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Perturabo stands before Rogal Dorn without a scrap of clothing on, white robes discarded in a pile with his sandals by the door. He beams like a sun upon the cold stone walls of the Praetorian’s chambers, turning this way and that with his legs spread wide. Fulgrim had fixed him up nicely. And he wanted Rogal to see.
Why exactly was anyone’s guess, and Dorn sits in an armchair peering through furrowed brows at the cornucopia of genital artistry on display. Beneath hefty balls and an enhanced forearm-length cock lifted to the side, Perturabo proudly shows off the finest (and only) cunt he’s ever seen. Pillowy soft lips reveal slick, juicy folds flushed an inviting rose pink, almost too delicate for the Lord of Iron’s hard body. A thick nub crowns the swollen petals straining up and out from its luscious hood. It’s a darker shade of pink at the tip, twitching in the still air and demanding Dorn’s approval.
“Interesting.” Dorn grits out after a time. “And might I ask why you have brought this to me?”
“For a structural inspection, clearly.” Perturabo says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, reaching down to spread his thick pussy and roll his clit between two knuckles. “You see this? This is something you don’t have. Can’t have. You might have everything else in the whole damn Imperium but-”
“Ah,” Dorn interrupts him, having heard this same rant a thousand times before. “So you have come to tease me.”
Just by acknowledging Perturabo’s little show, he denies him even that, and the Lord of Iron’s smug gaze turns to cold fire. The two fingers idly pumping glossy slick further down Perturabo’s thighs spread and drag upward, his legs shifting even further apart. He angles his hips forth in petulant disrespect.
“Hmph! You wouldn’t know the first thing about the artistry you behold, so I’ll forgive you your ignorance.” Perturabo’s other hand squeezes his cock from base to tip, beginning a languid stroke. Up and over his meaty foreskin and back down again.
Dorn’s glacial gaze tracks the motion, his face stone as ever. “You said you wanted an inspection?” He huffs. “I am the Praetorian of Terra, not a gynaecologist.”
“I aM tHe PrAeToRiaN oF TeRrA,” Perturabo mocks as he jacks himself off faster. “Fuck you, you’re just loathe to admit you’ve never even seen one of these before. You couldn’t stick a finger in and-”
“You are not here for fingers.”
Dorn is standing before him now, looming over Perturabo with his chiselled features etched in consternation. Perturabo is only a head shorter but still has to look up, gripping his dick as a sudden pulse has him spurting pre accidentally over Dorn’s stomach. He prays his brother doesn’t notice.
Dorn does.
He grabs Perturabo by the jaw, thick fingers pressuring the gold-covered cheek ports lacking their cables. The nerves were long dead around the scar tissue, but the pressure radiates throughout Perturabo’s face with sickening power. He mouths something that doesn’t quite come out. Dorn narrows his eyes.
When he speaks, his voice is the softest murmur. “Do you think I do not know what you have been doing over the past few months? With Ferrus? With Fulgrim?” He releases Perturabo with a backward shove, hearing the neural cables clacking wetly against his brother’s sweaty back. “Now you have come to me – for what? A notch on your belt?”
Dorn’s right hand lashes out in a fierce point to the bed. “All fours. Now.”
Perturabo’s pupils eclipse his irises in an instant, his mouth suddenly dry. He can’t think of anything but to obey, and it’s only the darkness in his brother’s tone that has him freeze long enough to grasp a few concepts out of the air.
He doesn’t get to voice them. Dorn’s massive shoulders ripple as he shucks off his robe and grabs Perturabo in a vice grip around his ribs, hard enough that he struggles to breathe. Broad thumbs jam up between tight muscleheads that haven’t been soothed in centuries, sending mindsplitting agony through Perturabo’s whole system.
Perturabo’s eyes bug out wide and his jaw hangs, stimulants rushing through him in response to the pain. “D-Dorn, what are you-”
His feet lift off the ground. And then his back slams against the wall, there’s a whole citadel of seething Primarch plastered against him, and his legs are hooked around the Praetorian’s tapered waist.
Dorn’s hand moves to his throat and pins him there, the other lining up his cock with Perturabo’s barely-stretched cunt. Perturabo chokes, his limbs refusing to fight back, seizing up and spasming. Dorn says not one word as he breaches Perturabo’s slick, swollen folds and pushes himself inch after inch. He hits the cervix and threatens even harder, though eases off at the pathetic hitching breath his brother takes when the hand at his throat shifts.
