Imagine: You're the first person a virgin Primarch has ever been with. Now, he’s literally addicted to sex
Konrad Curze lived his whole life viewing pleasure as a weakness, a low, carnal instinct he could easily ignore. But the first night you spent together changed everything. He discovered a kind of overwhelming, raw pleasure he didn't know existed, and now he’s obsessed.
Behind closed doors, he's a horny goblin. always clinging to you, nuzzling into your neck, licking your skin, and grabbing at your thighs and chest whenever he gets the chance. He’s constantly breathing hard, right in your ear. And he has absolutely no concept of boundaries. He’s even gone as far as resting his hard, dripping dick on your shoulder while you were busy, just to "subtly" let you know that he’s ready for more.
Mortarion always knew about of sex, but he was completely indifferent to it until you. Now, he"s discovered a latent, uncontrollable urge that blindsides him at the slightest touch.
You brush your hand against his arm? He's instantly aroused. You run your fingers through his hair? His mind immediately jumps to pinning you against the nearest wall.
It’s the kissing that really ruins him. Even a simple kiss makes his codpiece feel suffocatingly tight. He’s obsessed with kissing you, but if the session lasts too long, his loose cotton trousers, his usual attire back on Barbarus begin to betray him. The fabric is thin enough that you can easily spot a darkening wet patch blooming across the pale cotton, a testament to just how much you affect him.
Lorgar had always held a strong opinion on sex: it was a beautiful instrument for procreation, yet unworthy people often turned it into the sole purpose of their existence, letting passion consume them entirely. Until then, Lorgar had faithfully observed his celibacy.
At first, he slept with you only because duty demanded it, the consummation of a marriage. But that night changed everything within him. He became a slave to your magnificent, passionate eyes, to your wondrous thighs, which he could not tear his lips away from, and to that searing, tight heat where he wished to remain forever.
"This is a woman, and they are such voluptuous creatures. their bodies govern their minds, which is why they must be satisfied" - Lorgar lied to himself, justifying to the stern face of the Emperor’s statue why he was seeking you out for the third time that day.
My taglist!! Wanna see ur name here? Let me know!! I would absolutely love that.
Okay, so imagine this. Primarchs were away from you for some time. And now they have you within their grasp. How will this unfold?
Hi anon! Thank you for the ask!
A pent up...frustrated Primarch is a sight to behold.
Lion El'Jonson
With Lion, it is almost imperceptible, almost. Yet his hand lingers too long on your waist, almost slipping down to grab a handful. He tries, without revealing much, his best to explain that having you in his quarters in the next hour is imperative. Yet you can see the truth in breaths too shallow, eyes daring to your lips, and him being simply too close. Yes, your Primarch is all but losing himself. So, please indulge him, and you will be left ever so satisfied.
Fulgrim
This one tries to be subtle, to rouse your passions before his. A feather-like touch here, a breath in your ear there, and ever-so-subtle brushing of his entire body against you. Fulgrim wants you to want him, for you to succumb to the lust before he is forced to express his needs for you without veils. Have mercy on him, unravel before he does, or stay steadfast, and you will be treated to the most delicate fuel in all the galaxy — a Phoenician begging for your attention and warmth on his knees. Oh, what a sight to behold.
Perturabo
The difference between a "sexually frustrated Perturabo" and a "just annoyed at you for breathing Perturabo" is the fact that he is keeping you physically close to him, and that he cannot stop himself from touching you. His hand is on your shoulder, he is all but pressing his whole body into you to point at something on the table, and you are not allowed to step away from his workbench. Have mercy, relieve your Lord of Iron of his tension, and he will bring you to heights of pleasure you never thought possible.
Jaghatai Khan
Your Khan is honest, to say the least. So if he is craving you, he tells you so himself. Please, oh please, grant him your evening, and he promises to be fully at your disposal. Tied up if you want him to be, free and merry if you prefer that, but yours and yours alone. He will even stay still while you rest, but only right after his hunger for you is sated, because he knows that your hunger for him could never be satisfied by just one session.
Rogal Dorn
He tries to fit this into his rigid doctrine, but he cannot. His regular discipline is simply not sufficient to relieve him of his tension. He wants you. He wants you between his legs. He wants to be between your legs, worshipping whatever you are. He is yours, yours alone. Dorn is defenseless, laid open. Just take him. Take him now, and let the entirety of this stellar section know that he is here to serve at your beck and call.
Leman Russ
I've lost him, he is here
Angron
It takes no fewer than three tries for Angron to fully come to terms with the fact that what he is feeling is not just general frustration, but a genuine need for your touch. The first time, he almost loses control after you hug him. The second time, it takes only your smile for his hand to twitch. And the third time, he is finally ready enough to allow you to caress his cheek. Yes, more tries and attempts are necessary, but even this is progress.
Konrad Curze
Konrad is both broody and even more short-tempered than he usually is the longer he spends time away from you. And he has no qualms about taking his frustration out on those around him. And on hand this is just how his Legion already expects him to behave, but on the other it still makes everyone else more on edge around him. So by the time he is finally returns, the entirety of his entourage all but rushes you to him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, you can make him take a day off or two.
Sanguinius
There are myriads of people who worship Sanguinius, a saint, an angel, a savior. But you are the only one he is ready to worship on his own. Your touch, your scent, your voice - you are everything he could have dreamed of. And you are everything he can hope to hold in his arms tonight. So please, oh so please, be amenable to his begging and promises to make you see stars from his bed.
Ferrus Manus
Flesh is weak, but Ferrus’s flesh is especially weak against yours. It takes but a single brush of you against a Primarch for him to be ready to prostrate himself before you. Yes, he is powerful, yes, he is a Primarch, but the mere chance of you touching him with gentleness is everything he could have possibly needed. So please, oh so please, grant him an hour of your time so he can finally have this sweet, sweet release on or in you - whatever you desire.
Roboute Guilliman
Guilliman wishes he had as much self-restraint as others think he has. Yet being apart from you for so many months broke something in him. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you ready to take him. Every time he goes to sleep, he sees himself ready to serve you. Two days, four hours, and thirteen minutes until he can finally have you. And you better clear your entire schedule for the need that your Lord Primarch is ready to unleash upon you.
