He’s wearing what he’d been saved in. Hopes that if he’s good, he might be given something new. Something not stained. So he leans against Perturabo’s chest, and blinks up at him, a picture of sweet innocence. And Perturabo plucks at his ragged hospital gown. "I don't like this. It doesn't suit."

“What would suit, brother?” He asks, hoping dearly it’ll be something decent.

"You'd look better in silk. Gold."

His heart stutters. “Really?”

"Your predecessor always favoured such."

“I… I don’t know that I can live up to him.”

"You don't have to. I simply thought you might favour the same as him."

He panics, a tad. Nodding frantically. “No! No I would. Especially if it pleases you.”

"It would please me to see you dressed better, indeed."

“Then I’d like that very much.” He stumbles over the end of the sentence, no honorifics fitting right on his tongue, but the lack making him feel endangered. And Perturabo presses a kiss on his head, like a father might. If he'd ever known a father.

Fulgrim—if he can rightly be called such—bites back the sudden urge to call him father, dad, or more.  He's not even sure Perturabo would mind.

“Thank you d-“ no, no he can’t. Not when everything hangs uncertain.

But Perturabo smiles. "Get you some jewels, too."

That only makes him squirm more on Peturabo’s lap. “Really? I can be all glittering for you?”

"I'd like it very much.'

Fulgrim’s smile widens. “I want to look just the way you want.”

"Then I'll dress you up like a doll, my sweet."

“A pretty one,” he insists.

"Yes, as pretty as can be."

“And—“ he pauses, not sure if he has the right to demand this or not.

"What is it?"

“And no one else can touch me, right?”

"No one but me. Did he share you around?"

He nods, a little hesitant. “Strange things, things that hurt.”

"Well, it won't happen here. You're mine."

Fulgrim can hardly believe it. “What’s the catch?”

"Well, you'll have to take care of me."

“That’s all?” He has to be sure.

"And look pretty for others to see.'

“I can do that. I want to do that.” He nods, glancing up at Peturabo before hiding his face. “I’ll take care of you daddy, however you need

And Perturabo feels a hot flush through his body. "Sweet boy."

Fulgrim smiles up at him, reassured. “If you say so it must be true.”

"Your faith in me is heartening."

“Should I not trust you to know what’s right for me?” he asks, head cocking.

"You should, dearest, but still, I like to hear it confirmed."

“I’ll always trust you daddy. You saved me, and you’re nice, and—“ he lets his head thunk against Perturabo’s chest, nuzzling close. “And you know what I need. What I deserve.”

"And there won't be any needles here. Any drugs. Just wine."

“No needles at all?” That sounds suspect to Fulgrim.

"Piercing needles, perhaps."

“And you’ll tell me beforehand?”

"Of course. You'd pick out something pretty."

The makes him wriggle happily, rubbing against his daddy’s hardness. “Oh fun!”

Perturabo bites his lip to smother a groan at the feeling.

“I can’t wait to look pretty for you. To get clean and dressed well!” He won’t stop moving.

"Would you want a bath?"

“Oh, could I? Please?” He’d love to get the grim and stink of that horrid place off of him.

"I'll have one made up for you."

Fulgrim truly beams at him, squirming as close as he can. “Thank you, daddy.”

"I'll even have it made to smell good."

“Would you join me?”

"If you'd like it very much."

“Not that you need to, of course. You smell very nice. I just… I don’t want to be alone. What if he comes for me.”

"I'll join you. I should."

“Oh, thank you! It’ll be so nice.”

"We'll have to use one of the bigger tubs. But that's no trouble."

That earns another happy nuzzle from Fulgrim.

So Perturabo runs a full bath, hot and lavender-scented.

It is, perhaps, the second bath this little clone has ever had. The first being right out of the vat tank, to get all the residue off.

And this one is far, far nicer.

“This is really for me?” He asks, taking it in. “Are you sure?”

"For us to share."

“But- but you won’t use a hose?”

"Why would I ever—"

Fulgrims voice is small, as if he thinks speaking it will make the man decide it’s the better option. “To clean me up. It’s- it’s easier, for you.”

"Nonsense. We'll have a proper bath, soak in it."

Relief floods him. “Thank you. It always sounded so nice.”

"It is. Lovely for the muscles, for the blood."

He sheds the disgusting hospital gown, he’s so small. A tiny little bony thing. Like a bird fresh out of the egg. Perturabo shrugs off his himation.

When Fulgrim sees him fully nude his mouth goes dry, before flooding with drool. He can’t look away, doesn’t want to, even as he tears his eyes from Perturabo’s prick, to take in the rest of his gorgeous frame. He's thick all over. His thighs like tree trunks, his lush belly, heavy tits, broad shoulders. His prick is powerful and half-hard.

Fulgrim has to restrain himself from reaching out, touching it. He can’t hide the way his own far smaller prick starts rising. Perturabo lifts him, lowers him into the water. He’s thankful for the water, because it means it’s slightly less obvious how being manhandled so easily has interested his cock even more.

Perturabo joins him, sitting with their thighs pressed together. That, more than the warm water, makes him groan, eyes slipping shut. Perturabo wraps his big arm around Fulgrim's slight shoulders.

“It feels so nice.”

"Doesn't it? Dip your head."

And there’s a slight fear he won’t be allowed to come back up, but Fulgrim forces it down. Slides under the water fully before resurfacing.

Perturabo doesn't touch him until he resurfaces, then running his fingers through his wet hair. "Want me to wash it for you?"

“Oh! Yes please.”

"It's a terrible tangle. Ought to be like white silk."

“I couldn’t take care of it,” he laments. “It just grew longer and more knotted.” And dirtier. It’d hardly white at the moment.

"I doubt he even gave you a hairbrush."

“No, and there was only so much I could fix with my fingers…”

"Your predecessor used an oiled brush."

The thought of bristles sliding smoothly through his hair, leaving it sleek and shiny almost brings a tear to his eye. “Could- might I try one as well?”

"I'll have to order the oils, but of course."

“Thank you…” and now he does tear up. Such simple kindness after so long of pain.

"Probably have to order it from your predecessor's men. They needn't know why."

He presses closer to Perturabo. “And you truly won’t be disappointed if I don’t live up to him?” It feels impossible. That is why he was made, after all.

"I don't expect it of you. I can hope you'll be better than him. But I'll not be disappointed."

“Better than him? I fear I won’t even be a fraction of him.”

"You might grow to lack his flaws."

He hums, looking up at Perturabo. “If you’re guiding me, I trust I’ll be untainted.”

"I'll do my best to give you the right guidance."

“I think you’ll do a fine job.”

It wasn't that he was tainted. It was that he was haughty and histrionic. But he doesn't say it. Doesn't want to feed the boy new fears.

“You’ll mold me perfectly daddy, I’m sure of it.”

"Into everything you have the potential to be." He pours shampoo into his hands. But does he want this second chance to become everything he has the potential for? Would it not be easier, be sweeter, to keep him gentle and small and hanging off every word like it’s oxygen. He wants to show him the world. But wants him to stay home. Perhaps allowing this Fulgrim to believe his potential lies lower would be of sound strategy... Maybe it would save him the agonies of the original.

Maybe it will save him the agony of watching Fulgrim spiral again. Fulgrim, who tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut. “I trust you daddy. In everything.”

"Good boy." He murmurs. Let him be an artist, not a leader of men.

He brightens under the praise, easy and innocent.

Perturabo lowers his head back into the water. Like a blessing.

When he comes back up, he can feel the difference. “It’s so much nicer like this.. all clean.”

"You look nicer, too. With his grime off you."

“Almost looks like nothing ever happened….”

"As if he never touched you."

Fulgrim looks up at him, through long lashes. “As if you’re the only one who’ll ever touch.”

"And from now on, I am."

“Can I pretend it’s always been that way?”

"I think I'd like that very much."

He smiles, shy. His predecessor wouldn’t have looked as such under the circumstances. “Thank you, daddy. You’re so kind to me.”

"I brought you here to spoil, didn't I?"

“It’s still hard to believe,” he admits. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up, back in that lab. That all this is a drug-dream.”

"Did you get those often?"

“He liked…. Making me doubt everything. Weeks where I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.”

"We don't do that here. Don't play with such substances."

“They were- they were horrible. I don’t- I don’t want that ever again.”

"No. The strongest I'll give you is some watered wine. I'll even add honey."

He turns and hugs Perturabo, burying his face against the man’s bulk. “So sweet to me.”

"I aim to be. I'm not truly sure how."

“For not knowing, you’re doing a wonderful job.”

"Ah, this is why I must keep you."

“What is daddy?” He asks, almost laughing.

