#shiyorin's writer

[shiyorin]

#Thanks @roroco316, your ideas is the best (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~

#When Primarchs send dick pic to you

#Rogal Dorn/Perturabo x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#RIP Reader

#NSFW, non-con, many things

The Imperial Palace on Terra hummed with activity, its gilded halls filled with the usual bustle of servitors, tech-priests, and various officials going about their duties. But deep within its labyrinthine structure, in a secluded chamber reserved for one of the Emperor's sons, something decidedly unusual was taking place.

Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, is very confused. His massive form, usually the picture of stoic control, now radiated an unfamiliar tension. The Primarch's face was flushed, his breathing heavy, and an uncomfortable tightness had taken up residence in his groin.

Dorn growled in frustration, running a hand through his close-cropped white hair. He didn't understand what was happening to him. Was this some new form of xenos attack? An Enemies of the Imperium plot? Whatever it was, it was interfering with his ability to focus on his duties, and that was unacceptable.

As he turned to pace back across the room, Dorn's eyes fell on the data-slate resting on his desk. An idea formed in his mind, one that both excited and confused him. Perhaps if he documented this strange condition, he could better understand and combat it.

With decisive movements, Dorn strode to the desk and picked up the data-slate. He fumbled with the unfamiliar camera function, his large fingers clumsy on the small device. Finally figuring it out, he positioned the slate and began to remove his armor.

As the ceramite plates fell away, Dorn's impressive physique was revealed. Muscles rippled beneath skin marred by countless battle scars, a testament to millennia of warfare. But it was what lay between his legs that truly captured attention.

Dorn's cock stood at full attention, a monument to masculinity that would make even other Primarchs pause. It jutted proudly from a nest of curls, its girth easily as thick as a mortal man's forearm. Veins pulsed along its length, leading to a swollen head that glistened with pre-cum.

The Primarch's face flushed deeper as he aimed the data-slate's camera at his engorged member. He felt ridiculous, like some kind of deviant, but the urge to capture this moment was overwhelming. With a grunt of determination, Dorn snapped the picture.

Staring at the image on the screen, Dorn felt a mix of embarrassment and... pride? Yes, there was definitely a part of him that was pleased with what he saw. But what to do with it now?

Again, an inexplicable urge seized him. Before he could second-guess himself, Dorn's fingers were flying over the data-slate's interface, sending the image to the one person he felt might be able to help him make sense of this situation: you, the Imperial Agent he'd worked with on several classified missions.

As soon as the image was sent, a wave of mortification washed over Dorn. What had he done? This was completely inappropriate behavior for a Primarch! He needed to explain himself, to provide context for this madness.

Dorn began typing out a message to accompany the image:

"Dear Agent,

I find myself experiencing an unusual physiological response. My genitals have become engorged and I feel an overwhelming urge for physical contact. I believe the most efficient course of action would be for us to engage in sexual intercourse. Please prepare yourself, as I will be arriving at your quarters shortly to address this situation.

Regards, Rogal Dorn"

Satisfied that he had explained himself clearly and concisely, Dorn hit send. He then began to reassemble his armor, his movements hurried and clumsy in his eagerness to reach your quarters.

Meanwhile, in another part of the palace, you were reviewing reports when your data-slate chimed with an incoming message. Expecting more mission briefings, you casually glanced at the screen - and nearly dropped the device in shock.

There, filling your entire display, was the most impressive cock you'd ever laid eyes on. Your mouth went dry as you took in its massive size, the way it curved slightly upward, the prominent veins that promised to make you feel every inch when it was buried inside you...

You shook your head, trying to clear the sudden fog of lust that had descended. Who in the Emperor's name would send you such a thing? Your question was answered moments later as a text message popped up.

As you read Rogal Dorn's blunt, matter-of-fact explanation, your eyes widened in disbelief. "???" you muttered, re-reading the message to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, had just sent you a dick pic and was now on his way to fuck you?

Before you could fully process this turn of events, a thunderous knock echoed through your quarters. Your heart leapt into your throat as you realized Dorn hadn't been exaggerating about coming right away.

With trembling hands, you smoothed down your uniform and went to answer the door. It slid open to reveal the towering form of Rogal Dorn, but your eyes were immediately drawn lower, to the massive bulge straining against the Primarch's codpiece.

"Agent," Dorn rumbled, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. "I trust you received my message and are prepared to assist me with this... situation."

You swallowed hard, your gaze alternating between Dorn's intense eyes and the promise of what lay beneath his clothes. "I... yes, my lord. Please, come in."

As Dorn ducked through the doorway, the full impact of his size hit you anew. He was easily twice your height, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the entrance. The thought of taking his cock - that magnificent beast you'd seen in the picture, made you clench in both fear and anticipation.

'Oh Throne,' you thought, a mix of panic and arousal coursing through you. 'If he puts that thing inside me, I might actually die.'

But as Dorn began to remove his clothes once more, revealing inch after glorious inch of sculpted muscle, you found yourself thinking that there were far worse ways to go.

The Primarch's cock sprang free, even more impressive in person than it had been in the picture. Pre-cum beaded at its tip, and you had to resist the fear when you saw it.

Dorn's eyes raked over your form, dark with a feeling he didn't fully understand. "I find myself... eager to proceed," he said, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of his overwhelming need. "How shall we begin?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was sure to be the ride of your life. "My lord," you said, your voice suppressed the trembling "why don't you start by showing me exactly what that cock of yours can do?"

A rare smile tugged at the corners of Dorn's mouth as he advanced on you, his massive erection leading the way. "With pleasure, Agent."

As Dorn's large hands wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly, you sent up a silent prayer to the Emperor. May the Emperor protect you.

*****

Perturabo, the Primarch of Iron Warriors, was in a foul mood. His massive form paced the confines of his private chambers, tension radiating from every inch of his superhuman body. But this wasn't his usual anger, no, this was something far more primal and embarrassing.

He was horny. Painfully, achingly horny.

The Primarch growled in frustration, his hand unconsciously drifting to the impressive bulge in his armor. He hated this weakness, this base desire that clouded his thoughts and distracted him from his grand designs. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the burning need that consumed him.

With defeat, Perturabo began to remove his armor, piece by piece. As the last ceramite plate clattered to the floor, he stood naked, his massive cock jutting proudly.

Perturabo's dick was a thing of beauty - if one appreciated monstrous, superhuman genitalia. It stood at an impressive 10 inches when fully erect, thick as a mortal man's wrist, with prominent veins running along its length. The head was a deep, angry purple, already glistening with pre-cum.

Despite his self-loathing, Perturabo couldn't resist wrapping a hand around his throbbing member. He stroked himself slowly, a low groan escaping his lips at the sensation. His other hand reached down to cup his heavy balls.

As he pleasured himself, Perturabo's thoughts drifted to you, the Imperial Agent who had been a thorn in his side. Your fierce intelligence, your unwavering loyalty to the Imperium, your lithe body that he longed to break…

Before he could stop himself, Perturabo grabbed his data-slate. With one hand still working his cock, he snapped a picture of his erect member. The image was intimidating, his massive hand wrap around the shaft, veins bulging, pre-cum dripping from the tip.

Without allowing himself to second-guess, Perturabo sent the image to your personal vox channel.

Instant regret flooded him the moment he hit 'send.' What in the name of the Warp was he thinking? He was a Primarch, a demigod of war, not some pervert sending dick pics!

Frantically, Perturabo tried to recall the message. To his immense relief, the system informed him that the image had been successfully retrieved before you could view it. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

'You definitely hadn't seen it,' Perturabo thought, a mix of relief and... disappointment? washing over him. How dare you not witness it? The audacity!

Meanwhile, in your quarters aboard an Imperial vessel, you were having a mild panic attack. You had indeed seen the image before it was retrieved, how could you not notice a message from a Primarch? And now you were sweating bullets.

Your hands shook as you typed out a quick response: "Lord Perturabo, I didn't see anything in your last message. Was there something you needed to communicate?"

You hit send and immediately regretted it. What if he took offense? What if he thought you were lying? Oh Emperor, you were so screwed.

Back in his chambers, Perturabo read your message with growing anger. You had seen it. You must have. And now you dared to lie to him? To a Primarch?

With a growl of frustration, Perturabo typed out a scathing reply: "Do not attempt to deceive me, Agent. I know you saw the image. Your dishonesty only compounds your offense."

And then, driven by a mixture of anger, lust, and wounded pride, he reattached the photo of his erect cock to the message and sent it again.

Your eyes widened in shock as your data-slate pinged with a new message. You opened it, praying to every saint you could think of that it wasn't what you feared.

Your prayers went unanswered.

There, filling your screen, was Perturabo's massive member in all its glory. You felt your mouth go dry as you took in the sheer size of it. How was that even possible? It had to be as thick as your forearm!

Despite your fear, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal. You quickly shook your head, trying to dispel such dangerous thoughts. This was Perturabo, for Terra's sake! He'd crush you like a bug if he ever got his hands on you.

With trembling fingers, you typed out another response: "My Lord, I assure you I didn't see anything in your previous message. I would never lie to you."

You hit send and immediately curled into a ball on your bed, praying for a quick and painless death.

Perturabo read your latest message with growing fury. How dare you continue this charade? Did you think him a fool?

"Enough of your lies!" he typed back, his fingers nearly cracking the data-slate's screen. "You will cease this deception immediately, or I will show you the consequences of toying with a Primarch in person."

As he sent the message, a new idea formed in Perturabo's mind. If you insisted on playing dumb, perhaps it was time for a more... hands-on approach to communication.

With a few quick commands, Perturabo accessed the ship's systems. He located your quarters and activated the emergency teleportation protocols. In a flash of blue light, he materialized in your room, still gloriously naked and fully erect.

You screamed in surprise and terror as the massive form of Perturabo appeared before you. You scrambled backwards on your bed, eyes wide as saucers as you took in the Primarch in all his naked glory.

"L-Lord Perturabo!" you stammered, trying desperately to look anywhere but at his imposing erection. "I-I don't understand-"

"Silence!" Perturabo roared, his voice shaking the walls. He stalked towards the bed, his cock bobbing with each step. "You claim you saw nothing? Then allow me to give you a proper view."

Before you could react, Perturabo grabbed your ankle and dragged you to the edge of the bed. He loomed over you, his massive frame blocking out the light, his cock mere inches from your face.

"Look at it," he growled, his voice a mixture of anger and lust. "Look at what you've done to me, you infuriating woman."

You couldn't help but obey. Your eyes locked onto Perturabo's member, taking in every vein, every twitch, the bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. You swallowed hard, a confusing mix of fear and arousal coursing through you.

"I... I see it, my Lord," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Perturabo's hand shot out, gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "And what do you think of it, little agent? Does it please you? Does it terrify you?"

Your mind raced, searching for the right answer. What could you possibly say that wouldn't result in your immediate demise?

"It's... impressive, my Lord," you finally managed, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Truly befitting a Primarch."

A slow smile spread across Perturabo's face. "Good answer," he purred. "Now, since you've finally admitted to seeing it, I think it's time we put it to proper use, don't you?"

As Perturabo's free hand began to tear at your clothes, you realized that your earlier fears had been misplaced. You weren't going to die today….

[shiyorin]

Requests still open?

Anything with Dorn first time with his beloved with Dorn still being vaugely ashamed of his desires like in that painglove horny fic. Love how that was written.

#Egh... I don't really know what I'm doing.

#This might be a sequel to pain glove fic, or not, I don't know. I haven't written about him for a long time. I don't know what I'm doing, again.

#Rogal Dorn x F!Reader

#NSFW

Terra’s Praetor sat at his massive desk, staring blankly at the tactical reports spread before him. His face was a mask of stern concentration, but his mind was far from the dry statistics and battle plans. Instead, it kept drifting back to the events of the previous night, replaying them in vivid, intoxicating detail.

He could still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin, your small hands exploring the vast expanse of his muscled chest. The memory sent a shiver down his spine, his cock twitching to life within the confines of his armor. Dorn shifted uncomfortably, trying to focus on the task at hand, but it was a losing battle.

His eyes scanned the same paragraph for the fifth time, but the words blurred together, replaced by images of your lithe body writhing beneath him. He remembered how you had gasped when he first entered you, your tight pussy stretching to accommodate his massive girth.

Dorn's hand clenched around his stylus, threatening to snap it in two. He forced himself to relax, taking a deep breath to steady his racing double hearts. But even that simple action brought back memories of burying his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he pounded into you relentlessly

He remembered the way you had clung to him, your nails raking down his broad back as you moaned in ecstasy. Your legs, so slender and but so strong, had wrapped around his, urging him deeper. Dorn had lost himself in the sensation, marveling at how perfectly you fit against him despite your petite body.

The Primarch's free hand unconsciously drifted to his lips, and suddenly he was transported back to the moment he had first tasted your kiss. Your mouth had been so soft, so yielding, yet there was a hunger in you that matched his own. He had devoured your lips, drinking in your moans of pleasure as his tongue explored every inch of your mouth

Dorn's cock throbbed painfully, straining against his armor. He shifted again, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it was futile. Every movement only served to remind him of how it felt to be buried deep inside your tight heat.

He closed his eyes, willing the memories away, but they only intensified. He saw your face contorted in pleasure, your back arching as you came undone beneath him. He felt the exquisite tightness of your pussy clenching around him, milking his cock as his release.

The sound of a dataslate clattering to the floor snapped Dorn back to reality. He realized he had been gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that he had inadvertently knocked some items off. He bent to retrieve the fallen objects, but even this simple action brought fresh torment.

As he reached down, he remembered how he had lifted you effortlessly, positioning you atop his massive cock. You had been so light in his arms, so delicate, but you had taken him with a strength that belied your size. The memory of you sinking down onto him, inch by agonizing inch, nearly undid him then and there.

Dorn straightened, his face flushed despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He glanced at the chronometer, dismayed to realize how much time had passed while he had been lost in his lustful reverie. He needed to focus, to be the leader his men expected him to be. But how could he concentrate when every fiber of his being yearned to be with you again?

He tried to redirect his thoughts to the upcoming campaign, to the lives that depended on his strategic brilliance. But even as he pored over the battle maps, his mind kept conjuring images of your body. He saw you sprawled across the tactical table, your skin a stark contrast to the dark metal. In his mind's eye, he swept the maps and reports aside, laying you out like a feast before him.

Dorn's hand twitched, longing to reach out and caress that imaginary form. He could almost feel the softness of your skin, the warmth of your flesh. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, remembering how he had tasted every inch of you. From the delicate hollow of your throat to the sensitive flesh between your thighs, he had explored you thoroughly with lips and tongue.

He groaned softly, the sound barely audible even in the quiet of his chambers. He was achingly hard now, his cock a throbbing presence that demanded attention. But he refused to give in, to soil himself with self-gratification like some undisciplined neophyte. Instead, he embraced the discomfort, using it to fuel his frustration and desire.

Would you come to him again? Or had last night been a fleeting moment of weakness for you both? The uncertainty gnawed at him, mixing with the constant undercurrent of lust that had plagued him all day.

This obsession, this all-consuming desire, this is not him. It was a weakness, a chink in his impenetrable armor. But he longs for the moment when fantasy would once again become reality.

What had he gotten himself into?

[shiyorin]

#Happy Sanguinala, time to meet the Great Angel

#Chaos Sanguinius x Female Reader

#Yep, four of them

#Warning: NSFW, rape, non-con, Chaos Sanguinius, there is a lot of sensitive content,....

Khorne Sanguinius 

The Great Angel, his once-white wings now stained crimson with the blood of a thousand worlds. His noble features are still beautifully but twisted with rage, eyes glowing red with murderous intent. The Blood God's chosen champion, Khorne Sanguinius leads his Legion on a never-ending crusade of slaughter.

Gone is the compassion that once defined him. In its place, a burning thirst for violence that can never be quenched. His laughter is a terrifying sound that sends even hardened warriors fleeing in terror. 

The Blood Angels, once noble defenders of humanity, are now rabid berserkers. Their gene-seed, already tainted by the Red Thirst, has been twisted further. Now, they fall into a permanent state of uncontrollable bloodlust, barely distinguishable from mindless beasts.

The chamber reeked of blood, sweat and sex, a fitting shrine to Khorne's newest champion. Sanguinius loomed over your petite form, his massive frame dwarfing yours entirely. His once-white wings, now stained crimson, twitched with barely restrained violence as he thrust savagely into your tight heat.

