Tws: some of them are fucking GROSS and DISGUSTING pls, you've been warned
I don't want to bother with the right order, sorry
Horus just can't shut up on public. He can yap about anything for literal hours, especially if there are many people to listen, so good luck being with him on feasts and celebrations
Magnus has a disgusting habit of reading your thoughts. Don't be mad - he does this subconsciously and if you realise that, just call him out, he will stop and apologise. But it's still nit very nice of him. He has a problem with "accidental magic" in general.
You had to hire a special serf to quickly and discreetly remove feathers from your clothes in public whenever you're around Sanguinius. When he starts molting, it becomes a real problem.
Leman Russ likes casual nudity - he doesn't really think that clothes are necessary when you two are alone, and in general fenrisian culture doesn't see nudity as something inherently bad and sinful. So yeah, you will see his bare fluffy ass quite often. The thing is - he awaits the same from you and do I need to say that his sons are not great with boundaries as well and just can open the door without warning?
Whenever he’s deep in thought or emotionally invested in a story, objects around him start to levitate or change color. You often find your tea mug floating near the ceiling, and Magnus doesn’t even realize he did it.
Guilliman's biggest problems come from him working too much.
His day is strictly scheduled by the hour, and he wakes up at the exact same time every morning, down to the very minute. Trouble begins whenever the plan changes and he needs to be woken up at a different time. That’s when you find out that Roboute is such an incredibly heavy sleeper that it would probably be easier to rouse a Necron from its slumber than to wake him.
And then, there’s the reality of what happens underneath all that armor during those long hours. One day, you carelessly decided to cheer up hard-working husband. You quietly slipped under his desk, asked him to spread his legs, unlatched the protective plate covering his under-suit, undid the rest, and...let’s just say it felt like you'd kissed Nurgle himself. As it turns out, sweat and other things tend to stagnate in those suits if the wearer sits motionless for hours on end.
Roboute is still ashamed of that incident to this day.
Vulkan SNORES. Like he's really loud, it can be really difficult to sleep next to him.
Ferrus likes to gossip in public, but physically can't whisper - his voice is too strong and deep. The worst part is he doesn't even realise that.
Fulgrim is prone to allergies, and in the spring when the abandoned fields and mines of Chemos start to bloom he begins to sneeze like every 30 seconds, his voice taking on a pathetic, nasal twang from his blocked nose. Big E really fucked up working on his immune system.
Mortarion smells like shit. Barbarus is a planet of swamps and miasma, so sometimes he doesn't realise that he's stinky. Just tell him about it and he'll manage the issue immediately.
Curze can smell like shit as well, and he isn't used to hygiene at all. He could go for weeks without washing, and he has yellow teeth and matted, greasy hair. You had to do a lot of work to get him used to it. For example, you flatly refused to hug or kiss him if he hadn't brushed his teeth or showered in at least a couple of days. To your surprise, it worked perfectly, and he started taking care of himself.
Also, he’s a casual nudist, just like Russ. He doesn't care about social norms at all. If someone sees him naked, that’s their problem, they shouldn't have been unlucky enough to have eyes today.
Lorgar constantly asks you dumb shit like "would you love me if I were a worm?"
Lion tosses and turns constantly in his sleep. He also has a habit of hugging you so tightly that he nearly chokes you, or he might roll over and pin you with his entire weight - to the point where you’re already imagining how everyone in the Imperium will talk about the incredibly stupid death of the Lady of Caliban.
Perturabo has a habit of sneezing very fucking loudly and without warning. No, really he can sneeze right in the middle of a sentence with such force that you have short tinnitus after that, and then just keep on talking as if nothing happened.
Angron is a total pig at the table. He eats with the same grace as a pack of Tyranids devouring a corpse, as if he hadn’t been fed for a month. You have your work cut out for you trying to teach him how to behave properly.
Rogal Dorn sometimes interrupts you. He doesn't do it because he isn't interested in what you have to say; on the contrary, he loves his wife and adores chatting with her. It’s just that he struggles to sense the rhythm of a conversation and doesn't quite know when it's his turn to speak, so he constantly cuts in because he’s eager to add his own thoughts.
Jaghatai can’t sit still. He’s always fidgeting with something in his hands or checking his gear. Sometimes, while talking to you, he’ll start examining the patterns on your clothes, and it looks like he’s not hearing a word you’re saying, but that’s not true. He hears every single thing you say.
Alpharius and Omegon constantly forget that they haven’t told you something.
"You told her we had a meeting two hours earlier today, right?"
"I thought YOU were the one who reminded her!"
This happens all the time.
Corvus is constantly scaring the hell out of you. You’ll get used to it eventually, but the way he just appears out of nowhere is unnerving and still makes you jump every single time.
Oh, and you’re constantly surrounded by a flock of birds, so sometimes having bird shit on your clothes is just part of the aesthetic, you might as well get used to it.
BONUS!!
Malcador is constantly complaining and grumbling about EVERYTHING: the weather, the servants, the Emperor, his aching knees, and even you. Sex with him is a nightmare, any sudden movement can ruin his mood. One time, you accidentally dislocated his collarbone.
"Stop...squeezing me, I want to last a bit more"
"Fym you want me to become more loose? Call Neoth, he'll help us, you old fucker?"
Emperor also couldn't care less about social norms he’ll pinch your ass, smack it, or french kiss you in public, all while throwing in some crude, filthy joke. Sometimes you think he'd fuck you right there after one bottle of amasec.
My taglist!! Wanna see ur name here? Let me know!! I would absolutely love that.
Emps: “So it is true. You were the one behind the accident that killed both Kor Phaeron and Erebus. You married my son, eliminated his most trusted advisors and put Lorgar under some strange, sexual spell.”
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.
Part 2: Primarchs swapping bodies with their S/O that is differently abled
Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz @pippinsquishums @warhorny-on-main
Masterlist
pt 1 | pt 2
Ferrus Manus
Ferrus Manus notices the weight first. His body, his true body, has always answered without thought. Every movement is direct, efficient, unquestioning. This one pauses. Not from hesitation. From calibration. He flexes unfamiliar fingers. Metal answers before flesh does. Servos whisper beneath synthetic plating. A faint vibration hums through the socket where machine meets living bone. He goes still.
"...Remarkable."
Across the forge, his own immense frame looks back at him. His partner, now inhabiting the Primarch's body, folds Ferrus' silver arms across their chest with awkward care.
"I was wondering how long it'd take you."
"I expected crude replacements."
A crooked smile.
"I'll choose to take that as a compliment."
"It wasn’t."
"...There it is."
Ferrus stands, the prosthetic legs respond instantly. Not perfectly. Perfectly would imply invisibility. Instead, he feels the tiny corrections. A knee adjusting its resistance. An ankle compensating for uneven stone. The subtle shift of balance that happens with every step. His brow furrows.
"You notice it."
"I do. I don't anymore."
"...Impossible."
"You stop thinking about breathing, too."
He can’t argue with that. Within the hour he has dismantled his own forearm. Not completely. Only enough to inspect the internal mechanisms. His partner leans against the workbench.
"I spent three months getting those tolerances right."
"They are inefficient."
"I know."
"The actuator could deliver another four percent torque."
"I know."
"The feedback sensors—"
"They're old."
"The cable routing is..."
"...Terrible?"
"...Acceptable."
They laugh.
"I'll take 'acceptable.'"
Ferrus doesn't smile. Not yet. But he spends another twenty minutes studying the design. Not looking for flaws. Looking for choices. Every compromise has a reason. Weight. Power consumption. Replacement parts available on an isolated forge world. Ease of field repairs. Nothing is accidental.
Later, he attempts to lift an engine housing. The prosthetic arm manages easily. His shoulder doesn’t. Pain blooms where metal meets flesh. He immediately sets it down.
"...Interesting."
His partner nods.
"The arm isn't what gets tired."
"...The joint."
"Yep."
"The muscles compensate."
"They have to."
Ferrus slowly rolls the shoulder. The soreness surprises him. He had assumed stronger machinery meant fewer limitations. Instead, the body itself becomes the limiting factor. Metal can exceed flesh. Flesh must still bear metal.
The next lesson comes during maintenance. His partner lays out familiar tools. Cloths. Lubricants. Replacement seals. Calibration equipment. Ferrus watches.
"...Daily?"
"Mostly."
"Every day?"
"Depends."
"You perform this yourself."
"I trust myself."
"You trust no Tech-Priest?"
They shrug.
"My home world never had many."
"And the Omnissiah?"
A pause. They smile faintly.
"I respect knowledge."
Another pause.
"I don't think machines need prayers to work."
Ferrus expects discomfort saying those words. Instead, only quiet certainty. He considers it.
"You maintain them because they are tools."
"They're part of me."
"You distinguish between the two."
"I have to." They tap the prosthetic lightly, "This needs oil."
Then they rest a hand over their chest.
"This needs sleep."
Ferrus is silent. He realizes many would blur that line. Their partner never has. By the second day, phantom sensations arrive. His borrowed hand, one that no longer exists beneath polished adamantium, feels cold. He instinctively reaches to warm it. Nothing happens. He frowns.
"...Explain."
"My brain still thinks it's there."
"It isn’t."
"I know."
"...Then why?"
"I've been asking that for years."
He scowls at the empty air.
"...The nervous system is irrational."
"It really is."
The greatest surprise comes not from movement but from exhaustion. Every action contains calculations. How much battery remains? Is the knee beginning to drift out of alignment? Should the wrist be recalibrated now or after work? Is that unusual vibration normal? Will this terrain damage the ankle joint? Nothing catastrophic. Just... Continuous awareness. A machine never stops needing maintenance. Neither does the body attached to it. One afternoon, an overly zealous Tech-Priest notices him examining the prosthetic.
"Blessed are the sacred augmentations."
Ferrus inclines his head politely.
"They are well made."
"The Omnissiah has improved weak flesh."
Silence. Ferrus looks down at the borrowed hand. Then toward his partner.
Quietly, after the priest leaves, he asks, "Does that...trouble you?"
They take longer to answer than expected.
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
"People stop seeing me."
He waits.
"They see the machinery first." Their fingers brush the metal forearm, "They talk about upgrades."
A faint laugh.
"Efficiency. Purity. They rarely ask whether this one still fits comfortably."
Ferrus says nothing. Because he remembers. The first thing he did was inspect the engineering. Not ask whether it hurt. When the Warp finally relents, both return to themselves. Ferrus flexes his silver hands. Living metal flows effortlessly around his fingers. Responsive. Whole.
Across the forge, his partner reconnects their prosthetic with practiced ease. Click. Rotate. Lock. A motion so familiar it barely requires thought. Ferrus watches every step. When they're finished, he walks to the workbench. Without a word, he begins forging. Hours pass. Neither speaks. Finally, he sets something down. A newly machined socket component. Cleaner. Lighter. Stronger. The weight distribution subtly improved. They stare.
"...You redesigned it."
"I refined it."
"You didn't replace it."
"No."
"I liked the old one."
"I know." He places the new piece beside the old one. "The old one belongs to you."
His voice remains characteristically even. "This one is an option."
They look up.
"You asked."
"I did."
"You've never asked before."
"No."
A pause.
"I believed improvement meant deciding what was best."
Another.
"I was mistaken."
Weeks later, they're working side by side in the forge. Their prosthetic emits a tiny click. Barely audible. Ferrus immediately looks over.
"...Your elbow."
They blink.
"What about it?"
"It is two degrees out of alignment."
They freeze.
"...Seriously?"
He nods.
"I heard it."
They test the joint. It catches. Just once.
"...You're right."
"You intended to ignore it."
"I was busy."
"You were enduring it."
Another pause.
"...Yes."
Ferrus sets his hammer aside.
"No."
They raise an eyebrow.
"No?"
"We repair it now."
"It can wait."
"It has waited."
Their shoulders sag in defeat.
"...Fine."
As they sit, tools already laid out before either of them can reach for them, they smile despite themselves.
"You know..."
"Hm."
"I've spent years fixing this thing alone."
Ferrus doesn't look up from adjusting the alignment pins.
"You were never alone."
"I mean physically."
"...Ah." His hands continue their careful work, "No longer."
There is no flourish. No dramatic declaration. Just a simple statement of fact. To Ferrus Manus, there is little difference between maintaining a trusted blade and caring for someone he loves. Both deserve attention before they fail. Both deserve respect for the work they do. Neither should ever be expected to bear every repair alone.
