Battlefield 2

Battlefield Chapter 2:  Immortal Love

The Seventh Crusade consisted of a single battle barge, the Immortal, its crew and compliment of astartes warriors, numbering only one-hundred.  A small number, but more than enough for what should await them.
There were others as well.  A particularly fanatical pair of platoons of militarium infantry had recently joined them and soon so would more.  A joint multi-year, perhaps a decade, long crusade to return some vital, yet sparsely populated fringe planets back into the arms of the Imperium and the righteous teachings of the ecclesiarchy.
At least, that was the official mission.  In the pit of his guts, Sword-Brother Clayborn was certain that it was to hide them all from the sight of the greater empire and thus mask the taint on the honor of the Black Templars.
The thought weighed heavy upon him even if he kept his neutral mask in place as he looked over the neophytes under going sword drills while the watchful eyes of their initiates scrutinized them and corrected flaws in technique and movement with a combination of demonstration and strategic whacks with training batons to illustrate weakness in technique.
“They will be a fine batch, brother,” Apothecary Palkton commented from beside him.  “There is no need to worry about that.”  He mistook the grim manner of Clayborn for concern with the development of the neophytes below and continued.  “There has not been a rejection of the gene-seed in this group and their development is all within norms.”
“I have no concern for their development,” Clayborn commented.
The apothecary handed his dataslate to a waiting servitor and cocked his head to look over the marine next to him.  Palkton was small, by the standards of an astartes, under two and a half meters, his head only coming to the Sword-Brother's chin.  Still that was enough to put him towering over all but the tallest humans and easily doubling their mass if not tripling it.
“Perhaps the prosthetic is bothering you.  Is there residual pain?”
Clayborn glanced down to where his linen robe covered his right leg, severed below the knee two years ago while in battle.  The same battle that saw him promoted to the rank of Sword-Brother, despite his missions ultimate failure and his own failure to same his neophyte, and his brothers from their own demise.
“It does not, and even should it, pain is of no consequence,” he told the apothecary.
“Perhaps you wish to speak of what bothers you?” he said.  “Why you are so melancholic and sullen?  Perhaps you would rather speak to the chaplain.”
Clayborn thought his mask had slipped, but then realized he had never put it properly in place.  He had isolated himself.  He spent time with his brothers only when in worship or battle practice, the rest of the time he spent in isolation  Even his firing rites he preferred to do alone.
He had earned the name 'Ghost Brother'.  Only the slight disturbances left by his passing were indications that he existed.
Palkton saw through his demeanor.  The apothecary was older, perhaps nearing a thousand years in age.  Well experienced in both the arts of medicine and combat.  He bore the scars of both upon his body.  If his wounds had been a little more severe he might have found himself interned in a sarcophagus and sleeping away the decades as a Dreadnaught.
But, with both eyes missing along with half his pate, both hands replaced as well as his legs, he still walked and lived as an astartes.  He still served, until death, even if he was now more machine than man.
“I grow restless and ill-mannered.  I resent the rank placed upon me as I am unworthy of it and wish only to regain my lost honor,” Gravick Clayborn said then paused.  His mind traced back and grasped at what else he was missing.  Something he was unsure of saying out loud, so in turn held his tongue.
“The Emperor saved you upon that battlefield-”
“A Sister of the Adeptas Sororitas saved me-”
“A daughter of the Emperor who was surely directed by his hand,” Palkton countered.  “He has a plan for you as he has for us all.  It is ineffable in its complexity as it is stupendous in its glory.  He saved you for a reason and the High Marshal, as directed by him, raised you in rank.
“You see a failure in war.  I see a test of faith and will.  Flesh, even the flesh of an astartes, is weak when compared to our faith and will.  Both of which are what drive our crusades and make us the great servants to him that we are.”
“Are you sure you have not been replaced by a chaplain?” Clayborn asked.
“My ego is much too large to fit behind a skull-helm,” the apothecary joked.
The tone whistled shrilly over the barge's vox, interrupting their conversation and bringing a halt to the practice below.
“The Inquisitorial Detachment will be arriving in thirty minutes.  All units will be parade ready to receive them.  Squadron commanders will report with the honor guard,” announced the stern voice.
“Well, it seems the last of our guests are due to arrive.  It brings your redemption that much closer,” the old medic joked.

