The Triumphant Scream bellows out a vox call from around me, a riot of noise and violence and a bone-shuddering screech of discordant vox-noise. A roar of challenge, one that fells a half-dozen of the mere mortal footsoldiers far below. Cerebral ruptures, their tainted flesh overloaded from the sudden riot of conflicting visuals and thundering god-machine around me. No, from me. The Machine and I are one, and she is I.

Jaqueline/Triumph surges forwards at the heed of my mind, limbs pistoning with the violent grind of metal, the ground crumbling and shattering under the monumentous weight and power behind my charge. Where the Armigers have speed, and the Questoris have modularity, the Dominus-class chassis sheer, overwhelming firepower and survivability, my machine has absolute flexibility. Exotic energies coalesce around my limbs, streaming off like wych-mist in the early dawn, the far-off dwarf star lighting this world making my Void Shields flare with coruscant flares of radiative light.

Red Targets start to flicker in my vision, as the thundering heart of atomic fire within, the star-bright dot of brilliant intelligence. My twinned soul, the other part of me highlighting perils. Well, perils for far lesser beings, my adamantine hide sends such measly weapons as Stubbers and Autoguns into little more than flashes and ricochets, the shields that wreathe my form flickering and glowing to block the larger rounds, Autocannons and the like. A mad, rabid burbling laugh chokes from my lips as I watch the flickering red beam of a Lascannon is caught by my shields, and I scream out a snarl of defience as I respond in kind with my own weapon.

A mechanical whirr overrides the stomping-slam and mechanical grind, suddenly filling the air with the noise of an enormous, buzzing Insectoid. Ten Barrels turn into metallic blurs of motion, as for a brief moment, the air in the direct path of my Castigator Bolt Cannon turns yellow and silver, a spray of munitions the size of conventional anti-tank rounds detonate against the Lascannon's entrenched position. The gyrostabiliser flickers for a moment, recoil-supression systems briefly overwhelmed by the sudden flood of motion, the arm bucking back in response.

There's nothing left of the weapon than a burning pit of molten slag.

Alarm-hooters blare around me, snapping my head around as I wheel down one promenade. My Sister-Machine, the Furious Rebuttal marks a target for my attention, and my heart skips a beat.

A machine tilts and turns from behind a hive-stack, lumbering slowly and clumbsily. Hell-red light flares from the barrel of a lance-shaped weapon, longer than the flickering sword in my right hand. The Stolen Memory fells my sister in a single blast, the damnable bastard machine, perverted mostrosity, foul hellspawned cunt shearing a leg clean off, the machine, a noble Castigator Atrapos falls into a hab-building, shattering the masonry and buckling metal.

I scream in rage and frustration. The vox-blare of noise shatters masonry around me, the chaos-warped frame of a perverted titan stalks forwards. The Warhound frame twisted with demonic corruption and fel flesh, bulging patterns of wings and silver metal twisted into the crude pitons of Wings. A beaked face leers at me from beneath hunched shoulders, the weapon now replacing the usual bolt-weapon a Turbolaser stolen from some other vehicle. A wicked-looking, taloned claw clacks against the thigh, beckoning me forwards.

Sacristans tell me that I push my machine too hard. That I expect too much. Stick to targets my size, deal with things my weapons are built to deal with, ignore largsr targets. My Baroness has twice chastised me for taking on other machines without warrant or liscence.

In that moment, I could care less.

I charge through a hab-block, missing the line of sight, prayers to Him on Earth and the Omnissiah blurting from my vox-speakers. Shattered masonry bursts with me out the other side, as I feel the heat of a near-miss singe, then Overload my shielding. Sparks fly inside my canopy, systems blinking and flickering briefly as I catch a breath. My mind dives deeper into the screaming machine-spirit, and I feed it everything I have. My Rage, my pain, the screech amplified into a bellow of rage.

And then I charge.

The boltgun on my left arm whirrs again, and I pump the weapon for every shell. In four heartbeats the ammo counter clacks and clicks, as footlong spent shells clatter into the city below me, rounds impacting the Titan's Void Shield. Of nearly a thousand shells, a paltry handful actually impact the bastard-machine's face and torso, metal warping from the impacts.

The Bolt-Cannon hisses for want of cooling, autoloaders racking and clacking to replenish shells. Machine Muscles pump as I direct energy from the flicering shield, radiation beginning to bleach the paint on my exposed armour. I watch the machine cackle and glare, my momentumn stuttering as it shoots again, an actinic beam of energy glancing across my left shoulder. Metal vapourises, ceramite shatters, electricity arcs as my left arm is shorn from my chassis, the machine's chassis. My flesh arm bucks from within the hardened pressure suit, bone splintering as gene-forged muscle revolts. Broken arm, three places... no time to focus on the pain.

My blade flashes as I duck low under the swing of the Stolen Memory's talon, severing ceramite and adamantine, purple ichor and and corrupted flesh severing cleanly, as flickering shards of energy atomise the ichor from the power blade's edge. The machine above me bucks and bellows, wildly swinging as it's balance abruptly fails. The Turbolaser flashes again into the city, but I don't care.

