Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Solitude.

One thing was absolute, one could never truly remain in solitude forever. No matter how far they sequestered themselves to the furthest reaches of the galaxy; in a system with a foreign name, on a planet with no importance in the larger Plan.

Somehow, in some way, the whispers of long-thought dead souls and heroes clawed their ways through the very psyche of mankind. It was a sense thought dead and obsolete — as those sensations had been quiet for so long.

How could one assume otherwise?

Yet, there it was — the spark. The flicker of flame. An ember kindling to the blaze of what…?

Hope.

Hope?

How could there be such a thing in the galaxy?

That word died in the soul of one that hid himself in the farthest reaches of the space that mankind knew, barricading himself within the Ætos Dios as he made a fortress of the Thunderhawk with all he had remaining of himself, accompanied by the ghosts of a crew that long thought him dead.

Such a conclusion was better in the long run, better that whatever fractions of his Legion there were still left, were reminded of the man that he used to be — instead of the man that he had become.

A statue of self-doubt, pain and grief.

There, sitting in a makeshift chair, was Rogal Dorn — dressed in simple attire, running his right hand along his chest where he felt the beat of two hearts. He waited, silent, as he sat there, thinking that sensation had been a trick of the mind that had been stuck to its own devices for far too long.

Yet there was the sensation again.

It was illogical.

Yet what could he think? What could he say? When he felt such similar sensations before; it felt like his hearts were ripped out of chest each time he learned a Brother was killed or another turned traitor —  sometimes well before word even reached his ears through proper means.

This wasn’t quite like those times, however: it was almost as if something was being healed.

Did he even have the right to feel this way?

Naught but guilt had plagued his mind since the days of the Heresy and his failure in his duty to the Imperium. It mattered not what he did in the time following, his conscience and ever-cycling thoughts would not let him rest and even less so since his self-imposed exile and solitude, beginning from the 31st millennium.

How long has it been?

Who was it? What was it?

Tired eyes stared upwards to the spanning ceiling of the Thunderhawk that had become his home for the last several millennia as he sat with this new feeling. A change in the drudgery, the silence and the continued penitence for his actions.

There was something new.

Yet Dorn had no contact, no astropath he could employ to find out more information, nor anything at all that would have reasonably caused this kindling of hope in the doomed universe. Though there was one thing he could try.

Meditation.

This time without the pain glove, something he hadn’t had access to, yet his body remembered it even by mere passing thought to it. As if in reflex, his muscles tensed and he dealt with the phantom memory with nary a complaint, just as he dealt with the phantom pains of his missing left hand.

That was what crossed his mind as the logical next step.

He was no psyker, yet he’d never forget the visions of the Emperor after seven solar days of meditation.

But this time would be different, he could feel it.

As he settled into a state of repose, he still wouldn’t allow himself to grasp that faintest flicker of hope that he felt.

He hadn’t earned it.

Smoldering, malignant emotions smothered the atmosphere in a dense, nearly perceptible smog that was every bit as potent and suffocating as the pollution of black, metal-specked plumes that roiled from the smokestacks of insidious, perpetually productive machines that whined and grinded somewhere in the far-off distance — and were every bit as toxic and hostile as those emotional emanations to anything that could be considered organic life.

The vision slowly cleared, revealing fleeting, broken images that were somehow far worse than the backlash of raw emotions that precluded the sight —  dimly flickering lights pulsed in the darkness along seemingly endless dense black cables that were suspended from the ceiling and walls like a mechanized mockery of a halo. The figure at the central point where they converged a towering, blasphemous construct of polished iron and steel in the shape of a man that rested upon a throne made of the same materials — as if the structure was a singular mass.

But it was not.

That distinction was perhaps unimportant however, as the wires and cords that dangled behind him before meeting their intended ends along his metallic skull and trailing down behind his body effectively immobilized him and kept him augmetically bound to a mechanothrone that evoked an image that was more prisoner than king, like this being was some installed ship scryer condemned to a support socket; or perhaps some twisted invention from the bowels of the foulest, secretive sectors of the Dark Mechanicum.

But any illusion that this cold metal fortification was not in some degenerate way, 'alive' was entirely shattered by the strength and virulence of his overwhelming emotions; emotions that while were nothing short of unholy and could be felt pouring out into though the farthest reaches of space, were certainly of no mere machine.

Nor was the red glow of the shrewd, intelligent robotized eyes now piercing through the dark, suddenly gleaming with recognition that was nothing short of antagonistic beyond measure in the microsecond it took before the source of his perpetual ruminations connected with him at long last and was immediately identified amid a burst of vibrant Golden Light.

The abrupt rush of… emotions hit Dorn squarely in the chest as much as physical contact surely would have. He wasn’t even sure for how long he had slipped into that meditative state in between the time that he had decided that yes, he’d give this an attempt to now.

After all, it hadn’t felt like seven days when he had witnessed the Emperor.

He hadn’t seen the Emperor this time, yet there was no mistaking the malignancy he experienced next in those fleeting moments. Even after all this time and no matter how the vision displayed him, he knew his Brother when he saw him.

Felt him.

Dorn released a breath, slowly, contemplating his next move as he rose from his chair.

He saw the recognition directed toward in turn, and somehow, got the sensation of understanding that his Brother had honed onto him and while he was holed up in the far reaches of the galaxy. Perturabo had resources, many more at his disposal than Dorn could hope to muster up in his small corner of the world.

Even after all this time?

A low sigh was pushed out of his chest.

Another failure on his part, another twist of the knife, another reminder of pain.

Always ever at odds, Dorn contemplated upon his fallen Brother, between the rivalry before the Heresy and what had happened on Sebastus IV. Those memories became a companion to his thoughts now as he began the arduous task of moving things around and preparing.

While the fleeting thought of escaping this planet crossed his mind, Dorn understood how useless it would be to try to outrun someone that would already be at the gate by the time he brought the Thunderhawk to the sky. Instead, he shifted focus on what he knew best, preparing to defend.

It was a futile attempt, outgunned, outmanned; yet he’d not go down easy.

With little time to waste, he began to move. To make preparations. To scrounge up the scant resources he had within and outside of the Thunderhawk to bolster for what he felt would be his final stand to a threat that was facing him down head-on again.

His sons had called him ‘Defiance’.

And he would remain as such.

A bitter smile crossed his lips. If this everlasting grudge was to end with his blood slicking the ground, so be it. For all that he felt, surely it was deserved.

He knew he shouldn’t have placed trust on that fleeting sensation of hope. Hope wasn’t logical and wasn’t meant for men facing their well-deserved fate.

A steaming mechanical hiss broke the silence as recognition met recognition, the time and distance and the changes those catalysts produced—as strong as their transformative power was—were not enough to stop the innate and immediate shared cognizance upon regarding one another immediately, likely by intrinsic feeling as much as identification on sight.

Though the Lord of Iron was fully aware the changes impacting him were much more extreme and in all ways by design, he’d felt that unmistakable awareness being reciprocated the moment it struck his Brother — as surely as he’d felt something nearly identical himself.

Still, time had changed Dorn, too. Yet much about him was entirely immutable and remained exactly the same despite the weariness of age that had descended upon him, a condition that he himself was immune to as metal did not succumb as flesh did. Those creases trailing along Dorn's pale skin along with fine lines had never been there before — as Perturabo knew every detail of his Brother’s face in painstaking detail.

Nor had he had such a full beard previously, though the colorlessness of his hair that could have been mistaken for whitening from age was anything but. Most striking of all though, was the look deep within those intense eyes, gained from the wisdom and weariness that came from experience and at the expense of the feeling of invulnerability that always faded with youth lost.

These understandings descended upon Perturabo all at once, causing a reverberation in the waves of energy that had distinctly changed before fading out when the connection between them was quickly and abruptly cut; a jolt of pain lacing the boiling enmity that vibrated from every inch of his titanic mass, striking squarely at what had once been where his primary heart resided, long ago.

He did not like that he’d felt such things, and even less that perhaps his Brother and most hated rival had the brief chance to witness it. And so he was relieved when their link was severed. And yet, some part of him was immediately displeased and resentful that it was gone.

He did not like that either.

Strangely, it warmed Dorn up to have a purpose, even if it was to defend his life. His actions were more pronounced and with reason behind what he was doing, instead of simply whittling away the time and energy throughout his self-imposed banishment from the Imperium of Man.

Tracking arrays were recalibrated first, to give him some warning when he did not have the benefits of scouts or anyone under his employ, yet that was a minor blip in all that he had planned. The next was to ensure the ship’s Void Shields remained in operation, for as long as they could last — enough for him to potentially do something to stem the tide.

Yet, even as he worked on the Thunderhawk, storing and managing the supplies he had left, Perturabo’s form had not left his mind’s eye for one moment, to see him so wholly changed. It was shocking to witness and be in the presence of.

Perhaps if he ha— Dorn shook his thoughts free from those notions, redoubling his efforts to throw his all into this. His final piece of work. Whatever was to come, he would focus his energy. There was little reason for doubt in his mind ,that this could play out in multiple ways. Contingency plans with contingency plans as Dorn laid out fact over fact in his mind in an effort to corral and control all the other meandering thoughts.

The inside was changed, a central chamber created —  with other chambers made around that. The Thunderhawk wasn’t a large ship, laughably small in comparison, a tiny speck in comparison to battleships.

Yet what he couldn’t do further inside, he went outside to accomplish, working tirelessly to make the very environment itself dangerous. This planet had very little life upon it and in its space were crags and rocks, ravines and canyons. Dorn, himself, had the ship nestled against large rock formations, providing a natural shield with eons-old stone that had stood the test of time and had proven capable of bearing the weight of a 121 tonne Thunderhawk.

Trenches, traps—entire cavern systems, were devised and set. All to bring down Chaos Marines and Machine alike if they stepped foot upon the surface wrong, all in kilometers in radius around Dorn’s last bastion against the threat to come.

Unless the planet was simply destroyed, leaving all plans for naught. Yet he didn’t believe that Perturabo would stoop so low, while giving up the chance of being able to look upon Dorn’s face in the midst of his demise.

What a pointless rivalry it all had been.

The fact was that they both were masters of their craft, even if Perturabo was more willing to sacrifice endless casualties if it was meant to get what he wanted. That should have drawn them closer yet…

Dorn exhaled sharply.

These thoughts were pointless and most if not all of following ones would simply be speculations. Right now, what he had to rely on were facts.

He had felt a calling. Fact.

He had experienced a vision. Fact.

He had seen his Brother. Perturabo. Fact.

One with Chaos. Fact.

Dorn rubbed at his chin, large fingers combing over his beard as he turned to head back into the Thunderhawk, this time to undertake the strenuous task of putting his Auric Armour on.

He had continued preparations to do. Fact.

A shudder—or was it simply a lifeless mechanized twitch—rippled through the Lord of Iron’s gargantuan body, causing the cords that arced around his construct-form to swing. Those rubberized cables as thick as a standard man’s leg swayed heavily under that motion — yet were held firmly in place by the giant sockets that locked them in at the points of both origin and insertion.

Meanwhile, the soulless, blood-red lights that served as his eyes glowed fiercely, appearing to gaze off vacantly into the blackness ahead without purpose. But that was not at all correct. Those hateful lights were scrutinizing; analyzing readouts and reports, maps and star-charts — actions visible to none but he. The unfathomably large streams of data were being fed directly into his mind by those massive data cables that carried yottabytes of yottabytes of information at transfer rates too rapid for any being to ever hope to track.

And even for he—the most advanced computational power in all existence—the strain was genuinely too much to bear; yet he did bear it, fueled by pure spite. The agony hit him like lighting arcing straight into his brain, information overload striking over and over and over again, but he savored it, each electric lash only spurring him on ever towards his goal.

His suffering served as evidence he’d yet to fully achieve perfection in his design despite his rise to Apotheosis. And with that, he endured the punishment of his own lacking but it was not with any sense of self-defeat as it might have been—perhaps should have been—had he slowed down enough to consider the implications past the sudden surges that ripped through his biomechanical form.

But that would come later, if at all. For Perturabo had purpose again, purpose other than in simply biding his time. And though this new purpose did not truly serve his higher goal of Ascending further in any functional way, his synapses fired with flesh and augmentation alike as he came alive.

This feeling, this compulsion, this drive; oh, how he had missed it.

He wasn’t even sure what he intended in the ultimate, he was so lost in a flickering, blisteringly fast haze of data as streams of thought and algorithms worked in tandem on mathematical calculations in a state of unfiltered frenzy; yet even his analytical processing power couldn’t block or drown out the excitement and adrenaline that nearly flooded it all away…

But he remained ever-focused on his singularly minded goal with obsessive, furious fervor.

An illogical, all too human passion that defied all that he'd appeared to have become. But he didn't fight against it, nor even considered doing so.

He was beyond reaching by anything that would have served as a distraction from Dorn now; even himself.

Man or Demigod. Demigod or God in the Making. Organic or Bionic. Living or Machine. Lines had been crossed, definitions blended. And yet… despite it all and the faded, cast off shackles of what he’d long considered superfluous, Perturabo was reveling in what he’d thought he’d discarded.

It was not feasible to even estimate how much time passed — aside from far shorter than what should have ever been conceivable as it was surely impossible and yet, he had what he’d been working toward since the moment that connection was cut, the memory of that location's visual details and the golden blip that had pinged his interface never once leaving his mind's eye for a single second through it all.

A dull, rattling cackle echoed dryly like an earthquake through the digitized, robotic vista of a palace that contained no entity other than himself, as it had remained for countless centuries.

No longer.

With no need for anything as crude as needing to push physical buttons—and with only a thought—channels opened and he voxed his commands — to the tech-priests of the Dark Mechanicum stationed on Medrengard that while served him wholly in deed, and were rarely ever called upon to tend to him personally.

This would be one of those exceedingly rare occasions.

For after so many years spent in a state of deliberate physical deactivation, the Lord of Iron was finally prepared to mobilize.

In stark contrast, Rogal Dorn had no additional help. No crew, no servitors — there was nothing beyond simply himself and his own mind to plan out and deal with what was to come. Once he had gotten into his armor, however long ago it was, he had stayed within it and toiled endlessly with his single hand, never staying for a break for long.

But even so, it was to be a waiting game.

Dorn’s mind wandered to Sebastus IV again and all that had happened there. The victory, if one could even call it that, was pyrrhic at best, and simply a senseless slaughter at worst. Yet he knew many of his sons had wanted such a skirmish. To prove themselves, to prolong the inevitable — the dissolution of the Imperial Fists under the guidance of the Codex Astartes.

Though many of his sons were granted their wish to fall in combat, regret formed in the pit of his gut for that as well. Even after all of those many centuries that had passed from then to now, anytime he thought of the Iron Cage for too long, his grief was renewed all over again.

Perhaps he thought he’d die in that battle, much as he expected to die now.

At least, none of his men would have to face their deaths this time and, realistically, he knew that his demise was all but assured. There were no miles long bunkers or towers, aimed at wearing the enemy down in a prolonged concentrated effort. He had no soldiers, men to man the minefields, the trenches of razor wire traps. The tunnels he had dug out would only slow down the inevitable for but so long.

That went for everything else, everything that he had used at his disposal to at least make his countdown to destruction as tedious and annoying as possible, bringing down what ‘Traitor’ marines he could.

Even then, none of that would bring him any pride, nor any sense of accomplishment as it may have once before. This was simply, while purposeful, the last attempt to survive, while kicking and biting every meter of ground. Nothing but Chaos as a witness to the stalwart defender, the embodiment of human tenacity.

With final preparations in place…

Dorn rose up from the central chamber and grasped Storm’s Teeth into his right hand.

There was naught more to do now, than wait.

Though the spacecraft that carried Perturabo to his destination was certainly no flagship—a tiny transport built with only his personal needs and singular travel in mind—his thoughts drifted to the Iron Blood despite himself, as the parallels were far too many to ignore.

So many details were far different, so much time had passed; and yet the basics of the situation were identical. Perhaps the feeling that descended upon him now might be called nostalgia, were there anything at all whatsoever good to sift through in those memories. The Iron Cage, what should have been his greatest triumph—his sweetest victory—had been spoiled in the end by insufferable meddling, Guilliman's unwanted presence turning whatever satisfaction might have once been gained into nothing more than bitterness and ruin.

And he’d lost his most precious trophy, slipping through his grasp right when success had been all but guaranteed…

If only.

The Lord of Iron was growing ever more restless, to his consternation. And he could not stop dwelling, stop seething, though it made the time seem to come to an absolute standstill. It was maddening, how his once-infinite patience had all but shattered from the moment he laid eyes upon that face again, this journey somehow feeling longer than all the years that had passed since the last time he’d emerged from his palace so long ago…

The logistics of his data feed had revealed that Rogal Dorn was by himself, holed up on some woefully unimportant barren dusty rock floating in the middle of the void. To what end he’d sequestered himself away, Perturabo did not know, could not deduce; and at first he'd been skeptical of that truth, analyzing the information down to the absolute minutia over and over again before accepting it as fact.

But it was fact, and to the confusion and chagrin of a Legion that had long since wondered if their Lord might ever stir from his isolation again, Perturabo had insisted that he would take his voyage alone and provided no information to anyone as to where it was he intended to go, how long he would be away, or what it was he would be doing. A decision that was challenged by by one particularly foolish and mouthy individual that was dealt with in such swiftness and brutality that it fully and immediately quieted down all those who harbored similar thoughts in their skulls — and had summarily been graphically reminded of the value of silence and of obedience.

Yet while Perturabo’s actions had seemed on the surface to be nothing short of what should have always been expected of him, he’d had a much deeper reasoning for making his unmistakable example plain and absolute for all to see.

He would not harbor even an modicum of a suggestion that anyone should accompany him, or even know where he was going.

Where his Brother was.

Perturabo had not found even a single byte of data whatsoever in his repeated visual and mathematical analyses of the vast amounts of information provided to him—from any angle—that refuted the evidence. Dorn truly was alone on a nameless planet so devoid of activity that he might have been the only lifeform residing upon its desiccated surface. And that meant there was no army prepared for his arrival, no potential for there being any sort of grand battle awaiting him. Such a thing would be highly improbable at any rate — as it had been millennia since they’d even had a glimpse of one another.

Yet even if there had been full confirmation of the exact inverse, Perturabo knew deep down he’d have made identical decisions anyway, no matter how great the opposition that may have awaited him.

No one, absolutely no one under the Ironclad skies of Medrengard would be allowed to know of Dorn’s location and continue existing.

And if he had his way about it, perhaps no one at all.

Bitterness continued to well up inside him as he stared balefully at the glowing screens ahead that lined the wall of his windowless transport. Soon, he’d emerge from the Warp. Soon, he’d draw near to the place that was so desolate and meaningless that it was unlikely anyone at any point in history had ever thought to bestow it a name — beyond the string of numbers that cataloged its position on star charts. Maybe it would be worthy of such, in time.

It had felt nearly like an eternity until at last, he was approaching. He navigated with his mind alone — the pointed, reinforced triangular bow of his ship cutting through the Immaterium and into Realspace as he maneuvered into place — exactly where he wanted to be.

It was in a nice little show of sparking thrusters and gleaming metal to illuminate the sky above as he cut though corporeality like a hot knife through cloth, for the only one that would bear witness to his arrival.

Dorn had stayed standing in that central chamber, in a half-meditative state as he waited for something that would rouse him from his semi-conscious condition. But at no point did he dare to drift off as he had done before, when he had first seen the face of his Brother staring back at him.

The animosity he felt had been seared into his mind, just like all of the other times they had come to odds. Time and time again, getting close to blows yet never having the opportunity to do so without interference.

This time, there were no other Brothers to arrive to his aid, to pull him from danger at the last moment. He was unable to stop himself from constantly reminiscing on past battles that held no true use here. Far too much time had passed, methods and ideas change within years and all those remaining had much more time than that.

Though, he remained the same.

Was he the only one?

The sound of a blip caught his attention as the dim lights activated from within Ætos Dios, basking Dorn’s copper and gold armor in a glow of light. He turned his helmeted head towards the outward feeds that were beginning to relay the information for him to read.

Even after all this time, the latent Machine Spirit roused to the command of the one that still remained.

Slow yet heavy steps brought him over to the physical feeds.

One ship.

One.

Not even a battleship that could transport a battalion of troops, one solitary ship, so similar to his Thunderhawk, yet manufactured for a different purpose. Though, Dorn knew that one vessel prepping to head into Realspace didn’t mean there weren’t others.

He waited a few seconds until the peal of the atmosphere roared overhead, loud enough that even his fortifications could not drown out the sound of a ship entering into the skies above him. If nothing else, the rock face that he nestled against offered a natural shield.

Dorn wouldn’t step outside, but the Cygnus-spirit brought forth a grainy, glassy feed of what exactly was above them. There was no mistaking the gleaming dark ship, the shimmer of an all too familiar crest upon it, making an entrance that announced its presence like a blaring horn call. The sparks of those thrusters crackled on the feed and Dorn moved with purpose to turn off the Teleport Homer.

The last thing he wanted was whoever was on that ship to have access to a method of simply bypassing his fortifications.

Next, he activated the Void Shields that blared to life with an audible whine that would have deafened a baseline human man. A shimmer could most assuredly be seen by whatever optics the invading party had, even before natural visuals, though soon there would not be anything visible at all.

At least until something struck them.

Dorn left the communication array on, letting it connect to the other ship, yet did not say anything himself, remaining in the middle of his ‘fort’. The ports around the ship began to vent out excess heat and energy as the ship itself seemed to have come alive, yearning for a use beyond being a tomb.

Strangely, Dorn felt his hearts racing, even as he leveled a cold glare at the screen from under his golden helmet, tracking the ship. Surely that was simply the adrenaline that pulsed through his form, readying himself for what was to come.

Right?

Right.

That was a fact…?

Static crackled, then faded out—but in a moment it was back again, now clearer in tone before quieting, accompanied by the low hum of engines as the soft noises of a ship’s interior was heard clearly over the communication array. A couple of tense seconds passed, heavy and distinctly hostile before a new noise joined into the mechanical background din — no less unnatural in origin but this purr was nearly like breath despite its distinctly metallic rattle.

The pause dragged miserably on for several endless seconds.

At last the other side broadcasted a message. It was carried by a deep and thoroughly inhuman voice; and though it had always held a powerful depth and register far lower and stronger than any mortal man’s, there was something in that sound that had never been there in the past, reminiscent of metal scraping against metal. It was unmistakably transformed and less organic than before — yet it was oddly completely free from anything akin to the echoes of daemonic corruption that plagued the speech of other Legions aligned to the ship owner’s ‘affiliations’.

This did not make it any less uncanny or feel less entirely off however — though traces of a timbre remained of what once was and had been further enhanced. The result wasn’t unlike the way Astartes often sounded when voxing from inside their helmets — yet there was a clearly distinct lack of anything muffling or containing his speech.

“Dorn. I know you saw me then, just as I know you hear me now,” that strangely mechanical voice chided in an indignant and impatient tone, as if he had not been the one hesitating all this time. “Brother.”

The lingering anticipation was heady in the air as it dragged on between each start and stop of cacophonous whirs and thrums that indicated someone had connected to the other side of the communications array. Dorn fixated his hardened gaze on the other readouts revealing much of the same that he had read moments before.

There were no other ships, and they should have been picked up on the radar by now.

Instead, it was one transport ship, carrying the one person upon it— likely the sole person that would traverse the far reaches of Warp and space to hunt him down. Yet, even knowing that was the case, Dorn’s expression shifted when Perturabo finally deigned to speak — in a voice that was familiar in many aspects, yet not in wholly different ways.

Dorn wasn’t rattled by the change, as he refused to share any emotions outwardly beyond the absolutely necessary ones.

Yet deep down—

No.

Dorn gripped Storm’s Teeth that much tighter before he finally opened his mouth to speak the moment that he felt he wouldn’t choke on a rasping voice that hadn’t had to communicate outwardly in so long.

Yet, from his voice, came strength. The level of evenness and force that he had always been known for, deep and rumbling, yet understandable all at the same. His words held that ever neutral and stoic tone of voice, perfectly steady.

“So I have and so I am, Brother.”

Ever a man of few words, yet his mind was reeling and despite how much he tried to shake it off, now that he had spoken for the first time in many millennia, it was as if his mind craved more.

More of… what? Dorn couldn’t say exactly what it was that he was particularly craving, much less from a sworn enemy.

A derisive snort not unlike the venting of a steam engine reverberated on the other side of the channel, then there was another pause; but the sound of mechanized breathing was slightly louder now, as if Perturabo was leaning in closer — and then this was followed by a strange series of soft sliding noises, as if many snakes slithered in unison from all directions at once.

Not much time had passed, but it was certainly enough for Dorn to have realized that there was none here but he, unless he expected that there was some tactical maneuver being carried out while he bought time. Yet that infuriatingly blank disaffected voice was all Perturabo heard coming from the other side of the comm.

Perturabo had the clear advantage here and he knew it, as he had seen this place and the entire region around it in an exacting detail that gave him the foreknowledge that this abandoned husk of a rock was almost entirely vacant. Dorn couldn’t possibly have such capabilities with nothing but a Thunderhawk at his disposal and yet, he seemed to assume that there was no reason to suspect anything at all.

The idea that Dorn trusted in this, and still viewed him to have some modicum of honor even after what Perturabo had set him up for the last time they met, angered him greatly. For too many reasons. For no reason at all.

He growled lowly; and yet for all the animosity that radiated from his ironclad form, he did not wish for this discussion to end so soon.

In fact, he desired things that were blatantly ridiculous. Was he truly so lonely in his seclusion that any form of conversation or interaction was desirable, even from a source as this?

“…I came here alone.” Perturabo spat out argumentatively as if the words themselves—that he was the one that spoke—offended him.

Why did he volunteer such strategically compromising information? Why had he offered Dorn such security? Why had he proven the assumption that he still somehow deserved to be viewed with any dignity whatsoever—correct?

Heat rose and smoldered in his chest like burning coals, which ached in ways he’d not thought possible at all any more — far more passionate; directed and focused than the Engine of Discontent he had become allowed for after being left for so long to his own devices, and dwelling almost entirely within his own psyche.

“So my radars have indicated. Why have you come here, Brother?”

Dorn replied with that same alarming ease, yet surely Perturabo could hear something else in Dorn’s voice, the slightest waver, the barest shift of intonation that sounded eerily like relief. Something that Dorn hadn’t had the luxury of fully hiding by mechanics and machines.

Yet with the confirmation on the screens turning to reality by Perturabo’s own admission, Dorn shifted in his stance, contemplating in his mind what this could all truly mean. His Brother had never been one to shy away from using overwhelming force or suffering innumerable casualties to get exactly what he wanted.

That was simply a fact.

However, in a twist of the usual, his Brother had come here, alone.

“What is your purpose here? …Really.”

Dorn found himself inquiring before he could stop himself and had given Perturabo the opportunity to answer the first question he had asked, never being one usually interrupting or layering more questions until the previous one was addressed.

Here he was though, already stumbling and though the questions were similar, the latter asked for a deeper meaning.

The expression on Dorn’s face hardened once more as something akin to a sigh could be heard over the communication feeds. He was moving now though, that much could be heard as it sounded like he now was within feet of the only line of communication with someone he'd had for so long.

That initial question was addressed with nothing more than an irritable grunt — though if that was because he didn’t want to answer or if Dorn had simply cut him off with that second question, was indeterminable.

Then, a dry, short laugh. Was Dorn showing impatience? Perhaps he was more rattled than his tone of voice conveyed…

Anxiety.

How amusing, if so; to be able squeeze emotions from solid stone. And truly, he should be worried, to be so far away from the more fortified bastions of the Empire. For even if he should send a distress signal or call for help in any way, it was a meaningless, futile endeavor. With one blast, this entire little rock could be wrought to dust. The only safety Dorn had here was in obscurity but he had been found.

There was a dull noise from the other side, followed once again by strange sounds like serpents moving in a synchronized slide. And then Perturabo’s unearthly deep voice came through, more distinct than the previous time — which only made its mechanized qualities more prominent.

“If I had come here to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Another breath could be heard on the other line, followed by a hollowed laugh, the laugh of a doomed man that understood just how right Perturabo actually was.

Especially when it came to his Brother.

This planet meant nothing when combating against his Brother, with his myriad of strategies and tricks up his sleeve.

Or whatever accounted for that, these days.

"If that is the case, then what are you waiting for? Why have you not pulled the metaphorical trigger, Perturabo?"

His words held a bitter edge, frustration bleeding through in a way that could not be muffled by his helmet. Yet, by the time he said his Brother's name, there was an air of resignment to it, as if he knew his death lurked around the very corner.

Or rather, hovering above the planet.

Perturabo could feel the frustration pouring out from the other side as much as he could hear it in Dorn’s voice. That rock-hard steadiness was crumbling already…

Why shouldn’t it? There was little use in resisting. There was little use in anything.

“Watching you squirm first will make it far more gratifying.” He retorted, and whatever it was that laced his voice with a nearly-vox coded quality —  wasn’t enough to disguise the disdainful scorn that weighted down every syllable.

Nothing happened as Dorn fell into a cold stillness for the following moments after Perturabo’s words. Silence answered the other end for a second, and another and then another — dragging out the tense pause in the air for longer than was necessary.

On purpose.

But when it began to feel like Dorn was ignoring him, he spoke once more with that same deep, unaffected tone he had used when speaking for the first time in ages. "Get on with it then, Brother. I'll be waiting."

There was no more challenge than that, open ended and flat and there were no other emotions peeking through, by accident or otherwise.

It was pointless. All for nothing. No matter what fortifications Dorn had made, this was no invulnerable fortress of stone and steel — though that likely wouldn’t have truly impacted the situation if it were. For regardless of any towering buttresses or fortified ramparts he may have erected; no matter any intricate traps that may have been set, ready to eviscerate or detonate an opposing army to gory ribbons; in spite of any labyrinthine fortifications designed to slow enemy forces down — there would be no foot soldiers to thin out here. There would be no invasion of… any sort.

Perturabo was not a fool. No matter how vulnerable Dorn’s tiny ship looked in the feed that was glaring from the screens in front of him, he knew there were impressive and likely intricate preparations made, full of dire and fatal secrets awaiting any force foolhardy enough to test him.

It was simply that none of it mattered a bit in this scenario.

Lamentably.

As they were both entirely aware.

So why did Dorn’s pervasive, bluntly demonstrated lack of defiance feel so bad to him now? To be met by total resignation annoyed Perturabo to his iron core; and he felt no joy in this swift surrender despite there being nothing else his Brother could feasibly do.

Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that exactly what he wanted to witness all along?

Perturabo dwelled on that possibility for a moment, though he already knew it was not true in the slightest well before he analyzed it. There were many reasons why he came here alone, but above all else it was to prevent Dorn from being crushed by a massive force he would have no hope of mounting a resistance against.

He’d never been above staging an unfair fight, to be forthcoming — but this was different.

Still, while pressed on the very precipice of oblivion itself with his back against the wall and no hope of survival, Perturabo was resentful, angry and wholly satisfied that Rogal Dorn was so willing to give up.

Where was that fire?

…Snuffed out, obviously. And maybe even lacking enough fading embers to try to reignite it, now.

Had he been wasting away all this time? The mere thought of that being his whole existence through the disconnected millennia that had passed between them, all the while lacking any sort of objective or goal for Dorn to build upon, infuriated him.

A thousand phrases flickered through Perturabo's mind, in a hundred different qualities; some scornful, some dangerously close to nearly defending Dorn, or at least the pride of a man he once knew—in a perplexingly roundabout way solely to give his own advancements meaning—yet he would speak none of them.

Instead, Perturabo said exactly what he had been thinking since the moment they’d somehow stumbled upon each other in the mindscape; or rather, since that moment had come to an abrupt end.

“I want to see your face again.”

He was genuinely surprised it had slipped out so easily, but he did not take it back.

Another round of silence.

But this time there wasn’t a purpose to be found. It was the moment when confusion flickered on Dorn’s normally stoic expression as he stared back at the flickering screens — as if he trying to see Perturabo’s face, to gauge for what true meaning those words held.

His ship had no such capabilities, however, for them reveal themselves to one another in such a way over screens filtering data feeds.

Yet, that did not mean he could not simply walk out of the Thunderhawk.

Face to face, Brother to Brother.

The idea made his twin hearts beat again to a racing crescendo, adrenaline flushing and entering his veins once more, just as it had done when he first heard the ship enter the atmosphere above him and the last bastion that he had eked out for himself.

“Meet planetside, approximately 1 kilometer to the east, there are no fortifications.”

Of course there had been a reason why—as that location didn’t have traps that he had set up. He truly had believed there was an army to face, however, that was increasingly proving to not be the case and because of that reasoning alone had he informed Perturabo of exactly where to go, where he could land his transport vessel safely.

Dorn lifted his remaining hand up, idle thoughts leading him to wonder if Perturabo even knew he was missing the other, as he pulled the helmet from his face and set it down on the command console with a heavy thunk, loud enough that the only other person on the line could hear it.

“We shall see one another.”

And then what?

For reasons Perturabo couldn’t begin to fully unravel—or maybe he didn’t want to examine any of them—the long silence in between was much harder to bear now despite it having been a constant on both sides of the conversation this entire time. But he thoroughly disliked the waiting required of him this time around, a sensation of gnawing discontent building inside him as he prepared for the answer that would inevitably be revealed.

A long exhale came as soon as he had that reply, unsteady and shuddered out in disbelief. It was then he knew why he’d been so uneasy.

And that he needn’t been.

With it, came the revelation to himself of what it was all along — of the true reason he’d come here to begin with, despite having other options that he may act upon later: to make that demand. To what end any of this would lead to, he had no calculated answer to for once, nor even a predicted outcome in mind. For it had been impulsive rather than carefully laid out, calculated plans. From the second that ethereal, fleeting visage came into his mind’s eye uninvited, he desired more; as much as he was loathe to admit it. But then, only to have it fade out so quickly was far worse, to the point it incensed him to the degree that he took immediate action.

The tension broke, only to be replaced by a much sharper, more visceral form as the doubtful assumptions he’d held had been proven completely wrong, now replaced by a strange rush that flooded his form with chemicals and anticipation as Dorn simply agreed.

“Very well. And so I shall.” He said simply, cutting off the communications channel as he prepared to land where directed without a moment’s hesitation.

The sound of heavy yet hollowed out ceramite hitting some unseen surface echoed in his mind long after the noise faded out.

Distinct, unmistakable.

A helmet, removed.

A demand, granted.

With grace no human pilot could have emulated with something as clumsy as physical or even auxiliary controls, the Lord of Iron navigated his transport by thought alone, making a gradual descent slowly and with care, demonstrating that he held no furtive intentions; that none of this was ever meant as some sort of ploy to bait Dorn out of hiding.

And it truly wasn’t. Where was the fun in that? As underhanded as he might have been at times, there was no sport in taking a victory by forfeiture.

He landed in a vacant flat patch not far from where he’d been directed, taking the same principle to heart as the one he’d extended. Dorn wouldn’t have him land into a trap.

That would have been far too underhanded a move for one so annoyingly upright. Though were he wrong about that, only to discover 'too late' that Dorn had changed over the years and had taken such a risk, well — showing him what a mistake he’d made might bring a different sort of satisfaction to this meeting.

Chapter Text

So came the beginning of the end.

Dorn reached out, resting his right hand over the console that was controlled by the Cygnus-class machine spirit, giving it the gentlest of touch as if it had been a real living companion that had kept him from full isolation this entire time.

Through quiet and slow, methodical inputs, the whine of the Void shield fizzled and faded out, reflecting brief fractals of brilliantly shimmering hexagons to the naked eye until each section faded, completely giving the ship up to the mercy of any to come to destroy it.

The communication array was disabled next, preventing further feeds going out and coming in, the capabilities of long-distance communications having died so long ago with the astropaths that should have accompanied it.

The tired expression on his face grew stern and harder as he kept his helm upon the console, having to only reach so far to set down the Voice of Terra alongside his helmet. There was no feasible way to utilize it with one hand anyway if he was to carry Storm’s Teeth.

Besides, he could no longer consider himself a Praetorian of Terra and, in fact, considered himself naught but a blight upon the Imperium’s legacy. His failures had brought the Empire to its knees. It no longer mattered if the Emperor had left the safety of his walls against the urging requests to remain, it mattered not that he had to fight hordes and throngs of Traitors down the path, sent so far away by the Ruinous Powers of the Warp.

He had been too late.

All of his carefully laid out ideas, defenses, traps, strategies, bulwarks and fortifications never mattered as he saw one of his Brothers dead before him, another obliterated out of existence and his Father dying upon the ground.

He had been too late.

So close to victory, unknowingly, yet it was not enough. Never enough.

Too late to change the outcome, too late change fate, too late change the inevitable that had prickled his gut and thoughts with the pressure of something he’d come to know as fear.

And then, to redeem himself, he couldn’t even be allowed that mercy, to die as the man he should have died as. Against the very Brother that visited him today. All because of Guilliman’s refusal to let him kill himself on his own terms.

It was all that it took to not turn the very bolter—that had been gifted to him by the Legio Custodes—onto himself. Dishonorable and disgraceful, yet with all trust gone in him by the Imperium, who could he blame but himself?

There was a second chance now, to die by combat.

Furious, righteous combat.

This time, between Perturabo and himself, with no Ultramarine interference to prevent this ticking timer to destruction.

Perhaps, if his Thunderhawk miraculously survived, and was picked up by some roving band of Marine or Mechanicus, perhaps they would come into the chamber and see this helmet, see the bolter, and know the man that had carried these things once upon a time.

Long ago.

After 10000 years, would the stories tell of a Great Defender? Or would he simply be a cautionary tale to tell future Terrans?

Did Terra stand still?