“Close your jaw, sister.  Gawking is unbecoming.”
“My apologies, sister-superior,” Glorian bowed her head as she said it.  She was still stunned by the awesome sight of it.
The landing deck of the battle barge could comfortably fit the largest of the cruisers she had been on during her time as a Sororitas.  The shuttle that carried them looked as if it was a child's toy when placed in the vast embarkation deck of the Immortal.
As the sisters stepped onto the ramp they were greeted by the stamping of feet and the slapping of rifle butts in unison.  To their right were a hundred Adeptas Astartes warriors.  Ceramite armor black and polished to a mirror finish showing distorted and darkened fun-house reflections.  Each carried a chain sword, held in vertical salute across their chest, holy boltgun slung across their backs and pistols holstered at their hips.
To their left were two full platoons of Astra Militarium infantry.  Each in black dress uniform, mimicking their hosts, each with lasgun held at their shoulder.
Sister-Superior Jevale lead the twin columns of Sororitas as they stepped off the ramp and onto the deck of the battle barge, her command squadron directly behind her.  Two squadrons of Seraphim followed and forty Sisters of Battle behind them.  Like the astartes, they were their black armor.  Theirs under white robes lined in scarlet.
Jevale stopped just short of stepping onto the deck of the battle barge and called loudly.
“Permission to come aboard, Marshal.”
“Permission granted,” came the sonorous reply from the far end of the assembled force.
The sisters stepped of the ramp and walked with heads high through the trench made by the forces, no less resplendent in their polished armor and bright robes.  As the sister-superior's first foot struck a drum started, followed by fife and trumpet as a trio of militarum began to play 'The Emperor's March' in their honor, the unit flag lowered with the pole held at an angle while the Imperial Aquila, white on black background, was held high.
The chorus of the march was repeated as the sisters marched toward the waiting host at the end of the carpet that had been unrolled to greet them.  The sisters all looked straight ahead, except for Gloriana, whose eyes darted left and right as she examined the spectacle.  She had only been in battle once and had never seen such an amassed force of destruction as this.  It was a wonder any heretics even believed they stood a chance with the amount of firepower and strength that could be brought against them.
The procession came to a stop and waited patiently for the coda of the Emperor's March to finish with a crash of the snare drum.  The vibration of it echoed around the room until it finally faded.
“Sister-Superior Jevale from the Blood of the First Saint Convent,” Jevale introduced herself.  “This is my command squad, Sister-Celestian Magda, Sister-Celestian Iteria, Sister-Celestian Racine, Sister-Dialogus Havda, and Sister-Hospitaller Gloriana.”
The sisters stood with their helmets under their arms while the marines looked down on them.  In unison, the command staff of the astartes warriors removed their helmets with the exception of the grinning skull-faced chaplain.
Gloriana gasped when she saw him then stifled herself after a stern glance from Jevale.
“Greeting, sisters,” said the deep voiced commander.  “I am Marshal Tragrim.  This is my Castellan Clayborn, Head Apothecary Palkton, Chaplain Yerice, and Techmarine Sword-Brother Rolft.”  All wore black armor, except the techmarine in his blood red of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a long servo arm folded neatly across his shoulders.  “Welcome to the Immortal.”
A man in green dress uniform so dark it looked almost black in the shadows created by the towering astartes stepped forward.  He removed his red barrett in deference to the sisters.
“My ladies,” he said and bowed, Jevale acknowledged his manners with a nod. “I am captain Lucklan, commander of the four-fifteen combined arms of Segmentum Pacificus.”  As he rose, he gestured to the man behind him.  “This is Lieutenant Deveers, commander of the four-twenty-second, we will be leading the Astra Militarium detachment for this operation.”
“Captain, Marshal,” Jevale addressed them.  “Thank you for the warm greeting.  We are looking forward to battle at your side.”
“It looks as if a member of your coterie is eager to speak,” Palkton said, looking past Jevale, he wore a grin upon his scarred face.
Jevale looked back over her shoulder and seemed embarrassed when she turned back around.
“Yes, sister-hospitaller Gloriana seems a little in awe of your presence and the magnificence of your ship.”  Over her shoulder she addressed the offending sister.  “Decorum, sister.”
