Work Text:
The departure from the Alpha Legion outpost had been quiet and without much fanfare, all things considered. Yvgeny might not have the clearest memory of the event, given he was being half-dragged by Hands the whole time, tittering on the nauseating edge of passing out… but if anything had happened, he liked to think that he would have been able to snap out of it and pushed through to pay attention. The fact that he didn’t, at the time, must surely be telling. He remembers Lyphos, torn between repairing his clawed skull and talking to (or at) the Demagog, their new lady Navigator. He remembers Lucetrix offering to check his wounds, and Sefice quietly humming that they were not far from the Med-bay, that Drask would be more suited to inspect him. He remembers Bethael, high on the energy of the arena, but frustrated to not have been the one fighting. And of course, he remembers Byzanti's hysterical bouts of laughter drilling into his skull periodically. How different he had been, from the wounded, almost dying man he had seemed to be just that same morning. The Angels’ recovery time was truly something to behold.
His own recovery had not been so effortless. Drask had been up in arms about his state, and had chased off any Astartes trying to stay near, like an aggressive mama bear. Though his wounds had mysteriously closed enough to spare his life, Yvgeny still paid a heavy price for this unholy miracle.
His thigh, previously chopped to the bone, was now adorned with a vaguely Octade-shaped scar, fresh and itching. Despite the Apothecary's insistence that he should not, the renegade couldn’t help but peek under his bandages, intrigued by the shape, and proud of his new battle scar. A proof that he survived. And incredibly, he did not lose the use of his leg! A pragmatic part of him remembers how deep the choppa had dug into his thigh… he should not be walking. He should not still have a leg. Better to turn a blind eye to the dreadful implications!
The other mortal blow he sustained, to the torso, had cleaved into his side under the armor. Again, it had scabbed over just in time, yet Drask had noticed that his organs had been impacted. To his shame, Yvgeny doesn’t remember what exactly had been perforated, but whatever it secreted was very bad to risk mixing with his blood again : and though for now the damage had been healed, there was a weakness lingering, that might see his insides rupture again under a bad blow, a strong impact, or over-exertion on his part. Therefore, the Son of Horus had installed an emergency drainage tube along his side, just in case. He was not expected to need it while on board, but given Lyphos’ tendency to just manhandle him on a whim, and the necessity to get used to moving WITH said tube, Yvgeny had opted to keep it on. Just in case. He did not feel fully safe on the Carcass, and a part of him whispered that this was why it hadn’t gotten him yet. But surely, the predatory hunger in the walls was just a figment of his imagination.
Surely.
Regardless, recovery and reeducation had been painful. Training with Bethael to hone his fury had left him with bruises and aches. Lyphos’ lecture on divination had given him a headache. And finding which long-ass corridor Sefice had been trekking down had been hell on his legs and back! But he had gotten his training, his lessons, and his advice.
Now it was time for his indulgence.
Yvgeny walks down the path to the area he knows the praetorians are being trained. He has been over a few times, to see what an Emperor's Child's training could look like, and it had left him impressed, disturbed and horrified. It is not pretty, it is not conventional, but Byzanti IS making something out of the new blood! Honestly, Yvgeny is more amazed at the tenacity and grit that his fellow humans are displaying, than anything else. Today, though, he does not find them so brave…
His nose burns a good while before he even sees anyone. He wrinkles his nose, and huffs, hoping to chase away the potent scent in his nostrils, in vain. This is definitely harder stuff than what Byzanti has had them on so far! Which is… good? Because despite his wariness, Yvgeny wants to try something new today. He needs his pain to fade, for once, and if it means blacking out and waking up sore and in need of a shower tomorrow, so be it! He has started showing an interest in every other god. Time to dip his toe into the Prince of Pleasure's domain! And he hopes he won’t regret it after…
He approaches one of the old training grounds, guarded by two soldiers that look like they are fighting for their lives not to topple over. Yvgeny barely has to raise a hand in salute, opening his mouth to speak, before they move in unison, opening the doors for him as if this was a luxury hotel. Immediately, a cloud of vibrant pink wafts out, twisting on itself like bodies rolling in bed. Yvgeny cannot hold back a cough ; the smell is so strong here! It burns his nose hair, acid, prickling. It smells like a lemon tastes, though there are delicate notes of something softer, that he would be able to identify if he had ever encountered a rose in his life. A hint of sugar, as well, but it cannot hide the very singular scent of burnt human fat.