Your body shook with each brutal impact, tears streaming down your face from the intensity. But Sanguinius saw only beauty in your pain. He leaned down, his tongue gently lapping at the salty trails on your cheeks.

"So good." he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You take me so well, my dearest."

The tenderness of the words contrasted sharply with the relentless pounding of his hips. 

Your only response was a defiant glare, your eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and unwanted arousal. Sanguinius smiled, a touch of arrogance curling his lips. He knew you would never admit it, but your body betrayed you. The way you clenched around his massive cock, the breathless moans you tried so hard to suppress - you wanted this as much as he did.

His tongue trailed lower, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw before finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered involuntarily, and Sanguinius chuckled gently.

"That's it," he purred. "Let go. Give yourself to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, then began working his way down your neck. His lips and tongue moved with exquisite gentleness, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. It was as if he was trying to soothe away the pain even as he inflicted more.

Sanguinius paused at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. He laved the spot with his tongue, the sensation almost numbing. You tensed, knowing what was coming.

With a growl of pure lust, Sanguinius sank his fangs into your flesh. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, and he roared in ecstasy. His hips jerked erratically as he came, pumping load after load of scalding seed deep into your womb.

The world went white around the edges as pleasure unlike anything he'd ever known coursed through him. It was better than any battle-high, more intoxicating than the sweetest victory. In that moment, Sanguinius understood why chaos held such sway over mortals and Astartes alike.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Even as the aftershocks of his orgasm still rippled through him, Sanguinius felt his cock hardening again. The blessings of Khorne and his Primarch physiology ensured he could go for hours, days even, without respite.

He pulled back slightly, admiring the livid bite mark on your neck. A possessive thrill ran through him at the sight. You were his now, marked and claimed in the most primal way possible.

Sanguinius leaned down, his tongue gently lapping at the wound. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his lips, the rush of blood calling to the predator within him. But he held back, content for now to simply taste and savor.

"I can give you more.” he said, your answer didn't matter, he would take what he wanted regardless. 

Sanguinius began to move again, setting a pace that had you gasping and clawing at his back. Your nails dig so deep left bloody furrows in his skin, but he feels no pain, only pleasure. He reveled in it, just as Blood God had taught him to revel in all sensations.

Blood and pleasure, pain and ecstasy, it was all the same in the end.

After all, they had all the time in the world. And he had so much more love to give.

Tzeentch Sanguinius

The Ever-Changing Angel. His once-majestic form shifts constantly, his wings are now covered in dozens of ever-watching eyes. These orbs constantly swivel and blink, granting the angel omniscient awareness of his surroundings. The feathers have become iridescent, shimmering with impossible colors that hurt mortal minds to perceive.

His mind, already sharp, has expanded beyond mortal comprehension. He sees all possible futures simultaneously, playing out grand schemes that span millennia. 

Sanguinius speaks in riddles and prophecies, his words carrying multiple layers of meaning. He delights in manipulating events from afar, setting up elaborate dominoes of fate that topple empires and birth new galaxies.

The Ever-Changing Angel’s wings unfurled and shimmering with impossible colors. Each feather held a lidless eye that gazed hungrily at the little mortal bent before him. Your face burned crimson, turned away in a futile attempt to hide your embarrassment from the Chaos Primarch's all-seeing gaze.

The corrupted Angel of Baal gripped your hips, his enormous hands nearly encircling your waist entirely. He pulled you back onto his monstrous cock, stretching your tight pussy to its absolute limit. You bit your lip to stifle a cry, your body trembling as it struggled to accommodate Sanguinius' inhuman size.

Sanguinius began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate. He savored the exquisite friction, reveling in your warmth and the way your inner walls clenched around him. His mind raced with possibilities, a thousand potential futures unfolding before his Warp-touched eyes.

In one, he saw you swollen with his seed, your belly distended as you prepared to birth his heir. In another, your body was remade in his image, wings sprouting from your back as you ascended. Still more visions flickered through his consciousness.

You whimpered softly as Sanguinius picked up the pace, your small frame rocking with the force of his thrusts. You felt utterly overwhelmed, filled to the brim with the Primarch's massive member. Despite your training, you found yourself lost in the maelstrom of sensations assaulting your body.

Sanguinius leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back as he enveloped you with his wings. The feathered appendages caressed your skin, each touch sending jolts of unnatural pleasure coursing through your nerves. The eyes adorning his plumage blinked and shifted, drinking in every detail of your face.

As his orgasm approached, Sanguinius' mind fixated on one particular future - you, your belly swollen with eggs, utterly dependent on him for survival. The image sent a thrill of excitement through him, and he growled low in his throat.

"Perhaps." he purred, his voice a discordant symphony of whispers "we should see how well you lay eggs."

With those words, Sanguinius hilted himself fully inside you, his seed flooding your womb as reality itself bent to his will.

Nurgle Sanguinius

The Plague Father's embrace has transformed the Great Angel. Now Sanguinius' wings drip with putrid ichor, his flesh a canvas of lesions that birth new diseases with every breath.

But in this form, the Angel has found a perverse kind of peace. He spreads Nurgle's "gifts" with the same zeal he once showed in defending the Imperium.

He sees beauty in decay, marveling at the complex ecosystem of bacteria and parasites that call his garden home. He nurtures them lovingly, crooning lullabies as he unleashes them upon unsuspecting worlds.

Pale, fungal flowers exhaled spores that danced in the air like glittering dust. The fallen Angel reclined on a bed of writhing vines, his skin now alabaster and crisscrossed with livid scars. 

Underneath him lay you, your petite form dwarfed by the Primarch's massive bulk. Your belly swelled obscenely, stretched taut with the unholy life growing within. Sanguinius gazed upon you with adoration, misinterpreting your revolted expression as one of tender affection.

"My love," he crooned, voice thick with emotion. "How beautiful you are, heavy with our child."

His massive hand splayed across your distended abdomen, caressing the taut skin with surprising gentleness. Beneath his palm, something twisted and writhed, pushing against its fleshy prison. The angel smiled gently, imagining the perfect being they had created together.

You bit back a whimper of disgust as the fallen Primarch's fingers gently caressed across your skin. You remembered all too well the endless, agonizing hours of their coupling, he rutting into you with tireless stamina, his seed flooding your womb again and again until it finally took root.

Now you were trapped, your body no longer your own as it nurtured the abomination growing inside you. You longed for the sweet release of death, but knew that even that escape was denied you. Nurgle's "gifts" ensured you would endure, no matter how your body and mind might break.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, Sanguinius continued his tender explorations. His hand drifted higher, cupping one of your swollen breasts. They had grown heavy with milk, preparing to nourish the child you carried. 

"So beautiful” he murmured, kneading the soft flesh. A drop of pearlescent fluid beaded at your nipple, and Sanguinius licked his lips in anticipation. Soon, he would taste the sweet nectar of their love.

Leaning down, he took your nipple into his mouth, suckling gently. The warm milk flooded his mouth, and he groaned in ecstasy. It was sweeter than the finest ambrosia, carrying hints of the love that now coursed through your veins. 

You stared blankly at the canopy of fungal growths above, desperately trying to disconnect from the sensation of his mouth on your breast. You focused on the sweet scent of decay that permeated the air, on the squelching sounds of nameless things moving through the underbrush. Anything to distract from the horror of your situation.

But there was no true escape. As Sanguinius' arousal grew, you felt the massive bulge of his cock pressing against your thigh. You knew what was coming, and a small sob escaped your lips. 

The fallen Primarch misinterpreted your cry as one of desire. With aching tenderness, he positioned himself between your legs, his engorged member throbbing with anticipation. 

"I love you," he whispered as he pushed inside you. 

You bit your lip until you tasted blood, refusing to give voice to your pain as Sanguinius stretched you far beyond your limits. His girth was monstrous, and even after countless couplings, your body struggled to accommodate him.

The angel set a languid pace, savoring every sensation as he made love to his bride. His hands roamed over your body reverently, marveling at how small and delicate you were compared to his massive frame. 

In his twisted mind, this was the ultimate expression of their love. Every thrust brought them closer to the glorious future he envisioned, a family bound by devotion and Nurgle's blessings. Their child would be perfect, a living testament to the power of their union.

The angel gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest. 

"My love" he murmured, stroking your hair. "Our family will be complete soon."

Slaneesh Sanguinius 

The Prince of Pleasure has molded Sanguinius into its ultimate champion. The pleasure angel is a being of otherworldly beauty and horrific excess. His wings shimmer with impossible colors, each feather a gateway to mind-shattering sensations.

Gone is the noble restraint that once defined him. Now, the angel pursues every fleeting whim and desire to its ultimate conclusion. He leads his Legion on endless crusades, leaving worlds drained of all sensation in their wake.

No longer content with mere blood, now he feast on emotions, memories, and souls, always hungry for new experiences to stave off the gnawing emptiness within.

Sanguinius' voice is a weapon in itself, capable of reducing the strongest-willed beings to quivering addicts with a single whispered promise. He revels in corrupting the pure, seeing how far he can push beings before they break.

The pleasure angel stood before the ornate mirror, admiring his transcendent form. His wings shimmered with impossible hues, each feather a gateway to mind-shattering sensations. The Primarch's perfectly sculpted body was a masterpiece of hedonistic excess, every inch designed to evoke desire.

But perfection was fleeting in the realm of the Prince of Pleasure. There was always a new threshold of beauty to cross, another exquisite sensation to explore. Sanguinius' lips curled into a smile as he contemplated his latest adornments.

With delicate precision, he slid a gleaming golden ring through his left nipple. The cool metal sent shivers of delight coursing through his body. He savored the subtle ache, knowing it would heighten every touch, every caress.

Sanguinius traced his fingers along the intricate patterns inked into his alabaster skin. The tattoos shifted and swirled, hypnotic designs that seemed to move of their own accord. They were a map of pleasure, each line and curve attuned to elicit maximum sensation.

His thoughts turned to you, his only lover, chained to his bed. You were so fierce and independent, now trembled at his merest touch. Sanguinius felt a surge of pride mixed with insatiable hunger. No matter how many times he claimed you, it was never enough.

He recalled the way you writhed beneath him, your small form struggling to accommodate his huge cock. The delicious contrast of your petite body against his towering frame never failed to arouse him. Sanguinius' member swelled at the memory, already aching to be buried in your tight heat once more.

With a thought, he summoned wisps of warp energy to caress his skin. The ethereal tendrils danced along his flesh, leaving trails of tingling pleasure in their wake. Sanguinius groaned, imagining your reaction to this new trick. Would you gasp in awe? Whimper in desperate need? The possibilities were intoxicating.

He selected a vial of shimmering oil, specially crafted to heighten sensitivity. Sanguinius poured a generous amount into his palm, then began to massage it into his chiseled abs and powerful thighs. The oil seemed to sink into his very being, setting every nerve ending aflame with exquisite sensation.

His cock throbbed insistently, demanding attention. Sanguinius wrapped his hand around the massive shaft, stroking languidly. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and he smeared it over the head, hissing at the intensity of the feeling. He imagined your lips wrapped around him, your throat struggling to take his full length...

With effort, Sanguinius released his grip. No, he would save his release for you. The anticipation would only make it sweeter.

He adorned himself with jewelry crafted from precious metals and soul-stones. Each piece was a work of art, designed to accentuate his godlike physique. Rings glittered on his fingers, and chains draped artfully across his broad chest.

Satisfied with his preparations, Sanguinius turned toward the door that separated him from his lover. His enhanced senses could already detect your rapid heartbeat, the sweet musk of your arousal. You might pretend to resist, might curse his name even as you came undone beneath him. But Sanguinius knew the truth, you were utterly, hopelessly addicted to the pleasures only he could provide.

He pushed open the door, drinking in the sight of you bound and waiting. Today, he would introduce you to new heights of ecstasy. Today, he would make you scream his name loud enough to shake the very foundations of reality.

Sanguinius smiled, a gentle smile about to devour his lover. He loves you and it's never enough.

[shiyorin]

Hi, I see that you are taking request, can I ask for: "Sex pollen. Angron (or any primarchs you feel like it). Like animal in heat." Thank you!(⁠｡⁠・���/⁠/⁠ε⁠/⁠/⁠・⁠｡⁠)

#Fast food 

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

#Angron got sex pollen

#NSFW

'I will die.' 

The thought echoes in your mind as you find yourself stranded on this godforsaken planet with none other than Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters. Your heart races, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you watch the hulking figure before you.

Angron writhes on the ground, his massive form twisting and contorting in ways that defy his usual fluid grace. Gasps and grunts escape his lips, a cacophony of pain and... something else. Your eyes dart around, searching for an escape route, but you know it's futile. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the beast before you.

'I am going to die. I am definitely going to die.' 

You think, your body trembling despite your best efforts to maintain composure. You're an Imperial Agent. You have faced many xenos horrors, but nothing could have prepared you for this.

What you don't realize, however, is that Angron's current state has little to do with his usual rage. The Primarch is experiencing something entirely new and confusing. The lush, alien flora surrounding you has released a potent pollen into the air, a pollen with some very interesting side effects.

Angron's skin looks like it's on fire, an intense itch spreading from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. His hearts pound in his chest, blood rushing through his veins and pooling in his groin. The sensation is foreign, uncomfortable, and yet... strangely alluring.

His eyes, usually clouded with rage and pain, now fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. There's hunger there, a primal need that the Primarch himself doesn't understand.

With a growl that's equal parts frustration and desire, Angron lunges forward. You barely have time to gasp before you find yourself pinned beneath his massive form, the heat of his body searing through your clothes.

"What-" Your question is cut short as Angron's tongue, hot and rough, drags along the column of your throat. You shudder, a mix of fear and unexpected arousal coursing through you.

Angron's mind is a haze of new sensations. The taste of your skin, salty with sweat and fear, ignites something within him. He needs more. His tongue traces the curve of your jaw before claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss.

Your eyes widen in shock. This is Angron, the Red Angel, primarch of World Eater, and he's kissing you like a man starved. His technique is sloppy, all teeth and tongue, but the raw passion behind it sends shivers down your spine.

The Primarch's hands, calloused from centuries of warfare, roam your body with surprising gentleness. He marvels at the softness of your skin, so different from the unyielding ceramite of power armor. A low rumble of approval vibrates in his chest as he cups your breasts through your uniform.

Frustration mounts as Angron's fingers fumble with the unfamiliar fastenings of your clothes. With a snarl, he gives up on finesse and simply tears the fabric away, leaving you exposed to the alien air and his gaze.

You gasp, the cool breeze a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Angron's body. You should be terrified, should be fighting tooth and nail to escape. Instead, you find yourself arching into his touch, your body betraying you with its eager response.

Angron's nostrils flare as a new scent reaches him - musky, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. Driven by instinct he doesn't understand, he begins to move lower, his tongue leaving a wet trail down your stomach.

"Oh no," you breathe as you realize his destination. This can't be happening. There's no way Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters, is about to-

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm as Angron's face buries itself between your thighs. His tongue, so clumsy in your mouth, now laps at your pussy with single-minded determination.

Angron growls in satisfaction as he tastes your arousal. It's better than the finest wines, more intoxicating than any drugs. He doesn't know what this nectar is, but he knows he needs more of it.

His large hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider as he devours your pussy like a starving man at a feast. His tongue delves deep, exploring every fold and crevice with thorough attention.

Your back arches off the ground, a strangled moan escaping your lips. This is madness, utter insanity and yet you can't bring yourself to stop it. Your fingers scratched Angron's scalp, holding him close as pleasure courses through your body.

The Primarch's inexperience is more than made up for by his enthusiasm and superhuman stamina. He licks and sucks at your clit with increasing fervor, driven by the little gasps and moans you can't hold back.

As your pleasure mounts, your pussy begins to leak more of that delicious nectar. Angron laps it up eagerly, his tongue probing deeper in search of the source. The taste, the scent, the sounds you make, all combines to drive the Primarch into a frenzy of lust.

Without warning, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs clamp around Angron's head as you moaning, your body shaking with the intensity of your release.

Angron growls in triumph as a flood of that sweet, addictive fluid coats his tongue. He drinks it down greedily, his cock hardening to painful proportions in response. The ache in his groin is unlike anything he's experienced before, not pain, not quite pleasure, but an overwhelming need for... something.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, you become acutely aware of the massive, rock-hard erection pressing against your thigh. Your eyes widen as you take in the sheer size of Angron's cock, angry red and leaking pre-cum.