"To praise me. And look lovely doing it."

Fulgrim carefully clambers up further against him, hesitantly presses a kiss to his cheek. “You deserve it. Praise and something pretty to look at.”

Perturabo turns his head, pressing an answering kiss over Fulgrim's mouth. And it’s so very different than the mockeries of affection he’d gotten forced into before. Warm, and a bit chapped, yes, but so tender. A small whimper slips out, Fulgrim suddenly regretting pressing against him to stand as his prick takes notice. But Perturabo clasps a hand against the small of his back, tugging him closer.

“Daddy?” he gasps, unable to stop himself from rubbing against Perturabo’s stomach.

"That's it." Perturabo groans. "Rub it off on me."

His cock, little thing that it is, rises at Perturabo’s words, growing hard and needy against him. Fulgrim clutches to him, hips moving almost with a mind of their own.

"That's it. Just like that. Good boy."

Fulgrim’s brain stutters, unused to praise like this, and he comes with a wet gasp.

Perturabo rubs a circle on his back. "Good?"

“Yes..” he manages, hips still twitching as he gasps against his daddy.

Perturabo slips his hand around to caress his cock. Then lower. One thick finger into his wet hole.

Another whimper, louder this time, even as Fulgrim buries his face against Perturabo. 

"Did that bastard Bile defile you here?"

He nods, choked little sobs all he can manage as he thinks of it.

"My cock will take more practice than his."

Fulgrim’s breath hitches, face turning more and more red. “You won’t hurt me on purpose, not like that. I trust you.”

"No. I won't. It's never pleasant."

“He seemed to enjoy it. Take pleasure in it.” A hand finds his hair, tugging and twirling at a strand. “I never did.”

"No. It's not fun."

“I don’t like when it hurts.” So very far from how his predecessor currently views life.

"Then we shan't have it hurt for you."

“Thank you, daddy.” He presses closer to Perturabo, rubbing against his warmth.

Perturabo pulls his finger out. "Maybe that's enough for now."

Fulgrim stifles a whine, clenching around nothing. But he trusts his daddy, and if that’s enough for now, then that’s enough for now.

Perturabo truly doesn't want him to hurt. Wants to tease him open, bit by bit. It’s going to be torturous. It’s going to be lovely.

He wants to shove his cock inside. Like he did to the elder Fulgrim that sweet once. But he’s so much smaller, and despite the abuses at Bile’s hands, he’s not anywhere near ready for that. Bile is tiny in comparison to a primarch. Comparison to any primarch, and Perturabo is thicker than many of his brothers. Bigger all over, in every aspect.

Just looking at his cock makes Fulgrim’s stomach tense, thought he can’t tell if its anticipation or anxiety. “Thank you for your finger, daddy. I want to be enjoyable for you.”

"You will be, when you're ready."

“I look forward to it.” One of his own hands slips between his legs, feeling the slick there, before washing it away.

"You'll love it. We'll see to it."

He smiles, wide and enthusiastic. “I’m sure I will. I’ll like everything you give me.”

"I've an idea of what else I might use you for."

“What’s that?” Fulgrim blinks up, trying to sooth his sudden anxiety.

"How'd you like to keep my cup full when I have guests?"

That seems easy enough. “I’d like it quite a lot, daddy.”

"You'd make a fine cupbearer."

“Serve you and look pretty, right?” He can do that, he’s sure of it.

"Let people look at you but not touch."

“Just your touch.” He agrees. Exactly as he’d prefer it anyhow.

"Listen to what they say, too, and report back to me if it's interesting."

That makes him light up. “Oh, I can do that! I—“ what feels almost like a memory flashes through his mind, of politics and responsibility.

"You'll be most well-suited."

Fulgrim blinks the sensation away. “I would love to do this for you.”

"We ought to have a dinner so you might practice."

“Oh please! I want to do everything perfectly for you.”

"You will. I'll show you to my sons."

“And they’ll- they’ll not look down on me?” It’s alright if they do, Fulgrim supposes, as long as they keep their hands and pricks to themselves.

"They oughtn't to. You were chosen and favoured by me." And Fulgrim hasn’t been here long enough yet to see that none would blink at Perturabo having a cup bearer, even one that looks the same as his fallen brother. They'd probably be grateful. A bit of stress relief for him. Someone to finally help their father relax. 

And surely, rumours get back to the original Fulgrim. Who can’t quite decide if it’s insult beyond measure, or some kind of flattery. Perturabo has a cupbearer, they say, that could pass for one of Fulgrim's sons. A cupbearer who is favoured. Who is draped in and dripping finery. Who dropped a cup and cried, but didn't get a slap. Who instead got tugged into Perturabo’s lap and held gently. Tears wiped away, with promises it's all alright. Not at all the way any other cupbearer would be treated. Rather like a beloved child, or a lover. And Prince Fulgrim, daemon lord, gets curious. Who's this beloved boy who looks like one of his? 

So of course he goes to visit. Asks to be invited, all saccharin-sweet.

The little Fulgrim would be terrified, if he knows. And Perturabo doesn't warn him. Doesn’t even think he would have to. He'll deal with whatever this is quietly, and make it go away. But Lord Fulgrim has so intentions of quiet. He never does, never did. Demands a proper audience, for Perturabo to be a proper host.

So, he puts together a dinner, as nice as he can offer.

Lord Fulgrim slithers in with his guard in tow, head held high, proud.

Perturabo is seated, and he doesn't rise to greet him. "Brother."

“Hail, brother. I see you’ve made a few changes to your halls,” the lord says, eyes sweeping over everything. And Fulgrim, his Fulgrim, freezes in place at his side. Chains and gems swaying as he breathes fast. 

"I've had some windfalls of luck." Perturabo insists.

"Yes, that much is obvious." Lord Fulgrim's eyes narrow in on the small cupbearer. He looks like more than just one of his children, the boy looks like him. The spitting image of the daemon lord, generously around age fifteen.

The boy stop breathing entirely, as if that will protect him.

"My lucky find." Perturabo puts a hand on his boy's shoulder.

He's still not moving. Not breathing, just staring up at his predecessor, horned, winged and multi-limbed. Somehow the snake half is the least heart-stopping. "And just what kind of luck would you say you've found, brother dear?"

"Something that makes me happy, and that's rare enough."

“Oh, he makes you happy, does he?”

"Very much, I must confess."

“And where did you find him?” There’s a trace of fury under the words.

"Trying to run from Bile's laboratory."

And the unavoidable reality of what exactly Perturabo has crashes into him. “I ought to slay that thing where it stands.”

"You'll not touch him."

“As if you have the right to make that choice, any more than you would have the right to tell me not to touch my own arm,” Lord Fulgrim hisses, a blade in his hand now. It’s almost the size of the little Fulgrim.

Perturabo finally stands. Using his body to shield little Fulgrim. "He's done no harm!"

“Its existence is harm! A violation! An aberration!” 

"He's a boy!"

“It’s a mockery,” he snarls, serpent fangs bared.

"A child, more like!"

“And you have it— you have me—“ the blade raises, as Lord Fulgrim coils higher, like a cobra standing as tall as he can.

"He is not you! DNA does not selfhood make!"

“It’s more than just my geneseed you tin can! The thing is literally me.”

"Not where it counts!"

“No, it still looks human, is that it? Or did you just want some version of me weak enough to put in its place?”

"What are you speaking of?"

“What do you think I speak of?” Two hands gesture at the petrified little clone.

"I've no idea. His place is raised high."

“Then the rest of your servants must be held in low regard. Or have you resorted to slavery, brother?” the Lord hisses. 

“If that thing is in a place of esteem, then I shudder to think how the rest are viewed,” he says, disdain and disgust dripping from every word.

"A cupbearer is a privileged place."

Lord Fulgrim snorts, disbelieving. “Right, and so is the little serf who scrubs the toilets.”

"That one isn't trusted with every word I say at events, and with testing my drink against assassination attempts."

He recoils. “How can any child you’d have die in your stead be honored?”

"With the right to pass me a cup of poison or even add some."

That makes the little Fulgrim stiffen even further, clutching to Perturabo’s leg, shaking his head.

Perturabo drops his hand to stroke the little one's hair.

“I wouldn’t, da—“ he cuts himself off, terrified eyes flicking back to his predecessor. “I would never!”

"I wouldn't think it of you." Perturabo soothes.

Lord Fulgrim watches with a look of revulsion, coming to some, but not all the realizations. “If you wanted to fuck something little and breakable you could have picked anything other than that.”

"I haven't fucked him yet, if you insist on being lewd."

