This is an expected duty and he will treat it like one.
You’re treated like a defensive checkpoint: deposited on the far side of the bed, wrapped up in blankets and furs, and then he lies down beside you. Alas, somewhere in that theoretical understanding of cuddling he failed to understand that he should probably be facing towards you - or even touching you in any way, and not just lying in wait, facing the door in case of intruders.
Guarding you.
You can make the most of this by snuggling into his back and he’ll allow it. Don’t worry, he’ll get better over time… hopefully.
Fulgrim - III
Surprisingly awkward.
In his quest to make it perfect, to set the mood, to make sure he doesn’t touch you too much or too little and precisely ready what you want in this moment he comes off stilted and slightly stiff.
He settles into it quickly though, ever adept at reading your mood and pulls you into his chest, letting you rest against him and pressing languid kisses atop your head. When you’re clearly relaxed and enjoying his effort he loosens even more and it makes for a very cute evening together.
Post heresy bonus:
Coils around you confidently trapping you between thick ropes of his winding body. Enjoy being pet like the little well, pet you are.
Perturabo - IV
Oh good lord, a feat in and of itself you got him to agree, but once he’s had it once he’s a tsundere addict so watch out.
That first time though, that first time is for you to coax him into being more than an unmoving iron wall. Showing him what tender touch and unburdened human affection feels like.
He leans into your hands as you sit up upon his chest and caress his wires, letting out low rumbles you didn’t think was possible from your nigh unfeeling lord. It’s an addictive feeling you’ll try to replicate over and over.
Jaghatai Khan - V
It’s a cute date where he takes you out into the cold wilderness and shows you how well he can provide for you.
Hot roasted meat skewers, look at these thick furs he brought for you, still cold? Don’t worry, that’s what his arms are here for, to hold you close and make you feel secure.
Just lean into his arms and let the warmth seep through as he looks down at his little hawk adoringly. He’ll press little kisses all over, your cheeks, nose, the top of your head, everywhere.
He carries you back because he doesn’t want to put you down.
Leman Russ - VI
This man is the most tactile creature known to the Imperium.
He’s already had his hands all over you, arms slung around you and had you over his shoulder plenty of times before he just decides to scoop you up for a lazy cuddle session.
By this point you’re already boneless and buried in a pile of wolf, both fluffy and human alike. Too bad if you’re too warm because you’re not leaving any time soon, not with his head laid on your thighs and arms spread across you to snuggle in the dogpile.
Rogal Dorn - VII
Emperor help him but he doesn't understand.
He understands theoretically and physically what happens but you’re going to need to walk and talk him through every step as he dutifully obeys.
‘Lift your arm - no, that one, that’s right. And now put it down. Gently…. Perfect.’
Once you’re settled in with him though he’s a nice steady presence, sort of like a weighted blanket but better because he makes you feel beyond safe in his arms.
Konrad Curze - VIII
Work is cut out here, and you might want to try bathing him beforehand unless you want to pull away covered with … bits.
Manage that first and he will actually cradle you somewhat tenderly, like you are fragile porcelain that will crack, which may very well be true from his perspective. His body cages around you and protects you from the world, even if you are entirely alone together.
Just let him hold you, maybe even press shaky kisses into you, and he only mutters about the demise of humanity maybe once or twice (that's an improvement on normal)
Sanguinius - IX
What a dream… if you didn’t have hair or feathers in your face every other minute.
Trying to manoeuvre in a way that his wings aren’t pressed uncomfortably beneath him, you’re not pulling and lying on feathers, and his long hair generally tangling as you both tango into position makes for quite the challenge.
You both laugh at it though, giggling and clutching each other at the absurdity of trying to make it work and eventually succeed into settling together. It’s soft, it’s sweet, it's perfect.
Post heresy bonus:
He plagues you in dreams of futures that could have been - fragments of his soul echoing through the warp and into your head the same way the black rage does.
You curl up against his cold sarcophagus and nobody stops you.
Ferrus Manus - X
This man could not take a hint that you wanted to cuddle him if you tried, so you’re going to have to take heavy handed initiative here.
You should forever treasure the look on his face as you triumphantly approach with about five oven mitts from the kitchens cobbled together into unholy abominations of fabric and begin stuffing them onto his hands with no explanation.
