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IM IN LOVE WITH THIS!!1!1!!! ROGAL DORN ALERT. I will, in fact, be writing about this.

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For you

Night yall

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Relief

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: talk of periods, sexual content, MDNI

Description: Titus "helps" his serf lover through a particularly painful time of the month.

Forget whatever I said about my last fic. This one is definitely the spiciest thing I've ever written! I had planned on something entirely different, but then "that time of the month" reared its ugly head. And suddenly all I could think about was having a strong, handsome Astartes to help me through it.

Titus didn’t sprint, though he wanted to. 

After enduring the ominous warnings of the Chaplain, the disdain of Captain Acheran, and the incessant prying of his new squad (not to mention the small matter of a tyranid invasion), he longed for the solace of your presence.

Your touch.

Rage still burned like promethium within him when he remembered entering his quarters to find you half-starved. 

“You’re alive.” You’d whispered upon seeing him. “You’re alive.”

When I find the one responsible for her suffering….

His growl sent several serfs darting out of his path. He walked faster and, at last, the door to his quarters came into view. Soon, he would have you in his arms.

Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought. 

The first time he lay with you, before Kadaku and his remaking, had been beyond his imaginings. Baseline anatomy lessons from his neophyte days supplied the rudiments. But he had the Space Wolves and a solitary Salamander he’d met in the Death Watch to thank for the rest.

He’d encountered the former boasting of their conquests one evening in the dining hall after one of them had smuggled in a few barrels of foul-smelling mjod. As they grew more intoxicated, they delighted in shocking the more puritanical Astartes in the Watch with detailed descriptions of “fraternization”. 

Titus remembered being repulsed at first. Though, against his better instincts, that repulsion soon turned to wary curiosity. 

While the Wolves howled about conquering and claiming, a Salamander Apothecary had taken a seat next to Titus and shaken his head.

“Not all baseline females are the wild she-wolves of Fenris.” The old drake had rumbled quietly. “If an Astartes is blessed with the affections of a woman, he should cherish her with gentleness, for she is rare and precious.”

Titus remembered a sorrowful look in the veteran’s red eyes as he spoke, and the way he stroked a bone reliquary tied at his waist. 

He had tried to incorporate all he’d overheard into your union. You’d been so fragile in his hands, so vulnerable. And when your body welcomed him inside. When, amidst the white heat of his own ecstasy, he saw you gaze up at him….

Throne of Terra, I would slaughter every tyranid in the Hive Fleet to have you look at me like that always.

He punched his code into the access panel. He only had a few hours of leisure to spare, and a third of that had already been taken up in removing his armor. But he needed to feel your skin upon his again.

The door hissed open and-

Blood.

Every enhanced sense he possessed sharpened to a razor’s edge as the metallic scent filled his nostrils. Unlike before, when his mind had been clouded by sleep, he knew with absolute certainty this blood came from your body. 

The room was empty. Half the candles lit. One smoking tapir on its side by the cot. Indents on the mattress the size of small baseline hands. Drops of red on the floor. The sharp taste of stress and pain chemicals. Soft whimpers from the lavatory.

All this came to him in the time between heartbeats. Another heartbeat and he stood before the closed lavatory door.

“Little Healer?”

The medicae had said you would be fine. An injection of nutrients, a high calorie meal, and rest. You already looked better when he left you in the infirmary. They said you would be fine.

He’d had to leave. He had no choice. They said you would be fine!

“Demetrian?”

Conscious and able to speak. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the door.

“I am coming in.”

A sharp gasp. “No! Just, just give me a moment, please.”

He heard pain in your voice. His instincts screamed at him to tear through the metal to reach you.

The door slid open.

Pale skin. Sweat beads on your forehead. Hunched shoulders. You smiled up at him, but reeked of misery.

He scooped you into his arms. “We are returning to the infirmary.”

“Demetrian-”

“You are still unwell.”

“Demetrian, please-”

He strode toward the door of his quarters. “Or did you injure yourself?”

“No, Demetrian! Listen-”

“I should not have left you alone.”

A tiny fist bounced off his jaw. He stopped mid-stride and looked down at you in shock. You looked back at him, then down at your clenched fist, seemingly stunned by your own actions.

“I…I…,” you closed your eyes and breathed deeply, “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t know what came over me.”

“My lord?” He muttered. 

“Please put me down. I’m not unwell. And I’m not injured.”

He scowled. “You reek of blood, woman.”

Throne, has whatever hurt she suffered affected her mind as well?

“I know, but it’s…it’s natural, Demetrian.”

The Warp it is. “Explain.”

She sighed. “Can you put me down first? Please?”

“No.” 

He tightened his grip. If her mind was unbalanced, who knows what she might do if he released her.

Another sigh. “Fine. Once a month, a woman’s body undergoes a certain process….”

He remained silent during her entire explanation. When she finished, he carefully set her upon his cot.

“And this…cycle…causes pain?”

“Every woman experiences it differently. Some only ever feel mild discomfort, for others it’s little short of agony.”

You bit your lip. The pain smell spiked and, with it, his concern. 

“Why have I not noticed before?”

You breathed slowly now, in through your nose, out through your mouth. “You’ve always been on mission during this time. And…agh…in the Watch Fortress, Lord Apothecary Nev’ran made sure to set pain suppressants aside for us female serfs.”

The old Salamander always had a soft spot for the baselines, Titus remembered.

A low moan drew his attention back to you. You folded on his cot, arms wrapped around your midsection. 

His fingers twitched, automatically seeking a weapon. The instinct to destroy whatever caused you pain surged. He needed to fix this.

“Did you request pain suppressants from the medica?”

You started rocking slightly. “I…tried. He said they were unnecessary and dismissed me. I didn’t dare argue. In the Fortress, there were serfs I could go to for help during this time.” You looked up at him with a tight smile. “But I’m beginning to think I’m the only woman on this ship.”

Titus thought back over the last few days, and all the baseline crew he’d encountered.

She may be right.

“Oh Emperor….” 

Your whimper felt like another Carnifex talon through his chest.

“There must be something I can do.” He knelt before you, cupping your face in his hand. “Anything.”

You pressed against him. “Heat. Heat sometimes helps.” 

He let you move his hand to your lower stomach. You opened your robes and pressed it against your skin. 

“And, on my back, please?” 

Before you’d even finished asking, he slipped his other hand in and around. You gripped his arms and whined.

“Oh, oh yes.” 

He shouldn’t be aroused by this. You were still in pain. But your soft sounds of helplessness, the feel of your skin beneath his hands, the way you trembled. All of it called to a primal part of him only recently awakened.

And when you looked up at him in wonder and said, “You’re…you’re so much bigger now.”

Throne damn it.

