Feel free to call me Noct, she/her. I'm 30+ y/o. I write reader inserts and other fanfiction, and I write smut, oftentimes in context of dark topics, so that's what you can expect on this blog. Enjoy your stay!
❖ Personal sideblog where I reblog stuff and talk candidly - nocturnafterdark
❖ Other: AO3 | Bsky
❖ My OC, Lady Inquisitor Volenta Calcazar from Rogue Trader/Warhammer 40k, can be found under the tag OC: Inquisitor Volenta
❖ My OC, Alexanadria von Egisheim from Warhammer 40k can be found under the tag OC: Alexanadria von Egisheim
❖ My OC, Sylvia The Ex-Daemonhost from Warhammer 40k can be found under the tag OC: Sylvia
⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Xavier Calcazar/Volenta Calcazar (OC)/Diana von Valancius (OC)/Heinrix van Calox
⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Story rating - E. Porn with plot, public fondling, flirting, seduction, shameless smut, body worship, hair pulling, threesome M/F/F, cunnilingus, PiV, vaginal fingering, foursome M/F/F/M, foursome with wlw, handjobs, blowjobs, creampies, deepthroating, facefucking, cum swallowing, anal, double penetration, overstimulation, inappropriate use of biomancy powers, naked cuddling.
⚜ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Catching interest of the Inquisition usually doesn't bode well for anyone. Diana doesn't think herself special when the exact things happens during her Magnae Accession and she remains alert and on guard. But when she meets Lady Inquisitor Volenta, Diana realizes that the woman may have different ideas than intimidation and interrogation. She finds out soon enough. And even more surprises reveal themselves through the evening.
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 22,500 (uhh, yeah) | AO3
⚜ 𝖆/𝖓: Ding, ding, ding! Your porn is here! The brainchild of me and @misscoet, Diana von Valancius belongs to her. Enjoy the smut. There's just… so much of it. Not even Emperor will cleanse my soul after this lol
It is a beautiful occasion and all the important people have gathered to see her. Because today is her special day. Diana von Valancius has officially become a Rogue Trader just mere fifteen minutes ago. She looks magical, ethereal and Abelard couldn’t stop fussing throughout the ceremony, but held his composure on her orders. Besides that, the formalities went smoothly and without any hiccups.
One thing does bother her, the presence of the Inquisition. Abelard informed her what an esteemed guest Diana is going to receive this morning and she is painfully aware that one misstep by anyone here could lead to consequences much more dire than some would guess.
“Are you alright?” Heinrix asks her and Diana simply nods to him, albeit discretely enough so that most do not notice it. “You look a little tense.”
“I am. It’s a big celebration and all centered around me. One is bound to feel a little uncomfortable, don’t you think?” Her eyes move to his and meet Heinrix’s studying gaze.
Accepting her answer, the Interrogator looks away, scanning the crowd as if looking for something, or someone. “I don’t think you’re under a threat of assassination, Diana, but it’s good to remain vigilant.” He says offhandedly and she smiles just a little at that.
“Someone would be a fool to threaten me when all my officers here and even more so when I have such influential guests.”
“The lords and the ladies that have gathered may be of noble blood, but most of them are no fighters, Diana.” Heinrix keeps looking around, his hands are clasped behind his back, pauldrons scrubbed to the point they are reflecting like mirrors.
“You know that’s not who I am talking about.”
He pauses now and moves his eyes back onto Diana. “What do you mean?” She notices how he doesn’t ask who does she mean, but what. Her smile remains.
“Who, rather. Isn’t your supervisor here?”
Heinrix freezes and his face remains completely still but Diana notices a flash of something pass over his skin, like a thinnest veil that is about to rip from tension.
“My supervisor?” He responds to her question with one of his own and Diana turns away for a moment when a serf presents her with a glass of one liquor or another. She takes it and remains quiet until the young woman scurries away.
“I mean Lady Inquisitor, of course. What was her name, Calcazar, isn’t it?”
Interrogator pauses again and then scoffs but offers a smile of his own at last. “You are well informed.”
“Information is a weapon like any other, Heinrix. Isn’t what your organization is all about in the first place?”
“Yes, you are quite correct. I just didn’t expect you to care to go through the guest lists with everything else happening before today.”
“Someone of this esteem, not only on my planet, but in my palace and attending my Magnae Accessio? I’d be a fool not to care to memorize at least this name.” She looks down at the glass, gives it a discreet sniff and then takes a modest sip. The liquor tastes sweet, but before she can judge whether she likes this drink or not, Heinrix leans closer to her. So close, in fact, that Diana can smell his aftershave. And just for a moment it makes her heart beat a little faster.
“You should be very careful around her, Diana. I don’t issue this warning lightly, but…” He trails off with a sigh, his breath fawning over the side of Diana’s face and moving strands of her hair, tickling her cheek. “That’s one person you cannot afford to cross. No matter what.”
A shiver threatens to overtake her, but Diana resists it and takes another sip from her glass. Not because she’s thirsty or in need for a drink, but because she’s beginning to feel nervous. Heinrix has issued many such warnings in the past, but how his voice sounds right now, so serious, dreadful even, it’s the first time she ever hears him like this.
“I know what she can do.”
“You don’t.” Heinrix whispers again with a slight note of exasperation in his voice. “Diana, listen to me and listen very carefully. Lady Inquisitor Volenta can wipe your entire dynasty if you smile wrong at her. She doesn’t need a reason, she won’t wait for you to plead. Please understand this.”
“It’s not like any other Inquisitor cannot do the same, Heinrix. Relax. I’m not eager to make enemies tonight.”
And yet Diana is nervous. She swallows dryly, then drinks again and Heinrix pulls back with a sigh. He studies her pale face, wondering if she truly understood what he means, what presence of Volenta means. Not to mention the small surprise his mentor is planning to drop upon Diana later on. Maybe he should warn her, not about Volenta but about him instead.
Despite being in a strange, yet exhilarating relationship with Lady Inquisitor, somehow with Xavier’s own permission and participation, Heinrix still can’t figure out if she’s toying with him or not. He finds himself feeling thrilled at the thought and forgetting himself, the interrogator begins to rise his hand, to touch Diana’s hair. He wants to introduce her into the exciting world he himself has been part of for not that long.
“Heinrix?” Diana notices his movement and he freezes, snapping out of his thoughts and letting out a small chuckle.
“I thought I saw a bug.”
“A bug.”
“It’s nothing.”
Diana watches Heinrix’s face for a little longer, but turns away from him and looks around, wondering if she will notice this so terrifyingly dangerous woman that Heinrix felt the need of warning her about. She saw her pict, grey eyes, white long hair. Shouldn’t be hard to find and yet the newly minted rogue trader seems to lose her gaze in the sea of guests. Augmetics glinting in the lights, servo skulls zooming about, serfs, with platters of food or glasses, mingling among the bodies that look almost countless. And that’s just the main hall. She knows there are many more guests outside of these walls and even outside the palace. Realization that entire planet is celebrating her ascension makes breath hitch in Diana’s lungs. She exhales and looks to Heinrix, but he’s already walking away, towards the man she knows as Achilleas. One who worked for Theodora before she was killed.
She wants to call out, to say something, suddenly feeling awfully lonely in this crowded room, but before Diana can do that, Abelard appears by her elbow and leans to her ear. “Lord Captain, you have some guests to greet if you feel like it. It would show good manners. There are other two rogue traders here, I am confident you should meet them first. We also have esteemed guests from Adeptus Ministorum, Adeptus Mechanicus and your humble servants as well who would be grateful to have a word or two.”
“And His Most Holy Inquisition.” Diana adds, giving her glass away to a passing serf while her eyes keep scanning the crowd. For some reason she wants to find the woman who is rumored to have Imperium at the palm of her hand. Where is she? It’s like trying to spot a dangerous predator in a jungle and the thought makes Diana uneasy.
“And that too, but whether Lady Inquisitor will deem it necessary to speak to you or not, is up to her. We have not been informed of her wishes and, if Emperor may forgive me, I hope she does not find a reason to meet you personally. With all due respect, Lord Captain.”
Diana nods and briefly exhales, preparing herself to meet and greet people who she knows would put a dagger in her back at first opportunity, but she knows the game and she will play it. “Lead me to the rogue traders, Abelard. Let’s show them the hospitality of Von Valancius.”
When they turn from where they were standing, at the steps of the grand stair, Diana thinks she catches a glimpse of white, but it’s gone as it appeared and may have been just someone’s shirt or a ceramite piece of armor.
“This way.” Abelard says and gently touches her elbow, guiding Diana away from the solitude that was arranged by him to give her a moment to breathe, and straight into the fray of politics and cruel games.
The crowd parts to let them pass through, heads bowing and voices hailing the God-Emperor’s anointed. She smiles a little and nods to some or rises a hand in acknowledgment to others. All while Abelard is by her side, making sure that the guests don’t surround Diana too closely. And in the midst of this, she doesn’t see how keenly she is being observed from a farther corner of the hall.
Diana is being scrutinized, even if from afar. Her heels are noticed when they peak with her steps from beneath the volumes of skirts. Tightness of cerulean green satin around her hips and the bejeweled corset she’s wearing get a look of inspection as well, attention being paid not only to regalia but to how the dress hugs Diana’s body. Even the puffy fabric, elegantly emphasizing her slender hands, gets a mental note made about. And of course the headdress, shaped in forms of feathers and wings, framing the Rogue Trader’s face in a way that makes her appear near angelic. She’s judged to look graceful and regal enough for the occasion and appropriately standing out, as is befitting someone of her status.
The observer is not alone, although when it comes to being surrounded in comparison to Diana, she might as well consider herself in solitude. Only accompanied by her husband, Volenta drinks from a glass in her gloved hand and eyes the back of Diana’s garb when she stops to talk to Winterscale and Bastaal-Chorda. Xavier, with a drink of his own, watches not Diana, but his wife instead. He has known her for many decades and he can already suspect that she is thinking of something.
Why she accompanied is not too big of a mystery, not to him at the very least. He was coming because he needs to talk to the Von Valancius heir. Heinrix is here because he’s been traveling with Diana per his orders. Of course Volenta would come too, if not for Xavier himself, then to have a rare chance to be with both him and Heinrix in the same room. He wonders if it’s hard for her when the duties pull the three of them away from one another so much more often than any of them would like. But such is a sacrifice the Emperor requires from his servants and she, he knows, is His most ardent soldier.
“She’s pretty.” Volenta speaks, stealing Xavier’s attention and he quickly finds Diana in the room, taking a look at her. Her back is still turned in their direction, but he saw her before. Not personally and not up close, but he saw picts of her, and quite a few of them the former soldier might not even know the existence of.
“She does, but she looks young.” Xavier says and takes a drink from his glass, already wondering how malleable Diana is and how well he can deal with this unexpected change in his plans.
“Doesn’t mean she’s not experienced. Or are you more inclined to doubt her capabilities because of how she looks? Did you expect someone who can break a drukhari in two with their bare hands?”
Xavier scoffs, hiding a laugh, but looks amused nonetheless. Their eyes meet and an understanding forged by more than half a century of being together passes between them. “You know that’s not what I meant. I just mean she is… easily guided. If needed.”
Volenta turns back to the crowd, observing how the three rogue traders are interacting. “Easily guided, hm?”
Lowering his glass out of the way, Xavier leans to Volenta’s ear. “What are you planning already?” He whispers, now observing Diana with increasing interest.
“Planning? Nothing.” Volenta smiles, but her eyes remain on the white-haired Rogue Trader, studying and sharp.
“You forget, my dear wife, that I’m not as easily lied to as Heinrix might be. I know there’s something sprouting in your mind already. I can practically hear it.”
“I want her.” Volenta answers and looks to Xavier, her face not bearing a hint of a smile but a sternness with which such statement has to be delivered to be taken seriously.
“To do what?” Xavier’s brows furrow, but he has a feeling that he knows exactly what she means. He knows her, better than anyone, better than he knows himself. And he knows she’s been bored from the moment she stepped out of a transport shuttle and onto this planet.
“To play.” The smile returns to Volenta’s lips and keeping the eye contact with her husband, she takes another drink from her glass, now almost empty.
“You allow yourself too much.”
“I’m sure you’re not implying I should deny myself?”
Straightening his back, Xavier lets out a low, slow sigh and too, drinks. He looks at Von Valancius, still speaking to other two of her ilk. As if measuring her worth, the Inquisitor remains silent for a moment, thinking to himself until Volenta speaks up again. “Pretty little thing she is, don’t you think? We can have some fun with her and, at the same time, we can mold her what we need her to be.”
“Speaking of her like she’s a mere toy, Volenta?” Looking at his wife again, Xavier sets his glass aside to the nearest table. There’s no one around them because presence of two Inquisitors is too much of a nightmare to almost everyone. And even more so, Xavier is confident that his wife is the one being avoided rather than him. He knows what kind of stories pass from lips to lips when it comes to her. Most of them not even close to being as terrifying as the truth.
“No, not at all. I just find her interesting. Look at that face. Those big eyes, like a doe.” Finishing her drink, Volenta refills her glass. Her entire demeanor is relaxed yet confident, like she owns this room, nay, this entire planet and beyond. There’s truth to that. The only power Xavier has over Volenta is the one that she grants him.
“You think the Rogue Trader will be easily convinced to share a bed with you?” Becoming increasingly amused by his wife’s boldness, Xavier looks at Diana again, this time eyeing her with more than just mere professional interest.
“With me? No, darling. You, me and Heinrix, of course. He’s been traveling with her for a bit, hasn’t he? You think he thought of me when looking at her?” A mischievous sparkle appears in Volenta’s eyes and Xavier looks at her with barely disguised disbelief.
“Volenta!”
“Oh come on, I’m just kidding.” She chuckles and drinks again, looking away from Xavier to find Diana. “He might have a type, you know. Not a bad thing.”
“And what is your type?” Xavier teases more openly than he intended, but seeing Volenta’s smile widen makes his own expression turn more cheerful and he reaches to her face, brushing side of her jaw with the back of his fingers. Volenta’s eyes immediately soften, even if they still remain fixated on Diana.
“It’s not about type, darling.” Her pale grey eyes meet his and Xavier strokes her jaw again. “But about exciting possibilities. I want to see if I can… convince Von Valancius to join us.”
Xavier chuckles at this, making Volenta raise her eyebrows. “You mean terrify her into bedding you?”
“Is that what you think I did with Heinrix too?” Volenta turns, closing the gap between them and her empty hand discreetly moves to him, beneath the cloth of his power armor and onto his crotch. Even through synskin her touch ignites a fire in Xavier.
“Was it not?” He asks in turn and feels Volenta’s fingers fondle the outline of his cock. Keeping his eyes strictly looking into hers, the Inquisitor catches himself losing his fortitude. Damn it all, that’s how she gets anything she wants.
“No, it was not.” With a smile, Volenta keeps toying with Xavier and he becomes hard in seconds. “Well, alright, he was scared at first. But that has passed, has it not? He’s very eager to see me nowadays.” She whispers and forgetting propriety, but most likely ignoring it willingly, begins to rise to her toes. He knows what she wants, a kiss, to chip away at his logic and sensibilities, to take away Xavier’s ability to say no to her before he even gets such a thought.
“Volenta, not here.” Whispering, Xavier tries to keep his composure but it’s becoming harder with each heartbeat that he feels throbbing in his cock.
“Nobody’s watching us.”
“You know that’s not correct.”
With a pout and a grumble, Volenta lowers herself back to her heels and removes her hand away from him. Absence of which makes his very soul ache with need. It’s all part of the act, he knows this just as well as she does, but appearances matter. And two inquisitors making out publicly like two horny teenagers in schola won’t elevate their reputations.
“Fine.” Volenta takes a sip of her drink, not even frowning at the harshness of a strong liquor that she prefers to consume and looks back to where she last saw Diana, only her view to be blocked by Heinrix.
“My Lady.” He bows his head respectfully and she reaches out with a smile, caressing the side of his face with her hand. Same hand that just worked with perfection to make Xavier restless within his own skin.
“Heinrix, darling. Been a minute.” She responds and contently sighs when he leans into her touch like a pet animal who missed their master.
“Every day is harder to be apart.”
“But the duty calls.”
“So it does.”
Straightening his back, Heinrix nods with acknowledgment to Xavier and in turn the Inquisitor returns the gesture. “I presume your travels with Diana von Valancius have been uneventful?”
“Farthest thing from. However, she’s more capable than it has been anticipated.”
“Is that so?” Volenta joins in and empties her glass, putting it aside on the windowsill that she’s standing close to. “Very good.”
Two men exchange a look, something akin to what Volenta and Xavier have, also forged through years of working together, and an understanding dawns on Heinrix. He looks at her, slight frown furrowing his brows. “Volenta, do not tell me that you want-“
“What’s that?” She interrupts with a perfectly pleasant smile, but Heinrix knows her better than that. He’s treading a dangerous ground. But he also knows her weaknesses, not only through experiences with her so far, but because Xavier once pulled Heinrix to the side and they had a chat about the woman they both have entangled themselves with. And yet not even two men of authority can sometimes reel Volenta in. Her authority ultimate and her stubbornness makes it hard to change her mind once she settles on something.
“I’m just wondering what is brewing in that pretty head of yours.” Discretely glancing around, Heinrix steps closer and lowers his face to hers a little too close to be appropriate. He smiles the kind of smile that she recognizes.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” In response, Volenta momentarily nudges Heinrix’s nose with hers and he scoffs, holding himself back from doing what he knows perfectly well she wants him to do - lose the decorum, break down here in front of all the people and her husband, and do unspeakable things. How easy it is for her to manipulate him.
“I would very much like to know.” He whispers and steps back, seeing something mischievous flash in Volenta’s eyes. He has seen that look, he has received that look before. It makes him raise an eyebrow. “Volenta-“
“You two mingle, I’ll be right back.” She ignores Heinrix’s attempt to coax information out of her and pats Xavier’s breastplate, then Heinrix’s shoulder and gracefully merges into the crowd. Most, when they notice her inquisitorial regalia, immediately step out of the way, others just gawk.
“She’s going to seduce the Rogue Trader.” Xavier says matter-of-factly and takes a swallow from his glass. His words make Heinrix’s head whip immediately to him and stare with barely hidden shock.
And then that shock fades. It molds into an amused smile and he laughs quietly to himself. “I should have guessed.”
Xavier smiles a little too, watching his wife navigate people with expertise and sighs with endearing capitulation. “I thought the exact same thing.”
Volenta doesn’t hear the conversation. As she makes her way through the crowd, the music and the chatter, however silent at her presence, drowns out the two men who she left behind. Approaching Diana from behind, Volenta smiles and tucks a strand behind her ear, then drops the joyous expression to one of coldness and authority. Chorda notices her first and with deep satisfaction the Inquisitor sees the glass of drink that the rogue trader is holding beginning to shake.
“What a gathering.” Volenta says with voice that doesn’t have a fleck of mirth in it. She takes a spot between Diana and Calligos, drawing attention of the three of them at once.
“Lady Inquisitor.” Incendia drops her head in a gentle bow. Calligos’ amusement at the sight of Volenta is betrayed by a smirk but it immediately melts away when her merciless and cutting gaze turns to him. His demeanor falters and clearly uncomfortable he bows his head as well.
“Lady Inquisitor.” Calligos echoes Incendia and finally Volenta turns to Diana.
She, on the other hand, is not sure if she should follow the lead, but not wanting to upset the person that her retinue kept warning her about, the Rogue Trader begins to lower her head as well.
“No need for that, my dear. Today is your day. But just today.” There’s not even a hint of a smile on Volenta’s face but something in her tone tells Diana that the words were meant to be more lighthearted compared to how they sounded.
“Thank you.” She says quietly and allows herself a singular sweep over Lady Inquisitor’s attire.
Dressed in black from head to toe, except for silver trimmings of her clothes and adamantine pieces, like her heels and pauldrons, Volenta looks incredibly sharp. Like a knife cutting through flesh. White hair contrasting on her uniform creates a welcoming vision, but Diana knows not to get too comfortable. Not right now, not with this woman here who doesn’t even smile.
“Lady Inquisitor Volenta Calcazar.” She decides to introduce herself and her name sounds like a death sentence rather than an introduction.
“I know who you are.” Diana responds, her tone almost gentle. “I have been informed of your esteemed presence upon my palace.”
“Have you? I’m not surprised. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Sensing that Volenta is not here to start making arrests or proclaim Holy Exterminatus on everyone gathered, Incendia attempts a smile. It comes out crooked and strained. “Lady Inquisitor. It’s an honor to stand in your presence-“
“If I need my shoes polished, Chorda, I’ll let you know personally.” The response is cutting and Volenta does not even bother looking at the rogue trader. Instead, Diana notices, she looks at Calligos.
“My apologies, Lady Inquisitor, I didn’t mean to insult.” Chorda bows her head even deeper this time and makes a backwards step, as if her mere presence could earn her even more displeasure.
“Calligos.” Tilting her head slightly to the left, Volenta observes the man and Diana, looking away from Incendia, notices sweat beginning to pepper his brow. Calligos smiles, but that smile is even more strained than Chorda’s was.
“Here with you husband, I presume?”
Diana almost smiles. She has been part of many awkward small talks, but this one might be the funniest. Maybe because her turn hasn’t come yet. She does feel tense, and extremely aware that one word could cost millions of lives. The predator is finally here and she doesn’t need to look for it lurking in the shadows.
“If he is here, would you wish to meet him?” Volenta asks, rising an eyebrow and Calligos blanches so quickly, he looks like he’s about to pass out.
“No, Lady Inquisitor.” His words are so strained it sounds like Winterscale’s vocal cords might snap before his composure does.
“Thought so. We will have to have a chat later, Calligos. Not now. Right now it’s a joyous occasion.” Finally, intense eyes of Volenta turns to Diana and she stiffens in spot, but hopes that at least it’s not obvious. She doesn’t want to show fear or discomfort, inquisitors can sometimes be like dogs, jumping at the first sight of weakness.
“Would Lady Inquisitor want a drink?” Using the chance to look away, Diana tries to scour for a serf somewhere close.
“That can wait. I am awfully curious to hear what you three have been talking about.”
Eyes turning back to Calligos, and then finally to Incendia who chose not to speak unless spoken to, Volenta is enjoying herself. Immensely. Yes, remind these glorified pirates that there are powers higher than them. And despite her one time fling with Calligos, he’s treading too close to heresy nowadays. She also noticed how he’s looking at Diana and she’s not willing to let him succeed in this hunt.
Silence falls. Incendia opens her mouth, but thinks better and closes it. Calligos takes out a handkerchief monogrammed with Winterscale heraldry and wipes at his forehead. Diana has no choice but to speak. To show that despite the presence of Inquisitor Volenta, she is still the mistress here. “My guests informed me about how things are done here, in the Expanse. The rogue trader way.”
Turning to Diana, Volenta glances down her face and then back to her eyes. Grey, just like hers, but somehow brighter. “Is that so? And how things are done exactly, hm?”
“You know how it is.” Calligos quips with a nervous scoff that was supposed to sound like half a chuckle but came out much breathier. “A race to do the God-Emperor’s will, clean the heretical filth. All the things your kind likes to hear.”
When Volenta turns to Calligos her gaze is so intense that the man feels like he has been kicked in the gut. It takes all his composure not to step back just like Chorda did moments ago, but his smirk, however tense, doesn’t waver.
“And surely you weren’t trying to pull your newest colleague into bed?”
Diana finds herself amused to see Winterscale’s face drop completely and not a drop of blood remains beneath his skin. “Lady Volenta-“
“Didn’t you tell Lady Diana here…” Volenta pretends to think, even turning her gaze to the vaulted and painted ceiling of the hall. “Ah yes, I remember now: How about we discuss Footfall situation in private?”
“That was just an offer to solve our little predicament over ownership of the station without the extra ears!” Calligos immediately responds, eyes beginning to burn and face turning from white to red. Clearly he has anger issues and Diana remains silent, knowing that stepping into the middle of this won’t spell any good endings here.
“Of course. How could have I thought differently.” There’s a taunting smirk, barely visible on Volenta’s lips, and it looks like Calligos is about to say something else, to retort back. His fingers ball into fists and at this point, Diana knows she can’t be quiet.
“I’m sure Winterscale meant well with his offer. We can settle our argument some other time.”
“If that’s the case, then let me steal you away for a moment, Lady Diana. I have something I wish to discuss with you.” Their eyes meet again and Diana’s throat tightens. That sharp, unforgiving look makes her heart beat fast and her lungs contract. She can’t refuse though. Nobody could.
“Of course, Lady Inquisitor. Let me just lead you to my office where we can discuss whatever concerns you have in private.” Without even waiting for a reply, Diana turns on her heel, but Volenta’s voice stops her from walking away.
“No, I’d prefer something less suffocating. The balcony over there will do just fine.”
When Diana glances over her shoulder, she watches Volenta gesture with a gloved hand to the open balcony door and begin walking in that direction. Her cloak billows slightly behind her and the purity seals flutter with her motion. No choice again, the only thing Diana can do is to follow.
As she passes the other two rogue traders, she notices Calligos’ eyes turn from the Inquisitor to Diana, telling her something she can’t understand in a split second their eyes meet. And Chorda just looks downright distraught as she gazes after Volenta almost wistfully. Craving validation she expected, no doubt.
Following right behind Lady Inquisitor, Diana has a million thoughts what the conversation will be about. She doesn’t think that she did anything to deserve this special attention from Volenta of all people. She doesn’t even belong to the Conclave here, what could she even want? A strangling memory of her past secrets tries to convince Diana that this finally came chasing after her, but her logical mind tells her it cannot be true. Not on this day of her Magnae, at least. So what is it? At least she won’t have to wait for answers for long.
But before they reach the open balcony, Volenta flawlessly grabs two glasses of red, rich amesac from a passing servant’s tray and Diana breathes a little easier. Maybe it’s not about any misdeeds or heresy after all.
“Leave.” Once she makes it through the balcony door, Volenta orders the guards and they give almost an apologetic glance to Diana before scurrying away. Seems Diana is not the only one anymore who knows just what a power player is among their midst. She doesn’t blame them, how could she. After all, she too is doing exactly as Volenta wants. “Come here, my Lady. Let’s look upon your kingdom.”
Approaching the balustrade, Volenta stops and gazes into the horizon. When Diana joins her side, keeping respectable distance of course, she too looks at the world that is hers, among so many others. Towers and spires rise into the skies above. Servo-skulls are zooming around, guards everywhere and people… so many people milling about. They look like ants from up here. All of them, from the noblest of nobles to the poorest of souls are celebrating her. The weight of the thought is almost crushing. So much so, that Diana has to grab onto the guardrail.
Yet before the reality and the magnitude of who she is, what she has become by birthright comes crashing down, Volenta steps closer and offers one of the glasses to Diana. She looks at the object in the Inquisitor’s hand immediately, her head snapping with alert, but then gratefully takes it. “How do you feel?”
“Excuse me?” Diana was about to drink from her glass, her throat suddenly parched, but she can’t stop herself from pausing and looking up at Volenta.
“You must be nervous, aren’t you?” Taking a sip, she gives Diana’s physique a slow look, from head to toe. “Beautiful dress. I’m not usually one for skirts, my husband perpetually complains about it, but I have to admit, you look absolutely stunning.”
Not knowing how to take the compliment, Diana bows her head in thanks. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”
“Please, call me Volenta. At least when there’s only two of us.” And when Diana looks up at Volenta, she is surprised by a warm smile on the Inquisitor’s face. “Drink, it will help you relax a little.”
Still nervous and still very much on-guard, Diana obeys and drinks from her glass. One tentative sip, then another, and then a third, until half of the glass is empty. But Volenta is not looking at her, instead she again is gazing upon the panorama.
“I remember having such ceremonies for myself. Much smaller one when I became an acolyte.” She laughs at the memory. “In fact there was nobody there except for my husband. We weren’t married at the time, naturally, but I still remember the day fondly. And of course several following ceremonies due to my promotions. Biggest one was when I became the only person to do what I am doing.”
Remaining quiet and letting Volenta speak, Diana studies her side profile. Abelard told her some of the stories that are surrounding this woman, how many of them are true? How many are false by sheer underestimation of her deeds?
“The only person?” Diana can’t help but ask. Despite her seneschal informing that Lady Inquisitor is a very powerful agent of the Golden Throne, he didn’t say much else.
With a charming smile that is such a stark contrast to her earlier demeanor, Volenta turns to Diana. “My job is to root out heresy among other Inquisitors. And those that hold powerful titles. Such as Lords of Terra. Nobody else wanted to do it, you see.” Volenta laughs at this and drinks from her glass before continuing. “But I love Him, Lady Diana, and if no one took on the task of the pariah among her own people, who would? Who would have a watchful eye over those who think themselves ungoverned by nothing except the God-Emperor?”
“I… do not know, Lady Volenta.” Diana responds after a pause. She doesn’t know how to feel or what to think of this woman. Such power in a palm of her hand, and yet she’s talking to Diana as if they are old friends. There’s clearly something she wants, but Von Valancius can’t quite figure out what it is.
“No, you don’t need to know.” Still with a smile, Volenta turns fully to Diana and rises her hand slightly. “May I?” And before waiting for a reply, Inquisitor reaches out and gently puts a strand of hair away from Diana’s forehead. “There. Pretty as a pict.” Then, almost absentmindedly, back of her gloved fingers brush down Diana’s face and she immediately steps back before thinking of not doing so. “Oh, my apologies.” Surprisingly, Volenta doesn’t seem upset and instead of losing her smile, she drinks again. “Hard to keep my hands to myself when you look so… angelic.”
“I’m… Thank you.” Diana feels her face burning slightly. She can’t explain it even in her own mind, but Volenta’s compliments seem genuine and that’s not something she believes often.
“No need. Truth doesn’t need your gratefulness, Diana.” There’s a small pause, and Rogue Trader drinks from her glass. Just in sheer need to do something other than look awkward. But Volenta seems unaware, willingly or not, of how Diana is unable to meet her gaze again.
“You are not what I expected.” She can’t help but admit and Volenta laughs, making Diana look at her face much sooner than she anticipated and her eyes widen slightly just by how… casual this woman looks in her presence.
“I hear that sometimes. Just maybe in a less friendly context. I like you, Diana. I like a humble rogue trader. Maybe you haven’t forgotten just yet that a Warrant of Trade is not a right, but an obligation to the Emperor.” It should sound like a warning, Diana knows this, yet how Volenta says it, more like it’s a friendly jest rather than a warning, makes her smile too, just a little.
“No, I haven’t. I guess I haven’t been one long enough to get jaded by the suffering and riches, unlike some. It’s my first day, after all.”
“Is it though?” Volenta leans on her elbow against the balustrade with a smile, her body language relaxed and her Inquisitorial rosette slips across her sizable chest to the side. “I heard you pretty much took up the mantle the moment Theodora died. I knew her, by the way. A fierce woman.”
“So I hear, Lady Volenta.”
“I asked you to just use my name, surely you haven’t forgotten?” Another friendly-sounding tease and Diana clears her throat briefly, then nods.
“No, I just wasn’t sure if you really meant it.”
“I did mean it. And don’t be so humble. I heard you did great deeds since you were demanded to fill in the shoes much bigger than yours. Rejoice, Diana, not everyone has such bragging rights.” She chuckles and Diana feels her cheeks beginning to burn.
“Thank you.”
“Again you’re thanking me for the truth.” Volenta leans forwards, her face now lower than Diana’s but the smile is still there, as if she is truly having a good time just chatting. “Promise me you will stop doing that.” Their eyes meet and there’s tension between them, but it’s not as awkward anymore and much less tense.
“You want me to stop being polite?” Diana asks with a slightly wider smile of her own. “What’s next, you will recruit me to the Inquisition?”
“God-Emperor forgive, no!” Volenta laughs and leans up just a little closer. She can smell Diana now, smoke and amber. Just like that, Inquisitor realizes that she wants this little silver bird in her palm more than she already did. “I think you will do more good being a rogue trader than filing away papers for twenty years as an acolyte.” A pause, and Volenta’s eyes slip down Diana’s face, on her lips, there’s no mistaking that. “However, if you wish to become part of my retinue… I might consider it.” It’s said in a whisper, gentle and alluring and Diana has the urge to step back, but something keeps her in place.
“I didn’t know you’ve come with a retinue today… Volenta.”
“Today? No. I prefer to attend celebrations without people who catalog my every word and movement.” She chuckles again and reaches up with her empty hand, once more brushing a stubborn strand away from Diana’s forehead. The hand lingers there, then gently slips to her temple, then to her cheekbone. She should step away, Diana knows this rather than wishing to do it on instinct, and her body tenses. “Are you afraid of me?”
With eyes widening at the surprise that this question makes Von Valancius feel, she is momentarily stunned, not sure how to respond. Her lips part and Diana inhales, trying to find the words and collect her thoughts. How does one even answer a question like that?
“You don’t have to be scared of me, Diana.” Volenta says before the Rogue Trader can even begin to speak and rises her face even higher, leaning up to Diana’s ear, her cheek brushing against hers. “I’d like to spend more time with you. You intrigue me, Von Valancius. Will you promise me a moment of your time soon?”
A whisper fawns over Diana’s ear and she stops breathing. Volenta is so close, and just like her, Diana can smell Inquisitor’s perfume: pomegranate, and something foresty she can’t quite place. Like ancient wood from the history of Terra.
“Volenta, I’m not sure…” She trails off, too staggered to figure out how to finish her question, but Volenta pauses and Diana can feel her smile against her cheek right before the Inquisitor pulls back and looks into her eyes, close enough to feel each other’s breaths.
“You are sure. I can see it in your eyes. Even if you don’t realize it yet.” Another pause, swelling with tension that Diana is trying to interpret as anything other than an obvious flirt. “Come find me when you can. I am sure to entertain you more than the pompous nobles who are drinking at your expense.”
Then, slowly, Volenta tilts her head ever so slightly, her eyelids drop to almost a close when she looks at Diana’s lips and she begins to lean closer, stopping Diana’s breath in her throat, choking her with anticipation alone.
“Volenta!” A voice they both recognize shatters the moment and Volenta lets out an amused sigh then smiles, pausing for a prolonged moment before leaning back.
When she speaks, she does not take her eyes away from Diana. “What is it, Heinrix? And don’t tell me Imperium is burning, I won’t believe you.”
Heinrix laughs, and Diana can swear she never heard him so casual before. He sounds relaxed in this moment.
“No, the Imperium is not burning, not yet. But your attention is needed elsewhere.”
“Of course.” Volenta straightens her back and smiles to Diana, brushing her chin with knuckles and briefly tracing a thumb over Diana’s lower lip before turning away, leaving the woman stunned and speechless. “Very well, I shall go. No rest for the faithful.”
As Volenta begins walking off with her adamantine heels making sharp clicks on the rockcrete, she pauses by Heinrix, putting a hand on his shoulder and making him lean so that Volenta can whisper in his ear. He nods at whatever he is hearing, then looks at Diana with something she hasn’t seen in the man’s gaze before - sheer, personal interest.
Volenta pats Heinrix’s pauldron and then she’s gone, with only her cape flowing after her before the Inquisitor disappears. Diana keeps looking at the spot where Volenta vanished from sight and doesn’t even notice that she’s breathing faster and harder than before.
When Heinrix comes closer, he smiles as if he’s onto some secret she’s not privy to. “So you met her.”
Diana pauses then looks at Heinrix, more confused than before. “For someone who warned me before about what a danger she is, you sure don’t look too scared for my wellbeing.”
“Well, it was wrong of me to worry in the first place. I apologize for that.”
“Wrong? What do you mean by that?” Diana looks at the glass in her hand and decides she doesn’t want the rest of it, then sets it aside on a balustrade where Volenta’s arm was just moments ago.
While she’s not looking, Heinrix steps towards her and takes her elbow, making Diana look at him almost immediately. And yet he’s smiling. It’s not a wide, big grin, but there’s still that relaxed expression that Diana saw on his face from the moment he stepped into the balcony. She can’t quite understand what was the cause of change. Did he somehow learned that Volenta in the end didn’t intend to harm her? Was he worried about her? A warm feeling engulfs her chest at the thought of that.
“I was wrong to make assumptions about Volenta.” He says and Diana smiles to him as if she caught him.
“So now it’s Volenta, not Lady Inquisitor?”
To her surprise, when Diana expects Heinrix to maybe scoff or even frown at her tease, instead he chuckles and gives her elbow a gentle squeeze. “Is that what you think? Really?”
Feeling quite silly now, Diana blushes slightly. “No, I didn’t mean to imply…” She trails off. What led her to say that? Can’t be a pang of jealousy, can it? At the possibility of something that would maybe take away a prospect she never even considered before.
No, Diana chastises herself. Even if their situation is like that, she shouldn’t care. It’s not her business. And there were never any prospects. What is she even thinking.
“Diana.” Heinrix gently interrupts her thoughts and tries to catch her gaze with his eyes. When she looks at him, he’s still smiling, still very much relaxed. “You will learn soon enough.”
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To say that Diana was restless for the rest of the evening would be an understatement. She participated in her own celebration dutifully, letting Abelard lead her from one important guest to another. Each more intoxicated than the last the more hours passed into the night. By the end of it, Diana’s feet were sore, her head felt numb from all the small talk and she felt slightly woozy from the drinks that she sometimes didn’t have a real chance of refusing.
And yet for the same amount of time, Diana kept looking for long white hair and a black cloak trimmed with silver. Just like before, she thought she saw Volenta here and there, once even among the dancers who turned to the slow waltz music, but she was never really sure if her eyes caught a glimpse of the woman herself or just someone’s clothing.
With a memory of her words and the smell of fruit and trees still in Diana’s nose, she eventually excused herself, too tired to care what the rest of the attendees are going to do. As long as they don’t thrash her palace, she is content letting them keep up with the festivities. Diana knows Abelard and others in her employ would not allow that.
She rested that night, alone in her bed and finally relaxing after taking a long shower, with her thoughts about the day’s events. Somehow the Magnae Accessio itself paled to the meeting. Most importantly, she couldn’t ignore growing curiosity about what Lady Inquisitor spoke. Specifically her interest in Diana, and wanting to spend more time together.
It’s good to make powerful allies. That was one of the last thoughts that crossed Diana’s mind before she drifted off, snuggled up in soft sheets. And it’s even better to make allies as powerful as this.
So when she woke in the morning, the Rogue Trader already felt more than eager to find Volenta. But preserving her dignity, and not wanting to appear a fool, Diana decided to take her time. And the moment she stepped out of her chambers, she was robbed of having a choice in the first place. Abelard was where together with Clementia, who already planned not only breakfast for the Lord Captain, but also filled the day’s schedule almost to the brim.
Diana didn’t fuss though. It’s something to distract her from suffocating curiosity and not make her appear too eager if she suddenly started looking for Inquisitor Volenta. So she agreed with the suggestions and proceeded to take on her first day as a fully rightful rogue trader.
Hours passed, and much faster than Diana was expecting. Before long, skies outside the Von Valancius palace have begun to dim and more candles have gotten lit to illuminate the vast halls and chambers. Most of them were still full of people. Understandably so, she agreed with Drivestream’s suggestion that the whole ascension should last three days. According to him, Theodora’s lasted almost a month, but Diana would never want to waste this much time letting others drain her treasuries. No, three days sounded appropriate and definitely enough.
At dinner, which she is having at a table full of seated nobles, she offers complimentary smiles and small talk, as is expected of her. But there is no denying that by now Diana is restless. Just mere minutes ago she caught herself impatiently tapping her foot under the table. Heinrix is here, seated two chairs away from her and has been casting curiously looking glances in her direction every ten minutes or so. Lady Volenta, and whoever her husband is, didn’t appear. Diana doesn’t need to be a genius to realize that this was done for her benefit. So that the dinner is not strained from such heavy inquisitorial presence, making everyone uncomfortable and scared. But she heard the talks, the whispers, and hears them even now. About the woman who by this point appears to have more legends weaved about her than truth.
While she sits in her elaborate armchair and drinks some wonderfully tasting wine, she listens to two nobles, Gapraks if she’s not mistaken, whisper to each other how they heard that Lady Inquisitor took down a Word Bearer alone. Diana smiles slightly to herself, making a mental note to ask Volenta about it later. Another whisper reaches her ear and she tilts her head slightly, now hearing how Inquisitor ordered Exterminatus on the entire sector somewhere across the Imperium. Speculated count of planets that perished being in the thousands. She almost chuckles, Diana doesn’t believe this one.
Then, suddenly, she hears someone clearing their throat and she glances in the perceived direction of the sound only to be trapped by Heinrix’s intense gaze. It immediately tells her that he needs to speak and with a moment of thought if she should, Diana decides that it is time to leave the gathering behind and go find Volenta. Heinrix is as good excuse as any.
When she raises and apologizes for leaving everyone, no one seems upset but couple women do try to make her stay. She promises not to abandon them for long and with cheerful hails to her life and dynasty, she leaves the dinner chambers behind.
Taking a turn to the left to an empty trophy room, Diana waits for Heinrix. She looks at first to the painting of Terra, all in its majestic glory. Then below it rests a stasis field armourcrys box inside which a piece of some material is suspended in the air. It looks blacker than anything she has seen before, not reflecting any light whatsoever. Like a tiny blackhole, hung up here like a trinket.
“Diana, I need to speak to you.” Heinrix’s voice makes her turn to the open door and the woman watches him approach in brisk steps.
Interrogator doesn’t look serious or too distressed. More intent than actually worried and he stops before her, looking into her eyes with those slightly mismatched in color of his. “What’s wrong?” She can’t help but ask, clasping her hands in front of her and Heinrix seems not to know just quite yet how to begin this.
He thought about it. Last night he thought about it as Volenta moaned in his ear. He thought about it as she lay in his arms and slept, with Xavier on the other side of her, soundly asleep as well. To both of them this ambitious plan didn’t even appear that ambitious, but Heinrix knows Diana better than either of them and there is this pull he can’t explain. One that makes him want to help his lover gain another lover. And there’s one thing that Van Calox found it hard to deny after speaking to Volenta, he very much wants Diana just as the Lady Inquisitor does. He didn’t think of it until now, but since it suddenly became a very real possibility…
And now he’s here, looking into those ghostly pale eyes, set in one of the gentlest looking faces he has ever seen. Maybe Volenta was right, maybe he has a type, but he can’t ignore the growing heat in his loins when he thinks of them both, together, and him there too. Xavier of course wouldn’t let his wife do this alone, but both men learned to cooperate well enough already. For her sake.
“Diana…” He swallows dryly, trying not to think of the two women, naked. His cheeks begin to burn slightly as Heinrix uses every ounce of his willpower not to get hard right here and now. Not yet, he chastises himself, not yet. “I just…” He sighs, runs a hand over his hair and tries again while Diana watches him patiently. “I know that Volenta invited you to meet her. I assume you’re going to do that?”
“I intend to, yes. Even if her invitation wasn’t an order, it would be a mistake to let a chance like this pass. Not everyone gets to mingle with Lady Inquisitor Calcazar and I’m not going to walk away from an offer like that.”
“In that case, I want you understand that whatever she tells you or even offers, she doesn’t mean you harm. Do you understand?”
Diana frowns at this. She doesn’t actually understand. Not only she didn’t think that Volenta is a threat, based on how she interacted with Diana in the balcony, she also does not think that the Inquisitor would do something to harm her on a whim. Volenta may be many things, but she doesn’t appear to be stupid to such degree.
“You know something.”
Heinrix allows himself a slightly strained nod and steps closer to Diana, his eyes intent. He needs her to be open to what Volenta is going to suggest. If she is even going to suggest that verbally instead of just seducing Diana just like she seduced Heinrix himself. That doesn’t matter, he wants Diana to be calm and keep her mind open.
“I know… something, yes.” He starts delicately. “Just promise me you won’t panic.”
Narrowing her eyes, Diana becomes irritated. “Just tell me what it is. How can you ask me not to panic if you don’t tell me what this is about?”
“I can’t. When you speak to Volenta, you will understand, but I can’t tell.”
That’s it. Diana has had enough with his cryptic warnings and even more puzzling behavior. “I will deal with the situation how I see fit.” She turns, passing stunned Heinrix and heads for the exit. Then just before she’s gone, Diana pauses and turns over her shoulder to him. “I always knew that you would be too obedient to your duty to do what you really want. Not even daring to tell me if I’m walking into danger.”
Blast it! This woman. Heinrix’s jaw clenches and annoyance flares up. If she wants to play this game, he will play it. He doesn’t care if it ruins Volenta’s plan, not in this moment. And so in two strides he’s before Diana, his fingers grip her forearm and he turns her to face him, watching Diana’s expression switch from a scowl into a surprise. He tugs at her, making her body move and then she bumps right against his chest. Diana’s hands rise, to push or to soften the impact of a body against body, she’s not sure herself. Everything is happening too fast. A hand on her waist to keep Diana in place and then just like that – Heinrix’s lips are on hers.
Shock makes her stop breathing for a moment and her eyes are wide, but his are closed. Interrogator releases her forearm and now gently cups the side of her face, tilting her head backwards so that he can press into Diana even firmer. Her heart is beating fast in her chest, but she melts into the kiss. Her eyelashes tremble and then close, right before she responds to the kiss, leaning into it, tracing the tip of her tongue against his upper lip and tasting Heinrix. He does the same, their tongues meet for a moment and then he pulls back with slightly heavy breaths escaping from his mouth.
“Diana, promise me.” He whispers and she finds herself breaking into a smile.
“New interrogation techniques, Heinrix?” Diana quips and he pauses, then lets out a breathy chuckle leaning his forehead against the golden plate upon hers.
“Might be, if you like it.” Interrogator gazes into her eyes with a soft look and it’s almost pleading. He truly and fully appears to need her to agree to his request.
“I will consider that. And I promise, I won’t panic.” She whispers too and Heinrix smiles a little wider with relief, but Diana also notices a hint of… what exactly? Anticipation? Nervousness?
She doesn’t get to analyze Heinrix for much longer. He kisses her again, gentler this time, slower, but doesn’t let it last once again even if Diana wants it to. Instead he gives her a third, final, but brief kiss on the lips, then on a cheek and mutters to her ear. “Go, don’t let Volenta wait any longer.”
Diana nods just slightly and feels Heinrix’s hands release her. The sensation is not pleasant. She wishes he could hold her for longer, but not questioning it the Rogue Trader just steps back, pauses meeting his eyes once again, then turns and walks away.
Heinrix is left standing alone and he exhales with relief. This didn’t go as he planned it, but maybe it will work better in the end. He hopes so. Interrogator is not sure if Diana noticed his barely concealed erection, but he held her in such way that she didn’t press against it. With another sigh, he drags a gloved palm down his face and chuckles quietly to himself. He never imagined himself being this way, not until… Well, never mind that. He did what he did. He’s not going to regret it.
Diana only hears his exhale while she walks off, but she doesn’t immediately begin looking for the Inquisitor. Instead she slips into a shady alcove and presses her back to the wall, calming her beathing and her heart at the same time. She smiles and gently touches her lips with her gloved fingertips. Diana can still taste Heinrix. The amesac he drank, especially. Maybe it was that which made him so bold, or maybe it was her remark. Whichever the case, she doesn’t not regret it.
Suddenly, with a quiet burst of a chuckle, Diana thinks that probably by this time tomorrow he will be apologizing her for this. Saying it was out of the line, he shouldn’t have done it. It’s almost cute in a way, how strongly he clings to his sense of propriety when she already got a peek of what kind of man he is beneath the decorum and inquisitorial regalia.
Still, Heinrix was right. She should find the Inquisitor before her lateness is interpreted as rudeness. Diana is not sure if Volenta really expects to be found by her, but truly, who would refuse someone of this magnitude, even if the invitation was lighthearted and issued with a smile. Either way, no need to waste any more time.
Emerging from the alcove, Diana glances around and notices a servant hurrying with a tray towards nearest group of guests. She makes him pause and asks about Volenta. To her relief, the man knows where the Lady Inquisitor is, and directs Rogue Trader towards the main hall. It appears Volenta didn’t decide to make herself hard to find, something Diana fully expected to happen.
It doesn’t take more than mere minutes to reach her destination, and even that long mainly because of people stopping her to congratulate the Rogue Trader for a countless time. But once there, she first notices people dancing. The music is loud but tastefully so, just like yesterday. Except there are more servo-skulls darting about in comparison. Most likely those who have personal ones issuing messages and other communications through the help of them.
Yet even though Diana doesn’t need to play hide and seek with the Inquisitor, she still is stumped when the woman is not immediately noticeable. Which makes Diana weave through the crowd, again being forced to stop from time to time and issue polite yet meaningless sentences to men and women who she wants to entertain the least now.
And when she is about to lose her patience, when she feels beginning to lose steely control of her psyker powers due to people hackling her for one reason or another, she finally sees Volenta. Like a promise of oasis, she stands by the statue of God-Emperor, glass in hand.
Diana is now too excited to care who wants to speak to her and so she hurries, although not too much, towards the one that she is dying to speak to again. She’s so focused that she doesn’t even notice who Volenta is speaking to. Only when she’s almost there is when Diana stops in her tracks and looks at the tall man who’s facing the Inquisitor.
Power armor, a greying mane of dark hair, an ocular augmetic, a glass in a biomechanical arm but most importantly – Inquisition’s symbology stamped all over the adamantine. Diana swallows. Who is he? She doesn’t know, but she can’t deny that the man looks quite handsome even in this first observation of him.
Volenta, on her end, does notice Diana approaching immediately, but she pretends she doesn’t. Letting the Rogue Trader come closer at her own wish. So she keeps talking to Xavier and knows that he has noticed the white haired psyker as well. “She’s here and she’s definitely looking.” He says with a small smile and Volenta grins in response, taking a sip from her glass but only as an excuse to cast a shortest glance in Diana’s direction.
Beautiful dress once again, she thinks. Noticing same colors that the Lord Captain wore yesterday with her ceremonial gown. This dress is sleeker, but no less elegant. And Volenta appreciates that she’s not wearing the headdress from last night. Now she can see how pretty the young woman really is. She also notices Diana’s fingers clenching once, no, twice and then she looks back at Xavier.
“You think she’s nervous?”
“Her body temperature doesn’t indicate that.” He responds and Volenta laughs briefly.
“I ought to replace your eye with something that does more than just give you your messages and reads body heat.”
“My dear, you know it does more.”
“Does it show me naked?”
Xavier lets out an annoying sounding hum, like he’s not in a mood for his wife’s teasing, but she knows it’s just an act. “It should.”
“Of course. We ought to do something about that when we’re back aboard the flagship.” She smiles to him and her eyes are so soft on him, so loving, so familiar. He would destroy several galaxies just to see her smile like that.
“I think your little silver bird is ready to steal your attention. My heart breaks in pieces.” Xavier teases back and Volenta laughs louder, playfully slapping the front of his armor, right across the sign of the Inquisition.
“I’m sure you’re devastated.” She drinks again but does notice Diana approaching and only when she’s right next to them is when Volenta turns to the Rogue Trader with a smile. “Lady Diana, I was beginning to worry that you won’t take me up on the offer.”
“I was busy, I apologize for making you wait.” Diana smiles much warmer than Volenta expects and she gestures to Xavier.
“Let me introduce you to my husband. Lord Inquisitor Xavier. He has my last name.”
“Now now, my dear, don’t start this acquaintanceship by spreading lies.” He responds with a smile the man clearly tries to hide.
With a surprise Rogue Trader looks at Lord Inquisitor and doesn’t understand how until know she didn’t realize the connect through last name. Of course it’s the same Lord Inquisitor who sent her the letters. But he was such a third, not even a second thought, that Diana didn’t really think of it until it got thrown right at her face. Even less so she expected to see him here, at her Magnae. Abelard didn’t say he was coming either.
“I see recognition in those beautiful eyes of yours.” Volenta smiles and there’s something sly in her expression. As if she wanted to see Diana’s reaction and now is satisfied by what she saw.
“Yes. I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Inquisitor.” Diana bows her head respectfully, but Volenta’s hand quickly lifts her face up by the chin and surprisingly the touch is not offending or repulsive. It doesn’t even feel like it’s invading Diana’s space anymore. She just looks at the woman with a questioning look.
“If you don’t bow to me, you bow to no one.” Lady Inquisitor offers gently and they both hear Xavier grumble a little, but he remains silent and just drinks from the glass.
“Thank you, Volenta.”
“Ah-! What did I say about this?” She releases Diana’s chin with a charming smile and in turn Diana chuckles with amusement.
The woman is enchanting, she can definitely admit that. Maybe it’s her power that allows her to be so casual, maybe it’s just how Volenta is. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Diana now truly wants to spend more time with her. She is glad she decided to find her.
“Maybe you two should take it somewhere more quiet? I believe one of the loyal noble houses is about to show the rest how things are done at Mundus Valancius.” Xavier says while glancing back to the dancefloor and when the women look in the same direction, they see a group of flashy dressed men and women approach the area temporarily empty from people and bow to the spectators.
“You are right as usual, darling.” Volenta sets her unfinished glass to the side, right at the God-Emperor’s feet carved out of a meteorite and then turns back to Diana.
“Do you know where we could speak? Alone, preferably. I’m sure you’re not scared of me anymore, are you?” The smile on Volenta’s face is wide and genuine, corners of her eyes crinkle endearingly and Diana founds herself flustered ever so slightly.
“My office, perhaps?” She offers, not sure if it’s an appropriate place for a casual conversation. Somehow the thought of having Volenta in quarters where Diana herself issues orders seems too stiff, too constricting.
“I would prefer not to be interrupted. I have a suspicion that if we take longer than ten minutes to have a conversation, someone will come looking for you. We can always go to the quarters that your people have issued for me and Xavier.” Volenta glances to the main exit out of the hall. “It’s a bit of a walk, but not too far. We have been set very comfortably thanks to your hospitality.”
Without even realizing what she’s about to say, Diana steps closer to Volenta. An urge to please her rising in Diana’s chest rapidly. No, she doesn’t want to disappoint someone who treats her as equal like this. Someone who’s not afraid to joke with her. Someone who doesn’t even appear to need anything from her besides a conversation. “My chambers then? Private, away from people. No one will interrupt. I will make sure.” Almost sheepishly Diana smiles, hoping that the offer is not too bold and watches Volenta’s eyebrow rise, then a smirk turn one corner of her lips upwards.
“That works just fine. If you will have me there, of course. I wouldn’t want to insist.” Appearing almost humble, Volenta casually brushes couple stray strands away from Diana’s cheek and behind her ear. “I think it will be perfect, actually. I do in fact have a gift for you, for this special occasion.”
Diana’s eyes widen slightly in surprise and she blushes barely noticeably. “I’m honored, Volenta, that you would think of me so highly as to want to give something to me.”
“Nonsense, my dear. It’s all about you and nobody else.” Then Volenta pulls her hand away and turns to Xavier who observed the exchange in silence. To Diana he appears indifferent. To Volenta, he appears amused. She knows the signs, after all. “Will you be okay without us, my love?”
“If I disappear, look for me in the lost and found bin.” He offers dryly, but Volenta laughs. Her voice ringing like a chime through the air. She steps to him and tilts her head slightly, in an invitation that she knows he won’t take. Not here.
“I should put a tracking tag on you.”
“You already have.”
“Then you won’t disappear.” Volenta smiles and does Diana see it correctly, that she winks at her husband? She blushes harder at that. She’s not sure she has ever seen such open… intimacy before. And definitely not between two inquisitors.
When Volenta turns to Diana, she expects Xavier to remain stoic despite his seemingly semi-easy manner around his wife. But then Rogue Trader gets flustered even more when one action does not escape her practiced and keen eyes – Lord Inquisitor discretely taps Volenta on the rear before she steps away from him. Trying to hide her smile, Diana just respectfully looks away and coughs slightly.
“This way, Volenta. It’s actually very close.”
She begins guiding Lady Inquisitor away from her husband and for a moment Volenta glances back, but Diana doesn’t mirror the action. And thus she doesn’t see the victorious smile that Xavier’s wife flashes to him before turning away. He just sighs and shakes his head slightly. Of course she got what she wanted. She always does.
“I love the celebration. The singer you had here earlier was talented.” Volenta makes small talk and Diana immediately notices a difference to how people are acting this time. At first they flocked her, maybe too drunk or too brave to approach her so closely. Now, however, the path is clear and there’s plenty of space on both sides to let them pass.
“Thank you. I enjoyed her as well. I was told that Lady Farmel will sing again to close the second night.”
“Will she? Wonderful. Too bad I will miss it.” Glancing at Diana, Volenta smiles and there’s something provocative about the look in her eyes.
How one woman can be so… audacious? Even with her? But there’s an allure in it and it’s so hard to resist. Now the idea of inviting Volenta to Diana’s bedroom doesn’t appear scandalous at all. Appropriate even. Especially if Lady Inquisitor wants to present Rogue Trader with a gift. She would prefer only her eyes there when Volenta reveals what it is.
“Here, just through my office.”
Diana gestures for her special guest to come in first and closes the door, reaching for the keypad. Volenta observes how Diana enters a code, then presses her thumb for a scan and the door locks. Cute, how she thinks this is the only way into her office.
“No one should interrupt us now. Just as you wish.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Diana. It’s so lovely that you show a degree of trust. I don’t get that often, you know.” To her surprise, Volenta slightly bows her head and Diana just stares at the crown of white hair, some of it slipping down the pauldrons with the motion.
“Volenta, please!” Rushing forwards, Diana takes Inquisitor by the shoulders and with exasperation makes Volenta straighten her back. When her face is visible, Diana sees that she’s smiling.
“What a wonderful creature you are, Diana.” With a whisper Volenta makes Diana’s face begin burning again.
“You told me not to thank you for truth. I will ask you not to bow for me. It… doesn’t suit you.” She says somewhat shyly and Volenta chuckles, brushing strands on one side of her face behind her ear. Diana catches herself wanting to do that in her stead, so that it’s her fingers touching that white long hair which looks so soft as if made from finest silk.
“Very well, it’s a deal then.”
“It is?” Snapping from her thoughts, Diana remembers that she still holds Volenta’s shoulders and slowly releases them, stepping back.
Or tries to, because Volenta swiftly wraps her fingers around Diana’s wrist and tugs her forwards. The younger woman almost bumps into Inquisitor. “It is. Who am I to deny your wishes?” She says and releases Diana’s wrist, but with fingertips traces lower, down her inner wrist and over the palm until she grips Rogue Trader’s fingers and lifts them. Diana just watches how Volenta kisses her gloved knuckles, eyes on hers and the air stills.
“My… My room.” Diana mutters, not sure what to say or do and Volenta smiles, lowering Diana’s hand but not releasing her hold upon it.
“Show me the way, darling.”
Still with a blush burning her cheeks, Diana nods and takes just a second longer to gather her wits and turn, leading Volenta to the closed door that opens into her bedchambers once she toggles the console. The mechanism slides open, revealing lavish décor, big windows, carved furniture and the four-post bed, made so pristine there’s not a single wrinkle in the various silks of the bedsheets.
“Befitting a rogue trader.” Volenta says behind Diana and when she walks towards the end of the bed, to give Inquisitor more room, the woman follows her, glancing around.
She can hardly believe how easy it was to end up here, right where she needed Diana to be. Although her own bedroom would’ve worked just as well, but that’s not something that matters anymore. Walking closer to Diana, she makes her step backwards until her rear is pressed against the board at the foot of the bed.
“Volenta.” Diana breathes out, finding herself trapped and her free hand gropes at the wood behind her until Volenta closes the space between them and presses her body against Diana’s, gripping the same panel with her own free hand right at Diana’s waist.
“Yes?” With a smile and a teasing tone, Volenta leans closer and her gaze sweeps over Diana’s face.
“I don’t know- I’m not sure-“ She begins, voice barely above a whisper and Volenta presses into her even harder. Chest against chest, Inquisitor’s knee finds a way between Diana’s thighs and moves further until Volenta’s own thigh presses against the growing warmth between the Rogue Trader’s legs.
“You are sure. You want your gift, don’t you?” Volenta smiles just a little wider when she feels the heat seeping not only through Diana’s skirts, but through Volenta’s pants as well.
“Y-yes.” Diana gasps and the Inquisitor leans closer, holding her fingers just a little tighter.
“Then you shall receive it.”
There’s no denying it now, and it probably should’ve been obvious from the start, but Diana simply didn’t think of it. Now it’s clear what exactly Volenta wants and so she closes her eyes, accepting, complying, wanting.
