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Sigismund pulls fruitlessly on his shackles; yet again, there is no give. He's worn them before. He knows this. All he's doing is bruising his wrists and ankles, and increasing his own frustration.
He remembers finally finding Ezekyle in the pandemonium that was the fall of the Palace. He already had Khârn's blood on his hands, and it felt right to sever all those old connections. Ezekyle tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. They had chosen their sides already, and there was no coming back from that.
He doesn't remember how their duel ended. He has to assume there was interference, perhaps from Ezekyle's Justaerin thugs, or some of the foul sorcery that the heretics have been so hideously skilled with. In his memory there is only darkness, and then waking here, in Ezekyle's quarters, on the floor with his wrists and ankles shackled to each other. It's infuriating and humiliating; the hints of attendant arousal are, must be, only the remnants of memory.
The doors open and Ezekyle walks in, robed instead of armored, bristling with unslaked anger.
"Filth," Sigismund growls. "Traitor. How dare—"
Ezekyle backhands him hard enough to test his balance, making him spread his knees wider for stability. "I am not here to argue with you," Ezekyle says. He grabs Sigismund's hair—too long, of late, one of many trivial things that have gone unattended to while the siege demanded every ounce of attention—and yanks his head back far enough that his mouth cannot help but fall open. The bit Ezekyle pushes between his teeth is heavy and cold, likely adamantium. It will break his teeth if he tries to fight it.
When the gag is affixed, Ezekyle steps back enough to look him up and down. "I did not spare your life because my days are lacking in conflict," he says.
"Spare my life?" Sigismund echoes incredulously. The bit is heavy on his tongue and mangles the words.
Ezekyle raises his hand as if to strike again, then stops himself and instead draws gentle fingertips over Sigismund's cheek, where the skin is hot from the first time. "Such vibrant bruises, still." He strokes the heated flesh carefully, watching Sigismund with the icy eyes of a mad dog. "You used to be so good for me. Do you remember?"
Of course he remembers. For an Astartes, the difficult thing is not remembering. Sigismund remembers giving himself to this man, gratefully, when they were warriors of the same brotherhood and had nothing but trust between them. He tries to lock away the memories now.
Ezekyle sinks to his knees in front of Sigismund, hands playing over his skin so gently. It's been years since anyone touched Sigismund like this, sweet and soft, making nerves tingle in a completely different way than the thrill of combat. Calloused fingertips trace the clumsy tattoo that sits at the notch of Sigismund's sternum, the angular Cthonian that Ezekyle told him at the time meant owned. He loved it then.
"It's still true," Ezekyle murmurs, and Sigismund's cock twitches even as he shakes his head. "You can try to deny it, but it's true and I'm going to remind you."
Sigismund growls a protest but it comes out sounding more like a moan. Ezekyle's lips pull back from his filed teeth in an ugly smile. One of his hands settles on Sigismund's shoulder as if to remind him to hold still, while the other slides down over chest and stomach to wrap around his cock, holding it as easily as the haft of a boarding axe. He was bred to be a conqueror.
He strokes Sigismund to hardness shamefully easily. "I missed this too, you know. You were always such a joy to have in my hands."
Heat flushes Sigismund's face and he shakes his head. "No," he tries through the bit. "You can't just have that back."
"You can't stop me," Ezekyle answers. His thumb flicks over the head of Sigismund's cock, finding a traitorous bead of fluid there and spreading it across too-tender skin. "You will never stop belonging to me."
The hand that wasn't wrapped around Sigismund's cock joins it there abruptly, holding a thin, gleaming rod. Sigismund recognizes it, but not quickly enough to pull away before the tip of it is sinking into his cock. He groans in discomfort and outrage—and, if he's honest, aching arousal. The rod is a tight fit, stretching the delicate walls of his urethra, but his precome make it slick enough to move. Ezekyle fucks it into his cock with more care than a traitorous thug should be capable of, stopping to pull back and then press it in deeper, as if the toy could savor being inside Sigismund as much as Ezekyle always did himself. It hurts so intimately. Sigismund hasn't been this aroused by anything in years.
When the rod is fully seated down the length of his shaft, Ezekyle lets go of it. There's a jewel affixed to the tip, something a flushed and livid purple. Sigismund squirms, waiting for what comes next, trying not to think about what a relief it would be for Ezekyle to order him to present himself, or simply push his face to the floor so his ass would be raised in offering. If he couldn't stop it—if Ezekyle would just take—
But Ezekyle sits back on his heels, looking satisfied. He speaks a word that makes the air turn heavy and foully sweet for a moment, and the sounding rod throbs inside Sigismund's cock. It keeps throbbing, pulsing, like a half-living thing making itself comfortable and making its presence excruciatingly arousing. Sigismund moans.
"Keep that warm for me," Ezekyle says. "I have work to do. You'll get to tell me what you want when I get back."
"No," Sigismund manages, and he wants to mean no I won't but he's far more likely to mean no, don't go. It doesn't matter which it is in any case; Ezekyle gets up and leaves, and all Sigismund can do is ache for him.