Mortarion
Mortarion knows he is not the most desired person out there. This is why he is ever so humbled by your desire for him and embarrassed by the fact that he cannot go to rest until, even in his dreams, you are falling apart under his touch. They are in the middle of a warp jump, so he cannot say how long it will take until he is finally within your reach. But stars above and so below, the dream version of you is nothing like the real deal he knows waits for him.
Magnus the Red
On one hand, it is not even an issue with him. Magnus can send his astral projection to satisfy you or imagine you satisfying him. Yet, for some reason, that is not a substitute for the real deal. And so he is left frustrated, to say the least. He wants to feel your actual warm flesh against him, not this vision born of sorcery. To think - you must be divine so even magic can no longer compare!
Horus Lupercal
Horus will make his frustration known to you via astropathic messages. These last for hours, in which he describes in detail how much he would like to take you now and how he will take you once he is back in your presence. Be ready for him. Prepare yourself with oils, lubricants, and the toys he left you, because the moment he sets foot in your immediate presence, you forfeit all your time to the pleasure of your Warmaster.
Lorgar Aurelian
Look, if you and Lorgar are joined in your holy union, he treats all of these thoughts as a sacred need, a command he has to fulfill. So being apart from you for two years has only fueled his need to actually be in your presence. And the day that the two of you reunite, he is all but ready to have your joint signs of ecstasy echoed through the halls of his palace. The two of you are divine, and the entirety of those entrusted to him must know that there is no greater ecstasy than being joined with one who shares your thoughts, your mind, and your spirit.
Corvus Corax
Corvus can play coy all he wants, but he will not do so once he is in your presence. Whatever official briefing is cut short, and for the next sixteen hours, neither you nor Corvus is to be seen, because you are going to experience the full might of his longing and everything he can offer you. Yes, he cannot be by your side every day, but today of all days, he is yours and yours alone. Use him, be satisfied with him, and most of all, do not abandon him. He will not survive this.
Vulkan
Vulkan tries to play it cool at first. Yes, he has missed you, and there are a lot of his adventures he can share with you. But most of all, he wants to share one of the most intimate thoughts. So everyone is dismissed, but you need to stay. And there, in the forge of his greatness, he can finally indulge. You are his treasure, the rarest jewel there is, and he can finally have his fill. And you, his most precious one, will have your fill of him as well.
Alpharius & Omegon
It is a point of pride for them. Alpharius and Omegon left clones with you, but obviously those were never sufficient to satisfy you. But they staunchly refuse to do the same for them.
You see, that have tasted the real deal, and whatever else could be on offer is simply not enough. But now they shall be fed, because the real you is just within their reach, and hopefully ready to satisfy their ever-growing appetites for you.
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Hey! I now have more here!
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+Taglist (if you want to be added - let me know, I suck at not-direct communications): @beckyninja, @the-mysterious-detective, @randomlyappearingartist, @nereidof40k, @bookandyarndragonwritesdark, @renegadesyx, @incrediblethirst, @omg1wanttidd1es-sb, @stpdeletacc, @baldieboi , @acgames, @veryspecificreason, @jackalwolfsoul, @hopefully-grimderp, @acexsmhking, @trackerkitsune, @catabibaz0n , @subtlepoisonknowledge, @yyourmotherr, @riokunova, @marcela2000, @f1shz , @rogalist-of-dorns, @aggresivemenace, @passionofthesith, @t-boneless, @tea-ring, @nightlordlover
To balance out the entire volume of my Huron simping, clearly the only solution is for TRUE WARLORD EQUALITY and place equally mean warlords in equally slutty fits. trust me its the law of conservation
A/n: You're a remembrancer who’s been fantasizing—very explicitly—about two Primarchs. Unfortunately for you, they find your journal. This is a self-indulgent mess, written as a palate cleanser after I dropped something completely unhinged on AO3. Don’t think too hard. I clearly didn’t.
Cw: NSFW, DP, size difference, orgasm control, power imbalance, degradation/praise, anal, oral... so many things
Your room looked the same, at first.
You stepped inside, expecting the usual: the faint hum of the cogitator bank, the static-soft light of lumenstrips overhead, a cluttered desk waiting for the night’s transcription. But something was off...
They were already there.
Two figures. Standing.
Waiting.
And just like that, you were no longer a remembrancer. No longer a scribe. No longer anything human at all.
You were witness.
Sanguinius stood near your desk, his silhouette all grace and weightless threat. Even without his warplate, without a blade in hand, he was nothing short of cathedral—wings relaxed but wide, head tilted slightly, as though he were studying something in amber. Light moved through his hair like fire through silk.
And Perturabo—fuck. He was the opposite. Where the Angel was radiance, the Lord of Iron was gravity made skin. A monument of cold presence and slow, inevitable pressure. He didn’t just stand. He braced. Like a wall preparing to be tested. His armor was absent too, though the undersuit did little to hide the brutality of his build—shoulders like carved bastions, jaw locked like a siege engine at rest.
You couldn’t move. Your body had forgotten what movement was.
You stared.
They stared back.
Then you saw it—between them, open and unfolded, delicate and criminal.
Your journal.
The one that was sealed behind triple-encrypted locks, buried in a false compartment, encrypted with old Terran dialects and keyed to a blood-activated stasis field.
It lay open.
Pages exposed.
Ink still dark.
No one had spoken yet.
You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like a snapped lock.
You’d been studied before—inspected by generals, interviewed by psykers, scanned by astartes. But this was different.
They weren’t trying to understand your work.
They were trying to understand you.
Sanguinius was the first to move.
He turned, slowly, carefully, as though not to startle you—though that was absurd. His existence was enough to unravel anyone with sense. He moved with the kind of beauty that didn’t feel real, the kind that broke the rules of perception. You could hear your own heart beating against your ribs like it wanted out.
“You write with reverence,” he said.
His voice was low, but not soft. No, never soft. Sanguinius didn’t whisper—he intimated. Every syllable curled like a blessing meant to burn.
“I didn’t—” Your voice failed. You swallowed. Tried again. “It wasn’t meant for anyone.”