As the initial cloud settles on the ceiling, freeing his senses, he sees a floor covered in colorful, warm pillows, with many censors gently smoking up the place, and a good number of hookahs around. The surviving praetorians are… not doing great. LSD-resistance training had seemed successful last time, they did manage a full drill exercise without one of them messing up, but this next step has them crumpled on the pillows, struggling to move, limbs clumsily moving. There is a low chorus of confused moans, quiet sighs and occasional giggle or sobs. And in the center, utterly unbothered but enjoying the general mood, sits Byzanti as he hums and comments, voice thrilled as ever, mocking or cooing at his little playthings regardless of if they can even understand him anymore. His head snaps to Yvgeny as the renegade carefully makes his way into the aquarium, trying not to crush a limb on accident.
“YVGENY! My dearest Yvgeny, hello~! What a treat, to have you visit…” his delight shifts to irritation, then back again, at the speed of his emotions. “Do pardon the mess, we are… upping the difficulty of our training, and the results are… let's say inconclusive so far. But no matter! This should not impede proper function for long! By Wednesday they will be able to shoot a bottle off of a menial's head a full corridor away! Reliably! Or else…”
“Happy to hear, Byzanti-” Yvgeny praises idly, pulling one of his legs free from the loose grasp of one of the soldiers. “Though things look, hum…”
“Oh I knooow, we have much to work on still!” Byzanti huffs, interrupting him. “But this is their first time on stronger stuff! Should they not get to enjoy it? First times are always so very important, Yvgeny… they are made to make you want more. To delight or intrigue your senses, to stimulate your mind, to rewrite the chemistry of your brain!” Excited by his own tirade, the Noise Marine spreads his arms wide. Yvgeny tries not to look at his chest, where the beguiling gem begs to be admired. “So yes, this first time is my little treat to them, my sweet boys and girls, who have worked so hard so far…” he pauses, then the taut skin of his face stretches into a conspiratorial grin. “They are still very capable, dear Yvgeny… care for a demonstration~?”
He raises his arms, and claps twice, commandingly, covering any response from the renegade. Immediately, the whole room freezes, attention on him.
“54th!” His voice rings, so loud and clear that it would cut through the hell of a battlefield effortlessly. “Unequip him!”
“Beg your pardon?!” Yvgeny barely has the time to cough, that bodies around him rise, and hands find the clasps of his armor. It goes so fast, it feels so rehearsed, that there is nothing he can truly do about it. The guards relay themselves and work together effortlessly to unlatch, lift, tug, and in a matter of seconds Yvgeny is relieved of his armor like he is a dismantled las-pistol. His gear is then spread out neatly for easy access and re-equiping, including his chainsword, krak grenade and las-rifle. He is left in his shirt and pants, boots mercifully still laced on, but feeling impossibly vulnerable and exposed. And like every time he feels that way, he freezes, and sharply assesses the way things are evolving.
Byzanti laughs, A sonorous, ear-piercing cackle of delight, all but kicking his feet.
“Excellent work! Oh that was much better than I dreaded, my little praetorians! Hm, the placement of the weapons was a bit clumsy still, but we will work on that won’t we… run along, now, go enjoy yourselves, you did good!”
Around the frozen Yvgeny, some people simply topple down into nearby pillows and/or comrades, others make the effort to waddle back to their spots. Some over-achievers even wobble their way to one of the hookahs, while a couple of daring ones flop down near Byzanti, seeking pets that the Noise Marine provides with coos and praises.