Forgotten Primarch
The body feels...fast. Not physically. Mentally. He opens his eyes. Immediately, the light fixture hums. The floorboards creak. Someone is talking two rooms away. The curtains move. Something smells like cinnamon. There is dust on the bookshelf. He forgot what he was doing.
"..."
His partner, now several feet taller in the body of a Primarch, smiles knowingly.
"That was quick."
"What was?"
"You lost your train of thought."
"I didn’t."
"...What were you about to say?"
Silence.
"..."
"...Exactly."
Breakfast takes forty-five minutes. Not because cooking is difficult. Because, the kettle whistles. He remembers he should sharpen the kitchen knives. The knives remind him of the forge. The forge reminds him he promised to repair a drawer. The drawer contains a letter he never answered. He should answer that— The toast burns.
"..."
He stares at the blackened bread.
"...I have been defeated by breakfast."
His partner laughs so hard they nearly fall off the chair. Later, he decides to organize a shelf. Half an hour later, every book in the room is on the floor. He has categorized them by subject. Then by size. Then alphabetically. Then realizes he prefers the first system. Nothing has actually returned to the shelf. His partner walks in.
"...What happened?"
"I was organizing."
"I can see that."
"I became..." He gestures helplessly, "...Invested."
The hardest lesson arrives during conversation. Someone is explaining military logistics. He genuinely wants to listen. He truly does. For several minutes, everything goes well. Then, a bird lands outside. His attention follows. Someone coughs. He notices the strange shape of a crack in the ceiling. He remembers a joke. He wonders whether birds sleep while flying.
"..."
"..."
"...Lord?"
He blinks.
"I'm sorry."
The officer smiles politely.
"I asked whether you approved the deployment."
"...Could you repeat the question?"
Again. That evening, he finds himself pacing. Not anxious. Simply... Unable to remain still. His partner glances over.
"You've been walking for twenty minutes."
"I think better this way."
"I know."
"I attempted to stop."
"I know."
"I became distracted."
"I know."
He frowns.
"...You say that often."
"I've lived here." They tap their own head, "A while."
The most surprising discovery comes when he finally begins working in the forge. Hours pass. He forgets to eat. Forgets to drink. Forgets someone spoke to him. He emerges with an intricate mechanical design unlike anything he'd intended to create. His partner smiles.
"You hyperfocused."
"I..." He looks at the blueprint, "...I was making a hinge."
"You made an entire gearbox."
"...Ah."
When they return to their rightful bodies, he remains unusually quiet.
His partner eventually asks, "So?"
He considers carefully.
"I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"I mistook inconsistency for carelessness."
They blink.
"I mistook distraction for disinterest."
Another pause.
"I mistook unfinished work for laziness." His expression softens. "I was wrong."
He looks toward the half-finished machine on his workbench.
"...Your mind isn’t disordered."
"No?"
"It is..." He searches for the right word. “...Simultaneous."
They laugh.
"I've never heard it described like that."
"It pursues ten paths where mine pursues one."
"And that's good?"
"It is exhausting."
A faint smile appears.
"And extraordinary."
Afterward, he quietly changes small things. Written reminders instead of spoken ones. He gives one instruction at a time. If they interrupt him because they remembered something important, he lets them finish before continuing. When they apologize for forgetting an appointment, he doesn't sigh.
He simply asks, "Would another reminder have helped?"
On the days they become frustrated with themselves, when they stare at unfinished projects and missed deadlines and say,
"I don't know why I can't just do it."
He places another tool beside theirs. Not to finish the work for them. Just to begin it with them. Because after living inside their mind for even a single day, he knows they were never fighting a lack of effort. Only a battle that few other people could see.
Angron
The change is instantaneous. One moment, Angron stands aboard the Conqueror, every thought accompanied by the familiar, grinding shriek of the Butcher's Nails. The next— Nothing. No invisible hooks tearing at his mind. No pressure building behind his eyes. No ceaseless demand for blood. Only... Silence. He doesn't move.
For the first time in over a century, he hears the ship itself. The low hum of plasma reactors. The ventilation. His own heartbeat. His breathing. They're quiet. He had forgotten the galaxy could be quiet. His eyes close before he even realizes he's done it. Not from exhaustion. Not from pain. Simply because... he can.
Then he tries to take a step. His leg buckles. He catches himself against a nearby table, more surprised than angry. Again. His muscles answer unevenly. His balance feels unfamiliar. A dull ache spreads from his hip through his knee with every movement, not sharp enough to stop him, but constant enough that ignoring it is impossible. He frowns. This body has learned to compensate for it without thinking.
He tries to straighten his fingers. One doesn't fully cooperate. He flexes it again. Old nerve damage. Not healing. Not temporary. Permanent. He stands still, taking inventory. The scars. The stiffness. The slight favoring of one side. The unconscious adjustments this body makes before every movement. He’s watched her make those same adjustments for years, he simply never understood what they meant.
Meanwhile, his partner awakens inside Angron's body. The silence she'd always associated with thought vanishes. The Nails descend upon her consciousness like starving predators. Every emotion is seized and twisted. Irritation becomes rage. Concern becomes aggression. Even affection feels like it's has to claw its way through walls of iron and screaming.
She gasps as it feels as if her mind is under siege. She grips the edge of a table hard enough to bend solid metal. Her borrowed strength barely registers. The agony inside her head eclipses everything.
"...How?" The word escapes as little more than a whisper. "How do you survive this?"
Hours later, they find one another. She is seated heavily in Angron's massive frame, elbows on her knees, fighting the Nails with every measured breath. He enters more slowly than she has ever seen him move. Her body simply can’t move the way his could. He sits beside her. Carefully. His leg complains as he lowers himself. He doesn't ignore it this time. He can't.
Neither speaks for a long while.
Finally—
"The Nails."
She laughs once. It's a broken sound.
"They never stop."
"No."
"You've lived like this..."
He nods.
"For over a century."
She stares at him with his own eyes.
"I thought I understood."
Another pulse of agony tears through her thoughts.
"I didn't."
He looks down at the hands resting in his lap. Her hands. Smaller. One finger refusing to fully uncurl.
"I thought..." he says quietly, "you were simply tired."
She blinks.
"What?"
"When you stopped walking. When you leaned against walls. When you sat down before everyone else. I thought you were choosing to." He slowly rubs at his aching knee, "I didn't know every step cost you something."
She watches him flex her stiff hand with fascinated concentration.
"You noticed?"
"I notice everything." His answer comes immediately. "I simply didn't understand."
He rises to fetch something from across the room. Halfway there, the familiar instability catches him again. He adjusts automatically. When he returns, there's something almost reverent in his expression.
"You've been fighting every day."
She smiles faintly despite the Nails.
"So have you."
The swap lasts only twenty-four hours. When they return to their own bodies, it happens all at once. The Butcher's Nails slam back into Angron's mind. The silence disappears beneath an avalanche of screaming metal. His jaw clenches so hard it nearly cracks teeth.
For a single heartbeat, he mourns. Not for strength. Not for power. For peace. He had almost forgotten such a thing existed. Across from him, his partner instinctively reaches for Angron's temples before realizing she no longer has the Nails. The quiet that floods back into her mind is almost overwhelming. She hadn't realized how much of herself had been buried beneath them until they were gone.
Nothing dramatic changes afterward. Angron is still Angron. The Nails still rage. His temper still burns hot. But now, when they walk together, he unconsciously matches her pace. He notices uneven flooring before she reaches it. He ends meetings before the ache in her joints grows unbearable. If she pauses to rest, he doesn’t ask why. He already knows.
And if anyone mistakes those accommodations for pity, they learn very quickly that the Primarch of the World Eaters has no patience for those who confuse disability with weakness. Because he has lived in her body. He knows exactly how much determination every ordinary day demands of her. Likewise, she never again mistakes one of his quiet moments for simple calm. She knows now that every gentle word, every restrained gesture, every time he chooses to sit beside her instead of giving in to the fury clawing at his thoughts, it is an act of will.
Neither of them leaves the experience believing the other has it "worse." Instead, they come away with something rarer. Angron understands that courage is not only found in charging into impossible battles. Sometimes it is getting out of bed in a body that hurts and refusing to let it define the day.
His partner understands that the gentleness he offers her was never effortless. It is something he wrestles from a mind that has been denied peace for longer than many civilizations have existed. From then on, neither ever has to wonder what the other's burden truly feels like. For one brief day, they carried it together.
Roboute Guilliman
The swap happens without warning. One moment the Lord Commander of the Imperium is reviewing logistics that span a million worlds. The next... the smell of damp earth replaces polished marble. His hands are rougher. Smaller. His center of balance is...wrong. He stands automatically and nearly stumbles.
The left leg refuses to move with the effortless precision he's spent centuries taking for granted. The brace catches slightly as he shifts his weight, the joint resisting before allowing the motion. It isn't pain, not immediately, but an unfamiliar stiffness that demands attention every single step. Guilliman freezes. Not from panic. From observation. Again. Weight to the right. Brace supports. Hip compensates. The gait isn't inefficient because of poor discipline. It's simply...different. He walks the length of the farmhouse once. Then again. Then a third time.
By the tenth lap he's already cataloguing everything. Reduced stride. Greater energy expenditure. Need to plan turns instead of pivoting. Uneven terrain significantly more hazardous. None of this irritates him. What unsettles him is realizing his partner has lived every day with calculations so constant they barely notice them anymore.
Then he goes outside. Fields stretch before him. Normally, he'd think in terms of crop yields, irrigation schedules, supply chains. Now he's thinking about mud. Mud catches the brace. Mud shifts beneath the stronger leg. Mud threatens to twist the weaker one. Something as ordinary as crossing a field becomes an exercise in route planning.
He understands, suddenly, why his partner always chooses certain paths through the farm. Why tools are left leaning against specific fences. Why chores are completed in a particular order instead of whichever seems most efficient. Efficiency had always been there. He'd simply been measuring it with the wrong ruler.
When he tries lifting feed sacks, he instinctively moves like a Primarch. His borrowed body immediately reminds him it can’t. The weight drags him sideways. His balance falters. He catches himself before falling, setting the sack down with deliberate care.
"...Noted."
There is no frustration in his voice. Only respect. His partner accomplishes this work every day, not because it is easy, but because they have learned exactly how much force to use, when to rest, and how to work with their body instead of against it. That realization impresses him more than raw strength ever could.
The brace itself fascinates him. He kneels, awkwardly, to examine it. Leather worn smooth from years of use. Buckles adjusted so many times they're polished. Tiny repairs stitched by practiced hands instead of replacing the whole thing. Evidence of adaptation. Evidence of perseverance. He runs careful fingers along it.
"...You've maintained this exceptionally."
It's spoken with the same genuine admiration he might reserve for a well-maintained suit of armor. Because in many ways... that's exactly what it is. The hardest lesson comes near sunset. Fatigue. Not exhaustion from battle. Not wounds. Accumulation. Each careful step. Each compensation. Each uneven surface.
By evening, muscles that normally wouldn't even register effort begin aching from doing the work of stabilizing every movement. Guilliman sits on the farmhouse porch. Silent. Thinking. How many conversations had they hidden this tiredness through? How many dinners? How many walks? How many times had they smiled while quietly enduring the simple cost of existing? He doesn't pity them. He admires them.
When they finally switch back, Guilliman is almost reluctant to let the understanding go. He flexes his restored Primarch leg. The effortless strength feels... Excessive. Luxurious. He looks at his partner for a long moment. Then quietly kneels in front of them. Not as a lord. As a man. His hands gently check the brace's straps before fastening one buckle that had worked itself slightly loose during the day.
"I believed I understood your life. I understood your schedule. I understood your work." His blue eyes meet theirs. "I didn’t understand your effort."
There is no apology in his voice, because he hadn't knowingly wronged them. Only a calm acknowledgment that experience has taught him something observation never could. From that day onward, subtle changes appear around their farm. Tools are rehung at more accessible heights. Paths are reinforced where the ground turns treacherous after rain. Heavy supplies are stored where fewer trips are needed. Work is reorganized so unnecessary movement is reduced without diminishing anyone's independence. He never frames these changes as charity.
He simply says, "This arrangement is objectively more efficient."
His partner quickly realizes that "efficient" has become Guilliman's favorite way of saying,
"I paid attention."
Mortarion
Mortarion expects many things when he wakes. A battlefield. A weapon. An enemy. He expects weakness to be obvious. Instead, he opens his eyes in a body that feels painfully ordinary. No transhuman strength. No enhanced lungs. No ability to ignore exhaustion. The first thing he notices is hunger.