By the time he’s stopped rebooting enough to ask questions you’re already climbing up into his arms so he can hold you in relative comfort while he can walk around.
He will make a papoose like design for your second cuddling session so he can hold you close while he works unimpeded.
Angron - XII
He’s screaming, crying, throwing up (™) - WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOURE GOING TO HOLD HIM CLOSE FOR A PROLONGUED PERIOD - ARE YOU MAD???
The answer to that one is probably, yes.
He holds still like a statue but trembles still as you curl into his lap, leeching his warmth. Maybe after a few sessions to calm down you might actually get somewhere.
Roboute Guilliman - XIII
Surprisingly good at this. Actually knows how to enjoy his limited free time and just scoops you into him and lounges back.
He’ll hand feed you fruits while you snuggle into him and enjoy each other's presence. Finds it very cute when you try to feed him back, kneeling up on his lap to reach and feed him what looks comically tiny in comparison.
He’ll definitely find more time to put aside for this, ending up very refreshed from just a little time with you.
Mortarion - XIV
This man is nervous beyond measure, please reassure him over and over and over.
And smooch him.
Lots.
Very uncomfortable with physical touch and probably doesn’t get better on your first try either. But, it’s a very, very important step to getting close with him - sort of like getting close to a feral cat.
Give him affection but don’t overwhelm him and soon enough he’ll be coming to you at all hours of the day to steal you away for some quality tactile time in your arms.
Post heresy bonus:
MTV: Welcome to my swamp - where I have made a nest just for you.
He will help you carefully climb in then clamber in on top of you, wings spread wide and covering the both of you like a canopy. Surprisingly nice if you don’t mind the smell because Mothtarion is soft and fluffy.
Magnus the Red - XV
The first time you cuddle is actually psychically - in your sleep.
He’s just so excited to get close to you, and there’s not enough time in a baseline’s day - so why not enjoy time together in dreams too?
Except you’re not as lucid as he is to start with, sleepily demanding cuddles from him that he very amusedly gives as you clamber onto him and press up into his chest. When you come around a little your face is as red as he is, apologising until he squeezes you closer and laughs as he kisses your forehead.
Horus Lupercal - XVI
One day when meeting him in his office before going out for a date he simply reaches out, swiping around your waist and pulling you confidently into his lap. He’ll wrap an arm lazily around your waist and press a kiss into your temple before telling you to sit tight while he finishes the last of his work.
It’s so smooth it’s criminal, and leaves you blushing and him smirking - what exactly did you expect?
From then onwards he loves having you sat on him, especially when someone comes to visit him so he can put a possessive hand on you and flex his prize.
Lorgar Aurelian - XVII
He looks at you like a puppy for days until you figure out what he wants because he won’t ask for it. Just longing, staring and yearning until you give him permission.
Then his hands are all over you, mapping you out.
Straight from 0 to 100 immediately for this man.
You’ll have to temper him back he’ll whimper and then comfort him gently for a long, long while before he’s willing to move from your side.
Vulkan - XVIII
He’s vibrating in excitement, he’s been waiting for this for a while but wanted you to be comfortable and ready knowing how physically intimidating he can be. But once you’re ready he’ll be spinning you around in his arms before spiriting you away to a pre-cooled room so you can stand being close against him for longer (yes, he was that prepared).
Such a cuddly man, petting and nuzzling and the whole works. He’ll make sure you’re beyond comfortable. Constantly checks in with you, massages you, holds you just right.
It’s just right for you both and ends up as very addictive stress relief.
Corvus Corax - XIX
When you ask him to cuddle he immediately melts away into the shadows, which honestly makes you upset… until he materialises some time later and nervously brings you to a nest he made just for this.
Accept and he’ll be strangely happy, settling in with you in your own private little place.
This ends up becoming somewhere you can go to when you’re feeling down and or just need him and he’ll come as soon as he can, with you often finding treats or treasures left for you there to tide you over until he can arrive.
Alpharius/Omegon - XX
Idiot sandwich cuddle session.
They’re goofy and you’re stuck between them.
Throne help you because they have plenty of stupid questions to ask you to entertain themselves over the hours they keep themselves barnacled to you.
“Would you still love us if we were tyranid wyrms?” type questions.
Don’t answer properly and they’ll poke you and whine, unless you bribe them with snuggling in deeper.