“...Was this truly necessary?” Yvgeny asks, contemplating recovering his displayed armor, though something at the back of his mind whispers to let it be. He feels lighter without all of this equipment. His back and legs hurt a little less for it… and he did come here to relax, didn’t he?
“Why of course!” The Emperor’s Child declares, an amused edge to his voice. “You didn’t intend on spending time here in this clunky mess of an armor, did you? I should get that changed for you, one of those days, to something more fitting…” He grumbles to himself, glaring at the old inquisitorial symbol, scratched to hell yet still visible on one of the pauldrons.
“I dread the chainmail bikini you might present me with, sir…” Yvgeny shakes his head, noticing a lag in his perception. His head starts to spin a little. Right, he is taking in the fumes, still…
“Oh please! As entertaining as it would be, and I do love a revealing uniform, I do care about your safety, my dearest Yvgeny!” Byzanti opens an inviting hand his way, and Yvgeny is surprised to be pulled closer. He does not remember putting his own hand on the Marine’s palm, yet here it is. Uh-oh. An armored finger hooks under his chin and kindly lifts his face until he looks up from his hand to meet Byzanti’s lenses.
“I do mean it, you know.” His tone is quiet, low. Similar to when he had his moment of vulnerability in the medicae station. A shiver runs up Yvgeny’s back at the sound… “I take your safety very, very seriously. You know you can trust me, don’t you? We have a pact, you and I… I wouldn’t see you fall before it is fulfilled.”
‘I don’t want to kill you’, is what Yvgeny wants to say, but his wit is slowly dissolving into the smoke dancing in the room.
“... It’s hard to feel safe here.” He says instead, blinking to try to regain focus. “No offense, of course.”
Byzanti only smiles.
“Of course~” He purrs, pulling the guardsman closer, welcoming him onto his armored lap. Privately, he delights in how tense his mortal is every time they are close. The more he resists, the more satisfying it is to see him gradually give in. It is a game of patience, but oh, when it will finally pay off, the satisfaction will be without compare!
“So, my sweet little centrist… I smell my misguided brothers on you, am I the last in your round?” He snickers. “How very clever of you to save the best for last~! What can I do for you, my darling Yvgeny?”
There is something sweet and possessive in his tone, every time he says his name, that makes the guardsman’s blood pump harder. Hard to say if it is from adrenaline, from this sense that he is staring down a predator, or from how sweetly the words caress his ears…
“I…” when did his mouth get this dry? “I was looking to unwind, and smoking alone is only so restful. Might as well enjoy good company at the same time, wouldn’t you agree? Do you have anything, hm… safe-ish to drink, around here?” He asks, glancing around the room. Shapes are starting to lose their coherence around the edge of his vision, and he is pretty sure he sees things moving in the smoke, with lurid movements of unmatched fluidity. For a moment, he is transfixed… Until metal gauntlets settle past his sides, fingers loosely crossing behind his lower back.
“Certainly! Your usual?” Byzanti drones pleasantly in his ear.
“You know my order?”
“Oh please!” The Marine laughs, calling for a squad to go get a bottle of Yvgeny’s usual poison. “Unlike the distracted tzeentchian, I pay attention. So, a drink and a smoke, and the best company in this whole ship… anything else that your heart desires? Anything else tempting you right now, dearest Yvgeny?”
Again, Yvgeny feels the intense attention of the Noise Marine, prickling his skin, and he is torn between the urge to back away and the dangerous desire to stay. To feel more. To indulge in it for once, to see what it is like to be the center of Byzanti’s focus and to fully revel in it. The thought scares him… But doesn’t he deserve it?
“...Well, Byzanti…. what do you have on offer?” He asks, heart hammering in his chest. “Surprise me.”
With a delighted,abrupt bark of hysterical laughter, Byzanti sways with his favorite guardsman.