Focus Damn It I snarl to myself, whirling the machine as hard as I can. Hydraulic cables rupture from the sudden motion, machine joints screaming as they're pushed beyond tolerances.

It almost snaps my spine from the synaptic recoil.

The blade whirls again, and a fragment of almost forgotten memory echoes from within the Triumphant Scream's Machine Spirit, the core of memory activating the nearly rultured vox-system with a pair of singing words.

"Snicker-Snack" Echoes as in one sweep, the Stolen Memory loses both head and gun-barrel. The reactor begins to melt down, regulation suddenly lost as the corrupted Daemon-spirit within flees from it's sundered vessel. A Psychic scream of anguish and loss echoes from the Princeps. Davin Thule, a weak man from a weak, corrupt bloodline. He burns as the machine dies, his screech seared into my mind.

I signal the vox with my numb right hand, blood welling from my lips. The creature's talons flicker wildly as it falls, gouging rents into my faceplate and torso, phantom bruises beginning to blossom on my real flesh. My voice creaks and cracks, the usual husky tone mixed with pain, and triumph.

"Triumphant Scream." I manage to croak, as another Lance of machines sweeps forwards to reinforce. The voice of my Sister-machine amongst them, the pilot of the Furious Rebuttal laughing madly. I laugh too, a cackle of near-delirious victory. "To Command. Engine Kill."

There's talk all over the staging ground. A Knight slaying a Titan is scarcely heard of, barring the Knight Porphyrions, so for one to do so, especially a corrupted thing like the Stolen Memory, has become the rallying cry for this campaign.

My Baronness visited, chastisement instead turning to praise for my bravery... though not before her hand added another bruise to the dozen or so over my flesh. That well deserved... but the Triumphant Scream was to recieve a full refit, and a boon for this momentous occasion. She'd see a full refit, and a bolstering. There had been talk of promotion, moving me to a more prestigious pattern of machine. I had refused, obviously. We were bonded, and so we shall always be.

I make a brief snarl of frustration, being bound to the recuperation throne. The battle had been hard on me physically and spiritually. Several bones sported fractures, some muscles torn free. Ligament damage, headaches... and all I felt over it all was the need to fuck. To find someone willing, but not submissive, to rut and struggle, and fuck until the aches faded and the adrenaline passed. Bonded Thralls massage my flesh with unguents and gentle motions, one doing a positively heavenly job to the knots in my shoulders, but it helps little.

The medicae makes a disapproving noise as I work out my frustrations, slowly circling my hips, energy running up and down my spine. I need a release, I need something... more. A match to the violent energy I feel, the rampaging feelings of triumph and shuddering, silvery need. I can still feel the phantom sensations of wounds sustained, though the chems keep them far from center.

I raise my hand, the one not currently sealed within a semi-metallic sleeve. Cables snake from it to a barrage of servitor-driven machines, chemicals flooding my veins with narcotic bliss. Ice water trickles down my throat, melded with a twist of citrus, though it does little to help soothe the burn in my veins.

"Fetch..." I croak, eyes flickering over to the Medicae's assistant. Too soft for my tastes, too plump. My eyes sharpen at the corners, as I take a breath, bolstering myself. "Find someone. Tough, muscle, rage... one of the Household Guard. Or one of the Freelancers. Anyone. You know my tastes. Find one, bring them." My eyes roll to the Medicae, and I snarl. "Finish and Leave. Take your Ghouls with you."

I recline back into the throne, feeling the heat of the chamber swell at my touch. I always need heat after a battle, like the scorching of a sun over my skin. Impossible in Void, but easily simulated. Sweat starts to blossom over my flesh, musce and scar quickly glistening, my bared chest and arms lazily recluned. My trousers loose enough to hint, yet mostly conceal my... irregularity.

Now to wait who might answer my invitation...

Okay, been wanting to write this one for a while, after a certain other Warhammer promlt lodged the idea in my mind. The premise is pretty simple, really, a Knight Pilot wants to fuck after a hard battle. 'S that too much to ask?

Real talk though, I want some 40k shenanigans. With all the fun that setting provides, though with a couple caveats; no Xenos or Heresy. Loyal Servants of Him on Earth only! And don't come to me if you don't like big, thick, possibly modded Dicks. Realism is waayyyy out here.

That said, please give some effort in your opening message, please. If you've read this, and think 1 line's okay, then just... re-evaluate your life. Chat Requests will be subject to sarcasm, hostility, and/or outright just blocking. Seriously, I cannot express in words how much I despise chat. And Kik. No Kik.

Moving to Discord is not out of the question... but you've gotta prove yourself here first.

Key Words that're gonna grab my attention the most; Rutting, Muscle, Sweat, Oil, Worship... and Detail. Seriously, cannot stress enough. Detail.

Anyway, hopefully this grabs someone. If not... well, wouldn't be the first time something's one unfulfilled.