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He is diminishing.


Ordis has ran tests. His body is healthy, perfect, perfectly perfect, perfectly fragile. His bones of a young man bear the flesh, that thin and elongated body.


Ordis scans everything. Chunks of organs, drops of blood and patches of soft tissues forged him.


He is diminishing.


Traveling in the shades, he drifts in the layers between the void. His eyes, behind the lens of his warframes, behind a veil, watch. When blades slice open the mixture of meat and metal, bullets spatter colored liquid, they grow on him.


His frames do not feel, their sensaries removed to become elaborate machines of war.


He himself almost forgets how to feel. There is too long a time he slept, immersed in a turning dream. When he wakes, it does not seem different. Silently he sit in a pod of shelter, his body stays, oiled and nourished; his mind is wondering a foreign realm.


It is dangerous, Ordis says. Your body cannot take it, too soft, too tender, Ordis would says. It is better to have it treasured in a glass less display. To scar, to disturb the paleness, would be blasphemy. But how beautiful it shall be marbled with ferocious marks. To carve killings, to let go of the controls and to emerge into the battlefield are...tempting.


Inside his frames, he watches as blades slice open the mixture of meat and metal, bullets splatter colored liquid. He is behind a veil, under the armoured skin. He is dreaming; he is waking. He does not feel.


He does want to feel. There was a moment when he was slammed against the wall, Umbra’s fingers threatened to nip off his head. In a dazzle, his spirit nearly rushed out of his body. He stared into a lidless eye, and the void churning inside of him, hungered to spill over the pink, exposed flesh, yearned to clutch his core.
The air almost ran out, and Umbra ran away. Fell onto the floor, he coughed to expand his squeezed windpipe. His lungs prickled. Where Umbra touched was growing hot.


He found himself sickeningly hard.


It left a mark on his neck, even after long he had tamed Umbra, an angry hand print turning purple. It left him to destruction.


Alone in his chamber, the void extends sharply on his fingertips. He drags the blade across his skin. At first has no control, he would cut in too deep. A channel separating the intact flesh, raw and exposed, slowly and quickly blood oozes out, mapping on him, dripping onto the floor.


Ordis says nothing. But he feels him watching. Ordis is everywhere. His perished gaze lands on his openings. He feels him shivered.


When he returns to his pot, all wounds would be healed.


Then he gets better at using knives. He cuts delicate lines, of those the void mends before blood spills. He drags the tip along his throat, there the mark remains.

He presses the transparent blade in, just a little.


Ordis says nothing. But he must have been watching. He must be watching him cuts open his own neck, shallowly and then deeply. He must be watching his breathe disordered, quietly a moan escapes. He must be watching, allowing Umbra walks into his private quarter and takes his wrist.


'Please let go of me,' the Operator says. The void retreats into him.


Umbra does not move. His voice cord destroyed ages ago, and his face obscured of expressions. He holds his wrist, unmoving except his chest rises and falls.


Warframes do not breath. They are expelled of human traces, only their bodies echo humanity. But they breath, like needing it to survive. The Operator finds it funny.


'Please let go of me,' he repeats. The void in him roars to be unleashed. It is all too easy, grabs the core of a frame. He can forces Umbra to, again, clamp his airway, to force him struggling on the tips of his fingers.


Umbra moves. Gently he lowers the hand down to Operator's lap, and the Operator watches him. The frame is knelt on the floor at front, Skiajati clicks the ground, he lays his palm on the back of Operator's hand, another reaches up to touch his neck. He lets him, even tilts his head up, permitting cold fingers to explore.
The cuts are uneven and patternless, so are the trails of blood, that smeared by the featherly pressure on the fading hand print. The void weaves the wounds together, thin ivory threads fill in, somehow will bleed out if presses hard enough. Umbra's hand rests, almost with tender, on the side of Operator's throat.


'Clutch it if you wish,' the words come out too ragged for his liking. He takes a deeper breath, grasps Umbra's hand with his own, like he did when sending Skiajati into Ballas, 'choke me, at your hand, I will not struggle this time.'


He does not apply any force, neither does Umbra. Instead, Umbra taps the back of his neck lightly, and his fingers slide up into his hair. The Operator is pushed against Umbra's shoulder. His shell is cold.


All at once, the Operator feels angry. A fire burns inside of him. It climbs up from his spin and digs into his brain. Nose buried in Umbra's scarf, he can feel metal fingers rubbing his scalp.


'Please let go of me,' he tries one last time, the void is making sounds, 'you do not wish this. It is for your best interest.'


The void is loud and louder with each breath. Following the shape of Umbra's hand in his hair, he caresses his wrist, and he brushes past the forearm where armour is cool and smooth. He touches the side of his waist; the angel narrows, mimicking human. Letting it wanders the small of his back, pauses at conjunctions of armour pieces, Operator's other hand circles the pommel of Skiajati.


