Iron Within...
Lucina growled in exasperation, her voice warbling through the warp-infested air, thick with the scent of sweat and luxurious incense.
“I don’t understand,” she said, “why you insist on having these arguments…” her hands were wrapped around Skourio’s neck, her full, thick lips mere centimeters from his ear, her warm breath, hot enough to make any mortal man melt, barely making a dent in the Iron Warrior’s steely resolve.Skourio exhaled, a subtle and slow expulsion of air, almost imperceptible in its measured release. At the bottom of his exhalation, his abdomen was held tight to his body, causing the godly musculature wrapped around his core to form into a perfect statuesque rendition of the human form.
For a moment, Lucina was lost in his majesty, slowing the motion of her hips - that lovely cyclic inertia bringing her frame up and down upon his massive siege-cannon - to a crawl. Truly, the work of an artisan, she thought, running her hand along his torso, dragging her razor-sharp nail through the upper layers of his enhanced epidermis, marveling at the near-perfect regeneration that knitted closed the red line of rent flesh left in the meandering wake of her exploration.
Just as slowly, Skourio inhaled. Lucina placed the palm of her hand flat against his cheek, and said, “I always wonder what you think about when you’re silent.” His taut visage was seemingly forever stuck in a grimace, his eyes squinting with incredulity and impatience, his jaw clenched with seething, bitter rage held just beneath the surface.
His lips parted, and his thunderous voice rattled her, shaking her bones and chitinous plating with the wrath of a thousand mortar shells shattering a hundred bunkers. “They are not arguments, woman. They are explanations. You insist on asking asinine questions. I am merely answering you.” He spoke through gritted teeth, a snarl permeating his voice.
Lucina huffed and pouted at the dissatisfactory response. She leaned forward and began kissing and biting his neck, drawing blood and lapping it up with her forked tongue as she dragged her fangs across his flesh. The grip he had on her thigh tightened. I wonder how easily he could break me, she thought, digging her nails into the hardened flesh at the side of his ribcage.
She pulled back from his neck, and put a hand behind his head, her palm flat against the nape of his neck. “Please, just tell me your hesitancy to come with me, back into the warp. I can give you protection. With the blessings of Fabius Bile, your form shall not even be corrup-” Her plea was cut off by a deep, throaty growl.
“I will do no such thing,” barked the marine, “ten thousand years ago, such sickly-sweet false-promises led hundreds of thousands of Astartes astray. They betrayed that great vision the corpse-emperor held, and our galaxy was plunged into one hundred centuries of darkness and misery.” The Iron Warrior had pulled back, leaning into the pile of cushions and pillows they were fucking upon.
Lucina smiled, a cruel little expression, rife with malicious intent. “You would not join me in the Warp, for fear of betraying an Imperium you have long since abandoned, yet you would lay with me? Penetrate me? Pour into me your gene-seed? How foolish, methinks. Your hubris knows no bounds.” She leaned forward to kiss him, but he wrapped a hand around her neck, holding her at bay.
“Yes,” he said, “it is true that my father and brothers have betrayed His Imperium, but we still hold His values. Those things He stood for, He fought for, we died for, they are valuable and worthwhile. My father has plans for his sons, and indeed for all of mankind. Plans born of the Emperor’s failings, machinations forged from the heat of His successes.” Now it was the marine who grinned.
“Lord Perturabo has a purpose for me, and for all my brothers,” Skourio continued, “where his Father stumbled and fell, my father shall run and leap. We shall build an empire anew from the ashes. One free from tyranny and oppression. An empire of artisans, scholars, and philosophers, where every citizen is a free man, every worker entitled to the sweat of his own brow, a society of the enlightened, free from the shackles of gods and kings.”
Lucina tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, replying, “So when will this liberation begin? Your magnificent Iron Empire, as of now, is little more than just another slave state. What sets your perfect utopia apart from the tribalism of the Orks or the autocracy of the Imperium or the anarchy of the Drukhari?”
Skourio’s smile soured, and he replied, “Sacrifices must be made for the Necron’s pylons to be erected. The warp must be shut out from the Materium, or Man shall fall, again and again, to its many temptations.” His hand brushed her cheek, causing the daemonette to flush a dark purple. She leaned in, yet again, to lay her lips against his, but this time he made no attempt to resist her advance.
A Melancholy Love...
Inquisitor Isabella Santiago ran her hands through Piotr’s hair. He was handsome, with sandy blonde locks that ran longer than Guard regulations usually permitted, but his regiment was composed of conscripts taken from a feudal world in the distant western reaches of the galaxy. He had such odd eyes, the irises as black as night. His skin was porcelain pale, accustomed to the ever-night darkness of his tidally locked world.Piotr smiled at her, and she felt her heart melt beneath the heat of his gaze. He pulled her in for a kiss, a gesture she whole-heartedly reciprocated. If only you knew what awaits you tomorrow, you foolish boy… Isabella thought. Tears were building up in her eyes as she looked upon his boyish visage. The man was just over a quarter century old, yet still he was soft-skinned and round of face, like a boy barely old enough to drink.
Piotr’s smile lessened somewhat when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. “Miss Santiago,” he asked, his harmonious sing-song voice rippling through her mind like a rock dropped on a still lake, “have I done something to upset you?” He raised a hand to her cheek, wiping her tear away with his thumb. She leaned against his hand and kissed his palm.
For a moment, she remained silent, struggling to find a response within her tortured mind. For a century and a half, she had served the Emperor in the Inquisition, and though her skin remained taught and youthful, a longevity achieved by the numerous rejuvenat treatments she’d received, she was nonetheless burdened by the weight of her memories.
Rejuvenat treatments revitalized the mind as well as the body, bringing back in stunning detail every failure, ever dead lover, every friend lost to a petty argument. All at once, she was overcome with guilt and resentment, her soul overflowing with despair even as her physical form straddled the perfect body of a beautiful young man.
She pitched forward, burying her face in the crook where his neck met his shoulder, and she wept, heaving, hiccuping sobs causing her subtle, natural-esque makeup to run and smear and stain the shoulder of his hand-spun cotton tunic. Piotr said nothing, merely holding her tight against his chest, petting her hand with his hand and singing some ancient lullaby in his native dialect of low gothic.
She raised her head, tears still streaming down her face. Piotr began to open his mouth, but she cut him down in his tracks, pressing a finger to his mouth and shaking her head. She kissed him, gripping his head with both hands. Tears streamed down her face, even with her eyes closed.
She pressed her thighs together and lifted herself up off his lap, her hands unbuckling his belt. The rifleman knew what she wanted, bucking his hips ever so slightly to permit her to loosen his pants and pull them away from his hips, freeing his cock from the tyranny of his clothing.
He lifted her robes up and tore the sheer tights she wore beneath the red and black fabric. Santiago half-gasped, half-sighed at the young man's impatience. His member pressed against the well-lubricated entrance to her womanhood, and he whispered, “Miss Santiago, may I fuck you?” into her ear.
Her heart fluttered and her mind stuttered as she replied, “Yes!” the authority and might of a killer two centuries old backing her words.
Piotr needed no further instruction. He pulled her down upon his cock, the wetness and warmth of her love drowning him in an agonizing pleasure that suppressed higher thought and buried him in the carnality of base humanity.
Even as he railed away, fucking her with all the devotion of a most loyal citizen of the Imperium, Isabella could not help but think about all every way he might die tomorrow when the Tau assault began. Tears continued to fall from her eyes as she held strong against Piotr’s thrusts, her face buried in his neck and chest, her lips bathing him in affection that would save him from neither artillery nor gunfire.
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