Not the distant, manageable hunger of an Astartes who can go days without proper nourishment. A real hunger. A body demanding fuel. He finds that deeply irritating. Not because it is unpleasant. Because it is distracting. His entire existence has been built around ignoring the needs of the flesh. Now his flesh refuses to be ignored.
Then comes the pain. A familiar pain. Not his own. A hip that aches in cold air. A back that stiffens after standing too long. A hand that refuses to grip properly after repetitive work. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make a battlefield medic rush over. Just a thousand small reminders that this body has been negotiating with itself for years. Mortarion hates that most of all. Because he understands this kind of suffering. It isn’t a single enemy to kill. It’s a siege.
He eventually finds himself in the refectorium. His old assumptions are challenged immediately. He knows what a legionary's life looks like. Training. War. Strategy. Glory. He never considered the people who made those things possible. The serfs who cleaned armor. The ones who repaired uniforms. The ones who ensured exhausted warriors returned to something resembling comfort after campaigns. The ones who remember preferences that even the warriors themselves forgot. Now he is one of them.
He begins preparing meals. At first, he approaches it like a military operation. Efficient. Precise. Controlled. Then he realizes something. The work isn’t difficult because of complexity. It is difficult because it never ends. There is always another tray. Another request. Another wounded legionary needing food brought to their quarters. Another exhausted warrior too proud to admit they can’t stand in line.
And then he remembers. The Iron Warriors. How many times had they walked into the refectorium after sieges? How many times had they eaten without thinking about who prepared the meal? How many times had they complained about taste, temperature, or timing? His expression darkens. Not with anger at his partner. With anger at himself. Because he knows the Iron Warriors.
He knows how easily they dismissed mortals. If Astartes were tools, then serfs were resources. Useful. Replaceable. Invisible. But now he feels the strain of carrying a full container while his joints protest. He understands why his partner took longer routes to avoid stairs. Why they sat whenever they could. Why they memorized exactly how much weight they could safely carry. Why asking for assistance wasn’t laziness. It was strategy. The most unsettling moment comes when someone addresses him casually.
"Need help with that?"
Mortarion almost refuses. Instinct. Pride. Then he stops. Because he remembers. This is what his partner hears. Constantly. The assumption that they can’t. The assumption that they are fragile. The assumption that needing adaptation means being lesser.
He looks at the person and simply says "Yes."
The word is difficult. Not because he needs help. Because his partner has had to learn how to accept it every day. When they return to their own bodies, Mortarion is quiet. His partner expects criticism. Perhaps a complaint about the limitations.
"You served my Legion."
They blink.
"I served food."
Mortarion looks at them.
"No. You sustain it. Every warrior who returned from a siege did so knowing there would be a place to recover. You are part of that."
He struggles with the rest. Mortarion isn’t a man who expresses affection easily. He doesn’t give grand speeches. He doesn’t suddenly become gentle. But his respect changes. Now he sees they adapted around while still fulfilling a role others depended upon. And if one of his legionaries dismisses them as "only a serf"?
Mortarion's response is cold. "Only?"
The word alone is enough to make the room quiet.
"You believe an army exists without those who maintain it? You believe victory belongs only to those who hold weapons?"
A pause.
"Then you understand war less than you think."
Magnus the Red
Magnus knows something is wrong before he opens his eyes. Because the Warp is gone. Not quiet. Not distant. Gone. For Magnus, the Warp has always been a presence. A vast ocean beneath reality. A thousand voices. A thousand currents. The endless song of thoughts, emotions, memories, possibilities. Even when he slept, some part of him was always aware of it. But now— Nothing. Absolute absence.
His eyes open. The chamber is still there. The walls. The furniture. The faint glow of the lumen strips. Everything appears normal. Except the universe feels empty. Magnus sits completely still. For several seconds, he does nothing. Not because he is afraid. Because he is trying to understand.
"...No."
The word is barely audible. He reaches instinctively. Not with his hand. With his mind. And finds— A wall. Not a barrier. Not resistance. Something worse. Nothing. Across the room, his own towering form stares back at him. His partner is wearing his body. For the first time in their life, they are surrounded by the Warp. They stagger almost immediately.
Magnus notices. Not because of sight. Because he recognizes the expression. Overwhelmed. His own psychic presence is immense. A Primarch's mind is already difficult for ordinary beings to endure. But for someone who has spent their entire life being cut off from the Warp? It must be like suddenly being dropped into an ocean after never knowing water existed. His partner grips the table.
"Magnus." Their voice is strained, "What is this?"
He almost answers automatically. The Warp. The immaterium. The sea of souls. But then he stops. Because he realizes something. They don't have words for it. How could they? They have never experienced it.
"It is everything you have never felt."
They look at him.
"That's not an answer."
A faint, sad smile.
"Yes."
The first hour is unbearable. Not physically. Emotionally. Magnus keeps trying to reach outward. Every attempt ends the same. Nothing. He tries to sense the emotions of those nearby. Nothing. He tries to feel the currents of the Warp. Nothing. He tries to find the familiar presence of his own psychic power. Nothing. For someone like Magnus, this is equivalent to losing sight, hearing, and touch all at once. The world becomes painfully small. His partner watches him.
"You keep trying."
He looks over.
"Trying what?"
"To reach something."
A pause.
"...Yes."
"You know it isn't there."
The words irritate him. Not because they are wrong. Because they are true. Later, he attempts a simple psychic exercise. A flame. Something trivial. Something he could have done as a child. He extends his will. Nothing happens. Again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. His expression becomes increasingly frustrated. Not angry. Magnus' anger is usually dramatic. This is different. This is grief.
"My entire life..."
He stops. His partner waits.
"My entire existence has been built around understanding this." He looks at his own empty hands, "And now I can’t even touch it."
Then comes the realization. His partner has lived like this forever. Not for a day. Not for an hour. Forever. Magnus turns toward them.
"How?"
They look confused.
"How what?"
"How do you exist like this?"
A pause. The question isn’t insulting. It is genuine. They understand.
"I don't know."
"You don’t feel the absence?"
A small laugh.
"I don't know what I'm missing."
That stops him. Because Magnus understands loss. But this? This is different. You can’t mourn something you never had. The next discovery is harder. People avoid them. Not openly. Not always. But Magnus notices. He always notices.
Astartes who are comfortable around psychic phenomena suddenly become tense. Librarians grow quiet. Human servants unconsciously step away. The Warp itself recoils around them. And Magnus experiences it firsthand. Not as an observer. As the person everyone instinctively avoids.
A group of Thousand Sons approach. They stop. The hesitation is immediate. Magnus feels it. Not through psychic perception. Through ordinary observation. One warrior lowers his head slightly.
"My lord."
The respect is there. But discomfort follows. Magnus watches them leave.
"...They are uncomfortable."
His partner says nothing.
"They have always been."
The simplicity of the answer hurts. That evening, Magnus asks the question.
"Does it bother you?"
They look up.
"What?"
"The way people react."
A long silence.
"Sometimes."
"Why don’t you tell them?"
"Tell them what?"
"That you aren’t dangerous."
They smile sadly.
"Would they believe me?"
Magnus has no answer. Because he knows. He has seen how people react to things they do not understand. The strangest part is that Magnus begins to understand something he never expected. The null effect isn’t merely an absence. It is a presence. He can’t feel the Warp around them. But he can feel the way reality behaves differently. No whispers. No psychic pressure. No emotional currents. Just reality. Purely. Directly. It is unsettling. But also... Peaceful.
For the first time in his existence, Magnus experiences silence. Not the silence of isolation. The silence of rest. When the Warp finally returns them to their rightful bodies, Magnus nearly collapses from the sudden sensation. The Warp rushes back. Every emotion. Every thought. Every psychic current. The universe screams into existence again. He closes his eye. Breathes. Across the room, his partner returns to their own body and immediately relaxes. The relief is obvious. They look at him.
"You okay?"
Magnus laughs quietly.
"I should ask you that."
They smile.
"I've been okay my whole life."
That sentence stays with him. Afterward, Magnus changes. Not dramatically. He doesn’t suddenly stop using psychic abilities. He doesn’t treat them as fragile. If anything, he respects them more. Because he understands something now, their life isn’t defined by what they lack. It is defined by what they built without it.
He becomes careful around them. Not because they are dangerous. Because he finally understands what it means to be treated as something unnatural. When others whisper about them, Magnus notices. And Magnus remembers.
"I spent one day without the Warp." His voice is calm. "You have spent your entire life without it."
Nobody argues. Months later, they find him sitting quietly beside them. No books. No experiments. No psychic work. Just silence. They raise an eyebrow.
"Magnus?"
"Hm?"
"Are you meditating?"
A pause.
"...Something like that."
"You hate silence."
He considers this.
"I used to."
A small smile.
"What changed?"
Magnus looks toward them.
"I learned that silence isn’t always emptiness."
A pause.
"Sometimes it is simply a different way of experiencing the universe."
And for Magnus the Red, that is perhaps the greatest lesson of all, the Warp is vast. The Warp is beautiful. The Warp is terrifying. But it isn’t the only thing that makes a person whole.
Horus Lupercal
The first thing Horus notices isn’t the body. It’s the silence. Not the absence of sound. The absence of instinct. Horus has spent his entire existence reading rooms before entering them. A glance. A shift in posture. A hesitation before someone speaks. The tension between two people standing too close together. He knows. He always knows.
It’s part of what makes him Horus Lupercal. The Warmaster. The man who can walk into a gathering of generals and immediately understand the battlefield that exists between personalities. But now— Nothing. Or rather, nothing automatic. He opens his eyes. The world is sharper. Louder. The lights in the chamber are too bright. The hum of machinery is impossible to ignore. The fabric of the uniform feels wrong against his skin.
He looks down. Their body. Not damaged. Not weak. Just... Different. His first reaction is analytical. His second is confusion. Someone speaks. A simple greeting.
"Good morning."
Horus looks up. The words are easy. The meaning is obvious. But then comes the problem. The tone. The expression. The posture. There are several possible interpretations. Are they being polite? Sarcastic? Concerned? Expecting a response? He pauses slightly too long. The other person notices. Before, Horus would have noticed them noticing. Now, he notices only afterward.
"...Interesting."
His partner, inside his body, watches him carefully.
"Are you doing okay?"
Horus looks over.
"Yes."
A pause.
"Why?"
"Because you have been staring at that person for ten seconds."
"I was interpreting."
They blink.
"You were trying to figure out if they were joking."
"...Yes."
A small smile.
"You usually just know."
The words bother him. Not because they are insulting. Because they are true. The first real challenge comes in the medicae station. Because that is where Horus expects to understand. Medicine is logic. Procedure. Knowledge. He knows war. He knows injuries. He understands anatomy. But he quickly realizes something. His partner's mind isn’t difficult. It is precise.
They notice things he would have missed. A soldier's breathing pattern. A slight tremor in a hand. A change in someone's speech rhythm. A tiny inconsistency in a report. Horus watches as they move through the medicae bay. Focused. Efficient. Almost impossible to distract. One wounded Guardsman tries to hide his pain. They immediately notice.
"You are lying."
The soldier blinks.
"What?"
"You said it doesn't hurt."
"It doesn't."
"You are clenching your jaw."
Silence.
"You always do that before admitting something hurts."
The soldier looks embarrassed. Horus stares. Because they noticed something he would have missed. Not because he can’t read people. Because they read people differently. Then he experiences the harder part. The sensory overload.
A battlefield alarm sounds. A normal thing. A necessary thing. But in this body, it is overwhelming. The sirens. The flashing lights. The shouting. The movement. Every sound demanding attention simultaneously. His breathing changes. Not panic. Not fear. Overload. His partner notices immediately. Because they know the signs.
"Come with me."
Horus follows. They step into a quieter corridor. The difference is immediate. His shoulders lower. The tension fades.
"...You know exactly where to go."
"Yes."
"Because this happens often."
A pause.
"Sometimes."
He looks at them.
"How often?"
They shrug.
"Enough that I have plans."
Plans. Of course. Horus almost smiles. Because that sounds exactly like something he would do. Later, he finds their notes. Not medical notes. Personal ones. Reminders. Schedules. Lists. Small systems. He studies them.
"What are these?"
"My way of remembering things."
"You need reminders?"
They give him a look.
"Everyone needs reminders."
