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The aftermath of a battle has left behind in equal measure a deafening silence, and the otherworldly, vaguely burnt scent of the warp. The daemonic manifestation has been quelled, though the bodies of the crewmen unlucky enough to be their hosts remain, an unpleasant mess of flesh alternately pulped by heavy weapons fire, or carved to shreds.
As the dust settles, Abelard performs the perfunctory head-count. He’s still standing, of course. Nearer to the entrance of the engine hold, Cassia brushes herself off, none the worse for wear. And the Lord Captain’s favored blademasters yet live as well; two angular, pale creatures, bloodied from their work but seemingly uninjured.
His lips purse. By his estimate, they’re down two- which would be acceptable losses, if it didn’t include the Rogue Trader himself.
“Lord Captain?” He calls, looking back and forth across the chamber. Valentin von Valancius is not a particularly small man, though he has a knack for making the six-foot bulk of himself seem somewhat lesser than that. It would hardly be surprising to find that he’d hidden himself behind some waist-high wall and remained there for the majority of the battle. Again. Still, he’s usually forthcoming about it, and usually responds when called, if for no other reason than to spare his seneschal the worry. “Lord Captain?”
Nothing. His lips purse further, flattening out into a thin line of worry, and his eyes flick over to Kibellah, who has sheathed her blades and is similarly casting her dark, silent gaze about. She meets his stare after a moment, and glides over to his side.
The question Abelard’s about to ask must be obvious, because she answers it before he can speak.
“The domin slipped away at the end of the battle,” she says, and a mirthless smile creases her face. “His… advisor was with him.”
Ah. Well, that accounts for the other conspicuously missing individual. Abelard can’t say he’s particularly upset to see that one vanished. Though, he has to commend the man. He has superlative stealth for someone of his size.
His forehead creases nevertheless. “We should go get them. The Lord Captain may be enamored of his advisor–” The echo of Kibellah’s term comes out with more than a little acid. “--But I still don’t trust him. It feels unwise to leave them alone together.”
Kibellah nods, curtly. “I can trace them. They won’t have gone far.”
Valentin has not gone far.
Usually, he thinks, as he fumbles with the laces and buttons keeping his fatigues in place. Usually he would have more… something. Decorum. Restraint, damn it. Self-consciousness. Usually he would have insisted on retiring to the privacy of his quarters where no one could possibly see him.
But–
“Having second thoughts, champion?” Uralon’s deep, rumbling voice is bright with amusement. In the position he’s in- bent at the waist over the nearest railing capable of supporting his weight- Val can’t see his face, but he can hear the other man’s smile. Wide, sharp-toothed, horrendously smug.
“No,” Val says. He takes a shaky breath, willing his hands to be still so he can more efficiently divest himself of his pants. “Just- my belt’s stuck. Sorry.”
Uralon can be very persuasive. Valentin’s been on the receiving end of his speechcraft on numerous occasions, though usually Uralon’s only trying to get him to commit his resources or forces to one goal or another. This is a more personal indulgence- obviously- but telling him “no” was no less difficult for it, especially given how appealing Val had found the idea when Uralon whispered it into his ear.
Sneak away for a post-battle quickie. Uralon had phrased it more elegantly, of course, but that had been the gist of it. Val’s brain had argued it would be unfair and unbecoming of him to leave his retinue behind to clean up and worry about where he’d gone. His cock had argued that it was very hard and very much wanted to be inside of Uralon. Val had weighed the two arguments and found the latter just a bit more convincing.
He finally gets his fatigues open enough that he can push both them and the underclothes beneath down to his knees. It’s hard not to feel exposed- though the workforce in this section of the ship has made itself scarce in the face of the warp incursion, any of them could wander back and get an eyeful of the Rogue Trader engaging in liaisons with a member of his retinue. Much as Valentin hopes no one does, he can’t help the prickle of excitement in his stomach at the idea. His dick twitches in the chilly air, and his breath comes out in a shudder.
His hands, still wrapped in their thick leather greaves, land squarely on Uralon’s ass. It’s still mostly covered by his bodyglove– even unfastened as much as his currently armored state will allow, they’d had to cut a hole in the material to expose enough of Uralon to fuck. It’s fine. He’ll hand it off to one of the artificer serfs aboard after they get back to the bridge, have them fix up the tear. He can’t think about it right now. His fingers dig in, feeling the firm muscle under the glove.