“Good girl.” Volenta whispers so close to Diana’s lips that she can feel breath fawn over her skin and then even that small space between them disappears.
A shiver runs down Diana’s spine at the contact and she gasps slightly, allowing Volenta an access past her lips. She pushes her tongue into Diana’s mouth and gets an immediate response, deepening the kiss even if Diana’s fingers grip the wooden panel harder than before.
Releasing Diana’s fingers, Volenta now wraps an arm around her waist and let’s the palm slip lower, on Diana’s rear, and grips it with possessiveness that tells Diana that she is hers now, at least for the night. In response, Diana moans against Inquisitor’s lips and feels Volenta smile just a little before she leans back, breaking the kiss and leaving Diana breathless. “Tell me you want this.”
“Do I really have a choice?” She asks, then swallows heavily. Her own face is burning and Volenta hasn’t even blushed. She’s so in control, even right now, and that makes Diana weak in the knees. At the question the Inquisitor smiles and releases the panel only to grip Diana’s jaw with her fingers.
“Of course you have a choice, darling. I want you to want this. I want you to want me and everything I can do to you.” Leaning forwards, Volenta briefly licks at Diana’s lips and she weakly gasps.
Diana doesn’t feel like she has a choice. Not anymore, not with her desire roiling within her like the Immaterium itself. She doesn’t want to hear questions and doesn’t want to give answers. The only answer she wants to give is through her actions, for which she cannot wait.
Suddenly, unable to resist the pull any longer, Diana grips at Volenta’s waist with one hand and the back of her neck with another, pushing the Inquisitor’s face towards her, kissing her passionately and deeply. Volenta smiles and kisses her back, stopping only to whisper right against Diana’s lips. “That’s what I like to see.” And then they are kissing again.
Volenta’s hands roam down Diana’s sides looking for the buttons until she finds them going down Diana’s spine. One by one, Inquisitor undoes them as they kiss, tongues pushing against one another and a small moan is swallowed by Volenta when Diana moves a palm over her breast, giving it a gentle squeeze. The dress slips down Diana’s shoulders and only now Volenta pulls back. At last her face has gained a tender blush and she smiles. “Come.”
Taking Diana’s hand, Volenta leads her around the bed and stands her by the edge of it, then releases her fingers and with teeth the Inquisitor slips one glove from her hand, then another. All while her hungry gaze roves over Diana’s form. “You’re so beautiful, darling.” She whispers and drops the gloves by her feet, then takes Diana’s hand and kisses her naked shoulder, beginning to slide white long glove from her hand.
Diana stiffens and sharply inhales when her scars are revealed bit by bit. Volenta senses it and first looks at her face, then at her arm. Tenderness fills in Inquisitor’s gaze and she bows her head, kissing the scarring when it’s revealed, following the glove’s journey down Diana’s arm until Volenta kisses her fingertips. Next, she does the same with her other hand, making Diana’s heart beat faster at Volenta’s worshipping touches.
When white gloves join the black, only then Diana notices two mechanical fingers on Volenta’s right hand, the last ones, because she rises them to push Diana’s dress from her shoulders. Volenta’s touch is warm against her skin and the fabric smoothly slips down her frame with almost no help needed from the Inquisitor. When the front of the dress drops below Diana’s chest, Volenta leans down and kisses the mounds of her breasts that are pushed up by the bra. Her hands work the dress down her hips and Diana finally lifts her hands, running her fingers through Volenta’s long hair. It’s as soft as she had imagined.
Volenta’s lips trail between Diana’s breasts and onto her stomach. She tenses but only briefly and then she loses the grip on Volenta’s head when she bends low to bring the dress down to her feet. Diana helps her out, stepping out of from the pool of fabric and Volenta discards the gown to the side, then straightens her back. “Beautiful.” She whispers before kissing Diana briefly, then pushing her backwards until Von Valancius drops onto the bed, seated in only her bra, panties, stockings and just her shoes.
Feeling slightly shy Diana flushes harder, gripping at the bedsheets by her thighs and then her eyes widen in shock when Lady Inquisitor drops to one knee before her and takes one foot by the ankle, gently kissing the knee just above the boot edge.
“Volenta…” Is all Diana can breathe out and she watches her boot get unclasped and carefully slid off her foot. Volenta’s lips trace a warm path down to her ankle and then she carefully puts the foot down, doing the exact same thing with another.
Reaching for Volenta’s hair again, Diana tangles her fingers in it while Lady Inquisitor discards her other shoe and then slides both palms over Diana’s thighs to her hips and higher, hooking her fingers into the waistband of the stockings the Rogue Trader is wearing. “Up.” Volenta says with a smile and Diana responds with a small smile of her own, then with support of one hand lifts her bottom from the bed, letting Volenta pull thin net down her hips and down her legs, before Diana even sits down again.
Peeling down the nylon away from Diana’s legs entirely, Volenta discards the article where the dress is laying forgotten and then grips Diana’s knees before suddenly pushing them apart and making Diana inhale with surprise. A second pass and Volenta leans in, licking a wet, hot stripe upwards Diana’s inner thigh, causing a shiver run down the woman’s body and her fingers twitch in Volenta’s hair.
“You smell divine.” The Inquisitor whispers against the crook of Diana’s thigh and she releases the bedsheets, finding Volenta’s chin and lifting it to her. When their eyes meet, they both can see undeniable lust in each other’s gazes.
“You’re dressed.” She whispers and Volenta smiles, then pulls back.
“So I am. Let me correct that.” Releasing Diana’s knees, Volenta reaches under the pauldrons and with a click releases one, then another. The mantle she is wearing drops with a flutter behind her. But before Volenta can proceed unbuttoning her longcoat, Diana leans forwards and begins doing it herself.
Eyes focused and her heart hammering in her chest, Diana briefly wonders how she ended up in this situation, with this unfathomably powerful woman not only in her bedroom, but on her knee before Diana, wanting her. And While Diana is busy with the buttons, Volenta unbuckles her belt and carefully places it on the floor; plasma pistol, power sword and Lex Imperialis still strapped to it.
When Diana finally finishes undoing Volenta’s coat, she feels a moment of disappointment when underneath it she finds more clothes. A high-neck shirt, zipper at the front, and she swallows when Volenta shrugs off the jacket with a smile. She watches Diana’s face closely with a degree of amusement, seeing Rogue Trader’s eyes inspect her form. When she pulls down on the zipper, Volenta briefly bites her bottom lip with anticipation but doesn’t rush Diana. There’s no need to, she’s not taking it slow. And when underneath the skin-tight shirt her chest is finally being liberated, Diana can only pause when she sees the voluminous breasts, heavy and pale, barely contained by a bra that is all black lace. She expected anything but not something this delicate and… erotic.
“Enough staring, I want to taste you.” Volenta whispers and rises, pushing Diana slightly backwards. She feels the mattress dip between her thighs as Volenta’s knee-guard finds purchase there and then there’s one arm around Diana’s waist, preventing her from laying down when the Inquisitor presses herself against her.
They kiss again and all is forgotten except for the taste of lips and the sensation of skin against skin. Diana grips onto Volenta’s hip, feeling out a belt but with other hand she tries to find the clasp of the Inquisitor’s bra. A strap slips down Volenta’s shoulder when she leans into Diana even harder, her bra moving down and her breast escapes it due to pressure of a body against body. Immediately Diana can feel one hard nipple press against her breast and she kisses Volenta even hungrier, fingers finally finding the clasp and working to undo it.
Right until there’s a sound of someone politely clearing their throat. Diana freezes but Volenta doesn’t and she has to turn her face away to break the kiss. When she looks aside, there stands Lord Inquisitor by the open bedroom door, his face bemused but an eyebrow raised and Diana blushes with embarrassment. She completely forgot that Volenta is married.
Volenta doesn’t need to look at who it is, she knows just from the sound alone, but she still glances at her husband and smiles, leaning down to kiss Diana’s neck while having her eyes on him. “Took you long enough.”
“You mean barely fifteen minutes?” Xavier asks and Diana forgets how to breath. He looks, well, maybe not angry, but clearly not amused with what he’s seeing. She’s wrong though. If only she knew the truth.
“I’m sorry I didn’t-“ Diana panics, she doesn’t know what to say. What she does know is that she doesn’t want to be part of the argument that she is absolutely sure is about to happen. Yet Volenta’s arm around her waist tightens, as if the woman is sensing how Diana is feeling.
“Hush, Diana. He’s here to join us.”
“He’s here to- what?” Diana tries to look at Volenta and she permits it, rising her face from Diana’s neck.
“Silly, you think I would cheat on my husband?” Volenta chuckles and eyes Diana’s face hungrily. “No, darling. I share everything I do with him. That includes… you.”
“I don’t understand what do you- Oh.” The understanding dawns upon Diana like an anvil crashing and she just sits, taken aback. Volenta ignores the moment of shock and tilts her head again, licking a stripe over Diana’s throat. “I don’t think this is appropriate.” She whispers but does not try to push Volenta away, not yet at least.
“But it is. Or do you worry about your little protectorate? You think I want that?” Chuckling, Volenta looks at her husband who finally offers a confident smile and approaches. When Diana glances at him, she only now notices that he’s wearing black jacket and matching pants, power suit left somewhere else. Clearly this has been discussed prior between them and Diana sighs when Volenta uses teeth to nip at her jaw.
“It’s not unwise of me to worry about your intentions. Two Inquisitors and me, alone.” While she speaks, Diana watches Lord Inquisitor stop by the bedside, by Volenta, and run his fingers through her hair just like she herself did earlier.
“There are no intentions for you or the worlds you hold besides what my dear wife wants. And she wants your body. Simple enough, I assume?” Xavier says and gripping a fistful of Volenta’s hair he makes her lean her head back. She’s grinning when her eyes meet his.
“That’s true. I’m sorry to disappoint, Diana, but I really don’t care for your dynasty. You, however… It’s you who interests me.”
“And I am here on those same whims too, Diana.” Echoing his wife’s sentiment, Xavier leans and kisses her. It’s a rough, strong kiss and Diana observes it up close, flushing again and more intensively than before.
When he pulls away, she can see Volenta’s dreamy look and a satisfied smile. “See, my wife is the kind of woman that there’s only one other thing she enjoys more than killing heretics. And that is sex. No other intentions, Inquisitorial or otherwise.” He says and turns Volenta’s head by the hair to Diana, then reaches out and cups the back of her head too with his mechanical hand. “And I enjoy giving her whatever she desires.” Xavier pushes his wife’s face to Diana, making their lips meet again and Volenta greedily kisses the woman, her back arching and her armored knee grinding against Diana’s crotch.
Diana in turn pauses, her eyes flicking to Xavier, but she can’t resist it. If that’s what they want and the only thing that they want, then she will indulge them. And herself. A thrill ignites the fire within her anew and so she lets Xavier’s metal fingers tangle in her hair as well, while at the same time she pulls at Volenta until Diana drops onto her back, pulling Lady Inquisitor on top of her.
Next moment Volenta’s hands are under Diana and they tackle the bra clasp with ease, then pull it off with only minor navigation needed to get rid of the offending article. She leans down and takes Diana’s nipple into her mouth, sucking until it hardens against her tongue and then Volenta rolls the tip of her tongue around it, making Diana gasp. She fumbles with Volenta’s bra, but eventually undoes it as well and quickly pulls it off, tossing it somewhere outside the bed.
Volenta cups Diana’s other breast and releases the first from her mouth, giving same treatment to the second, making the psyker gasp and gently moan. She closely sees how Volenta’s hot tongue works in circles on her areola, then flicks at the nipple, making her bite her bottom lip when a ripple of desire crashes over her, making her wet even more than she already was.
Xavier doesn’t waste time either. With Volenta’s hips in the air as she lavishes attention on Diana’s breasts, he unbuckles her belt, then swiftly removes her armored heels, clearly familiar with the process with perfect precision. Just in a mere moment he pulls down his wife’s pants, panties and all. With a chuckle and a lustful glance at Diana, Volenta nips at her nipple, making the woman gasp louder and dig her fingers into Volenta’s back harder.
It’s not enough, not for Diana, she needs to feel Volenta. One of her hands move between them and she sighs when she finds Volenta’s pussy, her fingers tracing the folds. She’s suddenly startled when her fingers meet metal, but it moves too in almost a guiding manner. Xavier’s augmetic fingers are already wet from his wife’s arousal and he joins Diana in the exploration. She meets his eyes above Volenta’s back and he smirks to her. “You girls just ignore me.” He says and Diana watches Lord Inquisitor remove his hand to undo his jacket, revealing his chest and torso, then she hears him unbuckling his own belt.
“Scooch up, darling.” Volenta whispers to Diana and with a face beautifully flushed, she does as she is asked, moving upwards across the bed until the Inquisitor stops her. “Perfect.”
Leaning her head down, Volenta takes the hem of Diana’s panties into her teeth, pulls and then releases, making Diana yelp softly at the snap of elastic, then smile. “You’re teasing.” She says and Volenta chuckles again.
“I’m sure you’re not against it.” And then she does it again, and again, until Diana reaches out and pushes her fingers into Volenta’s hair.
“Wouldn’t be here if I was.” Diana says and watches with anticipation how Volenta tugs down her panties, revealing the neatly trimmed hair and exposing just how aroused Diana is. Her pussy dripping, fabric long soaked through and it leaves wet smears when Volenta pulls the undergarment down Diana’s thighs.
She sighs and helps Volenta by bringing her legs together so that she can easily remove the ruined panties. They drop somewhere out of sight and when Diana expects Volenta to start with kisses, just like she did before, instead Volenta surprises her by grabbing Diana’s legs underneath the knees and lifting them, putting her thighs over the shoulders.
Blushing, Diana just watches how Volenta looks at her pussy right in front of Lady Inquisitor’s face and she gently blows cool air against the wetness, making Diana squirm slightly and grip the sheets at her sides. “Let’s see what you hide.” Volenta’s tone is cheeky and she glances at Diana with passionate mischief in her eyes before spreading Diana’s folds with her thumbs.
The Rogue Trader’s face is burning and she moans slightly but doesn’t protest. Oh Emperor, how much she needs Volenta’s mouth on her. She’s almost beginning, almost losing her patience, but thankfully for her, Volenta is not the patient type either.
“Beautiful.” Volenta whispers just before her mouth descends upon Diana, her hot tongue pressing between the folds and right against her clit, giving friction that she was throbbing for. Diana immediately arches her back with a moan, throwing her head back and clutching the sheets.
“Volenta!” She cries out surprising even herself and looks down, observing how the woman laps at her pussy with closed eyes and hunger.
She has Diana moaning with every breath until both of them get surprised when Xavier pushes his cock straight into his wife. She yelps and then chuckles, nuzzling her nose against Diana’s pubic hair and giving her a glance. At first Diana is a little surprised, but she’s too far gone by now to care. “Keep going.” She says to Volenta and her smirk widens.
“As you wish, My Lady.” Whispering and keeping eye contact with Diana, Volenta drags her tongue against her still spread folds then circles her clit, making Diana’s legs tremble with pleasure.
Xavier begins moving, holding Volenta by the hips and fucking into her with hard thrusts that make her moan into Diana’s pussy with each such deep shove. “Beautiful. Both of you.” He comments, inhaling sharply every time he slides nearly entirely out just to sheath himself to the root again.
“We know.” Volenta pauses and with a single digit she traces Diana’s entrance, then with her eyes on what she is doing, begins pushing two fingers into her, making Diana throw her head back again with a cry that expresses her pleasure. “Darling, where’s Heinrix? He’s going to miss all the fun.”
Diana freezes, her pussy tenses around Volenta’s fingers and while she stops to look at the Rogue Trader, Xavier doesn’t, making her moan and trying to keep still for him.
“Should be here soon. Got caught up with Scalander.” Xavier grunts while his eye is focused entirely on watching his cock disappear inside his wife with each thrust.
“Heinrix?” Diana asks, looking at Volenta with wide eyes. “He is… part of this too?”
Volenta laughs, then bites back a moan and pulls out her fingers, licking Diana’s arousal from them. “I’m sorry, darling. Did you expect to be the first for us? Yes, Heinrix is part of our wonderful arrangement. Are you against that?” The moment Volenta finishes her sentence, she leans down and wraps her lips around Diana’s clit again, making her moan before she can even respond.
“No, I suppose not, I’m just a little ah-! A little surprised he’s… that he’s going to join.” Diana struggles to speak and Volenta’s hand reaches around a thigh on her shoulder to cup a handful of Diana’s breast, teasingly pinching a nipple.
“Don’t worry.” Lady Inquisitor answers, then licks at Diana’s clit, eliciting a mewl, then gives another lick. “He’s not new to this. He knows what he’s doing.”
“That’s not what surprises me.” Diana’s voice is tense, trembling, and she closes one eye when Volenta pinches her nipple again, while Inquisitor’s tongue is working between Diana’s folds, slipping inside of her.
She lets out a cry when Volenta’s face is pushed against her pussy with a harsher thrust from Xavier and the Inquisitor moans too despite having her mouth full. And when Diana expects another jolt like this, there’s rapping of knuckles against the metal frame of her bedroom door.
Diana’s head immediately whips in the direction of sound and her face burns when she sees Heinrix standing there with a smirk on his face. “You started early? No shame, Volenta, no shame.” He chastises and she lifts her head, mouth glistening with evidence of Diana’s arousal, then smirks to him, licking her lips.
When Xavier thrusts into her again, she glances at him. “A moment, love?” She asks and when Xavier pulls out, Volenta looks Diana straight in the eyes and gives her aching, throbbing clit a gentle kiss. “Be with you in a moment, sweet thing.” She whispers and moves backwards with grace of a predator.
Naked, she slips off the bed and walks to Heinrix who approaches and pulls her into his arms, bending her backwards due to the intensity of their kiss. Diana watches them, panting and fighting embarrassment. Fighting thoughts that make her question once again how she ended up in this situation. When Heinrix pulls back from Volenta’s lips he smiles. “She tastes wonderfully.” He whispers, but Diana hears anyway and looks away from them, forgetting that Xavier is there.
But Xavier has not forgotten Diana. Instead he grabs her ankle and pulls the woman towards him in one yank, making her yelp in surprise. With other hand he spreads her legs and gives an approving smile before tracing his fingers over Diana’s pussy and bringing them to his lips.
“Hmm.” Humming with approval, Lord Inquisitor leans over Diana, caging her with his arms when they press into the mattress on the both sides of her and Diana looks at him, breathing faster again. “She chose you well, it appears.” He compliments and Diana reaches up, cusping Xavier’s face with her palms and pulls him closer, kissing him without another thought. She does not want to think, she wants to feel.
At first Diana kisses Xavier slightly reluctantly. She doesn’t really know, but she’s pretty sure she never kissed a married man before. Well, she never kissed a married woman either and tonight she’s doing both. Xavier responds to her eagerness and his sheer presence makes her try and pull him upon her even more. She needs his body against hers, but Xavier doesn’t yield under her touch. Instead, after a moment, he pulls back and smiles. “Eager? I approve.” With a tone slightly louder than a whisper, he grips her jaw and eyes Diana’s face.
She’s not sure what he’s looking for but she allows him to take time, right until Volenta’s face appears and she kisses her husband on a cheek. “Got room for two more?” She teases and Xavier’s throat rumbles with a low chuckle, then he releases Diana pulling back and kneeling above her. His cock stands to attention, hard, thick and still wet from being in his wife and Diana swallows, feeling rising urge to lick it.
But then there’s Heinrix by her side and Diana looks at him, eyes clouded with lust, and he has never seen her look more beautiful. “Diana…” He says gently and when Xavier gets off from her, pulling Volenta in his arms, Heinrix helps Diana into a sitting position.
He looks into her eyes, brushing strands of hair stuck to Von Valancius’ face and smiles warmly to her. “Did you panic?” Gentleness is his voice makes Diana smile.
“No.”
“She did, a little, but only at first.” Volenta quips and when Diana glances at her, she sees that Lady Inquisitor is taking care of her husband by stroking his cock slowly, in languid movements, while his face is buried in her neck.
Heinrix chuckles and Diana looks back at him. “I knew you will do well. You faced bigger challenges than drawing Volenta’s interest.”
“You’d think so, but I think this one has been the biggest challenge so far.” She responds and then her eyes finally catch a glimpse of Heinrix’s own hard cock, jutting upwards proudly, glistening slightly at the tip from the evident eagerness for this union. Diana realizes that while she was kissing Xavier, Volenta most likely undressed him. She didn’t even notice until now.
“More yet to come, Diana.” Heinrix responds and tilts Diana’s face upwards, drawing her gaze away from his eager cock and back to his face, right before kissing her.
It’s not like the kiss earlier in the corridor. Nothing like it.
First kiss was full of determination and annoyance at what she said. It was a strong kiss, it was a heated kiss that then simmered down. This time, the kiss almost devours her and for a split second Diana is taken aback, then responds with similar need. Their tongues press against each other, her hand moves to Heinrix’s thigh and then to his genitals. Fingers ghost over his balls that pull back slightly at her touch and then relax. But she doesn’t stop there, she moves her hand and wraps her fingers around his shaft, beginning to stroke him in similar movements she witnessed Volenta perform.
Heinrix lets out a strangled but quiet groan against her lips and Diana moans in response, urged by his need and that of her own. With a pad of her thumb Diana smears his precum over the sensitive tip, feeling the cock twitch and his abdomen stiffen when her knuckles brush against it. She doesn’t stop until a hand pushes against her chest.
Breaking the kiss with Heinrix, Diana is forced on her back and sees that Volenta returned to the bed, that lascivious smile upon her face seemingly always there without a fail, and Diana exhales when Lady Inquisitor steals another kiss from her. It’s a short one and in another second Volenta is on her knees, spreading Diana’s legs and with one hand guiding Heinrix between them.
Diana just watches, face aflush with redness and looks down, observing how Volenta takes Heinrix’s cock in her fingers and leans down, taking it into her mouth to the root and making him let out a moan. Her head moves a handful of times and Diana almost forgets everything besides watching this intimate act until Volenta pulls back and guides Interrogator’s cock towards Diana. She, in turn, gasps, when Heinrix takes her left leg and pulls it over his hip.
“There, slowly. Although I’m sure I prepared her well.” Volenta says with smug pride in her voice and all of them watch how she directs Heinrix’s cock at Diana’s folds, spreading them with her other hand. “Dripping before I even removed her panties, Heinrix. She’s such a treat.”
“I suspected as much.” He replies, but it’s like he’s barely present because Heinrix’s entire focus is onto Volenta who’s inserting the tip of his cock into Diana, making the woman gasp.
Slowly but steadily Volenta guides Heinrix into Diana and when he’s almost entirely sheathed, she removes her hand and leans down, giving Diana’s clit enthusiastic licks while at the same time Heinrix bottoms out inside her completely. With a satisfied sigh Heinrix pauses, letting Volenta suck on Diana’s throbbing bud for a moment longer and making her moan, then he begins thrusting. “You feel… so good.” He grunts and Volenta strokes his abdomen with one hand.
It’s so much already for Diana, but she can’t deny that she’s not enjoying every second of this. She looks at the back of Volenta’s head and Heinrix, who’s looking at what is happening to Diana, before she sees Xavier get into the bed and grab a fistful of Volenta’s hair, yanking her head backwards. She laughs but gets quickly silenced by a kiss before Xavier, not even bothering to turn his wife on her back, lifts her thigh and drops it upon Diana’s, gripping Volenta’s hip and unceremoniously thrusting into her. She sighs in response and looks at Diana.
“You’re doing amazing, dear.” She whispers and moves slightly, pressing herself to Diana’s side so that she can reach between her open legs and toy with her clit while Heinrix moves, his thrusts increasing in speed and power but not overly much. He’s holding back, that much is clear.
“That’s what you do for fun?” Diana asks, face still red, skin pebbled with sweat and she pulls Volenta closer, their breasts press tightly. “Is Inquisition that boring?” She smiles slightly and Volenta chuckles, then leans her head down.
“Not at all, Diana. But relaxation time is important for us agents.” She breathes against Diana’s nipple before taking it into her mouth.
Diana exhales and closes her eyes, sinking into the sensations, giving into the coiling heat in her loins that’s expanding rapidly. Volenta’s fingers work flawlessly over her clit, the tongue too and Heinrix is grunting with each thrust. She hears Xavier too, his increasingly heavier breathing and after a moment Diana realizes that they are fucking both her and Volenta in the same pace.
She opens her eyes to confirm, but Volenta steals the chance away by releasing her breast and kissing her lips with almost bruising passion. She moans against Diana’s lips loudly, forgetting the kiss she started and Diana mewls at the same time, gripping onto Volenta harder, leaving crescent marks from her fingernails in the ivory skin of the Lady Inquisitor.
“Come on, Diana, let go.” Volenta whispers between gasps of air and when Diana looks at her, face wet from sweat and vision foggy from pleasure, she only sees those pale grey eyes.
It’s so close, her pleasure. It makes her body tense and Heinrix grips her thigh harder, making sure that Diana remains spread even as she comes. “You can do it.” Volenta urges her and Diana can’t take it anymore. It’s too much stimulation. The cock inside of her is giving her the height of friction that makes the world blur around the edges. And then there are Volenta’s fingers too, that are touching her with practiced experience. It sends her over the edge.
Pressing her forehead against Volenta’s cheek, Diana cries out and clings to the Inquisitor as she arches her back. Heinrix moans when her pussy tightens around his cock, but he keeps moving, harder and faster, forgetting everything except his own chase for pleasure in this moment.
“Diana, you’re so tight.” He exasperates when her very core spasms around his length and he moans again, fingers gripping her leg so tight it will leave bruises.
Within a moment, all while Diana trembles once more and finally relaxes, with her hand slipping from Volenta’s arm and onto her breast as she gasps for air, Heinrix grunts, swears and with few erratic thrusts spills himself into Diana. She draws in breath when she feels it, eyes meeting Volenta’s rather than Heinrix’s, and she sees that the Inquisitor’s face is slick with sweat. She smiles to Diana, but the smile is strained because her husband continues.
However, Volenta’s fingers also continue. Diana is tender and she gasps with choked moans, catching Volenta’s wrist with her fingers, but Heinrix in turn grips her arm, preventing Diana from pulling Lady Inquisitor’s away. She looks at him, still panting but he just smiles. “Let me watch you come undone again, Diana.” He says in a raspy voice and Volenta buries her face in Diana’s chest, moaning, trembling, but not stopping her fingers.
Heinrix’s cock is still inside Diana and she feels how her body clenches around him again when another orgasm begins to engulf her. She keeps looking at Heinrix, just as he wishes, and then with another loud gasp, she climaxes again. Crying out and arching her back, gripping at Volenta’s side and her wrist, she shakes when pleasure rips through her in waves until she can’t take it anymore and closes her eyes.
Somewhere far away she hears Volenta against her chest as she lets out a cry of her own and her fingers finally stop, pressing against Diana’s clit as the Inquisitor finally gets her own relief. Spent, Diana collapses back into the damp sheets and opens her eyes only to see Heinrix gently caress Volenta’s head before he strokes Diana’s cheek and leans over, giving her a short kiss. He withdraws then, slowly pulling his cock out of her and watches, as Diana feels it at the same time, his cum leaking out of her.
Volenta’s body slumps by Diana’s side and she looks at her, taking Heinrix’s example and stroking her hair instead of holding her wrist and she smiles when Volenta lifts her head, hot breaths scorching Diana’s skin. Xavier behind her pulls out as well and Diana lifts Volenta’s face higher by the chin, then kisses her deeply, tasting sweat, tasting herself, tasting even what she assumes to be flavor of Heinrix. Volenta responds, although slightly less intense, still gathering herself from the pleasure she just experienced.
But it only takes a minute, or maybe even less, before Volenta pulls back from the lazy making out with Diana and moves lower, trailing kisses down her stomach. “Volenta, come back.” Diana says, her voice feeling rough after all the moaning, but the Inquisitor doesn’t stop, slipping even lower before she’s between Diana’s legs. “Volenta.” Diana asks again, trying to find her authoritative tone that she uses with her subjects, but there’s no time for that.
Before Diana can speak again or even attempt to pull Volenta back to her with fingers slipping over her slick skin, Lady Inquisitor looks down at Diana’s pussy, licks her lips and closes her eyes before pressing her lips against Von Valancius. With her tongue Volenta slips as deep as she can inside, making Diana gasp and tense, gripping at the long white hair once again.
Volenta sucks and licks, feasting on what Heinrix left Diana with and she trembles, forgetting that the men are event present, watching just like she is. Wrapping her arms around Diana’s thighs Volenta doesn’t seem to want to let go, but Diana is done laying on her back and letting others do things to her. Instead she does what she saw Xavier do and she grabs a fistful of Volenta’s hair, pulling her face away from Diana’s pussy and they look at each other, panting and still very much aroused.
“I said come back.” Diana says, but her voice sounds more like a plea than an order. And still Volenta obeys, smiling and crawling on top of Diana.
“As you wish, My Lady.” She says in a gruff voice and kisses Diana again, letting her taste Heinrix’s cum on her tongue.
Diana holds Volenta’s face with both hands for a moment, kissing the woman deeply, tasting every inch of her mouth, then she pulls back with a small smirk of her own. Without saying a word, she suddenly pushes Volenta off and onto her back, making the Inquisitor gasp. Glancing at Xavier, Volenta tries to sit up, but Diana is on top of her, straddling her waist, palms pressing Inquisitor’s shoulders down.
With a chuckle Volenta relaxes and briefly bites her bottom lip before speaking. “My silver bird has fire in her.”
“More than you know.” Diana smiles and feels someone’s hand grip the back of her head, turning her face to the side. It’s Xavier and he kisses her roughly, surprising the woman. She immediately responds though, not fighting it but embracing it fully at last.
After Xavier pulls back she eyes his naked form, but then turns back to Volenta, noticing a hungry flame in the woman’s eyes. She can satisfy that hunger. Diana leans down and kisses her too, but then begins to move her body lower, releasing Volenta’s shoulders and kneeling between her legs. She kisses Inquisitor’s neck and gets a gasp out of her, then she moves to her chest, sucking on one nipple for a couple of seconds, then the other, watching Volenta’s expressions closely and noting every twitch of pleasure.
But she doesn’t stop there. Diana drags her tongue down Volenta’s stomach until she’s faced with her pussy. Clean of hair but wet and dripping her husband’s cum, it’s a sight that Diana observes for a pause, then without a delay closes her eyes and presses her mouth against it. She hears Volenta gasp and her thighs clamp around Diana’s head, but both Xavier and Heinrix chuckle and without a need for Diana to do anything, they spread Volenta for her. “Careful, she’s sensitive.” Xavier says with a clearly amused voice and Diana glances up at Volenta, at her flushed face and her heaving chest.
“It’s not fair. Three against one?” She looks from Diana to Xavier, then to Heinrix and lets out a cry of pleasure when Diana works her tongue inside of her, making her thighs tremble.
A sigh is heard, Xavier’s, and then Diana feels her hips being lifted and her body made to kneel with her lower half only, letting her continue the ministrations of her mouth upon Volenta. “No, not at all. As always you see injustice when there is none.” Lord Inquisitor says like it’s a court room and Diana feels his augmetic fingers caress one side of her rear.
“We would never unite against you, Volenta. Except in this, of course.” Heinrix teases and she manages half a chuckle before Diana’s tongue makes her moan again, this time swirling around her clit with ease.
“Unfair.” She gasps with trembling muscles while gripping the sheets, just like she made Diana do earlier and Rogue Trader lifts her head to respond, but then pauses when she feels head of a cock rub against her pussy again, slicking itself in her arousal and Volenta’s saliva still wet there.
“They say nothing is unfair in war and love.” Diana glances behind her to see Xavier hold her hip with one hand while with other he holds his once more hard cock, rubbing it against her entrance and preparing to push it in. Heinrix is moving on her right and Volenta lifts herself on her elbows when he leans down to kiss her.
“Everything is unfair to my wife when she pretends to be a brat.” Xavier responds in a flat tone, like this conversation has happened countless times before. Diana catches herself smiling at that and looks at Volenta, watching Heinrix hold her by the neck as they kiss.
Lowering her face again, Diana gives one teasing lick to Volenta’s clit and with satisfaction watches her twitch. She does it again, and then once more, right before Xavier begins pushing his cock into her. Diana has to pause, his size is bigger than Heinrix’s and it takes her a moment to adjust when he doesn’t thrust into her carefully or gently, instead thrusting into her as if he belonged there all along. “Keep going.” He orders Diana and with a weak moan she begins licking again.
Volenta looks at Diana, her face at last flushed, like blood on snow, and that urges Diana to continue, to rub flatness of her tongue against her clit and watch this woman who holds near unimaginable power tense and writhe under Diana’s ministrations. But Heinrix doesn’t want to be left out and he turns Volenta’s face to him by the jaw, with a thumb opening her mouth. Their eyes meet and she exhales. “Wider.” He orders gently and she obeys, readily waiting for him to slip his hardened length over her wet tongue and into her mouth.
She keeps looking at him, long dark eyelashes making her side profile look like a painting of old and Diana pauses, not only to moan and whine when Xavier begins fucking her, snaps of his hips filling the room with sounds of skin against skin, but to also watch Heinrix bury his cock fully into Volenta’s mouth. She doesn’t even gag, just wraps her lips around his shaft and while holding her jaw still, Heinrix starts moving, fucking her mouth with continuous eye contact. With other hand he collects her hair and holds it in his fist, just so that he can see Volenta’s face better.
Another sharp snap of Xavier’s hips against Diana and she cries out into Volenta’s pussy, then lets her eyelids drop as she tries to focus on eating her out, tasting not only the woman herself at last, but also cum of her husband that Diana keeps swallowing as she eagerly licks at it.
“Don’t hold back, Heinrix.” Xavier instructs as if he’s the one who orchestrated this and Diana doesn’t look, but she hears Volenta moan again and again.
When Diana brings her arm closer and slides two fingers into Volenta’s welcoming heat, the woman tenses and she can feel her body clench. It’s easy to tell that she’s close. Behind Diana Xavier is grunting, his thrusts becoming faster and harder with each moment and she herself has a hard time keeping her mouth around Volenta’s clit, her tongue stalling every time he fills her completely, making Diana’s head spin.
“Volenta, fuck.” Heinrix moans and Diana finally looks up, witnessing him fucking Volenta’s mouth with a strained expression and a clenched jaw. Her eyes are still on him, the unbreakable eye contact remaining even as she feels like falling apart already. It’s clear in her dazed look that she is almost choking while trying to draw in air.
Diana pulls back slightly, still moving her fingers within Volenta in time with Xavier’s thrusts and presses her cheek against the inner thigh needing a moment to breathe too. She watches sweat roll down Heinrix’s face and how Volenta’s Inquisitorial rosette bounces between her breasts every time he thrusts into her mouth. With a sudden tense groan, Heinrix grabs Volenta’s head with both hands and holds her face against him. Diana watches her throat move as she swallows what Heinrix spills straight into her and can’t take it anymore. Lowering her head again, Von Valancius begins to lick with renewed dedication to make Volenta come.
“Almost there.” Xavier grunts behind her and suddenly she feels cold metal against her swollen pussy, parting the folds then finding her clit, beginning to circle it.
At first it’s not a pleasant feeling, unnatural and somewhat awkward, but then Xavier finds his pace and Diana cries out into Volenta’s folds, feeling like her world is beginning to spin out of control. Another orgasm begins to burn her insides and she grips Volenta’s thighs harshly, lapping at her with desperation to make her come before herself.
When she’s about to look at Volenta, panting and gasping, she hears the Inquisitor cry out and witnesses just as she falls back into the bed and arches under Diana, her thighs shaking and her fingers clawing at the bedsheets then finding Diana’s head, pushing her face against Volenta’s body.
“God-Emperor…” Volenta cries out and spasms, then again when Diana curls her fingers inside of her. It makes the woman whine even louder and Heinrix is there to stroke her hair as she goes through waves of climax and finally collapses, panting loudly.
“You did well.” He whispers to her but Diana doesn’t have a moment to feel satisfied about her performance. Instead she lowers her forehead against Volenta’s pelvis and gives into sensations Xavier is giving her.
The cock is stretching her tightly around him, his fingers work her like a finely tuned instrument. She moans as she trembles and his grip on her hip increases in strength, like he doesn’t want her to move an inch. “Almost… there.” He grunts again, but this time his voice is tense and clipped. All Diana can do is take it and so she does, preparing herself for another orgasm.
It comes before Xavier does. He presses fingers against her clit and it sends Diana down over the edge once more. She wails with every wave of pleasure that makes her muscles stiffen and her back bend. And when she thinks she’s almost out of it, Xavier lets out a sound that’s part a gruff groan, part a moan, then feels him spill inside of her. This, and his mechanical fingers still rubbing her tender clit, make the psyker whine, but she can’t do anything except inhale just before another wave of pleasure crashes over her anew.
She’s moaning, shouting, she’s not even sure what or is it even words. It’s so much, all at once, and she pants against Volenta’s skin. Finally Xavier stops, breathing heavily behind her and Diana dizzily realizes her hair is being stroked. She doesn’t move, too spent and too exhausted to even lift a finger, or pull the ones still inside Volenta out. Instead, when Xavier moves away, his cock wetly slipping out of her, Diana collapses onto the bed and lays there, motionless.
Above her, a chuckle. A woman’s. “My my, Diana. We’re not done yet.”
Movement as Volenta slips from under Diana’s head and navigates closer to lift her face gently. She’s smiling and Diana wants to kiss her like she never kissed anyone before. But she’s still too exhausted so instead Volenta kisses her, as if she just read her mind.
After she pulls back, she takes a glass of water from someone and Diana finally slowly sits up, letting Volenta bring the glass to her lips and letting crispy cold water wet her throat. When Diana is satisfied with the drink, Volenta takes the glass away and drinks too, letting some of it spill onto her chest and roll down her breasts while she greedily gulps down the water. When Diana looks around, she sees Xavier leaning against the pillows at the headboard and Heinrix sitting on the edge, also holding a glass.
“How are you?” Volenta asks when she lowers the glass and passes it to Heinrix, who in turn puts it aside on the cabinet nearby.
“I’m… okay. I think.” Trying to find her voice again, Diana swallows and eyes Volenta, the marks she left on her, nail indents on her arms.
“That’s what I like to hear. I hope you’re not too tired yet?” Smiling smugly Volenta glances to the side, then back to Diana and kisses her, stealing her breath away.
Diana makes a sound of surprise, a tiny squealing noise that Volenta swallows with her kiss and she smiles against Diana’s lips before she pushes Volenta gently away. “What do you mean by that?” Sore, spent and still not having her breathing back to normal, Diana just stares at Lady Inquisitor who caresses her breasts, making Diana’s nipples pebble up almost immediately.
“I’m not done with you yet. You have it in you enough for one more round, yes?” Chuckling Volenta kisses her cheek, then her shoulder and Diana looks at Heinrix who tries to contain his smile but fails.
“Don’t look at me.” He says with a shrug, but gets back into bed and exchanges a look with Xavier.
In turn, Xavier nods and sits up a bit straighter to grab his wife by the arm and tug her towards him. She falls against his chest and he grips her neck, kissing her harshly and possessively. “You’re a menace to everyone.” Xavier tries to sound displeased but his smile and the amusement in his voice cannot be hidden and Volenta grins at him.
“Just tell me you love me.” She strokes the side of his face with her palm and Xavier relents.
“I do. You know that.”
With a scared yelp, Diana is pulled against Heinrix and she looks at him, her eyes wide and face still glistening with sweat. He smiles to her and nods to the other two. “Ignore them, they get like this every once in a while. Disgusting.” Heinrix whispers, jokingly of course, but Volenta shouts with protest.
“Hey! Don’t act as if you’re not loved enough!”
He laughs and gently kisses Diana, then leans to her ear. “I still want you.” He whispers and Diana’s fingers skate over his arm muscles, feeling veins there that are still prominent due to his earlier exertions.
“Then take me.” She responds in a whisper and Heinrix leans down, kissing the spot where Diana’s neck meets her shoulder.
“I will.”
But Diana’s hand is being taken and she’s made to turn back to Volenta who now kneels before her, eyes gleaming with mischief and unsatisfied desire. “Let me help you two out.” She volunteers and Diana glances back at Heinrix right before his arms grip her hips and lifts them, bringing her rear right against his hardened cock. His recovery speed does not leave any room to question if he can keep going and Volenta pushes Diana’s back against Heinrix’s chest.
“Wait a minute.” Diana tries to slow them down, but in another moment Heinrix is gripping under her thighs and lifts them, spreading her legs widely.
“That’s what I like to see.” Volenta chuckles and leans down, giving a slow, tantalizing lick over Diana’s pussy and she lets out a clipped whine at that, having no place to put her hands besides her own chest.
She looks over her shoulder to Heinrix, blush beginning to return to her face and Heinrix kisses her cheek. “Relax.” He whispers and gives her damp skin another kiss while Volenta keeps moving her tongue on Diana’s clit while at the same time gripping at Heinrix’s cock again and guiding him.
With a tiny gasp, Diana feels the smooth head of his cock press against her hole and then Heinrix begins to lower her, while Volenta holds his length firmly in place. “Shh, relax.” Heinrix croons when Diana clutches her hands to her chest, looking him in the eyes and lets out another whine.
Inch by inch, Heinrix's cock makes into her backside and she trembles, trying to remain relaxed. It’s not a hard task with Volenta expertly lavishing her attentions on Diana’s pussy and making her wet in mere seconds. “Good girl.” Heinrix praises when Diana lets out another tiny mewl and she turns her head even more, capturing his lips with hers.
Noticing that Heinrix is all inside Diana now, Volenta pulls back and moves aside, nodding to Xavier with a smirk. “There, my love.” She hums and guides his cock just like she did Heinrix’s to Diana too. Yet when his cock presses against her entrance once again, she immediately looks downwards with her eyes wide.
“I can’t, it’s too much.” She gasps out and with free hand Volenta turns Diana’s face to herself.
“Shhh, you can. I know you can.” A reassuring whisper makes Diana feel more at ease and a kiss from the woman makes her relax completely. She trusts them, she trusts Volenta.
With less care than Heinrix showed, Xavier thrusts into Diana again with a groan and grabbing Volenta’s neck he pulls her away from Diana’s lips just to kiss her himself. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.” He huffs and she smiles softly to him.
“And you do not?”
Xavier’s lip twitches dangerously but she kisses him again and looks at Diana, brushing hair from her face and leaning closer. “Ready, darling?”
Moving her hand between them Volenta slowly circles two fingers over Diana’s clit and at last she nods, barely able to breathe with how fully she’s filled. Xavier looks at Heinrix over her shoulder and they begin to move. First Lord Inquisitor pulls almost all out, then pushes it back in as Heinrix mirrors the action. Diana moans and gazes at Volenta, her chin trembling from intensity of what she’s feeling right now.
“Kiss me.” She begs in earnest and Volenta complies, kissing her gently and rubbing her throbbing, sensitive nub while two men move in perfect synch, making Diana’s toes curl.
She unfolds her arms at last and grips Volenta’s hair as they kiss, holding her head in place so that she has no chance to withdraw. She moans into Lady Inquisitor’s mouth, barely able to breathe already. Then, when Diana thinks that she adjusted to two cocks inside of her, Heinrix and Xavier change their rhythm, beginning to thrust into her at the same time, forcing loud cries out of Diana’s throat and she can’t even kiss anymore.
Pathetic cries ring loudly in the room when Volenta pulls back, Diana’s grip losing its strength as she’s held in place, legs in the air, and fucked hard by two men she never imagined herself being fucked by. Fingers that work on her make every nerve in Diana’s body light on fire and she’s panting, moaning, almost shouting. She can’t control herself, not like this and her heart beats in her chest like it’s about to explode.
A flash of panic in Diana’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed and Volenta pauses, rising her eyebrows now in alarm but amusement. “I think our little pyromancer is about to light up.” She smiles slightly and Diana’s fingers begin feeling extremely hot against Volenta’s skin where she holds onto her shoulders.
“It’s alright, I know what to do. Xavier, gives us a moment.” Heinrix says with a strained voice behind Diana and they stop, giving a moment of reprieve to her, but she’s still burning up, even when Xavier pulls out of her, even when Volenta’s fingers leave her aching clit.
A cool hand on Diana’s neck makes her focus on Heinrix and she gasps for air, realizing that he lowered her legs and now she’s kneeling but he still has his cock inside of her. Turning her eyes to the man behind her, she senses how his skin begins to lose warmth in rapid fashion and she grips onto his arm that encircles her waist. “Heinrix…”
He smiles softly to her and begins moving, holding her waist tightly and cooling her neck with his palm. “Relax, it’s alright, Diana.” His voice is reassuring and Diana’s heart begins to slow, pleasure returning and panic slowly dissipating. “Take your time.”
“He can deal with her.” Xavier says somewhere far away from Diana’s mind and when Volenta looks at him, she gets pulled into his arms.
“I want to see what happens.” She complains and Xavier scoffs with a smile, then nods.
“If you wish so, my dear.”
But instead of releasing his wife, Xavier turns her to face Diana and Heinrix, who is still gently rocking into her, his fingers now slipping to her wet but empty pussy. She moans while looking at him and listening to his calming whispers. Volenta smiles, knowing that the emergency has passed and doesn’t feel even a flicker of surprise when Xavier wraps an arm around her waist and begins pushing his cock inside.
With a bite on her bottom lip, Volenta arches her back, letting her husband slip it into her, into her backside as well and exhales with satisfaction when he pulls her hips onto him, burying himself inside of her completely. “Missed this.” He grunts against her ear and Volenta reaches behind her, cradling the back of his head with her palm.
“We did this just yesterday.” She reminds him, not taking her eyes from Diana, watching how her alarm is quickly changing into an expression of lust.
“Doesn’t matter.” He exhales and kisses her neck, beginning to move.
“I want to get closer.” Volenta whispers and Xavier chuckles, but then nods and moves them both closer until Volenta can reach and take Diana’s hands in hers, making the woman turn from Heinrix and pay attention to her.
“Kiss me, darling.” Volenta whispers and Diana doesn’t hesitate, leaning in and kissing the Inquisitor fully and openly.
Her body is no longer on fire, her mind is present again and Diana succumbs to the sensations of Heinrix’s cold body against her and inside of her, which contrasts with the heat of Volenta’s lips. They both moan and their fingers intertwine, both gripping tightly onto one another as if to anchor themselves.
“Diana…” Volenta gasps and then exhales with a cry when Xavier slams into her harder. Diana follows suit when Heinrix does the same and she meets Volenta’s gaze, clouded with lust and pleasure.
Neither speak, just loudly gasp as they get fucked with increasing fervor while the men chase their release yet once more. Kissing again, Volenta leans into Diana more and in turn Rogue Trader releases Inquisitor’s hands and throws her arms around the woman’s neck, pulling her in, squishing their breasts together. Volenta just wraps her own arms around Diana’s waist as much as she can, while they are both kneeling, arching their backs. Fuck, Volenta knows she might come in minutes like this.
Their tongues tangle and then depart, then tangle again as they pull away for only a moment to inhale, their eyes closed, both lost in sensations.
“Come with me.” Volenta whines with a strained voice, her body trembling against Diana’s shaking one and gets a nod in response. Their eyes meet again and Diana presses her gilded forehead plate against Volenta’s forehead, not wanting to look away.
“Together.” She huffs and holds Volenta a little firmer, her long hair spilling all over the scars like cooling strands of a web.
“Together.” Volenta echoes and her long nails scrape over Diana’s skin then they kiss again.
Being rocked between two men, the women just grasp at each other and Diana can’t hold back. The heat of Volenta’s body and coolness of Heinrix’s own is too much. Being sandwiched between two opposites of temperatures Diana feels heat of a climax begin to tighten within her, making her whole body tense in preparation.
Volenta feels similar. While Diana is not as cooled down as Heinrix is in this moment, she is still significantly colder than Volenta and between Diana’s body and Xavier’s, she’s losing all of her senses besides the ones that escalate her pleasure. She’s so close, and her nails leave bloody marks in Diana’s skin, yet neither of them notice. Diana doesn’t even feel it, she just moans and kisses Volenta right before her orgasm clashes down upon her.
With her face becoming a pure expression of pleasure, Diana cries out against Volenta’s mouth and tenses as she moans again and again, her own nails digging into Volenta once again. And Inquisitor is only mere seconds behind Diana. She mewls sweetly, but loudly, trembling and holding onto Diana like she’s the only thing to save her from drowning.
How much time pass neither of them know. They just know that at some point both Xavier and Heinrix find their relief too and the fullness with which they fill the women is the only thing that makes them finally look at each other.
A moment, then two. Both Diana and Volenta are completely out of breath and just look at one other with completely dazed expressions. Volenta feels Xavier pull out first and she tugs Diana into her, making Heinrix pull out as well. Their bodies tightly press against each other and Volenta gives Diana an exhausted smile. “You did well.” She whispers and kisses the woman gently.
“So did you.” Diana offers, her voice raw and rough. Relaxing her arms slightly, she finally releases Volenta’s neck and brushes drenched strands away from her face. “We both did.”
“Indeed we did.” Volenta smiles and gently kisses Diana again, then her forehead plate.
“I’m too tired to shower.” Diana admits and makes Volenta chuckle, also receiving a nod from her.
“No, that doesn’t sound appealing at all right now.”
With that Volenta pulls back, but takes Diana’s hand and then drops into the sheets and against the pillows, pulling Diana with her with a chuckle. In response the pyromancer smiles and lies on her side, facing Volenta and tangling their legs together in newly found familiarity and comfort.
“Too bad we missed the singer.” Volenta smiles and glances at Xavier who takes a spot behind her, draping an arm over his wife’s waist. Diana notices Heinrix drop himself behind her and press his whole body against her back. Still cold, still soothing, his presence is more than welcome.
“I can make her sing tomorrow.” Diana offers and Volenta takes her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.
“I’d love that.” She sighs and Xavier kisses her jaw.
“Both of you need to rest.” He says and Volenta can’t argue, she’s barely awake at this point. But still she intertwines her fingers with Diana’s and meets her gaze, seeing same exhaustion as she herself is feeling.
“Sleep well, my little silver bird.”
Diana pauses, wanting to say something, but instead of doing that, she just curls up against Volenta, making Heinrix scootch over to Diana again, and she rests her head against Volenta’s chest while the Inquisitor embraces her with another hand, their fingers still intertwined.
Volenta stays up just for a moment longer, watching Diana’s eyelids drop and her breathing become even and deep. It’s been a long evening, for both of then, but mainly for the Von Valancius. With a smile, Lady Inquisitor wonders just how sore Diana is going to be tomorrow. She wonders how sore she is going to be as well.
But that is a worry for another day. Tonight, they rest.
⚜ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Vistenza may be gone, her crimes paid for with her very own life, but now that you have become a new Governor of Janus, there is still a risk of the heretical taint on the planet, no matter how hard you're working to purge it. So when you are informed that the Inquisition has made its presence known, you are not surprised even if fear enters your heart. You won't be executed, will you?
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 7,249 | on AO3
𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: Something something smut, yet again! This was absolutely selfishly and self-indulgently written for myself and one other Xavier lover lol. Staying true to the statement of "we fuck old men in this house" - I share this. Enjoy♡~
“What was that?” You turn to the nearest servant with a gilded data-slate in hand. A lux-pen, adorning a green, long plume pauses over the screen as you wait for the woman to speak.
“My Lady, a shuttle is landing upon the port.” She bows her head deeply and the augmetics around her neck stretch with the movement.
“Another? Let them. Rogue trader has informed us that we will be supplying Footfall with provisions. How many crates we have ready?”
And yet an uncomfortable silence follows. You cock your head to the side slightly, attempting to get a glimpse of the servant’s face that is hidden because of her obedient stance. Irritated already, you exhale through your nose and raise an eyebrow. “Answer me.” Trying to keep your voice calm, you still issue the order curtly, in almost a choppy manner that makes the woman flinch.
“My Lady, I don’t think it is another cargo vessel from Footfall. It has…” She pauses, swallowing audibly and even in a crowded hall you can hear it. “My Lady… It has insignia of the His Most Holy Inquisition.”
A chill locks up your spine. Your muscles contract, squeezing even your lungs so tightly you can’t inhale. The plume quivers as the lux-pen begins slightly trembling in your fingers. Inquisition? Here?
But should you even be surprised? When Lady Theodora passed and her heir came to Janus, everyone thought that Vistenza will remain the Governor. Why wouldn’t she. Vyatt served well under Lady Theodora even though her particular tastes in all manners of entertainment made you avoid her inner court by all means. She treated the nobles well, yourself included, but you saw heresy in her doings even when others tried to ignore them.
So it was a surprise to all, except you, when the new rogue trader dealt with Vistenza in the only way people of the Imperium should deal with heresy – swift execution and burning away the filth. And in privacy of your own thoughts, you admitted that the choice to keep the planet surprised you. Not only it suffers from xenos, hiding somewhere in the jungles of Janus, but also Vyatt’s stain permeated almost every wall within the palace. Same palace that is now yours.
No, it’s not a surprise either that following the rogue trader’s deeds, the agents of the Holy Inquisition would follow. Vistenza’s fault. The thought makes your jaw tighten and closing your eyes you try to calm the nerves that spread in anxious waves through your chest.
“My Lady?” The servant’s voice snaps you back to the present and you look at her, catching an uncertain look in the woman’s eyes. Her back is still bent in a bow and you exhale, lifting your chin.
“That’s perfectly fine. Make sure that the agents are met with utmost respect. I will meet them in my office.”
You don’t even need to glance around to know that the whispers have hushed and everyone’s eyes are on you. The presence of the Inquisition is nerve-wracking to everyone who has even a slightest idea what that could mean. Maybe Holy Exterminatus is not out of the possibilities after all.
“Yes, My Lady.” The servant finally straightens her back and looks around, turning to instruct those other obedient just like her and you look at your dataslate, seeing the checklist blinking with items still to be marked off.
This can wait. Now the priority is ensuring that some crazed agent of the Inquisitor Lord does not suddenly start seeing heresy everywhere when you’re trying so hard to root out the last remnants of it. Despite your original surprise to keep the colony going, by now you would appreciate it if you didn’t die in flames with the rest of good people here. You’re working hard to restore the order, to bring Janus up to proper standards of the Imperium. They will have no cause, right? That’s what you tell yourself.
As you cross the hall while your heels click sharply in an anxious silence that surrounds you, you make your way to the office. It’s the same one Vistenza has used, but you made it different, reshaped it to reflect you in a similar way it reflected Vyatt, until her death. The dens that she had bellow the palace have been cleansed, blessed and turned into an archive with the door now permanently open for everyone to access it with ease. Will that be enough? You’ve been a Governor just for a mere three weeks yourself and you did as much as you could during the time.
You let the door close behind you and walk around the desk, trying your best not to feel nervous. Putting the data-slate down, you toss the lux-pen on top and push your shoulders back. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you have nothing to fear. So what if some agent wants to check the nooks and crannies for remnants of heresy. You are confident that the rogue trader rooted them out and what dregs of it have remained afterwards were taken care of by you personally. And if they want to question you, they are welcome to do that too. You won’t repeat Vistenza’s mistakes. You are not as delusional as she was.
And yet while you stand by your chair, eyes locked on the gilded steel door as if it might open without a warning, you realize you keep nervously sliding your palms over the dress you’re wearing. The silks already feel damp below the tough ceramite corset you’re wearing and it feels like it’s beginning to suffocate you. Nevermind that, you tell yourself and exhale slowly, lifting your chin in defiance of your authority being questioned even before it actually happens. You know it will, you heard stories.
The vox built into your desk comes alive but you don’t even flinch, finding your strength at last. “My Lady, Inquisitor Lord Calcazar is requesting audience and he’s on his way to your office.”
Not just some agent then. Him.
Smoothing the front of your dress again you stand confident and tall, despite your still sweating palms. Seconds pass that feel like they stretch into years, let alone hours, decades even. You thickly swallow, your throat not wanting to move as you command it.
And then the door opens.
You bow your head immediately, not even sparing a second to observe the man who just filled your office with his presence like it belongs to him.
“Welcome to Janus, Inquisitor Lord Calcazar.” Your voice trembles a little but it’s barely audible and you hope that he doesn’t hear it.
“Stand.” A deep but calm voice command and you straighten up, hearing the door slide closed before you lay your gaze upon the invading presence of the Inquisitor Lord. And you quickly observe the details that make up the man - his power armor that is in colors of dark grey and red, beautifully gilded just like his bionic arm. You see an ocular implant and a steel plate on his skull, telling you of battles past. But what draws your eyes is not the imposing warrior visage before you, but Calcazar’s longish, greying mane of hair and a face that looks unexpectedly noble despite being marred by multiple scars.
Yet his remaining eye doesn’t look at you as you watch him. It rather wanders the office as if looking for anything to condemn you with. Calcazar is inspecting it like you inspected him, but truly there’s nothing out of the ordinary, just a standard Governor office you can find on any planet throughout the Imperium. Vistenza had it set up a bit differently, but you ripped it all out and remade it according to protocols and regulations, avoiding to spend a single coin to emphasize the luxury that you could indulge into if you wished so.
“You’re the new Governor, correct?” Calcazar finally turns his gaze to you and you nod.
“Yes, Inquisitor Lord. My name is-“
“I know what your name is.” He rudely cuts you off and your jaw clenches. Naturally, you didn’t expect him to suddenly treat you as someone equal to him, but you absolutely anticipated at least a shred of respect. “What I do not know is if the previous Governor didn’t secretly teach you her ways of heresy.”
The way heresy falls of Calcazar’s lips makes you shudder and you lower your gaze to the desk. It’s tidy, neat and yet you feel like maybe, just maybe, there’s some sort of invisible stain upon it. Or in your office, or somewhere in the palace. Something that didn’t escape the meticulous cleansing that the rogue trader, and then you, performed.
“No, Inquisitor Lord, I was not too familiar with late Lady Vyatt. I knew of her and she knew of me, but we rarely crossed paths.”
“Is that so.” Calcazar sounds almost amused but you wouldn’t bet even one throne that you’re correct in this assessment. Footsteps, and you are forced to raise your eyes only to observe how Inquisitor approaches your desk and looks down at it, noting the items on it: the vox transmitter, cogitator screen, pens and papers, some dataslates and couple books, all neatly sorted and stacked. “Then what about your brief imprisonment in the past?” He looks at you and that look takes away your breath.
Of course he knows about that.
“It was long ago. I got mixed up with the wrong people.” You admit and that’s the truth.
When you were barely twenty years old you thought it would be fun to run with the farm boys despite your elevated noble status. Your mother didn’t approve and your father outright forbade you to consort with them in any manner. Yet you would sneak out of the family mansion and go for drinks in the village where the boys lived. One such night one of them, a blonde guy by the name of Forio, decided it would be fun to scare the villagers and so he wrote some gibberish with the chalk on a wall. At first he wanted to draw an evil sign, one of the evil gods, but none of you knew how it looked like, so Forio tried to mimic a possible heretical language. Well, it worked, too well. Next day not only the village but two other nearby fell into complete panic. At the time Vistenza’s father was a Governor and he ordered an investigation. It turned out someone saw you that night. Forio got executed and you, with the rest of the boys, got imprisoned and interrogated for several months. Your father refused to help you and thought it will be a good lesson. He wasn’t wrong. In the end your charges were cleared and Forio was the one to pay for the crimes of youth.
“A noble choosing to mingle with regular workers, smearing a stain of possible heresy over her family name.” When Calcazar looks at you again it’s not an accusatory kind of expression on his face, but a calm authority that tells you he’s completely in charge here. And just like your father was right back then, so is the Inquisitor correct in this moment.
Yet the words feel like a whip upon your back and you flinch slightly. “My charges have been cleared.”
“And one of your group got executed, rightfully so.” He retorts back and you flinch again.
“He was the instigator and the one who scrawled the words. We should’ve stopped him, that was our crime, Lord Inquisitor.” Just to break the eye contact, you bow your head again and hear Calcazar exhale slowly.
“And who’s to say that it wasn’t a precedent for what’s yet to come? Heretical tendencies do not always tend to be a lifelong career, Governor. Maybe Vistenza set an example you are curious to follow now that the esteemed rogue trader thinks that the heresy has been uprooted and eliminated on this plentiful world.”
“Inquisitor, surely you’re not implying-“
“I’m not implying anything, I’m merely wondering.” Hearing footsteps resume you dare to rise your eyes again and watch the Inquisitor make his way around the corner of your desk and towards the window on his right. “Come, Governor.”