Perturabo’s gaze hadn’t moved. His eyes were steel and ice, locked on you, unflinching.
“Clearly,” he said. “You assumed no one would find it.”
His voice was deeper. A slow grind of stone against stone. But beneath it—intelligence, sharp as razors. You’d written about it. The way he carried logic like a weapon. The way he didn’t see people, only systems.
You took a step back.
Only one.
His eyes followed.
Sanguinius, now holding the journal, flipped a page with one finger.
“I don’t think you ever truly expected privacy,” he said. “You wrote for silence, yes. But also… for discovery.”
Your lungs tightened.
“No—”
“You wrote desire into every line,” Sanguinius continued. “Even when you disguised it as analysis. Observation. Psychological extrapolation. You watched us.”
He turned the page again.
“And then you imagined us.”
You were shaking, but it wasn't from fear.
It was awe, that treacherous cousin to terror. The kind that made cults and martyrs out of those who should’ve run. The kind of awe you weren’t built to survive.
Perturabo finally stepped forward.
Just one step.
The deckplate responded with enough vibration to remind you what kind of thing had moved.
“I’ve read your file,” he said. “Your official assignments. The discrepancies in your posted hours. The omissions in your public records.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I had to make space,” you said, too fast. “I—I needed the time to write—”
“You made space to fantasize,” he corrected.
The second silence was worse.
You could feel the heat rising under your skin, the cold sweat of shame threading your collar. You’d catalogued their strategies, their styles of war, their most famous speeches. But you’d also written—carelessly, stupidly—about Sanguinius’s mouth. About Perturabo’s hands. About the difference between love and domination and how both might be found in them.
“I was… studying,” you managed.
“No,” Sanguinius said, smiling faintly. “You were dreaming.”
And now they were closer.
You hadn’t seen them move, but the space between you was a threadbare breath. Sanguinius’s wings curled ever so slightly around the edge of your vision. Perturabo loomed behind your right shoulder, a vast, cold certainty.
You had no weapons. No escape. Just pages filled with proof that you’d imagined this—wanted this.
Sanguinius turned the page.
You hadn’t moved. You weren’t sure you could. Heat prickled at the base of your spine, instinct clamoring in two directions at once. Run—or kneel.
He spoke again.
“‘He moves like a cathedral in collapse. Beautiful. Inevitable.’”
His voice didn’t rise. He wasn’t reading to shame. He read the words like they were sacred.
Perturabo hadn’t looked at the page. His eyes were on you still. Curious in the way an architect is curious about whether a structure will hold.
“You buried this,” he rumbled. “Six encryption layers. Physical locks. Biometric verification. Most would’ve missed it.”
Most weren’t Primarchs.
You swallowed.
“It wasn’t meant to be found.”
“Then you were careless,” he said, voice dry. “Or very sure no one would bother looking.”
Sanguinius closed the journal with care, holding it in one hand as he turned to face you fully.
“You imagined things,” he said. “Detailed things. My breath on your skin. My hands against your ribs. The sound I might make when I come undone.”
You flinched. Visibly.
Sanguinius tilted his head, eyes sharp and brilliant. “You gave us names. Gave us shape. You spoke about us like we were already inside you.”
A pause.
“Now we want to see what that looks like, when it’s no longer theory.”
He stepped closer. Just one pace.
“I’ve been watched by millions,” he said. “Worshipped. Feared. You looked at me and wondered what I taste like when I’m breaking.”
Your mouth went dry.
Behind you, Perturabo's voice dropped into your left ear. Closer now.
“You speculated how long I’d take to undo you,” he said. “Measured it in hours. Predicted the pace of my hands. The bruises. The ache.”
A shiver passed through your spine before you could stop it.
"You’re not the first mortal to think about it," Sanguinius said. "But you’re the first who dared write it like a truth. As if it already happened. As if you could remember it."
He looked down, briefly, at your throat. Then back to your eyes.
“That’s the part I keep circling,” he said. “Why does it feel like memory?”
Perturabo was still at your back. Somehow even closer. His presence rolled off him like pressure in the bones. You weren’t being touched, but your nerves had already committed the illusion of contact.
"Tell us what you want," he said. "Now that you’ve been read."
You should have stayed quiet.
That was the last thought you had before you spoke again—quiet, daring, beyond doomed.
“If you’re watching me breathe,” you said, “then touch me. Count them yourself.”
A mistake. But you didn’t take it back.
Sanguinius moved first.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften the moment. He stepped in, and the floor might as well have bowed under his weight. You felt it—the change in pressure, the way the room tilted toward him.
One hand rose, slowly. His palm met your chest, just below the collar. Each finger rested across your sternum like it belonged there.
His hand dwarfed you.
He didn’t speak.
Behind you, Perturabo’s hand grazed from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His palm dwarfed the base of your skull, thumb curving along the edge of your throat. You swayed—forward, instinctively—only to find Sanguinius still there, unmoved, waiting.
“You’re trembling,” Perturabo said.
“I know.”
“I approve.”
Then he crouched, and his other hand closed around your hip.
You weren’t prepared for the scale of it. His fingers spanned too much, wrapping easily around the curve of your body, holding you in place like you’d been drafted into some massive machine.
Sanguinius leaned in and let his nose skim the side of your jaw, mouth open, breath warm. His voice dropped lower.
“You said I’d break you with grace,” he whispered. “I want to see if you were right.”
Perturabo pulled.
He shifted you back, against him, pressing your spine to his chest. The wall of his body caught you without strain. You felt his thigh against yours, solid and wide, the slope of his hips unmistakably real. Sanguinius stepped in close at the same time, boxing you between them.
Between heaven and iron.
Between creation and undoing.
Sanguinius lowered his mouth to yours, and still didn’t kiss you. His lips hovered. His voice was the only thing that touched.
“Beg.”
The word landed like a slap.
You sucked in breath—but your throat closed.
One of Perturabo’s hands left your hip. It dropped, slow and deliberate, to the front of your trousers. No exploration. Just pressure. Flat-palmed, absolute pressure.
“Speak,” he said. “Or I keep my hand here and do nothing.”