“Perhaps a tour is in order then?” the apothecary offered.
“Really, Palkton, the sisters are hardly here to gawk-” Tragrim started to admonish him.
“I would like that,” Gloriana said.  While her voice was soft and quiet, the audacity of interrupting and astartes, and one as decorated and experienced as a Marshal stunned them all.
“I would be honored to conduct the tour,” Gravick said before more admonishments could be cast.  “I am, after all familiar with the Sister-Hospitaller.”
“Really?” Jevale said, surprised.  Both Palkton and Tragrim looked back at the normally reserved and taciturn Sword-Brother.
“I was the astartes whose life she saved upon the blood-soaked fields of Cordair Five.  It is but a small service I could do to repay her,” Gravick said.
“And a small service I will allow,”  Tragrim said.  “She did us a great one by ensuring my brother returned to us to fight again.  We are in your debt, sister.”  Tragrim favored her with a slight bow that further shocked Jevale and brought a blush to the hsopitaller's cheeks.
“It was only my duty and as the Emperor willed,” Gloriana said, averting her gaze before the gathered eyes that met her made her break.
“As it is to hours until midday worship, why do you not take the sister on her tour, Gravick.  Palkton, since you seem talkative as well, please see the sisters settled into quarters,” Tragrim ordered.  “There will be joint worship conducted by Chaplain Yerice in the Command Chapel, I would be honored if you would attend.  I was also expecting Bishop Cardinate to be accompanying you.”
“He was detained by inquisitorial business,” Jevale said.  “He sends his regards and apologizes and his conclave will rendezvous with us at Turint Three for the start of the operation.”
“As he wills it,” Tragrim said.  It was unclear whether he referred to the Emperor or the notoriously mercurial Cardinate.  Loudly, without the aid of vox-caster, he shouted.  “Company Dismissed!”
A stomp of feet and slap of weapon butts accompanied the command and everyone began to fall out.

“It is certainly impressive,” Gloriana said as she walked next to Gravick.  The large marine slowed his pace and shortened his steps to accommodate her shorter gate.  The walked beneath the butressed arches of the main hall that ran the full length of the battle barge and connected the High Chapel reserved for the  astartes to the Lesser Chapel used by the chapter serfs.  In the center was the grand staircase, which they stood before.  Carved from white marble and inlaid with silver Aquilla and Black Templar icons, it lead to the command deck.
Her hands were clasped behind her back, her facemask strapped to her belt while her coif stayed in place.  Gravick kept his helmet tucked beneath his arm as he accompanied her.
He nodded in agreement at her comment.
“Few may ascend these stairs,” he said.  “Only Sword-Brethren.  Even the chapter serfs and crew who work on the command deck who are not astartes move through transit tubes hidden from sight.  To mount these steps in a battle-barge is an honor second only to mounting the steps before the Golden Throne itself.”
“I would like to see you walk upon them,” she said.
Gravick shook his head.
“I am unworthy to do so, so I do not.  Though I hope to change that with this crusade.”
She sensed the remorse in his tone and quickly sought to change the subject.
“This hall is grand and immaculate, yet I see no station for cleaning nor servitors at their tasks,” she said.
“They are hidden,” he said.  Gravick motioned for her to join him in approaching a wall.  “The artifice of the door is so cunning that it is indistinguishable from the walls unless one knows where to look.”
He pressed up the inlaid tiles of the wall and a door, large enough for an astartes to enter without ducking, opened silently inward, a glow orb turning on as it it opened.  Gloriana entered with Gravick following.  The chamber was large enough for three of the massive warriors to stand in.  A rack was upon one wall with six holy bolters and a dozen magazines of ammunition.  The door closed silently behind them.
“We have these positioned along the hall, in case the battle is brought to us.  A transit cooridor runs hidden behind each one allowing-”
He stopped short, startled by the unexpected assault.  She leaped up, wrapping her arms around his thick neck.  His helmet dropped to the floor as he grabbed her.  Once his insticts settled to realize this was no attack, at least not of the sort he was conditioned to, he adjusted his arms.  His hands gripped their opposite forearm beneath her armor clad rear, lifting and supporting her so that she was now looking down upon him.  Their armor rubbing together where his chest pushed against her thighs.
