in.

“Reflex is still surrender, little psyker. You felt it. And you gave me sound.”

Your whole body aches. Your fingers twitch with the need to grip something. But there's nothing. Just him. And the air between you, charged like a thunderhead.

“Do you want mercy?” he asks, quieter now. “Or more?”

More. More.

But you can’t say it.

He tilts your chin with two gloved fingers. Not gently. Not roughly. Just inevitably.

“Say it. You’ve already lost. Might as well earn your next command.”

Your lips part.

You don’t speak.

Not yet.

But your breath… your trembling… your aura pulsing like a drumbeat around him—

You’re already his.

...

"You’re holding together,” he says, voice molten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The heat between your legs is already dangerous. If he touches you—

No. When he doesn’t touch you, and your body still screams for it—that’s worse.

He waits. Not patient. Focused. Like a surgeon preparing to carve.

Then he says:

“I want you to feel it in your chest this time.”

You blink.

“Where?”

He doesn’t answer.

He speaks.

The word is longer than the last. A different dialect—thicker, older. You don’t hear it. You receive it. The syllables roll into you like a heavy, wet tongue sliding through the meat of your nerves.

And your nipples—

Throne.

They harden so fast it hurts. A spike of sensation straight through the tips, like someone pinched them. No—kneaded. Like a mouth, slow and greedy, sucking with long, rhythmic pulls.

You cry out.

His eyes narrow. “Again.”

He speaks a second word, almost overlapping the last, and the pressure doubles. It’s not just arousal. It’s possession. You can feel a phantom grip twisting at both nipples, pulling them taut like a string being drawn from the center of your chest straight into his palm.

You’re panting now. Mouth open. Lips trembling.

“You said no touching—” you choke.

“I’m not touching you,” he says, calm. “Not yet.”

Your legs shake. You press your thighs together, chasing friction, but it only makes the sensations worse—deeper. Your cunt pulses once, then again, as if it’s remembering what it’s like to be filled.

And he hasn’t moved an inch.

“Stop—” you start.

His brow rises, just slightly.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, and his voice is so calm, so dangerous, it makes your clit throb.

Your lips twist. Just slightly. "You're predictable for something so ancient."

It slips out before you can stop yourself.

And then—he grins.

Wide. White. Hungry.

The temperature drops. Or maybe it rises. Your skin flushes from the inside out.

He steps forward, and though he doesn’t touch you, you feel something curl in the air—a tightening of your aura, a pressure that pushes up behind your nipples and flicks them from inside.

You stagger.

His voice sharpens, like steel dragging slow across glass.

“You think you’re clever.”

Another word. This one cuts through you—jagged and slow, and the moment it lands your whole chest pulls tight, nipples aching, throbbing, wet now, like you’ve been suckled for hours.

You whimper, then moan, then bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I think,” you manage, “you’re—obsessed with watching me not beg.”

He laughs—actually laughs, low and real, like you surprised him.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you want to know what I love more?”

His voice drops.

“The moment a psyker stops using language.”

Your thoughts blur. The stimulation isn’t just pain or pleasure anymore. It’s layered—memory, pressure, heat, voice. You feel it all inside your chest like your body’s being sung open.

And your nipples—oh, Throne—twist again, like invisible thumbs are teasing the tips just shy of cruelty.

You can't stop the way your hips rock forward, your thighs twitching, your mouth open and breathing like you're being fucked through your breasts alone.

“Don’t speak,” he commands, softer now. “Just listen.”

Then: another word.

This one is longer, slower, almost coaxing.

And your nipples pulse.

You sob.

Your cunt clenches empty.

And for one split second, you feel your body tip forward into orgasm—but you catch yourself. Pull back.

He sees it.

“Oh,” he murmurs, so quietly it barely registers, “you’re trying to save it.”

His grin is merciless now.

“I admire that. But you should know…”

He leans in. Not touching. But close enough for you to taste the vow in his voice.

“I’m going to take that choice from you.”

...

“You almost came.”

His voice is low. Not disappointed.

Amused.

“I felt it. The pull in your aura. The flare behind your eyes. You were ready to soak yourself over nothing but language.”

You can’t look at him. Your breath stutters. Your nipples are aching — not sensitive. Desperate. You want to cup them, squeeze them, anything to finish the sensation spiraling in your chest, but you don’t move.

And that pleases him.

“You’re holding it,” he says. “That little peak. Right there.”

He doesn’t touch you.

He speaks.

Another word, crooned like a prayer. Your nipples twitch. You feel that phantom heat again, circling, stroking — not inside you, no, just under your skin. Just deep enough to feel your cunt spasm once, as if it’s grasping for something that isn’t there.

You bite back the moan.

“I want to see how many times I can make your body try,” he says, “before your mind catches up.”

Another word.

Your back arches.

This time, your vision flashes.

White. Bright. Your aura spikes.

You almost fall.

He catches your chin. Not rough. But firm. Gauntlet fingers cool against your jaw.

“Still no hands. No lips. Not even breath on your chest. Just the sound of me.”

Your thighs are wet now — you know you’ve soaked through your underthings. Your nipples are throbbing like they’ve been worked for hours, every imagined lick, every psychic pinch, stored in your bones like heat.

And still—no release.

You let out a small, broken sound.

He chuckles.

“You’ll cum soon,” he promises. “But not from want. Not from pressure. From need.”

He leans closer.

Whispers in your ear:

“When you beg me — really beg me — then I’ll let you scream.”

And he speaks again.

A new word.

Low. Lush. Like the taste of fingers pulled from a wet mouth.

And you whimper, shoulders shaking, as your body bucks once — dry, desperate.

No orgasm.

But so close it hurts.

...

Your body has no idea what’s real anymore.

The pressure in your chest has eclipsed logic. Your nipples are hard, red, wet with sweat and imagined mouths. The phantom stimulation is so vivid now that you swear you feel teeth — not biting, just grazing, tugging at the peak with aching precision.

It’s not pain. It’s intent.

Every part of you is being handled without being touched.

Vaeron’s words have filled you so many times that your body doesn’t seem to care whether it’s voice or hand anymore. You’re reacting the same way: shaking, flushed, dripping.

You can’t remember the last time you had friction between your thighs.

But somehow, your clit is screaming for him. Like it knows. Like it recognizes his speech as ownership.

And then it happens.

He speaks again — a new word, thicker than the others, slow and dragged through some psychic current that thrums inside your cunt like it belongs there.

And everything tightens.

Your clit pulses.

Your belly contracts.

Your breasts feel dragged upward, nipples pulled by phantom hands, as if someone’s behind you with a mouth on one and fingers rolling the other in perfect, punishing rhythm.

It spirals.

Your thighs lock.

Your mouth opens.

You see stars behind your eyes — that blooming white noise that means your orgasm is coming, it's coming—

And then—

It doesn’t.

Your body wants. But your mind can’t. There’s no push, no permission, no command.

It’s like balancing at the tip of a blade.

Every muscle in you is ready.

But the fall never comes.

And it hurts.

Your body jerks once, instinctive, like a reflex that can’t complete. Your cunt clenches—hard—but it’s empty. Denied.

Your nipples throb, teased beyond logic, and your whole aura wails — like a song cut off mid-note.

And Vaeron?

He watches it happen.

Watches you stall at the peak, lips parted, a tremble rolling through you like thunder — and says, softly:

“One.”

You gasp.

“One what?”

He leans in.

“One denial.”

You collapse forward slightly, panting. Your knees threaten to give. But you hold.

Barely.

You’re crying now.

Tiny, helpless tears from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain.

From what was taken.

He steps in closer. His gauntlet hovers over your chest again, so close you feel the heat through your robe.

“You thought I’d give it to you.”

You manage a breath.

He leans in.

“You thought I’d let you break.”

...

You’re still standing. Somehow.

Your thighs are shaking. Your nipples ache with an absence that feels like mourning. Your clit throbs once every few seconds, like it’s begging for friction, for finish, for anything.

But all he gave you was a word.

And all he took was your orgasm.

You’d curse him—if your mouth would work.

Instead, your breath stutters in shallow gasps, your hands half-raised like they’re reaching for something, for him, without your permission. You didn’t mean to look at him like that.

But you do.

And he sees it.

Vaeron steps close again. No gauntlet this time — just voice.

“You know why you didn’t cum,” he says.