'He will not want to put it in me, right?' you think desperately.

Angron's hips rut against you instinctively, seeking relief for the burning need consuming him. His eyes, usually filled with rage, now hold a different kind of hunger as they lock onto yours.

"More..." he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Need... more."

As Angron positions himself between your legs, his massive cock nudging at your entrance, you realize that your earlier thought had been wrong.

You're not going to die today.

But you might just get fucked within an inch of your life.

[shiyorin]

Can I have Mournival x Reader with somnophilia, please ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

#Oh no, the Mournival finds Reader is drunk and sleep on their bed, what would they do? 

#Sure they don't do heretic things, right? 

#Lmao, no

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

#Today's menu: Ezekyle Abaddon, Horus Aximand, Tarik Torgaddon, Hastur Sejanus, Garviel Loken.

#Warning: NSFW, non-con, somnophilia,... 

Hastur Sejanus

Sejanus approached cautiously, his enhanced senses picking up your soft breathing and the faint scent of your arousal mixed with the alcohol. His cock twitched in his armor, already hardening at the sight of your form.

Carefully, he stroked your hair. The silky strands slipped through his fingers as he marveled at how delicate you seemed compared to his massive hand. You stirred slightly but didn't wake, your lips parting with a soft sigh.

That small sound was his undoing. Sejanus felt his control snap as lust overtook him. With practiced ease, he removed the lower half of his armor, freeing his massive cock. It sprang forth, already dripping with pre-cum, the head angry and purple with need.

He positioned himself at the edge of the bed, his cock level with your face. Gently, he used his thumb to part your lips. The warmth of your breath ghosted over his sensitive flesh, sending shivers down his spine.

Slowly, carefully, Sejanus eased the head of his cock into your mouth. Your lips stretched obscenely around his girth, barely able to accommodate even the tip. He groaned softly, fighting the urge to thrust deeper.

Your tongue moved unconsciously, lapping at the intruder in your mouth. The wet heat was exquisite, your small mouth providing delicious friction. Sejanus began to rock his hips ever so slightly, working more of his length into your welcoming orifice.

He marveled at the sight of your stretched lips, how tiny you looked compared to his massive frame. Your throat bulged visibly as he pushed deeper, the tight passage massaging his length.

Sejanus tangled his fingers in your hair, using it as an anchor as he fucked your mouth with slow, shallow thrusts. He was careful not to go too deep, not wanting to choke you and risk waking you up. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth filled the room, punctuated by his low groans of pleasure.

Pre-cum and saliva dribbled from the corners of your mouth, coating your chin and neck. The sight was obscene and beautiful, driving Sejanus wild with lust. He increased his pace slightly, feeling his orgasm building.

Your body responded even in sleep, your throat working to swallow around his intrusion. The rippling muscles sent waves of pleasure through Sejanus, drawing him closer and closer to the edge.

With a final, deep thrust, Sejanus came. His massive cock pulsed, pumping load after load of thick cum directly down your throat. He held himself there, buried in your mouth, as you unconsciously swallowed his seed.

When the last aftershocks faded, Sejanus carefully withdrew. A trail of cum and saliva connected his softening cock to your swollen lips. He watched, fascinated, as a small dribble of white escaped the corner of your mouth.

Using his thumb, Sejanus gently wiped away the evidence of his release. You stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into deep sleep.

Horus Aximand

The scent of alcohol hung heavy in the air, mingling with your natural musk. Aximand's enhanced senses picked up every nuance, from the slight parting of your full lips to the gentle rise and fall of your chest. His cock stirred, straining against his armor.

With trembling hands, he removed his gauntlets, letting them fall to the floor with a muffled thud. You didn't stir. Emboldened, Aximand approached the bed, his towering form casting a shadow over your sleeping figure.

He reached out, calloused fingers ghosting along the soft curve of your cheek. A low groan escaped him at the contact. Your skin was silk beneath his touch, warm and inviting. He traced the line of your jaw, down the elegant column of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter beneath his fingertips.

Leaning down, Aximand pressed his lips to yours in a tender kiss. He savored the taste of you, tongue darting out to explore. The lingering sweetness of wine mingled with something uniquely you. It was intoxicating.

His kisses grew more passionate, more demanding. He nipped at your lower lip, sucking it between his teeth. His hand slid lower, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your robes. He felt your nipple harden against his palm, and a primal growl rumbled in his chest.

Aximand's other hand trailed down your body, pushing aside the folds of your garment to expose your smooth thighs. He caressed the soft skin there, inching ever closer to your core. When his fingers finally brushed against your pussy lips, he groaned at finding you already slick with arousal.

He circled your clit with his thumb, applying gentle pressure. Even in sleep, your body responded, your hips shifting slightly. Encouraged, Aximand slid a thick finger into your tight heat. 

"Fuck," he breathed, feeling your walls clench around him. He pumped his finger slowly, adding a second to stretch you further. His thumb continued its assault on your clit, working in tandem to build your pleasure.

Your breathing quickened, soft whimpers escaping your parted lips. Aximand increased his pace, curling his fingers to hit that spot deep inside you. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as he fingered you relentlessly.

Your body tensed, back arching off the bed as you came with a muffled cry. Aximand felt your pussy spasm around his fingers, coating them in your juices. He worked you through the orgasm, only slowing when you settled back onto the mattress with a contented sigh.

Withdrawing his hand, Aximand brought his glistening fingers to his lips. He inhaled deeply, savoring your musky scent before sucking them clean. The taste of you exploded across his tongue, and he groaned in satisfaction.

His cock throbbed painfully, demanding attention. There were so many things he wanted to do to your unconscious form. He imagined burying himself in your tight heat, feeling your walls stretch to accommodate his massive length. He pictured your small body bouncing on his lap as he fucked up into you mercilessly.

Aximand's hand drifted to the fastenings of his armor, ready to free his aching erection.

Tarik Torgaddon 

The room spun around him as he steadied himself against the wall, his enhanced physiology already working to burn off the alcohol.

Your petite form sprawled across his bed, dead to the world. Your clothes were disheveled, barely covering your curves. The scent of alcohol wafted from your parted lips.

Torgaddon's cock hardened instantly, straining against his armor. With clumsy fingers, he began removing his gear, letting each piece clatter to the floor. His mind clouded with lust and booze, any thoughts of propriety or consent were washed away by a tidal wave of need.

You didn't stir as he roughly yanked your clothes off, tearing fabric in his haste. He paused for a moment to admire your body, so small and fragile compared to his Astartes frame.

Unable to wait any longer, Torgaddon grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. He spread your ass cheeks, revealing your tight pussy. Without hesitation, he lined up his cock and slammed forward.

Your unconscious body jerked as Torgaddon's massive length forced its way inside your unprepared cunt. He groaned at the exquisite tightness, your inner walls stretching to accommodate his girth.

"So tight." he grunted, beginning to thrust with brutal force.

Each powerful stroke drove Torgaddon deeper, until he felt the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. The bed creaked and groaned under the assault, threatening to collapse from the Astartes' inhuman strength.

Your limp form bounced with each thrust, your small breasts jiggling. Drool leaked from your slack mouth, soaking the pillow beneath your face. Still, you didn't wake, your alcohol-induced stupor was too deep to penetrate.

Torgaddon's pace increased, his hips a blur as he rutted into your unresponsive body. Sweat dripped from his broad chest, landing on your back. He gripped your waist hard enough to leave bruises, using the leverage to drive even deeper.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, punctuated by Torgaddon's grunts and groans. He could feel his orgasm building, a white-hot pressure in his balls.

With a moaning, Torgaddon hilted himself fully inside your pussy. His cock swelled and pulsed as he came, pumping rope after rope of thick cum directly into your womb. The sheer volume of his release caused your belly to visibly distend.

Garviel Loken

Loken shook his head, trying to clear the fog of alcohol and lust. This was wrong. He should wake you, get you back to your own quarters. But his feet carried him closer to the bed instead.

Up close, he could smell you, a heady mix of alcohol, sweat, and something uniquely you. His enhanced senses picked up every detail, the slight part of your lips, the flutter of your eyelashes, the pulse beating steadily at your throat. 

Almost without realizing it, Loken found himself kneeling beside the bed. His face was level with your thigh now. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. Just a taste, he told himself. Just to see if you tasted as good as you smelled.

With trembling hands, he pushed your skirt higher. His breath caught as your pussy came into view, already glistening with arousal. Had you been dreaming of this? Of him?

Loken's cock throbbed painfully. He fumbled with the clasps of his armor, freeing his massive erection. It jutted out proudly, nearly as thick as your slender arm and almost as long. 

He wrapped a hand around his shaft, giving it a few slow strokes as he leaned in closer to your pussy. The scent was intoxicating. His tongue darted out, lapping tentatively at your outer lips.

A low groan escaped him. You tasted even better than he'd imagined, tangy and sweet and uniquely you. All thoughts of propriety fled as Loken buried his face between your thighs.

His tongue explored every fold and crevice, lapping up your juices like a man dying of thirst. He sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. Even unconscious, your body responded. Your hips twitched, pressing against his eager mouth.

Loken's hand moved faster on his cock, precum leaking steadily from the tip. He was so hard it almost hurt. Part of him wanted nothing more than to bury himself in your tight heat, to fuck you until you woke screaming his name.

But no. This was already more than he should be doing. He wouldn't take it further.

Instead, he redoubled his efforts with his tongue. It is curling to find that spot that makes you gasp and moan in your sleep. His other hand flew over his cock, balls drawing up tight as his orgasm approached.

Your inner walls fluttered around his tongue. Were you close too? The thought pushed Loken over the edge. He came with a muffled roar, hot spurts of cum painting your thigh and the side of the bed.

As the aftershocks faded, guilt and shame flooded in. What had he done? He quickly wiped away the evidence of his release, tugging your skirt back into place. 

He should leave. Find somewhere else to sleep and let you wake up none the wiser. 

But as he stood to go, his cock twitched back to life….

Ezekyle Abaddon 

>be Abaddon

>return to quarters after long day of purging xenos

>find the agent passed out on bed

>wtf.jpg

>kick her ass out, no time for thots

>she stumbled into hallway, still half-asleep

>Horus appears

>sees that

>disappointed_dad_face.png

>Horus scoops up the agent

>"I'll take care of this, son"

>carries her to his chambers

>hear moaning all night

>tfw no gf

>tfw virgin forever

[shiyorin]

We all know Ultramar is space roman, so Guilliman will definitely have a (lot of) nude statues of him there ⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠). So how do you think he would react to that and what if he caught the Reader staring at it?

#Fast food

#Romcom 40K but of course com is more than rom

#If you squint, you'll see Guilliman x Reader. But yeah, it is Guilliman x Reader

#Crack fic? I don't know

The Fortress of Hera, Macragge - Central Plaza.

The morning sun casts long shadows across the newly unveiled plaza, where a massive statue of Primarch Roboute Guilliman stands in all its… glory. The statue, crafted from the finest marble, towers fifteen meters high, depicting the Primarch in a classical pose reminiscent of ancient Terran sculptures.

You have been standing in the same spot for nearly an hour, head tilted back, eyes fixed on the statue. Your expression is a mixture of fascination and something else entirely.

Guilliman stands beside you, growing increasingly uncomfortable with your sustained attention to his marble counterpart. The statue, while tastefully done, leaves little to the imagination, save for a strategically placed piece of cloth that preserves some modesty.

"Stop staring," Guilliman finally says, his voice strained.

You don't even blink. "I'm not staring."

"You're staring."

"You can't blame me." You tilt your head to the side, squinting slightly. "I mean, the craftsmanship is… impressive. Very impressive."

Guilliman pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's just a statue."

"Mhmm," you hum noncommittally, still not looking away. "Is it… anatomically accurate?"

"AGENT!"

"What? It's a legitimate artistic question!" You gestures dramatically at the statue. "I mean, look at those abs! And that cloth… it's very… strategic."

A group of Ultramarines passing by pretend not to hear the conversation, though their hurried pace suggests otherwise.

"The artist took some creative liberties," Guilliman mutters, his face turning a shade closer to Vulkan's.

You finally tears your eyes away from the statue to look at him, grinning mischievously. "Oh? So you're saying it's not accurate? Because I could always verify-"

"That will not be necessary," Guilliman cuts your off hastily.

"Are you sure? In the name of artistic integrity-"

"Absolutely not."

You turn back to the statue, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "You know, from this angle, it kind of looks like-"

"Don't."

"-the cloth might slip at any moment-"

"I swear by the Emperor-"

"-I mean, what's even holding it up?"

"Divine intervention," Guilliman deadpans.

A passing Chapter Serf nearly chokes at this exchange.

"Really though," You continue, undeterred, "who commissioned this? Because I need to shake their hand."

"Marneus thought it would boost morale," Guilliman sighs.

"Oh, it's boosting something alright." You mumbles under your breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!" You says innocently. "Just admiring the… architectural integrity."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Well, I could be more specific about what I'm admiring-"

"Please don't."

You pull out a pict-capture device. "Mind if I take a few shots? For… historical documentation?"

Guilliman snatches the device from your hands. "Absolutely not."

"Aw, come on! Think of future generations!"

"I am thinking of future generations. That's exactly why you're not getting any pictures."

You pout. "Fine. I'll just have to rely on my excellent memory then." You taps your temple. "And let me tell you, this is definitely getting filed away in the 'permanent records' section."

A group of visiting dignitaries approaches, and Guilliman straightens, trying to look appropriately primarch-like. You, however, has other ideas.

"Hey," you stage-whisper, loud enough for several people to hear, "does this mean there's a bathroom somewhere with a smaller version of this statue as a soap dispenser?"

The dignitaries quickly find somewhere else to be.

Guilliman looks skyward, as if seeking strength from the Emperor himself. "Why are you like this?"

"You love it," You grin. Then, after a pause, "Speaking of love, that cloth really doesn't leave much to the imagination about how much you love-"

"That's it." Guilliman grabs you by the shoulders and physically turns you away from the statue. "We're leaving."

"But I haven't finished my artistic analysis!" You protests as you are marched away. "I haven't even gotten to the back view yet!"

"There will be no back view."

"Spoilsport. At least tell me if the sculptor got your butt right-"

"AGENT!"

Extra:

Back in the plaza, you manage to break free from Guilliman's grasp long enough to shout, "You know, if you're worried about accuracy, we could always do a side-by-side comparison!"

The sound of Guilliman's exasperated groan echoes across the plaza, followed by your delighted laughter as you are once again dragged away.

Later that day, several Chapter Serfs notice that someone has placed a "Do Not Lick" sign at the base of the statue.

No one asks who put it there.

No one wants to know why it was necessary.

And if anyone notices an imperial agent sneaking back after dark with a measuring tape, well… some things are better left unreported in the official records of the Ultramarines.

[shiyorin]

#When Primarchs send dick pic to you

#Konrad Curze x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#Reader is very sass

#NSFW, non-con, many things

Note: Actually I wrote this as a joke so don't expect too much from it ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ

The Night Haunter felt his skin too tight, his body thrumming with an unfamiliar energy that set his teeth on edge. He'd been feeling… off for days now, plagued by urges he didn't understand and couldn't seem to shake.

He growled, raking his fingers through his tangled hair. What was wrong with him? He felt hot, agitated, like his very blood was on fire. And his cock… Konrad glanced down with a mixture of confusion and frustration. It had been hard for hours, throbbing insistently no matter how he tried to ignore it.

This wasn't normal. None of this was normal. Konrad Curze didn't get horny. He didn't feel desire or lust or any of those base, animal urges. He was above such things.

But…

His skin was flushed and damp with sweat, every nerve ending hypersensitive. When he wrapped a hand around his cock, he had to bite back a groan at how good it felt.

"What is happening to me?" he muttered, staring down at himself in bewilderment.

His cock was rock hard, the shaft thick and veiny, the head swollen and flushed an angry red. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, making his palm slide slickly as he stroked himself. It felt good, too good. Pleasure coiled in his gut, making his breath come faster.

Konrad's mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was this some kind of sickness? A curse? Had one of his brothers done something to him?

No… no, this felt different. Natural, in a way that terrified him. Like his body knew exactly what it wanted, even if his mind rebelled against it.

