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It had been six days since the smell of something other than the intoxicating stench of blood had filled Captain Malakan Varsa's nose. Even the heavy incense burning in his field office did little to change that. Not that he minded all that much, for it brought him closer to the Lord of Rage and filled his gut with a fire unmatched by anything he could drink on this plane. Invigorating, if a little distracting. He hated forcing his focus on the maps on his folding desk and away from the bloodshed he could be inflicting, if not for the burden of command. This was his lot though, to plan and scheme for conquests that he would take little part in, his forces pushed aside to welcome in the true death knell of this world.
The Red Corsairs.
It would be another six days before the first disguised Thunderhawks would arrive, carrying their lethal cargo of transhuman doom to disgorge upon the shattered, unsuspecting cities and take their prize. And so Malakan had little under a week to best plan how to demoralize the planetary forces and ready them for future enslavement upon the great voidships that hung in high atmosphere. Not much different than what he did when he served the Corpse Emperor, only now for a much greater purpose.
At least, that was what he would be doing, if one of his subordinates had not just burst in with the worst news he’d gotten in all his years of campaigning around the Maelstrom.
Every chant and mocking peal of laughter from camp could be heard, not dulled in the slightest by the cacophony of artillery shells bursting against the ground in the distance, a stark contrast to the silence inside the tent.
“No, no. Say that again. You found what ?”
The infantryman gulped. “Loyalist infiltrators. Sir.”
Malakan stood up with a heavy sigh, reaching for the relic power sword resting on his cot. It sparked to life when he wrapped his hand around the hilt, crackling with corrupted red energy. “You're sure you've routed all of them?”
Khorne decided that an answer was not necessary.
One swing was all it took to decapitate the main messenger, Malakan’s strike cutting through flesh and blood as if it were not there.
He casually wiped the blood from the blade with the hem of his uniform tunic before sheathing it at his hip, making eye contact with the other infantryman. “Have you?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered quickly.
“Good. Take me to them.”
The soldier led him through the camp to the edge of the mass of tents and tanks, amassing a crowd of every off-duty member of the regiment behind them as they passed. Malakan wasn’t pleased that they were abandoning maintenance of equipment and vehicles in order to watch this spectacle, but he figured it would serve as a morale booster. And a threat to any other would-be defectors.
A line of 30 or so humans were on their knees in the mud, each one surrounded by two rank-and-file members of the Broken Sun regiment, lasguns pointed at their heads. Malakan strode up and down the line, mulling over what an acceptable punishment would be. Death was too easy, though the daemon blade on his belt hissed and whispered for blood to be spilled. He squatted down in front of the traitor who appeared to be their leader and snatched his face in one hand. “Who did you send that transmission to? The dogs of the Imperium who step on us and call it safety? Your precious ‘Angels of Death’?”
Again, he did not wait for an answer. He spit in the turncoat’s face and shoved him down to the ground, using the leverage to come back up to his feet. “Take that one for questioning and half of them as a gift for our lords when they arrive. Branded as spies and restrained. As for the rest…do with them as you please. Make it hurt. Honor Chaos with their blood.”
The screaming began before he had even turned to leave back to his tent.
Six more days.
--------
While this new allegiance didn’t give him much time to pray or carry out his rites of devotion, Ashur the Gilded Blade was never at a loss for ritual fodder when he did get the opportunity to indulge in his previous Legion's customs. And this crop of new mortals to be disciplined was good, as always. He strode past the line of branded, restrained bodies until he was in front of the commander standing at the end of the row, clad in the shiny black carapace armor of the Hereticus Militarum regiment attached to Ashur’s crew. “Captain Varsa,” he said with a slight nod. “Unfortunate that this is our first meeting.”
Malakan continued to stand silently at attention, knowing better than to speak unless questioned, but he shifted his gaze up to the astartes, readying himself for admonition. These Imperium-loving scum had been under his command, so it would only be right that the greatest punishment would fall on his shoulders. He straightened his stance, taking in a deep breath of the incense-perfumed air, actively forcing himself to ignore the violent urges it spawned in his gut.