“Yet! So it’ll happen, then.” His tail lashes, distressed. “I would have let you fuck me, if you asked. Probably would have even if you didn’t. I could have given you use of anyone you wished. But no. You had to go find that hideousness to play house with.”

"Are you jealous?"

“Of that thing? No!” He’s far too insistent, too loud. It’s obviously a lie.

"I know what it is you want in me; I'm not a fool."

Lord Fulgrim hisses, perfect face furrowing. “Yet you take that abomination into your house. Into your bed.”

"He doesn't want the ghost of another man he can paint on me."

“Apparently you do though.” Anger boils hot in Lord Fulgrim’s eyes. 

"I couldn't say if he's like you."

“No, but you’d like to pretend, wouldn’t you.” And it stings. Knowing his son made a version of him without permission that’s more loved.

"Maybe like you used to be."

“Yet more reason it shouldn’t exist.”

"An artist. A dreamer. I imagine you once were."

Lord Fulgrim looks away, a shudder running through him. “You just want to play pretend with a version of me that doesn’t revolt you.”

"You don't revolt me. I'd be a hypocrite."

“It revolts me. Let me kill it, brother. It never should have been made.”

"I won't. I'd allow you any indulgence, but not harm to him."

“Then you betray me as much as its creation did.”

"Think that if you must. But I've precious few good things. I'm not eager to have one taken away."

The lord’s tail lashes out, cracking a column as he turns to leave. “Mind it well, then. If I see it beyond this world you won’t be able to stop me.” 

"Take your threats and go."

“You misunderstand, brother. It’s a warning.” And he’s gone, sweeping out with far more rage than he entered with.

Perturabo sags back into his throne, and sighs.

“That’s who I’m supposed to be?” Fulgrim asks, finally able to move again, staring out the doorway the daemon lord has left through.

"Whose DNA you were made of."

“He hates me.”

"He's a fool."

“And so… angry.” He climbs up into Perturabo’s lap, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

"It isn't your fault. None of it."

“Still...”

"I don't blame you at all."

“But you’ve been all upset now. I can tell.”

"His doing, not yours."

“Is there any way I can fix it? I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

"Come here and cheer me."

Fulgrim nuzzles closer to him, pressing a kiss to his lips this time.

"That's it, my boy. You know just what to do."

Hands run over Perturabo’s chest, rings glinting. “You taught me well, daddy.”

"My finest work."

“Mmh, high praise.”

"Well, most of my other work comes out quite unpleasing."

“Does it?” He presses another kiss to his lips. “Everything you’ve protected and cultivated looks pleasant to my eye.”

"I've not stood at the forge in quite some time..."

“Why not?” Genuine care, and curiosity suffuse the question.

"Couldn't seem to make things right."

He knows that pain. The kind that needles when you can’t reach perfection. But…. “You don’t expect me to do it all right. Certainly not all the time.”

"No. I wouldn't."

“Why not afford yourself the same grace?”

"Perhaps I should. Make you some clockwork..."

“Really? What would my darling daddy make me?”

"Something pretty for your room. A jewelled clock."

He laughs, high and melodious. “You’re going to gild me entirely aren’t you.”

"Do you mind terribly?"

“Of course not. It’s very sweet, and you make me so pretty.”

"It allows an old man something lovely to look at."

“You aren’t that old, daddy.”

"Millenia, my dear."

“Really?” Fulgrim’s eyes go wide, wide enough to see the way his pupils blow dark.

"More years than I can count."

“That’s quite a few years older than I.” Beneath sheer fabric, it’s impossible to pretend he isn’t beginning to grow hard. Isn’t feeling his cunt twitch in growing want.

"And I don't think you mind it."

“No… Rather the opposite, I think.”

"That's quite lovely."

“You’re quite lovely, Daddy,” he says, kissing him again.

Perturabo's fingers ghost over his damp cunt. He earns a little gasping whine, Fulgrim letting his knees buckle to rub against his fingers properly. One finger pushes inside, then another. Fulgrim shudders, a high moan warbling out of him. He tilts his hips just so, trembling as each motion of Pertruabo’s fingers brushes past his prick. So Perturabo takes mercy and wraps his other hand around Fulgrim's prick.

“D-addy— please,” he whines, face pressing into Perturabo’s bulk. Everything’s shaking now, overwhelmed and needing more.

He shoves in a third finger to stretch him wider. And Terra bless his predecessor’s DNA, or he’d tear. As it is, Fulgrim still wails, clutching at his daddy with all his strength, legs wobbly.

"You can take it. That's it."

“So big—!”

"Soon you'll be ready for bigger."

“Promise?” He gasps, trying to force his cunt to relax, to let the fingers in properly.

"I promise. Soon."

“Want to- to please you.” And he dearly wants to feel that beautiful prick in him. Just thinking about it is enough to send him over the edge. Spurting into his daddy’s hand.

"That's it." Perturabo pulls his fingers out. Lifts his hands to his mouth. Fulgrim happily sucks on them, tongue laving over the large fingers, licking them clean. "Do you like it? The taste of yourself?"

He flushes, embarrassed, but nods, not wanting to pull away from the fingers.

"Good. Good boy, my good whore."

Fulgrim’s cunt twitches, a little whimper sounding around Perturabo’s fingers. He doesn’t feel like a whore, but he does feel good. As if this is where he belongs. The praise warms him, making the embarrassed flush travel further down his pale skin.

"And I mean it kindly, I do."

Much as he loathes to, Fulgrim pulls back. Just enough to be able to speak. “Thank you, daddy. I enjoy being your whore.”

"You're so well made for it."

That seems like it ought to be condemnation, or degradation, but all Fulgrim feels is warm pride. “You’ve molded me well.”

"And I'll continue to do so."

He smiles, pressing a kiss to Perturabo’s hand, getting it wholly clean. “My skilled daddy…” And then, with a start, he realizes: “you haven’t come yet! All this focus on me and I’ve neglected you.”

"And I'm still hard."

“Let me ease it? Please daddy I want to make you feel good. Use me. It’s part of what I’m for, yes.”

"Will you give me your hands?"

“Of course, anything!”

"Move my clothes aside."

Fulgrim does, mouth watering in anticipation.

His cock stands hard, flushed dark red.

“You’re so pretty….”

"Would you put it in your mouth?"

“Yes,” he breathes out, pure reverence. It may not even properly fit, but Fulgrim wants it too so dearly.

"Do you know how to do it?"

“On a- a smaller scale.” He nods.

"The mechanics aren't much different."

Fulgrim nods again, hands coming to wrap around it as he sinks to his knees. Perturabo's hand comes to rest on his hair. He licks his lips, and kisses the tip, before drawing him into his mouth. Perturabo lets out a low groan. His jaw already aches, but Fulgrim takes him deeper, suckling as if it’ll give him life’s milk itself. Perturabo struggles to keep his hips still, to not shove them so deep. 

Fulgrim starts moving his hands, knowing taking more in his mouth will be a struggle, at least now. Stroking the length that doesn’t fit, matching the way his tongue moves against velvety flesh. Earning another groan, a twitch of Perturabo's hips. He hums encouragement, eyes looking up through long lashes, already lust heavy.

"Can you take it deeper?"

No, he thinks, but he nods, sucking in as much air as he can through his nose. So Perturabo pushes his hips forward. Controlled, just a bit. It takes all the willpower Fulgrim has to not gag. Instead licking at the new length and playing with what’s still outside. Perturabo sets to shallow thrusting, just shallow enough to not choke him. It’s so much, too much, even. But Fulgrim doesn’t care, he just wants to be good for his daddy. Be helpful, feel good for him. Each suckle and lick and stroke is full of adoration, even through the ache.

"Good boy." Perturabo coos.

He moans at the praise, muffled around the heavy cock.  Perturabo's cock leaks precome over Fulgrim's tongue. The taste is divine, musky and hot, a glorious tease of what will come after. Fulgrim can’t get enough. He suckles at it, trying to draw more out. 

It spurts freely, and Perturabo groans a warning. "I'm close."

And he so dearly wants it, wants to feel himself flow full of it. Fulgrim moans around him again, desperate and needy. And Perturabo comes, pouring down his throat. He swallows as much as he can, until it's too much. Far too much, and Fulgrim gags, chokes, come bubbling around Perturabo's cock and flooding down Fulgrim's front. Perturabo bends down, using a thick thumb to wipe it away.

Pulling his head back with a gasp, Fulgrim smiles up, eyes dazed. "Did I do good daddy?" 

"You did so well. Amazing. Burned away the stress."

He’s still a mess. Cum and spit trail over him, his eyes are rear filled, hazy with the aftermaths of such lust. “Taste so good…”

"Swallow it down, love, that's it."

