Editing The Fall of Lelith Hesperax

The Fall of Lelith Hesperax
Part 1 of a 2 part fanfic [part 2 is the fapfic part]
By Creed of Heresy
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Quick writefag's notes:  This was thrown together in about an hour based on a really random idea.  It'll turn into a fapfic in part 2.  I apologize for the seeming sue-ish human character.  I suppose if I gave him more detail I could actually make him a relatable character...which, hell, I might just do later.  For now, this was meant to be a fight scene with some adult themes to it.  I might make more out of this if people really like it, I suppose.  Hope you guys like it.
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  Another convoy, another spectacle of death and overindulgent gore.  The Imperial ships had been poorly defended, only a pair of lightly-armed escort vessels, one with half of its armament completely non-functional.  The freighters had been easy targets, the mercenaries charged with defending it putting up only a meager fight.  The two escorts burned in the nuclear cold of space, breached plasma reactors spewing radioactive flame into the void, and now only one freighter remained.  Its engines were blasted apart, its hull pockmarked and scorched.
  Lelith recounted the losses for a moment.  Two of her wyches dead, one wounded.  The Haemonculus would have fun putting her back together, though violation in every sense of the word was guaranteed.  Her fault for allowing herself to be struck down by the crude, fumbling humans and their equally awkward weapons; she would learn her lesson well.
  A malicious chuckle leaving her lush, bright red-painted lips, a twisted smirk upon them, she strode forth to the boarding door of the Impaler Assault Module as it rammed into one of the pressurization hatches on the crude human vessel.  She was, as always, dressed to kill, resplendent in her thigh-high spike-studded boots, pushed up onto her tiptoes by the spike-shaped heel that ended in a deadly bladed point, an over-hip G-string, and a metal brassiere shaped into two needle-fingered hands that pressed firmly into the flesh of her full breasts, bulging the nigh-translucent skin out around the metal grasps.  Her hair was tied into a single ponytail, the night-black locks adorned with dozens upon dozens of lethal blades designed to hook into a foe and tear their flesh from their bodies like a flail with an aesthetic whip of her hair.  Her unyieldingly firm buttocks flexed with the motions of her thighs, her boots far too esoteric to be wielded in a practical fashion by any but her.  To Lelith Hesperax, greatest of the Succubi, killing was an art form, and such seemingly impractical fittings were all tools of her trade.
  Besides...she knew she was dangerously beautiful.  Why not flaunt it right in the faces of her foes?  Tempt them with the flesh even as she tore theirs from their own bodies?  All the better to milk the succulent souls from their bodies with a faint garnishing of lust hidden deep within the agony and despair.
  The lancecutters of the assault module finished cutting the insertion proboscis into the target vessel.  Her wyches, similarly adorned in garishly tempting wargear, shrieked in ecstasy at the prospect of fresh blood and slaves to be taken as they leapt past her into the ship.  Lelith smirked coldly, her heavily penciled and mascara'd eyes narrowing in anticipation as she stepped coolly into the blocky vessel's poorly-constructed corridors, taking a slow, deep breath through her nostrils.  She could smell the fear.  A guttural yelp alerted her to a group of human males as they began to flee.  Her wyches fell upon them in an orgy of blood and carnage, thin bladed weaponry working to flay them alive, to kill them in the most excruciating ways imaginable, their blood spraying across the corridors.
  This was to be an orgasmic experience.
  Motion at the other end of the corridor.  Another human with a primitive, tube-shaped weapon.  He barked something in his incomprehensibly primitive tongue and pulled the weapon's trigger, sending a spray of small metal projectiles down the corridor at her.  Lelith moved, her lithe form writhing and contorting into an elegant display of precision and flowing grace, dancing through the air blindingly fast around each miniature projectile in the ballistic spray as if they were moving in slow motion.  The man had no time to react to this astonishing display, no time to gawk at the way her breasts heaved and swung in their meager holdings, the way her legs bent and flexed, the way her hair whipped out and around, the bladed tips hooking into his body in perfectly spaced intervals away from one another, no time to begin to comprehend the beauty in the sadistic perfection...no thought to any of this, other than to scream in anguish as with a flick of her head the blades tore his flesh completely from his body, baring muscle tissue and blood-carrying veins across every inch of him, the hyperstimulants in the blades keeping him from going into shock, awake to feel every painful moment as he fell to the ground, writhing and screaming.