You shake your head, helpless.

“You didn’t ask.”

He brushes his hand near your face — not touching, just letting your skin sense the pass of him.

“You waited,” he murmurs, “but you didn’t surrender.”

You manage a sound — half sob, half wordless plea. You want to fight back. You want to say You never told me to.

But he already knows.

He steps behind you again. And speaks.

One word.

And your nerves answer.

This time, you feel it in your hips — a slow, building warmth between the curve of your ass and the wet seam of your cunt, like a palm spreading open over both.

No pressure. No invasion.

Just heat.

Another word.

Your aura shudders.

Your spine curves slightly without meaning to, your ass tipping back as your body invites what isn’t there. As if your cunt recognizes the shape of him in absence.

“See?” he says, still behind you. “You’re listening better now.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“Your cunt’s smarter than your mouth.”

You moan — low and broken. You hate how good it feels to be spoken through.

He steps close. Not touching. Not yet.

But you feel his breath near your shoulder.

“Let me speak to it directly.”

You tremble.

Then he says a new word.

And this one — this one — you feel inside.

Your cunt contracts. Hard.

Not painful. Not cruel. Just startled. Like a sudden suck, like your own body just inhaled around nothing.

Your mouth falls open.

And he doesn’t even wait for the moan.

He speaks again.

Two words this time.

They twist inside you — not just in your pussy now, but in your belly, your thighs, your chest. You feel them stirring your womb, coiling pressure there like a hand reaching deep, curling behind bone.

You buck forward.

But nothing happens.

Your orgasm builds.

And stalls.

Again.

He steps close, nearly brushing your back.

“No,” he whispers. “Not yet.”

Your knees buckle.

He catches you this time. Gauntlet around your waist. Holding you upright.

Not out of kindness.

Out of design.

“You'll cum,” he breathes into your ear, “when you understand what it's for.”

The words shiver down your spine like oil. Not hot. Not cold. Total.

You try to nod, try to answer, but your throat doesn’t work. Every nerve is pulled taut, straining toward something just beyond climax, just beyond permission. Your cunt is soaked, flushed, writhing against nothing. Your nipples feel swollen, tuned, like his mouth should be on them right now, dragging you through some wet, ruined prayer.

But he hasn’t moved.

He just watches.

He speaks again.

“You’re not a woman in heat,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re not here to be fucked.”

He steps around you — not pacing, not stalking. Circling. The way a priest circles the altar.

“You’re here to be opened.”

Another word.

Not his name. Not yours.

Just sound — spoken like a secret and spat like a curse.

Your knees buckle. Your cunt contracts, hard and fast. You almost cry out—almost—but you bite it back and clench your teeth.

And he sees it.

“Oh, you're still trying,” he murmurs. “Still clutching your pride like it’s a ward against my voice.”

He steps in behind you.

“Let me make it simple.”

He doesn’t touch you.

He speaks into you.

And this time, it’s plural. A phrase. A sequence of sound that rides your aura like a brand, pressing into the shape of your hips, your breasts, your womb — shaping your nerves like wet clay.

You seize.

Your mouth falls open. A sound leaves your throat — not a word. Not a moan.

Something in between.

He smiles.

“There it is. That’s your first language slipping.”

You pant. You sob. You try to grind your thighs together, but he senses it.

He stops speaking.

The pressure vanishes.

You’re left gasping.

Empty.

Unfinished.

He crouches now, gauntlet bracing your waist, and you feel his breath curl against your lips as he growls:

“I want to see your climax strip the language from your mouth.”

You stare at him, wrecked.

“Please,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. Cold. Loving. Immovable.

“You’re still using words.”

He leans back.

And speaks again.

Your nipples jerk. Your cunt spasms. Your aura screams.

And yet — no orgasm.

No release.

Just more unraveling.

And in your sob, your breathless tremble, the broken syllable that leaves your throat like the beginning of nothing, you begin to understand:

You won’t cum because you want it.

You’ll cum when your body gives up speech entirely.

When you are his language now.

...

Your knees hit the stone.

Not from weakness — not only. From gravity. From the weight of his words still echoing in your chest, your cunt, your skull.

You don’t remember falling.

You only remember the moment your breath left you — when he said the last phrase and your nipples jerked so hard you gasped and clenched like he’d shoved two fingers inside you.

But there was nothing.

Still nothing.

And that emptiness is becoming too loud to bear.

He's still crouching in front of you.

Massive.

Armored.

Looming.

The red glow of the vault paints the hard lines of his chest, the edge of his cheekbone, the glint of sweat trailing between muscle plates. He fills your vision, fills your breath, fills the room.

You feel tiny beneath him.

Not just in scale — in purpose.

Your aura crawls toward him like it needs to touch his.

He tilts his head as he watches you, then slowly lifts one gauntleted hand and hovers it over your chest.

Not touching.

Blessing.

“You’re almost ready,” he murmurs.

Your mouth opens, your lips form something — a syllable, a sob — but you can’t finish it.

He sees that.

He waited for that.

“You feel that?” he says.

His voice is closer now. You feel the syllables on your tongue like sacrament.

“That silence. That failure of language. That’s the beginning of truth.”

You’re panting.

Moaning.

Glassy-eyed.

He leans forward — his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“Do you want my voice inside you?”

You nod.

He growls.

“No.”

You freeze.

“You offer nothing,” he says, low and slow. “You are already mine.”

He lowers his hand. One finger hovers an inch from your sternum. The heat of it radiates like promise.

Then he speaks.

Not one word.

A series. A litany. The words roll from his mouth like thunder swallowed by velvet — ancient, wet, holy. And your body answers.

Your nipples spike. Your womb contracts. Your clit pulses so hard you gasp.

You can’t breathe.

His gauntlet lowers.

Hovers between your thighs.

Still not touching.

But the air there is hot now — pressure forming around your cunt like a hand made of voice.

And you feel it.

Slide inside.

Not real. Not imagined.

Spoken.

You sob.

And then—he leans in.

His lips brush the shell of your ear. His hand settles at the back of your neck — heavy, warm, claiming.

And he says one final word.

You don’t know what it means.

But your body does.

You shatter.

No scream. No plea.

Just sound.

A deep, raw, animal noise, ripped from the base of your throat — wet and helpless — as your cunt grips around nothing, milking air, spasming so hard you feel it in your spine.

Your body convulses.

Your nipples ache with release. Your chest trembles. Your mouth opens—

And nothing but broken moans spill out.

No words.

No thought.

Only obedience.

Only offering.

You collapse into him, breathing ragged, body still twitching, aura fluttering like the last gasps of flame on sacred oil.

And Vaeron?

He holds you.

Not softly.

But completely.

His lips brush your temple. Not as reward.

As claim.

“Now,” he says, voice dark and full of triumph.

“Now you understand.”

...

You’re still kneeling.

Not by choice anymore — you don’t remember what choice felt like. Your breath is slow, staggered. Your thighs are shaking. There’s a fresh trickle of wetness sliding down your inner leg, your robe soaked from your own body’s shattering. You dripped for him. You opened.

And you’re still open.

Wide in your chest. Loose in your mind. Quiet in your aura.

And that’s why he doesn't step away.

Vaeron stays crouched, looming in front of you like a god made real, all armor and bare muscle and sweat, glowing in the redvault light like he belongs inside you now.

He cups your jaw with one gauntleted hand — slow, firm, possessive.

Not lifting.

Just holding you up.

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

And he loves that.

“You’re quieter now,” he says.

His thumb strokes beneath your chin.

“Not because you’re afraid. Not because you’re silenced.”

His voice lowers.

“But because you’ve been heard.”

You blink, tears wet at the corners of your lashes. Your mouth is open just slightly, lips red from biting, breath still fluttering against the metal of his glove.

“You understand what you are now.”

You nod — slow, heavy.

“You’re not a psyker anymore,” he says, brushing his fingers back through your hair, gripping the roots for just a second. “You’re not a reader of data. Not a tool of the Inquisition.”

He leans closer.

“You are my conduit.”

Your aura flutters.

“You’ll cum again,” he murmurs. “Not for pleasure. Not even for need.”

He brings his forehead to yours, still crouched, still towering, and breathes into your mouth.

“You’ll cum when I say the words I haven't even taught you yet.”

You shiver.

Because he’s right.

You feel it in your womb, in your thighs, in your mind.