You hesitate, not because Calcazar’s tone is colorless and not because he’s ordering you around, which he has all the right to do, but because he stops by the window and looks outside of it, turning his scrutinizing gaze away from you. Allowing you a moment of reprieve from his imposing presence, the Inquisitor stands there, giving you time and you exhale a shaky breath, then chew on your bottom lip. He can’t really remove you from your office for something that happened years and years ago, can he?
Yet you know the answer even if you don’t want to admit it. He could execute you right now and nobody would be able to do anything about it. Who would be willing to oppose the Inquisitor Lord? Not even the rogue trader, under which you serve, would be able to intervene if he accused you of heresy.
You want to ask if this is necessary but know that you have no right to question his motives or reasons. Yet you want to resist and tell him that you don’t deserve such treatment, but you’re aware that he’s not treating you in any way, he’s just merely asking you some questions. You want to tell him to leave, but that might be worse than being accused of heresy when it comes to repercussions for defying an agent of the Holy Throne. So you linger, eyeing the Inquisition symbol rising high over the power pack of his armor like it’s a guillotine blade. Like the shadow it casts alone could slice through aliens and unbelievers.
Only seconds pass, not minutes, even if feels like that while you dread to approach, but at last your duty rules over your fear and your feet begin moving before you even command them. Heels click softly on the marble once you cross over the carpet and you stop ways behind Calcazar, unconsciously gripping corner of the table as if to steady yourself.
“Closer.”
Your throat works when you attempt to swallow and your hands begin to shake. Or maybe they haven’t stopped shaking since you heard of his arrival. You cannot be sure, but again you move, making three or four tentative steps in the Inquisitor’s direction. For a moment you glance to the window, seeing only white stone railings and lush crowns of trees rising outside of it. A sight that you have already grown accustomed to despite not using this office for long.
“Closer.” With jaw clenching from stress, you make a handful of more steps towards the man and at last he briefly glances at you over the pauldron bearing a terrifying looking skull. “I said closer. You can’t see from all the way there.” It’s an order, crystal clear and one you cannot disobey.
So you approach, feeling like your knees might give out beneath you at any moment and you stand by Calcazar, forcing your eyes to look outside of the window again. This close you smell oil, you smell metal and an undeniable scent of his perfume, strong and imposing just like he. Something like gunpowder and power combined, you can’t quite pin the origin of it and your palms become slick with sweat again, making you grab onto the front of your skirts once more, clenching them tightly in your shaky fingers.
“What do you see?” He asks and you are absolutely sure it’s a trick question but you still look around.
Now close to the window, you see more than just the railing and tops of trees. You see pathways of white stone and the landing pad where Calcazar’s own shuttle is settled, one reserved for the rogue trader. His spacecraft is in colors of black and red, with front, wings and the top of it carrying Inquisitorial insignia. You wonder if he has one craft that’s stealthier and you chastise yourself for being stupid, of course he does.
You also see workers around his shuttle, tech priests burning their holy incense and most likely chanting placating words to the machine spirits. You see your own people, serfs and PDF and even a man of your personal guard, who’s chatting lively with Calcazar’s pilot. You assume him to be one because his uniform is dark grey besides the silver pin on his chest that glints in the sun. You don’t see what the pin is of, but nobody on Janus dresses like this.
Besides the relaxed atmosphere around the landing pad, there are guards pacing on predestined routines, servants who are running errands and nobles who are taking leisure walks to appreciate the lush growth around the palace. And all of that is encompassed by a tall wall. It was breached before by the rebels but got fixed some weeks ago. Beyond all that there’s a road, snaking away from the numerous gates and into the untamed jungle, leading either to houses that nobles hold or to processing plants and villages of workers who harvest Janus’ resources for entirety of the Von Valancius dynasty.
And yet even with all of that you are not sure what you’re supposed to be seeing. What is a correct answer? Is there even one? You force yourself to look away from the idyllic sight outside and at the Inquisitor who, you only now notice, has not been looking with you, but at you. Something unpleasant gets lodged in your throat and you attempt a smile, knowing full well that it must look like a pained grimace and you just hope it doesn’t.
“Well?” Calcazar asks and he looks almost… amused? You’re not too sure and you’re not all too willing to apply this kind of word to the expression the man is donning upon his regal looking face, but you find no better alternative. Keen look and a faintest hint of a smile tugs at one corner of his lips. “What do you see, Governor?” The way he says your title makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s both mocking and intense. Like a title given to a fussy toddler to make them happy.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for.” Being scarily aware that you can’t diplomacy your way out of this situation you rely on truth and Calcazar scoffs a little, his previously subdued smile becoming just a fraction wider.
“That’s a mistake you can’t allow yourself to make if you want to remain a loyal daughter of the Imperium.” He says and gestures to the window. “Look again.”
What is this, a lesson? But you do look outside again, letting your eyes sweep over the same image that you observed just moments ago. Nothing appears to be different, nothing at all, so you step closer to the window and frown, trying to understand what is it that the Inquisitor wants you to see.
“I’m not sure, I don’t-“ You begin with a degree of frustration only to feel a hand on your shoulder that makes you jump. You look at Calcazar and meet his eyes again, seeing that same amused little smile still on his face as if glued there. He’s having fun, you realize, at your fear, your anxiety, your desire to have all the right answers to his cryptic questions.
“It’s there, you will see it.” Words that would sound encouraging if it were said by anyone else now only fill your stomach with dread. What if you don’t see, what then?
But still, you peel your gaze away from him and look outside once more, to the white stone and happy people, to the flora that is basking in the early morning sun and beyond the gates, into the wild jungle that has both promises and danger. What is it that he wants you to see?
And while you’re focusing on solving this little riddle that he has given you, Calcazar just watches your face. A thoughtful and strained expression is upon it, but then something else draws his attention when you inhale a shaky breath. How your breasts are pushed together in the corset, how with every inhale your neck tenses, and seeing you so frightened but still trying your best, the Inquisitor lets his hand slip from your shoulder and down your arm, towards your elbow. This time you don’t look at him and it serves Calcazar just fine. Releasing your arm he pauses but proceeds and puts same hand at the small of your back, eyes rowing over your figure in search for hints of heresy but with a type of hunger that is not below even the Emperor’s most trusted.
Focused on your task, you barely notice the intimate touch, the way he shifts ever so slightly to remove himself from the direct path of the window, moving to the shadow just next to it. His left arm, encased in an armored glove, slips further, to the side of you and his fingers find purchase there, slightly hooking themselves under the edge of your corset.
But you’re so preoccupied that you don’t notice even that, it’s all too subtle for your brain that is working fulltime to find the answer and please the Inquisitor, not knowing that it’s not your answer that is on his mind anymore. And suddenly you see it! You see it, you see a man by the bushes, by the gate. Ragged clothes, shears in hand, hair grey and tied in a loose ponytail. There’s an eyepatch, you’re confident about it even though it could also be a shadow cast upon his face. But you see it.
“There!” You rise a hand and point in the direction, keeping your eyes on a man. “He’s not part of the palace’s servants, they are all demanded to wear uniforms and he doesn’t have one. It’s him, right, Inquisitor Lord?” When only silence greets your question you frown, wondering if you got it right and you decide to risk taking your eyes from the outsider. You reluctantly begin to turn your gaze away, unwilling to lose sight of the obvious trespasser. “Inquisitor Lord?”
A rough yank on your side makes your body slam first into his armor, then you’re shoved against the wall, your shoulders gripped so tightly it’s painful. The moment a shocked gasp leaves your throat, you inhale deeply and stare at Calcazar who’s now uncomfortably close and towering over you with his assertive figure, the ocular implant catching a crimson glint of light before he leans over you, forcing you to upturn your face. With lips parted and tiny gasps escaping your mouth you stare at him, too terrified to even say anything. When his words come, and they do come in a low, steady tone that makes you grope at the wall behind you, you find it difficult to comprehend them at first.
“You’re not a heretic, are you?”
“N-no, Inquisitor Lord.”
“You’re a faithful servant of the God-Emperor and his Most Holy Inquisition?”
What? You blink couple times and manage a quick nod. You don’t want to be executed for saying no. “Yes, yes of course, Inquisitor Lord, always!” The way words tumble out of your mouth you’re going to be surprised if he can understand them at all.
But he smirks slightly and leans incredibly close to your face, allowing you to feel his fawning breath on your skin. “Is that so?” Eyes sweep down your face and back to yours, making your lungs forget how to function.
“Y-yes.” Your voice trembles and your heart beats so fast in your chest you’re afraid it will hammer itself out from beneath your ribcage. “A-anything.”
“Anything.” A dangerous glint appears in Calcazar’s eyes and he pauses as if thinking. “Then I think I have just a task to prove your loyalty, Governor.”
You gulp down whatever that seems to be stuck in your throat and wait for his next words. Yet before the verbal instructions come there’s a touch and it’s so unexpected that you take a moment to realize what’s going on.
When Calcazar released your shoulders you don’t even know, but next you notice his hands doing something is when he grabs a fistful of your skirts and lifts them to your knees. Eyes widening, you first look down, then at him, while your lips move but no words come out.
“Hold them for me.” He instructs and almost robotically you take the bunched-up fabrics. “Higher, all of them, and keep them there.” Still staring at the Inquisitor you pull the front of your dress into your arms and hold it against your chest, barely breathing. “See, my dear, no matter how much your rogue trader is pleased with you, I need to be pleased with you as well.” He begins, eyes rowing over your naked thighs and knee-high heels you’re wearing. Calcazar even catches a glimpse of your underwear, white lace panties almost teasingly peeking from behind the edge of the skirt.
“Pleased…” You echo the word, trying to understand the implications of it and they don’t come until the Inquisitor reaches down and caresses your right thigh, his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties at your hip. Gulping down nervousness and something else that you can’t quite identify, you rise your gaze to the man.
“Yes, pleased. You know what that means, don’t you?” Feeling Calcazar’s fingers hook over the elastic of your undergarment you attempt a nod. “I’m not going to send you on some dangerous mission, my dear. You’re far too useful for me if you remain here, on Janus, reporting back to me if anything happens.”
“Reporting back?” You gasp out, for a moment too focused on what he’s asking of you to even notice how Calcazar begins slowly pulling your panties down on one side.
“Reporting back. To me, even before the rogue trader.” Holding your gaze with the intense one of his, the Inquisitor releases the elastic and startles you when his augmetic hand grips your other thigh. He leans just slightly, letting metallic fingers slip to the back of your leg and near the knee before powerful bionics grab your soft flesh and pull up your leg. You gasp and look down, squishing the skirts to your chest even tighter while your face begins to show a hint of red.
Being so exposed, even if not naked, makes you flush with heat both in face and somewhere inside of you where it coils in fiery tension at your loins. Your jaw clenches when you realize that this show of power, this intimidation, this overwhelming control of you is getting to you in a way that you haven’t anticipated, but Calcazar did. When his gaze drops to your panties again and when he notices that you’re growing wetter, he exhales slowly and smirks. “I see you are willing to cooperate, am I correct?”
“I-… I…” You inhale in quick gasps and Calcazar enjoys how terrified yet aroused you are. Just the thing he was looking for to relieve the pressures of serving the Imperium and needing to come here in person. A little reward, so to speak, of the most pleasant kind.
When he realizes that you’re not going to answer him, incapable of coherent thought, he kisses you, taking your breath away completely. You yelp against his mouth, eyes widening as you stiffen, still with your skirts pressed against your chest by your shaking hands, but when you feel a hot, wet tongue push against your lips you obey and part them. And when Calcazar’s insisting muscle finds yours, forcing a whimper out of you, that’s when your eyelids begin feeling heavy with desire. Something you cannot resist, something you don’t want to resist.
Letting out a strangled moan against Xavier’s mouth you flinch when you hear a dull but loud thud on the floor by your feet. Then another and you flinch again, but then realize that he’s dropping items from his belt and you whine with anticipation. The grip of augmetic fingers on the back of your thigh lift it higher and you protest with a quiet mewl at the strain of your muscles that obey him with soreness at your hip.
“Shh, quiet.” The Inquisitor whispers, breaking the kiss and brushing his wet lips against yours before he rises your leg even higher and your knee almost touches your chest and the skirts there.
After you part your heavy eyelids you are met with a hungry kind of glint in his eyes, but then you wince slightly because the forceful position he’s put you in makes your tendons pull painfully. The increasing sore tension urges you to adjust your body, to find relief and so you turn slightly, pressing your right side to the wall and a palm too, for balance. Your skirts remain pinned to your chest, albeit by one hand only and they partially drape down, yet cover nothing. “Inquisitor Lord, I-“
“I said be quiet.” He responds, cutting whatever it was that you wanted to say and you bite down on your bottom lip to prevent any more words escaping that are clearly unwelcome and unneeded.
When Calcazar press your knee to your shoulder, painfully so, you swallow another whimper, then forget your discomfort entirely when at last you notice what his other hand is doing. With a swift, practiced motion the Inquisitor moves his hand under the cloth covering his groin, and the rustling of both new and torn purity seals is brief, before you witness Calcazar throw the fabric slightly to the side with a flick of his wrist, and reveal to you his hard cock in full. Even though he’s grasping the base of it with his armored hand, you still see the size of it, the bulging vein that snakes to the tip and the color of red eagerness.
Your eyes widen and your mouth moves but no words come out. When Calcazar notices this he smirks, interpreting your stunned silence as an unspoken compliment and he strokes his shaft slowly, teasingly. “You were right about the servant, posing as a gardener.” He speaks as if nothing else is happening and you two are just having a polite conversation. Yet he relishes in how your eyes follow the strokes of his hand, unabashedly carnal and eager. “Missing details like this can be fatal. I hope you learned this lesson and have taken it to heart.”
“Yes, yes.” You nod once, very slightly and lick your lips without even knowing you’re doing it.
“Good. Maybe you can indeed serve the Inquisition.” He moves closer and while you watch him with obedient need, Calcazar switches his hands, grabbing your ankle that’s in the air with his non-augmetic hand and pressing his mechanical one next to you against the wall.
Then he looks down. “Move it.” Ordering you, the Inquisitor makes you scramble for a thought but thankfully you quickly understand that your panties are still in the way.
With a new and furious blush leaping onto your face you release the skirts, letting them drop completely. They would cover your from him if not for your thigh still pinning them to your chest, and you move trembling fingers to your undergarment but pull the middle aside without hesitation, revealing the most intimate part of yourself to Calcazar’s eyes.
You hear him exhale slowly as he takes in your exposed body, as he sees the wetness that is enticing him to plunge his cock into, the folds that have plumped up with your arousal and how parted they are because of the position Calcazar has suspended you in. “God-Emperor…” He mutters to himself and moves himself closer, nudging the soaking opening with the tip of his cock. You whimper as you watch and chew on your bottom lip. Now, you want it now, why doesn’t he hurry up, why-
Before your lustful prayer even comes close to the end in your mind, Calcazar clenches his jaw and thrusts into you, watching his entire length disappear inside of you with slick ease. You cry out with a whine, struggling with the size of him, your body protesting in a painful ache that follows the stretch of your pussy around him. But before you can make another pitiful moan, Xavier steadies himself on his feet and moves the mechanical arm swiftly, covering your mouth with the palm of it.
“I said be quiet, didn’t I.” He pauses, glances down to where his cock twitches at the eagerness of friction and then looks back into your eyes, allowing himself a small smirk. “I haven’t even started yet, Governor.”
You whimper against the metal, but it has shut you up sufficiently enough that you can’t open your mouth and with a pleading look you try to beg for him to start slow, to let you adjust. But if you were hoping that the Inquisitor is at all concerned with your comfort then you are reminded the harsh truth by the way he begins thrusting.
Without a delay Calcazar begins moving his hips, snapping them against you in precise, hard moves and he groans when first few such pumps give him the satisfaction he was looking for. The Inquisitorial rosette from his wrist swings faster as he increases the rhythm, making your eyes water while your body struggles with the sudden insertion and harsh pounding, but you grow more aroused as well. You’ve never been fucked like this, but quickly realize that you enjoy it.
Maybe it’s the danger and power combined, maybe it’s because Xavier is a first man in your life to treat you like this, maybe it’s both or maybe even neither. You don’t have the luxury to ponder upon why you’re enjoying this as much as you are despite the discomfort, the soreness and the sharp pain that pierces you every time the Inquisitor sheathes himself into you to the root. You just moan behind your lips that are still pressed closed by the augmetic hand.
And then you look at his face, noticing sweat pebbling his brow, the parted lips behind which his teeth are clenched, groans coming out with restrain and effort to keep himself as quiet as he’s keeping you. Yet Calcazar’s eyes are not on your face, but on his cock, thrusting into you fast and hard like he’s chasing his relief before possibly thinking better of what he’s doing. With another painfully deep shove of his cock you yelp and your eyes roll to the back of your skull when sweet relief of him pulling back wipes out any coherent thought.
And still you don’t want him to stop, not right now. Your entire body begins to tense when pleasure begins washing over you in waves of promised relief. And the Inquisitor senses it by how your cunt clenches around him, wet heat of your body straining against his intrusion and unrelenting friction. He groans louder, seeing your arousal not only ease his thrusts, but also leaking down the inner thigh of the leg that is shaking from needing to hold up your whole bodyweight like this. Calcazar’s fingers grip your ankle harder, bruising it beneath the fabric of your heel but you barely notice the pain, whining into the mechanical palm that is unrelenting.
For a moment Xavier glances at you, noticing the sweat that is beading your skin and dampening your hair at the temples, but your closed eyes and your hand, still holding your panties to the side, now tremble with pleasure rather than strain. Your body is warning the Inquisitor of how close you are to your climax and he realizes you might come even before he does.
With a swear on his lips, Calcazar looks down again, relishing the view of his cock penetrating you, fast and thick as he makes your body fully yield to the pleasure at last and your moans become louder but thankfully not dangerously so, not enough to become a risk to be overheard by someone who would not survive attaining such knowledge, no matter how accidentally. A choked moan gets stuck in his throat when you tighten around him even further.
And you know you’re close. So damn close. Your closed eyelids part again just enough for you to see how Xavier is focused on one thing and one thing only. Somehow it makes it all more satisfying and you try to gasp for air, your nose not providing enough of it even if your corset is restricting the intake of air as is. Your head swims, your body shakes, your muscles become taunt and the wave of heat that you tried to forestall until now comes crashing down against your will. You don’t make a sound, stopping breathing completely as your back arches, as your shoulder leans painfully into the wall and your sweaty fingers leave streaks upon it while your entire form spasms with climax.
Thrusts, still so deep but no longer painful, only amplify the pleasure and the satisfaction, making you nearly rip at your underwear where your fingers are still hooked because as your orgasm begins to fade another one hits almost immediately and this time you whine, your throat working both with your cries at the attempt to swallow them back down.
Xavier notices how you climax around him again and he can’t hold back anymore. He wanted this to last a little longer, to enjoy the warmth of a woman’s body for at least a few more minutes, but how you tremble and shake, how he sees only the whites of your eyes through the parted eyelashes, how you struggle with your moans and breaths… It undoes Calcazar in a matter of seconds.
With a blissful moan of his own, the Inquisitor has to restrain himself from closing his own eyes, just so that he can watch his thrusts become erratic. Two, three times, just before it all comes to an overwhelming explosion of pleasure. Another moan and he moves slower but with his thrusts still hard while he empties himself completely inside of you, letting your still spasming body milk him of everything that he can offer. And when Xavier sees his cum beginning to seep out of you and around his cock is when he finally lets his eyelids drop and his hips slow into stillness.
Panting and with ripples of his climax still washing over his entire body in a relaxing bliss, the Inquisitor remains as he is for a moment longer, only hearing your strained gasps for air. Reminding himself of your predicament, Xavier removes the metal grip from your mouth and looks through strands of hair that have fallen over his face when he lowered it in exhaustion. Sweat beads are trickling down his temple, making greying hair there damp before it drips down his face.
You don’t look much better, your skin damp and glistening from the exertion he put both of you through. Able to breathe freely now you inhale air greedily, gulping it down as if you were drowning just moments ago, but that’s not far from the truth. It felt like you nearly lost your mind when your orgasm overtook your sanity and reduced you to something made out of pure, pulsing pleasure.
For a moment you hold his eyes, then the Inquisitor uses his metal hand to swipe the palm of it over his slightly disheveled hair and then he pulls back, not avoiding to look how his cum drips out of you and onto the floor below. You look downwards as well and if your face wasn’t flushed already, you would blush fiercely at the view of the state he just left you in.
He releases your ankle now and you lower it carefully, your body reminding you of the strain it has been put through with soreness and agonizing tension of tendons, but you finally stand with both feet on the floor and the skirts cover your legs completely, hiding even the mess on the floor. You feel thick wetness beginning to smear your inner thighs and you clear your throat, not even sure of what to say.
Xavier, on his part, swiftly steps back and tucks himself away, behind the cloth with purity seals. A sound of a zipper that you somehow didn’t hear at all the first time and then he bends down, picking up his items. You bend down too, helping him, and sweat rolls down your nose, dropping from the tip of it. You need a bath, a long one and that’s what you try to focus on while you awkwardly try to help the Inquisitor affix his belongings back to his armor.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise.” He suddenly says in the quiet of the room and your eyes snap to him, watching that regal face that is less than harsh now, but rather awash with relaxation and contentment.
You in fact have forgotten. Your mind is full only of flashes of what has just transpired between you and the Inquisitor Lord. “Promise..?” You ask carefully and Xavier rises an eyebrow, this time very clearly amused.
“I’m flattered to have managed to scramble your brain so thoroughly, but yes, the promise. You will report back to me before you report to the rogue trader. Is that understood?” Calcazar finishes fixing himself up by clasping the sand timer to some mechanism on the front of his waist and you nod.
“Yes, the promise.” You swallow, trying to gather your brain that is truly scattered, most likely boosting his ego, but you don’t care for that. “I will, Inquisitor Lord.” Pausing, you swallow again, your throat feeling parched. “I will report to you before the rogue trader.”
“Good.” He simply says and when you think he’s about to turn and leave you, ruffled up and sticky, he pauses, then eyes you whole with eyes lingering on your still rapidly rising chest and squished-together breasts beneath the corset. Then he gives you another smile. “I’ll send an agent to establish a secret channel for us to communicate. Until next time, Governor.”
And that is all he says before turning and walking away, heavy thuds of his power armor boots filling the room entirely until the door opens and then closes behind him.
Left alone, you linger where you are for a moment longer, then drag yourself to the desk and throw yourself into the armchair, relaxing into it until your entire body is limp and throbbing with soreness and echoes of your orgasms. As you lean your head back with your eyes closed and try to catch your breath at last, you think of his words.
And then your eyes snap back open, realization dawning upon you. Until next time, he said. You hear the words clearly in the chamber of your mind and then it loops again. Until next time.
Your panties are uncomfortably wet as your body begins to cool down from the exercise, but you don’t know if it’s because of a little ‘gift’ he left you with or from arousal, washing over you anew.
➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Cazador Szarr/f!reader the dhampir/spawn!Astarion
➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, dead dove do not eat, incest (father/daughter), POV second person, grooming, smut, loss of virginity (in a memory), light bondage, praise kink, fingering, vaginal fingering, spanking, semi-public sex, PiV, vampiric bites, asphyxiation, biting, creampies, threatening, Astarion is very pissed in chapter 1, canon-typical violence, hair pulling, throat fucking, cock worship, cum swallowing
➺ 𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: You think you have everything you want, a loving father, one of his spawn to entertain you and protection of a vampire coven, but a master and his spawn have you caught in a middle, their jealousy, desire for control and possessiveness influencing their actions. Yet you don't want to be a doll pulled by strings, you want to be the Lady of the House, Lady Szarr, respected just like your father, Cazador, is. But that might not be what Cazador himself has planned for you, and maybe not what Astarion has in mind either. Can you stand against them - only time will tell.
➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 7,506
𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: some months ago, on my old tumblr account, people wanted more to shades & shadows, and with encouragement (and people enabling me lol) i have promised to write it. well, here it is at long last! i am quite proud of this one and it took me a while to figure out in what direction i wanted to take these three chapters, but i'm glad to finally share this as it is all done and dusted, in the manner of speaking. the dove is so dead it's just bones, guys, so buckle up and, as always, enjoy♡~
➺ 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: [link] | [on AO3] |
You stand by the sarcophagus of Donnela the Architect. You know she’s your great great aunt or something along those lines, but you feel nothing when you gaze upon the flat surface of the tomb. It doesn’t even bear her image, it’s just a smooth slab of stone that is meant to represent the vampire that once was. You never asked your father if her body is there, or well, anything that can remain after a vampire is destroyed.
Yes, you remind yourself, you’re all monsters, yourself included. You don’t get to be murdered, you are destroyed. And you stand here, wondering what happened to this woman that was taken out of this life many years before you were even born and you are left with solemn questions. Your father does not speak about Donnela, he doesn’t speak about Vellioth either. Whoever came before Cazador Szarr are being erased from the history of your family. You only know their names because you found a list of previous Vampire Masters stashed away in some crook within the palace walls. You don’t even know who wrote the list or if it’s reliable at all, but you remember the skull in the room where your father took your virginity, in the dungeons beneath the mansion, you remember the scroll, clamped within the fanged jaw of someone who was alive once.
Who was it – you do not know, but they seemed of great importance to Cazador, considering he placed the skull in such honored spot, on a cushion, as if to prevent it from crumbling apart. But rest of the memories are blurred by flashes of pain and then pleasure. Your father’s whispered words of praise, his sweaty body moving on top of you. You were smaller back then, shorter, slimmer. You felt so tiny under Cazador’s towering form as he took you three times that night, leaving you sore, but a woman at last. His daughter, his bride.
You press your lips into a thin line at these memories, your arousal stirs in the center of your body and you try not to remember that night, try not to indulge yourself in the memory of your father loving you so tenderly, so protectively. He touched you in a way one touches a wounded bird – with so much care, you have never forgotten it. You exhale with a blush, unable to stop your mind from washing over you with beautiful memories and the sarcophagus in front of you fades from your focus as you relive the touches and grazes of his fingertips, when you heard Cazador’s whispers against your ear promising eternity together, just you and him. How he filled your virgin body with his length and how he inhaled when he smelled blood the moment he took what was rightfully his. Your sigh is strained and you snap out of your thoughts when you begin feeling wetness between your thighs, soaking your underwear.
“Ah.” You exclaim and resist the urge to lift your skirts and inspect it with your fingers, you know already that you got aroused. Right in front of this tomb.
“What are you doing here, daughter?” Cazador’s voice makes you flinch because you didn’t even hear him approach and with a loud swish of your dress you turn to face a man who you love so deeply it makes your very soul ache.
“Father.” You bow your head to him and the Vampire Lord walks closer. He stops in front of you for a moment, then walks past and places a hand on the sarcophagus.
When you look at him you see him gazing down on it with an expression you can’t quite read but that looks close to reminiscence. The Szarr family ring on his finger seems to glint in the moonlight that’s coming through the trees but you’re not sure if it isn’t your mind just tricking you, adding to the beautiful live portrait of your father that you’re observing. He doesn’t come here often, to the family graves sequestered in the far corner of the garden and hidden under the trees. Just as he doesn’t speak about the Vampire Masters before him, so does Cazador avoid this part of his domain.
“You haven’t answered me.” Your father says and his eyes flick to you, making you freeze in spot for a moment, scared that he might get angry at you for being here. Your mind reels, trying to find an answer that would satisfy him.
“I come here to think, to escape the busyness of the palace if it gets too much.” You try to sound calm and not to start stammering, but your throat clenches at Cazador’s bloodstained icy glare that seems to look into your very soul.
“Is that so?” He asks silently and offers you his hand while still resting the other on the lid of the sarcophagus. “Come, my daughter.”
You take his hand without hesitation because if you hesitated – he would notice and he would punish you for it. You were always meant to do everything he tells you to, no matter what is it. But for now Cazador does not seem to be in one of his foul moods, so you let him pull you closer without fear. He holds your hand and taps the sarcophagus lid with the other, drawing your eyes to the action.
“Do you know who’s supposed to be here?” Vampire Lord asks and you pause, again trying to think of an appropriate answer, yet the cooling wetness between your legs is distracting you. Your desire may have passed but remnants of it still linger, making you want to rush this conversation and change your underwear.
“Is it Donnela?” You ask and you know there’s no point lying because he will catch you in your deceit. And you don’t want to experience what happens if he catches you lying, it happened once before and you ended up being suspended in ropes for a week while-
“You are correct.” Cazador’s voice interrupts the horrific memory and you raise your eyes to him looking up, and feeling so small in front of him once more. Previous memories, of your first night together, return, and you feel passion stir in you once again. This face that you love, this face that looks so beautiful when he’s panting while on top of you with his cock stroking your inner walls, you try to focus but it’s hard. Your dearest father, all yours.
“Why she doesn’t have her name carved?” You ask, doing your best to focus on anything else but your cunt that is becoming wetter once again.
“She doesn’t deserve it.” Cazador’s fingers absentmindedly lace with yours and he holds your hand firmly, but without pain. He looks down at the sarcophagus and frowns. “Some should never be remembered once they perish, my child.” With fingertips of his other hand he traces the stone, feeling notches and tiny crevices on the surface. It looks like your father has something on his mind.
His features look calm, almost tinged with a hint of nostalgia and you have a fleeting thought that this is a perfect chance to ask about Donnella, to ask about Vellioth, to perhaps at last learn a bit more about those who came before you, but before you can make up your mind if you should dare to speak the questions, Cazador’s gaze turns to you and his fingers leave the tomb lid, raising to your face. When you look down you see the Szarr crest ring clearly before your eyes as if he’s showing it to you.
“You will have one of your own soon enough.” Vampire Lord says while watching your expression with a small but proud smile on his face. “And when you do, my dear daughter, you will stand by my side instead of being hidden away like a precious jewel that you are.” He squeezes your fingers with his, subtly reminding you that everything he does is for you and you take his other hand with yours, holding it as if you’re a squire to a king, then lean your head kissing the ring, feeling cold metal and the edge of the gem under your lips. “You’re perfect.” Cazador whispers as he pulls his hand from your fingers and your lips, then cups the side of your face, the coldness of his touch makes you feel safe.
You raise your eyes to his and find him looking at you with smirk. The sharp edge always remains in his eyes, that cruel threat of horrors to come if you upset him, but right now he looks almost gentle as he gazes down on you. Horrible and beautiful. Breath catches in your throat and your eyes widen with adoration.
“You’re mine, aren’t you, dear?” Cazador asks in a quiet voice and his fingers work to caress your warm skin. You lean into it and smile softly, he can see the love you carry for him in your eyes. Despite allowing one of his wretched spawn to entertain you, Cazador knows that you belong to him and always will. Still, he likes seeing it in your eyes, in your face, to hear it in your words, to feel it in your body when he’s fucking you. Everything about you belongs to him.
“Of course, dad.” You smile and Cazador’s fingers slip from your cheek to your chin, gripping it and tilting your head higher, then he bends over you, pressing his lips against yours.
“You’re mine and will be mine, forever.” He whispers against your lips and you barely manage to stop a mewl escaping your mouth. The stirrings of your lust increase and you squeeze his fingers tighter. He knows what he’s doing to you and you’re sure he’s doing it on purpose. He trained you so well to be truly his and you never fail him.
Cazador’s lips press against yours once more and his fingers leave your chin before his palm rests against the small of your back and draws your body against his. With free hand you reach up and press your warm palm against his neck as you kiss him back. When his tongue nudges against your lips you part them, letting him in, and moan into the kiss, letting it wash away all the worries or questions you might’ve happened just moments ago. Your father’s tongue grazes over your fangs, a constant reminder of his legacy, and you feel him grip your fingers tighter.
You open your eyes when you feel father pulling away from the kiss and your eyes meet his. You’re gently panting, filled with need, your panties soak it all up and it’s as if he knows. He always does know.
“Even here you’re so ready for me, aren’t you? I can smell your arousal, my dear.” Cazador comments, making you blush despite wanting nothing more than to be filled by his cock until you can’t speak anymore. There’s no other man that fucks you the way he does, he knows all the tricks and games of your body, everything that there is to know about you, and he uses that knowledge against you in most beautiful, merciless ways.
“We could return to our chambers.” You suggest carefully and he lifts an eyebrow at you, feigning surprise.
“Turn around.” Cazador’s voice is a command and you pause, processing it, then let go of both his neck and his hand before you turn around. Your sopping cunt makes movement uncomfortable but you don’t betray it, just clench your fists into your skirts with anticipation. Next moment you feel your father’s hands on your waist, then on your stomach, sliding down your hips. “Lift them up, dear.” He whispers against your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. You begin lifting the skirts of your dress until they are all bunched up against your stomach and chest.
Cazador’s hands leave your hips and you watch him caress your thighs before he grips at them and moves you to face the sarcophagus. Your face flushes and you swallow hard, wondering what he has in mind yet when his fingers grip at your panties and begin moving them down your legs you know exactly what he has in mind – to take you here, on top of this tomb. Whether his reason is to defile the resting place of Donnela or just because he simply wants to fuck you – you don’t know neither do you care. You just bite on your lower lip and step out of your underwear when Cazador moves the garment down to your ankles. For a moment you stand still but then gasp when you feel his face press between your thighs from the back and inhale deeply through the fabric of your dress making you squirm slightly, blushing even harder.
“You smell so sweet, my daughter.” The Vampire Lord mutters against the skirts and you nearly break the skin of your bottom lip from how hard you’re biting on it. Your desire to have him immediately is palpable.
Yet your father seems to have half a mind to torture you in the sweetest way possible – by taking it slow. You sense him moving his face away and hear him stand up once more.
“Your hands behind you.” He commands and you pause, not sure if you should let go of your bunched up dress but decide that you should, then you move your hands behind you. A second later Cazador is tying your wrists together and from weird wet feeling on your skin you know he’s using your soaked panties to do that. “Leg up.” Vampire instructs and you inhale sharply, then lift one leg, resting your foot on the edge of the sarcophagus. “Such a good, obedient girl.” Cazador comments with a grin you can hear in his voice and you open your mouth to respond but a sudden grip on your throat makes you pause. He’s not squeezing to cut off your airflow but it’s a firm, commanding grip nonetheless.
Your father presses himself against your back and makes you lean your head back against his chest while he moves one hand, pulling your dress up again. Cold air of the night caressed your pussy that’s pulsating with need and warm blood. And Cazador is not unaware. When his long fingers begin caressing your plump from arousal folds, he exhales with satisfaction.
“You’re perfect.” He hums while his fingers play with your cunt, spreading your folds widely and letting your arousal begin to drip down your leg unobstructed.
You shiver and mewl at his touch, trying not to move your hips against his fingers, because you know you will be punished if you don’t remain still, as always, but it’s extremely hard to obey tonight. You’ve been wanting for your father even before he showed up at the cemetery part of the garden and now it’s near impossible when his fingertips are grazing your entrance and then moving onto your clit.
“You’re so wet for me.” Cazador comments with a tone that betrays his pride, he’s always proud when you’re easy for him. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” You nod before he even finishes his question and that makes him chuckle. “So so eager, my darling daughter. I guess that spawn of mine is incapable of doing even as little as keeping my precious girl satisfied sufficiently. Or is it that you truly don’t want any other man other than me, hm?” Cazador taunts and you lick your lips slowly, your eyelids become heavy because while he speaks he rubs lazy circles on your swollen clit, making you whimper and your propped leg tremble.
Yet you wonder if this is the right place to be touched like this, taken like this, it feels almost sinful. You feel like you can almost sense Donnela’s eyes on you, piercing through the stone lid of her tomb. And this split moment of doubt, a second of mild discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed by Cazador. His fingers do not pause but you feel his lips against your ear and his grip around your throat tightens.
“What is it, my dear?” He whispers and you swallow dryly.
“Dad… should we be doing this here?” You dare to speak but Cazador doesn’t seem phased by your question nor does it seem to upset him.
“Yes, I’m doing this here.” Your father replies in his most casual manner and you gasp because he pushes a finger into your cunt, making your body shiver in response. “Do you think I’m scared of ghosts?” He asks as he pushes another finger in then begins pumping them slowly, drawing out the sensation of your hot flesh suffocating his digits.
You moan and shake your head slightly, knowing that you wouldn’t have a say in this in the first place. You hear your body make squelching sounds as Cazador fucks you with his fingers and you whine louder now, your body slowly but steadily beginning to prepare for the orgasm, sending shivers down your spine and making your cunt occasionally clench around your father’s fingers. Cazador knows this and he pulls them out of you, then without a warning he thrusts them into your open mouth, making you gasp around his fingers. Yet you don’t protest, you move your tongue, lapping up your own arousal and hear him chuckle against your ear, a low rumble that you feel against your back too.
“Not yet, my dear, you will get yours, but only after I get mine.” His teeth nip at your ear and you whine with despair, your body craving for release.
Then he removes his fingers from your mouth and with a firm grip on your thigh he lowers your leg, pushing you forwards and bending you over the sarcophagus, his grip on your neck vanishing with your repositioning. Your right cheek presses against the cold stone and you feel your father lift your skirts, pilling them up on your back.
Smack.
You flinch when his palm connects with the skin of your ass and you moan again. You wring your arms but the improvised bonds made from your panties hold tight, Cazador, after all, is well versed in subduing his prey and right now – that’s you.
“Tell me you want me.” He demands, his words hard and cold, and you whine when you feel his thumb circle your back entrance and push against it gently, not quite breaching it but putting enough pressure as if he has half a mind to do so.
“I want you dad.” You reply in a hurry and resist the urge to rub your thighs together, impatient and eager to feel him inside of you, no matter the hole he chooses.
“Oh how I like hearing that, my dear.” Cazador chuckles and his hand leaves you, letting your stinging skin cool in the night’s air. “I met Donnela once, you know.” He proceeds to speak while you remain still, your mind barely registering what he’s talking about. All you hear is the sound of fabric being handled as he undoes his pants. “She was a woman of grace but she was weak.”
A palm returns to your rear and he rubs the cheek that he smacked before, you feel the tip of his cock aligning himself to your entrance and you wait patiently, saying nothing. Your cunt aches to be filled, your folds are drenched with your arousal and Cazador seems to be teasing the juices with his length.
“You won’t be weak, will you?” He asks in a voice that’s more curious than demanding and you slightly shake your head. It’s taking everything in you not to move, not to buck your hips against his dick in hopes to be pierced by it. Your body is screaming with desire and you nearly salivate at the thought of him claiming you. Yes, he trained you well. “No, of course you won’t. You’re incapable of being weak.” Cazador chuckles and begins to slide his cock in, slowly, savoring every inch. It makes you moan with despair, because you want him fast and hard yet he’s still torturing you in his own, caring way.
You want to beg but you know better than that so you just wait until his length is buried in you fully, coldness of it nearly making your eyes roll to the back of your head and you exhale with relief. Even when he’s torturing you like this, Cazador never keeps it up for long once his dick is inside you. For a moment he just keeps himself unmoving, enjoying the squeezing heat around his cock but then his fingers grip your hip and he begins thrusting. Slowly, almost carefully, taking himself nearly all the way out and sliding back in with ease.
“You’re such a wonderful creature.” Cazador muses and with a corner of your eye you see him watching his dick disappear in you and then come out again, and then disappear again. Your body reacts with a tremble but he doesn’t address it, seemingly lost in thought. “If only you knew how important you are.”
“I know dad, I know.” You whine, hoping that it will urge him and it seems to work as the Vampire Lord snaps out of his thoughts and shoves his cock deep before leaning over you.
You don’t know what to expect but when you feel one of his arms slide under your stomach in a possessive embrace and his other hand find your throat once more, all while he presses his chest against your back, pinning you to the sarcophagus you realize just how much he wants you right now. A second of movement and his left knee is now on the sarcophagus, giving him proper angle to begin thrusting once more.
His grip on your body makes you incapable of moving even the tiniest bit so you just close your eyes and let him fuck you, feeling his icy length moving faster and faster. You hear Cazador’s breath becoming labored the longer this continues and you feel his tongue against the back of your neck, tasting you. You hear his subdued groans and sounds of his skin slapping against yours with every thrust, the most beautiful symphony. You begin feeling yourself come close, the perch of your father’s knee on the sarcophagus giving him the ability to really use his power to slam into you with as much force as he wants to. And in a few wonderful moments he wants to give you it all.
You moan and tremble, subdued by his hands that are like a straight-jacket and your head swims from pleasure, there’s no thoughts, just your Vampire Lord and you on this tomb, loving each other in a way only a father and a daughter can. At least to you - this is perfect, complete expression of love, and you let yourself sink into the feeling, allowing it to wash over you and take all your worries away. It’s you and him and it will be so forever.
Lost in your extasy you don’t notice a presence approaching, neither does your father. He fully expected to you have you all to himself in this lonesome corner of the garden and he’s completely lost in his lust for you, fangs now promisingly grazing your skin and you wish he would bite you already. Yet you dare not beg. Szarrs don’t beg, after all.
But the figure stops and watches you two tangled in this twisted expression of love. Astarion is nearly dumbfounded when he sees your face, your parted lips, witnesses your expression that speaks of nothing else but ultimate satisfaction. He hears your moans, sees the sweat on your face and then his eyes turn to his master when he makes you cry out once his fangs sink into your neck. The spawn never seen Cazador like this, his expression filled with sensuality he never imagined seeing on a face of a man who he only knows as cruel.
Astarion realizes he sees something he shouldn’t and nearly moves to walk away, maybe hide, but he can’t, because if his master sensed him approaching he would’ve ordered him away already. So he remains still, trying to turn his eyes away but being unable to, his gaze again focused on you and your moment of utter bliss as you very obviously begin approaching your orgasm. He recognizes it even if he never saw you to be this much into it when you’re with him. Astarion’s hands clench into fists and he frowns, jealous and angry. At you, at Cazador, but most importantly at himself. The only way he even manages to get you obey is when he repeats phrases his master does, when Astarion invokes your father’s name before you to remind you who you truly belong to. Spawn’s teeth grit but he can’t look away so he watches with boiling fury in his chest, not daring to look away but not daring to say anything either.
If only he had the power like Cazador he could have anyone he wanted, including you. But he can’t even have you to want Astarion as much as you want your father, spiritually and carnally. He’s reminded of his own powerless existence and hates it.
Astarion keeps watching as you moan louder and louder, hears how your voice echoes into the night and listens to Cazador groan against your neck, his thrusts becoming erratic and hurried, rushing to grant him release that he craves so badly.
“Say it.” Cazador growls with undisguised lust the moment his fangs leave your neck and you immediately know what he means.
“I’m yours, dad! I’m your good girl!” you whine with a shaky voice, you’re trying to hold on, not to come just yet, you know he likes it when he finishes first, but his body pinning yours against the tomb lid is becoming too heavy, you can barely inhale.
“That’s right.” Cazador hisses and his grip on your throat tightens as his lips push aside the dress and press against your shoulder. “You’re mine, now and forever.” He repeats and you can’t tell if it’s a reminder to you or himself, your mind is too dazed to think, too filled with bliss you’re trying to keep at bay.
Then your father’s teeth clamp onto your shoulder tighter, so tight it’s like he wants to take an actual bite out of you. With that he comes, milking his cock with your clenched walls while you try not to come yourself. But the moment he does you let go and cry out, shouting his name into the night while Cazador squeezes on your throat nearly taking your breath away. Your cunt spasms, pulling out last drops of his seed and he keeps thrusting until he knows that your peak is passing. His hips against your body slow, then stop entirely, and you both remain still for a long moment. You hear Cazador panting against your skin with your shoulder still caught between his teeth and you smile dreamily. You couldn’t be happier.
At last the Vampire Lord releases your flesh from his bite and lifts his head, looking at your sweaty face with pride and something too close to love, but you see none of it, because by the time you open your eyes, Cazador is pushing himself from you, his hands leaving your neck and waist, his perched leg finding footing on the ground, and he pulls out of you carefully, not spilling a single drop of his cum. You gasp when you feel him push in a thumb into your cunt, then move it as if he’s confirming just how fully he filled you and it looks like the conclusion satisfies him because you feel your wrists being unbound from the bondage of your panties.
You bring your wrists to yourself, your arms feel numb and weird, but you still push yourself up from the tomb and look back at Cazador, feeling the skirts of your dress drop around your legs the moment you straighten your back, but now you see that he’s not even looking at you.
When you follow your father’s haughty gaze you recognize the silver curls and the scowl. Astarion. How long he has been standing here? You have no clue. You look at Cazador and see an arrogant grin on his face while he tucks his softening cock back into his pants and makes himself presentable once more.
You find yourself mortified for some reason. Maybe because of how Astarion is glaring at his master. With so much hate that you are sure your father will want to punish it. So when he begins walking, not giving you even a glance, you realize you’re clenching the skirts of your dress so strongly your hands are shaking. You watch Cazador walk to Astarion and lean down to his spawn’s ear, whispering something that you cannot hear. Astarion doesn’t move, his gaze now shifted onto you, and then Cazador pats his shoulder with a wide smirk as he walks off, tall and proud. A conqueror.
When your father’s footsteps fade, you watch Astarion straighten his back, his lips pressed into a thin line but he’s not moving. You swallow dryly and feel your legs move before you consciously demand them to. You briefly notice your panties tossed on the ground but ignore them and walk down the path, knowing you’ll have to pass Astarion. Your breathing stops entirely when you get closer, seeing pure rage in spawn’s eyes but you don’t look at him, you command yourself not to as you try to keep your strolling pace, but when you’re about to think that you’re safe, as you think nothing will happen when you pass the pale elf, you feel your upper arm suddenly being gripped with such force that your knees buckle and you drop down on the hard stone.
You raise your face and see Astarion come into view, his gaze filled with fury when he gazes down upon you, his lips curled into a snarl while he holds your arm so painfully you wince with an unsaid plea to be released, but it looks like he enjoys seeing you kneeling and hurting.
“You see me just as he does, don’t you? A worthless spawn! A slave for you both!” He asks in a voice that’s nearly trembling with fury and you gasp, trying to wrench your arm from his fingers.
“What? Astarion, I have no idea-“ Your own voice is shaking from pain and panic that you’re feeling at witnessing spawn’s rage that you don’t even know why you deserve it.
“SHUT UP!” Astarion bellows and you flinch as if hit.
Your eyes are wide from shock and building terror as your lips quiver, trying to form words that could save you or doom you. But spawn ignores your evident fear and finally releases your arm, now grabbing your jaw as he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours. His nails dig into your skin and you wince but keep looking into his eyes, not daring to guess what’s coming next.
“You will never see me as anything but a slave for the rest of your existence, will you?” Astarion’s voice is low and dangerous and you swallow dryly, remaining silent. Your arm throbs but you can barely feel right now. “Tell me, little dhampir, do you think being allowed to fuck you is enough?” He smirks but there’s venom in his expression, poison that you haven’t seen in him before, something that you now realize has been festering in him for a long long time.
“Astarion, what’s gotten into you?” You manage a silent whisper and he squeezes your jaw so tightly you let out a pained moan, your arms gripping at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away but it’s like trying to move a statue – impossible.
“Nothing’s gotten into me, darling. I’ve just realized that no matter how sweetly you moan for me, you will never be truly mine. Is it because I’m not your father or is it because I’m not powerful enough to kill him?”
Your heart skips a beat from sheer terror.
Kill your father? What is he talking about? He can’t be serious. He’s a spawn, surely he can’t even if he wanted to? And for you? Would Astarion attempt that just to have you all to himself?
“You’re hurting me.” You whine, trying to pry his fingers off your face and with a scoff he releases your jaw.
“You like being taught lessons, don’t you?” Spawn says while you rub your jaw with trembling fingers.
“If you hurt me my father will-“
“I don’t care!” Astarion raises his voice again and you just glare at him from under your eyebrows. Who is he to lay his hands on you? “You will be mine.” Not a promise but a threat while you watch him begin to unlace his pants. “Keep kneeling or I will snap your neck.” Another threat spoken with a tone of voice telling you that he means every word. Your knees hurt already but remain on them, watching how he takes out his semi-flaccid cock and begins stroking it with a smirk blooming on his face. “I love how easily you submit, darling. Some things even Cazador does right.”
“Just because you feel powerless it doesn’t mean you have any right to take it out on me.” You can’t help but respond, your jaw still hurts and so does your arm, and you stare at Astarion with anger instead of fear but he just grins at you. There’s no fondness in those eyes, there rarely is, and you understand only now, realize that for him – you’re a conquest, a symbol of power. To Cazador and Astarion both, it seems that to have you – is to have power.
The thought itself stirs something in your body. A response that is so deeply ingrained in you that you weren’t even aware of it until now – you want to be treated this way. Not with roughness but as a reward for being powerful. Maybe it’s just one more of Cazador’s lessons that you internalized it so deeply until it became a part of you.
“I’m not taking my anger out of you, sweet little dhampir. I’m just remind you that Cazador is not the only one who has claim to your body.” Astarion’s grin is sharp and you notice him growing harder by the second. “Open your mouth.” He commands and you look into his eyes with a scowl.
“If you hurt me-“
He slaps you so hard you see only white for a long moment, the sound of it ringing through your ears and nearly deafening you if only temporarily. Your head swings so strongly to your left that you nearly fall to all fours but somehow remain on your knees. Your anger gets replaced by shock and fear once again as you look at the spawn looming over you.
“I said open your mouth.” Astarion repeats and his voice is full of danger so you just release a shaky breath and open your mouth obediently. His expression softens at your compliance and he even smiles, although it’s a smile of a victor and not of a lover, but has he ever been your lover or just another man who wanted your body but not your soul? “See, it’s easier when you simply obey.” Spawn croons in a voice that would sound alluring if you didn’t know what danger lurked just under the surface.
Astarion’s hand moves to tangle into your hair and he roughly yanks back on them, making you face upwards. You blink couple times at the pain but keep your lips parted while he looks down on you with a smug expression. Expression that tells you he doesn’t see you, not really, maybe never have. You’re something to be used, to satisfy himself with, to remind him that the only power he has right now is power over you. And you can’t help but be turned on. You haven’t noticed through the whole interaction how Cazador’s cum seeped out of your cunt and down your thighs but now that you’re getting aroused again you realize how wet your skin is from your father’s seed and your own juices flowing freely out of your entrance.
“You’ve been taught to obey your whole life, little dhampir.” Astarion’s voice is almost soothing as he releases his hard cock and his fingers brush lose hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear like a lover would, but you see the storming rage behind his eyes. It’s subdued now but still present, so much like your father. “Now don’t speak, I don’t want to hear another word from you, understood?”
You nod with a blush spreading across your face and Astarion is not blind to that. It gives him a feeling of satisfaction that no matter what he does to you – you will want him and become aroused by him. It gives him that desired feeling of power. If not over anything else in his miserable slave life, then at least power over you.
“I’m going to enjoy this.” He whispers more to himself than to you and you grip your skirts, trying not to show how aroused you are becoming but your salivating mouth betrays you.
Astarion grips the base of his dick and steps just a little closer, still holding your head firmly in place just before he shoves himself fully into your mouth. You feel the tip of his cock at the back of your throat, cutting off air and you make a pathetic whine before your mouth is full and your face is smashed against his pelvis. You didn’t even have time to notice when his fingers left his length.
“Take it, pet, take it all.” Spawn croons and you let go of your dress and grab onto his pants. At first you try to pull your face away but his grip on your hair is so tight you can’t move an inch.
Your eyes begin to water and your tongue moves in protest of your throat trying to gag around his cock. You forget your stinging cheek and forget Astarion’s rage, you’re in your element now and your pussy throbs with desire even while you struggle without air. His words only escalate your desire, you can’t resist what’s in your nature.
After a long moment, by the point your head begins to swim from lack of oxygen, Astarion finally pulls your head away from his cock. You gasp for air and look up at him, tears rolling down your face and his glistening dick is still connected to your mouth by heavy strings of saliva.
“Beautiful.” Vampire spawn comments with almost soothing affection and then shoves his length back into your mouth, beginning to thrust against your face. “Good obedient little pet, aren’t you? You don’t care who you submit to as long as you do.” His words are mocking but you don’t care.
With drooping eyelids you try to swirl your tongue against his hard cock, enjoying the texture and the sensation of veins, your mouth keeps salivating, covering your chin and dripping down his balls but you care for none of this, you just want to feel him come down your throat. How the tip of his length hits the back of your throat again and again makes your whole body ache with renewed desire.
“What a cock-hungry slut you are.” You hear Astarion chuckle but his breathing sounds increasingly labored and you lift your eyes to him, finally seeing his satisfied expression and lust in his gaze that replaced the rage from earlier. He wants you so much, you realize. “Worship me like you worship Cazador.” He suddenly demands and pulls his dick out of your mouth.
He slams your face against his cock, wetness of it staining your cheek and eyelid, but you stick out your tongue and begin licking. You hear his breathy chuckle and finally he releases your hair, giving you freedom which you immediately use to drag your tongue up and down his length. When you look up at him, you see that Astarion is consumed by pleasure, his eyes clouded and lips parted. You both are panting loudly but you notice it only now.
“Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me.” Astarion says with a degree of desperation in his voice and you hesitate before answering.
“I need you, Astarion. And I want you.” You say with your own voice coarse from the rough face-fucking you have been administered just earlier and a pleased smile appears on Astarion’s face.
“Keep going.”
So you do. Enthusiastically you resume licking his cock, tracing every vein and groove with the tip of your tongue, swirling it around the soft tip of his dick, making him moan now. You feel his hand return to your hair, both of them this time, but he’s not gripping it anymore, just cradling your head while you keep covering his length with saliva. For a moment you even dip your head lower, licking his balls, taking one of them into your mouth gently, sucking on it, then giving same attention to the other one.
“Oh gods, you’re so good…” Astarion struggles to speak and you smile proudly to yourself, you always love to be praised.
After a moment longer you return to his cock and take it into your mouth fully, your tongue pressing to the underside of it and you begin to bob your head, completely focused on the task at hand. You feel Astarion’s fingers tremble against your skull and you know he’s close.
“Fuck, your mouth feels so delicious.” Spawn moans and you feel his length twitch against your tongue just before Astarion shoves it deep into your mouth and begins spilling himself down your throat.
You gulp it down, listening to him moan as he uses your mouth to milk himself of every last drop and when he finally stops you hear him panting while still firmly cradling your head. After a moment Astarion pulls back and you release his already softening dick from your mouth, letting it drop. You open your eyes and look up, noticing his flushed face, beads of sweat on his forehead and his clouded eyes, but a satisfied smirk soon pulls at his lips and by your hair he yanks you back, letting go just before you drop-sit on your feet, finally getting some relief for your knees.
Without a word you use the back of your hand to wipe your chin and lips while Astarion quietly tucks himself back into his pants.
“I hope you won’t forget who you belong to, darling.” He coos again so sweetly it’s almost hard to believe he lost his composure so utterly just earlier. Your desire is still throbbing within your body like a drum but you realize that he’s done with you, at least for now.
“So that’s what this was all about?” You ask and with a silent grunt you get to your feet, looking into his eyes with a small frown. “You saw me with father and decided you needed to remind me that he’s not the only one who can have me?”
Astarion laughs and reaches out, caressing the same cheek he hit. It feels soothing, pleasantly cold against your sore skin and you lean into his touch before you can think against it.
“Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, I had a good time.” Spawn says and you can’t help but smile ever so slightly.
“You’re easy to please then, unlike my father.” You tease him and Astarion chuckles, removing his hand from your face, then he eyes you up and down slowly, as if trying to memorize exactly how you look in this moment, disheveled hair and all, your dress crumpled and stained.
“Maybe you should consider prioritizing me instead of him then. I would be a merciful master to you.” He says and your blink few times, trying to understand if you really heard what you just heard. Does Astarion really want you to choose?
“Astarion…” You begin, trying to pick your words but he just laughs again and starting to walk away, strutting with pride of a Vampire Lord himself.
“I’ll see you around, I’m sure, my little dhampir.” He says loudly and strolls back to the palace while you remain standing there, exhausted and dumbfounded.
Suddenly you feel like you’re between a hammer and an anvil and you dread to think what would happen if both Cazador and Astarion began getting increasingly jealous over you.
One thing you are sure of, if it ever came to that – someone wouldn’t survive.
The thought makes you shudder and you hope it will never come to that.
Art by @/klyukvav | Collaboration work between me and @vossprime
◇ Chapter II - History in Black ◇
⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Volenta van Halvek(Noct's OC)/Viktor Alexandar Riemenschneider(Voss' OC)
⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Overall story rating - E. Overall tags - E, canon-typical violence, smut, dark romance, age gap, older man/younger woman. This chapter - banter, arguing, mild violence, threatening, tension, handjob, blowjob, deepthroating, PiV, creampie, angst.
⚜ 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Far away from everything they know on an Emperor-forsaken planet, Explicator von Halvek meets Inquisitor Riemenschneider. Bound by the mission and their duties, they are forced to work together. Yet their cooperation becomes increasingly more complicated. Not only do they have to find a way to uproot the heresy they've come to eradicate, but also how to navigate their increasingly tense interactions. Like prometheum to the fire - they cannot stop irritating one another, and that just might compromise everything.
⚜ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: With his schedule unexpectedly freed, Inquisitor Riemenschneider finds himself out of excuses to postpone or avoid Excplicator Van Halvek altogether. Despite the first impressions, she is still someone he must find a way to work with and she did request data. However, the sharing of data turns the evening from simple discussion of strategies to insults and more. Something that neither of them will forget when the morning comes.
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 18,394 | AO3 | Chapter navigation
The quarters of many a hundred men are filled with shouted orders and the sound of equally as many pairs of boots calling across the rockcrete.
The Inquisitor finds the regiment where he’s ordered it, taking up residence in a flank of the building serving as equal parts storage and servants’ quarters. A hall, in all likelihood once home to multiple groundcars that have now been moved elsewhere, has been converted to make room for the droves of soldiers and equipment they’ve brought in. While the majority of them will be eventually rooted to other venues of encampment, for now the Militarum holds ultimate reign here.
Conceivably different is the scene from the rest of the mansion - loud and seemingly disorganized, men carrying things from point A to B with the occasional frustrated commissar shuffling in between trying to keep orders intact. Colonel Frindt, newly assigned charge of the men at the Inquisitor’s beck and call, is nowhere to be seen. Viktor figures he, too, has pursuits of bigger importance. Frindt is not why he’s here.
He finds who he is looking for surveying the going-ons from the entrance of a temporary billet. Behind him, a hallway and a series of chambers branches from the forum.
The man’s fingers are busy rolling a lho stick into shape: three twists of his tan hands, and he holds a perfect thin cylinder stuffed with leaves that he tucks behind his ear. More paper and stuffing find their way into his hands as he begins to roll another without stopping. Three twists, done.
Two things about him become apparent even in such a small gesture: a soldier’s demeanor, and the scars to show for it. They run up his hands and arms like arteries, disappearing under the hem of a guard-issue field jacket. He salutes when he notices Riemenschneider approach.
“Good evening, sir.” The man’s greeting is clipped through the filter clamped between his teeth. “Been wondering where you went.”
Vance Samuel has been picked up from the exact same battlefield that Viktor’s mentor has perished on. Knowledge around soldiers and weapons in a way that Viktor’s own couldn’t account for have gained him a permanent place in the retinue, and saved the former colonel from ending up issuing orders from behind a desk instead of being down in the mud where he wanted to be.
Viktor replies with a curt nod and comes to a standstill before the smoker. “The initial meeting took more time than expected.”
More of his nerves, too.
“We got settled in alright, ready when you are.” Samuel points a thumb behind him, into the row of the rooms whose hallway he is blocking with his not inconsequential body mass. “If you’re looking for the boy, he’s down there.”
A thing without a name, merely the boy to his people. The Inquisitor does not correct this habit. “He’s got a nice room upstairs. Close to you and far away from us, and ain’t that how we like it.”
Samuel shrugs, as if he’s aware that his joke may not land. He is correct in that assessment.
„You would think it would be rather pathetic for a seasoned soldier to be afraid of someone barely past adolescence.“
“I’m not.“ Samuel says with too much emphasis.
“I would hope so.”
He gives Viktor a sidelong glance. “Permission to speak openly, sir.”
“Granted.”