Titus yanked you to him and took your mouth. You yelped, but did not struggle, instead throwing your hands around his neck and digging your fingers into the hair at his nape. He snarled at the sensation, pushing his tongue past your lips like you’d shown him that first night.

This time your moan sounded of pleasure.

He pressed his body against you, lowering you to your back on the cot. Your hands left his neck and fluttered against his chest. You pulled away from his kiss.

“Demetrian….”

He pressed his mouth to your throat, laving it with his tongue and tasting your sweat. He searched for a spot he could bite without leaving a visible mark. 

“Demetrian, stop!”

The magnitude of his selfishness crashed upon him.

“Throne. Forgive me, Little Healer.” Reeling back, he searched your face for any sign of pain. “I…I did not think, I…,” he raked a hand over his face, desperately trying to rein in his baser instincts.

“It’s all right. It’s just, now might not be the best time.”

“Would it cause you more pain?”

A blush spread across your cheeks. “Um…no, that’s not it. In fact, some women say…this…actually helps.”

“Truly?” 

Desire welled within him once more, washing away any lingering guilt. He bracketed your small body with his hands and loomed over you. 

“Then why should I stop?” You turned your face away, but he gently grasped your chin. “Look at me, and tell me why.”

“It, it,” he heard your heart beating wildly, “it could get a bit…messy.”

He blinked, then allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. “Woman, when has an Astartes ever shied away from the sight of blood?”

A new smell met his nose, one he had only recently become familiar with. He lowered his face close to yours and inhaled deeply. 

“You want this as much as I.”

You nodded frantically, hands suddenly pawing at his collar. “Yes! I want this. Please, Demetrian. Please, please, please!”

He tore his robe open and flung it to the floor. Your clothing swiftly followed. The scent of blood and arousal maddened him. He tried to pull your thighs around him, but you winced at the stretch.

For the first time he cursed the Primaris surgery. Grasping your hips, he turned you on to your front and settled behind you. He ran his hands down your back and sides, loving the way you trembled.

“Are you ready for me, my love?”

You pushed back against him. “Please, Demetrian.”

He thrust and your wet heat welcomed him in. His eyes rolled at the sensation, still so unlike anything he ever thought he’d experience. You cried out far louder than you had the first time. 

“Demetrian! S-so big…!”

Again. Again. Again, he thrust. In this position he felt powerful, primal. Like a beast claiming its mate.

The Wolves were right, damn them!

All at once, you tightened and screamed. With a growl he followed you over the edge. 

You collapsed onto your front. “Please…more….”

The first time, he’d only taken you once, denying his satisfaction for the sake of your overwhelmed little body. But now you begged him to continue. Who was he to refuse?

Three more times he released deep within. He pressed himself to your back, hand fondling your breasts as he pounded relentlessly. He lost count of how many times you shook apart around him. His own blinding pleasure paled in comparison to the knowledge that his actions relieved your pain. 

A tool designed to inflict suffering on others, but he brought you ecstasy.

“D-Demetrian…,” you whimpered. 

His fingers dug into the bruised flesh of your hips. “One more.”

You wailed as he filled you one last time, arching his spine to sink his teeth into your shoulder. Then he collapsed on his side.

He caressed your sweat-streaked back, allowing himself a brief moment to revel in the haze of pleasure. You lay still and panting next to him. 

“Are you well, my love?”

“Mmmm.”

By now, he recognized the sound of bone-deep satisfaction. He smiled down at you, already feeling his own body recovering. 

“You were right about one thing.”

“Mmm?”

“That was rather messy.”

You turned your head and attempted to glare at him. He chuckled, rose, and fetched a wet cloth from the lavatory. Ignoring your reaching hands, he cleaned the both of you. Then he sat on the edge of the cot and lifted you into his arms.

“Better?”

Your dreamy smile answered him. An entirely different kind of heat warmed his hearts as he cradled you. He ran a thumb over the imprint of teeth on your shoulder.

“I was not too rough?”

“You were perfect.” Your hands traced his new scars. “Throne of Terra, I came so close to losing you, didn’t I?”

He heard tears in your voice and held you closer.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled. “Another side effect of this time. I tend to turn into something of a weepy, clingy mess.”

“I enjoy your clinging.”

“But you need to go.”

“Yes.” As always, your respite, brief as it was, left him better prepared to handle the weight of his duty. “Will you be alright?”

“You have enough trouble without worrying about me, Demetrian. Human women have endured since our species began. I’ll be fine.” Your smile flickered. “Please, be safe. I love you.”

“And I you.” He pulled his robe back on and leaned down to kiss you once more. “I will return.”

And, I swear, I will find another way to ease your pain. 

***

An hour passed. You rested for a bit, then dressed and cleaned yourself more thoroughly. You stripped the sheets from the mattress and prepared for the trek to the laundry and then the serf’s dining hall. Not only had Titus's attentions eased your cramps, but you thought you might actually have an appetite again.

Just as you were about to leave, a few sharp raps sounded at the door.

“Who…?” 

You opened it to find a slight young woman with a face full of freckles and a satchel over one shoulder. Her robes marked her as a serf and a medica.

“Thank the Emperor!” She gushed. “I was afraid I’d gotten the wrong room!”

“Um. Hello?”

“My name is Vesta. I was just transferred here alongside my Lord Callistus. He’s supplementing the Apothecaries already in residence, you know. I was afraid I’d be the only woman! There are so few of us serving on the battle barges.”

You blinked, head-spinning from the rapid-fire chatter. “I see?”

She continued, stepping straight past you into the room. “I was just on my way back to the infirmary, when this massive Primaris Lord Angel barreled down on me. How fearsome he was! I don’t need to tell you I was terrified I’d done something wrong, and on my first day on a new ship, too! But he said you were experiencing some difficulties and needed assistance.”

Oh, Demetrian…. You fought a smile.

Vesta plopped the satchel on the cot. “I have pain suppressants, cleansing cloths, sanitary napkins. I do hope I brought enough.”

“This is incredibly kind of you.”

“Us women have to stick together, right?” She smiled cheerfully. “I hope we’ll be great friends!”

You found yourself warming to her effervescence. “I would like that.”

“You’re so fortunate to have a Lord Angel who’s attentive to your needs!”

You turned away, suddenly all too aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs. “Yes. I am.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock

If you enjoy my writing, check out the rest of the stuff on my Masterlist.

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Guilliman in 30K: *Is bright eyed and hopeful, genuinely believes he can help lead humanity to prosperity, is very proud and vocal about his home Macragge*

Guilliman in 40K:

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come out lorgar, I just want to talk

art: Corax by Misha Savier for Games Workshop

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Ta Da~ here you go @beckyninja

Sorry if it looks kinda weird

[coolestork]

Of Surprising Encounters

Rogal Dorn x Reader (Fluff)

-

Description: Guilliman finds Dorn in an... Unusual scenario.