He almost argues. Then stops. Because that is true. The difference is that his reminders are called commanders, advisors, and thousands of years of experience. Their reminders are written down. The most difficult realization comes socially. Horus attends a meeting. Or rather, attempts to. Someone makes a vague statement.
"We may want to consider other options."
Horus waits. What options? Who is "we"? How serious is this? Is this a suggestion? A warning? A polite refusal? Everyone else seems to understand. His partner's body doesn’t. Not because they are incapable. Because the statement contains incomplete information.
Afterward, Horus asks "Why did they not simply say what they meant?"
His partner looks amused.
"Because people don't always do that."
"Why?"
A shrug.
"People are strange."
Horus considers this.
"That is an inefficient system."
They laugh.
"Welcome to being human."
The phrase stays with him. Because Horus has always been fascinated by humanity. Its contradictions. Its irrationality. Its emotions. But he realizes something. He has always studied humanity from the outside. Now he is experiencing one specific way of being human from within. And it changes his perspective.
When the Warp releases them, Horus returns to himself. The first thing he notices is how quiet his mind feels. The ability to effortlessly interpret a room. The instinctive understanding of tone. The ability to filter irrelevant information. He had never considered those things abilities. They were simply him. Now he knows they aren’t universal.
Across the room, his partner returns to their own body. Immediately, they begin reorganizing their medicae supplies. Automatically. Efficiently. Horus watches.
"You do that when stressed."
They pause.
"...Do what?"
"Organize."
A small smile.
"Yeah."
"I thought you were simply meticulous."
"I am."
A pause.
"But?"
"But sometimes it's how I make things feel manageable."
Afterward, Horus doesn’t become overly protective. That would insult them. Instead, he becomes more deliberate. He explains things instead of assuming. He stops relying on vague hints around them. If he wants something, he says it. Clearly. Directly. Because he has learned something important: Communication isn’t about saying things the way you naturally think. It is about making sure the other person receives the meaning. One day, a fellow officer makes an offhand comment.
"They're a little unusual."
Horus looks up. The officer immediately regrets speaking.
"Unusual?"
"I meant—"
"No." Horus' voice is calm, "They are exceptional."
The officer goes quiet.
"They identified a battlefield infection before three trained surgeons."
A pause.
"They kept an entire company alive during a retreat."
Another pause.
"They notice details others ignore." Horus' expression softens slightly, "You call it unusual because you are unfamiliar with it."
Silence.
"That is your limitation."
Later, his partner finds him sitting beside them.
"You defended me."
Horus looks surprised.
"Yes."
"You didn't have to."
"No."
A pause.
"I wanted to."
They smile.
"Why?"
Horus thinks about it. Because he remembers the overwhelming noise. The effort. The constant calculations. The way they had built systems to navigate a world that often demanded they pretend it was effortless.
"Because I spent one day trying to understand your world." He looks at them, "And discovered you have spent your entire life understanding ours."
Lorgar Aurelian
The first thing Lorgar noticed isn’t the difference in height. Not the loss of his immense strength. Not the absence of the overwhelming presence that came with being a primarch. The first thing he notices is that this body demands his attention. His own body had been built to endure. Pain is temporary. Exhaustion is an inconvenience. Injury is something to overcome. But this body is different.
This body had a rhythm. A balance. A set of needs that could not be ignored. As Lorgar slowly comes to understand the reality of his partner’s condition, he encounters something that challenges him far more deeply than any enemy ever had. There is nothing to defeat. No opponent to overpower. No enemy to destroy. Only something to live with.
He understands carrying something others couldn’t see. He understands being judged for something beyond one’s control. The routines that his consort has performed for years suddenly became his own. The awareness. The planning. The constant consideration. Things they have done so naturally that he has never truly recognized them.
He realizes that while others see his partner simply living their life, they don’t see the countless small decisions happening beneath the surface. They don’t see the thought behind every choice. They don’t see the discipline. They don’t see the patience. Lorgar does, because now he has to.
The kitchen became the place where he learned the most. At first, Lorgar is confused. He stands there in his partner’s body, watching himself — his own massive primarch form across from him — prepare a meal with careful precision. Portions are considered. Ingredients are chosen deliberately. Everything has a reason.
"You do this every day?" he asks.
"Yes.”
"Every meal?"
"Most of them."
Lorgar stares at the food. It isn’t extravagant. It isn’t some great sacrifice. It is simply a meal. Yet it represents something he has never considered before. Knowledge. Adaptation. Care. He had expected hardship to announce itself. He had expected suffering to look dramatic. But this is different. This is quiet. This is someone loving themselves enough to take care of their own body. The strangest part is that he has to eat it.
Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Word Bearers, has eaten feasts prepared for kings. He has stood among warriors and shared the meals of entire worlds. He has consumed things that would have killed ordinary humans. But now he sits at a table and eats the food prepared by his consort. Not because he is being asked to sympathize. Not because he is observing. Because this is his body for the moment. And the realization strikes him.
This isn’t a limitation. This isn’t punishment. This is simply the reality of inhabiting a mortal body. The food isn’t some enemy to overcome. The routine isn’t an inconvenience. It is care. His partner has spent years learning what their body needs and providing it. They have built a relationship with their own existence. Something Lorgar, despite all his searching for meaning, has rarely done. Naturally, he asks questions. Many questions.
"How do you know what your body requires? How did you learn all of this? How long have you carried this knowledge?"
And his partner answers. Patiently. Because they know Lorgar. They know that he isn’t questioning because he doubts them. He questions because he wants to understand. Slowly, the primarch who has spent centuries seeking cosmic truths begins to understand a smaller, more personal one.
Their body isn’t a prison. It isn’t something broken that needs to be conquered. It is something they care for. Something they respect. Something they live alongside. The matter of faith proves more complicated. Because Lorgar is still Lorgar. His partner being a priestess of another religion is something he still can’t simply ignore.
Faith isn’t a hobby to him. It is the foundation of existence. He wants to know what they believe. Why they believe it. What their prayers meant. What their traditions represent. And his partner allows him to ask. They explain when they want to. They share what matters to them. But they never try to force him. They never demand he abandon his beliefs. They never treat him as lesser for seeing the universe differently. That is what always surprises him.
Lorgar has known many people who saw faith as a weapon. A tool for control. A means of forcing others to submit. But his partner shows him something different. Faith can exist without conquest. Devotion can exist without domination. A person can love what they believe without requiring someone else to surrender. That is a lesson Lorgar struggles with, because it challenges one of his deepest assumptions.
The body swap also gives Lorgar something he rarely experienced: Perspective. Primarchs aren’t treated like ordinary people. They are symbols. Weapons. Legends. But his partner knows what it means to exist in a body that requires consideration from others. They know what it meant to explain themselves. They know what it means to have needs that are invisible to those around them.
For perhaps the first time, Lorgar understands the loneliness of carrying something that others can’t see. When the body swap finally ends, Lorgar returns to himself. The strength returns. The overwhelming presence returns. The certainty returns. But something has changed. He no longer sees his partner’s carefully prepared meals as restrictions. He no longer sees their routines as burdens. He no longer sees their condition as something that defines them. Instead, he saw what it truly is. A testament to their endurance. Not because they suffer, but because they live.
Later, when he watches them prepare another meal, he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t question. He simply stands beside them. When they look at him curiously, he offers a rare, quiet smile.
"I believed I understood devotion," he says. "I believed devotion was found in grand gestures. In sacrifice. In suffering for a greater purpose."
He looks at the meal being prepared. At the small choices made with care.
"I was mistaken."
A pause.
"Sometimes devotion is simply choosing to care for what you have been given."
For a man who has spent his life searching for gods, revelations, and universal truths, his partner taught Lorgar something far more profound. That strength isn’t the absence of struggle. That faith isn’t measured by how loudly it is proclaimed. That a mortal soul, even one living in a mortal body with mortal needs, can possess a kind of endurance that even a primarch can admire.
Vulkan
The Warp's whim finds Vulkan in the middle of repairing a plow. One heartbeat his hands are broad enough to bend steel. The next, the hammer slips from unfamiliar fingers. It isn't heavy. It simply feels...heavier than it should. He catches it before it strikes the ground.
"...Hm."
Across the workshop, his own towering frame looks down at itself before turning toward him. His partner's expression changes immediately.
"...Oh."
Vulkan smiles reassuringly.
"It would appear we have exchanged perspectives."
They don't smile back.
"You should sit down."
He chuckles.
"I have done nothing."
"I know." They take one step toward him. "Please."
He doesn't. Naturally. He finishes setting the plow upright. Picks up a handful of nails. Carries a small bucket across the room. None of it is difficult. None of it hurts. Yet by the time he reaches the workbench, his breathing is slightly deeper. His shoulders feel...strange. Not sore. Weighted. Like someone has quietly draped a thick blanket across them. He rolls one shoulder experimentally.
"...Interesting."
His partner watches with folded arms.
"You've been awake for six minutes."
"I am aware."
"You've already spent tomorrow's energy."
He looks over.
"...Explain."
The explanation is simple. Not simplistic. Simple.
"You know how you can work all day and be tired afterward?"
"Yes."
"I wake up already halfway there."
Silence.
"I don't get a full tank."
"...No."
"I get whatever my body decides to give me."
"And today?"
They shrug.
"A pretty good day."
He thinks about that while mending a fence. The work is light. Simple. Almost relaxing. By midday, his arms tremble. Very slightly. His thoughts become slower. Not dull. Simply...harder to move. He pauses to remember why he walked into the barn.
"...Curious."
His partner appears in the doorway.
"You forgot?"
"...Briefly."
They nod.
"Brain fog."
He frowns.
"My thoughts feel..." He searches. "...Distant."
"Yeah."
"I know the answer."
"I know."
"But reaching it requires effort."
"Yeah."
He dislikes that. Not because he values intelligence. Because he values craftsmanship. A craftsman depends upon precision. He reaches for a measuring cord. Stops. Realizes he'd picked up the wrong tool. He sets it down. Quietly. No frustration. Only observation.
"...How often?"
"What?"
"Does your mind refuse to cooperate?"
Their smile is small.
"Oftener than I'd like."
By afternoon, he decides to continue anyway. A little weeding. A little chopping. A little hauling. Nothing strenuous. Surely moderation is acceptable. Then his knees suddenly feel weak. Not injured. Empty. The world doesn't spin. His body simply... Stops negotiating. He sits down so abruptly that it almost surprises him. His partner is already beside him.
"I told you."
"I underestimated the accumulation."
"You aren't the first."
"I thought fatigue announced itself."
"It does."
"I heard nothing."
"You were listening for the wrong language."
He spends the rest of the afternoon on the porch. Not because he wants to. Because standing feels...expensive. Every movement must now justify itself. He watches the fields. The chickens. The wind through unfamiliar trees. His partner joins him with two cups of tea.
"You look guilty."
"I am not accustomed to resting while work remains."
They laugh softly.
"The work will still be there tomorrow."
"...Will I?"
Their expression changes.
"What?"
"This body doesn’t promise tomorrow's strength."
"...No."
"It asks me to trust that unfinished work is acceptable."
"...Yeah."
He lowers his eyes.
"I find that surprisingly difficult."
The next morning teaches him something worse. He wakes. Already tired. He hasn't moved. Hasn't worked. Hasn't lifted so much as a cup. Yet his muscles behave as though yesterday never ended. He slowly sits upright.
"...Impossible."
Across the room, his partner—currently wearing the body of a Primarch—nods sympathetically.
"That's the one people don't believe."
"You become exhausted..."
He looks around the room.
"...By existing."
A quiet nod.
"Sometimes."
Later, he notices something else. The farm is arranged with remarkable care. Not for appearance. For conservation. Water buckets aren't beside the well. They're halfway between the well and the barn. Firewood is stacked in several smaller piles rather than one large one. Tools exist in duplicate. Not because they forgot where they belonged. Because walking back for one would cost energy. He studies the layout.
"You planned all this."
"I had to."
"So every journey accomplishes several tasks."
"Pretty much."
"You have built the farm around your limits."
A shrug.
"I built it around my life."
That answer lingers. Because Vulkan has built entire cities around volcanoes. Fortresses around mountains. Homes around families. His partner has done exactly the same thing. Only their terrain is exhaustion. The hardest lesson arrives unexpectedly. They have visitors. A wandering trader waves cheerfully.
"Good to see you up and about!"
They smile politely.
"We've been feeling better."
"That's wonderful!"
The visitor leaves. Vulkan waits.
Then asks, "...We aren't better."