You broke without a fight.
“Please.”
It came out hoarse. Needy.
The sound of something cracking in its own center.
Sanguinius kissed you.
No softness. No warning. His mouth met yours with the kind of hunger you’d only ever described in metaphor—collapse, rapture, a cathedral struck by lightning. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation. He held your jaw like a chalice. He kissed you like it was a confession.
And behind you, Perturabo rewarded you.
His hand moved—fingers sliding over fabric, finding the heat that had been waiting. The press of his palm grew firmer,. His breath brushed the side of your neck, and his voice stayed steady.
“You imagined this,” he said. “Now feel what your writing never captured.”
Sanguinius broke the kiss. Just long enough to speak.
“We’re not done.”
You felt it then: a shift in the rhythm between them. Something wordless, coordinated. As if you were no longer being touched by two men, but maneuvered by something older than language.
Perturabo’s hand came to your waistband. His fingers moved with intent—two motions, and the fastenings gave. He peeled the fabric down your hips with a grip made for more brutal tasks. Your skin lit up in the wake of it, a line of awareness following the path of his knuckles.
He didn’t pause to ask.
He shifted his stance, broad enough to crowd you forward into Sanguinius’s reach even more. You felt him behind you—heat and density, an immovable wall of muscle and breath. The back of his hand brushed your thigh as he adjusted your footing.
Ahead of you, Sanguinius took your chin in one hand.
His thumb traced the line of your jaw while his other hand gathered the fabric at your collar. He gave it one slow pull.
The seam gave way.
It didn’t rip like fabric should. It came apart the way silk splits under flame. You felt the collar loosen, then the air kiss your chest.
“You’re better like this,” he said. His gaze followed the curve of your sternum. “Uncovered. Honest.”
The shirt slipped from your arms. You let it fall.
Behind you, your trousers hit the floor. You stepped free only when Perturabo nudged your calf with the side of his foot. The weight of him pressed against your back for a moment—steady, wordless approval.
Sanguinius looked you over again. His eyes roamed as if taking measure of something he’d been picturing for hours.
His fingers ghosted along your navel.
“You imagined this part differently,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how.”
“I thought… it’d feel like being stripped.”
“And now?”
“It feels like being claimed.”
A sound breaks through Perturabo—hunger, low in his chest. He moved again, stepping to one side so you stood between them. His hand slid from your hip to your lower abdomen, pausing just above where you ached.
“Next time,” he said, “tell us sooner.”
Sanguinius smiled. “Or write it better.”
Sanguinius leaned in and kissed your throat. A low brush of lips beneath your ear. You gasped—once—and felt the curve of a smile press against your skin.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he murmured. “We liked it better when you were narrating.”
Beside you, Perturabo’s hand cupped your hip. He stood close—closer than breath—his free palm settling just below your navel. The tips of his fingers drifted lower, tracing the edge of your sensitivity without pushing yet.
“Speak,” he said. “As if we’re not here.”
Sanguinius’s tongue grazed the underside of your jaw. “As if you’re writing. But louder.”
Your voice came thin, but real.
“I’m between them now,” you whispered. “Sanguinius in front of me. Perturabo behind.”
“Full names,” Sanguinius said softly. “Make it formal.”
“Primarch of the Blood Angels,” you said, voice trembling. “He’s kissing down my throat like he’s blessing the space before he devours it.”
“Mmm,” Sanguinius hummed. “Better.”
“Primarch of the Iron Warriors,” you continued, “his hand is at my waist, mapping tension. Pressure increasing... but controlled. No—c-calculated.”
Perturabo’s thumb dipped lower. Your hips shifted. He followed, dragging his touch through heat, over slick. You broke rhythm but forced yourself to keep speaking.
“His fingers are—he’s—fuck—he’s not stroking, he’s… measuring. Like tension in a beam. Like he wants to—god—snap it just to feel the failure rate.”
Sanguinius’s hands framed your ribcage now. He bent, kissed between your breasts, dragged his lips toward the center of your chest.
“Tone,” he said. “You’re losing it.”
“I—fuck—”
“That’s not tone,” Perturabo growled.
His fingers pressed inward. You moaned, sharper this time, your spine catching against his chest as he began to work you.
“You wrote that I’d use time like a tool,” he said. “So narrate how long it takes before you beg.”
Sanguinius’s mouth latched to your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make your voice falter again.
You blinked hard.
“Sanguinius, your mouth is—on me. Not—not soft. Warmer than I thought it would be, but—sharp. Teeth. He’s using his teeth, and I’m—I’m not ready for that—”
He bit.
You cried out, but you caught it too late.
“I’ll write that part down,” he whispered. “When I’m finished.”
Perturabo’s fingers curled—first one, then two—sliding inside to the hilt with ease. There was no warning. He didn’t ask. He adjusted his grip on your thigh with his other hand, anchoring your legs, and began moving.
"Say it,” he ordered. “Tell your imaginary audience what I’m doing.”
“Your hand is in me now, and—I—I can’t keep my hips still. I-it’s—fuck, you’re curling your—” you gasped. “Your palm is flush to me. Ah! Pressure… d-deeper now. Each motion tighter than the last.”
Sanguinius switched sides. His mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue moving in circles that spiraled outward.
You felt him smile when you moaned again.
"You're losing structure,” he said against your skin. “Sloppy prose.”
“I c-can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
Perturabo forced his thick fingers deeper, curling them until your hips jerked against his hand.
“Say what you want next,” he growled. “End the sentence correctly.”
You could barely see straight. Heat bloomed behind your eyes. Your mouth fell open, words half-formed.
“I want…”
The world narrowed to their hands, their mouths, the sound of breath caught between pain and reverence.
“I w-want… I want them both" you gasped. "I-inside me. At the same time. Please.”
That made them still.
“Both of us?” Sanguinius repeated, voice low.
You nodded—barely. Your mouth wouldn’t form the words again.
Behind you, Perturabo’s hand came to the small of your back. He pressed, and your spine arched instinctively. Your breath caught as your balance shifted.
“On your knees,” he said, gesturing to your bunk.