Note: some teeth rotting fluff for the soul. This idea popped into my head and I wanted to see it done so here it is. BONE APPLE TEETH!!

-

The halls of the Imperial Palace were silent as Roboute Guilliman made his way toward Rogal Dorn’s quarters. His own business had concluded sooner than expected, leaving him with an uncharacteristic gap in his schedule—a rare opportunity to speak with his brother. He hadn’t seen Rogal in days, and he found himself wondering how his stern brother was faring under the relentless demands of fortifying Terra. A quick conversation, perhaps even over tea, might offer a brief respite for them both.

As he neared Dorn’s quarters, however, a strange sound reached his ears—one that was so unexpected he paused mid-step, a look of puzzlement crossing his features.

Laughter.

Guilliman narrowed his eyes, his mind already racing to account for such an occurrence. Rogal Dorn, laughing? The man who rarely allowed even a glimmer of amusement to touch his face? And it wasn’t a dismissive chuckle or a faint smirk, but the unmistakable, genuine laughter of his often-impervious brother.

He moved closer to the source, curiosity tugging him forward with each step. He reached a doorway that was half open and, after a moment’s hesitation, glanced inside.

There, in a secluded corner of the room, stood Rogal Dorn, his back half-turned to the door, speaking to someone—a human, Guilliman realized—a young woman who wore the austere garments of Dorn’s personal serfs. Her head was tilted up to look at him, her expression open and honest, a warmth in her gaze that Guilliman hadn’t expected.

Dorn’s laughter was already fading into an amused murmur as she spoke to him, her voice low and animated. “Well, my lord,” she was saying, a glimmer of boldness in her tone, “even if it isn’t exactly protocol, I hardly think the universe will come apart at the seams because you took an extra hour to rest.”

Rogal’s shoulders shook faintly with another rare chuckle as he looked down at her, a faint smile tugging at the usually stone-set corners of his mouth. “Careful, or I’ll put you to work fortifying the outer walls yourself,” he replied, but his voice held no malice. In fact, it sounded… lighter. Almost kind. “Let’s see how cavalier you are when you’re stacking stone.”

The serf’s eyes widened dramatically, then softened with a mock plea. “If it’s for you, my lord, I suppose I’d even take up a chisel and hammer.” She straightened, affecting a faux solemnity that made him chuckle again.

Guilliman felt his eyes widen slightly, a touch of shock filtering through his otherwise composed expression. He had always known Rogal Dorn as a paragon of composure, of discipline. He was as impassable as the fortifications he built, his loyalty and resolve as unbreakable as his stern demeanor.

This? This was a side Guilliman had never seen.

Uncharacteristically uncertain, Guilliman considered stepping back quietly and pretending he hadn’t seen them. But Rogal’s sharp instincts were not so easily circumvented; his head lifted, and he turned, catching sight of Guilliman lingering at the doorway. For a split second, his face fell back into its usual impassive look. Yet, something almost… hesitant remained in his gaze, as though the tender moment he’d shared with the young serf wasn’t something he was inclined to dismiss.

“Roboute,” he greeted, inclining his head in polite acknowledgment. His tone was as calm and composed as ever, but Guilliman didn’t miss the subtle tension that had crept back into his posture, like a soldier instinctively returning to his watch.

“Rogal,” Guilliman replied, struggling to mask his curiosity as he entered the room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to speak with you and—” He stopped, unsure of how to finish his sentence. And I overheard you laughing with a serf? Even for him, that sounded presumptuous.

Rogal’s eyes narrowed, catching the faintest flicker of amusement. “And found me neglecting my usual stern image?” he finished dryly. The hint of a smile remained in his eyes as he looked over at his serf, who was now observing the two Primarchs with an air of tentative curiosity, clearly uncertain if she should stay or leave.

The young woman bowed her head slightly, her voice a respectful murmur as she addressed Guilliman. “My Lord Guilliman. I apologize if I caused any disturbance.”

“Not at all,” Guilliman replied, still studying her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. She held herself with dignity, but he noticed a touch of warmth in her eyes that was far from the dutiful stoicism he usually expected from Dorn’s retainers. And what struck him most was the way Dorn regarded her—not with indulgence or aloofness, but with an unexpected respect that seemed to border on… fondness.

Rogal nodded toward her, a subtle yet protective gesture. “She’s my chief aide,” he said by way of explanation, though Guilliman hadn’t actually asked. “She insists on pushing the boundaries of propriety from time to time,” he added, his voice carrying a faintly amused grumble, as though he were resigned to her occasional audacity.

She smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth curving up as she glanced at him. “Only when you push yours, my lord,” she retorted softly, meeting his gaze with a trace of courage that took Guilliman aback.

Dorn’s eyes flashed, but he gave a slight nod. “She keeps my hours in order and my duties attended to. I would trust few others to speak as plainly.”

Guilliman observed this exchange, marveling at the subtle but undeniable ease that existed between them. “I admit, brother,” he said finally, his voice laced with a touch of incredulity, “I didn’t expect to find you in such… informal company.”

Rogal’s lips quirked briefly in a nearly imperceptible smile. “There is no threat to Terra in a few moments of levity, Roboute.”

“I see that,” Guilliman replied, watching the serf with a new sense of admiration. It took a rare spirit indeed to draw Dorn out of his self-imposed fortress of discipline, to coax laughter from him without compromising his principles. “It seems you’ve found a rare and valuable asset.”

Rogal inclined his head. “Indeed. Her efficiency speaks for itself. The rest…” He glanced at her briefly, an almost imperceptible warmth flickering in his gaze. “The rest is merely a… byproduct.”

Guilliman looked between the two, feeling the unspoken bond that filled the air like a quiet current, subtle yet deeply rooted. He could see that there was no act, no artifice here. Just a shared sense of purpose and, perhaps, something more.

Turning to her, he offered a courteous nod. “You serve well. It’s not every day my brother grants another the privilege of a… laugh.”

She dipped her head, a touch of a smile on her face. “Thank you, my lord. And if I may, I would like to keep this occasion in quiet confidence.”

Guilliman’s lips twitched with a faint smile of his own. “Very well. Let it be our secret.”

With that, he turned to Rogal once more, meeting his brother’s gaze with an understanding born of respect. “I’ll leave you to your company, then,” he said, his tone light.

“Thank you, Roboute,” Rogal replied, a faint nod of gratitude in his words.

Guilliman turned to go, but not before glancing back one last time. There was a warmth in the air he hadn’t expected, a quiet peace in Rogal’s usually impassive stance.

With a final nod, Guilliman left the room, feeling the faintest of smiles on his face as he walked away, carrying with him a newfound understanding of his brother and a memory he knew he would keep close in the days to come.

