Getting your portrait done usually doesn't involve getting naked... does it?
+ 𓅀
There is an old custom, so the Custodes say, of portrait-painting. Remembrancers oft depict the Primarchs in portraiture, or the likenesses of generals in His armies, or His crusade to reunite humanity at large. It is not to disparage their work - indeed, they are trained sculptors, actors, painters. To say they hold a candle to the Custodes would be to compare pebbles to the great mountains.
Yet, how does one become comfortable being the subject of such painting? It was said that great models would sit for hours at a time, sometimes returning over multiple days, holding the same position or sitting in the same spot to what eons could be charitably compared to - moreso if a prop or clothing was needed - held in the same position, in the same lighting, day in, and day out. It was a question you were saddled with, of course, as you were offered by His most trusted companions - His Custodes - to participate in their focus.
His forethought oft had you guarded by a small, rotating regiment of the ten-thousand - all of whom guarded you as fiercely as they would the Emperor - yet, this one request from them came as something of a surprise. To even be considered the subject for painting was beyond words alone. Yet, what you were not told, of course, was the nature of the portrait piece, nor just how many of His companions would be in attendance. Guarded by what felt like a tidal wave of liquid gold and lavish crimson, you moved from room to room, from view to view... and found yourself here.
As you were, you were a mortal, unblemished thing. Unlike most of His experiments, He opted to guide you not through the arcane genetic sciences He knew, but rather, moulding you through the most delicate, natural means. In His words, He wished to prove what humanity could be through you - you recalled how His face beamed with pride as you took those first steps in shedding the frailties and fears, and you could never disparage the changes even now, as gingerly, your golden-silk robes parted, and you found yourself positioned in the centre of the amphitheatre, standing upon a plinth.
Silently, each companion worked, as you felt the faintness of Terra's chill upon your exposed bosom, and the gentle breeze catch around your nethers. It was then you saw Him, sitting there, His hand far slower, more methodical, than any of the others around. The cold did not seem so bad, nor your exposure - you held the position with a serene grace, even now, as you knew some were paying mind to just how your body was made - but He was taking time to know you, to know this body. Perhaps a little ploy of His to entrap you like this - but you could hardly complain.
After all, if this was His hand painting you, the hours you could imagine with that same careful, powerful, and ponderous hand on your form would be worth far more than any painting could ever be.
Getting your portrait done usually doesn't involve getting naked... does it?
+ 𓅀
There is an old custom, so the Custodes say, of portrait-painting. Remembrancers oft depict the Primarchs in portraiture, or the likenesses of generals in His armies, or His crusade to reunite humanity at large. It is not to disparage their work - indeed, they are trained sculptors, actors, painters. To say they hold a candle to the Custodes would be to compare pebbles to the great mountains.
Yet, how does one become comfortable being the subject of such painting? It was said that great models would sit for hours at a time, sometimes returning over multiple days, holding the same position or sitting in the same spot to what eons could be charitably compared to - moreso if a prop or clothing was needed - held in the same position, in the same lighting, day in, and day out. It was a question you were saddled with, of course, as you were offered by His most trusted companions - His Custodes - to participate in their focus.
His forethought oft had you guarded by a small, rotating regiment of the ten-thousand - all of whom guarded you as fiercely as they would the Emperor - yet, this one request from them came as something of a surprise. To even be considered the subject for painting was beyond words alone. Yet, what you were not told, of course, was the nature of the portrait piece, nor just how many of His companions would be in attendance. Guarded by what felt like a tidal wave of liquid gold and lavish crimson, you moved from room to room, from view to view... and found yourself here.
As you were, you were a mortal, unblemished thing. Unlike most of His experiments, He opted to guide you not through the arcane genetic sciences He knew, but rather, moulding you through the most delicate, natural means. In His words, He wished to prove what humanity could be through you - you recalled how His face beamed with pride as you took those first steps in shedding the frailties and fears, and you could never disparage the changes even now, as gingerly, your golden-silk robes parted, and you found yourself positioned in the centre of the amphitheatre, standing upon a plinth.
Silently, each companion worked, as you felt the faintness of Terra's chill upon your exposed bosom, and the gentle breeze catch around your nethers. It was then you saw Him, sitting there, His hand far slower, more methodical, than any of the others around. The cold did not seem so bad, nor your exposure - you held the position with a serene grace, even now, as you knew some were paying mind to just how your body was made - but He was taking time to know you, to know this body. Perhaps a little ploy of His to entrap you like this - but you could hardly complain.
After all, if this was His hand painting you, the hours you could imagine with that same careful, powerful, and ponderous hand on your form would be worth far more than any painting could ever be.
You rest, with feet soaking in warm waters. His expert hand carefully checks each ligament, each strand of muscle. You do not know how - His hands are too broad, but one could hold half your waist, and the other would find you captured with ease.
It is His mastery, you suppose then, as His thumb circles a small subdermal area. He holds the spot for a moment, as one of your Custodes attendants provides a perfectly prepared syringe.
