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sylestine-redacted · 7 days ago

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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

#warhammer fanfic #x reader #warhammer smut #astartes x reader #warhammer 40k fanfiction #space marine x reader #smut #mind break #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yancore #yandere #space marine smut #warhammer 40k x reader #mind control #mind conditioning #cnc edging #cnc slave

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