As he stroked himself, chasing that maddening pleasure, an image flashed through Konrad's mind. You, who'd somehow wormed your way into that. Into his life, if he was being honest.

The thought of you made his cock twitch, a fresh surge of pre-cum slicking his fingers. Konrad growled, angry and confused and so fucking turned on he could barely think straight.

Why you? Why now? It didn't make any sense. And yet he couldn't get you out of his head. Couldn't stop imagining your hands on him instead of his own-

"Fuck!" Konrad snarled, his hips jerking as he stroked himself faster. He was close, so close, teetering on the edge of something he didn't understand but desperately needed.

In that moment of madness, an idea struck him. Before he could think better of it, Konrad grabbed his data-slate from the nearby table. With shaking hands, he activated the camera function and angled it down at himself.

The image that appeared on the screen made him pause. His cock looked even bigger than he'd realized, angry and swollen against the pale skin of his stomach. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, threatening to spill over.

It was obscene. Vulgar. The kind of thing that would horrify most people.

But you weren't most people, were you?

Before his common sense could reassert itself, Konrad hit send. The message went out with a soft chime, carrying that damning image straight to your data-slate.

For a moment, everything was still. Then the full weight of what he'd just done crashed over Konrad like a tidal wave.

"No," he whispered, staring at the screen in horror. "No, no, no…"

His foresight, which had been strangely quiet until now, suddenly roared to life. Visions flashed through his mind, your shocked face as you opened the message, your disgust, your anger. He saw you blocking his vox channel, saw the ripple effects this moment of madness would have on his already strained relationship with you.

"No!" Konrad roared, hurling the data-slate across the room. It shattered against the wall, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Meanwhile, lightyears away, you were enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet.

Of course, that's when your data-slate chimed with an incoming message.

You sighed, reaching for the device. If this was another emergency, you were going to lose it.

But the name that popped up on your screen made you pause. Konrad Curze? What the hell did he want?

Curiosity piqued, you opened the message. For a moment, your brain couldn't process what you were seeing. Then realization dawned, and your eyes went wide.

"What the actual fuck?!" You yelped, nearly dropping the data-slate in shock.

There, filling your screen, was a high-definition image of Konrad Curze's cock. And not just any picture, oh no. This was a full-on, close-up money shot, complete with glistening pre-cum and throbbing veins.

You stared at it in disbelief, your mind reeling. Of all the things you'd expected from the Night Haunter, a dick pic was pretty much dead last on the list.

"Is this a joke?" You muttered, zooming in despite yourself. "Did someone hack his vox channel?"

But no, as you studied the image (purely for investigative purposes, of course), you realized this was definitely Konrad. You recognized the scars on his lower abdomen, the pale skin that never saw sunlight.

This was real. Konrad Curze, terror of the night, had just sent you an unsolicited dick pic.

"Un-fucking-believable!" you groaned.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It was just so absurd, so completely out of character for Konrad. But a larger part was scared. You are scared even though you want to laugh.

"Nope." You said firmly, shaking your head to banish that thought. "Not going there. Not even a little bit."

You considered your options. You could ignore it, pretend you'd never seen it. But knowing Konrad, he'd probably show up in person to "follow up" if you didn't respond. And worse, he will flay you if you disrespect and ignore him.

You made a mental note to beef up security around the compound. And maybe comeback Terra, lord Malcador can protect you, just in cass. Because something told you this wouldn't be the last surprise Konrad had in store.

In the end, there was really only one option. With a decisive tap, you blocked Konrad's vox channel.

"Fucking Primarchs." you muttered, tossing the data-slate aside. "Can't live with them, can't shoot 'em out an airlock."

*****

The moonlight cast eerie shadows across your bedroom as you stirred from your slumber. Something had woken you, a presence that set your nerves on edge. Your eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus in the dim light.

A dark figure loomed near your bed, barely visible in the gloom. Your heart raced, your mind foggy with sleep and confusion. Who the fuck was that? An intruder? An assassin? You couldn't make out any details in the darkness.

Your hand inched towards the knife you kept by the bed, fingers curling around the cool metal. Better safe than sorry, you thought.

The floorboards creaked softly as the mysterious figure approached. You tensed, ready to swing, but then something unexpected happened. Instead of attacking, the intruder simply… climbed into bed with you.

What the actual fuck?

Before you could process this bizarre turn of events, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you against a broad chest. A face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning across your skin.

Your eyes flew wide, shock clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from your mind. This close, you could finally make out the intruder's features.

Oh shit. It was Konrad. Konrad fucking Curze.

And he was naked. Completely, utterly naked.

As if to confirm your realization, Konrad shifted his hips and, yep, that was definitely his cock sliding between your thighs. You bit back a startled yelp, your mind racing. What the hell was happening?

Normally he'd be all creepy whispers and thinly veiled threats, not… whatever the fuck this was. Cuddling? Was the Night Haunter actually cuddling you?

Before you could decide how to react, Konrad's hand snaked down between your bodies. You held your breath, wondering if this was about to take an even weirder turn, but his fingers bypassed you completely, wrapping around his own cock instead.

Oh. Oh no.

Konrad began stroking himself, his breath coming faster against your neck. His hips rocked, sliding his length back and forth between your thighs in time with his hand.

You lay frozen, caught between disbelief and a weird sort of fascination. This was so far outside the realm of normal Konrad behavior that you almost wondered if you were dreaming. But no, the heat of his body, the slight scratch of his teeth against your skin, the slick sounds of skin on skin… this was all too real.

It didn't last long. With a muffled groan, Konrad's body tensed. You felt his cock pulse, then warm wetness splattered across your thighs.

What. The. Fuck.

For a moment, everything was still. Konrad's ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. Then, to your utter bewilderment, he started moving again. His hand returned to his cock, which was already hardening once more.

Seriously? You thought, incredulous. What is he, sixteen?

As Konrad's hips began rocking again, sliding through the mess he'd just made, realization dawned. The weird behavior, the lack of threats or violence, the insane refractory period…

Oh no, you groaned internally. He is horny.

You'd known, biologically, that the other Primarchs would be horny. But somehow you hadn't connected that to Konrad. He always seemed so… disconnected from his more base urges. Apparently even the Night Haunter wasn't immune to biology.

Now you had a dilemma on your hands. On one hand, this was Konrad fucking Curze. The guy was seven kinds of crazy on a good day, and letting him get his rocks off while you pretended to sleep was probably a terrible idea. On the other hand… well, he wasn't actually hurting you. And if you revealed that you were awake, who knew how he'd react?

Better to let him finish and leave, you decided. Then you could bleach your brain and pretend this never happened.

But Konrad showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. His movements grew more frantic, his breathing harsh against your skin. You could feel the tremors running through his body, the desperation in every thrust.

Fuck, you realized. He's completely lost in it. He probably doesn't even know where he is right now.

Konrad came again with a choked sound, his whole body shuddering. You grimaced at the fresh wave of wetness coating your thighs. Great. You were going to need like, three showers after this. Maybe four.

To your dismay, Konrad showed no signs of leaving after his second orgasm. If anything, he seemed to curl around you more tightly, his face buried in your hair.

Oh hell no, you thought. I am not spending the whole night as a body pillow for a horny Primarch.

Decision made, you took a deep breath and spoke.

"You know, if you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked."

Konrad went rigid against you, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring. For a moment, you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake. Then, to your utter shock, Konrad let out a sound that could only be described as a squeak.

Before you could process that, he was gone. You blinked at the sudden loss of warmth against your back. You rolled over, half-expecting to see Konrad looming over your bed, but the room was empty. The only sign he'd been there at all was the open window, curtains billowing in the night breeze.

"Did… did he just jump out the fucking window?" You muttered, staring in disbelief.

You pushed yourself up, grimacing at the sticky mess coating your thighs. A quick glance confirmed your suspicions, yep, those sheets were definitely ruined.

You made a mental note to ask Malcador about it when you return Terra. And maybe to invest in some better locks for your windows.

[shiyorin]

#This was a request on Marshmallow, but I accidentally deleted it, so well… here you go.

#Modern AU. Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

#These follow my Modern AU setting

#Romcom in 40K, I mean, in a modern AU

#Summary: Roboute is on a long business trip, and you (totally not) miss him. And yeah, so does he.

You stare at the empty penthouse, your bare toes curling into the plush carpet as you grip your coffee mug like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. No clack of polished dress shoes on marble floors. No rustle of expensive suits being shrugged off broad shoulders. No deep voice murmuring about spreadsheets in the next room. Just... silence.

"Good." you announce to the empty air, your voice bouncing off the stupidly high ceilings. "Finally some peace and quiet."

You stomp to Roboute’s walk-in closet, your walk-in closet now, really, since you’d commandeered 60% of the rack space, and yank open the doors. The scent of his cologne wafts out, that stupid expensive sandalwood-and-something-else smell that makes you think of boardrooms and bad decisions.

"Ewww." you mutter, pressing your face into one of his cashmere sweaters anyway.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks since Roboute left for his "critical business negotiations" in Geneva or Dubai or whatever tax haven rich assholes frequent these days. Three weeks of rattling around this stupidly large apartment like the last pea in a tin can.

You grab the softest sweater you can find, charcoal gray, probably costing more than your entire shoe collection, and pull it over your head. The hem hangs past your thighs, sleeves swallowing your hands whole.

"It is…" you tell the mirror, ignoring how the collar keeps slipping to reveal one shoulder. "Efficient. Not... whatever this is." You gesture vaguely at your reflection’s flushed cheeks.

The bed is next. Roboute’s stupid California king bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets and memory foam mattress that probably cost more than your old apartment. You haven’t slept in your own room since... well, since the first night he’d been gone, when the silence pressed too close and your bed suddenly felt like a child’s crib.

"Better airflow in here." you inform the tasteful abstract painting above the headboard as you flop onto the mattress. You’ve arranged your books in a precise semicircle around Roboute’s pillow, your laptop balanced on his nightstand next to three empty coffee mugs. "And the lighting’s better for reading."

Your phone buzzes on the sheets. Roboute’s name flashes on screen alongside a photo you’d secretly taken of him looking particularly constipated while reading a contract.

Roboute: How’s the apartment?

You scowl at the message. Your thumbs fly over the screen.

You: Great! So peaceful without your snoring

Roboute: I don’t snore

You: Then what’s that sound I hear every night? Oh wait, that’s the sweet song of freedom

You hit send before adding:

You: PS tell Dubai I said hi

Roboute: It’s Singapore this week

You: Whatever rich people Disneyland you’re in

A pause. Then:

Roboute: Are you wearing my clothes again?

You nearly drop your phone. You glance at the security camera in the upper corner, the little red light isn’t on, but that doesn’t mean anything with his paranoid ass.

You: No

Roboute: The Armani sweater’s missing from my tracker app

You: YOUR SWEATERS HAVE TRACKERS?!

Roboute: Only the ones you keep stealing

You: I’M NOT STEALING I’M BORROWING

Roboute: The dry cleaning bill suggests otherwise

You flip off the camera for good measure. The bastard probably has some secret feed going straight to his hotel room. Serves him right for leaving you alone with his stupidly soft sweaters and even stupider bed.

You stomp to the kitchen, the sweater slipping down one shoulder as you yank open the fridge. Roboute’s personal chef left enough meal-prepped containers to feed a small army, each labeled with dates in meticulous handwriting.

"Chicken piccata my ass." you mutter, grabbing a pint of ice cream instead. You hop onto the kitchen island, bare legs swinging as you dig into the mint chocolate chip.

The ice cream tastes like loneliness.

"Fuck that." you say aloud, scraping the carton harder. "This tastes like... victory. Single lady victory."

Your reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator nods sagely, a streak of green on your chin undermining the effect.

When the doorbell rings at 9 PM, you answer it wearing Roboute’s sweatshirt. Fulgrim stands in the hallway holding two bottles of wine, his perfect eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he takes in your ensemble.

"Darling." he purrs, "if you wanted to model lingerie, you only had to ask."

You slam the door in his face.

"It’s not lingerie!" you shout through the wood. "It’s practical sleepwear!"

"Practical sleepwear that happens to be my brother’s clothes?"

"Go away!"

"I brought Pinot Noir!"

You yank the door back open. "Is it the expensive kind?"

Fulgrim holds up a bottle with a label that looks like it belongs in a museum. "The 1982 Château Margaux wants to be your friend."

"...Fine. But no funny business."

Two hours later find you sprawled on the living room floor, empty wine bottles rolling across the marble as you gesture wildly with a cheese knife.

"-and then he had the audacity to say my study habits were 'concerning'!" You kick Fulgrim’s loafers. "Says the man who once worked 72 hours straight on a merger!"

Fulgrim leans back against the couch, his silk shirt unbuttoned to there. "Roboute’s always been a hypocrite. Remember when he lectured me about work-life balance while hooked up to an IV drip of espresso?"

You snort, nearly inhaling your brie. "That tracks." You flop onto your back, staring up at the ceiling that suddenly seems to be spinning. "Why’s he even gone so long anyway? What’s in Singapore that’s so damn important?"

"Jealous of a city-state, darling?"

"Piss off." You throw a grape at him. "Just saying, normal business trips don’t take three weeks."

Fulgrim’s smile turns sharp. "Oh sweet summer child. You really don’t know what our family-"

The sound of shattering glass cuts him off. You both freeze as a dark figure climbs through the broken door, black ski mask glinting in the moonlight.

You blink. "Is this... are we being robbed?"

The masked man points a gun at Fulgrim. "Hand over the watches. And the girl."

Fulgrim sighs like someone brought the wrong appetizers to a dinner party. "Darling, would you mind...?"

You don’t let him finish. College years taught you two things: 1. Adrenaline beats alcohol every time, and 2. Never bring a gun to a knife fight.

You launch yourself at the intruder, wine-fueled rage propelling you forward. The man barely has time to widen his eyes before you’re on him, knee to the groin, elbow to the throat, stolen cheese knife pressed to his carotid.

Fulgrim watches in bemused admiration as you zip-tie the would-be thief using the cords from Roboute’s stupidly expensive surround sound system. When you finish, he claps slowly.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side."

You sway slightly, the wine and adrenaline making your head swim. "Just... just don’t touch the sweaters."

You wake up the next morning in Roboute’s bed, still wearing the sweatshirt now stained with red wine. The events of last night come back in pieces, the fight, the cops, Fulgrim’s increasingly hysterical laughter as you’d ranted about proper home invasion etiquette.

Your phone shows fourteen missed calls from Roboute.

Roboute: WHAT HAPPENED

Roboute: FULGRIM SENT ME A VIDEO

Roboute: WHY WAS THERE A MAN IN OUR APARTMENT

Roboute: ANSWER ME

You type back with one eye closed, your head pounding:

You: ur sweaters safe don’t worry

Roboute: I’M NOT WORRIED ABOUT THE SWEATERS

You: then y u texting

Roboute: Come to Singapore

You stare at the message, your traitorous heart leaping. Then you snort.

You: Pass

Roboute: I’ll send the jet

You: Still pass

Roboute: There’s a Michelin-starred ramen place

You hesitate.

Roboute: And a Jellycat flagship store

"Cheap shot." you mutter, even as you google flight times.

By days of Roboute’s absence, you’ve developed what you refuse to call a routine:

- Wake up in Roboute’s bed (for the superior lumbar support)

- Shower using Roboute’s fancy French soap (leaves your skin softer, purely practical)

- Dress in Roboute’s clothes (warmer than your own threadbare scrubs)

- Study surrounded by Roboute’s things (better feng shui for working)

The apartment feels different without him – quieter, yes, but also... hollow. Like a museum after hours, all the expensive art and furniture waiting for their proper owner to bring them to life.

You find yourself talking to his things like some deranged Disney princess:

"Of course he bought a Ming vase," you inform the Ming vase. "Probably uses it to contain his massive ego."

The vase doesn’t respond.

At night, you curl up in his bed surrounded by books, the sheets still faintly smelling of his cologne. Sometimes you catch yourself reaching for the other pillow, only to scowl and yank your hand back like it’s betrayed you.

"Pathetic." you tell your stuffed dragon perched on Roboute’s nightstand. "You’re pathetic."

The dragon’s beady eyes judge you silently.

When Roboute’s sixth late-night video call comes through, you answer without thinking. The screen shows him in what looks like a presidential suite, tie loosened and stubble shadowing his jaw.

"You look terrible." you say by way of greeting.

"You’re wearing my Yale hoodie."