Their shoulders sag.
"No."
"You lied."
"I simplified."
"Why?"
A long silence.
"People get uncomfortable."
"With illness?"
"They understand being sick. They don't understand never really getting better."
He says nothing. Because there is nothing useful to say. Only understanding. When the Warp finally releases them, Vulkan nearly stumbles beneath the sudden return of his own strength. His lungs fill effortlessly. His limbs answer immediately. His thoughts feel clear. He hadn't realized how luxurious those things were.
Across the yard, his partner returns to themselves. They instinctively lean against the porch rail. Automatically. Not because they're weak. Because they're pacing. Without a word, Vulkan walks into the workshop. He returns carrying lumber. Tools. A notebook.
"What are you building?"
"A cart."
"...We already have one."
"A different one."
Over the following weeks, the homestead changes. Not dramatically. Thoughtfully. Raised garden beds appear. Rain barrels multiply. Frequently used shelves are lowered. A broad bench is built beneath the largest tree, exactly halfway between the house and the fields. Every gate swings more smoothly. Every wheelbarrow becomes lighter. The chicken coop gains a second feed hatch that reduces unnecessary walking. No speeches accompany these changes.
When asked why he rebuilt something that already worked, Vulkan answers simply, "It works better now."
One afternoon they catch him carrying two baskets that would normally have required three trips.
"You don't have to do all of that."
"I know."
"I don't want you doing my work."
He shakes his head.
"It isn't your work."
They blink.
"It is ours."
Months later, they apologize. Again.
"I'm sorry."
He looks up from repairing a fence.
"For what?"
"I couldn't finish planting today."
Silence.
"I ran out of energy."
Vulkan wipes his hands on a cloth. Then walks over.
"You believe the measure of a farmer is the number of rows they plant."
"...Sometimes."
"I disagree."
He gestures toward the fields.
"This homestead still stands."
A pause.
"The animals are healthy."
Another.
"The harvest comes every year." He smiles warmly, "You built a life that survives even on days your body refuses to cooperate."
Their eyes lower.
"I still wish I could do more."
"I know. So do I."
They look up. He continues quietly.
"I wore your body." His voice has become unusually soft, "I learned that every ordinary task has a price."
He glances toward the fields.
"What astonished me wasn't the cost."
His eyes return to theirs.
"It was how carefully, and how wisely, you chose what was worth paying for."
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Vulkan reaches out and gently takes their hands in his own. Hands still calloused from farming. Hands that have built an entire life while carrying a body that rarely offered certainty.
"You once told me," he says, "that a good blacksmith doesn't blame the metal for having limits."
They smile faintly.
"I remember."
"I've been thinking." He squeezes their hands gently. "A master smith doesn't waste strength striking the anvil when the work requires patience instead."
A quiet breeze moves through the fields. He smiles, broad and genuine.
"So tomorrow..." He looks toward the unfinished rows, “...the crops can wait."
They glance at the fields, then back at him.
"And if they can't?"
Vulkan's laugh is deep and warm.
"Then we'll plant them together."
Not because he believes love can cure it, but because after spending even one day inside their body, he understands that the greatest kindness isn’t urging someone to push beyond their limits. It is making sure they never have to carry those limits alone.
Corvus Corax
Corvus Corax understands prisons. He had been born into one. The mines of Lycaeus had taught him that captivity isn’t always forged from chains. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes guilt. Sometimes memories that refused to loosen their grip. Freedom, Corax has learned, isn’t simply escaping the cell. It’s learning to live after it.
That is why, when fate twists itself into something impossible and he wakes within his beloved's body, he doesn’t first mourn the loss of his own. The body is unfamiliar. Smaller. Lighter. Even though it is the body of an astartes. Yet it isn’t the physical differences that unsettles him. It is the instinct.
When footsteps echo behind him, his shoulders tense before his mind understand why. A loud clang somewhere aboard the strike cruiser sends his pulse racing. The scent of incense drifting from a chapel causes an inexplicable knot to form in his stomach. Corax frowns. These aren’t his memories. They belong to the one whose body he now occupies.
His beloved has rarely spoken of their childhood. Only fragments. Enough for Corax to understand that before they wore the blue of the Ultramarines, they had once worn another color entirely. Grey. Crimson. The colors of the XVII Legion.
They had never become a full Word Bearer. Only an initiate. Young enough to be molded. Old enough to remember every lesson. By the time the Ultramarines found them during a compliance action, they had already been marked. The tattoos remain. Dark script winds around their forearms and shoulders, partially obscured beneath newer markings of Ultramarine service. Most see only faded ink. Corax, now living inside their skin, feels the weight behind every line.
He catches sight of those tattoos while changing after morning drills. For a long moment he simply stares. His own hands—no, their hands—hesitate over the old symbols. They are scars disguised as devotion. He traces one carefully with his fingertips. Not out of reverence. Out of understanding. He wonders how many times they have done the same. How many mornings they have looked into a mirror and seen evidence of a life they desperately wished had never existed.
The next morning, Corax awakes already tired. Tasks that should have taken little effort seem to demand quiet determination. Some mornings there is simply...nothing. No excitement. No anticipation. Only the obligation to keep moving.
At first he tries to ignore it. That has always been his way. Endure. Continue. Push forward. The feeling doesn’t disappear. His beloved has lived with this for years. Not every day. Not every hour. But often enough that they know the shape of it. Now Corax knows it too.
The nightmares come on the third night. They don’t begin dramatically. There are no daemons. No monsters. Only voices. Soft chanting. Pages turning. The smell of hot wax. Someone placing a careful hand upon a child's shoulder.
"Listen."
"Believe."
"You belong to us."
Corax awakes violently. His heart hammers against ribs that aren’t his own. His breathing refuses to steady. His hands shake. It takes several long moments before he remembers where he is. Before he remembers who he is.
Across the room, occupying Corax's towering primarch body, his beloved is already awake. They don’t ask what happened. They already knew. Instead, they quietly cross the room and sit beside him. Neither speak. Neither need to.
The following morning, Corax finally understands why his beloved always chooses the seat nearest the exit during strategy meetings. Why they dislike closed doors. Why they instinctively survey every room before entering. Why unexpected touches, even from trusted allies, sometimes causes them to flinch before recognizing who it is. These aren’t habits, they are survival. Their body remembers dangers long after their mind had escaped them.
Corax knows what it means to be hunted. He had spent years fighting slavers. Yet this... This is an enemy that lives inside memory itself. One afternoon, while dressing after training, Corax finds himself staring once more at the faded Word Bearer tattoos. Without thinking, he begins rubbing at one of them. As though enough effort might erase it. His beloved notices.
"It doesn't come off."
Corax looks up.
"I know."
They smile sadly.
"I tried for years."
Silence settles between them.
Finally, Corax asks the question he has never dared voice. "Why keep them?"
His beloved looks down at the markings.
"Because pretending they never happened doesn't make them disappear." They rest a hand against one faded symbol, "They're proof that I survived. Not proof that I belonged there."
Something inside Corax shifts. He has spent centuries believing such things should remain hidden. His own mutations. His failures. His grief. Things carried in silence. His beloved believes something different. A scar isn’t an admission of weakness. It is evidence that someone has lived long enough to heal. Even imperfectly.
When the impossible finally ends and Corax returns to his own body, he feels relief. Not because he had escaped. Because he finally understands. He understands why his beloved occasionally grows quiet without explanation. Why certain hymns cause them to leave the room. Why they prefer darkness that they chose over darkness forced upon them. Why some mornings simply getting out of bed is a victory invisible to everyone else. He stops asking if they are "over it." He stops assuming silence meant distance. Instead, he simply remained present.
Some weeks later, Corax finds his beloved standing before a mirror, absentmindedly tracing one of the faded Word Bearer tattoos. Without a word, he steps beside them. His reflection towering over theirs. His hand gently covers the old symbol. Not to hide it. Not to erase it. Only to remind them they are no longer alone.
"I used to think these were brands," Corax says quietly. "Proof of what they tried to make you."
His beloved lowers their eyes. Corax shakes his head.
"Now I see something else." His thumb brushed lightly over the faded ink, "Proof that they failed."
For a moment neither of them speak. The scars remain. The memories remain. The nightmares will come again. Corax knows that now. Some battles can’t be won once and forgotten. They are fought over and over, one day at a time. He understands that better than most.
So, he doesn’t promise that the shadows will disappear. He makes a different promise. When the nightmares come, he will be there. When the memories return, he will stand beside them. When the weight of the past becomes too much to carry alone, he will shoulder it with them—not because he can erase it, but because no one who has escaped one prison should ever have to face another in solitude. For the Lord of Ravens, who has devoted his life to freeing the oppressed, there is perhaps no truer act of love than remaining beside the one who is still, every day, choosing freedom.
Alpharius & Omegon
No one ever knew whether they were speaking to Alpharius...or Omegon. Even those who claim they can tell the difference are usually wrong. The twins cultivated uncertainty the way others cultivated honor. Secrets are their language. Misdirection is second nature. Every movement, every conversation, every expression serves a purpose hidden beneath another purpose. So, when the impossible occurs and one brother awoke in his beloved's body while the other remains in his own, their first response is remarkably similar.
"Explain."
Their partner merely folds their arms.
"I wish I could."
Neither twin believe that answer. They investigate for three days. Find nothing. Accepted nothing. Eventually, Alpharius sighs.
"Very well. Until we understand it, we adapt."
Omegon simply nods.
"As always."
Their beloved is a logistics officer. Not a warrior. Not an Astartes. Not someone whose name will be remembered in the histories of the Imperium. Yet both primarchs have long since learned that armies don’t move because of generals. They move because someone remembers ammunition. Someone tracks fuel. Someone calculates supply lines. Someone notices that the fourth company will arrive two hours before its rations.
Their beloved has always insisted logistics won wars before the first shot was fired. Alpharius secretly agrees. Omegon openly does. Living inside their body, however, reveals a truth neither brother had fully appreciated. Their mobility changes. Not from year to year. Not from week to week. Sometimes... Hour to hour.
The first morning, Alpharius climbs out of bed expecting to begin the day. Instead, a sharp ache ran through one hip. His balance shifts unexpectedly. He reaches instinctively for the nearby cane before he has consciously decided to. He frowns.
Across the room, their beloved—currently occupying the towering body of a primarch—notices immediately.
"Bad morning?"
Alpharius blinks.
"You knew?"
"You reached for the cane before you looked at it."
The words stay with him. Before. Not after. Before. The body already knows what it needs. Later that day, Alpharius walks through the ship with the cane. The reactions are...interesting. Most people ignore it. Some stare briefly before pretending they hadn't. Others looked almost relieved when, halfway through the corridor, he pauses to lean against the wall. One young serf hurries forward.
"Sir, would you like the chair brought around?"
Alpharius nearly refuses. Habit. Pride. Efficiency. Then his beloved's memories surface. Not memories exactly. Experience. The understanding that saying yes today means still being able to work tomorrow.
"Yes," he answers simply.
When the wheelchair arrives, Alpharius hesitates. Not because of embarrassment. Because he suddenly realizes how many assumptions he's carried without noticing. He has seen wheelchairs before. He had filed them away as permanent necessities. A single category. Now he is seeing it is more than that.
That evening Omegon asks quietly, "You walked this morning."
"Yes."
"Now you're using the chair."
"Yes."
"...Why?"
Their beloved smiled faintly.
"Because he wants enough strength left for dinner."
Silence. Omegon had expected a medical explanation. Instead, he receives strategy. Energy. Resource allocation. Conservation. Logistics. He almost laughs.
"Seems like the body has to be managed like a campaign."
"Well..." Their beloved shrugs, "It has limited supplies."
For perhaps the first time in centuries, Omegon finds himself completely outmaneuvered by a metaphor. The following day is different again. Walking is easier. The wheelchair remains folded nearby. Only the cane came along.
By afternoon... Not even that. A lieutenant frowns.
"I thought your leg was injured yesterday."
Alpharius, still inhabiting the body, speaks. "It was painful yesterday."
The lieutenant looks confused.
"But you're walking now."
"Yes."
"...Then you're better?"
Their beloved smiles patiently.
"No."
The poor lieutenant looks even more confused. Alpharius almost pities him. Almost. That conversation repeats itself in different forms all week.
"But I saw you standing."
"You don't look disabled."
"Why use a chair if you can walk?"
Each question carries no malice. Only misunderstanding. Living inside this body forces Alpharius to answer them instead of merely observing them. He discovers how exhausting it is. Not walking. Explaining.