“’s the same as it was back in the Guard, you know? Us, them. We don’t mix. You leave that to the commissars and keep your head nice ‘n low, or shit starts sliding your way before you know it.” He clears his throat, but the trajectory of his gaze betrays that he knows he’s treading a fine line. “Not afraid. I simply don’t trust him, is all.“
“You trust me.“
Samuel smiles, hasty, crooked. He taps the lho twice against the palm of his hand, letting the tobacco settle before he speaks.
“You’re a damn good man, Inquisitor. For starters, you don’t start to blow up shit when you get nervous. Hell, you don’t get nervous. You, I can depend on. But that one?“ He points a thumb towards the back again, „No. No I don’t. Soon as he loses his head, I can smell the smoke. Not the pyres, and I’m not going crazy, that son of a-” he pauses. “That kid is just kindling from the inside out.”
Riemenschneider shoots him a glare that is almost pitying. He’s heard the whispers concerning his kind often enough. In the earlier years it felt like the tall Guard tales all held an ounce of truth, like he was all embers and slag under the surface. These days he knows that when it matters, both him and his protégé will cut like any other, and bleed like any other.
“Don’t fall for fairytales. He’s mine to command and my responsibility, but do not think that I won’t dispose of him, should he no longer be worth the patience.”
“That I know. But from where I’m standing? Seems like a bad trade-off.”
“Careful, colonel.” Viktor raises a hand, where a scar over his palm runs end to end, and brings thumb and pointer together to signal that this conversation is nearing its end together with his goodwill.
The responsibility of any leader is to hold all available information and compile it towards an outcome. Withhold, if necessary. It’s not Samuel’s place to question this.
Of course there’s more to it, there always is. Promises, loyalties, ambitions, but not any of it he would tell this man. Immense potential, and the sanctity of Viktor’s promise - that’s what currently is keeping the psyker alive.
“Whatever trust you have in me, you extend to him. Whatever trust you lack, you rectify. I do not tolerate unnecessary discord.“
“Just don’t expect him ‘n I to be friends.” Samuel raises both hands. “Got fire?” His eyes wander to the candles decorating Viktor’s shoulders as he flashes a grin that the Inquisitor doesn’t return.
“Use your lighter.”
“Worth a shot.” Samuel puts flame to tobacco seconds later. “But I assume he isn’t why you’re here either.”
Viktor nods. “We’re going to be moving soon, possibly tomorrow. Ordo Xenos has the perimeter secured, so I’m going to need you to use the time you have. Once that’s done, see if they can make use of you. I’ll be out to inform the colonel.”
“Permission to go talk to Frindt?“
“I prefer to do it myself.“
“You haven’t met him. If you want my humble opinion, sir, I’d advise against it.“ Samuel shrugs. “Not an easy man to get along with. The type to respond better to a fellow guardsman than an Inquisition official trying to tell him what to do.“
It’s far from Viktor's liking, but Samuel has a point. Frindt will not be the first nor the last to respond to someone flashing a rosette in one of the two customary ways – deference or defiance. The undercurrent of both is fear.
A short run through the finer points, at least enough to make a messenger, and Viktor watches Samuel walk off with a saunter in his step that seems willful, but is the result of an old injury.
The Inquisitor stalks past the open rooms, finds everyone nearly how he expects them to. Words are exchanged and observations made that all amount to the same.
Lancer sits playing an unfamiliar set of cards against himself when Viktor enters, and he doesn't ask the ex-con for the specifics of his game. Their Mechanicum scribe he meets hunched over one of the inner plates of a combat servitor. Their reaction is an impassive acknowledgement.
Obedient servants of the Golden Throne they are, conviction in their voices, but a new sort of apprehension is settling in their eyes. If there is truth to what he told Volenta, that something lays heavy upon this world, then they feel it too.
The row of rooms finds its end in the form of a small, rounded alcove. A reproduction of the Emperor smiles down mercifully upon those who tread here, placed between two milky windows. It may have served as a respite of prayer for servants without the luxury of private chapels and a lack of time to attend the mid-week services, if such things have not already ceased here.
The Inquisitor finds him there, with legs drawn to his chest and arms slung around them. The acolyte’s lips move, but the prayer is silent. Next to him kneels Haliana. Black tresses hide her face as she nods her head in little rhythmical increments.
Not intent on disturbing a ritual that he reveres the value of, Viktor stays in the doorway. His eyes sweep over them in the same line his shadow falls.
In those places where heresy freshly takes root, it still has half a mind to conceal itself. The people do not yet fall madly into the streets, the tones are still hushed and the rumors still seem like nothing more than percisely that. The people in these places often fear for their own gain more than for the good of their world or their souls, and so they are apprehensive when the Inquisitorial shuttles land, and watch what they say. No one applies that skepticism to a temple girl, a woman of the people.
Haliana had brought him something to the cadre even he finds hard to acquire: invisibility. Death World born, she’s likewise been able to hold her own in the aspects of the profession laden with pressure and lasfire well enough.
She breaks her trance-like repetition, as if suddenly becoming aware of his presence. Her greeting to him and the rise to her feet happen in the same fluid motion, and the subsequent hurry to exit the room speaks of a desire to be as unobstructive as possible.
It doesn’t escape him that the boy’s eyes follow her departure with something peculiarly wistful in his gaze. She’s one of the few that seeks him out rather than avoiding him. Viktor suspects this to be pious pity.
With her leaving, the acolyte notices his master's approach.
"Inquisitor." He straightens himself from the spot on the floor, but keeps his eyes to it. “Apologies. I came down to pray, and..” He trails off, midway realizing he's both apologizing for nothing and stating the evident.
“Far be it from me to disturb you, acolyte.”
He looks at the young man, one who entered his services under the name of Elio, and takes note of how unblemished his freckled face still is. Volenta and he, at least by optics, cannot be that far apart in age, and yet there yawns a gulf or maturity between the two that makes any further comparison impossible.
“I was finished, sir.” Elio’s eyes wander and find their way down again. “You’re here because of tomorrow.”
“You heard.” The tone is faintly neutral. Viktor could not care less if he overhears what is said about his person. In fact it might do him well.
Elio scratches at his wrists once, twice, as if they itch. “I did. It’s not much of a secret how Samuel feels about me.”
“It is not just him. Your state has been noticed.”
“I know. I know.” His speech is full of an impotent kind of frustration being bitten back down. “I understand I am to blame myself and I understand I have to take control.”
He brings the heel of his hand against his temple as if trying to shake the memory down like Samuel does his tobacco. “It would be easier if I could remember how.”
“You should know by now that I do not value ease.” Viktor shakes his head. “I am asking if you have made progress.“
“Things keep returning.”
“More precise.”
“The Scholastica is still gone. All of it.” He scratches his wrist again and where the sleeve rides up, one can see the mark etched into his skin. Proof he had been there, once, proof of a sanction completed, even if the boy can’t remember any of it. “But I remember the day before the Black Ship. Tycho-“ he halts. “Inquisitor Tycho, she told me about how she’d found me, of course, but it was always just words. I’ve never been truly there. I think… I think I remember the flames now. And being locked inside. But it’s still not a memory, more like a dream. Then, nothing again.”
There has been a time, months ago, that this would have been good news. The past has held the mirror up to their faces. Each new memory returning to Elio changes the trajectory – leading him toward greater power but seemingly straying from stability. The one who'd come before Viktor had a working theory that with the return of the memory of the Scholastica this would eventually end. Viktor isn’t so sure anymore.
"Look at me.” Viktor regards him, and for once manages to find the boy’s eyes when they’re not bound to the floor. “If we move tomorrow, will you be able to do what is asked of you in service of the Emperor, or will you not?”
It’s rhetoric. Both know that there is a single possible answer. No others are permitted, not in this moment, calling, lifetime.
“I-” For a moment Elio seems to hesitate nonetheless. He looks down at his hands, finding them frail and powerless and bisected by a scar that still hasn’t fully healed since it’s been burned into the flesh. The one in his mentor’s hand is pale and white, his – red and still closer to a wound.
“Don’t tell me you can try. Trying implies the possibility of failure. There is no such thing.”
When Elio replies, there is finally something like steel or spine in his gaze.
“I won’t disappoint you, Inquisitor.”
“Then collect yourself. Dismissed.”
His goodnight is faint, and it takes a while for the traipsing of feet to be dulled by the carpet of the hall.
Viktor finds himself in front of the rest of a night that has miraculously cleared itself. He questions his conscience for something he has missed, but the longer he does, the clearer it becomes that there is but a single point left on his list. The sky outside tells him the appropriate time to artificially add more work has long passed.
There’s still the dataslate in his coat pocket, then in his hands. The list of available forces opens before him in neat columns and reminds him he should get these to Volenta, and do so today.
It would follow her invitation all too well. It will not matter if he shows up at her door with information or wine, for he will still have ended up there.
Viktor turns on his heel, back into the heart of the house, and in the direction of the part where the Explicator must have her room.
As he makes his way through the corridors, the Inquisitor sees the signs of past struggle. He has been informed about the scuffle that happened once first inquisitorial forces made planetfall, about the nobles who threw themselves at soldiers in waves of manic frenzy. The reason of which has not been yet reported to Viktor, the truth of it possibly undiscovered even with his presence here.
Still, the marks on the walls that bear scratches, round burns of las shots and blood splatter remain visible even as he passes several serfs scrubbing such spots with tired, blank expressions. His colleagues seem to have treated them well. None show signs of abuse and their clothes are clean, but their unsettling muteness is strange and mildly unsettling. None greet or bow their heads when Viktor passes them.
Finding himself above the need to knock on every door to find the woman he needs to work with, he pauses and consults the data-slate. Blueprints of the mansion have been loaded into his archive already, marking spots of everything, including his own troops and chambers that the Inquisitor will take as his once the time is appropriate to retire for the night. And, here it is, the mark of a last name and a symbol of Ordo Xenos somehow standing out amidst two dozen similar markings. At least it is not far from where he is.
There are no sounds besides the serfs scrubbing somewhere far away. Echoes of their labor are the only noise inside the mansion.
Viktor needs to turn back and return to the corridor that the Governor’s own office is in, but once he takes the path to the side of it, he sees more marks of the struggle that remain. Some of the lamps and candles have been replaced with crudely attached glo-globes, hanging by pieces of thin rope. They cast an eerie ghostly glow over the walls and furniture, sectioning the corridor in segments of warm light and strange tunnel-like tightness. There is no light over one door that he seeks. It’s draped in a shadow as if a dark curtain has been drawn over that door.
At the end of the corridor there is a window. The corner of it has been damaged and now there’s a plasteel sheet covering it, taped to the glass and barely staying up. But the view outside is what catches his attention. The pyre, aflame with a familiar orange glow finally brings confirmation to Viktor’s observation from earlier - he did smell bodies burning.
The flickering light dances through the corridors like specters haunting the halls, but leaves him untouched in the darkness before the door. For a moment he stands and watches. Watches the fire dance, the force that finds a home in him and allows him to wield it in turn. Terror is still etched on the black-charred faces tied to the poles, but what is this terror in the face of righteous justice? What is soot darkening the air if not a sign of cleansing? He guides his eyes away from the glow, and it leaves bright spots in his vision.
He raises his fist to the door and raps his knuckles against wood as dark as the night itself. In the seconds that follow the knock and its reverb, he asks himself what he wants more: an answer, or none.
But he doesn’t need to wait long or even begin to doubt his decision, because the door opens before Viktor. Not with a dramatic swing or a shy crack between the wood and its frame. It just opens and behind it Volenta stands. Her expression is unreadable at first, but a second or two later her eyebrows begin to rise and do not stop rising until her surprise at Viktor’s presence is unmistakable.
“I… I did not expect you. Not at this hour, at least.” She admits and it’s clear that she truly did not expect him. Black shirt is open far too low for decency, even despite the bra she obviously is wearing beneath it, a band of it visible against her pale skin. Sleeves rolled up, but pants and shoes in their places. In her hand that didn’t operate the door open there’s a half-empty glass of amber liquid and a smoldering lho stick. Last thing that emphasizes her unreadiness to meet anyone right now is Volenta’s loose hair, somewhat dishevelled like the woman was holding her head in hands, whether out of desperation or frustration – impossible to tell.
If Viktor mirrors the same surprise back at her, he doesn’t let the silence stretch long enough for it to hatch into awkwardness. “If I’ve caught you at an inconvenient time, I will leave this with you and be on my way.” He holds up the dataslate. The hair now falling open over her shoulders suits her, as do the traces of relaxation, but he doesn’t wish to intrude upon her if it was never meant for his eyes. “You’re right, it is rather late.”
Volenta takes the slate and looks down on it, then turns and walks into the room, leaving the door open. “Come, I might have questions and speaking in the doorway might bring bad luck.” A superstition she carries from her home Hive world, clearly.
Viktor follows her out of the shade of the doorway into the room. He finds a seat to occupy at the far wall, an upholstered chair opposite another one of its kind flanking a small table, and lets his eyes wander across the room, falling both on Volenta and the few, personal traces of her short stay here. The pyre-light continues to dance outside the window.
There’s not much to infer about the person who’s occupying the chambers. A couple of Imperium grade strongboxes, closed. The bed is made. But unlike her behavior earlier in the Governor’s office, Volenta clearly does not apply the same sentiments to her own dwelling – the stacks of papers and folders are neat where they rest on a dresser, to the point one could place a ruler and it would all align perfectly. There’s an ashtray on the table by which Viktor sits, having remnants of at least a handful of lho butts there. A bottle, half empty, is left open.
While he inspects the surroundings he has found himself in, Volenta places her glass on the table and swipes at the slate. Her expression is once more not betraying any emotion.
“Right.” She says and inhales a smoke, then puts out the lho with the rest. “I do have a formation plan if we need a grander attack, but I suggest we take a team of smaller numbers to inspect what’s going on. I got a report not long ago and more of my people have gone missing. Three only, but that’s all I have sent out. A covert mission, maybe bearing less signs of the Inquisition and possibly the ones of this planet’s PDF, would probably give us a less restrained access to people and information. But it’s a risk, as you may guess.”
She doesn’t look at him, just taps at the data-slate again and begins chewing on her bottom lip, thinking. Viktor watches her expression change the way it did over their maps, deep thought etching itself onto elegant features.
“You do have an interesting tendency to talk as if it is you in charge of this mission, Van Halvek.” There’s the barest hint of sarcastic amusement in his tone. “But you raise a good point on the PDF. I’ve put the Militarum on standby, but it is too early and the information is too diffuse to go in guns blazing without denying ourselves potential points of entry. You said that Ordo Xenos is ready. Depending on how ready that is, I would prefer to move forward with this as soon as possible. As I see it, it’s a risk, but a risk we should be taking.”
Her eyes flick to him at the remark, but she listens until Viktor is finished, then gives him back the slate. “I was thinking more about information we can gain. Whatever is on this planet that has gone wrong, no one can outpower us. We’re not dealing with Chaos Marines, for example. This risk is welcome, needed even, but I don’t believe we’re at an actual risk of being overpowered here.”
She smiles, reaching for a glass and for the first time something is not right, not quite yet. The way Volenta’s finger brushes over the rim of her drink is slightly unstable, betraying her intoxicated condition that she is obviously used to hiding.
“If that’s all then our discussions for today are over. Tomorrow we can decide what we do, but for the time being, I doubt that going out in pitch darkness will serve us well. And you need rest, having arrived here only several hours prior. The rest has been taken care of, including your chambers after we left the Governor’s office, so you are free to take your residence there immediately.” A pause and she brings the glass to her lips then takes a sip while looking outside the window to the aflame pyre, then finally adds: “Since I presume you’re not here for that drink I offered.”
“My main concern isn’t power, it is a semblance of strategy. I wouldn’t want to announce our movement with fanfare and lasfire, or at least not yet.” Viktor absentmindedly taps his fingers against the armrest in a slow rhythm. Four beats, repeat. “Sending me to bed like a petulant child, acolyte? I did come here with half a mind of taking you up on your offer. Though you did not offer me any.” He sweeps his hand towards the half-empty bottle.
Turning her gaze to Viktor, Volenta raises her eyebrows again, although this time only slightly. “Didn’t think you’d… sink to this level. Isn’t that what you think of me, Inquisitor? That I’m a hindrance? An interruption in the operation that you would operate smoothly otherwise, if I were not present?”
She lets out a small scoff and shakes her head slightly then steps to the side, picking another glass from one of the drawers in the dresser. After inspecting it with a keen eye for cleanliness Volenta walks back, puts it before Viktor and hesitates, wondering if he prefers to do it himself or if she should serve him. “But I am always keen to share a drink with coworkers.” Another pause, this time verbal and she adds with slight hesitation. “After all, my invitation was to make peace. Excuse my earlier words.”
This time it’s Viktor’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I assume you’re a great many things, Van Halvek. Insubordinate for example, but a hindrance or obstruction – no, I don’t think so.” He nods when she puts down the glass, waiting for her to pour. “Though now I am curious which one of your previous words specifically you want me to excuse.” It sounds dangerously close to an apology on her end.
Not answering right away, Volenta buys herself some extra time by dutifully pouring Viktor a drink. Only when the bottle is back on the table is when she sits down at last, considering her next words.
“Let’s say the exchange earlier. I may have been too forward and I realize that now.”
Another halt indicating that she’s not quite done yet while turning the glass in her hands with elbows resting on her thighs, giving him more than ample look down her already open shirt that Volenta seems neither care about or even think of. It is he who entered her personal abode, the only space where she does not have to wear a mask of an agent and a soldier both.
“I don’t have them, by the way.” She gives him a lopsided smirk. “The picts, I mean. Of me, naked. That would be a terrible oversight of security protocols. I just saw an opportunity for a…” Gesturing vaguely, Volenta pauses to have a drink from her glass. “Let’s say - a lighthearted joke. Most of those I’m around respond more positively than you have, but the God-Emperor can’t give one man both a sense of justice and wit. Seems not even He is that generous.”
It could sound like an insult, if not for her softer tone and a light chuckle that comes after the words, accompanied by a small shake of her head. And before he can respond to her, she lifts her sharp gaze that has now softened, but is it from alcohol in her veins or only appears so because of the gentle flickering lights that are hanging from the walls, it’s impossible to tell.
“Apologizes, Viktor. That was another joke that I’m sure you don’t appreciate.” With a sigh, Volenta runs a hand over her loose hair, brushing silky strands away from her face.
For a moment he follows the motion of her hands, guiding away from her face towards her ear and down her neck. Viktor takes the glass by the rim, rotating it once, twice, around its own axis and watching the liquid catch golden drops of light in its movement.
“I am not exactly known for my sense of humor, no.” Still, he finds her amusement at her own jokes not entirely lost on him. “But I can appreciate the apology. We have started off on a spectacularly wrong foot, but with nothing to prevent us from starting over, consider it past.” He lifts his glass and his gaze, holding it out to wait for her to bring hers against it. “To peace, then.”
“Very generous of you.” Volenta admits with a degree of surprise in her tone which she tucks away before speaking again. “To peace then.”
Rising her glass only slightly, she salutes the man and makes eye contact directly. One of the few things she has picked up during her time at the Astra Militarum. A soldier always looks the person they drink with in the eyes when toasting. Who knows if it’s the last time they are doing it.
He holds the contact as the toast breaks and both take a drink, Viktor more meditative than her, considering it’s his first one. He looks at Volenta over the rim before her shape becomes distorted through the glass, only then closing his eyes to savor.
She is still a strange woman, he finds, and no concession on her part would change that, but the animosity has dulled, even if debatable how long this can last. The liquor directs his attention away, the aroma of rich red fruit and oak heavy on his palate. Smooth and warm down his throat, he understands how she managed to finish half the thing by herself.
“Our dear governor clearly had taste.” He puts down the glass, in the same breath recalling the previous hours in the study. “In this matter, at least.”
“You like this swill? I’m surprised.” Volenta scoffs but refills her glass and tops off his as well. “I prefer something less sweet and richer, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
Still, for a moment she observes the man before her, the way he’s sitting, the way he’s holding a glass. Every little detail tells Volenta a story of an Inquisitor assured of himself and his path. For the best, of course; she wouldn’t want to serve with a man who has no idea what he’s doing and she already met several such self-proclaimed leaders. They didn’t charm her even one bit, but something about Viktor makes her want to edge him on rather than dismissing his words entirely. Perhaps it’s that stern outwards attitude that she loves breaking in lesser men. Or perhaps it’s less of a challenge and rather the handsome face that she would prefer to see displaying emotion, even if it’s anger.
Suddenly she leans back in the chair, body language speaking of a relaxed woman in charge. Legs slightly parted, one hand landing on the armrest, and she swirls the drink in her glass with a smile. “I will admit, I’m glad you have decided to join me after all. Given how a smile is an undiscovered expression in your catalogue of emotions, I was fully expecting you to kick my ass back onto my shuttle and send me out.”
He mimics her ease. “To be quite honest, by the looks of this world I would have expected the only thing here to be pure promethium. This is a pleasant surprise.” Viktor turns his head, finding her looking. “I’ve thought about it - both declining your invitation and the shuttle. I have to admit I did not expect the offer to be genuine.”
And as she has studied him before, he does unto her in turn. Waits for her reaction, anything that will tell him more about who she is besides both attentive and overconfident, both flying fast and too close to the sun. The smile, all self-assured across her face together with the flush of light intoxication, feels like witnessing a crack in the mask their shared calling requires them to hold upright at all times. He allows himself the curiosity for the beyond, for once.
One raised eyebrow and her smile widens a fraction. “Is that so? Do women often lie about the invitations they cast towards you? Especially when it comes to one’s bedroom?” A sharp edge in Volenta’s tone is slightly mocking, pushing, pressing further to see where is the limit at which this man loses patience. “Or do bedrooms of women not interest you?” Hiding her expression behind the glass, the Explicator takes a few deep swallows from it and nearly finishes the drink.
But her eyes.
Her eyes remain keenly fixed on Viktor, with dark eyelashes casting shadows onto the ice grey of the irises that don’t appear to be dulled by liquor. Not yet, at least.
Viktor clicks his tongue. “Careful, Van Halvek. We were just getting on so well.” But the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly upwards as he says it. He withstands her probing gaze, but the shadows over her eyes, like those falling over her doorway, promise an unknown threshold as the burn of the liquor begins to leisurely seep into his veins.
“I would not usually deign this with an answer, but I remember that I did promise you to be an open book.” He interrupts himself through a slow sip from his glass. “So be assured that a lack of interest is not a problem. I do not see why you would want to use our time together to probe into my love life.”
“Because I would loathe to spend the last hours of the day discussing work.” She scoffs but it’s lighthearted if not slightly juvenile. “Also, it’s not so strange I take interest in people I work with. If worst is to pass - I will rely on you on the battlefield. I would prefer to know if I’m not asking for an accidental shot to the back.”
Leaning to the table, Volenta picks up the bottle and again serves Viktor first, then herself. The bottle is empty but she has another one and is not unwilling to open it if the conversation goes as easy as it has up to this point. Although she’s aware that to Viktor, this might not be the most effortless cooperation he has ever had.
“And I meant a gunshot. Just to clarify.” She gives him a meaningful look with a smile, another one of her jests. Another attempt to see if this one will achieve the desired effect.
“And how has this worked for you? Has veering into the personal made the difference between a bullet in the back or none?”
Viktor scoffs and stands up, taking the newly-filled glass with him in a half-circle swipe of his hand. For a moment it looks like he might be leaving after all. Instead, he looks towards the pyre outside the window for half a second, then back to her. The orange glow dances behind him, running along the edges of his silhouette.
“Even in your state-” the tips of his fingers slide over the rim of his glass with quiet intensity, his shadow reaching forward ever so slightly. “-I do not think you naive enough to not exactly know where you are treading.”
She pauses, watching him stand from where she’s seated, then lets out a short laugh that sounds more like another scoff. “You surprise me, Viktor.” Volenta takes a sip and leans back in the chair for a moment, then stands and walks to the other bottle that’s still perched on a dresser near the tidy stacks of documents. “Very well, you caught me.” Another sip from the glass in her hand and she delivers the bottle to the table, nearly joining Viktor’s side in the small space between the two armchairs. “Although I do not appreciate you assessing my state. Whether I have drink in me or not, I’m still capable if fighting is needed.”
But she knows she’s not being fully truthful, especially when Volenta looks down at the glass and feels the familiar warmth of alcohol sway her vision for just a moment. Blinking the discomfort away and finding steadiness again, the woman sweeps her gaze over Viktor, checking weaponry on his person, but also with a different kind of interest than before.
“But if you think the invitation was a guise for something notorious, then you are mistaken.” A pause for breath and then another admission. “Our very job is to peel the layers of people. Are you surprised I’m curious to see what hides behind yours?” She finishes with a shrug and drinks more from her glass, beginning to feel tension and wishing to dull it.
“Ah, but you’re doing it again.” Viktor reciprocates the gesture, but savors the drink as if it is a distraction, then discards it back onto the table. His eyes stay on where she stands. Neither her gaze nor the conveniently vivid speech have escaped him. “You bait, coat your words in more innuendo as if it will protect you, step back. Excuse your forwardness through idle curiosity without meaning.”
Irritation, intoxication, laced with the undertones of her perfume. His fingertips grace along the wood-patterned edge of the table.
“I gave you enough avenues to sate that curiosity. Promised to answer any question you had. Only to be left asking myself the same question again and again.” A stray strand of the hair falling over her shoulders has come loose, flying away from her face. Viktor brushes it back, two fingers sitting against her temple. “It gets tiresome.”
Before Volenta can even feel startled at the unexpectedness of his touch, her reflexes work faster and she grabs at his wrist, fingers digging into the flesh. The liquor in the glass in the other hand sloshes over the fingers. But she doesn’t notice it, doesn’t feel it, because after the motion – the emotion comes. Fear at first, at the realization that she just acted against the Inquisitor in an aggressive manner. Then, something else takes the forefront of her increasingly drunken mind.
The warmth of the touch.
She didn’t tell him, not yet, and isn’t sure if she ever will tell this to Viktor, but this being her first mission leading the Ordo Xenos forces by herself has left Volenta feeling… lonely. And somewhere, at the back of her mind, she understands that her push on his nerves and patience is an attempt to find a connection there. Yet she does not think of it, brushes the thought away like cobwebs that threaten to wrap around her thoughts.
And yet, maybe they do anyway, because instead of releasing Viktor’s wrist and apologizing, she draws it near, and with eyelids dropping to a close Volenta presses the side of her face into his palm. It’s something she does often, to the point it’s not even a conscious choice but an instinct that responds faster than her slowed senses.
Viktor’s body, muscles already tensed up in the moment her fingers had wrapped around his wrist and expecting his own imminent response, freezes. For a moment, his hand stays flexed, two fingers reaching out towards her sleeve still not knowing if their next movement dictated by her reaction will be to withdraw or take her by the hair. Some part of him demands he still follows up – that there can only be these pathways to guide yourself along, that the best response to a vulnerable thing is to destroy it. But the dull haze of the liquor sparks the feeling as if down his entire arm, and though he could have long drawn on bits of sorcery to rid himself of its disadvantage, the thought seems now as far away as everything else. Her cheek is so warm against his fingers, the skin soft where his thumb graces over it. His hand relaxes against her. The forward momentum – and Volenta with it – fades, becomes something almost soft.
On impulse, no clearer than the one that seems to lead her, his fingers trace their way under her jaw. But that’s all that it takes to break the illusion for her. To bring her mind back into action and the present. Back to the realization that she’s not home or with someone she trusts.
The eyes snap open, sharp, and lock onto the target of a handsome, yet unfamiliar face. The glass drops from her other hand, the right, and it falls onto the desk below. After it connects with the cheap replication of wood, but before it even bounces off of it or begins to roll towards the edge, the same right hand strikes out faster than Volenta’s own mind can conceive.
The palm of her hand connects heavily with Viktor’s face and the hit rings out in the otherwise silent room. Like a strike of thunder on a summer sky of a paradise planet. In the microseconds that follow the hit, the Inquisitor’s hand still remains at her cheek, warm and pleasantly rough, yet her feet become unsteady while Volenta’s mind only attempts to begin to process what she just has done.
By the time Viktor notices the pain, he is already in motion. There’s no finesse to his thoughts then, only the flow of them in which action warrants a reaction. The intoxication clears in a single second.
In a fluid reach the hand of the Inquisitor slides from its resting place to the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair. He forces her head backwards, turning her face up towards him and feels his fingers dig into her scalp as the pull tightens.
His arm draws her towards him and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to slam her head into that chest of his and end all this by ramming his knee into her stomach, sending Volenta to the ground. The dirty tactics of his youth.
But she ends up against him. One hand of his is behind her head, and when he brings the other up into her field of vision, she can swear to see a flicker around them that isn’t just the light outside. The beginning of heat caresses her face.
“That was stupid, Van Halvek. Very much so.” Words pronounced like a mockery, a scold, barely concealed anger. “Peace? I see little reason why I shouldn’t send you home to your master with a couple new scars, or not at all.”
With a grunt of her hair pulled Volenta glares up at Viktor, straight into his eyes, because his towering form is not intimidating but enraging her. And with a corner of her eye she sees his rising hand, waits a second until the heat begins to radiate from his palm and Volenta slaps at it like it’s a fly she has no patience for.
“Don’t you dare to lay your cursed witch hands on me, Viktor.” It’s a snarl and a naked threat that gets emphasized when he feels a blade of a concealed dagger being concealed no more, pressing just above his belt to the side and already piercing the first layers of his uniform.
Viktor suppresses a smile, partially at himself, partially for not having seen it coming. To bring more distance between them and rid her of a momentary advantage he yanks her back and down by the hair he still holds, forcing Volenta back into the center of the room. He aims his boot just below the knee for good measure. If anything, he wants to assure she goes down. There’s a chance she’ll still have time to bring the dagger in or up, he knows, but not in deep, and reflexively his own harm is a risk he’s willing to take, if necessary.
“Witch hands?” He flexes the hand still half raised. “That seemed different a minute ago.”
The clarity of an altercation, however minor, passes and the alcohol in Volenta’s head surges back. But that’s not what begins burning her face.
It’s embarrassment, the shame of vulnerability and the sheer, unpleasant rightness of Viktor’s words. She flushes, clearly lost for words. Even the harshness of his grip on her hair becomes a thing of background when Volenta is confronted with her own weakness that she showed, even if for a moment of a drunken yearning.
She briefly considers bringing up the dagger, but she’s not inexperienced enough that this is not an equal fight anymore. With his size and the grip he has on her, considering whatever inferno Viktor might unleash upon Volenta at a moment’s notice or even less than that, there’s not much of a reason to proceed with the physical.
So she drops the dagger and raises her hands in a mockery of surrender because venom returns to Volenta’s voice and taints the smirk emerging on her face – the last defense left in her arsenal.And when she speaks next the words are strained due to the angle of her head that Viktor put it in, but the defiant flame is clear in her pale grey eyes.
“Aww, how many decades since someone let you touch them like this, hm? Does it sting to be reminded of that?”
Through their short-lived cooperation, one that may yet find its end in flames, he’s gotten glimpses beneath the layers just as much as she has tried to. He can’t slip the shred of satisfaction it brings to have gotten under her skin.
But she’s talking herself in circles and into an early grave, and call it the sentimentality of an old man, but he doesn’t wish to see himself rid of this one yet. The same question on his mind like a stuck pict-feed screen: What is it you want?
“Volenta – stop talking.”
He moves past the distance he created and the hand that isn’t firmly in her hair takes her by the edge of the shirt. Viktor drags her up and presses his mouth against hers. With Volenta on the tips of her toes, she can only grab onto him so that the suddenness of losing balance doesn’t end up with her falling.
There are no thoughts in her head, just familiarity of intimacy that she has been craving for since leaving the flagship Volenta calls home, since embarking on a mission that is designed to mark a new start in her career.
There’s no confusion or even surprise in her mind either. She immediately responds to the kiss, gripping the front of Viktor’s uniform in her fists and pulling him even further into herself, letting the man remain the unyielding pillar that he has been up until now. Then there’s a whisper, with Volenta’s eyes closed and lips still brushing against his.
“How fiercely does this fire burn, Inquisitor?”
His lips form a slight smile against hers. “Patience, acolyte, patience.”
His hand in her hair loosens just so, until it is a lighter kind of ache directing her head, the other trailing down to her waist to allow her some stability in overcoming their difference in height. Viktor’s arm around Volenta brings her against the bulk of his body, against the spot the knife had sat moments ago, this time not permitting a way backwards or out. When he returns his lips to hers, it is with unapologetic hunger. Yet she chuckles into the kiss.
“Acolyte?” A pause, to playfully yet painfully sink her teeth into his bottom lip for a moment. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for this.” Releasing his jacket with one hand, she moves it lower and cups the front of his crotch. “Or do you desperately want to remove my identification, so that once this is over you can easily forget me?” A squeeze to make a point and Volenta smiles to him. “No, I won’t let you forget me, Viktor.”
He doesn’t press into the touch despite how good it feels, but the hiss of his breath is more than traitorous and Viktor briefly moves his lips from hers to against her neck when her teeth relent then to the side of her face. The beating of Volenta’s pulse sits under his touch.
“You really never stop, don’t you? Is that your thing?”
A hand slides to cup the back of her leg, suddenly lifting her up as if the young woman weighs nothing, and is held there only by the firm grip of him against the muscle of her thigh.
Startled by the suddenness of his action, Volenta scrambles to grab onto him, managing to throw a hand around Viktor’s neck and barely missing setting her sleeve on fire from the flames upon his pauldrons. Another hand she keeps in a tight fist, clutching the front of his uniform, now not daring to let go, but his lips on her neck make her sigh and she leans her head back, giving him more access.
With eyelashes fluttering to a close, Volenta smiles. “It is my thing. Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of who I am. Or what I want.”
He continues his attentions down the spot she now leaves exposed for him, hearing her words echo under his lips and he works his way down towards her collarbone. Her sighs are a beautiful thing, and he‘d rather coax more of them out of her than have them argue all the way until they’re both undressed.
“Much like you to mistake composure for shame.” He mumbles against the spot of skin where her collar dips downwards, words punctuating themselves with his steps where he carries her across the room. For a moment he considers just throwing her onto the plush bed to the side and letting things take their course from then on.
Instead he sinks himself back into the recline of the chair, pulling Volenta into his lap where the warm weight of her stirs the ache.
“Go on then, Volenta.” He pulls her back in by the front of her shirt, thumb lazily pushing the zipper down but not yet fully. “Enlighten me on the extent of your want.”
Surprised, very obviously so, Volenta just stares at Viktor, small breaths escaping her lips. He can’t be serious, can he? Blinking a few times, like an animal caught in sight-line of a bolter, she’s not sure what to do. Not many things throw her off, but this has.
And she’s not used to taking the lead. Not like this.
Finding herself at a loss, Volenta glances down at Viktor’s fingers, then back at his face. Everything that she was up until this moment crumbles apart, at the way he hasn’t said or done a single thing she tried to predict, not even once.
“Wait a second.”
The hand on her shirt stops, but two fingers stay hooked onto the gap in the fabric between where the last points of contact strain apart. Viktor’s touch hovers above her skin as if holding the moment in the same stasis without tipping it in one direction or the other.
“Yes?” The tone is casual, almost unassuming. “I have to admit I did not expect you to falter so quickly.” But his smile – closed yet real and carrying the same constant air of impenetrability – tells her of immense satisfaction. His eyes rest on her face and only her face.
“You’re infuriating.” She pouts. “And your pauldrons are stupid too.”
With a frown that follows the words she reaches under them, trying to figure out how to detach them. Volenta can’t back out now. Not when his smug grin is grating on her nerves worse than any ad-mech needle.
“I’ll take that first one as a compliment, coming from you”
The clasp holding his coat comes undone with a click. A snap of his fingers and flames he willed into existence are erased from it again. The coat, along with the extinguished offending pauldrons, slides off his shoulders to drape over the back of the chair. Viktor’s own fingers work until Volenta‘s shirt at last opens under them, letting his eyes generously assess her.
Beneath the silver rosette around her neck, Volenta wears a black bra. The lace of it is a stark contrast against her pale skin. No scars, no blemishes, but that’s not something Viktor really pays attention to. The size of her chest, revealed at last, is much more than it appeared. More than a handful, each of them. The Emperor truly grants some more than others.
But she’s less intrigued by Viktor’s impressions of her and just shrugs off the shirt, letting it pool around the slim waist where the fabric is tucked at least for the time being. With deft fingers, Volenta begins to undo the Inquisitor’s coat, the buckles falling open easily, then the shirt underneath until she pauses.
With fingertips gently tracing against his throat, Volenta inspects the mark of Scholastica Psykana upon Viktor’s throat, a brand he could only remove by replacing the skin itself.
“Beautiful.” She smirks.
Viktor does not exactly bare his throat when she does it, but does not conceal it either. The brand goes deep, and where her fingers cross it the touch vanishes and then returns along the sensitive edges. He turns his head to hold her content gaze. Hands wander along the soft, scarless shoulders down to where they assume the closure along the black lace. His own roughened palms contrast her skin in every touch.
“Beautiful because of the honor of sanctioning?” He remarks, calling to mind her previous comments on his witch nature. “Or for what else it represents?”
The sigil marks him and is likewise a promise. An oath that he is no longer a danger to those not in the path of his wrath and that the gifts bestowed upon him are tightly under control. To him it is, perhaps, the only scar on his body that does not serve as a reminder of a grave failure, but perhaps the triumph of not becoming one.
Her eyes flick to the mark again, then back to Viktor’s face and she chuckles. “Do you really want to know?” With renewed hunger at seeing his brand, Volenta kisses him eagerly. If not for anything else, then to shut him up and have him focus.
Palms wander down his naked chest to the belt and quickly start undoing it. The sizable chest presses firmly against his when her hips rise to give her own hands more space to work on a buckle, the buttons, the zipper.
There’s something about his brand that gets to Volenta. Not in a way Viktor sees himself or his lack of failure up until this point, but something akin to an animal being branded. Something shameful and twisted that speaks of sinfulness by letting him touch her. The same touch that lights her skin on fire and makes the coil of desire twist tightly in the pit of her body.
Through drunken haze Volenta realizes she might regret this by the time morning comes, the moment they are back in their uniforms, at a war table, discussing the mission and what needs to be done. She might find shame then, embarrassment and penitence at carousing with one of those she prefers to subdue and punish, not reward. But that is a worry she is willing to leave for tomorrow, the thought entirely forgotten the moment Volenta slips her delicate fingers into the open fly of Viktor’s pants.
With a satisfied, hot exhale against his mouth, she takes him into her palm and lets out a breath of a moan right after. The ghost of a reply he means to give gets equally cut short by the low hum coming from his chest. The hard length of his cock eagerly presses into her hand, and though it is sizeable, it is the girth that gives her an appreciative pause as her fingers wrap around him.
He holds the back of her thigh as if there's any space between them left to close, evident in the hardness of the touch. Intoxication has long been overtaken by the heady rush of arousal. A desire close to fulfillment but never quite there, the swell of her chest against his, the tilt of her hips sitting above him, almost anticipating the moment they’re going to come down. He sees it in the subtle flush of her skin and the parted lips, the symptoms of a mutual undoing. And then there’s the change in her hunger, the glint in her eyes that has been sparked when they touched upon his mark, that and a half-forgotten question. Do you really want to know?
Viktor’s hand fits just below the rise of her breasts, cupping one and through the lace beginning to roll the nipple underneath his fingers with little gentleness. “Tell me.” He breathes onto her lips, already knowing the answer can only be a red-hot iron to set irritation alight anew.
At first she hisses when his touch makes her pause and a shiver runs down her spine making a catlike mewl nearly escape Volenta’s throat before she swallows it down. “You may not like the answer and I don’t handle rejection well.”
She teases with a breathy whisper and a smile, catching Viktor’s bottom lip between her teeth and biting to the point of pain. Yet her pale gaze is on his eyes, sharper than what it should be considering just how much she drank before he even arrived.
Releasing his lip, she continues smiling and watches Viktor closely while giving his cock a few, agonizingly slow pumps. Volenta wants to see him react, to watch the beginning of his undoing under her touch before she has to get herself out of his lap to shed what’s left of her clothes.
For a moment it seems as if he’s going to remain his stone-faced self and a sharp intake of breath will be her only reward. But then his eyelids flutter shut, head tipping back ever so slightly and the pleasure writing itself onto his face. It takes a moment for him to recollect himself.
“That’s already an answer, isn’t it?” He pinches her nipple between a thumb and pointer, intending the same sweet agony as when she had sunk her teeth into his lip, before his hand slides elsewhere and comes up to rest underneath her jaw. Fingertips slightly caress against the sides of her windpipe, thumb idly running down the front. “I’d rather not leave things incomplete.”
“Less of an answer than you think, dear.” She whispers and first presses her lips to his own throat, then leaves a wet stripe with her tongue when Volenta moves her face to the side of his neck. “And while I do enjoy seeing you try and keep your composure when I say the most outrageous things, I still don’t want a shot to the back. The gun one, of course.” Her hand moves, the grip of her fingers tight but not uncomfortably so, and she continues stroking him, appreciating the length and the girth. “But I can answer you honestly, if in turn you will be honest with me. And…” She nips at the underside of his jaw with a smile he does not see. “…don’t give me that bullshit about being an open book. We’re of the same kind, Viktor, you and me, we know how to lie without lying, and that’s not what I want.”
Yet her own garb grows uncomfortably tight at the need for more than this, the different kind of friction that Volenta could experience too, and she dips her head, trailing kissed down his chest, moving one leg out of the chair and onto the floor, pulling away slowly but surely.
Under her skilled hands, it becomes hard for Viktor to focus, much less to duel her in the blow-by-blow they’ve kept up all the way to here. When she pulls away, he watches her slide out of his grasp with a mixture of desire, a different kind of interest and not without following the trail of kisses with the wish for her to linger or eventually sink to her knees.
He catches her by the chin before the last of the touch breaks, fingers against an unblemished cheek.
“If it is as you say and we are of the same kind…” There’s a tone to it that still betrays doubts on the matter. “…you know this cannot ever be an absolute promise. That’d be asking for a cost beyond prediction. That is honesty, too.” He kisses her, slowly releasing the grip. “So I won’t give you any of that bullshit, but I might trade you an honest answer.”
“Don’t be so jaded, Viktor.” She smirks and takes his wrist with her fingers, releasing his shaft at last. “But very well, let’s trade more than bodily fluids. Does my offer of honesty for honesty work? Or is there something else you want as payment?”
Still watching his face, Volenta maneuvers Viktor’s hand and parts her lips, guiding his thumb into her mouth where she pushes the wet, hot muscle of her tongue against the digit, moving it around in slow circles. After a moment, before he can even think of doing anything beyond sitting there, she pulls away, releasing Viktor’s hand, and takes off her unclasped bra only to discard it by the chair.
She eyes him in this moment - chest barren, pants undone, his eagerness clear by the way his cock stands hard for her, and she takes in the view of a man that Volenta nearly wanted to strangle some handful of hours ago. The hard features of Viktor’s face and the look in his eyes speak of more than just cold professionalism he showed before. He’s handsome, Volenta decides. And the greying hair that she somehow managed to mess up already makes her smile proudly.
She likes what she sees.
She likes it very much.
And so, with practiced precision she undoes her own belt, then the fly of her pants while still standing between his legs. Pausing before the last shed of her clothes, Volenta traces her fingers over his abdomen and if reading his thoughts earlier - drops to her knees, the innate desire to serve buckling her by his feet. There, she takes his length at the base with one hand and keeping her eyes on Viktor, Volenta slowly licks the underside of his cock from the base to the tip. Watching her with the eager eyes of someone who presumes to know what comes next, his thoughts now dissolve entirely as her mouth finds a better use than before.
Through the haze of it Viktor tries to keep his eyes on her, to take in the view of that pretty face servicing him as if there’d never been anything burning between them but need. There’s something immensely satisfying seeing her on the knees, about the constellation of respective positions in and outside of this room and all that has come to pass in the hours before.
He meets her light gaze, watching the slick drag of her tongue along the shaft. The pleasure of the physical gets almost overtaken by that of the visual. The sound daring to escape his throat he dulls into a pleased hum.
“Trying to avoid your own answer, Volenta?” Viktor teases, trying to hide the heaviness of arousal in his tone and the way his breaths come deeper.
Truth is, he wants it all - her honesty, her neverending defiance, her lips around his cock to the hilt. To not forget her but to take and take and have all of her as if there’s no point beyond which there is nothing left for him to have. To burn through her like a forest fire and hope it never stops its kindling.
His hand caresses, finds its way back into her hair and holds there firmly, halfway imagining how it would feel if she took him down her throat. He hopes for it to serve in the place of an answer.
“I’m not avoiding it.” Volenta says with a mischievous smile and lets Viktor’s length, wet from her tongue, rest against the side of her face, comfortable against the soft cheek. “You just deal in perhaps and maybes, you didn’t give me a solid promise of honesty. And if you don’t give me that, I won’t give you what you want. Although, I’m not sure that you already don’t have everything of me that you wish.”
She chuckles and playfully pulls back just enough to grip Viktor’s cock by the base and swing it slightly right before impaling her mouth upon it once more. This time it’s without a warning or a seductive eye contact, but straight to the hilt.
A small gag nearly escapes her, but Volenta manages not to let it overtake her and she closes her eyes, pulls back with a smile almost to the tip, and does it all over again, waiting for Viktor to begin guiding her movements to his liking. This type of man always takes control, she knows this from experience.
That does elicit a groan from the man above her, caught in the suddenness of it and the nearly overwhelming sensation. The ease with which she takes him gives him no time to speak nor catch his breath, and so he spends her next movements savoring the feeling with eyes closed. True to her prediction, Viktor’s hand in her hair tightens, first by surprise, then by desire for control.
“You’re infuriating.” A sentiment that is entirely mutual at least.
When he forces her down with one hand it is to a point that could make someone less adept feel the sting of tears, and holds her there, hips pushing upwards in an unyielding desire to go deeper yet. He drags her back by the hair until his cock slips out from between her lips with a wet sound, but holding himself down with one hand, not intending to let her go that easily.
“Have it your way.” The reddened shine of her lips and the smile still on her face are a seductive invitation to sink himself back in, if only to stop her from talking. “And be assured there’s much more I want of you.”
At his words, the ones that echo hers to the last letter, Volenta has to grab onto Viktor’s thighs when a laugh threatens to overtake her and begin choking more than the thickness of his cock in her throat already does. Glancing upwards briefly just to see his face, the woman gets taken by surprise when he shoves her face down and she swallows around the girth in her mouth, forgetting whatever was amusing her just a second ago.
Yet she does not fight Viktor when he holds her face against him, just playfully taps her fingers against same spots where she held onto earlier and inhales only when he finally allows her a breath, barely even feeling the sting of her hair being pulled so roughly.
When Volenta’s eyes meet Viktor’s again, she smirks wider and gives a quick swipe of her tongue against the underside of the tip that still stands proudly before her face. “You first then. I told you that what I have to say you might hate hearing. So let me have my answer first.” Moving her fingers from Viktor’s thighs, Volenta slides her palms over his stomach, upwards, onto his chest. “Tell me why you’re doing this. Tell me why, after all of the exchanges we had and complete disinterest that I read in you, you suddenly desire, Inquisitor? I’m curious what is that you find about me, that despite your obvious annoyance, you still try to fuck my mouth like a feral animal on a verge of oblivion with a last chance at pleasure.”
She’s not hiding it, not in her strange pale, grey eyes, nor in her words that Volenta wants to hear the naked truth of his passions. And since she’s about to deliver the unpleasant truth of her own desire, it’s clear that she’s ready to hear that she’s just an entertainment for him. A tryst he won’t think about by tomorrow, or even that she reminds him of someone else and he does not think about her at all. Oh how many stories she had heard from fellow acolytes about the ruthless passions of their superiors and she expects nothing else, curious into which category Viktor has sorted her in.
Her words stir the tightening coil of arousal in his gut, mouth alternating between whispering her debauched challenges and taking him in. If there’s any regret about what they’ve found themselves engaging in, it’s that this is a discussion that is being had with his attention on his words and only half on pleasure, all the while she’s swallowing him down with the same desperation she accused him of having.
“I could say that I am only just a man, Volenta, and that the cut of your uniform won me over or something of the sort, but we both know that those who resign themselves to being merely men do not survive in our profession.” He feels the path of her fingers, the way they rest between scars and over the hair on his chest. “Neither are you the first bothersome acolyte to cross my path, nor will you be the last. Though none like this. By all accounts you are maddening.” He guides her head along his cock again, then in a slow, deliberate motion dragging her lips back up until the tail end of the sentence fads into the quiet- “insolent…” Another, punctuated by the upward cut of his hips. “…and hopelessly overconfident. Would it be insulting, then, to say I find you entertaining?”
He lets go of her then, pushing a greying strand of hair out of his face that's threatening to come undone more by the minute.
Viktor takes another long look at her, the earnest interest in his truths in her eyes coupled with all else about her he wishes to commit to memory. “I would not desire what bends or breaks or offers itself easily. Though it’s been satisfying seeing you on your knees.”
She glances up at him. Heavy, dark eyelashes casting shadows upon her eyes and continues, not responding to him, at least for now. Volenta’s tongue is pressed firmly to the underside of his cock, the tip tracing the bulging vein when she pulls back, the one that snakes around the shaft like a river, carrying his blood in thrumming beats of Viktor’s heart. Stopping at the tip, Volenta breathes in, swiping her tongue in circles around it before taking it back in, caressing his chest at the same time.
What he says doesn’t insult the woman, that much is clear because she keeps going until her eyes close, her throat managing to handle Viktor’s size with almost an ease, clearly not only used to doing this, but visibly enjoying herself and the process. Still, not being sure of his stamina and not wanting to be left unsatisfied herself, Volenta finally pulls back and runs a hand over her hair, meeting his gaze.
“On the contrary, Viktor. You flatter me. If I stay in your memory as being an absolute pain in your ass, then I don’t mind that at all.” She winks at him and stands with a smile, but instead of getting onto his lap, Volenta brushes palms over her heavy breasts. “But I owe you my honesty now.”
She thinks for a second and even the delay of enjoying to service the Inquisitor wasn’t enough time to let her collect thoughts that are clouded with intoxication. Worst that will happen, Volenta thinks to herself, he will kill her on the spot. Best – he will leave. She expects him to react in no other way but negatively, and swallowing with a degree of nervousness at tossing her caution to the wind, she shrugs.
“You’re a psyker. A glorified mutant, Viktor. You are only useful because of your curse, because the Imperium makes use even from the likes of you. The majority of your kind is unstable, dangerous, walking heresies against the God-Emperor. A small batch of you somehow manage to worm your way into high positions, like poison, or a bomb that will go off at any moment. And yet you, specifically, make me feel something I don’t quite understand just yet. It’s partially disgust at myself, partially at you. But truthfully – I am enjoying this weird conflict within me and I want to see where it will lead. Consider me… curious.”
The rise to his feet happens in one single fluid motion, sitting back content and lust-drunken one second - the shadow of him darkening her with it in the next. Once again she is reminded of just how much he dwarfs her, and though hair disheveled and clothes undone, he has lost little of the air of sheer presence that follows him like his fire.
“It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Not from you.”
The hand that had grazed her windpipe before now shoots up to meet it, as if before it has memorized its winding pathways and now remembers exactly where to land and then press in. Her head feels laughably small in his hands. One finger digs into the soft flesh of her cheek by which he drags her face up to his.
“You insult as the way that you are, anything to get a rise out of those around you.” His face is close to her as it can be, the sweetness of the liquor and the heat of his breath caressing her face. “Up to a certain point maybe I would have agreed with you. Agreed that the majority of my kind is in fact that unstable cesspit of heresy you speak of, one that I am above and thus have to see and curb at every turn and pull their poison out from the veins of the Imperium myself.” Pressure builds under his hands. “But you never know when to stop, acolyte.”
There’s an unmistakable flash of not fear, but surprise and her hands instinctively grab at his wrist. Yet she doesn’t try to pull his hand away, just looks into the dark, green eyes, behind which Volenta sees fires akin to those of the burning pyre outside.
And she smiles.
“I warned you, and you still wanted to hear my truth.” The voice is barely a whisper, strained through the choking grasp of Viktor’s fingers and Volenta attempts to swallow, painfully so, and not because her throat already paid its tithe to him in a manner that was much less explosive than his response. “I warned you.”
“Your warning will not save you.” He responds carelessly. “Nor is it free from consequence.”
Of course she smiles. Where others would have long cowered in fear and tried to desperately take back words that have long left their constricted throats, she remains standing, steadfast, stubborn. He forces her around – not that it’s hard to do – and presses the length of his forearm back against her throat and his body back against hers. Naked skin meets naked skin. Viktor brings his lips close to her ear.
“So this is what you want? For me to take you, for you to get off on the revulsion of it?”
Uncertainty, confusion, then discomfort. Volenta goes through all of these in a matter of a handful of seconds and tries to look back at him, to look Viktor in the face. “Wait- No, you don’t-“ Finally, dread begins to fill her and at last she realizes that playing with fire tends to get one burned. Ironic, considering who exactly she tried to agitate this entire time.
And things went well, didn’t they? There was some sort of understanding, some middle ground. Maybe not exactly mutual respect, but at least the same desire to distract themselves with from whatever else is waiting for them tomorrow.
He misunderstood her.
And Volenta is not sure if she can dig herself out of the hole that she dug herself into. Viktor is not one of the fellow acolytes, not one of her teachers, too afraid to tell her no because they are scared of her mentor, and not even her mentor himself, who is far too lenient to her and which she exploits with delight. She heard some older soldiers use a phrase during her time in Astra Militarum just a handful of years ago. How did it go? Oh yes.
Fuck around and find out.
She recalls it with a bitter grin that is only in her mind and Volenta tries again. “I don’t think you understood me.” The voice sounds strained, her body tenses against his in a taut curve and she reaches behind her, fingers weakly pushing at the fronts of his thighs.
A few words, and he knows he’s got her. That he managed to strike exactly the chord his fingers have been looking for. Primal, animalistic fear plays into his hand much like the warp and in the same feral manner as anything happening between them. It does nothing to dissuade the need, if anything, it keeps it alight.
“Then, pray tell, what it is you meant to say.”
The arm around her neck loosens, letting her believe he’s close to letting go, allowing her to have that small push off his thighs forwards into marginal distance. Both know that this is a farce, that the room in this very moment is a playing field entirely tipped in Viktor’s favor. His presence asserts itself in the step he takes forwards, pushing her more into the open space of the center of the room.
“Listen.” Volenta starts not even knowing where she’s going with this, her mind reeling like a cog in a machine that’s in overdrive. At his push to step forwards she stumbles, nearly stepping on his foot with her sharp heel. “It’s not that-“ Beginning to grip at Viktor’s forearm around her throat she flushes, a blush gentle but obvious on her pale skin. “Not like I meant to say that-“ This time she turns her head to him as much as she can, so that Volenta can see his expression, but one thing she realizes clearly.
If she’s going down, she’s not going down without a fight.
“You misunderstood me because I was still gentle with the words I picked. Look at yourself.” Volenta scoffs and digs her nails into his skin to underline the point, a vicious sneer appearing both on her lips and with a sharp glint in her eyes. “Tell me I’m not right, witch. Tell me you’re not proving me right, acting like an animal. A beast in denial. Viktor the Psyker. Viktor the Mistake.”
He laughs. Laughs at her a hoarse, low roar that gets thrown around the room.
„Do you think yourself original?”
When he’d been her age, maybe these words would have phased him, but by now they have been hauled at him so often they have lost all their shine.
„You’re wrong to think your cruelty is in any way remarkable. Your hatred comes a dime a dozen and the words twice as cheap.”
Truth is, he should kill her. Why he hasn’t – respect for her mentor, her Ordo, the inconvenience of seeing this through alone – sits on a scale that should have long tipped beyond her favor. His hand trails a single digit along her spine, splays across the small of her back, the warmth there, the curve of her body that still sits against his, and pushes.
There’s a simpler truth to it. Where Volenta’s words have awakened genuine ire, they still sit against a backdrop of unfulfillment, now threading together like tapestry. Maybe he is that animal she speaks of. Clothed in fine cloth and silk, but an animal still. It is all she wants him for, but desperately clawing like this she is no better.
He’s seen the flush of her face, thinks her brush with fear hasn’t led her beyond the hunger. It’s not wise to indulge her, but if he has to make the choice between standing half-naked over a pool of her blood, righting himself and leaving, or having her scream in a different way, then, in this moment ruled by impulse and instinct and what's left of the liquor, he knows his pick. Come tomorrow they’ll do what needs to be done and he’ll be glad to never have to see her face again.
When she braces the fall onto the bed, he’s over her in a second. The bulk of Viktor’s body blocks the little light left in the room and leaves only her hair to shine in the night like spun silver. His face presses against her neck.
“I was right, then.” One knee slots itself between her legs.
She tries to embrace for the fall with her arms but falls nonetheless and then realizes that she can’t get up anymore the moment his body weight is unto her, heavy and unmoving, keeping her face against the bed. A sharp hiss escapes Volenta when heat of Viktor’s body reminds her of the latest cuts on her back, ones that were made to leave notches in her bones. And she’s sure that the latest one will start bleeding if it hasn’t already.
But she laughs again, Volenta can’t help it. This whole situation is absurd, or maybe she’s just drunk. And then there’s her desire to be taken, to be claimed, that the woman tries to push away but finds herself incapable to.
“You want to be right.” With something akin to a growl, Volenta’s nails claw at the sheets of the perfectly made bed that was pristine just a second ago.
Another laughter when she turns her face to the side, not to inhale but try and catch another glimpse of Viktor’s face. Why does it matter to her so much that she sees him? What is about him that Volenta can’t stop herself from trying to watch? And she knows the answer, but refuses to admit it. Masks it with more and more anger that is nothing but a fabrication, her last line of defense, as always, for which she has been punished already. For which she bled and still didn’t learn the lesson.
A bitter chuckle makes Volenta pause in her words, the ones that she should say but decides not to. It would be smart to tell him to get off of her, to get out of her room, to maybe even report him for this. A few bats of eyelashes and a single tear would make her mentor wage war upon Viktor for even daring to touch her, burning through the Imperium just to inflict as much pain as possible, or as much as she would lie about having experienced.
That’s not what she wants.
“But does it really matter if you are right?” Volenta’s voice sounds part amused, part laced with desire that takes the forefront of her mind. “You asked if I want you to take me. Yes, I do. Or do you need written consent and five approval stamps from the Administratum?” With that, her fingers in the sheets relax and the woman attempts to lift her hips, just to nudge and urge him, but he’s too heavy and impossible to move unless Viktor wishes for it himself.
He doesn’t grace her with an answer, but can't bite back the chuckle that conveys he’s not at all impressed with her attempts any longer. He lifts himself off her just enough to accommodate the urging of her hips and his own comfort without losing contact.
The expanse of her back is a brief glimpse where before Viktor subdued her with his own body, the eyes of the inked symbol of the Ordos flashing in the dark as light dances off her back. Committed to skin, and around it - scars old and new, and those so fresh they cannot be called scars yet. Some part of him desires to know, another can guess, but both are in agreement that this is far from the time.
Arousal burns under his skin with intensity that borders on manic. His erection sits against the swell of her ass where from the waist downward she remains clothed. His motions become impatient and careless, pulling down the layers roughly with a single hand until as much of her is exposed as he can get into view and fabric bunches around her thighs.
He sees the way she twists her head, craning as if her eyes want something to hold onto, eyes that are a marvel after all, bright, hiding the incessant spark, looking up at him– but his hand splays over her back and presses her back into the mattress.
The other hand pushes itself where his knee kept her legs apart, bracing his own to either side of her body. He finds her as he wants her, two fingers dragging against already-slick folds. Had the night gone any different, he might have found pleasure in preparing her, in feeling her clench around his fingers with each high he’d manage to coax out of her, but the thought now carries only lack of satisfaction and invitation to more ridicule. Taking his cock in hand, he lines himself up against her entrance and presses inside.
Finding herself far from being in the most comfortable position to be fucked, with pants around her legs acting like a restraint, her adamantine heels pushing kneeguards that are fashioned like skulls into the soft mattress, forbidding Volenta any further comfort than she already has – it leaves her annoyed at first. She wants to speak, to ask for maybe a different angle, maybe to let her undress, but it’s far too late for words when Viktor stakes his claim into her, even if a temporary one.