“Gods,” he murmurs, voice thick and heavy with want. His head swims, dizziness threatening to overcome him.
“Valentin,” Uralon says– patient in the specific way that suggests Val should really hurry up. “I am certain that your pet bloodhound is already trying to track us down. If you have any interest in taking your pleasure, do so sooner rather than later.”
“Right– right.” Fighting the urge to apologize again, Val takes himself in hand, angling his dick until the head is pressed up against the hot, wet slit between Uralon’s huge, armored thighs. He hisses as he pushes forwards, breaching it as quickly as he dares, savoring the feeling. This part of the Chaos Marine is so– soft. Inviting, in a way that someone who only knew him as a massive, hulking creature of ceramite and genhanced musculature would never expect. It feels better than anything else Valentin has ever stuck his cock inside of, though to be fair that category offers woefully little by way of competition.
He can feel his face flush scarlet as he bottoms out, his breath coming in quick pants. The metal box he’s found to stand on so he can be level with Uralon is unsteady beneath his feet, and the ragged edge of Uralon’s cut bodyglove digs into his pelvis, but Val can’t bring himself to care. The feeling of his cunt, soaked by his arousal and greedily clinging to Val’s cock, supersedes all else.
“Enjoying yourself?” Gods, he can feel it when Uralon speaks, the rumble of his voice sending vibrations through Valentin’s body from where they’re joined, outwards.
It’s good. It’s bordering on too good, threatening to overwhelm him if he doesn’t keep himself under control. Valentin wants nothing more than to tell Uralon exactly that- tell him how nice his cunt is, how it feels like such a sweet, greedy hole was meant for him, how much he wants to fuck it until it’s sloppy and dripping and then lick it clean.
He opens his mouth, manages a garbled, mangled noise that comes several stops short of qualifying as a word, and goes limp. Sagging forwards, he collapses bonelessly atop Uralon’s back.
Uralon, sensing something has gone awry, turns his head around just enough to look behind him. The servos of his armor whirr quietly.
“Valentin?” He asks. “Are you well?”
“Yep!” Val squeaks, face burning. The cool ceramite against his forehead is a welcome feeling, despite the miscellaneous spikes on Uralon’s armor digging into the material of his coat. “Yep. All fine. Just– give me a moment, please.”
“Ah. Of course. Take your time.”
It’s painfully obvious what’s just happened, and Valentin has neither the means nor the adequate levels of bluster to pretend it didn’t. At least Uralon is sparing him the indignity of any further comments. Val’s pretty certain that’s the only thing preventing him from pulling out and leaping full-speed into the nearest active plasma reactor.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, after a moment. “I think I got too excited.”
Uralon chuckles. “You would not be the first,” he says. His words have a mollifying quality to them, and Val finds he can raise his head a little at least, to look the sorcerer in the eye. The look on Uralon’s face is more amused than anything else, which is a relief, at least. Valentin’s used to far less tolerant reactions to his endurance, or lack thereof.
He’s not going to be able to manage any more for a while, he knows that much. Still, it would be unfair to leave Uralon high and dry after all of this. Surely there’s something he can do, with his hands or mouth or– something.
“If you want, I could–”
At that moment, the door at the near end of the room slides open with a forceful bang. Startled, Val yelps and tries to straighten up; the awkwardly placed metal box beneath his feet wobbles, and he loses his balance with a comically ungraceful flailing of his arms, tipping backwards and crashing onto the floor, directly onto his bare rear.
“Lord Captain–” Abelard, who is at the forefront the rest of his retinue, turns a shade of puce that Val hasn’t seen on him in quite some time. “... Ah.”
His lips purse, and the vein in his forehead pulses once before he manages to bring himself under control. Kibellah, by his side, shows no such reaction- though Val can see her hands tighten on her blades. Cassia is covering her eyes with her hands, cheeks pinkening every time she glances through the gaps in her fingers.
Val looks between their varying stages of mortified, to Uralon, who has made no attempt to move from where he’s bent double over the low railing, and finally, to himself– disheveled, on his ass, pants and underclothes pulled down to his knees.
He sucks in a breath. Exhales. Tries to think of a way to explain everything, some combination of words that will make this all not horrendously embarrassing for everyone involved. Surely he has them. Surely, at this point, he’s capable of at least that much.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he squeaks. From the looks of the assembled, he estimates that approximately zero of his retinue are convinced.
Val closes his eyes. At least the plasma reactor is still an option.