“Thaaat’s it, you’re starting to understand! Let yourself grow curious, Yvgeny, try new things, chase new highs and new delights!” He reels his volume back in, offering him a twisted, charming smile. “But this is your first time, hm? Giving in? Let me guide you, let me show you something nice~”
“I’m not going to wake up skinned and missing my balls, or something, am I Sir?” The renegade asks, apprehension flaring up at the excitement his companion displays.
“No!” Byzanti’s tone is almost dismissive, like the thought is silly, and not at all in line with things Yvgeny has witnessed so far. “Well… Unless you want to. You know, I don’t think you have the right idea about what my God is about…” He accepts the bottle offered to him by one of the soldiers, rewarding them with a loving caress along the jawline. The praetorian purrs as they wobble away again, soon collapsing into a free spot nearby. Byzanti then presents his drink to Yvgeny, who finds himself fumbling with the cork for a bit, senses swimming in a pink haze.
“So it’s not the God of… ugh… Of spikes and pain and horrible torture?”
A pause.
“-Well yes, but how we get there is essential to understand!” Byzanti proclaims, voice modulated to give the impression that he is pouting. His control over his voice is always so impressive, for a man who is essentially lipless… “Have you never experienced a good kind of pain? The stretch in the morning, waking up sore muscles? The delight of tugging on your aching limbs after training? The delight of hitting rock bottom in a relationship, the catharsis of finally voicing that it is over? The wound, in combat, that makes the world narrow so beautifully, until all that exists is you and the next thing trying to kill you? The burn of the alcohol when it goes down…?” Saying this, he slips one finger under the bottom of the bottle Yvgeny is holding to his lips, tipping it forward a few subtle degrees, inviting him to take a bigger sip than he originally intended. His eyes spark, as Yvgeny swallows with difficulty, definitely feeling the burn he was just speaking of.
“Pain can be stimulating, relieving. Pleasurable! And it is only ONE of the many aspects of the Prince of Pleasure! …So, dear Yvgeny, if you have the time… is today the day you would listen to what I have to say for myself~?” He purrs, hands moving down to rest over Yvgeny’s thighs.
The renegade tries not to react to how exposed he feels, until armored thumbs press into his sore muscles with perfect precision, ripping a gasp out of him. Embarrassment burns on his face, while a cold shiver rolls up his spine at the low noise of interest that emerges from Byzanti’s voxcaster.
“Hmm, I thought I noticed a stiffer gait when you came in…” He rumbles, with a predatory grin. “How about this then : let’s make tonight all about you, dear Yvgeny! You just lay back and relax, drink and smoke to your heart’s content, and I focus on pampering you, and regaling you with the promises of my God. Tempting?”
He is going to make a mistake. Yvgeny can feel it, this is a glorious little mistake luring him in, opening its arms to him with a loving smile. For a moment he remains quiet, focusing on the pink thumbs drawing aching circles into his thighs… Then, with a heavy swig of his drink, he sighs and meets Byzanti’s eyes defiantly, chin lifting with endearing challenge.
“Alright, Byzanti. Let’s see what you got.”