-

Note: isnt this cute!!1 Dorn laughing with a serf is such an abstract concept I had to bring it to life. anyway, what do yall weirdos think

[coolestork]

i cannot emphasize how necessary it is to have a buddy to participate in fandom with. completely elevated experience. don't have a buddy? find someone you like and message them and be their friend. gush over every sketch and drabble and insane headcanon they have. live life to the fullest.

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Of Rituals and Yearning

Lorgar x Reader

Note: Another Lorgar fic for the religiously traumatized girlies. No NSFW this time either, just flaying and inner dialogue from the primarch. Enjoy :)

Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, Pain as corporal ritual, Implied sexual desires.

-

The sanctum was dim, lit only by the pale flicker of candles casting shadows that danced along the cold stone walls. The air was thick with incense, sweet and heavy, its scent mingling with the earthy musk of old parchment and ancient tomes that lined the walls. It was here, in this solemn, secluded space, that the ritual would unfold, one that demanded silence, discipline, and an unbreakable resolve. Lorgar could feel the weight of its purpose as if it was woven into the very stone beneath his feet.

He studied her—a human girl, kneeling before him with an awe that struck him somewhere deep, more than he would have dared to admit. There was a reverence in her gaze that was almost painfully beautiful, and it awakened a conflict within him, a duality that threatened to unravel the sanctity of the moment. But he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, withholding anything that might betray the tumult stirring within.

She bowed her head, her frame dwarfed by the towering figure before her. The holy connection they would establish tonight was not to be trivialized, nor diluted by worldly desires. Lorgar reminded himself of that again, silently reciting words he had memorized from long hours of meditation.

Still, he found his gaze lingering on her fragile form, on the curve of her neck, the softness of her hands clasped tightly in an effort to still their trembling. She had chosen this path willingly, he reminded himself. It was her faith, her devotion, that brought her here to endure.

“Are you prepared?” His voice was low, carrying a resonance that seemed to echo within the hollow chamber.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice that betrayed fear and determination alike. The duality of it resonated with his own internal struggle, intensifying the strange pull he felt towards her.

With a measured hand, Lorgar raised the thin leather cord, a tool not meant for pain, but for purification. He knew he would need to be cautious, painfully so, his strength barely restrained as he let the whip land across her shoulder with a lightness that belied his power. And yet, even that slight touch was enough to make her flinch, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.

The sound sent a ripple through him, tightening something within his chest. He focused on his breathing, willing his mind to remain clear, but the quiet sob that followed forced his eyes to her again, drawn by the shimmer of a tear slipping down her cheek. She was crying—enduring what little pain he had inflicted with a faith that only added to her fragile beauty. There was purity in her suffering, something that both honored and unsettled him. It was the vulnerability he was witnessing, the rawness of her devotion, that made her seem almost too delicate to bear.

The whip fell again, even gentler this time, but she gasped once more, tears tracing new paths down her cheeks. He was meant to find beauty in this, to see it as her sacrifice, her offering to the divine. And he did, yet there was something else—a flicker of attraction, dangerous and alluring in all its wrongness. This wasn’t what the ritual demanded of him; it wasn’t what his purpose dictated. Still, the way her eyes lifted to meet his, the silent plea in their depths…

Is this wrong? The thought struck him like an iron bolt, harsh and undeniable, cutting through his disciplined resolve. His jaw tightened as his mind recoiled, battling against the intensity of his reaction. Anger flared within him—not at her, no. The fault was his own, his weakness a willing betrayal of the ritual’s sacred intent, an affront to the spiritual purity that was supposed to guide him. He was a Primarch, a being molded by divine hands, chosen to uphold purpose and honor. How, then, had he allowed himself to stumble, to let the basest of desires cloud his vision?

The whip dangled loosely from his fingers as he wrestled with the surge of emotions twisting inside him. It should have been easy—simple, in fact. This ritual had been performed countless times by disciples of his Word, a purification through submission, pain as a bridge to the divine. He knew that. Yet, in this moment, he felt like a trespasser, as if he were betraying not only his purpose but her as well. She deserved a leader, a guide, not a man whose thoughts were tainted by something as trivial as lust.

He gathered himself. When the whip came down again, the touch so slight it was barely more than a whisper, and he watched her shoulders shudder, her lips parting in a soft cry that lingered in the air between them. It was pain, yes, but it was hers, a voluntary gift in her quest for something transcendent, something that connected her to his divine purpose. He respected that, and it was perhaps this respect that drove him to continue, to press forward, even as he questioned his own heart.

“Why do you look at me that way?” The question escaped him unbidden, a whisper that betrayed the uncertainty he had so often buried. He hadn’t meant to ask it, hadn’t meant to even let the thought cross his mind. His voice, usually steady and unshaken, faltered.

Her lips parted, though no words came, only a soft breath that left a fragile silence between them. Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of reverence and vulnerability, as if she were seeing beyond the warrior, beyond the Primarch. It was a gaze that unnerved him more than any blade, one that challenged him to confront the man within the mantle he wore.

With renewed force, he forced his gaze back to the ritual, to the rigid purpose he had clung to for so long. Lorgar tightened his grip on the whip, drawing his breath in slow, measured lengths, as if doing so could extinguish the conflict raging inside him.

He could feel it, sharp and undeniable, like a crack splintering across a once-impervious shield. The question remained, coiled in his chest—a slow, searing burn.

Is this wrong?

-

Note: Hell yea, I love me when fine shyt is heavily conflicted by the undercurrent of desire. let me know what u weirdos think

[coolestork]

Hope I’m not late! Could be any primarch/space marine either before or after corruption.May I ask about the raping of some serf that had fallen asleep near the chambers? And due to loneliness and being fucking pent up they grope her and after some quite while suddenly are balls deep, with her still asleep. Cut to the a year later, ship’s full of rumours. Well, serfs giving birth isn’t exatcly something weird. The child just becomes like their mother later on...but this child is just weird and growing abnormaly. The fate of them both is also yours to decide...to be either unrealistic taking the serf in due to regretable night or more plausable execution of a newborn due to them being a mutant❤️

#Why did I choose TS? I don't know, random.org said so.

#Unnamed Thousand Sons x F!Reader

#Rape, noncon, NSFW, somnophilia, there is a description of pregnancy,...

#I'm bad with summary so I won't do anything with it.

You won't wake up soon.

The sorcerer stares down at your sleeping form. His mind trick has you trapped in a deep slumber, completely at his mercy. 

He's not sure why he did it, casting that subtle hypnosis when he spotted you drifting off alone in this dusty hab-room. Maybe it was the warp's dark desires, twisting his thoughts to sinister temptation. Or maybe it was just the primal, feral urges every Astartes struggles to contain.

All he knows is seeing your exhausted body sprawled out there, so soft and vulnerable, awakened something... wrong inside him. Something that made his double-hearts feel way too confining.