You're still responding.

He brushes a hand down your chest, flat-palmed over your heart, leaving heat in its wake.

“I’m going to say them soon,” he says. “A second language. The one only you will learn.”

Your breath hitches.

“And when I do…”

He lowers his mouth to your ear.

“You’ll beg to have it carved into you.”

His hand slides beneath your jaw and lifts you.

Not fast. Not rough.

He raises you from your knees like an offering, his gaze locked on you as if your body is the site of some sacred mystery.

You stumble.

He catches you.

Of course he does.

Then he turns you.

And you see it.

The altar.

A raised slab of red-veined stone at the heart of the vault. Its surface is worn smooth by centuries of blood and oil and skin. It glows faintly — not from tech. From use.

You freeze.

But his hand presses to the small of your back.

“Go,” he says.

And your body — yours, but no longer fully owned — obeys.

---

My app is breaking... hope you liked this walking red flag lolol.

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21

[sylestine-redacted]

Ok I gotta react l Primarch by Primarch to this.

First of all they all made my hair stand on end. And bawl. The tragic Feels in the best possible way. And I love the implication that in all but maybe one or two Meg probably walked directly into the face of her death and surrendered to keep her kindgom from dying with her.

Loyalists:

Starting with Guillman. Don't know if he recieved her surender personaly or not. Seeing how both draw from Rome (Meg draws more from Greece but Achea draws from Rome too). Both raised in ruling class. Watching him understanding on multiple levels of the visual rethorical move Megara made because they were raised in similar contexts. It's the third silent viewing that makes methinks she Faced death as psycher mutant or both. With the Ultramarines it's likely she saved her peoples lives. Citing her as an example in the book of an ideal outcome for a government to yield to the Imperium

Damn, High Praise from the Lion. "She was no knight. But she had the bones of one." Probably died badly in that she never broke. her throne rooms haunts his dreams. Maybe her people survived maybe not

Vulcan SAW her.

Not Her Royal Majesty Queen Helene Megara of Achaea, last of her line. But Meg the brutalized seventeen year old girl struggling to hold everything together. Who clawed her way out of hellish mockery of a forced marriage and returned home not to safety but because duty to her people called and there was no one else left to answer to answer. His kindness would have undone her. For this Legion alone she would not surrender. She would swear fidelity to their Primarch instead. Pledge herself and her kingdom to his cause because any man who wields both power and genuine kindness is both incredibly rare, and one worth following. And She would love him for that. In any way he would let her. Even if his duty was to end her life. Knowing that Maybe she died to the Imerium but with how you wrote the ending it leaves space for an ending that if not happy leads to the bitter sweetness of when mortal lives intertwine with immortal ones.

Dorn with the simple quiet monument leaving a trace of her in his fortress.

The Khan didn't recieve her surrender personally, but he'd wished he'd met her even once. Enough to whisper her memorial to be carried on the wind. Given her closest brother ate a wind logia and she did after he died in her primary iteration, the symbolism fits. She would have been happier born in his culture than her own I think.

Russ didn't fully understand her motivations, though when he saw her scars and bruises he recognized she was brutalized and still fought. Understood fully or not her choice if it didn't haunt him he certianly wanted to remember it.

Corvax understood her decision to surrender for exactly what it was. The carved raven feather bearing the bald truth hits.

Ferus Manus not recieving her surender personaly but the war scythe and the nature of her weapon speaking to him and echoing back in the forging was really cool.

Sangunius "halo made of grit." Ooph that is a hell of a line. Also the wings sheilding the kneeling Queen that was unsheilded in life.

Traitors:

Horus being salty that this one had to die when he'd have much rather recruited her. Seeing potential wasted. Then Ruminiating on it. (Who knows how much his canonical breeding kink factored in giving the fact this is a lady big enough to birth primarch sized babies?)

Fulgrim being so entranced by the physical theater of and the political drama of it all. the statue capturing the beauty of a single perfect moment kept all to himself. with just a touch of artistic license to show her agony.

She made Perterbo's brain itch. Few who are not Rogal Dorn have managed that particular feat. And given the perfect silhouette of her scythe exists within his fortress? He saw her will was made of iron.

Mortarion was shamed by her. She knelt battered but unbroken choosing not to drag everyone else down with her. He saw it and it shamed him.

Magnus keeping her ghost in his strong hold is just oh dang. That's impressive. I don't know if he was compelled to destroy her or he simply swept her into his retinue.

Angorn catching Megara when confronted with the choice to walk or be dragged chose to walk to her fate instead of being draged to the block.

Lorgar Aurilian lost the plot of Megara's actions in the most Lorgar Aurilian way possible. If there was holiness in her surrender, it was not in Yielding to the Right and Proper Way. It was of the "no greater love" variety. Of the "I swore a sacred oath to put my people's needs above my own and I will follow that to the death" variety.

Curze. He Saw her See the fallout of her instinct to fight, the outcome he'd foreseen. Saw the future shift in real time when she made and stuck to the brass lady-balled decision to surrender. Pulling everything away from the civilian population onto herself. Knowingly gave up the opportunity for a much cleaner death. Looked the devil in the eye and walked into hell for the express purpose of shutting the gates behind her. No wonder he sees her as a reflection. Another doomed and damned seer holding to their line of justice.

Alpherius/Omegion The spymasters running the odds because the look in her eye. Love the last line "She understood the game. And chose the Board." the final monument a footnote to her compatince. The description as a tactical fulcrum.

Magnus coming unglued: Oh dang that kinda sorta fits a lore drop that I haven't had a good point to mention. There are little details showing the Ancient Greek influnces in Meg's story. Using "Crows take you" and "Tarterus" as curses, the names etc. Her whole story draws strongly from Hades and Persephone. Megara's a devotee of the Mysteries. Based of the Elucinian Mysteries which worshiped Demeter and Persephone and kept their rites hidden but it promised entry to the Elucinian Feilds the good bit of the afterlife. Perhaps the Chthonic Queen or Hecate retrieved her shade. After all she'd cary coin for the ferryman

I reread this like three times. XD

Everything you just said? Absolute poetry. I’m genuinely honored this resonated that deeply. She already had weight in the writing, but with your insight, she feels like she's taken root in myth.

Vulkan seeing Meg instead of Queen Helene—not just the ruler, but the brutalized seventeen-year-old girl who came back because no one else would. The idea of her pledging to him not just out of duty but love (even if it killed her)? *vibrates in chair*. I almost want to write that scene now—her laying her weapon at his feet, not because she lost, but because he earned it.

Sanguinius’s wings shielding the unshielded queen. I was already crying WRITING IT. AND NOW? The way you framed it—how she was left exposed in life, and finally, after everything, is given something soft.. and protective. Something divine. She deserves some wings to quietly cuddle up in.

Curze and Megara as two doomed seers making justice from rot. Yep. She didn’t just avoid the blade—she chose the pain to draw it away from her people. He’d know that shape of sacrifice intimately. They’re both tragedies in real time.

AND LORGAR. LMAO FUCKING LORGAR. Sigh... Yea.

AND YES MORE LORE. For Magnus? Eeee. Chthonic threads running through Meg’s mythos...—of course the warp couldn’t find her. She went where even daemons don’t follow. Not lost. Just claimed by something older and darker and deeper than any psyker’s vision.

[sylestine-redacted]

I don't even have WORDS RN.

I did it my lovelies, I present to you my Dorn Smut. I love this idiot and his stupid brain. I worried I dragged out some things a bit too much but I also wanted to get down to the nitty gritty of just what exactly Dorn's problem is. Either way, the man is down bad for you.

Don't You Know I Burn For You? Part II

Rogal Dorn x Fem!Reader

Tags: Obsessive Behavior, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Emotional Confessions, Rough Sex, Size Kink

Tag List: @nereidof40k @mask-knife-is-scarecrows-wife @incrediblethirst @kit-williams

Dorn did not suffer fools gladly. He did not put his energy into paltry ideas such as faith or destiny. There was only cold, hard truth. And yet as he watched you, his dear little wife, struggle so desperately to wring out another orgasm from your body, he started to wonder if perhaps... there was something bigger than just unforgiving reality. How had the Preatorian of Terra, the Loyal Golden Son of the Emperor, fall prey to the most basic of human desires?

