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Their latest translation into the Radiata system had done a number on the Iridiates. Mutations, psychotic breaks, full reversals of their indoctrination filled with ramblings about the light… shit was thoroughly cooked, and Lucien had his hands full trying to keep his Legion together. It felt like a fateful punishment for being away so long, solving the Emperor’s problems across the sector instead of guarding their homeworld.
The Iridiates had not shed any blood in their Great Crusade of Love and Peace. All compliance had been achieved through diplomacy, and a fair lot of tactical tit flashing on the Primarch’s behalf. He’d fucked his way through half of his brothers trying to fix them, feel them and help them be their best selves. Lucien was quite proud of himself, and the Legion lauded his methods - praising their Primarch’s pacifist doctrine over all else.
Lysander loathed it. For the past few months, the itching in his veins had grown ever more insistent, needling through his skin like worms with fiberglass teeth. The frequency of his body felt wrong, as if he were stuck halfway through teleporting and his particles didn’t know which way to arrange. He did not feel like himself, or even an Astartes for that matter. Astartes were made for fighting. Lysander was not fighting. He wasn’t even working.
He was nothing.
Today, that has to change. He’ll dress himself in his armour with the ceremonial shoulderpads on, the gold trimmed laurel ones with his cloak thrown over the right. He’ll go and do… something Astartes-y. Fuck, he’s even beginning to forget what that means. Killing. Maiming. Vrr vrr with the chainsword. Yep, that sounds about right.
His quarters are sparsely furnished compared to the rest of the Legion. He’d once had a bed canopied in crimson silks, its lace skirts brushing rich piled carpets with filigree gilding the walls. He’d since gifted it all to Captain Sokolov and stripped his room to the basics, bare rockcrete walls and an equally hard floor. It reminded him of his childhood, sleeping curled up in the warm nooks of the manufactorum.
A small rubber mat faced the western wall, and an adjoining suite bore the ablution facilities for all his other needs. Nutrient paste squirted from a soap dispenser when he needed a handful to eat. He really didn’t want much else.
On the eastern wall sat the armory station, where his war plate and assorted battle gear emerged at his will. He summons the servo-arms and mechadendrites with a thought, his armour looking almost unrecognizable for how long it’s been since he’s worn it. At least, it feels that way. His memory of the last combat is fuzzy. It doesn’t matter.
“Dress me.” he commands, and T-poses heroically. The segments of his boots close around his feet, along with the underlying plates at his calves. Opaline ceramite with gold kneepads and the Legion’s diamonds across a decorative arch. It’s the only part of this fancy schmancy space marine thing he appreciates - his armour looks dope as hell. Both greaves click into place without issue, bolts drilled in to keep them in place.
His breastplate comes next, not the thigh guards, and he almost takes a servo-arm to the face from the shift in routine. His anger spikes then ebbs away. He’d chosen the machines over the dopey eyed servitors and fawning serfs. This was one of the only places he could exist without bearing the judgement of others. It’s the closest he can get to being a part of nature, whatever the hell that meant a thousand kilometers from land in the starry void of space.
Something whines, grinds and beeps at him. Lysander squints. “What?”
He rolls his shoulders back and commands the station to hurry up, and to its credit it tries… only to squish him into his breastplate until his ribs begin to crunch. It eases off moments later. He gasps and coughs, exhaling a vile curse. “What the fuck is this shit?”
He looks down. Thick, heavy breasts wobble from his bulky chest with every harsh breath. They’re jutting out much farther than they ought, two triangular mounds of dough with a downward sag over his much fatter gut. His bodyglove strains audibly as he breathes, doing its best to flatten his tits and only creating a glaringly obvious shelf. Something scans around his waist and beeps mournfully.
+PRIMUS. YOUR CURRENT MEASUREMENTS EXCEED MK II INTERNAL DIMENSIONS BY 40% IN SECTORS B, C, D1, D2…+
“Shut it!” he snarls. “Put me in the fucking plate before I skin your wires.”
The station takes one last try… and holds its position while calculating something. It takes a few seconds, then a few more. Lysander realizes with creeping horror that the machinery won’t push any further. It’s programmed to not hurt him, and it takes a lot to hurt an Astartes. Forcing his power armour around him would literally crush his bodyfat into his black carapace and squirt it out through his ports. There’s no point asking the serfs to help. They can’t.