She gripped his broad, scarred chin in her hands as she pulled her lips away and looked down upon him with her emerald eyes, alive with passion and delight.
“My husband,” she whispered to the world so only he could hear.
“I have longed to hear that phrase again, my wife.”
She leaned in and kissed him again in response, her tongue pushing past his lips to caress his own, weaving and entangling deliciously inside his mouth.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I prayed to the Emperor to bring us together again.  When I heard of an assignment to join the Black Templars, I hoped against the galaxy that it would lead me to you.”  Her armor encased hand ran through his short strip of hair.  “The Emperor answered my prayers and brought us together again.”
“Mine as well,” he whispered.  “I have found the moments of quiet these past two years disturbed by longing for you.”
“And I have spent my moments f longing planning for what to do when we would meet again.  I knew the Emperor would not keep us apart forever.”
He smiled at her, the first he had it seemed in his life since reborn, the first since their duty had last forced them apart.
“Plans?” he queried.
She smiled mischeviously, a glint in her eye.
“I have come across questionable materials during my time away-”
“Heretical?” he asked.
“Do you think my faith so weak that I would peruse the heretical?” she questioned.  “A husband's faith in his wife must be second only to his faith in the Emperor.”
“I have insulted you,” Gravick said.  “I-”
He was cut short by another kiss, long, lingering.
“I tease my husband as is my prerogative as wife,” she said when she pulled away.  “A sensible question considering the little time we have come to know each other despite our relationship.  Not heretical, but prurient.  I am eager to demonstrate what I have learned.”
The smile was no less alluring this time.  He could not imagine a point in his long life where it would not be.  As he held her aloft and looked up at her he recorded the image in the deepest parts of his mind.  His memory of purest joy that he knew would keep him warm on the most inhospitable of battlefields he may encounter and would do so for centuries without fail.
“If only I was not so encased in armor,” he said.
“And I without the blade of my narthecium.”
“I feel the techmarines would question how I ruined my armor while ship board if we were to replay our last encounter,” he joked with her.
“And you would soon run out of legs if such play was required,” she teased back.
This time he pulled her down and kissed her, leaning over as he gently set her upon the floor as if she was the most holy of chapter relics handed down from Rogal Dorn.  As if she was made of crystal blessed by the Emperor himself and granted to him for safe keeping for eternity.
“I do not take chapel in my armor, nor meals if I can help it.  Perhaps we can reconvene your tour after dinner?” he asked.
“I believe that would be acceptable.  Sister-Superior Jevale has insisted that we wear armor during our transit, and I would like to be free of it as well as indulge in a hot shower.”
“I am afraid that cannot be done,” Gravick said.  “In accordance with our ascetic life, we use not hot water.”
She looked up at him in disappointment that quickly turned to mock anger.
“We may have not spent much time together, but I can tell that you tease,” she said.  Their armor met with a clank where she punched his chest in a playful manner.
“Of course, my wife, there is plenty of water in any temperature you desire.”

 A bubble of silence formed around Yerice.  It was customary.  No one wished to anger the chaplain or intrude upon his thoughts.  He was given wide berth by the astartes, servitors, and serf that moved around him along the main hall as he stood in quiet observation.
None looked at him, fearing to meet the red eyed glare from the skull-helmet.  All were certain his gaze could discern the smallest of sins and tiniest particle of corruption that may lurk inside.  To be found wanting by him, lacking in anyway, was as sure a death sentence as to step into space without a suit or to swallow a grenade.
Both of which were surely more humane and peaceful ways to die than to be suspected by the chaplain.
So they avoided him as he watched from the base of the great staircase.  A silent, judging statue in black trimmed with gold and bone and festooned with purity and crusader seals.
He watched as he saw what he needed to.  As Sword-Brother Clayborn and Sister-Hospitaller Gloriana exited from one of the secret armories hidden along either side of the length of the great hall.  They walked dangerously close to each other.  Almost touching.  Her cheeks had a slight flushness to them and Clayborn almost bore a smile.
The skull-faced helmet nodded once.  It was as he thought when he had seen them lock eyes upon the embarkation deck.

Room was made for the sisters in the High Chapel of the Immortal.  They were given the full right-side nave as they entered.  Servitors, clad in black robes, ushered them in ahead of the astartes who chose to wait in deference to their guests.
