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The grim sameness of warfare was, to be perfectly honest, becoming tiresome even before Fulgrim's eyes were opened to the glories of the Master of Dark Delights. It was an arena in which to pursue perfection, certainly, but hardly the only one. He already knew that before his apotheosis. Now, with the greatness of a true god infusing his flesh, he couldn't bear to be limited so to the obsessions of his prideful brother—not with the myriad new sensations of the empyrean beckoning, his to seize!
His sons are... They came with him, at least part of the way, most likely. They can fend for themselves. If they were clever and fortunate enough to find their way to the realm where Fulgrim now sojourns, then surely they will appreciate the delights this place has to offer. There is such enlightenment to be had.
This place, he knows in his very bones, is what the temple of the Laer attempted so vainly to replicate: the music floating on the air that seems to writhe out of expected melody, the shifting and watery light, the slender columns that could be marble carved in the form of bones or supplicant skeletons infused with the strength of stone. Inhabitants feast or couple or torment one another in delightful ways, and some of them look up with faces full of adoration and longing as Fulgrim glides past.
Handsome, masked forms slip through the gathering like the servants at a formal gala, dressed in supple leather harnesses that don't so much cover them as highlight all the ways they're exposed. They come a variety of shapes and sizes, with skin in every human shade and a few with a strange xenos translucence. They offer the revelers various entertainments: drink, narcotics, fresh pain implements, their bodies to use.
Fulgrim takes a glass of faceted crystal off the tray one of the masked servants holds; the liquid inside shimmers, pearlescent, the color changing slightly with the light. Nothing here can hurt him, not in a way he wouldn't want to hurt. He takes a sip. It tastes like seeing the sun for the first time, like sliding a blade flawlessly between vertebrae. He basks.
"Your pardon, my lord," a gentle voice murmurs: a jewel-masked servant with creamy, ample flesh and a golden chain draped between the rings through her nipples. "If it would please you, one of the Six Holy Consorts has been moved by your arrival and would like to perform for you."
"Only one of the six?" Fulgrim asks, momentarily annoyed. But perhaps this is some daemonic variant on court politics, and one enterprising creature is reaching out to try to secure a new ally before its brethren. Well. He can certainly let himself be courted. "It would please me. Where is this performance to be held?"
The servant bows. "This way, my lord." She leads him through the bone-marble plaza, long braids swaying at her back threaded with little crystals to catch the eye. Other revelers watch them go, staring in naked awe at Fulgrim's luminous skin and shimmering scales. One is rash enough to reach out unprompted to touch him; he breaks the bones of its hand as he brushes it away, and he knows its howl displays gratitude for the pain.
The Holy Consort has arranged a delightfully intimate performance space for him, a small theater with a low stage surrounded by plush velvet couches. The stage is bare save for a few slender, simple pillars spaced at coy intervals. A few of the Prince of Pleasure's revelers have seats in the theater, but none occupy the couches until Fulgrim himself coils across the central one.
When he's made himself comfortable, the lights in the theater go out, leaving the audience in warm, anticipatory darkness. The room smells of exotic smoke, the sweetness of jasmine and heliotrope with an undertone of bitter wormwood. Fulgrim breathes deep.
Light blooms on the stage, heady scarlet, highlighting a petite figure curled in on itself at the center of the polished floor. Music begins playing from some unseen daemonic band, rhythmic in its growl, low-pitched enough to resonate through bones and flesh. The figure rocks, then undulates, then rises from the floor in a graceful, controlled sway. They're dressed in a shimmering gown that clings to the shape of their body, rows of tiny pearls catching the light as they move. Their gender, like the Dark Prince's own, is hard to be certain of—at one moment they'll seem to have the lush curves of a sensual woman, and then in the next shift of the light they have the elegant angles of a handsome youth.
The performer—the Holy Consort, presumably—smiles invitingly at Fulgrim as they let the music guide their movements. He wants to see more of them, and the unfilled craving is itself a delicious sensation. They twist, arch, make sensual suggestions of their pose, as if they're tempting him to come after them.
On one elegant turn they tug sharply on their sleeve and it tears away, fluttering discarded to the floor. Their bared skin is smooth and gleaming, as if recently oiled. They tear off the other sleeve too, and members of the audience whistle with longing. The consort doesn't look at them, though. They only have eyes for Fulgrim, sparkling with invitation as their lips curve enticingly.
