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Nassir Amit came to his Father's chambers in a plain white shift that reached his thighs. Father preferred at least a gesture at modesty. He wore no loincloth underneath, because no matter what Father preferred, he needed ready access, and it was no good pretending otherwise.
His lord was dressed equally plainly, in white without ornament, and he was visibly sweating through the cloth. A curve could be seen in his belly, heavy with the eggs he was ready to lay. The air was thick with the musky scent of need, the sharp tang of anxiety, the deep, earthy base note of the fluid that dripped from his cock-sheath and ran down his legs. Amit's body responded in kind to the chemical presence of his genesire, to the booming psychic drumbeat of his Father's arousal. The hairs on his skin stood on end. His nipples tightened and hardened. His own comparatively modest and ordinary cock swelled full and hard, tenting the front of his shift.
He had no need for words now, his body knew what it was here for. But his Father spoke:
"Nassir," he said, "it is good to see you." He formed the words with difficulty, pushing them through shaking lips while his predator's eyes never left his son. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, again."
Amit's body thrummed with arousal. He'd watched the growth of his Father's belly for weeks with lewd avidity, knowing it was his turn to receive the precious load. He'd spent the last hour oiling and opening himself by hand in anticipation, and his brothers had taken over when he'd needed a better angle. "I see no cause for sorrow," he said. "You are what you are, and I was made for you."
"Yes," his primarch said sadly, "you were. But I am not what a father should be, and it grieves me. I wish I were better for you." He knelt down and touched the back of his hand to Amit's cheek, a hand of incalculable strength, a touch of surpassing lightness. His Father was the only being in the galaxy who ever handled him like he were fragile. "You deserve better." With hunger in his wide, dark eyes, with muscles trembling through his self-restraint, he called him, "Beloved son," and said, "I will be as gentle as I can."
It was Amit's curious fate to love a man who was both the tiger and the chains that held it, one part always struggling against another, wounding itself where the friction chafed it. He decided it was kinder to show the animal fresh meat and let its hunger push it forward and break its bonds than to leave it to struggle. No sense in drawing out the poor bastard's suffering. This decision taken, he raised up the hem of his garment.
The light flashed in Father's eyes as he dove to pick him up and lick his ass, to bite and taste him and fill his lungs with the scent of his warm, willing body. Father put him on the great wide bed with his ass up, and Amit felt the pointed head of his ovipositor emerge from its sheath and spread his hole. He grunted his approval and cocked his hips up to welcome it. He gripped the sheets as he felt it move deeper, ridge after ridge sliding and catching every nerve along the way, in and out as Father worked himself inside him, as he rubbed himself on Amit's slick walls to coax the eggs through his shaft.
The point of the first egg started to stretch him, and he breathed deep and opened his superhuman muscles as wide as they could go. Father's eggs were even thicker than his brother's fists, and it ached and burned as it slipped through Father's egg-cock past his tight anal ring. The aching eased as the widest part of the egg slid through his hole. He felt it slip from the tip of Father's cock and fill his rectum, and he reached down a hand to feel it through his skin. Hard and round, a part of Father inside of him, first of many. His cock leaked pre-come on the sheets.
He had memories of sex, he knew what sex was. He'd eaten the brains of mortals who fucked with cocks and pussies, mouths and hands. But only he and a favored handful of his brothers got this. Only Blood Angels alone were privileged to take Father's eggs. Pride mingled with the pleasure of intimacy and the more atavistic pleasure of being filled, and he rocked back against Father's hips, driving his cock home into himself, eager for the next egg.
Father's arms wrapped around him, big and strong and damp with the sweat of sex and exertion. He sank his teeth down into one and drank to feel Father fill him at both ends, egg and blood and cock and sweat and memory and love. As the blood hit his belly, he felt what it was to fuck him, to bury eggs deep in his ass, to love him as a starving man loved a meal, and his body thrilled to know he could provoke such lusts in his beloved sire.
...and through the lust, he felt something sharper, something painful that pricked at the hearts. He felt what it was to love him as a son, to cherish him and worry for him, to ache to serve and comfort him and raise him well. He felt what it was to hold sweet Nassir in his arms and find him fragile, and small, and worry that his body might rupture from the mass of eggs or that his hearts might break from the weight of sexual service.
It was a hell of a thing to feel. He'd never held such worries on his own account. 'Sweet Nassir' had guts as strong as any warrior's, and stronger than most. As for his hearts, they delighted to serve his Father in egg-bed as keenly as they did to serve him in war. If the anxiety weren't wrapped in such an oceanic volume of love, he would almost be insulted that Father thought so little of him.
He pushed back onto Father's cock, bracing his legs and opening wider. He released the flesh in his mouth long enough to growl, "More! Good, it's good! Give me more!" Then he closed down on the arm again and trusted his Father to give it.
That seemed to do it. Eggs pushed into him faster now, one after the other as Father rode him, milking them through his ovipositor into his eager son. He felt teeth bite down on the back of his neck as his belly was filled, and he chewed on Father's arm in overstimulated bliss and groaned at the ache of being stretched so wide.
His shift was rucked up around his shoulders now, and it couldn't cover his belly if he tried. The eggs that had been a slight curve in the primarch were a huge bulge in the astartes. He rested in Father's arms and let himself be filled completely. Father collapsed around him, spent, his cock still plugging Amit's egg-filled ass.
He closed his eyes and breathed in Father's scent. He felt the beat of Father's hearts pressed to his back, the last spasms inside him as his cock leaked fluid into his egg-filled body, enrobed in the intimate darkness of his arms and wings. The blood in his mouth now tasted only of animal satisfaction, the overbearing self-censure quieted, the chains fallen and left behind. He listened as his Father's breath grew soft and even and he fell asleep, still holding his son and incubator close.