Ashur raised a manicured brow, not used to getting silence as a response. “Are you mute?”
“No, lord,” Malakan answered curtly, his voice low and raspy.
“Ah, just a tetchy obedient soldier boy? Will not speak until spoken to?” Ashur asked, seeking any point of irritation he could pry open.
A darkness crossed Malakan’s expression. He had never been fond of working for his transhuman masters, but held regard for them as his superiors. This new one was pushing buttons, though. His old master’s replacement after he had been killed in battle. Or assassinated by this one right in front of him. Both hypotheses were likely. But he’d actually respected Lord Zikeon, even willingly joined him in his chambers once or twice for a drink after successful raids. He would make any excuse to ignore this one’s invitations.
Malakan barely wanted to respond. “Yes, lord.”
Ashur looked over at the captives, a small smile on his lips. “You did well bringing them to me. But I haven’t decided on a suitable punishment.” He looked back to Malakan. “Do you have any ideas, Captain?”
The incense was starting to make Malakan’s head pound. His sword screamed to be released. A familiar chant started to echo in his skull. He took a deep breath and tried to drown it out. That was a weakness that his master could exploit. “I am bound to your orders alone, lord.”
That was exactly what Ashur was expecting. The grin on his face twisted into something more sinister. He had seen the glint of the Blood God's favor in the mortal’s eyes and desperately wanted to exploit that. And now, with full knowledge of just how obedient his regiment's commander was, he could do that to his hearts’ content. “...Kill them for me.”
Malakan bowed his head in compliance, his heart beginning to race.
Exposed necks were the first thing his gaze locked onto when he brought his head back up. Such thin skin, so much blood pumping right underneath it, ripe fruit ready to be bitten into. His leap forward to his first victim was a blur of movement, enhanced by the otherworldly influences in Malakan’s veins. Warmth filled his mouth, blanketing his mind in a red-tinted haze that now screamed to be sated. Every contraction of muscle, each swift action of violence drove his body to a killing strike, with either his hands, teeth, or blade. There was no meaning to it, all knowledge of his prey’s betrayal pushed aside in favor of mindless bloodshed.
The carnage stretched beyond the limits of Malakan’s sense of time, each vicious second pulled into glorious minutes where the only things in the universe were him, the weapon, and them, the unworthy. He was a thing fit only for killing, an extension of the will of something much greater than himself. His hands slick and warm with blood, the taste of iron on his tongue, the voices in his head now a raucous choir rather than subdued whispers.
But he had completed his orders. It could not go on. Malakan’s momentum came to a crashing halt as his hand buried itself in the gut of one of his former subordinates, using the flesh as a stopping mechanism. He panted heavily, keeping his eyes on the body beneath him to stop his bloodlust from acquiring new targets. That did not stop the fact that he could smell the astartes that watched him, sense the holy ichor that begged to be spilled pumping in their veins. The ones who were familiar with him did not move while he coaxed himself away from the overwhelming need to kill.
Something else did, though.
He dug his fingers into the entrails and tried to slow his breathing as his heart began to race again.
Malakan was a beautiful vision of gore and fury in the room’s dim yellow light. Ashur could not restrain himself, and stepped towards the mortal. He reached out a hand and tilted his blood-streaked face up by the chin with a single finger. His eyes were filled with the deranged fervor of the Blood God’s chosen, wide and unfocused, a look that pleased Ashur to no end. “You’ve done well. This is not your first brush with devotionals like this, is it?” he asked, forcing eye contact.
The haze began to slowly lift from Malakan’s mind at the astartes’ words. Fire still ran through his veins, and his first instinct was to very insubordinately bare his fangs. He did not like how the red-robed man smiled at him when he did. An answer had not quite formed in his throat, and what came out was more of a snarl. A snarl anyone that had been near a worshipper of Khorne would know. “ Kill maim burn kill maim burn kill—”
Ashur laughed, shifting his gentle touch into a firm grip. “Oh, come now, that's enough of that.”