  Lelith knelt before him, grinning, never letting a drop of the primal creature's unworthy blood touch her flawless skin.  She raised her hands, clad in metal gloves tipped with sinister barbed hooks, and began the loving process of flaying him alive.  She drank in his screams of torment, basked in the coppery stench of blood and entrails as she rendered him into nothing but a pile of offal.  She drank deep of his soul energy as it bled away, her already youthful features softening further, immaculate skin smoothing even further, restoring what little aging she had suffered in the last few months in mere seconds.  A cruel necessity...but she had long learned to indulge in this, to bask in the suffering of others, to delight gleefully in the knowledge she was physical perfection incarnate, untouchable, free of the fear of painful death these pitiful creatures suffered at her hands.  She stood slowly, eyes fluttering in delight, moaning in ecstasy at the wetting of her appetite, before she stopped, snapping around at a motion behind her.
  Another human.  This one draped in a long coat made of a thin material that was as dark as the void itself.  Long, flowing black hair framed his crude, angular face, but what was most unusual was the solid white eyes set into his skull.  He stood taller than most of these other creatures...taller even than she, slighter than most, too.  His hands were concealed by the robe-like sleeves, and his face betrayed no emotion.
  She licked her lips and teeth hungrily.  She had not finished sating her thirst for soul-essence.  He was lovely, too; the joy of tearing such an enticing creature to shreds would feed her ego further.  With a single push of her endlessly long legs, she careened through the air at him, a shriek of eager laughter keening from her lips as she flew towards him.
  The human moved, faster than she could ever have thought possible.

  The Manuaminus Temple.  The Assassinorum's hand-to-hand specialists.  Like all of the Officio Assassinorum, they were orphans, brought to the Temple at a young age, chosen by pre-determined, stringently specific genetic test results.  Men and women of preternaturally inhuman speed and reflexes, mercilessly educated on the vicious efficiency of using the body itself as the perfect weapon, beaten, broken, and battered by trainers who were destined to be killed at the hands of those they tormented for decades to hone into the most lethal individuals in the Imperium when at last they had become the most efficient killers, with the most minimal of tools.  The ways of the gun were not theirs; for a bullet could miss.  Not the ways of drug-induced sprees of ultra-violence; for this clouded the mind, dulled the precision.  Nor even the ways of the blade, for it was an unfeeling extension, not part of the body, incapable of the slight hair-trigger impulse twitches that could land a blow into the most minor of spots that those of the Manuaminus Temple could strike.  They were lethal for many reasons, not the least of which was the total lack of need of any equipment to augment their killing power, for they WERE the equipment, and could be as effective as any man-portable weapon...if not deadlier.
  Known as Marks, the Asassins of the Manuaminus took a secondary name; the first of several steps of self-identity, for while they lacked the shape-shifting abilities of those of the Callidus Temple, they could blend into a crowd just as easily, assuming identities, personalities, backgrounds and histories.  They lived normal lives to everyone around them.  To others, they seemed normal...WERE normal.  They laughed, they cried, they raged.  But this was all an act; integration into a society, into a group, while they pursued their true agenda.  No weapons to ever be detected, to ever be found, to ever arouse suspicion...because nobody suspected the unarmed, unremarkable individual to be the weapon itself.
  Mark 537, known as “Enigma,” and a thousand other identities to a million other people who never knew him to be otherwise, had been preparing for his quarry for years.  One of the Temple's deadliest Marks, had spent two decades constantly pursuing other targets, keeping his mind sharp and his skills sharper while he worked his way to his true goal; Lelith Hesperax.  The most feared and lethal of the xenos known as the Dark Eldar; untouchable, unstoppable, a dance of gory, bloody death given sadistic, beautiful, flowing form.  He had spent years working with an infocyte of the Vanus Temple to predict her patterns, to learn her style, her substance, her craft of death.  He had studied dozens, maybe hundreds of pict-captures of her in action, finessed his reflexes and his body to match, and eventually, outmatch her own.
