You don't really have it specified if people can send requests or not so forgive me if you don't appreciate them much :D but perhaps primarchs baking? or cooking in general
Primarchs cooking
Lion El’Jonson
The Lion cooks like he is operating behind enemy lines. He makes no noise, no wasted motion, no one sees him season anything yet the food is seasoned.
He makes a hearty stew with game meat, root vegetables, dark bread and suspiciously good broth. Nobody knows where the meat came from and when asked he says that “it was available.” He refuses to share the recipe but everyone eats the stew anyway. It’s excellent.
Fulgrim
Fulgrim doesn’t cook dinner, he composes an edible experience. There are seven courses each plated with tweezers and emotional menace, there is foam, glaze and flowers. Russ asks where the actual food is and Fulgrim gestures to a perfect cube of something on a porcelain plate. Russ eats it in one bite.
The food is technically flawless and deeply annoying, everyone is still hungry afterward except Fulgrim who claims fullness is vulgar. (Ferrus gets a sandwich later.)
Perturabo
Perturabo cooks like he is provisioning a siege. He uses huge pots, exact calories, maximum nutritional return per unit of labor without joy or garnish. He makes lentil stew, hard bread, salted meat and enough preserved vegetables to survive a winter encirclement.
It tastes aggressively fine. He has leftovers labeled by date, volume, and strategic importance.
Jaghatai
He cooks fast, uses a wok like a weapon and produces an incredible meal in 20 minutes. Nobody can follow what he is doing, oil flashes, knives move, steam rises and the whole kitchen smells alive.
He doesn’t measure nor he explains, he tastes once, nods and throws in more chili. The result is delicious and dangerous. Dorn tries one bite and becomes silent, Russ loves it, Magnus says the spice profile has historical depth.
Russ
Russ cooks meat, he grills, roasts, smokes, chars and tears bread with his hands, there are potatoes somewhere but mostly as witnesses. His seasoning is salt, smoke, fat and volume. He believes a meal should look like something you defeated, he makes enormous slabs of meat and slams them onto the table like trophies.
“EAT!”
It is messy, intense and honestly pretty good. Fulgrim complains about the presentation and Russ puts a bone on his plate. “There, structure.” He also makes something called stew but it is just meat in a bowl with heroic intent.
Dorn
Dorn follows the recipe exactly, not approximately, exactly. If the recipe says dice onions into 1 centimeter pieces he produces mathematically compliant onions. He preheats properly, measures properly, cleans as he goes and times everything.
The result is a perfectly respectable roast chicken dinner with vegetables, bread and gravy. No drama, undercooking or mysterious fluids. Everyone is shocked by how normal it is.
Konrad Curze
Konrad grew up alone in the filth darkness of Nostramo’s underworld, his childhood cuisine was whatever we could find so when he enters a kitchen he doesn’t see a kitchen but a luxury execution chamber for ingredients. He doesn’t use cutting boards correctly, he crouches on counters and smells everything. He picks up a bruised vegetable and says that this one has suffered enough. Nobody knows if that means he is using it or sparing it.
His dish is a blackened, over reduced stew made of cheap meat, bitter greens, old bread, vinegar, too much pepper and something he calls street salt. The stew looks like a crime scene after the rain, it tastes horrifying but it’s not inedible.
Sanguinius tries a spoonful and quietly lowers the bowl.
“Brother… did you eat this often?” Vulkan asks gently.
“No, often I was fortunate.” Curze replies. “Sometimes there were rats.”
Sanguinius
Sanguinius bakes warm bread, honey cakes, fruit tarts and delicate pastries, everything smells like a childhood nobody had but suddenly misses. His food is beautiful without being vain, it makes people quiet, even Angron eats slowly. Sanguinius apologizes because one tart is slightly uneven.
“You simply can’t be good at everything.” Fulgrim stares at him with religious envy.
“I burned the first batch.” Sanguinius smiles. He gives the burned batch to Russ who calls it crunchy bread and eats it happily.
Ferrus
Ferrus cooks like a blacksmith: high heat, cast iron, no nonsense. He makes steak, potatoes, charred vegetables and bread cooked directly on hot metal because apparently ovens are too indirect for him. It’s simple and excellent.
His kitchen tools are aggressively practical, he refuses delicate cuisine but understands heat better than anyone.
Angron
Angron shouldn’t cook when he is angry which means Angron should almost never cook but when given simple physical tasks he can do surprisingly well. Kneading dough, crushing garlic and chopping vegetables.The problem is intensity. He doesn’t mince the garlic, he executes it. He doesn’t tenderize the meat, he sends a message.
He makes a huge, rough, spicy skillet meal with meat, onions, peppers and flatbread. It isn’t pretty but it’s filling and honest.
Guilliman
Guilliman cooks from a weekly meal plan. He makes baked fish, grains, vegetables, soup for tomorrow and a breakfast plan while dinner is still cooking. It’s very good but he explains the nutritional logic while serving, which drains morale.
“This provides adequate protein while preserving tomorrow’s preparation window.”
“Brother, just say dinner.” Russ replies.
He also has a binder of recipes categorized by season, budget and diplomatic usefulness.
Mortarion
Mortarion cooks peasant food and he cooks it well. It has root vegetables, dark bread, bitter greens and stews that simmer for hours. Nothing decorative or pretending that the world is kinder than it is.His food looks bleak but it tastes better than expected, it’s heavy and warming.
He also makes medicinal teas that taste like punishment but genuinely help stomachaches, he refuses to admit this is caring.
Magnus the Red
He cooks historically and that's a problem. He doesn’t simply make dinner, he recreates an ancient Prosperoan ceremonial meal based on fragmentary sources, symbolic ingredients and lunar timing.
He spends three hours explaining the meaning of saffron. The food is fragrant, complex and slightly impractical. Dorn asks if the glowing sauce is safe and Magnus is offended. His desserts are excellent because pastry is basically alchemy with butter.
Horus
Horus hosts. The food is good but the real danger is the atmosphere. He makes everyone feel welcome and included, he remembers preferences, pairs drinks and serves at the perfect moment.
He makes a grand roast dinner with shared plates, everything encourages conversation and feels generous. By dessert, half the table is telling stories they didn’t intend to tell. Guilliman notices the seating arrangement has somehow softened old rivalries and the Lion notices Horus placed himself where he can see every face.
“It’s only dinner.” Horus smiles.
Lorgar
Lorgar cooks like every meal is a communion. He makes bread, dates, lamb, honey, spices and slow cooked grains. He says grace so intensely that even the atheists feel watched.
His food is warm, fragrant and emotionally manipulative. He starts talking about breaking bread as shared vulnerability and suddenly the table is halfway to a cult.