Fulgrim smiles, dazed, and licks his lips, before rejoining lips to cock, beginning to lick it clean with a moan.

"That's it." Perturabo says again.

Cleaning him is almost messier than anything else. He has no heed for how his saliva spreads, for how he gets covered in fluids as he presses closer. And Perturabo loves to watch it. 

If ever a sober boy could be called cock drunk, this would be it. So utterly lost in the taste and weight of Perturabo’s prick against him. Floating in the smell of it, where he snuffles and licks sensitive flesh clean. And Perturabo strokes his hair, murmurs endearments. When Fulgrim finally gets every speck of come off his prick, he whines for the fact he doesn’t have more to lick off.

Perturabo smiles. Gestures at his lap. "Come here."

He clambers back up, still a mess himself, more than a little out of it as he gazes at his lord. Who gathers him close, cuddles him like a precious thing. Fulgrim coos and whines, nuzzling against him. “M’ daddy….”

"You know I'd never let him hurt you."

“No… you keep me safe. At your side.”

"Always. I always will."

He basks there for a bit, relishing in Perturabo’s arms. In his size and smell, slowly regaining coherence. “I hadn’t expected…. him.”

"No. I can't say I thought he'd come here."

“He’s beautiful, in a way,” Fulgrim says, bashful.

"Isn't he? Stunning, I fear."

“And so far from what I am now,” he adds, looking down at his form, small and slight. Utterly human in shape.

"Twisted by the Warp."

Fulgrim’s eyes grow wide. “Such a thing can happen?”

"It has too many."

“But you are not?” He looks down at his own body, half expecting it to have changed.

"I'm only changed a little bit."

“And I’m not. Not like he is.”

"No. You're younger. More pure."

“Pure…. And you’d like to… keep me that way?” he asks, entirely unsure. 

"I do love it."

That relaxes him rather a lot. “So, my form is not a disappointment, then?”

"Your form is very beautiful."

Fulgrim kisses him, the strained pain in his chest lessening somewhat.

"I like you like this. A sweet boy."

“What about when I grow?” He asks, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

"Then you'll be a beautiful man. I'm not one of those men to discard a lover when they grow."

Even so, Fulgrim almost wishes he could look like this forever. Young and small and easy for Bo to hold. Well, maybe just a tad bigger, he wants to be able to properly handle that beautiful prick in his mouth.

“Even though it’s expected of you?” And then, hands fisting in the scant fabric he’s adorned with, his voice smaller: “and what will I be then? When I’m too old to be this?”

"My lover, and perhaps a secretary. Or a general."

And Fulgrim, created to lead men, shakes his head. “Please don’t ask that of me. Daddy please. I don’t want to go to war, don’t want to lead, I just—“

"What would you like to do?"

“I… I don’t know. Be yours, mostly.”

"Then you'll be my secretary, and help me keep my domestic affairs."

“And still be yours, in heart, hearth and bed?”

"Mine, always. Sweetest thing I have."

That’s alright then, even if it tugs at the back of Fulgrim’s mind that he’ll change his mind. He nuzzles closer, seeking more of that warmth. And he gets kisses over his hair, his forehead.

“You’ll still be my daddy, and I’ll be yours entire.”

"You will be, and I will be. Always."

He leans up, catching Bo on the chin with a kiss. “Perhaps a bit of warning when your family comes to visit though?”

"Of course. If any of them choose to call again, you'll be warned."

Fulgrim waits a long moment before gently pressing on Perturabo’s face to tilt down toward him. “Why didn’t you warn me this time?”

"I thought he was bluffing. He so rarely leaves his pleasure planet."

“His... I’m sorry his what?” The rest of his intended line of inquiry is cut short, fixed on this now.

"The planet the Warp built for him. As it built this one for me."

“And it built him…. What, something that makes him happy?”

"It built him a world of unending sensory pleasure."

He tries to imagine it, and all that comes to mind is the being filled and surrounded by Perturabo. The heavy weight and feel of him, of his cock. “That must be... Incredibly overwhelming.”

"They say the water of its oceans is blood one day, pomegranate juice the next. They say pilgrims dance until they die."

“And he’s center to it all?” Fulgrim assumes.

"He is. The lord and master."

“He must get so tired….”

"I'm not sure he has the ability any longer."

“But then why come here at all? If he has such a good life on his planet.”

"To see you. Or me." The second seems to frighten him more.

Fulgrim shake himself free of the images it brings. “But why?”

"I can't say. Curiosity?"

“He hated me. Genuine hatred.”

"I don't quite think so."

“What would you call it then?”

Perturabo thinks for a moment of if he ought to say what he saw. "Jealousy."

“Jealousy?” Fulgrim’s eyebrows raised in peak confusion.

"Perhaps that you're young and pure."

“But— all that power. And he’s gorgeous, and—“

"Isn't he? Corruption suits him."

“So why be jealous of me? Why want me exterminated?”

"You've got something he wants, perhaps."

“What, legs?”

Perturabo snorts. "Perhaps that's it."

“He was so close… it felt like coming within a hairbreadth of a bomb.” Chain and gems jingle softly as Fulgrim shifts, getting more comfortable on his lap.

"I don't feel that way to you?"

“You should. I know you should. But I also know you won’t hurt me, that if you did it would be for my own good.” He half shrugs, nuzzling closer. “You’re my daddy, not a blade to hurt me.”

"Ah. So, it's familiarity that breeds enjoyability."

“Should it not? I can be afraid if you prefer.”

"No. I'd not like that. It's only curious."

“If you were to hurt me—discipline me—it would be your right, much as I might hate it.” A hand finds one of Perturabo’s, holding it tight. “But you’ve made it clear you don’t wish to inflict pain for pain’s sake. Of course, I feel safe with you.”

"I don't ever want to be that sort of man to you."

The implication he would want to be that sort of man to others goes unremarked though not noticed. Fulgrim smiles. “You’re a very good daddy. I’m proud to be your boy. Your cupbearer, despite how poor I am at it.”

"You're not so very bad at it. Shaky handed, sometimes."

“I’ve dropped or spilled things at least twice, you need not try to save my pride.”

"I don't believe you're clumsy. I think you're nervous."

Fulgrim blushes a light pink. “There are so many people. So many eyes on me, and—I love being pretty for you, love everyone seeing how well you decorate what’s yours, but—it’s a large departure from where I used to be.”

"I do suppose it is. You need practice."

“I just want to be perfect for you, and then I think about how many people will see if I fall short, and it becomes harder.”

"A perfectionist. Always a hard thing to be. I can understand it."

“There’s no point in anything short of perfect,” he insists.

"But you have to work up to perfection."

Fulgrim huffs, pouting. “It’s infuriating. I ought to be able to do it properly from the outset.”

"If only that were how such things work."

“I’ll get better at it, all of it. I swear I will.”

"Of that, I have no doubt."

“Devote myself to it wholly. I won’t think of anything else.”

"It needn't be so very intense."

“But... how else will I improve?” He asks, head tilting.

"With careful study, certainly, but it needn't be your only pursuit."

Fulgrim looks at him as if he’s just said down is up. “But—“

"There are other things."

“Such as?”

"I've thought you might make an artist."

That stops his thoughts entirely for a moment. “An artist… I- really? You’d allow me…?”

"Is there a medium that interests you?"

“Perhaps paint, if you’d permit it,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Or sculpture, but that— that’s so much. Too much.”

"Paint, of course you shall have. And clay, at first."

“I— thank you daddy. You spoil me.”

"I'll get you nice supplies, in the next shipment."

He looks up at Perturabo as if he’s just been handed the keys to the universe itself in one lovely large hand. “I don’t ask for too much?” he breathes the words, still not quite believing.

"You ask for barely anything. So I offer."

“You’re very generous.”

"My father..." His face twitches. "Not the Emperor. The other one. He didn't approve of art."

“What’s not to approve of? It’s lovely.”

"He thought we ought to be focused only on war."

Fulgrim frowns. “But then what would there be to go to war for?”

"I don't think he thought about that. Only about winning."

“What’s the point of winning if all that follows is more war?”

"You're right. There becomes little point."

“I’ll… I’ll make something worthy of your return.”

"I have no doubt you will."

Fulgrim kisses him, small hands holding his face in contrast. “Mmh, and I have no doubt the rest of your House will soon be worried of the furious departure your Lord Brother made.”

"Surely. I'll have much soothing to do."

“Before rumors of war begin.”

"We're not going to war. No chance of it."

“He’ll not dare attempt to invade, will he?”

"No. He wouldn't."

He nods, fiddling with a gemstone. “Neither will you. I suppose some form of apology would be helpful, but…. Frankly it’s more you that’s owed one.”