By the fifth day, both twins have noticed something else. Their beloved planned routes instinctively. Not the shortest. The most sustainable. Elevators instead of unnecessary stairs. Places with seating. How long one corridor really felt after an eight-hour shift. Where fatigue tended to arrive. Every decision looks invisible. Until one had to make it personally.
Neither Alpharius nor Omegon had ever considered how much mental effort movement could require. They had spent lifetimes planning campaigns involving millions of soldiers. Yet their beloved quietly planned every outing with equal precision. Not because they enjoyed it. Because they had to.
When the body swap finally ended, the twins resume their own forms without ceremony. Neither speak of it immediately. That is their way. Several days later, however, the three of them are crossing the flagship together. Their beloved pauses. Looks toward the long corridor ahead. Quietly unfolds the wheelchair that had been brought along. Without hesitation. Without apology.
A nearby officer glances between the chair and the fact that their beloved had been walking moments earlier. Confusion crosses his face. Before he can speak, Omegon answers the unasked question.
"Walking is an ability."
Alpharius finishes calmly,
"Not an obligation."
The officer blinks. Then nods awkwardly before moving on. Their beloved looks between the twins.
"You've been waiting to say that, haven't you?"
A small smile tugs at Alpharius's lips.
"For days."
Later, while reviewing cargo reports together, Alpharius finally voices what neither twin had admitted aloud.
"I once believed mobility aids existed because someone had failed."
Omegon looks up from the datapad.
"Now?"
Alpharius glances toward the folded wheelchair resting beside the desk.
"Now I understand they exist because someone intends to keep living their life."
Omegon nods once.
"Adaptation."
Their beloved chuckles.
"You're finally speaking my language."
The twins exchange identical smiles. Perhaps they always had. After all, the Alpha Legion had built its reputation on adaptation. On changing tactics when circumstances demanded it. On using the right tool for the right mission. It seems strangely fitting that the lesson they had overlooked for so long came not from a battlefield...but from the quiet wisdom of someone who had never measured strength by how far they could walk, only by whether they could still accomplish what mattered. For Alpharius and Omegon, that realization is impossible to dismiss. After all, no strategist rejects a useful tool simply because another one worked yesterday.
Riffing on the Primarch break up headcanons and the marrying someone else headcanons, what if the beloveds marriage to someone else was aragnged? Maid of Honor slips a note explaining the clusterfuck to a member of the legion, who passes it to the Primarch. How do you HC the ensuing debacle goes down?
Primarchs finding out you were forced into an arranged marriage
gn!reader
ohh I hadn't even though about it while writing the og post lol. they're not too different from the orginal I suppose
@thethronezone incase you're interested in the part 2
cont. of this post
Warnings: none
Lion El'johnson: Yeah he would still challenge them to a duel just, like, To the Death I guess. He has a protector kink I'd say? While this situation is horrible and sad for both of you he does get off a wee bit on the fact he's rescuing you. As soon as you're back in his "custody" he's locking you in the princess tower.
Fulgrim: Mobilises his legion to sabotage the wedding as he goes in to profess his love and air out the situation VERY publicly. rip fulgrim u would've loved telenovellas
Perturabo: Annoyingly smug. he Sucks guys. Oh you were forced into this? Yeah I bet you were. cause you're just a sad, helpless, weak little stupid baseline, aren't you? Privately threatens your fiance and the situation magically resolves.
Jaghatai Khan: Yeah I don't think the nature of the marriage would stop him from stealing/eloping/kidnapping you. Whatever you wanna call it again ur gawn.
Leman Russ: The Space Wolves would DEFINITELY sabotage the wedding in this case. Explodes ur fiancé's head right on the stage sorrryyy.
Rogal Dorn: He'll object but also has 500 contingency plans in case you don't want to leave, can't leave, hostage situation, fiance is powerful war wise, if the carpets are an ugly colour etc etc he's thought it all through.
Sanguinius: Air strikes! Doesn't bother professing his love publicly, it's not for the ears of your fiance or anyone who went along with this. Soft launches a proposal as he's giving a speech to his legion about another successful attack.
Ferrus Manus: Still angry, but also disgusted. He ultimately believes in the good of humanity but considers this a sick and disgusting thing to do. He let's some of his idiot sons out of their stupid cage as extra intimidation and just, walks out the venue with you. lol
Angron: KILL MAIM BURN but not from him, surprisingly. He too is letting his idiots off their leash with the promise of whoever retrieves the fiancé's head gets a pat on the shoulder from him. This is a Lie. He picks you up and fucks off.
Roboute Guilliman: Frantic but livid. He's going through all the correct procedures of "rescuing" you and calling off the wedding but he is barely containing the urge to rip your fiancé's lung from his chest. Well, he wouldn't do it in the moment but mysteriously he turned up dead? huh, weird.
Mortarion: Annoying Motherfucker lmao. A part of him believes this isn't true and that you actually wanted this. In his self loathing he would miss the chance to act in the moment and gave to *rectify it later. *read: kill with poison
Magnus: mind control, its very effective.
Horus Lupercal: Objects but he's less Cunt about it. He's just fucking angry and is rapidly approaching with intent to kill as he half confesses half threatens everyone present.
Lorgar Aurelian: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (occasionally turns to your fiance and condemns him to hell) (the word bearers are gonna fucking GET him)
Vulkan: He'd never kill a human for no valid reason but he's honestly debating whether or not this counts as a valid reason. He objects and proposes very romantically and frankly, who's gonna stop a man that size from just walking off with you?
Corvus Corax: Grits his teeth and let's it go through. He doesn't want you to have the association as his romantic interest because it would endanger you. But mysteriously your husband turns up dead oh no you'll just have to come under the protection of his legion because there's a killer out there.
Alpharius & Omegon: sabotaged the wedding with their weird minion sons And they are going to kill your husband. Maybe take his place maybe not but he won't stay alive
okkii hopefully this was different enough from the last one and entertaining
HIIII LOVE YOUR WRITINGS! But I wonder how would the primarchs cuddle the reader?
AAHHH THANK YOU!! 🥺
You wanna know how they cuddle do ya?
We'll hopefully you like this!
A/N: are some of these out of character? Absolutely
Did I want to make this whole thing fluffy
ABSO FRIGGIN LUTLEY
Some of these are longer than others simply because I don't write the characters too often!
Cuddles with the primarchs
Lion El'johnson.
"Come here"
Your breath caught in your throat as lions deep voice rumbled through your chamber. He sat slouched in his chair, emerald eyes trained on you with each small step you took towards him.
"Yes, my lord?"
The primarch continued to watch silently as you stepped closer, before swiping out and grabbing your wrist. You yelped as he hauled you into his lap and buried his face in the crook of your neck, wrapping his great arms around you and holding you close to him. His breath was warm on your neck as he inhaled your scent and you laughed, wiggling your arms free to loop them around his neck and run your hands through his golden hair.
"If you wanted me to hold you, you just have to ask" you cooed, tilting your head allowing him to nuzzle into your collar.
"If I want to hold you, I will" Lion huffed, grumbling slightly and you fell into a warm silence. Straddled across his lap, you combed your fingers through the silken strands as he squeezed you to his chest.
"Of course, my Lion~"
Fulgrim
"Now where do you think you're going?"
You giggled as Fulgrim gripped your waist and hauled you back onto the bed with him, pulling you flush to his bare chest he wrapped around you. Silvered hair tickled your neck as he kisses over your cheek.
"Fulgrim stop we need to get ready"
The primarch felt hot as he hugged you closer, mumbling into your neck.
"They can wait, let me hold you just a little longer~"
Resignation set in and you sighed, scooting yourself backwards to press against him. His lips turned up in a smirk as he kissed along your throat.
"5 more minutes my sweet, then I promise we will get up"
Perturabo
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
Perturabo stood over you, leering down as you glared back at him.
'Did you think I wouldn't see that stupid face you were pulling? Trying to catch Dorn's attention?"
His scowl deepened when you rolled your eyes and waved him off.
"I was not making faces at Rogal Dorn, you're being ridiculous"
Barking laughter broke from him as he took a knee and grabbed your chin, pulling you to face him.
"Am I not enough for you?"
Perturabos voice was harsh as he spoke, but staring back at him you saw his eyes soften and his lips twitch, insecurity threatening to claw its way through the rage and boil and the surface.
"You are" you relented, reaching up to cup his face. "You're always enough"
His grip on your chin released as you wrapped your hands around his neck. Large hands found your waist and pulled you close, lifting you off the floor and clutching you to his chest.
"You're ridiculous" you sighed, kissing his cheek as he held you.
"If you ever do it again-"
Perturabo trailed off, squeezing you slightly as he spoke.
"I know. I know"
Jaghatai Khan
"It's freezing out here!"
You curled up against the Khan's broad chest as you sat precariously on the jet bike, hugging the chassis with numb fingers.
Jaghatai chuckled and leant over you, flicking the engine off with an easy movement. The roar of the engine cut instantly, but heat continued to radiate through the metal.
"It is not so bad" he laughed as you pressed your cheek to the rapidly cooling engine cover.
"Not for you, you're super human. I am just a normal human"
The Primarch hummed and reached down, prying your fingers off the bike. "come here then"
"No no no, it's warm please just let me warm up"
You whined as he pulled you from the heat and watched with wide eyes as he unbuttoned his coat, popping the front open to reveal his broad scarred chest.
"Come here"
He spun you and pulled you against him, wrapping the dense fur around you and pressing you to his bare skin. The difference was immediate, heat radiating through you.
"Better?"
You lent your head back, grinning as colour began to return to your cheeks. His chest vibrated beneath you when you nuzzled back beneath the jacket and he laughed, cupping your back with his hand.
"Oh yeh, much better"
Leman Russ
"Down! Get down!"
2 pairs of eyes gleamed at you as you struggled to rise from the bed, held flat against the mattress by a thick layer of fur and a mass of muscle on top.
"Freki, Geri, get down! I have things to do I can't stay in bed all day"
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, wheezing and collapsing back down when a massive paw slammed into your chest followed by the wet drag of a hot rough tongue along your cheek.
Both wolves stood over you, ears pricked and tails wagging softly as they stared at you with vivid amber eyes whilst Freki's clawed paw rested on your stomach.
"Look I promise we can cuddle later, but I seriously have work I need to do-"
"Wolves don't bargain, they take what they want"
Leman's voice was rich and heavy with laughter as he stepped towards the edge of the bed shrugging a heavy furred cloak to the floor.
"I'm very quickly learning that"
He chuckled, reaching over the scruff his hand across the top of Freki's head.
"Alright enough, off"
With a low whine, the weight on your body lifted as the wolf released you, stepping back and settling on his haunches next to his brother towards the bottom of the vast bed. You sat up and groaned, stretching the ache from your back and watching as leman sat on the edge, pulling his snow trodden boots off and tossing them aside.
"Thank you, honestly I wish I could stay in bed but I have to UUFF-"
you promptly found yourself sprawled in your back again as leman lay next to you and rolled over, pinning you beneath a muscled arm.
"Are you serious! I have things to do! And you do! You're a primarch you can't spend all day in bed"
Russ grunted, pulling you toward him.
"Fenris is cold, little one. I'd hate for you to freeze"
He opened one icey blue eye and grinned.
"besides, didn't I just say you can't bargain with wolves"
Your retort was interrupted as, with an excited bark, the two wolves launched themselves towards you, sliding against your back and pressing into your legs as they curled up around you.
"Fine. Five more minutes"
Rogal Dorn.
"Rogal"
"...."
"Rogal"
"....."
"Roooogaaaaaallllll"
The praetorian sighed and dragged his hand down his face before looking over at you.
"Yes?"
"I'm bored"
He stared at you blankly, pen hovering over the diagram on his desk midway through writing.
"You interrupted me to tell me you are bored"
You nodded, smiling softly as he sighed again, tossing the pen aside and leaning back in his chair.
"You realize I have work to do? Important work"
"I know. But you've been doing it for ages, I think you need to take a break"
Steely eyes softened slightly as you stepped towards him and sat on his knees, leaning your back against his chest.
"I'm almost done" he muttered, placing a large palm on your waist and tracing a small circle into your skin with his thumb
You sat propped against him, dozing in his lap listening to the bellow of his lungs and the soft scratch of ink on parchment. His hand stayed present on your hip and his lips pressed gentle kisses to the crown of your head as he worked, enjoying the quiet companionship as he held you close.