"Fuck Yale."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "How’s the apartment?"

"Still standing. No thanks to your brother."

Roboute’s smile vanishes. "Fulgrim told me what happened. I’m arranging for–"

"Already handled," you interrupt. "Installed new locks. And a taser. And a police officer who checks in daily."

"You shouldn’t have to–"

"I’m fine." The words come out sharper than intended. "Stop worrying."

Silence stretches between you, the kind that usually gets filled with snarky comments or work talk. Instead, Roboute says quietly, "I miss your..."

Your heart stutters.

"...your organizational system for the fridge."

You deflate. "Right. The fridge."

"It’s chaos without you."

"The labels were in Greek alphabetical order, Roboute. That’s not a system, that’s a mental illness."

His chuckle warms something in your chest. "Perhaps. Still... it’s quieter here."

"Good."

"Not really."

The raw honesty in his voice startles you. You study the screen, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his collar hangs loose like he’s lost weight.

"You eating okay?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Roboute makes a noncommittal noise. "Room service."

"Let me guess, grilled chicken breast, steamed vegetables, no sauce?"

"...Perhaps."

"Damn, you’re so bad." You grab your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I’m emailing you a list of actual edible foods. And for God’s sake, get some sleep."

"You’re one to talk." His eyes narrow. "When did you last leave the apartment?"

"None of your business."

"The security logs say–"

"Creep!"

You glare at each other through the screen, years of unresolved tension crackling across continents. Roboute breaks first.

"Come to Singapore."

"Why?"

"Because I..." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically nervous. "...need someone to explain these charts."

You bark a laugh. "Nice try, CEO. Hire a translator."

"You–"

You hang up.

The next morning brings a package, thick cream stationery with your name scrawled in Roboute’s precise handwriting. Inside are two things: a first-class ticket to Singapore, and a photo of the Jellycat storefront with a handwritten note: They have an exclusive corgi.

"Bastard." you whisper, already reaching for your passport.

When Roboute returns unexpectedly three days early, he finds you asleep in his bed wearing his shirt, surrounded by empty coffee cups and books. The Singapore ticket lies crumpled on the nightstand next to your stuffed dragon.

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But the way he carefully removes his shoes before sliding into bed beside you, the gentle tug as he pulls the textbook from your limp fingers, the soft sigh as he breathes in the mingled scents of your shampoo and his cologne, that’s its own kind of confession.

You stir, mumbling into his pillow. "M’not lonely..."

"I know." Roboute murmurs, tucking the blanket around you both. "The bed’s just cooler."

"Damn right," you sigh, already drifting back to sleep.

******

Roboute stared at the Singapore skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection in the glass showing a man who absolutely wasn't checking his phone every thirty seconds. The boardroom table behind him lay buried under merger contracts and acquisition reports, all ignored in favor of the blinking security app notification:

[Sweater Activity Alert: Armani Cashmere Blend #4 Moving Through Bedroom]

He swore under his breath. Three weeks away and you'd somehow commandeered his entire wardrobe. The app showed a little sweater icon meandering through the penthouse, kitchen to living room to his bedroom, the same path you'd traced every night since he left.

"Problem, Roboute?" Lorgar asked from the doorway, holding two tumblers of whiskey that would undoubtedly go untouched.

"Nothing." Roboute snapped, flipping his phone facedown. The damned tracker kept updating:

[10:15 PM: Sweater #4 Stationary in Master Bedroom]

He imagined you curled up in his bed wearing that particular sweater, the charcoal one you'd stretched out by using it as a study blanket. The thought made his collar feel too tight.

Lorgar smirked. "Still pretending you're not obsessed with the stray?"

"You're not a stray. She is a tenant."

"A tenant who answers your security questionnaires with 'Fuck off' in Latin?"

Roboute's eye twitched. Your response to his daily safety checks had been... creative. Yesterday's email chain played in his mind:

Roboute: Have you tested the new deadbolts? You: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Roboute: This is serious. There have been break-ins in the neighborhood. You: Send nukes. Will defend sweaters with life. Roboute: That's not funny. You: Who's joking?

He'd ordered an extra security detail that night. Not that he'd ever tell you.

The Singapore deal dragged on through midnight negotiations, Roboute's focus split between hostile takeovers and the tracker app's relentless updates:

[1:47 AM: Sweater #4 Offline]

[2:13 AM: Sweater #4 Detected in Laundry Room]

[3:02 AM: Sweater #4 Returning to Master Bedroom]

His CFO shot him increasingly concerned looks as he checked his phone during a billion-dollar valuation discussion. Let them think he was monitoring stocks. Better than the truth, that he'd developed an unhealthy fixation on a sweater's GPS coordinates.

When Fulgrim's encrypted video popped up at 3:17 AM Singapore time, Roboute answered in the bathroom.

"Brother!" Fulgrim's drunk grin filled the screen. "You'll never guess what your little cat did tonight!"

The camera panned to show you straddling a zip-tied intruder, Roboute's sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder as you waved a cheese knife like Excalibur.

Roboute's coffee cup almost shattered on the marble floor.

"-dislocated his shoulder with a spoon, Roboute! A fucking soup spoon!"

"Put her on" Roboute growled, blood roaring in his ears.

Fulgrim's laugh grated like broken glass. "Oh she’s passed out in your bed now. Such a shame you’re not here to tuck her in-"

The call ended with Roboute's fist in the wall.

Six days later, he stood in the airport lounge watching security footage on loop, your precision as you disabled the intruder, the way you'd positioned yourself between danger and Fulgrim despite being half the assailant's weight. Pride warred with panic in his chest.

His phone buzzed with your latest message:

You: your sweaters still safe don't worry

The cavalier tone made him want to scream. Or book a flight home. Or both.

"Mr. Guilliman?" His assistant hovered by the private jet stairs. "The pilot's ready when you are."

He stared at the Singapore skyline one last time, the deal he'd spent months orchestrating suddenly feeling as substantial as smoke. At least it worked and annoyed Lorgar, he'll tell you about it later. There were more important things at stake now.

Like the fact you'd somehow synced your Spotify to his Bang & Olufsen system and were currently blasting pop music through the penthouse at deafening volumes.

The flight tracker didn't lie:

[2:15 PM: Sweater #4 Airborne Over Pacific Ocean]

Roboute stared at the notification, then at the empty seat beside him. He'd specifically told the chef to pack extra tiramisu.

"Sir?" The flight attendant eyed his death grip on the armrests. "Can I get you anything?"

"A time machine." he muttered. "And a taser."

By hour nine of the flight, he'd compiled a mental list of all the ways this was a terrible idea: Abandoning critical negotiations, Letting personal feelings interfere with business. And potentially walking in on you wearing nothing but his Yale hoodie.

The last point concerned him most.

When the private elevator opened to his penthouse, the scene hit him like a tactical strike, you sprawled across his bed wearing his Sweater, books fanned around you like a halo. The security system chirped a welcome he'd never heard before.

You stirred, squinting at him through sleep-mussed hair. "M'not lonely..."

The lie hung between them, fragrant as your stolen shampoo in his ensuite. Roboute's carefully prepared speech about responsibility and safety dissolved as he took in the coffee rings on his nightstand, the Jellycat dragon judging him from your pillow fort, the Singapore ticket he'd sent now crumpled.

"I know." he said, toeing off his shoes. "The bed's just colder."

You hummed noncommittally as he slid under the covers, the scent of you, citrus and antiseptic and home, obliterating twelve hours of jetlag. When you instinctively curled against his chest, he realized three things in quick succession: You'd replaced his Egyptian cotton sheets with Sanrio flannel. The intruder's bail hearing was tomorrow at 9 AM. And he'd walk through fire before admitting how much he'd missed this.

As your breathing deepened, Roboute allowed himself his lips to your hair. The security app buzzed silently in his pocket:

[Sweater #4: Stationary in Master Bedroom]

Right where it belonged.

[shiyorin]

#Repost because i accidentally deleted it due to typo

#Yandere au comeback. Angron x F!Reader (Reader is Nuceria noble)

#Don't ask, I just want to cook it.

#Warning: Yandere, dark, a little gore,....

(actually I think it is funny)

Nuceria’s Arena. The air stank. Blood-rust and the sweet rot of corpses left too long under sun. Chains rattled. Crowd roared. Angron’s skull screamed. The Nails bit, chewed, thrilled as he split a man’s ribcage with his bare hands. Red mist. Always red. But through it, you.

You sat high in the shaded tiers, silk draped over sharp shoulders, wine cup dangling from fingers that had never held anything rougher than a jeweled fork. You. Noble. Poison. Eyes like cold glass, never looking at him, only through him. As if he were part of the sand, the gore, the mess of this pit.

He hated you.

(Lie.)

The Nails sparked, white-hot claws raking his brain. Another body at his feet. Another roar from the crowd. His lungs burned. Muscles shook. But you, you didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. Just… sipped. Like the death below was a boring play. Angron’s axe slipped in his grip, slick with entrails. He wanted to hurl it up, up, up into that pristine balcony, watch your silks stain crimson—

(No. No. Want you to see. Want you to look.)

A guard prodded him with a shock-spear. “Move, beast.” The Nails hummed. He almost ripped the man’s spine out. Almost. But then your chair shifted. A flick of wrist. A sigh. Were you…. bored?

******

Night. Chains in the dark. The Nails never slept. They whispered. Kill. Tear. Blood. But underneath, softer, weaker—a whimper. Your face. Your eyes. Why won’t you look?

He’d seen you before, in glimpses. Paraded through streets in a litter, nose turned up at the filth. Once, your sandal slipped, and a slave scrambled to catch it. You’d laughed. High, cruel. Angron had vomited bile that night, Nails chewing his thoughts to pulp.

Now, fever-dreams: your hand, cool on his brow. Your voice, soft: “You’re more than this.”

(Stupid. Stupid. You’d never touch him. He’s nothing .)

******

Dawn. Back in the sands. A fresh batch of prisoners, starving, wide-eyed. Angron’s axe trembled. The Nails screeched: “KILL!” But his eyes dragged upward. There. Silk canopy. Your perfume somehow cut through the stench. Today, your hair was braided with gold wire. It glinted, mocked.

One prisoner charged him, a boy, maybe sixteen, armed with a broken sword. Angron sidestepped. The crowd booed. “Fight, beast! Fight!”

The boy sobbed, swinging wildly. Angron’s fist snapped his neck. Quick. Clean. The crowd hissed.

But you… leaned forward. Just a fraction.

(Look at me. Look at me. LOOK AT—)

Your lips moved, saying something to the slave beside you. Laughing. Always laughing.

******

They brought him to you.

A mistake. A guard’s drunken gamble. “The lady wants a closer view of the beast!”

Angron’s chains clanked. They’d hosed him down, but blood crusted his nails, his teeth. The Nails sang as they led him up, up, up to your private box.

Closer.

Your scent, jasmine, ozone, richness, hit him like a hammer. You didn’t turn. Just waved a hand. “Leave us.”

The guards hesitated.

“Now.”

They fled.

Alone.

Angron’s breathing rattled. You finally turned, and—oh. Up close, your eyes weren’t glass. They were voids. Black. Hungry.

“So,” you said, swirling your wine. “The Red Sand’s champion. Do you know why you’re here?”

He growled. The Nails itched.

You stood, hips swaying, and circled him. “They say you’re a demon. A mindless thing. But I see… fear in you.” Your finger trailed his arm, burned where you touched. “Do you fear me, beast?”

(Yes. No. Want)

You slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped sideways. The Nails shrieked. He lunged—

—and froze.

Your palm pressed to his chest. Not pushing. Feeling. His hearts jackhammered under your touch.

“Interesting,” you murmured. “You want. Even now. Even… this.” Your nails dug into his skin. “Pathetic.”

He snarled, chains clattering. You smiled.

“Shall I give you a secret, beast?” Your lips brushed his ear. “I’ve watched you. Every fight. Every scream. You’re magnificent… when you suffer.”

Your knee jabbed his groin. He choking.

“But you’re still a dog,” you hissed. “And dogs… beg.”

******

He dreamt of you that night.

(Not a dream. The Nails don’t allow dreams.)

Your hands on him. Not cruel. Gentle. Your voice, sweet: “You’re mine.”

(Lies. Lies.)

In the dream, he wept.

******

You came again. And again. Always with wine. Always with cuts disguised as caresses.

“Do you know what they’ll do to you?” you asked once, tracing the Nails embedded in his skull. “When you break? They’ll toss you to the corpse-wyrms. I’ll watch.”

He grabbed your wrist. Too tight. You gasped, finally, finally looking at him, and he…

…let go.

You stared. Then laughed. “Oh, beast. You’re weak.”

******

The last time.

You wore red. Like the sand. Like his dreams.

“They’re selling you,” you said. 

Angron’s chains shook. 

(No. No. Can’t leave. Can’t)

You stepped close. “Beg me to keep you. Beg, and I’ll slit your throat here. Clean. Quick.”

His mouth opened. Words. He hadn’t spoken in years.

“I….”

Your smile froze. “What?”

“You....” Blood dripped from his nose. The Nails blazed.

You recoiled. “Don’t, don’t you dare say that!”

But he did. Again. Again. Guttural. Broken. Your face twisted, disgust? Fear?

You fled.

******

He never saw you again.

But in the dark, chains replaced by a Legion’s armor, the Nails whispered:

“She’s watching. She’s waiting. Find her. Make her look .”

And Angron smiled, grin teeth, and obeyed.

[shiyorin]

Okay I’m silly I sent the sanguínus or fulgrim request but then I read your request rules like an idiot, so uh…. Yandere?? Something about being hunted down (lovingly) before never being seen again 🙏🏻🙏🏻 would sell you my organs for either of them

I don't think this is yandere because it feels more like romcom but anyway. Also there is an easter egg here, good luck to whoever finds it I realized that writing yandere, smut, and all that... is such a damn good stress reliever.

#Yandere au. Sanguinius x F!Reader (Reader is Sanguinius' childhood friend ????)

#Don't ask, I just want to cook it.

#Warning: Yandere, dark, a little gore,....

The sands of Baal were unkind. They scoured flesh from bone, polished rock into glassy monuments, and buried the weak beneath dunes. Sanguinius walked among them, wings folded tight against the burning wind, his shadow stretching long and alien across the wastes. The tribes called him angel, but their reverence stank of fear. They knelt as he passed, pressing their faces into the dust, whispering prayers to a being they could not comprehend. All but one.

You moved differently.

You were small where he was vast, dark where he gleamed, your hair braided with shards of obsidian that caught the light like fractured stars. You did not kneel so deeply as the others. Your forehead never quite touched the ground. When the elders chanted hymns to his glory, your lips moved a heartbeat late, your voice a murmur lost beneath the fervor of true believers. He noticed. How could he not? In a world of prostrate forms, your subtle resistance was a flame in the void.

He watched.

At first, it was accidental, a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision as you slipped away from the feast honoring his latest miracle. Later, it became deliberate. He tracked you through the labyrinth of sandstone huts, past the cisterns where women drew water with ropes of braided sinew, to the edge of the settlement where the desert began its endless hunger. You stood there often, arms crossed, staring into the horizon as if waiting for something even the sands could not devour.

Your fear of him was precise. Not the gibbering terror of those who thought him a demon, nor the awestruck paralysis of those who deemed him divine. You feared him as one fears a storm, inevitable, lethal, but natural. It fascinated him. When he approached, you lowered your eyes but not your chin. When he spoke, you answered in syllables sharp enough to draw blood.

"Why do you linger here?"  he asked once, wings mantled to shield you from the sun’s wrath.

"The view, my lord." you said, and said no more.

He learned your rhythms. At dawn, you gathered bitterroot from the fissures where night’s chill still lingered. At midday, you wove baskets from reeds that grew along the salt flats, your fingers dancing in patterns. At dusk, you climbed to the highest ridge and sat with your knees drawn to your chest, watching the sky bleed into darkness. He joined you there, once. You did not flee, but your body coiled like a serpent prepared to strike.

"You grow quickly." you remarked, your gaze on the distant dunes.

"Too quickly?"

You shrugged. "All things here either adapt or die."

He wanted to ask what you saw when you looked at him, angel or aberration, but the words dissolved on his tongue. Instead, he unfurled a wing, just enough to cast a sliver of shade over you. You did not thank him.