There was a time before now - long ago to you, but recalled - where you felt so nervous being so exposed to the Custodes - to Him, even. Your form is an awkward one; frail and not meant for such lavish attention.
The syringe snaps you free from your thoughts. You wince, as you always do - yet, in a moment, you feel a palpable relief.
"There," He begins, His dulcet tones that could sway the masses rumbling across your form, "I ensured this dosage is pristine. I have been studying it day and night."
You don't doubt His words - your smile is there, but you worry still. How could He treat you with such care? You go to thank Him - but He is just that step ahead. That hand that held your arm carefully moves to your chest, along the curve of your breast.
Your breath hitches. His thumb glides across a nipple. The Custodes leaves. It is not part of the usual affair, but you can't help but sidle a little closer. He is, after all, so comfortingly warm.
"You are progressing well." He starts, able to squeeze at just the right spot along your chest. To accuse someone who knows your precise anatomy of cheating would equate, but why complain? "The work to synthesise what you need has been one that bears fruit."
He makes a point of this as His mighty hands tease along your breasts again, before sliding down to your hips, massaging along them. You can't perceive it, but you feel some force where His hands were, still massaging your breasts. The feeling is too much - even with the doses, parts of you still respond to such delight.
"You believe you are imperfect," He continues - even as He toys with your now-pert nipple with his index and thumb, "that you do not deserve this kind of treatment." The conclusion comes as, with the same hands that could mould mountains spread your legs with a force you cannot resist.
"Humanity loves to do so," He begins, deigning (in your eyes) to temper your loins, thumbs pressing along your inner thighs, "think so negatively of themselves. I truly thought I have taught you to avoid such thoughts."
His faint scolding is detached from His actions - you can neither tell if this is playing, pleasure, or you're due for another lecture. The fact He is now working along your length, thought to be left somewhat inactive after so long, makes your thoughts flutter off under faint breaths of delight.
"Humanity is wonderful, in all its shapes. It must be tempered -" He chuckles, almost beneath His breath, as He sees your body does as it will. "- as must you, it seems." Before you could react, you find yourself somewhat pinned, as your length is toyed with, in ways only He knows how. Even you did not know just where such sweet spots were.
"You are human. Just human." He murmurs, as His hand carefully moves to massage along your orbs, making you emit a squeak that loses itself amongst the grandeur of His form. "And that is why you are glorious. Isn't that right?"
The praise is enough to send you spiralling, as He works your form with an ease befit of a master of the craft, and yet, more praise lavishes your form as the night progresses - and many, many delights are had, tempered by his steady hand.
By the time He is finished, you do not recall the negative thought - or many others - His handiwork leaves you curled up in a delight that lulls your mind into a slumber so serene, nothing could compare.
Though, you're still not sure why He has left Sisters of Silence nearby.
You sit from on high and watch Terra turn. From the Palace, it's impossible not to find something to stare down at, forlorn gazes cast solemnly amongst the billions. The deep bitterness of a life coldly lived eats at your heart.
Your hand rests on the edge of the window, this viewport that is your glimpse to the outside. Some comment in idle tones that you are but a dove in a gilded cage. Your eyes falter, and hand wavers.
Here, up high, you find a hand meeting your shoulder. The whole of Terra bends and flexes to the very bones He oh-so delicately curls around your soft skin, as His gentle comforts once more find purchase of your form.
You do not know why you weep when He holds you, up here, so close, the world below. You cannot remember the worries, nor the stresses, nor the deep, dark anger that swelled within. With the dextrous skill of a Remembrancer, His fingers gently comb some stray hair from your face.
Your gaze meets His, and your smile returns, if weakly. You do not know why such sadness was within you, as He easily cradles your meek form to His. He speaks something old, something ancient, yet, in that moment, you fear nothing.
You aren't gaze back at the world below, as He guides you back to the light, the warmth. You feel your mind wander back to the cities and people around the Palace for just a moment, and how they claim you are a caged dove.
They fail to realise, as He once more speaks gentleness to your ears - reassurances spoken in languages that only He knows now, but you know the full meaning of - that you are happily His dove, protected by gold, and soaring high like an eagle.
(NSFW under the cut. PoV is a trans woman and depictions of HRT.)
After what feels like an eternity, you manage to move to the privacy of the bathing hall. It is artisan in its make; the systems required to operate it likely arcane. Yet, neither of those issues are the cause for your hesitation.
You gaze upon your form, witnessing it to yourself, with perhaps only the eyes of the Custodes, bound to defending you and He, able to witness such a display.
You lather your skin, slowly, carefully, in the exotic soaps, likely gathered from far away, delivered to Him as tribute, yet always spent on you.
Movements, now, are slow, as you gaze upon a body wholly yours, and yet, feeling incomplete still.
It's a quiet evening. You're not too sure the day, but that doesn't trouble you much. You rest, as you usually do, upon a chair built just for you - tailored to your shape, crafted exquisitely from the luxuries accrued from the reunification. Your hand idly traces the edge of the cushioned armrests and where the lavish, lacquered mahogany meet in a masterwork of carpentry and joinery.