Vulkan
Vulkan is the best cook overall, he makes a meal that feeds everyone properly: stew, bread, roasted vegetables, grilled meat, sweet buns and something soft for anyone too tired to chew through pride.
He teaches while cooking, if someone burns something he shows them how to save it. If someone says they cannot cook he says:“Then today your hands begin learning.”
Corvus Corax
His pantry is stocked with cheap and practical food.Corvus cooks quietly and efficiently, he makes a simple soup with flatbread, roasted mushrooms and whatever can be eaten while planning a revolution in a cold room.
His food is plain but comforting, Corvus calls it merely sustenance.
Alpharius Omegon
Alpharius cooks several contradictory meals. One brother gets soup, one gets cake and one gets a sealed envelope containing a recipe. There are two identical pots on the stove, one is delicious and the other is a decoy… nobody knows why food needs a decoy.
Dorn asks who cooked the rice and three voices answers saying they did it. There was no rice.
The Emperor
The Emperor designs a nutritional program for humanity. It’s efficient, scalable, joyless and somehow morally suspicious. Malcador forces him to make one actual meal and the emperor produces a perfectly balanced ration bar.
Primarch of the Raven Guard…Deliverer, Liberator, Ravenlord…
Details and sketches under cut!
I wanted to do a design for Corvus corax based on Celtic/highland/pictish roots bc that’s where I’m from!! The Liberator,,,oughhhl! Grim…sorrowful…loyal. Something about Corvus really gets me. Maybe it’s because I really don’t see all that much about him. He’s got a kilt here, bc kilt fashion is very cool and important to me. I think he’s also got a cool mining inspired look too.
Also….omg,,,I been thinking about parallels between him and Mortarion a lot. Both rebellion leaders, both grim and soft spoken, but only one was given the trust and attention from the Emperor to finish his rebellion. Hmmm!!! CURIOUS! lololol
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived what a great many would consider a simple people. With peasants and lords, castles and kingdoms - but most importantly, there were dragons.
There were great dragons who ruled over huge kingdoms with claws of iron and ceramite and demanded enormous tithes of gold and a great many lives to satiate them.
The reigning dragon of the Ultramar region took great pleasure in his organisation of the people and great hordes gained from over 500 cities, and the Great Drake of Nocturne boasted his huge fiery lakes that he would bathe in.
And then there was the Pale One.
Rarely seen, and far more often overlooked.
Unlike his brethren he did not seek to claim and conquer more than he had, not anymore in any case, and he resided set aside from mortals as best he could.
His kingdom of Barabarus did not boast much in comparison, where much of the agriculture was born of wasteland and vast swathes of land was barren, poisoned and unusable. Salt of the Earth.
But though he was not often seen to terrorise the masses with great and mighty feats to keep the populous in its rightful place they feared him still. They feared the blight and disease he would bring with his wrath, and the way on rare days his wings would cast shadows riddles with holes that camouflaged his approach, like clouds with the way sunlight filtered through.
His residence was a fearful one too, not a great palace filled with attendants to serve and maintain him, but a ruinous place, a castle that towered over in toppling stone, held together by overgrown vines that took the place of mortar and bound the earth.
Towers with wrought and twisted iron reinforced by thick bramble, a whole wing that was crumbling into the cracked waste beside it and terrible roars and bellows that made the land tremble for miles.
The type of sounds and crashing that made travellers run in fear when they looked up and saw no thunderclouds in sight and haunted the nightmares of every man, woman and child who worried for when it would be their turn next.
Because he was not seen often - but he was seen.
And dragons were always hungry.
So they fed, preemptive of his ire and wrath, they collected a tithe drawn annually and drew it up the long and dangerous road to his castle.
One lone old man, his family long gone years ago to an old blight of the Pale One was the sole volunteer to draw his rickety old cart up old forgotten paths. A road so dilapidated that one wrong move meant an early demise, but he accepted his duty to keep the youth safe, with nothing left to lose himself.
The tithe varied, they gathered gold when they could, or other valuable trinkets and metals - but they would send other treasures too, fine fabrics and wares from travelling merchants and such.
And then the harvest failed. Barely Enough to feed hungry mouths.
Drought.
They made do, scrapped together and made an adequate offering, a successful pilgrimage.
And then the next harvest failed.
Pestilence.
That year was harder, with loans and begging of nearby villages, heirlooms lost and hunger all round.
And then the next harvest failed.
Sickness.
And they couldn’t continue.
“I have been to Chemos! I’ve seen the splendor, traded for their goods!” the man argued, stood atop an empty crate in the very center of the tavern, “we have angered the Pale One, he brings down blow after blow, we need to do what Chemos does and send -“
He’s cut off by a rise in chatter and clashing, the slamming of fists and all manner of agreement and disagreement for the course of action to take.
The crowd gathered in the old tavern was an old one, but they were hardly wise, especially as the pangs of hunger and three long years weighed heavy - and the heavier weight yet of an impossible tithe and worse blight to come for their insolence.
“Well it was Ol’ Kravos’ family ‘ho insulted the Pale One with that li’tle bronze statue and started-“
“-OI DON’T YOU!”
The squabbles only rose in pitch and volume as various factions argued about the cause, the solution, and just about anything they could.
“Enough!”
A single voice cut through the chatter with more force than a claw could have.
Though he was considered the authority, given he was one of the oldest by far - who had lived through the old blights where most had died, since it was he who carried each and every tithe when that trip might well have spelled doom.
“Arguing will not solve the ask or the answer. We vote, a show of hands,” he sounded weary, like he already knew the result.
The vote was held in utter silence, with almost a swell of shame that bubbled up in the room. But cheeks were too gaunt, too hollow, and bellies of the children now in bed rumbled too loudly.
The old man had raised his hand, he knew he could have kept it down - to have taken the route that kept his wizened hands ‘clean’ and it still would have passed in majority - but in his heart he knew he deserved to wear his guilt on his sleeve for this act.
Still, he muttered, breath slow on his tongue, “and thus we find ourselves monsters of men”
For Chemos, while they sent riches and silks and incense, they also sent pretty young things for their dragon to devour.
It was sickeningly natural, how you were chosen.
No family, mother dead and father gone for years to trade with far off lands, now presumed dead in absence. Not wedded, no children.
Pretty and young.
And well, a volunteer. They came with heavy faces and heavier hands to deliver the news - to thank you regardless of the circumstance, but to their great surprise there was no fight in you.
Only hands that trembled and a head that hung heavy.
It was nice at least, that it was not a thankless procession, that they let you dress nicely and say goodbye to your things.