"More," he breathes.
The consort's smile broadens enough to show bright fangs between those dark lips. They reach up behind their back and shimmy as their gown comes loose. It slips free of shoulders, then hips, then forms a pool of cast-off luxury at their feet. Beneath the gown they're wearing black lace lingerie, cut more to highlight their body than to cover anything. On the right side they have a soft, full breast, and on the left the smooth plane of a solid pectoral muscle. They're blessed; they're beautiful.
They reach out and catch hold of the nearest of the poles with one hand. Then, with almost serpentine grace, they wrap themself around it, lifting their body entirely off the stage. The way they move is both a boast of strength and a suggestion of debauchery, as they hold themself suspended and twist in hungry poses around the pole.
The fastenings for their black lace come undone and the little scraps fall away one by one as they move, the dance both symbolizing and provoking the exquisite pain of longing. Fulgrim's coils rasp as he moves half-consciously in response to the consort's temptations.
By the time the consort dismounts the pole, they're wearing barely a single scrap of lace, just enough to hide the last secret between their luscious thighs. They turn to face Fulgrim directly, running their hands over their own bare flesh with a look of hungry pleasure. They slink toward him, dark eyes glittering.
Fulgrim beckons. He is the prince being honored here, and he will allow this supplicant to approach.
The consort smiles again and then seems to unfold, skin splitting vertically down the center of their body as though a seam is opening. They shrug out of their skin, their body, just as easily as they did their costume. The form that emerges is, impossibly, larger than the one that concealed it: a head crowned by gleaming black horns, long whip-thin limbs, cloven hooves supporting their swaying grace. They have four arms now instead of two, some ending in sharp-nailed hands and the others in carapaced blades.
They slip down from the stage fluidly, the light following them, illuminating them as they kneel before him. "Welcome, o prince, to the realm of all desire. My name is N'kari, and I am yours to enjoy." Their voice chimes, pleasantly discordant with itself, and the look in their shining black eyes is admiring bordering on worshipful.
But N'kari is clearly no passive slave to await their master's command. They rise, undulating, bringing their perfumed flesh so close to his—and their polished claws even closer. They still never quite touch him, and when he raises a hand to the curve of their hip they sway, apparently slowly but somehow evading.
"Am I only to enjoy the teasing?" Fulgrim asks as N'kari's back arches, making the studs in all their nipples sparkle in the stage lights. "Or have you a real indulgence to offer me?"
N'kari laughs, bending backward so far that their first hands touch the floor, pivoting on that point to find their footing on the edge of the stage again. "Will you remain a member of the audience?" Their shape splits again and they molt, leaving the lean and angular hunting body crumpled by the footlights as they writhe free of it. This new metamorphosis gives them a body made to the same pattern as Fulgrim's own, near human with two extra arms and then changing at what should be the waist, where skin melds to scales and the lower body is serpentine. But where Fulgrim remains lean and muscular in his ascension, N'kari looks soft, with plump arms and a rounded belly, a bold diamond pattern marking their scales. "Or would you join the performance?"
The answer to that has ever been the same, since long before Fulgrim discovered the glories of this realm. He rises from the couch and slides up onto the stage, and out in the darkness the audience gasps and applauds. "I have always welcomed the spotlight."
He towers over N'kari in this form, which makes them seem somehow even more appealing, like a delicacy served in bite-sized morsels. They smile as if they can hear the thought and reach up with all four arms to pull him down into a kiss.
N'kari's body is a feast of sensual indulgences, from the yielding softness of their flesh to the heady musk of their perfume. Their mouth tastes like blood and ambrosia, and their moans are an aria of desperation. Fulgrim rakes his nails over their supple skin, exulting in the chance to touch and not merely admire. N'kari squirms against him, pressing their bodies together, one hand carding through his hair and the others exploring his skin.
Arousal swells between his hips as they explore each other, prompting the question: what does arousal look like in this form, anyway? A ripple of sensation runs the full length of his spine, from his nape down to his tail, and as he arches against N'kari the scales of his lower belly part to release that swelling pressure. He groans in pleasure at the contrast between slick scales and velvety skin sliding against new, tender flesh.