A gasp escapes Volenta, and then she whimpers, pressing her forehead into the sheets and gripping them tightly as the man she thought she will have a little bit of fun with, one she mistook for someone who won’t take it this far, forces himself further in, and further, painfully so. He hears her exhale with a moan, entire body trembling with the struggle to accommodate his size, the girth, the depth of the angle. “Fuck…” Volenta whispers into the sheets, her back arching to meet him.
The feeling is exhilarating, the push into her satiating and at the same time he can only call it agonizing. He savors the slow drag, the time it takes for her to give way to him. The words she utters only serve to feed the tension in him, the sounds of his own pleasure building at the back of his throat. A moment of unsteadiness makes him brace himself against his forearm. Lips brush the nape of her neck.
It isn’t as if he particularly cares for her comfort after it all. In fact, her agony lies sweet on his tongue and against his hands in the tremble of her breath. There’s something immensely satisfying in the thought of her possession, of claim, of the power he exerts over her in this very moment and the fact that, for once, she is reduced to a few, lost words. The press of her hips tells him she’s very well able to take it.
The full weight of him sinks down against her until he bottoms out. A whine escapes Volenta when he sheathes himself into her, when he begins thrusting and with left hand she reaches behind, fingers searching for the back of his head, finding it, tangling in his hair. “Harder.” With a breathy demand she moans for him again and permits herself to become Viktor’s completely. In this moment – he becomes her entire universe.
And she does not think that he’s a psyker, that they argued, maybe nearly killed each other. Although the outcome of that sparring match from the very start has been tipped in his favor due to Volenta’s inexperience, her inability to keep herself in check and the emotions that bubble up faster than the woman can attempt to stop them.
No, everything that she is right now is his.
When he pulls back again, nearly slipping out she says his name, now pliant, obedient and begging for him not to stop. Begging for Viktor, for all of him. All that he was, is and ever will be. His name falling from Volenta’s lips undoes something within him, a tight lacing holding the seams of him together starkly cut. The mockery that swung in every single syllable of his name on her tongue is gone. The edges have softened beyond the point of recognition, the sharpness given way. Viktor gives in to her plea.
The hand in his hair drives him against her, his hands wrapping around her blurring the lines between their bodies, their ends and beginnings. He venerates her shoulders with his lips, a hunger to feel her skin in the dark and a hunger for more of it, more of her. The welts of scars well up under his touch, but cease their reminder of their meaning. He picks up his pace and finds no fulfillment in it, not like this, not when he’s bent over her searching for something he cannot seem to find.
Viktor slides out of her, the ache in him palpable, and flips Volenta onto her back, absentmindedly beginning to rid her of what remains covering her skin. She watches him with eyelids heavy and pale face flushed. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath before his claim rushes over her again, like an ocean of fire that seems impossible to douse out.
“There, under.” She instructs him how to undo her heels and when they clatter to the floor, Volenta sits up, grabbing the open shirt and jacket of Viktor’s uniform by the lapels, before bringing him into a heated, messy and wet kiss. Then she yanks his clothes down the arms, feeling a craving to be as close as possible to him, that echoes with the same desire within him.
She allows him to remove whatever clothing is there, and then halts for a moment, looking up at him where Volenta sits. Slowly, as if too scared to be struck in a moment of vulnerability, she takes Viktor’s hand again and presses the side of her face into a big, scarred palm. Eyes bore into his, pleading and soft.
“Love me or hate me, but please… don’t leave.”
The words come from somewhere deeper than just her desire for pleasure or her victory of having the Inquisitor undone and desperately driven. It’s genuine, and Viktor understands now, that even when she promised honesty, this is the only time when Volenta is giving him the naked truth.
With his clothes discarded entirely, he doesn’t need to look down on himself to know that what is revealed is a map of scars left by his own mentor, running like rivers and landmarks over his torso. Yet the thought is abandoned when his eyes land on her as she sits naked in the pyre-glow, light dancing over her skin as if kissed by the flames intent on consuming them both. Volenta’s face sits in his hand as if it had been moulded into it. The woman before him, never seeming like anything less than a force of nature, now appears almost fragile.
“Volenta…” Her name is a round, full sound on his tongue.
There is no answer to this plea of hers, something no one with their calling can give. What happens after tomorrow is nebulous at best, depends on information they do not have. The only certainty is that the end of it, if it leaves them alive, will spit them out in different directions, and the leaving is the only thing that's guaranteed. But for tonight, the inevitable has been banished outside to the pyre. He can allow himself to hold without the call to shatter.
He pulls her in. The kiss is less messy, less urgent, it is the kiss of someone who wishes they could promise anything without it sounding like half a lie. As Viktor turns to sit, with one arm around her waist and one on her thigh until she’s almost in his lap, he pulls her closer. A hold with no way out and an answer that right now and for tonight, he has no intention of leaving.
Straddling him, Volenta looks at him after pulling back with a barely noticeable smile. “Don’t go gentle on me now, Viktor.” With a whisper she reaches down, holding his erection still just before she sinks onto it, gasping with pleasure right against his lips. “Don’t think, just take me.” With those words leaving as another gasp, Volenta encircles Viktor’s neck with both of arms, pressing herself into him with tenderness of a lover. “And don’t stay quiet.” A chuckle escapes her but soon her hips begin to move. To rise and fall. Not as fast or hard as either of them wish for, but the embrace in which they engage is the next best thing.
Everything melts away because his face is before her, naked from anger and contempt that Volenta elicited from within Viktor with words far less than gracious. And she wouldn’t blame him if he held that expression even now. Yet he doesn’t, and that uncloaks the very soul that she gives to him completely, if only temporarily.
If he wished to peek beyond the curtain, Volenta would give him honesty that she greedily guards otherwise. But somewhere in the back of her mind, clouded by pleasure that is partially deluded by exalting pain, she doubts that Viktor will. And says a quick prayer to the God-Emperor that he won’t.
Of course he has his questions, has kept them all the while and likely always will. The closer he gets to her, the version of her that she is under those layers that don’t simply come off with the shed of clothing, the more of them he collects. There’s always that desire to spill them onto her waiting lips, to honor her request to not go gentle on her by both their contents and hands digging into her thighs, all that follows after.
“I'm not the one to give speeches with you on top of me.” He answers her with a slight smile, hand tracing down the line of her spine.
She sinks herself down on him once more, and so whichever rest could follow gets cut short, the God-Emperor showing himself merciful this time. Words replace themselves with small betrayals of pleasure. The distance between them has vanished to the few points their bodies aren’t flush against one another, becoming even less as he claims her mouth again. The kiss tries to take her response away, and she does kiss him back, briefly. Then pulls back, not allowing Viktor to silence her for longer than a heated moment.
“You’re charming. And delightful. Did anyone ever tell you that?” With a chuckle that gets cut with her taking him fully in again, Volenta presses her forehead against Viktor’s. “Careful, you might even become likeable.” A tease. She’s more like herself again, but words are stripped from venom and acid.
There’s an attempt of a grip, upon his shoulder-blades and the back of neck, desperate to find more purchase, to go harder and faster. Impatient as she is, in almost everything that is not her job, Volenta whines with the need for more. This – is not enough. And catches herself wondering if she should’ve kept him furious, insulted nearly beyond sanity. When the flames almost licked Volenta’s face when the Inquisitor’s palm was drawn close. Somehow, the thought that she’s fucking the very same man that nearly attempted to kill her drives her desires even stronger, higher and much hotter.
“You are incorrigible.” His tone carries the amusement at her words. “Likeable. Is that how you plan to remember me?”
He doesn’t know what to make of her, and who knows if he ever will. If he will ever get his answers, if the traces of this will find themselves anywhere beyond the bedroom doors of a single night or if they can make sense of each other when it isn’t all explosive and the clothes back on. It doesn’t matter. Right now she is the burn in his veins, the fire under his hands, an enigma without regard for solution or consequence.
„Hold onto me.” Viktor commands. He sees what she’s trying to do, her desire mirroring his own, the building need for something beyond this moment of slowed time. As they are, the position gives him too little agency, too little to do anything but meet her hips with his own in a drag that gives too little.
Her arms still wrapped around his neck he lays her back against the bed, never leaving her, forehead pressed to her forehead. The impatience sits with Viktor as a primal ache for what threatens to unmake them both and put an end to the night. His thrusts begin to grow harder, faster, making use of the angle he has on her now. A hand wanders to her thigh, holding her steady against the weight of his body with no choice but to take him, over and over again.
There’s a moment when Volenta nearly chooses to let go of him, to grip at the sheets over her head and just let the pleasure consume her, but instead she clings to Viktor. Nails drag over his skin, leaving rows of bloody marks intercepted by scars on his skin. Finally, at the strength of his pace she finally feels the bliss coming. A flash of a thought that it took them long to get here, but even that disappears, taking away her words with it.
The only thing that remains of Volenta is her body, under him, crying into the ceiling with her back arched and lips forming not insults or smart remarks, but his name.
Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…
Like a prayer dedicated only to him. A worship that is paid with sweat and whimpers, with gasps for air and complete unraveling.
Volenta knows she’s close and with what little sense she still has, she uses it to keep her eyes on Viktor’s face. To watch him as he unravels with her. Dedicating the rawest moment of herself as an offering upon his altar.
A stutter begins in his rhythm, a telltale sign of abandon hailing in the last attempts to take as much of her as he possibly can. He takes in the minutiae of her face in the seconds that separate them both from an inevitable fall: her lips fervently repeating his name, each one spurring him on with its urgency, the flush of her skin in the low light, and at last – her eyes searching for his and taking hold.
Volenta unravels before him, the sharp arch of her body upwards and into him as if it could bring them into one. Throughout all of it he holds her gaze as it overtakes her. The room closes in, and as she cries out against him her words, his name, the sounds disintegrating into rapture, are what takes him with her over that last ledge. Viktor’s answer to her litany is only paid in more of himself and he sinks into her for the last time.
The peak rips itself through him from the relentless drive of his hips throughout his core and the world gets confined to the space behind closed eyelids, breath taken in between teeth, and all that of her which he can hold onto hard enough to bruise. Then that falls away too, until Volenta remains the only thing left.
One last sigh escapes her and she feels him halt, then slump over her in a way that feels familiar and comforting. She relaxes her arms and caresses the back of Viktor’s head gently while trying to catch her breath with eyes finally closed in relief.
“Fuck…”
A gasp, then a smile that cannot be subdued. That’s all she needed – to pull Volenta’s mind out of the stress, out of the mission, out of her duty. To give reprieve that very few things come close to but never really succeed except for this. Feeling Viktor’s face rest against her neck, she nuzzles his ear and a damp temple where his hair sticks to it, her cheek soft and warm, carrying the same sheen of sweat as his.
“Ten out of ten performance… Inquisitor.” Volenta whispers, still swallowing gulps of air, but slowly coming to a rest that is wonderfully tempting to cling to into the forever.
That does earn her a small chuckle. “Not too bad yourself, acolyte.”
Tension that hasn’t left his body since he has stepped through the doors of the mansion slowly dissipates into the air of the room, now heavy and stale. He lets her thread fingers through his hair while the slight sting of marks Volenta has made makes itself noticeable on his shoulders. There’s comfort in the moments that come after the fact. In the void of thoughts that does not yet permit reality to slip back in.
Suddenly becoming aware of the heaviness of his own body, he rolls off her, feeling the chill as his sweat-dampened skin leaves hers and breaks contact. He leans himself back against the headboard, waiting out the seconds it takes for his chest to come to a normal rise and fall with the remains of effort.
Volenta, in turn, lifts herself on the elbows and takes another quiet moment to even her breathing until glancing up at Viktor. Then she turns over and crawls closer, stealing a deep, slow kiss from his lips, with fingertips ghosting over the side of his face before she pulls back. “Care for a drink? I’m parched.” This time it’s her palm that strokes over his thigh, all soft touches and gentle smiles. But without waiting for Viktor’s reply, Volenta turns her back to him and runs fingers over the avalanche of hair that does little to cover the marks or the tattoo. Two of which did indeed start bleeding, but Volenta doesn’t feel them and Viktor only witnesses.
She slips out of the bed and stretches cat-like, arms over the head. Where Viktor feels Volenta’s scratches on his shoulders, he sees a blueish echo of his grip on her hips and thighs. A testament of passion that almost welcomes more bruises to be left on her body.
But then Volenta turns and walks to the table, taking a moment to think which glass belongs to her but giving up on that quickly, considering that sharing a glass is the least offending exchange from what they have done so far. She picks them up and takes a sip first, then in her fingers Volenta picks up the pack of lho that has only three left inside. With her haul the woman returns to the bed, getting close to Viktor and offering the fuller glass while sitting down with legs curled under her. Eyes clear and sharp, and entirely focused on him.
He thanks her while taking the glass from her hands, fingers ghosting over hers to receive it and leaving again with it. He tilts the glass vaguely in the direction of hers in a toast, holding Volenta’s gaze as he brings the vessel to his lips. The liquor has lost none of its sweetness, but now almost cloyingly so, weighing down on the tongue and little by little banishing the taste of her lips. A sip and he places the glass to the bedside table to his right. The act has left them in astonishing sobriety, the notes of the alcohol subdued under other, finer flavors back to stinging on the tongue.
Helping himself, Viktor fishes for one of the three lho in the package in her hand and comes away successful, placing it between his lips and halfway waiting for her to do the same. It takes only a snap of his fingers against it, sparks dancing between them for a second, and between a few drags the lho comes alight in the bright orange of the light from outside. His hand he leaves held out, waiting for her to lean forward and receive fire.
At the flame Volenta’s eyebrows rise and she very obviously is trying to subdue a smile, but places the smoke in her lips and leans in, holding Viktor’s gaze and for once choosing not to comment anything. She said enough. Nasty, hurtful things that she partially believes in and partially was taught to project upon every deed and every interaction.
There’s an obvious change when Volenta straightens her spine and inhales the smoke, still keenly observing Viktor. “Are you going to stay?” A question is expressed in a calm voice, as if she doesn’t care and couldn’t even begin to. Then the lho gets replaced by the glass and she drinks all of it in one deep swallow, like someone who’s trying to numb themselves.
In a profession that demands everything from you, the key to survival or at best success, is to recognize what exactly is being asked of you and what you have to do for it. Viktor keenly understands just what it is that she asks of him. He won’t humiliate her by asking her the question if she wants him to stay, and won’t humiliate himself by pretending he doesn’t know the answer. Even in the throes of the last hour he couldn’t give her his word, one that would be collected sooner or later anyhow.
By denying her, tomorrow they’d find themselves back at square one, only with a much less clean slate than they had started with. But this, after all the lines he waltzed over, eroded underneath him like a firestorm, is the one he cannot bear to cross - because it means nothing, or means far too much. He recalls the locations of his clothing across the room.
“A few minutes more.” He says as if that’s an answer, looking at the lho that’s only half done. He’s matching her feigned carelessness. “But not for the night.”
“Right.” She smokes and puts her glass on the nightstand opposite of his side. “Then in the morning we can proceed with the plan. Since I have the numbers of your forces, it will be easier to leave them here and in formation in case we need sudden backup.” Tapping the ash into the empty glass, she sits properly again and looks at Viktor, but there’s nothing he can read in that emotionless face, even if it’s still flushed. “Make sure to rest, tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
With that Volenta looks away from Viktor, allowing him privacy to get out of her bed and to dress, without her eyes following his every movement. She just smokes and says nothing else.
Viktor isn’t the kind to ever question his decisions once in motion, and he doesn’t interrogate the feeling of wrongdoing rearing its head, washes it down with the liquor, with a drag of the lho that takes a quarter of it with it.
He agrees with her assessment, sensible as it is, in few words and directions for the following day, though in the face of lacking a chronometer it might have already started. That eliminates all excuses to stay, and so he gets off the bed and begins to collect his things. Somewhere he holds onto the impetus to press his lips to her naked shoulder as she sits, the blanket obscuring the form, but the moment has passed.
Dressed, righted, his coat draped over his arm, Viktor at last stands in Volenta’s doorway. Before his hand presses down the handle he turns to her. The light from outside has slowly started to die down and leaves only her specter-like shape against the sheets.
“Good night, Volenta.”
“See you tomorrow, Inquisitor Riemenschneider.” She nods to him.
But the moment the door closes, she snatches the drink that Viktor left almost untouched and knocks back the entirety of it in one angry swallow. When the liquor is drunk, she grits her teeth and squeezes the glass with increasing force until the crystal begins to crack. Only then Volenta stops herself, not allowing to do what she really wishes – to fill the emptiness in her soul that Viktor has left her with. To exchange it for the fires of fury. But no, she can’t do it, she can’t risk hurting herself, letting the glass bite into her flesh with shards that Volenta would need to pull out piece by excruciating piece.
She can’t let him know that it affected her.
That he hurt her far worse than any words, insults or even sheer violence could. Instead, she throws the glass to the wall, breathing heavily when the air Volenta didn’t know was holding finally forces itself out of her lungs, and places a trembling hand over her face, letting the eyelids drop to a close.
A bitter smile blooms against the palm of Volenta’s hand, a grin half sad and half so vicious it’s like she’s losing sanity by each passing second. But then there are only trails of tears between the splayed fingers. Tears that she cannot swallow or hide, cannot suppress into sweet oblivion. She expected nothing and yet it still breaks her into pieces, shatters her, like the glass that was destroyed by her hand.
She did beg him to stay. And Volenta realizes only now that it wasn’t just in the heat of the moment. That she actually wished for it, looked forward to it.
It became her demise.
“Fucking figures. Stupid.” Volenta scolds herself but doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to. Not yet.
And she doesn’t know that as Viktor makes way to his own chambers, he hears the glass shatter and stops to listen. She doesn’t need to know that.
And he will never tell her.
⚜ 𝖆/𝖓: InquisitorNocturn: This is where, at least to me, became obvious that the simple phrase of "oh it would be fun if they fucked" turned into "the chemistry is insane". Which from here on grew from a one or two chapter experiment into a long form work that we are still working on. This chapter is special to me, because it was the beginning of something beautiful. Something that I cherish deeply, and working with a friend on a same passion project has been a joy I can't say I experienced in this kind of way before.
It's a little crazy to me, because until Volenta I never really entertained the sphere of OCs, how people can bring two original characters together, made independently, and witness how well they mesh, as if they were made for one another. It's a wonderful journey and I'm beyond delighted to share this special chapter that solidified it for both of us that yep, these two are a bonded pair now lol
Before I get sentimental any further I'll stop here. And if you're reading this - thank you for joining us on this journey <33
Art by @/klyukvav | Collaboration work between me and @vossprime
◇ Chapter II - History in Black ◇
⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Volenta van Halvek(Noct's OC)/Viktor Alexandar Riemenschneider(Voss' OC)
⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Overall story rating - E. Overall tags - E, canon-typical violence, smut, dark romance, age gap, older man/younger woman. This chapter - banter, arguing, mild violence, threatening, tension, handjob, blowjob, deepthroating, PiV, creampie, angst.
⚜ 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Far away from everything they know on an Emperor-forsaken planet, Explicator von Halvek meets Inquisitor Riemenschneider. Bound by the mission and their duties, they are forced to work together. Yet their cooperation becomes increasingly more complicated. Not only do they have to find a way to uproot the heresy they've come to eradicate, but also how to navigate their increasingly tense interactions. Like prometheum to the fire - they cannot stop irritating one another, and that just might compromise everything.
⚜ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: With his schedule unexpectedly freed, Inquisitor Riemenschneider finds himself out of excuses to postpone or avoid Excplicator Van Halvek altogether. Despite the first impressions, she is still someone he must find a way to work with and she did request data. However, the sharing of data turns the evening from simple discussion of strategies to insults and more. Something that neither of them will forget when the morning comes.
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 18,394 | AO3 | Chapter navigation
The quarters of many a hundred men are filled with shouted orders and the sound of equally as many pairs of boots calling across the rockcrete.
The Inquisitor finds the regiment where he’s ordered it, taking up residence in a flank of the building serving as equal parts storage and servants’ quarters. A hall, in all likelihood once home to multiple groundcars that have now been moved elsewhere, has been converted to make room for the droves of soldiers and equipment they’ve brought in. While the majority of them will be eventually rooted to other venues of encampment, for now the Militarum holds ultimate reign here.
Conceivably different is the scene from the rest of the mansion - loud and seemingly disorganized, men carrying things from point A to B with the occasional frustrated commissar shuffling in between trying to keep orders intact. Colonel Frindt, newly assigned charge of the men at the Inquisitor’s beck and call, is nowhere to be seen. Viktor figures he, too, has pursuits of bigger importance. Frindt is not why he’s here.
He finds who he is looking for surveying the going-ons from the entrance of a temporary billet. Behind him, a hallway and a series of chambers branches from the forum.
The man’s fingers are busy rolling a lho stick into shape: three twists of his tan hands, and he holds a perfect thin cylinder stuffed with leaves that he tucks behind his ear. More paper and stuffing find their way into his hands as he begins to roll another without stopping. Three twists, done.
Two things about him become apparent even in such a small gesture: a soldier’s demeanor, and the scars to show for it. They run up his hands and arms like arteries, disappearing under the hem of a guard-issue field jacket. He salutes when he notices Riemenschneider approach.
“Good evening, sir.” The man’s greeting is clipped through the filter clamped between his teeth. “Been wondering where you went.”
Vance Samuel has been picked up from the exact same battlefield that Viktor’s mentor has perished on. Knowledge around soldiers and weapons in a way that Viktor’s own couldn’t account for have gained him a permanent place in the retinue, and saved the former colonel from ending up issuing orders from behind a desk instead of being down in the mud where he wanted to be.
Viktor replies with a curt nod and comes to a standstill before the smoker. “The initial meeting took more time than expected.”
More of his nerves, too.
“We got settled in alright, ready when you are.” Samuel points a thumb behind him, into the row of the rooms whose hallway he is blocking with his not inconsequential body mass. “If you’re looking for the boy, he’s down there.”
A thing without a name, merely the boy to his people. The Inquisitor does not correct this habit. “He’s got a nice room upstairs. Close to you and far away from us, and ain’t that how we like it.”
Samuel shrugs, as if he’s aware that his joke may not land. He is correct in that assessment.
„You would think it would be rather pathetic for a seasoned soldier to be afraid of someone barely past adolescence.“
“I’m not.“ Samuel says with too much emphasis.
“I would hope so.”
He gives Viktor a sidelong glance. “Permission to speak openly, sir.”
“Granted.”
“’s the same as it was back in the Guard, you know? Us, them. We don’t mix. You leave that to the commissars and keep your head nice ‘n low, or shit starts sliding your way before you know it.” He clears his throat, but the trajectory of his gaze betrays that he knows he’s treading a fine line. “Not afraid. I simply don’t trust him, is all.“
“You trust me.“
Samuel smiles, hasty, crooked. He taps the lho twice against the palm of his hand, letting the tobacco settle before he speaks.
“You’re a damn good man, Inquisitor. For starters, you don’t start to blow up shit when you get nervous. Hell, you don’t get nervous. You, I can depend on. But that one?“ He points a thumb towards the back again, „No. No I don’t. Soon as he loses his head, I can smell the smoke. Not the pyres, and I’m not going crazy, that son of a-” he pauses. “That kid is just kindling from the inside out.”
Riemenschneider shoots him a glare that is almost pitying. He’s heard the whispers concerning his kind often enough. In the earlier years it felt like the tall Guard tales all held an ounce of truth, like he was all embers and slag under the surface. These days he knows that when it matters, both him and his protégé will cut like any other, and bleed like any other.
“Don’t fall for fairytales. He’s mine to command and my responsibility, but do not think that I won’t dispose of him, should he no longer be worth the patience.”
“That I know. But from where I’m standing? Seems like a bad trade-off.”
“Careful, colonel.” Viktor raises a hand, where a scar over his palm runs end to end, and brings thumb and pointer together to signal that this conversation is nearing its end together with his goodwill.
The responsibility of any leader is to hold all available information and compile it towards an outcome. Withhold, if necessary. It’s not Samuel’s place to question this.
Of course there’s more to it, there always is. Promises, loyalties, ambitions, but not any of it he would tell this man. Immense potential, and the sanctity of Viktor’s promise - that’s what currently is keeping the psyker alive.
“Whatever trust you have in me, you extend to him. Whatever trust you lack, you rectify. I do not tolerate unnecessary discord.“
“Just don’t expect him ‘n I to be friends.” Samuel raises both hands. “Got fire?” His eyes wander to the candles decorating Viktor’s shoulders as he flashes a grin that the Inquisitor doesn’t return.
“Use your lighter.”
“Worth a shot.” Samuel puts flame to tobacco seconds later. “But I assume he isn’t why you’re here either.”
Viktor nods. “We’re going to be moving soon, possibly tomorrow. Ordo Xenos has the perimeter secured, so I’m going to need you to use the time you have. Once that’s done, see if they can make use of you. I’ll be out to inform the colonel.”
“Permission to go talk to Frindt?“
“I prefer to do it myself.“
“You haven’t met him. If you want my humble opinion, sir, I’d advise against it.“ Samuel shrugs. “Not an easy man to get along with. The type to respond better to a fellow guardsman than an Inquisition official trying to tell him what to do.“
It’s far from Viktor's liking, but Samuel has a point. Frindt will not be the first nor the last to respond to someone flashing a rosette in one of the two customary ways – deference or defiance. The undercurrent of both is fear.
A short run through the finer points, at least enough to make a messenger, and Viktor watches Samuel walk off with a saunter in his step that seems willful, but is the result of an old injury.
The Inquisitor stalks past the open rooms, finds everyone nearly how he expects them to. Words are exchanged and observations made that all amount to the same.
Lancer sits playing an unfamiliar set of cards against himself when Viktor enters, and he doesn't ask the ex-con for the specifics of his game. Their Mechanicum scribe he meets hunched over one of the inner plates of a combat servitor. Their reaction is an impassive acknowledgement.
Obedient servants of the Golden Throne they are, conviction in their voices, but a new sort of apprehension is settling in their eyes. If there is truth to what he told Volenta, that something lays heavy upon this world, then they feel it too.
The row of rooms finds its end in the form of a small, rounded alcove. A reproduction of the Emperor smiles down mercifully upon those who tread here, placed between two milky windows. It may have served as a respite of prayer for servants without the luxury of private chapels and a lack of time to attend the mid-week services, if such things have not already ceased here.
The Inquisitor finds him there, with legs drawn to his chest and arms slung around them. The acolyte’s lips move, but the prayer is silent. Next to him kneels Haliana. Black tresses hide her face as she nods her head in little rhythmical increments.
Not intent on disturbing a ritual that he reveres the value of, Viktor stays in the doorway. His eyes sweep over them in the same line his shadow falls.
In those places where heresy freshly takes root, it still has half a mind to conceal itself. The people do not yet fall madly into the streets, the tones are still hushed and the rumors still seem like nothing more than percisely that. The people in these places often fear for their own gain more than for the good of their world or their souls, and so they are apprehensive when the Inquisitorial shuttles land, and watch what they say. No one applies that skepticism to a temple girl, a woman of the people.
Haliana had brought him something to the cadre even he finds hard to acquire: invisibility. Death World born, she’s likewise been able to hold her own in the aspects of the profession laden with pressure and lasfire well enough.
She breaks her trance-like repetition, as if suddenly becoming aware of his presence. Her greeting to him and the rise to her feet happen in the same fluid motion, and the subsequent hurry to exit the room speaks of a desire to be as unobstructive as possible.
It doesn’t escape him that the boy’s eyes follow her departure with something peculiarly wistful in his gaze. She’s one of the few that seeks him out rather than avoiding him. Viktor suspects this to be pious pity.
With her leaving, the acolyte notices his master's approach.
"Inquisitor." He straightens himself from the spot on the floor, but keeps his eyes to it. “Apologies. I came down to pray, and..” He trails off, midway realizing he's both apologizing for nothing and stating the evident.
“Far be it from me to disturb you, acolyte.”
He looks at the young man, one who entered his services under the name of Elio, and takes note of how unblemished his freckled face still is. Volenta and he, at least by optics, cannot be that far apart in age, and yet there yawns a gulf or maturity between the two that makes any further comparison impossible.
“I was finished, sir.” Elio’s eyes wander and find their way down again. “You’re here because of tomorrow.”
“You heard.” The tone is faintly neutral. Viktor could not care less if he overhears what is said about his person. In fact it might do him well.
Elio scratches at his wrists once, twice, as if they itch. “I did. It’s not much of a secret how Samuel feels about me.”
“It is not just him. Your state has been noticed.”
“I know. I know.” His speech is full of an impotent kind of frustration being bitten back down. “I understand I am to blame myself and I understand I have to take control.”
He brings the heel of his hand against his temple as if trying to shake the memory down like Samuel does his tobacco. “It would be easier if I could remember how.”
“You should know by now that I do not value ease.” Viktor shakes his head. “I am asking if you have made progress.“
“Things keep returning.”
“More precise.”
“The Scholastica is still gone. All of it.” He scratches his wrist again and where the sleeve rides up, one can see the mark etched into his skin. Proof he had been there, once, proof of a sanction completed, even if the boy can’t remember any of it. “But I remember the day before the Black Ship. Tycho-“ he halts. “Inquisitor Tycho, she told me about how she’d found me, of course, but it was always just words. I’ve never been truly there. I think… I think I remember the flames now. And being locked inside. But it’s still not a memory, more like a dream. Then, nothing again.”
There has been a time, months ago, that this would have been good news. The past has held the mirror up to their faces. Each new memory returning to Elio changes the trajectory – leading him toward greater power but seemingly straying from stability. The one who'd come before Viktor had a working theory that with the return of the memory of the Scholastica this would eventually end. Viktor isn’t so sure anymore.
"Look at me.” Viktor regards him, and for once manages to find the boy’s eyes when they’re not bound to the floor. “If we move tomorrow, will you be able to do what is asked of you in service of the Emperor, or will you not?”
It’s rhetoric. Both know that there is a single possible answer. No others are permitted, not in this moment, calling, lifetime.
“I-” For a moment Elio seems to hesitate nonetheless. He looks down at his hands, finding them frail and powerless and bisected by a scar that still hasn’t fully healed since it’s been burned into the flesh. The one in his mentor’s hand is pale and white, his – red and still closer to a wound.
“Don’t tell me you can try. Trying implies the possibility of failure. There is no such thing.”
When Elio replies, there is finally something like steel or spine in his gaze.
“I won’t disappoint you, Inquisitor.”
“Then collect yourself. Dismissed.”
His goodnight is faint, and it takes a while for the traipsing of feet to be dulled by the carpet of the hall.
Viktor finds himself in front of the rest of a night that has miraculously cleared itself. He questions his conscience for something he has missed, but the longer he does, the clearer it becomes that there is but a single point left on his list. The sky outside tells him the appropriate time to artificially add more work has long passed.
There’s still the dataslate in his coat pocket, then in his hands. The list of available forces opens before him in neat columns and reminds him he should get these to Volenta, and do so today.
It would follow her invitation all too well. It will not matter if he shows up at her door with information or wine, for he will still have ended up there.
Viktor turns on his heel, back into the heart of the house, and in the direction of the part where the Explicator must have her room.
As he makes his way through the corridors, the Inquisitor sees the signs of past struggle. He has been informed about the scuffle that happened once first inquisitorial forces made planetfall, about the nobles who threw themselves at soldiers in waves of manic frenzy. The reason of which has not been yet reported to Viktor, the truth of it possibly undiscovered even with his presence here.
Still, the marks on the walls that bear scratches, round burns of las shots and blood splatter remain visible even as he passes several serfs scrubbing such spots with tired, blank expressions. His colleagues seem to have treated them well. None show signs of abuse and their clothes are clean, but their unsettling muteness is strange and mildly unsettling. None greet or bow their heads when Viktor passes them.
Finding himself above the need to knock on every door to find the woman he needs to work with, he pauses and consults the data-slate. Blueprints of the mansion have been loaded into his archive already, marking spots of everything, including his own troops and chambers that the Inquisitor will take as his once the time is appropriate to retire for the night. And, here it is, the mark of a last name and a symbol of Ordo Xenos somehow standing out amidst two dozen similar markings. At least it is not far from where he is.
There are no sounds besides the serfs scrubbing somewhere far away. Echoes of their labor are the only noise inside the mansion.
Viktor needs to turn back and return to the corridor that the Governor’s own office is in, but once he takes the path to the side of it, he sees more marks of the struggle that remain. Some of the lamps and candles have been replaced with crudely attached glo-globes, hanging by pieces of thin rope. They cast an eerie ghostly glow over the walls and furniture, sectioning the corridor in segments of warm light and strange tunnel-like tightness. There is no light over one door that he seeks. It’s draped in a shadow as if a dark curtain has been drawn over that door.
At the end of the corridor there is a window. The corner of it has been damaged and now there’s a plasteel sheet covering it, taped to the glass and barely staying up. But the view outside is what catches his attention. The pyre, aflame with a familiar orange glow finally brings confirmation to Viktor’s observation from earlier - he did smell bodies burning.
The flickering light dances through the corridors like specters haunting the halls, but leaves him untouched in the darkness before the door. For a moment he stands and watches. Watches the fire dance, the force that finds a home in him and allows him to wield it in turn. Terror is still etched on the black-charred faces tied to the poles, but what is this terror in the face of righteous justice? What is soot darkening the air if not a sign of cleansing? He guides his eyes away from the glow, and it leaves bright spots in his vision.
He raises his fist to the door and raps his knuckles against wood as dark as the night itself. In the seconds that follow the knock and its reverb, he asks himself what he wants more: an answer, or none.
But he doesn’t need to wait long or even begin to doubt his decision, because the door opens before Viktor. Not with a dramatic swing or a shy crack between the wood and its frame. It just opens and behind it Volenta stands. Her expression is unreadable at first, but a second or two later her eyebrows begin to rise and do not stop rising until her surprise at Viktor’s presence is unmistakable.
“I… I did not expect you. Not at this hour, at least.” She admits and it’s clear that she truly did not expect him. Black shirt is open far too low for decency, even despite the bra she obviously is wearing beneath it, a band of it visible against her pale skin. Sleeves rolled up, but pants and shoes in their places. In her hand that didn’t operate the door open there’s a half-empty glass of amber liquid and a smoldering lho stick. Last thing that emphasizes her unreadiness to meet anyone right now is Volenta’s loose hair, somewhat dishevelled like the woman was holding her head in hands, whether out of desperation or frustration – impossible to tell.
If Viktor mirrors the same surprise back at her, he doesn’t let the silence stretch long enough for it to hatch into awkwardness. “If I’ve caught you at an inconvenient time, I will leave this with you and be on my way.” He holds up the dataslate. The hair now falling open over her shoulders suits her, as do the traces of relaxation, but he doesn’t wish to intrude upon her if it was never meant for his eyes. “You’re right, it is rather late.”
Volenta takes the slate and looks down on it, then turns and walks into the room, leaving the door open. “Come, I might have questions and speaking in the doorway might bring bad luck.” A superstition she carries from her home Hive world, clearly.
Viktor follows her out of the shade of the doorway into the room. He finds a seat to occupy at the far wall, an upholstered chair opposite another one of its kind flanking a small table, and lets his eyes wander across the room, falling both on Volenta and the few, personal traces of her short stay here. The pyre-light continues to dance outside the window.
There’s not much to infer about the person who’s occupying the chambers. A couple of Imperium grade strongboxes, closed. The bed is made. But unlike her behavior earlier in the Governor’s office, Volenta clearly does not apply the same sentiments to her own dwelling – the stacks of papers and folders are neat where they rest on a dresser, to the point one could place a ruler and it would all align perfectly. There’s an ashtray on the table by which Viktor sits, having remnants of at least a handful of lho butts there. A bottle, half empty, is left open.
While he inspects the surroundings he has found himself in, Volenta places her glass on the table and swipes at the slate. Her expression is once more not betraying any emotion.
“Right.” She says and inhales a smoke, then puts out the lho with the rest. “I do have a formation plan if we need a grander attack, but I suggest we take a team of smaller numbers to inspect what’s going on. I got a report not long ago and more of my people have gone missing. Three only, but that’s all I have sent out. A covert mission, maybe bearing less signs of the Inquisition and possibly the ones of this planet’s PDF, would probably give us a less restrained access to people and information. But it’s a risk, as you may guess.”
She doesn’t look at him, just taps at the data-slate again and begins chewing on her bottom lip, thinking. Viktor watches her expression change the way it did over their maps, deep thought etching itself onto elegant features.
“You do have an interesting tendency to talk as if it is you in charge of this mission, Van Halvek.” There’s the barest hint of sarcastic amusement in his tone. “But you raise a good point on the PDF. I’ve put the Militarum on standby, but it is too early and the information is too diffuse to go in guns blazing without denying ourselves potential points of entry. You said that Ordo Xenos is ready. Depending on how ready that is, I would prefer to move forward with this as soon as possible. As I see it, it’s a risk, but a risk we should be taking.”
Her eyes flick to him at the remark, but she listens until Viktor is finished, then gives him back the slate. “I was thinking more about information we can gain. Whatever is on this planet that has gone wrong, no one can outpower us. We’re not dealing with Chaos Marines, for example. This risk is welcome, needed even, but I don’t believe we’re at an actual risk of being overpowered here.”
She smiles, reaching for a glass and for the first time something is not right, not quite yet. The way Volenta’s finger brushes over the rim of her drink is slightly unstable, betraying her intoxicated condition that she is obviously used to hiding.
“If that’s all then our discussions for today are over. Tomorrow we can decide what we do, but for the time being, I doubt that going out in pitch darkness will serve us well. And you need rest, having arrived here only several hours prior. The rest has been taken care of, including your chambers after we left the Governor’s office, so you are free to take your residence there immediately.” A pause and she brings the glass to her lips then takes a sip while looking outside the window to the aflame pyre, then finally adds: “Since I presume you’re not here for that drink I offered.”
“My main concern isn’t power, it is a semblance of strategy. I wouldn’t want to announce our movement with fanfare and lasfire, or at least not yet.” Viktor absentmindedly taps his fingers against the armrest in a slow rhythm. Four beats, repeat. “Sending me to bed like a petulant child, acolyte? I did come here with half a mind of taking you up on your offer. Though you did not offer me any.” He sweeps his hand towards the half-empty bottle.
Turning her gaze to Viktor, Volenta raises her eyebrows again, although this time only slightly. “Didn’t think you’d… sink to this level. Isn’t that what you think of me, Inquisitor? That I’m a hindrance? An interruption in the operation that you would operate smoothly otherwise, if I were not present?”
She lets out a small scoff and shakes her head slightly then steps to the side, picking another glass from one of the drawers in the dresser. After inspecting it with a keen eye for cleanliness Volenta walks back, puts it before Viktor and hesitates, wondering if he prefers to do it himself or if she should serve him. “But I am always keen to share a drink with coworkers.” Another pause, this time verbal and she adds with slight hesitation. “After all, my invitation was to make peace. Excuse my earlier words.”
This time it’s Viktor’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I assume you’re a great many things, Van Halvek. Insubordinate for example, but a hindrance or obstruction – no, I don’t think so.” He nods when she puts down the glass, waiting for her to pour. “Though now I am curious which one of your previous words specifically you want me to excuse.” It sounds dangerously close to an apology on her end.
Not answering right away, Volenta buys herself some extra time by dutifully pouring Viktor a drink. Only when the bottle is back on the table is when she sits down at last, considering her next words.
“Let’s say the exchange earlier. I may have been too forward and I realize that now.”
Another halt indicating that she’s not quite done yet while turning the glass in her hands with elbows resting on her thighs, giving him more than ample look down her already open shirt that Volenta seems neither care about or even think of. It is he who entered her personal abode, the only space where she does not have to wear a mask of an agent and a soldier both.
“I don’t have them, by the way.” She gives him a lopsided smirk. “The picts, I mean. Of me, naked. That would be a terrible oversight of security protocols. I just saw an opportunity for a…” Gesturing vaguely, Volenta pauses to have a drink from her glass. “Let’s say - a lighthearted joke. Most of those I’m around respond more positively than you have, but the God-Emperor can’t give one man both a sense of justice and wit. Seems not even He is that generous.”
It could sound like an insult, if not for her softer tone and a light chuckle that comes after the words, accompanied by a small shake of her head. And before he can respond to her, she lifts her sharp gaze that has now softened, but is it from alcohol in her veins or only appears so because of the gentle flickering lights that are hanging from the walls, it’s impossible to tell.
“Apologizes, Viktor. That was another joke that I’m sure you don’t appreciate.” With a sigh, Volenta runs a hand over her loose hair, brushing silky strands away from her face.
For a moment he follows the motion of her hands, guiding away from her face towards her ear and down her neck. Viktor takes the glass by the rim, rotating it once, twice, around its own axis and watching the liquid catch golden drops of light in its movement.
“I am not exactly known for my sense of humor, no.” Still, he finds her amusement at her own jokes not entirely lost on him. “But I can appreciate the apology. We have started off on a spectacularly wrong foot, but with nothing to prevent us from starting over, consider it past.” He lifts his glass and his gaze, holding it out to wait for her to bring hers against it. “To peace, then.”
“Very generous of you.” Volenta admits with a degree of surprise in her tone which she tucks away before speaking again. “To peace then.”
Rising her glass only slightly, she salutes the man and makes eye contact directly. One of the few things she has picked up during her time at the Astra Militarum. A soldier always looks the person they drink with in the eyes when toasting. Who knows if it’s the last time they are doing it.
He holds the contact as the toast breaks and both take a drink, Viktor more meditative than her, considering it’s his first one. He looks at Volenta over the rim before her shape becomes distorted through the glass, only then closing his eyes to savor.
She is still a strange woman, he finds, and no concession on her part would change that, but the animosity has dulled, even if debatable how long this can last. The liquor directs his attention away, the aroma of rich red fruit and oak heavy on his palate. Smooth and warm down his throat, he understands how she managed to finish half the thing by herself.
“Our dear governor clearly had taste.” He puts down the glass, in the same breath recalling the previous hours in the study. “In this matter, at least.”
“You like this swill? I’m surprised.” Volenta scoffs but refills her glass and tops off his as well. “I prefer something less sweet and richer, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
Still, for a moment she observes the man before her, the way he’s sitting, the way he’s holding a glass. Every little detail tells Volenta a story of an Inquisitor assured of himself and his path. For the best, of course; she wouldn’t want to serve with a man who has no idea what he’s doing and she already met several such self-proclaimed leaders. They didn’t charm her even one bit, but something about Viktor makes her want to edge him on rather than dismissing his words entirely. Perhaps it’s that stern outwards attitude that she loves breaking in lesser men. Or perhaps it’s less of a challenge and rather the handsome face that she would prefer to see displaying emotion, even if it’s anger.
Suddenly she leans back in the chair, body language speaking of a relaxed woman in charge. Legs slightly parted, one hand landing on the armrest, and she swirls the drink in her glass with a smile. “I will admit, I’m glad you have decided to join me after all. Given how a smile is an undiscovered expression in your catalogue of emotions, I was fully expecting you to kick my ass back onto my shuttle and send me out.”
He mimics her ease. “To be quite honest, by the looks of this world I would have expected the only thing here to be pure promethium. This is a pleasant surprise.” Viktor turns his head, finding her looking. “I’ve thought about it - both declining your invitation and the shuttle. I have to admit I did not expect the offer to be genuine.”
And as she has studied him before, he does unto her in turn. Waits for her reaction, anything that will tell him more about who she is besides both attentive and overconfident, both flying fast and too close to the sun. The smile, all self-assured across her face together with the flush of light intoxication, feels like witnessing a crack in the mask their shared calling requires them to hold upright at all times. He allows himself the curiosity for the beyond, for once.
One raised eyebrow and her smile widens a fraction. “Is that so? Do women often lie about the invitations they cast towards you? Especially when it comes to one’s bedroom?” A sharp edge in Volenta’s tone is slightly mocking, pushing, pressing further to see where is the limit at which this man loses patience. “Or do bedrooms of women not interest you?” Hiding her expression behind the glass, the Explicator takes a few deep swallows from it and nearly finishes the drink.
But her eyes.
Her eyes remain keenly fixed on Viktor, with dark eyelashes casting shadows onto the ice grey of the irises that don’t appear to be dulled by liquor. Not yet, at least.
Viktor clicks his tongue. “Careful, Van Halvek. We were just getting on so well.” But the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly upwards as he says it. He withstands her probing gaze, but the shadows over her eyes, like those falling over her doorway, promise an unknown threshold as the burn of the liquor begins to leisurely seep into his veins.
“I would not usually deign this with an answer, but I remember that I did promise you to be an open book.” He interrupts himself through a slow sip from his glass. “So be assured that a lack of interest is not a problem. I do not see why you would want to use our time together to probe into my love life.”
“Because I would loathe to spend the last hours of the day discussing work.” She scoffs but it’s lighthearted if not slightly juvenile. “Also, it’s not so strange I take interest in people I work with. If worst is to pass - I will rely on you on the battlefield. I would prefer to know if I’m not asking for an accidental shot to the back.”
Leaning to the table, Volenta picks up the bottle and again serves Viktor first, then herself. The bottle is empty but she has another one and is not unwilling to open it if the conversation goes as easy as it has up to this point. Although she’s aware that to Viktor, this might not be the most effortless cooperation he has ever had.
“And I meant a gunshot. Just to clarify.” She gives him a meaningful look with a smile, another one of her jests. Another attempt to see if this one will achieve the desired effect.
“And how has this worked for you? Has veering into the personal made the difference between a bullet in the back or none?”
Viktor scoffs and stands up, taking the newly-filled glass with him in a half-circle swipe of his hand. For a moment it looks like he might be leaving after all. Instead, he looks towards the pyre outside the window for half a second, then back to her. The orange glow dances behind him, running along the edges of his silhouette.
“Even in your state-” the tips of his fingers slide over the rim of his glass with quiet intensity, his shadow reaching forward ever so slightly. “-I do not think you naive enough to not exactly know where you are treading.”
She pauses, watching him stand from where she’s seated, then lets out a short laugh that sounds more like another scoff. “You surprise me, Viktor.” Volenta takes a sip and leans back in the chair for a moment, then stands and walks to the other bottle that’s still perched on a dresser near the tidy stacks of documents. “Very well, you caught me.” Another sip from the glass in her hand and she delivers the bottle to the table, nearly joining Viktor’s side in the small space between the two armchairs. “Although I do not appreciate you assessing my state. Whether I have drink in me or not, I’m still capable if fighting is needed.”
But she knows she’s not being fully truthful, especially when Volenta looks down at the glass and feels the familiar warmth of alcohol sway her vision for just a moment. Blinking the discomfort away and finding steadiness again, the woman sweeps her gaze over Viktor, checking weaponry on his person, but also with a different kind of interest than before.
“But if you think the invitation was a guise for something notorious, then you are mistaken.” A pause for breath and then another admission. “Our very job is to peel the layers of people. Are you surprised I’m curious to see what hides behind yours?” She finishes with a shrug and drinks more from her glass, beginning to feel tension and wishing to dull it.
“Ah, but you’re doing it again.” Viktor reciprocates the gesture, but savors the drink as if it is a distraction, then discards it back onto the table. His eyes stay on where she stands. Neither her gaze nor the conveniently vivid speech have escaped him. “You bait, coat your words in more innuendo as if it will protect you, step back. Excuse your forwardness through idle curiosity without meaning.”
Irritation, intoxication, laced with the undertones of her perfume. His fingertips grace along the wood-patterned edge of the table.
“I gave you enough avenues to sate that curiosity. Promised to answer any question you had. Only to be left asking myself the same question again and again.” A stray strand of the hair falling over her shoulders has come loose, flying away from her face. Viktor brushes it back, two fingers sitting against her temple. “It gets tiresome.”
Before Volenta can even feel startled at the unexpectedness of his touch, her reflexes work faster and she grabs at his wrist, fingers digging into the flesh. The liquor in the glass in the other hand sloshes over the fingers. But she doesn’t notice it, doesn’t feel it, because after the motion – the emotion comes. Fear at first, at the realization that she just acted against the Inquisitor in an aggressive manner. Then, something else takes the forefront of her increasingly drunken mind.
The warmth of the touch.
She didn’t tell him, not yet, and isn’t sure if she ever will tell this to Viktor, but this being her first mission leading the Ordo Xenos forces by herself has left Volenta feeling… lonely. And somewhere, at the back of her mind, she understands that her push on his nerves and patience is an attempt to find a connection there. Yet she does not think of it, brushes the thought away like cobwebs that threaten to wrap around her thoughts.
And yet, maybe they do anyway, because instead of releasing Viktor’s wrist and apologizing, she draws it near, and with eyelids dropping to a close Volenta presses the side of her face into his palm. It’s something she does often, to the point it’s not even a conscious choice but an instinct that responds faster than her slowed senses.
Viktor’s body, muscles already tensed up in the moment her fingers had wrapped around his wrist and expecting his own imminent response, freezes. For a moment, his hand stays flexed, two fingers reaching out towards her sleeve still not knowing if their next movement dictated by her reaction will be to withdraw or take her by the hair. Some part of him demands he still follows up – that there can only be these pathways to guide yourself along, that the best response to a vulnerable thing is to destroy it. But the dull haze of the liquor sparks the feeling as if down his entire arm, and though he could have long drawn on bits of sorcery to rid himself of its disadvantage, the thought seems now as far away as everything else. Her cheek is so warm against his fingers, the skin soft where his thumb graces over it. His hand relaxes against her. The forward momentum – and Volenta with it – fades, becomes something almost soft.
On impulse, no clearer than the one that seems to lead her, his fingers trace their way under her jaw. But that’s all that it takes to break the illusion for her. To bring her mind back into action and the present. Back to the realization that she’s not home or with someone she trusts.
The eyes snap open, sharp, and lock onto the target of a handsome, yet unfamiliar face. The glass drops from her other hand, the right, and it falls onto the desk below. After it connects with the cheap replication of wood, but before it even bounces off of it or begins to roll towards the edge, the same right hand strikes out faster than Volenta’s own mind can conceive.
The palm of her hand connects heavily with Viktor’s face and the hit rings out in the otherwise silent room. Like a strike of thunder on a summer sky of a paradise planet. In the microseconds that follow the hit, the Inquisitor’s hand still remains at her cheek, warm and pleasantly rough, yet her feet become unsteady while Volenta’s mind only attempts to begin to process what she just has done.
By the time Viktor notices the pain, he is already in motion. There’s no finesse to his thoughts then, only the flow of them in which action warrants a reaction. The intoxication clears in a single second.
In a fluid reach the hand of the Inquisitor slides from its resting place to the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair. He forces her head backwards, turning her face up towards him and feels his fingers dig into her scalp as the pull tightens.
His arm draws her towards him and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to slam her head into that chest of his and end all this by ramming his knee into her stomach, sending Volenta to the ground. The dirty tactics of his youth.
But she ends up against him. One hand of his is behind her head, and when he brings the other up into her field of vision, she can swear to see a flicker around them that isn’t just the light outside. The beginning of heat caresses her face.
“That was stupid, Van Halvek. Very much so.” Words pronounced like a mockery, a scold, barely concealed anger. “Peace? I see little reason why I shouldn’t send you home to your master with a couple new scars, or not at all.”
With a grunt of her hair pulled Volenta glares up at Viktor, straight into his eyes, because his towering form is not intimidating but enraging her. And with a corner of her eye she sees his rising hand, waits a second until the heat begins to radiate from his palm and Volenta slaps at it like it’s a fly she has no patience for.
“Don’t you dare to lay your cursed witch hands on me, Viktor.” It’s a snarl and a naked threat that gets emphasized when he feels a blade of a concealed dagger being concealed no more, pressing just above his belt to the side and already piercing the first layers of his uniform.
Viktor suppresses a smile, partially at himself, partially for not having seen it coming. To bring more distance between them and rid her of a momentary advantage he yanks her back and down by the hair he still holds, forcing Volenta back into the center of the room. He aims his boot just below the knee for good measure. If anything, he wants to assure she goes down. There’s a chance she’ll still have time to bring the dagger in or up, he knows, but not in deep, and reflexively his own harm is a risk he’s willing to take, if necessary.
“Witch hands?” He flexes the hand still half raised. “That seemed different a minute ago.”
The clarity of an altercation, however minor, passes and the alcohol in Volenta’s head surges back. But that’s not what begins burning her face.
It’s embarrassment, the shame of vulnerability and the sheer, unpleasant rightness of Viktor’s words. She flushes, clearly lost for words. Even the harshness of his grip on her hair becomes a thing of background when Volenta is confronted with her own weakness that she showed, even if for a moment of a drunken yearning.
She briefly considers bringing up the dagger, but she’s not inexperienced enough that this is not an equal fight anymore. With his size and the grip he has on her, considering whatever inferno Viktor might unleash upon Volenta at a moment’s notice or even less than that, there’s not much of a reason to proceed with the physical.
So she drops the dagger and raises her hands in a mockery of surrender because venom returns to Volenta’s voice and taints the smirk emerging on her face – the last defense left in her arsenal.And when she speaks next the words are strained due to the angle of her head that Viktor put it in, but the defiant flame is clear in her pale grey eyes.
“Aww, how many decades since someone let you touch them like this, hm? Does it sting to be reminded of that?”
Through their short-lived cooperation, one that may yet find its end in flames, he’s gotten glimpses beneath the layers just as much as she has tried to. He can’t slip the shred of satisfaction it brings to have gotten under her skin.
But she’s talking herself in circles and into an early grave, and call it the sentimentality of an old man, but he doesn’t wish to see himself rid of this one yet. The same question on his mind like a stuck pict-feed screen: What is it you want?
“Volenta – stop talking.”
He moves past the distance he created and the hand that isn’t firmly in her hair takes her by the edge of the shirt. Viktor drags her up and presses his mouth against hers. With Volenta on the tips of her toes, she can only grab onto him so that the suddenness of losing balance doesn’t end up with her falling.
There are no thoughts in her head, just familiarity of intimacy that she has been craving for since leaving the flagship Volenta calls home, since embarking on a mission that is designed to mark a new start in her career.
There’s no confusion or even surprise in her mind either. She immediately responds to the kiss, gripping the front of Viktor’s uniform in her fists and pulling him even further into herself, letting the man remain the unyielding pillar that he has been up until now. Then there’s a whisper, with Volenta’s eyes closed and lips still brushing against his.
“How fiercely does this fire burn, Inquisitor?”
His lips form a slight smile against hers. “Patience, acolyte, patience.”
His hand in her hair loosens just so, until it is a lighter kind of ache directing her head, the other trailing down to her waist to allow her some stability in overcoming their difference in height. Viktor’s arm around Volenta brings her against the bulk of his body, against the spot the knife had sat moments ago, this time not permitting a way backwards or out. When he returns his lips to hers, it is with unapologetic hunger. Yet she chuckles into the kiss.
“Acolyte?” A pause, to playfully yet painfully sink her teeth into his bottom lip for a moment. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for this.” Releasing his jacket with one hand, she moves it lower and cups the front of his crotch. “Or do you desperately want to remove my identification, so that once this is over you can easily forget me?” A squeeze to make a point and Volenta smiles to him. “No, I won’t let you forget me, Viktor.”
He doesn’t press into the touch despite how good it feels, but the hiss of his breath is more than traitorous and Viktor briefly moves his lips from hers to against her neck when her teeth relent then to the side of her face. The beating of Volenta’s pulse sits under his touch.
“You really never stop, don’t you? Is that your thing?”
A hand slides to cup the back of her leg, suddenly lifting her up as if the young woman weighs nothing, and is held there only by the firm grip of him against the muscle of her thigh.
Startled by the suddenness of his action, Volenta scrambles to grab onto him, managing to throw a hand around Viktor’s neck and barely missing setting her sleeve on fire from the flames upon his pauldrons. Another hand she keeps in a tight fist, clutching the front of his uniform, now not daring to let go, but his lips on her neck make her sigh and she leans her head back, giving him more access.
With eyelashes fluttering to a close, Volenta smiles. “It is my thing. Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of who I am. Or what I want.”
He continues his attentions down the spot she now leaves exposed for him, hearing her words echo under his lips and he works his way down towards her collarbone. Her sighs are a beautiful thing, and he‘d rather coax more of them out of her than have them argue all the way until they’re both undressed.
“Much like you to mistake composure for shame.” He mumbles against the spot of skin where her collar dips downwards, words punctuating themselves with his steps where he carries her across the room. For a moment he considers just throwing her onto the plush bed to the side and letting things take their course from then on.
Instead he sinks himself back into the recline of the chair, pulling Volenta into his lap where the warm weight of her stirs the ache.
“Go on then, Volenta.” He pulls her back in by the front of her shirt, thumb lazily pushing the zipper down but not yet fully. “Enlighten me on the extent of your want.”
Surprised, very obviously so, Volenta just stares at Viktor, small breaths escaping her lips. He can’t be serious, can he? Blinking a few times, like an animal caught in sight-line of a bolter, she’s not sure what to do. Not many things throw her off, but this has.
And she’s not used to taking the lead. Not like this.
Finding herself at a loss, Volenta glances down at Viktor’s fingers, then back at his face. Everything that she was up until this moment crumbles apart, at the way he hasn’t said or done a single thing she tried to predict, not even once.
“Wait a second.”
The hand on her shirt stops, but two fingers stay hooked onto the gap in the fabric between where the last points of contact strain apart. Viktor’s touch hovers above her skin as if holding the moment in the same stasis without tipping it in one direction or the other.
“Yes?” The tone is casual, almost unassuming. “I have to admit I did not expect you to falter so quickly.” But his smile – closed yet real and carrying the same constant air of impenetrability – tells her of immense satisfaction. His eyes rest on her face and only her face.
“You’re infuriating.” She pouts. “And your pauldrons are stupid too.”
With a frown that follows the words she reaches under them, trying to figure out how to detach them. Volenta can’t back out now. Not when his smug grin is grating on her nerves worse than any ad-mech needle.
“I’ll take that first one as a compliment, coming from you”
The clasp holding his coat comes undone with a click. A snap of his fingers and flames he willed into existence are erased from it again. The coat, along with the extinguished offending pauldrons, slides off his shoulders to drape over the back of the chair. Viktor’s own fingers work until Volenta‘s shirt at last opens under them, letting his eyes generously assess her.
Beneath the silver rosette around her neck, Volenta wears a black bra. The lace of it is a stark contrast against her pale skin. No scars, no blemishes, but that’s not something Viktor really pays attention to. The size of her chest, revealed at last, is much more than it appeared. More than a handful, each of them. The Emperor truly grants some more than others.
But she’s less intrigued by Viktor’s impressions of her and just shrugs off the shirt, letting it pool around the slim waist where the fabric is tucked at least for the time being. With deft fingers, Volenta begins to undo the Inquisitor’s coat, the buckles falling open easily, then the shirt underneath until she pauses.
With fingertips gently tracing against his throat, Volenta inspects the mark of Scholastica Psykana upon Viktor’s throat, a brand he could only remove by replacing the skin itself.
“Beautiful.” She smirks.
Viktor does not exactly bare his throat when she does it, but does not conceal it either. The brand goes deep, and where her fingers cross it the touch vanishes and then returns along the sensitive edges. He turns his head to hold her content gaze. Hands wander along the soft, scarless shoulders down to where they assume the closure along the black lace. His own roughened palms contrast her skin in every touch.
“Beautiful because of the honor of sanctioning?” He remarks, calling to mind her previous comments on his witch nature. “Or for what else it represents?”
The sigil marks him and is likewise a promise. An oath that he is no longer a danger to those not in the path of his wrath and that the gifts bestowed upon him are tightly under control. To him it is, perhaps, the only scar on his body that does not serve as a reminder of a grave failure, but perhaps the triumph of not becoming one.
Her eyes flick to the mark again, then back to Viktor’s face and she chuckles. “Do you really want to know?” With renewed hunger at seeing his brand, Volenta kisses him eagerly. If not for anything else, then to shut him up and have him focus.
Palms wander down his naked chest to the belt and quickly start undoing it. The sizable chest presses firmly against his when her hips rise to give her own hands more space to work on a buckle, the buttons, the zipper.
There’s something about his brand that gets to Volenta. Not in a way Viktor sees himself or his lack of failure up until this point, but something akin to an animal being branded. Something shameful and twisted that speaks of sinfulness by letting him touch her. The same touch that lights her skin on fire and makes the coil of desire twist tightly in the pit of her body.
Through drunken haze Volenta realizes she might regret this by the time morning comes, the moment they are back in their uniforms, at a war table, discussing the mission and what needs to be done. She might find shame then, embarrassment and penitence at carousing with one of those she prefers to subdue and punish, not reward. But that is a worry she is willing to leave for tomorrow, the thought entirely forgotten the moment Volenta slips her delicate fingers into the open fly of Viktor’s pants.