Sanguinius caught your hand as you moved—guided you into place as if positioning a delicate tool. You folded forward, forearms pressed to the mattress, chest low. He knelt in front of you, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking beneath your lip.
“You’re going to feel us both,” he murmured. “But first, we stretch. We shape. We make the space.”
Behind you, Perturabo dropped to his knees. You felt the heat of his body along your thighs, the weight of his hands spreading you—wider, until your hips ached from the angle.
You were bent forward now. Knees braced wide, thighs trembling from how high they’d lifted your hips. Pillows added beneath your chest cradled your weight, but it wasn't enought to brace you against the heat of the two bodies closing in.
Sanguinius knelt in front of you, thighs spread, cock flushed and resting heavy against his stomach, waiting. One hand rested at the back of your head. The other traced your mouth, down your jaw, calming you with nothing but presence.
Perturabo was still behind you.
Larger than belief, knees straddling your legs now, one hand firm on your hip, the other moving between your cheeks, spreading you gently.
His voice came low, right behind your ear.
“You’ve never taken anything here.”
You shook your head.
Sanguinius spoke before you could answer.
“But they're asking for both of us.” His voice was soft—like pity, or prayer. “That means they learn how, now.”
You felt it.
A pause.
A slick fingertip—hot from his skin—pressing lower.
Perturabo didn’t thrust.
He just made contact.
A single circle around your rim.
Then a second.
Then pressure.
Enough to breach.
You tensed.
Your breath caught in your chest.
Sanguinius’s hand moved back to your jaw, guiding your face to his.
He didn’t kiss you.
He just breathed with you.
Deep. Slow.
Until you matched it.
Then—behind you—the first inch slipped in.
Perturabo’s voice didn’t rise.
“You’re gripping hard.”
“They’ve never taken anything like you,” Sanguinius murmured, brushing his fingers down your throat. “Or anyone like you.”
Perturabo stayed still. Entirely. Just his fingertip inside your ass.
Nothing else.
“Hold it,” he said.
And you did.
It burned—tight, unfamiliar, so unlike the warmth between your legs that had already learned to take. This was unbroken space, and he was entering it like a surveyor.
Your body wanted to resist.
But the weight of Sanguinius in front of you calmed it—his hand on your cheek, his cock against your mouth, not demanding yet, just present.
Your hips eased.
And the first finger slipped deeper.
“Good,” Perturabo said.
“You’ll tell us when you’re ready for two.”
---
One finger.
That was all it took to knock the words out of you.
It didn’t hurt—but it burned.
A deep, unfamiliar pressure blooming through the center of your spine. A slow spread, outward, like something sacred being pried open after centuries sealed shut.
Perturabo held you still from behind, hand heavy on your hip, guiding every tremble in your muscles. His other hand—gloved in slick warmth—never moved fast. That single finger stayed seated in your ass, not pressing further, not retreating. Just present. Waiting.
“You’re breathing too shallow,” he said behind you. “You need to let it in.”
In front of you, Sanguinius still kneeling like a statue carved for worship, his cock thick and flushed just inches from your mouth.
His voice was soft, but close.
“You’ve written about us.”
His fingers stroked your jaw. “Described our hands, our strength, our patience. You said we’d never break a subject too early.”
He tilted your chin up.
“Were you right about us?”
You nodded.
Sanguinius rewarded you with a kiss to your tongue. His entire godly mouth pressed open, slow and wet, like his breath was meant to sink into you. When he pulled back, your mouth stayed parted.
He smiled.
“Good.”
Behind you, Perturabo pressed forward—he didn't add another finger, he just shifted forward. A deeper curve. You gasped.
“That’s better,” he said, voice low. “Your hips are learning.”
You clenched—reflexively—but his finger didn’t budge. You could feel how easily he could force his way further, how absurdly controlled he was being. And you felt the slick start to gather between your thighs again, despite the pressure.
Sanguinius saw it.
His fingers dropped lower, stroking the soft flesh just above your clit, watching how you twitched beneath the touch. He didn’t press. He traced. Like he was drawing breath through you.
Behind you: movement.
Another press.
Two fingers now.
The stretch came with a soft, wet sound and a deeper weight. You sobbed—from immense yearning.
From the helpless knowledge that you could take more. You needed more.
“That’s the shape,” Perturabo said. “Right there. Let them adjust. Don’t touch them yet.”
Sanguinius froze. His eyes stayed on your face.
You didn’t want him to stop.
You wanted his fingers on your clit.
You wanted his cock in your mouth.
You wanted something while your ass stretched slowly around something thicker than anything you'd ever taken.
But they didn't press on.
Sanguinius leaned forward slightly, brushing your hair back from your damp temple with a slow, reverent hand. His cock rested just beneath your mouth now—flushed, swollen, completely still.
“Tell us,” he said softly. “You don’t get more unless you say it. Out loud.”
Behind you, Perturabo’s fingers moved again—just a breath deeper—but didn’t pull back.
He was waiting too.
Both of them.
Sanguinius’s voice dropped lower, right against your mouth.
“Do you want to be opened more? Used? Filled until your legs give out?”
“Then speak. Tell us. Now.”
The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could think.
"Yes—fuck, yes—please. I’ll do anything. I-I’ll say everything—just please, let me feel you—"
The words broke against the back of your throat. Offered.
Consecrated.
Sanguinius went still—then exhaled once, slow and clean, like someone breathing in a storm he’d been waiting years to walk through.
Behind you, Perturabo made a sound—low and sharp, a breath through clenched teeth—and his fingers finally slid deeper. Inexorable. You moaned. You felt your ass stretch wider, hotter, twitching helplessly around the press of his hand.
“You’ll feel us,” he said. “You’ll confess it as it happens.”
“They will,” Sanguinius agreed, his voice silken as marble polished under years of fingers. “They'll tell us when their body splits to fit us both.”
He lifted his cock to your lips. You opened instantly—no hesitation now—and he pressed in, slow, the head sliding across your tongue, past your teeth, into the wet heat of your mouth.
Your throat constricted.
He didn’t stop.
He knew your limits better than you did.
Behind you, Perturabo added a third finger.
You choked.