"And he's too proud to ever give one."

“Pride, I think, you all get from your father. The shared one.”

"You're quite right, of course."

“Which means you’ll not apologize either,” he surmises.

"It's not my doing that caused the rift."

“No. No of course not.” If anything, it’s his fault. Though if Fulgrim lets himself think too long, that circles back to it being his daddy’s, fault, being responsible for him.

"He'd certainly like me on my knees." And oh what a picture that is! Fulgrim shudders, picturing it a split second too long, cock twitching in interest. "Like that, too, I'm sure. Might be his favourite sort of apology." 

A wave of vicious jealousy, and— “what, giving or receiving.”

"Receiving, I'm sure."

“Big fucker doesn’t even have knees anymore…”

"No. Couldn't even kneel."

Fulgrim crosses his arms, petulant and glares at the door his predecessor had left through. “Stupid snake half.”

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

“What does he even use it for! It’s entirely impractical.”

"For pleasure of some sort, one must imagine."

“I can’t begin to imagine what sort. It seems utterly incompatible.”

"They say he has two...'

“Tails? I only saw one.”

"The other part. The one more pleasurable."

His eyes go wide. “Two pricks? That can’t be comfortable!” But he still clenches, imagining it. 

"I'm certain it can't."

“And they’re… they’re the same size as yours?”

"I must assume so. It was before."

“That must be impossible for anyone to fit,” he declares.

"Only possible by some Warp trick."

“I have to admit that thought is somewhat terrifying.”

"Yes. To me as well, even."

A thought occurs than, making him first all the way to his loincloth. “If I’m him, does that mean he’s got…” Fulgrim tails off, a hand sliding down his stomach, ignoring his prick, and instead gently circling open his cunt.

"We all do."

A gasp, and his fingers slip, skidding over wet flesh. “We do? I- I thought myself an outlier…”

"No. It's the Emperor's design."

New tears spring to his eyes. “So, he lied… I wasn’t formed to be— to be the Emperor’s whore?”

"Who told you that?"

“Bile… who else?” Fulgrim ducks his head, hiding behind long hair.

"It's horrid of him to say. About you, about his lord father."

“I’m not his lord father though. I’m a mockery of him. One apparently made for him to use and abuse.”

"He's a cruel man."

“In many ways he’s my father.” Fulgrim chokes on the words

"In none that matter."

Finally looking back at Perturabo, a small smile cracks his face. “No, none that matter. Not when I’m here with my daddy.”

"He may have made you, but he never loved you."

“You do?” He knows the answer but needs the reassurance.

"I do. Very much."

A flurry of kisses land on his face, leaving little shimmers behind in his wake. Perturabo doesn't wipe them away. Lets them sit.

“I love you too daddy. I always will.”

"My sweet boy. Sleep the night with me?" 

“Of course, yes. Please.”

"I was worried you'd want some privacy."

Fulgrim shakes his head, vigor bordering on frantic. “No! No, I want the exact opposite. If you had put me to bed alone, I’d have begged to stay with you instead.”

"Then stay you shall, and keep me warm."

“Where I belong.” He nods decisive.

"Tucked under my arm, held to my chest..."

“Doing everything I can to warm and comfort you.”

"Yes, my sweet boy. You will."

“That’s truly all I want,” he says, burrowing in close.

And for a little while, it's like it was. Peaceful. Fulgrim grows more confident, there are far less spills. They get closer to Bo finally fucking him. It feels so palpable in the air that it's close. So special. Naturally, this is when it all goes wrong.

When Lord Fulgrim comes, when Perturabo is off-planet. So he finds little Fulgrim in their chambers. Just having gotten dressed after painting a time. Dressed in his finest, still marveling it’s his. It’s become a routine, to do the small administrative tasks set to him, to work on his projects, and then to change into something utterly dripping in finery, paint himself up nice, and wait in their room, pretending his daddy will sweep into the room for the night. But it's not his daddy who comes. It's Lord Fulgrim's soldiers. Frightful things, who find him looking the picture of a painted up royal whore. And call him as much, as they drag him out. 

Screaming, thrashing as delicate chains strain, and his bare feet scrabble against the ground. Some of his chains snap. His feet get cut to ribbons. Fat tears mar the makeup he’d spent so long on, trailing gold and kohl down his cheeks. Thrown to his knees before Lord Fulgrim, looking a courtesan disgraced. And that's maybe what softens Lord Fulgrim, in as much it does. What makes him order the boy to open his mouth, instead of drawing out a sword. Not used to such force of order, the boy primarch does just that, eyes wide, confused. And Lord Fulgrim undoes his armour to yank out a prick. Textured, inhuman, and huge. Little Fulgrim flinches, mouth snapping back shut.

"Open it." Lord Fulgrim coos. "Suck me."

He shakes his head, eyes huge. Barely whispers: “it won’t fit.”

"You've surely taken primarch prick before."

“B- barely. He didn’t fit properly in my mouth either.”

"Poor tiny thing. We'll have to teach you."

It pulls a whimper from him, shrinking even smaller where he’s kneeling on the hard ground. He doesn’t want anyone but his daddy to teach him. 

"Make you... pliable."

“Please…. I just want my—“ no. No he can’t say it, not here.

"My brother? I'm sure you do."

He flinches again, trying and failing to cover himself up.

"He's unreasonably gentle with you."

“He loves me….” It’s half a whisper.

"Surely. So, this will sting him more."

“You don’t have to. Please.”

"But I want to, still."

Finally, he meets his predecessor’s gaze. “Why?”

"Despite yourself, you're pretty. And lucky."

“I’m you! Why—“ he stops, blinks. “What do you mean lucky?”

"Loved. What could be luckier?"

He wants to screech. Hardly manages to hold it in. “You are loved, lord.”

"Not anymore. Not properly."

“Look around you. I beg to differ.”

"And none of them fit to kiss his feet." 

Still trying to cover himself up as much as possible, the little Fulgrim looks around. “Does this make them unfit to love you?”

"It makes them unable, at the very least."

His confusion is evident, writ large across his tearstained face.

"Only a brother of mine could truly love me."

“You have many of those, I’m made to understand.” A larger warble of fear in his voice.

"And not one that cares for me. Yet one cares for you."

“I don’t believe that. Can’t believe none care for you, love you.” He looks down again, nearly wilting from Lord Fulgrim’s gaze. “But I don’t see what that has to do with him loving me.”

"It's not fair." He says simply.

Little Fulgrim’s face crumples. There’s no way to fight that argument. No way to convince the Lord that he’s loved. He knows that. It's too reminiscent of his own sort of arguments. And he knows nothing will convince the lord. Little Fulgrim wets his lips. Trying anyhow. “Doing this won’t change that.”

"Make me feel better, though, won't it?"

He flinches back again, “please, Lord, I beg you not to.”

"I always like it when they beg."

Then beg I will, if it spares me, he thinks. And he slowly, tremblingly, folds his body in half, pressing his forehead to the ground before the lord. “Please. I— Lord Prince, I plead, I prostrate myself in askance. Please, do not do this. Not this, which you cannot take back.”

"You're very sweet. You make a good show of it. Makes me want you more."

Little Fulgrim blanches, flinching where he’s bowed on the floor. “It’ll be war. He’ll not let this transgression go, Lord.” 

"Why? I'll spare your life."

“No one but him is to touch me.” His voice waver as he speaks, as if he doesn’t trust it to be true. As if he’s afraid Perturabo won’t want him after this.

"And has he?"

“Of- of course he has. I’m his.”

"How's his cock, then?"

And oh, how little Fulgrim burns blushing at that. Working his jaw silently for a long moment before. “Large. Heavy, on— on the tongue.”

"Ah. Just in your mouth, then."

“As.. as I said, he’s— He’s quite large.”

"Couldn't get it in your cunt? Poor thing. We'll figure it out."

He gets redder. “We- I- we were working up to it!”

"Then you'll be quite ready for me."

“Please, no, I—“

"You'll suck me first. Get it nice and wet."

When little Fulgrim finally rises back to kneel, he’s crying again. “Please…”

"Oh, don't cry. Though, it makes your eyes all pretty..."

That only draws more tears. “Please! I don’t— I don’t want to!” He hiccups.

There's a prick nudging his face. Insistent. A broken sob bubbles out, leaving him open and shuddering. And Lord Fulgrim shoves in. He chokes. Properly chokes, gaging and retching against the intrusion, trying to pull off. And Lord Fulgrim doesn't give him any space. Shoves further. He can’t breathe, can’t hardly think for how deep his predecessor’s cock is in his throat. Every attempt to regulate ends in more gagging, his throat tightening around Lord Fulgrim in an attempt to force him out. And Lord Fulgrim groans, like the feeling is pure bliss.