The older ladies kissed your hands and cheeks, cried precious tears made with the little water they had. Tears that were sorrowful and hopeful in equal measure, much like you were, a mix of fearful and resolute.
The men gave knowing nods, a few clapping your shoulder or grasping your forearm with a firm but not unkind shake.
The ones who knew your parents couldn’t bare but to look away in shame, shielding their own children.
And the children, the ones who knew no better, innocent to your fate but perceptive beyond measure. The little ones you tutored watching with eager questions on their lips as you were walked out the little rickety cart.
You try your best to savour it all, the feeling of the cobbles beneath your feet, peering down the side streets you’d ran through as a child to see the little houses you’d never see again.
The world seems to almost sway in your vision, and in a way it makes it a relief to be picked up and sat in the back of the cart. When did you get here already?
Golden light begins to bloom over the horizon, painting the landscape in swathes of golden light that will soon turn into rays of unbearably harsh heat. It doesn’t just paint the earth though, it paints everything, the wood beside you, the finest white robes you own, and your skin.
You can’t help but look at the radiant glow of white bleeding orange and think of dragon fire. Soon.
The man who picked you up and sat you upon the cart takes one good look at you, staring so deeply into your eyes you almost want to bolt right then and there. But he averts his gaze with a dreadful sigh, filled with remorse and pain and guilt.
He shakes his head at Ol’ Kravos standing nearby, and that’s when they bring out the rope.
Oh. Your mouth runs unbearably dry as you open your mouth to voice your protests. You’d walked here! You’d - you’d agreed-
They didn’t need to-
Every knot was tied twice - they might not have needed to, but at this stage of desperation they needed the assurance that you couldn't.
It was already a gamble that might not pay off, and much like a rabbit in a snare, you didn’t let it out even if it was frozen in the fear and acceptance of its fate.
Lest it bolt into the woods and you go hungry.
So while the jute digs into you and rough untreated length scratches at your skin you don’t protest.
Legs together, arms behind your back, and a length around your waist tying you to the back of the open wagon.
When the old man arrives in his best, only donned once a year, he takes one look at your pitiful form, hat to stave off the harshest of the heat casting long shadows down his gaunt face. He sees the way you fold in on yourself, almost fetal, with white gown cinched at every line of rope and the dread pooled in his stomach only grows.
“Won’t somebody get the poor girl a shawl?”
There’s a mad scramble as the man takes long slow steps to the front, clipping in the old mare who was once the foal of the older mare, of the original who had started on these journeys oh so long ago.
One of the older ladies climbs into the back on shaky legs, takes off her thin, wispy layer, a relic of fairer days long passed. She kisses the top of your head with trembling lips and thanks you on behalf of her grandchildren. Two little boys that she believes will live because of you.
You feel the tap of wet on your cheek as her tears drip down onto your face before she can wipe them away, and she lays the shawl over you to offer some protection from the sun to come - and perhaps a little dignity too, though it feels far too close to a funeral shroud or a wedding veil.
In any case you’re glad for it - while the first tear may have been hers, the cloth allows you to hide the ones that follow.
And then you set off, with the crack of a whip that never reaches flesh the old mare begins plodding along, shadows stretching out behind her as the sun backlights the silhouette of the end.
It was simultaneously the best and the worst - every single touch between you was infinitely electric and fed into each other in an endless loop of pleasure that ended with exhaustion - usually yours.
However, there were also occasions in which it came extremely handy.
Namely when he was overly consumed by his work, fortifying himself in endless meetings and training and conquest - but most importantly neglecting your needs.
That wasn’t to say that you were stupidly impatient - you knew he was a busy man, but you had limits… and a hand with which to touch yourself.
Thundering of boots are the final warning, not that you needed that to know he was coming to you, and cumming to you. You’d gotten him so close already, waiting until he was busy on the opposite end of the ship to start hard and fast in your machinations.
When he arrives you wager he’d have ripped the door clean off if it hadn't been specifically made for him.
“Miss me, darling?” you tease, finger pinching hard enough to make him arch in shared pleasure from his stance in the door.
He pounces.
Clothes rip off too quickly for mortal eyes to register and all too soon is he returning the favour of overwhelming you with pleasure, quickly and tightly fisting his already solid cock in recompense.
It devolves further from there, what did you expect to happen offering up such a tease to a hungry beast?
Fulgrim - III (Flower marks)
Sometimes you were a shy little thing, nervous around his larger than life brothers or exuberant sons. You were adjusting, of course, over time, and he was not opposed to hearing you squeak and jump closer to his side, cute as it was.
The real fun came behind closed doors, however.
Exploration of each other’s bodies, of desire. Hearing you moan while he pinned down your wrists and pressed kisses down from your neck to your navel. Feeling you buck into him from touch alone.
Then came the bruises, both intentional and not.
Your neck, where he had sucked and nipped and marked as his.
Your body where he’d lost sight of his strength to ecstacy. Not that you’d minded, if anything, the morning after had filled you with giggles as you spun to look at yourself in the mirror while he lounged indulgently on the bed.
But shy once more, you’d covered up. Long layers, high necklines, thick jewellery - he knew it would do nothing to deter anyone’s knowledge, but he supposed it made you feel better.
Once you’re satisfied with your efforts, he starts to dress himself, plucking silky robes and gauzy bedouin pants until he finds what he’s looking for.
Much to your blatant dismay and rising blush, he opts for an extremely deep v-cut robe, paired with long but entirely sheer sleeves, leaving nothing to the imagination except for the absolute bare minimum.
“How could I ever bear to hide such gorgeous roses?”
Perturabo - IV (Shared dreams)
You happily share dreams now, seeing each other through those fleeting moments, sharing memories and dancing through your dreamscapes. Still, it was a struggle to coordinate baseline needs and primarch sleep, especially when across the galaxy or travelling through the warp.
This meant that most of your dreams went without him, and the ones that you shared were extra special.
He liked to wander through the ones you shared until you noticed him, seeing your happy surprise at his appearance.
This dream, however, was different.
He recognises your home, warped though it is by the nature of dreams - but there’s a different charge to the air, and you’re not where he expects you to be.
Then he hears it.
The moan.
Upstairs.
His name.
You say it in such a lustful tone, practically dripping with need as you call out for him. Just as much as it pleased him, stroked his ego to know you desire him so deeply, it still shocked the larger part of him - surprised still that you could want him in such a manner even if you were fated to be.
His feet carry him up to where you are sprawled out and dreaming of him.
He watches for a moment, assessing exactly how it is you want him to take you - then he will happily oblige. It is far more desirable to spend his time conquering you than any fortress.
Jaghatai Khan - V (Compass)
Naughty, naughty little mix.