Good luck soldier.
Bonus: The Emperor
You’re the nervous one here - mostly because you’re already struggling to comprehend why he’s chosen you of every human alive and everything feels very unreal.
So when he quite literally sweeps you off your feet and carries you bridal style it's accompanied by a shocked yelp. Which he laughs at.
The custodes are struggling not to go insane - oh well.
He’ll perch you in his lap while he sits back on the throne, and you’ll tremble like a chihuahua in a handbag while he pets you. At least he makes sure the two of you aren’t disturbed while you acclimate.
It ends up being a sort of introductory trial for spending a lot more time cuddled up to him.
At his desk, in meetings, in the lab - who is going to tell Him no?
( this is a snippet / draft I wrote in like 10 mins )
🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤💛🖤
He’s in that cute little chiton today, which seems to have ridden even further up his backside than the last time he wore it in your presence. It doesn’t look like he altered it, though Perturabo could probably take up the gold keyed hem a millimeter a day without you noticing. He wears no undergarments as is traditional, a hazard striped belt at his waist giving the appearance of a tucked in blouse and miniskirt from behind. The kind of thing Administratum officials wore in the office. All he needed now was some power heels…
He’s detached from the noosphere with his cables tied in a loose bundle, staring out of the faux windows lining his sanctum’s reinforced walls. Of course, he can see every pixel of the viewscreen no matter how densely clustered they are, where even an Astartes’ eyes would believe they were gazing at the Olympian sky.
Your feather duster comes along the windowsill, then traces the line of his hip. Why shouldn’t you? He’s been stood there like a statue for hours now. Statues needed dusting. You brush the duster along the backs of his thick, hairy thighs and watch a visible shudder tremble those massive legs. Each one as broad as your shoulders, girthy like a barrel of wine. You glance up without really paying attention where your duster trails.
The rainbow feathers tickle across his hefty balls and his ass clenches so hard you can almost see the muscle beneath his generously padded cheeks. Off around his hip and you’re back to the windowsill, then the desk.
His gaze falls upon you with the weight of a collapsing star. He can’t speak. Quivering, he knows not what to feel, be it rage at your audacity or the hot, curling honey in his core that threatens to leak out through his cock.
He could command you to finish dusting him, berate you for slacking on your duties. But still, his voice does not come, and worse, neither do the words form sense in his mind.
All he has is a heady blank static swimming in the void where his sharp intellect usually lived.
Inspired by @gh0st-nebulae 's handsome crab! Oviposition
Perturabo grumbled, nearly growling as he trawled over his smoking beach. His heavy crab legs thumped into the stand, forelegs flipping over broken parts and kicking them aside. His woven sack sat around his body, still light from his recent collecting.
A crash seared across his wide beach, black smoke still rolling from its final landing. It’d disturbed him from preparing his nesting area and he was growing more displeased with how few things were worth collecting. Even the few sparking wires he’d come across were barely worth collecting.
Crashes from both sea and air were common around his islands and he was more than happy to scavenge from them, building his domicile to perfection. Even though weapons were few and far between, he still set up proper defenses. The likes of Dorn couldn’t hope to ruin his home, especially not with that soft body of his.
He smirked to himself, using his claws to snap the sturdy metal in two. See Dorn do something that, with all his blubber. His claws couldn’t even pierce his weakest armor.
Movement caught his attention, sharp eyes locking on. Glass crunched and shattered and there was a huff of effort before a body hit the sand with a thud. A sound of pain danced across the sands and he caught a strong smell of blood.
He treaded forward, moving aside broken pieces of their plane. A human was dragging herself forward, one leg oozing blood. It was deep, but not quite gushing yet. He’d seen plenty of humans die and she would, too, if he didn’t interfere.
She was fighting to live, though, pulling herself away from the burning wreckage. She spat out sand and winced when a flame threatened to reach out for her, holding her arm up in defense. Her flight jacket took the heat and she chose to shuck it off instead of trying to save it.
He stepped towards her, crunching the broken wing and gaining her attention, her eyes widening. Blood dripped down her forehead, a prominent bruise already budding. She breathed heavily and he had no doubt her vision was swimming, but she still wrenched a knife from a sheath on her thigh.
He snorted a laugh. “You think that could stop me?”