His clone’s hands reach blindly forward, shoving back against what would be thighs on human legs. And getting no purchase on smooth, muscular scales. The panic begins to set in, lack of air and lack of choice making little Fulgrim panic, eyes growing wide and wild.

"Beautiful." Lord Fulgrim coos.

His shoving hands curl into fists, trying to beat at the Lord, to drive him away. It gets him another moan, like any pain is a pleasure. Little Fulgrim only hits harder, trying to bite down on the scaly prick. And Lord Fulgrim comes, and that's no better. It clogs up his throat worse. What would be pained whines become nothing more than gargled cries, trying and failing to swallow. Choking on the viscous sludge and choking again as it meets the resistance of the Lord’s cock still buried in his throat.

The Lord pulls out, letting seed spill down the boy's chin. He retches, coughing, trying to get enough air. After a long moment, a gout of come and bile emerges from his stomach, leaving long strings hanging from his mouth. The lad is entirely covered in tears, shaking, and about five minutes from collapsing into the puddle of vomited seed.

Lord Fulgrim grasps his shoulder. "Ah, steady on."

His little clone just lets out an incoherent wail, new tears falling.

"There now. It isn't so bad."

He spits again, and can’t hold it back anymore. “I- I want my daddy!” He sobs, near inarticulate between the tears, the hiccups, and the shaking.

"Oh, sweet thing." The Lord seems to soften. "Just us now."

Little Fulgrim is having none of it, trying to wrench his way out of the Lord’s grasp. Kicking out, despite his trembling form.

"Shh, calm yourself, far too worked up."

“No! You- you monster! You— I begged- I didn’t want—!”

"And you hated it properly, you can tell him that."

“I hate you!” he screams, uncaring anymore for the danger.

He gets an ear-ringing slap for it. It sends him reeling, crying out in pain. “Monster! If- if this is your conduct, no wonder you’re not loved!”

And Lord Fulgrim freezes, still as a stone. "I was good, once."

The little clone stares up at him through tears. “Now you’re this,” he spits. “Vile.”

"I did the worst, and made myself irredeemable."

“So you willingly act a monster?” He spits again, literally this time.

"What choice have I left?"

“Not this!” Little Fulgrim cries, high and hysterical.

"You want to know how hurt feels?"

His wet eyes widen further, rekindling his attempts to break free. “No! No I just want my daddy!”

"I'm sure he'll come after you. But will he still want you..."

Another broken wail screams out of him, amidst heavy, useless thrashing. It might be the worst thing Lord Fulgrim could have said. And he knows it.

“Let go! Let me go! I don’t want this!” Nails dig into the wrist holding him, bare feet his out, bearing themselves against ceramite armor.

And Lord Fulgrim lifts him into the air. "Your objection is noted."

He presses his thighs together, ankles locking, trying to keep himself covered, safe. “No! No, please— Please don’t!”

"It won't hurt so much as you think."

Little Fulgrim just sobs, trying to twist out of his grip. And he's lowered still, inevitably, towards two hungry pricks. Legs still clamped together, attempting to keep them out of him. They brush his thighs, taunting. He whimpers, still refusing entry.

"Open your legs." Lord Fulgrim urges.

“No! No, I don’t- I don’t want this!”

"It will hurt more if I open you."

And despite wanting to fight every step of the way, he slowly, reluctantly lets his legs loosen. Shame and guilt burning hot in his gut.

"Good boy, that's it. A little wider... there we go."

Little Fulgrim’s whole body shakes with the force of his hiccuping sobs, but his legs spread, trembling. And Lord Fulgrim's prick touches his cunt. No way it will fit. He sobs as much. "Please, it's not going to- I can't!"

"Not- not a fucktoy..." he heaves out. "Loves me..."

"I'm sure he does. Makes this all the sweeter."

But Little Fulgrim insists. "Not a fucktoy-!"

"Yet you're good use as one."

A little mewling cry warbles out, turning up high as his prick gets stroked again.

"And make the prettiest noises."

He squirms in the lord's grasp, not even sure what his goal is, and gets fucked deeper, slamming up against his cervix. The boy squawks, hands flying to clutch at the wrist holding him.

"You like that?"

He does, achingly so, but refuses to admit it. His cock twitches though, and cunt tremors around Lord Fulgrim. 

"That's what I want. You having to live with the fact you liked it."

“Please,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. If he imagines hard enough, maybe it’ll be as if Perturabo is fucking him. As if it’s something he wants. But the scales and the texture of the prick make it impossible. A tear slips out, even as his back arches.

Two of Fulgrim's other hands grab roughly at what little breasts the clone has, and his mouth falls open in ecstasy, overly sensitive drugged nerves making everything burn right through to his cock, to his cunt, clenching at the lord. Lord Fulgrim licks his neck with a long, forked tongue, savouring the taste of his drugged sweat. The clone’s head dips, instinctively giving more space, the drug only encouraging it. Little whines and mewls fall from his lips, uncontrollably. He’s close, that much is becoming clear.

"Come for me." Lord Fulgrim coos.

But he doesn’t, not until that inhuman prick presses bruisingly hard against his cervix. Cunt and cock both spasm, and he comes from both simultaneously, a rush and flood of pleasured spend. Lord Fulgrim laughs. Laughs and laughs and keeps fucking him. Until he’s gagging for it, all the sensations too much, overwhelming him to the point of pain. Until Lord Fulgrim comes in turn, and that's worse.

It’s agony, being pumped so full. The little clone’s stomach distends, and even that’s not enough to keep it from gushing out around the prick buried in him. Little Fulgrim looks pregnant, with how full his predecessor has fucked him, and he nearly passed out from sheer overwhelm. But he's gathered to his predecessor's chest, as he grins cruel and satisfied. Twitching, legs trembling, entire body aching. Another wave of tears have arrived. “Please…. No - no more.”

"I'm done for now." The Lord declares, making it clear that's all that matters.

Of course that means it’ll happen again later. Little Fulgrim chokes on a sob, shaking apart as he leaks. He wants to be home. Wants the smells and the serfs and the warmth. He wants his daddy, Perturabo, big and solid and safe. But all that’s here is danger and things that only see him as a cockhole. His shaky legs and wrecked cunt are just an invitation. Held as he is, it’s easy access. The soldier who proffered a drug tray to the lord sidles up, a hand running along the clone’s trembling leg. And Lord Fulgrim nods his permission.

Finally, he frees his aching member from the hard casing of his armor. It springs to attention, ruddy and already near dripping. That same hand runs higher, utterly ignoring Little Fulgrim’s prick. Instead, he dips two fingers inside that wrecked hole, hooking out a good measure of his lord’s come, and spreading it across his member. A wolfish smile is directs up, as his thumb presses against the clone’s arsehole. “Lord? Are both available?”

"You won't hurt him. Have what you like."

“Thank you sire,” he purrs, smearing his lord’s spend over the hole, before lining up and shoving his spend-slicked cock inside. 

Little Fulgrim jerks, wails. "No, no, stop..."

But he only pushes in deeper, groaning in pleasure at how tight the boy is. And little Fulgrim fights, like he'd stopped doing for his predecessor.

“You were being such a good whore for him,” he cajoles, hands a vice grip around the clone’s waist.

"Not for you!" He insists.

The hands curl, nails digging in as he speeds up. “This is what you’re built for. Look how greedy your ass swallowed me!” 

"It hurts!" He protests.

“You’ll learn to love it.” The soldier shifts his hips, angling better, for approximately his prostate, and speeds up, slamming painfully hard into the small frame and the boy starts to shiver, starts to love it. There’s no real thought to the clone’s pleasure though, it’s incidental through cruelty, as the solider chases his own release. And he hates that he feels it at all. 

It’s not long before he too, is spilling in the clone, deep and warm, giving a euphoric shout and a painful squeeze of Little Fulgrim’s cock. Little Fulgrim himself comes again, a pathetic dribble.

“See? Little whore likes the pain.”

"He's too drugged-up not too." The lord says, sing-song.

“You think we could make him come just from cuts?” One soldier says, eyeing the boy with a giddy, predatory gaze.

"I bet we could." Another agrees. "Sensation, right? Does he heal like a primarch?"

Lord Fulgrim takes one clawed finger and cuts a shallow graze down his clone’s arm. It takes longer than it would any other primarch but knits back together. “He almost does.” 

The clone looks up with tremulous eyes. "Please. No more."

“Oh, you precious little thing….” the Lord coos at him, soft and a touch demeaning. “There is no end to the pleasures here.”