You wager two Custodians were the craftsmen, given how eloquent and regal the design is. You gaze upon the vaunted ceilings - the countless support beams, holding this place, your home, intact.
A plate rests in front of you before long. Marble, you wager - perhaps porcelain? The Custodian by your side seems eager to serve your food in particular. Your mind briefly ponders if the Blood Games are on. You aren't ever really apart of them, but you have promised to play as the kidnapped victim from time to time.
You see Him enter, coming to rest by your side. It takes Him a moment to settle - to take in the scent of the food, to rest His hand over yours.
"Do you like it," He starts, the voice rolling over your body like a wave breaking across rocks, "the selection for the evening?" His gaze is to the meal but a moment (you feel He is grading it silently), before turning to gaze at you.
"Every meal is delectable," you respond softly, smiling (it's impossible not to), before He carefully pours the wine into your glass. It's red, a deep red. Fulgrim's selection? He raises the glass to you, and you take in the rich bouquet. Definitely Fulgrim's, you wager, as your hands slide in His.
This must be the galaxy to Him, as your hand overlaps His own, twigs compared to logs - the fragility of your hand, and the brittleness of the wine glass, held in the way an artist would hold the finest brush. Humanity in His hands, humanity as the fragile glass that holds blood-like-wine. You take a moment, as He helps you drink it. It's supple, spiced... yet, a moment more, and you feel the complexity rush across your throat, changing to something more... elegant.
"A vintage," the Custodian besides you states, "to pair with the roast." It takes you a moment as the alcohol warms your form, as He moves to sip from the same glass. You wonder, briefly, if He did so to taste your lips indirectly, or wished to try the wine in the same environment.
"It should be chilled more," He finally responds - though you can see the faint smirk curling His lips. "An excellent choice, however."
Soon, His plate rests before Him. How much more He must need, yet, He eats as carefully as He commands. You, in turn, require so little, yet, all of it is important. One could be picky with food, push aside greens, or ignore the wine. He, however, has made sure the meals are properly prepared for you, to the exact amounts, to ensure you would be cared for.
You gaze at the wine a moment as your fork rests. How fragile were you, even surrounded by walls and buttresses and pillars and warriors and He Himself?
You did not think long, as His hand rests atop yours. "You are safe." He assures. "Safe, here. Safe no matter where you travel." Your fragility was tested then, as His hand gently squeezed yours, feeling the warmth of His skin. Nothing broken. Nothing damaged. Just... a moment where you finally relaxed, your head resting upon His shoulder, as you took the wine glass in your hands.
In wine, there is truth. You were fragile, yes - but deserving of the love and protection He cushioned you with - nay, strengthened you with. All of humanity, you wagered, would one day find this peace. It was a hope you shared with Him.
If only the wine wasn't so strong - you laugh after a moment, and He shares it with you, as the evening light fades, and the fragility He has is cushioned by your love.
A small musing on quiet evenings with the Emperor.
It's a simple affair to Him.
You rest there, body cushioned by velvet, head only slightly raised by the softest of cotton pillows. You don't question how He can manage this luxury with His grand ideas going on. But you rest.
His footfalls are what you know best. Each feels like thunder, yet, with the rhythmic timing of a metronome. You remember flinching when you first heard Him, in that armour of His, with all those mighty warriors by His side. You are as you were now - without fear.
His hands - ah, more His fingers - it's hard to explain. He begins to massage, just along your ankles, and shins. It does not take Him long - but He knows it intricately. The body, that is (and not just yours). You feel every moment, laying there, His hands working every muscle, every tendon. To Him, it was the simple idea of recounting anatomy in your being - how a human should be, how they were put together.
He works. It's silent, mostly, but exquisite - even your bones come to rest as you feel those hands of His move towards the knees, then to your thighs. Millennia of being with humans, you wager, is how He learned. A breath leaves your body, shaky, yet relaxed. He loves this body, you wager, for He knows it more than others. It's His favourite to diagram - yet, He'd never tell.
The Custodes paint you, sometimes. He guides them on the finer details of anatomy - your anatomy. After all, you are human, just human, brilliantly human. That's why, in these moments, away from the humans He saves daily, He turns to you.
You wager, as His fingers now graze along your hip - ah, there's another breath - you wager He does it to remind Himself. Not of what anatomy is, but why He cherishes it. Why - goodness, that's... a bit of a new spot - why He keeps fighting for our sakes.
You feel His breath, for a moment. This position, you see Him reflect a moment on your midriff, as if counting all the cells within you - all the blood running through veins and arteries - you gently shift your leg, finding the blush on your face too bright.
He looks to you. He moves back, softly, though you hear Him chuckle. Anatomy, after all, is simple to Him, in how it reacts. Perhaps, in time, He will help with other matters of anatomy - but for now, He takes your hand, and with a squeeze that could just as easily shatter stone like glass, moves his thumb along your skin, holding you like glass.
Simple matters of anatomy, where the bones in your hands can feel the bones in His. You only hope, in time, you know His anatomy just as well as He knows yours.