Even with only half the available space open to them, the astartes were not crowded in the left nave of the chapel the battle barge's facilities were built to house a thousand.  Coming in after them was Marshal Tragrim, Clayborn, Captain Lucklan, and Sister-Superior Jevale entered last and became the sole occupants of the front nave directly below the raised chancel.
Gloriana found her breath caught in her throat.  The High Chapel of the Immortal was as grand as the one in her convent.  In some ways, it was more so.  It held the weight of history in it.  From the first inkling of the divinity of the Emperor himself.  From before the founding of the Adeptus Sororitas.  Relic were displayed in the sanctuary that dated from the founding of the Imperium, from the Great Heresy, from the Primarchs themselves.
The glint of gold and silver, of polished stone and brass did not give it its grandeur, that was intrinsic in its existence.  This was the the glory, the weight, of history itself present and on display.
Then she was forced to gasp again.  She barely held her pride and adoration as her husband entered, walking in tandem with the sister-superior.  His rough linen robes left his thickly muscled arms exposed.  His neck as big around as some men's waists and tense with muscle.  His head up and chin high as he gazed at the stained-glass portrait of the Emperor that dwarfed them all.
He was beautiful.  As beautiful as anything she had ever seen.  Once she had seen him, been with him, wed him in spirit, how could she find desire for any other?  What man could compare to the angel who had taken her in his arms on a battlefield and comforted her when her spirit was at its lowest.  He was the grandchild of the Emperor, as close to divinity as any except the Primarch's themselves could get.
And he was hers, and hers alone.
She had heard some of her sisters comment on the handsome captain as they had bathed and prepared for worship.  But how could he compare to what she had?  No man could.  It was simply impossible.
She fought her urges to run to him, to leap into his arms and have him take her here.  To shout her love for him.  The thank the Emperor for bringing him to her.
She felt the warming in her stomach and loins at the thought of it.  She fought against the rising desire she felt.  She had to avert her gaze, afraid that should she continue to look upon him would make her moist and lead to embarrassing recriminations.
Only the chaplain wore his armor within the sanctum of the chapels.  Only he carried weapons, his Corxius, trimmed in gold and his holy bolt pistol the red of a saint's blood.
He stepped to the lectern with echoing boots.  Each sent an ominous vibration to those standing in the naves.  It started in the soles of their feet and rose with each heavy tread until it seemed as if their hair vibrated in sympathetic response.
He laid his heavy gauntleted hands on the edge of the lectern and regarded the gathered mass.  His unblinking red gaze settling on each person in turn, forcing them to look away from his silent accusations.
He made a lowering motion with his hands and the congregation dropped to their knees in response and entered a posture of supplication and humility.
Finally, after what seemed years of silence, he opened the massive tome upon the lectern to a page marked with a royal purple silk ribbon, glanced down upon the page, then stepped away from the lectern.
“Faith,” he began.  His voice dark and strong.  “Faith is our sword.  Faith is the weapon we wield against the xenos, the heretic, the mutant, the witch.”
He paused and began to pace upon the chancel, towering above them all, even the massive Castellan and Marshal.  He was an animal looking for prey, and his prey watched, sweating, praying that they were not the ones chosen to be eaten that day.
“A weapon maybe strong,” he continued.  “Yet it is only as strong as the arm that wields it, as the hand that grasps it, as the mind that directs it.  A weapon can be no stronger than the body of the one that holds it.
“Purity is that body.  Purity is the mind that directs faith.  Purity is the hand the grasps the hilt of faith's sword.  Purity is the arm that swings it.
“Be not tainted.  Not by the foul philosophies of the xenos.  Not by the heretical ravings of the lost souls.  Not by the trickery of the witch.  Not by the lust for the forbidden.
“Purity of soul, of body, of mind.  Only these can adequately wield the sword of faith against the enemies of the Emperor.  Only with true purity can we deliver his righteous judgment upon them.”
His pacing continued.  His dark glare scanned the crowd and his skull teeth grinned evilly at them all.
“We must remain untainted as we embark upon this endeavor.  We must remain pure.  We must struggle against the baseness that is within us all.  Must fight against the weakness to maintain our purity.