What he needs is all that blubber put somewhere else, and for that, he needs an Apothecary. A cheeky, handsy, happy-ending-hog-cranking Iridiate apothecary. Fuck.
Lysander stares down at himself, at the boots of his Mk II armour wrapped around his meaty calves. He’ll exhaust himself and look like a fool clomping around without them powered by the full suit. He can’t go out like this, but he has nothing else to wear. He’d never needed anything else until now, and shudders at the thought of wobbling his way down the halls in just his bodyglove. Like some indolent noble brat waddling to his next meal, gorging himself into a stupor while his fellows cheered him on. Ass naked, belly filled to bursting, drooling mindlessly into the hot, wet kisses of anyone near.
Such a sight was common in the Legion’s refectories, but still so foreign to Lysander. His brethren were all tithed from the Praelucentian elite, where baring their pale skin was a sign of social status, showing how wealthy they were to escape outdoor toil in the sun. They only ever clothed themselves to flaunt the artificers in their pockets, wearing exotic materials that took lifetimes to weave and the psychedelic sigils of their heraldry. Houses still mattered among the Iridiates, with many boasting aetherial tattoos in shifting nebulae across their skin. How powerful they were, how easily the Warp bent to their will, how dearly they wanted their Primarch to notice them…
Lysander was built different. In the underwater hives, clothing didn’t matter. They wore what their block-kin wore - to work, to sleep, to be airblasted by the abrasion showers until they were nice and clean. Fine motor skills mattered. Compliance metrics mattered. Nobody looked at each other’s faces enough to give a damn about their appearance. They all knew their unitas by the sigil-scars on their foreheads, the patches on their uniforms and the nightmares after their kin ended up in the corpse starch. That was enough.
Looking down at his overgrown body makes him sick. He looks like one of them, the sunsoaked surface-dwellers who comprised almost the entire Legion. The pasty preening fops he was supposed to consider his brothers. He had lived four years among the elite before the Trials, and the things he had seen in the Terenus estate still haunted him. The aristocracy bore a callous disregard for life that well exceeded inhumanity. Only through the Iridiates’ psycho-indoctrination were they turned into reasonably compassionate Astartes, forced to face the truth of their so-called ‘culture’.
Not even the Emperor could stop them from stuffing their faces and flaunting their meat at all hours of the day, though. They all looked mostly the same, tall, curvy and lush. Lysander isn’t one of them. His kind are raw, honed muscle and whip-crack reflexes in every fast-twitch fiber. He is what an Astartes should be. At least, he used to be.
Shifting his weight in discomfort, Lysander bares his teeth at the way his belly jiggles. His glove audibly squeaks from the thickness of his thighs rubbing together, and those damned mounds on his chest are actually swaying until he grabs one and forces it still.
This shouldn’t have happened. He’d been good, he’d eaten his nutrient paste, stuck to his drills, beat the shit out of anyone brave enough to face him in the training cages – he’d done everything a proper Astartes should. He’d done all the things his brothers didn’t even remember after the Chaplains brainwashed them at the tail end of the Trials. He remembered. The Imperial Truth mattered to him, even if no-one else cared.
He is still Primus, chosen by the Primarch’s own hand to lead a cotton candy Legion of fairy-brained cocksuckers. Receiving his Mk II plate after graduating from Scout had been the greatest honour of his life. It’s a standard-issue model, made to fit the generic Astartes template. That, of all things, is what Lysander fixates on as he commands the armory to peel him out of his boots.
Shame shrouds him with every slow, unsure tilt of the mechadendrites around his girth. He’ll have the Apothecary shave him down to the most basic-ass space marine a Legion could want. Hard muscle. Sharp planes. None of this… looking like a soft little bitch suited for cushions instead of combat. He is Primus. He knows how to suffer. He is better than them.
He certainly doesn’t feel it with the eyes on him as he storms through the Invictus on his way to the nearest medbay. Hundreds of minds bounce off his shields probing, questioning a million different things he doesn’t care to hear. Fuck them and their curiosity. He’s there to do his duty, not be gawked at. He’s above their game and holds his head high, shoulders squared, heedless of how the defiant thrust of his chest makes his tits ever more prominent.