He blasts Umbra out, seizing the sword in the process. From the kneeling position, he disappears and reappears standing between Umbra's open legs.


'On your hands and knees for me, then, will you?' he taps the tip of sheathed sword on the frame's thigh. He has not reach out to manipulate the core; it is not necessary. Umbra stays on the floor, on his back. He has pushed himself up on his arms, and his chest rises and falls, methodically. He lays there, and carefully he maneuvers his limbs to not knock on the Operator's ankles.


The Operator finds it agitating.


He draws out Skiajati and throws the sheath aside. He lands on Umbra, cutting off the mellifluence of the movements and presses him against the floor. Again his hand wanders on his back, tracing the conjunctions. There is no where fragile on the body of a warframe, however thin and soft it may seems.


'I must apologize,’ he says.


Aiming at the gap on his ridge, the Operator sinks the tip in, just a little, and all the way through. Borned from Umbra, Skiajati separates him with ease and bites into the floor.


Ordis would be mad. He would be so mad.


Blue liquid splashes out, the Operator licks it off his lips. His tongue stings.


Umbra scratches the ground; he is too primal, human, not yet perfected to be senseless. The Operator clutches his core. He feels pains exploding on remnant nerves, spreading to every tissues. He moves Skiajati and gasps as Umbra struggles to remain still.


Quietly he laughs. The void gathers on his fingers, wrapping around them. He draws lines on Umbra’s back with substances from his body in chaotic pattern. Finding an edge, he rips off a piece of shell near the ridge. Umbra violently rises his head, his hip bucks up, but the weight of Operator nails him dead.


The Operator leans down to examine the opening; his own back hurts. Pink masses tangles together, fruitlessly trying to heal the hard shell from the void. Blue ichor forms a pool. He licks it and almost burned his tongue. The tissues are rubbery, and they writhe under his tongue, reaching up to catch a piece of flesh.
Underneath him Umbra shakes drastically, he has to push Skiajati deeper, sending part of the handle into his body to make him stay. It hurts. His tongue is tangled in the mutated mass, that they refuse to let go of. Saliva drips down from his open mouth, he closes his lips to give an incomplete kiss to the mass and bites a chunk off. The horn on the frame’s helmet scratch the floor hard like a cry.


The Operator is getting hard. He lets the lump on his tongue drops back to Umbra’s opening, watching it melts into the mass. Drools and blue blood drips down from the corner of his mouth, the lower half of his face overloaded with infested ichor goes numb.


But it hurts, it hurts so much that he trembles. He leans down again, grabbing the edge of Umbra’s helmet, the void covering his fingers. The frame directs the front to him, like he‘s trying to look at him. He remembers it from that day, a left eye pale and reflects of alien lights. His other hand slides down Umbra’s arm, reaching his hand and cracking open his fist, fingers fall in place between armoured ones.


The Operator kisses the back of the frame’s neck and tears the helmet open.


It’s like being hit in the head, he nearly blacks out. For a while, his cheek presses against the exposed tissues. They rapture, climbing up his face, longing to swallow him.


When he recovered, the Operator laughs. He laughs that he lays there, ass in the air, almost unconscious for however long. He separates himself, whatever the tissues, it seems more willing to maintain a shape of a face.


Umbra stares, now. He stares back. The shape in there resembles an eye, besets in pink infestation and oozes blue blood, magenta coruscating light behind a film of white. He wonders if it pops.


The Operator leans down, his tongue strokes on the flesh. From the corner of his eye the edge of broken armour creeps in, the void holds it at bay, eating away what's newly healed. He licks the white eye, and Umbra twitches. He is not fully enclosed, thus leaking through transmutation, phantomly he hears screams.


He licks again, wet sensation laspes on his own eye. Then he realizes it is him who screams. He’s screaming like a twelve-year-old. His face burns like a layer of skin been peeled off. His back hurts like his ridge is exposed. His long-ignored cock stuffs in his small, he is aware of it, painfully, aware of it. And he wonders if Umbra feels it, too.


He bites his tongue and kills the screaming.


He kisses the eye, and his cock rubs on the uneven surface of Umbra's back. The film is elastic against his lips, inside there are thick liquid being pushed around. He pauses for a moment. The lights in it dialates and gathers like pupils. It locks on him in the darkth of his quarter, faint yet penetrating. Umbra tightens his fingers, taking the Operator’s into his own palm.


He has to struggle free. He straights his spain, pulling Skiajati out from the frame. Climbing up, he whips the blood off the blade and throws it aside.


“Turns over,” he orders, peeling off his clothes. Umbra sluggishly obeys, losing his elegance. The Operator is entertained, but the bulge is uncomfortable, he flips him onto his back and drops onto the waiting hips.


Umbra’s hands find his waist.

 

“You like it, don’t you?” he says, bending down, fingers dig into, with ease, where Skiajati pierced as it caves in, as if hollow.