Yvgeny isn’t sure what exactly happened after that. His consciousness feels like it is waterboarded : occasionally, he regains a spark of clarity, urgently checking that he is still alright, before he sinks back under the pink smoke, lost to sensations. He loses handfuls of minutes at a time, and wakes up arranged in a new, vulnerable way on Byzanti’s lap, gasping uncontrollably as the merciless ceramite fingers work on new knots along his body. He is pretty sure he calls Byzanti’s name a few times, in his haze, but all it gets him is a gentle shushing noise, and something new pressed to his lips. Sometimes, it is the edge of his bottle, sometimes it is the butt of a cigarette, sometimes it is the tip of Byzanti’s finger, or anonymous lips. His head spins so much, he is struggling to know where up and down is. The back of his head is cradled by powerful fingers, or resting between two hard kneepads. Byzanti massages him like he is tuning an instrument, with the exact right amount of pressure to make him moan. Sometimes, a finger tips his chin up, straightening his vocal cords, as his other hand digs into his tired muscles, ripping a clear, primal noise from Yvgeny that he would be ashamed of if he could process anything with his fogged-up mind. Byzanti lays him down on his lap, and Yvgeny can do nothing but limply wiggle. Byzanti works him like a stubborn ball of dough, and it is the best thing he has felt in years. The Marine makes every last one of his vertebrae pop, and it is agony, but the relief after leaves him boneless. The tension in his shoulders is mercilessly worked out, and the breather he gets after could make him tear up from how good it feels. Ceramite-clad fingers play with his hair, gently relieving tension on his scalp, toying with his braids. He is pretty sure Byzanti recruits some of the soldiers to undo and redo his braids properly, but he doesn’t care, finding that he quite enjoys having many hands tend to him. And all the while, Byzanti’s voice pours into his ears like honey, offering him visions of delights and indulgence, of decadent beauty and rapturous sensation. Endless ecstasy waiting for him - but only once he feels ready to commit. Held just out of reach, where he can admire the dreams his mind conjures, without them being too scary, too close. He wakes again, laying on top of a leaned back Byzanti, face resting against the side of his smooth gem, watching the shapes moving inside. The Marine is still whispering sweet nothings into his ears, a hand cradling his upper back, while the other runs along Yvgeny’s leg. Another pressure, another lightning flashing up his entire body, making him arch his back, and the renegade falls back into the dreamlike, confusing haze, welcomed by countless ghost hands. He wakes again, gasping for air, face wet with tears as Byzanti hums a comforting, reassuring sound that makes his bones vibrate pleasantly. They are sitting again, Yvgeny’s back is pressed against the hard chestplate of his companion, immovable arms holding him securely. He is safe. Whatever terrifying sensation he had been feeling (he doesn’t remember when it started) is slowly bleeding out of him. As he relaxes, letting relief wash over him, he dips once more under the waves. He wakes again, and again, mid-sentence sometimes, sometimes screaming his pain or moaning his pleasure, sometimes pulled back by the electric sensation of Byzanti’s attention on him. A hand over his chest, feeling his desperate heartbeat. Fingers pressing on his neck, just enough to feel his breath catch, the slaaneshi tempting himself with the promise of so much more, but never acting on it. Thumbs running up his back in a slow, inexorable procession, ripping higher and higher notes from the renegade’s throat. A purr of intense excitement, when Yvgeny bites the armored finger he had been absent-mindedly sucking on in his intoxicated state. The vulnerable sensation of Byzanti unplugging his drainage tube to study it, and the intimate, sensual way he inserts it back into place.
It feels like hours have passed, when Yvgeny manages to stay afloat for longer than a few, precious seconds. He blinks blearily, and lifts an unsteady hand to rub his face, taking in much needed gulps of air. It feels… clearer, now. Through his struggling senses, he sees that the pink haze is slowly receding, and he recognizes the low hum of the ship’s ventilation system. Plumes of smoke wave their farewell to him, sending kisses his way as they disappear into the vents like playful lovers of one night. He watches them go, mind still lagging behind like it is resting on the most comfortable pillow ever. Around him, he hears sighs and gentle snores. It seems the praetorian guards have had an equally exhausting night in the haze. Behind him, humming a quiet melody of gripping melancholy, Byzanti is still his usual pillar of energy and steady presence. He overlooks his kingdom, idly playing with Yvgeny’s waving, unkept hair, just for the sensation of it. Eventually, he looks down, and interrupts his song to grin widely at his little mortal.
“Hello~ How are we feeling, my little prince?”