By the time he reaches the medbay, his bodyglove has betrayed him. The reinforced polymer was designed for the violence of combat, not this kind of biological disaster. The seams along his sides are pulling apart, stitching popping thread by thread with soft flicks that echo in the corridor. The mesh is stretched so thin across his chest it's gone translucent and his nipples are on full display, the fat pink nubs pushing out from great internal pressure.
They’re… leaking. Not much, just enough to create two dark spots spreading across the slick grey weave, wet and obvious and absolutely humiliating. His stockpiled aethers had to go somewhere, and the Iridiate geneseed leaned towards lactation as a perfectly reasonable solution. He doesn’t even know it’s happening. He’s too busy looking through the Apothecarion’s schedule via his MIU, numbers and faces scrolling behind his eyes. He needs someone experienced. Someone professional. Someone with more brain than syrup in their skull.
They’re two kilometers away in another sector of the ship, and he isn’t about to teleport with his thoughts so scattered. Fuck it, he’ll walk. He needs the exercise, anyway.
The stares multiply. His gut’s hanging over the waistband of his leggings now, baring a solid roll of pale flesh that jiggles and quakes under the force of his stride. It’s covered in fresh stretch marks born of warp excess, pink lightning streaked across white refusing to heal as the energy pushes its way through his skin. Lysander straightens his posture again and his glove rides up all the way, making his pale stomach look even more pronounced.
There are too many eyes on him to tug it down. Somehow, it feels like deflecting his brothers’ psychic probes is ramping up his metabolism, drawing even more energy in as a natural defence. He walks faster. A strange tingling that isn’t lactic acid burns in his legs.
His thighs have always rubbed together but now actual fat, dimpled and soft, forces his gait wider. His leggings are audibly groaning as they triey to contain thighs that have packed on at least a hundred pounds each in the past few months. His ass is no better, jutting out an arm’s length behind him like he’s presenting how far he could strain his physique to the absolute limit.
He looks like one of those pleasure-serfs the aristocracy kept fattened and soft and built for use rather than war. Like Lucien, before the Emperor found him. Lysander had done everything right but still the damn geneseed betrayed him – his discipline didn’t mean shit when he had the warp-touched organs of a galaxy-scaled whore. He might as well be Lucien for the way his brothers are staring at him. The whole Legion’s watching him waddling through the Invictus with his tits leaking and his ass bouncing and his belly hanging out like-
A Scout from another Chapter passes him in the corridor and their eyes widen. Their mind brushes his shields with hunger, with interest, and Lysander hisses.
“Fuck off.”
They skitter off immediately, but turn to watch as another seam gives up. This one along his right hip, splitting open with a rip that exposes pale flesh beneath. Lysander just grits his teeth and keeps walking, one hand unconsciously coming up to press against his chest, trying to stop the bouncing, to maintain some shred of dignity.
The medbay doors are ahead, open in welcome, and it’s then that the chest panel of his glove explodes.
*SHRRRRRIP!*
His heavy tits spill out in two wet slaps against his gut, pale and sweat slick. They’re absolutely fucking huge, bouncing freely with bright blue veins glowing from the strain within. His stiff nipples are leaking steady drips of aether-rich milk, squirting fresh streams as those fat knockers collide with his belly. Lysander can only clutch them uselessly as he barrels through the medbay doors, his face burning hot enough to melt ceramite.
His back is turned, his face to the wall when the Apothecary approaches him.
“My dear Primus!” Nipharia is one of their elder biomancers, his power palpable in the sterile air. “I was wondering who’d cleared my schedule for the day.”
Lysander just grunts. He doesn’t want anyone walking in on them, no matter how open the Iridiates are with their bodies. He’s not open with his, and scrunches his arms into a tighter cross. He mutters something Nipharia doesn’t quite hear.
“Come, come, tell me what you’re in for. You know I’ll look after you, sweetheart. So? How’ve you been? It’s been wonderful not having to go off slaughtering things planetside, hasn’t it?”
Lysander’s face crumples in the shadow of his shame. He’d forgotten how closely Nipharia adhered to Lucien’s philosophies. He glances sideways and expects something like Lucien’s aura, only feeling a slight warmth through his trembling psychic shields. He lowers them minutely and the warmth only intensifies. No hypnotic sugarfluff pull. Nipharia doesn’t need anything like that to take his breath away.