Dorn observes him for a moment, staring Perturabo down hard as his cock slowly throbs against those fluttering, vicelike walls.
“Tight,” he says. “Despite your… reputation.”
“Sh-sh-shhhhut it,” Perturabo hacks out a cough and snarls. “You- you’re not supposed to know how to do this.”
“Why?” Dorn punctuates the word with a long drawn back thrust, hilting himself hard enough to bring starbursts before Perturabo’s eyes. “Because I am stone? Because I have honor? Because I take my duty to the Imperium seriously?”
“Father makes it easy,” Perturabo gasps, “Easy for you. Me? Hah.” A bitter laugh turns into a shuddering sigh. “Uuhhnhh…”
“I did not quite hear that.” Dorn leans forward, pinning him to the wall with his chest now as well as the bracing force of his thighs. He grinds his hips. “Regardless. The only thing easy here is you.” His lips brush Perturabo’s forehead, running sideways along several cables that send tingles through his scalp. “Spreading yourself like a whore. You should be ashamed.”
Even as he says it, he’s slowly pumping in and out of his brother with a languid roll of his hips grinding his broad cockhead into Perturabo’s most tender spot. If he’s expecting conversation, he’s not going to get much. Perturabo squeezes his thighs plaintively around the Praetorian’s square hips, toes curling up. His head’s lowered, his quiet little moans muffled by the meat of Dorn’s hefty pecs. Huffing and whining, drinking in his brother’s deep scent and panting it back out into the Praetorian’s bulky cleavage.
“Have you no words for me?” Dorn growls, picking up the pace and putting his full bodyweight into it, now. “I suppose I shall be testing your endurance, first. You asked for inspection. You will find my efforts quite thorough.”
Perturabo’s untouched cock jumps with every brutal thrust, his ass and thighs quaking from the exertion. Arousal burns hot in his core, stoked by the way Dorn is methodically reaming his cunt with the same detached interest he’d monitor his strategium. He hates that this is even affecting him, while Dorn remains completely composed.
“Hnnnhh~!” Perturabo whines, a particularly deep shove sparking the tingle of his regeneration. “Th-that’s not, haah, necessary…”
“I will map your interior as thoroughly as I please,” Dorn grumbles. “Be silent. Iron does not negotiate its tempering, does it?”
“Oh, like you would fucking know- OW!” Perturabo doesn’t even see the hand reaching behind to grab his neural cables, tugging them at the wrong angle to detach, but the right angle to pressure the ports. His vision flickers in colours he can’t name, white starbursts dancing beneath his eyelids. “A-a-a-aaaahgghh…” Thin whimpers leak from his slackened lips, and he speaks no more.
“Good boy.” Dorn releases the cables to support his brother’s upper back, taking a little more care with his angles so as not to snap Perturabo’s lolling neck. His thrusts come harder with the added force of precision, pounding the petulant Primarch into a boneless, mewling mess. Perturabo’s stomach visibly distends from the sheer size of the cock wrecking his cunt, a distinct outline shifting beneath the strained tightness of his abs. Ecstasy burns through his every synapse, a heavy flamer to the terrible brilliance of his intellect.
He’s melting.
Perturabo’s arms loosely rise to drape over Dorn’s broad shoulders, glossy juices dribbling down his thighs in a sticky river. His breath comes in ragged pants, quite a bit higher pitched than his usual voice. Feeble, girlish little things, half-formed words without the slightest hint of protest. “Br… brother… hhahnhhgh…” And he’s smiling, tongue hanging from his slack lips as his hot gasps mist between them.
Dorn just looks at him, wondering if he’ll ever be able to forget that face. He’s not sure he wants to. Perturabo isn’t moving against him, just laying there and taking it, drooling and shaking and whimpering. His tender pussy twitches and pulses, spurting his thin juices with every slap of the Praetorian’s balls. Dorns’ been trying his best not to get too into it, to lose the logician’s edge of his inquest, but he has to admit… the Lord of Iron has some wonderfully polished walls.