She pushed herself away from him as he continued to approach, knife wavering. “Y-Yes… no…”
He batted it away, knocking the blade from her hand before he pinned her wrist under his foreleg. She collapsed without any fight, breathing heavily, eyes wide in fear. He bowed down low, frowning at her. “No,” he answered. His eyes raked over her, the torn shirt, the rip in her pants, the glass cutting her forearms, the sand biting her face. She would live, he decided.
She kicked up, the motion weak and bouncing off his plated underbelly harmlessly. “No…”
He reached down, grabbing her in his hands. She gave a futile attempt at struggling before slumping, leaning into him as he carried her off. Yes, she would survive. Her injuries weren’t so bad he couldn’t repair her as well.
Perturabo took his time undressing her and then cleaning her body. There was a fresh pool of water - filtered and warmed by his own clever devices - and he was more gentle than believed as he cleaned her wounds. She woke briefly here and there to struggle against his wandering hands but when he snapped at her, she immediately quieted.
He’d never had a little companion for himself. He laid her down in his soft nest and set food out for her, staring as she slept. He’d covered her in a blanket he’d woven himself one evening, too small for his shell, but more than adequate for one human.
He grumbled, looking away from her. He needed to distract himself for the time being. She would want to heal in peace. Seeing his face had never been very welcoming for anyone, let alone humans.
The human slept and ate and healed over the course of several weeks, using the blanket as a makeshift dress. She slept in his nest, curled up with her pitiful knife clutched in her hand. She ate the food he gave her, even going so far to thank him. She even began helping him repair pieces, her smaller hands useful where he needed fine tools.
It was inevitable, however. A biological need that demanded to be cared for. Usually, he’d handle it himself, but now…
He had a partner.
She was easily persuaded, too, and that was how she ended up under him, on her knees, her face buried in the soft bedding. He laid low behind her, hands exploring her soft flesh. He couldn’t help himself. She was so soft, her body so malleable and human, her legs spread out for him to admire her slit.
He tilted his head, plunging two thick fingers into her. She sucked in a breath and he stared at her, watching her reaction closely for signs of pain. She showed none, so he took the cue to start thrusting his fingers, plunging them in and out of her.
He was large, so of course he needed to prepare her. She was only human, but it made her soft and pliant in a way that he simply wasn’t. She had no hard shell to protect her body and he’d never been more grateful for it. The scar on her leg was still fresh, standing out starkly against her skin and it was a hard reminder that she was human.
Her body was accepting of him, though, stretching around his fingers and already wet. She moaned soft, rocking back, tilting her hips slightly. He acknowledged the movements and responded accordingly, adjusting his fingers and thrusting them for her pleasure.
He almost snorted to himself. Here he was, caring for someone else’s pleasure and enjoyment. She must have made him soften up. Pathetic. He was better than that. Yet, here he was, preparing her for his cock.
He lifted himself up once he’d deemed her suitably relaxed and wet, human slick dripping down his fat knuckles. His plates had already parted and he rubbed the head of his cock with his wet hand, coaxing it to extend out. It was too heavy to stand on its own, relying on his hand to hold up the fat shaft.
He crawled close to her, squeezing the fat shaft of his cock. She glanced over her shoulder and he saw her breath catch at the size before he pressed himself forward, pushing the blunt head of his cock against her wet hole. She’d tensed and he grumbled at the resistance, a lingering heaviness in his lower belly reminding him of why he was doing this.
He pushed into her, grunting at her tightness. She squeaked when the head of his cock entered her and he tilted his hips forward, forcing himself in deeper. Her cunt was wet and soft, pliant to the way he forced himself to fit inside her.
He rocked his hips, pumping them, easing himself in deeper as he stimulated her. She rocked with him, clinging to the nesting material. She spread her legs wider, moaning out as her slick gathered and dripped down the length of his cock.
His hand locked her hip in place, gruning as he finally relaxed his internal grip. “Hold still.”
His eyes fluttered as he relaxed and small eggs slid from his cock, pushing deep into her body. Each one was barely as big as her fingertip, but there were hundreds of them. It was a shame they would go unfertilized, but this was a far better solution than finding a partner for them.
His head tipped back and he groaned openly as they quickened, sliding out of his body and filling hers instead. He could feel her squirming, her gasping and moaning clear to his ears. He groaned low in his throat, rolling his hips, easing the small eggs deeper into her body, filling her womb with them.