Dorn’s hand clenched into a fist as he pulled away from the central console, giant form shaking in his armor.

It was, once again, too late to know the answer to that. His demise was waiting on the outskirts, waiting to see his face. He had no ability of some of his other Brothers to tell what would happen next.

He ignored the sudden wetness he felt stinging the corners of his eyes as he took steady breaths to calm the thrumming of his hearts and the pulsing of his blood as he retrieved Storm’s Teeth and headed to the exit.

Dorn did not look back as he left that central chamber that had served as his hold for millennia. He did not look back as he passed carefully created rows of metal sheetwork that had been intended to serve as additional shielding against forces that were not coming inside. He did not look back as the Thunderhawk’s discharging platform opened its maw to allow his full stature to exit the ship.

The dim light of a fading, dead sun struck him in the gray, bleak landscape; the towering walls of stone and dust, shaped like claws and teeth casted rudimentary shadows upon the ground. Yet even so, even in this space did his armor gleam its burnished copper and gold, wind whipping the faded red cloak behind him.

He took a step, Thud — muted sounds of his armor hitting the grainy and rocky dirt providing a sound, an echo in a space so devoid of life. Thud. Another shook the ground, dislodging the careful traps as Dorn stepped near them, knowing the path to tread like any other maze. Thud. The ground gave way and caved in beside him, dropping down to a several meter deep pit that would have entombed a normal Chaos space marine as another step Thud taken covered the cavern up with loosened boulders set to the side. One would fall in, another come to its aid which would have done nothing but loosen that next trap to crush. Thud. More of these types of traps became apparent the more he walked.

Interspersed between them: razor wire and the few mines that surely would have exploded unexpectedly—yet as Dorn walked by, his rhythmic steps echoing all the way—those mines went off in a controlled manner, small detonations announcing his approach, all of which he knew was broadcasted to his Brother.

Thud.

The ship was in the distance, the unkind gleaming ship that seemed a harbinger of what was to come.

Thud.

And closer still he walked, standing tall, standing proud, the final push of a man that wouldn’t go down easy no matter how resigned he had seemed to be on the ship. Thud. At this point there was nothing but solid ground, carrying himself nearer.

Nearer still.

Thud.

His gaze was hardened, face marred by a few scars and lined by well-groomed white sideburns and mutton chops leading to a beard that was hidden partially by the collar of his armor. In his right hand he carried that enormous chainsword, and to his left, nothing. The gauntlet was fashioned as normal, but with nothing to articulate its movements, it was rigid and stiff in comparison to the grip he held with the other.

Thud.

A hundred or so meters back from Perturabo’s ship, emblazoned with the crest of the Iron Warriors as they were now, Dorn finally stopped and waited.

Perturabo's single occupant ship landed without incident or fanfare, slowly coming to rest and then a halt before powering down in quick succession. There were no weapons readied, nor shields raised — though there was an obvious, strangely long delay after the craft went seemingly lifeless —  before at last, the door that sealed the hull opened with a hiss.

The ground below his massive armored feet shook with each resounding step, proof of the unfathomably heavy weight that held the Lord of Iron’s form, even when the ease in which he moved seemed to deny that very possibility.

For he was a reinforced bastion of steel, ceramite, and Iron. The embodiment of a living fortress and in many ways still reminiscent of a heavily modified yet completely modernized Cataphractii Terminator—his armor no doubt in some way still The Logos that he’d once crafted meticulously and painstakingly piece by piece, by hand so long ago and had worn in the days of the Heresy. Only now; it had undergone further modifications, or perhaps The Logos served as the blueprint for what he now wore — taken even beyond what had once been the most advanced piece of personalized tech in all the Empire.

His hulking bulk rested upon pressurized, mechanically augmented joints below those huge armored segments of that monstrous armor; gleaming in the dim light of the dying sun that radiated behind him, seeming nearly fearful to shine upon his mecha-daemonic form as it reflected weakly along shades of gleaming gunmetal gray and bronze. Lined with decorative tassels, embellished towering shoulder plates housed power generators and held dual rows of missile racks in triplicate; and between and below them rested the box-shaped central interface that supported two independently controlled laser cannons and gave protection far beyond what a simple helmet could provide.

From inside that square housing, wires and thick cables sprouted like a jungle of invasive black vines, all leading to interface points encircling and encroaching every available section of his skull, behind his ears and along his Black Carapace encased jawbone, that prosthetic added hinting to the possibility he’d run out of available space leading directly into his brain to support all the leads that were required to carry out the necessary functions of that armor — and that he'd had to resort to 'supplementary measures'.

His breastplate bore a mass of reinforced cables sneaking around from either side; most of which disappeared behind his back, yet the thickest two plugged into his chest, right above where his hearts were or—should have been if he still had them—the rest feeding directly into the dual rotating four-barreled cannons that were strapped to his gauntlets.

An embellished giant skull rested on his waist at the center of his tasseled belt, flanked on either side by front facing circular energy blasters, right above the modified chaingun barrels built into his leg plates and strapped to his thighs.

There was no part of Perturabo that was not both armored and armed, which was clearly and proudly displayed; and yet what he held in both hands was a gigantic melee weapon — understated in comparison by all the modern ranged weaponry he carried perhaps, but by no means anything less than the work of a Master of his craft — the fabled Forgebreaker.

And with it, he had made a clearly telegraphed statement that he had no intentions of simply fighting impersonally from a distance, should this situation come to blows so soon.

A stance he likely would have made anyway, but that decision was sealed the instant he’d watched Dorn so thoroughly and skillfully trigger his own traps in an obvious show of both honor and honesty. How completely and masterfully he’d guarded this barren, useless land; how gracefully he’d stepped both in and out of harm’s way, weaving a path behind him with a strength and determination that it made Perturabo’s system quicken and heat up to witness such magnificent artistry.

The anticipation was nearly at a boiling point as he took several slow, heavy paces forward.

At what point had Dorn stopped breathing as he watched that ship open with the sound of pressurized venting and whirring mechanical parts that announced the one now coming off of the ship, revealed in full splendor even at this distance?

Dorn was instantly reminded of the Terminator armor of old, yet this form too had an decidedly Perturabian twist in the design. But, he swore he could pick up the faintest representations of the original Logos Armor from times long since dead and gone.

In comparison, Dorn’s own panoply had not changed at all with the centuries that had passed, a hundred times over; with that dying light glinting over the eagle wings that adorned most of his armor, harkening back to the time he served the Emperor. Only the barest wear and tear could be seen. Even after all of this time, Dorn took immaculate care of his armor.

While Perturabo greatly enhanced his.

Even as he walked again, taking slow and lumbering steps forwards as he met that challenging stance head on, his movements were slower, as if he was taking in all of Perturabo’s form. For a man that hardly let emotions slip, there was a genuine expression of acknowledgement in his gaze.

Who knew if Perturabo could clock onto something like that from this far away.

Still, he showed it all the same, as Perturabo knew his craft well and it would take a blind man to not recognize that fact.

Even though his Brother was with Chaos now, he still looked mostly like the same Perturabo that he remembered, the same man he got into pointless squabbles with time and time again when Perturabo pushed his buttons just right.

His view swept over the Forgebreaker a moment later, drawn to it by the continued challenging stance. It was the sight of it that caused Dorn’s face to harden once more, not enjoying the implications one bit as to why Perturabo wielded that weapon.

It made the sensation of grief claw its icy talons over his aching hearts as he drew nearer, ever closer. This time he couldn’t shake it off entirely, even while his mind was still upon a set goal.

More and more of his outline was shown, just as much as more of Perturabo's was seen and witnessed in turn as the distance closed — and he stopped only when they were mere meters from one another, a gap that could be easily vaulted across in a blink of an eye, for either side.

Storm’s Teeth was lifted and levied in a similar manner, out in front of him — while Dorn’s eyes narrowed.

For all his mechanized processes and prowess, it was as if the cyborg monolith that was Perturabo came to a complete and utter halt. It mattered not in this moment what of his original body remained and what had been replaced, as it all simply stopped in biomechanical unison as he stared out with unwavering, unblinking eyes, witnessing the approaching glory that was Dorn.

His shrewd, enhanced vision scanned ahead but it was not with any analysis in mind, nor did he pay a bit of attention to the blipping, beeping and ever-expanding readouts that danced within the margins of his peripheral vision, so much data that only he could ever perceive it all; feeding him logistics and details that he paid no heed.

What organs and biological processes rested inside of that cold, unfeeling ironclad armor? None might know, and yet there was not one doubt that the entity protected below it felt; tremendously so — despite that answer possibly being that no biology remained at all, even though logically, this could not be.

For that eternal bitterness was still there; that wave of disparaging enmity and resentment that had been broadcasted openly when they had crossed paths within the labyrinths and fortresses of his mindscape. And just as it had been when Perturabo laid eyes on Dorn in that most opportune moment, when that wave of darkness rippled like a pebble cast into a pond, each vibration changed the quality of those feelings into something different — that while was no doubt still as abyssal, carried waves of pain beneath the roiling current.

Only this time, there was no sudden shutoff to disconnect Dorn from the backlash.

It was a complex wave of despair, complicated and knotted so thick with overlapping grudges, endless slights and perpetually building perceived moments of discontent; a state of permanent misery that was always added to and never subtracted from. And he carried it with him like a constant companion, even through the many millennia they had spent apart, not one single moment of disappointment or second of hurt Dorn had caused him—no matter how tiny—ever forgotten, and never forgiven. Yet every incident Perturabo had endured then was always left unexpressed, unresolved and thereby left to fester, now rising to the surface unbidden and unwelcome as he watched Dorn come ever closer at long, long last.

A surge of errant energy rippled through the cables that interfaced with his brain like lightning as he endeavored to shatter that void of despairing malice through the power of sheer will, to be replaced as he struggled to override that instability with something he could actually use.

Anger.

“Brother.” Perturabo growled out that simple word that was anything but simple, his voice unfathomably deep yet clear, with a metallic tinge that was now confirmed to truly come straight from his own lips.

While his sword arm remained aloft, directed in Perturabo’s direction, Dorn studied what he could of the man that he called Brother. Ever as always, even after so long apart, he could feel those roiling emotions that emanated from Perturabo in a clinging, miasmic way.

The bitterness, the rage, the animosity left to rot and fester to a completely new crescendo of loathing.

There was something else, however, Dorn could feel it, a flicker of something barely underneath the surface as his body dumped more adrenaline in his system, the precursor to the all too familiar fight-or-flight response.

Yet Dorn was not fleeing, he remained resolute to the spot.

His finger remained off of the trigger of Storm’s Teeth, wielding the gigantic weapon with practiced ease that suggested that Dorn had not forgotten how to engage in combat despite being long out of anything that could constitute as genuine practice.

Such training never left his muscle memory.

“Brother.” Dorn responded in a similarly curt way, just as he had done over the communications array. Just like before, his voice was low, strong, loud and echoing in this desolate world they both stood upon.

With the dimly glaring sun glinting off his ghastly silhouette and along the reflective alternating black and yellow diagonal stripes that decorated his armor as he moved, Perturabo revved into motion once more, still slowly; and not with any great aggression behind it — though it was openly expressed that this could change at the slightest provocation while he closed the distance as much as he could before crossing the broken earth between them would be a requirement, one huge, heavy armored boot resting precariously halfway over the edge of that craggy scar cut across the land.

But here Perturabo stopped, callous eyes boring aggressively down and into Dorn from above. He was not entirely the same as he had appeared in the vision where they had met as this construct—as transhumanist as it was—still retained far more of Perturabo than the abominable Chaos Engine that had been perceived in the Immaterium, which contained nothing human whatsoever beneath that gleaming black metal faceplate. Those eyes even so, in this form, were no longer the pale clear blue of the past — though if this new hostile red glow was due to cyber enhancements or Chaos corruption, was unclear. His skin was lifeless, pallid and pulled tight over wide, strong bones and hard features that were still as sharp as they had ever been, his face as if it had been created by craftsman's chisel against stone.

An almost lazy smirk tugged at his lip, and he shook his head derisively before standing to his full height while bearing the fullness of his massive weight on the leg furthest away. But even so, the patch of broken land below him was cracking in weak protest from the strain. It seemed he cared not one bit should it completely fall beneath him, however.

“It pleases me to see that your fighting spirit has not left you.” Perturabo remarked sincerely, yet he oddly did not simply charge into the fray as might have been expected of him now if not long before this moment. Instead, his stare now traveled over Dorn’s significantly shorter but incredibly strong form, sizing his opponent up for several long seconds before locking on directly onto Dorn’s face — with extreme intensity and undisguised interest as he carefully studied the changes that had come with age and the passing of time. “And that you… humored my wish to see you with my own eyes.”

As Perturabo stepped closer, Dorn remained as he was, letting his Brother be the one to finally close the acceptable gap between the both of them. Surprising to him, while Dorn continued to feel the weight of hatred emanating from Perturabo’s very being, he noted that there was none of the recklessness.

For now.

Despite that roiling rancor, it was increasingly evident that Dorn held none of the same sentiment, of rivalry or true hostility toward Perturabo. The blunt and to-the-point words and flat intonation he used were simply a product of how he conducted himself socially.

After all, there was no one that he hated more than himself.

In as much time that Perturabo gazed upon his face, Dorn had lifted his own to stare back, locking eye contact with that reddish, hellish gleam. Interest, Dorn picked up that emotion instantly.

The only reaction to that new bit of information was given only the slight furrowing of his brow.

Why was Perturabo… hesitating?

Was he hesitating?

It didn’t outright read in his body language or facial expressions, yet his Brother hadn’t charged in, much as Dorn had expected him to do so. Another deviation from the facts he clung to time and time again.

No matter, it would simply be another shift in his own calculations.

“The fighting spirit never leaves a Primarch, even against insurmountable odds.” Dorn responded, still evenly, still careful, and still remaining rooted to the spot as he was.

Though, the growing anticipation that now replaced the grief from earlier, set more and more of his heightened senses alight.

“It was a request easily fulfilled.”

He needed to remain focused.

“Certainly not. And especially not one as stubborn as you.” Perturabo remarked quickly; and though there had never been anything about him that could in any way be considered good natured even in the best of times, there was no mistaking the jest in that jab. It was commentary that was both factual and perhaps as close to humor as he could get — rather than outright insulting.

“Mm. Is that… so…” He said next, thick black eyebrows furrowing as he contemplated that last remark. He mulled things over for a moment, looking away as he considered what it was he was about to say.

Was it hesitation, or something else entirely that gave Perturabo pause?

After a long second, he looked in his Brother’s direction again, removing his left hand from its resting place atop Forgebreaker’s massive, long haft. And as soon as he was holding it single handedly, he tilted his wrist, allowing the warhammer’s incredible weight to pull it to the ground as he easily rested it against the jagged, cracked earth below his foot.

Gesture on his own end made, he now detailed his original, easily fulfilled request.

“Then would… you lower your weapon so that I might truly see you?”

For a split second, Dorn’s expression faltered, a similar shift that showed confusion underneath a normally stoned face complexion. Just as quickly as it showed through, his expression was back to that of a soldier. Hard and stern, as Perturabo actually looked away from him.

Paranoia began to creep up Dorn’s spine as he tried to analyze what his Brother’s game was in doing all of this, especially going so far as setting the Forgebreaker’s head to the ground.

What…?

“Very… well…”

Slowly blinking, Dorn carefully lowered his arm until his chainsword was angled diagonally towards the ground. Through the action, he straightened his posture tighter, pushing out his chest to look even larger in the armor he wore, never lifting his head further than he absolutely needed to.

Perturabo’s expression darkened as he watched Dorn give in further to his demands without argument. What a strange turn of events this was, as he’d never truly expected to see Dorn before him like this, even when he’d spoken to him after entering the planet’s atmosphere. Nor had he expected for him to meet up so easily, to go so far as to remove his helmet — and now, he’d moved that gigantic chainsword out of the way to give him an uninhibited view of what he'd traveled all this way in hopes of a single, fleeting glimpse of, whether that had been after Dorn had been brought down to the craggy ground beneath his feet in the wake of a ship’s blast, or knocked out cold — his helmet cast off in the impact or otherwise manually removed…

Of course, even as they were now, neither of them were defenseless, and neither of them thought such a thing. It was the principle of the matter, the way this had come to be in such an agreeable way and with little if any real hostility between them, despite the animosity they held toward one another.

Perturabo couldn’t help but wonder if Dorn truly did still have something up his armored sleeve despite there being no evidence of it. It all felt too convenient, too contrived, too simple.

But that didn’t stop him from taking exactly what he’d been given, greedy eyes scanning every detail of Dorn’s face, comparing it to the image he’d held in his head and updating both his mind and memory banks to commit the changes in perpetuity…

Time had surely weathered him, but if anything had truly left its mark upon that stalwart, stoic face it was despondency that had painted the broadest strokes upon his canvas. The additional facial hair and increased thickness of what had always been there, likely didn’t help matters in that regard. For he was still Dorn in every conceivable way but progressed further, with the boyish look he’d once held, now refined into a man instead. It was not at all unsuited to him.

“I hardly believed it was you. Perhaps I have an overly suspicious nature.” Perturabo grumbled out rather than saying anything that could have been misinterpreted as a thanks. “The ease in which you received me here did little to calm my algorithms, might I add.” Though the strong, proud and resolute stance his Brother had now taken was the most Dornian thing possible, and Perturabo grunted through his teeth at the sight. “In fact I might still harbor some doubts though such misgivings become… less likely with each passing second.”

Dorn settled into the newer stance that he had now adopted as he granted Perturabo unfettered access to gaze upon his face. The tension of muscles may not have been outwardly seen to viewing eyes, yet he felt like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at the merest provocation thrown his way.

If Perturabo changed his mind from speaking to hitting, Dorn was ready to react, violently.

However, his Brother continued to speak, far more beyond cutting words and jabs against him. Perhaps it was simply the shock of facing one another after so long and this period of ‘niceties’ would not linger for too much longer.

Dorn felt compelled to speak in turn.

Starting short, curt and blunt, as always; yet speaking all the same.

“As I am well aware.” It wasn’t as if Dorn was any better, even now, that creeping sense of paranoia continued to slither up his spine, sending the smaller hairs on the back of his neck to stand on edge.

On the edge of a precipice.

Ready to fall.

“I have no more traps, nor are there tricks hidden behind false civility. The trenches were designed for your Warriors, if you had brought any with you, if at least to slow the advance and make our meeting as inconvenient as possible.”

Why had Dorn admitted all of that?

He reasoned, to himself, that it was one final chance to share the thought process in his mind as his searching stare dropped to Perturabo’s form once more, taking in the sights of each piece of armor, armament and augmentation.

“With only you…" He began as he shifted his gaze upwards once more, "…there was little use in sequestering myself away. I know your capabilities.”

There was a pause before he added, to account for the time long separated.

“Had known.”

“Of course.” Perturabo said offhandedly, but the bristliness he had displayed a moment ago was wiped clean as Dorn continued to speak, revealing all of his plans — or lack there of now that the situation was confirmed that they met one-on-one now with the same attitude; and without interruptions, without interference; as Warriors, as Brothers.

That was, surely, why Perturabo had come here alone. A fate that was decided the moment he’d fully confirmed that Dorn was truly alone on this dusty rocky, come what may; whether it end with a tense and fragile agreement or an all out fight to the death, this time was theirs and theirs alone. And should it come to the bitterest end; and should he somehow lose though that could never happen — he would have been perfectly content to let it come to such a conclusion with his entire Legion being left in a panic; to wonder what had happened in the incalculable time it would take him to drag himself up, battered and splintered, from the void and back to Medrengard. He’d let nothing stand in his way, and let no one know where Dorn was, even to his own detriment.

And especially not one single individual attached to the Iron Warriors or Dark Mecanicum. He would obliterate all of Medrengard himself before it came to that.

Yet somehow he was left more than a little surprised to learn that Dorn felt the same to some degree; that there would be nothing coming between them now, to the point of disabling his every contingency plan and forfeiting his last resort. While it could be said that Perturabo had come to the same agreement and willingly given up his advantages—and even might state such aloud if asked to plead his case here by some invisible judge—that wasn’t the truth. For the very construct that he had become was nothing less than a mobile siege force in full attendance, replacing entire sectors needed to stage a campaign; a machine not only built for waging entire wars — but for winning them, alone.

He’d not stoop to that level though, not with Dorn here, isolated and completely on his own — Perturabo would have simply wrought this place to naught but dust and ash without even bothering to land first, should he have felt that way; and exactly as every single soldier of his Legion would have salivated at the mere thought of and taken great pleasure in doing — should they ever learn of the Golden Treasure buried inside this useless speck of land.

Something that was his and his alone to stake his claim upon…

An image, as darkly oppressive in context as it was from the lack of illumination flickered through the spaces in between them, unbidden and undirected…

As quickly as it came, the nightmarish vision faded out; a brief glimpse into a realm best left untrodden and thankfully, temporary. Whatever it had been, Perturabo seemed entirely unbothered if not wholly unaware of its intrusion as his unnatural, resentful eyes stayed locked on Dorn’s face with an expression that remained unchanged the entire time. An expression that technically could only be described as passionless; emotionless — yet it was somehow caustic all the same, hot with a burning fury beneath that cold metal form, so detached from the situation that it was rendered to little more than concept — a emotional distinction that more likely to be felt than seen, something that might be intrinsically known, yet with no evidence to possibly prove it.

Just like the strange vision that had descended upon this once-still plane.

“Do you truly know what I am capable of, Dorn?” Perturabo asked flatly as his glare continued to drill into Dorn’s face with obsessive vitriol — never blinking, never breaking; as if he were simply too greedy to give up a single moment of the view.

At some point, all of Dorn’s motions had simply stalled, any movement was ultimately from the atmospheric forces and winds that lightly pushed past that faded red velvet cloak. He stood like a bulwark after the words spoken, waiting to see what would come next in this dangerous game they were playing with one another.

One move.

And then another.

And another.

What Dorn could never had expected, however, was to be drenched in a sensation wholly different than that simmering friction below the surface that was waiting for just the right spark.

In the time it took for him to flick his gaze to something unseen, his mind was assailed by that strange vision, not unlike what he had picked up on when he first made contact with his Brother by pure happenstance. No matter how quick it had come and gone, the imagery was seared into his mind’s eye.

Without understanding the why, Dorn felt his body heat up within his armor, and the body glove that wrapped around his form seemed stifling for a couple of nano-seconds further still, while his subconscious had picked up on the vision’s meaning far before his physical body had wanted to even consider it.

His dark gaze flicked onto Perturabo’s face, reading the cold and calculating expression there that betrayed nothing. Dorn’s brows furrowed a second later yet he miraculously continued to hold the stance he was in without a moment of wavering.

What was that?

Whatever it had been, Perturabo was not reacting to it in any manner that he could pick up on.

The following seconds, while his thoughts caught up after that whiplash, Dorn felt endorphins mixing with the adrenaline flushing through his entire body, further encouraging that stifling feeling. All the while his hearts seemed to beat faster than before, as if he was far more keenly anticipating…

Something.

There was an ever further tense pause, letting the situation fester even longer as he carefully found the words he wanted to speak next. “As you stand before me, as the man that you are now…” Another pause, quicker resolved this time, but one all the same as he continued to fixate his attention onto Perturabo’s face.

Though even there, he found his gaze trailing along one of the meandering cables that Perturabo did not have the last time they had seen each other. “…I would say no, I am unaware of what you are truly capable of, Perturabo.” He admitted to the lack of intel on his side.

No contact with the wider network.

How could he ever hope to know?

Perturabo’s perpetual stare devoured the sight, ravenously; of Dorn, his steadfastness, his grandeur — so noble his countenance—somehow—despite taking so many blows to his pride, despite all that weighed him down and threatened to crush him, even now. Despite knowing that he had all but given up only minutes ago, Perturabo could so plainly see that he still maintained his honor and even during what seemed to be surrender, he truly intended to carry this out to the bitter end if that was the only option he had left. To not go down without a fight no matter how futile the situation and without even relying on his fortifications which in all fairness, was his specialty.

That series of realizations set a jolt through Perturabo’s system, igniting something within him so complex he wasn’t even sure how to categorize it, but it was thoroughly excited — laced with flurry of synthetic chemicals that set flesh and metal alike into gear.

In that moment he understood something he’d known all along but had never formed into a complete concept until witnessing Dorn without his fire, no matter how brief. No matter how desperately and thoroughly he wanted to crush Dorn beneath his feet countless times over the many years, it would only have meaning when his rival was fighting back. And not even simply that, but giving it his all. Only then would Perturabo be satisfied. Perhaps even his own willingness to resort to any means necessary had robbed him of that glory — but that hadn’t mattered as they’d been interrupted anyway, back then. That was corrected now. There would not be so much as a single son of either side on the battlefield, this time — and no intruders.

This was truly, entirely personal.

There wouldn’t even be any witnesses to applaud his victory and it caught him entirely off guard to realize that didn’t matter at all, though he would have sworn it vital, once.

And he didn’t want Dorn to simply surrender. He wanted Dorn to submit.

His tongue darted over his lips at the mere thought… to see that regal form on his knees in front of him in capitulation, begging for mercy; brought down in defeat, finally acknowledging him and giving him the recognition he deserved.

Something that would never come easily.

Most surprisingly, despite all the things that came to his mind now, he felt what he’d said over the communication channel — down to his soul, his very iron core. He did not wish to actually kill Dorn, not in the slightest.

In fact, his death would have resulted in the hollowest of all victories…

Perturabo flashed a bitter smile of scorn as he witnessed handsome features darkening as Dorn mulled something over he could not begin to guess, but he surmised it must have related to this situation in some way — though he certainly misjudged the true predicament he was in. After all, Perturabo himself had only begun to understand it, now. And he was the one that held all the true initiative.

“Indeed.” That smile deepened but it was nothing pleasant; and yet the challenging nature simmering below the surface was not entirely malicious. Hostile, certainly. Malcontent, without doubt. But there was a distinct lack of the one thing that had driven the entirety of their last clash — the desire for finality, of death as the means to settle the score.

“Then let us fight, you and I. It is what you clearly want, and I do as well. Brother against Brother, man against man. No armies, no meddlers. And as you have both humored my wishes and fully disarmed your stronghold willingly, I meet your efforts with a similar pledge. I will not fire rounds upon you unless you provoke it.” Despite the inorganic qualities of his unnerving, mechanized voice, the passion that shook within his words and the fervor he delivered them with was entirely human.

“This is not a siege, not this time. No strategy, no long drawn out contracted plans. This is not war but combat, pure and straightforward. Let us see which of us is the strongest, not a battle of wits this time but a battle of wills.” His deep set glowing red eyes narrowed as he glowered down with openly displayed bravado.

“And I shall I trust you have not lost a bit of your edge, Rogal Dorn.”

There it was.

Words accompanied by that smile that didn’t reach those crimson eyes that gleamed brightly in his direction, appraising and devouring him in such a manner that gave Dorn a strange sensation. Pushing that aside, however, this is what Dorn had been expecting from the very moment that they heard one another over the communications array.

Dorn clung to the knowledge of that meeting, instead of whatever it was that he had been made privy to only seconds earlier, at the complete obliviousness from the man that had caused such a vision to assail him in the first place. Was he aware? Did it matter if he was or not?

Ignoring that now, they stood on that precipice of battle, making all the adrenaline that had been dumped into him and keeping him hyper aware of their surroundings, all the much more worth it.

Nothing would get in between them. No legions, no sons, no Brothers… No reinforcements, nothing but themselves and what they brought to bear. If he were to die here, then it was just as well, chasing something he had been seeking since the incident at the Iron Cage no matter how many others amongst his ranks had felt satisfied by the outcome.

It wasn’t satisfying for Dorn.

In stark contrast, now, only the coming battle mattered.

Not… whatever else he was being subjected to feel, even long after the remnants faded. Try as he might, he could not purge the forbidden knowledge from his head. A dangerous distraction.

Gritting his teeth and straightening up, Dorn lifted his weapon, finger resting alongside the trigger as he took his stance with renewed vigor as this fresh wave of anticipation pulsed through him. His other arm was poised at his side, waiting to be used in whatever handicapped measure he could seek for it to take.

What more was to be said to his Brother’s words?

As it was, a wry smile finally broke through the callous stoicism as he barked out a challenge to Perturabo across the gap, waiting for the first move to be made while his voice bounced off the rocky surfaces.

“Then come, test your might against me, Brother and we shall see who emerges victorious.”

Perturabo bristled from the exhilaration of an adrenergic storm that shot through his entire body as the situation registered; that this unexpected and thoroughly unlikely tournament not even conceived until today was about to become reality—a fight for the ages; right here, right now—a genuine clash of titans of massive proportions was truly coming to pass and with a purity of intent between them that he’d never once thought possible. To fight simply to fight, to pit themselves against each other for nothing more than the sake of determining who would win; for sport.

Had there ever been anything conceived that was more true to the genuine nature of a Primarch?

And it would unfold for no greater purpose, for no audience but themselves and with nothing to prove to anyone but each other, they would trade blows in the middle of absolutely nowhere, where even the planet they stood upon would not be missed — likely not even noticed should it crumble to dust and vanish into obscurity in the aftermath.

He knew that no matter how it ended, it would be legendary; a battle worthy of being recorded and remembered for all time, should anyone have the privilege of witnessing them. But no one would. No one else was welcome here.

Shockingly, instead of feeling slighted by this unusual turn of events he felt selfishly and self-righteously satisfied in the ability to be able to keep such a monumental thing entirely private, even if that meant he would have no bragging rights to claim in the end no matter how great his victory may be.

That was fine. No, more than fine. This… this opportunity, just as it was, so intimate — was far more precious.

He was completely bewildered by how wonderful it all felt as this situation was in all ways flying in the face of the very principles they’d both seemed to uphold once, regarding terms of combat and the rules of engagement.

His only regret was that he’d not been able to erect a grand coliseum worthy of housing such a historic fight. But no matter, it would doubtlessly have been crushed into gravel in no time anyway.

With a raucous, metallic laugh and feeling as though he’d been injected with combat stims despite it being an entirely natural high, Perturabo sprung into action. He raised that massive warhammer with such ease that it almost belied its true mass, much as his movements did once there was purpose driving him forward.

The hulking monstrosity of metal and cables that was Perturabo took to the air as easy as a thought, and with a quickness that no one could have anticipated from such a hateful, calamitous thing he closed the gap that both physically and metaphorically once separated them — but no longer.

Surely, he was far slower than he could have been should he have sacrificed even a part of his cumbersome mass for agility but such had never been Perturabo’s way, but the reimagined Neo-Logos still moved far faster than any mortal eyes could have hoped to track.

With a great and thunderous yell, Forgebreaker was brought down in a lumbering, slow, double fisted overhead swing, aiming straight for that huge embellished chainsword that had been all but burned into his memory from days long past — his initial move intentionally easily predicted and parried; delivered in an act of ritual, the physical consummation of their verbal challenge; the opening ceremony breaking ground for the Olympian feats to come.

Despite being anything but for such a long time, Perturabo didn’t know if he’d ever felt more alive.

Chapter Text

Beyond his issued challenged hanging heavy in the air between them, Dorn said nothing more as his expression hardened further, pulling to mind the idea of a well-coordinated and trained soldier.

The severe expression did not hide a telling glint in Dorn’s hazel eyes, pupils constricted to fine points as he kept all of his senses trained onto Perturabo.

While he might not have all the augmentations to give readouts and data directives planted in his skull, that wouldn’t have mattered anyway as he thoroughly engrossed himself in witnessing his Brother in full splendor without hindrance.

Just the two of them.

No matter who would be the victor, if he were to die today, it didn’t feel akin to a weak-hearted acceptance of finality. The grief and sheer magnitude of the depression that consumed his hearts and soul like a ravenously hungry void was replaced by the surge of new emotions.

Finally he had an external force to contend with that would serve as his judge, jury and executioner.

As Perturabo moved in a speed that outright defied gravity despite his hulking form, Dorn didn’t bother to hide that he had a measure of interest in just exactly what it was that Perturabo was capable of.

This was a chance to learn something new.

In a quick motion, Storm’s Teeth was brought up, blade turned to catch the head of the maul against a few of the sharp teeth of his chainblade. His other arm was brought to up to mitigate that first blow. The impact between both forces was loud, sending a shockwave of dust and debris around them from the sheer concussive force of first contact.

Additionally, the ground shattered under their combined weight meeting at one point, sending gravel and dirt up and away and as he held this stalemate for all but a few seconds, his gaze locked onto Perturabo’s red eyes, something brief flickering behind that forceful stare.

In a movement that defied all mortal senses, his left arm pulled back at the same time that his right index finger caught the trigger mechanism of Storm’s Teeth. It whined and whirred to life, catching onto Forgebreaker and sending sparks flying as the force pushed the other weapon up and off the blade.

If it had been any other armament, surely the Teeth had all the potential to tear through. Instead, Dorn turned his wrist to continue the momentum of eventually dragging the maul away by the gripping hooks alone as Dorn pushed off to the side opposite the momentum of the Perturabo’s initial swing.

The ground continued to be pulverized under the heavy movements made as Dorn’s own motions became heightened and quick; an alarmingly stark contrast to the lumbering steadiness that he had revealed when coming down the veritable minefields.

As soon as his blade was free in another shower of sparks, he swung those whirring teeth towards Perturabo’s side.

Blistering, synthetic alkaline coursed through Perturabo's engineered form in an electrifying rush of fluids delivering potency to both flesh and Iron alike as the thrill of combat overtook him. Not even the deliberate technicity he had all but been consumed whole by, was enough to hold back the instincts of a Primarch in the throes of battle.

All the more heightened by the challenger being a Brother; his own kind — the only kind of truly worthy opponent in all existence to face in a one-on-one engagement.

And then it crested further still into a state of near delirium, distilled into a dangerously intoxicating mixture by the simple fact that it was Dorn that stood before him, so resolutely withstanding his force like the bastion of defense that he was.

But that did not mean that he was ever to be underestimated when he went on the attack; and Perturabo would never be so foolhardy as to forget that.

Reinforced joints heaved their pressurized hisses beneath the colossal strain of his motions when force collided with inertia, his system quickening the instant he felt that impressive and phenomenal strength, the very husk of the planet they clashed upon giving way before Dorn himself did — and despite the fact that he’d had size, mass and gravity on his side, that stronghold of pure defiance…

…did not give. That feeling set his every wire and nerve electric.

The screens that lined his peripheral vision blinked and blared and screeched their analyses; their logistics; their warnings — yet Perturabo gave them no heed as every bit of his concentration and focus was boring straight down into those eyes that were every bit as clear he as remembered them, despite the low light of a dying, burnt out sun. Red gleaming intensity was unbreaking even as he twisted with the motions of a whirring chainsword that pulled his centrally positioned strike into a glancing one, and he followed it through without resistance, moving with Dorn rather than against him.

The orange-hot sparks that showered them like the exhaust from a blowtorch grew in number as motorized teeth met the dense, blunt head of his warhammer for a second time; and with great dexterity came a swing that took Perturabo by fascinated surprise.

Time had not taken a bit of Dorn’s prowess — of that Perturabo was sure already, regardless of the obvious age that had settled on his face. To his delight, the flesh had not yet failed him.

That swing was coming far too fast for Perturabo to possibly maneuver Forgebreaker into a feasible parrying position in time, but he still had an ample span to see it coming and block by other means. He raised a gigantic leg, joint rotating on its axis; and he deflected the swing as chainsword met chaingun, the blade hitting the immense barrel with a high pitched shriek of metal sliding against metal before the sound gave way to the dull, hungering noises of a revving chainblade chewing savagely into empty air.

The sparks rained overhead, as did the disturbed crusts of the wounded earth that sagged and groaned weakly beneath the force of the two giants battling upon its marred surface, the fissure widening as pieces broke away and fell into the gaping maw below.

Every single sense of Dorn’s was set afire, the faintest embers that had been low and dormant had sparked a renewed fervor through his veins, his mind and even down to his very soul.

He needed this after so many millennia of solitude, to feel what it meant to be alive again instead of deteriorating through stagnation and stillness. His body, now a weapon once more, now the weapon he knew he could be — just as much as it was a shield.

He was in the fray, the meat of the battle; with no one that he needed to command, no lives he needed to oversee.

None but his own.

There was an elegance in his motions, in his actions, that seemed to be a far cry beyond what he could and should have been capable of in his drive to seek what tide this battle would turn to.

Dorn watched as he turned his head in the time that he relegated his chainsword to strike to Perturabo’s side. He watched and reveled at the belated turn from his Brother, even if Perturabo ultimately managed to deflect.

The shower of sparks over his body, lighting up the harder parts of his face was a welcome rain, precursors of what was to come. Despite himself, or perhaps due to having only one other man as his witness, Dorn let out a short rumbling laugh, eyes going wide to drink in the sight.

Storm’s Teeth bit and gnawed into the chaingun and Dorn revved the instrument of destruction in his hands, searing and gouging into the metal as it gave way to be consumed by his forceful strike.

As soon as he pulled the blade free, he planted his foot into the ground and shoved off, adding another crack of rock under his feet in his motion to maneuver three-quarters behind Perturabo.

Perturabo could feel the strain—the vibrations, the destruction—rippling against his heavily armored leg plate as Storm’s Teeth chewed through and mangled the barrel of the huge oversized chaingun installed into the cuisse of Neo-Logos; as if that enormous, bespoke weapon meant for a Daemon Primarch that he had forged himself from reinforced Medrengardian metal — was nothing more than cheap plasticine.

It shouldn’t have been possible, any other chainsword surely condemned to spit its teeth out in defeat like a weak, defanged dog for such an attempt—and yet he was neither surprised nor unhappy to witness that chaingun's immediate deactivation, despite all the time and care he’d put into creating it.