  Finally, all his studies, all of his practice, all of his skills and contacts paid off.  The infocyte, Ominae Sayti, had pinpointed the highest likelihood of her next strike.  Mark 537, Enigma, had joined the convoy as a technician.  He had almost feared she wouldn't board his vessel; the other four had been boarded, their crew slaughtered or enslaved, and he had heard nothing of the obsidian haired Succubus from the frantic vox chatter.  But at last...he had seen her as she stepped off the boarding vessel, heard her moan of delight as she had finished tearing apart the hapless man who had futilely tried to stop her, and seen her eyes, her form, heard her voice, and knew there was no mistaking it.
  His target was here, at last.
  She leapt towards him, as if rushing to a lover she had been parted from for decades, ululating laughter of delight as she prepared to embrace him in her deadly, talon-gloved hands.
  Enigma moved, too fast for the human eye to see, a blur of motion.  She barely had time to let shock at the sudden motion register on her face before the first impact landed on her sternum.  With a colossal whoosh of air leaving her lungs, she flipped over his head and landed unceremoniously on the ground, struggling to take a breath before her lungs unhitched, and she sprung to her feet dexterously.  She twirled, whipping her bladed hair at him with a sashaying motion of her head that send the glittering blades hissing through the air, aiming to hook into his flesh and skin him as they had to the other human a moment ago.
  But Enigma was no mere human.  He was a weapon.  And he had been picked, crafted, bred for this one purpose, to take out one of the greatest threats to ever caress the battlefield.  His feet slid across the metal bulkhead flooring as if the soles of his tight-fitting boots were greased, and his body whipped back into a hard curve, one hand whipping back to press the tips of his fingers to the floor, flipping himself nimbly backwards, the blades cracking the air just an inch from him as he righted himself.
  Lelith hissed her ire at him, and even twisted and pinched into the beginnings of frustration her features were perfect.  Even her anger was perfect.  She danced forwards on her bladed heels, lashing blurringly-fast kicked towards his throat, pivoting and launching another to his stomach, aiming a coordinated strike-after-strike kick with each of her legs towards his face and thighs, whipping up and around to whip her bladed hands into his chest, swiping the other hand up into his chin, flowing around him and seeking to gouge out his spine.  And to her growing frustration, and with a twinge of disbelief, none of her strikes could land.  Every blow missed by the smallest fractions of space, his form twitching and jerking the most minimal of distances to escape each of what would have been lethal or at least incapacitating blows.  As the clawed gauntlets of her hand moved to stroke his spine, he whipped around, following her motions, and even outpacing her.  Before she could alter her strike, he whipped his elbow into the side of her head.  The blow sent her momentarily into darkness, and for the first time in her long life, her body moved ungracefully and without its own accord; it careened into the wall, slammed into it, and bounced off, sending her sprawing to the floor, her metal brassiere screeching against the plasteel floor as it dragged against it.  Her vision swam, and she struggled to focus, the effect of the concussion rattling her senses.  Vaguely, she was aware of the human's voice speaking with an almost cultured tone to it...and it was full of malice and contempt.
  “This...is what I have hunted?  For twenty Terran years...I have hunted THIS?  You are unworthy.  This is a waste!”
  Lelith's lips pulled back into a snarl, indignation and fury at being talked to in such a way by such an unworthy creature, at being laid low by such a pitiful being, by a HUMAN of all things galvanizing her senses into full awareness.  She rolled onto her side and whipped her clawed hand up, and was rewarded with a strangled grunt of what she assumed was pain.  The human jumped back, gazing down at the five red slashes across his chest.  But, with extreme disappointment, she realized they had been little more than superficial wounds.  The concussion was still affecting her; she had gauged it to be a killing blow.
  “Maybe there's something to this after all,” Enigma growled, a mild note of relief entering his voice.  He leapt forwards again, sending a bullet-fast sideways dropkick to her face.  She bounded up on one hand and twirled in midair; as he hit the floor, missing her entirely, he pushed himself with one hand, sending him across the floor as she spun up and around into the air, her body arching into a hard 180 degree angle to drive her bladed heel down towards his head.  She missed by the smallest fraction of a centimeter, and spun on her landed foot to deliver a vicious full-body spinning kick to him as she stood.  His arm whipped up as the other pushed against the floor, spring-boarding to his feet and blocking kick, hooking his elbow around her knee and twisting it around, knocking her momentarily off-balance.  She spun through the air, out of control for the briefest second before he kicked against the ceiling, twisting her body around into an impossible angle to drive her elbow into his back.  To her delight, it landed.  To her immediate dismay, he moved into the blow, absorbing it and denying her its impact.  He rolled as he hit the floor, transferring all the impact away, as she did the same as well, twisting free of his grasp and rolling to her feet, breathing deeply.