You opened your eyes, blinking sleep from then as you looked around. The candles had burned low and the ink had long since dried on the schematics littered across the desk. You felt firm arms wrapped around you and you slid your head up, along the thick fabric of his shirt.
"Hey" he whispered, smiling slightly.
"Hi" you snuggled back down, relaxing into his arms as the last of the candle wick burnt down to cinders.
Konrad Curze.
"You're so small."
"Compared to you I am"
"And soft"
You leaned back and frowned at the night haunter, untangling yourself from his long arms with a scowl.
"Remember when we talked about things that sound good in your head, but are weird when you say them?"
"Yes"
"Yeh that's one of those things"
Curze flashed a grin, bearing jagged fangs as he pulled you back towards him. Hunched over in a dark corner in the bowels of the ship, the sound of ceramite and bellowing astartes was muted beneath tons of iron and the roar of engines.
"But you are. You are soft."
You conceded with a low huff and a roll of your eyes, allowing him to pull you back into his lap. In the darkness, you felt his hands run along your arms and his lips press to your temple, blind to everything except the flash of sharpened teeth. In the belly of the nightfall where light faltered and the noise was faint, Curze held you close, savouring the feel of your warmth against his bare skin.
"You are small and warm and soft"
He shook slightly as he clung to you, grounding himself and inhaling your scent.
"Soft and warm and so so fragile"
Sanguinius
"I'm sorry, I can't right now"
Sanguinius brushed past you into the room, tossing his cloak to the side. You gathered his cloak, struggling under the size and weight as you dragged it off the bed. You stilled as the heavy scent of iron hit your nose and a flash of scarlet across the fabric drew your eye.
Draping the material across a chair, you sat on the edge of the bed watching and waiting.
The angel stood near the window, the vast view of bhaal stretching out behind the frosted glass as he scrubbed his hands in a basin, the water slowly turning red. Tension was thick across his body, his shoulders stiff and wings puffed. He ran a soft towel across his hands and tossed it aside with a hiss.
"Sanguinius"
He glanced over his shoulder at your voice, watching you intently as you straightened the bed sheet before patting it.
"Sit. Please?"
With a heavy sigh, Sanguinius stepped over towards you and fell to the mattress, your body lifting as his weight hit the bed.
"Lay back"
Staring at you for a moment, he reluctantly slid backwards, spreading his arms wings across the silken sheets as he lay on his back with his legs hanging off the edge.
You shuffled, pressing yourself against him as you snuggled up to his side. Using his chest as a pillow, you ran your hand along the wall of muscle, tracing small shapes along his stomach.
After a moment, his own hand lifted and his finger trailed along your shoulder before gripping you and pulling you on top of him.
"Rough day?" You mused, pressing your ear against his pecs to listen to the dual beat of his hearts.
"Indeed"
"It's over now"
Sanguinius sat up suddenly, straddling you in his lap as his wings wrapped around you, shielding you both.
"yes. It's over now"
Ferrus manus
"What is this?"
"Not something you should be touching"
"what about this?"
Ferrus reached over and yanked the tool from your grip, placing it back on the table.
"It is not for you"
Rolling your eyes you folded your arms, pouting as the primarch continued to focus on his work.
"Ferrus'"
Silver eyes flicked to you before returning to the tools.
"Ferrus!"
With a growl he slammed the item down, rattling the worktop as he spun to you.
"What"
"You're the one who asked me to come here, so why are you ignoring me"
Ferrus Manus pinched the bridge of his nose, scowling and taking a deep breath before replying.
"You wanted to see my work, this is my work"
You softened, unclenching your arms. You had complained he left you alone too often, forgoing the limited time you had together to ticker in his workshop. You hadn't realized this was his attempt and making an effort.
"I know" you stepped towards him. "Im sorry"
Ferrus nodded, turning back to the table before pausing. With a grunt he lifted you, setting you down on a large stool near his worktop.
Stepping behind you he lent over your shoulder, his breath hot against your cheek as he spoke. Taking your hands, he moved them over each item on the desk.
"This is used to augment the cardiac valves in the astartes to ensure maintained pressure output from their heart."
He moved your hand to another device and his lips moved to your neck.
"This lens allows for increased optical resolution when sniping"
"and what's that?"
He scoffed, lips twitching against your throat.
"That's a screw driver"
"Oh"
He released your hands, placing his own metallic palms around your waist.
"Don't worry, you'll learn"
Angron
"Deep breath"
You knelt in the bunk as the primarch rested his head on your thighs, eyes crunched shut in pain. Running your hands along his cheeks and temples you slowly worked your fingers through the tense muscle.
"It's ok, I'm here"
Angron's teeth ground against each other as another wave hit him, the nails biting deep and flooding his body with rage. You moved along his jaw and down his neck, wincing as the muscle spasmed beneath your touch.
"You should go" he spat, wincing up at you.
"No it's ok"
The primarch head jerked and his fingers clenched at the sheets as another wave hit him.
"Im here, I've got you"
Angron's body shook and he snarled, spit flying from his jaw
"Why? Why do you stay. I could kill you"
"But you won't"
"I can't hold you" he whispered, twitching as he fought the nails.
"But I can hold you"
You bent over, cupping his cheeks as you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"I'll hold you as long as you need"
Roboute guilliman
"Roboute?"
Guilliman blinked up at you as you stepped into his office, a large steaming mug gripped in both hands.
"I thought you'd still be working, so I bought you this"
You stepped up to his desk, sliding the recaff across the surface and smiling sadly at him.
"You should take a break, you're exhausted"
He shook his head, dragging a hand through his short crop of blonde hair before taking a large swing of the coffee and wrinkling his nose.
"Is there sugar in this?"
You shrugged. "you need your energy"
Reclining back in the massive chair, guilliman puffed out a heavy breath and gestured over the forms across the table.
"I'll finish these and then come and join you a little while ok?"
Shaking your head you clambered up onto the desk, sitting on the forms and missives as you placed yourself directly in front of him.
"Come here"
You spread your arms wide and waited. Roboute cocked a brow at you before sliding his chair forward. You took his head in your hands and pulled it towards your chest.
"what are you-"
"Shhh"
You held him there until the tension began to leave him, the weight of his head becoming heavy in your hands as he slowly began to relax. He wrapped his own arms around your waist and nuzzled against your chest.
"Better?"
"Better"
Mortarion
"You should see this mortarion!"
You lent against the guardrail, staring out of the port side window of the endurance as it floated in orbit around the green planet.
"I've seen it"
"No really, it's beautiful!"
You heard the heavy wheeze behind you before you felt his presence.
"Look! Isn't it amazing!"
You leaned over further, pointing out through the glass.
"Be careful" he coughed, cold hands gripping into the back of your shirt. "It's a long way down if you fall"
You flashed a grin at him over your shoulder, catching the twitch of the mask on his face as he smiled back.
"I'm not scared, besides if I did fall I'm sure you-"
Creeeaaakk SNAP
As if on cue, the railing snapped. You floated for a split second, still gripping the split railing as your eyes turned down to see the control deck far below. Air rushed around your face and you opened your mouth to yell.
Suddenly you were yanked backwards, Harshly tossed to the floor as mortarion stood over you, eyes wide and body tensed.
"What did I tell you?"
Before you could reply, the pale king dropped to his knees and hauled you against him, one cold hand clutched to the back of your head as the other dug into your back.
"Be careful" he hissed, coughs wracking his body as he fought the panic that had risen so suddenly.
Mortarion froze as you slowly lifted your arms and wrapped them around his neck, pressing your face into his collar.
"Thank you"
Magnus
Magnus lounged on the large chaise, one leg kicked up against the cushion and the other propped on the floor as he flicked through the tome in his hands.
"Magnus?"
He paused, looking up from the page as you staggered into the room rubbing your eyes.
"Yes? What's wrong?"
"I woke up and you were gone" you whispered. "I was worried"
He cocked his head, red locks falling about his face and sympathetic smile as he spread his arms wide.
"Come here, little one"
Still blinking sleep from your eyes you shuffled forward, falling face down across his chest and sprawling across him, tangling your legs around his.
"What are you reading?"
"Would you like me to read it to you?"
Magnus placed a large hand on your head, soothing you as he spoke.
"In the age of man, before the imperium-"
Horus lupercal
"well aren't you a sight for sore eyes"
You laughed, sprinting towards the warmaster as he pushed his way into your chambers
"Horus! I missed you!"
He chuckled as you flung yourself towards him, easily lifting you so you could cling to his neck, peppering his cheek with kisses.
Carrying you with him, he perched himself on the edge of your bed, falling backwards and rolling to pin you beneath him.
"I was so worried! I heard you were injured"
"Greatly exaggerated tales" he mused, pressing his forehead to yours.
Pressing a kiss to your forehead he sat back upright, draping his heavy fur around you and pulling you to his side.
"Luckily Chaplain Erebus was able to help me before things got too out of hand"
You snuggled against his side with a contented sigh, enjoying the feeling of his strong hands holding you tightly.
"I'm glad, it sounds like he looked after you"
"Indeed. All is well"
Lorgar aurelian
Lorgar sat on his knees before you. wide eyes and lips parted, he stared at you like you hung the stars in the sky.
"My love, my love" he whispered, over and over as you ran your hands over his shaved head and cheeks.
"Yes, I'm here lorgar"
He rested his head in your lap, closing his eyes with a blissful sigh as you danced your fingers across his skin.
"Hold me" he cooed, tilting his jaw to meet your fingers. "Bless me with your touch"
"Let me embrace you, lorgar" you hummed, your voice distorted as the world flickered around you.
"Yes, embrace me"
"Join me, Lorgar... Forget the imperium... And join me"
Vulkan
"You are welding that incorrectly"
You threw the hammer down, sweaty and irritated as once again the dagger warped in the heat. Vulkan laughed, watching you throw you hands up exasperated.
"It takes time to get this right, don't get angry"
"That's easy for you to say!"
Turning your back to vulkan, you stamped your tooth and seethed. Glaring at the glowing forge you kicked and the anvil, hissing when pain shot through your foot.
"Take a breath"
You stiffened as vulkan knelt and wrapped his arm around you from behind. The heat of the workshop was nothing compared to the furnace of primarch that pressed his weight against you.
"you'll get there" he whispered against your ear, gently stroking your arm.
"I know"
"Now try again. this time, like this" he slid his hand from your hip, up to your shoulder and along your arm, gripping your wrist and flexing it"
"got it?"
"Got it"
Corvus Corax
The room was dark, only a single streak of moonlight creeping through the fluttering curtains and painting a silver streak across your face as you slept.
Corvus stood wreathed in shadows watching you. Your lips parted slightly as you mumbled. Stepping silently from the corner, he slipped onto the bed beside you, brushing a curtain of hair from your face.
"I'm back" he whispered, pulling the sheet over your shoulder.
You muttered and twitched at his voice, but remained locked in sleep as he curled up next to you, reaching over to pull you against him. Placing a large palm across your stomach, he pulled your hips against his and curled around you, sliding his other arm under your head.
"I'm here now"
He froze as you opened your eyes. blinking in confusion you twisted slightly, seeing the raven lord curled up behind you.
"Oh, am I dreaming?" You yawned.
"Yes, just a dream"
You nodded like you'd heard a secret and rolled back over, rubbing you head against his arm and locking your fingers with his long slender ones across your stomach.
"I hope I don't wake up too soon"
Alpharius/Omegon
"you know how I can tell you apart?"
The twins both looked up at you, identical looks of amusement as you glanced at them over the table.
"Oh really?"
"mhmm. And I can prove it. Come here"
One of the brothers stood, chuckling, he strode over and took a knee in front of you. You rose to your feet and opened your arms wide.
"Hold me"
The primarch smile broadened as he wrapped both arms around your waist and lifted you, spinning you around as he squeezed you gently. After a moment he set you down and you gestured to the other to do the same.
With a confident smirk he approached you. Dropping to kneel, he wrapped one hand around your waist as the other tangled itself in your hair, tilting your neck as he brushed his lips against your pulse point.
After a moment, you stepped back and pointed
"You're Alpharius"
Pointing to the second twin.
"And you're Omegon"
Alpharius laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder.
"Very well done. But what if we weren't to touch you?"
You tapped your lip in fake thought.
"We'll I suppose I'd have to slap a sticker or something on your back, just to be safe"
After having your happy end with your lovely Primarch it’s time to go down a different path because fate is ever changing and you don’t always get what you want!