With a satisfied, hot exhale against his mouth, she takes him into her palm and lets out a breath of a moan right after. The ghost of a reply he means to give gets equally cut short by the low hum coming from his chest. The hard length of his cock eagerly presses into her hand, and though it is sizeable, it is the girth that gives her an appreciative pause as her fingers wrap around him.
He holds the back of her thigh as if there's any space between them left to close, evident in the hardness of the touch. Intoxication has long been overtaken by the heady rush of arousal. A desire close to fulfillment but never quite there, the swell of her chest against his, the tilt of her hips sitting above him, almost anticipating the moment they’re going to come down. He sees it in the subtle flush of her skin and the parted lips, the symptoms of a mutual undoing. And then there’s the change in her hunger, the glint in her eyes that has been sparked when they touched upon his mark, that and a half-forgotten question. Do you really want to know?
Viktor’s hand fits just below the rise of her breasts, cupping one and through the lace beginning to roll the nipple underneath his fingers with little gentleness. “Tell me.” He breathes onto her lips, already knowing the answer can only be a red-hot iron to set irritation alight anew.
At first she hisses when his touch makes her pause and a shiver runs down her spine making a catlike mewl nearly escape Volenta’s throat before she swallows it down. “You may not like the answer and I don’t handle rejection well.”
She teases with a breathy whisper and a smile, catching Viktor’s bottom lip between her teeth and biting to the point of pain. Yet her pale gaze is on his eyes, sharper than what it should be considering just how much she drank before he even arrived.
Releasing his lip, she continues smiling and watches Viktor closely while giving his cock a few, agonizingly slow pumps. Volenta wants to see him react, to watch the beginning of his undoing under her touch before she has to get herself out of his lap to shed what’s left of her clothes.
For a moment it seems as if he’s going to remain his stone-faced self and a sharp intake of breath will be her only reward. But then his eyelids flutter shut, head tipping back ever so slightly and the pleasure writing itself onto his face. It takes a moment for him to recollect himself.
“That’s already an answer, isn’t it?” He pinches her nipple between a thumb and pointer, intending the same sweet agony as when she had sunk her teeth into his lip, before his hand slides elsewhere and comes up to rest underneath her jaw. Fingertips slightly caress against the sides of her windpipe, thumb idly running down the front. “I’d rather not leave things incomplete.”
“Less of an answer than you think, dear.” She whispers and first presses her lips to his own throat, then leaves a wet stripe with her tongue when Volenta moves her face to the side of his neck. “And while I do enjoy seeing you try and keep your composure when I say the most outrageous things, I still don’t want a shot to the back. The gun one, of course.” Her hand moves, the grip of her fingers tight but not uncomfortably so, and she continues stroking him, appreciating the length and the girth. “But I can answer you honestly, if in turn you will be honest with me. And…” She nips at the underside of his jaw with a smile he does not see. “…don’t give me that bullshit about being an open book. We’re of the same kind, Viktor, you and me, we know how to lie without lying, and that’s not what I want.”
Yet her own garb grows uncomfortably tight at the need for more than this, the different kind of friction that Volenta could experience too, and she dips her head, trailing kissed down his chest, moving one leg out of the chair and onto the floor, pulling away slowly but surely.
Under her skilled hands, it becomes hard for Viktor to focus, much less to duel her in the blow-by-blow they’ve kept up all the way to here. When she pulls away, he watches her slide out of his grasp with a mixture of desire, a different kind of interest and not without following the trail of kisses with the wish for her to linger or eventually sink to her knees.
He catches her by the chin before the last of the touch breaks, fingers against an unblemished cheek.
“If it is as you say and we are of the same kind…” There’s a tone to it that still betrays doubts on the matter. “…you know this cannot ever be an absolute promise. That’d be asking for a cost beyond prediction. That is honesty, too.” He kisses her, slowly releasing the grip. “So I won’t give you any of that bullshit, but I might trade you an honest answer.”
“Don’t be so jaded, Viktor.” She smirks and takes his wrist with her fingers, releasing his shaft at last. “But very well, let’s trade more than bodily fluids. Does my offer of honesty for honesty work? Or is there something else you want as payment?”
Still watching his face, Volenta maneuvers Viktor’s hand and parts her lips, guiding his thumb into her mouth where she pushes the wet, hot muscle of her tongue against the digit, moving it around in slow circles. After a moment, before he can even think of doing anything beyond sitting there, she pulls away, releasing Viktor’s hand, and takes off her unclasped bra only to discard it by the chair.
She eyes him in this moment - chest barren, pants undone, his eagerness clear by the way his cock stands hard for her, and she takes in the view of a man that Volenta nearly wanted to strangle some handful of hours ago. The hard features of Viktor’s face and the look in his eyes speak of more than just cold professionalism he showed before. He’s handsome, Volenta decides. And the greying hair that she somehow managed to mess up already makes her smile proudly.
She likes what she sees.
She likes it very much.
And so, with practiced precision she undoes her own belt, then the fly of her pants while still standing between his legs. Pausing before the last shed of her clothes, Volenta traces her fingers over his abdomen and if reading his thoughts earlier - drops to her knees, the innate desire to serve buckling her by his feet. There, she takes his length at the base with one hand and keeping her eyes on Viktor, Volenta slowly licks the underside of his cock from the base to the tip. Watching her with the eager eyes of someone who presumes to know what comes next, his thoughts now dissolve entirely as her mouth finds a better use than before.
Through the haze of it Viktor tries to keep his eyes on her, to take in the view of that pretty face servicing him as if there’d never been anything burning between them but need. There’s something immensely satisfying seeing her on the knees, about the constellation of respective positions in and outside of this room and all that has come to pass in the hours before.
He meets her light gaze, watching the slick drag of her tongue along the shaft. The pleasure of the physical gets almost overtaken by that of the visual. The sound daring to escape his throat he dulls into a pleased hum.
“Trying to avoid your own answer, Volenta?” Viktor teases, trying to hide the heaviness of arousal in his tone and the way his breaths come deeper.
Truth is, he wants it all - her honesty, her neverending defiance, her lips around his cock to the hilt. To not forget her but to take and take and have all of her as if there’s no point beyond which there is nothing left for him to have. To burn through her like a forest fire and hope it never stops its kindling.
His hand caresses, finds its way back into her hair and holds there firmly, halfway imagining how it would feel if she took him down her throat. He hopes for it to serve in the place of an answer.
“I’m not avoiding it.” Volenta says with a mischievous smile and lets Viktor’s length, wet from her tongue, rest against the side of her face, comfortable against the soft cheek. “You just deal in perhaps and maybes, you didn’t give me a solid promise of honesty. And if you don’t give me that, I won’t give you what you want. Although, I’m not sure that you already don’t have everything of me that you wish.”
She chuckles and playfully pulls back just enough to grip Viktor’s cock by the base and swing it slightly right before impaling her mouth upon it once more. This time it’s without a warning or a seductive eye contact, but straight to the hilt.
A small gag nearly escapes her, but Volenta manages not to let it overtake her and she closes her eyes, pulls back with a smile almost to the tip, and does it all over again, waiting for Viktor to begin guiding her movements to his liking. This type of man always takes control, she knows this from experience.
That does elicit a groan from the man above her, caught in the suddenness of it and the nearly overwhelming sensation. The ease with which she takes him gives him no time to speak nor catch his breath, and so he spends her next movements savoring the feeling with eyes closed. True to her prediction, Viktor’s hand in her hair tightens, first by surprise, then by desire for control.
“You’re infuriating.” A sentiment that is entirely mutual at least.
When he forces her down with one hand it is to a point that could make someone less adept feel the sting of tears, and holds her there, hips pushing upwards in an unyielding desire to go deeper yet. He drags her back by the hair until his cock slips out from between her lips with a wet sound, but holding himself down with one hand, not intending to let her go that easily.
“Have it your way.” The reddened shine of her lips and the smile still on her face are a seductive invitation to sink himself back in, if only to stop her from talking. “And be assured there’s much more I want of you.”
At his words, the ones that echo hers to the last letter, Volenta has to grab onto Viktor’s thighs when a laugh threatens to overtake her and begin choking more than the thickness of his cock in her throat already does. Glancing upwards briefly just to see his face, the woman gets taken by surprise when he shoves her face down and she swallows around the girth in her mouth, forgetting whatever was amusing her just a second ago.
Yet she does not fight Viktor when he holds her face against him, just playfully taps her fingers against same spots where she held onto earlier and inhales only when he finally allows her a breath, barely even feeling the sting of her hair being pulled so roughly.
When Volenta’s eyes meet Viktor’s again, she smirks wider and gives a quick swipe of her tongue against the underside of the tip that still stands proudly before her face. “You first then. I told you that what I have to say you might hate hearing. So let me have my answer first.” Moving her fingers from Viktor’s thighs, Volenta slides her palms over his stomach, upwards, onto his chest. “Tell me why you’re doing this. Tell me why, after all of the exchanges we had and complete disinterest that I read in you, you suddenly desire, Inquisitor? I’m curious what is that you find about me, that despite your obvious annoyance, you still try to fuck my mouth like a feral animal on a verge of oblivion with a last chance at pleasure.”
She’s not hiding it, not in her strange pale, grey eyes, nor in her words that Volenta wants to hear the naked truth of his passions. And since she’s about to deliver the unpleasant truth of her own desire, it’s clear that she’s ready to hear that she’s just an entertainment for him. A tryst he won’t think about by tomorrow, or even that she reminds him of someone else and he does not think about her at all. Oh how many stories she had heard from fellow acolytes about the ruthless passions of their superiors and she expects nothing else, curious into which category Viktor has sorted her in.
Her words stir the tightening coil of arousal in his gut, mouth alternating between whispering her debauched challenges and taking him in. If there’s any regret about what they’ve found themselves engaging in, it’s that this is a discussion that is being had with his attention on his words and only half on pleasure, all the while she’s swallowing him down with the same desperation she accused him of having.
“I could say that I am only just a man, Volenta, and that the cut of your uniform won me over or something of the sort, but we both know that those who resign themselves to being merely men do not survive in our profession.” He feels the path of her fingers, the way they rest between scars and over the hair on his chest. “Neither are you the first bothersome acolyte to cross my path, nor will you be the last. Though none like this. By all accounts you are maddening.” He guides her head along his cock again, then in a slow, deliberate motion dragging her lips back up until the tail end of the sentence fads into the quiet- “insolent…” Another, punctuated by the upward cut of his hips. “…and hopelessly overconfident. Would it be insulting, then, to say I find you entertaining?”
He lets go of her then, pushing a greying strand of hair out of his face that's threatening to come undone more by the minute.
Viktor takes another long look at her, the earnest interest in his truths in her eyes coupled with all else about her he wishes to commit to memory. “I would not desire what bends or breaks or offers itself easily. Though it’s been satisfying seeing you on your knees.”
She glances up at him. Heavy, dark eyelashes casting shadows upon her eyes and continues, not responding to him, at least for now. Volenta’s tongue is pressed firmly to the underside of his cock, the tip tracing the bulging vein when she pulls back, the one that snakes around the shaft like a river, carrying his blood in thrumming beats of Viktor’s heart. Stopping at the tip, Volenta breathes in, swiping her tongue in circles around it before taking it back in, caressing his chest at the same time.
What he says doesn’t insult the woman, that much is clear because she keeps going until her eyes close, her throat managing to handle Viktor’s size with almost an ease, clearly not only used to doing this, but visibly enjoying herself and the process. Still, not being sure of his stamina and not wanting to be left unsatisfied herself, Volenta finally pulls back and runs a hand over her hair, meeting his gaze.
“On the contrary, Viktor. You flatter me. If I stay in your memory as being an absolute pain in your ass, then I don’t mind that at all.” She winks at him and stands with a smile, but instead of getting onto his lap, Volenta brushes palms over her heavy breasts. “But I owe you my honesty now.”
She thinks for a second and even the delay of enjoying to service the Inquisitor wasn’t enough time to let her collect thoughts that are clouded with intoxication. Worst that will happen, Volenta thinks to herself, he will kill her on the spot. Best – he will leave. She expects him to react in no other way but negatively, and swallowing with a degree of nervousness at tossing her caution to the wind, she shrugs.
“You’re a psyker. A glorified mutant, Viktor. You are only useful because of your curse, because the Imperium makes use even from the likes of you. The majority of your kind is unstable, dangerous, walking heresies against the God-Emperor. A small batch of you somehow manage to worm your way into high positions, like poison, or a bomb that will go off at any moment. And yet you, specifically, make me feel something I don’t quite understand just yet. It’s partially disgust at myself, partially at you. But truthfully – I am enjoying this weird conflict within me and I want to see where it will lead. Consider me… curious.”
The rise to his feet happens in one single fluid motion, sitting back content and lust-drunken one second - the shadow of him darkening her with it in the next. Once again she is reminded of just how much he dwarfs her, and though hair disheveled and clothes undone, he has lost little of the air of sheer presence that follows him like his fire.
“It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Not from you.”
The hand that had grazed her windpipe before now shoots up to meet it, as if before it has memorized its winding pathways and now remembers exactly where to land and then press in. Her head feels laughably small in his hands. One finger digs into the soft flesh of her cheek by which he drags her face up to his.
“You insult as the way that you are, anything to get a rise out of those around you.” His face is close to her as it can be, the sweetness of the liquor and the heat of his breath caressing her face. “Up to a certain point maybe I would have agreed with you. Agreed that the majority of my kind is in fact that unstable cesspit of heresy you speak of, one that I am above and thus have to see and curb at every turn and pull their poison out from the veins of the Imperium myself.” Pressure builds under his hands. “But you never know when to stop, acolyte.”
There’s an unmistakable flash of not fear, but surprise and her hands instinctively grab at his wrist. Yet she doesn’t try to pull his hand away, just looks into the dark, green eyes, behind which Volenta sees fires akin to those of the burning pyre outside.
And she smiles.
“I warned you, and you still wanted to hear my truth.” The voice is barely a whisper, strained through the choking grasp of Viktor’s fingers and Volenta attempts to swallow, painfully so, and not because her throat already paid its tithe to him in a manner that was much less explosive than his response. “I warned you.”
“Your warning will not save you.” He responds carelessly. “Nor is it free from consequence.”
Of course she smiles. Where others would have long cowered in fear and tried to desperately take back words that have long left their constricted throats, she remains standing, steadfast, stubborn. He forces her around – not that it’s hard to do – and presses the length of his forearm back against her throat and his body back against hers. Naked skin meets naked skin. Viktor brings his lips close to her ear.
“So this is what you want? For me to take you, for you to get off on the revulsion of it?”
Uncertainty, confusion, then discomfort. Volenta goes through all of these in a matter of a handful of seconds and tries to look back at him, to look Viktor in the face. “Wait- No, you don’t-“ Finally, dread begins to fill her and at last she realizes that playing with fire tends to get one burned. Ironic, considering who exactly she tried to agitate this entire time.
And things went well, didn’t they? There was some sort of understanding, some middle ground. Maybe not exactly mutual respect, but at least the same desire to distract themselves with from whatever else is waiting for them tomorrow.
He misunderstood her.
And Volenta is not sure if she can dig herself out of the hole that she dug herself into. Viktor is not one of the fellow acolytes, not one of her teachers, too afraid to tell her no because they are scared of her mentor, and not even her mentor himself, who is far too lenient to her and which she exploits with delight. She heard some older soldiers use a phrase during her time in Astra Militarum just a handful of years ago. How did it go? Oh yes.
Fuck around and find out.
She recalls it with a bitter grin that is only in her mind and Volenta tries again. “I don’t think you understood me.” The voice sounds strained, her body tenses against his in a taut curve and she reaches behind her, fingers weakly pushing at the fronts of his thighs.
A few words, and he knows he’s got her. That he managed to strike exactly the chord his fingers have been looking for. Primal, animalistic fear plays into his hand much like the warp and in the same feral manner as anything happening between them. It does nothing to dissuade the need, if anything, it keeps it alight.
“Then, pray tell, what it is you meant to say.”
The arm around her neck loosens, letting her believe he’s close to letting go, allowing her to have that small push off his thighs forwards into marginal distance. Both know that this is a farce, that the room in this very moment is a playing field entirely tipped in Viktor’s favor. His presence asserts itself in the step he takes forwards, pushing her more into the open space of the center of the room.
“Listen.” Volenta starts not even knowing where she’s going with this, her mind reeling like a cog in a machine that’s in overdrive. At his push to step forwards she stumbles, nearly stepping on his foot with her sharp heel. “It’s not that-“ Beginning to grip at Viktor’s forearm around her throat she flushes, a blush gentle but obvious on her pale skin. “Not like I meant to say that-“ This time she turns her head to him as much as she can, so that Volenta can see his expression, but one thing she realizes clearly.
If she’s going down, she’s not going down without a fight.
“You misunderstood me because I was still gentle with the words I picked. Look at yourself.” Volenta scoffs and digs her nails into his skin to underline the point, a vicious sneer appearing both on her lips and with a sharp glint in her eyes. “Tell me I’m not right, witch. Tell me you’re not proving me right, acting like an animal. A beast in denial. Viktor the Psyker. Viktor the Mistake.”
He laughs. Laughs at her a hoarse, low roar that gets thrown around the room.
„Do you think yourself original?”
When he’d been her age, maybe these words would have phased him, but by now they have been hauled at him so often they have lost all their shine.
„You’re wrong to think your cruelty is in any way remarkable. Your hatred comes a dime a dozen and the words twice as cheap.”
Truth is, he should kill her. Why he hasn’t – respect for her mentor, her Ordo, the inconvenience of seeing this through alone – sits on a scale that should have long tipped beyond her favor. His hand trails a single digit along her spine, splays across the small of her back, the warmth there, the curve of her body that still sits against his, and pushes.
There’s a simpler truth to it. Where Volenta’s words have awakened genuine ire, they still sit against a backdrop of unfulfillment, now threading together like tapestry. Maybe he is that animal she speaks of. Clothed in fine cloth and silk, but an animal still. It is all she wants him for, but desperately clawing like this she is no better.
He’s seen the flush of her face, thinks her brush with fear hasn’t led her beyond the hunger. It’s not wise to indulge her, but if he has to make the choice between standing half-naked over a pool of her blood, righting himself and leaving, or having her scream in a different way, then, in this moment ruled by impulse and instinct and what's left of the liquor, he knows his pick. Come tomorrow they’ll do what needs to be done and he’ll be glad to never have to see her face again.
When she braces the fall onto the bed, he’s over her in a second. The bulk of Viktor’s body blocks the little light left in the room and leaves only her hair to shine in the night like spun silver. His face presses against her neck.
“I was right, then.” One knee slots itself between her legs.
She tries to embrace for the fall with her arms but falls nonetheless and then realizes that she can’t get up anymore the moment his body weight is unto her, heavy and unmoving, keeping her face against the bed. A sharp hiss escapes Volenta when heat of Viktor’s body reminds her of the latest cuts on her back, ones that were made to leave notches in her bones. And she’s sure that the latest one will start bleeding if it hasn’t already.
But she laughs again, Volenta can’t help it. This whole situation is absurd, or maybe she’s just drunk. And then there’s her desire to be taken, to be claimed, that the woman tries to push away but finds herself incapable to.
“You want to be right.” With something akin to a growl, Volenta’s nails claw at the sheets of the perfectly made bed that was pristine just a second ago.
Another laughter when she turns her face to the side, not to inhale but try and catch another glimpse of Viktor’s face. Why does it matter to her so much that she sees him? What is about him that Volenta can’t stop herself from trying to watch? And she knows the answer, but refuses to admit it. Masks it with more and more anger that is nothing but a fabrication, her last line of defense, as always, for which she has been punished already. For which she bled and still didn’t learn the lesson.
A bitter chuckle makes Volenta pause in her words, the ones that she should say but decides not to. It would be smart to tell him to get off of her, to get out of her room, to maybe even report him for this. A few bats of eyelashes and a single tear would make her mentor wage war upon Viktor for even daring to touch her, burning through the Imperium just to inflict as much pain as possible, or as much as she would lie about having experienced.
That’s not what she wants.
“But does it really matter if you are right?” Volenta’s voice sounds part amused, part laced with desire that takes the forefront of her mind. “You asked if I want you to take me. Yes, I do. Or do you need written consent and five approval stamps from the Administratum?” With that, her fingers in the sheets relax and the woman attempts to lift her hips, just to nudge and urge him, but he’s too heavy and impossible to move unless Viktor wishes for it himself.
He doesn’t grace her with an answer, but can't bite back the chuckle that conveys he’s not at all impressed with her attempts any longer. He lifts himself off her just enough to accommodate the urging of her hips and his own comfort without losing contact.
The expanse of her back is a brief glimpse where before Viktor subdued her with his own body, the eyes of the inked symbol of the Ordos flashing in the dark as light dances off her back. Committed to skin, and around it - scars old and new, and those so fresh they cannot be called scars yet. Some part of him desires to know, another can guess, but both are in agreement that this is far from the time.
Arousal burns under his skin with intensity that borders on manic. His erection sits against the swell of her ass where from the waist downward she remains clothed. His motions become impatient and careless, pulling down the layers roughly with a single hand until as much of her is exposed as he can get into view and fabric bunches around her thighs.
He sees the way she twists her head, craning as if her eyes want something to hold onto, eyes that are a marvel after all, bright, hiding the incessant spark, looking up at him– but his hand splays over her back and presses her back into the mattress.
The other hand pushes itself where his knee kept her legs apart, bracing his own to either side of her body. He finds her as he wants her, two fingers dragging against already-slick folds. Had the night gone any different, he might have found pleasure in preparing her, in feeling her clench around his fingers with each high he’d manage to coax out of her, but the thought now carries only lack of satisfaction and invitation to more ridicule. Taking his cock in hand, he lines himself up against her entrance and presses inside.
Finding herself far from being in the most comfortable position to be fucked, with pants around her legs acting like a restraint, her adamantine heels pushing kneeguards that are fashioned like skulls into the soft mattress, forbidding Volenta any further comfort than she already has – it leaves her annoyed at first. She wants to speak, to ask for maybe a different angle, maybe to let her undress, but it’s far too late for words when Viktor stakes his claim into her, even if a temporary one.
A gasp escapes Volenta, and then she whimpers, pressing her forehead into the sheets and gripping them tightly as the man she thought she will have a little bit of fun with, one she mistook for someone who won’t take it this far, forces himself further in, and further, painfully so. He hears her exhale with a moan, entire body trembling with the struggle to accommodate his size, the girth, the depth of the angle. “Fuck…” Volenta whispers into the sheets, her back arching to meet him.
The feeling is exhilarating, the push into her satiating and at the same time he can only call it agonizing. He savors the slow drag, the time it takes for her to give way to him. The words she utters only serve to feed the tension in him, the sounds of his own pleasure building at the back of his throat. A moment of unsteadiness makes him brace himself against his forearm. Lips brush the nape of her neck.
It isn’t as if he particularly cares for her comfort after it all. In fact, her agony lies sweet on his tongue and against his hands in the tremble of her breath. There’s something immensely satisfying in the thought of her possession, of claim, of the power he exerts over her in this very moment and the fact that, for once, she is reduced to a few, lost words. The press of her hips tells him she’s very well able to take it.
The full weight of him sinks down against her until he bottoms out. A whine escapes Volenta when he sheathes himself into her, when he begins thrusting and with left hand she reaches behind, fingers searching for the back of his head, finding it, tangling in his hair. “Harder.” With a breathy demand she moans for him again and permits herself to become Viktor’s completely. In this moment – he becomes her entire universe.
And she does not think that he’s a psyker, that they argued, maybe nearly killed each other. Although the outcome of that sparring match from the very start has been tipped in his favor due to Volenta’s inexperience, her inability to keep herself in check and the emotions that bubble up faster than the woman can attempt to stop them.
No, everything that she is right now is his.
When he pulls back again, nearly slipping out she says his name, now pliant, obedient and begging for him not to stop. Begging for Viktor, for all of him. All that he was, is and ever will be. His name falling from Volenta’s lips undoes something within him, a tight lacing holding the seams of him together starkly cut. The mockery that swung in every single syllable of his name on her tongue is gone. The edges have softened beyond the point of recognition, the sharpness given way. Viktor gives in to her plea.
The hand in his hair drives him against her, his hands wrapping around her blurring the lines between their bodies, their ends and beginnings. He venerates her shoulders with his lips, a hunger to feel her skin in the dark and a hunger for more of it, more of her. The welts of scars well up under his touch, but cease their reminder of their meaning. He picks up his pace and finds no fulfillment in it, not like this, not when he’s bent over her searching for something he cannot seem to find.
Viktor slides out of her, the ache in him palpable, and flips Volenta onto her back, absentmindedly beginning to rid her of what remains covering her skin. She watches him with eyelids heavy and pale face flushed. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath before his claim rushes over her again, like an ocean of fire that seems impossible to douse out.
“There, under.” She instructs him how to undo her heels and when they clatter to the floor, Volenta sits up, grabbing the open shirt and jacket of Viktor’s uniform by the lapels, before bringing him into a heated, messy and wet kiss. Then she yanks his clothes down the arms, feeling a craving to be as close as possible to him, that echoes with the same desire within him.
She allows him to remove whatever clothing is there, and then halts for a moment, looking up at him where Volenta sits. Slowly, as if too scared to be struck in a moment of vulnerability, she takes Viktor’s hand again and presses the side of her face into a big, scarred palm. Eyes bore into his, pleading and soft.
“Love me or hate me, but please… don’t leave.”
The words come from somewhere deeper than just her desire for pleasure or her victory of having the Inquisitor undone and desperately driven. It’s genuine, and Viktor understands now, that even when she promised honesty, this is the only time when Volenta is giving him the naked truth.
With his clothes discarded entirely, he doesn’t need to look down on himself to know that what is revealed is a map of scars left by his own mentor, running like rivers and landmarks over his torso. Yet the thought is abandoned when his eyes land on her as she sits naked in the pyre-glow, light dancing over her skin as if kissed by the flames intent on consuming them both. Volenta’s face sits in his hand as if it had been moulded into it. The woman before him, never seeming like anything less than a force of nature, now appears almost fragile.
“Volenta…” Her name is a round, full sound on his tongue.
There is no answer to this plea of hers, something no one with their calling can give. What happens after tomorrow is nebulous at best, depends on information they do not have. The only certainty is that the end of it, if it leaves them alive, will spit them out in different directions, and the leaving is the only thing that's guaranteed. But for tonight, the inevitable has been banished outside to the pyre. He can allow himself to hold without the call to shatter.
He pulls her in. The kiss is less messy, less urgent, it is the kiss of someone who wishes they could promise anything without it sounding like half a lie. As Viktor turns to sit, with one arm around her waist and one on her thigh until she’s almost in his lap, he pulls her closer. A hold with no way out and an answer that right now and for tonight, he has no intention of leaving.
Straddling him, Volenta looks at him after pulling back with a barely noticeable smile. “Don’t go gentle on me now, Viktor.” With a whisper she reaches down, holding his erection still just before she sinks onto it, gasping with pleasure right against his lips. “Don’t think, just take me.” With those words leaving as another gasp, Volenta encircles Viktor’s neck with both of arms, pressing herself into him with tenderness of a lover. “And don’t stay quiet.” A chuckle escapes her but soon her hips begin to move. To rise and fall. Not as fast or hard as either of them wish for, but the embrace in which they engage is the next best thing.
Everything melts away because his face is before her, naked from anger and contempt that Volenta elicited from within Viktor with words far less than gracious. And she wouldn’t blame him if he held that expression even now. Yet he doesn’t, and that uncloaks the very soul that she gives to him completely, if only temporarily.
If he wished to peek beyond the curtain, Volenta would give him honesty that she greedily guards otherwise. But somewhere in the back of her mind, clouded by pleasure that is partially deluded by exalting pain, she doubts that Viktor will. And says a quick prayer to the God-Emperor that he won’t.
Of course he has his questions, has kept them all the while and likely always will. The closer he gets to her, the version of her that she is under those layers that don’t simply come off with the shed of clothing, the more of them he collects. There’s always that desire to spill them onto her waiting lips, to honor her request to not go gentle on her by both their contents and hands digging into her thighs, all that follows after.
“I'm not the one to give speeches with you on top of me.” He answers her with a slight smile, hand tracing down the line of her spine.
She sinks herself down on him once more, and so whichever rest could follow gets cut short, the God-Emperor showing himself merciful this time. Words replace themselves with small betrayals of pleasure. The distance between them has vanished to the few points their bodies aren’t flush against one another, becoming even less as he claims her mouth again. The kiss tries to take her response away, and she does kiss him back, briefly. Then pulls back, not allowing Viktor to silence her for longer than a heated moment.
“You’re charming. And delightful. Did anyone ever tell you that?” With a chuckle that gets cut with her taking him fully in again, Volenta presses her forehead against Viktor’s. “Careful, you might even become likeable.” A tease. She’s more like herself again, but words are stripped from venom and acid.
There’s an attempt of a grip, upon his shoulder-blades and the back of neck, desperate to find more purchase, to go harder and faster. Impatient as she is, in almost everything that is not her job, Volenta whines with the need for more. This – is not enough. And catches herself wondering if she should’ve kept him furious, insulted nearly beyond sanity. When the flames almost licked Volenta’s face when the Inquisitor’s palm was drawn close. Somehow, the thought that she’s fucking the very same man that nearly attempted to kill her drives her desires even stronger, higher and much hotter.
“You are incorrigible.” His tone carries the amusement at her words. “Likeable. Is that how you plan to remember me?”
He doesn’t know what to make of her, and who knows if he ever will. If he will ever get his answers, if the traces of this will find themselves anywhere beyond the bedroom doors of a single night or if they can make sense of each other when it isn’t all explosive and the clothes back on. It doesn’t matter. Right now she is the burn in his veins, the fire under his hands, an enigma without regard for solution or consequence.
„Hold onto me.” Viktor commands. He sees what she’s trying to do, her desire mirroring his own, the building need for something beyond this moment of slowed time. As they are, the position gives him too little agency, too little to do anything but meet her hips with his own in a drag that gives too little.
Her arms still wrapped around his neck he lays her back against the bed, never leaving her, forehead pressed to her forehead. The impatience sits with Viktor as a primal ache for what threatens to unmake them both and put an end to the night. His thrusts begin to grow harder, faster, making use of the angle he has on her now. A hand wanders to her thigh, holding her steady against the weight of his body with no choice but to take him, over and over again.
There’s a moment when Volenta nearly chooses to let go of him, to grip at the sheets over her head and just let the pleasure consume her, but instead she clings to Viktor. Nails drag over his skin, leaving rows of bloody marks intercepted by scars on his skin. Finally, at the strength of his pace she finally feels the bliss coming. A flash of a thought that it took them long to get here, but even that disappears, taking away her words with it.
The only thing that remains of Volenta is her body, under him, crying into the ceiling with her back arched and lips forming not insults or smart remarks, but his name.
Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…
Like a prayer dedicated only to him. A worship that is paid with sweat and whimpers, with gasps for air and complete unraveling.
Volenta knows she’s close and with what little sense she still has, she uses it to keep her eyes on Viktor’s face. To watch him as he unravels with her. Dedicating the rawest moment of herself as an offering upon his altar.
A stutter begins in his rhythm, a telltale sign of abandon hailing in the last attempts to take as much of her as he possibly can. He takes in the minutiae of her face in the seconds that separate them both from an inevitable fall: her lips fervently repeating his name, each one spurring him on with its urgency, the flush of her skin in the low light, and at last – her eyes searching for his and taking hold.
Volenta unravels before him, the sharp arch of her body upwards and into him as if it could bring them into one. Throughout all of it he holds her gaze as it overtakes her. The room closes in, and as she cries out against him her words, his name, the sounds disintegrating into rapture, are what takes him with her over that last ledge. Viktor’s answer to her litany is only paid in more of himself and he sinks into her for the last time.
The peak rips itself through him from the relentless drive of his hips throughout his core and the world gets confined to the space behind closed eyelids, breath taken in between teeth, and all that of her which he can hold onto hard enough to bruise. Then that falls away too, until Volenta remains the only thing left.
One last sigh escapes her and she feels him halt, then slump over her in a way that feels familiar and comforting. She relaxes her arms and caresses the back of Viktor’s head gently while trying to catch her breath with eyes finally closed in relief.
“Fuck…”
A gasp, then a smile that cannot be subdued. That’s all she needed – to pull Volenta’s mind out of the stress, out of the mission, out of her duty. To give reprieve that very few things come close to but never really succeed except for this. Feeling Viktor’s face rest against her neck, she nuzzles his ear and a damp temple where his hair sticks to it, her cheek soft and warm, carrying the same sheen of sweat as his.
“Ten out of ten performance… Inquisitor.” Volenta whispers, still swallowing gulps of air, but slowly coming to a rest that is wonderfully tempting to cling to into the forever.
That does earn her a small chuckle. “Not too bad yourself, acolyte.”
Tension that hasn’t left his body since he has stepped through the doors of the mansion slowly dissipates into the air of the room, now heavy and stale. He lets her thread fingers through his hair while the slight sting of marks Volenta has made makes itself noticeable on his shoulders. There’s comfort in the moments that come after the fact. In the void of thoughts that does not yet permit reality to slip back in.
Suddenly becoming aware of the heaviness of his own body, he rolls off her, feeling the chill as his sweat-dampened skin leaves hers and breaks contact. He leans himself back against the headboard, waiting out the seconds it takes for his chest to come to a normal rise and fall with the remains of effort.
Volenta, in turn, lifts herself on the elbows and takes another quiet moment to even her breathing until glancing up at Viktor. Then she turns over and crawls closer, stealing a deep, slow kiss from his lips, with fingertips ghosting over the side of his face before she pulls back. “Care for a drink? I’m parched.” This time it’s her palm that strokes over his thigh, all soft touches and gentle smiles. But without waiting for Viktor’s reply, Volenta turns her back to him and runs fingers over the avalanche of hair that does little to cover the marks or the tattoo. Two of which did indeed start bleeding, but Volenta doesn’t feel them and Viktor only witnesses.
She slips out of the bed and stretches cat-like, arms over the head. Where Viktor feels Volenta’s scratches on his shoulders, he sees a blueish echo of his grip on her hips and thighs. A testament of passion that almost welcomes more bruises to be left on her body.
But then Volenta turns and walks to the table, taking a moment to think which glass belongs to her but giving up on that quickly, considering that sharing a glass is the least offending exchange from what they have done so far. She picks them up and takes a sip first, then in her fingers Volenta picks up the pack of lho that has only three left inside. With her haul the woman returns to the bed, getting close to Viktor and offering the fuller glass while sitting down with legs curled under her. Eyes clear and sharp, and entirely focused on him.
He thanks her while taking the glass from her hands, fingers ghosting over hers to receive it and leaving again with it. He tilts the glass vaguely in the direction of hers in a toast, holding Volenta’s gaze as he brings the vessel to his lips. The liquor has lost none of its sweetness, but now almost cloyingly so, weighing down on the tongue and little by little banishing the taste of her lips. A sip and he places the glass to the bedside table to his right. The act has left them in astonishing sobriety, the notes of the alcohol subdued under other, finer flavors back to stinging on the tongue.
Helping himself, Viktor fishes for one of the three lho in the package in her hand and comes away successful, placing it between his lips and halfway waiting for her to do the same. It takes only a snap of his fingers against it, sparks dancing between them for a second, and between a few drags the lho comes alight in the bright orange of the light from outside. His hand he leaves held out, waiting for her to lean forward and receive fire.
At the flame Volenta’s eyebrows rise and she very obviously is trying to subdue a smile, but places the smoke in her lips and leans in, holding Viktor’s gaze and for once choosing not to comment anything. She said enough. Nasty, hurtful things that she partially believes in and partially was taught to project upon every deed and every interaction.
There’s an obvious change when Volenta straightens her spine and inhales the smoke, still keenly observing Viktor. “Are you going to stay?” A question is expressed in a calm voice, as if she doesn’t care and couldn’t even begin to. Then the lho gets replaced by the glass and she drinks all of it in one deep swallow, like someone who’s trying to numb themselves.
In a profession that demands everything from you, the key to survival or at best success, is to recognize what exactly is being asked of you and what you have to do for it. Viktor keenly understands just what it is that she asks of him. He won’t humiliate her by asking her the question if she wants him to stay, and won’t humiliate himself by pretending he doesn’t know the answer. Even in the throes of the last hour he couldn’t give her his word, one that would be collected sooner or later anyhow.
By denying her, tomorrow they’d find themselves back at square one, only with a much less clean slate than they had started with. But this, after all the lines he waltzed over, eroded underneath him like a firestorm, is the one he cannot bear to cross - because it means nothing, or means far too much. He recalls the locations of his clothing across the room.
“A few minutes more.” He says as if that’s an answer, looking at the lho that’s only half done. He’s matching her feigned carelessness. “But not for the night.”
“Right.” She smokes and puts her glass on the nightstand opposite of his side. “Then in the morning we can proceed with the plan. Since I have the numbers of your forces, it will be easier to leave them here and in formation in case we need sudden backup.” Tapping the ash into the empty glass, she sits properly again and looks at Viktor, but there’s nothing he can read in that emotionless face, even if it’s still flushed. “Make sure to rest, tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
With that Volenta looks away from Viktor, allowing him privacy to get out of her bed and to dress, without her eyes following his every movement. She just smokes and says nothing else.
Viktor isn’t the kind to ever question his decisions once in motion, and he doesn’t interrogate the feeling of wrongdoing rearing its head, washes it down with the liquor, with a drag of the lho that takes a quarter of it with it.
He agrees with her assessment, sensible as it is, in few words and directions for the following day, though in the face of lacking a chronometer it might have already started. That eliminates all excuses to stay, and so he gets off the bed and begins to collect his things. Somewhere he holds onto the impetus to press his lips to her naked shoulder as she sits, the blanket obscuring the form, but the moment has passed.
Dressed, righted, his coat draped over his arm, Viktor at last stands in Volenta’s doorway. Before his hand presses down the handle he turns to her. The light from outside has slowly started to die down and leaves only her specter-like shape against the sheets.
“Good night, Volenta.”
“See you tomorrow, Inquisitor Riemenschneider.” She nods to him.
But the moment the door closes, she snatches the drink that Viktor left almost untouched and knocks back the entirety of it in one angry swallow. When the liquor is drunk, she grits her teeth and squeezes the glass with increasing force until the crystal begins to crack. Only then Volenta stops herself, not allowing to do what she really wishes – to fill the emptiness in her soul that Viktor has left her with. To exchange it for the fires of fury. But no, she can’t do it, she can’t risk hurting herself, letting the glass bite into her flesh with shards that Volenta would need to pull out piece by excruciating piece.
She can’t let him know that it affected her.
That he hurt her far worse than any words, insults or even sheer violence could. Instead, she throws the glass to the wall, breathing heavily when the air Volenta didn’t know was holding finally forces itself out of her lungs, and places a trembling hand over her face, letting the eyelids drop to a close.
A bitter smile blooms against the palm of Volenta’s hand, a grin half sad and half so vicious it’s like she’s losing sanity by each passing second. But then there are only trails of tears between the splayed fingers. Tears that she cannot swallow or hide, cannot suppress into sweet oblivion. She expected nothing and yet it still breaks her into pieces, shatters her, like the glass that was destroyed by her hand.
She did beg him to stay. And Volenta realizes only now that it wasn’t just in the heat of the moment. That she actually wished for it, looked forward to it.
It became her demise.
“Fucking figures. Stupid.” Volenta scolds herself but doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to. Not yet.
And she doesn’t know that as Viktor makes way to his own chambers, he hears the glass shatter and stops to listen. She doesn’t need to know that.
And he will never tell her.
⚜ 𝖆/𝖓: InquisitorNocturn: This is where, at least to me, became obvious that the simple phrase of "oh it would be fun if they fucked" turned into "the chemistry is insane". Which from here on grew from a one or two chapter experiment into a long form work that we are still working on. This chapter is special to me, because it was the beginning of something beautiful. Something that I cherish deeply, and working with a friend on a same passion project has been a joy I can't say I experienced in this kind of way before.
It's a little crazy to me, because until Volenta I never really entertained the sphere of OCs, how people can bring two original characters together, made independently, and witness how well they mesh, as if they were made for one another. It's a wonderful journey and I'm beyond delighted to share this special chapter that solidified it for both of us that yep, these two are a bonded pair now lol
Before I get sentimental any further I'll stop here. And if you're reading this - thank you for joining us on this journey <33
Art by @/klyukvav | Collaboration work between me and @vossprime
◇ Chapter II - History in Black ◇
⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Volenta van Halvek(Noct's OC)/Viktor Alexandar Riemenschneider(Voss' OC)
⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Overall story rating - E. Overall tags - E, canon-typical violence, smut, dark romance, age gap, older man/younger woman. This chapter - banter, arguing, mild violence, threatening, tension, handjob, blowjob, deepthroating, PiV, creampie, angst.
⚜ 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Far away from everything they know on an Emperor-forsaken planet, Explicator von Halvek meets Inquisitor Riemenschneider. Bound by the mission and their duties, they are forced to work together. Yet their cooperation becomes increasingly more complicated. Not only do they have to find a way to uproot the heresy they've come to eradicate, but also how to navigate their increasingly tense interactions. Like prometheum to the fire - they cannot stop irritating one another, and that just might compromise everything.
⚜ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: With his schedule unexpectedly freed, Inquisitor Riemenschneider finds himself out of excuses to postpone or avoid Excplicator Van Halvek altogether. Despite the first impressions, she is still someone he must find a way to work with and she did request data. However, the sharing of data turns the evening from simple discussion of strategies to insults and more. Something that neither of them will forget when the morning comes.
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 18,394 | AO3 | Chapter navigation
The quarters of many a hundred men are filled with shouted orders and the sound of equally as many pairs of boots calling across the rockcrete.
The Inquisitor finds the regiment where he’s ordered it, taking up residence in a flank of the building serving as equal parts storage and servants’ quarters. A hall, in all likelihood once home to multiple groundcars that have now been moved elsewhere, has been converted to make room for the droves of soldiers and equipment they’ve brought in. While the majority of them will be eventually rooted to other venues of encampment, for now the Militarum holds ultimate reign here.
Conceivably different is the scene from the rest of the mansion - loud and seemingly disorganized, men carrying things from point A to B with the occasional frustrated commissar shuffling in between trying to keep orders intact. Colonel Frindt, newly assigned charge of the men at the Inquisitor’s beck and call, is nowhere to be seen. Viktor figures he, too, has pursuits of bigger importance. Frindt is not why he’s here.
He finds who he is looking for surveying the going-ons from the entrance of a temporary billet. Behind him, a hallway and a series of chambers branches from the forum.
The man’s fingers are busy rolling a lho stick into shape: three twists of his tan hands, and he holds a perfect thin cylinder stuffed with leaves that he tucks behind his ear. More paper and stuffing find their way into his hands as he begins to roll another without stopping. Three twists, done.
Two things about him become apparent even in such a small gesture: a soldier’s demeanor, and the scars to show for it. They run up his hands and arms like arteries, disappearing under the hem of a guard-issue field jacket. He salutes when he notices Riemenschneider approach.
“Good evening, sir.” The man’s greeting is clipped through the filter clamped between his teeth. “Been wondering where you went.”
Vance Samuel has been picked up from the exact same battlefield that Viktor’s mentor has perished on. Knowledge around soldiers and weapons in a way that Viktor’s own couldn’t account for have gained him a permanent place in the retinue, and saved the former colonel from ending up issuing orders from behind a desk instead of being down in the mud where he wanted to be.
Viktor replies with a curt nod and comes to a standstill before the smoker. “The initial meeting took more time than expected.”
More of his nerves, too.
“We got settled in alright, ready when you are.” Samuel points a thumb behind him, into the row of the rooms whose hallway he is blocking with his not inconsequential body mass. “If you’re looking for the boy, he’s down there.”
A thing without a name, merely the boy to his people. The Inquisitor does not correct this habit. “He’s got a nice room upstairs. Close to you and far away from us, and ain’t that how we like it.”
Samuel shrugs, as if he’s aware that his joke may not land. He is correct in that assessment.
„You would think it would be rather pathetic for a seasoned soldier to be afraid of someone barely past adolescence.“
“I’m not.“ Samuel says with too much emphasis.
“I would hope so.”
He gives Viktor a sidelong glance. “Permission to speak openly, sir.”
“Granted.”
“’s the same as it was back in the Guard, you know? Us, them. We don’t mix. You leave that to the commissars and keep your head nice ‘n low, or shit starts sliding your way before you know it.” He clears his throat, but the trajectory of his gaze betrays that he knows he’s treading a fine line. “Not afraid. I simply don’t trust him, is all.“
“You trust me.“
Samuel smiles, hasty, crooked. He taps the lho twice against the palm of his hand, letting the tobacco settle before he speaks.
“You’re a damn good man, Inquisitor. For starters, you don’t start to blow up shit when you get nervous. Hell, you don’t get nervous. You, I can depend on. But that one?“ He points a thumb towards the back again, „No. No I don’t. Soon as he loses his head, I can smell the smoke. Not the pyres, and I’m not going crazy, that son of a-” he pauses. “That kid is just kindling from the inside out.”
Riemenschneider shoots him a glare that is almost pitying. He’s heard the whispers concerning his kind often enough. In the earlier years it felt like the tall Guard tales all held an ounce of truth, like he was all embers and slag under the surface. These days he knows that when it matters, both him and his protégé will cut like any other, and bleed like any other.
“Don’t fall for fairytales. He’s mine to command and my responsibility, but do not think that I won’t dispose of him, should he no longer be worth the patience.”
“That I know. But from where I’m standing? Seems like a bad trade-off.”
“Careful, colonel.” Viktor raises a hand, where a scar over his palm runs end to end, and brings thumb and pointer together to signal that this conversation is nearing its end together with his goodwill.
The responsibility of any leader is to hold all available information and compile it towards an outcome. Withhold, if necessary. It’s not Samuel’s place to question this.
Of course there’s more to it, there always is. Promises, loyalties, ambitions, but not any of it he would tell this man. Immense potential, and the sanctity of Viktor’s promise - that’s what currently is keeping the psyker alive.
“Whatever trust you have in me, you extend to him. Whatever trust you lack, you rectify. I do not tolerate unnecessary discord.“
“Just don’t expect him ‘n I to be friends.” Samuel raises both hands. “Got fire?” His eyes wander to the candles decorating Viktor’s shoulders as he flashes a grin that the Inquisitor doesn’t return.
“Use your lighter.”
“Worth a shot.” Samuel puts flame to tobacco seconds later. “But I assume he isn’t why you’re here either.”
Viktor nods. “We’re going to be moving soon, possibly tomorrow. Ordo Xenos has the perimeter secured, so I’m going to need you to use the time you have. Once that’s done, see if they can make use of you. I’ll be out to inform the colonel.”
“Permission to go talk to Frindt?“
“I prefer to do it myself.“
“You haven’t met him. If you want my humble opinion, sir, I’d advise against it.“ Samuel shrugs. “Not an easy man to get along with. The type to respond better to a fellow guardsman than an Inquisition official trying to tell him what to do.“
It’s far from Viktor's liking, but Samuel has a point. Frindt will not be the first nor the last to respond to someone flashing a rosette in one of the two customary ways – deference or defiance. The undercurrent of both is fear.
A short run through the finer points, at least enough to make a messenger, and Viktor watches Samuel walk off with a saunter in his step that seems willful, but is the result of an old injury.
The Inquisitor stalks past the open rooms, finds everyone nearly how he expects them to. Words are exchanged and observations made that all amount to the same.
Lancer sits playing an unfamiliar set of cards against himself when Viktor enters, and he doesn't ask the ex-con for the specifics of his game. Their Mechanicum scribe he meets hunched over one of the inner plates of a combat servitor. Their reaction is an impassive acknowledgement.
Obedient servants of the Golden Throne they are, conviction in their voices, but a new sort of apprehension is settling in their eyes. If there is truth to what he told Volenta, that something lays heavy upon this world, then they feel it too.
The row of rooms finds its end in the form of a small, rounded alcove. A reproduction of the Emperor smiles down mercifully upon those who tread here, placed between two milky windows. It may have served as a respite of prayer for servants without the luxury of private chapels and a lack of time to attend the mid-week services, if such things have not already ceased here.
The Inquisitor finds him there, with legs drawn to his chest and arms slung around them. The acolyte’s lips move, but the prayer is silent. Next to him kneels Haliana. Black tresses hide her face as she nods her head in little rhythmical increments.
Not intent on disturbing a ritual that he reveres the value of, Viktor stays in the doorway. His eyes sweep over them in the same line his shadow falls.
In those places where heresy freshly takes root, it still has half a mind to conceal itself. The people do not yet fall madly into the streets, the tones are still hushed and the rumors still seem like nothing more than percisely that. The people in these places often fear for their own gain more than for the good of their world or their souls, and so they are apprehensive when the Inquisitorial shuttles land, and watch what they say. No one applies that skepticism to a temple girl, a woman of the people.
Haliana had brought him something to the cadre even he finds hard to acquire: invisibility. Death World born, she’s likewise been able to hold her own in the aspects of the profession laden with pressure and lasfire well enough.
She breaks her trance-like repetition, as if suddenly becoming aware of his presence. Her greeting to him and the rise to her feet happen in the same fluid motion, and the subsequent hurry to exit the room speaks of a desire to be as unobstructive as possible.
It doesn’t escape him that the boy’s eyes follow her departure with something peculiarly wistful in his gaze. She’s one of the few that seeks him out rather than avoiding him. Viktor suspects this to be pious pity.
With her leaving, the acolyte notices his master's approach.
"Inquisitor." He straightens himself from the spot on the floor, but keeps his eyes to it. “Apologies. I came down to pray, and..” He trails off, midway realizing he's both apologizing for nothing and stating the evident.
“Far be it from me to disturb you, acolyte.”
He looks at the young man, one who entered his services under the name of Elio, and takes note of how unblemished his freckled face still is. Volenta and he, at least by optics, cannot be that far apart in age, and yet there yawns a gulf or maturity between the two that makes any further comparison impossible.
“I was finished, sir.” Elio’s eyes wander and find their way down again. “You’re here because of tomorrow.”
“You heard.” The tone is faintly neutral. Viktor could not care less if he overhears what is said about his person. In fact it might do him well.
Elio scratches at his wrists once, twice, as if they itch. “I did. It’s not much of a secret how Samuel feels about me.”
“It is not just him. Your state has been noticed.”
“I know. I know.” His speech is full of an impotent kind of frustration being bitten back down. “I understand I am to blame myself and I understand I have to take control.”
He brings the heel of his hand against his temple as if trying to shake the memory down like Samuel does his tobacco. “It would be easier if I could remember how.”
“You should know by now that I do not value ease.” Viktor shakes his head. “I am asking if you have made progress.“
“Things keep returning.”
“More precise.”
“The Scholastica is still gone. All of it.” He scratches his wrist again and where the sleeve rides up, one can see the mark etched into his skin. Proof he had been there, once, proof of a sanction completed, even if the boy can’t remember any of it. “But I remember the day before the Black Ship. Tycho-“ he halts. “Inquisitor Tycho, she told me about how she’d found me, of course, but it was always just words. I’ve never been truly there. I think… I think I remember the flames now. And being locked inside. But it’s still not a memory, more like a dream. Then, nothing again.”
There has been a time, months ago, that this would have been good news. The past has held the mirror up to their faces. Each new memory returning to Elio changes the trajectory – leading him toward greater power but seemingly straying from stability. The one who'd come before Viktor had a working theory that with the return of the memory of the Scholastica this would eventually end. Viktor isn’t so sure anymore.
"Look at me.” Viktor regards him, and for once manages to find the boy’s eyes when they’re not bound to the floor. “If we move tomorrow, will you be able to do what is asked of you in service of the Emperor, or will you not?”
It’s rhetoric. Both know that there is a single possible answer. No others are permitted, not in this moment, calling, lifetime.
“I-” For a moment Elio seems to hesitate nonetheless. He looks down at his hands, finding them frail and powerless and bisected by a scar that still hasn’t fully healed since it’s been burned into the flesh. The one in his mentor’s hand is pale and white, his – red and still closer to a wound.
“Don’t tell me you can try. Trying implies the possibility of failure. There is no such thing.”
When Elio replies, there is finally something like steel or spine in his gaze.
“I won’t disappoint you, Inquisitor.”
“Then collect yourself. Dismissed.”
His goodnight is faint, and it takes a while for the traipsing of feet to be dulled by the carpet of the hall.
Viktor finds himself in front of the rest of a night that has miraculously cleared itself. He questions his conscience for something he has missed, but the longer he does, the clearer it becomes that there is but a single point left on his list. The sky outside tells him the appropriate time to artificially add more work has long passed.
There’s still the dataslate in his coat pocket, then in his hands. The list of available forces opens before him in neat columns and reminds him he should get these to Volenta, and do so today.
It would follow her invitation all too well. It will not matter if he shows up at her door with information or wine, for he will still have ended up there.
Viktor turns on his heel, back into the heart of the house, and in the direction of the part where the Explicator must have her room.
As he makes his way through the corridors, the Inquisitor sees the signs of past struggle. He has been informed about the scuffle that happened once first inquisitorial forces made planetfall, about the nobles who threw themselves at soldiers in waves of manic frenzy. The reason of which has not been yet reported to Viktor, the truth of it possibly undiscovered even with his presence here.
Still, the marks on the walls that bear scratches, round burns of las shots and blood splatter remain visible even as he passes several serfs scrubbing such spots with tired, blank expressions. His colleagues seem to have treated them well. None show signs of abuse and their clothes are clean, but their unsettling muteness is strange and mildly unsettling. None greet or bow their heads when Viktor passes them.
Finding himself above the need to knock on every door to find the woman he needs to work with, he pauses and consults the data-slate. Blueprints of the mansion have been loaded into his archive already, marking spots of everything, including his own troops and chambers that the Inquisitor will take as his once the time is appropriate to retire for the night. And, here it is, the mark of a last name and a symbol of Ordo Xenos somehow standing out amidst two dozen similar markings. At least it is not far from where he is.
There are no sounds besides the serfs scrubbing somewhere far away. Echoes of their labor are the only noise inside the mansion.
Viktor needs to turn back and return to the corridor that the Governor’s own office is in, but once he takes the path to the side of it, he sees more marks of the struggle that remain. Some of the lamps and candles have been replaced with crudely attached glo-globes, hanging by pieces of thin rope. They cast an eerie ghostly glow over the walls and furniture, sectioning the corridor in segments of warm light and strange tunnel-like tightness. There is no light over one door that he seeks. It’s draped in a shadow as if a dark curtain has been drawn over that door.
At the end of the corridor there is a window. The corner of it has been damaged and now there’s a plasteel sheet covering it, taped to the glass and barely staying up. But the view outside is what catches his attention. The pyre, aflame with a familiar orange glow finally brings confirmation to Viktor’s observation from earlier - he did smell bodies burning.
The flickering light dances through the corridors like specters haunting the halls, but leaves him untouched in the darkness before the door. For a moment he stands and watches. Watches the fire dance, the force that finds a home in him and allows him to wield it in turn. Terror is still etched on the black-charred faces tied to the poles, but what is this terror in the face of righteous justice? What is soot darkening the air if not a sign of cleansing? He guides his eyes away from the glow, and it leaves bright spots in his vision.
He raises his fist to the door and raps his knuckles against wood as dark as the night itself. In the seconds that follow the knock and its reverb, he asks himself what he wants more: an answer, or none.
But he doesn’t need to wait long or even begin to doubt his decision, because the door opens before Viktor. Not with a dramatic swing or a shy crack between the wood and its frame. It just opens and behind it Volenta stands. Her expression is unreadable at first, but a second or two later her eyebrows begin to rise and do not stop rising until her surprise at Viktor’s presence is unmistakable.
“I… I did not expect you. Not at this hour, at least.” She admits and it’s clear that she truly did not expect him. Black shirt is open far too low for decency, even despite the bra she obviously is wearing beneath it, a band of it visible against her pale skin. Sleeves rolled up, but pants and shoes in their places. In her hand that didn’t operate the door open there’s a half-empty glass of amber liquid and a smoldering lho stick. Last thing that emphasizes her unreadiness to meet anyone right now is Volenta’s loose hair, somewhat dishevelled like the woman was holding her head in hands, whether out of desperation or frustration – impossible to tell.
If Viktor mirrors the same surprise back at her, he doesn’t let the silence stretch long enough for it to hatch into awkwardness. “If I’ve caught you at an inconvenient time, I will leave this with you and be on my way.” He holds up the dataslate. The hair now falling open over her shoulders suits her, as do the traces of relaxation, but he doesn’t wish to intrude upon her if it was never meant for his eyes. “You’re right, it is rather late.”
Volenta takes the slate and looks down on it, then turns and walks into the room, leaving the door open. “Come, I might have questions and speaking in the doorway might bring bad luck.” A superstition she carries from her home Hive world, clearly.
Viktor follows her out of the shade of the doorway into the room. He finds a seat to occupy at the far wall, an upholstered chair opposite another one of its kind flanking a small table, and lets his eyes wander across the room, falling both on Volenta and the few, personal traces of her short stay here. The pyre-light continues to dance outside the window.
There’s not much to infer about the person who’s occupying the chambers. A couple of Imperium grade strongboxes, closed. The bed is made. But unlike her behavior earlier in the Governor’s office, Volenta clearly does not apply the same sentiments to her own dwelling – the stacks of papers and folders are neat where they rest on a dresser, to the point one could place a ruler and it would all align perfectly. There’s an ashtray on the table by which Viktor sits, having remnants of at least a handful of lho butts there. A bottle, half empty, is left open.
While he inspects the surroundings he has found himself in, Volenta places her glass on the table and swipes at the slate. Her expression is once more not betraying any emotion.
“Right.” She says and inhales a smoke, then puts out the lho with the rest. “I do have a formation plan if we need a grander attack, but I suggest we take a team of smaller numbers to inspect what’s going on. I got a report not long ago and more of my people have gone missing. Three only, but that’s all I have sent out. A covert mission, maybe bearing less signs of the Inquisition and possibly the ones of this planet’s PDF, would probably give us a less restrained access to people and information. But it’s a risk, as you may guess.”
She doesn’t look at him, just taps at the data-slate again and begins chewing on her bottom lip, thinking. Viktor watches her expression change the way it did over their maps, deep thought etching itself onto elegant features.
“You do have an interesting tendency to talk as if it is you in charge of this mission, Van Halvek.” There’s the barest hint of sarcastic amusement in his tone. “But you raise a good point on the PDF. I’ve put the Militarum on standby, but it is too early and the information is too diffuse to go in guns blazing without denying ourselves potential points of entry. You said that Ordo Xenos is ready. Depending on how ready that is, I would prefer to move forward with this as soon as possible. As I see it, it’s a risk, but a risk we should be taking.”
Her eyes flick to him at the remark, but she listens until Viktor is finished, then gives him back the slate. “I was thinking more about information we can gain. Whatever is on this planet that has gone wrong, no one can outpower us. We’re not dealing with Chaos Marines, for example. This risk is welcome, needed even, but I don’t believe we’re at an actual risk of being overpowered here.”
She smiles, reaching for a glass and for the first time something is not right, not quite yet. The way Volenta’s finger brushes over the rim of her drink is slightly unstable, betraying her intoxicated condition that she is obviously used to hiding.
“If that’s all then our discussions for today are over. Tomorrow we can decide what we do, but for the time being, I doubt that going out in pitch darkness will serve us well. And you need rest, having arrived here only several hours prior. The rest has been taken care of, including your chambers after we left the Governor’s office, so you are free to take your residence there immediately.” A pause and she brings the glass to her lips then takes a sip while looking outside the window to the aflame pyre, then finally adds: “Since I presume you’re not here for that drink I offered.”
“My main concern isn’t power, it is a semblance of strategy. I wouldn’t want to announce our movement with fanfare and lasfire, or at least not yet.” Viktor absentmindedly taps his fingers against the armrest in a slow rhythm. Four beats, repeat. “Sending me to bed like a petulant child, acolyte? I did come here with half a mind of taking you up on your offer. Though you did not offer me any.” He sweeps his hand towards the half-empty bottle.