The Apothecary is dressed like most of their noble-born brothers, in nothing a hiver would consider decent. Wispy silks cradle his full, heavy breasts in scant crescents that are more garnish than support. All four teats are puffy and swollen, ready to let down his particular brand of sedation that Lysander wants nothing to do with. Pillowy soft limbs drift in coy, idle patterns, jewelled chains dripping along bare forearms, a generous belly and truly enormous thighs. The slight shimmer in the air around his wide hips suggests the Warp is helping him hold all that sweet pudding up from melting entirely.
Nipharia had taken after their gene-father well indeed.
Lysander doesn’t find it comforting. “I’m here for tissue realignment.” he says tersely, moving to the wall-mounted armor station where servo-arms try to help him out of his glove.
Nipharia listens with mild amusement as Lysander bats the arms away. A touch of concern soaks his gentle aura heavier when the Primus starts tearing the fabric off, energy rippling through his musculature with the force of his fury.
The moment Lysander turns back around and stands still, Nipharia’s sixth sense notices the calorie-dense tissue accumulating on his frame. He’s actively growing softer, the helices of his DNA spiraling free of corruption, and he isn’t even digesting any food. The Primus’s body was just so saturated with stress – cortisol, mostly – that it was reaching into the Warp for energy, thinking itself in danger.
“Aww,” Nipharia coos, clasping his lower set of hands under his bust in prayer. “Look at you. All soft and swollen. Poor thing. Has it been like this for awhile?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lysander snaps, still with his arms crossed over his chest. The milk trickles through the seam of his hairless forearms and paints his skin in iridescent streams.
The Apothecary's hand comes up to touch his bicep, lightly squeezing. His psychic presence is a delicate thing, pushing gently at Lysander’s shields with maternal warmth. "Hey, now… it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” His tone softens even further, the way one praises a week-old kitten for learning how to stand. “It’s okay, I'm here. You can talk to me.”
Nipharia’s breathy assurances only serve to fluster Lysander further. He doesn’t deserve this kindness. Or… any of this, whatever it is. He’s an Astartes. They cut him open so many times as a child he can’t even remember. This isn’t something he needs to be coddled through. “Tissue realignment. Too much on me. Put it somewhere else, get it off me.”
“Mm…” Nipharia strokes down his arm to brush his knuckles against Lysander’s chest. Still dripping, still full enough to almost eclipse his own. Lysander flinches, and the Apothecary clicks his tongue. “Sensitive, aren’t they? Please, let me.”
The veil over Nipharia’s face obscures his scarred eye sockets, where he had blinded himself after seeing their Primarch for the first time. Instead of eye contact, he offers a psychic touch at the very edge of Lysander’s shields. “We don’t have to talk,” he whispers. “Let me know you, and I shall help.”
Lysander scrunches his eyes shut, and a tremor runs through his broad frame. Slowly, his arms lower, along with his shields. The medbay’s doors slide shut, enveloping them in darkness warmed by dim lumens in shifting coral hues. With his shields down, Lysander immediately feels they’re the only ones here. Nipharia’s presence shines ahead, bright as a phosphorescent lure dangling in the deep sea.
His mind latches onto it for want of stimuli, and allows communion. The Apothecary’s touch glides through his mind like anemone waving through gentle currents. Nipharia is experienced enough to have a solid blanket over the sting of his power, but Lysander still feels his vast aetheric reservoir thrumming with vitality. Through his warpsight, he sees it concentrated in Nipharia’s four full breasts, each bearing sweet ambrosia for some purpose he can only wonder at.
Nipharia observes him just the same, at the desperate influx of energy his cells are sucking in, trying to protect his body from a threat that isn’t there. The Primus wasn’t built for idleness, and without a war to fight, his energies are eating him alive. Nipharia sighs through his skull, an ocean breeze clearing the dark, sticky loathing from his mind.
+Oh, my darling… don’t you worry about any of that. Your body’s only doing its best to keep you safe.+
The Apothecary’s hands drop to Lysander’s chest, cupping the heavy weight of his tits with practiced ease. They squeeze, and milk sprays out in pressurized streams spattering across his belly, his silks, his own nipples beading sympathetically in response.