Leaving a surprise for him in his rooms and then taking off into the night?
It’s like you want him to chase after you…. Which you do, of course. A cute little perk of your bond for sure.
The ruined underwear, slick with your cum already, plainly left for him on the bed with the only other disturbance in the room the wide open window.
His duties have given you a long head start given by the smell of you left behind - but he doesn’t mind taking his bike, there was something he wanted to try.
You cry out, his warm hands on your shoulders push you down, keeping you pinned.
It’s not his body you’re contending with this time however - it’s his bike.
It thrums beneath you as you ride the chassis between the handles and fuel tank, the engine producing deep and powerful vibrations that rattle through you. Then he revs, and you can only moan.
Too much, too deep inside of you - and surrounded by his musky scent and warm arms, but you’d wanted a chase, and you’d earn your reward.
“Faster, please, please, please- “ you cry, grinding down into the metal while he chuckled good naturedly, throttling the bike until it roared beneath you.
What a blessing it was to have a little minx who wanted him to ride faster and faster.
At least one way or another you were both enjoying the ride.
Leman Russ - VI (Shared taste)
If you hadn't spent so much time eating grubs, nutrient paste and corpse starch before being found, you would have long lamented the persistent taste of smokey game and harsh ales on your tongue. Not only were they far superior, but you had subjected him to far worse so there was hardly any room to be hypocritical.
Still, it was monotonous and right now you’d far prefer him to be eating something else - you, for example.
It’s not difficult to build up a little slick, desperate as you are for him to return from one of his rowdier feasts you had long since retired from.
With two fingers you quickly swipe it up and summon your soulmate.
He barrels through the door like a man possessed, just like you knew he would.
There’s a feral look in his eyes, and a drip of saliva from his mouth where his anticipatory lust has boiled over. It only gets worse when he sets eyes on you, bare asides from being wrapped loosely in his furs - and dripping.
“You know, it’s quite rude, to interrupt someone’s dinner - even for dessert,” he starts, taking a single heavy step into the room, “so I suppose I will have to make up for it by eating my fill, won’t I?”
Rogal Dorn - VII (Count down)
After the initial meeting you’d both discovered something cute about your timers - you could ‘set’ them, so to speak. Reminders, timers, countdowns, anything that needed scheduling or precision could be organised with ease.
Oftentimes, this was simple, such as when he would next be free, or how long he had to take dinner with you before his meeting, it was a function precisely made for a man like Dorn, of that you could be certain.
Currently, however, it held a different purpose.
Your hands splay out across his stomach, gripping as best you can to his abs while he bounces you up and down. His incredible restraint quivers inside of you, twitching but not yet cumming, not while the timer was ticking.
Every thrust is a stretch that pushes you beyond, the only thing keeping you upright being his hands engulfing your torso as he sets a punishing pace.
20, 19, 18…
Your back arches, writhing in his grip, but it doesn’t deter him.
17, 16, 15…
You clench around him desperately, wildly - completely out of control.
14, 13, 12…
Your hands dig in as hard as they can, but all he does is let out a throaty groan.
11, 10, 9…
It’s too long, you can’t stand it anymore.
8, 7, 6…
Your eyes screw shut and breath comes out in rapid pants that match his guttural groans.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
He pulls out, painting all up your stomach and chest with hot white spurts.
There’s only a moment of rest, where he recovers himself and his whole body shudders. Before you know it though, you’re flipped over, face pressed into the mattress and stoic wall of muscle atop you.
“Now, the next 15 minutes in this position.”
Konrad Curze - VIII (Colour)
He was enamoured with it all.
Everything was just so vibrant. But also completely overwhelming.
So many things that melded into one shade of black before were actually distinct from each other. Dark red, navy blue, deep forest green.
And there were light colours too - fleshy pinks and warm oranges and creamy whites.
His favourite right now was the creamy white coating his fingers as he pumped them in and out of you. Such dulcet tones, thick and rich as every curl and thrust of his fingers worked more and more out of you.
He was firm, but not unyielding to your soft flesh, making sure to stretch you without tearing. There was almost as much fun in the exploration of your body as there was in exploring new colour, after all, those pretty little sounds you made were just as new to him.
Whimpers devoid of fear, moans devoid of agony, screams devoid of terror.
All sounds filled with longing instead of the terror he sought from the world, and your body echoed the sound with its movement.
You demanded his presence, his touch - cracked lips against yours. Imperative and persistent of a beast who could snap you in half without a thought.
Yet. Yet.
He could do nothing but indulge you. He found no greater pleasure than indulging in you.
And no sweeter taste than the cream on his fingers.
Sanguinius - IX (Red string of fate)
The two of you cuddling was a delicate art, the string seemed to have a mind of its own whether it was tangible or intangible - often you found that after a night in bed together you’d have to spend half the morning detangling from each other.
Not that either of you minded being stuck skin to skin on a sleepy morning.
The discovery of its capabilities, however, had led to some interesting developments that were otherwise impossible.
And right now, neither of you could break out from each other, his cock pushed up right into you as the rest of his body caged around you, and red string bit into your combined flesh.
Usually, it was Sanguinius’ job to puzzle out which way to tug and pull the rope to free you both - with primarch intellect he could just look and know which way would unravel the whole lot.
Today, however, presented challenges.
“I- I cannot see well enough,” he admits with a throaty groan born of you shifting against him slightly.
His cock is rock solid and hard pressed between your thighs, twitching and leaking more with each passing minute and every straining attempt to escape.
You push further into him, trying to create more slack, “just - wait a second I think I can -“, you slide a finger in the space where his wings meet his back. A sensitive place for sure, but if you can just grab that loop and -
His whole body vibrates, rattling deep inside as he bites into his mouth. Worse yet, the sheer force of it pulls your hand away from where you had been so close victory.
“L-little dove, you can’t, you can’t” words begin to fail him as he stutters and moans.
His cock is throbbing against you know, thick veins thumping with how tightly it’s forced into you. His breath comes out in whining pants now as he subconsciously shifts trying to get more friction against you.
You whine a little as his heat begins to overwhelm and excite you in equal measure as well, and take a long moment where you both try to recompose yourselves.
Then you speak, understanding on his behalf, but also utterly unrepentant as you reach back up between those fated feathers, “sorry, sorry, it’s the only way out.”
His full body shivers as you tug and even your baseline senses can smell the excess of lust.
Alas, you’ll reap what you sow when you're both free.
Ferrus Manus - X (Touch colour)
“You’ll be gone for a long time then? Weeks?” you ask, a mix of trepidation and melancholy.
Of course, you always knew the crusade would continue, that the mini ‘honeymoon’ afforded to you from meeting each other wouldn’t last forever - and that he could hardly take you with him to the front lines.
