Forty Thousand Dicks

BY : Forty-thousand Dicks
Category: +S through Z > Warhammer 40,000
Dragon prints: 9909
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to WH40K. I am making no money from this. This is a work of fiction.

Beneath an empty and baleful sky, two Assassins plotted murder.

“We will need to be swift,” whispered the taller of the two, a Vindicare operative designated LXIII. “The Exodites must not have time to mobilize a defense.”

Beside him, a glinting death's-head nodded slowly. The Eversor assassin had not been designated – or, at least, his designation had not been made known to LXIII. That was of no consequence; names and numbers were a tool for bureaucrats, nothing more. All that mattered was that the skull-faced killer would spring into action when the Vindicare uttered a specific command phrase. He hoped that this would be unnecessary – the other Assassin would only be needed if he missed his shot.

Peering through the scope of his Exitus rifle, the sniper watched his target, a powerful Dark Eldar witch, directing his followers in the foul ritual that would surely bring all manner of ruin into the galaxy. Surrounded by his armored troops and nubile slaves (all of them male, the Assassin noted, with some distaste), the xeno was largely obscured. Though his rocky perch afforded a good vantage point, LXIII knew that even he could not reliably deliver a kill-shot at a distance of over two thousand meters – not without a completely unobstructed view of the mark. He chose to wait.

As LXIII watched, the Eldar divested themselves of what little clothing they had, standing naked – save for their strange, alien jewelry – in a ring, with their leader at its center. They slowly drew together, pressing their bodies together in a bizarrely hedonistic display, until they seemed little more than a writhing tangle of limbs and flesh. The Assassin's eyes narrowed as he tried to pick out his target's distinctive headpiece.

The xenos crawled over one another with abandon, all moist tongues and groping hands, as they began choosing their partners and coupling like animals. The Vindicare sniper bore silent witness to the abominable sins perpetrated by the wicked aliens, as they groaned and wailed with such passion that he could hear them quite clearly. Through it all, LXIII continued to scan over the mass of bodies with his scope, stolidly ignoring the profusion of penetrated sphincters and stretched cheeks that presented themselves to him.

After a scant few minutes, the Assassin became aware of a strange tension in the air. His heart raced, his vision blurred, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. LXIII deliberated, briefly, then came to a conclusion: he could not afford to risk failure. If he could not rely on a single, accurate shot to destroy the witch, he would have to try to disrupt the ritual in any way possible, then track his mark down at a later time. Turning to the dormant Eversor beside him, LXIII whispered, “Our sins are cleansed by the blood of Man's enemies.”

The other Assassin instantly straightened up and turned to look at LXIII. As their eyes met, the sniper's breath caught in his throat, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Alarmed, the Vindicare opened his mouth to order the attack, but found that he could not speak – a strange tension, a yearning almost, had robbed him of his voice. Without fully understanding why, he reached out a trembling hand to touch his brother-in-arms.

Their minds addled by the maelstrom of psychic energy unleashed by the xenos ritual, the two Assassins drew together and ran their hands over one anothers' bodies, spellbound. Though LXIII struggled against himself, he could not resist the bizarre urges playing merry in his thoughts, and he drew his mask aside as he leaned toward the other killer.

Lips met bleached-white bone as he kissed the Eversor's mask, desperate moans escaping his throat as he did so. The sniper gasped once as he felt his partner's inhumanly strong hands slide down his back and grasp at his buttocks, then again as he was gently but inexorably turned around. Shaking with fear and desire, the sniper stared over his shoulder as the unnamed Assassin roughly tore out the seat of his stealth suit, then ripped apart his own armoured codpiece – and with such ease! - to reveal his impressive manhood.

“Please,” whispered LXIII, though he had no idea what he was begging for. “Please.”

The Eversor held the Vindicare's hips with surprising gentleness as he pressed his pride against the taller man's rear. Trembling with barely-controlled power, the drug-fuelled warrior pushed forward, softly at first, but with increasing urgency. A strangled yelp of mingled pain and relief leapt from LXIII's lips as he felt the other Assassin penetrate him, followed by short, moaning sobs as he was firmly pulled back onto the invading member.

When the sniper was fully impaled, the Eversor began to fuck him in earnest, filling his ass completely with long, slow strokes. Overwhelmed by emotions he'd long since forgotten, LXIII wept; but even as he wept, overcome by shame and fear, lust and desire, he rocked his lean, toned body against the stronger Assassin, mouth hanging open as he surrendered to the pleasure raging through his veins. With a stab of shame – and an accompanying surge of arousal – LXIII realized that he was as hard as a rock.

The skull-masked warrior steadily increased the tempo of his thrusts, ramming the groaning sniper harder and harder, until his superhuman body was nearly a blur. Delirious, the Vindicare grunted like an animal with each bone-jarring thrust, gritting his teeth as he neared glorious release.

Finally, the Eversor hilted himself in LXIII's ass, spilling a load of hot, sticky seed into his bowels. Crying out, the sniper felt his body tighten and his toes curl as he came, shooting ropes of pearly white essence into the stone beneath him. They remained locked together for what seemed like an eternity, blissfully serene in the throes of their heretical love, before a tiny voice of reason made itself known within LXIII's subconscious.

“The ritual!” gasped the sniper, still panting from exertion. He reached out and seized his rifle, then, balancing on his elbows – the Eversor still hadn't pulled out, let alone released LXIII's hips – he carefully took aim. For the briefest instant, he caught sight of the xenos witch in the center of the maelstrom of sexual abandon. The alien had warped into an abominable parody of the perfect body of Man, a nightmarish, hermaphroditic creature – a servant of Slaanesh!

With a prayer to the Emperor on his lips, LXIII fired the most difficult, most unlikely, and most important shot of his life.

Amidst the writhing Eldar below, the life of an insane witch, along with all of his plans to become the chosen avatar of Slaanesh, were unceremoniously snuffed out. Without him, the ritual immediately went disastrously wrong. Psychic waves of eroticism lashed out in all directions, causing the assembled Eldar to cry out with one voice as they all ejaculated, showering themselves and one another with their issue. The Eversor suddenly became hard again and began to hammer LXIII's sore asshole with renewed abandon, even as the sniper's eyes rolled back into his head with the renewed intensity of his arousal.

All over the galaxy, webway gates began to collapse. A great cataclysm had been unleashed, and the stars themselves would be forever changed by it.

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