"Nnnngh-" The sound escapes Lysander before he can stop it, half-groan, half-whimper. His nipples are so fucking sensitive, overfull and aching, and having someone touch them…
"There's my good boy," Nipharia purrs, thumbs circling the stiff peaks. "So tender. Look how much milk you're making. It’s a perfectly normal stress response, you haven’t done anything wrong.”
Lysander’s lashes flutter, and he opens his crimson eyes. Tiny white pinpricks dance in fractal patterns around his irises, his pupils glowing subtly. His breath comes just a touch faster and he hates it. Rage blots his speech into a guttural snarl, but it’s gone a moment later, washed away in a rich, dark tide.
+Shhh shh shh… I see it now, the way your body flows.+ Nipharia steps back, giving Lysander the mental and physical space he needs to collect himself. It takes quite a while for the Primus to put a sentence together. His nipples continue to leak, hot knots coiling in his gut.
“How… is this going to work?”
“Well,” Nipharia starts, tapping a manicured finger to his violet painted lips, “I know just how to relax you for the procedure… it’s quite standard, really.”
Lysander wants no part of anything the Iridiates consider standard. “Just cut me open. Rather that than you sucking my brains out through my cock.”
Nipharia laughs lightly. “Well, you’re in the wrong legion for that, my love.” He takes another look at Lysander’s chest, tilting his head. “Even so, I do have protocol to adhere to. Just a few questions. Sweet one, what precisely is the issue with these lovely little things?”
Lysander flushes, much too embarrassed to admit his tits are too big, just like the rest of him. “The… excess tissue interferes with my armour. The ports… won’t interface.”
‘Liar,’ his own voice snarks at him. ‘You can’t even get your breastplate on for the connections in the first place, you fat fuck.’
Lysander sniffles. “Just… shape me to the standard template.”
“Your metrics are well within our template, brother.” Nipharia’s senses rove from his fat tits to his generous belly, then lower to his enormously wide thighs. Lysander feels his empyrean touch penetrating the tissue, coiling through stacks upon stacks of buttery soft blubber. He clenches his jaw.
“Just… get rid of all this.”
“Why? It is your defense against the Warp when all else fails.”
“Our cousins fight just fine without it.” Lysander snarls.
“They also die much easier,” Nipharia purrs. “Our geneseed’s gifts are unique among the Legiones. If you would but lean into them, as I have, your spirit will be all the better.”
Lysander looks at him. Really, truly looks at the painfully gorgeous masterpiece of transhuman physiology stood before him.
Nipharia’s ports are artfully placed where they need to be, at the apex of his pectorals, below his sternum and in all other places where muscle and bone connect. Every other square inch of him is utterly dripping with excess. Lush, thick rolls spill from his belly over wide breeding hips, where each thighs eclipses the breadth of Lysander’s shoulders. Four strong arms drape in elegance from his strong frame, moving in delicate union as a conductor might send a symphony soaring to the heavens.
His breasts are a thing of legend throughout the Legion. A new flavour of sedative every week for anyone who needed some extra special care. Lysander had passed it off as baseless rumour from a Legion that was constantly tripping balls. But he can smell something unique rising from the warmth of Nipharia’s chest, and it pulls him with a yearning to plant his face in there.
The Apothecary’s gold-trimmed veil connects to a series of rings, each sectioned around the long single coil of his nacreous hair. It reaches down to his waist, neat as can be. Lysander doesn’t feel anything like attraction in the sexual sense for anyone, but looks at Nipharia the same way he observes the sea.
He sees the beauty of nature, and is comforted to the depths of his core. He doesn’t even question it. Nipharia smiles, and gestures for him to lay on the nearby couch.
“Come… the table is much too cold, I think.”
“Like I care about that…” Lysander mutters, drifting over to the conveniently located lounger. “You’re not going to fuck me, alright? I know that’s how you lot do it with everyone else, but…” He trails off, expecting to be interrupted and reassured. Nipharia just listens, waiting patiently. His aethers don’t even spike in annoyance.
Lysander sits himself down, blinking rapidly to dispel the shameful heat in his chest. His tits melt over his belly, sticking to his skin, and he just flushes harder. “I should- give me some undergarments.”