His nod is solemn, the taciturn agreement you’d come to expect. That wasn’t to say he didn’t care, just that his actions spoke louder than his words. Like now, his hands held yours tenderly, treasuring the warmth that seemed through.
He loved to just hold your hands together, the stark contrast between you both and the drastic transformation was a sight to behold.
“W-will, will you make me something, before you go?”
“Anything”
He was not expecting the request, but it was one he would honour nonetheless.
He would take care of you in every manner he could, and if he was not here to take care of you, then he would arm you in a way that would allow you to do so.
So he worked, melting down different metals at a dozen different melting points, pouring and swirling at precise times to create a swirling design of gorgeous metallurgy. He moulds it, tempers it, polishes it, and buffs it to perfection.
You blush when he presents it to you, a private moment before he has to leave.
The blush spreads down your neck when he confirms it's an exact replica, and it’s almost a struggle to carry the metal cock for its sheer size and weight.
His only condition for this gift? You have to call him every time you use it. He wants to hear every little sound you make while he takes you, even while hundreds of miles away.
Angron - XII (First words)
He was not a romantic man. There was no great fanfare to sweep you off your feet, nor hundreds of bouquets lined outside of your door.
It was the quiet kind of love, the sheer effort of wanting something better for each other and taking simple steps to strive for them was all either of you wanted. Soft, simple time spent together, the knowledge that he fought against himself every second just to provide these moments together easing everything.
Tonight though, you had agreed on something special. The ‘next step’ so to speak.
It was something he had put off despite your repeated attempts to bring it up or wear him down on the subject, but it was always brushed off, avoided or outright rejected.
Until the one day those simple words break him down. The very words marked on your skin, his words he uttered echoed right back at him.
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t - he wanted to give you everything, and he would find a way.
Chains bind him, but he trusts you beyond measure. Spread wide across the bed, with sheets that are silky soft but he could not have cared less.
You’re sat across his torso, peppering kisses down his chest and checking in on him at every step with those soft, devastating eyes. Moving down oh so slowly and ensuring he hasn’t changed his mind on you at the last possible second.
He grits his teeth and nods.
The nails scream as your hands slip down and grab the base of his already weeping cock.
He’d only ever cum from a painfully tight fist around himself, squeezing so hard it barely constituted as technique. But you? You are supple where he is rock, and your pressure could hardly count for anything against his physic.
That doesn’t matter though.
The feather light touch burns against his skin and sends shooting pleasure coursing through him. Creaking and cracking fills the air as the bed threatens its demise under his thrashing body.
Yet it doesn’t.
It holds, and so does he.
And when he cums its filled with blinding pleasure, victory and revolution - for just a moment, it’s louder than the pain that drowns him.
Roboute Guilliman - XIII (Item swap)
He’s in a meeting when it happens.
Each captain, laser focussed in on his presentation, the height of his lecture into the latest supply chains to expand operations. There’s scribes ready to record and notarise for distribution, there’s detailed diagrams spanning an entire wall, there’s complete silence aside from his voice and the quiet scratching of autoquills, there’s lingerie in the middle of the - there’s lingerie on the middle of the table.
Body chains, lace, ribbon - the cumstain in the crotch isn’t even dried yet. Still warm.
There is no chance that a single person in this room has missed this, certainly not with enhanced senses. Bright blue, shining gold, and reeking of your sex.
He could continue on. Each of his sons would dutifully ignore it. Never speak of it.
Or… you could get what you deserve.
It does occur to him in part that this is exactly what you wanted with this little stunt, and though he likes to think himself far above any baseline, perhaps there is some truth to the old Terran tales of men thinking with their cocks.
Though then again, there was not much to truly complain of - pounding into you from behind while you’re bent over the very meeting table you defiled is far more satisfying than any meeting.
At least he afforded you the decency of an empty room to hear your moans echo in tandem with the slap of his flesh against yours, though he’d had to lean over you and pin down your wrists with a single hand to stop you raking your devilish nails into the wood.
Perhaps, however, he was to blame.
Was he not dedicating enough of his schedule into ensuring your needs were adequately met, or were you simply devious for your own sake? Either way, it was a matter he would soon be rectifying.
There was only so much trouble you could make if your legs refused to cooperate with you.
Mortarion - XIV (Body switch)
It had taken years upon years from his to feel comfortable in the switch. In exchanging bodies. The complete vulnerability and trust he had developed was nothing short of legendary.
And then came the next step, surprisingly his own idea.
He had wanted to feel how you felt, to experience it through your body. He wanted to understand how it was that you could possibly beg for a man like him to touch you. If you didn’t mind of course….
And you hadn’t.
You knew yourself well. Of course. But Mortarion hadn’t quite processed how this would translate to the way you knew exactly how to manoeuvre him to bring him boiling to the edge in record time -
And stop.
“No, please, please, please,” he begs you. He understands now, he just needs you to -
But you don’t let him. Your far larger hands pin him in place as you shush him, teasing over and over.
Those rough callouses he hated on his skin created a divine contrast that sent electric jolts down his body. He tried over and over to grind to hump, anything. You didn’t let him.
“Now, now - you wanted to understand exactly how much I want you, exactly how desperate I am to be by your side,” you start, pulling up his arms until he’s stretched out and writhing, “and it’s far, far more than this.”
He whimpers.
“But don’t worry, you know I’ll always take good care of you.”
There’s a glint in your eye that tells him everything he needs to know in that the pleasure he desired is far more than he’d bargained for.
Magnus the Red - XV (Shared eyes)
You’re looking at him.
This is not unusual by any means, he does expect you to look at him as your soulmate of course, and especially when he is lecturing you on an ancient clay tablet he discovered as he is currently.
Alas, you are staring at his crotch.
Unabashedly. With his eye no less, ensuring by choice that he would take note, and that he could take note of his own growing erection as he struggled to maintain focus on the topic at hand.
Before he can begin chiding, however, you speak, “how about this - I will actually pay attention,” you pause, letting it hang, letting him steel himself and build up excitement in the potential, “if you can maintain concentration on your lecture while I suck you off.”
He doesn’t know whether to rejoice or cry - but in any case it is an interesting experiment and test of will where you both listen to him and he well… enjoys himself.
It is a struggle to convince his ego that the battle is lost, to give in to the inevitable.
You’re staring up at him through damp lashes, taking in as much as you can and swallowing thickly around him. It was nothing short of a most delightful torture.
You sweep the underside of his cock, tracing the thick veins with deliberate measure and his words start stumbling. It takes more effort than he would dare concede to stay upright, to keep the tremble from his thighs and his hands on the book rather than the back of your head.