She gasped and moaned into the nest, clutching at blankets, wondering distantly how she’d ever gotten here. And, yet, she did nothing but watch as her own stomach grew, rounding out with his eggs. Her body was his to command, another of his projects that he formed with his own hands and claws.
I’m writing from the heart for this one, take care! Part 1 of a longer fic.
tw: nihilistic lack of self preservation for reader; they are lowkey suicidal bc their life is kinda ass. Reader doesn’t care about anything and Perturabo is the only real bright light in their existence.
romance | yearning | emotionally constipated tsundere | size difference | character study
————————————
SUMMARY:
Nobody looks at Perturabo the way you do. Like he’s something small and tender instead of the monster he has become. You could never hope to know his motivations or what goes on behind those beautiful eyes of his. It isn’t your place. It doesn’t matter that he’s the Emperor’s genocidal shovel. To you, he is your Lord of Iron, and the burdens he bears are many.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You have always been a serf, born aboard the Iron Blood and set to scrubbing floors when your motor skills let you hold a sponge. Nobody really notices you unless you fuck up. Somehow you’ve survived this long. If anything, it is the greatest proof of your utterly inconsequential existence, just like the Iron Warriors who die by the thousands in Perturabo’s calculus of war. None of these battles really matter. There will always be violence no matter the morals behind it.
You have seen things, heard things and come to terms with how the rest of your life will go. And honestly, the mercy of death is all you can really look forward to. Maybe it’ll come soon.
Of course, you can’t say that out loud; that would be heresy to deny the Emperor’s holy purpose for you in His Great Work.
But in the deepest part of your soul, you know the lie for what it is. He is no God, and there is nothing holy about what He asks of these men.
You’ve been bringing Lord Perturabo his recaf and keeping his sanctum clean, tasks he could craft machines for in seconds. Apparently, he did not want sterility. Somehow, the being who obsessively micromanaged his entire Legion through neural impulses hardwired into the noosphere wanted random streaks of sweep patterns made by human hands.
You never ask why. Brooms and trays don’t ask questions.
You feel his gaze upon you when you bring him his recaf today, a cold, unfeeling thing. When you raise your eyes to meet him ( and that is your first mistake ) there seems to be some emotion there, but you cannot place it. The closest analogue would be searching, in the way that a targeting auspex took a little time to calibrate when the machine spirit of its housing was unwell.
You blink slowly at him, tilting your head a fraction. His eyes really are beautiful, like those fluffy felinoids in the picts of ancient Terran show breeds. The cloud-shaped ones with the sky coloured eyes. You’ve never seen a sky from anything but orbit, but you’re pretty sure the atmospheric layers of an oceanic pleasureworld come close to Perturabo’s crisp gaze.
The slightest smile touches your lips at the thought. He doesn’t have a poofy tail and little triangular ears, but your imagination superimposes them upon him and your smile broadens.
Perturabo can’t believe what he’s seeing. He can’t remember the last time anyone smiled at him since his childhood on Olympia. Fulgrim’s smiles were smirks. Iterators and Remembrancers never looked him in the eye. Serfs with sense knew to keep their faces to the ground. Why do you not recoil from his aura? Had he left it in bed last week when he took his bare minimum rest?
You lower your gaze finally, nudging the cup of recaf near to his hand. They’re the broad, spatulate hands of a labourer fuzzed with hair at the knuckles, each finger thick as your wrist. Leaving the cup, your fingertips lightly brush the edge of his hand and trail the soft webbing between knuckles, following the path of a vein.
He freezes. The power in him is so great you feel it through his skin and pluck your hand away on a deeply animal instinct, stepping back. You bow to him, taking your leave.
He does not bathe that night.
In the darkness, he turns his hand over in wonderment, trying to analyse every particle in their arrangement to discern what exactly had drawn your attention. The calculus only ever comes up with suggestions of this and a little bit of that, nothing as concrete as his favourite proofs.
He has no numbers for the random impulse of a serf.
So he studies you the next day to find them. His eyes bore into your skull as you go about your duties, fixed on your placid face and taking in every microexpression your muscles incline towards. He sees very little. You’re on autopilot, not thinking about the rote actions you’ve been doing for years. Thinking hurts. Going through the motions and passing the time until the mercy of death takes you, that’s a lot less painful. It’s just waiting. That you can do.