If he were more like the vicious hounds of his true master, Malakan would tear this smug astartes’ throat out. But he did not have the raw strength needed to lunge at him from a cold start now that his energy had begun to fade. Not like he could anyway, what with the hand holding his face in place. He rolled his shoulders, forcing his need to move elsewhere, down to his hands instead of towards the muscles that could drive him forward to harm his superior. “...Yes, lord,” Malakan mumbled, finally finding conscious words again. “Do you have any other need for me?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Ashur leaned down until his nose was nearly touching Malakan’s. “But I will call for you later, little slayer.”
Rage boiled in Malakan’s throat. He knew better than to react, though. He feared Huron Blackheart’s punishments for insubordination more than anything this new captain could think up, not for his sake, but for the sake of his regiment. When the space marine pulled away from him and released his face, he had thought the humiliation was over. But that turned out to be a wish in the wind.
“Batil,” Ashur said, turning to another crimson-armored astartes at his side. “Get a muzzle for it. Can’t have a mortal with teeth and a temper like that running free on my ship.” He looked back to the mortal at his feet. “You will stay here. Is that understood?”
Malakan grit his teeth and bowed his head.
“As you command. Lord.”
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Watching the carnage in the arena and not participating made Malakan’s skin writhe. He had finally been called for after hours of humiliating inactivity, stuck in a chamber stinking of dried blood and that infuriating incense. Of course, he knew why. Ashur, as he'd learned the astartes was called, was planning on using him as a personal champion. Not that he really minded that, temporarily at least. His hands itched to spill blood, to feel it wet on his skin and sticky under his nails. A growl rumbled in his throat, deep and animalistic.
Ashur laughed softly, petting the mortal’s head. “Wait your turn. It won’t be long now.”
He figured this would be the perfect way to rile Malakan up before carrying out the rest of his plan for him. It wasn’t anything too complex, just a way to force this mortal champion of Khorne into complete loyalty. The thoughts of what he would do to him were almost enough to distract him from watching his crew fight in the arena. Well. If his future guard dog survived this trial. Ashur crossed one leg over the other, sipping dark, dark wine from an overfull glass before letting out a heavy sigh and looking to his second-in-command, seated on the other end of the long table, piled high with delicacies. “I’m bored. Shoot one of them so I can send this one in.”
One single shot rang out without a moment's delay. Disappointed heckling from the crowd followed. With a heavy sigh, Ashur came to the edge of the arena, hands on the railing. “Calm down, calm down. For I have something special for all of you!” he called, gesturing for Malakan to come to his side. “Our mortal regiment's commander, chosen of the Blood God, Captain Malakan Varsa!”
A few amused laughs followed, exactly what Ashur had been expecting. He reached behind Malakan’s head and unbuckled the muzzle, letting it fall from his face. “Prove your worth to me, little slayer,” he purred, pointing at the remaining marine in the arena. “Kill him.”
The instruction was hardly needed. Malakan vaulted over the railing and into the ring, his boots hitting the grate with a heavy thud. Furious voices shouted in his head, loud enough to drown out the laughter and mocking words of his audience. He had killed astartes before. This would be no different. His focus narrowed, only noticing movement and the scent of blood. A flesh-toned flash to his left, then his right, both narrowly dodged. Veins pumping blood through surgically and hormonally augmented arms. He’s trying to grab me . Malakan knew he would only get one chance to turn this in his favor. So he let his adversary grab him.
Pain shot through his nerves, but his armor did not crack. While the marine gloated to the crowd, Malakan hit his heels against each other to release his shoe knife and kicked forward into his chest, hard. The blade hit its mark, puncturing reinforced skin and ribs, but he didn’t stop pushing, driving the knife as deep as he could. Now that he had spilled blood, things would get far, far easier. He set his other foot against the marine’s stomach and kicked again, releasing himself from the grapple. Some taunt in the tongue of the Blood God’s chosen left his throat, but the words were ultimately meaningless. His singular purpose was to kill.