Happy endings you can find here: Part 1, Part 2
Neutral endings: Part 2
Bad endings: Part 1
Tag List: @subtlepoisonknowledge @beckyninja @jackalwolfsoul @the-mysterious-detective @stpdeletacc @randomlyappearingartist @celestia0473 (Everyone can be added, just ask in the comments!)
Fulgrim
You pitied your boyfriend a lot lately.
Despite what many saw in him you knew one thing for certain: Fulgrim was never happy. Every craft there was had already been mastered by him in his long life or was beneath him to even start. Hardly anything was new and life felt dull surrounded by all this finery.
Looking back at it now it had been arrogant of you to think that your presence and love alone would somehow fill that bottomless pit that is his heart when nothing else had achieved it. And somehow his own unhappiness had spread unto you like a rot. You were never going to be good enough and it killed any enjoyment you had for life. Worst of all you started to doubt the sincerity of his love. It felt too much like an act to appear perfect in front of everyone else while his time with you has grow scarce and genuine moments are few and far between. He was in his studio again. Painting and painting and painting. Something was driving his obsession and carrying him further away from you. You never thought that someday you would contemplate leaving him. He was a demi-god, son of the Emperor, desired by so many but he had chosen you out of millions. By all means you should be happy and proud to stand by his side! But things were quite different from what you had imagined and now you laid in a cold bed like some discarded trinket while he was somewhere trying to achieve what he saw as ‘perfection’.
‘Nothing is stopping me from leaving.’ You thought but the hope that things would turn back normal never left you and you stayed, even if it meant being unhappy for the rest of your, in comparison to him, short life. And you can’t help but wonder if all his other partners had felt the same way.
Roboute Guilliman
“I just wanted to say that no matter what you choose, I don’t want you to think that if we go our separate ways that I will strip you of your position and status. It’s…not how I want things to be between us. One having power over the other.”
And you believed that those words were genuine. It had been only a month since you decided that your relationship with Roboute needed a break and you missed him already. The thing that you doubted though was not his love. You doubted that it made a difference if you were around him or not.
When you entered this relationship you knew that you were getting into something much more bigger than you. He was the remaining sonnig the Emperor, a saint in some peoples eyes and you were just a baseline human. Yet Roboute had never made you feel insignificant. What broke the camels back was when he was called away on the day of your anniversary. It was always like that. He never was truly yours, never had time for just you two despite his best efforts. Perhaps you were truly that unimportant that he couldn’t even spare a full day for you.
“Will you be returning back to the flagship, my lady?” one of the Astartes that was send to guard you asked with a tad bit of hope in his voice that you would reconcile with his gene father. And perhaps you would do just that. The love for him never left you. Only the circumstances around his whole being pushed you away.
“No. Let me stay for the rest of the month like I have planned.” you said with a sigh. Despite everything you still loved him, still wanted to be by his side even if you knew he could never be truly yours. A big part of him will always belong to that rotten carcass of an Empire but you could take the other part that could still be fully yours.
Perturabo
In all those years being with Perturabo you learned one thing: This man was hard to love.
Or rather he didn’t allow anyone to love him. Sometimes you wondered how even Magnus managed to keep a lasting friendship with him. Maybe it only worked because he understood everything as fast as Perturabo. Others like you were less fortunate and never managed to match his genius mind and he rarely hid that fact. Still he kept you around and after what seemed like an eternity he took your relationship to another level. But his manners never changed and barbed words that never lost their sting came at you followed by a bandaid that was rarely spas soothing as he wanted it to be.
It was a never ending cycle and honestly you got used to it.
It wasn’t until something had started to change in the universe that you started to see a massive shift in him. Perturabo discarded you like a broken doll, being done playing with you. Your meals became lonely, he shut you out of his world and while he used to indulge your questions in his work now he told you it was none of your business. Perhaps it would be easier for you to accept that change if you knew what caused it or when it would end but you had no contact with Magnus in what seemed like a century and his sons were useless in this instance.
“Do you even love me anymore?” you asked one day and while you were certain that Perturabo heard you, your question went unanswered. Now you could either soothe yourself with lies and delusions that your relationship will be back on its feet, that he just has a hard time with his father and the universe and his brothers. That this man still loved you and just didn’t show it.
Or maybe it was time to leave.
Rogal Dorn
It was no secret that Rogal Dorn was the “Praetorian of Terra”. A great honor for him and for his legion.
You saw it as a fancy title for being under his father’s thumb.
When you first started to court each other it had been obvious that Dorn was a direct person and fulfilled orders without arguments. For a while you didn’t take it as a big of a deal. In fact it had been more than refreshing having someone who will tell you the truth and who would not backstab you at any given moment. Sadly you didn’t know how deep his loyalty to the Emperor ran. More deep than it ran for you apparently. He would hear you out if you had something to say but would always follow what his father ordered. You weren’t even competition.
At least Dorn tried to assure you that everything would be fine and that besides his father’s unconventional methods you were in no danger. The patters that you have noticed told a different story.
Even now when you asked if you two could leave Terra at least for a while he hesitated. You were way too close with Dorn and knew too much to be left to walk freely. But you had hoped that you could visit your family and that you somehow would manage to move him to pity. He loved you after all…but orders were orders and he could only try and mediate between you and his duty. You tried not to let heretical thoughts pollute your mind but you couldn’t help but wonder if the Emperor would will it, would your beloved get rid of you without hesitation? How much would Dorn argue your case till he would inevitably comply? It didn’t conform you to think about it. Nor did it help that you couldn’t leave without an escort or approval from above.
“If the Emperor approves it.” was his usual answer and you accepted it with a sigh. The leash around your neck was tightening and soon even you wouldn’t be able to escape his father’s grip. It was scary and you had to fight the urge to run but ultimately the only way you could live besides Dorn was by stepping into line and keeping your head low. As long as you stood out of the way you should be fine…probably.
Angron
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold your sob when you hear someone passing the hallway. Breathe in. Breathe out.
That had been your routine for the past hour after Angron had told you through clenched teeth to get out. There was not much to say besides that the Nails bit into his brain so strongly that you were in genuine danger. You had taken precautions while dating him and the routine of hiding was for you as normal as breathing. But it never became less scary. Lately those episodes became more frequent and violent and even the Apothecaries theorized that his end was nearing and would be in a violent way.
A part of you knew that if Angron truly wanted it he could easily tear through all precautions and fail safes. Hardly anything could keep this man away for long. Yet you desperately hoped that you would be spared, that he wouldn’t search for you. Sooner or later Khârn would come for you, telling you that it was safe to come out and then you would pretend like nothing had happened till the next episode.
By the Emperor did you start to regret making the first move and in retrospect you didn’t know what had even attracted you in the first place to him. It was the danger and status that came by dating a Primarch you figured and now you were paying the price for your greed. Perhaps it would’ve been easier if you could blame him for that failure of a relationship. But it was not his fault that he had those horrendous instruments in his head. It was not his fault that they were driving him crazy with pain. And it felt wrong to leave him even if it meant risking your own life just to be together in his last years of life.
The same fear that was driving you away from him, kept you in that relationship and you had no idea how he would even react if you would propose to break up, most likely it will end in another lash out. You should’ve never started to court him. The noises in the hallway grew louder again and all you could do was to remain as silent as you could.
Sanguinius
“You’re thinking about death again, aren’t you?” you asked as you caught the same look on his face again.
It had been an evening like any other when he allowed himself to indulge in his unconventional desires and licking the blood from your collarbone. Sanguinius was a peculiar creature. Wings, a sight into the future and a thirst for blood. Your lover never indulged in those urges, preferring to keep it subtle or restraining it and keeping violence only for the battlefield. It took you a while to even find out about the more darker things of his existence.
Still on rare occasions you would allow him to taste your blood and you trusted him that he wouldn’t suck you dry. And after that he would always have that guilty look in his eyes, mixed with the revulsion at how close he actually is to killing you. In fact it would take one bite for him to sever your throat and it made him contemplate your mortality. Death was always on his mind and lately that look crossed his face more often even during daytime. You were aware that at some point you would die and he would live on without you but that grief was far away for now and you wanted for him to stop looking at you like you would die soon.
There was a strange feeling of foreboding, a feeling of dread. Something would happen soon and it would be inevitable. He just hoped that you wouldn’t get involved into that mess. He didn’t want to tell you that you two would not have a lot of time together anymore. It would only worry you more than necessary and he wanted you to have your peace.
“The future doesn’t leave my mind but I’m sure it won’t come to pass.” he said and it made you wonder if what he saw was truly so horrific. In the end Sanguinius didn’t have the heart to tell you that he saw his brother kill him in most of his visions.
Ferrus Manus
“You don’t need to be afraid.” Ferrus said to you one time when you brought your concerns to him “They may have that world view but you are my beloved and they will not lay a finger on you.”
You never ventured alone out of your rooms even if you knew that no one would dare to hurt you. No one would but fear and doubt still clung to you every time you saw the sheer indifference and sometimes barely concealed frowns on their faces. His whole legion couldn’t understand what their Primarch liked about you, someone who could be easily replaced with a servitor.
Ferrus fell in love with your strength. His Astartes were left questioning where it was. Surely a baseline could never hope to impress a Primarch. You were some kind of anomaly. For a long time you tried not to let their words and looks get to you but even the strongest fortress crumbles. Were you loosing the strength of character that Ferrus fell in love with? You couldn’t even face one of his sons anymore without feeling the anxiety creeping in the back of your mind. Would he discard you once he saw the truth of it?
You were certain you couldn’t keep on going with all of this but for a brief moment your worries faded away when you stood with Ferrus. He gave you the strength to keep going, the hope that you would prevail, the happiness that you craved and you stayed. Stayed despite the dismay you have gotten from his sons. You could pretend to be strong a while longer.
Let’s see if you can live with the loathing of his legion till the moment you die.
Mortarion
‘Ah damn I messed up.’ was the first thing that ran through your mind when you bumped into a table and broke a phial in his lab.
You just wanted to put back one of the books you had taken from him. Being with Mortarion was challenging and sometimes this man was such an enigma you could compare him with his brother Magnus (not that you would ever do it in front of him, less you would want to get his ire). And you always made the effort to try to understand him and the world he inhabited. It may not be pretty but it was what made Mortarion and worth your time.
And now your own curiosity would get you killed.
It was a simple phial that rolled down the table and broke on the floor but it was enough to set free the fumes of his new project. Soon your eyes began to water and your nose was met with a biting scent, followed by you slowly starting to suffocate as the air was polluted. You just needed to make it to the door and you might still get a chance to live. Mortarion surely had a cure for whatever you inhaled. You just needed to reach that damn door…
The only pleasant thing was perhaps the cold floor. Your airways were irritated and dark spots were appearing in your vision. It was too late, you couldn’t even crawl or call for help as a suffocatingly lonely death was awaiting you.
Your death would be pointless and it would fuel his bitterness even more. The thing he was making for the Emperors enemies ultimately killed the only thing he loved. Maybe he was truly a child of death and everything was doomed to die in his presence.
Lorgar Aurelian
It had been perhaps one of your biggest fights that you had with Lorgar and all thanks to the two snakes on his sides. Of course he didn’t see it that way and in his eyes you were just delusional and against him like the rest of the world. You had just recommended to take a different approach for things and that had confirmed something for him that you weren’t even aware of.
It had ended up in an argument that lasted for an hour before he decided it was enough and escalated it. Lorgar had grabbed you by the scruff of your coat and carried to out of the ship, tossing you easily into the streets. Your knees sting but not as much as your pride and hear. He had never gotten physical with you and you didn’t recognize the man you loved once. Instead there was a vicious being.
“If you do not follow me then we are through. Go and get lost, I don’t want to see your face on my ship ever again or I will take matters into my own hands and get rid of you personally.” And somehow you knew that he was not bluffing.
Now you were stuck on this forsaken planet with a door slammed shut in front of your face. Lorgar had boarded the shuttle back to his flagship and you have seen the barely concealed smile on Erebus face when the doors closed and you were left behind. Whatever he wanted, he had achieved it. Honestly you didn’t know where to go, having long been dependent on Lorgar. But that would have to end now since you were not sure if he would even take you back. You send out a distress signal, hoping that someone of the other legions would answer or maybe some rogue trader. After all not all of his brothers were unreasonable and you would find someone nearby to help you back to your feet.
Luckily for you there seemed to be a vessel of the Ultramarines nearby that answered your cry for help.