Sanguinius slid out again, barely, letting you breathe—but not releasing your chin. His hand held you in place. Your tongue still wet with him, your jaw trembling.
“Say it,” he said. “With me in your mouth, with him inside your ass—say what you feel.”
You sobbed—but the words came.
“I-I’m being—stretched. Front and back. His fingers are too deep—I can’t breathe—but I want more. I want all of it. I want to feel full.”
Sanguinius smiled. Wicked.
“You don’t know full yet.”
Perturabo shifted behind you, pulling his fingers out with a slow, wet sound that left your rim twitching, open, begging. You gasped at the emptiness—only for something far heavier to nudge against you.
His cock.
Just resting there.
A weight. A warning.
A promise.
Sanguinius cupped your face again.
“They asked. They’ll take it. They’ll say every inch.”
Perturabo lined himself up.
One hand on your hip.
The other braced to catch you when your body gave out.
One breath—half swallowed around the head of Sanguinius’s cock, your lips parted, tongue slick and aching—and then—
Perturabo pushed in.
The blunt head of his cock met your rim, already loose from his fingers, already trembling. The first inch came with a wet, impossible stretch—your whole body clenching, hips twitching, your hands clawing at the sheets. Your moan was muffled, full around Sanguinius’s cock.
He didn’t let you pull away.
He held your face, gently, almost lovingly, watching your eyes water as you gagged just slightly around him, your jaw trembling but determined.
Behind you, inch by inch, Perturabo sank deeper.
The sheer density of it was unthinkable.
The kind of stretch that makes your eyes roll back. That makes you forget the last thing you said. That makes your knees shake and your spine want to lift away from your own skin.
Sanguinius watched you like a priest at the altar.
He adjusted your hips, tipped you just slightly, angled you for himself—and the next thrust made your whole body pitch forward, but Sanguinius caught you, filled your mouth deeper, until your gag reflex folded under obedience.
“They can take it,” Sanguinius said, voice thick with something more than desire. “They want to take it. Don’t you?”
You nodded, whimpering around him.
Mouth full.
Ass stretching.
Nothing left empty.
“Say it,” he demanded, still stroking your face. “Even if you choke.”
You gasped, coughed, voice shattered—
“I—I fee—fu–ch. I can'—mo—he’s s– goin'—fu-ck—y' bof'—”
Another thrust from Perturabo cut the words in half.
Another roll of Sanguinius’s hips claimed your throat in full.
And you were gone.
Suspended.
Opened where no one else had ever touched you.
And not a single inch wasted.
---
They moved in counter-rhythm.
When Sanguinius pulled back to let you breathe, Perturabo pushed in deeper.
When your throat spasmed around the angel’s cock, your ass clenched tight around the forgemaster’s thickness—and the sound that tore from you was part scream, part psalm.
You didn’t just feel full.
You felt possessed.
Like the inside of your body was no longer your own—held open, owned, worked open from both ends by beings who weren’t just fucking you—
—they were studying you.
Refining you.
“They clench when you thrust,” Sanguinius murmured, voice like wet silk, hand stroking your temple. “Every time. Like they're fighting to keep us both in.”
“They won’t win that fight,” Perturabo growled. His grip on your hips tightened—and the next thrust made your legs go soft. “They'll break before I slow.”
But they didn’t break you. Oh no.
They held you there.
Between them.
Sanguinius’s cock sliding past your lips, down your throat, slow and forgiving, until you learned to take it deeper—
Perturabo’s cock pounding up into you with the kind of weight that made the bed frame groan under both their bodies—
—and you, suspended, a trembling bridge between ruin and rapture.
You tried to speak—but there was no air.
Only moans.
Only wet sounds.
Only slick, heat, stretch, sweat, friction, praise.
Sanguinius leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he cradled your skull.
“Tell us when it hits.”
You tried.
But you were too close.
Your body was coming undone—
Orgasm tearing through your gut, clenching your ass, your thighs, your throat, everything at once—
“Th—fuck—the—I'—”
And they didn’t stop.
Climax ripped through you like a break in the hull—every nerve exposed, wet, raw, open.
You sagged between them, muscles loose, throat fluttering around Sanguinius’s cock, ass clenching weakly around Perturabo’s.
And for a breathless second, they held you.
Like a prize. Like a perfect ruin.
“They’re shaking,” Sanguinius whispered, voice thick with something reverent.
“They think they're done,” Perturabo said. His voice was rough now, and lower. “They're wrong.”
They moved.
Not with the slow caution of before.
Not now.
Now, your body was soft.
Stretched.
Ready.
Now they fucked you like they owned the rights.
Sanguinius thrust forward again—long, deep, groaning as your throat spasmed helplessly around him. His cock hit the back of your throat with every push, but you didn’t gag anymore.
Your body didn’t resist.
It learned.
Behind you, Perturabo’s cock slammed into your ass with weight, the wet slap of his hips against your skin sharp and rhythmic, like hammer strokes on iron.
“Still tight,” he grunted. “Even now.”
“They’ll hold,” Sanguinius said. “They were made to.”
You moaned—a wrecked sound. A desperate, high sob around the cock splitting your throat, your back arched too far, your ass angled up to take everything Perturabo gave you.
And they gave it.
They worked you now.
Fucked you like a machine with two operators—
Perfect rhythm, no wasted motion.
Each thrust built on the one before.
And still they spoke.
“Tell us,” Sanguinius breathed. “Even now. Even like this.”
When they pushed you into the second orgasm without slowing.
You couldn’t hold it.
You didn’t want to.
You came again, body convulsing between them—
Mouth stretched, ass flooded with pressure, thighs soaked with slick and sweat and something messier.
You collapsed, but they kept you upright.
Your spine wasn’t holding you up anymore.
They were.
---
You were fucking wrecked now, but not done—limp in the arms of gods, twitching with aftershocks, too wrecked to speak but still trying to move, still pressing back into their cocks like there was anything left of you to give.
And so, they gave more.
Sanguinius was the one who moved first. He slid from your mouth with a wet sound that left your jaw slack, lips shining.
He caught your face in both hands.
Leaned down.
Kissed you—slow, full, as if sealing something between your teeth.