With the calculated grace of a hunting felid, he leapt for his prey, aimed directly at the burning heat signature of injury, using the marine’s shock at being hurt by a mortal to his advantage, knocking him to the ground. He had been ordered to kill. And he did not disobey orders. His claws found their mark, slipping into the hole that his knife had left. Channeling every bit of Khorne’s favor he could, Malakan tore the wound open further, though not as much as he wanted. Enraged by his lack of effectiveness, he went for the last weapon he had. Teeth.
The eerie hush was lost on Malakan, who only tasted the astringent liquid in his mouth and savored the sticky warmth on his skin. There was no longer life to it, though. His senses began to search for other targets, other things to kill, other things to feed the Blood God’s eternal hunger. He turned his head, eyes locking onto Ashur with calculated malice. Slowly, he rose from the astartes’ corpse and stalked back over to where he had been before the carnage, one arm hanging slightly limp.
But Ashur had learned. He saw the mortal approaching and stayed still, hoping to throw off whatever warp-fueled targeting system was at work. Amusement played on his face when Malakan continued to approach him, still with the same predatory gait. Surely he could simply order him to stop. With a little help from the sorcery he’d learned during his short stint as a Word Bearer, of course. Waiting until Malakan was nearly within reach, he casually held up a hand. “Stop.”
As if possessed, Malakan found his legs unable to move him any closer to his chosen target. He watched, struggling against his own body, as Ashur boasted to the crowd of his newfound champion, of how disobedience would net the fate they had just witnessed before them. Malakan knew he had very little agency to begin with in this hierarchy, but the only master he truly answered to was Khorne, and hearing the declaration of new ‘ownership’ made his blood boil even hotter. “No,” he snarled, just low enough to not be heard over the buzz of poorly maintained lumens and rumbling engines.
If he could move, he would’ve directed every shred of his waning fury towards the astartes. It might result in his death, but that would be better than being stuck in total servitude to someone he only held the most fleeting respect for, with only his fear of the Master of the Maelstrom keeping him in check. Unfortunately, Ashur was long-winded. That, or he knew that eventually his ‘champion’s’ rage would subside and was waiting it out. The latter seemed more likely. Malakan cursed his patron’s transient gifts. Maybe someday he would get enough favor to make his power permanent. So this could never happen again.
While he was in his thoughts, Ashur returned, patting Malakan on the cheek as he replaced his muzzle, leaving blood on everything he touched. “Come to my chambers with me. I have more planned for you, little slayer.”
Malakan scowled, finally getting a good look at Ashur’s face. It was uncannily youthful, not marred by the scars of war or lines of age like his was. He almost wanted to pull away as far as possible, not only because he hated this man, but because everything about him somehow felt even more wrong. Was he older than this astartes? Had he seen more war and bloodshed? Would he outrank him if he were human? In the low light, Ashur’s shimmering gold tattoos glinted with each sputter of the ship's light, highlighting the slight softness to his face even further. Malakan became more aware of the squared off edge of his own jawline, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the scar that cut across his nose and cheek. He was a canvas of war's ravages, whereas this paragon of warrior potential didn't look as if he'd seen his first battle.
Malakan took a shaky breath before answering, thoroughly unsettled. “As you command, lord.”
Ashur turned to leave, expecting his mortal pet to follow like a trained animal. When he did not hear footsteps, he looked back, narrowing his eyes. “I said to come with me, Captain.”
Time seemed frozen, and Malakan felt he could not move, his inherent mortality staring him in the face. But at Ashur’s gaze, the whispers in his head began again, and he found he could follow now, though still at a wary pace. He was led through labyrinthine halls, the layout of this cruiser far more complex than the ones the Militarum used and the last Red Corsairs vessel he had boarded. More touched by the ravages of the Immaterium, and perhaps her Lord Captain's whims. Maybe it was disorienting on purpose, to avoid possible harm to her commander from forces not familiar with the ship.