He saw what was going to happen next well before it did, telegraphing the result as he was watching those graceful movements that carried Dorn away from him like waves crashing against the shore. Yet there was nothing he could do about it as Dorn’s swiftness and size gave him the advantage of maneuverability, and Perturabo knew it.

And so he did not even try an evasive action when Dorn so tactically moved to position himself behind him, knowing that would have been a futile waste of energy. Ultimately clumsy; inefficient. Instead, the Lord of Iron waited; not in hesitation, not in resignation — but in anticipating the perfect moment to launch his counter attack.

As Dorn had begun to slip fully out of sight, Perturabo clenched his fist, raised his arm to chest level and thrusted his elbow back with all his might. With great straining; shaking, the perfectly still Colossus moved as if a mountain had suddenly come to life with the reverberant groan of metal and puffing of pressurized joints. The raw strength behind his muscles—augmented by electro-motivated fiber bundles far thicker than those of any power armor of any distinction ever worn within the Imperium of man—used to full potential.

Yet that was not the actual attack he attempted to land, the initial move serving as both a misdirect and a means to gain more momentum as his shoulder was pulled into the maneuver as well; and he leaned back as he followed it through to the discordant tune of his gargantuan spine flexing, fully trusting that one of the tremendous triplicate missile arrays, one of his laser cannons or some other of his many peripherals — would connect no matter where Dorn had positioned himself.

As Dorn moved into his new position from around Perturabo, deliberately using his opponent's size against him, his attention was brought to his Brother's heavily armored and decked out legs.

Reading the situation and taking a moment to try and get a visual cue on some sort of weak point, was a fruitless endeavor as he couldn't find anything.

To be expected. He was fighting Perturabo, after all.

That didn't mean he wouldn't make his own way to reveal chinks in armor, though as his mind quickly came up with the next course of action, he saw the elbow coming against him, heard the whirring of mechanics and the creak of armor…

Another split second and the direction he moved to get out of the way was the wrong one as as he quickly smashed into by one of the larger units upon Perturabo's shoulder.

It had been a flip of the coin.

If not for masterful bracing, he might have even been brought to the ground. No, instead, he locked his legs and bore the weight of what was crushing down on top of him, turning his body so he could remain steady.

The ground cracked again but he did not, even as parts of his armor groaned in protest from the sheer weight. Forgebreaker had been one thing, but Perturabo’s mechanized and enhanced suit thoroughly dwarfed it.

Perturabo was exultant upon feeling the satisfying crash that rebounded though every part of his bionically augmented form, proof that his maneuver had landed squarely where desired; elated further still as he heard the satisfying accompanying sound of Dorn’s armor creaking under the extended force.

But then, he also heard a distinct, complete lack of that chainblade’s belt feeder and grinding motor, wagering that more than simply biding his time, Dorn was momentarily stunned or at least caught off guard and vulnerable as a result — though it would be a brief window of opportunity at best.

Not that it likely mattered much outside the potential loss of any more peripherals as there were no weaknesses remaining in the Neo-Logos’ design; of this he was sure as he had poured all of his passion and effort into refining and perfecting it over many long years. Still, he was not going to let himself become distracted by conceit just to test Dorn in order to see if that enormous chainblade he wielded could even scratch his armor.

Perturabo had something far different in mind now.

Forgebreaker was cast to the dry dirt below, though he was careful to catch it with his leg and brace it there beneath his foot, lest Dorn try to wrest it away from him. A risk, perhaps, to deal with later but for now he absolutely needed his hands free. A filthy, bitter, mechanized cackle echoed deeply in his throat as he nearly salivated at the notion of what he intended.

He’d been avoiding relying on his highly advanced system auto-senses all this time, in part because Dorn had no such capabilities and that was his doing by causing him to leave his helmet behind—and though that had never been his goal in asking to see Dorn’s face—it might have seemed like a deliberate ploy now. The other reason was that for once, there was something worth seeing with his own eyes rather than through glowing screens of logistical readouts for the first time in eons.

However in this moment, he used those screens to see where his eyes could not, gaze staring straight ahead into green panels flashing their targeting reticles and spatial readouts as he bent back nearly to the limit of his flexibility as connectors protested and articulators squealed; the capabilities of the gyroscopic stabilizers that anchored him to the ground extended to the absolute maximum. And the tremors that rippled beneath them both were in certain warning that the very ground beneath their feet was nearly pushed to the limit as well…

Relying on the stabilization rods that reinforced his breastplate to keep him upright, he thrusted both massive arms out, the curving bandoliers strapped to the Abominable quad-barreled cannons mounted on his gauntlets whipping around them as titanic hands reached out to make purchase on those shoulder plates barely within reach.

There was the sound of a grunt behind Perturabo as the weight continued to mount the pressure against him, beginning to strain the limits of his burnished armor that had been out of use for quite some time, and — likely was a far more antique set of armor in this new millennia he was removed from.

Yet, it still held, despite it all, though Dorn knew it was due to how well his armor had been made.

Had it been a standard-issued power armor suit, he had no reason to disbelieve the idea that such armor would be completely crumpled by now, becoming his tomb in whatever position he had the misfortune of being crushed into at the time…

It was all he could do to prevent that outcome himself.

Little by little, bit by bit, the ground continued to snap and crack under the two Primarchs as an unstoppable force met an immovable object.

A second later, Dorn picked up on the sound of something hitting the dusty ground yet had no manner of finding out what it had been as his entire focus was on preventing Perturabo from bringing him to the ground as he was forced to take the barest half-step backwards.

Quickly, his gaze flicked around his immediate vicinity yet at the moment that he thought about taking the most strategic maneuver to get out of this situation, he felt those enormous hands grasp at his shoulderplates, grabbing winged aquila motifs; the sound of Perturabo’s heavily armored gauntlets scraping against golden auric-adamantium so harsh it could deafen mortal men.

For Dorn, however, it was only a sound — an unpleasant one, but a normal sound of combat all the same.

But it likely also meant a losing bout. Having more mobility meant nothing once caught.

With his shoulders grasped, Dorn did not dare drop Storm’s Teeth, instead bringing the chainsword up as an almost makeshift shield. One hand grasped the hilt while the other ‘hand’ was pressed against the side of the blade. Dorn gritted his teeth, eyes still wide as he pushed hard against the absolute mass of his armored Brother, attempted to weaken the grasp of the over-extended Lord of Iron.

The wailing clamor of Medrengard enriched ceramite scraping and gouging against auric-adamantium as his huge encased fingers struggled to find greater purchase was a horrific, ear-splitting sound — and like music to his keen ears, though it genuinely was wholly unpleasant. But he took satisfaction in hearing it all the same, as it served as substantiated evidence of their battle; proof that he’d actually put his hands on Dorn despite not being able to see it, creating a rare circumstance that defied logic in which he once again found the mundane more satisfying and genuine than the superiority of the factual, hyper-detailed streams of data that were being fed directly into his mind.

One thing that he could find no argument to the contrary to, was that this was a far more intimate conclusion in settling their score than a siege could provide. Though it seemed that even this more primitive method would not be entirely devoid of strategy as he watched though the feeds as Dorn mounted a quick defense, using his gigantic chainblade as a wedge to maintain distance between them and prevent himself from being crushed by the mechanistic behemoth precariously hovering above him.

It was infuriating, exhilarating and thoroughly unacceptable that Dorn’s evasive methods were working, a rush of spiteful malignity coursing through Perturabo as he felt those immense, broad pauldrons slipping out of his clutches; teasing him as they were so close yet falling beyond his reach…

Dorn was so absurdly strong—as he was proving undeniably as the distance between them frustratingly widened against Perturabo’s wishes—and seemingly without any additional augmentation outside of what his power armor may have provided. In a suit that was as vintage as it was nostalgic to lay eyes upon, classically Dornian but outdated regalia he was all too familiar with, leading Perturabo to the determination that the unshakable might he felt was Dorn’s and Dorn’s alone — as if he were a being forged from pure tenacity and endless stubbornness.

His stature, while making him nearly the shortest of all the Primarchs never truly put him at any disadvantage, as if his height simply granted him the innate ability to sustain that natural power from a state of greater density, which fascinated Perturabo. At least, when it did not anger him as it did, now.

As he felt Dorn’s armored shoulders fully fall from his grasp, Perturabo let out a loud, malcontent groan, but instead of giving up on his plans entirely he rotated his wrists out and reached from a new angle that was more up than out, those former harsh, discordant noises returning but in a new tonal ‘quality’ as his encased fists gripped that enormous, extravagant aquila that rose from the back of Dorn's armor, the one detail that had always felt as if it were taunting him the most.

And the instant that he managed to get a solid hold upon those auric wings, he pulled with great vigor as he began to rise from his bent posture in a singular motion, not about to let that test he’d considered earlier commence by Dorn managing to pull the trigger while that chainblade was so near to many of his vital auxiliary cables — and pressed against his armor above his spine.

The sheer strain of pushing against the massive bulk of metal was steadily becoming more than what Dorn knew his armor could take. Whatever augmentations and armor enhancements that Perturabo had undergone, it was showing the superior might of evolution.

It didn’t mean his armor was worthless, far from it, but it meant new strategies would need to be implemented with a passing but very brief thought to wondering if there might be a way to augment his armor in the future.

Never in a similar manner to what Perturabo had undergone with Logos however.

A thought for another time; a thought for if he ever managed to get off this planet.

The victory of finally pushing his Brother off of his shoulders was shattered as massive arms went up and over his head and onto the rising symbol on his back. His eyes widened as Perturabo moved like a taut spring, ready to snap forward.

He felt the brace against the ground loosen as he was lifted.

Perturabo didn’t need to check the panels in front of him to know that he’d succeeded this time; as the heft of his already tremendous arms was instantly far, far heavier — connectors groaning their inharmonious discontent as ceramite scraped and joints struggled, the sounds made throughout this endeavor disturbingly heavy and unsteady, as if a fractured tower was nearing its inevitable moment of collapse. It was a sound of warning, of impending calamity; echoed in the sounds made by the crumbling away of rocks and the sliding of earth as the ravine gashed into the planet’s surface continued to widen from the strain.

It was not sustainable, not for him nor the planet, but none of this would matter for much longer.

For in an alarming feat of biomechanical strength, Perturabo hefted Dorn into the air by using that aquila in his grasp as a fulcrum, pairing velocity with acceleration as he swung that Golden Citadel overhead, letting go at the point of greatest leverage before immediately taking into the air in pursuit. It all happened so quickly; more so than anyone would have imagined possible for such a hulking mass of metal and wires to accomplish — but now it was thought that controlled Perturabo’s mechanized motions rather than engines as the Neo-Logos was in an incredibly short-lived chase gaining enough on his target to extend over him from above.

And then, as he leered down at that target with misplaced and sinister joy, Perturabo brought them both thundering to the ground with unrelenting force, the impact from the blow of their combined masses so monumental that the resulting shockwaves were as if an earthquake now tormented the wounded planet’s surface.

Dust and dirt sprayed all around them in the aftermath of the impact caused when Dorn’s back was brought to bear down into the land like a hammer with a sickening crack of fractured earth, crags and hairline fissures immediately spreading across the devastated ground away from the source of the collision in a radial pattern.

It was a wholly unfamiliar sensation, to feel his entire bulk being lifted off of the ground as Perturabo’s armored hands found an even tighter purchase that facilitated the lifting of the full weight of both himself and his armor combined.

As the speed of the launch accelerated himself upwards, the momentum carrying Dorn higher, the grip on Storm’s Teeth tightened further as he felt those massive hands abruptly letting go. Yet, before he could even twist or turn or prepare himself to roll onto the dusty dirty ground below, he heard the sound of Perturabo following after.

Rapidly.

What Dorn saw above him with inhuman, glowing red eyes cause him to bristle, that sickening sensation causing his hair to stand on end. Perturabo moved fast when he had the upper hand, so much so that it was a Emperor-damned marvel at just how well his Brother maneuvered despite all of that extra bulk.

And then came the impact, Perturabo’s form colliding with his own in mid air and sending him down rapidly like a bolt from a gun. The sheer splitting crack of the earth was deafening as the crater around them belatedly exploded in a pile of debris.

The impact smashed his arms into the dirt, trapping them under Perturabo and sending Storm’s Teeth flying out of his grasp by sheer inertia alone, the weaponry striking and biting into stone, sinking it in place. All the while Dorn contended with the sheer weight of his armored Brother atop of him.

The back of his head had hit the rough terrain and aquila alike as his auric-adamantium armor held more noises of protest. A sharp breath was inhaled as he took in Perturabo in his view, which had him sputter and cough very briefly, pain and blood blooming from behind his head, staining bone-white hair as much as the bloodied spittle from his mouth stained his facial hair.

In the following seconds, Dorn tried to find purchase, anything to allow him to move and shove Perturabo off of him if he could only get a limb free.

While the crumbling debris swirled around them, each aftershock and vibration felt like a victory to Perturabo; and upon seeing how perfectly they had landed with Dorn’s arms so fortuitously pinned between them, massive robotic hands were upon Dorn before he had an opportunity to recover, pressing those auric pauldrons he’d tried to grasp before into the craggy earth with his tremendous weight now working to his benefit as he pushed in with all his bulk and all his might to keep Dorn from getting away.

As Perturabo stared down at Dorn’s face the malice that was there—had always been there—took on a new unsavory quality roiling beneath the surface as his glance trailed down to Dorn’s mouth, hostile cyberdaemonic eyes practically lighting up as something had captured his attention for a second that dragged out for far too long.

A smile rested on his lips, ruthless and inhuman; forming an expression that while devoid of compassion was not lacking in depth of feeling — though it likely would have been far better had it been. For all his enhancements; and despite rarely resembling anything truly living there was not one single doubt that whatever choleric blackened core of animosity it truly was that pulsed in his chest now, he remained all too human, though perhaps only in the worst ways possible. A Primarch turned into a near-Dreadnought state; corrupted, ruined — every bit as much the primal embodiment of rancor as he was a living schematic of the most advanced Abominable heretek technology. Hellspawned cyborg; a hideous fusion of man, machine and daemon combining into a blasphemous monolith of Chaos.

And it was furious.

Now more than any time ever before, with him glowering over Dorn and glaring his festered resentment into the dark, soulful eyes below, he transmitted infinite wordless confirmations that these dire grudges driving his actions had always been personal and were projected with laser precision upon a very specific target.

A tiny trickle of moisture formed at the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin as he reveled in his superior position, obsessive gaze also possessing an air that was disturbingly hungering.

Once again, that diabolical vision vanished as quickly as it came, as if the main power supply that fed it had been abruptly disconnected. And just as before, Perturabo seemed entirely unresponsive to it and unbothered by it — as if he’d neither witnessed its arrival nor its end.

But his expression had changed in the interim this time, not entirely different in tone than before but more extreme, his features wild, teeth bared; and what had once been but a trickle was now a stream as saliva dripped from his mouth, alluding to the possibility that he was not a technological marvel but an entirely different sort of behemoth; and little more than a slobbering beast…

At last he spoke; a deep, smoldering voice that shook from a barely restrained and impending overload, laced with mechanical hostility, each syllable slow and deliberately formed as he looked down upon the prey he’d waited for millennia to finally have trapped in his clutches at last.

At last.

“Shall I remind you up close… why they call me The Breaker?"

Disoriented and slightly dazed, Dorn felt the sensation of what he could only equate to panic rise in his gut, flooding through is bloodstream, only because he knew how dire the situation absolutely was with Perturabo on top of him, giving him no means of movement.

Those large hands upon his shoulders had shoved him deeper into the earth and the rest of his bulk meant that he couldn’t get any of his limbs free. Perturabo could most assuredly feel how Dorn writhed and squirmed underneath him, jerking his body in a futile attempt to free something.

All it amounted to was nothing and Dorn stared into that malignant gaze with a stern expression upon his countenance, teeth baring in a grimace as blood stained them.

A quick glance was given to the drool coming from Perturabo's mouth and—

The focused glare he had been sporting seemed distant for the split second as, much like before their fight, he was assailed by a vision with a much clearer picture than he had dealt with previously. Even as the figure remained completely indistinct, there was no delayed reaction this time as his mind seemed to provide sensation for what it was trying to conceptualize in real time.

The noise that was wrenched out of him was a deep grumbling groan while his blood pounded in his ears. No longer was pain the only sensation that Dorn was dealing with as his body seemed to react in a far more carnal way. Dorn’s breathing quickened, dual hearts elevating everything even further.

Dorn felt like he was going to burn alive as his mind unhelpfully supplanted his own armor with the armor of cables and wires undulating and pulsating along his trapped body, leaving him covered in a layer of sweat as he was forced to imagine just exactly how that may have felt.

With a racing pulse and desperate to get the sensation and vision out of his mind’s eyes, Dorn tried to lift up his head only a bit to simply slam it back into the dirt underneath him, smearing the blood into the debris and sending another sensation of pain down his body…

Then, like that, the vision was gone but not before wrenching something dangerously akin to a moan out of Dorn’s mouth with the additional sensation of what he had done to himself. Yet, now he was unable to shake off the other feelings that he had picked up before.

His vision began to sharpen once more and he saw that Perturabo really was drooling on him like some beast yet his Brother seemed none the wiser of Dorn’s newfound plight.

When Perturabo spoke, Dorn bunched up his hand into a fist though he couldn’t free it still. Next, he tried to bring his legs up, to bend them, to spread them, to move them to similarly no avail. Perturabo simply had too much of an advantage of weight and height on himself.

So, when Perturabo finished his question, Dorn didn’t respond beyond a strange noise and the inhalation of a breath before moving the one thing he could. His bloodied head that had been pressed upon the ground and parts of the golden aquila snapped forwards, mustering the last bit of his upper-body strength to try to headbutt Perturabo.

Defiant, even now when the outcome seemed all but assured.

His promethium fluids heated up within his supercharged daemon core as Perturabo basked in the gratifying exhibition that was Dorn’s moaning, frantic, futile struggling; saliva still dripping from his mouth and down his sharply angled chin as he let that panic, that desperation—that fear—emanating from his detested rival sink into him like a reverie.

That impossibly tough, stony little body rendered useless, so helplessly writhing and squirming beneath him; that unbreaking fortitude unable to aid him now — how fulfilling it was, and provided exquisite haptic feedback that made Perturabo want to take it so much further; to crush Dorn simply to feel him break inside that infuriating Imperial armor like an insect, collapsing in on himself as his both his outer armored shell and internal carapace gave in and proved his own truly superior might once and for all.

Lost in the intoxication of his own vainglory and a malicious debauchery that craved to do far more many types of things to Dorn than he would have ever wanted to admit to out loud, Perturabo panted steaming breath; as if he were an overheated engine attempting to vent that boiling heat and cool his excessive, consistently rising temperatures. But those actions were wholly illogical ones, anachronistic habits residually remaining in him that were nothing more than callbacks from a far earlier time that proved him—at least mentally—more man than machine in this moment.

His system was engineered to be entirely self regulating in this form and did not need any active assistance to operate not only functionally but optimally at all times; and he would never need to rely on such primitive and disgustingly organic measures anyway. It was disgraceful, to be brought to a state so repulsively animalistic yet to his bewilderment, he found that he did not care to regulate himself.

This was not malfunction, it was frenzy. Passionate, resentful, gloating and all too human.

And then, there it came. Rebuke for his imperfection. Retribution for his shortcomings.

For the moment it happened, he knew exactly what had caused this critical failure.

Hubris.

He was knocked out of his paroxysmic fantasies in tandem as he was knocked back from his position, the glowing green screens of his internalized tactical command center glitching out with a burst of discordant static as the one and only part of his entire body left vulnerable was assaulted.

His head. A weakness he was fully aware of and rarely if ever exposed by leaving unarmored — and should he opt to do so, even the original Logos’ build design of versions past had assured that it would be nigh impossible to land a blow there, the large structurally impenetrable casing large enough to protect him from any physical blows, and now, Neo-Logos had the additional protections of shields no physicality could ever hope to penetrate.

So why, why had he been leaning in closer, extending his neck so that his head was exposed and outside the protective casket that housed his brain and all of his most important components when he’d had Dorn so sublimely pinned down and at his mercy?

That was a vital question left entirely unanswered, cables rattling and swaying as their faces crashed with an ear-splitting crack, but that was not the only form such a well-timed and well-placed counter struck — as his forehead was bashed in unison and with savage efficiency as that cursed and infuriating auric aquila made direct and violent contact; completely stunning him for nanoseconds that while surely meant precious little hope for most anyone else, may have indeed provided a huge window of opportunity for one such as Dorn.

Blood; flaming red-orange hot as if it were magma yet curiously flecked with glistening metallic pale blue particles poured from his mouth, thinned by the copious oily secretions from moments earlier into a caustic, likely hazardous sludge. Broken skin oozed that same flaming substance from his battered forehead, dripping down and rolling off the black carapace extension hub that framed his jawline, the red indicator lights that functioned as his eyes flickering from the impact.

As that sickening crack filled the space around him and Perturabo reeled back, providing Dorn a measure of freedom, he was reeling from what he had done with his own unprotected head.

Fresh blood dripped down his nose while he stared back with pure ire at his dazed Brother that was dealing with consequences of gloating too soon. Though he’d not admit there was something else there, hidden behind hazel eyes, something that made his hearts soar and his blood continue that frantic pulse, now pounding in his head by the mere action of staring at Perturabo’s battered face.

Recovering less than a second quicker, Dorn brought his left ‘hand’ down and out, to find purchase on the ground so he could push his upper body upwards at the same time his right became balled into a golden fist.

Another second later and Dorn was launching that fist, aimed towards Perturabo’s lower jaw in an arc in a diagonal uppercut.

That auric encased Imperial Fist made earth crushing, bone shattering contact with Perturabo’s vulnerable face, the impact so extreme that it surely would have shattered a lesser being’s osseous anatomy entirely, enough to decimate even ceramite infused bone structure to dust. The reinforced design of the Lord of Iron’s sophisticated cybernetic physiology was his saving grace as he hovered there, stupefied — a testament to his craftsmanship even as awareness had temporarily shut down in complete system failure.

Blood and mysteriously undetermined but surely inhuman fluids sprayed in a wide arc from the force of the blow, a strange ferric guttural groan ripping from his throat upon impact; and his head made a clanging, deeply resonant series of sickening thuds as all the connectors plugged into the back of his skull echoed rattling, clacking contact with the inner lining of his command center sarcophagus.

That well placed blow might have at least temporarily deactivated Perturabo entirely, so fortuitous was Dorn’s assault.

If only he’d been able to follow it through.

For luck and opportunity ended where contingency and design began.

Dorn’s gilded fingers collided against Perturabo’s face with the force of an exploding star — until against all probability, it did no longer.

Suddenly, the impact was absorbed, stopping that blow with complete and impenetrable inertia, the motion entirely halted in place at the exact second that Dorn’s acceleration met the seemingly open entrance of Perturabo’s interface, the invisible shield activating at last and declaring its presence in a kaleidoscope of colors that rippled in a hexagonal holographic flicker.

That protection surrounded the invading blow with an almost gelatin-like quality as the shock was absorbed; energy lost — then deflected and diverted Dorn’s hand to the side an instant later.

Perturabo hissed his robotic discontent as all the readouts inside that boxy structure faded in and out, overlapping over and over as they beeped with varying urgency, information and warnings given in a computerized performance that was nearly as disorienting as the last few seconds that had placed him in this state.

But as everything went critical: systems compensated; programs activated; all hardwired responses as man and machine alike went into emergency mode. Stabilizers and joints gusted loudly with pressurized hisses not unlike breath as injections of combat stimulants and synthetic adrenalinic drugs stabbed into metalized veins.

Perturabo rebooted, eyes glowing with a renewed hostility and brighter gleam than before, reflecting off the interior of that sarcophagus with Warp laced rage, tinting his blanched olive skin with a vermilion glow that proclaimed the undeniable taint of Chaos even when much of Perturabo’s cyber-being outwardly and defiantly denied that fact.

The machine core that functioned as his biomechanical third heart pounded with a deafening, disorienting ferocity as the exhilaration of those injections hit, expression one of purest, indignant murderous intent as his stare drilled into deep, dark eyes that never failed to fill him with rage at the best of times.

And this was not the best of times.

Dorn had thrown all that he could into that punch and there had been a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze as spittle and other fluids flew from Perturabo’s mouth, arcing in the air as he watched Perturabo jerk his head back into his main casing amid a cacophony of noise and sliding cables.

And then.

Everything stopped.

A new wave of adrenaline pulsed through his blood as time stopped. In agonizingly slow motion, Dorn watched as the shield around Perturabo’s head activated, not unlike the shielding that he had around his Thunderhawk.

The moment of satisfaction he felt was all but wiped off of any part of his expression as another dose of adrenaline seemed to flow, of which settled differently. The panic arrived full force, even as he seemed as stoic as he was known to be to the chagrin of many.

The rush of chemicals in his own body numbed the sensation of sheer agony in his hand as his arm was thrown wide to the side. In this strange span of suspended seconds, he could feel every wave of pain and tingling fire inch upwards as the sensation traveled from hand to wrist to his arm, stopping around his elbow before the exchange of motion ceased.

If he wasn’t who he was; and if he hadn’t been wearing his specific armor, Dorn quickly came to the sickening realization that his hand and whole forearm could have blown up from the exchange.

It was when his arm slammed into the ground, forcing him to slam back down as well, other arm giving out and bringing him back into that abused firmament, that these agonizingly slow nano-seconds caught up to the present.

And as he stared up to his Brother that held full ill intent towards him, Dorn did what he could before the retaliatory strike he was expecting to come, bringing his arms upwards, forcing himself through the pulsing pain of one, as he shielded himself.

The unhinged, all-encompassing fury painted across Perturabo’s harsh face contorted into an image of pure doom — and confirmed that the mechanized detachment of his form had done nothing to quell the emotional instability that Perturabo had always carried with him through every moment of his embittered life.

The blood-soaked interior of his command interface melded with the gleam of Chaotic light blaring its red glow of madness over him; a fusion of daemon and man that couldn’t be disguised under the projection of cold metal indifference no matter how thick he’d built his shell.

And beneath that begrudging wrath was an electrified current of resentment and hurt so pure and broadcasted so loudly that no amount of armor could hide it away.

Every single perceived wrong his once-Brother had inflicted on him rose to the surface of his memory banks at once, any moderation or reason that might have held him back with logic algorithms, burned away to char by the contamination of his mind at the function of the stimulants that flooded his system.

The Siege began.

Battering rams of Iron pounded upon fortified stone walls in his mind’s eye with unrelenting anger as his huge promethium powered robotic fists impacted against Dorn’s auric armor again and again like pistons. He cared not where he hit, barely even considered where he aimed as he carried through his maniacal rampage, dirt and dust and broken earth swirling all around their giant figures as he forced Dorn deeper into the wounded ground — their arena turning ever more into a crater.

Perturabo roared his discontent, the power of his deep vox-tainted voice kicking up more dust and small stones into the air as he fell into a nearly trance-like state when those harbored feelings he’d been actively holding back to a smoldering detachment became a whirlwind of festered, moldering bitterness. Grudges left unacknowledged for far too long.

Long overdue blackened tears of aching, embittered hate rolled down his face as his rationale was all but gone, and his inhibitions with it — as the essence of who he truly was took over the creation he’d so carefully constructed himself to be.

He growled and hissed and roared and raged, words coming out fast and slurred amidst meaningless vocalizations, incoherent and disjointed as he continued to pound and slam his grudges into the one that was always so much better than him, so much more important than him — the literal Golden Example of what their Father favored no matter how long he worked his fingers to the bone for recognition that never came.

And that blame belonged to the one that ignored him, that shunned him.

That rejected him.

“I hate you! I hate you so much I HATE YOU!” He roared again and again amidst the frothing, blooded growls of daemonic angst, words that would have sounded petty, childish and entirely unworthy of granting any attention had they not come from something so entirely Abominable and capable of mass, indiscriminate warfare.

“Why won’t you just DIE!”

The roar of a Primarch was a powerful thing, able to deafen any lesser men, if not outright kill them if utilized to its full potential as what was going on now. Even Dorn was not left unaffected as he stared at his Brother through his defending arms as he blocked blow after blow after blow —  each one sending him further and further into the blood slicked and ruined ground, sinking him in a way that risked that he wouldn’t be able to move at all in time.

He felt his hearts ache, clenching so tightly, as he saw Perturabo cry in the midst of all of his mindless chemically-fuelled rampaging and those shouted words struck Dorn so deeply in his hearts as his Brother continued to lash out.

His Brother…

Forgotten, cast aside, ignored and unloved. Not cared about by the one person that should have given his efforts some acknowledgement. In that moment, even Dorn felt the tinge and pang of regret that he had done much the same.

Except argue when he simply couldn’t walk away from a situation.

Yet, no matter how angry he ever had gotten at Perturabo… could he say that he ever hated him? Even as he was now in front of him as a weapon of Chaos Undivided? No… he couldn’t. He couldn’t hate any of his Brothers, regardless of how far they fell or how far they pushed.

They were his Family.

As the punches continued, Dorn picked up on parts of his armor starting to crack and give from the relentless attack. Yet, he couldn’t do much else but keep shielding himself from a death blow as his body grew more and more weak and weary from the sustained fight and disadvantage he was in.

Out of practice.

Yet…

Risking it, he moved his arms down to protect his chest so he could stare Perturabo directly in those baleful eyes.

He wheezed out a pained breath as his already injured arm was methodically hit over and over again, sending more waves of torment to him than he had felt in a very long time. “I….” The sentence stopped after a strike that made his body tremble and the prickling of fear slither up Dorn’s spine, a natural reaction of one thinking they were about to die.

But he couldn’t let this be how it ended.

Not for himself, but for Perturabo.

Try as he might he reached his hand out to grab one of Perturabo’s wrists while that left him open for another punch to the chest that had Dorn groan out in distress but he had to speak…

“No… matter… the… outcome.”

He had to…

To say…

To yell…

“I DON’T HATE YOU, BROTHER!” Dorn’s hand shook against the strength that clashed against his own strength.

With each wrathful, miserable blow to that gleaming golden armor it became continually more indistinct as to what Perturabo was even lashing out at — Dorn or his own incessant voice of self-doubt and self-loathing; the tormenting lament that gave Chaos its foothold from the outset, and had never allowed him even a moment of joy any more than his own life had; a dark miasmic bitterness that eventually manifested itself as a nearly sentient apparition that was massive enough to oppress an entire planet in a black radiation that could hardly be called a sun, so potent to be felt even from the far reaches of space.

For he was no gleaming golden sun, like ROGAL DORN. No; instead he was a black hole.

Where as Dorn’s dazzling brilliance shone to touch all that witnessed him with warmth and light, Perturabo’s aura of negativity sucked the light and very life out of everything unfortunate enough to be in his radius.

And how he longed to steal away that light for himself, to rip it away, lay claim to it. Devour it.

He pummeled Dorn in his degenerate, brutal frenzy — finally feeling that auric bulwark beginning to crack at last. And the pleasure that it brought, the gratification was immense.

At last, absolution from his sense of inferiority. Triumph at long, long last. Oh, how sweet the taste would genuinely be, as the readouts that flickered their green delight confirmed what he already knew in his mind and Mainframe alike.

Dorn, would die here. Just as he should.

So why did it hurt so much, why did it fill Perturabo to the limit with trepidation and fear, grief so potent it was more acrid and caustic than the promethium that laced his blood? Why was each strike landed as if he was murdering his own soul rather than vindicating himself in the eyes of the one that deserved his retribution?

The tears flowed faster, driven now by something greater than the simple Primarch instinct to fight and kill, and even beyond his own paradigm of programmed warfare; as a thought crested through the drugs, though the interface, through the haze of glowing screens in his head and the turmoil in his hearts.

He never, ever wanted to kill Dorn! He’d lied to himself, but all along that was the very reason he’d made so sure, being so careful as to not to allow even one single member of his Legion to know of Dorn’s whereabouts. And he’d known all along that this was never meant to be the point, or where this ended.

This was wrong!

This was all wrong!

And that dire realization had come preciously close to too late in an eerily similar way that reenacted tragedies of his past; mirroring events that had already destroyed him once… and left the only form of love he'd ever known cold and dead in his hands…

Hand…

He felt an armored hand — not approaching in offense, or even defense, but simply to reach out.

He stared down with a shellshocked, ten-thousand yard stare, backlit by that virulent red glow as the resolute and potent sound of Dorn’s nearly magical voice almost shattered whatever left of him remained.

"̷W̷E̷L̷L̷ ̷Y̷O̷U̷ ̷S̷H̷O̷U̷L̷D̷!̷"̷

Perturabo roared back in glitching, static laced revulsion and abject dismay as hopelessness crept in like an insidious virus; and he remained there motionless, lost and uncertain as to what he should even do now as he struggled against the chemical over-stimulation that still inundated his every sense —  but of that statement, he had never been more sure of anything.

And that the only person that had more reasons to hate Perturabo more than Dorn, was Perturabo himself.

Chapter Text

As Perturabo stopped driving that fist into his armor, part of it finally gave away. Some of the covering to his arm fell to the side, breaking from the segment. The dust briefly settled then to reveal a sizeable dent into the gleaming auric-adamantite on Dorn’s chest, constricting his breathing beneath that crushed breastplate, among other marks and extensive damage that displayed the abject brutality wrought on Dorn’s armored form.

His hand fell away as the strength was sapped from him after he had prevented that killing blow.

Those darkened hazel eyes gazed upwards at his Brother, hearing that dismay, watching the hopelessness overtaking him. So lost and uncertain, as if he was naught but a child.

Dorn saw much of himself in that moment. How many times, in his self-made isolation had he fallen into despair time and time again? Even before Perturabo arrived, how many sleepless centuries had he replayed his role and actions relentlessly in his mind? And the consequences that followed…

How many times had he been so close to the brink of stepping off the precipice?

It was only a moment of deliberation before Dorn lifted both arms this time as he attempted to use the last limits of his strength to move towards Perturabo.

Yet, he didn’t strike Perturabo. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his inconsolable Brother in what amounted to a hug.

“I don’t…”

What happened next was something nearly beyond Perturabo’s comprehension, leaving him in a state of total disbelief as Dorn, weakened and injured nearly beyond survival reached out for him again in a much more persuasive way and in a manner he’d never thought possible — and somehow despite its simplicity, it was the most foreign thing he’d ever known.

And it was as comical as it was tragic, whilst rage flared up inside him as those arms struggled so hard to wrap around his much larger form even as he’d just tried to snuff that light out in a moment of total loss of self-control. It was a scornful, ridiculing play by play reenactment of one of the worst days of his life — and one that set him on a course straight through Hades that he’d never been able to turn around from.

The torment that wracked him was building into an overload he couldn’t possibly withstand as far too many thoughts of eras long lost flickered though his mind, as if his innumerable deeds were being read back to him; and without a single one on that long ledger of his life actually something he could take a bit of pride in.

And the final entry that stained the annals of his prodigious crimes and lingered heaviest in his mind was the Iron Cage — the last time he saw Dorn, and the single thing he regretted the most.

Except…

He’d come so horrifically close to surpassing even that by repeating what he'd done to his precious sister so long ago. Frustrations mounted as he internally screamed at himself, realizing in the moment that for all his accomplishments in his field and his thoroughly dissatisfying way of immediately knowing everything in a subject he took interest in — when it came to much more vital matters, he seemed nearly incapable of learning.

And nearly destroyed something that this time, he wouldn’t survive losing. He was entirely and wholly sure that if he had taken this moment of impulse to its finale, he’d have been lost to Chaos entirely despite resisting its control over him all this time and existing on his own terms.

No matter what came to pass, he swore from this moment forward, he’d redouble his efforts to control himself and control the powers that he drained from the Immaterium’s battery for his own designs, spite and recalcitrance for the undivided Ruinous Powers themselves guiding his actions now.

Perturabo was his own man and for better or worse, he would remain so.

He stared down at Dorn’s battered body and struggled to hold back a shaking instability rumbling through his form that was nearly more than even his stabilizers could prevent; ashamed of himself, his actions and how this fight had never been fair from the start.

He never fought fairly and still lost; time and again. Now, for the first time he understood that such an unfair win against Dorn would feel no more fulfilling; and prove nothing.

And that he wanted nothing more than to…

simply…

…in a disorienting flash of lights and a flickering wave of psychic backlash, time seemed to stop — the airborne rubble and the debris pelting the broken earth in a cloudy shower as if gravity precipitously forgot, and then remembered, to function.

When the dust cleared it revealed a much more familiar figure, olive skin no longer afflicted by a deathly pallor, dressed simply in a gunmetal gray himation made of thin linen which hung over his left shoulder and wrapped around his bulk, the traditional Olympian pattern of diagonal yellow and black stripes embellishing its trim. He was still in all ways gigantic, yet dwarfed by comparison to the Juggernaut of Medrengard ore, adamantium and ceramite he replaced.

Muscular arms made of seemingly nothing more than skin and bone wrapped around Dorn in an embrace that might have been considered heartfelt and tender had he not just come so horrifically close to murdering his own Brother in cold promethium blood.

Coils and cables tumbled down Dorn’s back, gently bouncing against his armor as Perturabo rested there, forehead pressed to the top of an oversized pauldron so that he might hide his face, wanting nothing less than being seen by Dorn for the first time in his life.

Confusion struck Dorn the moment something changed, that flash of light being so overwhelming even for his senses, that it nearly had him letting Perturabo go. He wasn’t imagining the change that he could feel — the sudden difference in what he was wrapping his arms around.

Perturabo had always been larger than him, but now he was far more easier to touch. Surprising even Dorn, additionally, beyond the shift of form, was that those arms actually reciprocated his touch and he felt the strength that held him back.