“Whatever I do to you,” the hands caress his bare skin now, they are cold, he shivers, “however I do it to you,” he stirs the tissues inside, ichor flows and he cleans them with his mouth, “as long as you get to fuck me.” He feels Umbra has his lights fix on him, he knows he has.


The Operator keeps his gaze low, moans as the hands finally, finally, reach his cock. He thrusts half of his palm into Umbra’s chest and almost comes as the frame tightens his fingers around him, squeezing it while the Operator fumbles inside the infested flesh.


There are no bones, no structures. He seeks a heart but could not find one. The tissues, contreray to the shell, unbearably warm and wet. They suck on his hand, writhing, trying to swallow it. Blue liquids soak his skin. His own chest cavity aches with the ravishing. The pressure on his cock grows harsher, he seizes some wriggling meat as hard as he can, at the same time Umbra gives a too painful pinch - he comes.


His vision blurs, there are tears in his eyes, and he whines, short and sharp, uncontrollably. Umbra is loosing his grip. No. NO. He forces him to stay, milking the last bit from his sensitive prick.


“Unsheathe,” he says, pulling out his hand. It’s dripping ichor. He nudges forward to make rooms. There, he feels it, underneath him Umbra opens up. The shell splits and what resembles a cock raises in slimy and tangled form.


He reaches back with his dripping hand. This thing is alive, the surface soft and burning hot, moving and twisting, unwilling to maintain as it is. He gives it little stroke, taking some more blue ichor, and sticks into his entrance. One finger at a time. He keeps his gaze low still, the hole on Umbra’s chest. Small tendrils rolling, it is closing up. He digs in, exploring his inside. Warm and wet.


Umbra’s hands parts his cheeks for him, allowing him to go deeper. Slippery. Delicate. He loses patience. Holding the monstrosity of a cock he impales himself onto it. It’s not too much. He groans. Human fingers cannot aid him with such intrusion. That thing does not need his help, it squeezes in, climbs in, forces in.
He whines, then, silent and sharp, feeling it stuffs his gut. It’s endless. It’s too long and too thick. He’s being cracked open. In the dim light, he sees Umbra’s eye. It locks on him. He licks it. Tongue pressing on the film, more blue blood leaks out from the rim, like he’s crying.


No.


“Stop,” the Operator tries to withdraw the void on Umbra’s helmt. It won’t listen. The eye is still exposed, the lights focus on him. No, “stop staring,” he fumbles to cover it up. He whines, again, louder. The thing is whipping his inside, dripping, ichor wriggles down his thigh. He’s getting hard.


He’s crying. Umbra’s hands find his waist and suddenly the frame sits upright and he sinks deep onto that thing. He screams but presses harder to not let Umbra sees. To not let himself sees.


The sound, all wet and dirty as he keeps getting fucked. He can take it. It’s too much and not enough. It’s never enough. His thin body of a young man trembles in Umbra’s embrace. He’s greedy, always greedy.


That thing in him grows. The Operator wides his eyes. He feels it, feels it in his stomach and it’s still growing.


Yes.


He starts to sob at some point, as the thing relentlessly ravaging his inside. None has touched his cock. It is painfully hard and it’s what he wants.


Umbra fucks him deep. He has to. He must. The Operator needs him to.

 

His cock traps between his body and the frame. It hits on the uneven shell, came once and soaking wet.


“Please,” he does not know what he pleads for.


“Please,” he pleads.


That thing bursts out waves of thick gloomy slimes, then. It rushes up into his gut. He feels them. They are churning, coating his inside. He wants to touch his stomach but he’s coming. He useless limbs cling to Umbra.


And it all stops.


He hears, distantly, the cock in him withdraws, slowly sheathes. Without a plug his hole wide opens, twitching slightly. The slimes are too thick, so only blue ichor leaks out. His face buries in the scarf. It is ruined by blood. He himself is still sobbing, but only occasionally. Umbra’s hand is stroking his hair; he takes a deep breath.


The Operator pushes himself up.


“Ordis, clean him,” he says, his voice hoarse from screaming and the ichor he swallowed.


“Of course, Operator.”


He does not look back, using his weak legs to move to the washroom on the other side. The tub is filled with hot water already. He steps into it, frowns at his slightly bulging stomach as he sinks down.


The slimes Umbra unloaded in him is reluctant to come out. He plunged his fingers in there, and gives up after a few seconds.


“Have you enjoyed it?” he asks. Water steams fill the warm yellow light. He splashes a little water, listening to the sound.


“I was worried, Operator,” it echoes.


He snorts.


”Worried,” he repeats under his breath. “You have enjoyed it. You let him walks in, you lured him here. He never would have done that on his own.”


”I only wish to des-help.”


“I should get you a body, then, serve to fuck me yourself.”


”What a thing to say! Opera-“


”Enough.”


The Operator slides deeper into the water.


”Yes, Operator, whatever you say.”


Worried. He thinks.