He clears his throat in a calculated way to grab your attention, and when your eyes lift to meet his, he is stricken by your gaze. Him, the Lord of Iron, seized by a baseliner’s idle regard.
You’ve never heard a Primarch cough before. Your curiosity wins before your senses can stop you. “Would you like some honey in your tea, my Lord?”
Perturabo takes the entire fleet’s inventory in a nanosecond and sees no honey anywhere in it. He realizes you’re joking with him, right when your smile that should be mocking turns soft, indulgent.
He doesn’t even drink tea.
Out of all people, he never thought a serf could field such a gambit, opening a conversation that gave him precious few ways to come out on top. He’d made a noise for attention and now has to explain it. Perturabo swallows thickly. “No,” he says, the simplest response.
You don’t press any further, seeing his clear discomfort writ plain in his body language. His broad shoulders are pulled in, and there’s a sullen cast to his face that’s trying to not so subtly tuck into his upturned collar.
You bring him his recaf. You don’t notice his hand resting on the desk in the exact same position as before, each finger perfectly poised down to the molecules of energy in each cell. You take care not to touch him in case you further his discomfort.
There are several hundred kilograms of wild honey in the Iron Blood’s storehouses after the next compliance. Herbal teas, too.
You make a dulcet concoction for him this afternoon, smelling far better than it tastes. It’s a mix of cacao and a harsh, astringent black tea that might be more bitter than the stuff they put on batteries to keep kids from eating them. Perturabo cares little for sweetness. Apparently, it distracts him from more complex flavours only a Primarch’s tongue can unravel.
He watches you over the rim as he drains the cup. Perturabo drinks in great mouthfuls, tasting what he needs to in the smallest amount of time possible. He hands the bucket-sized cup to you, and it’s then that you ask…
“Can I try it?”
He blinks. There’s maybe a mouthful left in the cup for a baseliner like yourself. He doesn’t say no, and subtly inclines his head.
You turn the cup around in your hands and press your lips to the mark in the shape of his. Your eyes close.
Okay might've done a lil trade for a part 2 :3. No warnings, NSFT, Minors DNI, rough sex. Bull!Perturabo x Fem!Reader
She touched herself to the thought of him, days later. Laying in bed, in her bath, in the shower. Fingers weren’t enough, silicon wasn’t enough either. She needed more.
The constant thought of Perturabo’s heavy cock against her haunted her. Whenever the seam of her own pants caught against her cunt, she thought about his balls hitting her ass and cunt, and could feel how soaked she was. She couldn’t even be mad, not really, too lost in her own haze of lust.
Avoiding the farm for the weekend did nothing to help. She’d had the time off anyway. Someone else was filling her time. The farm didn’t necessarily need every farmhand every day of the week. Vulkan’s farmhand was seen more often when his heifers were in their breeding season while Guilliman’s was hardly necessary - the bull had taken it upon himself to schedule his own care, no matter that it had to be some form of illegal or taboo to allow such a thing.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to the morning birds outside. She needed to go to work today. Her alarm hadn’t even rang yet, but she was already awake, thinking of that fat, dripping cock. No matter how much she brushed her teeth, she couldn’t get the taste of him out of her mouth, but she wasn’t even annoyed at it.
She licked her lips again, slowly, wetting them. She’d rather be under him, wetting her mouth on his cock instead. She’d been unprepared before, but next time-
She shouldn’t think of a next time. She shouldn’t think like that. She shouldn’t want a bull, she should want a man. A normal, average man, who would give her a normal, average life. She could find work on a different farm, far away from Perturabo, far away from Imperium Farm, far away from all of this.
Her alarm blared, though, and she was moving. She was getting up and pulling on her clothes. She dressed herself mechanically, pulling her hair up, shoving food in her mouth and walking out the door. She swore she felt wet just from walking outside, thinking about the route to the farm.
Arriving at the farm, no one came for her. It was still early enough that hardly any others were there yet, in fact. The Custodes were, of course, but none approached her to arrest her or kick her out. None of them gave her a second glance, despite the fact that she felt as though she wore her shame like a glowing arrow pointed right down at her.