The visions came as they always did, in shards of light and screams. He saw you broken on a battlefield that did not yet exist, your throat slit by a blade he would one day wield. He saw you laughing in a garden of roses, your hands stained with nectar. He saw you aging, withering, dying in a bed of threadbare linens while he remained untouched by time.

Eternity, he realized, is a cage.

He began to linger at the edges of your life. When you drew water, he ensured the bucket did not scrape your palms. When you slept, he stands in front of your hut's doo, wings curled against the cold, and listened to the rhythm of your breath. Once, when a sandstorm threatened to peel the flesh from your bones, he carried you to the deepest caves and shielded you with his body until the winds died. You did not tremble. You did not speak. But your eyes, when they met his, held a question he dared not answer.

The tribe whispered. They saw his favor and resented it. Gifts appeared at your threshold, carved bone charms, strings of desert pearls, a cloak lined with the fur of some animals. You left them untouched. When elders pressed you to accept your role as his chosen, you smiled thinly and said nothing.

"You shame us." The elders hissed one night, the words slithering through the hut’s thin walls. "He is a god."

"He is a child." you replied.

Sanguinius, listening in the dark, felt something primal uncoil in his chest.

******

The Angel took you that night.

Not with violence, but with silence. While the tribe slept, he gathered you, sleeping form, parted lips, hands curled into fists even in rest, and carried you into the sky. You woke screaming, your nails carving furrows down his chest. He did not release you.

The desert shrank below you, its horrors reduced to patterns in the sand. You struggled until your strength faded, until your breaths came in ragged sobs, until you pressed your face to his neck and bit down hard. He let you.

When dawn broke, your anger stops, he took you to the highest peak. The air was thin here, the sky a riot of dying stars. You shivered in your thin shift, but refused his cloak.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the horizon where the first ships breached the atmosphere. Fire rained in their wake.

“Our future.” The Angel said.

He cupped your face, his thumb smearing ash across your cheek. “Come with me.”

“To war?”

“To eternity.”

You closed your eyes. As the first ships soared by, he wrapped his wings around you and prayed to a god he did not believe in.

Let you live. Let you hate him. Let you belong to him.

******

The ships came as he knew it would, giants of iron and fire, its hull etched with sigils of eagles and lightning. The strangers called him son, primarch, hope. They offered him stars.

He asked for a single chamber, sealed and windowless, lined with soft things. They obliged.

You raged. You clawed at the walls, at him, at the servants who brought food you refused to eat. You called him tyrant, coward, thief. He absorbed your fury like the desert absorbed blood.

At night, when your screams subsided to whimpers, he slipped into your room and watched you sleep. Sometimes, he brushed the hair from your face. Sometimes, he counted your breaths. Always, he remembered the vision, your body broken, his hands stained, and knew he would raze eternity itself to keep you whole.

You will love me, he told your still form. In time.

The future still haunted him. But now, when he dreamt of chains and blades, he also dreamt of this, your breath against his neck, your weight in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.

A different kind of eternity.

[shiyorin]

#Horny Ferrus in your area 

#Ferrus Manus x F!Reader

#All is his delulu

#NSFW, Horny Heresy, Delulu, from poipiku...

Ferrus Manus sighed heavily as he facepalmed, the iron-hard plates of his hands making an echoing clang against his brow ridges. Once again, he found himself utterly consumed by the most disgraceful thoughts and impulses.

He cast a sidelong glance at the anatomically precise... accessory he had painstakingly crafted for his own indulgence. It lay before him, a rendered facsimile of your own intimate petals fashioned with the most advanced printing technologies the Imperium could provide. Every crease and fold, each subtlety of texture and suppleness meticulously recreated to serve as the most exquisite self-pleasuring aid imaginable.

Just the sight of it caused his already stiffening arousal to throb with need. He could so vividly envision hilting himself to the root within that snug, yielding embrace. Sheathing his aching length in the sumptuous slick heat, snugly enveloped... savoring every undulating flex and silken ripple as he drove relentlessly into the clinging depths...

A low, ragged growl vibrated from deep within his chest. Slowly, as if drawn by an irresistible current, he reached down to curl one iron fist around his rapidly engorging girth. Just a few rough strokes of his calloused grasp was all it took for him to thicken and harden to his fullest, most excruciatingly swollen state.

Molten lust blazed through his veins as the first pearly droplets welled forth from the cock. His jaw clenched as he finally surrendered to temptation, snatching up the lifelike 'toy' to hover the open, flushed entrance just a hairsbreadth away from his quivering tip.

A harsh sound caught between a grunt and a groan tore from his throat as he began to ease forward, breaching the sleek, dewy lips with his ponderous girth. They parted in a deliciously bloom to accept his invasion with eager welcome, flowery folds stretching taut as satin around his engorged crown.

Bolt after agonizing bolt of electric rapture speared up his spine as inch after delicious inch was slowly engulfed in heavenly, suctioning friction. He could feel every last microscopic detail wringing blissful sensation from him, the sumptuous swirl of rippling texture, the incredible heated clutch fluttering and convulsing with each shallow thrust...

Ferrus braced his stance and gripped the quivering toy with both hands before beginning to hammer forward in a blur of piston-like thrusts. The sharp crack of flesh meeting fake flesh punctuated each slick, squelching impact as he rapidly built up.

A guttural moan split the air as he surrendered to the slipstream of rapture, hips pistoning forward with pile-driver force. The graphic sounds of his own lusty despoilment washed over him in a tide of shameful bliss. Scorching jets of semen forth to slick his throbbing, plunging cock with every fresh vulgar thrust.

But... something was unmistakably, achingly absent. 

For all the craftsmanship, the exacting detail and attention lavished to create this sleek, perfect imitation... it remained merely a lewd copy of the true awaiting him. As skilled as his maker's touch had been in rendering it, the piece ultimately failed to capture that most crucial, most profoundly transcendent aspect he truly craved.

Those lithe, limbs that could coil about his bulk with tantalizing grace, beckoning and beseeching. Your soft hair to tangle his hand within as he hilted himself fully, plunging to the root through the untold bliss of your silken depths. Your serene, flushed countenance shattering with unconstrained rapture as moaning of pleasure rent the air while he claimed you with all the unchecked of his primarch stature.

Even as his own motions grew more frantic and the inexorable crest built within him, Ferrus knew the ultimate rapture eluded him. He imagined your voice in his mind, soft like smoky as you urged him on with cries of enraptured abandon. The idea alone of your surrender, of being the one to undo that imperturbable composure while you came undone beneath him drove him ever closer to the edge.

He arched his back and began to harder his hips with more force. It was so good, so sublime... but it was not enough. Never enough. It could never capture what he truly hungered for. Not mere flesh and texture and sensation... but the soul-rending, and primal ecstasy of truly becoming one.

With a harsh moaning, he finally crested release and felt the scalding flood erupt forth from his core. His hips snapped forward with brutal force, ramming to the root once, twice, three times more as pulse after pulse of hot, thick seed erupted in gushing torrents from his juddering cock.

As the final ebb washed over him, he slumped forward. A deep sound somewhere between a growl and a weary sigh gusted from his lips. His hips offered only shallow, weakening motions as he coasted through the aftershocks. Hot ropes dangled obscenely linking his pulsing erection with the dripping toy.

He glanced down to see his cock still remained at half-mast despite his recent exertions, flushed and heavy with the first smoldering embers of rekindled lust.

A harsh sound caught between a gutting and a groan tore from his throat as he ground one unyielding fist against the aching swell. It would not be long before the fever consumed him once more…

[shiyorin]

Slice of life with Rogal Dorn (and Imperial Fists)

It's a sequel to this one. Of course I'm too lazy to write it seriously, but here's basically what happens next if you're curious.

There are a lot of tax mistakes even though I tried to understand them, I don't live in America so I'm not too clear on everything.

If anyone has a way to solve the taxes problem and continue the story, please help me ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠•̥⁠`⁠ʔ

Summary: You and your boys deal with taxes and things go wrong.

The envelope sat on your kitchen counter like a bomb waiting to detonate. The official HOA letterhead glared up at you, its officious tone evident even through the unopened paper. You'd been avoiding it all morning, busying yourself with coffee and scrolling through your phone. But the letter remained, undeniable.

Rogal entered the kitchen, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe despite the modifications he'd made to raise it. "You appear troubled." he stated, his keen eyes noting your tense posture.

You nodded toward the envelope. "Homeowners Association. They're not happy about the 'unauthorized structural modifications' to your property."

Rogal frowned, the expression deepening the already stern lines of his face. He picked up the envelope with his one massive hand, open it. His eyes scanned the document, narrowing slightly with each line.

"This is… bureaucratic harassment." he finally declared, setting the letter down. "These 'covenants' are tactical restrictions designed to weaken defensive capacity."

"They're rules I agreed to when I bought the house." you sighed, taking a long sip of coffee. "We need permits for structural changes, and there are restrictions on height, materials, and aesthetic choices."

"Aesthetic… choices?" Rogal repeated, as if the concept were entirely foreign.

"Yes, Rogal. Not everything is about structural integrity and defensive capabilities." You rubbed your temples. "They're especially upset about the watchtower."

Alexis chose that moment to enter, his massive frame practically filling the doorway. "The observation post is essential for monitoring approach vectors. Removing it would create a blind spot in our security perimeter."

"Tell that to Carol from three doors down." you muttered. "She says it's 'an eyesore that's reducing property values.'"

The three of you stood in silence, contemplating the letter. Outside, the sounds of hammering indicated that Vladimir and Halbrecht were continuing work on their latest project, a reinforced storage shed that looked suspiciously like a bunker.

"What are the consequences for non-compliance?" Rogal finally asked.

"Fines. Legal action. Potentially a lien on my property." Your stomach tightened at the thought. Your savings were already stretched thin supporting five enormous men with appetites to match.

"Then we must comply with these regulations." Rogal decided, though his tone suggested he found the entire concept strategically unsound. "We will obtain these 'permits.'"

You laughed, a short, humorless sound. "It's not that simple. We'd need architectural plans, inspections, approval from the city planning department… not to mention explaining why five enormous men with no identification or legal existence are living here and doing construction."

Rogal processed this, his expression unchanging but something calculating in his eyes. "A tactical challenge, then."

"You could say that."

Sigismund entered, his severe face even more grim than usual. "The neighbors have been observing our activities. The female dwelling in the blue structure has been documenting the observation post with a pict-capture device."

"Mrs. Peterson with her phone." you translated. "Great."

"We should eliminate the surveillance." Sigismund suggested, his hand drifting unconsciously to where his sword would normally hang.

"No!" you snapped, momentarily forgetting your usual quiet demeanor. "Nobody is 'eliminating' anything. These are my neighbors, not enemies."

"The distinction is not always clear." Sigismund replied seriously.

Your phone chirped with a notification. You glanced at it and groaned. "And now I've been summoned to a special HOA meeting to 'discuss the unauthorized modifications to the property’"

Rogal straightened, his head nearly brushing the ceiling despite his modifications. "I will accompany you to this tactical briefing."

"That's really not necessary—"

"It is decided." he stated, in a tone that suggested the matter was closed.

******

The community center meeting room fell silent as you entered with Rogal at your side. The folding chairs seemed absurdly small as the giant man surveyed the room with the calculated gaze of a battlefield commander.

Carol Anderson, HOA president and self-appointed neighborhood watchdog, gaped momentarily before recovering her composure. "Ma’am, we didn't expect you to bring… guests."

"This is my… consultant." you said weakly. "Roger… Donald."

Rogal looked at you curiously but didn't contradict the hasty alias.

"Well." Carol continued, shuffling her papers officiously, "we've called this meeting to address the numerous violations occurring at your property. We have photographic evidence of unauthorized construction, including what appears to be some sort of… guard tower?"

Murmurs rippled through the assembled neighbors. You felt your face heating up.

"Observation post." Rogal corrected automatically.

"Excuse me?"

"The proper tactical designation is 'observation post,' not 'guard tower,'" he elaborated, his deep voice resonating through the small room. "It provides elevated surveillance capabilities for early threat detection."

Carol blinked rapidly. "Threats? This is not a military installation."

"I'm aware." you said through gritted teeth. "We'll take it down."

"There's also the matter of the reinforced perimeter fencing, the concrete bunker in your backyard—"

"Storage shed." you interjected.

"—and the extensive modifications to your home's exterior, all without permits or HOA approval."

Rogal leaned forward, his massive frame making the folding chair beneath him creak ominously. "Your defensive protocols are inadequate. The entire neighborhood lacks basic fortification against concentrated assault."

The meeting room fell silent again, neighbors exchanging concerned glances.

"Ma’am." Carol said slowly, "your… consultant seems to be under some misapprehensions about the purpose of our community guidelines."

"He's European." you offered weakly. "They do things differently there."

"Regardless, you have thirty days to remove the unauthorized structures and restore your property to compliance with HOA guidelines, or we'll be forced to begin issuing fines and potentially pursue legal action."

Rogal's face darkened. "This is tactically unsound."

"Nevertheless." Carol continued, ignoring him, "those are the rules you agreed to when you purchased your home."

The drive back was silent, Rogal's massive frame making your sedan look like a clown car. His expression was thunderous, though he said nothing until you pulled into the driveway.

"These administrative restrictions are worse than facing an ork horde." he finally stated.

"I don't know what that means, but I agree it's a nightmare." you sighed, turning off the engine. "And this is just the beginning. The city inspector will be here next week about the property taxes."

"Property… taxes?"

"Yeah, all the 'improvements' you guys have made? They increase the assessed value of my house, which means higher taxes."

Rogal absorbed this with his usual stoicism, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. "We have made you a target for financial warfare."

"That's one way of putting it."

Inside, you found the others gathered around the kitchen table, which Alexis had reinforced to support their combined weight. Sigismund looked up as you entered, his fierce eyes noting your expressions.

"The administrative engagement was unsuccessful." he observed.

"That's putting it mildly." you dropped your purse on the counter and slumped into a chair. "We have to remove everything or face fines we can't afford to pay."

Vladimir frowned. "The defense perimeter is essential for security."

"The watchtower is literally what neighbors see first." you muttered, to no one in particular.

"Perhaps." Sigismund began slowly, "What we require is assistance of a different nature. In the Chapter, when facing insurmountable bureaucratic obstacles, we would sometimes employ the services of… psykers."

The kitchen fell silent. Rogal's expression grew even more severe, if that were possible.

"You suggest warp-craft?" he asked, his tone suggesting deep disapproval.

"I detest the practice as much as any son of Dorn." Sigismund replied stiffly. "But a targeted mental manipulation could resolve our difficulties with these… HOA enforcers."

"What are you guys talking about?" you asked, looking between them in confusion.

Halbrecht, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "Psykers. Those with the ability to manipulate the immaterium, what you might call 'magic.' They could alter the perceptions of your neighbors, make them overlook our fortifications."

"That's not a real thing." you said flatly.

"It is." Vladimir insisted. "Though accessing such powers here may be problematic."

Rogal shook his head firmly. "The warp does not exist in this reality. I have sensed no trace of it since our arrival. No immaterium means no psykers."

"Then how do you explain our presence here?" Sigismund challenged. "We were clearly transported by some warp phenomenon."

"I cannot explain it." Rogal admitted. "But I know what I sense. There is no warp here."

You looked between them, increasingly lost. "What's a warp?"

The five men exchanged glances, a rare moment of uncertainty passing between them.

"It is… difficult to explain." Rogal finally said. "A parallel dimension of psychic energy that underlies reality in our… previous existence."

"Right." you said slowly. "Magic. Got it."

"Not magic." Alexis corrected firmly. "A natural force, like gravity or electromagnetism, but operating on different principles."

You raised your hands in surrender. "Whatever. The point is, we can't use mind control on the HOA, so we need another solution."

"We could eliminate them." Sigismund suggested again, though with less conviction than before.

"Still no." You sighed.

******

The city inspector arrived precisely at 9 AM the following Tuesday, clipboard in hand and an expression of bureaucratic determination on his face. His name tag read "Johnson, Property Assessment."

You met him at the door, having spent the previous evening coaching your houseguests to remain out of sight. Naturally, this lasted approximately thirty seconds into the inspection.

"These additions are quite extensive." Johnson noted, scribbling on his clipboard as he examined the reinforced door frame. "I don't see any permits on file for this work."

"It's just some minor repairs." you tried.