Perhaps it’s the newness of the passage, hewn by the Third Legion’s gene-alchemy built for pleasure instead of combat, desperately sucking him in when his thrusts slow. Or maybe it’s the way Perturabo can’t even look at him, fucked out of his mind from the most basic application of friction and force. What a sensitive little thing.
“You do make an excellent whore,” Dorn murmurs, without really thinking about it. Why should he? It is the truth, and he is nothing if not honest. “Perhaps this is your true occupation. How easily did you give yourself to me, your gates unguarded as an open field.”
“Uhuuuh…” Perturabo slurs, broad hands clawing over his brother’s shoulders. “Yeah~? Going to, haah, sow something in there?”
A flicker of concern brightens Dorn’s widened eyes. He’d never thought about it until now. Could he actually get his brother pregnant like this? It made sense given the manner of their joining, but they weren’t made to reproduce. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s firing blanks as he leaks against Perturabo’s cervix, though. He slows his hips, cock twitching wistfully as it begs him to get on with it. The biological imperative clouds his mind. He tries to fight it. He is Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra…
…and he wants to knock his brother up. The Great Crusade could use another siegemaster, after all.
“It would be just like Fulgrim to prime you for this,” Dorn admits, grinding his hips as he thinks. Perturabo’s whining doesn’t help. “We should not test it. A retreat may be in order-”
“Don’t be a coward,” Perturabo pants, his mind coming back to him quickly while bereft of harder stimulation. “Come on. You don’t breach a citadel and fuck off without a proper garrison. Give it to me. I'm more, nngh, more than match enough for all your men.”
The Praetorian’s stone face darkens. “I am not a coward,” he growls. The danger in his eyes only seems to excite his brother, whose inner passage clenches anew. His hand slides up the back of Perturabo’s neck and grips, threatening to crush his vertebrae into his optic nerve. “Comply.”
“Make me.” Perturabo grins, though it promptly turns into a grimace when Dorn throws him to the bed and mounts him, forcing his legs back as far as they’ll go, ankles over his head. As much as he wants it the angle hurts, and he tries to adjust but his brother won’t let him. Dorn pins him with his great bulk, shoving himself balls deep into Perturabo’s raw cunt and grinding into his most tender spot like he’s trying to ram through. The plump lips are swollen and flushed, spreading wide to swallow the Praetorian’s girthy base. Above, Perturabo’s tight balls drag over his thick, hooded clit with every roll of Dorn’s hips and he reaches down to try and jerk his yearning cock.
Dorn grabs his wrist with the strength to fracture bone and forces it into the mattress, Perturabo’s legs kicking in alarm. “Comply.” he growls again, breath coming through his proud nose in hard, rolling huffs. “Rrgh. You call this fortification? I piss stronger walls than you.”
Perturabo’s eyes widen. What the hell was this? Did the great Rogal Dorn actually have an ego under all that selfless stoicism? He stares up at his brother, trying to formulate a barb but finding heat in his chest that transmutes his temper, his pride, into something else entirely. His face flushes, mouth working soundlessly. Dorn serves him a stone glare that tells him he has no place to speak. Perturabo shuts his eyes and whimpers helplessly. His body starts to betray him.
Dorn laughs, he actually laughs at him when he comes. And he keeps going, still refusing to touch his brother’s unsatisfied cock, ignoring the glossy white mess trickling over Perturabo’s thickly muscled abdomen. “You insolent creature. Did I ask you to do that?”
“Nn-nnh…” Perturabo has his face screwed up and is beginning to squirm from overstimulation. His balls dragging across his fully exposed clit, it’s too much. His cock hardening again while his cum hasn’t even dried, thanks to the Emperor designing all of them with no refractory period whatsoever. His toes curling as his feet dangle in the air and his hips ache, Dorn starting to mix up his grinding of that prominent nerve bundle deep within his core. Another peak is building, frightening in its intensity. Like the coring of a planet deemed too worthless to occupy.
Dorn isn’t going for compliance anymore. He’s going to obliterate him.
Tears bead at the corners of Perturabo’s eyes, trailing down his flushed cheeks. “Ro, Rogal, stop…” A heavy groan is all he gets in reply. Dorn can’t hear his feeble voice for the rush of blood pounding in his ears. “It- it’s too-”
Dorn’s only answer is to grip Perturabo’s hips tighter, calloused thumbs digging into the port-studded meat of his brother's lower belly. He hammers down against Perturabo’s swollen cunt with a hard thwacking echoing off the stone walls like mortar fire, drowning out Perturabo’s whimpers. Every time Dorn buries himself to the hilt, Perturabo’s walls grip and suck at his cock in slovenly desperation.