This was wrong. Profane, even. You were just a lowly serf, an insignificant mortal whose only purpose was servitude. But those thoughts couldn't stop the Astartes from reaching out with his gauntlets and roughly gathering you into his embrace.

He wraps his huge arms around you, pulling you into his embrace effortlessly. Your body feels so tiny and delicate compared to his towering transhuman bulk. Just a fragile little mortal sack of flesh and bone, a helpless mortal compared to his might.

You were so light, so fragile in his arms. Your head lolled back, mouth parting slightly as you remained trapped in that unnatural slumber. He nuzzled his face against the warm, soft skin of your throat and inhaled deeply. Your warmth and sweet scent quickly enflames his senses with fresh desire.

Holding you tightly against his huge chest, he slowly ran his tongue along the delicate seam of your lips. No resistance, not even a flutter of awakening as your breath was stolen away. He tasted you greedily, feeling your chest rise and fall with panicked panting, but you didn't wake. How deliciously helpless you were in this state...

His massive hands slide down to squeeze and palm your tender, yielding curves as he grinds his hips against you forcefully.

"Such a little mortal" he growls in a deep tone. He could crush you without even trying... but why he should do that?

As the sorcerer pulls your limp, sleeping form against the throbbing heat of his crotch. He basks in the psionic feedback of your peacefully dreaming mind, aroused by its blissful innocence even as he feeds his corrupting taint into your subconscious.

His long tongue slithers out of his fanged maw, coiling between your parted lips to plunder the sweet recesses of your mouth. Deeper and deeper it plunges as he steals your breath away. What little air remains gets crushed from your lungs as he smashes his body against yours in an embrace.

But despite all of that, the mind-trick holds your consciousness fast. You remain completely unaware, slumbering on as a helpless dreamer in this waking nightmare.

"Exquisite..." The sorcerer's graveled whispers drip with heady arousal as he drags his rough calloused palms over every inch of your exposed skin.

With one overpowered tug, he rips away the flimsy rags covering your body. Now you lay nude and exposed, your most intimate places to his gaze. He feasts upon the glorious, forbidden vista with  eyes wide and shimmering with unholy ecstasy.

You're perfect. Every sumptuous curve and swell crafted with such artful elegance. Those ripe breasts, those sculpted feminine ridges and valleys, all brought into sharp relief by the Astartes' deeply lurid perception.

He trails his rough, calloused finger-pads over each exquisite inch of your prone flesh, drunk on the maddening sensory feedback. The texture, the warmth, the softness… like spun silk and liquid fire all at once.

His fanged maw gapes open in a silent moan as his grip grows more forceful and possessive. You remain dead to the world, locked away in his psychic trance.

A burning ache blossomed in his loins as he imagined all the things he could do. He could take his cock out and rut against your limp body right here, smearing your pretty face and tattered robes with ropy strands of hot semen. He could spread your thighs and shove himself into your vulnerable, unmapped entrance while you slept on, blissfully unaware.  

The thought made him shudder with blasphemous, warp-spawned ecstasy. He could defile you completely, utterly take possession of your mortal body for his own cravings. And you wouldn't remember a thing when the spell was lifted. Unless... he wanted you to.

Spurred on by this lack of resistance, the sorcerer's remaining inhibitions start to crumble like papyrus in a bonfire. His hands grow ever bolder and more rapacious, groping and mauling with shameless entitlement now. He sneers with sadistic glee as pale blue-purple bruises begin blossoming across your skin under his crushing grip.

You shift in his crushing grip, legs parting unconsciously as the psyker starts grinding his growing erection against your hips.

Your limp head lolls bonelessly, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted in a way that makes his cock throb. Groaning, he pulls your face against the sweaty cables of his neck and just breathes you in. Hands roaming, groping at the soft flesh of your rear and inner thighs. He hooks his fingers into the waistline of your skirt and briefs, tugging them down with a single, impatient yank.

Feverishly, he undoes his undercarriage, letting his huge, throbbing erection spring free in all its purplish, vein-laced glory. He groaned as his calloused palm wrapped around the swollen shaft, working the sensitive tip in slow, teasing strokes. Ropes of clear pre-seed immediately wept from his slit, painting your bare thigh in sticky trails. You didn't even flinch, totally enslaved in your sleep.

The psyker aimed his bloated cockhead at your exposed slit. He roughly shoving two fingers into your silken depths. You were drenched but still incredibly tight, an irresistible combination that made his cock jump needily.

With a feral grunt, he lined up the broad tip of his manhood and started pushing forward. Inch by deliciously snug inch, you were forced to accommodate his girth. Your body stretched around the invading member, your petals straining wide yet somehow accepting every last vein-ridged inch within.

The sorcerer gasped as your molten sheath swallowed him to the hilt.... you're so wet, so tight. He'd never experienced anything like the heavenly friction clenching down on his cock.

Unable to restrain himself a second longer, he pulled back until just his flared tip remained, then slammed home again. And again. His massive hips quickly worked up to a merciless piston, tramming his full length inside you over and over with a force.

All you could do was weakly squirm and whimper, mouth gaping in a silent scream as your womb was ruthlessly battered. But in your mind, you were drifting through shifting dreamscapes completely unaware of the blessed rapture rocking your mortal body.

So small, so damnably fragile... But taking every vein-slathered inch of a psyker's cock like it was nothing. He moaning, slamming you with each powerful thrust. His hands burned blistered prints into your delicate skin from how tightly he gripped your thighs.

The pistoning echoed loudly in the vaulted chamber. The sorcerer's amplified endurance and stamina meant he could have taken you for hours on end before feeling the need to peak. But the sleek, molten friction on his cock and the view of your helpless body quickly proved too much.

His growling breaths grew more labored as he chased his climax. His balls drew up tight, swollen with a massive backup of pent-up seed just waiting for release.

With a few more strokes, the psyker growl as he reached his limit. His jaw strained wide open in blissful torment as his cock spasmed violently, erupting thick ropes of burning issue straight into your waiting womb.

He hilted balls deep, trapped there in ecstasy as his cock throbbed and pulsed, absolutely flooding your depths with endless waves. It pumped into you in such massive quantities that his seed had nowhere to go, squirting back around his buried shaft in a hot, sticky rush.

The torrent of seed utterly stuffed your belly, rounding it into an obscene bulge until excess streamed down your thighs in ropy trails. He groaned gutturally, never having unleashed such a ferocious explosion of relief before.

Eventually, the last few weak spurts oozed from his tip. But still he didn't withdraw, hips remaining flush so his cock could marinate in that sloppy mess of frothing nectar and cream. He cradled you close, uncaring for the sticky mess as you laid bonelessly against his.