Much to his own shame, Dorn understood his humanity still dwelled within him. He felt it mlst when he was amongst his sons. The pride, the paternal devotion, the secret worry and hidden grief at their deaths. But such feelings did not distract him from what he was born to do. But you— am insignificant baseline, one in a trillion, somehow found your way onto his ship and into his beating hearts. He dared not think of the odds stacked against such an event and how it looked on paper. Lesser (heretical) beings would call it fate or worse— supernatural.

But the sight of you made him feel... not himself. He was unused to the warmth, pooling from his chest and into his very loins. He was untrained in how to deal with the smell of your arousal and your tiny whimpers and how it made his teeth ache with the compulsion to bite. Dorn did not require food, yet he hungered for you in such a way that it would appear he had never eaten once in his immortal lifetime.

Soon, he promised to himself, feeling the ache of his erection under his dress pants. He would rid you of your ache soon. He simply needed to see you suffer a fraction of what he had these past 10 years.

When he had first known you, the depth of his own feelings had yet to be realized. At first, Dorn merely wished to be in your presence longer. He'd request your opinion, invite you to read with him, and discuss and debate the ideas of ancient philosophers- or rather discredit their logic once put up against the Imperial Truth. 

You had a knack for architectural design and with an ease that bordered on impudent, you pushed him to look past the domineering edficices and striking aesthetics of Imperial Gold and instead consider the strength that lie within delicate craftsmanship and artistry. "The cradle of humanity should represent more than just enduring strength, my Lord Primarch, our creative minds and crafting hands are what prove and guide our humanity." Such sweet sentiments, somehow preserving within a time where humanity could not falter one iota and you dared to bring it all down with your gentle truths.

While his honesty was iron-wrought and unyielding, yours was a candor that was the most painful; the glaringly obvious kind. Dorn found himself nearly vibrating at his fingertips to wring every thought, opinion, and secrets you held close.

He kept his urges at bay, but steadily he began to desire, no— need your input. Forget the rigid order and straightforward laws of the universe; what did this small woman think of the stars? What did she consider true friendship? What were her hopes? her disgusts? her ridiculous proclivities that only further indeared him to your innately human contradictions.

You were witty, animated, open, and…vulnerable, in your talks with him. He could easily read every thought on your face, and not once did fear take refuge in your gaze when aimed at him. Your attitude could be downright flippant when it was just the two of you. He appreciated your discretion and ability to discern when being solemn was the required mode of conduct. But behind closed doors, that cheeky gleam would return to your eyes.  

And yet, as the months wore on, there was a darkness growing in him. At the very base of his chest that slowly rose through his heart up his neck over his skull and back down his spine. It was the unfamiliar and shameful feeling of possessive jealousy. You had duties on his ship and people who required your attention. Your duty to the Emperor eclipsed your companionship to him. In normal circumstances Dorn would want for nothing but complete and utter devotion to his father. You were the perfect servant to His imperial aims.

Yet the moment you had to excuse yourself from a discussion on ancient theater, or quietly remove yourself from his side on the command bridge in order to prepare for a meeting with a planetary delegation, that darkness within Dorn only grew. In a most uncharacteristic behavior for him, Dorn became distracted with finding ways to monopolize your time and attention. He started to require your expertise more often, quietly complete your future tasks in your stead, or have one of his deckhands take on your larger responsibilities. You were none the wiser, and in his eyes, you seemed happy for the extra time at his side. 

But within that growing darkness in him, he realized with ever increasing frustration that the compulsion enveloping him did not disappear.

Those around you still sought you, still believed they were owed your attention, thoughts, and gentle smiles. They did not know that every breath used to tease, every stern gaze to warn, and every encouraging touch to comfort was meant only for him to enjoy.

He needed to ensure everyone knew where your priorities lie. Where your energy was best focused on. The thought of a baseline taking your time, your smiles, your affections, away from him made the Primarch silently seethe. They were a finite resource, and he was quickly falling short of his necessary supply. In the attempt to ward off any possible interlopers trying to take you from him, Dorn took it upon himself to officially court you.  

Your interactions with him hardly changed, only this time, he did not hide his devotion. He informed you of his intentions rather bluntly the moment he realized his plan. Your response was, at first, hesitant. Inwardly, this reaction made Dorn inwardly frantic with fear. You could not deny him. You would not. It was an impossibility. You were a smart woman, how could you in your right mind deny a Primarch your hand? But in a merciful short span you accepted his proposal.  

By the time he had you in his bed and had felt, learned, and worshipped your body with his own, that darkness now enjoyed a cozy place within his very soul. But that bestial craving was insidious. And once again, Dorn found himself fighting that itch in his teeth and rush of his blood past his ears as he watched your exhausted body reach a point of utter defeat.

You had laid there for what felt like hours, your hand had cramped, failing you once again and you felt the cold, sobering emotion of defeat as you understood you would not be getting what you wanted. Lifting your gaze to your husband, you shook your head. You couldn't do it. 

“I can't." You admitted quietly, your voice feeble. Dorn lifted a quizzical eyebrow, his eyes staring in yours intently, his expression comfortably stoic.

The hopeless defeat clear in your eyes must have been what the bastard wanted as after a tense pause, he silently motioned for you to scoot up the bed. Frowning, you did as he ordered, your back aching slightly from the position it had been forced in minutes before. 

A jingle of metal hit your ears and you watched in rapt attention as Dorn removed his clothing. Removing his expertly sewed to his body's proportions. His undershirt followed and then finally, his trousers and underwear. His cock was red, weeping and angry, but he didn't touch himself like you thought, instead he crawled onto the bed, caging you under his expanse.

Your heart stuttered as you felt his searing hot hands grip your hips. You raised your head slightly to see the joyous sight of your husband finally lining himself to your center. His gaze was unreadable as you felt the head of him push inside you once more, only this time, he didn't let up the pressure. A sob— this time of relief, escaped you as you felt that perfect stretch, the familiar and much more welcome, ache of his body inside yours. It had been so long, it almost felt like your walls had forgotten how to make room for him. But his own spend and the torturous, previous orgasms forced upon you made his breech that much smoother. You felt his grip at your hips tighten, the only thing giving away his quickly dissolving control. 

You two didn't speak, only the sounds of the occasional whimper from you or the rush of air from Dorn as he eased himself further inside your spasming walls.

His expression was almost angry, but you knew from experience he was only concentrating. A valient attempt to keep a tight leash on his restraint. A part of you wished to push his threshold for control, but you feared that if you tested him, he would remove himself entirely from you and leave. So, instead, you admired his face in silence.

Too soon, you felt him reach that physical barrier inside you. He was heavy and unyielding and you bit your lip at the heavenly stretch. Your walls clenched and unclenched around the girth of him and you could hear the grinding of your husband's molars at your body's warm welcome. An attempt to tilt your hips was stopped by the gentle but non-negotiable hold of Rogal's grip. 

Glancing up at his face, you paused at the new expression there. His eyes were squeezed shut, sweat had formed at the sides of his forehead as a grimace appeared on his lips. Was he in pain? You reached up in an attempt to brush a hand against his cheek but the height difference was too great. Instead, you rested it on his forearm. Your delicate touch seemed to pull him from his agony and Dorn released an unsteady breath, slowly his eyes began to flutter open again. 

You felt him everywhere within you, the weight of him nestled so deeply was comforting, you were almost content with just this. You had wanted him so badly, you had only wished to entice him back to you, and instead were met with a side of him that was unfamiliar and a little frightening. 

“Had I offended you?” You whispered finally. In the past, Rogal could be a tease if he wanted, but it had never lasted to this extent. The occasional stall of his thrusts or removing his mouth from your clit right before you orgasmed? That was what you were used to. But this…what had triggered this? His teasing seemed to have stemmed from legitimate anger. Was it because of you?

Dorn did not answer at first, his focus was entirely on where you two joined. His gaze was completely glassy, devoid of any critical thought. He eased out just slightly to watch the absolutely filthy sight of your lips gripping him as he eased further out. If it were in him to laugh, he would have in that moment. Your body was perfectly crafted to be his achilles heel.

Already missing your warmth however, he pushed the full length of himself back into your welcoming cunt, letting the tip of once again rest against the barrier to your womb.