“Ugh…” Is all Yvgeny can manage at first, making him cackle, as he forces himself to sit up. How DOES he feel…? “....I feel like I’ve been rolled over by a Leman Russ, and like it was exactly what I needed. I haven’t been this flexible in… oh, 40 years?” He adjusts himself, still fully clothed somehow. For how vulnerable and unconscious he had been, he half-expected to wake up naked and in need of a shower, with a persistent pain in the backside, but… no. Byzanti had stripped him to his core, touched the deeper parts of him, and made him whine like his life depended on it, without the need to strip him at all. In a sense, it feels even more terrifying… How open and weak, how tender the Marine can make him without even trying.
“And we could get much further than this, with a bit of effort!” Byzanti beams, before his voice turns playfully coy. “...If you so desire. Practice makes perfect, after all, and I would adore the chance to make you perfect~”
“I’m sure you would.” Yvgeny smirks, moving to stand up on wobbly legs. Time to go, before he gets pulled in deeper than he intends… for now. “I’ll… think about it. Thank you, Byzanti, that was…”
He searches for the right word. The Emperor’sChild makes himself comfortable, utterly unhelpful, waiting impatiently for his compliment he KNOWS he has earned.
“... Eye-opening.” Ygveny concludes, wincing at the loud bark of laughter it earns him.
“Aaah, I am ever so glad to hear that~” Byzanti snickers, before smacking him on the ass, making him jolt (but not yelp, thank the throne- thank the- thank whoever). “If you need some of that again, my dear Yvgeny, you know where to find me… Perhaps after our sweet night together, you will be less inclined to avoid me, hm~?”
Tiiiiime to leave. Time to go. Cheeks pink, Yvgeny looks for his armor and gear, quickly redressing.
“I am not making an effort to avoid you specifically, Byzanti-”
“Hush. The lies shared on the pillow should only be sweet lies.” The Marine mocks, leaning back dramatically in his pillows, crossing his legs with surprising sensuality given how heavily armored he is. “Do not think me as blind as our local sorcerer, or as forgetful as our hound. I know your fear, Yvgeny, your apprehension. I don’t blame you, this is all very intimidating seen from the outside.” He hums, no resentment or judgement in his tone, while Yvgeny puts his gear back into place. One of his hands settles behind his bold head. “I would be offended if you never sought me out, but now I know that you can look for me when you feel ready, so, again… my door is always open to you. You are more ready than you think.” He finds a way to wink, somehow. “And I know you will think about nothing but me, tomorrow~”
Oh yes, the headache is about to be legendary, Yvgeny can tell that much already. All he wants, for now, is his own cold cot in a room with clean-ish air, where he can crash and not wake up panicking, afraid of the state he will be in. damn him, he craves a simple, boring, grounding glass of water!
“...Suppose I just want to be careful, as I figure out what speaks to me, and… Your God… You have quite the pull and gravity. Getting too close too quickly would be… dangerous.” He explains, strapping his vambraces back into place, slipping a little compliment in there to appease the Marine’s ego, which works as well as it always does. Perfectly.
“Haha! Oh but it is so good to live dangerously, isn’t it Yvgeny?” Byzanti grins, stretching sensually, before settling comfortably in his pillows, a hand reaching over to trace the curve of one of the praetorian’s sides, making them shiver in their sleep. “See you around, when next you feel like making the best mistake of your life~”
A small chuckle bubbles up Yvgeny’s throat, and he offers Byzanti a proper military salute, making the Emperor’s Child purr with appreciation.
“Yes Sir. Have a good night, Byzanti.”
“Mind the steps on the way out.”
Despite the warning, Yvgeny does almost trip and fall as he exits, limbs buzzing from the experience still. As he wobbles down the halls of the Carcass towards his own bed, he can’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t be that bad, to have this again… As long as he can make sure that Byzanti will, indeed, continue to keep him safe when he is under. He wouldn’t mind letting go again, and working out pent up emotions and workout tension. And at the thought of it potentially being painless, he finds that it would diminish the experience, actually… Hm. Perhaps he did get some more insight into the appeal of Slaanesh after all. And it is quite the dangerous slope indeed.