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Calas has taken so well to the transformation. From everything Mortarion has learned, it's a brutal procedure, the more so with candidates on the cusp of manhood like his Death Guard youths were when they volunteered. But Calas is thriving, muscular now to match his resilience, tall and strong enough to wrap his arms around Mortarion's chest and rub his face against bare skin.
It feels good. That shouldn't matter. Mortarion is so used to stoicism, to things being as they must with no thought spared for indulgence. Used to everything from breath to victory taking place in tandem with suffering. But Calas rubs against him, entire strong new body engaged in the pursuit of sensation, and Mortarion holds on tight. Where he is lean and smooth skinned, Calas has become stocky and hairy all over, and it feels better than he ever would have expected.
When he leans back on the too-soft bed they pretend officially not to share, Calas kisses a path down his torso, stopping to bite sensually (and who would have thought that biting could be sensual?) anywhere that takes his fancy. Mortarion can be silent in the face of pain—he's learned that lesson thoroughly—but the pleasure Calas offers wrings from him sounds so intimate they might as well be confessions.
Calas' stubble scrapes the crease of his hip and Mortarion writhes, moaning. He spreads his legs wider, feeling wanton and exposed and wanting to embrace that experience. Calas hums his approval, settling down against the sheets, and bites the inside of Mortarion's thigh fondly before licking teasingly at his balls. Calas' hands slide up Mortarion's thighs, pushing them toward his chest, and he wraps his own hands around the backs of his thighs to hold them there, to hold himself open and available.
That earns him another hungry sound, before Calas' hot mouth presses against his hole. Mortarion's breath hitches as he feels Calas' lips part, and then the wet tease of the tongue pressing for entrance makes him moan raggedly. His cock twitches at the sheer taboo thrill as he tries to relax and let Calas' tongue penetrate him. It's wet and flexible and perversely, impossibly intimate; Mortarion is still not used to being fucked at all, much less like this, but Calas' desire for him is persistent and ravenous as a fever.
This touch, this worship, is too much to bear for long. His cock aches for touch, painfully neglected with Calas' tongue in his ass and nose nudging his balls. "Please," he gasps at last.
Calas moans and sits up, giving Mortarion a wicked, fox-faced smile. He licks his lips and leans back down, taking Mortarion's cock in his mouth this time. It barely fits, but that never stops him, his hands gripping Mortarion's hips as he bobs his head fervently. His lips are so soft, his mouth so warm, and the teasing graze of his teeth—Mortarion comes hard, pleasure crashing through his nerves, giving Calas all he has.