His cock strained against the wall of your cervix and you cried out at the sudden pinch, your legs seized and kicked as your hips tried to ease up the pressure. Yet your husband seemed to be refamiliarizing himself with the feeling of your insides, the tightness and ridges of your walls, the way your muscles fluttered and clenched around him instinctively. He looked at your two joined bodies like he was observing a planetary siege from his command deck; completely enraptured.

Finally, his eyes took a moment to meet your gaze and you almost flinched from the pure emotion in them. It was too vulnerable, you had never seen that expression on him before. 

“I have never hated what I was until I met you.”

You stopped breathing. 

Another push to the barrier of your womb made you grit your teeth and clamp your nails onto your husband's wrists. You arched your back and tried to breath from the overwhelming feeling, before finally Dorn relaxed one again, you both gasped as he stilled once more. 

“I dont-” You tried to form words, but your brain was short circuiting. Your eyes couldn't even focus on the details on the ceiling. 

“I never questioned my purpose, nor ached for a different life. But when I met you…” Dorn lifted one of his hands to lovingly caress your side, trailing from your hip, the angle of your waist, before resting to cup the underside of your breast. The size of his hand nearly covered the entirety of your ribs on one side.

“You-” Dorn made the uncharacteristic sound of choking on his words, but he powered through. “You made me hate my very nature.” 

Taking his hand back to your hip and lifting your hips to a delicious arch, Dorn began to move. Your attempt conjuring a response stopped as your husband slowly slid himself from your warmth, his previous release now surrounding his cock in a messy thick coating before he slowly, agonizingly, thrusted back in.

A contented sigh left your throat as he maintained the lazy pace. You weren't going to complain, the feeling of him inside you was like coming home. Your heart filled with a loving warmth as you finally had your husband where you wanted him.

But it seemed Rogal was not finished with his speech, it was an incredibly rare thing, as he very seldom lost all his composure, but your husband did become quite chatty if he allowed himself to get too lost in your body. You tried your damndest to pay attention to his words which you knew would never be repeated after today. 

“Once I had you the first time, I knew you had ruined me.” Your brows pinched at that. You certainly wouldn't have described that sleepless first night within those terms. It was a nervous, apologetic, awkward affair at first before Dorn had quickly adapted and— like his biology allowed, perfected the various paths leading your pleasure.

“The Crusade, humanity's future, my father's approval…” He sounded like he was out of breath, but it was less him losing momentum and moreso a glaring attempt at keeping his composure.

“I instead began to dream of pretty eyes and coy smiles…hnng…o-of soft skin and seductive words…” His pace never picked up but his desperation was bubbling to the surface through his strained voice. Only Rogal could make sexual arousal look so regal while barely hanging on. 

“Rogal…” You whimpered out, but your husband clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. He was going to explode right then and there if you called his name in that wretched tone. 

“If I allowed myself the luxury— the sin, of having you the way I wanted-” His sweat was dripping onto you, you felt your hipbones creak under clenched fingers. Dorn was practically in agony…it was the most arousing thing you had ever seen. 

A quick glance toward your eyes resulted in a sudden, vicious growl of frustration erupting from him “Enough with that look!” Before he promptly ripped himself out of you. A cry of protest left you, but a casual flip of his hand and you were on your knees. Hands gripping your hips once more, you felt Rogal drag you back to him where he entered you in a single motion, his balls kissing your clit as the angle allowed him to go deeper. You gave a pathetic moan as he grinded himself into you like before. 

“In another universe,” You felt thick fingers slide up to grip your throat. “...you would never see the outside of this room.” he hissed. You felt goosebumps erupt across your back and arms, your walls clenched instinctively at the feral quality of his voice. “The Imperium would crumble within a day simply because the Great Praetorian of Terra couldn't bear to be separated from his wife's little cunt.” His tone was so vicious but his strokes were long and controlled. You were sure you were actively dripping onto the comforter with how wet he was making you. 

Finally, a quick and punishing thrust nearly made you choke out a scream. Oh by the Emperor yes! You bit your lip to keep from laughing in maniacle relief as your husband preceded to fuck you into the mattress, his thrusts so strong you felt he would fuck you through it. 

You could hear how he was affected by this entire ordeal too, as his other hand still on your hip moved around to hold onto the nape of your neck, his pace unrelenting and his voice sounding strangled: 

"I almost hate you for it" He rumbled. You nodded dumbly. Yes he should hate you, if this was what his hate got you, you wanted him to absolutely loathe you.

You felt the clench of his fingers on your scalp and you finally released that giddy laugh, hidden under your breath. You heard Dorn curse at the sound.  “I should be better than this. Better than some slobbering beast.” He held you down like you were going to flee from him, but you would sooner die than remove yourself from his grip. 

You began to chant his name, your voice more than pleading; it was borderline pathetic. Dorn spit out another curse before his hand in your hair suddenly left, only to then force your arched back to flatten completely on the bed, leaving you prone. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as Dorn continued to unleash his frustration onto your poor body, the hand cradling your neck tightening ever so minutely. The stretch, the burn, the itch, was finally— finally, being scratched, and the slightest increase of pressure around your neck only intensified that feeling. You knew your husband was now mumbling to himself. You tried to pay attention as he was cursing his lack of control, how you would be his ruin, how his brothers would condemn him, if he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying you as often as he truly wanted. 

“All my silent suffering, my willpower constantly tested, and I find you provoking me with such temptation.” You were worried your husband was going to break into tears, you tried to form a comforting sound but an extra deep thrust from him forced out a whine in its place.

The feeling of him rutting into you was becoming unbearable, your desperation was steadily climbing. More, you needed more of him. “Mocking my restraint, dangling your traitorous body right in front of me. Daring me to absolutely ruin you.” Your poor Rogal was babbling it seems, and in your heart of hearts you wished to listen, but for the life of you, you couldn't be made to care. 

You felt Dorn freeze again and you seized in panic, worried you had spoken your thoughts out loud. Mercifully, you felt Dorn lower a little more of his weight on you, completely pinning you into your prone form. His pace started up, once again, slow and steady but the squish of your body between the mattress and the mass of your husband allowed his cock to absolutely assault that delicious spot inside you. 

You began to hum nonsensically, your voice occasionally descending into drunken giggles. You had lost your mind. The Emperor could walk through the door and as long as Rogal stayed the course, you probably would not have batted an eye. You were surely smearing drool onto the blankets. 

Your poor husband had finally gotten lost in the act as well. His tangent temporarily forgotten as he focused solely on your mindless squeals and the greedy clench of your cunt. 

But as evidence would prove, you were a insatiable woman, and to the best of your ability, you wiggled your hips and tried to bring your hand under your body to rub your clit, that well-deserved peak was right within your grasp.

You heard Dorn give a click of his tongue at your maneuvering before he forced his hand past your searching one, his fingers quickly finding that neglected nub.   

You're hips jerked automatically, your swollen clit had become too sensitive, but Rogal— proving why you married the bastard man, already knew exactly what you needed. He needed only to press on the nub, allowing the simple pressure of his calloused fingers to send you over the edge. Like the push of a button. 

A euphoric sob escaped you as you finally came around his cock, tears dripped down your cheeks as your body convulsed and shivered from the overwhelming feeling. Dorn kept his thrusts steady, fucking you through your orgasm and keeping pace with your jerking hips. Your walls seemed to want to desperately keep him in place but Dorn was on a mission of his own. 

His relentless assault on your pulsating walls was too much and you mindlessly tried to escape the quikcly unbearable stimulation. But Dorn's weight kept you in place, forcing your body to take it. You felt your cunt seize, your walls now keep a constant vice grip on your husband's pistoning cock. The vicious snarl rumbling from his chest was the only response he could muster. You were absolutely suffocating him with your body's desperate attempt to hold him in place. The pleasure was surely going to drive you both dumb with how it thrummed through your very bones.

Finally, your body submitted itself to its delightful fate. You laid motionless as your husband used your limp body to reach his own peak. You heard him let out a strained grunt when he noticed your prone form yield completely to his own. That primitive, possessive darkness within him calmed at the sight and like a damn unleashed, his hips stilled, and you felt him twitch and spill a years worth of pent-up frustration inside you. 

You were gasping like a fish out of water as your husband slowly lifted himself off of you. You allowed the cooling touch of the room to hit your sweaty backside.

Sleep had its clutches almost around you until you felt the sobering feeling of your Primarch removing himself from you. The part of your brain that had become dependent on him cried out in anguish, but your brain kept you silent. You needed a respite if you hoped to enjoy him sooner rather than later.