Dorn soon exhaled, the sound coming out as another one of his pained grunts.

While he didn’t relax fully, Dorn allowed the time of uneasy calm to wash over him and tried to ignore the want of figuring out exactly how Perturabo shifted from one form to the other in the span of nanoseconds as none of that actually mattered in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the man burying his face against his shoulder.

His right hand gripped tightly against the back of his Brother, while the other simply rested there.

Nothing was said in the interim.

Simply allowing the both of them this moment.

What could he say? How could he ever hope to ease that pain in Perturabo's hearts? How could he clean out the malignant miasma that had been allowed to fester for millennia due to loneliness and neglect?

He had been abandoned and Dorn sat with knowing that he had been complicit in that fact.

As quick as a thought, Neo-Logos was gone, but now like a spooked animal forcibly dragged out from its den, Perturabo felt exposed and vulnerable without the comfort of the safety that his mechanized form provided. Yet he had volunteered for this outcome and would not take it back though the unease made him realize how long it had truly been since he’d passed a single moment in time as anything that might be called himself.

There was a tension in the air so distinctly different than what had manifested between them before, undisputedly less impending, less foreboding and yet perhaps somehow harder to endure, which left Perturabo bewildered.

But that singular arm hooked around him, despite its lack of being a full embrace felt so supportive that he could find no fault in its singular presence. It was not disdain that stilled Dorn’s other arm.

Then? Why? Perturabo wondered if he’d broken it in his wrath, vaguely remembering all the sensations he’d once taken so much misplaced pleasure in; of denting in, cracking, crushing that armor.

It didn’t feel quite so validating now…

How had he ever thought that such a hollow victory would be satisfying?

Perturabo sighed, deep and resonant as he pressed the air from his triplicate lungs; even the natural exchanges of breathing felt strange to him, and almost as if he was experiencing it for the first time. He concentrated on all these sensations and the new state he found himself in; running, hiding, denying the more important things he should have been focusing on.

It was too much to bear. What could he possibly say now?

Perturabo didn’t know.

But he was so genuinely grateful for the moment of stillness Dorn granted to him now, though he didn’t know how to express that either.

The silence lingered, permeating the very air of their immediate area, only broken by a slow rasping breath from Dorn, but even that was starting to even out the longer they stayed like this in the stillness and quiet as the innate healing properties of a Primarch seemed to kick into overdrive.

Though it did nothing to ease the stifling feeling for Dorn.

Slowly, Dorn ran his hand down Perturabo’s back, rubbing it gently in comparison to all the brutality shared in blows before. It was almost laughable how gentle Dorn could be against the person that had almost killed him not but several minutes ago. After a moment, Dorn’s hand stopped its ministrations as he exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke against Perturabo’s ear, voice low and laced with a somber tone, regretful.

Just that, and nothing more was said as he rested against his Brother as much as Perturabo did him.

Perturabo turned his head toward Dorn, an indignant grunt of bristling standoffishness pressed to the side of that cold auric shoulder as he exhaled sharply. An agitated unease caused him to clench his muscles; and he hardened within Dorn’s touch as a new divide split open between them the moment that he’d had the audacity to apologize.

It offended Perturabo to his very bones; because Dorn had no right to apologize to him, because it was too late, because it was going to take much more than this to make anything up to him, because he didn’t want it, because he didn’t need it, because he didn’t believe in it…

…because he was the one at fault, because he was the one that was supposed to apologize now, because…

…because he hated Dorn and always had; and because he wasn't going to forgive a single thing he'd ever done to earn his anger.

Perturabo didn’t speak, didn’t move any more than the slight twitches the tightening of his entire body caused.

Despite his stillness and all his attempts to distance himself from reality his eyes were leaking again, releasing a strange oily fluid more salt than before; and mostly lacking in the thick, oily blackened residue that had once stained his face.

Yet for all his disquiet, he couldn’t bring himself to cast aside that arm, the fleeting thought causing such dread to descend upon him that he held Dorn a little tighter than before the moment he imagined it gone.

And as the scene faded out, a choking noise left Perturabo’s throat—a sob—petulantly stifled, his arms now wrapped so tightly around Dorn that his squeezing elicited a dull series of sounds from the armor that he’d once so eagerly endeavored to destroy.

Despite the situation, despite the fact they were on a planet so far removed from anything the Imperium or Chaos cared to know about, despite the fact that they had just tried to kill each other, Dorn felt himself chuckle. It was barely there, but a direct response to the grunt from Perturabo.

Always so… stubborn.

That was exactly how he remembered his Brother.

Dorn turned his head enough to see Perturabo, watching as he was quiet again. He had opened his mouth to speak until that hug tightened further and Dorn was assailed with a wholly new vision that spoke to him in ways that words could not.

That imagery felt like a punch in the gut, stronger than any blow that landed on him today, even the one that had caved in his armor enough to make his lungs struggle. His eyes widened as he had already come to understand what the scene was, but this new sensation was different.

He…

Dorn blinked a few times, taking a gulp full of air as Perturabo hugged him tighter. In turn, Dorn did the best he could to reciprocate. The bond between the two of them likely would not be wholly fixed, too much time had passed, too much to get through and deal with and…

The sound of a low sigh left Dorn this time as he considered his words…

He’d never fall into Chaos and would rebuke the very notion of ever being tempted. But… even still…

For Perturabo…?

“I’m… not going anywhere… Perturabo…”

Perturabo’s body seemed to lock up even further, joints stiffened so tightly with muscles so compact it was as if he was still encased in that mobile fortress. He paused, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of endless words left unspoken.

When he finally took the action to speak, it was alarmingly terse and brusque with an almost challenging edge to it and his tone alluded to the distinct possibility he’d already come to his own conclusion.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked—no, demanded—booming voice oddly still holding that same cyber-enhanced quality from before — though it was decidedly less uncanny without amplification.

Dorn should have expected that response and thus took a moment, furrowing his brow as he let the silence linger, thinking on how to dictate what he indeed meant by that. Nothing was easy about speaking like this, much less to a Brother that he had feuded with for far longer than was absolutely necessary.

How stupid it all was.

Certainly not at the time when they were at each others throats due to slights on either side, but in the grand scheme of everything, all routes led to this moment.

After another few seconds, Dorn pulled back just enough, his Brother’s arms keeping him in place so he didn’t outright fall over, as he gazed deeply into his eyes.

“I have no one, Perturabo. My Brothers are all to the winds of the galaxy. Some turned to Chaos, others gone, permanently… or stuck in stasis. I have had no contact with anyone for thousands of years. I know not of what has happened, to our beloved Terra or otherwise.”

The only thing that he knew was that their Father still had to be alive, if one could even call it that, or he’d have felt the galaxy would simply be ruined. Of course, he kept all talk of the Emperor out of his mouth, even if a pained expression flickered over his face briefly.

“What do I have to return to?… To whom?… There is nothing for me anymore.” That is what he felt, even still, after all this time. “But you… You are here. Why would I step away…?”

If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.

Those words—words he himself had spoken—echoed in Perturabo’s skull like an admonishment, an intrusive and painful reminder of how he’d so easily come agonizingly close to ending everything via the worst possible outcome within moments of reuniting with Dorn again due to a moment that could only be called what it was — a rash and reckless meltdown; losing his temper like he was no better than Angron.

He full well knew what had precipitated that attack, could still feel the burn of chemicals in his veins but that was no excuse. An Astartes that couldn’t keep his senses under stimulation was a liability and a disgrace.

Yet he was a Primarch, and a Daemon Primarch of Chaos Undivided, at that — even if his terms were wholly different in that capacity.

Unworthy. Unacceptable.

He wanted to protest, to gnash his teeth and scream, make his demands and pretend that his self-directed grievances were all that mattered here while obtusely ignoring the rest. It should have been so easy, to harness the misery that he genuinely felt and let it propel him deeper into the blackness of bitterness — to deny Dorn the satisfaction of all that he confessed, and turn away.

But there was far too much sincerity shining in those soulful, honest eyes; too much forthrightness in his words — all of it declaring him a man with nothing and nothing left to lose.

Try as he might, the guilt of knowing that was all his fault nearly ripped him apart; and if they’d not locked eyes he might have found the ability to recoil and hide himself away inside his mobile fortress again.

But here, he was exposed, pale blue eyes staring back with deep longing and profound sorrow that he couldn’t deflect fast enough; and despite retaining many of his augmented qualities in what amounted to his current 'natural' form — fully concealing his humanity was not among them.

Not that even this was as successful as he thought it was in his more extreme mechanoforms, from the moment he was in the presence of someone that actually knew him. He too had spent the many long years in total isolation; surrounded by lessers, subordinates, operatives, slaves — with not one confidant, not one friend to his name. His rule was a cruel, depraved and miserable one. And yet, it was exactly as he’d manufactured it.

He jerked his head away quickly, the leads that were bolted to his skull sending the cables that cascaded down not unlike locks of hair whipping through the air; some left to land behind his shoulder while others met the sharp edge of his carapace enhanced jawline as he stared off, angled to Dorn in profile. Though it wasn’t a very effective method of disengaging completely, it did give him a moment to think without having to endure that crystalline stare that felt like daggers stabbed through his chest.

“So I am your… last pick then, hm?” Perturabo said with no shortage of spite in his dour tone.

As he watched a multitude of different emotions conflict in Perturabo’s expression, Dorn could not help but break that stoic mask to quietly sigh, his eyes closing a few seconds later as he braced himself, pressing back into those arms that continued to be wrapped around him.

Despite the snappy response, Perturabo seemed to refuse to let him go amidst all of his vinegar and vitriol. Due to that, Dorn laid his entire weight into those arms so Perturabo would have to focus on that and by extension him when he spoke again.

“No.” Dorn stared hotly at Perturabo, gazing in those eyes so filled with hurt and pining in equal measure while his own gaze revealed something more melancholic after the initial stern stare broke apart.

“That is not what I meant at all. I am uncertain how to… explain…”

Perturabo was taken entirely aback when Dorn followed him and reoriented his position so that he was once again forced to gaze upon him.

Head on and up close.

He could smell the iron on Dorn’s breath as he spoke, still see the faint stains of blood discoloring his teeth as his lips moved; all the while frozen in place by those authentic eyes that felt unbearably intimate to stare straight into, as if he could somehow see every secret Perturabo guarded while openly revealing his own as best as he could muster.

What had once been tense was becoming something else; something increasingly awkward. Perturabo’s hearts pounded far too fast and though he may declare otherwise if pressed, he knew that the stimulants were not the reason for the uptick that assailed him suddenly.

Had he ever been this close to Dorn’s rugged, handsome face before? No. He was certain of that, he never would have forgotten such a moment even through the millennia that had passed between them.

Perturabo extended his neck forward, closing the distance between them until precious little was left to claim until stopping abruptly; hovering there as eyes as clouded as an overcast sky remained locked on, glistening and wet with residual tears he refused to shed.

“Do you really… mean that?” Perturabo asked, and though his petty nature and desire to be enduringly difficult was unmistakable a moment ago, it was gone now—that question transparent and fragile—as if he couldn’t bear to believe such a thing was possible.

It was a few more seconds but Dorn took them all the same, never letting Perturabo's gaze wander too far away, no matter how he might have tried to hide away from confronting him. All the same, he took that time to continue to force his body to regulate and get himself further under control.

At least, until he opened his mouth again and could taste something in the air like he were some sort of bloodhound as he flooded his neuroglottis with something distinctly different than the blood, tears, chemicals, oil and fuel spent from their fight; and subsequently was struck with a moment of clarity now as he sampled the scent signature in the air. And for this reason, kept quiet — Dorn’s twin hearts began to race again.

His body flushed with all the sensations he had felt before. Behind his mind’s eyes, his brain unhelpfully reminded him of the visions as he kept taking in the peculiar smell.

Dorn closed his mouth a moment later, knowing that he had to take a few… more seconds to get himself under control, but Perturabo hadn’t been the one on the receiving end of some choice visions that had his senses on overdrive. But now there wasn’t a fight to conceal it.

Perturabo made it worse when he moved his face so close to Dorn’s own, causing Dorn to stare wide-eyed at his Brother until he attempted to snap himself out of it as an endorphin high quickly pulsed through his body. He became very acutely aware of how Perturabo was straddling his form and holding him so possessively close, even through his armor.

A sharp exhale preceded his next words as he knew he had to actually respond to Perturabo’s question and give that the attention it deserved.

“Yes… Yes… I do.”

Perturabo wasn’t sure he believed that at all, an edge glinting in his pale eyes as he stared Dorn down, hostile; resentment building inside his aching chest as he prepared for the pain that would certainly come.

It had all led up to this, so many countless years wasted in a past lined with more grudges and mistakes than he could add up without taking the time to balance their concurrent lists — and he cared not to do that right now for it would be nothing but integers with no help in reaching an optimal conclusion — information certainly, but effectively useless.

The details mattered not. He knew that shutdown would be the result, no matter what Dorn said previously. For he was about to take everything way too far — just to prove his point if nothing else. That Dorn did not mean those words to the extent Perturabo required of him, had burned and bled and suffered for his entire life — and that it all finally coming to a disappointing conclusion would snap him in half exactly as he always predicted it would; to finally hear that rejection plainly made clear once and for all.

That he wasn't good enough.

Even if some of the blame for that might have been rightfully his; even if it was a fair result — that mattered not.

He knew how this would all inevitably end even if he held himself back for now, once the agony he’d always carried synthesized into fury permanently inside his broken, Iron hearts as soon as Dorn made his opinions clear. No matter the unexpectedly tender qualities of this special moment, it would come to an end eventually; and when it did he’d revert back to what he had become — what he was and would ever remain now from the instant he’d let Chaos in.

Whatever it was that had come over Dorn in these last few seconds only served to push his urges further up on the list of priorities as that open panting mouth and wide dilated eyes made Perturabo’s thoughts return to the most depraved and debauched of his insane fantasies, that obsession carved into stone and Iron from the moment he’d seen a vision of Dorn flicker though the Immaterium.

It would have been best for him if he’d never been noticed, but it was too late from the instant it happened. Dorn’s fate was sealed, because Perturabo knew he was too weak-willed, too demanding and too spiteful to take no for an answer.

Always shunned, always invisible, always failing, always trying harder, always yearning, always needing, always aching to capture Dorn’s interest, to earn his respect, to be seen, to be admired, to be appreciated, to be, to be, wanting to be—desperate for——

Before the vision had even faded out, those monstrously powerful arms had yanked Dorn closer; a grunting, desperate noise building in Perturabo's throat as he forced himself on his unsuspecting Brother. His hands grasped aggressively in an attempt to keep him from squirming away as he shoved his tongue into Dorn’s mouth, while possessing all the finesse of a siege cannon’s rounds smashing through a newly discovered structural weakness.

That prickling sensation hit Dorn again as the silence lingered after his words and Perturabo’s expression became hostile once more. It was as if his body was trying to warn him about the signs that could be clearly seen. It was as if Perturabo was ready to strike all over again.

Dorn knew what he was looking at.

A predator, yet he did nothing to try and push Perturabo away, even as that gaze grew hungrier and hungrier and he well understood the precarious position he was in, though now for far different reasons than before.

And just like that, his mind was assailed again. This time the last few puzzle pieces slotted perfectly into place, giving answers that he had already picked up on. Once more, his mind replaced everything that he was wearing, to the thought of those cables that slid over his naked skin, slithering over every single part of his body as he was trapped with no hope to escape.

He could swear that he felt the locations where those connecting cables entered into the ports of his Black Carapace and these sensations covered his body in electrifying tingles. Even under all of the protection and armor, he was treated with raised hairs and goosebumps as his body practically set itself on fire, causing his breath to become haggard and stuttered in a manner that suggested that it wasn’t only because of their fight.

As that vision began to fade, it was a whiplash of differences when those large arms of his Brother held him so firmly before smashing their lips together. Dorn squirmed at the sudden actions, still staring, wide-eyed into his Brother’s face as he gripped Perturabo’s shoulder tightly.

He didn’t push Perturabo away, seemingly only using the leverage to cling to him as his Brother tasted the fading blood in his mouth and was given a breathless groan as a result. Dorn didn’t fight against Perturabo’s advances like may have expected and, instead, his tongue was pressed to the bottom of Perturabo's mouth as he closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment.

Surely this was wrong yet…

He didn’t care if it was.

For all his intellectual prowess, Perturabo could barely understand what was happening, it had come about so unexpectedly — an impossible affirmation conflicting against thousands of years of negative reinforcement that had cemented a reality in his mind that was nigh impossible to tear down.

He didn’t dare to dream that any of this was real, not for one single second. Everything was terribly wrong here, and he was convinced that a counterattack was in short order; that Dorn was simply playing along and biding his time so that he could either retaliate or at the very least, mount an escape.

That thought outraged Perturabo as he consumed the blood and saliva and distinct flavor that was Dorn; tinged with the hormones that had been produced from their fight and Dorn’s panic, each element delicious and distinct in its own right, but in combination it was the most magnificent thing he’d ever tasted.

His ‘kissing’ became more frantic as he was met with nothing that could be called resistance, but still without a modicum of trust that any of this was at all genuine, and his motions retained that initial mindset — carried out with force and all the while making a promise that he wasn’t about to let Dorn turn him away. He forced his tongue in and out between those captive lips, feeling the scruff of Dorn’s facial hair each time he drew closer.

The hands that had been wrapped around Dorn’s form suddenly released their grasp, but before something as unthinkable as relinquishment could be assumed, they slid down before large fingers hooked beneath the rim of that auric-adamantium breastplate. A fraction of a second later, he wrapped his massive, powerful legs around Dorn to make certain he remained in place; and once he’d assured that, he pulled and yanked and tugged with increasing aggression, making it clear what he desired, what he demanded, what he intended to do.

And in this new position and through the motions that Perturabo followed through on, their lower bodies met with friction and pressure, leaving no doubt that Perturabo—huge and hungry—was as hard as Iron.

There was no heeding reason, no question of consent; just a promise that he would take what he wanted, and violently should it come down to it. If he had been in a maddened frenzy before, it was nothing compared to the primal lust that had overtaken him now, those stimulants assisting this moment exactly as they would've combat.

Yet the absence of those injections wouldn’t have changed a thing, outside perhaps… his virility. This was was exactly what he'd been obsessing about over the course of his entire voyage to make it here. And far before that, too — but it had never felt so possible until then.

Dorn was unnaturally dizzy from the heady mixture of chemicals and the emotions that permeated the air around him. Whenever Perturabo let him breathe between thrusts of that tongue into his mouth, he was overwhelmed by the sheer masculine pheromones and testosterone that he tasted in the air from his Brother.

He only pulled back enough when Perturabo began to jostle him about, still utilizing his superior size and those chemicals that gave him a boost — things that Perturabo appeared to take full advantage of. Dorn was forced to stay put between the assault on his mouth, to the legs that were currently keeping him trapped.

At the constant tugging, Dorn’s auric-adamantite armor was being pulled off, easily; as their bout of fighting and the constant assaults had weakened the points where the armor held fastly and had been secured in place. It mattered not if it was to be removed completely out of order as the persistence paid off.

Carefully, as if expecting that Perturabo was eager to react at the slightest further provocation, Dorn had slipped his hand between the shoulderplates of his armor, unclasping the mechanisms that held them in place as one and then the other dropped heavily to the ground, kicking up a new wave of gravel, dirt and dust.

Dorn knew the fires of lust when he saw them, when he felt them, as a glance was given past Perturabo’s face to gaze down between them as something was made very apparent to him.

It wasn’t as if he was much better because as Perturabo removed and yanked off more and more of the armor, he’d be met with Dorn’s body glove that he wore underneath it all, with one telling part of his anatomy displaying just how much he had been enjoying all that had happened in such a manner that it could not be concealed.

Of course the carnal need was not uncommon during bouts, spars and battles — and many times Dorn had recognized it whenever one or several of his men had to abscond for a time as they saw fit after training. Never had Dorn, himself, had much of a desire even though the thrill of combat was satisfying in its own way.

Oh how that quickly changed.

When it was with Perturabo.

Surprisingly, he felt almost embarrassed by the fact as if he wasn’t being the one so viciously and violently undressed as Perturabo continued to yank and pull. “Perturabo… what are you doing…?”

Dorn uttered out when he could while swallowing down Perturabo’s particularly flavored saliva.

Desire illuminated in his gaze as the rough treatment continued, pulling and tugging him this way and that with Dorn not being particularly helpful in that regard beyond the removal of his shoulderplates as he didn’t want to risk Perturabo preventing his hand's use, knowing that his Brother was on a hair trigger.

Not like that mattered as he seemed shockingly compliant to Perturabo’s whims.

As soon as they separated, Perturabo licked his lips, crassly and openly savoring what he’d tasted, a long trail of joined saliva still linking them to which he paid no heed as he stared at Dorn like a starved beast of the wilds who had finally found a suitable meal.

Eyes of washed out blue fire penetrated into the side of Dorn’s face as he watched him endeavor to help in the process of enabling his access. It was a strange and unexpected situation, Perturabo’s suspicions still pervasive and strong; but as long as Dorn didn't try anything stupid, he’d allow him some initiative, letting him take the needed actions so that his regalia could be removed without it being destroying in the process.

Dorn’s loathsome corpse-Emperor help him should he test his patience, though. The retribution would be harsh and swift. But Perturabo was slowly coming around to the possibility that somehow, Dorn was agreeable on his own terms. It was something that Perturabo would neither allow his hardened hearts to accept at face value nor would he cease to believe there wasn't some ulterior motive driving his actions. Perhaps he’d not had enough time to heal as much as it seemed that he had in the minutes that passed since Perturabo launched his assault; or perhaps he feared that non-compliance would result in more from where that came from.

Something that was undeniably likely, though Perturabo had no desire to struggle and vie for dominance in any physical form beyond the one he inhabited now — a reasonable match, a more respectable opponent. And one which—most importantly—would not find it so easy to outpace Dorn's healing abilities unarmed, should they come to blows — and inadvertently kill him in some tragic accident.

He expected some resistance from Dorn before this was through, but that was fine by him now that he realized the errors of his earlier approach. But then, things had admittedly been different and it would have been foolish to appear in the initial challenge as anything less than the Siege Machine that he was, at least for as long as Dorn wielded that infamous, vicious chainsword as Perturabo no longer had any simpler armor at his disposal — and neither of them had any expectations of how things would turn out beyond the worst case scenario. He knew that all too well.

Stripped down as they were now though, Perturabo found the idea of a scuffle far from displeasing. And he still craved things far crueler than what was right but no more would he pit Dorn against something meant to decimate entire Legions and raze planets to the last blade of grass without some sort of additional ground rules at the very least — beyond simply not firing his ranged weapons.

Yet despite the astronomical unlikelihood of it all, he could not deny the presence of the masculine, cloying musk that emanated from Dorn’s entire body, growing stronger the more exposed he became. That scent made Perturabo’s already eager erection pulse and throb beneath his loose himation and set his every instinct to lightning — putting ideas in his head of things that he’d already threatened doing but now in an entirely different way.

A shudder of excited, disorienting potent anticipation stabbed through him as he observed those auric pauldrons as they heavily fell away to pummel the rough ground below, each dull thud like a drumbeat proclaiming what was to come.

“What I've wanted to do from the moment I landed here." Perturabo replied with a sneer. “What I should have done… a long time ago.” His voice was husky and unsteady as he shook, the sight of Dorn’s form in that body glove that clung to him like a second skin and held taut around every ripple of his incredibly bulky, muscular body causing Perturabo’s thighs to quake, and moisture appear where there had been none a second ago — all bolstered by that smell that was already many times more potent, now with sweat added to the mixture.

It was enough to drive him insane.

But he had to keep his faculties enough to make certain things clear despite the images in his mind of ripping that body glove apart with his bare hands.

“And there will be no change of course, Little Brother.” Perturabo declared in a tone that reinforced all he said, sounding as though he had to fight the very words to get them out between deep, rasping exhales. "No longer will I force you to take me on beyond how I am now, that I vow unless you seek your blade. It will be a more… fair match now that things have been made… abundantly clear."

His voice was no more than a throaty growl, eyes narrowed as he stared at Dorn, the sight of the bulge that pressed from that body glove just visible in his lower vision inciting him even further.

"But I will have your surrender or I will make you submit."

When that oily saliva string broke, Dorn licked his lips, almost mirroring Perturabo exactly. He certainly had no objections to the taste as he angled his head enough to look Perturabo in the eyes, staring his Brother down in a strange hungering way in turn.

It was not unlike the predatory gaze he was met with, the desire that Perturabo shared was wholly his own. For Dorn, his expression finally shifted from the surprise that this was happening to interest and thorough anticipating satisfaction.

Slowly and carefully, Dorn continued to use one hand, this time to detach the back plate, willing for it to come away as that heavy aquila that rose in symbolism, now fell behind along with that faded red velvet cloak, leaving him close to natural weightlessness. All that remained on him of that burnished gold armor were his vambraces and gauntlets— due to being unable to effectively remove them; and his sabatons and greaves— due to being unable to get to them.

Never once, in the midst of his actions, did he look away from Perturabo.

His natural senses picked up on as many blatant tells from Perturabo as he no doubt sensed and smelled in turn. It had Dorn idly wonder if his Brother had actually tried to view any readouts of exactly how his body had been reacting time and time again.

Because Dorn had become aware of his own desires and wants bubbling to the forefront, pushing that inhibition a bit further away.

The desire had always been this outcome. In one way or another, Perturabo had come here with intent to stake a claim. Yet, how much would Perturabo believe him if Dorn had stated that he was intrigued by the very prospect?

A moment later and he reflexively felt his legs tense underneath his Brother while that passing vision played in the back of his mind. He had been so dejected and downtrodden in that situation, an assumed product of what Perturabo likely thought of Dorn’s very psyche.

If only he knew the truth on that matter.

An unkind shiver coiled down his body at the same time that heat pooled heavily in his gut. ’What I should have done a long time ago’. The statement alone elicited a low groan from Dorn as his throbbing erection twitched in the confines of the glove. “Oh?” Despite such a simple questioning tone, that simple sound was not said in a stoic, unaffected way. No, instead, Dorn nearly growled it out in his deep, rumbling voice and was spoken with such wetness that it sounded like he was…

Salivating.

Everything Perturabo was saying was hitting him just so, that he didn’t even find offense in being called ‘Little Brother’ despite knowing it was meant to be inflammatory.

A rare smirk crossed Dorn’s lips at the mention of a far fairer fight but he had something more pressing to focus on. “Will you now?” He challenged, yet his words continued to hold that same salivating hunger, so much so, that all his own pheromones were heavy in the air as well now, becoming increasingly oppressive.

“Do you promise?”

What was this?

This wasn’t rejection, or even outright refusal, it was an almost unhealthy interest as he leaned in.

Perturabo’s thoroughly captivated, unquestionably horny gaze took in the sight of those intoxicating, lust-laden eyes; and his hearts stopped as his lungs stalled — fully stunned by what he saw. And while he was still unable to fully have faith and believe there was a change inside of him that he couldn’t fully restrain; something intrinsic, something needy and longing that instantly soared inside of him, a part of him that was not heeding the incessant anxiety of his negative mind as he felt, deeply — despite those ceaseless worries. He was greatly impacted by what was happening, even as he tried to talk himself down from the deeper meaning in it all.

Did Dorn truly…

No. Not possible. But even if he did, that was a series of complications of its own at this stage. Best not to think about it… too much.

But if he did not think this over, there would be no distractions at all from his now racing pulse that beat with such ferocity that it hurt, no deflection to hide behind or means to bolster his outwardly presented callousness.

He had made it clear that he fully intended to force himself on Dorn, and that demand alone if nothing else should have been enough to prevent anything purer from ever having a chance to grow.

Not that it ever could have… even in the best of times.

So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that Dorn saw him for once, truly? And liked what he saw?

He was spiraling, but it all fell away with the aquila when it was disengaged from the back of Dorn’s gorget and pounded against the ground below, the removal of that one thing by far the most symbolic of all in Perturabo’s mind for reasons he couldn’t begin to express. His hands curled into fists, but his expression was unchanged.

Doubting, shutting down in some capacity — but it was not enough to stop this or tear himself or his gaze away from Dorn. Nothing would have been enough.

Perturabo jerked his head back as Dorn leaned in, mouth hanging open in shock as he looked at Dorn in disbelief. It wasn’t that he hadn’t assumed some form of challenge, pushback or outright aggression — but never had he expected to take a form such as this.

Taunting. Provocative.

It took Perturabo a full second to close his mouth, and when he did his features darkened in a standoffish expression, high angled brows meeting and creased in the center as he stared back combatively.

“You provoke me?” He shook his head derisively. “It won’t do you any good,” he continued in a sardonic voice, then released his hold around Dorn as neither of them could possibly take this any farther with such limited mobility and range of motion.

“Even should we fight again, your future is still carved in stone, Dorn. I won’t be distracted from my goals. You heard my terms.” A cold, cruel smile crossed his lips but it did nothing to disguise an interest so great, a need so deep that it practically undermined everything he set out to do here as he was broadcasting a weakness; a vulnerability as clearly shown as the images he’d not realized he’d been subjecting Dorn to all this time.

“Now finish up before I have to take matters into my own hands.” Perturabo glowered, voice still gruff and unsteady.

With each passing moment his strong and undisguised passionate emotions—both good and bad—betrayed his every attempt to present himself as an uncaring detached machine. And he shifted an instant later, already drawing closer as if he planned to ‘take matters into his own hands’ before even giving Dorn a chance to speak, much less act.

There were a multitude of factors that lead Dorn to this moment, to his blood running hotter than liquid fire, to his hearts working overtime to pump a cocktail of endorphins, adrenaline and oxygen throughout his body, and even to his lungs taking greedy gulps of laced air and the all scents emanating from Perturabo.

That normally put together and completely stoic brick wall was crumbling in ways that likely none except those in his own Legion would ever understand as everything that had happened, even in the most dire set of circumstances, had breathed something into him that had laid dormant for millennia.

The threat that he would be forced upon did not even register in ways that should have given anyone pause. Dorn should have recoiled, he should have shown nothing but down right disgust towards his Brother. He even should have redoubled his efforts to prevent this.

To no knowledge for Perturabo, it wasn’t as if the Emperor himself sought any measure of consent from his favored sons before subjecting them to things and in ways that would horrify anyone with any measure of a… moral code.

But Perturabo wouldn’t know that.

Even now, despite how fucked up it was, Dorn knew he would prostrate himself before the Emperor if he ever uttered such words, feeling them deep within his very soul to do so —  if not to offer his very body up for punishment of failure. Logically and factually, Dorn knew his continued hold to his Father, despite the circumstances and the agony, it still held strong and above all — he knew how twisted love was.

And how it could be.

Yet, with Perturabo… he could make the choice, a more willing choice, to fall into the yawning abyss that wanted to claw and tear him apart inch by inch, to capture him and string him up in ways that those visions revealed time and time again. Perturabo wanted Dorn, in the most visceral and vicious carnality that he could ever imagine.

In the most horrible, terrible, blasphemous ways.

A throaty moan tore from Dorn’s throat as his mind worked on overdrive and he had begun to pant again; loud and heavy, when Perturabo moved enough so that he could actually get to work.

This would have to be alarming to some extent, for any of their Brothers to see, especially from the more open ones with their affections. This was a side of Dorn that none had gotten to witness or otherwise surely they would have gossiped about it.

But there was a near madness in those darkened hazel eyes, one not touched by any of the Ruinous Powers, but by Dorn's desires alone as his right hand reached out to work on the straps on his legs, freeing both sabatons and greaves alike, soon casting them aside to the pile of golden armor quickly adding up.

The final piece of the gorget around his neck was removed, releasing the last bit of protection for his upper body.

Next came his hands. All the while he had been watching Perturabo but when it came to this part, he broke his gaze away. His actions were slower this time, without the same fervor as he hooked the left handed glove against the right underside of his arm, pulling and tugging at the mechanisms that kept them it place with impatience until it finally snapped off.

With his right hand now free, he, in startling contrast, quickly made light work of the left.

And there, Perturabo could now understand why as he’d be able to watch as vambrace and gauntlet came off together there, the hand of said gauntlet not even falling naturally to the ground, remaining rigid and stiff, locked into position.

Dorn’s left arm ended at the wrist, the body glove covered over every inch of that location, obviously modified to not have the hand cover in place, yet Dorn did not seem all that bothered by the reveal. It was simply second nature at this point, even despite the continued sensations of phantom pain.

Even all these centuries later.

But he wasn’t going to have his focus be on that, he had much more important matters on his mind. Anything that shut out his recurring words and analyses of his actions so long ago was a welcomed reprieve.

Now only left in that extremely form fitting body glove that displayed everything, — it was a simple blackened bodysuit with the only embellishment being that of the golden auric aquila that nestled below his collar bone, between his pecs. Additionally, Dorn’s cock was heavy and engorged in the glove, confining him to a state of a different kind of agony — yet he seemed to welcome it.

What had started as a startling moment of embarrassment was nowhere to be seen as he focused his gaze squarely back on Perturabo, fire behind his eyes.

“You want it, Brother? Come and try to take it. To take me, to claim me.” Dorn challenged as he squared his shoulders, gaze narrowed and mouth still open, still smelling and tasting the heightened tension in the air. There was no hatred, no animosity between his challenge made and who it was intended for, but he was not going to roll over so easily.

Defiant, to the last.

But far more alive than ever.

Chapter Text

Perturabo narrowed his eyes as he met that challenging, openly defiant glare head on, craning his neck and coming closer still as he stared into those dark eyes; and he found himself completely captivated—nearly hypnotized—by the ferocity he witnessed there.

But it was not cold, nor fueled by anger; no. It was an entirely different flair that he found staring back at him, and not of an emotion that he could easily identify.

It was thrilling. And that challenge levied made him want to grind Dorn’s rock solid body into dust.

Perturabo backed off, but he was not backing down. What he was doing, was gaining a proper vantage so he could admire his 'prize', scrutinizing eyes traveling over every portion of Dorn’s body in that skintight suit which hugged him in all the most delightful ways, with extra attention granted to his large, prominent pectoral muscles that looked as though they might be stretching that material to its limit.

After lingering there, Perturabo’s appraisal cut a path downward, over what seemed like endless hills of ripping muscles until his hungry eyes locked on to the impressive and undeniably excited expansion that was somehow potent enough to rise from a tactical suit he full well knew was meant to keep all parts of the wearer’s anatomy close to the body.

Astounding details.

And overall, physical perfection.

Perfection. While there were many more pressing and complicated thoughts assailing him, he could not neglect acknowledging what he saw before him. True perfection, on every level. It pleased and infuriated Perturabo in equal measure.

Beyond that, his confused mind still struggled to process all of the finer points surrounding the situation but it was nothing that either his analytical brain or his cybernetic enhancements could help him discern.

His own actions had been incongruent all this time, but now Dorn’s were as well. Maybe it would have disgusted any entity who dared pass judgment that Perturabo’s grand plan was sexually assaulting his own Brother only  moments after realizing how vital his well-being was to him—and right after vowing to be a better man, as sickening as it was illogical—but none of these details mattered to Perturabo, as he had decided at last that he would finally have him no matter what. He would protect Dorn's life, certainly — as he already harbored notions of eventually abducting Dorn and taking him to Medrengard, in mind.

Though no one else would ever know that.

Perturabo’s passions, while lava-hot, were selfish; worthy of being condemned as childish were they not so genuinely vile, as the only method he’d even considered to acquiring what he wanted was by taking it by force and then holding onto it so tightly and possessively that no one could take away what was his, as if Dorn were nothing more than a highly desirable toy.

That he would stoop so low was no surprise. What was a surprise, was that there were increasingly more and more signs that Dorn was not simply agreeing to his demands out of prudence — but was into it. All of it. At least to the extent he was aware of, at this point in the plan.

The smell wafting off of Dorn’s body was nothing short of aphrodisiac; so potently masculine and delicious, making Perturabo want to genuinely devour him. And now that he’d dared look down at what had caught his attention out of the corner of his vision, Dorn was hard, incredibly so. Evidence of desire in both cases that could not be faked. And seduction that by all accounts, had worked. That was abundantly clear.

But Perturabo had no idea what to think about any of these developments. It was all so contrary to how he envisioned this would go. There were no treaties offered, no defenses mounted — no attempts to stop him in any way, no panic, no fear. Even Dorn’s defiance was a taunt, and he knew it.

He’d always thought way too much about these things and Dorn always hated him as a result in all of his deranged fantasies, leaving him unable to escape that outcome even in the privacy of his own mindscape. In all the many outcomes he pondered, Dorn always hated him for even thinking of violating him in such a way, even when he never acted on it; and deep down Perturabo knew he took action now just to prove himself right. That by force was the only way this would ever play out.

He’d taken things way too far as his initial step solely to ensure that hatred so that he’d never have to face genuine rejection — and accept the fact that Dorn didn’t want him and never would.

Perturabo truly did not know what to do with this new information that even when enacted through deliberate self-sabotage from the very outset, Dorn, in fact, did want this on some level.

But repulsive the upright and pure Rogal Dorn would still find him if he truly knew what Perturabo's true goals actually were…

But this was a Golden Opportunity all the same and Dorn could learn of his true predicament. Later.

For now his slow, predatory gaze trailed back up the same path, all the way back to Dorn’s face, which he glared his hateful, pale-eyed malice into — far different from the uncanny of his bionic red perhaps, but no less embittered.

He glanced down again, to that infuriating aquila gleaming between those huge, bulging muscles; annoyed that even such a trinket was obviously made of that same opulent auric-adamantium that encased Dorn in his tortured visions, and worse — everything about it was no different from the proud and lavish Imperial crest that rose from the back of his gorget, except in miniature.