Your bruised, cum-stuffed body draped so perfectly over his own. Your soft, shallow breaths tickling his cheek as he nuzzled into the crook of your throat. He nipped at the sweat-pearled flesh there affectionately, fangs grazing without breaking skin as his hands roamed over your pleasantly rounded curves in reverent strokes.

What was this emotion settling over him? It wasn't lust or hunger driving him to use you l anymore. Those intense urges had been scratched, at least for the time being. No, this felt... more?

Like he wanted to do more for you. He wanted to protect you, care for you in a deeper sense. Keep you close by his side. He wanted you to feel comfort and pleasure, not just to provide your own.

Is this what being a "lover" felt like? Of course, he knew the definition of "lover" by heart. But....

Some profound emotional bond he may have sacrificed the ability to feel when he gave himself wholly to his new life. But looking at your marked, debased body somehow made him almost... wistful. As if he once knew something warm and beautiful that had been shorn away, leaving only this raw desire behind.

Maybe if it was him in the past, he could understand. He could not recall that ghost of his former self, no matter how his battered soul scraped those old wounds... but the longing remained all the same.

With a shuddery sigh, the psyker merely pulled you tighter against his. His corrupted flesh could no longer feel such superficial things like warmth or softness, yet he still clung to you with desperate fierceness. He would sate his lusts over and over again on your lush form until the next battle urged his abilities forth once more.

And until then... just maybe he could pretend, for a few fleeting moments at least, you were something more than that. Maybe you are his 'lover'

Just wait until you wake up…

****

The halls of the Immaterium were a formless void of madness and eternity. A place outside the constraints of linear time where even the most stalwart minds could be swallowed whole by the hellish tides of Chaos.

How long had he been adrift within that nightmarish un-reality? He'd lost all sense of self, allowing his immortal essence to fray and fragment amidst frenzies of eldritch horrors. Just another hollowed husk withering amongst the psychic howls echoing from distant, unknown dimensions.

Until... he felt it. A familiar spark amidst the madness, drawing his frenzied consciousness like a beacon in the abyssal murk.  

A soul - small, achingly mortal, yet blazing with the warm light of life he'd all but forgotten existed beyond the immortal pollution of the Immaterium. He instinctively anchored himself there, clawing his way back into the corporeal plane to coalesce around that guttering ember of temporal existence.

Reality bled back into shrieking focus all at once. The sorcerer gasped, feeling the first touch of atmosphere scorching his lungs after an endless sojourn breathing naught but howling insanity. His eyes snapped open, revealing a blasted cityscape that stank of death and plasmic fire.

Wails of anguish echoed all around him as refugees fled the ruins in panicked droves. Overhead, the roar of engines and explosions painted the smog-choked skyline in crimson and gold. He stood in the middle of a ruined crossroads, his armor thrumming with barely-leashed arcane might.

And there... huddled in the bombed-out remains of what may have been a domicile, he saw you. His anchor, his tether to sanity in this mortal realm. Clutching a tiny, frail thing to your breast and shaking with terror that etched lines of exhaustion into your face.

A child. Your child, he realized through the haze of recognition clouding his enhanced mind. So young, its life newly-kindled... but somehow already stamped with his brand. Intrinsically linked to his.

He remember it...

He came back for you.

He extended one taloned gauntlet, feeling ethereal tendrils of energy reaching out to the two terrified souls before him...

[coolestork]

Hope I'm not too late for the NSFW request. I just want you to write about Guilliman's yearning, please. Maybe when he gets horny thinking about the reader but can only masturbate. We can't let the primarchs get everything they want anyway ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

#Horny Guilliman in your area.

#Guilliman x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#All is just Guilliman's delulu so yeah, it still fine

#NSFW, Horny Heresy, Delulu, I don't have summary....

Guilliman sighed as he glowered over the latest rounds of logistical reports from the various Administratum functionaries. Honestly, the rank incompetence displayed in some of these projections and inventories was staggering. How in the Emperor's name had the Imperium managed to keep stumbling along for ten millennia with such crippling inefficiency?

But then, he supposed that was precisely why he resurrected, to restore some semblance of organization and purpose to the monumental bureaucracy and martial apparatus that had continued to decay in his absence. The task was utterly hopeless, of course... but he was a Primarch. It was his essence to struggle eternally against the inevitable ruin through sheer force of will.

Sighing, he sat back and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, trying to massage away the tension knotting his brow. All around him, the echoing grandeur of the Fortress of Hera stood in mute testament to the folly of misplaced ambition writ cosmic in scale. A distillation of humanity's proclivity for turning inward upon itself, for laboring across eons and light-years towards ends that ultimately crumbled into irrelevance and waste.

Perhaps that was why one of the few true sources of light in his world had become the presence of you, the agent. An embodiment of lethal, peerless focus and self-possession... A being seemingly without flaw, ambiguity or irresolution to impair your duties. While everything else surrounding him seemed mired in grandiose failure, yours existed as a bladelike flensing of harsh efficiency amidst the futile sprawl of the Imperium he had reawakened to.

Guilliman shifted in his throne, tugging absently at the collar of his toga as he felt a familiar ache stirring in his loins. Despite himself, his thoughts had turned to the lithe, deadly form of you. Not for the first time, his mind's eye conjured vivid phantasms of your grace, that cool serenity masking a core of coiled menace...

A bead of sweat rolled down his brow as he squeezed his enormous cock. He stroked the heated, veined length slowly, dragging a groan from his lips as need lanced through him. But his calloused palm, slicked with oils, was a pale imitation of what he truly craved.

Your face swam before his mind's eye, delicate features hardened by an ever-present edge of danger, like a beautifully wrought blade. Those full lips slightly parted, smoky eyes heavy-lidded with rapture as you sank to your knees before the throne in supplication.  

"My lord..." You would murmur huskily, reaching out with hands far smaller than his own to grasp his pulsing girth. 

He groaned raggedly, hips jerking of the own accord as he imagined the satin caress of your fingers trailing up and down his throbbing length. Guilliman hungered to see your hands wrapped around his cock's furious girth, dwarfed and engulfed by his sheer immensity.

He stroked harder, revealing the slick, purpled head of his member. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, serving only to ease the passage of his fist along the red-hot steel of his erection. But even that scant wetness taunted him with thoughts of what your mouth would feel like, soft and searing and so perfectly snug around his achingly swollen prick.

A low growl of need rumbled up from his chest as he imagined you kneeling before him and looking up at him through heavy lashes with an expression of molten sensuality. He could see the tip of your tongue peeking out to wet those full lips in blatant invitation, all pretenses of innocence cast aside in the face of pure, ravenous hunger.

"Let me pleasure you, my lord," You would purr, reaching out to run your hands up the flexed columns of his thighs before boldly grasping the base of his member. Your gaze would smolder up at him with heavy-lidded lust as you leaned in close, planting feather-light kisses along his straining length. Your toned arms would likely ache within moments, struggling to contain his bulk, so absurdly outmatched in size yet persisting through sheer determination.