Behind you, Perturabo pulled out.
You sobbed.
Your ass clenched at the loss, your hips bucked, but his hands were already on your waist, heavy, solid—turning you.
Lifting you, like sculpture being repositioned.
Perturabo laid you back like he was resetting a stone for a second strike.
Sanguinius didn’t speak at first. But he looked at you, eyes burning gold as he settled between your legs.
He hooked your legs over his forearms—one massive arm under each thigh—lifting your hips slightly, angling your cunt upward toward the impossibly thick cock he now held in his hand.
He lined up.
And leaned in.
You couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.
He tipped your chin toward him anyway.
“I remember what you wrote,” he said, voice too soft to survive this close to your skin.
“You described the weight of my cock without ever having felt it.”
The head of it pressed against your entrance—slick, hot, patient.
“You wrote: he wouldn’t be gentle. But he wouldn’t rush. He’d make me say what it felt like, even when I couldn’t breathe.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t kind.
“So say it.”
He pushed in.
Slow. So controlled.
But still too thick—the kind of stretch that made your ribs feel too tight, your belly start to lift, your whole cunt pull taut around the first few inches.
He fed another inch into you, until your cunt was trembling wide around him, your slick coating his cock and your thighs, your hands scrambling for purpose in the bedding.
“You wrote that I’d stretch you so deep it would feel like I was fucking your stomach.”
“You said it would feel holy.”
He sank all the way in.
You screamed.
Shredded.
“Say it now,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.
“Say what your body’s saying.”
“Or I’ll stop. Right here. Right now.”
Your voice broke.
“I-I-I f-feel it—all of it—your cock’s inside—too deep, it’s too fucking—oh god, you’re in me—everywhere—I-I’m not—there’s no room—”
He kissed you.
“There never was.”
And then he started to move.
His rhythm wasn’t fast.
It was precise.
Every thrust angled perfectly upward, filling the space you didn’t know you had, the blunt head of his cock brushing some bright, ruined part of you that made your mouth open with every stroke—
And then you heard it.
“He wouldn’t be gentle.”
The voice came from behind.
From the foot of the bed.
You couldn’t turn your head—you were pinned, stretched, sobbing around the cock fucking you deeper and deeper.
But you knew.
Perturabo was reading.
“He wouldn’t be gentle. But he wouldn’t hurt me. Not more than I asked for.”
You sobbed again—louder this time.
Sanguinius leaned down, kissed your open mouth, your throat, your collarbone. He was so deep now you could barely breathe, your cunt stretched to its absolute edge.
“Don’t stop there,” Sanguinius murmured. “They need to hear this.”
“He’d split me open. Not to ruin me—”
“—but to prove I could hold them both.”
You cried out, your legs shaking, hips bucking—trying to run, to thrust, to something—but you couldn’t.
“They begged for this.”
He wasn’t reading now.
He was speaking.
“They begged with their pen. With their hands. They wrote that their cunt would take us both—eventually.”
“Now they're halfway there.”
Sanguinius thrust again.
You keened—sharp, wet, wrecked.
“What’s it feel like now?” he asked, his voice low, breath against your ear. “Now that it’s not on the page?”
You choked the answer out—
“I..It’s—so so much—I’m s'full— so fucking full—I can’t—h-he’s reading it while you’re—while you’re—”
You came.
Hard.
Loud.
With no rhythm, no elegance—just desperate clenching, cunt spasming around Sanguinius’s cock, whole body shaking beneath his weight.
He didn’t stop.
Not yet.
Behind him, Perturabo flipped a page.
Then... he says it.
“I want to be so full of them I forget how to fake it.”
Silence.
You went very, very still. Orgasm barely subsiding.
“That’s what you wrote,” he added. “At the end. Before it all stopped.”
Sanguinius’s hands slid lower—beneath your knees now, adjusting your legs, your thighs spread even wider, presenting your body to the one holding your words.
“They weren’t faking,” Sanguinius murmured into your ear.
“No,” Perturabo agreed. “But they were waiting.”
He set the journal aside.
“They wrote the moment.”
“Now we’ll finish it.”
You knew what was coming.
You felt Sanguinius shift under you—his hips rolling just enough to grind his cock deeper inside your cunt, your whole body jolting in his lap.
Then he sat up.
One arm snaked under your back, pulling you into his lap, into his body, onto his cock—your legs spread across his hips, trembling in the air, nothing to anchor to but him.
“There,” he murmured. “This is better.”
He was fully reclined back now, your cunt speared down onto him, your belly taut, your ribs rising with every shaky breath as you tried to recover—
But you didn’t get the chance.
You felt him.
Perturabo was behind you now.
You didn’t see him move, but his hands were already at your hips. One braced your waist. The other guided his cock down between your cheeks, lower, steady—searching for the entrance he’d already opened.
You couldn’t speak.
You didn’t have to.
They already knew what your body was saying.
Your legs were wide. Your cunt was full. And now your ass was being parted again—your body taken back to the edge of what it had barely survived.
You felt the tip press in.
Slow. No rush.
He was going to fit, and you were going to take him.
“Too much?” Sanguinius asked, smiling as you clenched down on him.
“Or is it finally enough?”
You tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken, breathless yes—
And then Perturabo pushed deeper.
You were already slick. Already loose.
But the head of his cock still stretched you all over again, the angle sharper now, your chest caught between him and Sanguinius, your cunt and ass slowly filled again, together—
“Yes,” Sanguinius whispered into your throat, “say it.”
“Say it like you wrote it.”
You couldn’t. Not fully.
Your voice broke. Your mouth stayed open, lips shaking, unable to form what your body was already screaming.
So Perturabo said it for you.
“They wrote that they wanted to be used like this.”
He began to thrust, deep into your ass—
And Sanguinius met it, grinding up into your cunt—
And you were caught between them now.
Each one using you.
Each one feeling the other’s cock move inside you, divided by only a thin wall of flesh.
You couldn’t move.
You didn’t want to.
You just hung there, impaled on both of them, twitching between thrusts—and that’s when you saw it.
The journal.
Still open.
Balanced in one of Perturabo’s massive hands.
He hadn’t stopped reading.