Johnson gave you a look that said he wasn't born yesterday. "Ma'am, your door frame is reinforced with what appears to be aerospace-grade titanium alloy. That's not 'minor repairs.'"

Before you could respond, Rogal emerged from the hallway, his imposing presence immediately filling the entryway. "The reinforcement is necessary for baseline security protocols."

Johnson startled visibly, looking up… and up at the giant before him. "And you are…?"

"He's my contractor." you interjected quickly.

"I'll need to see his license and the permits for this work." Johnson replied, recovering his composure.

"The bureaucratic restrictions in this jurisdiction are tactically unsound." Rogal stated flatly. "In the Imperial—"

"In the Imperial Fists Construction Company." you cut in desperately. "They do things differently. European standards."

Johnson's eyes narrowed. "I'm not familiar with that firm. And regardless of European standards, county building codes still apply."

The inspection deteriorated from there. Despite your best efforts, all five men eventually made appearances, each more disturbing to the inspector than the last. By the time Sigismund emerged from the basement (where he'd been installing what he called a "rudimentary defense bunker"), Johnson was scribbling furiously on his clipboard, his earlier professional demeanor replaced with barely concealed alarm.

"Ma’am." he said as they concluded the inspection, "based on my preliminary assessment, your property improvements have increased your assessed value by approximately sixty percent. You'll be receiving a revised tax statement reflecting these changes."

You felt the blood drain from your face. "Sixty percent?"

"Additionally, I'm obligated to report the unpermitted construction to the county code enforcement office. You can expect to hear from them within ten business days regarding the necessary permits and potential penalties."

After Johnson departed, looking relieved to escape, you collapsed onto your reinforced sofa, head in your hands. The five giants stood or sat around your living room, their expressions varying from Rogal's stoic contemplation to Sigismund's barely suppressed frustration.

"This administrative warfare is dishonorable." Halbrecht declared. "They attack with papers instead of facing us directly."

"That's government for you." You muttered.

"We have made your situation worse." Rogal observed, stating the obvious with his characteristic bluntness.

"I can't afford a sixty percent increase in property taxes." you admitted, the reality of your situation sinking in. "Not to mention fines from the county and the HOA."

The room fell silent, each occupant contemplating the dilemma from their own perspective. It was Vladimir who finally broke the silence.

"We must generate resources." he stated. "Currency."

Alexis nodded slowly. "Agreed. We have consumed your supplies without adequate compensation. This imbalance must be corrected."

"How?" you asked, looking up at them. "You guys don't exist on paper. No Social Security numbers, no IDs, no work permits. You can't exactly walk into a job interview."

"We possess skills." Rogal pointed out. "Construction. Engineering. Strategic planning."

"Great skills." you agreed. "But you need documentation to use them legally."

Sigismund's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Perhaps not. In times of war, informal economies often arise. Services provided without official sanction."

"You're talking about working under the table." you translated. "That's technically illegal."

"As is our very existence here." Halbrecht pointed out reasonably. "We are already operating outside your legal framework simply by being present."

You couldn't argue with that logic. You thought about your mounting financial problems, the increased taxes, the potential fines, the ordinary expenses of housing and feeding five enormous men with metabolisms that defied explanation.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" you finally asked.

"We establish a construction enterprise." Rogal stated, as if it were the most obvious solution. "Unofficial, but effective. We build. We reinforce. We improve. We generate currency."

"A construction company." you said slowly. "Run by five giant men with no legal identity, no contractor's license, and a tendency to build everything like it's going to be under siege."

"Exactly." Rogal confirmed, missing or ignoring your sarcasm.

"That's… actually not the worst idea." you admitted after a moment's thought. "There's always demand for handymen who work cheap, especially for cash jobs."

"We do not require substantial compensation." Alexis added. "Merely enough to offset the administrative warfare being waged against you."

"But we'd need to be subtle." you warned. "No watchtowers. No bunkers. Just normal home repairs and improvements."

"Disguising defensive fortifications as aesthetic improvements is standard protocol in urban warfare." Vladimir noted, as if this were common knowledge.

"And we'd need to keep a low profile with the authorities." you continued, warming to the idea despite yourself. "Small jobs, word of mouth only."

Sigismund nodded approvingly. "Guerrilla economics. Attack the problem indirectly rather than facing bureaucratic forces head-on."

"I still find these restrictions tactically unsound." Rogal stated, his perpetual frown deepening. "A society that prioritizes appearance over function invites weakness."

"Welcome to modern society." you sighed.

******

A few days later, you sat at your kitchen table, now reinforced but still looking like an ordinary table, reviewing a handwritten list of potential clients and jobs. The "Imperial Fists Construction" enterprise, as your houseguests insisted on calling it, was still more concept than reality. The bureaucratic obstacles seemed insurmountable.

"We require business credentials." Rogal stated, looming over the table. "Without documentation, our tactical options remain limited."

"I know." you sighed, looking at the papers spread before you. The increased property tax notice had arrived that morning, the numbers even worse than you'd feared. "But getting documentation for you guys is practically impossible without existing identification."

Alexis entered the kitchen, ducking through the doorway. "The neighbor three dwellings south has requested assistance with a collapsing deck structure. I provided a preliminary assessment."

"Mrs. Abernathy?" you asked. "How does she even know about you guys?"

"Word spreads." Vladimir commented from where he was methodically organizing tools. "Tactical information always finds channels."

You massaged your temples, feeling the beginnings of what had become a familiar headache. "We can't just start taking jobs without any kind of legal structure. We'd be risking fines on top of the taxes and HOA penalties we're already facing."

"Administrative warfare requires administrative countermeasures." Sigismund declared, his severe expression suggesting he found this type of battle more challenging than physical combat.

Halbrecht, who had been quietly examining your laptop, looked up. "There exist entities that provide documentation services. Not entirely within legal parameters, but functional."

You stared at him. "Are you suggesting we get fake IDs?"

"Tactical documentation." he corrected. "For emergency deployment situations."

"That's a whole new level of illegal." you pointed out, though you couldn't help considering it. Your financial situation was becoming desperate.

Rogal studied the tax notice with his characteristic intensity. "The system is designed to prevent outsiders from operating within it. A deliberate exclusionary tactic."

"That's one way of looking at bureaucracy." you muttered.

Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across your increasingly fortified yard. The "observation post" had been partially dismantled following the HOA meeting, but much of their other work remained, reinforced fencing disguised as decorative borders, concrete supports hidden beneath garden features, surveillance systems camouflaged as outdoor lighting.

The five men had been trying, in their own bizarre way, to help. They'd reduced their food consumption, though their massive frames still required substantial calories. They'd begun patrolling the neighborhood at night, identifying potential jobs and clients. They'd even attempted to create rudimentary business cards, though Sigismund's design featuring fist and an eagle motif had seemed a bit too militant for suburban handyman work.

"Perhaps." Rogal began slowly, "a more direct approach is required."

"What do you mean?" you asked.

"We approach this Carol Anderson. Present our case directly. Offer our services in exchange for HOA compliance."

You blinked, surprised by the suggestion. "You want to negotiate with the HOA president?"

"Tactical dialogue." Rogal confirmed. "Identify mutual benefits. Establish parameters for coexistence."

"That's… actually not a bad idea." you admitted. "Though getting HOA to agree to anything might be challenging."

"All fortifications have weak points." Sigismund observed cryptically.

You glanced at the stack of bills, the tax notice, the HOA warning. Your savings were dwindling, your options limited. Five enormous men with impossible skills and no legal existence sat in your kitchen, earnestly trying to solve a problem they had largely created.

It was absurd. Impossible. Yet somehow, you found yourself considering Rogal's suggestion. What did you have to lose?

"Alright." you said finally. "Let's try diplomacy. But if Sigismund suggests 'eliminating' anyone again, we're going back to plan A."

"Which was?" Vladimir asked.

"Panic and hope for a miracle." you replied dryly.

Rogal nodded, "The fortress will stand."

[shiyorin]

#Modern au (with MILF reader)

#Magnus x MILF reader

#Happy meal for my dearest @roroco316

The bustling halls of the Elementary School echoed with the usual cacophony of children's laughter and teachers' admonitions. Amidst this chaos, your striking figure strode through the corridors, your midnight tresses swaying with each determined step. You, a young single mother whose beauty belied the steel in your spine, had been summoned to the school yet again to deal with your daughter's latest misadventure.

As you approached the classroom, muffled sounds of struggle reached your ears. Your brow furrowed, a mixture of exasperation and concern etched across your features. With a deep breath, you pushed open the door, unprepared for the sight that greeted you.

There, in the center of the room, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with an eye patch, struggling to contain a squirming bundle of energy. It took you a moment to realize that the writhing mass was, in fact, your own daughter. The little girl's pigtails bounced wildly as she thrashed in the man's arms, her face scrunched up in a determined pout.

The man, his one good eye twitching with barely contained frustration, held the child at arm's length as if she were a ticking bomb. His usually impeccable appearance, tailored tweed jacket and neatly pressed slacks, now disheveled from the struggle. A few errant strands of his fiery red hair had escaped the confines of his neat ponytail, adding to his harried look.

"What?" you exclaimed, your voice a mixture of surprise and resignation.

Little girl's head whipped around at the sound of your voice. "I don't want to go to tutoring class!" she wailed, redoubling her efforts to escape.

The man holding her let out a grunt of frustration. "Can you stop!" he demanded, his deep voice tinged with exasperation.

Your eyes narrowed as you took in the scene before you. The man holding your daughter was undeniably handsome, despite the eye patch that covered his left eye. His remaining eye was a startling shade of violet, currently filled with a mixture of annoyance and something else you couldn't quite place.

"Magnus?" you asked, recognition dawning. "What are you doing here?"

The man – Magnus – looked up, his eye widening slightly as he met your gaze. A faint flush crept up his neck "Miss," he breathed, momentarily forgetting the squirming child in his arms.

Your daughter took advantage of his distraction, nearly wriggling free before Magnus tightened his grip once more. "Nice to see you again," he managed, his voice strained as he struggled to maintain his hold on the little girl.

You stepped forward, your arms crossed over your chest. "You still haven't answered my question. What's a Harvard professor doing in an elementary school classroom?"

Magnus cleared his throat, clearly flustered. "I, uh, I've been volunteering here. Tutoring some of the students who need extra help."

You raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Your daughter, sensing an opportunity, renewed her struggles. "I don't need help!" she protested. "I don't want to go to tutoring!"

Magnus sighed, finally setting the girl down but keeping a firm hand on her shoulder to prevent her from bolting. "Young lady," he said, his voice softening, "your test scores suggest otherwise. I was just explaining to your mother that I think some extra tutoring sessions could be very beneficial."

Your eyes narrowed. "And you took it upon yourself to make this decision?"

Magnus had the grace to look sheepish. "I... I thought it would be best to discuss it with you first, of course. I just wanted to present the option."

She stomped her foot, her lower lip jutting out in a fierce pout. "I don't want a nerd for a tutor!" she declared. "And I definitely don't want one for a dad!"

Magnus's face flushed a deep crimson, his eye darting between little girl and you. You felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, despite your irritation at his presumption.

"Young lady," you said, your voice stern. "That's enough. Apologize to Professor Magnus right now."

The little girl crossed her arms, stubbornly refusing to meet anyone's gaze. "Sorry," she muttered, clearly not meaning it.

You sighed "I'm sorry about this, Magnus. She can be... a handful."

Magnus's expression softened as he looked at you, a warmth in his eye that you failed to notice. "It's alright," he said. "She's spirited. That's not a bad thing."

You snorted. "You say that now. Try dealing with her every day."

A small smile tugged at Magnus's lips. "I wouldn't mind," he said softly, then quickly added, "I mean, as her tutor. If you decide that's what you want."

You studied him for a moment, taking in his earnest expression and the way he fidgeted slightly under your gaze. There was something about him that intrigued you, though you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

"Let me think about it," you said finally. "I appreciate the offer, but I need to consider what's best for my daughter."

Magnus nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

As you turned to leave, ushering a still-grumbling daughter out of the classroom, you failed to notice the way Magnus's gaze lingered on your retreating form. His eye traced the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and he let out a soft sigh of longing.

*****

The penthouse door swings open, revealing an opulent interior that makes your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Magnus stands there, a nervous smile playing on his lips as he ushers you inside. Your little girl, still pouting from being forced to attend tutoring, trudges in reluctantly.

"Welcome," Magnus says, his voice carrying a hint of excitement he can't quite suppress. "I hope you'll find the space conducive to learning."

You taking in the sleek modern furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. "Thanks you for helping, your home is beautiful."

Magnus flushes, fumbling with his words. "Oh, well, you know... family money and some wise investments." He clears his throat, gesturing towards a door. "The library's through there. I've set up everything we'll need."

As you enter the library, your little girl's eyes widen at the sight of three plush stuffed animals arranged on the desk - Chikawa, Hachiware, and Usagi. "For me?" she squeals, momentarily forgetting her grudge against tutoring.

Magnus nods, a genuine smile breaking through his nervousness. "I thought they might make our sessions more enjoyable."

Your girl hugs the stuffed Usagi tightly. "I like you!" she declares, before spotting the stack of practice test books beside the animals. Her face falls. "I hate you," she grumbles.

You sigh. "Dear. Remember why we're here."

For the next hour, Magnus attempts to guide your reluctant child through basic math concepts. His expertise in advanced theoretical physics does little to help him explain simple addition to a squirming seven-year-old more interested in making her stuffed animals dance than learning.

You observe from a nearby armchair, alternating between amusement at Magnus's struggles and frustration at your daughter's lack of focus. You can't help but notice the furtive glances Magnus keeps throwing your way, his good eye darting to your face before quickly looking away whenever you catch him.

As the tutoring session drags on, it becomes clear that for all his intelligence, Magnus is a terrible teacher, at least when it comes to children. His explanations are too complex, his patience wearing thin as your little girl's attention span dwindles to nothing.

"Let's take a break," you finally suggest, seeing both Magnus and your daughter on the verge of a meltdown. "Sweetie, why don't you stay here and play with your new friends for a bit? Mommy needs to talk to Professor Magnus."

Your girl nods eagerly, already engrossed in her phone game with Usagi propped up beside her. You lead Magnus out to the living room, closing the library door behind you.

"Well," you say, leaning against the back of a sleek leather sofa, "that was... something."

Magnus runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat ponytail. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I thought I was prepared, but-"

"But teaching quantum physics to grad students doesn't exactly translate to basic math for second graders?" you finish for him, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

He nods, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I just wanted to help. Your daughter has so much potential, if only-"

"If only she cared about anything other than becoming a giant yellow bunny?" You sigh. "Yeah, welcome to my world."

As you talk, Magnus can't help but notice what you're wearing - a form-fitting business dress that hugs every curve of your lithe body. The hemline rides up slightly as you lean back, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of toned thigh. He swallows hard, trying to force his gaze back to your face.

You, oblivious to the effect you're having on him, continue talking about your daughter's academic struggles. But Magnus finds himself lost in the way your lips move, the slight furrow of concentration between your brows, the way a stray lock of midnight hair falls across your cheek.

His mind wanders, imagining what it would be like to close the distance between you, to press you against that leather sofa and claim those full lips with his own. His hands itch to explore the curves so tantalizingly displayed by that dress, to peel away the fabric and reveal the smooth skin beneath.

Magnus shifts uncomfortably, acutely aware of the growing tightness in his trousers. He silently thanks whatever deity might be listening that his loose-fitting slacks hide his body's reaction to your proximity.

As you gesticulate, emphasizing a point about your daughter's latest report card, Magnus finds his gaze drawn to the swell of your breasts, the neckline of your dress offering a teasing glimpse of cleavage. He imagines burying his face there, inhaling the intoxicating scent of your perfume mixed with the natural musk of your skin.

His mind conjures vivid fantasies - pushing that dress up around your waist, his hands sliding along silky thighs to discover what lay beneath. Would you wear lace? Something practical? Nothing at all? The possibilities make his mouth go dry.

In his mind's eye, he sees himself lifting you onto the kitchen island, scattering papers and books to the floor as he claims you right there. He imagines the taste of your skin, the sound of your moans as he worships every inch of your body with lips and tongue and teeth.

The fantasy grows more intense - your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back as he thrusts into you. The imagined sensation is so vivid he has to stifle a groan, shifting again in a futile attempt to ease the ache in his groin.