  Enigma windmilled onto his feet, hands up into a esoteric fighting stance.  “That's much better,” he purred, and despite herself, Lelith shuddered at the tone.  She had never been bested.  Never been matched.  Dozens of other fighters had tried to take her on all at once and had never even landed a blow.  By himself, he was already backing her into a corner.
  It was...sexy.
  “You weak, under-evolved monkey,” she hissed, forcing her wavering confidence back into full posterity.  “Do you really hope to best me?  ME?  I am-”
  “Lelith Hesperax.  I know who you are,” Enigma shot back in a low, sibilant whisper.  “I am Mark Five-Three-Seven.  Secondary; Enigma.  And I am the end of your long spree of torment and despair, tainted xenos witch!”  He darted forward suddenly, but as Lelith spun to dodge and to whip her bladed hair into his side, he zig-zagged into a different course, right into her.  The sudden move was brutal, crude, unexpected, and it took her entirely by surprise, spearing her body with his own.  He slammed her against the bulkhead, fracturing four of her wing-shaped fused ribs.  For the first time in as many eons as she could remember, she felt pain.  Actual, sharp, body-invading pain.  As they fell to the floor, she screamed, unused to the sensation.  She was the giver...not the taker.  She danced around blows, she didn't take them.  The human fell atop her, driving his knee into the underside of her damaged ribs in a quick, powerful, fluid motion, slamming one hand open-palmed into the side of her shoulder, impacting it into its socket and breaking her collar bone and fracturing her upper arm with a sickening crack.  Lelith shrieked in agony, silenced by his other hand impacting into the side of her face, smacking it violently against the floor.  She lost consciousness for a moment, but a moment later was awakened to a groggy world of shooting pain coursing across the left side of her body.  Her vision was cloudy, blurred, stars exploding before her eyes.  She tried to scream but the human's hand pressed to the side of her face, mashed her cheek against he floor, forcing her lips into the grotesque parody of puckering for a kiss.  Her eyes mashed tightly closed, the swimming of her vision making her nauseous.  Or maybe it was the vicious concussion, she wasn't sure.
  Enigma breathed slowly, steadily, perched atop his prey, solid white eyes narrowed in contempt.
  “I have won, witch.  I am your end.”
   Lelith shuddered underneath him.  For a brief moment, he thought it was fear, of terror.  But then, muffled by the floor, she moaned, and he felt her body warm underneath his.  He stopped, completely frozen in disbelief by the bizarre reaction.
  “...Did you just...have an orgasm?”
  “I have won, witch.  I am your end.”
  He was right.  He had won.  Within mere minutes, a single human had overpowered her, outmatched her, flowed around her attacks as readily and easily as she had for so long flowed around the attacks of her own opponents.  He had lain her low, shown her the experience of mind-shocking, body-crippling pain, forced her flawless face into the floor of a human vessel, into the surface upon which HUMAN boots had trod upon countless numbers of times, pinned her, completely overpowered her.  And then he had spoke, again, those words.  She was in pain.  She was humiliated.  She was everything she had visited upon others and yet never felt herself.  And then came his voice.
  She couldn't help herself.  Her body tightened, a great wave of heat shot through her, the pain only amplifying it, coursing down her spine.
  She came hard, her juices all but squirting against her wychsuit G-string, trickling down her thigh and lower cleft curve of her buttocks.  A moan, hot and needy, ripped unbidden from her full, rouge-painted lips.
  “Did you just...have an orgasm?”
  She couldn't respond.  Not in any sense.  She couldn't respond because her senses were overloaded with an agonizingly sensual mix of extremes of pleasure and pain.  She couldn't respond because she was too humiliated, too ashamed to admit it.  The very idea revolted her...and as it revolted her, it threatened to make her cum again.  She couldn't.  She wouldn't.  And the more the idea repulsed her, the more the thought of a human's defeat and domination of her aroused her to the point of an orgasm caressed her awareness, the worse it got until with a scream laced with self-disgusted ecstasy ripped from her lips.  Her body heated again, hotter than before, her entire body going to the greatest of extremes to tighten, defying the norm of eldar muscular physiology to coil like springs as she came, violently, this time her juice actually squirting out and spraying around her wychsuit's lower garment, her body trembling violently underneath the human.  She became aware, in her lust-hazed, pleasure-wracked state, of a low, guttural chuckling sound.  The human.  Enigma.  He was laughing.