He was reading between thrusts.
And he was choosing lines now.
The ones you never meant anyone to see.
“Page twelve,” he said flatly. “You wrote: ‘I want one of them inside me while the other watches. Then I want them to trade places—until I forget which is which.’”
Sanguinius chuckled low in your throat.
“Too late for that.”
His cock pulsed inside you. You could feel his breath in your ear, slow and steady, his rhythm syncing with the drag of Perturabo’s cock behind you—deep, deep, filling your ass so wide your jaw trembled trying to follow the sensation.
“Page seventeen,” Perturabo said.
He adjusted his grip.
Fucked deeper.
“‘If they use me long enough, I won’t be able to lie. My body will say everything I won’t.’”
And you did.
You said everything.
Not in words.
In the way your cunt clenched.
The way your thighs trembled.
The helpless way your ass squeezed around him, drawing him in, like you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Sanguinius moaned.
“Fuck—they're trying to cum again.”
“From the reading?”
“Or from us?”
“From both,” he said. “Their whole body’s agreeing.”
“Give them another.”
Another page turned.
You were panting now, cock after cock pushing through your center like punctuation.
“Page twenty-one,” Perturabo said, voice quieter.
“‘When they finally cum inside me, I want it to feel like I’ve been rewritten. Like I belong to them now, because I gave them everything I was.’”
And then—they both thrust.
Harder now.
The rhythm wasn’t careful anymore.
Sanguinius was pounding up into your cunt, grip bruising your thighs—his moans rough and open, gold hair sticking to your skin.
Perturabo was slamming into your ass, voice a low growl, journal still open in one hand while his hips drove forward like a sentence with no punctuation left.
Your body seized.
Your cunt went tight.
Your ass pulled him deeper—because your body couldn’t lie anymore.
You were going to cum again.
And then—they slowed.
The rhythm didn’t stop.
But the urgency fell away.
“You have a voice again, don’t you?” Sanguinius whispered, soft and low.
You tried to respond.
Just a whimper. Just heat.
But then Perturabo moved.
His thrust sank in deep and still.
He flipped to the last page.
He reached past your ribs—hand out.
And showed you the journal.
“You’re going to read this one,” he said.
“Out loud.”
You froze.
Sanguinius smiled above you, his breath warm on your cheek.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re already open. Just let it out.”
Perturabo held the journal in front of you.
Still seated in your ass.
Pressed deep. The stretch never letting up.
Sanguinius didn’t withdraw either—he stayed sheathed inside you, hands cupping your breasts now, your belly tight against his as he waited.
You looked down.
The words were yours.
Unedited. Ugly. Real.
Your hand shook.
You started reading.
“I—I think—” your voice caught, wet, thick with heat. “If they ever t-take me like this, I won’t be able to go back.”
A breath. A thrust.
“Nn—not t’my work. Not to the others. Not to myself.”
Your voice cracked again—they were both perfectly still inside you, and reading your own words while they held you there made your whole body feel exposed, filthy, true.
“Because i-it won’t be pretend anymore.”
“Because I’ll know —fuck, nnnh—w-what it feels like t'be ruined for real.”
They didn’t speak.
They just thrust together—once, deep, synchronized, and your body shook as it teetered on the edge of another orgasm, your voice giving way to a noise that wasn’t even language anymore.
But you finished it.
You had to.
“N'if they cum inside me, I want it to stay.”
“I— I wanna f-feel it later—long after they’re gone. I want it to change the way I move— the way I… f-fucking breathe.”
“So I–I never forget who I belonged to when they... filled me.”
Sanguinius’s chest rose and fell beneath you.
His breath warm against your ear.
His cock twitching deep in your cunt, thick and aching, every pulse like a heartbeat between your thighs.
Behind you, Perturabo’s cock was buried in your ass, the stretch still obscene, still brutal, his hands bruising your waist—but he hadn’t moved.
Neither of them had.
You were held. Impaled. Owned.
But not finished.
They waited.
And you knew why.
“Say it,” Sanguinius murmured, his voice ragged now. “Say what you want.”
“You’ve written enough.”
“Now speak it.”
You tried to move.
You couldn’t.
Not without them.
You tried to speak.
Your mouth opened—then closed again.
You felt everything.
Their heat.
Their weight.
Your own heartbeat, pounding between your legs, your cunt clenching around Sanguinius, your ass spasming around Perturabo’s cock—
And still they didn’t fucking move.
“You asked to be ruined,” Perturabo said behind you, voice rough like a blade pulled from stone.
“You’ll have to ask for the end too.”
The heat built.
Pressure.
Your orgasm was coiled there—just there—but it wouldn’t break without the final push.
Without them.
Without this.
You sobbed once.
And then:
“Please.”
It came out cracked. Desperate.
They didn’t move.
“Say it,” Sanguinius breathed. “What do you want?”
You swallowed hard.
And your voice came back—shaking and honest.
“Please cum inside me.”
“I want it.”
“I want to feel you both—I–I want to feel it later—I want to know you were there—that you filled me—that I won’t forget it—I can’t forget it—”
And they moved.
Together.
Finally.
Sanguinius fucked up into your cunt, cock thick and slick and unrelenting, while Perturabo drove into your ass, pace punishing, rhythm brutal, as if your body were a sentence they were pounding to its final punctuation.
You screamed.
You begged.
And they fucked you through it.
Until your body shook apart, your orgasm tearing through you again, your cunt clenching, your ass seizing around them both—
And then they came.
Inside you.
At the same time.
You felt it.
Felt Sanguinius pulse inside your cunt, hot and thick, flooding you, leaking out around his cock almost immediately as your walls spasmed through your orgasm—
Felt Perturabo drive deep into your ass, cock jerking as his release hit, so much heat you could feel it fill you, the pressure making your belly ache, your whole body go still—
Except your eyes.
They were wide.
You’d never felt this full.
You didn’t know you could.
And for one stretched, ruined, unbreathing moment—
You belonged to nothing but that heat.
Cum inside both your holes.
Held there.
Kept.
No words.
No pages.
Just heat and breath and their hands still on you, still inside you, like they weren’t ready to let you go yet.