Hopefully this would be the only time he'd go this way.
But Malakan knew, deep down, that would be a fool's hope.
When the pair arrived at Ashur’s chambers, he opened the door into a room of pure decadence, filled with luxuries from previous planetary and piratical conquests. Malakan felt sick to his stomach. Not only from the unnecessary opulence, but from the stench of various incense, most of which angered the voices echoing in his head. He felt a headache begin to form as he stepped inside. The Blood God was upset with something in this room or whatever was meant to happen here.
Ashur let Malakan stand by the entryway while he sat down on a chaise, assuming that the incense designed for worship of Slaanesh was working as intended. Working to drive his new attack dog mad . He wanted to try and tame the beast he'd seen earlier. For his own amusement, of course. If the soldier got pleasure from it, that was outside his scope of interest. In fact, he'd like it more if he didn't get anything from it but a greater sense of subordinance.
Observing the mortal’s descent into Khornate discomfort had gotten boring though. He needed more. “Come here and get on your knees,” Ashur ordered, beckoning Malakan over with an elegant hand movement.
Malakan had to fight the urge to rip and tear instead of obeying. Soldier first, champion second , he reminded himself. The small mantra made approaching a little more bearable. Nothing would make the humiliation of kneeling before another sting less, though. Or seeing what Ashur was taking out of a concealed pocket in his robes.
“You must learn what being under my command means, Captain,” Ashur said with saccharine tones, fastening a leashed, red-jeweled collar around Malakan’s neck. “And to temper your rage.”
The touch of it burned against Malakan’s skin, and he winced, now struggling to keep himself sane in the slightest. “How dare you do this to a champion of—”
“Ah-ah. Don't make me gag you as well, little slayer. I thought the muzzle would be enough.”
Ashur leaned in, brushing his hand through the mortal's messy, blood-stained hair. He watched the fire in his eyes flare and was half tempted to slip one of his fingers through the leather cage and force him to lick off the sanguine stains. Today was not the day to lose a finger, though. Especially with how his pet was now snarling like the beasts of Khorne he emulated with his deeds. “You've never been forced to submit like this before, have you?” he asked condescendingly, trailing his touch down to the sliver of skin exposed by the loose buttons that peeked out over Malakan’s carapace armor..
“N-no, lord,” Malakan stuttered, struggling to make words that were not cries of war. When his skin was touched, his body jolted to life, action potential surging through his muscles.
He lunged.
Ashur laughed.
“You're angry, aren't you?” Ashur tightened his grip on the leash. “So filled with rage you can't hold it in anymore?”
This must've been what the marine wanted. To rile him up until he couldn't think. And he had succeeded. Malakan tried to reach for that uncannily youthful face, to mar it, disfigure the wrongness of it all, only for Ashur to mutter a word that restrained his wrists before they left the ground.
“Bad. I have to punish you for this now.”
Ashur roughly pulled Malakan to his feet and pushed him face down onto the luxurious chaise, keeping a tight hold on the leash. “I know what your type despises,” he stated bluntly, as if speaking to a room of students. “Being overwhelmed by pleasure. Excess of sensation.” He kissed the back of the mortal’s neck. “Tenderness.”
Every one of those things was correct. It had been since before Malakan’s turn to Chaos that he had been touched in a way even remotely resembling this. His mind rioted against it, but a warmth quickly spread through his thighs. Desire. His breath began to grow heavy with each subtle touch of lips. He barely noticed his fatigues being slipped down to his knees. All he wanted was hands on him, something to drown out the Blood God's violent protests.
Ashur roughly gripped Malakan’s thighs, spreading his legs further apart. “Not so disobedient now, are you, little slayer?” He dug his fingers in, admiring how well-shaped and toned the soldier’s ass was. Well, for a mortal. He’d seen much better in his time, but this would do. “I want to make you tremble. Moan. Scream .”