"But this isn't pleasure anymore!"

“Yet your little cock keeps dribbling, and I have no doubts that beneath all my spend, you cunt slicks at the thought.”

"No, he said that doesn't mean I like it!"

Lord Fulgrim shifts, curling him more securely with his tail, holding his legs apart with the lower set of arms. “Little thing, the point is that all sensation becomes pleasure.”

"I'm tired!" It's not even an attempt at a plea anymore.

“Then you enjoy exhaustion. And we will take pleasure there too.”

"Will you hit me, if I fall asleep?"

“Hit you? Whyever for?”

"For being bad." He says, like it's obvious.

The lord’s sharp claws press just slightly harder against soft skin. Do you desire that?”

"No! No, I don't..."

That predatory grin comes back. “Then I suppose you’ll find out if you fall asleep.”

And he does, partway through the next fucking.

“Little thing takes poorly to this, doesn’t he? It’s precious.”

"So easily exhausted." A soldier agrees.

“We’ll make him even prettier for us while can’t whinge and protest about it, mh?”

"Certainly. Poor thing gets so whiny."

And he could do it with his claws, but there’s something oh so perfect about the sight of metal through skin. “Fetch the needles.”

One of them goes to do exactly that, and the rest start whispering in glee.

“Little thing needs to be adorned, since my brother can’t be bothered to do it properly.”

"He only gave him tawdry baubles."

“And we’re going to make them permanent, make them give him all sorts of new sensations.” He smiles, already picturing a heavy gold chain looping between those adorable nipples.

"He's perfect for it. A picture half-painted."

“Quite right,” the Lord says, accepting the needles. He doesn’t have to clamp those soft nipples either, they’re so hard. Metal sinks into flesh and the clone barely twitches.

"That he can sleep through that... made for this."

The first piercing is seated and closed, and Lord Fulgrim smiles. “He was indeed. And doesn’t that look so much prettier?”

"It does. Gives him glimmer."

Metal once again bites skin, and soon enough two new jewels adorn his pert nipples. “Exquisite….” Fulgrim breathes.

"I'd hate to tarnish them with my mouth, but..."

The lord gives each a little tug, and is satisfied when he sees no damage. “Go on. Taste and relish in it.”

The soldier does, wrapped his mouth around the boy's breast and greedily sucking up the faint taste of blood.

“That’s my blood, my flesh, from before we found these glorious forms. Savour it, little one.”

The soldier pulls back just enough. "Would you have tasted so sweet?"

“At that age? Perhaps.”

He doesn't dare ask him lord if any found out.

A hand gently guides the soldier back to the clone’s tit. “Enjoy, my son. Just enjoy.”

He goes back to sucking. Wishing the boy had milk.

“Enjoy more, even.” He says, shifting solder and clone to press the man’s cock to his hole.

He groans at the delicious sensation, and pushes in.

“That’s it, take everything you wish.”

"Like velvet..." The soldier groans.

“I think we’ll keep him. Make him fulfill his old duties while pleasuring us all.”

"Was pleasuring not one of his old duties?"

“Pleasuring my brother, I’m sure. But I think we all ought to benefit from his holes, no?”

"You're correct, of course, Lord."

“Mmn, and he’ll cry so pretty while he does it.”

"Look at him now. Tears drying on his face."

“All this, and my brother thought to hide him away on Olympia. A travesty.”

"Lovely thing, ought to be shared."

“And oh, how he will be.” Fulgrim runs claws along the soldier’s scalp, just past ‘too hard’. “He’ll be shared among us all.”

It feels so magic, to be so touched by his lord. "How gracious you are."

“The whole legion might make use of him at mealtimes,” he says, already picturing the little form taken. On laps, or over the table, with the excess of food pushed aside.

"So very generous to us."

“That I am. All the sensations in the universe for my boys.”

"And he gives us such lovely ones.'

The claws are drawing blood now, still carding through the soldier’s hair. And he doesn't pull away. Doesn't even care to. “I’m going to give you everything,” he promises. It’s entirely unclear if he’s speaking to the clone or his sons. It's easy to believe he means the clone. Of course it applies to both.

The clone starts to stir awake, sniffling.

“Oh yes, I did tell him he’d have to wait and see, didn’t I….” Fulgrim lands a heavy spank on his little clone’s free breast, the one not being suckled.

And he cries out in miserable shock.

The lord just gives a cruel smile. “Someone shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

"What have you done to me?!"

A claw circles the new piercing, tugging at the metal. “I’ve improved you, little thing.”

"It stings!" He complains. 

“The price of the road to perfection, no?” The smile gets more predatory. “That is what you want, isn’t it? To be perfect?”

"I do, I do, I want it."

“Then you’ll have to be good and endure a little sting.”

"It's pretty, I suppose..."

“They get prettier, but these will serve us well enough for now.” A wave of his hand, and a variety of chains, weights and clamps appear on the table beside them. The clone's eyes go wide, in anticipation and horror at once.

Lord Fulgrim can see it though, the half that’s interested. “Why don’t you pick?”

He picks out a weight. Light, but not the lightest.

And gets a disappointed tut in response. “I ought to have known…”

"I don't want it to hurt too bad, not at first."

“And I’ll only allow that sort of cowardice this once,” he warns, clipping the chosen weight to Little Fulgrim’s new piercing. Yanks the soldier’s mouth off the other to do the same.

He whimpers at the change in sensation.

“That’s nothing little thing. Nothing at all compared to what you’ll experience.” 

"But it feels... it feels good."

Lord Fulgrim smiles, indulgent. “We’ll make the perfect toy out of you yet.”

"I'll be good. I will."

“Oh, I’m sure you will be.” A hand slides down the clone’s prick, leaving a metal ring behind at his base. “I’m sure you will…”

"What's that? It feels strange."

“Something that allows you to enjoy so much more.” A chain connects to a small loop, and then up to both piercings, pulling just a touch more.

He whines a little at the pull, not much.

The smile only grows wider. “Go ahead and buck your hips for me, let’s see you really whine.”

He does, out of pure obedience. It truly pulls, then, on both nipples and his prick. And he wails. Not quite in pain, in pure sensation

“Gorgeous,” Lord Fulgrim breathes, lifting the boy. “Just exquisite.”

He wriggles at being lifted but not like he had before.

“My boys may do as they wish,” he says, curling and coiling until Little Fulgrim is situated on a bed of serpentine loops. “I know exactly what I wish to have.”

"What's that?" He dares ask.

That long forked tongue brushes over his cock, before slithering into him, licking deep in answer.

He groans, his hips thrusting forward, pulling on his chain, and making the daemon lord hum in approval. And making the clone writhe, at once miserable and blissful. Exactly what Lord Fulgrim wanted. He licks every drop of his own seed out of the boy, agonizingly thorough. Spearing deeper, coiling and pressing against the bits he knows will only make the boy squirm more. And it works. Soon he's crying as he writhes. The tongue only dives deeper, pressing flat against his abused cervix. And he whimpers, and wraps his legs around Lord Fulgrim's head.

A hand beckons, welcoming his sons to the main event. And the clone is shivering, and yet eager. The soldier under him comes with a grunt, burying himself deep, grinding up into him. And he grinds back.

Fulgrim smiles, and finally withdraws his tongue. “Such a pretty thing you are, already seeking pleasure in everything.”

"Want it to feel good..."

“That’s it, make yourself sick on the pleasure, the sensations.”

"It's too much!"

“No, doll, it’s not. Just let yourself go. Let it all fade to the background of pleasure.” He beckons one of the infernal figures mixed through the crowd to join them on the dais.

His eyes flutter as he tries to, and he feels like he's floating.

“When your partner pulls out, I’m going to show you how it feels to be truly taken by me. And this lovely dear is going to show you how it feels to take.”

He just groans in assent. The soldier under him whines, not wanting to have to pull out, nor get to his feet. The clone reaches for him for a fraction of a moment.

“Oh, you truly are just precious!” Fulgrim exclaims. “Don’t fret, you’ll be full again soon.”

He wants to protest that's not why he was fussing, but he can't in honesty. He’s lifted off the man and Fulgrim gives him a look, until he draws both of the Daemon Lord’s cocks out, already throbbing hard. And the clone's eyes widen, not entirely in distaste.

The second set of arms guides them, lining up with the little clone’s holes, nudging at them. “You’re going to be beautiful stretched around me.”

"Maybe now I can..."

“I’m sure you can.” Fulgrim smiles wider, his eyes darkening. He gives no warning before he pushes inside, both cocks enveloped in slick heat. And this time, the clone's cry is of pleasure. The demon climbs atop him then, seating themself on little Fulgrim’s prick with a moan. And he moans in turn, reaching up to them. They lean forward, happily letting him touch. Grinding on him as they play with the chain and weights on his nipples. He thrusts his hips up, down, uneven and confused.