As if it was something that he himself might have created in his workshop so long ago, if he’d been allowed to work with such fine materials, and if he’d ever once dared to hope that Dorn would ever appreciate his gift.

He looked not only angry but offended suddenly as he snapped his chin up and he glared into those seductive hazel eyes.

“And I will claim you." Perturabo growled in a vain, self-satisfied voice, lips pulled back into a scowl as his hand jolted out to grip the little symbol.

“For the moment I stepped foot on this worthless speck of dirt to claim my prize…” His fingers wrapped around that auric eagle, slipping between its edge and the space between those ample pecs that felt nearly as hard as the metal.

“You have been mine.” Perturabo proclaimed, yanking with all his might as he pulled that emblem free from Dorn’s body glove, tightening his fist around it as he moved his arm back, so that it could not be taken away from him.

Dorn watched Perturabo, closely, after giving that taunting response. There was confusion somewhere in that bitter expression that he had come to expect from his brother. It was because of that bewilderment that a barest smile graced Dorn's lips, especially when his Brother lingered on some of his choice anatomy.

If only Perturabo knew.

Yet Dorn was not going to reveal anything — until it was absolutely necessary for him to do so.

Barely seconds later, when Dorn had seen that hand reach out rapidly, he had been tensing up to prepare for a counterattack when Perturabo had grabbed the golden trinket and snatched it away, pulling Dorn forward only briefly until the little clasps that had kept it attached to his body glove had given way.

A brow rose at the decidedly childish reaction.

Slowly, he began to move his legs, to return feeling to them and wake them up, taking advantage of the perceived distractions, “Does taking that satisfy you, Brother?” He gestured vaguely with the right hand towards the golden symbol Perturabo now had in his hand.

Though even Dorn could not deny how apt the symbolism actually was.

Grabbing a golden prize in the midst of unyielding darkness…

“Will taking me give you a similar elation?”

Perturabo’s fist squeezed around that aquila so tightly that it would have collapsed in on itself had it been any less resilient metal; instead the sharp points of those tiny wingtips bit into his palm and had almost cut him, its materials and craftsmanship were so great.

Nothing less for Rogal Dorn, after all.

His glare grew hard, strontium eyes glistening with malicious spite as Dorn dared say such an absurd thing to him; somehow equally lascivious as it was scornful, despite being composed of so few words.

The harsher his eyes became, the more unsavory was the sneering grin that had formed from the moment he’d decided what he would do — something he’d already intended before he’d even taken that aquila.

Dorn’s misplaced comment only made the unspoken actions he would take deeper reaching.

“We shall see, in due time. A time that might I add, is quickly and inevitably approaching.” Perturabo said as he opened his hand, then slid that auric bird up into his fingers with his thumb.

"But everything runs on my time and on my terms."

Something in Perturabo’s expression changed though an undeniably misplaced mirth never left him — but it was devoid of any true humor.

A dull, ferric laugh was breathed into the air as Perturabo brought that aquila to his lips, and he licked it, sampling the tang of its cold surface. And it tasted as exquisite as it rightfully should. Without taking his eyes off of Dorn’s, he wrapped his lips around a wing and then bit down, the auric metal snapping off with a loud, crackling crunch. The expression on his face told of every single debauched, deranged thought that gratified his degenerate mind as he chewed that little Golden Morsel as if it were a fine confection.

There was a tinge of curiosity in Dorn’s eyes as his gaze dropped to watch the aquila symbol as it was being maneuvered through Perturabo's fingers and played with, appearing struck by the want to understand just what Perturabo was actually going to do with it, especially considering the expression that his Brother wore grew more and more unsavory.

Then…

Then Dorn was assailed with a vision not so different than all the other ones before it, revealing the deeper inner workings of wherever and whatever this place actually was that Perturabo inhabited. The context clues alone told him who this location belonged to and the room's likely purpose, as with everything else that had preceded this. Strange sensations crept up his spine as he witnessed the malignant nature of what was far before and towering above him.

And who it was for.

Even despite that, Dorn was intrigued on some level, to know how far his Brother had taken his life's work.

It was only the grating sound of the metal being crunched up that drew Dorn away from his forced daydream, shaking his head. His stare had been faraway in the interim period between then and now; and he blinked with surprise as he watched that golden symbol be slowly consumed by his Brother — left wing first.

Dorn, genuinely, didn’t have anything to say to that, but both brows were raised high as he brought his left arm behind him, likely a subconscious motion as he was far more purposeful on setting his hand on the dusty, cracked ground, muscles tensing as if he was ready to push up.

Yet, even though he was poised to move, he couldn’t look away from what was happening in front of him, mouth opened slightly.

The tales told by Dorn’s ever-changing expressions were assuredly noted, yet Perturabo appeared unbothered by if not wholly unaware of the intrusive imagery that had caused most of those flickers across that typically enraging stoic face — just like each instance of that strange phenomenon before.

Instead, he took all the credit for causing those fascinating emotional shifts without question, outwardly gloating that he’d made an impact with his actions.

Actions that he continued to take, and escalate.

“Mmmmmnn…” Perturabo moaned deeply as his eyes narrowed blissfully, appearing to savor that shard of auric-adamantite; and he absolutely was, fantasizing that he was actually eating that much larger version that framed and protected the back of Dorn’s head — though he’d probably not have been able to bite though that reinforced armor even when fused with Neo-Logos. Another time, for a larger manifestation.

But the sentiment was authentic, and the fantasy good enough, a rising sense of satisfaction burning in his chest and emblazoned on his face as he stared at Dorn.

And then he popped the other half of that golden bird into his mouth, making uncomfortably intense eye contact as he continued to eat it, the expression on his face and each sound he vocalized making it clear between the crunches that he envisioned what he was consuming in a much more intimate way.

Auric-adamantium within, auric-adamantium without — he thought with amusement as he repurposed his own philosophy as it suited him.

It may have appeared he was being wasteful with his ill-gotten trophy but what he had done was anything but wasteful even though he could hold that little trinket no longer. Dorn's aquila was now a part of him that he would absorb, thanks to the Obliterator virus. That metal would fuse to his bionically enhanced form no matter what shape he took; forever — coating his wires, settling into his core, reinforcing his bones.

A part of Dorn; a part of Perturabo.

And that could never be lost or taken away from him.

“Delicious,” Perturabo chuckled darkly. “I expected no less of you.”

Of you, not from you.

Like he perceived this not as ceremony, but as if he’d actually eaten a part of Dorn’s body. But was this simply a ritual or did he truly… believe that?

Unclear, but he swallowed it all down with great satisfaction. The flavor, of sour and bitter cold metal — had a decidedly different note compared to all the other metals he’d ingested throughout his existence. Most agreed with him on some level, but this one was special and he’d never forget that distinct flavor that was most definitely due to the auric properties of that aquila.

The continued consumption of that pristine golden eagle made Dorn shiver as the metal succumbed to the might of a Primarch’s teeth, especially one such as Perturabo, giving way to smaller and smaller pieces until every bit of it had been consumed, swallowed into that iron gullet.

The additional sounds did little to help Dorn’s situation as that particularly salacious moan felt wired straight to his balls as his cock twitched in the confines of his body glove. All the while Dorn hadn’t looked away for anything, even in his preparations to fight.

Another rush of chemicals plagued his body as the last of his senses were set aflame.

Sure, he certainly should have felt offended by the fact that Perturabo had just eaten the Emperor’s symbol, but Dorn had never been one to levy all worth on the singular object itself, but by the actions that proceeded before, during and after.

That was why it affected him so as it was how Perturabo had taken it into his own hands and symbolically deconstructed it bit by bit. These threats were becoming more and more blatant, and this was perhaps the most telling display, despite how much his Brother spoke about such unsavory topics.

Or displayed unknowingly…

‘I expected no less of you.’

Of him.

There was still that same energy, a surge, from Dorn that he had no intention of concealing. Though he did not speak, there was no denying it when his scent and pheromones were broadcasting it as plain as day as…

Eager anticipation.

In that moment he moved, violently throwing his body backwards and to the right side so he could tuck and roll away in one quick and effortless movement, attempting to put a measure of distance between himself and his Brother.

All the while avoiding the armor that had been cast aside and kicking up dust and debris in his wake.

Perturabo licked his lips with satisfaction as he finished his snack, though it was a pity that this little hunk of metal would provide nothing omophagic about Dorn to the Mainframe, but he’d taken great pleasure in it anyway; from the ceremonial, to the mundane act of eating it in and of itself — and most of all, in sending a clear and diabolic message to his Brother. One that he couldn’t possibly fail to understand.

He inhaled deeply, thoroughly filling his triplicate lungs with air; all part of his display — but this time he got a display in return. And it was one that couldn’t have possibly been more phenomenal. His system hastened from that stimulation instantly and instinctively — even before his hyper-specialized CPU processed the feedback as his neuroglottis was entirely engulfed by the thick scent of Dorn; and he smelled like sex, primitive and primal, the very manifestation of carnality.

The moment it blanketed over him, he was struck by lightning, an electrified bolt that hit between his legs and rippled out as if his most sensitive nerves had been drenched in liquid fire.

Perturabo jumped in a full body twitch from the overload, a trillion thoughts coming to his mind all at once — not a single one of them wholesome by any definition.

He’d planned on taking action the moment he’d finished making that final point and making sure Dorn understood it, but by mere seconds Dorn had beaten him to the starting line; and he watched with undivided interest as his prey attempted to ‘escape’.

Dorn’s motions were exact, graceful; a marvel to watch, and to Perturabo’s determination after all the clearly exhibited sexual telegraphing Dorn kept supplying to him, he did not feel outraged about this maneuver as he might have, once.

He didn’t understand how it had come to this, how no matter how deliberate his threats became, Dorn met them head on; defiant yet din not react with disdain but escalation. He was baffled, but that was data filed away for later.

Right now he had something far more important to attend to. And he saw Dorn's actions as nothing more than a mating dance, as thoroughly obscene and blasphemous as that was a lens in which to view his own younger Brother.

Exquisite, that forbidden fruit.

With a sense of excitement rather than anger he all but flew from his position, springing from the ground with a speed that belied his massive size. His newly refined prowess was eerily similar to the motions of Neo-Logos, as if that enhanced bio-mechanical dexterity transferred to what appeared to be his natural Primarch body, as well.

Dorn was still no doubt insurmountably quicker if it came down to it, but Perturabo was not hindered one bit by his gigantic mass — and Dorn wasn’t truly trying to escape anyway, nor was he aiming for rearming himself with that lethal chainsword. Of this, Perturabo was sure. And because of all of these things he had not one single notion of transforming into something even more specialized for warfare than his most rudimentary design — despite Dorn appearing to be breaking his ground rules.

This was a game, and it was one Perturabo would take the greatest pleasure in winning.

His linen himation billowed around his bulk as he sailed through the air, taking aim at the target in his sights, and as soon as he’d maneuvered close enough, he dived down, tackling Dorn to the abused ground forced to absorb their weight and impact yet again.

Perturabo had always been larger than Dorn but there was no great size or power disparity any longer; no more risk that he might take this to a lamentable and truly unwanted end. Dorn had been given ample time for his Primarch biology to regenerate, and Perturabo was elated to reenact this moment in the way it should have always unfolded; the way he genuinely wanted it to be. Brother against Brother, Primarch against Primarch — and driven by the unbearable desire that had always powered his actions involving Dorn rather than the rage he was condemned to express it as.

“You will NOT get away from me!” Perturabo boomed, the full strength of his thunderous voice adding to the dust and cracks that they seemed to inflict on this obscure planet everywhere they went. It would be a wonder if there was anything left of it by the time he was done.

Dorn hadn’t gone far by the time that Perturabo sprang into action, chasing right after him with speed despite his bulk. And his Brother was right, he didn’t go towards his weaponry at all, as that hadn’t been in mind or goal.

He didn’t want to kill Perturabo.

Yet, he certainly wasn’t going to simply surrender without some more satisfaction in this, as he was craving it every bit as much as his Brother was. Besides, he damn well knew how this was riling up the other in turn. After all, his mouth had remained open, lungs taking in and categorizing every little bit of that broadcasted musk.

It was a constant cycle.

The composure he carefully maintained for so long had begun to crack when he had to drink down his own saliva to prevent himself from drooling in such a primitive and crude manner as Perturabo had.

It was completely unbecoming from a Primarch like him.

There was no one to witness this decline in depravity beyond likely the only person in all creation that could have ever gotten him into this state in the first place.

Perturabo made contact with a solid mass as he barreled into Dorn, slamming them both into the ground. Not only was the impact thunderous, there was another noise amidst the sound of their scuffle.

It was a low rumbling, one that could be felt deeply in his chest and seemed to vibrate the air and very ground. Dorn was… growling like an animal as he narrowed his glare to his Brother, caught but barely so, as Perturabo was soon met with a rough shove with quite a lot of force behind it.

The Unstoppable Force had collided with the Immovable Object, though this time it would be the very land they laid upon that would suffer the siege. Perturabo’s expression was a smug and crooked smile as he glowered down at his prey, captured; though anything but docile. Perturabo’s skin pricked from the deep, low reverberations levied at him as he stared into that aggressive, violent face.

But before he could recover from the posture he’d landed in and scramble to a more effective position, Dorn shoved him with true strength behind it, the energy from Perturabo’s natural recoil working against him as he flew back, grunting loudly as his spine curved into a deep arc.

He’d seen this coming before it connected but hadn’t had the time to fully stabilize, opting instead to use what opportunity he had to transfer his center of gravity to his knees so that he would remain on the ground, straddling Dorn between his hefty, powerful thighs.

It had worked, as he hadn’t given up an inch of the territory he sought so ardently to conquer, but the recoil had left him wide open and he knew it, now anticipating Dorn's next move so that he might try to counter it.

As Perturabo was thrown back with barely enough force to push him away, the growl never ceased even when his Brother straddled him tightly, keeping as much of his weight on him as he possibly could. However, now Dorn wasn’t as nearly fully sunken into the ground like he had been in the first impact when their battle nearly ended on a much more tragic note.

Instead of throwing a punch or an elbow at the massive machine above him, he bent his legs at the knees behind his Brother, planting his feet firmly on the ruined ground and tensed before rolling his hips upwards, with the full aim to buck Perturabo off of him.

A strategic move. Though he wouldn’t deny how good the friction felt as he arched against his Brother.

Reeling through the air, it took great effort for Perturabo to keep himself balanced in any capacity, something that regrettably, wouldn’t have been an issue whatsoever had he not been limited to a  more fleshly form as Neo-Logos’ contingency algorithms and pressurized joints would have eliminated this outcome well before it even began.

He was waiting for the Fist that would eventually fly, prepared to catch it though it was 50/50 odds at best, as there was more than the exact angle to predict.

But that blow never came, instead an unbearable esthesia overcame him, more potent than perhaps any pleasure he’d ever known, senses overwhelmed as his groin made full grinding, sliding contact with Dorn’s; and with pressure and force behind it, with nothing but Dorn’s skin tight tactile glove and the scant loincloth beneath his himation layered between them. Those materials might have even increased the sensations as they created friction between their bodies as the hardness and heat was shoved against his cock.

The deep, sonorous groan that Perturabo roared up at the darkening sky echoed in the thin atmosphere as the shockwaves rippled through his entire body, and he rode out that ecstasy as he leaned back, cords and cables splaying around his head in a whipping cascade as he extended his stomach muscles and arched his back until his upper body was almost fully supine.

His eyes rolled into his skull as he reveled in that sensation until it faded out, leaving him even more aroused than he’d been before, the result genuinely painful from the urgency of his overstimulated body instantly demanding that he find relief from all the heightened hormones flooding his system.

And that was an instinct he’d fall headlong into without a modicum of inhibition.

Perturabo sprang forward quickly, the rippling of his spine like a snake as he pulled himself upright again, adamantium blue eyes crazed and wild as Dorn’s face came into view. His expression was far more animal than simulacrum, and he was drooling again.

Gigantic hands reached out for Dorn’s neck, and as soon as he found purchase, he slipped his fingers behind, aggressively fumbling with the zipper at the back collar of that body glove with a daemonic intensity that wasn’t as effective as he might have hoped in his frenzy. He squeezed his thighs against Dorn with great force so that he couldn’t get away again. As he struggled to get that zipper free with Dorn pressed to the ground as he was, Perturabo was already rutting and grinding against him from above as if to give a demonstration of what it was he’d do the micro-instant it was made possible.

As his attempts ended up being for naught, another growl emanated from deep within Dorn’s throat. This particular tone was not only a warning as it was laced with an undercurrent of pure frustration at not being able to complete what he had intended to do.

It didn’t help that he still was, for all intents and purposes, in a weakened state. Due to his own negligence with not keeping himself at the top of his prime. He’d change that, he would — if he managed to survive.

As those legs around him tighten further, he was met with a delightful squeeze, eliciting his own moan that broke the growling when he threw his head backwards into the dirt.

Dorn was unbearably horny even before Perturabo began to rut against him like some sort of untamed beast finally finding a mate to breed.

Unfortunately for his Brother, trying to fumble with that zipper while also shoving Dorn into that fine dirt, was making getting that annoying piece of metal pulled down very difficult amidst all of the fumbling. Not even Dorn could aid in that regard as he thrusted a hand out to try and grab Perturabo by the throat.

Perturabo was so hyper-focused on his goal that he didn’t predict retaliation in the form of that strong hand that was now gripping his throat; hadn’t even noticed it until it was unexpectedly there he’d been so single minded in the pursuit of his desire.

He growled as soon as he felt those fingers wrap around him, staring down at Dorn furiously as he made pointed eye contact. The unsavory smile that curled at his lips was nearly a taunt of his own, as if he was just daring Dorn to try it.

Though one good thing was that the unexpected attack had managed to ground him, bring his focus back to the situation at hand.

He’d become so exceptional in the many years that had passed, transformed into something better described as a construct than a person, but all that had seemingly fallen away when in the presence of his own kind after so long.

Or maybe it was only Dorn that could have served as such a catalyst, the antithesis of all he strove to be.

Regardless of the reasons, he had reverted back into something that was not nearly as faultless as he’d once been; and he knew it in this moment as he reflected on how he’d become incredibly sloppy in all ways since he’d first landed on this wretched planet.

No, well before then. From the moment he saw that face in his mind’s eye after so damnably long.

He tried to yank himself away from Dorn’s clutches while still messing with that zipper though now he was actually managing to be somewhat effective, succeeding in pulling it down a couple of centimeters.

Just like that, the grip relented, even after the challenging staredown; yet through the brief moment that he was pulled up when Perturabo moved backwards, his Brother had gained a bit of what he wanted — to pull down more of that zipper further.

It was because of the sensation of the stagnant air finally hitting his upper back that Dorn had let go in an effort to slam his back into the dirt and press down hard, making access all that more annoying to reach.

Dorn sneered up at him, showing teeth and old, dried blood. Blood that still stained quite a bit of his facial hair.

There was no masking his true desires though, even now.

When Dorn loosened his grip, it felt to Perturabo like he was winning. Even more so due to their movements aligning perfectly to be able pull that zipper down.

The sensation of even that small section splitting in half and coming free bolstered his anticipation, mouth hanging open as he stared down at Dorn as if he were a meal brought out by servants for him to sample.

But that was brought to a disappointing untimely end all too soon when Dorn forced himself down into the earth, stating plainly that he’d rather stain himself with dirt than allow Perturabo access to his prize.

With an irritated growl, Perturabo let go, raising up on his knees to give needed clearance as his hands reached out in tandem to try and slip under Dorn enough to be able force him to move; and with all the gripping and grasping and pulling and tugging it was blatantly obvious where it was that Perturabo thought Dorn should be.

Lying prone with his chest against the ground, his face in the dust and the rubble. But Dorn was incredibly strong, especially with gravity on his side as he braced his weight while tensing up. And worst of all, was that body glove. It was so tight he couldn’t pull it away from Dorn’s skin, and so sleek that he couldn’t manage to get a good grip on it while being unable to slide his hands beneath him.

It was maddening, Dorn's face framed with tiny hints of sweat and caked in blood, the scent that he emitted even now enveloping him; Perturabo's actions grew more frantic and he twisted his wrists down before beginning to claw at the ground, determined to find a way to grab Dorn, even if he had to dig him out of his fortress to do so. It wouldn't take much, he only needed enough clearance to be able to wriggle his hands beneath the small of Dorn's back…

The sheer cocktail of everything was like a dizzying drug to Dorn as he laid there on his back, pressing so hard against the earth that he might crack it without impact, simply by absolute determination.

Every action was so sexually charged that it awakened things deep within Dorn, things that had not been fed to the fire in so long.

Yet here, Perturabo was stoking the flames in just the right ways as if they had been lovers this entire time.

Try as he might, Dorn could not delay the inevitable wrought by Perturabo’s pure persistence in getting exactly what he wanted and what he felt that he deserved after so many millennia.

Digging in the ground allowed the coveted purchase that his Brother so eagerly sought.

Dust and dirt, gravel and rocks sprayed out in a dry, desiccated cloud as Perturabo frantically worked on digging his enemy out of his fortifications; and in short order that somehow still felt far too long, he succeeded.

When that little wedge hewn out of the solid ground beneath Dorn opened up enough to allow his thick fingers to slip in, he shoved the rest of his hand roughly below Dorn’s back and began to lift him and as soon as he could, he aggressively pushed him to the side, ‘encouraging’ him to roll over — but if he did not assist that was still no matter as Perturabo would do it for him. And once he’d pivoted that tensed up rock hard body somewhat, his other hand quicky joined in, easily getting a good hold on him now.

With frantic urgency and nothing that could ever be described as gentleness, Perturabo managed to rotate Dorn onto his side and as soon as that were possible he slammed him down into that craggy earth with a frustrated, guttural growl; one hand reaching for that consternating zipper while the other sank into once-snowy hair, now looking more like rust from the flecking, dried out blood and the clay soil that had been ground into it. He began undoing the zipper with jerking tugs as he pulled on that hair with a tight, merciless grip.

“I said you will NOT get away from me!” Perturabo bellowed his belligerent outrage. “And I warned you… I offered you a peaceful surrender. You’ll pay for that mistake.” He made his threats in a passionate, husky voice that shook and sputtered from the strain of the lust he was under, his mind and hearts running hot as spots flickered across his vision. He stared down at the flesh he was revealing; rippling muscles beneath skin so smooth, like velvet over polished stones.

“You will submit,” Perturabo hissed like a feral beast. “One way or another. Do I make myself clear, Little Brother?”

Suddenly, just like that, the world spun in Dorn’s vision. Where he once stared up at the endless and barely starlit cold sky, bathed in that severely dimmed light of a dying star, was now subjected to the dirt, grime and fine dust of the planet. There was a loud crack as his head slammed into the hard rock, causing him to choke on the dust that all of their scuffling had brought up.

This was followed by a sputter as Perturabo’s large hand shoved his face into the dirt, the action done so violently that in the following seconds, he could taste the blood from his nose draining down into his mouth and between parted lips. Struggling against his Brother, Dorn turned his head to spit out a wad of blood.

And then the moment passed as he was shoved down into the dirt again until those large hands pulled and yanked his short-cropped bone-white hair, the long closed wound feeling as it it had opened again to sully his hair further.

Perturabo found that, aside from the area that had been covered in blood, Dorn’s hair was surprisingly soft, especially in those spots that had sported a much closer shave to the scalp. It had been clearly maintained in a meticulous fashion, just as his facial hair was. Actions that were likely done more out of routine than anything else.

Even so, such efforts did not reveal themselves now considering that he was covered in the fine dust and blood that changed what his hair color truly was.

His right hand clawed uselessly into the dirt when Perturabo bared down on him enough to where trying to resist now was a laughable idea. He did tense under his Brother though, as Perturabo continued to make threats.

No, these weren’t threats. They were promises, promises that had been clearly given to him when Perturabo had first made his twisted interest known. Those broadcasted scenes played back in his mind again, always flickering out of full view, yet subjecting his body with increased blood flow and aching breath as he envisioned it.

With his erection trapped between his body glove and now pressed into the ground, a growling groan escaped deep in his throat, a noise he had no interest in concealing. All the while the cooler stagnant air met his back as more and more of his skin was revealed to Perturabo’s greedy gaze.

The darker body glove gave way to much paler skin and, despite all the battles Dorn had ever been subjected to, his body seemed to be free of any imperfections or marks. The only thing that even marred his skin in any way were those various ports for his Black Carapace.

Even still, whatever healing properties Primarchs possessed had clearly favored Dorn and now, it was as if Perturabo was revealing a taut canvas ready for a fresh coat of paint.

Trapped underneath Perturabo, Dorn was fully panting, inhaling the dirt and the charged air alike as that heady mix of musk and pheromones coated over the both of them within their close proximity. There was no denying the sheer sexual attraction they shared with one another and now that Perturabo had bullied his way past all his attempts to resist, Dorn barely made any motions telegraphing he was trying to get away.

Whether that was due to the actual exhaustion or the warnings Perturabo made, it was difficult to tell for other party. Yet, for Dorn, it had been all of some sort of fucked up game in his mind — that he had wanted to feel, to the taste the delicious sample of pain that Perturabo would deliver to him if he stepped out of line.

Exhaling sharply, Dorn licked his bloody lips a moment afterwards and when he spoke to respond, there was still the low rumbling undercurrent of a growl that echoed deep within his chest.

“Yes, Brother.”

Dorn relented, giving his Brother the reins.

The feeling of that dense, resilient, rock-solid little body being manipulated in his hands like clay was so incredibly satisfying to Perturabo; and each crunch and crack and cough and groan that he forced out of Dorn was like the finest music. But together those sounds combined to form a fascinating symphony that made him want to take everything so much further — just to discover how Dorn’s performance might transform with continued… ‘encouragement’.

How much would it take to make Dorn break out into a chorus of moans, to make him beg and cry out again and again? To make him scream for mercy…? The Stoic One hadn’t even pleaded to save his own skin earlier when he’d been overcome by something likely beyond his means to stave off. Perhaps it wouldn’t have ended in the worst possible way, but the potential was certainly there — and while Dorn had reached out to him in the end, it wasn’t in despair. He was far too accepting of whatever may come; and far too reserved even in the midst of possibly dying.

Perturabo didn’t want to kill Dorn! — what he wanted was to watch him squirm, make him suffer. But how to accomplish such a thing, as he was? Perturabo had a working theory but there was far too much missing data he couldn’t extrapolate, too many nuances involved that eluded his overly utilitarian thought processes.

It was an enigma that Perturabo ached to solve.

Maybe he’d brought everything to a finality so absolute in that final moment, that Dorn simply resigned himself to his fate; deprived of hope. The very hope Dorn needed to cling to in order to endure — rather than nobly face his demise head on as he had…

If so, maybe Perturabo only needed to apply pressure gradually, subject him to survivable but increasingly overwhelming stimuli over a longer period of time; and wear him out. Outlast his endurance. Break him down a little more slowly…

Brick by brick.

His hearts increased their frantic, de-synced pounding at the very thought of that, a trickle of strangely shimmering saliva dripping down his chin as his erection cramped so painfully it caused his legs to spasm; and he sputtered wordless growls while he rode out the sting.

Perturabo still didn’t have a plan of action, but perhaps he didn’t need one. While he was exacting and methodical in most everything he did, in this situation, discovering the solution gradually and in real-time would have its own benefits…

He stared down like a carrion eater at the revealed flesh framed by the parting of that body glove, Dorn’s skin maddeningly velvet from the sheen of a superfine layer of tiny, colorless hairs that caused him to appear as if he were glistening in the faint light of dusk.

It made Perturabo want to devour him…

He pressed his massive hardness against Dorn’s thighs, causing them to part slightly below his weight, and he reached down with the hand that had been undoing the zipper to pin Dorn down, palm pressed roughly against the small of his back.

Perturabo’s other hand released its vice-like grip from Dorn’s skull so that he could admire the ruination of snow-white hair; it's ethereal qualities contaminated by the dry soil smeared into it, turning it flaming orange from the minerals that had been absorbed. And in the center of that spiral pattern that looked like a setting sun, was the vivid nearly neon red glistening of fresh blood that was soaking into those soft locks.

So pale in every conceivable way, Dorn was a prepared canvas powdered with marble and coated in gesso — demanding to be made into a true work of art.

And above all else, Perturabo was a master artisan.

He leaned down, extending his broad, gigantic body forward as he laid himself against Dorn, free arm wrapping around him after slipping between that opened body glove and Dorn’s chest, fingers aggressively forcing their way inside as he peeled that form fitting material from sweat slicked skin.

The other hand had slowly slid up and out of the way with the change of his positioning as he strategically worked to pin Dorn down in a more snug way; and once he’d achieved that goal that hand was immediately wrapping around Dorn’s throat. The pressure was kept moderate, not choking but making a clear proclamation that could change if needed.

And then, once he was exactly where he wanted to be, he began to suggestively, disgustingly rut between those parted thighs and the lower curves of Dorn’s ass through their clothes as he bent his head down.

With not a bit of hesitation or second thought he ran his lips, his tongue, his teeth though Dorn’s stained and dirtied hair, eating like the Obliterator he was as he consumed dried iron-tinged flecks of old blood and terracotta soil; working his way in until he began to suck and drink down the fresh bright red blood from Dorn’s hair.

He turned his neck and leaned in.

“Mine. Do you understand…” He growled deep, vox-touched threats into Dorn’s ear, yet did not wait for an answer. It was no question, after all.

Then Perturabo returned to his endeavors, long metallic and rubber insulated cables dangling down as he was methodically parting sections of that soft, silken hair with his tongue, licking, suckling, nibbling at the back of Dorn's skull; cleaning skin and hair and carapace ports alike, savoring every moment with no less enthusiasm in which he’d consumed that auric aquila — and likely with no less dire symbolism of… darker things he had not done.

Yet.

Chapter Text

Those nearly imperceptible, fine little colorless hairs stood on end as more and more of Dorn's skin was exposed to the cold air of this nameless planet. The chill was immediately contested as that large hand slipped between his body glove and his chest with Perturabo adding his weight and heat against him.

What Perturabo would roughly feel was an even thicker section of Dorn’s body hair when those fingers splayed along his chest, now trapped by Dorn’s weight from above. It was still soft to the touch.

The hand around his throat cut off any noise he potentially could have made by the sheer will to remain quiet and he used his face being pressed against the ground to facilitate that while his Brother rocked his clothed and covered erection against his covered body.

Dorn’s body reacted almost inadvertently, with his legs spreading out of a trained reflex, letting Perturabo have unfettered access to grind against his ample ass.

The sensation drove Dorn wild as the friction rocked his own engorged cock against the hard ground. It was nearly overwhelming to the point that he bit his own tongue to stop himself from finding completion too soon — though that would have certainly never meant that he wanted to stop.

Another thing he was becoming increasingly aware of was the sound of chewing against his scalp as Perturabo licked and nibbled the back of his head in such a dangerous and particularly ravenous way. The strange tongue bath left him both hot and cool.

Soon enough, an aroused sigh escaped him every time that Perturabo got a bit too intimate with one of the Black Carapace ports, especially with the one that was connected to his brain stem.

During the entire happening, not once did Dorn ever stop indicating exactly how this all made him feel. Not only was he shuddering from the most minute of touches, his whole body was thrumming with sexual energy. He was certain that the rapid beating of his hearts were surely to drive the point of his excitement home to Perturabo, stubborn as he was.

The fingers of his right hand dug into the dirt, clawing uselessly while Perturabo began to suck on the blood that had begun to draw forth. The constant slew of stimulation had Dorn tensing his legs as he rolled his hips as much as he could against the ground below, matching Perturabo’s rutting motions.

Perturabo was under the strain of what nearly combined into total sensory overload as his every neural pathway was dominated by all that was Dorn; from his grinding, enticing movements to the throbbing of his racing hearts, the heated breath glancing over his arm as he struggled for air beneath him, the sleek moist skin and soft body hair against his palm, the taste of his sweat, his hair, his blood — a salty cocktail of trace minerals beneath strong notes of highly oxygenated cells amidst a base of copper and Iron that was delicious — no brew ever made by hand able to even come close to such a perfect, intoxicating flavor.

And that scent that only got stronger and stronger, with that body glove open and much more of the surface of Dorn’s skin now being exposed.

He realized how sensitive Dorn’s access ports were, nearly as much as his own somehow; could feel the jolts and jerks of his muscles in reflexive response as he manipulated them, which was especially delightful to him for so many reasons that elated him now, surely. But this filled him further with a malicious and lascivious excitement for plans he was devising for later. And with that vile joy humming in his black core he swirled his tongue around the rim of that module; into the gap between that edge and the beveled port in the center and everywhere else he could reach.

Then, he jerked his head back and to the side, pressing his lips nearly against Dorn’s ear, clay and metal and blood on his breath as he spoke in a rumbling growl.

“Do you know what you smell like, Brother?” Perturabo demanded to know in a scathing, accusatory tone, as if he were trying to shame him for it — while claiming every bit of space he could between them as he pressed his hungry cock inside those spread legs and roughly against Dorn's ass from behind.

True to his inner nature, whenever Perturabo passed the outermost rim and inside that port, Dorn would jerk involuntarily, as if one of his nerves was touched, which it might as well have been. Such movements were also reacted by that long hand digging more scours into the dry ground.

At the question though, even while Perturabo pressed against him in completely sinful ways, Dorn spoke with that hand around his throat in an even tone, the growl having disappeared.

“Yes, Brother. I smell like a composition of sweat, blood, pheromones and musk. And desire. In addition to what fine particulates are currently in the dirt itself.”

He spoke in the most Dorn way as possible, matter-of-factly and true to form, though most terms were rather broad in the grand scheme of his analysis.

However, he wore a coy smirk on his face, an expression mostly hidden by his facial hair, but there nonetheless.

"Thank you for that relaying of data, Brother. And according to my sensory readout, your summation is quite accurate." Perturabo retorted dourly in an irritable tone. But he was quite clearly not offput by anything transpiring here. Not by a long shot.

"Yes, of course it is. You're welcome." Dorn continued, voice still agonizingly even — even while his chest rising and falling so dramatically should have had him panting by now as he watched Perturabo in his peripheral vision.

Perturabo smirked, annoyed by the tonal shift that had descended upon the conversation since he’d asked Dorn a question. It infuriated him to see his enemy so composed now; so unbothered by the predicament he was in, so clearly in control of this situation and steadfast to the end.

“How gracious of you.” Perturabo hissed, leaning in so that he could glare his strontium petulance into dark eyes that displayed not one indication of fear.

Was what had happened earlier not even as tenuous as it had seemed at the time? Had Perturabo only assumed that it was so close to such a terrible end because he couldn’t afford to lose Dorn? Had he underestimated the fortitude Dorn surely possessed, overcome by worry brought on not by reality but the potency of his own emotions?

Likely. Dorn would never break so easily. He’d never managed to break him in the past even when giving it his all.

…In fact, upon more thought, it was all but guaranteed. Perturabo had fallen into his own anxieties and fostered sense of guilt unnecessarily — and in doing that, he’d revealed his weakness.

That truly, thoroughly, entirely pissed him off.

With a renewed sense of spite and bitter indignation turning along with the gears grinding in his mind, he was determined to take charge of the situation again.

Dorn was not the one in control, here.

“But that was not what I meant, not exactly.” He smiled hatefully.

“You smell like you want to be fucked. And ‘luckily’ for you… I fully intend to violate you this day — make no mistake, Rogal Dorn.” Perturabo’s voice was as cold as chilled metal, yet there was a telling shudder that somehow ran hot as his voice shook with passion when he spoke that accursed name.

Slowly, he’d finally come to realize today that he’d never—in all the many years that had passed—wanted to hurt Dorn indiscriminately; engage in torture simply for torture’s sake. It wasn't like that at all — though the specifics of the truth did not make him any kinder.

This had always been about his need to be seen, to be noticed, to be worthy of Dorn’s attention; the desires of a longing heart that craved to be let in behind those impenetrable walls. Obsessive feelings that had turned dark in desperation; and now after so many miserable years, it had transmuted into cruelty. Once, a smile would have been enough: a gentle laugh, a soft touch; quiet respect, benevolent closeness. Now, Perturabo would only be appeased by offerings made from the most extreme fringes of human emotion. But he was through waiting, and he no longer required Dorn to volunteer them or take the initiative. In fact, as it was now, Perturabo would much prefer to wring blood from a stone with his own two hands.

And that was what had caused him to take things too far, because that sort of personal, intimate vindication was not what Neo-Logos was created to inflict. His own flesh and bones would be the proper instrument for this extraction, and far more appropriate to indulge in the results.

As his impatient, burning cock was reminding him, each tick of his pulse like fire in his veins.

Yet he was no longer convinced he’d almost killed his adversary. That had been another instance of hubris, of him being his own worst enemy due to being so easily influenced by his attachments.

But what of Dorn? Why was he so excited, so thoroughly immersed now? Did Dorn have some kind of deep dark secret, some shameful masochistic fetish that Perturabo had accidentally discovered — and, had inadvertently indulged so completely that Dorn couldn’t control his bodily responses despite trying? Or were his reactions nothing more than an attempt to appease him; the stratagem to endure that he deduced was the most likely way to leave him unscathed and able to survive another day?

Perturabo would experiment until he found the answers.

But it was with no small amount of repugnant, cruel humor that upon considering this, his first thought was that enduing whatever was inflicted on him was indeed one of Dorn’s most common strategies. That had taken a whole new meaning now…

One that was more likely than ever as he had just clearly revealed that he was confident about how this would turn out, unless he was bluffing now.

But Perturabo wasn’t about to let Dorn make a fool of him, or get the upper hand.

And no one would be coming to save him. This would be a battle of attrition, but Perturabo had all the time in the world to wear down this Bastion of Stone.

