#I'm a serf on the surf

[goatsmell]

From the Kids Menu

“That bald bastard Charlie Brown Has alopecia, don’t you know?” I tell the spider plant nodding At the dark past the window

I feel delicate lately My usual hide is thin In too many places My patience is short With darn near everything Sharpening up on shit That don’t work right

I eat very little I tire quickly My back hurts My thumbs hurt When I type, so I’ve taken up moaning But I need more consonants Than vowels these days

Brother, could You spare some change?

I should’ve had something Other than corn chips for dinner With salsa and sour cream Dipped in honey at the end But that’s the way we likes it That’s how we finish the dance

I’ll see you again in bright morn In a crap roughly the size of Kentucky Launching into life after an espresso Coaxes out my brown baby baguette A nuclear submarine easing into Police action into the Baltic Sea

This is Our maiden voyage, my friends We will Make our nations proud

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

I voted for Sevatar because I thought "Luna, you love Perturabo too TOO much. You need to stop. Plus you like Jago, it's interesting to read about him." And then I see how this work comes out and I just start with joy:

I LOVE THESE POSTS! I love how Perturabo first tries to distract himself with a naked Dorn (mmm, Dorn ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ) and then resigns himself and vents to the poor serf. Oh my god, I'm not a fan of bukakke, but why is this so enjoyable to read? Besides, this is definitely a Perty Turbo thing, but I'm so shy about it. While you just write a great smut. Sensei 🙇

I also really like how surf really explains in great detail why Perturabo is the best. To be honest, I myself would be excited by such praise. Although not as much as the Iron Lord, he was completely blown away.

And yes, yes, I love how if Perturabo is absolutely happy that he finally has a girlfriend (coercion/power imbalance = willingly agreeing). While surfing seems to be living a better life, on the other hand, what a horror.

First, his absolute obsession with her. I really liked that in addition to the fact that he constantly said “You are mine,” his voice changed at these moments. And it sounded more like a war machine. In principle, I love when there is always a hint that at such moments the inhuman side of the primarchs awakens and they resemble monsters from the Warp.

And even the way he awkwardly leaned down to lick her neck, the comment “split you open” and how he sniggered. Uff.

And yes, Perturabo is one of those guys who just needs to look at your tits before having sex. And of course of course he will tear your clothes. You'll get a new one later, don't complain. Just let him decorate your beautiful breasts.

In fact, it’s understandable why he not only cums on the reader, but also engages in oral sex in the first place. This is the best way to coerce and show power over a person. The moment with the jaw really scared me. I didn't even understand what happened. It’s good that the reader’s jaw didn’t fall off and hang like a doll’s. But it was still so disturbing to read how she was in pain, and her throat was mercilessly used (the comment about how her throat would no longer be normal since it was turned into a cokesleeve was especially good). Very, very tasty.

It also makes me laugh that he forgot to feed her (lol) and he doesn’t care that the reader is so dirty. SHE'S NOT DIRTY, A PRIMARCH'S SPERM IS SACRED AND EVERYONE SHOULD KNOW WHO SHE BELONGES." And the fact that he likes her "renewed smell"…. God, this is so hilarious, just like the fact that this all started.

But the best part was the photo scene. My jaw dropped. Perturabo, you're a bastard. It’s partly cute, of course (kind of, given the situation the reader finds herself in), that he keeps her photos for himself. But given the state she's in… what a monumental pervert.

I would re-read this post forever.

a great kindness done

this is a sequel to the fic words rarely spoken but you don’t need to have read that to understand this. the only background is that the POV character is a serf who said one nice thing around peturabo, who responded — calmly and rationally — by dragging her off and jerking off onto her face. @moodymisty hope this is okay I wrote it in one go and couldn’t be bothered to proof read it so it’s not my finest work 😅

cw: power imbalance, dubcon in that no one reallyyyy gets the chance to say no.

—

—

It was not the Men of Iron who felled the corrupt government that held dominion over your planet, but the yellow-clad Imperial Fists, led by their father Dorn — and yet it was the Iron Warriors who rebuilt afterwards, smelted ore from the. cavernous depths of the planet, built barracks and cities and factories, and it is the reconstruction that matters more. Anyone can siege — it takes real talent to build —

“No,” Perturabo says, tearing your dress open with one flick of his wrists, your breasts spilling free. He kicks the door to his quarters closed, hard enough to dent the durasteel. “No, it’s — hard to siege —“

“Of course my lord,” you stammer, rewriting your internal script. “I’m so stupid, please forgive me —“

“Not stupid,” he growls. “Just human, foolish — “

He lifts you up with one hand, effortlessly strong, palm large enough to almost cover your entire arse as his fingers bite into the meat of your thighs. With his free hand, he fumbles at his armour; removing the entire suit would take time, and the assistance of the Iron Circle (he allows no serf near his armour), but he’s in a hurry, and so only bothers with his codpiece. It clatters to the floor with an uncharacteristic lack of care. You imagine the machine spirit within fuming at the ill-treatment.