“That’s it doll, you’re doing marvelous.” Fulgrim begins thrusting then as well, properly fucking into the boy.

His head falls back against his predecessor's shoulder. It’s clear he’s too overwhelmed to do much himself, so the demon on his lap takes over, bouncing and grinding as they see fit, pleasuring themselves on his cock while he’s impaled on both of the lord’s. He looks up at them with an almost adoring gaze.

“Sweet little thing, you are easy,” they say, leaning forward to kiss him.

He allows the kiss, but when it's done asks "is that bad?"

“Not here, not at all.” Hands explore his chest, playing with the weights, squeezing at his breasts.

He relaxes, like that's all he needed to hear. "I'm good?"

“You’re a joy, little thing. You’re doing wonderfully.” They clench around his prick on the next drag, sighing happily. “And you do feel lovely.”

He smiles like the sun. That true smile Lord Fulgrim once had a long time ago.

“Pretty little thing!” They say, smiling themselves.

He grins wider at the praise. "You're kind..."

“And you’re adorable.” They tweak a nipple and kiss him again, enjoying the way Lord Fulgrim’s thrusts move the little clone. Which is the most movement they're getting, since he's still rather limp. The lord, seeing it, takes pity, and begins going faster, harsher. Clasps second hands around their waist and moves them in time. The clone groans in pleasure as this eases the pace.

“That’s all you need, isn’t it? Someone to do it all for you, mh?” He says, a hint of mockery underlying the words.

"I don't know how to do it!"

“That’s alright little one. All you need to know here is how to be taken, how to experience all this pleasure.”

"I can learn that."

“Of course you can. You’re me.” 

"You had to learn?"

“Everyone has to,” he says, shifting just slightly, so every thrust hits home. “And we strive for perfection in it.”

"In all things."

Lord Fulgrim licks up the side of his face, grotesquely pleased. “Precisely, but you needn’t worry about anything but this.”

"I'll miss my paints." He dares say.

“There’s no reason to,” the lord says, tone shifting toward brittle. “None of that matters for you anymore.”

"There's just this?"

“For you? Yes. This is your purpose, unveiled.”

His head sags, miserable and uncertain and yet not wanting to argue.

The lord licks him again, before presses a kiss there. “There’s sensation enough you’ll never grow bored.”

"I suppose I won't." He cheers a little.

“Every sight and feeling will sear through you little thing,” he coos. “You won’t have need of anything else.” 

"Nothing at all..."

“There’s a good toy,” he says, ramming into the clone’s cervix. 

And earning himself a wail, words all forgotten.

Everything but his own pleasure forgotten, Fulgrim chases it alone, moving the two smaller forms above him as he pleases. And it lets the clone's mind go pleasantly blank.

Low, into his ear, the lord whispers. “That’s it. Everything else will fade away. You’ll be just the perfect little doll. Never have to think again beyond this.”

He shivers in delight, the words sinking in.

“Just be our little toy,” he says, oh so proud now. And it seems to be working, whatever hypnotism he's casting. So many layers of craft upon the little clone already, and surely, they’ll only grow. He smiles, “I may just decide to keep you, never mind my brother.”

"He'll come and find me..."

“Well then he’ll find a comestuffed, empty headed toy rather than anything of substance.”

"No! He'll find his boy!"

“Will he now?” Amusement suffuses the words. “Already I only see a tiny, often pathetic, little whore.”

"I'll be his whore, then! His good little slut!"

He gets laughter in return, loud and high. “That’s right! Not his ‘boy’ at all, but a set of holes!”

"But he'll love me still!"

“Mmh will he, or will he just love the fact you’re too broken to protest?”

"He loved me already."

“But will he still?” Fulgrim croons, cruel and low. “When you can hardly be called a person anymore?”

"He would, he would, he promised..."

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Fulgrim dugs harsh nails into his clone’s waist as he comes, burying deep and flooding both his holes with spend. And the clone barely even whimpers anymore.

A more pronounced swell is visible now, with the full force of a daemon primarch emptying into him. The demon on his cock coos, rubbing gently. “You’re just cute in everything!”

"It looks like I'm..."

“You’d be so entirely adorable with a baby bump!” they exclaim. “Oh, and your tits would grow heavy and leaking….” 

The trouble is, the clone can't disagree. "Can I?" 

“Oh, course you can,” lord Fulgrim rumbles. “You’ve my body, do you not?”

"Have you, then?"

“Naturally. You think none of my sons were made the old-fashioned way?”

The clone looks halfway between horrified and delighted.

The demon laughs as they feel his cock twitch in them. “Oh, someone doesn’t mind that!

He squirms miserably, but he fucks into them harder.

“You like that idea baby? Being someone’s breeding toy?”

Hesitantly, he nods.

"You want to be our lords?" they ask, grinding against him.

"M-maybe." He manages.

They tap a long nail against his bottom lip. "If not him, then who?"

"Lord Perturabo..."

"So formal! He's not here honey; you don't need to stand on propriety."

"Can't.... Can't call him otherwise. Never have."

They tut but go back to playing with his piercings. "In any case, he would make a good baby daddy, I'm sure. Or, well, he'd at least be good for fucking it into you. I hear his prick hangs to his knee."

"Almost." He dares say.

"And it's as thick as a grown man's thigh?"

"Near as." He agrees eagerly.

"Mmhh... Yes, he'd feel amazing fucking a baby into you. It'd look amazing too; I bet every vein would be visible through your cute little stomach."

"And I could take it now."

"Our generous lord has seen to that, hasn't he?" they ask, smiling up at the fallen primarch.

"He has. Certainly. Opened me and remade me."

"Such is his gift, his mercy to us."

"Yes. The mercy to take and give."

Lord Fulgrim catches the demon's head in his hands, smiling. "Ought I take something now?" It's impossible to tell how much is simply dirtytalk and now much in genuine.

"Yes," they urge. "You should, you must."

"Your head?" He gives a light squeeze. "Or would you sacrifice something else for ecstasy?"

"Something else, please, lord."

Those clawed fingers trace down their form. "What then, would you offer to your lord?"

"A hand, if you wish it. An arm."

"Mmmn, that will do. Choose." He holds a hand out, palm up, for their limb.

They give him a hand, shaking.

Fulgrim smiles, saccharine sweet as his fingers close around it. "Prepare for a new level of pleasure, little infernal." And the little daemon shivers in anticipation. He pulls and the limb rips out with a wet, meaty tear. Bucking up into his clone, forcing the boy to thrust into the demon as well. And then daemon wails, in pain and in ecstasy.

“Such a beautiful sound!”

The clone whimpers a little in the face of the display. Fulgrim licks the open gaping wound, and then pulls his clone into a red mouthed kiss. His clone whines at the taste.

“That’s it, enjoy the taste. Isn’t it just rich?”

"It's... sweeter than I expected."

“A delicacy, some might say, little one. You should be happy you get to try it.”

"I am." He tries. "I am happy."

Fulgrim’s smile widen, and he pushes the demon forward, until they’re lying flat, the bleeding gore so close to the clone’s face. “Drink up then.”

His tongue comes out, lapping like a kitten. The demon whines, pressing closer, squirming in an ecstasy they’ve never known before. Little Fulgrim wants to soothe their pain, and so keeps licking. It should burn, should be agony, and perhaps it is, but they’re in such bliss they couldn’t tell you. The clone's hips thrust into them, chasing a peak. And they find their hips being pressed down, meeting each thrust, moans and whimpers falling easily from their tongue. He comes with a moan that almost sounds pained.

“Is that your first time fucking anything?” Lord Fulgrim asks, sickly sweet.

"I... Yes, it is."

“How precious, your first time in a cunt and it takes the taste of blood to make you come.”

"I..." He has no excuses.

“We’ll make a little devotee out of you yet,” he promises, before lifting the still bleeding demon off of the clone’s cock. “You my dear, have two options. Putting it back on or having a new one made.”

"A new one?" They ask, batting their eyes.

He inclines his head, a hand coming to rest on the bloody stump. “A new one indeed.” What grows under his hand is a grotesque weapon of a limp, beautiful in its utter inhumanity. And yet the daemon cries out at its loveliness.

“A blessing, and a token to remind you of what pleasure you’ve been given.”

"Thank you, Lord!"

He kisses the new hand, as if in benediction. “Use it well.”

"I will, Lord. Thank you." They say again.

“Run along then, you’ve had your fun.” He pats the demon on the shoulder. "Let your brethren play with the little clone."