“I will claim you. I will rape you. And you will be compliant and submit to me or I will beat you into submission. Do I make myself clear?”

Dorn stilled his motions as much as Perturabo had done so and it seemed like his intention was to fully listen to Perturabo as he risked turning his head to at least stare at him far more pointedly, just as Perturabo leaned in to get a better view of his face.

Good, Dorn had a feeling that all of this was leading to something in the next coming seconds and thus endeavored to make sure that Perturabo saw his reactions up front and center. He’d already understood that his Brother was trying to gauge certain things, judging by the way he went about speaking.

As if trying to find conclusions to a hypothesis in a test.

While the stare down continued, he briefly licked his lips in a slow and deliberate manner, to the degree that one could have almost concluded it was a flirting gesture as Dorn licked off some of the blood on his face from it being repeatedly slammed into the ground. The action only added to the peculiar nature of this exchange.

There was an instant dilation of those hazel eyes as Perturabo spoke so icily to him and a wave of goosebumps that traveled down Dorn’s body was the prize, those fine little hairs standing up once more as his gaze blazed at the utterance of his name.

It wasn’t until Perturabo took the threats too far that there was an immediate reaction to those disgusting words. Yet, it was wholly unlikely what Perturabo had ever expected from Dorn of all people. The steadfast and stoic bulwark that was never impacted by anything no matter the source, that could rebuff and repel anything and likely anyone.

But here…

His eyes dilated further until there was only the smallest of a ring of color. The black was striking against the paleness of the rest of Dorn and likely revealed far more than words ever could. As Dorn was not indicating fear, but the pure, unmistakable presence of lust.

Something that didn’t go away one bit the moment that Perturabo even brought up beating Dorn senseless. In fact, it briefly looked that Dorn was salivating.

Dorn understood how awful this entire situation was, especially after clocking on how maddened his Brother was with desire and what he wanted to do to Dorn — but Dorn found every bit of it undeniably hot for reasons far beyond the obvious. It was sheer blasphemy in how much he wanted Perturabo to make good on his threats.

Both said and unsaid.

He wanted, no needed, to be punished.

This situation just happened to be the most pleasing form he could think of though any normal person would have balked at the fucked up sense of morality Dorn placed on this.

His Father had taught him well.

Perhaps a bit too well.

In all of Perturabo’s melancholic daydreams and unholy cyber-fantasies; no matter how kind or cruel he was, no matter how it all came to pass, no matter how it all ended — the one constant torturing his broken hearts and ruined soul mercilessly even in the privacy of his own mind, was that Dorn hated it no matter what. And hated him, too. It was what led him to this vacant planet, what had caused him to attack Dorn so brutally, what had made him reveal his feelings at long last in the most disgusting manner he could think of — because even in those previously seldom times he dared to wish for something good, his mind would not allow him peace or any happiness. It always, without fail, ended in rejection and violence.

But here, there was clear and undeniable evidence that could not be refuted that even when Perturabo’s desires took the most disgusting form and while being presented in the most blunt and repugnant way possible, Dorn liked it despite it all.

No, Perturabo corrected himself. It was even weirder than that.

It wasn’t despite it.

The upstanding Golden Fortress of nobility, honor and integrity liked it because it was disgusting and repugnant. There was no denying those glistening, aching, lustful eyes, pupils so enlarged with interest and fascination that they nearly consumed his irises.

Perturabo had begun to suspect such from the moment that irresistible smell had nearly knocked him over — undeniable, undisguised as it beckoned him on an instinctual level that set his every nerve to lightning; the primal and potent pheromones of a horny Primarch. Not strange on its own but in Dorn's case it so intense it was as if—no matter the improbability of such a thing ever being necessary in any form or even possible in their singularly male-sexed, sterile, bioengineered ‘species’—that Dorn was in heat and begging in desperation to be bred.

Never in his life had Perturabo ever experienced anything so strong, so compelling, so raw, not even when he’d indulged in pleasures of the flesh eons ago, had it ever been like this. But his balls immediately understood that call even when his Mainframe did not. And with every moment that provocation intensified until now, it had crested to such heights as he stared into those strangely debauched hazel eyes that he thought he might tear Dorn to shreds.

And so deeply into his self-loathing and self-defeatist tendencies Perturabo had fallen, that he assumed that as it stood now, it was far too late to take any pleasure in anything that did not end with Dorn’s misery and suffering. What a twisted conundrum everything was, as in this moment he knew that while there would be all this and more, there would be more enjoyment in it than he ever thought possible.

…Somehow, that was sweetest of all, and yet… it made him want to be even worse for it…

His hand slid away Dorn’s throat to sink into dampened sunny orange and pale pink hair—the landscape he had painted with his tongue by thinning all that blood and debris—and he yanked, firmly before forcing himself on Dorn with a rough kiss that was off center and not capable of being fully initiated from this angle, but he didn’t care.

Perturabo began to simulate fucking in a much more overt way as he pushed his hips sloppily into the awaiting curves of Dorn’s firm, ample ass; the rising warmth turned blistering heat he was sure they could both feel between the fabrics that kept them barely apart, the glove that Dorn wore conforming to his shape so completely that there wasn’t any empty space to lessen the exploratory nature of how their bodies felt when slamming into one another.

And as the scene broke apart in the ether, leaving nothing but the dusty, cold reality of a solitary empty planet in its wake, there was also no doubting the motions in that vision matched up with laser precision to the same rhythm Perturabo now maintained as he moved against Dorn like a wild animal throughout that wet and messy kiss.

There was a glint in Dorn’s eyes, as if he derived some type of satisfaction at making Perturabo pause to have to consider what it all meant. Even now, despite how most of the situation was squarely in Perturabo’s favor, there were little victories such as this that brought a different sort of pleasure to him.

Perturabo didn’t understand what he was getting into, not that Dorn could really fault him for not understanding the downright questionable means of which he sought out his forms of repentance.

It was only intensified when it was Perturabo being given the means to provide him what he needed. A man that he had neglected, not out of spite or maliciousness, but as a product of the Emperor’s will. All the better, really.

Perturabo was his equal. He could think of no better suited to fit this role, even including the dark desires he could spot festering behind those calculating and cold pale eyes. So as Perturabo went in for a bruising kiss, Dorn responded with all the fervor that he could, to the point of being deranged.

Lips against lips and tongue against tongue pressing harshly until he threatened to knock their teeth together. That was, until he relented as Perturabo began to grind his hips against his backside, continuing to make a promise for what was soon to come and what he sought. Dorn wanted nothing more to free the both of them yet Perturabo had prevented that through the right—or wrong—hand placements.

And so he did the next thing he could do, to ineffectively hump the ground from his trapped position. Every motion pulled away from him had him ‘move’ away as well, though of his own initiative until he could press back into Perturabo and that throbbing cock.

Then…

It happened again, right as he was swallowing down some more of that extremely strange and slick saliva his Brother produced, his mind’s eye played the scene out as if he was actually present and there. What he seen had him moaning around Perturabo’s tongue and in his mouth as his mind replicated those suggested sensations all over again.

Just like it had done before.

Stimulation led to overstimulation and Dorn was lost in the feeling as Perturabo’s movements matched exactly with rhythm of those thrusting pistons in that vision.

Full of stamina, Dorn did not even pause when a louder guttural groan was swallowed up in that greedy mouth as an additional scent was released to the air.

Something that made his body glove a bit more sticky inside.

Perturabo was left in a state of shock and wonder — but one he met with no less enthusiasm as he was assailed by such aggressive, demanding kisses; their mouths clashing in a way that was nothing less that a battle. It left Perturabo’s head spinning despite his many augmentations that were meant to allow him to surpass all the vulnerabilities of the parts of him that could be called human. If any of those ever existed in the first place as a Primarch.

But Dorn had knocked down barriers time after time in such a way that it proved that no matter how far he took his enhancements, Dorn himself would always be Perturabo's  greatest flaw. Yet he could not bring himself to mind that one bit as things continued on this path that no doubt led to equal yet very different forms of personal damnation.

As he felt Dorn thrusting and gyrating in vicious, overexcited motions, throwing his weight between himself and the ground, he knew that this situation was quickly coming to an end — the stimulation of both physical friction and the mere thought of the filthy, disgraceful actions the honorable Dorn was guilty of, sending him past all remaining reserves of patience.

Yet as he pulled back to take in a heaving, rasping open breath through his mouth and nostrils, it wouldn’t have mattered how much he may have wanted to draw this moment out before — his sensitive, cybernetically enhanced neuroglottis completely overwhelmed by a distinct smell along with a detailed breakdown of information that followed through the glowing green and teal panels that spread and folded throughout his peripheral vision.

But Perturabo needed no assistance in identifying this new salty, acrid smell; primitive and essential in nature, unbearable and provoking in physicality.

It was more than he could take, both for its native properties and in the mental instability it created, from knowing that Dorn came.

Perturabo threw himself back with a sharp jerk in astonishment and haste, cables clacking loudly from the motion; and his huge hands were immediately upon the open edges of that form fitting suit that was suddenly and insufferably in his way.

He growled and sputtered like the crazed daemon he took great efforts in concealing beneath his roboticized mass, gripping and tugging and yanking and pulling in a frenzy that also contradicted anything that he could have ever presented as disaffected and detached; driven by frantic, furious actions that were of no unfeeling mechanism and surpassed even the aggression he had shown when peeling Dorn out of his armor.

And as he braced himself there on his knees, behind Dorn as he seemed intent to rip that body glove to pieces in an ineffective rampage, it was abundantly clear that the internal timer linked to the warhead that was Perturabo was now counting down its final seconds before detonation.

Dorn absolutely knew that his actions had been found out, not that he had been really trying to conceal what he had been doing by any stretch of the imagination. But being subjected to that level of psyker visions and the backlash from them had created a level of impatience that cause even Dorn’s own walls to crack.

Yet it seemed that Perturabo was none-the-wiser for having been the cause of them in the first place which was both maddening and curious at the same time. If it was inadvertent, then Dorn realized exactly how pliant it made him.

And the want to know what it all really felt like. Something he realized was to be his fate in due time and in no uncertain terms. It should alarm him, truly, but why deny it for now? Dorn, at one point, might have felt this was simply the tempting call of Chaos trying to lure him, yet his Brother held no banner for anyone but himself despite becoming Traitor so long ago.

This, all of this was of his own accord.

Just as dangerous as ever, but far more real.

As Perturabo pulled back with the damning pants of a man salivating, Dorn finally began to move, planting his hand on the dirt and pushing himself up enough so he could get onto his knees, even as those large hands groped and grabbed his skin and suit in equal fervent measure.

In this action, to prevent Perturabo from getting belligerent and suspicious, Dorn spoke — voice taking a stern tone even if he, too, had the aroused undercurrent that could not leave his vocal cords entirely. “A moment.”

He didn’t even wait for further response as he brought his arms into himself, working to slip parts of that exceedingly form fitting body glove off him in short order. His actions were purposeful, yet the barest shake of his hand belied the want to just get it over with and into what was far more enticing to think about. Even though Dorn already came from the overstimulation inflicted on him, he was very, very far from done.

First he slipped out his right arm that, in turn, allowed him to pull the limb out from the left. The first thing noticed was likely the arm stockinette that covered that left arm. Beyond that, those same fine tiny hairs, no fur, seemed to cover up and trail down Dorn’s arms as much as it had down his back, leaving that same glistening look spanning across him except for the places where there were the port access points for his Black Carapace.

Beyond the finer hairs, there were much thicker patches along his arms, longer hairs running along the span of them as well as thicker tufts of it under his armpits. All shared the same coloration of his bone-white hair. Still there were no imperfections to be found from behind.

Dorn was immaculate.

Once he dropped his hand down to push the glove to his waist, he looked behind himself and up to the ticking time-bomb that seemed ready to explode.

Perturabo had been reduced to something that contradicted not only his painstakingly bespoke cyber superiority but his superhuman heritage as well — a carnal satyric beast whose higher thought was all but suppressed as his driving force began and ended between his legs.

And despite his great and open disdain for any and all that lost control of their mental faculties; and for all the judgment he passed quite vocally on those who’d succumb to base urges without hesitation — here he was, reduced to this state; and maybe even worse than those he looked down on the most, for unlike him — Perturabo retained all of his elite capabilities.

For he suffered no affliction nor had any limitations preventing him from being better. He simply didn’t care.

“Fine.” Perturabo relented in a throaty, thick voice that was barely recognizable.

He sat back on his heels, hands stilled temporarily as he allowed Dorn to do what he himself had been struggling to accomplish, and he feasted with his eyes in the interim.

The only thoughts filling his head, the only passion in his hearts, the only desire in the black core where his soul once was; revolved around Dorn — a constant, lifelong obsession reignited and reinforced as his every dream was surpassed by the aching improbability he suddenly found reality.

Even his enhanced eyes and peerless mind were stunned by all the sensory input before him now, as if Dorn were something so divine and above him he could not hope to ever track him, to catalog him, to understand him.

All that he was and had ever been had crystalized in this frenzied moment into an nearly instinctive, blind need. A need to take Dorn and keep him; possess him.

He was so blindingly beautiful, perfection carved out of virgin marble; his compact form not lessened nor diminished in any way by his stature that was short by Primarchian standards — doubtlessly one of the strongest, his size genuinely a boon as it concentrated that vast and incomprehensible potency in a tighter space, those endless rows of hard, bulging muscles a testament to his power.

But Dorn was not a crass brute; efficiency and aesthetics at the core tenants of his holy form. A design that did not fail to take Perturabo’s breath away with both envy and appreciation, though his admiration had taken on a whole new quality that from this day, would always be a part of the obsessive gaze locked onto Dorn forevermore — now that his true magnificence was revealed for him to appraise, no longer mere imaginings.

More glorious than he’d ever dreamt…

Perturabo licked his lips as he leered at the sight revealed an agonizing bit at a time as Dorn pulled himself out of that body glove like a reptile shedding its skin. It had been best that Dorn do some of the work himself, which was why Perturabo allowed it as his clumsy efforts only prolonged things in a way that was… suboptimal.

But why hadn’t there been any pushback whatsoever? Why did Dorn encourage this? Why, was it that once all pretense fell away there was nothing expressed but desire? Those were some of the last vestiges of his rational thought as his mind was overcome while he watched Dorn undress; but even then, there had been no inhibition behind those questions lingering in his CPU.

As Dorn tugged that tough, skin tight protective sleeve down from his upper body, Perturabo followed where his eyes were led as if hypnotized — until Dorn turned to look at him. Perturabo immediately jerked his head up, fury burning in his crazed adamantium blue eyes with such intent they seemed hot despite their coldness; and he stared unbroken into the aurora of hazel that met his gaze.

He lunged forward, bringing his face nearly bashing into Dorn’s; stopping millimeters short as he bored down into those pretty eyes, expression not hardened but longing, needy, desperate, obsessive; the explanation to any and all questions Dorn may have ever had as to why Perturabo was not only the way he was now but had always been. While his silent confession may have evoked some sensation of understanding, of empathy — the all-consuming, begging, demanding, unreasonably tyrannical mockery of adoration that he revealed now genuinely only proved him far more dangerous than ever — and gave away the motive behind all the disturbing, possessive imagery he constantly inflicted on Dorn without even knowing that he transmitted any of it.

Shaking hands reached out to pick up where Dorn left off as he gripped that body glove with both fists; and he inhaled deeply in an obviously dramatized gesture as he tugged.

“I could devour you, Rogal Dorn.”

Those eyes — Dorn felt Perturabo’s fixating gaze trail every bit of skin that was revealed. It was a curious feeling for Dorn to have someone stare upon him in such an passionate manner, to want to do nothing but meld themselves against him until either one of them dissolved into merely paste.

He was so wholly, unequivocally desired.

Body, mind, and soul.

Dorn also had enough sense that Perturabo was not going to let him go, no matter what, now that he was in his clutches. He knew he was the most precious prize and the Golden Trophy that his Brother wanted above all else. He wondered if Perturabo would suffer anyone looking at him in even a remotely sexualized light.

That thought had him exhale sharply, to cover the budding amusement at the sheer thought of such a thing.

He already knew the answer to that, and when he looked back at Perturabo, he got another answer then too as Perturabo snapped like a taut tripwire, releasing the consequences that would barrel down right against Dorn in the immediate.

Perturabo’s gaze told him everything, things he knew and things he had figured out long before this point that had him at the mercy of this mechanical tyrant. This love, if one could call it that in any morally decent way, was choking and all-consuming; a deep tar pit that he could never even begin to claw his way out of.

Dorn held his breath in the face of that deranged expression.

And found Perturabo all the more beautiful for it a second later.

Moments later, Dorn fell forwards, catching himself with one hand while Perturabo forcibly tugged at the body glove. Now that it wasn’t hindered by a hand and arms, it was shockingly far easier to remove with Perturabo being able to feast on the sight of Dorn’s uncovered backside in short order.

There was a fully visible shudder of his whole body a moment later, a unconscious reflex from being so exposed, with some of those fine hairs standing up again as he surely felt that gaze turn even further towards the predatory.

“They why do you hesitate, Perturabo?”

"I don't." Perturabo uttered lowly with a shudder vibrating in his deep voice.

He needed no encouragement to follow through with what he’d wanted more than anything from the start of this difficult process, to reveal Dorn. But there was a slight delay—though not in hesitation as Dorn would realize, upon hearing a slight shift of rustling fabric. And then a second later, he'd witness a familiar loosely bunched gathering of gray linen fly over him and land just in front of his head — Perturabo not simply removing his himation as it was a clear token of silent consideration as it had been given up for Dorn’s use before being completely stripped down—to put between him and the dirty, craggy ground like a blanket, or even to wear over his shoulders if he saw fit as that loose drape that would be quite oversized on Dorn would in no way prevent Perturabo from seeing and doing exactly as he wanted.

And with no instructions given—not a word said about it at all—there were no conditions or rules to how that silent token be used, or taken.

Had Perturabo done this out of guilt? Decency? Respect? Unclear and unspecified, but he’d had this in mind since the moment Dorn had left his grand red cloak behind him along with his auric armor, though Perturabo had said nothing of it all this time.

As Dorn gazed forward to the ruined expanse in front of them, there was a hesitation as he listened to the shuffling of fabric behind him. What he hadn’t actually expected was that familiar cloth being thrown over his head and landing right in front of him with a soft noise.

Dorn stayed exactly as he was for a few seconds that felt like they dragged on for far longer than possible or wanted. He couldn’t help but be in awe at such a simple gesture —  an accommodation that he truly hadn’t expected. But it was hardly unwelcomed as he lifted himself up on his knees so he could grab that cloth without toppling forwards.

An instant later and likely in full view due to Perturabo’s larger size, Dorn brought the fabric to his face, taking a deep inhale of the scents that permeated the cloth, letting him taste Perturabo through fragrance alone.

He only lingered on it long enough until he set it down on the ground, carefully spreading it out in front of him and shuffling forward barely enough that he could be pressed down onto it.

Right now, however, he still held a fistful of the linen in his hand.

Perturabo felt… something resonating, nearly cracking deep inside his chest as he witnessed Dorn’s reaction to being granted his himation, particularly the way in which he’d sampled it — something he’d never expected Dorn to do from the perpetually biased perspective clouding his negative, querulous mind.

A dry huff came from his throat; and he refused to consider any deeper implications of what had happened on any level now, but he’d never forget the sight of Dorn exploring him through investigating the traces he’d left on that fabric.

After giving Dorn a moment to settle in as he saw fit, Perturabo reached out again, getting to work as he applied himself in the pursuit of revealing his prize in all its glory once and for all. This sort of protective gear was never easy to remove, but after the assistance Dorn had given him, that body glove was peeled away in short order and tossed aside.

Oh, how divine Dorn smelled now that there was no longer any barrier, as ineffectual as it might have been. But with no obstacle remaining, all that assailed Perturabo’s senses uninhibited was Dorn: the very essence of his being; his skin and fur, pheromones and musk, sweat and blood — and semen.

He inhaled deeply, the air freezing in his triplicate lungs as he held that breath, captivated while he reveled in it all.

“Fuck, fuckhhh…” Perturabo choked out in a throaty, impossibly deep voice a moment later, pale blue eyes blown out and shimmering with excitement as his sight was granted a vision every bit as idyllic.

That small, compact body was truly as hard as stone beneath the silk and velvet pulled taut over those rocky muscles, the glimmering white sheen of the sleek underfur that covered his perfect skin causing Dorn to likely look paler than he genuinely was.

Perturabo’s greedy hands reached out, fingernails grazing all over Dorn’s back with—and then against—the angle of growth; feeling the impossible softness of that underfur as he witnessed the ripples in its sheen while observing as it changed the look of Dorn’s rich skin tone depending on the direction in which that tiny layer of white fuzz was manipulated — from pinker to more golden, and back again.

Then, his hands trailed further down, to cup and squeeze at Dorn’s generous ass that was so round and perfect that it was all Perturabo could do to resist biting into it. Firm yet supple, so appealing in size and curvature. Regardless of what he did or did not do in some aspects, he would still have his feast.

His touch was not particularly rough nor gentle here as he was keen to explore, to feel the toned muscles and smooth perfect skin and the compelling heat that beckoned to him — especially when he drew closer to a certain area that made his entire body tense up and clench to approach. A salacious, graveled moan broke the silence as his thick fingers slipped into that hot cleft — and the way he writhed and tensed revealed that he’d not even made inside before joining Dorn in his hasty behavior; viscous, heated fluid released past his loose loincloth and landing on Dorn’s skin, along with a drop of the rivulet of oily drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.

Much like the rest of his body, the removal of the final part of his body glove revealed much of the same fine hairs and underfur and with the low glint of that dying sun, it was as if Dorn was glowing against the backdrop of gray cloth and darkened earth.

A mirror to his divine presence.

A stark contrast to the absolutely sinful things he had done long before he was stripped completely free of that last barrier. It mattered not to Dorn, he didn’t seem shy at all after being completely exposed by his Brother.

No more could he conceal the pure desire he held towards Perturabo, brought on by more than the short battle upon this dead planet. Now stranded alone with him, with no one getting in the way to either split them apart or incite more violence, Dorn was struck with the profound understanding of how he felt.

It was far too late to change any of the eons past, but that was no longer the case for the future. Things could be better, no matter how twisted it may come down to, especially with how obsessed Perturabo truly was.

A soft grunt broke his train of thought as he heard how broken Perturabo’s speech actually became, struck by everything that was going on and, additionally, to what exactly he was witnessing before striking.

Dorn lowered himself onto his elbows instead of lying completely face down, allowing his lower half to be raised in the air enough to enable what Perturabo intended. His thick erection hung between his legs with it curving towards his stomach in absolutely lewd display, precum already drooling from the tip of it.

Another sound, this time accompanied by the prolong intake of breath, was pushed out of Dorn as hot, heavy hands grabbed and groped his ass in a manner that wasn’t as harsh as he was expecting and when he felt those fingers slip between his cheeks, he tensed just enough to trap him.

What happened next gave Dorn satisfaction as he felt semen drip onto his backside, accompanied by the saliva.

“Perturabo…” Dorn uttered his Brother’s name with a rumbling moan that echoed in an undercurrent while Dorn found his mouth watering in tandem, salivating from the pheromones that Perturabo gave off, that made him want nothing more than to be mounted and fucked.

Even in this state, Dorn found no shame.

Like a steam engine venting pressure, the ejaculate Perturabo had released had helped soothe the unrelenting pain of arousal, but that had only honed his lust, brought him back from his deranged fantasies and into reality as his mind gained a little more focus after that discharge. Yet the tension lodged deep inside his aching balls had not lessened one bit for it.

His strontium-tinted eyes were glassy and glazed over as he stared down at the holiness laid out before him in waiting, mouth hanging open; teeth bared.

There were plausible arguments that could be levied against his own origin based on sight alone; arguments he made far more valid throughout many years of deliberate change fabricated through both corruption and invention — but he was sure there wasn’t a entity in existence capable of finding one single fault with the pristine perfection that was his own Brother.

He felt reprobate just by daring to gaze upon him, which was all too fitting…

And yet, there was none of the covetous resentment that typically rose within him upon seeing Dorn. It was a strange, yet welcome feeling as he no longer wanted to be Dorn, craving instead to own him with such an intensity that the sensation, as dark as it was, held a purity of intent beyond anything he’d ever known.

Had it always been this way?

A laugh was hacked out, but the sardonic tone he presented was not enough to disguise the desire that seared through him at the sound of Dorn calling his name…

How Perturabo wanted to make him scream it over and over again to the gaping skies above, crying out to the heavens that had forsaken him here, coming to the slow realization that there was nothing and no one to hear him but Perturabo…

His fingers curled in as he gripped the flesh beneath his palm with one hand, the other trapped by the deliberate tensing and squeezing Dorn pressed against his invading touch, and Perturabo hissed at that sensation and all it alluded to in the time that was sure to come…

Dorn guarded his fortress well, but that only made the prospect of claiming it more compelling.

The hand that had been so possessively clamped on to Dorn’s ass released without prompting, and a second later a truly strange hollow rattle came from somewhere inside Perturabo’s head, following through the hoses bolted to his cheekbones, and then through his mouth; and then he spat loudly, the noise reminiscent of the activation of Betcher's glands when spitting acid yet not — and the copious slick sounds that followed did not remind one of those caustic fluids; no. Whatever Perturabo had manufactured was thick, and the smell that followed held none of the burning, acerbic, eye-stinging unpleasantness of acid — instead emitting stronger notes of the same taste that laced his unusually slick saliva that Dorn may have picked up on, now wafting heavily in the air; oily, herbal, slightly bitter, vaguely reminiscent of grape leaves and decidedly olivaceous.

There was a discernible change in the mood that permeated the atmosphere as Perturabo concentrated while he spread that synthetic, painstakingly developed industrial grade lubricant over his huge hand and thick fingers, quite pleased with himself that something he’d invented that was so vital to the continual operations of his enhanced anatomy could be repurposed in such a delightful way…

Deliberately crafted to be pleasant to experience and taste as he'd always be subjected to its flavor, non-corrosive and yet extremely efficient in fulfilling its required purpose — more so than any other of its type, he was confident of that. He relied on it, after all.

Always available, always in supply…

As if… he'd made it for this outcome all along…

The laugh that broke the silence was far more humored than any Perturabo had let out before.

Drip, drip, drip.

Dorn could feel some of the extra stray drops of saliva that slid onto his skin while Perturabo panted audibly as if he was trying to vent out as much heat as he could yet Dorn knew damn well that no matter what Perturabo did, there was no stopping the molten meltdown that came with this.

It was something that Dorn was quite aware of, even if he hadn’t dealt with being on the receiving end of something like this for quite a number of millennia. His body intrinsically remembered exactly how his actions caused reactions.

However, with Perturabo, there was something both damning and pure in equal measure in how he reacted to every single bit of Dorn. It was something he had picked up on during the conversation they had when he was aboard the Thunderhawk, even well before their glares finally  locked on to one another.

While he wouldn’t allow his thoughts to wander too far in the past, once more, he briefly considered how Perturabo was then. His earlier thoughts of obsession were correct after all. Oh, how he wanted to be consumed, nothing more than to abdicate control to Perturabo.

There was no lie in thinking that this 'romance' could be a willing one, far more than he had been granted in the past in fact, though Perturabo couldn't be aware of that. As a result, Dorn did not temper any manner of how thoroughly heated he was.

The sound of spit only heightened the overall sensation and the realizations that this truly was something that was happening and that more would be happening soon. And it was the fact that he couldn’t look behind him without some measure of strain that Dorn decided the next course of action.

Mere seconds ago he had been fine with this position but now, as he fell deeper in his thoughts, that was to change.

In the time that it took for Perturabo to begin to prepare his hands, Dorn moved, his actions so purposefully slow to not incite a negative response in the following few seconds.

Regardless of indignation that might be provoked, Dorn maneuvered himself anyway, releasing that grip upon Perturabo's himation and, instead, turning his entire body while pulling his legs away from Perturabo. There was no sign of him bolting or trying to avoid what was to come, every action carefully telegraphed.

All until he was laying flat onto his back and staring up at his Brother as Perturabo slid those slick fingers against one another, spreading oil-slicked saliva that he clocked as an intended lubricant.

Perturabo was granted yet another feast for the eyes while he idly worked that substance together. Much like before, Dorn was still covered with that very fine underfur that coated his back and limbs, but now he was greeted with that similar thickness upon Dorn’s chest which soon made a small happy trail down to his thicker pubic hair, likely the coarsest of all of these spots.

Though, the fullness of that was obscured by Dorn’s cock, still so engorged and now pressed against his lower stomach, still producing and smearing precum along his skin. It visibly twitched as soon as he locked eyes with Perturabo in this new positioning that he had undertaken.

“I want to see you.” Dorn explained, belatedly, as he seemed…struck by looking up at his Brother’s broad form, his gaze began to drop as he looked over Perturabo’s body as if it was the first time he was truly appraising him in such a blatantly sexualized manner.

Both of Dorn’s legs lifted, bending at the knees and planting his feet on the ground as he spread his legs open for Brother in this truly questionable beginning of a coupling.

“I want to watch your expressions… Show me who you are, Perturabo… My Brother.”

Chapter Text

Perturabo watched Dorn with a reserved fascination — though he was no longer as paranoid as he once was, his former distrust little more than a reasonable level of situational awareness. Honestly, if Dorn had tried to escape now after a few unexpectedly intimate moments of communication it would have crushed him.

And he would have doubtlessly crushed Dorn in retaliation, if so…

But he needn’t worry, still rolling that self-manufactured lubricant over his fingers slowly as he watched his Brother shift and settle into a new and different position.

One in which it was abundantly clear that he wished for them to face each other. An expression of clearly displayed confusion washed over his chiseled features, but as strong as that feeling was, even this could not disguise the deep and resounding pain this moment revealed. He hid it away, but perhaps not quickly enough…

Yet there was much here to distract him as they faced each other in vulnerability and intimacy for the first time.

Perturabo’s roboticized body would have surely been the envy of any member of the Mechanicum privileged enough to gaze upon him, a prime fusion of biology and bionics without a single component out of place, nor a single scar; nor any of the crude residual damage left by many of the day’s methods of augmentation. The result was the absolute apex of high, forbidden technology, suggestive of archeotech so covetous and restricted there were likely only a handful that even knew of the concepts and techniques used in his construction.

Unless of course, he was a work solely of his own invention. While that might have seemed impossible to any that did not know Perturabo; here and now, that might have been a more logical conclusion than any other.

The form upon which his computerized components rested was completely hairless, whether his body was naturally that way or maintained left an enigma at this stage of his existence, though any that had known him and bothered to pay him any attention in the past would have remembered the man he once was to be quite hirsute. No longer, his bare deep olive skin now appearing more like rock than flesh; any body hair having been permanently removed, much as his scalp had been made permanently bare in order to house his cable assembly so long ago.

His incredibly thick, wide black eyebrows were the only hairs that remained on his body — lest something similar rest below the simple gray linen loincloth that concealed the last bit of mystery he had left.

Perturabo’s form was streamlined but bulky, the hulking mechanical monstrosity he had appeared as originally clearly an extension of his natural shape now, as he was much the same as he appeared when fused with Neo-Logos, though within much more reasonable boundaries — at least in Primarchian terms. He still embodied a vast power and huge, heavy muscles; a behemoth crafted for strength first and speed last. The fact that he possessed any dexterity at all was a wonder now that his physique was revealed.

The spaces along his torso between his numerous Black Carapace ports were joined by narrow paper thin strips of color-shifting metal fused directly into his skin, lined by pinstripe traces on either side that followed their length. These rows of sharp, sleek angular parallel teal and magenta stripes that connected him had turned his entire body into what appeared to be some sort of circuit board. Running concurrently were leads that traveled his form, some ending in embedded circular diodes while others appeared as inputs that were highly reminiscent of those familiar carapace ports but in miniature.

The overall result was a highly complex geometric pattern that glistened in a shiny metal sheen across his torso, nearly neo-tribal in its aesthetic and form — a suggestion that was expressed fully in the wide bands wrapping around his upper arms and thighs like cybernetic tattoos in an Olympian meandros pattern that served as his design’s outer edges. Those repeating classical meandering lines encircling his limbs were unbroken as they served as both the origin and endpoint of his circuitry, all pathways ultimately converging to those Key lines that harkened back to days of great antiquity.

The only exceptions to this constant were two conspicuously broader embedded metal bands that trailed from his upper chest ports to his neck, over his jugular and carotid before vanishing below the shiny Black Carapace extensions that ran from his scalp, in front of his ears and along his jawline like some sort of synthetic approximation of facial hair complete with sideburns, those angular points ending right below the outer corners of his bottom lip.

In this form his ‘hairline’ was much as it had been for many eons, yet fuller, leading to a lack of availability for further expansion which had prompted the creation of that facial Black Carapace extension as eventually every empty space along his skull had been claimed. Thick black enclosed cords cascaded from his scalp in flowing tendrils reminiscent of dreadlocks, occasionally broken up by black metal coiled cables and a few scattered pipes, the latter of which was decidedly different by being bolted to his head on both ends rather than free-flowing. The entire device draped over his shoulders and down his back in a robotic approximation of hair, aesthetics also in mind as it formed a V-shape, angular and long, the greatest point reaching nearly elbow length.

And all of it was eerily reminiscent of the much more threatening, alarmingly sentient machinery he’d projected to Dorn in one way or another throughout the day.

Also exactly like the leads and attachments that connected him to Neo-Logos and splayed out from the thrones at both his command center and workshop on Medrengard—and the spacecraft he had taken to travel here, the latter of which being the only thing he’d not inadvertently broadcasted a view of—and none of which was a coincidence. Just as in the past, all of these peripherals whether permanent or able to be hot-swapped ended in electrodes, leads and cyber-medical augmentations wired straight to his brain. Advancement of the project he’d started with the original Logos, taken to a higher, more complete form. And allowing a state in which innumerable streams of data could be relayed in real-time; and nearly everything he did could be controlled by nothing more than thought.

Yet most conspicuously, in the middle of his chest, right below and between huge pectoral muscles was a prominent engraving right above his ribs:

Μεράκι

Its important central position told strongly of its inferred importance, that ancient script carved directly into his skin, perfectly etched and deeply recessed. It appeared to have been filled in with some sort of silvery molten metal in order to prevent his Primarchian physiology from healing it, the result obviously meant to be permanent.

But this modern cybertek Prometheus—for all his enhancements—wore an expression that told of endless, unspoken emotions; all too human as he admired the man lying before him that was his antithesis in all ways.

How unbelievably beautiful Dorn truly was, glistening in the scant, scattered light — his elegant, masculine body covered entirely in that soft dusting of almost invisible hairs, the result making him nearly pearlescent. And outlined in thick patches of the whitest, cleanest, softest looking body hair Perturabo had ever seen.

He sighed deeply as he followed Dorn’s curves and bulges with his eyes, looking as though he’d been overcome by the beauty of the universe's finest museum exhibit, taking his time as he studied what was laid bare before him. There was nothing about Dorn that did not appeal to him; impress him; beckon him.

He lingered on that rising, girthy and impressive erection with no small sense of awe before trailing back up Dorn’s impressive physique, locking gazes with that soulful aurora of dark oranges and greens that met his stare; and yet for all his projected hatred and brutality, there was far more softness in those overcast eyes than he ever would have wished to show…

Perturabo couldn’t believe the luscious and blatant display Dorn was making, completely undermining any sense whatsoever that this moment could ever truly manifest in rape; and to Perturabo’s shock and great confusion, he realized that he’d never really wanted that in the first place. It had simply been the only way he could have imagined this playing out.

Whatever this was and would be, would doubtlessly have a dark and dangerous undercurrent to it — more than Dorn could ever know. At least that was what Perturabo assumed, unaware that he had revealed the very depths of the vile and wicked fantasies he considered his most shameful secret to his beloved Brother time and time again throughout this day. And yet… yet…

Those threats, his cruelty had all been because he was too afraid to approach Dorn any other way, too fragile to survive being rejected, too childish to accept that what he wanted would not be given to him, and too wounded to endure a reality in which even now, after thousands of years of making himself good enough, he still wasn’t…

Unexplained wetness that had nothing to do with his synthetic fluids filled his eyelids as he stared in silence as those concepts floated through his mind, unable to be fully processed as data and integers were of no help here.

The importance of what Dorn had relayed was so great that it even stayed his lust temporarily as he struggled to understand, to accept that the impossible syntax he pondered now — was real and not imagined.

Dorn… wanted to see him? To witness him? To accept him? Perturabo couldn’t believe it and didn’t know how to react, the look on his face some enigmatic, perplexed combination of grief and faint, guarded hope.

Was this the method the counterattack he’d been waiting for all this time, would finally take? To be offered everything his cruel hearts desired; Dorn laid out for him like an offering to be consumed, all the while imploring him in ways that would cause him to lower his defenses?

Perturabo would have preferred that huge chainsword be driven clean though his chest and out the other side, than withstand this.

As much as Perturabo had been scrutinizing every bit of his form, Dorn was doing quite much the same in that regard, starting along what he could see straight away. In a stark contrast between him and Perturabo, he noticed how there was not one bit of hair on his Brother, beyond those entirely expressive eyebrows.

The reasoning for such was apparent mere seconds later as he feasted on the absolute canvas of circuitry that covered much of Perturabo. From one Black Carapace port to another, he followed the strict lines of metal that gleamed even in this world's low light.

It was quite a marvel, truly, to see such a shift from what he had remembered.

In every spot that he could see, there was something different capturing his attention, yet all of it seemingly held a purpose as the broader geometries came into view and put everything together, including the way it ended by interweaving itself into those meandering unbroken lines.

This was as much artistic as it was functional.