His resolve lasts until you look up and he can see the way his face is contorted. You know it, he knows it, words fail him. Words aren’t needed for what you’re doing to him.
Horus Lupercal - XVI (Count down to death)
“Horus…” you start, breaking the silence, “fuck me like its the last time.”
There’s a long moment, an implicit understanding, and skipped heartbeats. He doesn’t respond to you in words because he doesn’t need to.
You know it, he knows it, and there’s nothing to be done except embrace each other.
No moment is wasted as large hands sweep you off your feet and shred your clothes. Gone is the time for long and languid lovemaking and gentle ministrations. You’re both fueled by burning desire, lashing fury against inevitable odds and the knowing agony of sand slipping through your fingers with no hope to hold it.
There is no future, there is only now in this moment. There is only his skin on yours and touches that the other desperately chases. Tears mix just as much as your bodies, feeling them mingle as tongues fight for dominance and faces mash.
Everything seems to pass too quickly, feels too strong and feels too much.
In spite of this, or maybe because of it, you can’t help but go further, wrapping legs around his cock and guiding him to fuck you as deep as he can manage. You just want his body imprinted into you, so deep that it echoes the soul bond you share, so deep that he will never truly feel apart from you.
It’s a foolish, longing thought, born from unthinkable hope that you can defy the fates themselves.
But every time he kisses you, every time he whispers your name like you’re going to make it, like he’s going to make it - there’s a single moment where the inevitable stops mattering.
Lorgar Aurelian - XVII (Body writing)
He knew God would test him, and though perhaps he might have preferred a different kind of test (maybe one of faith, martial prowess or otherwise), he could hardly complain when he got exactly what he asked for.
The letters are as small as you could make them, right on the inside of his wrist where only he was liable to see - well at least mid-sermon as he was.
Come fuck me into the floor before I get someone else to do it for you.
What a demanding little thing you were.
He knew you would never, that you were devoted to each other in heart and soul, body and mind - yet still a possessive shiver ran through him, the need to stop his teachings and remind you precisely why you were his and he was yours beginning to burn in his veins.
Still, he persisted, his faith steadfast and the masses reliant on his teachings.
If you’re not here in the next minute the next markings you see from me will be bruises and ropes of cum. Your choice.
There’s an itching under his skin. He is secure, he is strong. You enjoy this, teasing him until he is pent up. If he gives in quickly again then it will only encourage you more.
Time has slowed to a crawl and sweat has started to bead across his brow and back, not to mention his cock is practically screaming while constrained as it is. The entire rest of his teachings had been filled with one lewd taunt after another.
But now? As he walks from the hall back towards your quarters, already slipping the ties from his robes - now it’s your turn to be taught something.
Vulkan - XVIII (Shared thoughts/feelings)
He loves to be able to spend a night with you, free time was his most valuable commodity, with the sheer intimacy of experiencing you being a magical one. Then there was having the luxury of basking in the afterglow, of feeling each other in body and soul. The way you snuggled into the safety of his arms was something he treasured every moment one.
But it made the next morning so much harder.
You always entangled yourself into him in a way that made it half impossible to get you off, and his heart broken with every whine and sleepy attempt to cuddle back into him.
Once you’re successfully detached from your ‘limpet stage’ he has to slip out of bed and watch as you move to the spot of warmth he was just occupying, still fighting sleep unsuccessfully yourself.
Snippets of your dreams and echoes of your longing flash through the bond, calling him back to your side. He pushes through all of it, sending back waves of love and warmth to hold you in his place.
Until he’s halfway to his forge and you wake more, lucid enough to notice everything and nothing at the same time. Except then your lust spreads out across the bond, feeling out for him across the ship. It's the type of raw that can only come from animalistic need, when you’re too awake to feel nothing but too asleep to control yourself.
Suddenly, work can wait.
Resolve crumbles under your need for him in this moment. Your genuine desire calling out jumps straight to his groin and he’s back besides your side before you can even fully wake.
“You’e ‘ack already?” you mumble to him, raising your head up to meet his hungry gaze.
In a moment he’s there beside you again, shifting you upright as your body sluggishly responds to his return.
“You are always so needy for me little flame, even when you’ve just had me,” his words come out as a deep rumble that shakes your chest as he lifts you.
You’re still wet and loosened from last night, but he takes his time to stretch you on his fingers again anyway, enjoying how you moan and wiggle on him as you finally start comprehending.
“M-more, please,” your pleasure and desperation flows through to him as you try squirm downwards, and he happily obliges, slipping another finger in and pumping until he’s satisfied with how slick and ready you are for him.
You still squeal when you stretch onto his gigantic cock - nothing could truly prepare you for his size, but it's a delicious burn that has you craving movement, the friction of him moving up and down your walls.
You’re already moaning from just this, just being filled up by him, but you still attempt to grab onto his arms and pull yourself up. His chuckle vibrates your body as he watches you try and start fucking yourself on him, which only makes you more desperate.
He graciously intervenes, warm hands gripping the soft of your waist and taking over the effort, raising you up to the tip before pushing you right back where you started.
“So eager for me to fill you up again,” his words higher, more grunted as his cock twitches inside of you more with every clench, “but then again, I am just as eager to stuff you full.”
Corvus Corax - XIX (Matching Tattoo)
The taste of liberation was almost, almost as sweet as you were - it was the only thing that could hold a candle to the infatuation you inspired in him.
Not only was the taste of you simply divine, but the sight of you was too. Splayed out beneath him, prone and disheveled with the aftermath of orgasm after orgasm he had wrung from you.
His body caged over you, one arm supporting his weight while the other lightly traced the same markings he couldn’t touch on himself. Every caress of your back had you softening, somewhere half in sleep white his cock was still inside of you, even if unmoving.
Slowly, he closes the gap between your skin until he’s flush with you, and carefully ensuring not to crush you with his weight. Just enough to cover you and conceal what was his beneath him.
He slips in just a touch further, a little deeper, just until you squirm and threaten to wake. You take him so well and he just can’t resist, especially when he can hush you back to sleep with a sleepy kiss to your neck.
Snuggling further into him with a sleepy sigh is all the motivation he needs to sink deeper into the mattress, this time beside you, and join you in sleep. The shadows will hide you both together as you rest.
Alpharius/Omegon - XX (Names on wrist)
It hadn’t taken them all too long to cotton on to your gimmick.
As it turned out, there was a nifty little trick that allowed you to tell exactly which was which from the two of them. When interacting, the relevant name would softly glow on your wrist, cluing you in as the only person who could see it.
It had become a riddle to them, trying to trick you and swap out mid conversation, sending sons trying to deceive you - anything and everything to no avail.