Malakan realized what was happening and held his breath, trying hard to mitigate whatever intoxicating effect the cloying incense was having on him. This was the antithesis of his purpose, he was meant to be a weapon, not a plaything. But Gods , the touches felt good. Not like killing did, but in a way wholly alien to his flesh. A large hand pressed against his back, forcing the stale air held in his lungs to strain against his slowly compressing ribs.
“Don’t fight it. The Dark Prince loves you just as the Blood God does.”
Sputtering coughs followed, Malakan’s unwanted exhale catching in the back of his throat. The scent hit him harder as he breathed in, sending a burning heat into his gut. He swore quietly, digging his claws into the chaise as his guiding influence continued to be pushed aside for another. These new whispers were not filled with the fury he always carried with him, they were soft and taunting, beckoning him to fall deeper into the heat creeping across his skin. Trying to get him to scratch a biological itch he had never acknowledged beyond adolescence.
“Do you want to know why I left my Legion?” purred Ashur, his lips right next to Malakan’s ear. “Because I needed more than what it could offer. You need more than what just one god can offer.”
He wrapped one manicured hand around Malakan’s cock, relishing the little throb that followed. Clearly the mortal had never been touched like this before. Each tiny shift of Ashur’s fingers elicited more of a reaction than he was expecting. “It feels good, yes?”
Malakan did not answer, instead choosing to grit his teeth and hope that this would end soon.
Ashur frowned and dug his thumbnail into the mortal’s perineum, tugging the leash hard with the other hand. “You're supposed to follow my orders, aren't you, Captain Varsa?”
A small, undignified whimper escaped Malakan’s lips. He couldn't break. He couldn't.
“Answer me. That's an order.” Ashur snapped, pressing down harder.
He could not refuse that, and the whispers goaded him to reply. Malakan’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes, Lord. It-it does.”
“Good.” Ashur moved his thumb back down, starting to stroke Malakan’s cock. “You’re going to be a good boy for me and obey , now, yes?”
Malakan felt the urge to squeeze his legs together in overstimulation, but forced himself to keep them open. That was what his superior wanted. “Yes, Lord,” he managed to gasp out through heavy breaths.
Slick precum already covered Ashur’s fingers, and he shook his head in disappointment. “I’ll have to spend far more time with you than expected, I suppose.” He pulled his hand away, a cruel smile splitting his face when Malakan whined in displeasure. “Patience, little slayer. You don’t want this to hurt now, do you?”
Ashur did not wait for an answer before reaching for a vial of oil on a nearby shelf, but enjoyed the affirmative response his rhetorical question received. He lit another cone of incense, displeased with how slow its effects were to take hold. It was taking longer to fully drown out the Blood God’s influence than he had hoped. All of the pageantry almost didn’t seem worth it at this point, there was no way Malakan was going to really enjoy this. But he would, and his pleasure was all that truly mattered in this. As he slicked up his fingers, he took a moment to observe the mortal, taking in the scars of a life far more violent than his own. The more curious parts of him wanted to probe their origins. The part of him that wanted to assert his dominance over his subordinate did not care. With little fanfare, he slid a finger in, pressing against Malakan’s lower wall, searching for the spot that would make him break. He found it quickly, based on the soldier’s moans, at least, and rubbed it, watching for other reactions.
Getting his prostate toyed with was not on Malakan’s short or long list of experiences he planned to seek out in his life. He inhaled more of the perfumed air when he gasped in ecstasy, cursing how heavy it made his body feel, as if weights had been strapped to his wrists and ankles. Another finger being slipped inside without warning did not change that, as much as he wished he could tense up in reaction to stop it. If this was going to happen, he didn’t want it to happen this fast. He had expected more… hand things before the astartes put things in him. His cock still twitched and throbbed, getting harder with each skillful movement of Ashur’s digits.
“Mm. I want more,” Ashur said flatly, as if he were growing bored of the whole thing. “Can’t have you having all the fun.”