“Nonsense.” Nipharia sinks into the couch beside him, lightly arranging him in a nest of cushions. He manhandles the Primus with such ease Lysander almost doesn’t notice. He feels like a feather falling into a lake, and there he floats upon the surface, unsure of what next to do.
Nipharia’s senses sweep over him again, more for pleasure than diagnosis. Having been in Lysander’s mind, he understands his brother’s misgivings about his form. It isn’t Nipharia’s place to convince him otherwise. Just to help him become his best self, in the kindest way possible. “Now…” he sighs, reaching out to stroke Lysander’s heavy, doughy stomach. His fingers curl around the side where it pools over the couch and he jiggles it in one palm, another hand squeezing Lysander’s thigh. Yet another goes to his breast, rolling a thumb past an instantly peaked nipple. His upper right arm just drapes over the backrest, letting him loom over his patient.
Lysander dimly realizes the lighting is meant to imitate the deep sea biospheres, the ones visited by the nobility for pleasure and curiosity. Nipharia probably thought that was what life looked like in the Hives, and had tuned the medbay precisely for his comfort. Plain steel walls and some chargrilled rats would’ve been more effective, but Lysander isn’t going to complain. The solid wall of meat above him with those huge, hanging breasts swelling near spherical with sweetness… that demands almost every braincell he has left.
“A little sedation for my darling,” Nipharia coos, shifting a little closer until his belly melts over Lysander’s and one thick pink nipple hovers by his mouth. “No pain.”
Lysander eyes it warily despite the flush at his cheeks. “Do… you not have needles? Ketamine?”
Nipharia titters. “Now now. Biomancy requires sedation of the spirit as well as the flesh.” He pinches his nipple, squirting a glossy stream across Lysander’s lips. They pucker inward instantly. “I have sherbet, vanilla, honey, fentanyl…”
Lysander doesn’t know what any of those are. Nipharia knows this, of course, and had tactically aligned his flavours to be nice, new taste sensations to keep his patient distracted. When the flavour seeps through Lysander’s pursed lips, his jaw works like he’s trying to convince himself it isn’t food.
+That one’s sherbet, sweet one. Do you like it?+
A psychic grumbling prickles at Nipharia in response. Lysander sighs. “How long will it take?”
“Twelve hours.”
“That’s too long.”
“The humours need time to settle, darling. Besides. The legion can survive without their Primus for a little while…” Nipharia leans down just a little further, leaving his nipple to brush Lysander’s lips while his hand glides down the Primus’s flushed throat. Into his cleavage, tracing the spidery blue veins.
Lysander shudders. “D-don’t feel them…”
“Don’t feel what, mm?”
“M-my- mmPH!” An instinctual pull of his mouth draws thick, sweet milk onto his tongue and he gulps it down without a second thought. Again. And again. His cheeks bulge with it before he realizes what he’s doing, but when he looks up at Nipharia to place blame on the Apothecary for making him do this… only soothing kindness warms his brother’s aura.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Nipharia breathes. “You’re doing well.” A hand cradles Lysander’s face, angling him a few degrees into even greater comfort. Warmth spikes between Lysander’s bare thighs; he doesn’t know what it is, but Nipharia just smiles. His tongue laves his darkly painted lips. Lysander drinks again, averting his gaze at a particularly noisy suck, and slowly, his lashes slip shut.
+There’s my good boy… awww… you’ve really needed this, haven’t you?+
His mouth just automatically keeps tugging at the Apothecary’s thick teat, tongue laving at it, hands wanting to rise but hanging leaden by his sides.
+Shh, baby… you don’t have to do anything. Let me look after you. We’re going to make you nice and well again. Alllll well…+
Nipharia’s mind-voice is lilting now, every vowel drawn long, loving, luxurious. He isn’t doing anything yet, just feeding him, occasionally one of his many arms shifts to stroke down Lysander’s side or massage his softness.
+Yes… how lovely you are. There’s only good things here. You… and I. Your body… strong, perfect, yours.+
A corner of Lysander’s mind wonders why the sedative isn’t working. He’s still conscious, he can still hear Nipharia’s sweet crooning he’s somehow starting to believe. Was it even a sedative, or just some flavour of mindbending serum like every other Iridiate probably carried- oh, oh no, he’s…
+This one’s vanilla. Can you say, va-ni-lla~?+
Nipharia presses a gentle kiss to the fears in his skull, bleeding them away to nothing. It’s not like Lucien’s blindingly sugary touch. Lysander barely feels it, his thoughts fragmenting like ice broken over hot water. Melting… so slowly, into pure, sweet serenity.