The larger metal bands had him tilting his head in an intrigued fashion as he watched exactly how they moved over his neck, jugular and along his face. The 'hair' was something that he remembered, yet it seemed much fuller that before, with extra peripherals embedded in there now than just those cables.

Cables that he recalled in a far more obscene way.

Truly, those cables and Carapace ports that Dorn had paled in comparison in what Perturabo managed to install and wield; and there was hardly anything left to the imagination as to how well Perturabo interfaced with all of his vehicles. From the Neo-Logos, to his ship and who knew exactly what else there was.

Yet even that slowly fell from his attention as he saw the strange script upon Perturabo’s chest. It was no form of High or Low Gothic that he had ever read before and the sight alone clearly intrigued him.

At this point, if Perturabo had been paying attention while Dorn was indulging his sight, he might have seen Dorn’s fingers twitch several times during his viewing, even going so far as to bring his hand briefly forward before stopping himself, hesitating after clearing no more than a couple of inches of ground.

It was clear that he wanted to touch Perturabo as his gaze shifted back up to Perturabo’s face just as their eyes met and locked onto each others'. Dorn’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak again, but he seemed truly struck with awe in spite of the perplexed and enigmatic expression given by Perturabo in turn.

Perturabo bit at his bottom lip pensively as his glance dipped down to take note of Dorn’s body language, noticing how clearly he wanted to move in, to move forward, to reach out.

Whether it was common sense, being overcome by intimidation or some other form of certain wisdom that caused him to refrain, there was no doubt whatsoever that Dorn had considered trying to touch him and was still having difficulties staying his hand despite knowing that was the most prudent decision.

Perturabo's analytical, suspicious stare was locked onto those eyes again; eyes that for all of Dorn’s stubborn, infuriating mannerisms — could never tell a convincing lie. And what he saw there was not indifference or animosity but wonder.

Had Perturabo finally managed to impress Dorn? He suspected such even before now, noticing how Dorn’s gaze lingered on Neo-Logos with a different kind of scrutiny; one that held curiosity and demonstrated that he had finally managed to make an impression rather than being forever invisible.

But Perturabo had not allowed himself to think on the little things that he’d picked up on — any more than he let himself dwell on the first time Dorn had made an statement that had slid deep beneath the iron and steel edifice of his impenetrable shell.

I know your capabilities.

Made even more impactful by the conditional statement that clarified a second later.

Had known.

What had already been unbelievable crested to the outrageous. The idea that Dorn would ever lower himself enough to make such considerations was delusional, irrational thinking — even less aligned with reality to believe Dorn had extended that kind of regard to him in the past.

…Or…

Was that really true? Or was it only the product of a damaged, despairing psyche?

No.

There was actually a third answer. That Dorn referred not to the past, once halcyon days on Terra when had Perturabo tried to impress and flirt with Dorn the only way he knew how, under the spell of the first feelings of love he’d ever known—viewed with the bitterest lens now—nor even the Siege of Terra, when he’d endeavored to turn his skill to warfare to prove to everyone that he was indeed worthy.

No.

Dorn referred to the Iron Cage. Perturabo’s greatest ‘success’ the one and only time he’d ever felt seen, but at such a cost — at least when he allowed himself to be honest with himself about how he felt about it.

He averted his eyes in shame, looking away; hiding.

That understanding truly stung, but Perturabo knew that judgment was fair. That did nothing to soothe the bitterness churning within him though, nor did it make him resent Dorn any less for it. Despite him being the one that took things so far simply to make Dorn see, and attempt to hurt him with everything that he had.

Success with an unimaginably high cost, gained through shameful means leading to Ascension and the creation of a daemonic forgeworld of the greatest depravity and inefficiency that Dorn would be aghast to see, to know, that his defeat had been the cause; and that Perturabo had not even the skill or ability to elevate it or his Legion from the most repugnant manifestation of reliance on the flesh, regions of which were perhaps more vile than even whatever it was that Fulgrim’s realm had devolved into in the millennia that had passed…

And yet, due to Guilliman’s interference, not even their rightful grievances had been settled.

There wasn’t a single moment of genuine satisfaction, nor one single act to truly take pride in, no matter how great the price had been.

Just like everything else between them.

Perturabo ached, so many darker thoughts overwhelming his already negative, eternally doubtful mindset — and yet…

That rusted crust of resentful, bitter enmity his mind had worked so diligently to craft as a protective layer in these last few seconds was cracked and split open, rendered weak and ineffectual the moment he dared look back into Dorn’s eyes.

There was none of the ridicule he needed to see—perhaps wanted to see, if only to prove himself right—only the earnest admiration of a man who was genuinely impressed by what he saw.

Perturabo didn’t know if he was strong enough to even pretend that this could be real, that this was more than another simulation played out within the Probability Engine, but he was truly at a loss because this hypothetical had never been achieved there either. There was, frankly, no way to solve this equation, no other answer he could present as theory. Because Dorn was many things, but deceptive wasn’t one of them.

That had been what had broken Perturabo’s primary heart to begin with, knowing that being ignored—shunned by him—was neither ruse nor pretense as he might have lied to himself about, had he become so emotionally entangled with anyone else.

That rejection was assuredly and insurmountable real. But if that was true, as his logic algorithm insisted, then this observed change of perspective was as well. Because they relied on the same evidence as proof…

He let out a rattling, weary, defeated sigh; and gave a small, barely perceptible nod.

“You… may… touch me.” He said with no small difficulty though he tried with all he had to sound disaffected.

Was this appreciation for his craftsmanship? Genuine admiration for him as his Brother? Sexual desire, the interest of a lover? All hurt so terribly to consider, each in their own ways; taunting, miserable possibilities dangling before him but always out of reach.

Why hadn’t Dorn just laid there, facing away from him with cold resentful pride in rancorous silence and passively taken what was being forced upon him like the impenetrable, emotionless wall that he was?

Perturabo bit his tongue hard enough to nearly sever the tip to prevent the oily liquid welling up in his eyes from spilling over.

Lest they be shed in bitter, violent rage as before, he’d not give Dorn such ammunition.

Dorn stilled after a few seconds, still studying Perturabo as he felt the general atmosphere change around them in ways likely never wanting to be revealed. Yet, here Dorn was, able to pick up this shift with the understanding that he could discern the emotions boiling behind those pale blue eyes.

He wouldn’t bring it up though, knowing that whatever was roiling below the surface could cause a meltdown. It wasn’t for the want to ignore the situation but Dorn damn well knew that his Brother was having a exceedingly difficult time for reasons that would not be uttered aloud and shared.

There were ideas in his mind, stemming from ancient beginnings to long fought wars and to the now, but tearing open old wounds would do nothing but sink that hurt deeper and Dorn did not want to do that. Not out of callousness, but out of the understanding that he could still make a rocky foundation crumble with no intention of doing so — even if doing what he wanted to next, likely would achieve the same result.

But Dorn was ever a man of action, not words. He excelled in only one of those categories.

He didn’t hesitate further as his position shifted and he pushed himself with arm stump and hand alike; and once he was more seated, with his his legs spread out instead of having them bent, he began to look over Perturabo’s body again.

This time, his fingers came close to Perturabo but not in an aggressive action as he found one of the Black Carapace ports, in which he trailed his finger, following lines of the connecting metals and wires and all of the different nodules of different diodes and smaller ports that rose up on Perturabo’s hardened body.

Every single major roadmap and network was traced with a touch far lighter than a man of Dorn’s force would have been expected to use, but Dorn worked with his hands often enough to know the value of gentleness.

Soon, all of it — even the meandros pattern was traced along, and though he didn’t understand the significance of the markings, he didn’t break his finger away from the trailing trace until it branched off to another line of soft metal, only lifting his finger up when he found another Black Carapace port that was the endpoint of it all flowing from one piece of art to another.

Dorn spent minutes doing this, pausing at different spots when he tried to understand what the little components below his fingers actually were, even while knowing that quite a bit of this was beyond what he had known since the last time he had to deal with such technology.

Yet, when he was done, he kept touching Perturabo, his focus on that strange script that spanned the middle of Perturabo’s chest. His thumb lingering below it, almost caressing there until his fingers moved again and he traced the outer edge of each letter.

It was there, in the quiet spaces where communication was made in silence, that Perturabo understood the most and yet found himself at the greatest disadvantage.

The manner in which Dorn was touching him could not be denied nor reasoned away; evoking a state of mind that he immediately related to. And that in itself, made everything feel so much heavier.

It reminded him of the way that he himself had once admired his own work — particularly when he’d made some grand breakthrough and surpassed his own skill ceiling, rising above his limitations; and not in matters of siegecraft—likely what he was created for, but never what he’d desired to represent, so removed from what he longed to do with his life—relegated to becoming a weapon not by choice, but by force so long ago. In elegant design. Elegant design. The only expression he had left after he had to fill that role.

He reflected back to the small, intricate curios that brought his hearts the greatest joy, the very things he made with love over countless hours, each moment painstaking but passed in pleasure and with thought behind each creation he made, crafted as gifts to share both his passion and his ingenuity with those he cared about. The only language of affection he'd ever learned to speak.

The very things he was told were useless and a waste of time.

That was how Dorn made him feel now.

But to his surprise it was not that current of wounded indignation that struck him as the part that mattered. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a shock as he’d always vehemently disagreed with the condemnation that his inventions served no purpose; and resented being told such to the degree it was what had nurtured the seeds of rebellion in his soul so many years ago — when he’d still had one.

What Dorn was relaying, was the awe of a master craftsman admiring something he knew was beyond his own means; and with the appropriate knowledge and skill behind such judgements to give them true meaning, understanding exactly why what he was examining… was worthy of his praise.

With each gesture of those skilled fingers, Perturabo felt that amazement and beneath it, respect. All the individual components and mechanisms studied, not only singularly but as part of the overall design; and in that, Dorn gave his approval.

Including the elements that served only aesthetic and sentimental purposes rather than practical ones — perhaps in ways, it was those pieces of him that made him who he was rather than what he was — and that gained him Dorn's biggest recognition.

Who was this man that deigned him worthy of so much of his time and attention? Perturabo didn’t know. Or that was what he was so desperately trying to convince himself of.

But it felt so good in ways both sensual and more importantly, validating, that it was all he could do to simply sit there and withstand it, his nature of dubious suspicion constantly urging him to bring it to an end on his own terms before some hidden truth was revealed — something that proved he was wrong all along and spoiled a moment he’d otherwise treasure for as long as he retained cognizance and acuity.

Despite himself, he could not resist turning into that touch on occasion, pressing into those examinations when appropriate; and for all his demigod anatomy and cybernetic superiority, he breathed hard despite there being no stress and no exertion to explain why.

Then, Perturabo braced, immediately tense as Dorn turned his focus to the Olympian characters that announced his new name; not at all unlike the lettering that served as the christening of a ship — through deliberately bestowed upon the construct he was in a language that none else could read.

Yet, despite the obviously prickly attitude that had returned upon this last gesture, Perturabo did absolutely nothing to intervene, even when the fluids he'd tried so stubbornly to repress spilled down his face with greater speed, unaware that his eyes had been leaking for quite some time before now.

Those heavy breaths soon drew his attention upwards and he gazed into the a face that was crying despite likely never meaning to. After that sight, Dorn’s fingers soon left that scripted lettering, not prying or demanding a name, giving it the gentle, silent respect that it deserved.

Now, however, he brought his hand up along Perturabo’s neck, following those embedded metal bands until he could cradle along one side of his Brother’s jawline. When their gazes met, he leaned up and in, pressing his lips against Perturabo’s own for the first time during this entire exchange.

The first proper kiss not taken by force, but given.

With great effort Perturabo swallowed loudly—one, two, three times—in an attempt to rid himself of the secretions filling his mouth; his injured tongue already knitting itself back together but there had been much blood there, iron leaching into oiled saliva that was also mixed with traces of thicker lubricants.

After consuming as much of it as he could, his lips parted and he gave himself permission to indulge in that kiss even as the glowing screens intensified outside the fringes of his native line of sight, and his positronic algorithms warned him that his parameters were in a suboptimal condition.

So too had the deliberately manufactured oil he’d gathered in his palm all but slipped from his fingers in the interim; and as their lips met in a much more gentle fashion than when Perturabo had practically been chewing Dorn's face off earlier, Perturabo’s eyes rolled closed — and he reached out for Dorn’s other arm, the very thing he’d ignored and refused to offer even a hint of acknowledgement toward all this time, so greatly it had offended and angered him for reasons Dorn likely wouldn’t begin understand.

The greatest perfection… defiled.

But the way he pulled and tugged at that limb that so jarringly… just ended, and then held what remained so tightly against his chest, spoke of how much he’d actually been aware of it all this time and how greatly that revelation had impacted him — despite never once showing it until now — no matter how intense things between them had become.

Perfection? Imperfection? Who embodied which concept best? Perturabo no longer understood, and there wasn't a single part of him—from his mind to his CPU—that could provide any answers.

Καλός Κἀγαθός. Μεράκι.

There was a momentary pause as Dorn listened to Perturabo swallowing, finally settled where he was, as he could pick up the scent of that strange oil and definitely the blood for some time now. Their lips soon locked a few seconds later but when Perturabo shifted and grabbed his other arm, all his actions stilled.

For once, Dorn’s expression revealed something between looking wounded and surprised in equal measure. It mattered not that Perturabo wasn’t staring into his eyes as it wasn’t hidden from his actions either when he held his breath.

It was all too easy to read that Dorn had kept that arm away almost deliberately, not drawing attention to it for one second during their vie, as if it wasn’t such a weakness that he felt deep within him. An injury that, in his mind, had cut any endeavor that Dorn followed dangerously short.

The loss of such a vital limb had been the deepest scouring blow to Dorn.

In his mind, he was weaker for it. For that was his fact.

No longer could he stand as the bulwark against the Imperium’s enemies with Storm’s Teeth and The Voice of Terra in either hand, no more could he wield Soulspear when that had still been in his possession. No longer could he fight as effectively as he once could, not that he felt at all like the Praetorian of Terra anymore.

How could he function as the tool the Emperor had so wanted him to be and take up the role he was meant fulfill, when that tool’s edge was broken? And none could fix it and the ones that may have been able to, were gone long before.

So he disappeared.

A coward.

In a cruel fate, he was alone and isolated, deliberately set here and everything that was so easy for him once was made all that more difficult. More than it had ever been. So many things unknowingly taken for granted, now had to be contended with.

He couldn't even create anything anymore and that was the most hurtful part of all.

Dorn felt moisture gather at the edges of his eyes, the stinging salt almost shocking him as he nearly pulled away from Perturabo like he was burned by it. Yet, despite that flinch, he ultimately he still stayed.

Perturabo could feel the resistance rising in Dorn from the moment his disability, his imperfection, was noticed — and while there were likely personal sentiments and details with the loss of his own bodily integrity that Perturabo couldn’t personally relate to — he knew he understood far more of those disparaging, defeatist opinions than Dorn could have ever suspected. For he shared them.

Not only for himself and what he'd become now, but for Dorn, as his inability to come to terms with this new imperfection was what had caused him to ignore objective reality instead. He did not want to acknowledge that there was as much as a single blemish upon the one he so greatly aspired to; did not want the benefit of a handicap that he never asked for, did not want to accept that he held any advantages against his rival that were not of his own making.

…Did not want to face the fact that the very things he regretted doing today were likely only possible from the outset because Dorn was unable to mount a proper defense; making the victory he almost claimed not only pyrrhic, but hollow as well…

…But most of all he hated that Dorn’s divinity had been sullied. Perfection invalidated. And if by some chance the one responsible were still alive, Perturabo vowed that they would face the most brutal and painful punishment possible; and that he would cast them down into the pits of the worst, most vile and repugnant secret laboratories of Medrengard himself, to assure they were kept alive to endure far past their natural lifespans and be subjected to torture for all eternity — regardless of their lineage. Regardless of their heraldry. Regardless if it was another Primarch, or even a God.

So potent was Perturabo’s rage and indignant fury now as he acknowledged that which he had tried to bury, the fact that everything had changed — that even in the midst of a gentle kiss, Perturabo’s motions turned aggressive. Yet it was decidedly different than before; as there was nothing lustful in these feelings, as the miasmic backlash of his bitterness grew to such an extent that it could doubtlessly be felt externally like an aura, similar to the oppressive, hateful atmosphere of the ruined hellscape that had become his homeworld.

There was a nearly imperceptible tremble though Dorn’s body as he eventually let his eyes close, then shut them tightly while his mind had begun to spiral due to the acknowledgement of something that he had tried to not draw any special attention to.

Perturabo holding that arm so close to his chest was too much for him to bear.

And then, then he pulled away the moment he felt that anger and backlash being broadcasted for him to feel and witness. The ire choked him briefly, and what distance he had made by pulling back was overtaken by the sheer aggression now turned to him.

Dorn opened his eyes only moments afterwards to stare at the man pressing against him, lips parted to allow Perturabo access as his arm was trapped, his right hand having to grasp at the spot between his Brother’s shoulder and neck. He wrapped one of those fingers around a cable he felt blindly.

Perturabo’s discontent was broadcast and amplified outward like a dire announcement blaring from a siren, his base emotions as overbearingly ‘loud’ as all of his other projected visions were; synthetic psyker abilities honed and unnaturally transmitted now that he was unplugged — and by one that seemed entirely unaware of what he was doing. All consequences of keeping that oppressive blanket of festering air over the surface of an entire planet by design, while also honing his mental prowess for millennia deep within the cybernetic palace of Medrengard.

At one with the Mainframe.

As the image faded, Perturabo’s eyes opened, burning with a fervent hostility that seemed to pierce through the object his focus landed upon. Despite the pure malice resonating in the icy blue, he continued to kiss Dorn with an aggression that had slowly become more hunger than ire; and if there was any dislike or wariness within him for having his most critical system components manipulated as Dorn touched a head-cable — he didn’t show it.

He raised his free arm, hooking it around Dorn's back with a tightness that entirely passed secure, everything in that action possessive and oppressing.

For the first time in one of these visions, Dorn wasn’t entirely sure just what he was being made to witness in this particular scene. It was something so vastly different and new. The intensity alone nearly knocked the breath out of his triplicate lungs and caught it there.

In that same manner, his hearts began to race in a manner that he couldn’t quite understand or even sense for that matter. What exactly was going on in that workshop? Did Perturabo have something else planned?

It wasn’t as if he could ask Perturabo this in a way that made sense, as he knew he had seen something he was never meant to.

Yet, just like that, that vision was gone and he was left staring into the face of someone that wanted to claim him in a way that was fueled far more deeply than something fed purely only by desire. With that arm around him, he felt himself pulled in much closer, that arm having possession over him in a way that Dorn felt he couldn’t wriggle away from if he tried.

Trapped, yet…

Strangely…

It made him feel safe.

Dorn blinked a few more times, the stinging sensation of the tears that had threatened to spill over slowly fading away while he was transfixed, letting Perturabo indulge in his mouth fully with not even the most passing resistance.

Perturabo sank his tongue deeply into Dorn’s mouth for the first time in this particular interlude, though this time he claimed more territory than even before — as if to make his point even clearer. As he met absolutely no resistance, he filled the empty spaces inside awaiting mouth with dominance, tasting the essence that was Dorn while leaving behind a trail of iron and oil lingering in his saliva. And it was the latter that made this kiss more lewd and crass than ever before as there was much more of that substance contaminating his fluids, lubricating their clashing faces to such a degree that if Dorn got the idea this time of being overly eager and aggressively smashing their teeth together as he’d once almost done, it would likely cause neither of them any harm at all.

And as Perturabo continued to invade that awaiting mouth, his tongue slipping in and out between slicked up lips, there was more suggestiveness with each passing moment — something that had reignited the lightning in Perturabo’s eyes as the desire that never left him — was brought back to the surface.

There were far too many deeply painful things hanging in the air all around him, suffocating him like specters and shades but as much as there was to consider both good and bad, he wasn’t about to let Dorn get away from him under any circumstances. For better or worse, some things about him would never change.

Greatest of all of these was the smoldering, malignant obsession that drilled straight into those dark, captivating eyes that had nearly hypnotized him.

The hand that had been gripping Dorn’s handicapped arm freed it now that he had his prize trapped once more, fingers slipping down to grip Dorn’s ass in a way that was neither loving nor gentle, but demanding, as if he had a point that still needed to be made — and he shuddered as he felt that soft velvet, so enticing against his skin.

Dorn’s musculature was so incredibly dense and impossibly strong that he truly did feel as if he were hewn from solid rock. So what right did he have to be so miserably, seductively silken?

Perturabo’s pulse increased with a ferocity that throbbed though his entire body, including through the tongue that was so thoroughly buried in his Brother's mouth.

As Perturabo took over his mouth, Dorn seemed to all but melt as that muscle delved in deeper than before. He welcomed his Brother in completely as that large, long tongue slathered the insides of his mouth with the lingering taste of blood and that oil he had started to grow an affinity for.

It was such a decidedly Perturabo thing that he couldn’t possibly imagine a time where his Brother didn’t have such an ability. There was no denying the downright usefulness to such a thing, either even if Dorn was only given one part of that… benefit, consideration.

The sounds slipping between their meeting tongues and parted lips was entirely sexualized and crude.

At some point, he found himself wrapping his lips around that tongue in a far too practiced way as he began to suck upon it, lending to more downright wet noises.

Not once did he back down, even despite letting Perturabo be the one to take the lead. The sensation was a welcomed distraction and relief from the ache in his hearts, in his mind, in his soul. The same very aches that wounded Perturabo in turn, that much he knew — no matter how much either of them tried to hide it.

There could truly be no lying on either side. Perturabo simply revealed too much and Dorn, no matter how well-guarded he felt, knew that Perturabo could see right through him all with an ease that was far too alarming.

And a bit uncomfortable, if Dorn wanted to acknowledge that.

As his arm was released, he kept it pushed against Perturabo’s chest, then pressed up against and into his Brother as his ass was grabbed in such an exacting way that told Dorn that he was not getting away.

With his right hand, his fingers had opted to carding through the long thick cables until he could grab a handful of them. He didn’t yank nor pull, uncertain of the durability of them until Perturabo himself confirmed it either way, but that didn’t stop him from at least holding them, getting used to their fascinating texture.

Just as much as Perturabo was indulging in the velvet.

Perturabo indulged in Dorn, his smell, his taste, the sensations he provided; and the vast, overwhelming desires that he caused to rise in him—a need that had been delayed but not stopped—all while trying to ignore the many hurtful things that he knew would weigh heavily on his mind the second he was no longer so preoccupied.

Bewildered, Perturabo couldn’t begin to even comprehend that not all of these things were entirely bad; his own obsessive, doubting mind already churning — dark, sinister background processes running in his computerized subconscious that would no doubt surface again in time, to levy accusations and grievances at Dorn as he failed to comprehend how things could be so different after 11,000 years of negative reinforcement.

But for now; algorithms delayed, paranoia silenced.

Despite it all, and the indecipherable complexity of the situation he sensed that something vital within him may be changing already; though whether that was genuinely for better or worse, he could not discern.

The only certainty was that whether he would find it in him to have faith in Dorn's enthusiasm or not, he would never let him go.

Perturabo’s kisses became increasingly lewd; messy and loud as he all but simulated fucking that well-oiled, appeasing mouth, the motions of his tongue transforming from a frantic, sloppy, needy show of desperation into a steady, slow and deep penetration of Dorn’s lips and inside his mouth; a demonstration that told of things that should never be spoken between Brothers. And the one constant that remained through it all was a current of unyielding dominance.

Each time he dove in deeper, his Black Carapace extension was brushed against facial hair that was far softer than it had any right to be, feeling particularly gratifying when it glided over the sharp edge where flesh met metal, causing chills to ripple through him and his thighs to tense — each instance punctuated by the thrusting of his hips that made the message he sent with no room for misinterpretation, even clearer.

Slowly, the frustrations of their recent interactions melted away, Perturabo becoming more lost in the present; showing that he was absolutely more man than machine right now.

And that man was being driven not by code but by primitive, filthy desires of the flesh.

Both large, firm hands were now greedily, demandingly clamped down on Dorn’s ass, fingers curled over and sinking into muscles while his thumbs softly caressed over that tantalizing skin, indulging in the softness and warmth that was driving him wild.

The utter indulgence Dorn was subjected to when he finally cleared the last dredges of his mind of unkind matters, soon gave way to the sensations of excess. Of a gluttony of debauchery so profound that he felt as if he would choke upon the tongue that insisted to thrust into his mouth again and again and again.

Dorn was completely inundated, every sense now consumed and possessed by his Brother.

The taste of oil, of the remnants of blood and that long, slithering tongue trapped and bulged the air his throat, enough so that it risked Dorn being unable to breathe, had he been naught but a normal human.

The scent of oil and iron, increasingly overpowered by the constant pheromones of want and desire. The musk from a man so virile and ready to go the moment that he got his hands on what he wanted. The smell of soft and harder metals, of electrical circuitry, almost burned the memory into Dorn’s mind.

The sight of that large face pressed against his own, pale blue eyes and deep olive-rock skin taking up his entire field of view to the point that not a speck the world around him graced even the outer rim of his peripheral vision.

The sound of lewd interludes of tongues and lips smacking together with the additional noise drawn from such overt displays, of sliding along cloth and fabric alike; and of those long cables sliding against one another every time that Perturabo moved by either coming closer or thrusting up against him.

The feeling of strong hands upon his backside, gripping and pulling. Stronger arms still wrapped so tightly that he could not move. The slide of fabric against bare skin, the feeling of spent oil-slick saliva dripping down between their joined lips and landing on his skin below, and the sensation of those same long cable-dreads he carded and gripped at.

And that was simply the extent of the sensations he was getting from these external interactions with Perturabo, knowing damn what he gave in return — well knew the taste of his own saliva, the scent of his body when begging to be thoroughly fucked, the sight of his eyes that held dark desires beyond the remote imagining of most that knew him, the sound of panting breaths and thumping hearts, and the feeling of his soft body against the absolute antithesis of all he was.

Dorn felt himself tense.

Though those dreadful cords of cybernetic origin were no doubt interfaced directly with his brain in some capacity, it was clear they were connected in some way in which external manipulation posed no danger — an obviously dire weakness otherwise of course; but whatever failsafe Perturabo had, it was through enough to fully negate any worries. In fact the more intensely Dorn’s attention on them was focused, and the rougher he became with them — the more Perturabo seemed to enjoy it.

And at one point… did one of those metal housed, segmented cables that lay hidden among the rubberized bands move independently?; pressing into Dorn’s hand like a feline demanding attention? Perhaps… though it might have simply been a product of typical function misinterpreted by overactive mind — made worse by the fact that those less commonly armored metal cables threaded into his 'hair' were much like the intrusive ones that lie deep within that Chaos palace. Potential evidence to both distinctly different hypotheses; that one had truly moved as if it had a mind of its own; or that those overly detailed images had caused a stirring of imagination…

But as alarming as it might have been, there would not be much of a chance to investigate; Perturabo’s ability to refrain having been under great challenge all this time and finally snapping free.

His large, capable hands moved, one sliding up Dorn’s back while the other dipped down to wrap over Dorn’s thighs; and without much warning, in a whirlwind of iron and fur, Perturabo lunged forward before slamming Dorn down on that linen himation turned sheet, an aggression and power driving that force that was by no means needed nor kind at this stage and yet, he had done so without hesitation as if the calm interlude between them had never happened at all.

And before the dust had even settled, he loomed down over his victim, a cruel lust resonating inside fascinated adamantium eyes.

“Now, where were we, Brother?” Perturabo asked coldly with a metallic quality vibrating in his deep, throaty voice.

He didn’t even wait for an answer before forcing Dorn’s legs apart with his knees and scrambling between them, the span of his own pose assuring that Dorn had no choice but to spread himself wide open to accommodate his bulk.

Dorn had to pull back, nearly giving a double-take as he tried to peer to the side, where some of the cable dreads were, as if to get a visual on what he had felt mere seconds ago. Yet, that bit of curiosity would have to be investigated at a later date as his Brother suddenly moved.

And Dorn found himself staring up at that starry night-time sky all over again, a position he had been in a few times this day. His back slamming down hard elicited a grunt, causing him to bare his teeth at Perturabo in short order, out of reflex to fight back against the pure aggression he was being subjected to.

His arms fell to his side, his right hand gripping at the himation as he stared, chest rising and falling in that same rapid motion as before while his legs were forced apart more and then further.

A grimace broke through his briefly hostile expression as Dorn’s flexibility was tested.

“A similar position as we were in before, Brother. After you had made your threats.” Dorn spoke so dryly, but there was something that he couldn’t conceal, no matter how disaffected he acted. It was easily seen through within seconds because there was that undercurrent of a more playfully infuriating side of Dorn coming out.

As if he was deliberately being a brat.

Synthetic dreadlocks fanned out and clattered together when they’d sailed through the air, now thrown over his shoulders and left to dangle down from his scalp, framing his own face while encircling Dorn’s.

Between the dimming haze of approaching nightfall and that mechanism leering over him that blocked out what precious little light was left, it would have been quite dark for Dorn were it not for the extreme visual acuity of Primarch eyes. Yet as Perturabo stared down at Dorn there was little doubt that he saw fine, regardless — and in turn recognized uninhibited vision staring right back at him.

Now if anything, the lack of strong light only added to the mood set by the way this was all beginning to unfold, but with no loss of clarity. In fact, the dimming of the weakening sun made it seem in Perturabo’s vantage that Dorn’s impossibly colorless hair was practically glowing fuchsia and orange in a manner that was thoroughly enchanting. He stared down, intently and intensely, letting a couple of very heavy seconds pass by with an expression that told of endless, depraved thoughts churning behind those pale eyes.

"Then, you must also remember that I have always been and shall aways be a man of my word, Rogal Dorn." Perturabo said spitefully and with no less of a threat in his voice than the ones that Dorn referred to now as they picked up close to where they had left off — and yet there was a decidedly different tone to it all now. The danger was no less real; the intent no less predatory but the aching, miserable and truly embittered toxicity that had poisoned the atmosphere was gone. Playful might not have been a proper term to describe a being as emotionally destructive as the tyrant Perturabo even now, but there was a current of mutual understanding — of like-mindedness, that had been entirely absent the last time the timer ticked towards Dorn's demise.

And then, giving into at least some of those debauched thoughts with no uncertain authority, he jerked his head to the side, giving Dorn a full and complete view of something he’d only heard before.

Perturabo's lips pulled back from his face in a deeply unpleasant scowl, teeth pointed and bared as he engaged muscles rarely if ever used without deliberate, concentrated effort; a strange and echoing noise produced with the sounds of something metallic resting beneath flesh as he activated his re-purposed Betcher’s glands.

He raised his hand and spat his manufactured lubricant into his palm from a distance — the fluid produced thick, incredibly so: more accurately a gel than liquid; and of a pale, translucent viridescence, possessing a smell that was herbaceous and basic rather than acidic.

There was precious little doubt as to what it was that Perturabo intended to do with that oily, lubricating substance — and even less as to what would surely come immediately after.

As Perturabo loomed further over Dorn, there was a discerning glance traveling around his head, following the sound as if Dorn were trying to watch as much of this as he could —  spot what was only heard mere minutes ago. He wasn’t even quite sure what it was he was hoping to see or learn.

Whether or not his brief investigation was successful in any real way, his attention was back on Perturabo, now framed by a faint red light of that dying sunset.

Perturabo was beautiful, in his own way that did not match anyone or anything he had ever known. It was with that, he had fallen into silence just as his Brother had done.

Though the spell seemed broken once Perturabo met dry words with spite. Yet, he too, did not hold the same level of animosity and hatred as before. Newer, more concerning expressions and desires had taken root now.

Broadcasted as much as those visions that plagued his mind had.

“Indeed, Perturabo.”

This atmosphere was so entirely different but Dorn held no objections in the slightest on the matter. He didn’t want Perturabo to abruptly change who and how he was, no matter if there was now a far deeper, mutual understanding. He didn’t want him to deviate from the man he was always meant to be. He wanted everything as it was.

No matter how dangerous.

What did he have to lose, truly?

Dorn was pulled away from those thoughts as he watched Perturabo’s face contort; and soon after, came that same strong smelling substance he had picked up on before, now back in Perturabo’s hand; along with the sound of that viscous slickness.

To know was one thing, to witness it was entirely different.

And judging how his erection twitched, Dorn seemed more than pleased with the developments that were rapidly approaching to show him the future that he was to be 'subjected to'.

How many times had Perturabo dribbled out precum or even partially ejaculated into that linen wrap around his waist these last few minutes, unable to withstand the excitement from both internal and external factors? It was uncertain, but the smell of musk and testosterone never left him — and increased the second he hastily pulled that dampened loincloth away and tossed it aside.

His hand was shaking, eyes wild as he stared at the once mundane and uninteresting lubricant he’d replenished into his palm, a needed product of his current form, now taking on a new meaning that would never be forgotten; the realization this was all truly about to happen nearly overwhelming him. He salivated and drooled like an animal — a habit assisted no doubt by the oily secretions that had either been beaten out of him or deliberately dispensed throughout the day. But there were no excuses that could truly explain away how bestial Perturabo truly became time after time when aroused — no matter how much of himself he had replaced.

And there was no one that could have ever sent him into this state other than Dorn.

Only Dorn.

Perturabo idly wondered if Dorn himself was aware of that.

If he wasn’t, he would be, in time.

This day—Perturabo knew without one doubt—was the beginning of a new chapter in both of their lives. Before he even bit into that sinful little apple, he knew the taste of its juice would curse him, the sweetness too irresistible to simply sample once and then give up.

It was a taste he’d acquired before even getting a proper bite. And he was addicted to it, before he’d even learned the wonders of its flavor.

He turned his head back to stare down at that Golden Apple, the platitudes and parables of his homeland drifting through his mind; warnings of the tragedies created by greed, by envy, by lust — and with a demented, crazed smile he willingly ignored each and every bit of wisdom blaring into his ears with a satisfaction that was genuinely spiteful.

If this was truly the advice he needed to heed, the Fates warning him of his downfall — it only made it even more gratifying to defy them. There was nothing, nothing in this world or any other that could convince him to change course.

Perturabo inhaled deeply, taking in the unbearably carnal scent of semen and blood, sweat; and the pheromones that Dorn still emitted so shamelessly — still taunting him, still begging to be fucked; a man more bitch than paragon.

He didn’t take his judgmental, smug eyes off Dorn’s flushed face for a single second, maintaining pointed eye contact as he slid his hand between his own legs and began to slather that lubricant over his length with crass, wet sounds. The alarming range of motion needed to get the job done was a clear indication of the monster Dorn might see if dared look down.

Perturabo sputtered and hissed as he fucked into his hand, pupils hard and huge as the last few moments before everything would change forever passed with filthy, ominous and oppressively long seconds.

"Do you know. How long I have wanted to fuck you." Perturabo growled in a deep, shaking voice that was not at all asking a question.

Chapter Text

What was he doing?

About to lay with a man that had been his enemy for as long as Dorn could remember, even if the resentment had been clearly brewing and festering on one side more than it had ever been on the other — all knew the rivalry of two siege masters, spurred on by the goading of another Brother.

And even after the Heresy, after the Iron Cage, his vengeance for justice and to grind down his enemy had been far more muted on Dorn’s side. When he had at last used Perturabo and his Legion as a means of repentance and catharsis.

To now, as Perturabo came as an enemy, choking, miasmic and all-consuming.

In that short span, everything changed and now he was about to be taken by the one that was his mirror in so many multitudes of ways. A new chapter now unraveling and opening in this debauched and sinful story that Dorn never knew would be told.

Dorn had fallen, deeply into a pit that writhed with cabled snakes preparing to hold him down and do far more than simply that, products brought forth of an overactive imagination. Surely…

He wasn’t even attempting to save face from that judgmental stare, to vouch for the holy good man those on Terra and in Legions alike called and lauded praises to. Instead, here was their Unyielding One about to be fucked by his Brother, one of the Chaos Undivided Traitors responsible for all the travesty and devastation that humanity currently faced all these millennia later.

None of that mattered now.

Just Perturabo.

The anticipation coiled deep within his gut as his senses waited for what would come next. Dorn’s breathing had grown even more shallow, hot breath mingling between the both of them as he kept picking up more and more of those erotic pheromones as his own released in the air.

Just as much as semen and precum drooled along his stomach from overexcitement.

After swallowing, his reddened gaze broke from Perturabo’s face to look down between them, unable to stave off the curiosity of wanting to see all of his Brother now that he heard that damp cloth be thrown to the side. His chest rose and fell as that thrum of the prospect of what to come continued to build, spurred by those growled words.

“Then… show me what you have promised, Brother.” Dorn snapped back, his own rumbling growl an undertone in his words as he flicked those hazel eyes back upwards, ablaze with nothing but what he had been displaying this entire time — want, desire, lust, hunger—yet, the most striking thing among all of that was yearning, a far too fragile longing.

An unsavory grin spread across Perturabo’s face as he watched Dorn dare to glance down and see what lay in store in his future. He raised up slightly on his knees, giving a clear view for his Brother's discerning eye.

Two tracer strips angled down below his ribs on either side and traveled to a prominent Black Carapace port where his navel had once been; a single shimmering bar of that same fused metal elsewhere embedded in his skin cutting a swath downward until linking up with a slightly smaller port nestled between his pelvic bones.

There rested a short patch of dark curly pubic hair that was shaved down to this skin directly in the center, split into two segments in order to accommodate that installation — and that bit of coarse hair was the only thing other than his eyebrows that confirmed Perturabo was ever of fleshly origin.

And if there were any further and more… questionable enhancements, it was difficult to tell due to Perturabo’s arm and hand being completely in the way; blocking the view as he purposefully fucked repeatedly into his fist, though the crude and explicit actions he took did nothing to conceal his massive girth and length, curving upwards proudly and eager — a tool to be used.