“Look inside yourself for stains against your purity.  Purge the taint within.  Return yourselves to the pure state.  Look to your neighbor.  Allow not the taint to fester.  Cut the tumor of taint free from the host and allow it to whither and die, alone in the darkness of its unhallow existence.  Shine the light of purity on the taint for all to see so that it maybe known, it maybe identified so that all may cast it away before it takes them in as well.”

Gravick had never known hunger.  It was foreign to him.  The gnawing ache of emptiness and desire to be filled.  Yet he knew it now.
He knew it as he grabbed her, spun her, the hem of her white silk robes twirling like the petals of a flower.  He heard the door of his chambers click locked and knew that short of the Marshal arriving, he had as much privacy as he had ever known.
She laughed, giggled like a delighted young girl as she whirled to face him.  He was upon her, his weight pressing against her, pushing her back against the wall so she could not escape a passion he was unsure he had held inside him until that moment.
His fingers, normally so sure and dextrous as they manipulated weapons, became stiff and unwieldy as he worked at the ties of her robe.  For her part, Gloriana deftly undid his own and he soon found the linen wrappings falling free from his body.
She pushed away his fumbling hands and began to work on the knots herself.  He braced his body against the wall with one hand to keep from crushing her in his passion, his other hand running along the smooth surface of her shaven skull as the initial attack of his lust had driven her coif from her head.
She pulled his hand down from her head, kissed his palm with lips gentle as an insects landing and brought it lower.  He cupped the full, warm flesh of a breast at her direction.  Heavy yet soft under his hand.  A pleasing weight, even as he squeezed it and small rolls appeared between his fingers.  His large hands still too small to contain the delightful mounds.
Her own hands danced across his body.  Her fingers tracing the pattern of muscle across his torso, the V at his hips, and lower.  He felt warm fingers wrap around him tenderly and new a breif flash of pleasure as she caressed him.
She laughed again, her breast sliding from his grip as she dropped to her knees before him, her hands reaching up above her head as she was prostrate to grip his manhood, pumping it with both hands that still did not completely cover it.
Her tongue teased and licked.  The head, the shaft, his scrotum hanging below in the thick nest of hair at the base.  She nibbled playfully at the tip and she stroked it with her hands.  For long minutes she did this, taking her time, savoring it as they could not when shells fell around them.  With a final look past his member she smiled, then opened her mouth.  It felt encased in the finest velvet.  Warm and moist and soft as she brought her lips around it.
Her head moved with steady strokes at an even pace, each time she bobbed she ventured to push him ever deep until she could feel him along the back of her throat.  A tickling of her tonsils that brought her to the verge of gagging.
Then she pushed herself further.
His arms began to feel weak.  Gravick placed both hands on the wall behind her to stead himself.  His knee seemed to shake in sympathetic response.  He felt her tongue slide and caress  as he was in her mouth.  He felt her urge him to explosion.
Then she pulled away, trailing spit to form a web between them, leaving him shaking at the point of ecstasy, on the verge of climax.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes locking with her green.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she smiled up at him, a delicious and evil smile.  A smile of pure temptation that invited him to imagine the pure pleasure that was behind it.
She rose, pushed him back with a gentle hand on his chest.  Her breath came in short gasps as she tried to regain control of her breathing.  Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes to then run heavily down her cheeks.  He leaned in and kissed one away.
“Let me show you, husband,” she said huskily.  “Show you what I have learned.”
She turned and presented herself to him, standing on her toes to bring her rear, as full and rounded as her breasts, closer to his level.  She leaned forward and placed her hands on the wall and looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
His hands reached to touch her.  Slid along her smooth, sculpted back to her rounded, firm rear, down along her smooth thighs.  She reached back with one hand and positioned him.  Not in her sex, but higher.
“Gently,” she whispered to him as she guided him in.  She bit her lip to keep from crying out as his swollen head pushed at her entrance.
“I will hut you-” he said.
“No,” she gasped, taking a deep breath.  “I will do this.  I have seen as other women do this for men, I will do this for you.  Simply go easy, slowly,” she instructed.
He did as told.  It was difficult, the resistance great, the friction greater.  She pushed back against him, her arms braced on the wall to keep from being pushed face first into it.
Finally, he felt the constriction around his member ease as she also relaxed with a gasp and sigh.  Her breath came in heavy pants as the pain subsided and he was in her.