“Your body has better tactical sense than your mouth,” Dorn grunts, sweat dripping from his blocky brow to trickle between Perturabo’s heaving tits. “It knows when to surrender.”
He pulls out almost entirely with an audible schluck, dragging his cock through the trembling folds, stretching the ring of rose-pink until it shines white before slamming back in. The angle crushes Perturabo’s fat clit against the hard edge of Dorn’s pubic bone.
“AH-HAAAHHNH~~~!” Perturabo’s back arches off the mattress, toes spread and clawing the air. His eyes roll back to the whites, dark lashes fluttery as drool leaks from his open mouth down his cheek. “Ro, Rogaaah, aahhhnh~!” He can’t even say his brother’s name, not that Dorn would hear it over the filthy slapping of their joining.
The wetness is staggering now, a thick, churned-up froth of Perturabo’s slick letting Dorn fuck him faster, harder, louder.
“Look at you,” Dorn sneers, his usually monotone voice thick with animalistic grit. “Lord of Iron, was it?”
Perturabo sobs, his neglected cock rock hard and jerking wildly against his stomach, stimulated purely by the massacre inside his hole. “Iron… haah… breaks…” It comes out in a high, thin mewl and it annihilates whatever restraint the Unyielding One had left.
Dorn stiffens, muscles bunching into coiled knots as he abandons the steady rhythm for rapid-fire pistoning that shakes the bedframe hard. Perturabo’s legs flop wide, trembling in helpless cramps, completely unable to hold any tension against the onslaught. He’s just a warm, wet sheath now, twitching and spasming around the Seventh Legion’s finest battering ram.
Dorn growls, grabbing one of Perturabo’s ankles. He hooks the leg over his shoulder to pry his brother’s raw cunt even wider, glancing down at the savaged pink entrance stretching around his girth. The reddened meat of it is visibly convulsing as Perturabo teeters on the edge of another unwanted climax.
“Take it,” Dorn groans, and drives past the cervix with impaling force. He bottoms out, tensing where he pins Perturabo to the mattress, and nuts so hard he almost blacks out.
Hot, thick jets of gluey seed gush in a deluge of pent-up need the Praetorian had been holding for centuries, flooding his brother’s womb in geysers of glorious white. Perturabo screams, a high, keening wail tearing the scraps of his dignity to particles as the sheer volume bloats his belly outward. He can feel it pumping into him heavy and relentless, waves of viscous fluid claiming his insides and distending his womb so much it crushes his bladder; he pisses himself and doesn’t even notice.
Dorn holds him there, heavy hips grinding down to form a seal and forcing every drop to stay inside. He grunts through his teeth, eyes shut tight as he empties his balls over the course of several minutes, pulsing, filling and stretching.
Perturabo looks like he’s pregnant already, stomach stretched so taut the faint blue spiderweb of veins is darkening as if threatening rupture. Jagged red stretch marks bloom and heal, his broad hands clutching his overtaxed womb while his neglected cock spurts weakly, a pitiful dribble of fluid landing between his tits. He shakes violently, nervous system overwhelmed by the sensation of being bred like a common broodmare.
When Dorn finally sags, he doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep, resting his considerable weight on his elbows and lowering his head. The overhead lumens paint a glossy shine over the sculpted musculature of his sweat-slick back. The only sound in the room is their ragged breathing and the wet, squelching noises of Perturabo’s overstuffed pussy trying to spew out the horrendous pressure of cream within. Thick cum bubbles around the seal of their bodies, oozing out to drip onto the sodden sheets.
After what feels like an eternity Dorn lifts his head, his expression regaining its marble stillness though his eyes are dark with satisfaction. He looks down at Perturabo’s flushed, tear-streaked face - mouth open, tongue lolling, eyes unfocused.
“Adequate performance,” Dorn mumbles. He shifts and a fresh wave of cum gushes out of Perturabo, flooding the crack of his ass. “You take a garrison well. Now… let us see if it takes root.”