Until Omegon had you pinned beneath him, wrists engulfed by huge hands and mind completely blanked by the relentless pace at which he was fucking into you. And then you moaned his name into the mattress and everything stopped.
You whine confusedly, shifting your hips backwards to find stimulation that never comes.
“Oh little minx - you’ve just given up the game.”
You can’t tell who’s voice it is that whispers in your ear as the bodies encircling you seemingly duplicate. And so do the cocks.
Two completely identical, completely erect cocks now vying for your attention.
Yet your body responded. Loosening and tightening all at once, wetness dripping down your thighs and betraying you. From their twin smirks you knew they could tell, and of course they could.
And just like the snakes they were, every advantage would be pressed.
“We’ll stop when you guess correctly,” they tease, wringing another orgasm from your tired and shaking body.
Each of them had taken a wrist to keep you pinned wide apart and guessing while they lavished you with endless attention and stimulation. You had no idea how they were doing it, how you hadn’t gotten it right even once in the hours they’d been fucking you for.
You should have known better than to think they’d be truthful even if you had.
Emperor (Shared injury)
Many would have thought such a powerful man would take nothing but absolute dominance, especially in the bedroom. Perhaps that was how the universe had truly blessed you as soulmates, forcibly making you equal in that regard. Anything he does unto you will be done unto himself.
Instead - every touch between you is tender and burns with golden fire through your veins in a way that leaves your head spinning with pleasure. Every look he regards you with is reverent.
You’ve humbled him by a force beyond your means, beyond his means.
It’s a humble man who does not hesitate to bow his head to meet your needs, with your legs hooked around his shoulders and back rested on the finest of silks.
He lets you buck and grind into him, it’s of no consequence what force you put in, only that your pleasure is met with exuberance. Every orgasm must be mindshattering, he demands nothing less of himself.
It makes every lick rapturous, and for a man who held no faith in God above you could have been deceived for the way he ate as though he wanted you to see heaven above. As though his tongue could absolve you if he wrung out one more blinding orgasm - and for the way your body contorted and mind splintered it might have very well been true.
Mortarion WIP, being armoured up kind of like a bugs chrysalis being built, I also wanted to draw him mutilated and messed up from his upbringing etc. = the tender bitter grub inside of the shell and such 🤔
Just a short lil something for @justfreakynothingelse . I hope you enjoy it!
Mortarion didn’t sleep often. He couldn’t help himself and his unusual biology granted him the endurance to go long without. He felt safer, his back against a wall, his harvesting scythe propped against a shoulder. He sat outside the small home, breathing the thinly poisoned air.
He’d found another village in need of him. Well, he’d been in need of them. Bandages were still wrapped around his torso to keep his organs from spilling out. His stitches still bled when he tried to stand straight or stretch himself out.
He’d come here, barely able to keep his innards from spilling out, stumbling and weak. The sweet young woman on the edge of the village had brought him in, huffing and grunting, but she’d dragged him inside her abode and cleaned him off, offering him the limited clean water and food available to her. She’d stiched his wounds with shaking hands, even as his blood spilled over her knuckles.
She was a kind woman, despite the inherent misery of living on Barbarus. She tended to a small garden, growing hardy and stiff - unpleasant to eat and barely nutritous but food was food. She offered so much to him, the broth thin and weak, but warm and reminded him he was still alive. She dabbed his skin clean with precious limited water, sponging him off.
He knew he would be capable of leaving soon. No matter what Necare or even the beasts of the mists did to him, his body would repair itself and he would heal. Without either harassing him, he could feel his wounds stitching back together slowly, piece by piece, layer by layer. The rest was doing him well.
He rested his head back, breathing in deeply. The dusky sun was rising slowly, unable to cut through the heavy fog and mist, casting a hazy glow over the ground. Until the height of noon, when the sun was hard and burning, it was actually peaceful. Despite the sickly green mists and pain it caused, Barbarus was almost beautiful.
His fingers curled as a tremble set about them. No, Necare didn’t know where he was. He’d come alone. It was only the mist beasts that had hurt him. This little village sat on the border of an Overlord’s territory, he was safer than he’d been in an age.
He tilted his head as he heard the soft footsteps inside and his breath tightened in his chest. Necare didn’t know about her, either. Even if he did, Mortarion would protect her. Let one of the beasts threaten her, he’d gladly throw his body in front of her. He could take the punishment and abuse.
The door creaked open and he stared through hazy eyes. She wore a heavy gown, the fabric rough, but still protective against the cold air, the collar high around her neck and the sleeves long. She still looked tired, as though her precious sleep had been disturbed.
Habitually, he rasped a soft apology. He’d tried to be quiet when he’d woken, but surely his movements still could have disturbed her. If it was his fault, she would be well within her rights to punish him especially after all she’d done for him.
She gave him a small, tired smile and shook her head. “It’s alright. You didn’t reopen any wounds, did you?”
He shook his head. “No,” he lied. He could feel the clotted blood on his bandages, under his tunic, but ignored it. The wound had stopped bleeding once he’d settled down.
She nodded and looked around, blinking slowly. “It’s early.”
He nodded once, shifting slightly with a slow inhale. His jaw clenched at the tugging on his injuries and held up his hand dismissively when she focused on him. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep if you need it.”
She shook her head and stepped closer, sitting down beside him. He moved his arm away before she could lean against it and she settled back, leaning against her small home. “It’s fine. I can get started in the garden earlier.”
“I’ll help.”
She shook her head again, patting his hip gently. It was the closest part to her and least wounded, it meant nothing more he swiftly told himself. “You still need to rest. I can handle it.”
“Let me gather water,” he insisted.
She frowned up at him and he couldn’t help but admire how cute she was. There was no one in Necare’s fortress that was untarnished, no one like her. Even her frown was full of care for him. “I can do it, Mortarion. Rest, okay? Just a few more days.”
He knew he would be healed by then, especially if she kept insisting on feeding him. He nodded, though, swallowing thickly. “I will.”
Her frown softened and she breathed in deeply, settling down as she looked out at the slowly rising sun. She blinked slowly, leaning slightly more towards him. She didn’t quite rest her head on him, but she did relax against him. It was close enoough he could still feel the heat rolling off her skin.
He looked down at her, breathing in deeply. He wouldn’t let Necare touch her. He knew he would throw himself in front of her to protect her, even harsher than the rest of the humans.
Slowly, he lifted his arm and eased it around her shoulders. She breathed in deeply, blinking as though she’d been disturbed from rest. He murmured a soft apology and let her lean against him, his thin fingers wrapping around her arm.