“—sieging is hard, and rebuilding as well, and the people who hail the Fists are — are misguided, silly little children with shiny trinkets and —“

You don’t get any further into your mollifying speech; Peturabo’s tongue fills your mouth. He doesn’t kiss so much as attempt to lick your skill clean from the inside, his gauntleted hand biting bruises into your buttocks.

“You’re mine,” he says, pulling away. A strand of saliva stretches between his mouth and yours.

“Always,” you say, privately wondering what his reaction would have been had you done more than simply thank the Imperial Fist. For that is what set this whole affair off — all you did was smile, and thank the Astartes, because he had held a door for you. That was that. And here you are.

“Mine,” he growls, again, his voice slipping lower, into a register that sounds more chainsword than human. It frightens you on an instinctive, primal level — like standing before the merciless churning of a great furnace, and knowing that should you fall in, even your bones would be reduced to ash.

“Yours,” you echo. “All yours.”

It has been barely three weeks since the start of your — well, relationship is a strong word for what amounts to kidnap and a permanent assignment to Perturabo’s service. Rather: a permanent assignment to service Perturabo. The work is certainly easier than your previous role — cleaning, some mending, plenty of time on your back — but although the rations are better, you do wish that some of them were not routinely painted across your tits.

“Yes,” he says, and buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. His forehead crumples, as he huffs annoyance. “You smell wrong.”

“I’m — I’m sorry —“

You can’t help your gibbering apologies, even though you know it irks him when you show any outward sign of fear (“I’m not going to hurt you, you foolish little whore,” he once thundered, in a surprisingly unsuccessful attempt at comfort).

“No. Not your fault. Mine.”

He drops you onto his bed, standing before you, his cock level with your face. He strokes himself — once, twice — then shoves it towards your mouth. It bumps against your slack lips, and he grunts in frustration.

“Open. Now.”

You let your tongue loll out, slurping around his prick; he likes it when you’re messy and wet, drinking him down like he’s the only nourishment you’ll ever receive. For the first three days, you had thought this the case, until you realised that no, he’d just forgotten how often humans were meant to eat — he wasn’t planning to force you to subsist on a diet of Primarch ejaculate.

He rubs his length over your face, almost poking you in the eye a few times, deliberately working his pre-cum into your hair. He likes that as well: leaving you covered in the remnants of his pleasure, often refusing to allow you to wash it off afterwards. You keep your mouth open, like a mindless hole for him to grind against and spill inside.

“Not enough,” he mumbles, and catches your jaw with his index finger and thumb. “Need to be inside — this will hurt.”

You don’t have time to protest, or even ask what he means. He pulls smartly down, forcing your jaw open, and something clicks. Pain streaks up to your ears, and suddenly you can open wide enough to accommodate his cock. He moans satisfaction, and forces himself deeper into your throat, heedless of the scrape of your blunt, human teeth. Your body starts to panic at the lack of air; you want to pull away but you can’t; you want to breathe, but you can only manage strangled sips through your nose, and hurking gasps through a jaw that feels fucking dislocated —

And then it is over, and Perturabo pulls out, and the dark wings of terror beat a little softer. Drool drips from your abused mouth; your eyes stream. You want to ask him what the hell was that, what — and before you can think how to form the words he’s pushed in again, his fingers holding your mouth open, one hand cupping the back of your head to angle you to his liking. It takes him a few bruising thrusts to the roof of your mouth before he gets it quite right, and slides down your gullet in an implacable surge.

He continues like this for long enough that you lose track of time: your world reduced to the thick, sloppy sounds of him fucking your throat; the pain in your jaw; the slap of his balls up against your chin; the smell of him, like gunpowder and hot steel and something else, something completely inhuman. He takes you to the verge of blacking out — your vision blurring, your thoughts growing disjointed — and then permits you a hard swoop of a breath, before pushing back in. When he does eventually cum, it’s as you breathe in — you end up inhaling some of his cum, coughing and sputtering up the last little bit of your dignity, along with a wad of white gunk.

“My — my lord —“ you gasp, trying to form words: give me a moment to breathe, let me rest —

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” There’s an edge to his voice now — needling and hungry. “You’re all mine.”