She ran through the early morning routine - Perturabo had healed spectacularly, despite how recent his injury was. The medical care of the farm was in a league of its own, no bull would go long without returning to peak condition. Perturabo might be one of the most stubborn bulls on the farm, but even he would let them tend to him through his grumbling and huffing.
She tried to distract herself, preparing buckets for others, helping rotate straw and hay, distracting Konrad when he stared down at the Custodes a little too hard. Perturabo wasn’t lazy, but she hadn’t seen him yet. Her eyes kept drifting towards his fence, seeking him out, her tongue darting out repeatedly to lick at her lips.
No one thought twice when she prepared a bucket of Perturabo’s morning feed. Why would they? She was his farmhand, his keeper, his caretaker. There was nothing unusual when she walked across the cattle guard and into his field, nothing odd at all when she walked right up to his barn and set the heavy bucket outside, knocking once to announce herself before opening it.
She didn’t get to open it far before a hand grabbed the front of her shirt and hauled her in. Her boots caught on the entry and she stumbled forward, grabbing onto the thick, furry arm holding her for support. If not for him, she would’ve planted face first in his stiff bed.
He shut the door, tail flicking hard behind him. She could see him in the low light, his icy blue eyes piercing under her clothes. Her thighs trembled and she felt herself soaking her own panties.
His nostrils flared, the heavy iron ring through his nose jostling as he huffed a breath. “Undress, now.”
She shouldn’t. She should argue, tell him no, deny him. It was a mistake once, she wouldn’t make it again. She wouldn’t do it again.
But her hands were pulling at her clothes, unbuttoning and unzipping her layers. Her hands trembled but she pushed them all to a corner. She couldn’t even find her voice to protest. She’d just be lying, anyway, to herself and to him.
Her eyes drifted down - she hardly had to look down, given the sheer size of him - and widened when she saw the damp bulge in his pants. She swallowed, staring at it. The taste was still on her tongue, he’d probably welcome her to lick and suck on his cock again.
He grabbed her, lifting her with ease, drawing a soft yelp from her lips. He shoved her back onto his mount, snorting when she spread her legs, letting them lay over the sides. It was built to withstand a heifer clinging to it, a bull pounding wildly into her, breeding her. Padded only for mild comfort, it was still enough for one soft human.
Pushing a blunt finger between her legs, he snorted a huff. “Not wet enough.” Not wet enough? Disbelief must’ve been clear across her face, with how he glowered at her. “Can’t take me properly like this.”
With no warning, he bowed his head and dragged his thick tongue over her cunt. He lapeed wetly over her, heavy horn brushing against her thigh when he tilted his head. His hot breath fanned over her and she spread her legs wider, letting her thighs hook over the curve of his horns.
She gasped as he lapped at her cunt. There was no skill or technique, only the sheer heat and thickness of his tongue. He was doing far more than just tasting her for readiness, he was actually bothering to wet her properly. The texture and thickness stimulated her wonderfully, too, driving her beyond soaking.
She grabbed onto his horns, feeling his snort against her. His nose ring bumped against her clit and she pressed up against it, fucking herself on his tongue and lips. He pushed the flat of his tongue to her hole, prodding it and feeling it stretch under the insistence.
He let his nose ring bump against her clit again and she moaned, twitching at the coolness of the metal. Pulling on his horns, she ground herself against him, her moan echoing around the small barn. She bit her lip to quiet herself but it was no use, she couldn’t help herself, his tongue was by far better than in her imagination.
She rocked her hips, subtly grinding against his mouth as he fucked her with his tongue. Even his tongue, flexible and wet as it was, stretched her more than her fingers had. There was no comparison. Never could she find this sort of satisfaction in her fellow human.
She panted, arching up as she came, her knees bending and her toes curling. She dared to look down and caught the cold blue of his eyes. Her breath caught and he pushed his tongue in deeper, curling and thrusting it. He coated her insides in the thick saliva, all but drooling all over her. She could feel it slipping down the crack of her own ass, dripping into a puddle on the mount.
She whined softly when he pulled away, lips and mouth smacking noisily. He lapped at his own mouth, staring down at her with a smug gleam in his eye. She saw the furry end of his tail flicking back and forth behind him, betraying his excitement.