"You flatter me, my prince," N'kari croons. They pull back to admire him, turning their hungry gaze on the twin ridged shafts jutting from his hips. The audience claps and cries out at the sight, roaring a louder approval when—with a coy smile—N'kari wraps a hand around each one and squeezes appreciatively. "Will you let me provide the sheath for these lovely cocks?"
Fulgrim's answer comes out in a feral hiss the first time he tries to speak, as N'kari drags a delicate little claw over one cockhead. "Yes," he growls, taking one of their horns in an unforgiving grip. "Show me what you can do, holy consort."
N'kari slips a hand down their front and into an opening between their belly scales, making a face of blissful hunger. They arch their hips forward at the same time that they withdraw their fingers, showing off the soft pink flesh inside. "Let me have you," they purr. Their tail twines around Fulgrim's as they press closer, guiding his cocks to the softness of that opening.
It feels tight, his cocks stretching them open as he presses in, and N'kari moans like they've never known a sweeter pain. Their hips align, skin to skin, and as Fulgrim marvels at the hot clutch of their flesh the audience cries out in appreciation and envy.
"Do you suppose they wish they could have you or me?" Fulgrim asks as his coils constrict, intertwined with theirs.
"Oh, some of each, certainly," N'kari sighs, pushing into his hand as he cups the yielding flesh of one breast and squeezes the pierced nipple. "The more promising ones, both." Their muscles ripple around Fulgrim's shafts, thoroughly inhuman and monstrously delightful.
He wraps them up in his limbs and his coils, savoring the luxury of their soft flesh, tasting the intoxicating fragrance of their skin. The rhythms of this coupling are so unlike human ones, it's almost an entirely new experience: instead of the pistoning urgency of men fucking, this is a languid, undulating pleasure that spirals through him in harmony with the grace of his ascended form. He cups N'kari's face in two hands and plunders their lush mouth as they writhe against and around him. They make such needy sounds, shifting and squeezing as though they're trying to milk his seed from him with every stroke.
Neither of them hold still at any point, this act a continuation of N'kari's dance. The point of connection where Fulgrim's cocks are buried in their heat is the only certainty as they roll and grapple, hungry for every sensation the other's body has to offer. N'kari has sharp little teeth, nipping at Fulgrim's chest and lapping up the garnet beads of blood that form there. He pulls their hair, bending them backward, and their arms sway out to the sides in attitudes of debauched prayer.
Shudders of orgasmic pleasure run through their frame, flesh trembling, tail rattling. They spill over backward as if taking a bow, the audience applauding enthusiastically. Fulgrim follows them down, pinning them to the floor as they arch and moan. "I don't think I'm going to let you go," he murmurs against the shell of their ear.
N'kari digs their claws into his back, their tail squeezing his tight. "Keep me well fed and well filled, my lord, and I will delight in being your prize."
"My lovely monster," Fulgrim breathes. Erotic desire is mingled now with hunger, and with the drive to conquer, in ways he never appreciated before he ascended. The things he wants from N'kari—from this entire world, from the glittering spill of the galaxy laid out before him—are so hard to bind in the clumsy language of mortals. He surges forward, into their welcoming flesh, and lets climax crackle electric and brilliant through his nerves.
"Yes," N'kari moans in rapture, the bright sting of their claws only complementing the feeling of release. "More, more, fill me up—!"
Another spasm of climax wracks him and Fulgrim groans at the way N'kari's body seems to suck at his cocks, pulling his seed from him and swallowing it down as though there are needy mouths hidden beneath their scales. This form is in every way more than his old one, and Fulgrim feels as though he comes a volume far in excess of what he was accustomed to. N'kari revels in it, shuddering and clenching in what feels like another climax, one hand pressed to their belly as they exult in receiving him.
He gathers them close with all of his arms when the peak recedes, both of them sweat-sticky and fragrant with inhuman pheromones. He kisses them, biting their plump bottom lip, charmed by their broken-glass laughter in response.
"Beautiful creature," he says, "your welcome pleases me. What boon would you ask for in return?"
They smile up at him, sparkling eyes and sharp teeth, and say exactly what he knew they would: "I want more."