Muscles rippling and bunched with tension, Guilliman rutted into his encircling fist as the torrid fantasy played out in his mind's eye. He could practically hear your soft, panting breaths ghosting over his fevered flesh as you lavished worshipful kisses upon the blunt crown of his cock's head. A long, insistent lick up the underside of his shaft, finishing with a swirl of your devilish tongue into the weeping slit to savor his musky essence...

"Damn...." he growled through gritted teeth, redoubling his strokes and causing obscene, wet sounds to slap through the room. Your face contorted with determination as you finally parted those smoldering lips, your mouth stretching wide to accommodate his outrageous girth. Just the sight of your delicate features utterly overwhelmed by his flared cockhead, lips distended and clinging snugly to his pulsing, vein-wreathed length...

His other hand impacted the armrest of his throne hard enough to crack the stone, knuckles whitening as you began to take him deeper into that heavenly furnace of your mouth. Your breasts would sway enticingly as you bobbed along his slick, turgid length with agonizing slowness. The streaks of glistening spit and pre-cum would escape the corners of your cheeks, dribbling down to coat the flexed root of his cock. He longed to bury his fingers in your silken hair, yanking your head forward until your lush lips met the root of his cock so he might feel your throat convulse around his pistoning girth.

A hitched, guttural moan shuddered through him and Guilliman arched sharply, muscles cording as he worked his dick furiously with hand. Squeezed and stroked the base and main length, attended to the swollen cockhead with quick, frenzied twists and pulls of his thumb and forefinger around the sensitive crown. Slick, audible squelches of effort sounded through the room as his calloused palms glided with desperate urgency over the tumescent steel of his fleshy tower.

He was close, so punishingly close. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for release, demanding the blessed catharsis that only the ultimate climax could provide. He grunted harshly, abdominals clenching as his loins gathered themselves for that final, explosive eruption.

There kneeling before his throne, worshiping every pulsing inch of his cock with your mouth agape and gaze glazed with ecstasy. Your petite form is dwarfed by his bulk yet accepting of his sheer magnitude. Guilliman snarled incoherently as the fantasy reached its zenith, hips snapping forward to jackhammer his cockhead against your lush lips while your tiny hands...

"Nnnnngh ...!" he ground out in rapturous surrender, throwing his head back as the dam finally burst. His entire body went rigid, cords of muscle standing out in sharp relief and backlit by the guttering candlelight. Great plumes of steaming semen lanced from the flared tip of his cock, spattering out in his hand before him in whipping, gouting arcs of creamy seed. Pulse after pulse, driven by shuddering convulsions of his hips and loins until his very essence pooled in sloppy puddles. Only when the final pearlescent spurts dribbled over his fists did the tension gradually start to uncoil from his frame.

Panting harshly with exertion, Guilliman slumped forward, forearms draped over his quivering thighs as the hot, acrid musk of his release filled the chamber. He felt wrung out, hollowed, yet bearing a sense of fleeting peace in the aftermath of such feverish indulgence.

But despite the sweetness of release, pangs of shame were already taking root within him. The thought coiled in his loins like a slithering serpent, rebirthing his smoldering embers of desire into a rekindled flame, one eternally damned to burn even when physically spent.

The thought should disturb him, but it only makes his cock throb harder.

[coolestork]

For you, @druidwolf21

[coolestork]

World Population : 7,810,521,683 

just in case somebody start feelin too important

[coolestork]

made to be a devotee

cw: lorgar jerking it. that’s it that is the plot. for @moodymisty

—

—

It is not the first time that Lorgar has taken himself in hand while thinking of you, and it will not be the last. Lying on his austere bed, staring at the ceiling — after pointedly turning the statues of the Emperor to face the wall — he strokes himself root to tip, his shaft thickening eagerly.

He does this not because he wants to, but because he must. You are a good woman — kind, clever, bright-eyed and curious, and you speak with him about his books in a way that so few dare — and he will not dishonour you with his lust. When the time is right, when the crusade is done, he will take you as his wife in the sight of the Emperor, and then — and only then — will he bed you. He allows himself a moment to dwell on the glorious future: Monarchia, resplendent in gold, its people rejoicing at their lord’s nuptials; you, clad in white, your belly already starting to swell with child —

His forehead furrows a little. No, that’s not right: you cannot be pregnant until after the wedding. After. He alters his daydream minutely. Now you wear a dress of shimmering bronze, your pregnant belly testament to the exertions of your wedding night. It is the — anniversary? Or it is a celebration of his Father’s latest victory? It matters not. The point is you, holding his wrist as you parade before your people; or you, straddling his lap that night, your skin painted gold in candle light. My lord husband, you will say.

He strokes himself again, harder, as the image shifts a little, memory replacing fantasy. The last time he saw you — the incident that prompted this latest shameful session — you had been in the library, a book open on your lap. You were hunched over it, in a Astartes-sized chair, the noontime sun catching in your hair. The very point of your pink tongue had snuck out, moistening your finger before you turned a page.

Lorgar had executed a speedy strategic retreat. If he had stayed — oh if he had stayed. Well. He would have seated himself in the armchair, arranged you on his lap — far more comfortable for you that way. He would have replaced your thumb with his, and let you suckle on it, your cheeks hollowing as you peered up to him. You would like the taste of his skin, he’s certain. “There. Good girl.”

You’d like being called good. You are always so keen for approval, so desperate to please. So keen. He’d sneak in another finger, maybe, letting your lips stretch around them, drool slipping down towards his knuckles. He’d fuck your throat with his fingers first — preparing you, letting you get used to him —

And it wouldn’t cause you any shame, Lorgar thinks, starting to fuck his fist in earnest. No shame, because it isn’t sex, is it? He would still be able to take you as a virgin bride, like you deserved, pure as the driven snow, untainted by his baser feelings. All he would do is let you suck his fingers, just a little. Work your mouth open on them. Feel your sweet, blunt teeth against his flesh. Maybe he would reach a little deeper — into the wet channel of your throat, until you hiccuped around his digits. He would try to pull his hand free, but you would take his wrist. Suck harder. Pleading wordlessly to let him continue. Wanting him to take his pleasure with you, to abuse your throat, because he is your Primarch, your lord, your master —

Lorgar’s breath catches. He grasps himself harder, hips rolling up.

He would decline of course. He couldn’t possibly. Would never. Could never. You’re too good for it, too pure, you’re worth more — but you wouldn’t care. You’d say you want him even if it means being his whore.