  “You DID.  TWICE,” he crowed, laughing loudly.  “You xenos whore.  Does the realization you've been beaten cause you so much pleasure?  Or perhaps it is my prowess, my domination of you, that enchants you so.”
  Lelith tried to speak, tried to say something to insult him, to wipe that smug smirk off his face.  Off his...handsome...angular face.  Another wave of revulsion washed over her.  She was ATTRACTED to this creature!  But...he had beaten her so soundly, had done so with so little effort, with such...efficiency, with such brutality, such power and grace.  He was so primal, so...so...deadly.  So perfect.  The thought ran around her tunnel-visioning mind, and her body went limp.  She could say nothing to defy him.  She had always thought she was the most perfect manifestation of death.  She had been proven wrong.  Her entire world had been shattered as surely as her collar bone, her ribs, and her arm were.
  So she nodded, humiliation etched onto her immaculate features, which now were smudged with her paints of vanity, the mascara running down her cheeks, the rouge smeared across her lips and mixing with the black eye paint on her cheek.
  “Then SAY it,” he growled...like a beast snarling its dominance to its mate.  The notion sent chills down her spine.  She spoke in short, hiccuping bursts.
  “I...I-I-I...am b-beaten...you are...t-too...good...I am-am...beaten...I am...in-inferior.”
  Enigma smirked coldly.  The words were more satisfying than her blood.  He tilted his head back and let out a scream of victory that filled the corridor, a feral howl of triumph, before seething through his teeth as he regarded her.  Lithe, luscious, lustful.  Huge, heaving breasts.  A tight, perky ass.  Fair, nigh-translucent, immaculate skin, a lush, taut physique, long, shining locks of hair as dark as Abaddon's soul.  Sharp, angular, death-entreating eyes, full, delicious lips.  The only imperfection was those ears...those pointed ears, and the shape of her face that gave away her alien visage  But he could overlook that.  He paused, hearing a clattering, looking up in time to see Lelith's wych-cult turning the corner swiftly, swords and splinter-pistols raised.  They froze, seeing the position of their cult-leader and her assailant.  Lelith's eyes turned up at them, empty depths conveying the magnitude of her defeat.  The wyches were stunned momentarily.  Even if they had not been, it would not have mattered much in determining the extent of their lifespans.  Enigma pounced up from Lelith, leaving her broken body immobile on the floor.  She could only watch...only WANTED to watch, as Enigma blurred amidst them.  A punch to the throat collapsing the trachea.  An arm whipped into the nose of another, shattering her face and shoving shards of bone into her brain.  A hand twisting at another's neck, snapping the vertebrae, before dropping the dying body to the ground.  A kick to the stomach, pulverizing the organs, the same kick translating into a spinning heel kick to the back of the head, shattering the skull, a hail of blows to the chest, a dozen in a single moment, all open-palmed, impacting the ribs and shoving them into the heart and lungs, before both hands grab the dying individual, slamming her into another, breaking both bodies against the wall, an elbow to the chin, chattering the jaw, followed up by a vicious uppercut a fraction of a second later, sending shards of bone up into the cerebral cortex, the insides of the wrists impacting opposite temples of the head, bursting the head open, before the last one was grabbed and hauled into the air, screaming, before being brought down upon a knee driving up, breaking the wych in half, but not killing her.  For that, he took her splinter pistol, pulling down her wychsuit's pants.  As she mewled in pain, she jammed the barrel of the weapon into the tight pucker of her ass, pausing a moment for her to scream in agony and terror before he fired the gun, tearing her organs apart from the inside out, before discarding the ravaged body of the former torturous murderer.  Ten of the deadliest dark eldar wyches in Commoragh...killed in under five seconds.  Enigma turned his gaze back to Lelith.
  She was spasming violently, choking on her own screams, chain-orgasming.  Enigma smirked.
  Victory for the Emperor was not the only prize he would take from this...

[[Category:Warhammer_40,000]]