"Magnus? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the fog of lust, snapping Magnus back to reality. He blinks, realizing he's been staring at you like a lovesick puppy for who knows how long.

"I'm sorry," he stammers, face flushing crimson. "I was just... thinking about potential teaching strategies."

You stood up from the plush armchair, stretching your lithe body as you made your way towards the library door. Your daughter had been quiet for a while now, and you wanted to check on her progress. As your hand reached for the doorknob, a warm presence materialized behind you, sending a shiver down your spine.

[Tyranid eat this part. Read more in poipiku]

[shiyorin]

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.

[shiyorin]

Halloween Sandwich 

#Modern au

#Trick or treat with Ferrus and Fulgrim

#NSFW, 3p, noncon, reader is female...

#Happy Halloween with @roroco316

You had been so proud of your Halloween costume idea this year. Nothing too flashy or elaborate - just a classic ghost get-up that you could easily throw together from some old fabric layer. The pale, diaphanous draping perfectly complimented your lithe figure while offering an air of eerie mystery that you thought was deliciously spooky.

At least, that's what you assumed until the first trick-or-treaters showed up. 

An insistent rapping at your front door drew your grinning steps, already clutching at an overflowing basket with all the sugary loot. Surely these kiddies would get a thrill at seeing your haunting visage lurking behind the threshold! Tossing the sheet's tattered hem up to better obscure your face, you creaked the door open with an ominous groan.

"Oooooh, which tiny monsters come calling at my house?"

With a dramatic flourish, you flung aside the covering only to freeze in utter stupefaction. Because the sight that greeted you on the other side was anything but childish innocence.

Framed in the flickering glow of your porch lights stood two towering, impossibly statuesque figures grinning down at you. Both were clad in... well, outfits that could barely be considered proper costumes—leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

The first was some sort of bejeweled, leather get-up that looked like it belonged in a particularly porno. Amethyst silken scarves swirling around his chiseled physique scarcely concealed perky nipples and an absolutely thunderous package bisecting his leather thong with obscene definition. His angular features had even been meticulously highlighted with eyeliner and artfully feathered bangs that framed his smoldering gaze with practiced allure.  

And keeping him casual company was a positively rippling monolith of a man, dressed in...strategically wrapped bandages? His array of taut linen strips allowed tantalizing glimpses of sheened musculature and a deeply corrugated pelvis.

"What—?" Your voice came out in a strangled rasp, your diminutive form utterly dwarfed between these men You instinctively clutched your voluminous ghost sheet tight around your frame in self-consciousness, swallowing audibly. "Uh… hey… guys?" 

"Why hellooo there, sexy little ghost," purred the first one, presumably Fulgrim by the voice with a serpentine undulation, his eyes practically smoldering like lava flows. "And just what brings you out haunting the streets on a night like this, hmm?"

They were hitting on you. You went completely rigid, your jaw doing its best impression of a gasping halibut as you processed the situation.

"You… gotta be kidding me...! How old are you two supposed to be exactly? Because I'm certainly not—"

"This old, dear” Fulgrim cooed in a lilting baritone, lifting a single finger to trace the curve of your chin.  

Thankfully, the other man, Ferrus, elected to save his buddy from a well-deserved throat-punting by clearing his throat.

"Ah, don't mind my friend's poor manners, my little lady. The question still stands though..." His gaze lasered between your parted thighs like twin X rays, hefting a plastic pumpkin full of treats. "We've been… very good boys going door to door. So… are we due for some rewards… or does this evening demand a few tricks instead...?"

It took you a few seconds to process his insinuations before you physically recoiled, spine snapping rigid with incredulity.  

"Wha—You... you've gotta be joking right now, you perverts! That's it, I'm not in the mood to deal with demented horndogs on Halloween!"

Your threat was sharply cut off as Fulgrim abruptly stepped in closer, effectively caging you against the doorframe with one palm slammed against the surface. You swallowed thickly at his proximity, the former's musky sandalwood cologne flooding your senses with intoxicating potency as he loomed overhead like an avalanche.

"Now, now...surely my stunning treat isn't asking for any...unpleasantries?" Fulgrim purred, tilting his head. "After all, I simply must insist on having my cake... and eating it too..."

His free hand brazenly snaked through the tattered concealing drape of your costume, fingers nimbly finding and tweaking your cloth-obscured nipple. You jolted with a yelping gasp at the sudden violation, only for Ferrus' tree-trunk-thick arms to wrap around you from behind and pin your flailing against his.

"Easy there, my little lady… ee can do this the easy way..." he growled against the back of your ear, the delicious heat of his breath already leaving you in a dizzy spiral. 

Between their twin enormities compressing against your front and back, your head spun dizzily, fingers scrabbling for any leverage as you thrashed in weak protest. But every struggle only served to grind your vulnerable form against the solid bulwarks of their rippling muscles and swelling codpieces...

With a frustrated mewl, you finally wilted between your captors like a rag doll, eyelids fluttering as you stared up helplessly at Fulgrim's razor-carved jawline and gleaming smirk.

"F-Fine… you giant… freaks..." you rasped in meek capitulation. "I-I'll...give you your stupid Halloween treat this year..."  

Because let's be honest here. Some tricks simply don't require costumes to be properly appreciated…

*****

Tyranid eat this part

*****

Somehow managing a shaky smirk through your dazed panting, you mustered a glare up at them both. Your voice was raspy but defiant.

"F..fuck you..." The words earned matching barks of lewd laughter from them both as they leaned in closer.

"Yeah..." Ferrus grinned. "Fuck me. All night long, little lady…”

[shiyorin]

Bunny Horus ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

Just an ideas I share with @roroco316

And look at that art!!!

Summary: Horus wear bunny suit

TW: NSFW, size difference, dub-con, primarch x reader, reader is female...

You bite your lip to suppress a fit of giggles as you enter Warmaster' private chambers... only to freeze at the sight before you.

The Warmaster himself stands facing the mirror in full regalia, if one could even call it that. A shiny black leather bunny outfit clings to every glorious curve of his primarch physique. The plunging neckline barely contains his heaving pectorals, muscled cleavage all but spilling free.

The corseted waist cincher impossibly tight before fanning out to a ridiculously tiny skirt, putting Horus' tree trunk quads and rippling calves on blatant display. Matching thigh-high boots accentuate the raw power contained in those godly limbs.

And at the back.... Oh by the Throne! Twin globes of Wasmaster' legendary backside bulge from the skintight leather, jiggling in unabashedly profane opulence with each subtle shift of his stance. You swear you see one perfectly sculpted asscheek peeking out from the hem in a delicious tease.

"Forgive me, Lord Horus..." You manage through a haze of semi-hysterical laughter, waving the data-slate still gripped uselessly in your hand. "I merely came to deliver the requested document bundle..."

Your breath catches in your throat as Horus turns to face you fully, making no attempt to hide or be ashamed of his provocative attire. In fact, he appears to revel in the attention, drinking in your gaze and knowing grin. 

Those smoldering eyes smolder with amusement, only further stoking the fluttery heat pooling between your thighs. Because standing before you in all his ludicrous revealing glory, the very last thing you expected to see was the burgeoning swell of Horus' arousal pressing obscenely against the tight leather...

"Like what you see, my dear?" A rich baritone chuckle rolls from the Primarch, all sin and arrogance as he saunters towards you.

You swallows thickly, mouth suddenly dry as bone from the sheer bestial magnetism radiating from the barely-dressed demi-god. Those eyes positively drink in the delicious flush creeping across your features.

"I have to admit, you cut quite the... tempting figure in that little number, my lord." you draw a steadying breath, pushing aside your initial shock. "Though I must know, Why did this happen?"

You let your tongue dart playfully across your full lips, unable to resist milking the primarch's prideful ego.

Horus chuckles again, deep and husky like rolling thunder before a bone-splitting lightning strike. "You wound me, my dear. Could I not simply indulge your... appreciation for the male form from time to time?"

That impossibly wide chest swells with exaggerated bravado, every flex and twitch of those pectorals and shredded abs rippling in tantalizing slow motion.  

"Or I could have lost a bit of a gamble with my brothers over who could stay focused longest while clad in..." his rich voice lowers to a smoky growl, "...distracting attire."

The fires burning in his gaze rake over you in a languorous visual caress that leaves her utterly powerless. Invisible tendrils of Horus' blistering charisma ensnare your mind, entrapping you like a hypnotized prey animal before a voracious predator.

"Now then, where were we, my dear?" 

The bulge at the apex of Horus' thighs grows more pronounced by the moment, swelling more turgidly erect with each heated breath. A shadow of glistening precum stains the taut leather in defiance of decorum.

You know you should leave, you feel the dull plasteel thud of the data-slate slipping through your suddenly leaden fingers as it clatters forgotten to the floor.

"Oh, it seems..." Those hips grind forward, grinding his bestial bulge against the flimsy scrap of skirt. "...You've become rather... flustered by all this, haven't you?"

With a panicked gulp, you avert your gaze, though your eyes keep roving back to the grotesquely large bulge with a mix of primal terror and curious attraction.

"Eep! Erm...you know what, m-my lord? I just remembered I had a... uhh... an appointment to get to! Very urgent. Perhaps we can reconnoiter these briefs, uhh, reports later!" 

You can't mask the slight quaver in your voice as you gather the scattered datasheets with clammy fingers. You scamper for the exit, doing your best not to take one last incredulous gaze at the seismic distension in Horus' pants.

But before you can make your escape, the Warmaster's massive palm clamps down on the back of your neck, pinning you in place as easily as swatting a gnat.

"Not so fast, my dearest one." He pulls you in close, bending down so that his thick, cloying breath, tinged with gunsmoke and crushed pearl, washes over your delicate features.

"I still need to discuss these requisitions. In detail..." A bead of sweat rolls down Horus' chiseled jawline. "Unless you think you can distract me some other way?"

All of your poise and self-confidence melts away in that stare. You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly very dry as you look up at the ultimate representation of male carnality looming over you.

"I...I didn't mean...that is to say, I would never..."

He drags his free palm slowly, purposefully down your waist, coming to rest on the sinuous curve of your pert backside. You squirms helplessly in his steely grasp.

"So why don't you be a good little one?" Horus murmurs, simultaneously dangerous and seductive. "And show some proper respect to your lord Primarch...?"

The hand on your rump squeezes possessively as he pulls you flush against the still-swelling latex bulge, leaving zero doubt of his intentions.

Your usually cool composure finally cracks like fragile porcelain. Your lips part, frantic breaths sawing in and out while pupils blow wide with panic, shock... and undeniable want.

Warmaster hauls you up by the hips, not even needing to support your negligible weight in his arms. With a shrug, he sends the scattered reports and data-slates scattering every which way. Then Horus turns and marches you towards the nearest wall, simultaneously prying you firm thighs apart against your feeble struggles.

As you are effortlessly pinned and stripped in one fluid motion, the Warmaster smiles.

"Logistics can wait, I have far more pressing matters to attend to right now..."

His words trail off into a rumbling chuckle as the first guttural cries of strained ecstasy begin echoing through the palatial chamber.

With a groan, Horus reaches down to unzip the pant, finally freeing his monstrously engorged cock.

The primarch's member, impossibly thick and veiny, springs forth with a heavy thump against your abdomen. Pre-cum already beads along the bulging ridge, leaving sticky trails across your trembling belly.  

"Time to inspect me more... thoroughly." Horus' voice is a guttural growl of pure carnal hunger.

Your eyes go round as saucers watching that gigantic erection sway mere inches from your exposed pussy. 

With one brawny hand splayed across your chest, the Warmaster pins you in place while guiding the bloated cockhead towards your slick entrance. The first few inches spear inwards with obscene ease, molten hot flesh stretching around his girth.

But soon your tight velvet walls clamp down, resisting the intrusion. A strangled whimper escapes your lips as inch after agonizing inch of primarch cock is crammed into your helpless body.

Eyes screwed shut with the overwhelming burn, you feel hot tears streak down your flushed cheeks. Horus merely chuckles before dipping his head to swipe a wet tongue over the salty beads.

"Do not fear, my dearest. Once this goes through, the torment will pass..."

By now over two thirds of his towering erection is stuffed inside your pussy, glistening and distending your belly with its bulbous outline. 

Your fingers dig helplessly at Horus' giant shoulders, seeking an anchor against the ruthlessly spreading pressure. Each ragged breath is a high keening whine, choked off by the relentless stuffing of your violated cunt.

"Don't fight it..." The Warmaster smirks as he licks another tear from the corner of your eye. "Just let it all the way into your core." 

With that, he rams his hips forward in a relentless pushing grind. Your body is lifted, mouth contorted in a perfect O of mixed agony and indescribable rapture as the final inches breach your entrance with a wet squelch.

You bucks and writhes feebly, inside completely full of primarch cock. But instead of soothing euphoria, fresh gales of tear-streaked groaning pour from your grimacing features. Once again Horus leans in to tenderly catch the salty beads on his tongue.

"Shhhhh, my sweet little one. I promise you will love that..."

Sure enough, as the primarch's hips begin languidly grinding and sawing, the pain seems to gradually give way to hazy shocks of pleasure spiking through your core. Your wails become muffled pants and mewls of depravity. Your eyes flutter back open to glare furiously up at the immense warrior defiling you so ruthlessly.

"F-fuck you, asshol--OOOHHH..." All pretenses at anger or resistance collapse as another deep thrust buries that unholy slab of mutra-genic flesh impossibly deeper.  

Your muscles go taught, fruitlessly trying to clench down on the monolith reaming you inside to a ruin. But your cunt simply stretches around its colossal invader, forced to conform and accommodate Horus' lewd rearrangement of your very anatomy.

For his part, the Warmaster merely laughs indulgently at your impotent rage, continuing to grind, twist and churn his oversized prick through every exquisitely tight inch of pussy. A satisfied grin splits his features as you writhe and moans in ecstatic torment beneath his bulk.

"There there, my little one... no need for such rancor." He leans down to place a kiss on your forehead. "

In a sudden, spiteful motion, you lurches upwards to sink your teeth deep into the Warmaster's pectoral muscle. Horus doesn't even flinch, letting you chomp and slobber before reaching down to playfully pat your head.

"Yes, yes...vent all the frustration you want, my dearest. Bite me, claw me, scream and curse..." His grin widens as the broad shaft crammed to the hilt inside your throbbing pussy begins to swell further in preparation for eruption. 

With force, the first boiling ropes of primarch seed erupt from the slit of his bloated cock-head deep within your cunt. Your entire body convulses as if struck by lightning as the thick, viscous emissions surge through your straining. A hoarse wailing cry is ripped from your throat.

Horus merely grunts with deep fulfillment, savoring your exquisite anguish while continuing to grind and churn his erupting tower of flesh through the spasming pussy. More and more demigod seed geysers forth, flooding your womb with its genetics. 

You writhe in frantic, overwhelmed release, legs kicking wildly as your body arches into an impossibly contorted bow. Drool and screams pour from you in equal measure while you're pumped with what feels like gallons of searing cum... and still the primarch's shaft keeps unloading its seemingly infinite payload.

At last the torrent begins to subside, leaving you a ruined, cum-drenched mess. Horus finally releases your limp, gasping body with a satisfied grunt, allowing it to flop loosely amidst the sodden cushions.

Leaning down, he places a series of surprisingly tender kisses against your forehead and cheeks. His lips brush your ear where a husky whisper rumbles out.

"Well done, my dearest. You did very well..."

Your empty eyes roll back in their sockets as one last pitiful groan wheezes from your throat, too drained to respond.  But there's no rest or respite to be had as you feel that rippling primarch shaft, somehow still granite hard, stretching your insides once more.

"D-did you really think...a single would be sufficient to sate my needs?" The Warmaster's teeth flash in a grin as he hooks his gargantuan arms beneath your knees to tilt your pelvis upwards.  His hips begin slamming with savage force once more, burying inch after inch deep within you.

He pauses for emphasis, smirking down at the limp form now bouncing helplessly from his ruthless drilling.

"My dearest, do you know that bunnies are always in heat?"

Those final words seem to jolt a spark of clarity back into your vacant eyes. They dilate to panic as your lips shape around a hoarse syllable of disbelieving protest.  But Horus swiftly leans over to seal your mouth in a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue past your gasping shock just as he continues spearing that immense impossibly deeper into your womb.

All you can muster is a defeated, bubbling moan into the sloppy lip-lock as you resign yourself to this fresh onslaught of primarch rutting.