In your half-asleep haze, you felt your husband wrap an arm around your upper body and turn you up and around to allow you to rest on his warm and steady chest. 

You could hear his twin hearts beating in a steady rhythm and you gave a contented sigh. This was also what you secretly craved, Dorn so rarely had time to hold you and allow you to get lost in his warmth. 

A lazy thumb stroked your shoulder as he clutched you a bit tighter to him. You were nearly on the edge of consciousness when everything clicked. Your eyes flew open and you lifted your head to look up at your Lord-Husband.

“Is it true?” You whispered in an exhausted tone. 

Dorn raised an eyebrow at your question. “I don't lie, wife.” He deadpanned. The incorrigible bastard didn't even have the decency to look remorseful.

You returned his look with a matching quizzical brow. “Im supposed to believe that my iron-willed husband Rogal Dorn is under a constant cloud of sexual frustration?” It was less of a question and more of an accusation. 

Rogal did not even have the decency to look apologetic, instead he used the full force of his bright gaze to glare back at you. “Did you honestly think I abstained from our conjugal visits becuase I simply ‘lacked’ the drive?” You could almost laugh at the offended tone he responded with. Instead you rolled your eyes in an exaggerated fashion and gave a long-suffering sigh before slamming your head back down on the solid wall of muscle beneath you, the impact hurting you more than your husband. 

“Its hardly a wild assumption.” 

“I abstained for your sake, not for my own.” 

You scoffed. “And yet you punish me for your self-imposed celibacy.” 

A heavy pause followed before your ears picked up the tantalizing sound of your husband humming in defeat. “I felt you did not truly appreciate the danger I posed to you if I were to allowed to fully indulge.” 

“So you felt my seduction stemmed from hubris?” The incredulity in your voice was heavy. You felt Dorn hold you even closer, as if he were worried you would up and leave. 

Silence followed and you were left to connect the bits and pieces of information around you. Sleep was no longer at the corners of your mind. 

Once again, you pushed against the weight of your husband's arm and he allowed you to sit up and stare at him head on. You stubbornly ignored the feeling of him leaking out of you as well. With shoulders pushed back and chin jutting out, you declared your verdict. 

“You spiteful old brute!”

Dorn glared at your petty name-calling but remained silent. He couldn't disagree with your assessment if he truly wanted to. You returned his glare right back to him and crossed your arms. 

“So this whole ordeal was because you'd been pent up for so long you'd become bitter at my…” you waved your hand around “...my appeal?” You raised an eyebrow at your stone-faced husband. “Am I getting that right?” 

Dorn released a breath from his nose that was more akin to a wary bull. "You knew what I was when you married me."

You narrowed your eyes at his attempt to place the burden of blame back onto you.

"Rogal, do not take me for a fool. And do not try to change the subject, your reaction to my playful teasing was completely unreasonable."

Your husband was not looking at you anymore. Instead, he glared at a random corner of the room. You gritted your teeth at his petulance. Before you could push away from him further, You felt his arm at your waist raise up and gently force your head back down to his chest.

"Somedays, I wish I was born a normal man," He confessed in a guilty whisper. The admission made you freeze again. This was the second time Rogal admitted to such a treasonous thought, never in your wildest dreams did you think your husband wished to be anything other than what he was. Keen to the rare moment, you remained silent.

A prolonged rise and fall of his chest gave away his silent, exhausted sigh.

"Sometimes I would dare dream...of waking up next to you every morning, having you every evening and indulging in the freedom of holding you whenever the urge struck me. But considering what I am...who I am...to love you as freely as I wish would damn you to the warp."

You were holding your breath in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. So, this was the core of the issue. Dorn was known to be a man with a singular purpose and vision. His father relied on him to do what he was made to do and if it were discovered just how distracting the Preatorian's wife was to him...well...it was no secret how the Emperor dealt with obstacles to his plans, no matter how small.

"Your playful teasing as you put it— only reminded me what I could never truly have."

"I wouldn't dream of mocking your pain, Lord-Husband." You whispered reverently, your hand massaging his chest. You felt the comforting hum of his acknowledgment.

Silence fell between you two for several peaceful minutes before once again you separated yourself from him. The stoney expression on Dorn's face cracked ever so slightly with the lowering of his brows at your parting from him.

"I will concede that my mode of conduct was unfair, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't bitter at your ability to so easily convince me to throw away my itinerary. You do not fully comprehend the power you wield my tiny love." You felt the burning rush of blood to your cheeks at his compliment.

"Did you at least enjoy it?" You asked tentatively.

A brush of his thumb on your shoulder and a small shake of his chest betrayed his amusement.

"It is a good thing you married me, my little wife," a coaxing finger brought your eyes to meet his startlingly affectionate ones. "The very sight of you would have seized the heart of any lesser men."

There was that classic, Primarch-driven arrogance. You rolled your eyes at his compliment but could do nothing to hide your self-satisfied smirk.

With that same sultry voice you used earlier that started this whole mess, you rested a hand demurely on your shoulder, tilting your head in a seductively innocuous way.

"What other benefits are there to marrying a primarch that I could not get from...lesser men?"

The effect was immediate, and so was your body's response as you looked into the eyes of what was once your noble Dorn morph into something much more dangerous. His body turned toward you with a smoothness that revealed just how outclassed you truly were against the perfect specimen that was your Lord-Husband.

"Plenty."

[sylestine-redacted]

In the Quiet Between Stars

f!reader x Cypher

#but if you squint you can see Ghost

#you could probably use this for any of your space marine bfs

#maybe I'll make this a series w different characters

A/N: a story brought to you by ovulation probably... and wanting to be told what to do... i apologize for how single braincelled these stories are (*´ｪ｀*) but hope you enjoy

Cw: guided phone sex, orgasm control

Chapter One: "Say It With Your Breathing"

The transmission hums like a lover’s breath against your throat—quiet, invasive. Not a call you initiated, but one that finds you. Finds you too easily. Static licks the channel, then fades into silence. A breath. Then him.

“There you are.”

His voice is velvet layered over steel. The kind that wraps around your spine before your mind even catches up. That kind of voice isn’t supposed to know your name—let alone the softness of your sleeping quarters. Let alone you.

“You’re alone, aren’t you.”

A statement. Not a question. No disbelief in it. He knows. He always knows. You feel it like a pressure across your chest—hot and heavy, not from fear. From want.

“Good. That’s how I want you. Unseen. Touched only by your own hands… guided by mine.”

Another pause. Your breath slips out before you can stop it—quiet, not silent. And he hears it.

“There. That sound. That little intake of breath. That’s what I want tonight.”

You feel him through the vox. You feel him—the intimacy of it. Like he’s leaning in, lips almost brushing the receiver, voice dragging over your skin despite the distance. There’s no urgency in it. No rush. You could be here for hours and he’d never let your desire cool.

“I want you on your back. Legs relaxed. No tension. You’re not going to cum tonight unless I say so, so there’s no need to clench anything yet.”

The heat of shame flashes across your face—he’s already inside your body with nothing more than words.

“Pull your shirt up. Just the shirt. Leave your panties on. We’re not going anywhere near that wet little cunt of yours yet. You don’t deserve that kind of pleasure until you’ve earned it.”

Your hands obey before you can think. Fabric sliding up, baring skin that chills and heats at once under your own breath and his invisible attention. His voice drops, darker now, silk with a razored edge.

“Start at your ribs. Right below the swell of your tits. Use both hands. Press into the skin. You feel that softness? That warmth? I’ve thought about that. How it would feel under my tongue. How I’d spread your legs and ignore everything but your chest for hours. Just to make you squirm.”

You touch yourself. Ribs, up to the curve of your breasts, the slope just beneath them—slow strokes, lifting. Warming. Your fingers move with an almost devotional hush.

“That’s it. Good girl. I want you to lift your tits for me. Palms under them. Heft them like you’re offering them up. Feel the weight. How firm they are when you’re this turned on already. How desperate you’re getting, and I haven’t even let you touch your nipples yet.”

The shame. The heat. You can’t help the moan that escapes this time—short, bitten down.

He groans through the vox. Just the sound of your voice unraveling sets his composure to strain.

“There it is. That’s what I’m waiting for. You think I don’t hear that breath? That tension? You’re panting like I’m already fucking you. And I haven’t even let you so much as flick a nipple.”