The subtle pleasure of feeding blurs into something transcendent when Nipharia begins to work. It starts as a tingling in his chest, an odd kind of suction matching the rhythmic pull of his mouth. Nipharia leans in just a little bit more, the heavy meat of his breast wobbling to smother Lysander’s third eye. He can just breathe, whimpering and moaning out little huffs through his nose, and they pitch a tad higher as something milks his tits.
Suction cups drain him from veiny straining to pillowy softness, taking long, sweet minutes that feel like heavenly eternity the more he drinks.
+No pain,+ Nipharia’s ethereal voice drifts through his mind. +Drink, drink. My greedy little love, you just can’t get enough, mm?+
His stomach is starting to feel tight, the organ expanding to accommodate the sheer volume of sedative milk. But the Apothecary doesn't let up, just keeps feeding him, praising him in that syrupy voice. Lysander tries to open one eye, seeing only two enormous, heavy globes that hang pendulous and swollen, veins pulsing pink. So huge they’re occluding the others, nipples thick and glowing, leaking iridescent milk he wants to taste now, even as his belly starts to groan.
+It works from within, so you need to drink it all, okay? My special boy can handle it. My darling Primus. We love you so much…+
Lysander never had a mother, or anything remotely close to Nipharia’s tenderness. His body responds on instinct alone, drinking more and more with the blind gluttony of a brand-new being that had not yet learned pain. Nipharia idly gropes his stomach, feeling it bloating out at the sides now, so heavily laden it’s stretching far beyond its limits. Four liters turns into five, five strains him well into six. His gut’s already spherical, rock hard with the pressure of his gorging, but Nipharia just keeps feeding him more.
The sedatives are so thinly concentrated that Lysander can’t truly fall unconscious without the full dose. The more of Nipharia’s essence in his body, the better the Apothecary can feel his way through Lysander’s biology. It was much easier to work biomancy through the cells and have the excess energy sweated out through the skin. Much kinder to the spirit. Anything could be done through the Warp, in that immaterial space where reality’s bounds mattered not. But Nipharia preferred to work in loving synergy with the body, to prevent dissociative shock and unwanted mutations. He convinces the body of equilibrium even as he manipulates it with his mind.
Lysander doesn’t even know what planet he’s on. He grunts and huffs his way through every flavour of Nipharia’s fat teats, his whole body tingling now as four hands glide their way around him. Massaging their will into the fiber of his being and molding him into something lovely. He has no concept of judgement or even self anymore. His belly is full to bursting, he’s sucking and sucking and sucking, and his cock’s so hard despite already having cum ten or so times into the meat of Nipharia’s thighs. He’s an absolute mess, fully under the Apothecary’s spell, cradled in four loving arms as time ticks away.
The sedatives concentrate towards the end of his feeding. Nipharia can tell he’s too full to move, with some ten liters of milk weighing him heavy and boneless. His digestion gurgles in a futile attempt to work through it all, genhanced metabolism routing extra healing to his changed flesh. His own drained milk sits in two heart-shaped bottles on the counter nearby. A gift for when he wakes. He’ll return to Nipharia if a sip of that delicious essence plumps him up into production again.
The final gulps have Lysander’s thin lips slackened and drooling. Twelve hours of rest. He doesn’t need that many, but Nipharia knows the pain in his psyche, his soul, and wants to give his body a blessed reprieve from it. To regulate all the stress hormones it was far too accustomed to producing en masse.
+Rest, sweet one…+ Nipharia whispers, cuddling up to Lysander after ensuring his belly is properly supported. He looks well beyond pregnant, and he’ll have to piss like hell when he wakes up, but Nipharia will be there to help him with that too. By that time, he’ll be able to fit into his armour, maybe with a few tactical kilos left on him just in case.
After all, there was always another battle around the corner, be it with xenos, politics or his waistline. Nipharia has a feeling Lysander’s going to be seeing him a lot more often for the latter…