Turning her gaze to Viktor, Volenta raises her eyebrows again, although this time only slightly. “Didn’t think you’d… sink to this level. Isn’t that what you think of me, Inquisitor? That I’m a hindrance? An interruption in the operation that you would operate smoothly otherwise, if I were not present?”
She lets out a small scoff and shakes her head slightly then steps to the side, picking another glass from one of the drawers in the dresser. After inspecting it with a keen eye for cleanliness Volenta walks back, puts it before Viktor and hesitates, wondering if he prefers to do it himself or if she should serve him. “But I am always keen to share a drink with coworkers.” Another pause, this time verbal and she adds with slight hesitation. “After all, my invitation was to make peace. Excuse my earlier words.”
This time it’s Viktor’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I assume you’re a great many things, Van Halvek. Insubordinate for example, but a hindrance or obstruction – no, I don’t think so.” He nods when she puts down the glass, waiting for her to pour. “Though now I am curious which one of your previous words specifically you want me to excuse.” It sounds dangerously close to an apology on her end.
Not answering right away, Volenta buys herself some extra time by dutifully pouring Viktor a drink. Only when the bottle is back on the table is when she sits down at last, considering her next words.
“Let’s say the exchange earlier. I may have been too forward and I realize that now.”
Another halt indicating that she’s not quite done yet while turning the glass in her hands with elbows resting on her thighs, giving him more than ample look down her already open shirt that Volenta seems neither care about or even think of. It is he who entered her personal abode, the only space where she does not have to wear a mask of an agent and a soldier both.
“I don’t have them, by the way.” She gives him a lopsided smirk. “The picts, I mean. Of me, naked. That would be a terrible oversight of security protocols. I just saw an opportunity for a…” Gesturing vaguely, Volenta pauses to have a drink from her glass. “Let’s say - a lighthearted joke. Most of those I’m around respond more positively than you have, but the God-Emperor can’t give one man both a sense of justice and wit. Seems not even He is that generous.”
It could sound like an insult, if not for her softer tone and a light chuckle that comes after the words, accompanied by a small shake of her head. And before he can respond to her, she lifts her sharp gaze that has now softened, but is it from alcohol in her veins or only appears so because of the gentle flickering lights that are hanging from the walls, it’s impossible to tell.
“Apologizes, Viktor. That was another joke that I’m sure you don’t appreciate.” With a sigh, Volenta runs a hand over her loose hair, brushing silky strands away from her face.
For a moment he follows the motion of her hands, guiding away from her face towards her ear and down her neck. Viktor takes the glass by the rim, rotating it once, twice, around its own axis and watching the liquid catch golden drops of light in its movement.
“I am not exactly known for my sense of humor, no.” Still, he finds her amusement at her own jokes not entirely lost on him. “But I can appreciate the apology. We have started off on a spectacularly wrong foot, but with nothing to prevent us from starting over, consider it past.” He lifts his glass and his gaze, holding it out to wait for her to bring hers against it. “To peace, then.”
“Very generous of you.” Volenta admits with a degree of surprise in her tone which she tucks away before speaking again. “To peace then.”
Rising her glass only slightly, she salutes the man and makes eye contact directly. One of the few things she has picked up during her time at the Astra Militarum. A soldier always looks the person they drink with in the eyes when toasting. Who knows if it’s the last time they are doing it.
He holds the contact as the toast breaks and both take a drink, Viktor more meditative than her, considering it’s his first one. He looks at Volenta over the rim before her shape becomes distorted through the glass, only then closing his eyes to savor.
She is still a strange woman, he finds, and no concession on her part would change that, but the animosity has dulled, even if debatable how long this can last. The liquor directs his attention away, the aroma of rich red fruit and oak heavy on his palate. Smooth and warm down his throat, he understands how she managed to finish half the thing by herself.
“Our dear governor clearly had taste.” He puts down the glass, in the same breath recalling the previous hours in the study. “In this matter, at least.”
“You like this swill? I’m surprised.” Volenta scoffs but refills her glass and tops off his as well. “I prefer something less sweet and richer, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
Still, for a moment she observes the man before her, the way he’s sitting, the way he’s holding a glass. Every little detail tells Volenta a story of an Inquisitor assured of himself and his path. For the best, of course; she wouldn’t want to serve with a man who has no idea what he’s doing and she already met several such self-proclaimed leaders. They didn’t charm her even one bit, but something about Viktor makes her want to edge him on rather than dismissing his words entirely. Perhaps it’s that stern outwards attitude that she loves breaking in lesser men. Or perhaps it’s less of a challenge and rather the handsome face that she would prefer to see displaying emotion, even if it’s anger.
Suddenly she leans back in the chair, body language speaking of a relaxed woman in charge. Legs slightly parted, one hand landing on the armrest, and she swirls the drink in her glass with a smile. “I will admit, I’m glad you have decided to join me after all. Given how a smile is an undiscovered expression in your catalogue of emotions, I was fully expecting you to kick my ass back onto my shuttle and send me out.”
He mimics her ease. “To be quite honest, by the looks of this world I would have expected the only thing here to be pure promethium. This is a pleasant surprise.” Viktor turns his head, finding her looking. “I’ve thought about it - both declining your invitation and the shuttle. I have to admit I did not expect the offer to be genuine.”
And as she has studied him before, he does unto her in turn. Waits for her reaction, anything that will tell him more about who she is besides both attentive and overconfident, both flying fast and too close to the sun. The smile, all self-assured across her face together with the flush of light intoxication, feels like witnessing a crack in the mask their shared calling requires them to hold upright at all times. He allows himself the curiosity for the beyond, for once.
One raised eyebrow and her smile widens a fraction. “Is that so? Do women often lie about the invitations they cast towards you? Especially when it comes to one’s bedroom?” A sharp edge in Volenta’s tone is slightly mocking, pushing, pressing further to see where is the limit at which this man loses patience. “Or do bedrooms of women not interest you?” Hiding her expression behind the glass, the Explicator takes a few deep swallows from it and nearly finishes the drink.
But her eyes.
Her eyes remain keenly fixed on Viktor, with dark eyelashes casting shadows onto the ice grey of the irises that don’t appear to be dulled by liquor. Not yet, at least.
Viktor clicks his tongue. “Careful, Van Halvek. We were just getting on so well.” But the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly upwards as he says it. He withstands her probing gaze, but the shadows over her eyes, like those falling over her doorway, promise an unknown threshold as the burn of the liquor begins to leisurely seep into his veins.
“I would not usually deign this with an answer, but I remember that I did promise you to be an open book.” He interrupts himself through a slow sip from his glass. “So be assured that a lack of interest is not a problem. I do not see why you would want to use our time together to probe into my love life.”
“Because I would loathe to spend the last hours of the day discussing work.” She scoffs but it’s lighthearted if not slightly juvenile. “Also, it’s not so strange I take interest in people I work with. If worst is to pass - I will rely on you on the battlefield. I would prefer to know if I’m not asking for an accidental shot to the back.”
Leaning to the table, Volenta picks up the bottle and again serves Viktor first, then herself. The bottle is empty but she has another one and is not unwilling to open it if the conversation goes as easy as it has up to this point. Although she’s aware that to Viktor, this might not be the most effortless cooperation he has ever had.
“And I meant a gunshot. Just to clarify.” She gives him a meaningful look with a smile, another one of her jests. Another attempt to see if this one will achieve the desired effect.
“And how has this worked for you? Has veering into the personal made the difference between a bullet in the back or none?”
Viktor scoffs and stands up, taking the newly-filled glass with him in a half-circle swipe of his hand. For a moment it looks like he might be leaving after all. Instead, he looks towards the pyre outside the window for half a second, then back to her. The orange glow dances behind him, running along the edges of his silhouette.
“Even in your state-” the tips of his fingers slide over the rim of his glass with quiet intensity, his shadow reaching forward ever so slightly. “-I do not think you naive enough to not exactly know where you are treading.”
She pauses, watching him stand from where she’s seated, then lets out a short laugh that sounds more like another scoff. “You surprise me, Viktor.” Volenta takes a sip and leans back in the chair for a moment, then stands and walks to the other bottle that’s still perched on a dresser near the tidy stacks of documents. “Very well, you caught me.” Another sip from the glass in her hand and she delivers the bottle to the table, nearly joining Viktor’s side in the small space between the two armchairs. “Although I do not appreciate you assessing my state. Whether I have drink in me or not, I’m still capable if fighting is needed.”
But she knows she’s not being fully truthful, especially when Volenta looks down at the glass and feels the familiar warmth of alcohol sway her vision for just a moment. Blinking the discomfort away and finding steadiness again, the woman sweeps her gaze over Viktor, checking weaponry on his person, but also with a different kind of interest than before.
“But if you think the invitation was a guise for something notorious, then you are mistaken.” A pause for breath and then another admission. “Our very job is to peel the layers of people. Are you surprised I’m curious to see what hides behind yours?” She finishes with a shrug and drinks more from her glass, beginning to feel tension and wishing to dull it.
“Ah, but you’re doing it again.” Viktor reciprocates the gesture, but savors the drink as if it is a distraction, then discards it back onto the table. His eyes stay on where she stands. Neither her gaze nor the conveniently vivid speech have escaped him. “You bait, coat your words in more innuendo as if it will protect you, step back. Excuse your forwardness through idle curiosity without meaning.”
Irritation, intoxication, laced with the undertones of her perfume. His fingertips grace along the wood-patterned edge of the table.
“I gave you enough avenues to sate that curiosity. Promised to answer any question you had. Only to be left asking myself the same question again and again.” A stray strand of the hair falling over her shoulders has come loose, flying away from her face. Viktor brushes it back, two fingers sitting against her temple. “It gets tiresome.”
Before Volenta can even feel startled at the unexpectedness of his touch, her reflexes work faster and she grabs at his wrist, fingers digging into the flesh. The liquor in the glass in the other hand sloshes over the fingers. But she doesn’t notice it, doesn’t feel it, because after the motion – the emotion comes. Fear at first, at the realization that she just acted against the Inquisitor in an aggressive manner. Then, something else takes the forefront of her increasingly drunken mind.
The warmth of the touch.
She didn’t tell him, not yet, and isn’t sure if she ever will tell this to Viktor, but this being her first mission leading the Ordo Xenos forces by herself has left Volenta feeling… lonely. And somewhere, at the back of her mind, she understands that her push on his nerves and patience is an attempt to find a connection there. Yet she does not think of it, brushes the thought away like cobwebs that threaten to wrap around her thoughts.
And yet, maybe they do anyway, because instead of releasing Viktor’s wrist and apologizing, she draws it near, and with eyelids dropping to a close Volenta presses the side of her face into his palm. It’s something she does often, to the point it’s not even a conscious choice but an instinct that responds faster than her slowed senses.
Viktor’s body, muscles already tensed up in the moment her fingers had wrapped around his wrist and expecting his own imminent response, freezes. For a moment, his hand stays flexed, two fingers reaching out towards her sleeve still not knowing if their next movement dictated by her reaction will be to withdraw or take her by the hair. Some part of him demands he still follows up – that there can only be these pathways to guide yourself along, that the best response to a vulnerable thing is to destroy it. But the dull haze of the liquor sparks the feeling as if down his entire arm, and though he could have long drawn on bits of sorcery to rid himself of its disadvantage, the thought seems now as far away as everything else. Her cheek is so warm against his fingers, the skin soft where his thumb graces over it. His hand relaxes against her. The forward momentum – and Volenta with it – fades, becomes something almost soft.
On impulse, no clearer than the one that seems to lead her, his fingers trace their way under her jaw. But that’s all that it takes to break the illusion for her. To bring her mind back into action and the present. Back to the realization that she’s not home or with someone she trusts.
The eyes snap open, sharp, and lock onto the target of a handsome, yet unfamiliar face. The glass drops from her other hand, the right, and it falls onto the desk below. After it connects with the cheap replication of wood, but before it even bounces off of it or begins to roll towards the edge, the same right hand strikes out faster than Volenta’s own mind can conceive.
The palm of her hand connects heavily with Viktor’s face and the hit rings out in the otherwise silent room. Like a strike of thunder on a summer sky of a paradise planet. In the microseconds that follow the hit, the Inquisitor’s hand still remains at her cheek, warm and pleasantly rough, yet her feet become unsteady while Volenta’s mind only attempts to begin to process what she just has done.
By the time Viktor notices the pain, he is already in motion. There’s no finesse to his thoughts then, only the flow of them in which action warrants a reaction. The intoxication clears in a single second.
In a fluid reach the hand of the Inquisitor slides from its resting place to the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair. He forces her head backwards, turning her face up towards him and feels his fingers dig into her scalp as the pull tightens.
His arm draws her towards him and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to slam her head into that chest of his and end all this by ramming his knee into her stomach, sending Volenta to the ground. The dirty tactics of his youth.
But she ends up against him. One hand of his is behind her head, and when he brings the other up into her field of vision, she can swear to see a flicker around them that isn’t just the light outside. The beginning of heat caresses her face.
“That was stupid, Van Halvek. Very much so.” Words pronounced like a mockery, a scold, barely concealed anger. “Peace? I see little reason why I shouldn’t send you home to your master with a couple new scars, or not at all.”
With a grunt of her hair pulled Volenta glares up at Viktor, straight into his eyes, because his towering form is not intimidating but enraging her. And with a corner of her eye she sees his rising hand, waits a second until the heat begins to radiate from his palm and Volenta slaps at it like it’s a fly she has no patience for.
“Don’t you dare to lay your cursed witch hands on me, Viktor.” It’s a snarl and a naked threat that gets emphasized when he feels a blade of a concealed dagger being concealed no more, pressing just above his belt to the side and already piercing the first layers of his uniform.
Viktor suppresses a smile, partially at himself, partially for not having seen it coming. To bring more distance between them and rid her of a momentary advantage he yanks her back and down by the hair he still holds, forcing Volenta back into the center of the room. He aims his boot just below the knee for good measure. If anything, he wants to assure she goes down. There’s a chance she’ll still have time to bring the dagger in or up, he knows, but not in deep, and reflexively his own harm is a risk he’s willing to take, if necessary.
“Witch hands?” He flexes the hand still half raised. “That seemed different a minute ago.”
The clarity of an altercation, however minor, passes and the alcohol in Volenta’s head surges back. But that’s not what begins burning her face.
It’s embarrassment, the shame of vulnerability and the sheer, unpleasant rightness of Viktor’s words. She flushes, clearly lost for words. Even the harshness of his grip on her hair becomes a thing of background when Volenta is confronted with her own weakness that she showed, even if for a moment of a drunken yearning.
She briefly considers bringing up the dagger, but she’s not inexperienced enough that this is not an equal fight anymore. With his size and the grip he has on her, considering whatever inferno Viktor might unleash upon Volenta at a moment’s notice or even less than that, there’s not much of a reason to proceed with the physical.
So she drops the dagger and raises her hands in a mockery of surrender because venom returns to Volenta’s voice and taints the smirk emerging on her face – the last defense left in her arsenal.And when she speaks next the words are strained due to the angle of her head that Viktor put it in, but the defiant flame is clear in her pale grey eyes.
“Aww, how many decades since someone let you touch them like this, hm? Does it sting to be reminded of that?”
Through their short-lived cooperation, one that may yet find its end in flames, he’s gotten glimpses beneath the layers just as much as she has tried to. He can’t slip the shred of satisfaction it brings to have gotten under her skin.
But she’s talking herself in circles and into an early grave, and call it the sentimentality of an old man, but he doesn’t wish to see himself rid of this one yet. The same question on his mind like a stuck pict-feed screen: What is it you want?
“Volenta – stop talking.”
He moves past the distance he created and the hand that isn’t firmly in her hair takes her by the edge of the shirt. Viktor drags her up and presses his mouth against hers. With Volenta on the tips of her toes, she can only grab onto him so that the suddenness of losing balance doesn’t end up with her falling.
There are no thoughts in her head, just familiarity of intimacy that she has been craving for since leaving the flagship Volenta calls home, since embarking on a mission that is designed to mark a new start in her career.
There’s no confusion or even surprise in her mind either. She immediately responds to the kiss, gripping the front of Viktor’s uniform in her fists and pulling him even further into herself, letting the man remain the unyielding pillar that he has been up until now. Then there’s a whisper, with Volenta’s eyes closed and lips still brushing against his.
“How fiercely does this fire burn, Inquisitor?”
His lips form a slight smile against hers. “Patience, acolyte, patience.”
His hand in her hair loosens just so, until it is a lighter kind of ache directing her head, the other trailing down to her waist to allow her some stability in overcoming their difference in height. Viktor’s arm around Volenta brings her against the bulk of his body, against the spot the knife had sat moments ago, this time not permitting a way backwards or out. When he returns his lips to hers, it is with unapologetic hunger. Yet she chuckles into the kiss.
“Acolyte?” A pause, to playfully yet painfully sink her teeth into his bottom lip for a moment. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for this.” Releasing his jacket with one hand, she moves it lower and cups the front of his crotch. “Or do you desperately want to remove my identification, so that once this is over you can easily forget me?” A squeeze to make a point and Volenta smiles to him. “No, I won’t let you forget me, Viktor.”
He doesn’t press into the touch despite how good it feels, but the hiss of his breath is more than traitorous and Viktor briefly moves his lips from hers to against her neck when her teeth relent then to the side of her face. The beating of Volenta’s pulse sits under his touch.
“You really never stop, don’t you? Is that your thing?”
A hand slides to cup the back of her leg, suddenly lifting her up as if the young woman weighs nothing, and is held there only by the firm grip of him against the muscle of her thigh.
Startled by the suddenness of his action, Volenta scrambles to grab onto him, managing to throw a hand around Viktor’s neck and barely missing setting her sleeve on fire from the flames upon his pauldrons. Another hand she keeps in a tight fist, clutching the front of his uniform, now not daring to let go, but his lips on her neck make her sigh and she leans her head back, giving him more access.
With eyelashes fluttering to a close, Volenta smiles. “It is my thing. Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of who I am. Or what I want.”
He continues his attentions down the spot she now leaves exposed for him, hearing her words echo under his lips and he works his way down towards her collarbone. Her sighs are a beautiful thing, and he‘d rather coax more of them out of her than have them argue all the way until they’re both undressed.
“Much like you to mistake composure for shame.” He mumbles against the spot of skin where her collar dips downwards, words punctuating themselves with his steps where he carries her across the room. For a moment he considers just throwing her onto the plush bed to the side and letting things take their course from then on.
Instead he sinks himself back into the recline of the chair, pulling Volenta into his lap where the warm weight of her stirs the ache.
“Go on then, Volenta.” He pulls her back in by the front of her shirt, thumb lazily pushing the zipper down but not yet fully. “Enlighten me on the extent of your want.”
Surprised, very obviously so, Volenta just stares at Viktor, small breaths escaping her lips. He can’t be serious, can he? Blinking a few times, like an animal caught in sight-line of a bolter, she’s not sure what to do. Not many things throw her off, but this has.
And she’s not used to taking the lead. Not like this.
Finding herself at a loss, Volenta glances down at Viktor’s fingers, then back at his face. Everything that she was up until this moment crumbles apart, at the way he hasn’t said or done a single thing she tried to predict, not even once.
“Wait a second.”
The hand on her shirt stops, but two fingers stay hooked onto the gap in the fabric between where the last points of contact strain apart. Viktor’s touch hovers above her skin as if holding the moment in the same stasis without tipping it in one direction or the other.
“Yes?” The tone is casual, almost unassuming. “I have to admit I did not expect you to falter so quickly.” But his smile – closed yet real and carrying the same constant air of impenetrability – tells her of immense satisfaction. His eyes rest on her face and only her face.
“You’re infuriating.” She pouts. “And your pauldrons are stupid too.”
With a frown that follows the words she reaches under them, trying to figure out how to detach them. Volenta can’t back out now. Not when his smug grin is grating on her nerves worse than any ad-mech needle.
“I’ll take that first one as a compliment, coming from you”
The clasp holding his coat comes undone with a click. A snap of his fingers and flames he willed into existence are erased from it again. The coat, along with the extinguished offending pauldrons, slides off his shoulders to drape over the back of the chair. Viktor’s own fingers work until Volenta‘s shirt at last opens under them, letting his eyes generously assess her.
Beneath the silver rosette around her neck, Volenta wears a black bra. The lace of it is a stark contrast against her pale skin. No scars, no blemishes, but that’s not something Viktor really pays attention to. The size of her chest, revealed at last, is much more than it appeared. More than a handful, each of them. The Emperor truly grants some more than others.
But she’s less intrigued by Viktor’s impressions of her and just shrugs off the shirt, letting it pool around the slim waist where the fabric is tucked at least for the time being. With deft fingers, Volenta begins to undo the Inquisitor’s coat, the buckles falling open easily, then the shirt underneath until she pauses.
With fingertips gently tracing against his throat, Volenta inspects the mark of Scholastica Psykana upon Viktor’s throat, a brand he could only remove by replacing the skin itself.
“Beautiful.” She smirks.
Viktor does not exactly bare his throat when she does it, but does not conceal it either. The brand goes deep, and where her fingers cross it the touch vanishes and then returns along the sensitive edges. He turns his head to hold her content gaze. Hands wander along the soft, scarless shoulders down to where they assume the closure along the black lace. His own roughened palms contrast her skin in every touch.
“Beautiful because of the honor of sanctioning?” He remarks, calling to mind her previous comments on his witch nature. “Or for what else it represents?”
The sigil marks him and is likewise a promise. An oath that he is no longer a danger to those not in the path of his wrath and that the gifts bestowed upon him are tightly under control. To him it is, perhaps, the only scar on his body that does not serve as a reminder of a grave failure, but perhaps the triumph of not becoming one.
Her eyes flick to the mark again, then back to Viktor’s face and she chuckles. “Do you really want to know?” With renewed hunger at seeing his brand, Volenta kisses him eagerly. If not for anything else, then to shut him up and have him focus.
Palms wander down his naked chest to the belt and quickly start undoing it. The sizable chest presses firmly against his when her hips rise to give her own hands more space to work on a buckle, the buttons, the zipper.
There’s something about his brand that gets to Volenta. Not in a way Viktor sees himself or his lack of failure up until this point, but something akin to an animal being branded. Something shameful and twisted that speaks of sinfulness by letting him touch her. The same touch that lights her skin on fire and makes the coil of desire twist tightly in the pit of her body.
Through drunken haze Volenta realizes she might regret this by the time morning comes, the moment they are back in their uniforms, at a war table, discussing the mission and what needs to be done. She might find shame then, embarrassment and penitence at carousing with one of those she prefers to subdue and punish, not reward. But that is a worry she is willing to leave for tomorrow, the thought entirely forgotten the moment Volenta slips her delicate fingers into the open fly of Viktor’s pants.
With a satisfied, hot exhale against his mouth, she takes him into her palm and lets out a breath of a moan right after. The ghost of a reply he means to give gets equally cut short by the low hum coming from his chest. The hard length of his cock eagerly presses into her hand, and though it is sizeable, it is the girth that gives her an appreciative pause as her fingers wrap around him.
He holds the back of her thigh as if there's any space between them left to close, evident in the hardness of the touch. Intoxication has long been overtaken by the heady rush of arousal. A desire close to fulfillment but never quite there, the swell of her chest against his, the tilt of her hips sitting above him, almost anticipating the moment they’re going to come down. He sees it in the subtle flush of her skin and the parted lips, the symptoms of a mutual undoing. And then there’s the change in her hunger, the glint in her eyes that has been sparked when they touched upon his mark, that and a half-forgotten question. Do you really want to know?
Viktor’s hand fits just below the rise of her breasts, cupping one and through the lace beginning to roll the nipple underneath his fingers with little gentleness. “Tell me.” He breathes onto her lips, already knowing the answer can only be a red-hot iron to set irritation alight anew.
At first she hisses when his touch makes her pause and a shiver runs down her spine making a catlike mewl nearly escape Volenta’s throat before she swallows it down. “You may not like the answer and I don’t handle rejection well.”
She teases with a breathy whisper and a smile, catching Viktor’s bottom lip between her teeth and biting to the point of pain. Yet her pale gaze is on his eyes, sharper than what it should be considering just how much she drank before he even arrived.
Releasing his lip, she continues smiling and watches Viktor closely while giving his cock a few, agonizingly slow pumps. Volenta wants to see him react, to watch the beginning of his undoing under her touch before she has to get herself out of his lap to shed what’s left of her clothes.
For a moment it seems as if he’s going to remain his stone-faced self and a sharp intake of breath will be her only reward. But then his eyelids flutter shut, head tipping back ever so slightly and the pleasure writing itself onto his face. It takes a moment for him to recollect himself.
“That’s already an answer, isn’t it?” He pinches her nipple between a thumb and pointer, intending the same sweet agony as when she had sunk her teeth into his lip, before his hand slides elsewhere and comes up to rest underneath her jaw. Fingertips slightly caress against the sides of her windpipe, thumb idly running down the front. “I’d rather not leave things incomplete.”
“Less of an answer than you think, dear.” She whispers and first presses her lips to his own throat, then leaves a wet stripe with her tongue when Volenta moves her face to the side of his neck. “And while I do enjoy seeing you try and keep your composure when I say the most outrageous things, I still don’t want a shot to the back. The gun one, of course.” Her hand moves, the grip of her fingers tight but not uncomfortably so, and she continues stroking him, appreciating the length and the girth. “But I can answer you honestly, if in turn you will be honest with me. And…” She nips at the underside of his jaw with a smile he does not see. “…don’t give me that bullshit about being an open book. We’re of the same kind, Viktor, you and me, we know how to lie without lying, and that’s not what I want.”
Yet her own garb grows uncomfortably tight at the need for more than this, the different kind of friction that Volenta could experience too, and she dips her head, trailing kissed down his chest, moving one leg out of the chair and onto the floor, pulling away slowly but surely.
Under her skilled hands, it becomes hard for Viktor to focus, much less to duel her in the blow-by-blow they’ve kept up all the way to here. When she pulls away, he watches her slide out of his grasp with a mixture of desire, a different kind of interest and not without following the trail of kisses with the wish for her to linger or eventually sink to her knees.
He catches her by the chin before the last of the touch breaks, fingers against an unblemished cheek.
“If it is as you say and we are of the same kind…” There’s a tone to it that still betrays doubts on the matter. “…you know this cannot ever be an absolute promise. That’d be asking for a cost beyond prediction. That is honesty, too.” He kisses her, slowly releasing the grip. “So I won’t give you any of that bullshit, but I might trade you an honest answer.”
“Don’t be so jaded, Viktor.” She smirks and takes his wrist with her fingers, releasing his shaft at last. “But very well, let’s trade more than bodily fluids. Does my offer of honesty for honesty work? Or is there something else you want as payment?”
Still watching his face, Volenta maneuvers Viktor’s hand and parts her lips, guiding his thumb into her mouth where she pushes the wet, hot muscle of her tongue against the digit, moving it around in slow circles. After a moment, before he can even think of doing anything beyond sitting there, she pulls away, releasing Viktor’s hand, and takes off her unclasped bra only to discard it by the chair.
She eyes him in this moment - chest barren, pants undone, his eagerness clear by the way his cock stands hard for her, and she takes in the view of a man that Volenta nearly wanted to strangle some handful of hours ago. The hard features of Viktor’s face and the look in his eyes speak of more than just cold professionalism he showed before. He’s handsome, Volenta decides. And the greying hair that she somehow managed to mess up already makes her smile proudly.
She likes what she sees.
She likes it very much.
And so, with practiced precision she undoes her own belt, then the fly of her pants while still standing between his legs. Pausing before the last shed of her clothes, Volenta traces her fingers over his abdomen and if reading his thoughts earlier - drops to her knees, the innate desire to serve buckling her by his feet. There, she takes his length at the base with one hand and keeping her eyes on Viktor, Volenta slowly licks the underside of his cock from the base to the tip. Watching her with the eager eyes of someone who presumes to know what comes next, his thoughts now dissolve entirely as her mouth finds a better use than before.
Through the haze of it Viktor tries to keep his eyes on her, to take in the view of that pretty face servicing him as if there’d never been anything burning between them but need. There’s something immensely satisfying seeing her on the knees, about the constellation of respective positions in and outside of this room and all that has come to pass in the hours before.
He meets her light gaze, watching the slick drag of her tongue along the shaft. The pleasure of the physical gets almost overtaken by that of the visual. The sound daring to escape his throat he dulls into a pleased hum.
“Trying to avoid your own answer, Volenta?” Viktor teases, trying to hide the heaviness of arousal in his tone and the way his breaths come deeper.
Truth is, he wants it all - her honesty, her neverending defiance, her lips around his cock to the hilt. To not forget her but to take and take and have all of her as if there’s no point beyond which there is nothing left for him to have. To burn through her like a forest fire and hope it never stops its kindling.
His hand caresses, finds its way back into her hair and holds there firmly, halfway imagining how it would feel if she took him down her throat. He hopes for it to serve in the place of an answer.
“I’m not avoiding it.” Volenta says with a mischievous smile and lets Viktor’s length, wet from her tongue, rest against the side of her face, comfortable against the soft cheek. “You just deal in perhaps and maybes, you didn’t give me a solid promise of honesty. And if you don’t give me that, I won’t give you what you want. Although, I’m not sure that you already don’t have everything of me that you wish.”
She chuckles and playfully pulls back just enough to grip Viktor’s cock by the base and swing it slightly right before impaling her mouth upon it once more. This time it’s without a warning or a seductive eye contact, but straight to the hilt.
A small gag nearly escapes her, but Volenta manages not to let it overtake her and she closes her eyes, pulls back with a smile almost to the tip, and does it all over again, waiting for Viktor to begin guiding her movements to his liking. This type of man always takes control, she knows this from experience.
That does elicit a groan from the man above her, caught in the suddenness of it and the nearly overwhelming sensation. The ease with which she takes him gives him no time to speak nor catch his breath, and so he spends her next movements savoring the feeling with eyes closed. True to her prediction, Viktor’s hand in her hair tightens, first by surprise, then by desire for control.
“You’re infuriating.” A sentiment that is entirely mutual at least.
When he forces her down with one hand it is to a point that could make someone less adept feel the sting of tears, and holds her there, hips pushing upwards in an unyielding desire to go deeper yet. He drags her back by the hair until his cock slips out from between her lips with a wet sound, but holding himself down with one hand, not intending to let her go that easily.
“Have it your way.” The reddened shine of her lips and the smile still on her face are a seductive invitation to sink himself back in, if only to stop her from talking. “And be assured there’s much more I want of you.”
At his words, the ones that echo hers to the last letter, Volenta has to grab onto Viktor’s thighs when a laugh threatens to overtake her and begin choking more than the thickness of his cock in her throat already does. Glancing upwards briefly just to see his face, the woman gets taken by surprise when he shoves her face down and she swallows around the girth in her mouth, forgetting whatever was amusing her just a second ago.
Yet she does not fight Viktor when he holds her face against him, just playfully taps her fingers against same spots where she held onto earlier and inhales only when he finally allows her a breath, barely even feeling the sting of her hair being pulled so roughly.
When Volenta’s eyes meet Viktor’s again, she smirks wider and gives a quick swipe of her tongue against the underside of the tip that still stands proudly before her face. “You first then. I told you that what I have to say you might hate hearing. So let me have my answer first.” Moving her fingers from Viktor’s thighs, Volenta slides her palms over his stomach, upwards, onto his chest. “Tell me why you’re doing this. Tell me why, after all of the exchanges we had and complete disinterest that I read in you, you suddenly desire, Inquisitor? I’m curious what is that you find about me, that despite your obvious annoyance, you still try to fuck my mouth like a feral animal on a verge of oblivion with a last chance at pleasure.”
She’s not hiding it, not in her strange pale, grey eyes, nor in her words that Volenta wants to hear the naked truth of his passions. And since she’s about to deliver the unpleasant truth of her own desire, it’s clear that she’s ready to hear that she’s just an entertainment for him. A tryst he won’t think about by tomorrow, or even that she reminds him of someone else and he does not think about her at all. Oh how many stories she had heard from fellow acolytes about the ruthless passions of their superiors and she expects nothing else, curious into which category Viktor has sorted her in.
Her words stir the tightening coil of arousal in his gut, mouth alternating between whispering her debauched challenges and taking him in. If there’s any regret about what they’ve found themselves engaging in, it’s that this is a discussion that is being had with his attention on his words and only half on pleasure, all the while she’s swallowing him down with the same desperation she accused him of having.
“I could say that I am only just a man, Volenta, and that the cut of your uniform won me over or something of the sort, but we both know that those who resign themselves to being merely men do not survive in our profession.” He feels the path of her fingers, the way they rest between scars and over the hair on his chest. “Neither are you the first bothersome acolyte to cross my path, nor will you be the last. Though none like this. By all accounts you are maddening.” He guides her head along his cock again, then in a slow, deliberate motion dragging her lips back up until the tail end of the sentence fads into the quiet- “insolent…” Another, punctuated by the upward cut of his hips. “…and hopelessly overconfident. Would it be insulting, then, to say I find you entertaining?”
He lets go of her then, pushing a greying strand of hair out of his face that's threatening to come undone more by the minute.
Viktor takes another long look at her, the earnest interest in his truths in her eyes coupled with all else about her he wishes to commit to memory. “I would not desire what bends or breaks or offers itself easily. Though it’s been satisfying seeing you on your knees.”
She glances up at him. Heavy, dark eyelashes casting shadows upon her eyes and continues, not responding to him, at least for now. Volenta’s tongue is pressed firmly to the underside of his cock, the tip tracing the bulging vein when she pulls back, the one that snakes around the shaft like a river, carrying his blood in thrumming beats of Viktor’s heart. Stopping at the tip, Volenta breathes in, swiping her tongue in circles around it before taking it back in, caressing his chest at the same time.
What he says doesn’t insult the woman, that much is clear because she keeps going until her eyes close, her throat managing to handle Viktor’s size with almost an ease, clearly not only used to doing this, but visibly enjoying herself and the process. Still, not being sure of his stamina and not wanting to be left unsatisfied herself, Volenta finally pulls back and runs a hand over her hair, meeting his gaze.
“On the contrary, Viktor. You flatter me. If I stay in your memory as being an absolute pain in your ass, then I don’t mind that at all.” She winks at him and stands with a smile, but instead of getting onto his lap, Volenta brushes palms over her heavy breasts. “But I owe you my honesty now.”
She thinks for a second and even the delay of enjoying to service the Inquisitor wasn’t enough time to let her collect thoughts that are clouded with intoxication. Worst that will happen, Volenta thinks to herself, he will kill her on the spot. Best – he will leave. She expects him to react in no other way but negatively, and swallowing with a degree of nervousness at tossing her caution to the wind, she shrugs.
“You’re a psyker. A glorified mutant, Viktor. You are only useful because of your curse, because the Imperium makes use even from the likes of you. The majority of your kind is unstable, dangerous, walking heresies against the God-Emperor. A small batch of you somehow manage to worm your way into high positions, like poison, or a bomb that will go off at any moment. And yet you, specifically, make me feel something I don’t quite understand just yet. It’s partially disgust at myself, partially at you. But truthfully – I am enjoying this weird conflict within me and I want to see where it will lead. Consider me… curious.”
The rise to his feet happens in one single fluid motion, sitting back content and lust-drunken one second - the shadow of him darkening her with it in the next. Once again she is reminded of just how much he dwarfs her, and though hair disheveled and clothes undone, he has lost little of the air of sheer presence that follows him like his fire.
“It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Not from you.”
The hand that had grazed her windpipe before now shoots up to meet it, as if before it has memorized its winding pathways and now remembers exactly where to land and then press in. Her head feels laughably small in his hands. One finger digs into the soft flesh of her cheek by which he drags her face up to his.
“You insult as the way that you are, anything to get a rise out of those around you.” His face is close to her as it can be, the sweetness of the liquor and the heat of his breath caressing her face. “Up to a certain point maybe I would have agreed with you. Agreed that the majority of my kind is in fact that unstable cesspit of heresy you speak of, one that I am above and thus have to see and curb at every turn and pull their poison out from the veins of the Imperium myself.” Pressure builds under his hands. “But you never know when to stop, acolyte.”
There’s an unmistakable flash of not fear, but surprise and her hands instinctively grab at his wrist. Yet she doesn’t try to pull his hand away, just looks into the dark, green eyes, behind which Volenta sees fires akin to those of the burning pyre outside.
And she smiles.
“I warned you, and you still wanted to hear my truth.” The voice is barely a whisper, strained through the choking grasp of Viktor’s fingers and Volenta attempts to swallow, painfully so, and not because her throat already paid its tithe to him in a manner that was much less explosive than his response. “I warned you.”
“Your warning will not save you.” He responds carelessly. “Nor is it free from consequence.”
Of course she smiles. Where others would have long cowered in fear and tried to desperately take back words that have long left their constricted throats, she remains standing, steadfast, stubborn. He forces her around – not that it’s hard to do – and presses the length of his forearm back against her throat and his body back against hers. Naked skin meets naked skin. Viktor brings his lips close to her ear.
“So this is what you want? For me to take you, for you to get off on the revulsion of it?”
Uncertainty, confusion, then discomfort. Volenta goes through all of these in a matter of a handful of seconds and tries to look back at him, to look Viktor in the face. “Wait- No, you don’t-“ Finally, dread begins to fill her and at last she realizes that playing with fire tends to get one burned. Ironic, considering who exactly she tried to agitate this entire time.
And things went well, didn’t they? There was some sort of understanding, some middle ground. Maybe not exactly mutual respect, but at least the same desire to distract themselves with from whatever else is waiting for them tomorrow.
He misunderstood her.
And Volenta is not sure if she can dig herself out of the hole that she dug herself into. Viktor is not one of the fellow acolytes, not one of her teachers, too afraid to tell her no because they are scared of her mentor, and not even her mentor himself, who is far too lenient to her and which she exploits with delight. She heard some older soldiers use a phrase during her time in Astra Militarum just a handful of years ago. How did it go? Oh yes.
Fuck around and find out.
She recalls it with a bitter grin that is only in her mind and Volenta tries again. “I don’t think you understood me.” The voice sounds strained, her body tenses against his in a taut curve and she reaches behind her, fingers weakly pushing at the fronts of his thighs.
A few words, and he knows he’s got her. That he managed to strike exactly the chord his fingers have been looking for. Primal, animalistic fear plays into his hand much like the warp and in the same feral manner as anything happening between them. It does nothing to dissuade the need, if anything, it keeps it alight.
“Then, pray tell, what it is you meant to say.”
The arm around her neck loosens, letting her believe he’s close to letting go, allowing her to have that small push off his thighs forwards into marginal distance. Both know that this is a farce, that the room in this very moment is a playing field entirely tipped in Viktor’s favor. His presence asserts itself in the step he takes forwards, pushing her more into the open space of the center of the room.
“Listen.” Volenta starts not even knowing where she’s going with this, her mind reeling like a cog in a machine that’s in overdrive. At his push to step forwards she stumbles, nearly stepping on his foot with her sharp heel. “It’s not that-“ Beginning to grip at Viktor’s forearm around her throat she flushes, a blush gentle but obvious on her pale skin. “Not like I meant to say that-“ This time she turns her head to him as much as she can, so that Volenta can see his expression, but one thing she realizes clearly.
If she’s going down, she’s not going down without a fight.
“You misunderstood me because I was still gentle with the words I picked. Look at yourself.” Volenta scoffs and digs her nails into his skin to underline the point, a vicious sneer appearing both on her lips and with a sharp glint in her eyes. “Tell me I’m not right, witch. Tell me you’re not proving me right, acting like an animal. A beast in denial. Viktor the Psyker. Viktor the Mistake.”
He laughs. Laughs at her a hoarse, low roar that gets thrown around the room.
„Do you think yourself original?”
When he’d been her age, maybe these words would have phased him, but by now they have been hauled at him so often they have lost all their shine.
„You’re wrong to think your cruelty is in any way remarkable. Your hatred comes a dime a dozen and the words twice as cheap.”
Truth is, he should kill her. Why he hasn’t – respect for her mentor, her Ordo, the inconvenience of seeing this through alone – sits on a scale that should have long tipped beyond her favor. His hand trails a single digit along her spine, splays across the small of her back, the warmth there, the curve of her body that still sits against his, and pushes.
There’s a simpler truth to it. Where Volenta’s words have awakened genuine ire, they still sit against a backdrop of unfulfillment, now threading together like tapestry. Maybe he is that animal she speaks of. Clothed in fine cloth and silk, but an animal still. It is all she wants him for, but desperately clawing like this she is no better.
He’s seen the flush of her face, thinks her brush with fear hasn’t led her beyond the hunger. It’s not wise to indulge her, but if he has to make the choice between standing half-naked over a pool of her blood, righting himself and leaving, or having her scream in a different way, then, in this moment ruled by impulse and instinct and what's left of the liquor, he knows his pick. Come tomorrow they’ll do what needs to be done and he’ll be glad to never have to see her face again.
When she braces the fall onto the bed, he’s over her in a second. The bulk of Viktor’s body blocks the little light left in the room and leaves only her hair to shine in the night like spun silver. His face presses against her neck.
“I was right, then.” One knee slots itself between her legs.
She tries to embrace for the fall with her arms but falls nonetheless and then realizes that she can’t get up anymore the moment his body weight is unto her, heavy and unmoving, keeping her face against the bed. A sharp hiss escapes Volenta when heat of Viktor’s body reminds her of the latest cuts on her back, ones that were made to leave notches in her bones. And she’s sure that the latest one will start bleeding if it hasn’t already.
But she laughs again, Volenta can’t help it. This whole situation is absurd, or maybe she’s just drunk. And then there’s her desire to be taken, to be claimed, that the woman tries to push away but finds herself incapable to.
“You want to be right.” With something akin to a growl, Volenta’s nails claw at the sheets of the perfectly made bed that was pristine just a second ago.
Another laughter when she turns her face to the side, not to inhale but try and catch another glimpse of Viktor’s face. Why does it matter to her so much that she sees him? What is about him that Volenta can’t stop herself from trying to watch? And she knows the answer, but refuses to admit it. Masks it with more and more anger that is nothing but a fabrication, her last line of defense, as always, for which she has been punished already. For which she bled and still didn’t learn the lesson.
A bitter chuckle makes Volenta pause in her words, the ones that she should say but decides not to. It would be smart to tell him to get off of her, to get out of her room, to maybe even report him for this. A few bats of eyelashes and a single tear would make her mentor wage war upon Viktor for even daring to touch her, burning through the Imperium just to inflict as much pain as possible, or as much as she would lie about having experienced.
That’s not what she wants.
“But does it really matter if you are right?” Volenta’s voice sounds part amused, part laced with desire that takes the forefront of her mind. “You asked if I want you to take me. Yes, I do. Or do you need written consent and five approval stamps from the Administratum?” With that, her fingers in the sheets relax and the woman attempts to lift her hips, just to nudge and urge him, but he’s too heavy and impossible to move unless Viktor wishes for it himself.
He doesn’t grace her with an answer, but can't bite back the chuckle that conveys he’s not at all impressed with her attempts any longer. He lifts himself off her just enough to accommodate the urging of her hips and his own comfort without losing contact.
The expanse of her back is a brief glimpse where before Viktor subdued her with his own body, the eyes of the inked symbol of the Ordos flashing in the dark as light dances off her back. Committed to skin, and around it - scars old and new, and those so fresh they cannot be called scars yet. Some part of him desires to know, another can guess, but both are in agreement that this is far from the time.
Arousal burns under his skin with intensity that borders on manic. His erection sits against the swell of her ass where from the waist downward she remains clothed. His motions become impatient and careless, pulling down the layers roughly with a single hand until as much of her is exposed as he can get into view and fabric bunches around her thighs.
He sees the way she twists her head, craning as if her eyes want something to hold onto, eyes that are a marvel after all, bright, hiding the incessant spark, looking up at him– but his hand splays over her back and presses her back into the mattress.
The other hand pushes itself where his knee kept her legs apart, bracing his own to either side of her body. He finds her as he wants her, two fingers dragging against already-slick folds. Had the night gone any different, he might have found pleasure in preparing her, in feeling her clench around his fingers with each high he’d manage to coax out of her, but the thought now carries only lack of satisfaction and invitation to more ridicule. Taking his cock in hand, he lines himself up against her entrance and presses inside.
Finding herself far from being in the most comfortable position to be fucked, with pants around her legs acting like a restraint, her adamantine heels pushing kneeguards that are fashioned like skulls into the soft mattress, forbidding Volenta any further comfort than she already has – it leaves her annoyed at first. She wants to speak, to ask for maybe a different angle, maybe to let her undress, but it’s far too late for words when Viktor stakes his claim into her, even if a temporary one.
A gasp escapes Volenta, and then she whimpers, pressing her forehead into the sheets and gripping them tightly as the man she thought she will have a little bit of fun with, one she mistook for someone who won’t take it this far, forces himself further in, and further, painfully so. He hears her exhale with a moan, entire body trembling with the struggle to accommodate his size, the girth, the depth of the angle. “Fuck…” Volenta whispers into the sheets, her back arching to meet him.
The feeling is exhilarating, the push into her satiating and at the same time he can only call it agonizing. He savors the slow drag, the time it takes for her to give way to him. The words she utters only serve to feed the tension in him, the sounds of his own pleasure building at the back of his throat. A moment of unsteadiness makes him brace himself against his forearm. Lips brush the nape of her neck.
It isn’t as if he particularly cares for her comfort after it all. In fact, her agony lies sweet on his tongue and against his hands in the tremble of her breath. There’s something immensely satisfying in the thought of her possession, of claim, of the power he exerts over her in this very moment and the fact that, for once, she is reduced to a few, lost words. The press of her hips tells him she’s very well able to take it.
The full weight of him sinks down against her until he bottoms out. A whine escapes Volenta when he sheathes himself into her, when he begins thrusting and with left hand she reaches behind, fingers searching for the back of his head, finding it, tangling in his hair. “Harder.” With a breathy demand she moans for him again and permits herself to become Viktor’s completely. In this moment – he becomes her entire universe.
And she does not think that he’s a psyker, that they argued, maybe nearly killed each other. Although the outcome of that sparring match from the very start has been tipped in his favor due to Volenta’s inexperience, her inability to keep herself in check and the emotions that bubble up faster than the woman can attempt to stop them.
No, everything that she is right now is his.
When he pulls back again, nearly slipping out she says his name, now pliant, obedient and begging for him not to stop. Begging for Viktor, for all of him. All that he was, is and ever will be. His name falling from Volenta’s lips undoes something within him, a tight lacing holding the seams of him together starkly cut. The mockery that swung in every single syllable of his name on her tongue is gone. The edges have softened beyond the point of recognition, the sharpness given way. Viktor gives in to her plea.
The hand in his hair drives him against her, his hands wrapping around her blurring the lines between their bodies, their ends and beginnings. He venerates her shoulders with his lips, a hunger to feel her skin in the dark and a hunger for more of it, more of her. The welts of scars well up under his touch, but cease their reminder of their meaning. He picks up his pace and finds no fulfillment in it, not like this, not when he’s bent over her searching for something he cannot seem to find.
Viktor slides out of her, the ache in him palpable, and flips Volenta onto her back, absentmindedly beginning to rid her of what remains covering her skin. She watches him with eyelids heavy and pale face flushed. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath before his claim rushes over her again, like an ocean of fire that seems impossible to douse out.
“There, under.” She instructs him how to undo her heels and when they clatter to the floor, Volenta sits up, grabbing the open shirt and jacket of Viktor’s uniform by the lapels, before bringing him into a heated, messy and wet kiss. Then she yanks his clothes down the arms, feeling a craving to be as close as possible to him, that echoes with the same desire within him.
She allows him to remove whatever clothing is there, and then halts for a moment, looking up at him where Volenta sits. Slowly, as if too scared to be struck in a moment of vulnerability, she takes Viktor’s hand again and presses the side of her face into a big, scarred palm. Eyes bore into his, pleading and soft.
“Love me or hate me, but please… don’t leave.”
The words come from somewhere deeper than just her desire for pleasure or her victory of having the Inquisitor undone and desperately driven. It’s genuine, and Viktor understands now, that even when she promised honesty, this is the only time when Volenta is giving him the naked truth.
With his clothes discarded entirely, he doesn’t need to look down on himself to know that what is revealed is a map of scars left by his own mentor, running like rivers and landmarks over his torso. Yet the thought is abandoned when his eyes land on her as she sits naked in the pyre-glow, light dancing over her skin as if kissed by the flames intent on consuming them both. Volenta’s face sits in his hand as if it had been moulded into it. The woman before him, never seeming like anything less than a force of nature, now appears almost fragile.
“Volenta…” Her name is a round, full sound on his tongue.
There is no answer to this plea of hers, something no one with their calling can give. What happens after tomorrow is nebulous at best, depends on information they do not have. The only certainty is that the end of it, if it leaves them alive, will spit them out in different directions, and the leaving is the only thing that's guaranteed. But for tonight, the inevitable has been banished outside to the pyre. He can allow himself to hold without the call to shatter.
He pulls her in. The kiss is less messy, less urgent, it is the kiss of someone who wishes they could promise anything without it sounding like half a lie. As Viktor turns to sit, with one arm around her waist and one on her thigh until she’s almost in his lap, he pulls her closer. A hold with no way out and an answer that right now and for tonight, he has no intention of leaving.
Straddling him, Volenta looks at him after pulling back with a barely noticeable smile. “Don’t go gentle on me now, Viktor.” With a whisper she reaches down, holding his erection still just before she sinks onto it, gasping with pleasure right against his lips. “Don’t think, just take me.” With those words leaving as another gasp, Volenta encircles Viktor’s neck with both of arms, pressing herself into him with tenderness of a lover. “And don’t stay quiet.” A chuckle escapes her but soon her hips begin to move. To rise and fall. Not as fast or hard as either of them wish for, but the embrace in which they engage is the next best thing.
Everything melts away because his face is before her, naked from anger and contempt that Volenta elicited from within Viktor with words far less than gracious. And she wouldn’t blame him if he held that expression even now. Yet he doesn’t, and that uncloaks the very soul that she gives to him completely, if only temporarily.
If he wished to peek beyond the curtain, Volenta would give him honesty that she greedily guards otherwise. But somewhere in the back of her mind, clouded by pleasure that is partially deluded by exalting pain, she doubts that Viktor will. And says a quick prayer to the God-Emperor that he won’t.
Of course he has his questions, has kept them all the while and likely always will. The closer he gets to her, the version of her that she is under those layers that don’t simply come off with the shed of clothing, the more of them he collects. There’s always that desire to spill them onto her waiting lips, to honor her request to not go gentle on her by both their contents and hands digging into her thighs, all that follows after.
“I'm not the one to give speeches with you on top of me.” He answers her with a slight smile, hand tracing down the line of her spine.
She sinks herself down on him once more, and so whichever rest could follow gets cut short, the God-Emperor showing himself merciful this time. Words replace themselves with small betrayals of pleasure. The distance between them has vanished to the few points their bodies aren’t flush against one another, becoming even less as he claims her mouth again. The kiss tries to take her response away, and she does kiss him back, briefly. Then pulls back, not allowing Viktor to silence her for longer than a heated moment.
“You’re charming. And delightful. Did anyone ever tell you that?” With a chuckle that gets cut with her taking him fully in again, Volenta presses her forehead against Viktor’s. “Careful, you might even become likeable.” A tease. She’s more like herself again, but words are stripped from venom and acid.
There’s an attempt of a grip, upon his shoulder-blades and the back of neck, desperate to find more purchase, to go harder and faster. Impatient as she is, in almost everything that is not her job, Volenta whines with the need for more. This – is not enough. And catches herself wondering if she should’ve kept him furious, insulted nearly beyond sanity. When the flames almost licked Volenta’s face when the Inquisitor’s palm was drawn close. Somehow, the thought that she’s fucking the very same man that nearly attempted to kill her drives her desires even stronger, higher and much hotter.
“You are incorrigible.” His tone carries the amusement at her words. “Likeable. Is that how you plan to remember me?”
He doesn’t know what to make of her, and who knows if he ever will. If he will ever get his answers, if the traces of this will find themselves anywhere beyond the bedroom doors of a single night or if they can make sense of each other when it isn’t all explosive and the clothes back on. It doesn’t matter. Right now she is the burn in his veins, the fire under his hands, an enigma without regard for solution or consequence.
„Hold onto me.” Viktor commands. He sees what she’s trying to do, her desire mirroring his own, the building need for something beyond this moment of slowed time. As they are, the position gives him too little agency, too little to do anything but meet her hips with his own in a drag that gives too little.
Her arms still wrapped around his neck he lays her back against the bed, never leaving her, forehead pressed to her forehead. The impatience sits with Viktor as a primal ache for what threatens to unmake them both and put an end to the night. His thrusts begin to grow harder, faster, making use of the angle he has on her now. A hand wanders to her thigh, holding her steady against the weight of his body with no choice but to take him, over and over again.
There’s a moment when Volenta nearly chooses to let go of him, to grip at the sheets over her head and just let the pleasure consume her, but instead she clings to Viktor. Nails drag over his skin, leaving rows of bloody marks intercepted by scars on his skin. Finally, at the strength of his pace she finally feels the bliss coming. A flash of a thought that it took them long to get here, but even that disappears, taking away her words with it.
The only thing that remains of Volenta is her body, under him, crying into the ceiling with her back arched and lips forming not insults or smart remarks, but his name.
Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…
Like a prayer dedicated only to him. A worship that is paid with sweat and whimpers, with gasps for air and complete unraveling.
Volenta knows she’s close and with what little sense she still has, she uses it to keep her eyes on Viktor’s face. To watch him as he unravels with her. Dedicating the rawest moment of herself as an offering upon his altar.
A stutter begins in his rhythm, a telltale sign of abandon hailing in the last attempts to take as much of her as he possibly can. He takes in the minutiae of her face in the seconds that separate them both from an inevitable fall: her lips fervently repeating his name, each one spurring him on with its urgency, the flush of her skin in the low light, and at last – her eyes searching for his and taking hold.
Volenta unravels before him, the sharp arch of her body upwards and into him as if it could bring them into one. Throughout all of it he holds her gaze as it overtakes her. The room closes in, and as she cries out against him her words, his name, the sounds disintegrating into rapture, are what takes him with her over that last ledge. Viktor’s answer to her litany is only paid in more of himself and he sinks into her for the last time.
The peak rips itself through him from the relentless drive of his hips throughout his core and the world gets confined to the space behind closed eyelids, breath taken in between teeth, and all that of her which he can hold onto hard enough to bruise. Then that falls away too, until Volenta remains the only thing left.
One last sigh escapes her and she feels him halt, then slump over her in a way that feels familiar and comforting. She relaxes her arms and caresses the back of Viktor’s head gently while trying to catch her breath with eyes finally closed in relief.
“Fuck…”
A gasp, then a smile that cannot be subdued. That’s all she needed – to pull Volenta’s mind out of the stress, out of the mission, out of her duty. To give reprieve that very few things come close to but never really succeed except for this. Feeling Viktor’s face rest against her neck, she nuzzles his ear and a damp temple where his hair sticks to it, her cheek soft and warm, carrying the same sheen of sweat as his.
“Ten out of ten performance… Inquisitor.” Volenta whispers, still swallowing gulps of air, but slowly coming to a rest that is wonderfully tempting to cling to into the forever.
That does earn her a small chuckle. “Not too bad yourself, acolyte.”
Tension that hasn’t left his body since he has stepped through the doors of the mansion slowly dissipates into the air of the room, now heavy and stale. He lets her thread fingers through his hair while the slight sting of marks Volenta has made makes itself noticeable on his shoulders. There’s comfort in the moments that come after the fact. In the void of thoughts that does not yet permit reality to slip back in.
Suddenly becoming aware of the heaviness of his own body, he rolls off her, feeling the chill as his sweat-dampened skin leaves hers and breaks contact. He leans himself back against the headboard, waiting out the seconds it takes for his chest to come to a normal rise and fall with the remains of effort.
Volenta, in turn, lifts herself on the elbows and takes another quiet moment to even her breathing until glancing up at Viktor. Then she turns over and crawls closer, stealing a deep, slow kiss from his lips, with fingertips ghosting over the side of his face before she pulls back. “Care for a drink? I’m parched.” This time it’s her palm that strokes over his thigh, all soft touches and gentle smiles. But without waiting for Viktor’s reply, Volenta turns her back to him and runs fingers over the avalanche of hair that does little to cover the marks or the tattoo. Two of which did indeed start bleeding, but Volenta doesn’t feel them and Viktor only witnesses.
She slips out of the bed and stretches cat-like, arms over the head. Where Viktor feels Volenta’s scratches on his shoulders, he sees a blueish echo of his grip on her hips and thighs. A testament of passion that almost welcomes more bruises to be left on her body.
But then Volenta turns and walks to the table, taking a moment to think which glass belongs to her but giving up on that quickly, considering that sharing a glass is the least offending exchange from what they have done so far. She picks them up and takes a sip first, then in her fingers Volenta picks up the pack of lho that has only three left inside. With her haul the woman returns to the bed, getting close to Viktor and offering the fuller glass while sitting down with legs curled under her. Eyes clear and sharp, and entirely focused on him.
He thanks her while taking the glass from her hands, fingers ghosting over hers to receive it and leaving again with it. He tilts the glass vaguely in the direction of hers in a toast, holding Volenta’s gaze as he brings the vessel to his lips. The liquor has lost none of its sweetness, but now almost cloyingly so, weighing down on the tongue and little by little banishing the taste of her lips. A sip and he places the glass to the bedside table to his right. The act has left them in astonishing sobriety, the notes of the alcohol subdued under other, finer flavors back to stinging on the tongue.
Helping himself, Viktor fishes for one of the three lho in the package in her hand and comes away successful, placing it between his lips and halfway waiting for her to do the same. It takes only a snap of his fingers against it, sparks dancing between them for a second, and between a few drags the lho comes alight in the bright orange of the light from outside. His hand he leaves held out, waiting for her to lean forward and receive fire.
At the flame Volenta’s eyebrows rise and she very obviously is trying to subdue a smile, but places the smoke in her lips and leans in, holding Viktor’s gaze and for once choosing not to comment anything. She said enough. Nasty, hurtful things that she partially believes in and partially was taught to project upon every deed and every interaction.
There’s an obvious change when Volenta straightens her spine and inhales the smoke, still keenly observing Viktor. “Are you going to stay?” A question is expressed in a calm voice, as if she doesn’t care and couldn’t even begin to. Then the lho gets replaced by the glass and she drinks all of it in one deep swallow, like someone who’s trying to numb themselves.
In a profession that demands everything from you, the key to survival or at best success, is to recognize what exactly is being asked of you and what you have to do for it. Viktor keenly understands just what it is that she asks of him. He won’t humiliate her by asking her the question if she wants him to stay, and won’t humiliate himself by pretending he doesn’t know the answer. Even in the throes of the last hour he couldn’t give her his word, one that would be collected sooner or later anyhow.
By denying her, tomorrow they’d find themselves back at square one, only with a much less clean slate than they had started with. But this, after all the lines he waltzed over, eroded underneath him like a firestorm, is the one he cannot bear to cross - because it means nothing, or means far too much. He recalls the locations of his clothing across the room.
“A few minutes more.” He says as if that’s an answer, looking at the lho that’s only half done. He’s matching her feigned carelessness. “But not for the night.”
“Right.” She smokes and puts her glass on the nightstand opposite of his side. “Then in the morning we can proceed with the plan. Since I have the numbers of your forces, it will be easier to leave them here and in formation in case we need sudden backup.” Tapping the ash into the empty glass, she sits properly again and looks at Viktor, but there’s nothing he can read in that emotionless face, even if it’s still flushed. “Make sure to rest, tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
With that Volenta looks away from Viktor, allowing him privacy to get out of her bed and to dress, without her eyes following his every movement. She just smokes and says nothing else.
Viktor isn’t the kind to ever question his decisions once in motion, and he doesn’t interrogate the feeling of wrongdoing rearing its head, washes it down with the liquor, with a drag of the lho that takes a quarter of it with it.
He agrees with her assessment, sensible as it is, in few words and directions for the following day, though in the face of lacking a chronometer it might have already started. That eliminates all excuses to stay, and so he gets off the bed and begins to collect his things. Somewhere he holds onto the impetus to press his lips to her naked shoulder as she sits, the blanket obscuring the form, but the moment has passed.
Dressed, righted, his coat draped over his arm, Viktor at last stands in Volenta’s doorway. Before his hand presses down the handle he turns to her. The light from outside has slowly started to die down and leaves only her specter-like shape against the sheets.