He would be powerless to resist as you knelt before him —

Lorgar pauses, opens his eyes. Looks over at one of his desk chairs and does a few mental calculations. You probably wouldn’t have to kneel — merely bend over a little. And yet — no, the visual of you kneeling is far too pleasing to let go of. He adjusts the height of the library chair. There: now you have to kneel before the chair with uncommonly long legs.

Where was he? Yes: you’re sucking at his head now, using both of your tiny hands to milk him onto your tongue. Greedy for him, even though you can barely swallow an inch of his prick. You spit on his cock, then look somewhat embarrassed at your boldness. He urges you on —

Lorgar can feel his orgasm building. He squeezes the base of his prick, letting the scene change again: he has his face buried in your cunt, your thighs bracketing his face as he licks deeper into you, your mewling cries almost insensible save his name: Lorgar, Lorgar. A victory cry, a hymn, a call to worship. Lor-gar please, Lord Lorgar please —

The image changes one more time, almost against his will. He’s spilling inside you, your body clinging to his prick, warm and welcoming and tight and home —

He cums so hard he sees stars, his seed splashing up onto his abdomen. Still hazy with climax, he wishes you were there to lick him clean. And then the rose-gold dozy feeling wanes away, and he is sticky and alone and ashamed.

Not yet. But soon. Soon, he shall have you where you belong: his bride, in his bed, and under him.

[coolestork]

Of obedience and silence.

Perturabo x Reader

-

Note: The idea of Perturabo taking joy from the little cruel interactions with his favorite serf had me GNAWING at the bars of my enclosure.

Warnings - Toxic power dynamic, Dub-Con, Implied sexual themes.

-

The light was sparse in Perturabo’s chamber, as always; he preferred the dimness, the sense of sanctuary it gave him. A mechanical hum filled the silence, whispering to him as he worked, precise strokes of calculation etched on fragile data-slates as if they were paper. And there she was, quietly standing at his side, a figure of silent obedience, his serf.

She had been with him for some time, a fixture in his life of iron discipline and rigid control. At first, she had been nothing to him but another loyal subject, a thing molded by his demands, made to serve him without question. But as the years passed, something within him twisted, molding itself around her. And now, her downcast eyes, the slight tremble in her posture – they sparked something in him. He felt himself leaning into the thrill of it, into the dark satisfaction at seeing her nervous, wondering what she had done wrong this time.

“Tell me, Y/N," he said slowly, his voice heavy, “do you ever resent the role you play, so willingly beneath my heel?”

The question hung in the air, leaving her stricken, her expression uncertain. There was the faintest flicker of distress in her eyes, which she quickly masked with bowed submission. “My lord, I exist to serve you as I am commanded. I could not resent it.”

Perturabo smirked, though it was humorless. “Lies. A good serf doesn’t lie, does she?”

She paled, and he felt the gratification ripple through him. The power he had over her, the way her world seemed to rest on his word – it stirred something he had once dismissed as weakness. He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on her face, catching the subtle fear beneath her exterior.

“What use are you to me if you cannot even be honest, hmm?” He spoke slowly, enjoying the way she squirmed beneath his stare. “Perhaps I should reassign you, find some other creature with the will to serve me honestly.”

Her lips parted, a silent plea hidden in her gaze. She had grown attached to her place here, he knew. And the thought of losing it, losing him, made her ache with desperation.

“Please, my lord,” she whispered, her voice quivering, “I only wish to please you.”

The words tasted sweet, and he allowed them to settle before responding, knowing that every moment of silence filled her with unease. He savored it, the weight of her fear mingling with her desire, the way she would lower herself again and again if only to have his approval.

“Then prove it,” he murmured, his voice cold as he spread his legs. He didn’t need to spell it out; the command was implicit, a game of cat and mouse in which she was ever the cornered prey. And yet, some part of him, the part he rarely acknowledged, wished to keep her close, to keep her his. No one else could know the twisted pleasure of this dance, he thought to himself.

As she whispered her affirmation, her voice trembling but resolute, he felt something tighten within him – a cruel, possessive satisfaction.

And slowly, she approached his chair and knelt.

-

Note: SOMEBODY SEDATE ME 🗣‼️

I left it implicit because I'm still a little new to writing for WH40K, and I'm low-key trying to figure out how to write p0rn featuring primarchs or astartes. Their size makes logistics kinda complicated BUT there is a lot of kinky potential with these beings bc they are kinda Fucked Up and there is so MUCH to do with the authority they inevitably have. ANYWAY, if you have any suggestions on who I should write my first smut about, let me know.

[coolestork]

No one ever talks about this part in the Imperial bible

[coolestork]

@kit-williams AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA IM LIKE AN ANIMAL-

You have awakened an idea, here it is:

-

The ember of the cigar flared again, casting fleeting shadows across Marneus Calgar’s face. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips like a veil, shrouding the silence between you. His gaze remained locked on yours, cold and unyielding. His hand drifted down, fingers brushing over the side of your face where it pressed against his thigh. The weight of his touch, though barely there, was enough to send a shiver through your body.

“You seek judgment,” he said, his voice low, rough like the grinding of stone, but with an undercurrent of something unknown. “And yet, you linger.”

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his thigh was your only anchor, grounding you in the moment, even as his words sank deep, wrapping themselves around your thoughts. You could feel the weight of his presence, the raw, unspoken authority in every syllable.

He took another drag from the cigar, the faint glow of the ember lighting his eyes in a predatory gleam. His hand remained on you, heavy and possessive. "Do you wait for my mercy?" he asked, the faintest curl of his lips betraying the shadow of a smirk.

You swallowed hard, your voice caught in your throat. Words felt distant, irrelevant in the face of his overwhelming presence. Instead, you pressed your cheek a fraction more into the heat of his flesh, answering without a sound.

The cigar rolled between his fingers once more, and his gaze bore down on you like a weight. “Then wait,” he murmured, a promise wrapped in command, the smoke from his lips hanging in the air between you, thick and intoxicating.

-

The idea was too good to pass up, I HAD to. godbless sorry for reblogginf with this

. . . Confession 2, kinky electric boodyloo

Ever since I learned of Warhammer in general years ago, I've always had this honest adoration for Rogal Dorn and Roboute Guilliman. With the same idea of being sandwiched hugged between them, becoming ever more frequent.

Then I learn of Lord Calgar this year. Relentless thoughts of him staring dead at me while using a cigar. Slowly rolling and puffing on it as he lights the end.

..Yep.

I have come to the conclusion that I adore giant pretty boy dilfy gentlemen, with muscles bigger than my ENTIRE body. I'am only 5'6.

My knees are ceasing to exist.

*Shys away into the void*

[coolestork]

very specific scene of living weapon whump when, against all orders, they do something soft. they cradle a flower in their palm; they hesitantly pat a small dog on the head; they wipe a tear from a dear one's face. these hands are made for hurting, and gentleness takes so much work. i just love it.