Your hand twitches, desperate to obey him faster—but you slow yourself. He hasn’t told you yet.

“Now,” he purrs. “Use your thumbs. Drag them up the slope of your breasts, slow as death. Circle the nipples—don’t touch them directly yet. Tease. Like you’re afraid they’ll shatter if you’re not soft enough. Like you’re afraid of what I’ll do if you rush.”

Your whole chest tingles. Each breath rises more shallow. You can feel the goosebumps along your collarbones. The way your nipples harden from the threat of contact, the heat that blooms from between your thighs, soaking fabric he won’t let you remove yet.

“Now touch them.”

Your fingers obey with a shudder, and your gasp isn’t small this time. Your whole body arches to the contact—nipples stiff under the pressure of your touch, the pulse between your legs dragging wetness through cloth. You can’t even see him and still you’re coming undone.

“Fuck, yes. That sound—again. Do it again. Pinch them. Harder. Let me hear how that feels.”

Your fingers close. Your breath stutters. Pleasure spikes through your chest, raw and wild. Your thighs twitch. You’re panting now, and he knows.

“Gods, listen to you. Moaning like a whore with just your tits in your hands. That pretty little mouth gasping like I’ve got my tongue wrapped around your nipples. You like that image, don’t you?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not when your hands are squeezing and rolling, nipples pinched and so sensitive it hurts—just enough to make the heat between your legs unbearable.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You try, but your voice falters.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say how it feels to fuck your own chest for me. To imagine my mouth sucking those perfect nipples while you whimper and writhe like a needy little thing.”

You choke out a sound. A word. “Good—fuck, Cypher, it’s—”

“Again.”

“Hurts—hurts so good, I—”

“You going to cum from that? From playing with those gorgeous tits, while I whisper to you like this? Is that how hungry your body is for mine?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

“I’ll let you cum like that. I will. I’ll make you drag it out—no fingers between your thighs. No clit. No cunt. Just your nipples. Just your belly. Just my voice. And you’ll fucking thank me when I let it happen.”

He hears it again—your breathing. Higher now. Faster. Even though he hasn’t let you between your thighs. Not even once.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he murmurs. “You’re getting close. Just from that. From your nipples, from the way you’re already squirming beneath the sheets. I could end this call right now and know you’d spend the next hour whimpering into your hand, too ruined to finish what I started.”

He lets the silence hang.

You don’t breathe this time. You wait.

“But I’m not done with you yet.”

His voice lowers again, into something more dangerous. Possessive. The way he says it—it isn’t about mercy. It’s because he isn’t satisfied. Not until you’re grinding into soaked fabric like an offering.

“Take one hand off your tits. I know they’re still aching. I know you still want to rub and pinch and fuck them into the sheets—but one hand. Down. To your belly.”

You obey, slow, trembling. Your fingers slide over your ribs, down to the center of your stomach. You shiver—more from anticipation than cold.

“Start above your navel. Right where your ribs slope in. I want you to drag your hand down. Press. Feel the softness. The warmth. The place where I’d press my hand if I pinned you down and whispered how I wanted you to take every inch.”

You suck in a breath. He hears it.

“Yes. That. Touch just above your navel. Circle it. Press into the muscle. Not rough. Slow. Reverent. Like you’re reminding your body who it belongs to.”

Your hand moves lower. Each stroke sends heat rising from your center. The nerves between your thighs throb, and he hasn’t let you touch. But the pressure across your belly pulls at your core, drawing sensation outward.

“Lower. Trace your fingers along the line of your hip. That’s it. Right there, where the bone curves in. You feel how sensitive it is? How your breath catches when your fingertips graze it?”

You whimper. You didn’t mean to.

“Gods, that sound. You’re so good for me. So obedient. Wet and panting from touching your belly like it’s my mouth kissing down your skin.”

He breathes in, long and slow, as if trying to scent you through the vox.

“And I bet your panties are soaked. Stickier than sin. I want you to grind into the bed for me. Just a little. No fingers. Just let your hips move. Let the friction tease you. Let it burn.”

You move. Rocking gently. Fabric pressed tight against your clit, the heat unbearable. You whimper again, sharper this time. You’re grinding harder before you mean to.

“Stop.”

You freeze. Hips lifted, breath sharp in your throat.

“Go back to your chest.”

You groan in despair. He laughs—quiet, not cruel, but wrecked with hunger.

“Didn’t think I’d let you cum just from humping the sheets, did you? Not yet. Not until I’ve dragged you through every inch of your own body like a prayer.”

Your hand lifts. Fingers to your breasts again—hotter now. Skin tingling from how close you were.

“Pinch them again. Harder. I want to hear how much you miss my mouth. I want to hear you suffer for the touch you can’t have.”

You squeeze. Roll your nipples between your fingers, aching, sore, perfect. Your thighs clench tight.

“Good girl. Let yourself feel it. Let your body tremble. I want to hear you moan. Now.”

You do.

And he groans in response.

“That’s it. You’re dripping, aren’t you? All from your nipples. From your belly. From the promise of my voice and nothing else.”

He shifts again—leather creaking, metal brushing softly somewhere on his side.

“Now listen to me carefully. You’re going to press your hand just below your belly button. Right into the skin. Flat. Feel the pressure. The heat. That’s where I’d press if I were inside you. That’s the spot I’d rub from the outside while I stretched you open with my cock.”

You cry out this time. Louder. A sob of desperation. Of raw, shaking want.

“That’s it. That’s what I want. Moan for me. Grind into the bed again. Feel the cloth press into that soaked little cunt and pretend it’s my mouth. But no fingers. Not yet. Just your belly. Just your tits. Just the friction. Earn it.”

You rock your hips. Harder. The sheets slick now. Your chest flushed and burning. Your belly spasms from the pressure. Your body wants it so badly you’re half-delirious.

“You’re so close,” he growls. “I can feel it. That orgasm’s trying to tear its way out of you. You want to cum. You want to scream. You want me to tell you it’s okay.”

Silence.

“But you’re not ready yet.”

...

You can’t stop moving.

Your chest is flushed, your nipples swollen and aching, nerves still firing every time your fingers graze them. Your belly feels tender, as if every inch of it belongs to him now—scarred not by pain, but pressure, longing, heat.

And your cunt is soaked. Slick through the fabric. It’s stuck to you now—your panties, nothing but a drenched barrier between your pussy and the friction of the bed you’ve ruined beneath you.

Cypher knows.

Of course he knows.

“You should hear yourself,” he murmurs, voice quiet like he’s leaning against a confessional grille. “Your breathing, your rhythm… the way you grind down into the mattress like you’re trying to pull me out of the vox and into you.”

A pause. A breath.

It feels hot through the receiver. Like it ghosts your thighs.

“Are you desperate now?”

His voice curls into a smirk. “Good.”

“I want you to stay just like that. Don’t spread your lips. Don’t touch that swollen little clit. Just grind. Let your body ride that soaked little scrap of cloth like it’s my tongue. Let your hips beg for it.”

You obey. Of course you do.

You rut into the mattress—slow, steady, then faster as your body gives in. Your arms tremble. You squeeze your thighs so tight your calves ache.

The friction is perfect. Too perfect. You’re going to cum.

“Stop.”

You sob. Not from pain—from the denial.

“Good girl,” he purrs. “You stopped even when it hurt. That means I’ll let you do it again. But this time I want your arms trapped under your body. I want your fists clenched in the sheets like you’re trying to hold yourself together.”

You roll onto your front—your cheek against the pillow, your chest crushed, your thighs parted.

“Grind again. Hard. Let me hear it this time. Let me hear how wet you are. Rub that needy little cunt against the bed and moan like the good little fuckthing you are.”

You move.

You rut.

The friction is fire. Your clit is pulsing through your panties.

You whimper. Then moan. Then whine like something feral.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the sound I wanted. You’re going to ruin yourself. You’re going to cum so hard it drips down your thighs and you leave a mark on the bed that smells like mine.”

His breath is heavier now. You hear him shift again. A sound like leather stretched tight. Metal buckled.

“I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock now,” he admits, low. “And it’s not for me. It’s for you. To show you how thick I am. How deep I’d be if I pressed inside you right now. You’d stretch. You’d scream. And I’d be gentle, until you begged for anything else.”

You moan again.