“Good night, Volenta.”
“See you tomorrow, Inquisitor Riemenschneider.” She nods to him.
But the moment the door closes, she snatches the drink that Viktor left almost untouched and knocks back the entirety of it in one angry swallow. When the liquor is drunk, she grits her teeth and squeezes the glass with increasing force until the crystal begins to crack. Only then Volenta stops herself, not allowing to do what she really wishes – to fill the emptiness in her soul that Viktor has left her with. To exchange it for the fires of fury. But no, she can’t do it, she can’t risk hurting herself, letting the glass bite into her flesh with shards that Volenta would need to pull out piece by excruciating piece.
She can’t let him know that it affected her.
That he hurt her far worse than any words, insults or even sheer violence could. Instead, she throws the glass to the wall, breathing heavily when the air Volenta didn’t know was holding finally forces itself out of her lungs, and places a trembling hand over her face, letting the eyelids drop to a close.
A bitter smile blooms against the palm of Volenta’s hand, a grin half sad and half so vicious it’s like she’s losing sanity by each passing second. But then there are only trails of tears between the splayed fingers. Tears that she cannot swallow or hide, cannot suppress into sweet oblivion. She expected nothing and yet it still breaks her into pieces, shatters her, like the glass that was destroyed by her hand.
She did beg him to stay. And Volenta realizes only now that it wasn’t just in the heat of the moment. That she actually wished for it, looked forward to it.
It became her demise.
“Fucking figures. Stupid.” Volenta scolds herself but doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to. Not yet.
And she doesn’t know that as Viktor makes way to his own chambers, he hears the glass shatter and stops to listen. She doesn’t need to know that.
And he will never tell her.
⚜ 𝖆/𝖓: InquisitorNocturn: This is where, at least to me, became obvious that the simple phrase of "oh it would be fun if they fucked" turned into "the chemistry is insane". Which from here on grew from a one or two chapter experiment into a long form work that we are still working on. This chapter is special to me, because it was the beginning of something beautiful. Something that I cherish deeply, and working with a friend on a same passion project has been a joy I can't say I experienced in this kind of way before.
It's a little crazy to me, because until Volenta I never really entertained the sphere of OCs, how people can bring two original characters together, made independently, and witness how well they mesh, as if they were made for one another. It's a wonderful journey and I'm beyond delighted to share this special chapter that solidified it for both of us that yep, these two are a bonded pair now lol
Before I get sentimental any further I'll stop here. And if you're reading this - thank you for joining us on this journey <33
If anyone knows some artists that have a sketch turn-around of a week or two drop it in dms, asks or in replies to this post, I would much appreciate it!
If anyone knows some artists that have a sketch turn-around of a week or two drop it in dms, asks or in replies to this post, I would much appreciate it!
A wise soul once said - fuck the robot. And thus, the robot shall be fucked~
Pasqal was requested by Anonymous~
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Metal may be cold, but Pasqal has a warm touch. And a gentle one. He’s not going to be rushing off after spending time with you, nor he will be inconsiderate of your needs. If anything, he’s the type of man who will dote on you until you have to force him to leave you alone for a moment. Given he has quite a few mechanical parts, Pasqal will be forever worried if he hurt you, bruised you or made you uncomfortable in any way whatsoever. He is a fighter AND a lover~
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
While generally Pasqal would name his sacred stigmata as a favorite “body part”, you made him begin to truly appreciate his remaining flesh fingers. Augmetics, no matter how advanced, can’t fully translate the feeling he gets from touching you. Therefore, his favorite body part on you is just truly everything. He worships you from head to toe, every curve and every inch of you is as wonderful as the next. He caresses your skin, your arms, legs, waist, everything he can touch - he wants to touch. You’re a marvel that not even Omnissiah could improve.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Might be a little shy to come into you or onto you at first, for reasons that will be explained at letter K, but with time the Magos will grow more comfortable and confident around you, not letting things like shyness that haunts the beginning of the relationship ruin the fun anymore. Exploring each other and feeling utterly comfortable in each other’s presence is the ultimate goal and so, with time, Pasqal will stop restraining himself.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
After the first time he gets intimate with you, Pasqal does look into pornographic archives. In the beginning he looks into it out of sheer curiosity and to compare his experience with what is recorded, but as you two continue your trysts, this research shifts from just a curiosity and becomes actual educational material as he tries to pick up poses, techniques and variety of other things to try with you. He won’t admit it, of course, telling you that his sacred memory banks and optics will not be fouled by such imagery, but you know better~
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
While he’s not completely oblivious to what sex is and what exactly it entails, Magos does not have experience of his own at all. So, he knows what happens from the technical aspect of procreation, but does not have personal practice to support such knowledge. He is, in fact, a virgin and you will have to guide him through the first encounters until he gets the hang of it himself. However, it’s worth mentioning that what he lacks in experience, Pasqal makes up in enthusiasm.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Granted Pasqal is inexperienced, his favorite position, at least in the beginning, is be missionary. So that he can see you, gauge your reactions and levels of your comfort. Not wishing to hurt you and not fully trusting you to tell him if he does something wrong, Magos prefers to make absolutely sure that you are enjoying yourself just as much as he is. And that is possible when he can see your face close enough to observe.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Pasqal is definitely on a more serious side during intimacy, because not only he’s not exactly the comedic type, he also treats sex as something worth treating with respect, seriousness and full attention. Devotion, even. Sex to him is an act of worship and he sees nothing humorous about that, therefore he will be romantic, gentle and very rarely funny.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
In truth, due to his augmetics, Pasqal generally does not have much bodily hair left, so it’s safe to say he is well groomed, just not because of a conventional choice. When it comes to his intimate area, the hair is minimal and very shortly trimmed, simply because Magos does not need anything longer caught in some sort of cog or gear, so he’s definitely tidy about his physical appearance even underneath the robes. Can’t have a shire to Omnissiah’s glory that houses sacred machinery be unkempt, after all.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Very romantic, very attentive, very gentle. He’s the epitome of a gentle lover and will prove that time and time again. Pasqal thanks his god every time he has a chance to experience closeness with you and will treat such moments with utmost reverence. To you, to your body, to the whole experience. Afterwards, he is the type of man to tell you how wonderful you were, how lucky he is for having this with you, how amazing it has been, etc. This man loves to praise.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
With you introducing Pasqal to the world of intimacy, he also, of course, discovers solo pleasures. Which leads to him doing it quite often and half the time he gets easily caught by you. Naturally, in the beginning, he is shy about it, trying to deny it or hide it, but eventually Magos does become comfortable with you and will gladly let you watch him. And if caught, at that point, he won’t stop just because you walked in. For him, that’s one of the wonderful experiences that you opened the door to and Pasqal won’t shy away from enjoying it all and often.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Cum play. While at first it starts with Pasqal being apologetic about coming onto you, soon it becomes his favorite thing. Especially coming onto your stomach. It’s not fully clear even to him why he likes it so much, he just knows with utter certainty that he does. Maybe it’s a way to see his lover claimed, maybe it’s an expression of his humanity and a way for him to connect to you. But Pasqal does love doing it and the sheer thought of your skin covered in his cum can make him come faster than he intends to.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Somewhere secret and private, most likely the bedchambers. Considering how reverent Pasqal is before, during and after the act, for him the best place is somewhere you two won’t be interrupted. But he’s not opposed to doing it in other places, as long as the door is locked.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Simply put – you are his biggest turn on. Everything about you, from how you walk, how you smile, to how you speak, everything turns Pasqal on and being near you becomes increasingly more difficult the longer you two are together. Of course, Magos knows how to behave and hide his needs well, knowing when to put desires of flesh aside, but if there are no immediate threats or dangers, then his mind begins to wander and his yearning for you can be barely contained.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Despite how dawn bad and needy Pasqal might get, he will never ever risk getting caught. Not only he thinks it would tarnish your reputation, it also just goes against everything that he likes about sex: the intimacy, the connection of two lovers, the sanctity that he sees in the act itself. Therefore, when he wants and needs you, Pasqal will be taking you to the closest secure room and will hold back if such area is not available for his perusal.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
An absolute giver, Pasqal loves to worship you in every way he can and going down on you is one of the most preferable ways for him. In fact, he likes it even more than sex itself. But he won’t stop you if you want to “return the favor” and will enjoy it to the fullest, not holding back his praises or the orgasm itself. Granted, behind that vox emitter is a mouth that needs guidance, but once Pasqal learns what you like and how – he will make you come like never before. And, on that note, it’s the only time he will actually remove his facial augmetic.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Slow, sensual and enjoying every single thrust, stroke and touch. Wanting to experience your body to the fullest, Pasqal will take his time and it doesn’t matter if it takes him minutes or hours. Of course, as per usual, he will be praising you and every action/sensation in copious amounts, not letting you forget for even a moment that you’re the one he worships most profoundly.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Yes and no. Yes, because sex with you is desirable in any form and shape to him, no because he prefers to take his time. But when blood runs hot and the luxury of said time is not attainable, then Pasqal will resort to a quickie if only to fulfill his (and your) need, however temporary. Because each time you two have to hurry and do it fast, Pasqal will be making an effort to arrange a longer session as soon as possible and quickies for him are a momentary fix only.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Experimentation is one of his favorite things in the bedroom, but he won’t take any risks that could potentially harm you. It will take some convincing on your part to get Pasqal to agree and try something more than most basic kinks, but when you do convince him, the Magos will take every possible precaution so that it doesn’t go wrong.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
What his actual stamina is – you have no idea, because whatever is pumping through his augmented machinery and veins is only known to Pasqal himself, and it could be anything from medication to battle grade stimms. Therefore, he can go for pretty much as long as he wishes and that goes beyond what’s physically possible for regular humans. He won’t push you past your limits though, always careful to guarantee you have the best experience possible, but if you want to be ravaged – Pasqal will gladly oblige.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Before you, naturally Pasqal didn’t bother himself with sex toys, no matter how advanced they were, but once he discovers that wonderful side of being a human, then he will get his hands on the most advanced technologies Adeptus Mechanicus can produce. Not only that, he will invent some toys just to fit yours and his own needs. To put it short – you will never lack excitement and new discoveries, not when it comes to sex toys. Magos will also gladly use them on you (machines are friends, not enemies, after all) and is fully onboard to get them used on him. As long as you’re careful, of course. He wouldn’t want his sacred parts to be damaged, but otherwise – it’s free real estate.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Once Pasqal discovers teasing, and how sweetly he can make you beg, nothing will save you. He will tease you with words, toys, his own body, prolonging the intimacy in variety of ways and loving every single second of it. His most favorite thing in the galaxy is to see you reduced to a whimpering, trembling and panting mess that he himself made out of you. It’s like a reward to him, to know that you are so fully exhausted and satisfied that you can’t do anything else than just to lay there and try to breathe. Thus, teasing is one of his favorite tools in the arsenal.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
At first Pasqal is not loud at all, but the more he becomes comfortable with you, the louder and unrestrained he too will become. Not to mention just how much he loves to praise you, he will also moan your name often and with need, so that you don’t forget even for a second that you are the only one on his mind, especially during sex.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He takes picts of you naked, during sex and after, with his ocular implants. He doesn’t necessarily hide this from you and to Pasqal it’s same as carrying icons of saints with him. So Magos will have a steadily increasing library of you in a wide range of states of being undone and will view them every time he’s not with you.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Being part of Ad Mech, Pasqal has variety of machinery inside and outside his body, and his genitals are not an exception to this rule. While he still has his cock, usually it is enclosed in a specific augmetic that helps him with bodily functions. In a sense, when you two get intimate, it’s like unwrapping a present. His penis also has some steel tubes implanted in the exterior, but that works as a perk, not a drawback.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Very high sex drive once he becomes truly comfortable with you. In quieter moments or during days when nothing is happening and the Imperium is not burning, you will find yourself being guided by him to the bedroom several times per day. Or, alternatively, not leaving the bedroom for an entire day. He wants to experience everything and anything with you and that takes time, which leads to Pasqal aching for you incredibly often.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Pasqal, loving the relationship that you two have, will stay up for quite a while just to watch you sleep. The most beautiful sight to him, next to you being entirely undone, is you peacefully sleeping and cradled in his arms. He has many picts of these moments too and cherishes them as his most treasured possessions.
⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Story rating - E. No y/n used etc, POV second person, femdom, smut, PiV, creampie.
⚜ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You're an acolyte, Calcazar's own agent that he planted among Theodora's retinue. And you have a task. Unfortunately, Abelard catches you the moment you complete it and now you need to find a way to escape both from his suspicions and the voidship itself.
⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 6,856 | on AO3
𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: I attempted to write femdom but it feels like I failed towards the end because Abelard still got control of the situation lol. But you be the judge of that, I suppose? Enjoy!
Where is it… Where…
It’s the only thought in your head as you open a drawer, let the edges of papers slip over your thumb like cards, then close it and open another. It’s no different than the previous one besides carrying a pack of expensive lho, still partially filled with thick, rolled smokes, and some trinkets that bear no significance to you whatsoever. Third drawer is full of data-slates, most of them appear to be cracked. The ones that aren’t, do light up at your touch, but demand a code.
Easy.
As you enter the passcode into the first slate, you swipe through the files hoping to conclude your search swiftly. Who knows when Theodora will appear. You’ve taken a risk, a stupid risk perhaps. If your mentor could see you right now he most likely would reprimand you for being so reckless as to break into the Lord Captain’s office and rummage through her desk like a common thief. You’ve been taught better, brought up to be better, but sometimes tasks require crude solutions.
Theodora is onto you, this much you know. You’ve seen her eye you suspiciously every time you appear on the Bridge, even though she had granted you such permission. Your cover has been flawless as far as you’re aware. And if the Inquisition can’t grant its agents sufficient covers, then nobody can. No, you are sure that the story of you being a trader who had lost her ship to the xenos has been convincing enough. Theodora even asked for your advice when she seemed in a good mood to reject it. But something, clearly, has not been accepted by the rogue trader as a possible quirk of yours.
What is it? You wonder as you put down the slate and pick up another, cracking the password with ease with the tool that you had brought with you. It’s a simple machine that only needs to read the holy schematics at the back of almost any device. It has been useful for countless missions and this one should be no different. As you look you still can’t ignore the fact that Theodora is suspicious. Perhaps even more than she’s showing. One thing that Inquisitor Calcazar has told you has been plain and simple – Theodora von Valancius is a shrewd, merciless woman, and shouldn’t be taken lightly. You haven’t, but that does not bring you close to the answer what might’ve given you away.
Another slate, then another. You rummage through the files inside in a similar fashion you’re right now rummaging through your memories. Meticulous and strategic. She must be having the routes you need somewhere here and the answer of Theodora’s suspicion must be somewhere in your brain. Perhaps it’s how you look that had drawn the rogue trader’s attention, but you wouldn’t consider yourself as someone who stands out. Especially so right now, when your appearance has been carefully designed to be one of a trader who has fallen on hard times.
Artificial scars and augmetics adorn parts of you. And while you have been barely wearing them for a month, the discomfort of having your skin be a foundation for false marks is starting to weight on you. Not even during the night you dare to take them off. A risk of someone simply barging into your chambers is simply too great. Still, that something that you can’t quite pinpoint has been also the something that seemingly is tipping Theodora off that something about you doesn’t quite add up.
Well, if you acquire the routes, then she won’t have the time to sniff you out entirely. If you find the maps, then you will be off this voidship and back at your mentor’s side the moment you can get your hands on a space shuttle. If only…
But none of the slates bear the information you need. Another drawer, then you step to the other side to repeat the search. You’ve picked your time perfectly, too. Some sort of insurgency on the lower decks. You observed the rebels for almost two weeks and managed to give them the tools they needed to make this more than a simple threat for Theodora’s seneschal to deal with. Turned into something that demands rogue trader’s own attention, by the way you gave away passcodes of the secret passageways to the people wearing self-made armors. When they erupted onto the upper decks, that’s when you acted.
The sounds of las pistol fires and metal on metal are distant. Theodora’s chambers are well isolated, if not entirely soundproof. And from what you can discern, the fight did move a little closer to the bridge, but not close enough to cause you any immediate issues. If the rebels can hold on for a little longer, you are absolutely sure that you will put your hands on the information you need.
First drawer bears nothing but garbage and you clench your teeth with irritation. Would Theodora put something like this in her safe? You glance towards the bulk of it, placed in the corner on your right, but return to the second drawer. Assumptions lead to failure and you have been told by Calcazar that what Theodora had found might be something that she herself doesn’t realize the significance of. For the better, because that could mean that she didn’t bother to put the route she had discovered with her Navigator behind a proverbial lock and key. Theodora is shrewd, you remind yourself for a countless time, but not even she is infallible.
Upon fourth drawer you pause. It contains rolled up scroll-like parchments and you halt to listen to the sounds below, but confirming to yourself that the fight is still nowhere nearer than before, you begin to unroll one after another.
Perfect.
Finally, maps. Not the ones that you need, not yet, but that’s only a matter of time. Of this - you are absolutely sure. As an agent of the Inquisition you have been taught not to rely on your gut feeling, but right now it’s practically screaming at you that you’re just a moment away from getting what you’ve been seeking.
Yes! There it is.
You bring up the map and place it upon Theodora’s desk, unrolling it in full with both hands just to have a good look over the expanse of the markings drawn upon the star paths. Yes, yes, this is exactly what you’ve been looking for. You don’t even need to steal it because the augmetic that has been fashioned to look as installed onto your body is still a functioning device despite its temporality.
The scan of the map takes about two seconds. The green light washes over the pale paper and commits every last detail to the digital memory. Perfect, you tell yourself, this is perfect. Theodora won’t even know you’ve been here. When the scan is done, you roll the map as it was and place it with the rest. You made a note of how everything looked like before you plunged your greedy, seeking fingers inside and you make the extra effort to leave it the same. When you close the drawer with a careful, albeit not entirely soundless motion, you straighten your back, almost permitting yourself a smile of success before you realize that you’re being watched.
First instinct is to grab at the needle gun at your hip, strapped beneath the worn, brown leather coat you’re wearing, but you know better than to possibly provoke a former navy officer, even if he has aged. Senior officer of Theodora’s or not – Abelard remains in active duty and his current appearance proves no different.
His chest-plate armor is gone and by the shallow slash on his neck you tell that it had been lost mid-fighting. Dark, blue coat and the shirt of a paler such shade beneath may appear as if they have been undone deliberately, but you can see the threads and missing buttons from whatever has been used against the man. In Abelard’s hand – his chainsword. No weapon in another. Besides that, you don’t see any surface injuries in him. But that’s until you look at his face.
Aside the grim expression that the seneschal is now adorning upon finding you in his mistress chambers, you notice that his normally slicked back grey hair now appear to be in a disheveled state, with blood dripping from the hairline and onto the left side of his face. The blood had circled around his ocular implant and had dripped down the man’s face. Another similar rivulet, which you can’t tell if it’s still fresh or has stopped flowing, is marking Abelard’s beard where it starts from his left nostril. Whatever had given the old man this kind trouble, well… you can’t imagine them surviving.
The words that come out of his mouth are not a surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
Of course you had considered the possibility of being discovered in your pursuit for the routes and you had prepared your answers in advance. The only difference is that you didn’t expect it to be Abelard who had caught you and not Theodora herself or some of her less intelligent henchmen, like that sleaze Voigtvir or the meathead Mort. Doesn’t matter, you can deal with Werserian too if needed be. And it is, clearly, needed.
“I got a vox from the Lord Captain, she asked me to bring some sort of pistol from her office.” You put your best effort in showing distress, feigning the surprise and even a dash of fear across your facial features. By all means you should come off to Abelard as genuine, a little scared and wholly concerned.
“A vox? What vox?” The eye that hasn’t been replaced narrows and he steps towards you in a slow, measured pace until he reaches the desk. Only it separates you and him.
“You didn’t get it?” You turn your wrist and pull up your sleeve, showing a gauntlet with an integrated vox transmitter that does more than just receive Theodora’s messages, of course, but Abelard does not need to know that.
“It’s been only static for half an hour.” He grumbles and with other hand reaches up, rubbing his bearded chin. “You received a message? For a pistol?”
“That’s what it said.” You pause, chewing on your bottom lip as if deep in thought, but that is, too, designed to deceive. “It did sound like her…” Modifying your voice to have a pinch of uncertainty you look to your side. Easy play to appear as if you’re a simple woman too distressed to think clearly.
Abelard doesn’t respond. At least not right away, and he walks around the desk to join your side, glancing around. “Mistress does have a pistol that she leaves for emergencies-“ something you learned before coming here, of course, “-but to ask you to bring it to her?” His attention turns to you and you meet his suspicious look with a slightly sheepish smile.
“You said the vox channels have been jammed. Perhaps she sent it out to more than just me, I just happened to be the only one to receive it?”
A heavy silence hangs between you and Abelard for a long moment, before he sighs a sigh that sounds like a grumble and a defeat both. “Perhaps. I know where she keeps it, follow me and stay close. The rebels are trying their damned best to reach the Bridge. For what cause – only the God-Emperor knows.” Another sigh-grumble and Abelard walks off.
You follow him, of course. For now everything seems to be going according to plan even if that plan had to be altered by the fact of his appearance here.
“Why you’re here, seneschal? I would’ve assumed you’d be by the Lord Captain’s side.”
Your inquiry is not met with a backwards glance, which you fully expected. “We got separated. Lady Theodora sent me to help Voigtvir in his meek attempt to stop the heretics.” Abelard’s voice is tense and you can barely keep down a smile.
No, you didn’t miss the less than friendly attitudes the men harbor towards one another. And you yourself are not a fan of the Master of Whispers. Something about the way he looks at you makes the hair at the back of your neck stand with an uncomfortable chill.
Something about him makes you imagine putting your boot onto his vox-adorned throat and put your whole weight down.
“Here.” Abelard doesn’t even gesture, just turns to the left, towards the private chambers of Theodora instead of the room of ablutions, and you follow as if led by a leash. Play pliant, play obedient. It worked out for you well so far.
Yet when Abelard approaches the dresser, you remain by the entryway and act pious, like your status is not enough to carry you over the threshold. He doesn’t notice it at first, opening the third drawer and taking out the box. But once it’s placed atop the dresser and opened – he quietly swears underneath his breath.
“Is everything alright?” You ask as gently as you can and this time you receive a disgruntled glance over his shoulder.
“It’s empty. I didn’t see the pistol at Mistress’s side, which means she most likely misplaced it somewhere. Help me look, this is urgent.”
As Abelard starts opening the rest of the drawers you imitate indecision, shifting your weight from one foot to another, until he finds your hesitation unacceptable and repeats his command. That’s what it is, after all, a command from a ship’s seneschal to a guest upon this spacecraft.
With a nod and a yes you approach the closet and open it. Within you see many outfits, most of them in whites, greys and blues of the Von Valancius House colors. If you were alone it would be a perfect chance to gather more intel on Theodora, but such opportunity is not provided and you simply start pushing the hangers around, trying to see if there is a box that could contain the missing pistol. No such luck, and the weapon is not laying at the bottom of the closet, discarded as if never needed, either. Behind you Abelard sighs.
You turn to him and realize that he had pulled out a data-slate, at which the seneschal keeps tapping with obviously increasing impatience. With the back of his left hand, ringed fingers and all, Abelard wipes at the stream of blood coming from his nose, but the skin comes away barely stained. Seems the bleeding has stopped already. Sparing a moment to listen to the sounds outside, you are still relatively confident that the fight didn’t move any closer, but with your goal achieved that barely matters.
One thing you need to do right now is to find a suitable excuse to leave the Lord Captain’s chambers and find your way to the shuttle bay.
But when your gaze turns to the exit, Abelard’s attention snaps back to you. There’s a look in his eye that is suspicious and scrutinizing that you don’t see. “In a hurry to be somewhere?” He asks and you look back at him, finally noticing the changed attitude. It’s not a cause for alarm, you tell yourself and offer him a sheepish smile.
“I just wonder if Lady Theodora is alright. We haven’t heard anything of her for a while now.”
“Except for the vox that somehow only you received.”
“It might’ve been not only me.” Giving him a half-hearted shrug, you keep up the façade of innocence and watch Abelard put the data-slate in his coat’s pocket. The item disappears like the pocket is bottomless.
Yet something in your gut tells you that whatever Abelard have seen on that screen changed the way he sees you and your strange presence in his mistress’s chambers. When he fully turns to you, you notice that the suspicious gleam in his remaining good eye is still present and even more sharp than before.
“It might not have been, true.” Abelard says after a moment and begins walking towards you. One step, another, then a third. You stand your ground but the internal desire, the deeply instinctual one, tells you to flee. “Tell me about how you received the transmission.”
“I was heading to the Bridge when the alarms rang and that’s when it came through.” Arranging your face to an expression of concern, you try to appear calm if not a little bit confused, but Abelard’s own face does not change. Upon reaching you he finally stops, but much closer than what propriety would permit and you frown. “What is going on, Seneschal?”
“The communications have been restored.” He says and did you just see a hint of a vile smile before he subdues it? You can’t be sure and you don’t have any time to assess how correct you might’ve been in that observation because Abelard’s right hand shoots up faster than you have expected it.
By the front of your coat, by the lapels, he grabs you and pushes you backwards until your back slams against the nearest wall. “Seneschal!” You exclaim with surprise and confusion. It wasn’t your disguise that failed, so what has?
Abelard doesn’t answer at first, letting you struggle against the force of his fist on your chest and you try to push him away. Your hands first try to budge his shoulders, then center just below his throat and push against the exposed, bare skin. White chest hair tickles your palms but you don’t seek to exploit the vulnerable point just yet. You will, if needed be.
“No transmission from Theodora came to any of your devices.” Abelard says and your upper lip curls with disdain at his lack of proper titles when addressing you. Somehow that, instead of him using force against you, is what irritates you in this moment.
“There must be a misunderstanding, or maybe it wasn’t logged in, or-“
Abelard interrupts you by pulling you from the wall and slamming your back against it once more. You wince and sneer at him, still trying to push him away. “Tell me what you were doing here.” It’s a demand and you pause.
“I told you already, I got the vox-“
“Do not lie to me!” The way Abelard’s voice rises it feels like a lash of a whip, but you resist the urge to flinch. You’re too close to leaving this rust bucket of a voidship and you can’t let your disguise fail now or your mission be interrupted. This kind of failure – you won’t accept.
“I’m not lying, I’m-“
Another slam of your back against the wall, this time so strong that you huff when air gets pushed out of your lungs and for a moment you close your eyes, taking the impact with as much as grace as you can.
“What… What is this?” The words are whispered in a way that betray Abelard’s shock which is, for the time being, bigger than his anger.
When you open your eyes, you notice that he’s no longer looking at your face but somewhere below your chin and you glance down, wondering what’s so important to make a man like him pause, but that’s only until you see it, too.
Your rosette, your Inquisitorial rosette, is peaking through the undershirt that had ripped from the strength of Abelard’s grip.
Shit.
“What is this?!” He demands again and when your eyes meet you see the unbridled fury in his. The way Abelard’s fist clenches even harder makes the fabric rip further. You don’t even flinch.
“It’s nothing, it’s…” You manage a smile no matter how strained it is, but you know there’s no way to lie yourself out of this situation. Switch of tactics is the only path if you still want to make it off this ship in one piece. “So you found me out. Wonderful job, Seneschal.”
Abelard falters. The way your voice suddenly changed, from a sheepish demeanor to something that is more alluring than scared, catches him off guard and for a brief moment he doesn’t know how to react. You see it in his eye, the way it bounces between your exposed rosette and your face, and how his lips part as if he’s about to say something even though nothing comes out. This is your chance to spin this situation to your advantage once again and not fail your mentor.
With hands that are still resting against Abelard’s chest, you slowly move them down. It’s a gesture of seduction and that surprises Abelard even more. He doesn’t look down to confirm what you’re doing, but the way he has your lapels in his fist changes. Fingers lose the trembling tension they had until now and you know that you’re getting through his defenses. You need to continue.
“Don’t look like that, Abelard.” You smile and with fingertips briefly toy with his chest hair, then move your touch upwards, towards his throat.
It’s your only chance to trap him before you know that his own personal alarms will start ringing and you don’t waste a second. Cupping both sides of his face, you briefly bite your bottom lip and make sure to display the image of interest upon your face. For now it’s a simple farce, but you can’t deny that seeing him disheveled and bloodied is not enough for you to consider this tactic more alluring that you initially thought.
“What-“ He begins, startled by your touch, but you don’t let his focus move from you. Instead you smile a little wider and draw him closer. At first Abelard doesn’t budge, like his whole body had frozen in the moment, but it appears that the curiosity and your non-combative stance disarms him for the time being.
“So you caught me, Seneschal.” You purr and feel how his grip upon your coat and shirt relents even further.
Confused expression paints his features and for a moment you wonder if this is a first time that someone tries to fight his wrath with seduction. Most likely not, but it appears that it doesn’t happen often enough for it not to rattle the otherwise stalwart attitude of the officer. You can work with this.
“Caught you…” Abelard echoes and his eyes flick to your rosette but you squeeze the sides of his face and return his gaze to your face.
“Indeed you have. Congratulations, Seneschal, you’re the first to achieve such a feat.” You lie, but he doesn’t need to know the truth. In fact, your assignment to Theodora is your last chance to atone for mistakes of the past. You have failed Calcazar enough times for him to reconsider your presence in his retinue and you’d rather jump into the void than lose this opportunity to clear your name. “But don’t worry, your precious Mistress is not in any danger.”
“Then what were you doing here.” With a sudden frown Abelard seems to regain at least some of his senses and you act fast. Releasing his face you grip onto the front of his open shirt and with other hand you cup his crotch, drawing a startled gasp from his parted lips.
“Do you know that Lady Theodora has fallen under some suspicions due to her behavior? This is nothing but a simple inspection to make sure that those suspicions are cleared. For her behalf, of course.” Another lie, but you can see it working if only Abelard remains distracted enough.
Yet it seems that despite your greedy fondling he doesn’t lose all his senses.
“Enough of this.” He steps back, releasing you and making sure that he is far enough to avoid your touch. You raise an eyebrow and smile, beginning to undo your coat. “Stop that.”
“Stop what? Don’t you want to inspect that I’m not taking anything of your Mistress’ with me? Where’s your sense of duty?” You tease and see Abelard flush with both indignation and peculiarity of the situation. You don’t read him as a shy man, but it still makes you chuckle when he turns his eyes away from you.
“If that’s your tactic to get me distracted then I shall let you know that it is in vain. You will be reported to Lady Theodora immediately. And I will-“
“You will?” You interrupt and for a moment Abelard forgets himself, glancing back at you with irritation that you dare to talk back, but when he’s met with the visage of your chest, albeit still clad in a bra, he loses whatever string of thought he was following. “You will what?” With a smile you step towards him and watch him take a step back. You can’t permit him to get away.
Of course, you could kill him, get rid of him much quicker than Abelard would expect, but your instructions were clear – no casualties. And truth to be told, you’d loathe to kill him now that you see a prospect for a cooperation on more personal grounds.
Before he can pull away from you even further, you reach out and grab him by the belt buckle, then trug him towards you. Abelard doesn’t stumble, but his steps are unsure and he inhales in a preparation to stop you. Strong fingers find your wrist, but neither pull or squeeze, as if he’s unsure how to deal with you.
“What you’re trying to do is highly inappropriate.” He grumbles, eyebrows furrowing, but you only keep smiling and discretely feel out how the belt buckle operates. Before you undo it, you upturn your face to him and glance towards his lips. The blood that was trickling out of his nose had dried but that’s not deterrent to you. You’ve kissed men bloodier than this.
“Inappropriate?” You say in a quiet tone and meet his irate gaze with yours. “Or perhaps you’re too afraid to admit that you want this?”
“I wouldn’t-“
The rest of his resistance you silence when you press your lips against his. The beard tickles your skin and you expect Abelard to draw back immediately, perhaps even strike you if you had offended his sensibilities far greater than you’d expect, but no, he just remains frozen. It’s your chance to lure him in further and you sweep your tongue against his lips, asking for entrance, but you are not granted one. Instead, your hand still clinging to his belt gets pull back and you break the kiss, suspicious of what he might do.
There’s no anger or annoyance on Abelard’s face, just a stern expression that tells you that you’re balancing on his patience like on the sharpest of razors. But you can do this, you can, and his resistance to your charms is almost cute. You clearly see how he’s clinging to this stoic persona while you can already hear him moaning your name in your ear. Shit, you’re actually selling the idea to yourself now. Arousal that wasn’t there suddenly flames up with an unquenchable heat and you swallow.
“Come on, Seneschal, don’t look at me like that, I might get a feeling that you don’t like me.” You smirk slightly. Abelard’s eyes fill with a shred of short panic at your words and he clears his throat slightly.
“It has nothing to do with attraction. You’ve been caught infiltrating Lord Captain’s quarters and are guilty of-“
“So you do like me?” The less you let Abelard speak of your crime the better outcome you can expect and you see that he’s growing increasingly annoyed that you constantly interrupting him. But if you permit him to gather his wits, then you are pretty confident you will be put to the wall and shot at the nearest opportunity.
Juvenile, this question is. Simply juvenile, but Abelard’s face flushes again and he hesitates before answering, obviously swinging between being angry with you and strangely curious about what would happen if he let it happen.
“Is that your concern, agent of the Inquisition? Whether I find you attractive?” He murmurs and you smile, already sensing your victory within your reach. If he wasn’t playing into your cards – he would’ve already dragged you out of here and put you before Theodora for judgement.
“It is.” You confirm and begin stepping backwards. Before walking after Abelard when he pulled back from you, you have noticed an armchair by the entrance and that shall do. Yes, the bed is right there, but it might be too much of a reminder for him of what he should be doing instead of what you want him to do.
“You’re not afraid for your life?” He appears to be confused why you’re taking this approach to the situation and you chuckle, unable to help it.
“If I am, will you soothe my worries?” The look you give him is calculated but more honest than he might think. One filled with mischievous desires and inability to take his refusal. Surprisingly, he is not refusing you in the slightest. As if led by curiosity again, or perhaps disarmed by your nonthreatening response at being caught red-handed, Abelard appears to let you play your game for the time being.
He scoffs at your words and glances away, but you need his attention onto yourself and so you turn with him, much easier than you expected, and push him backwards until Abelard drops into the armchair. Shocked expression tells you of his offence, but you don’t let him think. No thinking, no looking away.
Leaning over him you place both palms on his shoulders and notice his hands twitch with desire to grab onto you, but Abelard stops himself before doing so, much to your disappointment. Still, his eyes remain on you and you place one knee at the edge of the seat, between his legs, before you lean even closer. By now his breaths are ghosting over your face and yours are mingling with each of Abelard’s exhales.
“I don’t know what your plan exactly is-“
“Don’t you? How does it look like then?” You whisper with a small smile playing on your lips and before he can answer you close the gap between you and him.
The second kiss is more passionate simply because you let yourself sink into the feeling, to enjoy the heat of his mouth when Abelard finally gives you access to it. You taste remnants of recaf on his tongue when you press yours against it and you moan into his lips. You didn’t expect yourself to suddenly be so into the idea, so truthfully and earnestly turned on, but now that you’re at this point, you barely even think of escape. It gets worse when Abelard’s hands finally find your hips, large hands gripping them with strength and still with indecision to either push you away or draw you closer. You moan again.
“If you’re going to report me then at least don’t push me away.” You whisper and while in any other case this would be just a tactic, you mean it this time. If the mission is your failure –you want to experience at least this.
Abelard groans against your lips and when you look at him you see a frown, but also desire. His palms squeeze your hips and he inhales deeply before speaking. “You might just kill me once I let down your guard.”
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” You whisper and draw your tongue over his bottom lip with a smile. “I’m still an agent, and very much capable of defending myself. I just don’t want to, I prefer this.” One hand slips to his crotch again and your eyes widen slightly when you find there not what you did previously, but an erection so hard you almost gasp.
Abelard’s eyes glance away from you as if he’s ashamed or at least not willing to admit that you turned him on, but you only smile and lean back, unbuckling his belt, then pants. To your pleasant surprise – Abelard doesn’t move to stop you, just looks back at your face and nothing else. Broad chest is heaving and before you take out his cock, you pause to fully unbutton his shirt and coat. The expanse of his chest, greyed hair and many scars make you needy to press yourself against him. At this point you are not sure if you’ve gotten him or if he had gotten you.
“Take it out for me.” You whisper and his eye widens for a fraction of a second, but keeping them locked on yours, to your surprise - Abelard obeys.
With one hand he easily reveals himself, the throbbing hardness that you are eager to feel inside of you. Of course you look down, how can you not. The sight of his cock makes you almost dizzy with desire.
“Stroke it.”
This time there’s no hesitation and ringed fingers wrap around the shaft, beginning to pump. It’s slow, like Abelard is actually enjoying this and you smile more to yourself than to him.
“Faster.”
Again he complies, the movement of his wrist increases and the breaths that fawn over your face speed up as well.
“Are you going to just watch?” This time it’s you who’s surprised and you look back at his face, seeing barely disguised passion there.
“Would you prefer that?”
“No.”
The answer comes at the end of the tail of your question, impatient and hurried. You smile again.
“Then ask for me.”
This, it seems, is not easy for Abelard, and he remains quiet for a moment, the strokes over his cock slow a fraction and he looks into your eyes as if there’s a war within him, to obey once more or to resist and do what he should’ve done from the beginning. The words that fall from his mouth surprise him almost as much as they do you.
“Please.”
“What was that?”
“Throne…” Abelard swears and swallows, then repeats louder than the first time. “Please.”
“Good. Very good.” You reward him with a smile and pull back, nodding to his cock that you are sure is throbbing with need by now. “Keep going.”
Abelard’s upper lip curves with either indignation or impatience but he does as you wish and keeps stroking himself. Just before you pull back from him entirely you see first beads of precum already crowning the tip of his length. If you had more time – you’d torture him further, but you have to act fast. Unfortunately so, because seeing a man like Theodora’s own seneschal being so submissive is turning you on way more than you expected of yourself.
“Slower.” This time the command comes out breathy and you almost swear for being unable to hide your desire better than this, but Abelard doesn’t notice. He’s utterly focused on how you’re undoing your belt, then the fly of pants.
It takes extra minute or two to discard your clothes from below the waist, but you don’t waste any more time beyond that point. And even if you wanted to - Abelard clearly is of mind to have you as soon as possible. His hand that’s not stroking him grabs your wrist and pulls you towards him.
“Tsk, impatient.” You chastise him without a real reprimand behind the word and Abelard finally releases his grip from his shaft to hold you by your hips and guide you onto his lap.
“You don’t seem to be the prime example of this virtue either.” He comments and you chuckle as you take hold of his shoulders beneath the shirt, feeling the heat of Abelard’s skin against your palms.
“And yet you don’t complain.” For the first time you get a smile out of him even if it’s partially hidden in his beard, but you don’t mind. Especially so because Abelard holds his cock by the base for you, clearly waiting for you to impale yourself upon it.
“I’ll have plenty of complains afterwards.” He promises and you have no doubt that he will, but for the time being – this is your moment. Yours and his.
With a wet kiss on his lips, you squeeze his shoulders harder and sink down, feeling how easily he slips in but not without drawing out a moan out of you. The stretch of your body around his cock is pleasant if not borderline uncomfortable and you huff into his mouth with a degree of strain. Whether Abelard notices that or not, you don’t have the time to guess because he once more reclaims the control of your hips and begins moving you.
“I didn’t tell you to start.” You hiss against his lips trying to be angry, but every time you sink down, with your muscles bending under Abelard’s strength, you let out a moan. You feel a smirk against your lips and try to catch his bottom lip with your teeth but fail.
“Do you want me to slow down?”
Is that… a tease?
You lean back just enough to see his flushed face, clouded eyes but yes, indeed a small smirk is present on his lips again and when you inhale to answer him, Abelard brings you down so hard that you cry out. The way he makes you bounce, hard and fast, is taking your words and your resolution away.
“Bastard.” You manage a single word and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him so that more of his newly-found arrogance doesn’t ruin the moment.
When your tongue presses against his once more, you try to reclaim your speed, your pace, but to no avail. Abelard’s fingers are digging into your hips with a bruising strength and all you can do is relent, giving yourself to the rapidly increasing pleasure. If this continues you are sure you will come undone within a handful of minutes. Perhaps for the better, because even in this moment you still make an effort to listen to the sounds of a fight and they have come closer. You might be running out of time and you’ll be warped if it forces you to forsake your bliss.
“I might… I may…” Abelard suddenly groans against your lips and when you glance into his eye you see that it is closed with pleasure. The moment you break the kiss his head rolls back and moans begin to pour out with the gruffness of his voice. “You’re so…”
The rest doesn’t get said. Instead, Abelard brings you down one more time and you gasp because of how deeply his cock slips in. He’s been deep already, but this last thrust leaves you seeing stars. With a cry you press your head against his shoulder and whimper when you feel Abelard emptying himself inside of you so deeply that all you can do is take it. The iron grip on your hips does not relent and while you try to lift yourself for a few more strokes, it’s futile and you submit to the pleasure.
You hear Abelard groan when your climax hits you, when your body spasms around him and milks him of every last drop of his seed that he can give you. You hear him swear, something about Terra and something about the Emperor, but all of it fades as your pleasure overwhelms your senses so severely that you forget even your own name for a wonderful, blissful moment.
When wits begin to return to you, you find yourself panting and gasping for air, clinging to Abelard’s neck and chest hair while you try to gather your mind. Below the waist you feel fullness that at first registers as uncomfortable and too much, but then - as everything you ever wanted. Hot seed is leaking out of you and around Abelard’s cock but right now neither of you care.
“Holy… Terra…” Abelard whispers, clearly out of breath himself.
You shiver when the grip on your hips disappears and a hand grabs a fistful of your coat and shirt on your back, pulling you away from his chest and forcing you to look at him. His face is covered in sweat and the bloody trails have been streaked repeatedly, but Abelard seems no worse for wear despite drawing lungfuls of air. “I still need to report you.”
“Oh for the Emperor’s sake!” You try to scramble away from him, now more angry than exhausted or satisfied, and Abelard chuckles. It’s an attractive sound, coming from his throat with a rumbling quality and a quake of his chest upon which you have both palms pressed.
“You’re not going anywhere.” With those words, Abelard pushes you back against his chest and you frown at him, seeing that smug expression that you wish you could wipe off. “You will tell me everything about what you were doing here, agent.”
A smirk emerges on your face. You can’t hide it nor you attempt to. If he thinks he had won – then he’s sorely mistaken. Abelard can see the challenge and the defiance in your eyes. He accepts it because he would expect nothing else from someone with your profession.
finally a WIP whenever ☆ *･ﾟand it’s a sketch page for this guy. I’m sorry but we’re in it now, in the death korps U-U
Thank you sm for the tags <333 I’m sending them right back to @ronavorona16 @infernaldaydreams @celesenova @inquisitornocturn @lordcaptains and to anyone else who has a wip to share
Ever wondered what can be said about the perpetually annoyed officer like Ravor? Wonder no more~
Ravor was requested by darling @makethemworse ♡~
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
In truth, even if Ravor would like to stay and check if you’re okay, he simply cannot. Not only his duties call to him as an utmost priority, he is also not the man who wants to form relationships that are simply not possible because of how he is. Being fully aware how short-tempered Ravor is and how his condition would impact everything, he tries to keep his connections of the intimate manner superficial and thus you won’t find him sticking by for longer than absolutely necessary. At most he will ask if you’re capable of tending to yourself if needed and then he will be gone.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Ravor does not really have a favorite body part of his own, or if he does it’s simply just his cock. On you, however, he very much loves your fingers and what you can do with them. Either massaging fusion points of his skin and augmetics or how you handle his shaft, especially if you are gentle and careful, will definitely make him feel relief during even the worst of his migraines. And you might find him seeking relief of your deft touch increasingly so that he can forget and relax, which is so rare for him.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
For him – cum is just part of the act and he won’t budge from not wanting to pull out. Whether you spit out or not after sucking him off does not matter much to Ravor, as long as he doesn’t have to do the job of overthinking how he orgasms himself.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Overall, Ravor, in a manner of speaking, is not the type to find anything worth hiding or being ashamed of. He likes what he likes and is how he is, not beating around the bush. However, one thing he would be reluctant to admit is that he very much likes when you’re not just out of the bathroom. He appreciates natural scent of your skin and if he manages to catch you after a day’s work, before you shower, that’s when he will be most aroused around you. The reason for this is because he hangs out with perfumed officers all day and he’s a simple man who gets sick to the stomach of all the pompousness that surrounds his direct superior. Therefore something less pristine, like taste of sweat on your skin, is more natural and wanted by him. Not to say that he prefers if you’re unwashed for three days, but let’s say he’s not a man to get turned off by it either.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Minimally experienced because he always focused on his job and that is because of how he ended up being, headaches and a constant sleepless state. He knows how to fuck hard and does this with enjoyment, but if you want him to go down on you, well, you will have to tell him what you want exactly. Otherwise the experience won’t be a very satisfactory one. But on the flip side, Ravor might grumble about your directions, but he will follow them anyway, still genuinely wanting for you to feel pleasure.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Missionary and he truly enjoys it. Other positions require too much thinking or arrangement of limbs when all he wants is relief. Granted, if you want to try something else, he will ask you why are you bothering when missionary does the job just as well, but still will let you have it your way, at least once in a while.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He won’t be joking around with you or laughing much, unless you make the effort to lighten up the things. Ravor comes to you when he needs to forget everything for a bit and to him that’s the task he focuses on. However, he is not hard to make laugh if you just know how and the moment might become much lighter and sweeter when you remind him that not everything has to be done mechanically. That’s one of the ways to see the softer side of him as well.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Trimming? Waste of time. The only thing he truly grooms is his beard, because it’s on his face, but what is hidden by clothes is of no concern to Ravor. Thus, he won’t judge anyone else’s, mainly yours, grooming habits either, whatever they are. He does, of course, have his personal hygiene as one of the priorities. It’s only sensible (and mandatory) for an officer of his rank, but besides that he is as natural as he can be.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
For Ravor sex is means to an end: to forget, to relax, to take a break from his duties and maybe even from his headaches. So generally most sexual encounters with him start by Ravor being quite detached and only looking for relief. But if you know him well enough, you can bring his attention onto you, onto the moment and see that softer side of his that he has but rarely shows. Whispering how you’re the only one to take his mind off things is a common one and holding you like he does not want to let you go is another way he will show you that Ravor has grown to care for you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Jerking off is usually not worth the time or the effort for Ravor, being unable to truly enjoy himself due to his condition and that’s why he comes to you instead of attempting to pleasure himself alone. So while he would want to be able to take care of his needs on his own, he simply can’t and such, seeks for you to help him out.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
More fetish than a kink, but beautiful lingerie. Ravor is weak for sensuality of such garments and while he would not purchase something like this for you himself, you can pleasantly surprise the man if he finds you clad in something lacey and erotic during one of the arranged meetings. Then you will see the passion Ravor truly possess, throwing you onto the nearest surface and not waiting a moment longer to have you impaled on his cock. Just don’t tease him by showing a glimpse of such lingerie when he’s working, who knows in what space hull he might run the flagship into.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of the ship and it’s crew. Preferably your quarters because while he has his own room for obvious reasons, it’s not very lived in and Ravor does not really care to make it cozy or welcoming. His room is just so that he can shower, change clothes and maybe rest his feet, but not for much else. Your room, however, has a personal touch that he longs for and so he will always prefer to have the luxury of your clean bedsheets and domestic space.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
As mentioned already, sex for Ravor is more so that he can escape his grueling reality of migraines and sleeplessness, so for him the need arises when he’s tethering the edge of sanity. He will find you then, needy and insistent that you lose your clothes right there, right then. However, that’s not the only thing that turns him on, even if it’s the biggest motivator for him to seek for your closeness. Another thing that gets the man going is your smile. With everyone so serious and so enraptured in their duties, seeing you smile and just enjoy small moments makes him want to be part of it. Since he’s not very good at expressing himself, that to Ravor means getting intimate with you.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He has no time or patience for games or teasing. Foreplay? Leave that for men younger and less important than he is. To Ravor foreplay means kissing while already pulling down your pants, don’t expect more than this and don’t ask for it because he might as well find someone else who’s less demanding or complicated (in his mind).
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Absolutely prefers getting because sex for him, mainly, is about his climax and not yours. Now, that doesn’t mean he neglects you or leaves you unsatisfied, he’s very much willing to give as much as he takes. But still, his priority is his own pleasure. As for skill, which got mentioned earlier, he’s not too skilled, but he’s good at following orders, so to speak~
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Fast and hard. Not only that helps him distance himself from his troubles and aches, that also grants Ravor the most beautiful sight – you completely ravished out of your mind beneath him. Slowing down makes him impatient and annoyed and so he won’t even entertain such idea.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Very very fond of, that’s basically the only way he wants to have sex. And he will do it as often as his duties and migraines permit him. Ravor does vox you when he’s coming so that you’re ready for his arrival, which quite often you can’t make in time due to how spontaneous that is, but that doesn’t stop him from still consistently seeking you out and quite frequently too.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Experimentation, risking to get caught, fooling around when you two shouldn’t – all of these are out of the question when it comes to Ravor. No way he wants anyone to interrupt his time with you, nor he wants to waste time trying to figure out some sort of a sex toy or position, always relying on time-tested positions and habits.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Ravor won’t last very long, but simply because he’s really going at it, getting maximum fiction to satisfy his needs and yours. Usually it’s harder for him to breach through the headaches, delaying his orgasms, so you most often will be the first to come, but that’s because he doesn’t give you even a moment to breathe, so to speak. If Ravor has enough time, he might stick around for a little while longer for round two, but that’s a rare case and he doesn’t look too exhausted afterwards, having not spent entirety of his stamina with sex. After all, he’s not looking to spend entire night in between the sheets, he has duties to return to.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He has no toys and he does not care if you do. Using them on you is a rare occasion and usually you have to beg him for it. If he agrees, Ravor will gently taunt you for needing more than him, so all in all he’s not too opposed using toys on you, but will staunchly refuse to use anything too elaborate or anything at all on himself.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Teasing? That’s not a word in Ravor’s dictionary. He is the opposite of teasing, giving it to you hard and fast the moment he can pull your clothes off and spread your legs. On that note, don’t tease the man either, he has no patience for it and it’s not fun for him at all. Teasing for him is whispering filthy things in your ear when in passing while on Deck, but physically, once it comes to sex itself, there won’t be any playing around.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
On a quieter side, but grunting straight into your ear and saying that this is what he needed, what he craved, and that only you can give this to him. In turn, he does not appreciate you being too loud either, makes his headache worse, but Ravor will always encourage your softest moans and pleading mewls.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Ravor fantasizes wildly of what he would to you if he wasn’t as he is: permanently annoyed and with his head splitting in half. Among other things, like getting so much sleep he’d feel unwell from it or finally being able to read a book without feeling like he’s going to throw up from a headache, Ravor also wishes he could take his time with you, as much as humanly possible, and explore all the different ways of pleasuring each other. Yet, he knows that it is not possible and tries not to dwell on it.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Average in length but slimmer and very pale, with noticeable veins all over it. The head gains bluesish pink color when hard.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
His sex drive itself is not very high due to his conditions, Ravor’s primary reason for sex being to distract himself from his physical discomforts. Which means he doesn’t come to you when he is aroused, he comes to you to become aroused. But the memory of you in lingerie might drive him to your quarters more often while already yearning, so you definitely have a way to increase his sex drive.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He’s a man who is incapable of sleeping and won’t stick around to watch you sleep even if he has time off, which is almost never. But sometimes you will wake up to find a note briefly noting how he enjoyed his time with you or a little treat, like a candy, that Ravor snatched from somewhere, meant to show you his appreciation.
Abelard was requested by a reader who wanted to remain Anonymous♡~
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Abelard is a caring, gentle man and he will remain by your side, making sure that you’re alright and reassuring you that you did wonderfully. His aftercare is gentle and compassionate in a sweetest way. He will not walk away or leave you until he is absolutely sure that you are happy, relaxed and hydrated. If needed he will even help you clean up/shower and put you back to bed himself to ensure that you’re as comfortable as possible.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Not immune to breasts, Abelard is easily distracted when you wear low cut tops and dresses and won’t hide that it’s hard for him to concentrate when you’re showing off your cleavage. In privacy, he worships them with hands and mouth, often burying his face in between or just resting his head on top. Not only he appreciates hearing your heartbeat, he truly loves your chest and won’t ever forget about it during sex. On himself Abelard can not necessarily can name a favorite body part, but he does have a certain weakness when you suck on his fingers, especially if making eye contact.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He is not one about pulling out or you spitting it out either. Rest Assured that he will help you clean up afterwards, but for Abelard there’s not much point in sex if he has to think and over-focus before his orgasms. He likes to fully relax and indulge and so you will be filled with as much as he can grant you. Secretly, Abelard loves coming inside because of the masculine kind of pride of claiming his partner.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Truly and actually really cares about how he looks naked, not that he would ever admit that, disguising it as needing to be physically fit for his job. Which means Abelard does exercise and often checks himself in the mirror, both while hard or flaccid, just to make sure that he’s satisfied with the image reflected back to him. Now, it doesn’t come from vanity as one might think, but from the fact that Abelard is nothing short of a perfectionist in almost everything and he would not want you, especially, to question his readiness for physical excretions both on a battlefield and in bed. Which of course means that Abelard’s exercise routine is pretty strict and he feels pride after leaving you absolutely ravaged in the bedroom. A job well done is a job worth doing, after all~
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
One could say that having a vast family is not a show of skill, but in case of Abelard it absolutely is. Not only he has many children and their children to show for it, he is also a man not too ashamed to speak proudly of his prowess in leaving a genetic legacy. And a man like Abelard does not brag without a reason. So yes, he is a very capable lover, but worry not, the trusty seneschal will be your guide and teacher in the most sensual way, that will leave your legs shaking and you begging for more.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
A big fan of cowgirl in a chair where he can hold you close and see you bounce on it. Which also gives him access to your lips and your breasts, as well as being able to cradle your ass or control how fast and hard you’re moving by holding your hips. It’s a perfect position for him, but not the only one he uses. Abelard’s a gentleman after all, and he won’t let you do all the work for long. Unless you insist, of course.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Abelard can be both very sensual and quite humorous, depending on the mood, as it usually is when it comes to sex. But he’s not afraid to be playful and teasing, not being insecure at all at hearing laughter in the bedroom or during an act. He’s a confident man and will strive for you to be most comfortable with him, whether with sweet reassurances or making you relax by making you laugh.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Very well groomed, trimmed, showered, and perfumed. You won’t catch even a hair out of place on Abelard’s head or beard and same goes for the rest of his body. On the same note, he won’t be too upset if his uniform gets stained, especially if the cause of such mess is you.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
As mentioned above, Abelard can be very sensual and he will guide you through anything he might have in mind for you. If you take the charge, he will lovingly encourage you and express his enjoyment fully. Abelard is a man who does and will fully communicate with you during sex, aspiring to make every moment with you be as smooth and pleasurable as possible. Therefore, he will be sweet and caring before, during and after the act.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Finding such things frivolous at best and a total waste of time at worst, the seneschal won’t partake in this often unless he has to spend a lot of time away from you. Otherwise, he won’t spend himself when he can easily do so with you and more pleasantly as well. Craving contact with you more than just physical release, Abelard will seek your company for that intimate connection and he will not sacrifice it for anything else, especially a short, solo, self-pleasuring as this.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Overstimulation is easily a kink Abelard has, simply because he loves seeing you completely spent, panting and sweaty. Your whimpers and weak begging when he makes you come again and again, are more satisfying than his own orgasm and he will make sure that at least once in a while he gets enough time with you to do exactly this. And he will use a wide variety of tools to achieve his goal: his mouth, fingers, cock, toys, you name it. One thing is absolutely certain –you will have trouble walking or forming a coherent thought afterwards.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Bedroom, plain and simple. Abelard is not a man to flaunt his sexual life nor would he in any way find it graceful to be discovered. Therefore, he prefers security of the bedroom. Not only it’s the most private location to have sex, it also provides Abelard with worry-free time to spend just with you. No one walking in by accident, no one ruining the moment and most importantly – no one cutting Abelard’s time with you short.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
As cliché as he would even admit it himself, Abelard is weak to see you bite your bottom lip, especially if you have lipstick on. It’s this one act that will have the man planning how to get you back to your chambers and all to himself.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
If you are not in a mood then that’s it. No pestering you about it, no attempts to get you in a mood once you already refused. Abelard respects you and won’t feel slighted if you refuse him for any reason whatsoever, be it tiredness, being busy or just not wanting physical intimacy.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
A man is a complete giver. He will be lodged between your legs for as long as it takes and treat it like the best meal he had ever had. Just don’t complain about his beard leaving burns on your inner thighs, because Abelard will tell you that it’s a small price to pay for pleasure. And, on top of that, feeling you tremble, shake and sandwich his head between your legs is immeasurably erotic for Abelard, so you will often find yourself with him on his knees or on his stomach, his eyes watching your face as he goes down on you repeatedly, working to coax out multiple orgasms out of you by the end of the night.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Abelard does not like to rush sex, so he will usually go for mid-tempo pace and will try to slow you down as well if you try to hurry. Additionally, he’s in no way rough, but can make your mind go blank with the power behind his thrusts if he wishes so, and usually that’s how he finishes intercourse almost every time.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Despite preferring bedroom and having time to spend with you without worrying about anything else, Abelard is not averse to quickies, but only as long as there’s no risk to be interrupted. Your pleasure is the ultimate goal for the man, and if he’s prevented from doing just that, then he will abandon any notion of attempting the same thing twice. So yes, he will have you quickly bent over the dresser in the morning, but only if there’s no risk to be late and he will have your legs on his shoulders in an office, but only if the door is firmly locked.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
As mentioned right above, Abelard won’t risk getting caught or interrupted, so not even you can entice him into having sex even semi-publicly. In other cases, such as toys, he will use anything he can to make your experience a world-shattering one. Some innovations might give him a pause, but if it helps him make you shout and tremble with pleasure, then he is fully onboard.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
With Abelard it’s not how many rounds he can go, but how satisfied you are. Whether that takes longer or lasts shorter - is of no concern to the seneschal, as long as you are thoroughly pleased. He knows how to hold back on his own orgasm for the sake of yours, but if not for his discipline, Abelard can come relatively fast, because being with you is already extremely enjoyable to him.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
All has been said about Abelard seeing sex toys as friends and not enemies, but in turn he would not be too happy to have much being used on him. Some he won’t oppose, like handcuffs, classic blindfold, a cockring, and the likes.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Abelard is not big of a flirt and that goes same for teasing. He’s the type of man to hear you begging for more rather than for him to start, therefore you will find yourself urging him, pleading for Abelard to go faster or harder, and that’s the kind of teasing he does.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Loud enough, but not obnoxiously so. Abelard knows that a man and a good lover does not stay silent and so he lets you know without shame that he is enjoying his time with you, just as you are enjoying yours with him. He will grunt and moan and whisper your name because he wants you to be absolutely sure that you, and only you, are on his mind in this very intimate, special moment.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Not necessarily a kink, neither truly a dirty secret, but Abelard loves seeing his marks on you when you are out and about. Whether slightly disheveled hair after a quickie, or a hickie he left on the side of your neck, subtly peaking from over your coat’s collar, the seneschal sees these innocuous signs of his love for you as a job well done and a victory won.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Bigger than average, quite straight with only a slight curve towards the top. The head is darker shade of pink when he’s erect and it’s slimmer than the base of his shaft. Abelard grooms himself well, and because he has hair trimmed, his cock looks even bigger at a glance than it really is. Although some stretches are recommended before partaking in certain positions with him~
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
He disguises it well, but Abelard has quite a high sex drive, especially for a man his age. He will complain about sores and body pain afterwards, as if he wasn’t the one to initiate intercourse in the first place, but you know better than to fall for his sweet act of a weathered warrior. The man can and will fuck you at any (comfortable) chance. Sometimes you wonder how he’s capable of all of this, maybe it’s the augmetics…
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
To Abelard’s shame, he does fall asleep quite fast even if you assure him that you don’t mind. Granted, that is only after the aftercare and making completely sure that you’re alright, but he will, in fact, be the first to fall asleep with you in his arms. He might even apologize about it in the morning, feeling embarrassed for not staying up until you drift off, but at the same time, Abelard will accept you telling him it’s cute and won’t linger on it.