Knots tightened in Malakan’s stomach. What ‘more’ entailed was obvious. This wasn’t something he’d ever done before, and had never imagined it would happen. Feeling Ashur’s fingers stretch and thrust didn’t exactly feel good as was promised. Uncomfortable, but it did make him twitch and moan. No voices were screaming in protest anymore, though, and whatever had entered him earlier had quieted as well. All he had were the infuriatingly soothing tones of Ashur’s voice and the dull rumble of the voidship’s engines. A large hand caressed his back before gripping his hip, far softer than any touch before it, and he shivered.
“I think you’re ready for me.” Ashur pressed the head of his cock against Malakan’s hole, drinking in the tiny whimpers of nervous anticipation. “Don't fight it.”
If that was meant to be comforting, Malakan got nothing from it. He squeezed his eyes shut and let it happen. Nothing about it felt right , even if it felt good . The sting, the stretch, the touching of places so deep he didn’t know existed. He wanted to be angry, but nothing could tense up in rage, nothing could be summoned to fight back, even if he wanted to. Noises left his mouth, but not ones he was particularly proud of making. Brocade silk tore under the onslaught of his claws as he clenched his hands, not in the service of violence, but of pleasure.
On the other side, Ashur was very much enjoying himself. Mortals were always an interesting lay, and this one was particularly amusing. Never before had he fucked someone who only agreed because they were ordered to or a champion of Khorne. The full breaking of his spirit would take much longer, but for now, at least he could break his body. Satisfied with how relaxed Malakan felt, he began to set a far more brutal rhythm, one more like what he would use with his fellow astartes. “You can take this, can’t you, pet?” he taunted, wrapping the leash twice around his free hand and using it to pull Malakan’s head back.
“Y-Yes, Lord,” Malakan stammered, unable to force himself to respond in the negative, even if it hurt more than he wanted to tolerate. It seemed that whatever fell concoction hung in the air was affecting his mind just as much as it affected his body. “I-I could take more.”
“Oh, what a good boy, so eager to please your master.” Ashur gave it a few more thrusts before fully hilting himself in Malakan, letting out a quiet, pleased groan when he did. “Taking all of me so quickly…”
Orgasms were not something Malakan knew champions of Khorne to have very often. So when the burning heat in his thighs suddenly turned to trembling, full-body spasms, he thought death had finally caught him. Feeling all of Ashur’s cock inside him had triggered some dormant, animal instinct, and he found himself craving more of that release. It felt like killing did, but not quite as sublime.
Ashur smiled cruelly, continuing to fuck Malakan as he came, listening to his overstimulated cries with glee. “Did you like that, Mal? Do you want me to do that to you again?”
As much as Malakan didn’t want to admit it, he did. He wanted to be— No, no he didn’t want to be violated . A growl tried and failed to manifest in his throat, much to his master’s amusement, based on the quiet chuckle from above him. Just as quickly as that flash of insubordinate thought came, it was gone, lost in the strange unpleasant haze of sexual gratification. Everything felt elsewhere. Best to enjoy what of it he could. “Yes, Lord,” he stuttered through strained, heavy breaths as he failed to stave off another orgasm.
“Good. You won’t be able to stand once I’m done with you.”
-----------------
Malakan blinked slowly as he awoke, his body aching and eyelids heavy. This was not his bed. It wasn’t even a bed. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, everything feeling slightly out of place. But the voices screaming for carnage in his head were back, and that was of great comfort. What happened came back to him in hazy bits and pieces, until he finally noticed a positively bored Ashur, naked as the day he was born, lounging next to him. Leash still firmly in his grasp. He quickly checked to make sure he was clothed, which he thankfully was, and turned to face the astartes.
“Is this all you require of me, Lord?” Malakan asked, making himself look as presentable as he could, absolutely ready to return to his regiment and leave this nightmare behind.
Ashur smiled, sickly sweet, and reached out to run a hand through the soldier’s hair, pulling tightly on the leash while he did. “Oh no, Mal. We’re just getting started.”