He's a godawful mess of scar tissue stretched over bone, but by the Emperor, he's *your* godawful mess. Cawl might have made him, but he's yours, dammit.
And that means taking care of him. He's denied himself any modicum of comfort for his entire life, you are going to have to *force* him to slow down and rest and Emperor forbid- *treat* himself!
Massages are the easiest to get him to consent to. He will sit rigidly as you drive your elbow into the muscle of his back to work out a knot, but getting him to hold still and let you put lotion on his scars is significantly harder.
You find him denying himself even *intimacy.* You get the wrong idea that he might not *enjoy* holding you, might not even enjoy your coupling- but he doesn't hesitate to correct you. He enjoys every moment your bodies touch. He enjoys it *too much.*
Which you can use against him sometimes, usually when he's already distracted or exhausted.
And that's how you can get him in *your* bed, stretched out on his back as you ride him. His hands dwarf your hips, spanning your entire waist as he guides you up and down, giving you extra momentum as you slam down to impale yourself on his cock. He's big, as to be expected from a Space Marine, and fills you beyond your previous dreams.
His normally stoic face is flushed coppery red, making his lips even more purple than usual. His eyes are wild like this, just pure black pits taking you in. His connection to the Warp crackles around you, but he never loses enough control for you to feel anything more than a sharp electric shock, as thrilling as the snap of a crop on your ass.
You had heard other Space Marines talking about him once, speaking with awe of his "potency of aura." You enjoyed a private chuckle thinking about Primus' *potency* as he thrust up into you, filling you so deeply you swore you could feel his cock kissing your diaphragm.
He never left bruises unless you asked for them, and once, memorably, leaving you limping. He was careful with you, never inflicting unwanted pain. He never asked you to hurt him, either. He said he didn't find it stimulating on the background of his constant agony. He would much rather distract himself with pleasure.
His orgasms are just as superhuman as the rest of him, filling you up until your abdomen bulges slightly. Running your hands over your swollen stomach is often enough to get him going for another round. When he's finally done with you, you're covered in sweat and full of his spend, the spillover dripping down your thighs.
It's only after such evenings that he'll let you push him down into bed, as if your weight could ever pin him, and hold him down. It's only these nights that he'll sleep in your arms.