Yes, he would certainly defend her to keep her warmth. Ugly selfishness crawled into his belly and his hand trembled. She was warm and soft. He needed to cleanse Barbarus of the Overlords to keep her safe. And, perhaps, then he could thank her back.
Fulgrim had dragged him to this frat party, anyways. He said 'Nesh would be there, and they always knew how to cater to everybody's tastes. Of course they did, they literally own a sex club named 'Excess'. The older of the pair had taken Fulgrim in as an intern, but they were friendly enough to the rest of his brothers. Maybe not to Father, though.
Regardless, he'd needed a ride, had forced Mortarion into the party, and then fucked off to who knows where. Nesh waved, nodding courteously. Slaanesh wasn't exactly his friend, considering Mortarion was Nurgle's apprentice. But she was still friendly, currently still offering work, "in case you ever get bored of that old toad".
Nurgle was, in fact, very toad like. The humor wasn't lost on him, but his smile had been too wide, his eyes didn't share the same smile as the rest of the sharp face. Mortarion had been unnerved, to say the least, before Nesh moved on to other partygoers. "Think about my offer, babes."
Fulgrim couldn't see the competition between their mentors, one that included Magnus' boss, Zee. Nurgle hated Zee with a passion, and sometimes, Mortarion was inclined to agree. The confusing bastard had even latched on to his least favorite brother like a damn tick.
A shoulder slamming into him snapped him out of his head, as somebody gripped his arms and hissed into his ear, "pretend we're dating, please."
Mortarion looked over, with half a mind to shake her off and storm away. But the woman hung close, fear in her eyes. "Name?" he asked. The majority of his mind told him to shake her off, and leave her to fend for herself. Clearly, he was listening as well as he listened to Father.
"Sydney."
"Mortarion." With introductions out of the way, he hesitantly slid an arm around her shoulders, and followed her line of sight to see a greasy football player shoving his way through gyrating bodies towards them. Mortarion put his hand out to stop him from getting too close. Sydney was already pushing past his self imposed contact limits. "We're alright here." Dammit, of all the times for his voice to start croaking.
The player laughed. "Seriously, Sid? You picked the greasiest guy in the room for this bullshit?"
Ouch, okay, rude. Mortarion wouldn't call himself a looker, but he also wouldn't go so far as to say "greasiest in the room". That was Konrad, on a normal day, and right now, it was this jock, who had him beat. "I don't think she wants to be around you," Mortarion warned.
"She's just playing hard to get, ain't that right, babe?" He reached across the boundary of Mortarion's arm, and rubbed against Sydney's shoulder. Mortarion, who wasn't one for touch in the first place, felt his nostrils flare at her discomfort. He wasn't one for touch, but even less so when it, unwanted, made one afraid.
The jock stumbled back, holding his arm. It was dangling from his elbow in a weird angle, whereas Mortarion's elbow merely ached from how hard he'd brought it down. He wasn't done there.
—
Sydney could have chosen better, was her initial thought. But when your stalker is following you through a frat party you thought you've be safe at, threatening several illegal actions, beggars don't get to be choosers. Her knight in greasy armor smelled, looked exhausted as all hells, and very clearly did not want her around him.
Her second worry was that this guy, Mortarion, would hand her over to Brick, be just as bad, or the end-of-times scenario would be him joining in. What Sydney wasn't expecting, however, was Brick's arm almost disintegrating, and her french fried savior breaking his nose in the span of five minutes, right after Brick had tried to yank her away.
Sydney slipped away, stepping back as Mortarion loomed over her stalker. The party goers were starting to chant and cheer, gathering in a big circle. Her arm all but burned with the discomfort from Brick's grip, but that same arm rose to her shoulders, where Mortarion had placed his hands to keep her at a safe distance.
Mortarion, meanwhile, was flinching from the increase in noise, and Brick was slowly getting back up. Taking a quick look around, Sydney noticed that the crowd, once eager for booze, sex, and socializing, was now eager for a fight to liven things up even more. Which meant they were converging. If she looked towards the back of the room, there were two people already rushing over, not to join, but to hopefully stop whatever this was turning into.
"Hey! Back up!" Sydney started pushing people back. Somebody stepped on her foot, and she almost swung. Almost. Instead, she stomped, and heard them yelp. People were starting to slowly back up, clearing a path for the two people she'd noticed running over.
One was, very clearly, a man, with white hair tied up into a loose bun. The other person? Good question. Pale hair, delicate, and if Sydney was thinking straight at the time, she would have called them elven. Both figures were well dressed, and the elven looking person snapped their fingers, getting everybody's attention. "Show's ov-"
Brick launched himself at Mortarion, and it was then that Sydney started swinging. Pain exploded through her knuckles, and she was tugged back roughly by the taller of the two. "Stay back," he commanded. "You don't want a part of this."
—
"Get off. Off. You boys want to fight, talk to Khorne. Brick, sit your ass down. You're down a working arm, and I don't know if you even still have a nose. Accept defeat. Mortarion, baby, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you to leave. Same with you, Brick. Go to a hospital."
Mortarion huffed. He hadn't even wanted to be here in the first place, and now he was getting told to leave? He supposed that he had started a fight in Nesh's residence, and as much as his brother's boss enjoyed a good fight here and there, she wasn't Khorne, and this was not a gym. His hands went up in surrender, and he stalked off, pulling Fulgrim along with him and, by extension, Sydney followed.
"I was protecting her," Mortarion started, letting go of his brother.
"By beating him senseless?!" Fulgrim argued. Sydney stood to the side, awkwardly. "What even happened?"
"He's my stalker. DA won't do shit, neither will campus security." Mortarion didn't know why she was chiming in, but it was welcome, nonetheless. Fulgrim quirked a brow up, met Mortarion's eyes, looked at her again, and sighed.
"Fuck." Agreed. "Right, let's just- Mortarion, I'll meet you at home. We'll…sort this out later."
"By sort this out, you mean sit and gossip about it?"
"Naturally. Sweetie-"
"Sydney."
"Got it. Sydney, love, we'll have to have you go home, too. Want me to set up an Uber?"
Sydney shook her head. "Don't trust it." Fulgrim nodded.
"I'll take her," Mortarion offered.
Sydney looked at him, alarmed. "I'll walk," she clarified. Mortarion, as per usual in a social situation, felt embarrassed.
"Better idea."
Sydney still pushed a napkin into his hands, just when they were both leaving the party. "Figured, since you saved my ass, and kicked Brick's ass doin' it, you at least deserve some kind of…something or other. Let me know how I can thank you."
i know it's not supported by canon but i like to think about mortarion having poor heat tolerance. he should give himself heat exhaustion (primarch edition) by stubbornly refusing to do anything to cool off because that's Admitting Defeat.