“Deeper,” she told him.  He was only head past the gate.  He complied, he went into her more fully.  A quarter of his length  with an easy application of pressure.
“Deeper still,” she said.  Her breath caught as he began to push again, this time marking half his length inside her.
“Deeper,” she whispered to him.  “All the way, my husband.”
He pulled back on her hip gently with his hands as he pushed forward, plunging in to the base.  She moaned, her back arched as his scrotum bumped against her.  He could feel the shaking of her thighs in his hands.  The muscles quivering.
“That is-” she started then paused.  “This is much different than I expected it to be.”
“Is it hurting, unpleasurable?” he asked, ready to withdraw quickly should she desire it.
“No.  At first yes, but now.  It is-” she queered her face thinking.  “It is a different kind of fullness.”
She rocked forward, sliding some of him out, then pushed back into him, engulfing him once again.  One of her hands left the wall and slid between her legs, finding the sensitive place.  Her finger wet itself with her juices then began to massage.
“Use me, husband.  Use me until you are spent,” she told him.
He needed no further encouragement.  Two years of pent up desire for her slammed against him in a wave of passion that he redirected toward her.
She moaned in pleasure as he slid out then gasped in shocked delight as he plunged in again.  He was smooth, steady.  He felt the climax building deep inside of himself.  He felt it pushing with urgency, demanding release.
Her finger worked faster as she pleasured herself at the same time she accepted him.  With each shivering vibration of her thighs, she loosened more and accepted him more readily.  He saw the cue for what it was, some animal instinct long buried told him to quicken his pace, increase the force of each thrust.
He did it without delay.  Soon he was veritably pounding into her.  His powerful thighs slamming into her rear with each stroke.  Each impact shaking her bodily.
Her final gasp was nearly a scream as she released.  Her legs quaked.  He quickly reached an arm around her and supported her body lest she fall.  He lifted her into the air, her feet dangling, toes skimming the floor as he held her aloft.
He felt a small hand against his forearm.
“Don't stop,” she told him.
He bucked and rolled his hips as he held her.  Her hands occupied themselves by massaging her breasts, pinching her nipples.  She grabbed one of the orbs and brought the pink spout to her own lips and teased it with her tongue.  The residual pleasure of her orgasm mixed with the stimulation at both ends of her body to bring another wave of climax to her as her husband loaded himself into her over and over.
Then his legs stiffened, his knees locked.  His arm squeezed her hard enough to force the breath from her body.  She felt him expel into her, deep into her cavity and a point she did not know could be reached.
She felt him pulse and vibrate at her entrance as he held her.  He fired away time and time again into her until he had nothing left.
He set her gently on the floor then had to quickly grab t her before she fell.
“It seems you have taken my ability to stand from me,” she jested.  Then she winced as she tried to move away.  “And walking seems to be difficult at the moment.”
“I apologize,” he said, embarrassed by what he had done.  Angry at the thought of having injured her.
She reached up a hand, having to go above her head to cup his cheek and turn his beautiful face toward her.
“Do not fret, husband.  I would have no other outcome besides this and the Emperor knows I would gladly do it again.  And will,” she told him.  “But I think it will take me time to recover.  You are – I think my mortal frame may be lacking in the strength needed to fully satisfy an astartes.”
He matched her smile, looking down into her green eyes with his blue.
“You have fully satisfied this astartes and then some,” he told her.  “I would allow you to recover here, except-”
She nodded and pulled him down to kiss her lips.
“Should we be discovered, there would be inquiries,” she said as she pulled away.  “And while I would profess my love to you before the Emperor himself, I understand.  It is best that this is our secret until we are both free to love each other as the Emperor desires for us.”
“My duty to you is second only to the Emperor, my wife,” he whispered into her lips.
“Mine is the same, my husband.  Now, I must away and prepare myself for that greater duty,” she said.  “But this campaign maybe long and we will have opportunity to indulge in our duty to each other again.”
She kissed him again, then dressed.  He pulled his rob on after wiping himself clean with a towel.
“The Castellan's Quarters have access to the secret tunnels of the Immortal,” he said.  “I will use these to convey you to your quarters unseen.”
She kissed him again after he opened the secret hatch.  Long and lingering, then followed him into the darkened tunnel.