He wrenches you up by the hair, catches your jaw and feels along the sides. You’re as delicate as a bird next to him, and just as fragile.

“Nothing broken. You’ll be fine.”

“Yes my lord. Thank you my lord.”

He grunts irritably, and you scramble to think what you could possibly have said — and then it occurs to you. Thank you my lord. Exactly the words you’d spoken to the Imperial Fist.

Before you can think of a better way to convey your appreciation, Perturabo has shoved your face back into his groin, this time forcing your lips against his balls.

“Suck,” he says, and you do: rolling crinkly skin against your tongue, taking the warm weight of them in your open mouth. Perturabo, a man of few words at the best of times, directs your mouth back to his cock by dragging at your hair.

The second time he cums it is all over your face. You get a brief reprieve as he wrangles off some of his armour, enough that he can clamber onto the bed without his limbs being held to stiff attention.

Then he flips you onto your hands and knees, slots his cock against your cunt — you feel him snigger at your panicked clench — then slides himself to his more accustomed place: fucking between your bruised, tender thighs.

“One day soon,” he pants, as he thrusts, “I’m going to fill that tight cunt up.”

“Yes — please —“ you reply, exhausted and sticky and barely able to string the words together. “But let me prepare — first —“

He leans over your back, hunching awkwardly so he can lick at your neck, his breath humid in your ear.

“Yes — will split you open — split you open and fuck you full and everyone knows that you are mine —“

He flips you back over before he cums, milking his release onto your chest. You feel his cum starting to dry in your hair, cling to your skin; you feel absolutely disgusting. And yet Perturabo looks at you with a bizarre mix of hunger and tenderness. Like you are just the most precious thing he has had the privilege to own.

By the fourth time, you think he’s starting to calm down. The rest of his armour discarded, the Iron Circle tidying as discretely as war machines can, and he has you stroke him off with your sticky, trembling hands.

“Open,” he says, and you let your jaw hang slack, the hinges still aching. His release spills all down your front as you make a lacklustre attempt to swallow what catches on your tongue.

You don’t think your throat will ever work properly again. Maybe he’s ruined it entirely, shaping it into nothing more than a cocksleeve for his use.

The tenderness is back in his eyes as he lifts something up to your face. Too fucked out and bleary to register what it is, it’s the camera flash that alerts you to the pict he’s just taken.

“Hey!”

“Shhh. This is just for me. Just to see how pretty you are. Just to remind me.”

He strokes your hair, heedless of the cum drying in it, and inhales deeply, grinning at how thoroughly you smell of him. No one will ever mistake you for anything other than his.

“And no more thanking Imperial Fists, yes ?”

“Yes my lord,” you say.

[ladynighthaunter]

"Well, the first kidnapping attempt was by your father's fanatical worshipers. Seems they don't like the fact your wife has new thoughts and ideas about Him. I'm not sure about the other two. I SUSPECT it could be one of the other legions.... or something else.

Do you remember that Serf you killed? He was working for me. He killed the surf that was going to kill your wife. I would have done it myself but it was too out in the open. So I used a proxy. Thanks for covering my trail though."

Vien bulges on her head.

"I... But.... You....."

Sits back down and fumes, she is still dancing on strings it seems.

[nafcalbartrum]

Project redesign

After a lot of thinking I've came to the conclusion of not doing youth culture and Im going to do climate change. With me doing climate change I need to incorporate that into my game and to do that I'm going to make the city's where you use to skate be over grown or a desert or flooded or even just rubble. Everything is abandoned. You can fix up some cars and use them. Theres only settlements made from repurposed military bunkers but there is the EOTW Games where a select few get entered into the games where they either desert serf down a dune bigger than the biggest building in the world or mountain board in a cross-country. who ever wins gets the city as there own playground so they thought.

ON THE BACK OF THE GAME

NEVER THRASHED featuring Tony Hawk as the NARRATOR and Lee Ralp as Himself. NEVER THRASHED you. yes you, do you want to become the top of the world, well today is your lucky day in the year 4050 we are at the peak of the apocalypse. WHAT A LOVELY DAY TO BE ALIVE Thats what we all thought but we do have the EOTWG or the end of the world games where certain riders (thats you) risk there life to become the fastest person on any type of board. none of this flying crap but we do have the old trusty wheel, well 4 of them. You can surf, you can mountain board or you can even just use your trusty old skateboard. So yeah the worlds gone to pot BUT there you can always find something to do in the wasteland why dont you do something fun. I’m saying this like you have a choice, you dont your a prisoner all of you are and there is no GOOD LUCK.