Perturabo raised his other hand to his lips and crassly drooled into his palm, though the translucent bright green color of the secretion gave away exactly what it was he was doing, and with very little time to spare those oil-drizzled fingers were thrust down between there bodies.

He flung himself forward and stared down once more, an intense and cold look on his features as he gazed upon the face of his most detested enemy. And yet for all his bitterness and unarguably cruel methods there was something in those daemonic blue eyes that should never have been there. And it was clearer still when he’d noticed a fragile neediness in his Brother’s stare.

But for all its passion there was still something in Perturabo’s expression that was off, eerily inhumane and inhuman. And so boundlessly possessive as he stilled in his stroking motions, now using that hand to part Dorn’s ass open so that he could use the fingers on the opposing side a bit more easily.

Those oiled digits trailed their sleek, sticky lines along the cleft of Dorn’s flesh, twitching and jerking from the heat and softness there, clearly demonstrating how overstimulated Perturabo was even when he tried to pretend otherwise.

Breathing labored, mouth hanging open, he appeared nearly drunk in his lust; and his thighs jumped when his invading fingers slipped over that ring of firmly clenched muscles that had tortured him for far longer than he wanted to consider. So hot, so unbearably tight, tense and resistant to his prodding.

“Mmmn, what a well guarded Fortress.” Perturabo groaned out lewdly, putting his former inappropriate thought to words at last, and there was no mistaking the gloating undercurrent there as he prepared to launch his invasion.

Dorn’s mind reeled from the little bit of what he had seen, but it was almost as if Perturabo was intentionally making sure that he’d not be privy to the full extent of what it was that his Brother was hiding down there. Though, through the lack of knowing that, he had been granted the sight of an absolutely massive erection.

The sight alone had him twitch again as he locked his gaze back more squarely with his Brother now looming above him as he had done time and time again.

There would be time for exploration later it seemed, as his body was all too aware of just what would happen next.

At least Perturabo had the courtesy of preparing himself adequately first, yet that didn’t stop the natural bodily reaction to flinch from a touch that hadn’t been his own in eons. His entire form had been running hot since the beginning of their battle, yet that spot that Perturabo slipped over must have felt like molten lava.

Perturabo’s subsequent reactions to that incensed his own further, and Dorn felt himself covered in a layer of fresh sweat, having to force himself to take a slow and steady breath.

Dorn knew this would be very uncomfortable, at first. How fortuitous it was that Dorn happened to get off when being subjected to unimaginable pain. If Perturabo hadn’t understood that before, he certainly would soon enough — and that the threat of being split open by that monstrous cock held intrigue rather than any modicum of worry.

Still, his right hand continued to grip at the bundle of the himation at the edge, if only to give himself something to hold further while he spread his legs to their limit to accommodate his Brother further.

“Lay your Siege then, Brother.” Dorn hissed as he played along with downright dirty euphemisms, going even further with a rebuttal, “Will you have what it takes to breach it?”

Shall I remind you up close why they call me The Breaker?

Perturabo’s clear and direct threat from earlier echoed through his mind as he stared down at his prey; recaptured — and he knew without even examining his own words and mindset from before that this was what he’d truly meant by it all along, the violent lust rising in his core not from the craving to beat Dorn into submission on the battlefield but from the darkness of his true fantasies. He wanted to fuck Dorn into submission and always had. Any other expression of that desire was nothing more than a filter serving as a proxy for his true wants.

And any form of cruelty or torture he might inflict, would all circle back around to this urge, this need, left unexpressed for thousands of years. What better way, after all — to prove his superiority…?

His oiled, slicked up fingertips rolled in rough, aggressive circles as he felt around that tight little rim, and his methods begged the question: was he doing this to prepare Dorn properly or solely for his own amusement? There was no seduction, no gentleness; nothing but greedy, selfish lust; and an unspoken declaration in his actions that he already considered Dorn his property, an object.

If their moment of genuine softness and vulnerability had left any true impressions on Perturabo, he masked it well now, reverting back into the villain that had stepped foot on this planet to begin with, without a single care or drop of empathy.

And he was making good on his promises.

Perturabo moaned—a filthy, wet sound—as Dorn returned suggestive and blasphemous imagery; and he shook his head softly in quiet satisfaction, reveling in it. “We shall see, Rogal Dorn…” He rattled out his cybertek laced words, voice unsteady and husky in ways that could not be disguised even by the strange crackle of excess energy.

"But I think we both already know how this will end…"

Without any kindness or consideration, Perturabo assaulted that gate, pressing with authority and force as he slipped two thick, large fingertips inside to the first knuckles, immediately greeted by such a sweltering heat it was like standing too close to a forge; and there was so much tensile strength that he knew the second he that stopped actively placing such pressure inside that impossibly tight little hole, Dorn’s body would reject him and succeed in pushing him out.

Dorn twitched, his entire body shuddered and all those little hairs seemed to stick up on end as a direct result, all while Perturabo continued to run those slick fingers up against his entrance, layering slick oil all over his backside.

He could feel copious amounts of whatever that was, there was as it slid between the cleft of his ass.

Every time that Perturabo paid a bit too much attention, he got the same reaction, no matter how many times that Dorn tried his hardest to seem unaffected, there was simply no way to do so in such a situation.

Dorn was also acutely aware of the rhythmic thumping of his hearts to where his Brother currently pressed, the blood pumping through his veins and rapidly intensifying the longer that Perturabo continued to linger in that spot.

Whatever rebuttal Dorn may have even had on his lips died seconds later as it sounded like his breath caught in his throat, strangling him with a noise while his body flooded him with warnings that he did not need an interface to understand.

The stretch, even as much as he was prepared for what was to come, was a beginning of the end as Dorn damn well knew that things would only get bigger from here on out. The tension wrapped around Perturabo’s fingers as his chest heaved and he groaned at that sensation of a deep ache not quite reached in a long time.

Even still, Dorn didn’t waver with his glare, regardless of how his choked up breath and shuddering body might have told. He was still being Defiant, even while his body was getting used to  the beginning of the invasion that was too well underway.

How filthy it was that, deep in those hearts, excitement overtook any measure of fear.

Perturabo’s thighs quivered as his hips shook, and he was clenching and releasing his muscles repeatedly as he tried to remain on target; completely overcome by all the feedback Dorn was supplying to his system — from the pounding dual pulses hotly squeezing around his fingertips; to the strangled, labored breaths that told Perturabo that Dorn was already straining more than he wanted to let show; to the proud unyielding gleam glaring from noble eyes, eyes that communicated an intent to resist even while knowing this was in all ways a battle he could not win… it all set his every sense to promethium.

And that last part alone was enough to make Perturabo want to rip him to bloody tatters one agonizing strike at a time.

He moved his fingers in and out of that sheath with all the care he thought Dorn deserved, acting as though he was polishing a cannon barrel rather than indulging a lover, his motions methodical; nearly clinical as he maintained a rhythm that was more detached than anything meant to be gratifying.

Yet there were far too many disturbances in Perturabo’s stats, from his own vital signs to the musky, cloying blanket of testosterone laden excitement that billowed off of him to truly sell the image of robotic indifference he was working so hard to maintain.

Especially when his probing sank in deeper than before, and he felt an instinctive clenching response that surely had to have been an expression of pain.

He nearly came again from that thought alone. How satisfying it all was, already; and the thoughts of all that would come in the following minutes nearly overwhelmed him; a conclusion to eons passed in imaging and envisioning a world where this was possible in quadrillions of concurrent data streams — but now it was reality. Patience rewarded.

And the Golden Apple was now his to devour…

Despite the excessive slickness he’d personally assured to the area he fully intended to lay siege upon in due time, there was no small mirth in the idea that came to mind upon giving that metaphor the consideration it deserved — one that he’d already thought about when Dorn had been lying, so appeasing, on his stomach before.

Every single tell that Dorn gave, he was receiving in kind by Perturabo. All of his senses continued to work in perpetual overtime as the pure animalistic nature of his Brother made one wonder if he was more of a beast than he ever was a man or machine. Every biological tell and signal revealing that case time and time again and Dorn’s body responded.

It responded to that same, almost primitive, sense that drove him further and further from the brink. The well composed Primarch, never known to have any more than a stern word or stoic expression to most, was no longer that paragon.

But Dorn didn’t care.

There were only the two of them in this space. His Brother had come here alone to indulge and Dorn was keen to do much of the same, regardless of how much it drug him further down into damnation.

It seemed as if the touch of Chaos would only come in the literal sense from his Brother instead of the Ruinous Powers. And yet, even then there could be no grip of such over his hearts or soul. It had been tried before and spectacularly failed. If this was a way to tempt Dorn to serve the other side, it would amount to nothing.

Dorn didn’t seem overtly concerned for that in the first place, given where he was now. He knew his prideful Brother in the sense that Perturabo would let none control him. His Brother’s desire to lord over him came from a vastly different place in comparison to what it could have been.

And so Dorn didn’t care.

All that mattered was separate from the concerns that his other Brothers may have voiced at one point or another, or the worries that would have followed suit, especially now. No, what mattered was Perturabo in front of him, filling out his complete field of view with naught but his body.

Another stilted breath exhaled from him as Perturabo moved his fingers and pushed even harder into him than before and deeper still. His body jolted at the greater intrusion that parted his entrance even further, a pained grimace crossed Dorn’s lips, causing him to bare his teeth and growl.

Those hazel eyes burned with a measure of fury but gave away far too much of his soul to reveal anything akin to true hatred.

And if it wasn’t his eyes revealing the truth, it was the fact that he had ejaculated against his stomach the moment that the pain became a bit crueler.

The moment the vulgar scent of fresh, hot seed hit the air —  Perturabo smelled it and reacted on such a primal level that he nearly joined Dorn without any stimulation at all, something he would not have so easily confessed, but it was true. A deep guttural growl was rumbling threateningly in his throat, as if he were angered by the audacity—the insolence—of it all; and his shoulders shook as his heated stare directed at his wayward Brother turned outraged.

Those eyes, like a blazing sunset, did not gaze upon him with resentment but with longing — the thin veil of defiant disregard not enough to hide that fact, especially not now that he was guilty of such whorish actions, having stained himself at the mildest occurrence of penetration that he’d experience today.

And as those tight, reluctant muscles spasmed around his fingers while still trying to protect against this intrusion, Perturabo nearly lost his mind.

With no warning he straightened out those fingers and withdrew them as carelessly as he’d shoved them in, both hands lunging forward and clamping down on Dorn’s thighs, long fingers wrapping tightly around stone-hard muscles.

Then, Perturabo leaned in and down as he lifted Dorn into the air without a bit of decorum, slinging those legs over his shoulders as he pulled him closer. He inhaled deeply, the sound that he made and the look in his enraged eyes a moment later a synchronized expression of utter disgust; and yet, that display of disapproval contradicted his actions entirely, as he leaned in a second after.

With a growl in his throat he took the tip of Dorn’s oozing erection into his mouth, suckling on the head as if he were trying to suck the cum straight out of the source by force, those huge fingers pressing into Dorn’s leg muscles firmly as he supported the lower half of his body — though that gesture was not for Dorn’s benefit, but his own.

Whatever it was that Dorn had been expecting when Perturabo had grabbed his thighs after pulling out painfully, was clearly not what happened next as he felt and watched his Brother lift his lower half up into the air and throw his legs over either shoulder.

His muscles jumped in that harsh, unkindly grip that felt as if it would leave bruises in the wake of such manhandling. He didn’t seem to get anywhere in shorter order as Perturabo forced him to keep this position no matter how much he writhed at the sudden sensation.

An overstimulation to his dick that was maddening and wholly unforeseeable as he stuttered out a grunting noise that was so close to him crying out in a mixture of alarm and pure, unfiltered pleasure.

He was forced to ride it out as another contraction deep within his gut came and spilled into that greedy, awaiting mouth that drank his filth from the source. Dorn dug both heels into Perturabo’s back while his right hand gripped at the himation so tightly that his knuckles turned to a much paler color than even his fur.

His left arm was thrown over his face as he bit down onto his own arm, stifling his noise.

That hot, slick flesh between his lips was as sinful as it was divine, a glorified contradiction that filled Perturabo with a sense of self-satisfied fulfillment as he soaked in the lust that he had caused within his honorable, noble Brother; so much more respectable than he, so much more worthy of praise — now reduced to a crass, slobbering, maniacal disgrace.

And Dorn's seed was delicious, his interface chiming in reverie as it analyzed that filthy stream of salt, trace metals and protein that he drank down like milk, as he suckled loudly from the head of Dorn’s dick with shameless indulgence — as if he wanted to eat it.

When he’d pulled out every drop that was on tap, Perturabo blew out a sharp breath, puffing his cheeks out before engaging those hyper-specialized muscles again, a sharp noise echoing in his mouth and throat as dual streams of slimy, gelatinous oil ran down the inside of his cheeks and pooled in his mouth; all sensations he knew Dorn had felt in the most compromising of ways. A suggestive, nearly cruel look rested on his sharp features as he rolled his eyes up to look down upon Dorn’s pathetic, ‘tortured’ form, the expression he glared down upon him a warning despite giving him no time to ward against what he did next, even if Dorn should see him beneath his attempt to shield his face.

That long, thick, impressive cock was then fully slathered in viscous oily lubricant as Perturabo began to take it into his mouth — long tongue sliding against it from below.

His odd motions and unconventional mannerisms made it seem less like he intended to give oral sex and more as if he were completing a challenge to see if he could successfully swallow it all — pulling back with his cheeks and taking it down his throat slowly but never moving back, not giving up any of the distance he claimed as he sucked it down like a hungry snake.

Perturabo continued to push it further, step by step, just when Dorn was starting to figure him out more. And as soon as he thought he knew what he intended to do, Perturabo ended up changing his tactics. Dorn might have been inclined to even speak on that matter if such things weren't constantly being used against him.

And now, slightly shielded with his arm, he had to witness his Brother taking him down to the hilt, swallowing inch by slow inch. Despite his smaller stature, Dorn was not small in the slightest even for someone his size, his cock was thick and long and easily filled out Perturabo’s mouth and throat.

The more that Perturabo took, the more strain he’d feel against the hands that were keeping his legs apart. The tension there was taut, and if he had let go for one second, Perturabo might find his head between thick, strong thighs that’d threaten to crush his head entirely.

Dorn bit down on his arm harder until the smell of blood permeated the air as fiery wide eyes locked on Perturabo, staring unblinkingly.

His oil-coated mouth lubricated each and every inch of that impressive cock as Perturabo swallowed it down, the excess fluid he also swallowed down with those same filthy sucking motions coating his muscles so that his Brother could slip easily inside, until he’d succeeded at last — engulfing Dorn whole as he enjoyed the sensation of that throbbing slab of meat stabbing deep down into his throat.

Taking it slowly a bit at a time with the assistance of his manufactured lubricant made such a feat all too easy, not even gagging a single time though in reality he should have choked on it more than once. Yet here he was simply holding it inside his body with no difficulties at all thanks to how slick he’d made himself, that dick he'd greedily devoured his reward as its impressive girth filled his mouth and throat.

How much of Dorn would he consume; and in how many different ways before even this first encounter came to a close? It was so thrilling to consider as he held back those stocky, rock-hewn thighs pressing against his ears forcefully apart so that they would not crush him. He rolled his eyes up to flash an unsavory glare into hazel flames before tilting his head down and dipping in, pressing his nose against that tuft of snowy pubic hair that was somehow every bit as soft and warm as it looked.

He wanted to bury his face there…

Perturabo inhaled deeply and pressed his nose against it, nuzzling that furry patch with his face as best he could with Dorn’s cock lodged into his throat, a rumbling moan vibrating along that same treasure he held inside himself with no small amusement.

The way Dorn tasted and smelled was enough to nearly make him pass out at times, so overwhelming and delightful it was; so masculine and primitive, so filthy and raw; so incredibly horny — and above all, so entirely wrong that he should have such accursed, forbidden carnal knowledge of his own Brother…

And he permanently archived every last blasphemous detail, to be stored forever into his databanks with no small sense of satisfaction. There were no Gods that could dare judge him and no authority that could command him to delete such records — as that playback would more gratifying than all the simulations he'd ever created, even taken as a whole.

His fingers sank deeper into quivering thighs, as if to demonstrate his determination to any entity stupid enough to spy on all he did. And what he would continue to do.

If there was any level of damnation deeper than the depraved and despicable lows he’d already sunken to, he’d dive right in. Just as he intended to take this unspeakable sin with his Brother to much further depths, dragging him down to the bottom with him.

Dorn’s chest heaved at the sight above him, with his throbbing erection so deep in his Brother’s hot, slick mouth, Dorn wanted to do nothing more than that thrust. Yet, those strong fingers gripping him firmly ensured that that would not happen in any way.

His body was being manipulated to only Perturabo’s whims and he damn well knew that if there was something that his Brother disapproved of, he was not going to be able to fight it given the rather vulnerable position he was in now.

As Perturabo glared down at him at the same moment he nuzzled Dorn’s pubic hair, Dorn tried to dig his heels even further, as if he was attempting to keep his Brother right in place within the soft, warm and slightly damp patch of fur.

No mortal man could stand this, how could Dorn be expected to when up against his own Brother, while being so nestled into that moist throat. Dorn jerked his head to the side, tearing into his own arm flesh with sharp teeth at the same moment his thighs flexed.

Freely flowing, bright-red blood spilled against his lips and into his facial hair the moment that he released deep within his Brother’s throat, cumming in so short an order that one could assume that Primarchs did not have a true refractory period.

Dorn didn't.

Perturabo continued to amuse himself with the moist furry patch above Dorn’s cock, realizing that it had trapped much of that mania inducing scent; and he was reveling in all the pheromones there — and a softness that couldn’t be described as anything less than luxurious.

Then suddenly…

Juice from the Golden Apple…?

Straight from the source…

Perturabo growled lowly, muscles tensed and vibrating all around that huge intrusion he so generously accommodated deeply down his slimy throat; then slowly began to pull back, pushing the tip of his tongue firmly against the bottom of his Brother’s cock as he withdrew. He continued to tease and suck all the while, glazing every part of that mass with a mixture of saliva, lubricant and Dorn’s own semen. And once Perturabo returned to the tip once more, he ended this interlude exactly as he’d begun it. With a lascivious moan, he suckled on the tip with renewed enthusiasm—as if he was rewarding Dorn for his sinful, shameful behavior—lips pushing and rolling Dorn’s foreskin with each motion of his cheeks.

He stared up at Dorn with a ravenous hunger; the smell of divine, oxygen-rich Primarch blood that had hit his nostrils seconds ago provoking him further still — as did the sight of that nearly neon red fluid turned dye that saturated Dorn’s colorless hair in a way that was truly beautiful to behold…

Perturabo glared with feral intensity, lingering in a heavy, silent couple of seconds after he released Dorn from his mouth, huge hands keeping those powerful thighs in place.

Then, a smile formed on Perturabo’s strong features that was nothing short of diabolical.

He slid his palms up and around at the same time, wrists twisting in as he gripped those tensing muscles from below now, and gave a hard, swift yank — pulling Dorn closer before sinking his little fingers into hot, moist skin. He pried those firm asscheeks apart as much as he could muster before roughly shoving his face between them as best he could, long tongue barely reaching that stiff, snug ring of flesh that was obviously to be his next location to devour.

Dorn pumped a copious amount of seed down that warm gullet of his Brother, even by the time that Perturabo had begun to pull off of him and ended with him sucking the head of his dick. An action which earned him a few more pumps of that viscous salty fluid to be pulled out.

When Perturabo finally released him, it curved lewdly back towards Dorn’s body, pushed down from gravity as well as its size. He was still so impossibly hard and now had to see with far more awareness exactly how slick it truly was by the combination of a multitude of fluids.

Dorn didn’t feel shame but he did feel his face heat up.

The himation-turned-sheet was released when his heavy, stout body was yanked around as if Perturabo wasn’t pulling over more than a ton with alarming and practiced ease.

Dorn felt himself pulled nearly upside down, shoulders pressing into the soft fabric below and forcing him to stay in this position that brought all the blood to his head. What was he—truly, he wasn’t about to—he was.

Once more, it was a good thing that Perturabo had such control because Dorn began to writhe in the anticipation to come. This certainly hadn’t happened before and for once, Dorn didn’t seem to know what to do beyond trying to reach along his side to grab at Perturabo’s leg.

Something, anything to dig his nails into while he was defiled as those hazel eyes broke contact from what he was witnessing when he clenched them shut tightly.

Perturabo was ruining him and he hadn’t even fucked him yet.

Perturabo was on a mission, locked on to the immediate task and completely unwilling to give up. But what he intended was all but impossible like this, only able to reach that enticing entrance the barest bit from the angle he was currently in. But now that Dorn seemed to understand what blasphemies were in store for him, he was obligingly cooperative even as Perturabo felt him scrambling around, seeking something to hold onto.

And with that, Perturabo raised up on his knees and straightened his spine, stretching to the fullest extent possible short of standing up, and he dragged Dorn with him, forcing him to deepen that upside down pose if not entirely dangle from the ground from this new direction. There was an unspoken but unmistakable authority in what Perturabo did, leaving no doubt that if he still could not accomplish what he desired the result would be another shift in positioning — whether that be rising to his feet or flipping Dorn back on his face again, Perturabo would do as he desired.

He worked his fingers in deeper into that cleft, parting Dorn open as he rammed his face between those ample, round asscheeks as best he could, having a much more acceptable level of success now — his long, intrusive tongue swirling against that impossibly tight gate with wide, circular licks, indulging himself as much as he did his Brother in total depravity.

But the corruption he desired to inflict upon his upright, honorable, dignified nemesis was not for Chaos’ sake nor bidding. It was in pursuit of his own goals that the Lord of Iron continued his assault; and absolutely nothing would stop him.

The pounding, frantic, almost incalculably rapid double pulses met his pressure with wordless urgency that might as well have been begging by Perturabo’s calculations; and he savored every wicked second of what he did now as much as he had everything else he’d put Dorn through. Not caring of what nasty things he did—from where he was licking to how his Brother’s balls pressed against his forehead, he seemed to have no inhibitions or disdain whatsoever — even having taken an unmistakable liking to the tiny little ring of soft hair that he found inside, deliberately manipulating it with his tongue in one direction, then the other; in between pushing against the resistance he’d break through in due time, kneading against that muscular pucker of flesh as if he were massaging there.

Just like that, Dorn was left dangling several inches off of the ground as Perturabo put him in this new and extreme position. Now made acutely aware of Perturabo’s monstrous cock against his back, sliding along those very fine hairs that provided a likely pleasing texture.

Dorn’s attempt to grab anything met with nothing as both of his arms dangled below him uselessly, allowing some trickles of blood to trail down his left arm til it met the stockinette, staining the darker material even further.

A sound akin to a hiss could be heard the moment that Perturabo trailed his tongue over his twitching entrance. The sound was only punctuated by loud groans, deeper the longer that Perturabo kept on manipulating every part of his body.

This was a pleasure and torment untold.

“Perturabo…” Dorn now moaned his Brother’s name amidst the debauchery as his body quivered and shook, within and without. The only tension in his body now was not that of someone trying to resist, it was the tension only brought on through the immense pleasures of the flesh.

A multitude of factors, most of which would have no doubt surprised Perturabo, contributed to the fact that Dorn simply couldn’t think about anything but his Brother.

In fact, his Brother's name left such steadfast lips several times over several seconds in quick succession.

To hear Dorn so openly—so desperately—scream his name over and over again was nearly too much to bear, so fulfilling and empowering it was; and it made Perturabo want to do so much more to Dorn — things both good and bad, and far worse than bad, just to hear more of that voice crying out in every tone and emotion possible.

How he shook and squirmed and writhed; it drove Perturabo insane, and as he pressed and rubbed against Dorn’s soft, tender back he smeared such filth into that fine layer of fur it begged the question as to if that was more than precum that had been released in the last few moments.

Perturabo moved his head away and tilted his head back, so that he could drag his tongue over Dorn’s taint and underneath his balls — leaving no part of him no matter how intimate or forbidden without proper attention as he placed his mark on every single part of what was now in his determination; his.

And as surely as he’d eaten that miniature auric aquila, Perturabo had made it his goal to prove an all important point, to consume as much of Dorn as he could, claiming every area of that conquered territory with a gloating smugness that was bolstered evermore by the unexpectedly thrilling reactions Dorn gave for each new obscenity he was subjected to.

It made Perturabo wonder how he might actually react to some things he’d already planned for the future.

Without warning, Perturabo lowered his head and went right back in, hot, panting breaths grazing that sensitive, sinful flesh, and he pushed his fingers even further apart, forcing that cleft to open to the limit.

A tense, awkward and terribly long second passed; then another — the stillness broken by that strange inhuman noise coming from somewhere within Perturabo’s face as he deeply stretched his masseter muscles.

There seemed to be no end to just how far his Brother was willing to go in making sure that every millimeter of Dorn's body would remember only how Perturabo felt. He was lavished with attention like no other, causing him to uselessly hang there and squirm in very minute amounts as there was no true escape from the overstimulation.

Even the cum he felt now trailing down his back and slowly reaching the nape of his neck had him twitching each time a new rivulet trailed in such a sinful way. All he could smell was the heady scent of testosterone and sex that interlaced with every bit of Perturabo’s pheromones.

Dorn felt drunk on it.

His legs, his feet, tried to squeeze and prod, pressing hard into what skin he could manage to reach. The cables that brushed against his legs in short order when he moved them also provided a sensation like nothing else between the cool metals and the hot skin.

Perturabo’s name became whispers until Dorn bit down on his tongue the moment that he felt those large hands open him up even further until there was the undercurrent of aching pain the longer that he remained open.

There was a jolt the moment that damning noise reached his ears again as his body tensed for what was to come soon enough. Now he wouldn’t be able to think of much else except what that sound meant.

They were both already drenched in fluids and pheromones, but Perturabo was only just beginning, with his head nestled between those powerful thighs as his lips pulled back; and he jerked forward, weakly spitting that viscous pale viridian substance as he descended upon his victim properly, tongue and lips spreading a copious mouthful of that faintly botanical gel all over heated, quivering flesh.

The noises left in his wake were wet and sloppy as he moved with an enthusiasm that was nearly bestial; and once he felt Dorn was suitable anointed he forced the tip of his tongue inside that pulsing hole, excess oil dripping from his chin, rolling down the back of Dorn’s thighs and pelting the himation below.

Perturabo’s hands gripped with a distinctly more aggressive firmness, making it clear that Dorn was not about to get away, extra drops of fluid running down Dorn’s back now that were identical in biomechanical origin but not at all similar in function.

And the hardness pressing into Dorn’s spine twitched as if in pain as Perturabo rutted firmly against him — and in myriad ways the increasing fervor and tension in the air proclaimed that the inevitable was only moments away.

Bit by bit did Perturabo wear down the defenses through all of his actions and through all of his words. As much as each blow went against that fortress of Dorn’s body and the most coveted of spaces, it also went to Dorn himself.

As he swallowed down blood and clenched around the tongue in his ass, he finally relented and said what had been on his mind since this entire outrageous interlude started. With a low, gruff voice that barely concealed another one of his deep moans with a haggard breath, he spoke.

“Perturabo… Fuck.. me…”

In that moment, as soon as those low, moaning words of purest damnation crossed Dorn’s lips, everything stopped; Perturabo seeming as though he’d shut down, a statue of motionless muscle and metal that lingered there in the unsettling silence.

Then, after a couple of seconds that dragged on for far too long, it all happened nearly too quickly. Everything was a blur as aggressive, shaking hands fumbled and clumsily found purchase; doing precisely as needed but with no finesse or grace — only primal determination and the heeding of bodily desires that nothing could stop guiding his actions now.

Dorn’s world spun two-fold; once as he was flipped upright in a flash of spinning colors, suddenly face to face with a slobbering feral cyborg; mouth open, frenzied pale blue eyes now turned red, predatory and hungry as they registered the vision of Dorn’s face complete with the bloodstains that stained his pale skin and icy hair.

But that was only a split second in time, as Perturabo wasted no more time in falling forward with a deep resonate shout that was like a battle cry, carrying them both crashing to the ground as he towered over Dorn, forcing his thighs further apart even as they fell through the air and giving Dorn no choice but to fully and completely wrap his legs around his Brother before they even hit the ground.

"I will conquer you!" Perturabo roared in a shaking, emotionally laden tone that conflicted with the roboticized ring that lingered in his voice; cybernetic cords clacking loudly together and flaring around them as they sailed toward the earth below.

At first, Dorn felt the briefest sensation of worry when Perturabo stilled every single movement to the point of nearly being statue-like, though that notion left seconds later as he was roughly manhandled once more in such an alarming way.

At one point, Dorn even closed his eyes as the sudden and quick movements had his head spinning after being upside down for what felt like far too long. It didn’t matter if such situations wouldn’t have actually bothered him, his body still acted far too human at times.

Just as it acted now.

Once upright, he opened his eyes, only to be stared into his very soul by those wicked eyes that held no kindness in them. It was as if Dorn was going to be devoured by a slavering beast rather than ravaged by a man that he called his Brother. Judging by how much spittle, oil and drool poured out of that mouth, Dorn couldn’t help but be certain in that assessment.

But even that moment was gone in a flash as his sense of balance became thrown off completely the second that he was thrown onto his back, pressed onwards by Perturabo’s lunge that told him exactly what would happen next.

Yet this had meaning too.

They were back to the same position that started everything in the beginning, the true descent into a madness like no other and equally as sinful. And as that roar matched the mighty thud of their bodies hitting the ground, Dorn wrapped his legs around Perturabo as intended.

The ground beneath the two Primarch gave in, cracks forming from under the himation outwards, as if signaling the beginning to an end.

"Then show me!"

Dorn rose his voice in kind, knowing he had lost this battle, but never letting go of the fire for one second, never feeling stronger in his entire life.

Yet now those fires kindled the flames of wanton pleasure and desire.

Show me.

Show me.

Perturabo brooded, savoring those words and the meaning that went so far beyond such a simple statement; yet he was plagued by doubt and determined to crush his own hope before it bloomed, even as he so clearly hung onto that statement with an iron grip.

Perhaps it could be said that Perturabo well disguised the traces of his daemon corruption, though it was less effective in the moment; but in that it could have also been argued as he stared down with a ravenous craving burning behind his eyes; features twisted, teeth bared — that his once-divine, demigod origins were just as obscured.

Though he was undeniably a fusion of biology and technology, a super-human form Ascended beyond even what should have been possible, he was nothing less than a monstrosity; as if he’d walked out from the pages of myth or more aptly, a horror story.

But in spite of everything, as he glared his hateful malice down at the fixation he had trapped in his claws, there was a weakness inside that expression; a vulnerability of pure, fathomless emotion that he by no means wanted to display. It longed, it needed far beyond the victory his words so boastfully heralded; and beneath even that, was a sense that was no less than awe as he stared unbroken into Dorn’s deep, dark eyes.

That tumultuous abyss of potent, miserable emotions likely made him more of a threat however, and certainly more volatile.

His overcharged body shook with the frenetic energy of an earthquake as he scrambled to stake his claim, fingers working to line himself up with the greatest stronghold he’d ever defeat and the one thing he’d secretly always wanted all along above all things, sliding one hand back along his slicked-up length to brace himself against as he glided between that velvet cleft that was already nearly too much to endure.

A rasping, aching breath was pushed between his lips as moisture dripped from the head of his cock, overcome by the intense pressure of that strong body and the agonizingly seductive heat he felt against his skin — sensing even greater beyond.

Perturabo pressed himself in further still, feeling that armored gate grazing against the tip, so unbelievably tight it was difficult to truly believe that Dorn wasn’t still resisting him in some way.

But that didn’t matter. He had not come here in peace, but in warfare; just as he always wanted, just as Dorn clearly needed. And with not one bit of gentleness he did exactly as he’d threatened from the very start.

He laid siege.

The moment he felt those stubborn muscles curve away from his pressure, he slid the hand that had been helping him line himself up to grip Dorn’s hip with vigor and pulled, demandingly; and he slid his fist back along his huge girth, forcing himself inside Dorn’s body with a vicious thrust of his hips as he threw his head back and roared from the endless stream of sensations that assailed him all at once.

And in that moment of blind frenzy, he came, harder than he ever had in his entire miserable existence.

Everything stopped.

Dorn found himself in those nanoseconds of stillness where it felt like time itself had held its breath. The world around them fell silent and all that Dorn could see was Perturabo above him, looming and absolute. The only vestiges of light being that of the dying sun that outlined his Brother’s silhouette with crimson.

He gazed deeply into those pale blue-red eyes and those sharply bared teeth, a contradiction revealed like nothing else as he read his Brother in the moments of time between those seconds. Time was moving fast but Dorn’s mind was faster.

Outwardly, Perturabo was an aggressive and spiteful man, the one that would never let any lord over him. Never one to give up control or allow anyone to put him in a place of weakness. He lashed out, much like a child having a tantrum because nothing else had ever worked to garner any attention to be drawn his way.

Inwardly, Perturabo was a jaded and terrified man that never wanted his walls to crumble to reveal that suspicion as fact. All he wanted was to be seen, his eyes revealed that much, it revealed that longing and vulnerability like nothing else. Even now, bits of his personality not tempered by Chaos or hindered by his own thoughts, poked through and revealed itself.

There was never going to be any fixing this. Such a thing would have been hard won ten millennia ago and now? It was too late to bring that to bear. Dorn recognized it, because deep down, he was much the same.

So close to Perturabo as his mirror that he idly wondered if some measure above had intended for this outcome. For an understanding so deep that neither could ignore it. Drawn together like two planets on a collision course due to the gravitational pull alone. There was no changing this course.

No matter the cruelty or the pain, Dorn took and dished it out in kind. Because he could take it. With his own fucked up need to feel pain and feel as if he had paid for his failures, he wondered…

Would they both find balance?

As those slivers of time continue to tick forwards, he knew that his own eyes revealed much beyond what was to expected in this situation now. Would Perturabo pick up on that understanding? Would he recognize that their spirits were far more kindred in nature than either of them had ever realized?

Dorn didn’t see Perturabo as a hated enemy or nemesis, and only saw him as a rival on the most basic surface level as deemed needed by Brothers and Father alike. Could Perturabo tell that everything went deeper than that? Now to the point that it shocked Dorn and added another point to idle musings that this was always intended to happen.

And then, it was as if time resumed and he had a shaking Perturabo still looming above him, moving in preparation for what was to come, what would seal Dorn’s fate in a way unlike ever before. But in doing so, would seal Perturabo’s fate in turn and forever entwine the both of them together.

Dorn laid there, upon his back, his legs wrapped around his Brother as he felt the head of Perturabo’s cock line up against his entrance, ready to push in and he knew by movement alone, that this wasn’t a kindness, but the smallest of signal to prepare himself for what would happen next.

His breath stilled, no longer did his chest rise and fall in rapid movements from the anticipation, though his hearts still thrummed with the knowledge of what was to come as he forced himself to relax as much as was possible even now. It would hurt, Dorn knew that, he didn’t have to make it miserable by clenching up.

And then.

The fortress was breached as Perturabo pulled and shoved his monstrous cock inside of his own Brother. The sheer burn and the painful stretch despite the lubrication that was graciously given did not feel like it mattered at all as Dorn felt like he had been punched in the gut, leaving him exhaling a pained wheeze.

Even the faintest traces of tears formed at the corner of his eyes despite him trying to not falter.

Then he felt that hot salt spread through the entirety of his insides as his Brother coated him. That sensation, mixed with pain and the lack of air, now had him panting loudly, opened mouth while he stared up at his Brother with wide eyes.

He didn’t even acknowledge the fact that at the same time, in that moment of painful penetration, the tension in his gut and the anticipation built up snapped at the same time; that he covered his stomach with a fresh layer of semen that joined the other fluids that had been on his body.

Perturabo’s hips jolted and his thighs tensed so hard it was painful, cramps nearly locking his legs in place; and he seized as he rode out that sensation. He slumped forward, catching himself and bracing his weight on one arm, hand landing palm down against the himation spread out over the dirt by nothing greater than muscle memory.

Tears pricked the edges of his eyes. He was entirely overcome solely from how monumental this moment felt — so overwhelming and all-encompassing that his genius mind and the components that enhanced it were both entirely silenced; wrought to a frighting, alien state of total non-thought as he was forced to simply be.

To feel.

Feel; deep within his now threefold hearts. Feel; to the center of the cold, hard cybernetic core that powered him — the device that had replaced the unfairly bartered, dying fragments of what remained of his soul in an all-or-nothing attempt to prolong his existence.

That strangely watery fluid pooling in his eyes dripped thinly and quickly down his face, the repurposed lubricant that had replaced the function of his Betcher’s glands and produced in copious amounts these last few minutes working against him in this regard now; as tears he did not want to admit he could still shed were slick and diluted with that oil, impossible to control or hold back without the benefit of surface tension.

Perturabo was beyond understanding; and he turned his head quickly to the side, a cascade of loudly clacking cords and sliding cable sheaths tumbling over his shoulder and down against Dorn’s chest as he attempted to hide his face, knowing he must have been wearing an expression that told epics that he’d never have disclosed of his own volition.

What in the name of the Fates was this? The glory of taking Dorn once and for all after building it up for so long in his obsessive thought-streams wasn’t even enough to explain what this coupling had initiated, this catalyst causing a reaction that went far beyond the basic scientific or philosophical explanations beneath it all. It was something so powerful that even in its most initial stage, had made itself known. And it unsettled him, deeply.

It was as if he’d linked up with something that was never meant to be external; as if he’d installed a missing part of himself.