His pants fell off in a rustle of fabric and she didn’t even get a chance to see his cock before he all but flipped her over onto her front. She grunted at the roughness and grabbed onto the handles on the mount, the hard leather squeaking. If she’d been a heifer, the additional fat would make it more comfortable, but what was she thinking? What could she possibly be thinking? She didn’t want to be a heifer.
But she spread her legs for him as she felt the blunt head of his cock hit her cunt. She arched back into him. His hard hand wrapped around her waist and he forced her to the edge, her ass and pussy hanging off. Her legs dangled helplessly and she wished he had one of the nicer mounts with the leg props.
Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when he pushed the fat, leaking of his cock into her. He grunted, thrusting into her shallowly. She felt the stiff muscle bully itself into her, hand clutching the softness of her hip.
Her mouth fell open as he forced himself into her. He squeezed her hip, stretching her around him, pushing his cock in deeper. She could feel the cum already leaking, burning hot inside of her, warming her inside and out.
And she pressed back into him. She clung tighter to the handles, pulling on them as her body trembled. Her face fell onto the hard padding of the mount as she spread her legs wider for him, nearly straddling the broad mount.
He grunted when he started rocking his hips, reaching up to grab the mount above her shoulder, keeping her firmly in place. He thrusted shallowy and she felt the immediate loss of his cock stretching her. A whine escaped her and he thrust in hard, her moan morphing into a pitched moan.
He grinned down at her as he thrust into her, drawing moans and grunts from her. He pressed more over her, thoroughly pinning her between his own heavy body and the stiff mount. The coarse fur on his chest rubbed against her back but she didn’t cringe away, not even when he huffed hot air over her shoulder.
She could feel his hot, wet breath over her shoulder and only bared her neck for him. The mount squeaked and rocked with every hard thrust, her legs helpless to bob and borderline flail helplessly. All around them, the air grew hot and balmly, sweat beading and clinging to her skin.
For better or worse, her inner thighs were too slick to grip the mount. She had no fur to help her hold onto it, only able to cling to the handles and moan for him. Her own slick and his seed dripped and dribbled down, just from the amount that leaked. Like a dripping spout, he was already filling her, so full of need and the desire to breed.
Her moans echoed and she did nothing to try and muffle herself. She was already damned to lose her job, she might as well enjoy it on the way out. Let them fight Perturabo to get her out from under him, she wanted to be filled by his cock and seed.
And Perturabo was intent to fill her. He thrust harder, the stiff fabric of his mount squeaking and ripping under his grip, blunt nails piercing the fabric. Each huff and grunt of hot air fanned over her shoulder, drool escaping his mouth and landing on her. He had half a mind to lick his lips but continued his hard pace.
Reaching down, he grabbed her thigh and stretched it up, knowing how far to stretch her before she broke. He wanted to break her on his cock, make her come back and spread her legs willingly for him, not actually hurt her. His fat sack slammed against her cunt with every thrust, full of seed and eager to fill her.
He grunted at his first orgasm, pace slowing. She moaned and arched out, bare chest rubbing against the mount, her toes curling. Her legs trembled as he filled her with the first load, her toes twitching and her cunt squeezing his cock.
He shot a glare down at his cock, barely half in her, seeing the seed dripping down and out of her. A real heifer would be able to take it all and beg for more, but she was just a human. Of course she wouldn’t be able to take it all, but damn if he wasn’t disappointed because of it.
Under him, she moaned, squeezing around him. “M-More,” she whined.
He snorted, but his tail flicked, betraying his elation. Tilting his head, he gently bumped the side of her head with his horn. “Don’t think I’m only giving you one.”
She smiled, unable to hide it from him, flushing at the sound of her own moan. He started thrusting again, pace faster than before. Clearly, he’d just been working himself up to finding a suitably hard and fast pace.
He thrust harder, burying himself deeper. Every thrust pushed more cum out of her, but he knew it’d go deeper, too. It wouldn’t implant itself, she wouldn’t bear him a calf, but it’d fill her empty womb and it was more than enough to satisfy his need to breed. He squeezed her thigh, feeling it tremble under his grip.
He licked his lips, smacking his mouth, grunting as he continued fucking her. Cum and slick dripped down the mount, landing and splattering into a puddle at his hooves. Every drop that landed on the floor, he was going to replace and add to.
By the end of it, he’d have her addicted to being filled by him. He silently vowed it. She’d come back, time and again, needy for his cock.