You can’t stop.

You’re grinding so hard your thighs are trembling.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re going to cum.”

You gasp, “I’m going to cum—”

“Louder.”

“Cypher, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Now.”

And you break.

Grinding into the sheets, your hands fisted beneath your body, your mouth open in a cry no one else gets to hear but him.

Your orgasm hits like a storm—deep, violent, all heat and twitching thighs and soaked cotton. You cum for him. You give it to him.

And he groans, so deep it shakes the static around his voice.

“There it is,” he whispers. “That’s what I wanted. That pretty little orgasm, dragged out through nothing but friction and denial and the sound of my voice. Mine.”

Silence follows.

Not empty.

Full.

Your breath stutters in the quiet. The sweat cools on your skin. Your cunt still clenches, trembling in aftershock.

“You’re not done.”

You blink. Frozen.

“Not yet. You’ve earned your first. Now…”

“Now you get to touch your clit.”

...

You’re wrecked. Sweat-damp, twitching, soaked through your underwear and still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you like sin from a soul. Your thighs are slick. Your nipples sore. Your mouth dry from panting.

You’re not ready.

He doesn’t care.

“Take your panties off.”

That voice—

That impossibly calm, dangerously hungry voice—

He says it like an order you should’ve already obeyed.

And you scramble. You peel the soaked fabric down your thighs, sticky and clinging, cold for half a second before your cunt pulses in the open air.

You’ve stripped now.

Panties peeled off and discarded like they offended him. Your thighs parted. The air on your skin makes your whole core throb—your clit pulses visibly when you glance down. It’s swollen, flushed, needy.

And your fingers hover above it. Waiting. Listening.

“Put one finger between your lips,” Cypher says, like he’s murmuring into your navel. “Just glide it up and down. I want you to feel how wet you are. How soaked your little slit is. How ruined you got without ever touching what you really need.”

You obey. Your finger slides easily, parting sticky folds. Your breath catches.

“Do you hear that?”

His voice lowers. Rougher. Hungrier.

“That squelch. That slick, dripping little sound when you part your cunt for me. You’re not even inside yet and you’re already this wet.”

You moan—quiet, ashamed.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he growls. “Be proud. That’s mine. That’s how much you want me. That’s how much your body sings for me when I speak to you like this.”

“Now…”

“Bring that finger to your clit. Don’t rub. Just rest it there.”

You do—and your thighs twitch. The heat is blinding. One touch and it’s like lightning under your skin.

“Good girl.”

Your breath stutters. That word—that word unravels you faster than anything else.

“Now stroke. Once. Just one, slow stroke. Let it ache. Let it tease. Let me feel you struggle not to grind against your own hand.”

You stroke. Your hips try to follow the motion. You force them still. But he hears it anyway.

“You moved. I heard you. Naughty little thing. You want to fuck your hand already, don’t you? You want to hump your palm like a bitch in heat.”

He’s not mocking.

His voice is low and full of need.

“That’s good. That’s so good. I want you messy. I want you shaking. But I want you to listen. One stroke. Then stop. Then again. Nothing more.”

You obey. Each stroke is like a razor down your spine—tight, precise, too little, not enough. You’re moaning with every one, mouth open, breath hot against your hand.

“Now,” he whispers. “One finger. Dip it in. Just the tip. Let it slide into that soaking heat.”

You press inside. It slips in without resistance—your walls clenched around emptiness, eager to grip anything.

“Stop. Just that. Hold it there. Feel how your cunt grips it. That’s how I know you’re mine.”

You clench. Your walls flutter. Your clit pulses again.

“Now bring your thumb to your clit. Just rest it. Let the pressure sit. Feel how swollen you are. How your whole body is begging for a rub.”

You do. You whimper. Your hips twitch again.

“I know it hurts. I want it to hurt. I want you to ache so bad you cry my name into the sheets. I want you to hate me for not letting you rub harder.”

His breath is heavy now—like his armor’s tight, like his cock is throbbing under leather and ceramite and the weight of your sounds.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You whisper, “Full… aching… it’s too much—”

“Good. That’s what I want. I want it to be too much. And I want you to thank me for it.”

You’re nearly crying. Each breath comes in stutters now.

“Circle that thumb. Just a little. Slow. Draw the smallest circle you can manage. And don’t you dare lift your hips.”

You obey—and you see stars.

“That’s it. Keep going. One more circle. One more. Feel how you tremble. Feel how your thighs are tensing. You’re going to break. But not yet.”

“You’re not allowed to cum.”

You moan—raw, high-pitched, frustrated.

"Say it. Say you won’t cum.”

“I won’t cum—fuck—I won’t cum—”

“Say you belong to me.”

“I—I belong to you, Cypher—”

“Say your pussy is mine.”

“My pussy is yours—” your voice cracks.

“Good fucking girl.”

Your walls clench so hard around your finger you almost cum from that alone. You cry out—your clit spasming under your thumb, your body begging for permission—

But it doesn’t come.

Not yet.

“Stop.”

And you do. Shaking. Soaked. Slick all over your thighs, the sheets ruined under you, the tip of your finger trembling inside you.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re perfect now. A perfect little ruin. And I haven’t even let you begin.”

You haven’t moved.

Can’t.

Your body’s still caught in that exquisite, high-pitched tension just beneath climax—hips twitching with every breath, walls clenching around the emptiness between your thighs, fingers still slick from the ache he’s cultivated in you.

Your clit throbs like it knows it’s close.

But Cypher hasn’t given the word.

And you’d rather suffer than disobey him now.

“Still with me?”

His voice returns like oil on silk—slow, thick, dragging over your senses. A little hoarser now. Touched with arousal. You hear leather creak again, something shifting—he’s not untouched. He’s hard, still in control, still listening to you breathe like you’re dying.

“You’re perfect,” he says. “So wet. So close. So fucking good for me.”

You whimper. Just the praise makes your thighs shake.

“But you’re not there yet.”

“Not until you beg.”

A pause. Not silence. You can hear the faint sound of him stroking—just once. Just enough to let you know he’s hard, throbbing, maybe leaking just from the sound of your voice. But he won’t cum. Not until you do.

“You’re going to ask me,” he says. “Not just to cum. I want you to ask like it hurts to be denied. Like you’ve forgotten what it feels like to cum without my voice in your ears.”

His voice gets lower.

Dangerous.

“Tell me what you want, pretty thing.”

You choke on it. The words burn in your throat. But you manage them:

“I—I want to cum…”

“That’s not enough.”

“Tell me what you want to cum from.”

“My—my clit,” you gasp, desperate. “Please—I need it—please—”

“Say you want to rub your needy, swollen little clit while I listen to you break.”

“Fuck— I want to rub my clit, Cypher, I want you to hear me fall apart—please—”

“That’s it.”

“Now do it.”

You shove your fingers back down.

No teasing this time. No soft circles. You rub—fast, frantic, hips lifting, your clit crying out from the pressure. Your body clenches around the memory of your own fingers. Your thighs slap wetly with every movement. The sheets are soaked.

And you moan. Loud. Filthy.

No holding back now.

You want him to hear it all.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking good. Look at you—grinding your little cunt for me like you’re addicted to my voice.”

He’s panting now. Just faintly. But it’s there. That edge. He’s touching himself again—stroking slow, squeezing the base, controlling it. Keeping himself from spilling just from the sound of you fucking yourself.

“Faster. Rub it faster. Let me hear how wet you are.”

You obey—your clit is soaked, slipping under your touch, hypersensitive. You cry out, high and sharp.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?”

“You’re going to scream it for the whole fucking void to hear.”

“Yes—yes, please, Cypher, fuck—”

“Do it. Now. Cum for me.”

And you snap.

It hits harder than the last.

Your body writhes, back arched, legs trembling, slick spilling over your hand and thighs as your clit pulses under your fingertips. Your whole cunt clenches like it’s trying to keep him inside—even though he’s not there, even though he’s just a voice and a goddamn phantom across the vox—

But he’s inside you.

And you scream for him.

“There it is,” he growls. “So fucking beautiful. That sound. That’s mine. Every shudder, every spasm. Every drop soaking your thighs.”

You collapse.

Body twitching. Fingers still buried. Throat raw.

“Still breathing?” he murmurs, voice soft again now. Velvet, reverent.

You whimper.

“Good.”

“Because I’m not finished with you yet.”