Wrappping things up with a couple more WIP scraps that were either too fragmented to post alone or I still haven’t given up on believing I’ll one day finish them. [nsfw]

***

[post-Betrayer Guilliman/Lorgar psychic/dream hatesex]

Lorgar had guessed that Guilliman would determine he was in a dream, them lose all interest in interacting with his subconscious’ imagining of the traitor. He had been wrong (as usual, a part of Guilliman’s mind said, even as another told him he should qualify that with unfair).

‘Payback for Nuceria?’ Lorgar asked. Guilliman would prefer he didn’t talk, but when had he ever done what Guilliman wanted, or shut up? Even in his imagination. He’d rather not dream of him at all, or that he not exist.

For everything, he thought, but didn’t say because he would scream it. He hated Lorgar and hated Lorgar for being able to make him lose control.

Lorgar seemed to hear, but this was a dream, after all. ‘Go on. This is my gift to you. The only one I can give, when in the waking world I can’t stop and can’t justify myself to you.’

Guilliman hit him again, angrier. He didn’t want this Lorgar who wasn’t fighting him. He wanted the cleanness of a battlefield, to overcome another primarch who was a worthy opponent and to drag him back to Terra in chains because he was better. He didn’t want the empty victory of triumphing over this weak, spineless, masochistic, childish, mewling thing, which Lorgar was, possibly by his own addled, inherent nature.

*

[Russ takes Konrad on a spirit/totem quest, also hot springs sex]

Leman balanced the tray heaped high with food and beer easily even as he followed the incline deeper into the mountain. He would have been following the smell of sulphur, had there been any question where things were in his own halls.

The first day after he’d fished his brother out of the snow he’d barely spoken, armour malfunctioning from the cold and hair brittle with ice, wrapped in a nest of fur and wool and the body heat of Leman and his milk-brothers and everyone in the general vicinity he dragged in to act as a furnace, plied with boiling tea and soothing darkness. As Konrad slowly thawed he had become more snappish, but he had eventually agreed to try the hot springs over his scepticism and reluctance to be both cold and wet.

He didn’t see Konrad at first, and more off-puttingly couldn’t smell him over the background scents, but after a moment he unfolded from the water to keep Leman in his line of sight. Water cascaded down his hair and clung to his skin, his form sleek and whipcord thin for a primarch.

There was no question what was going to happen after that.

Leman set the tray down carefully, because one was not wasteful with food, even though that was not why he was salivating. His shirt clung to him with the steam in the air as he pulled it over his head, joining his outer coat and cloak and followed shortly by his layers of trousers.

*

[Dorn/Sevatar set in the same verse as various past crack fic for that pairing, such as this]

‘I don’t think of you as a whore, you know. That’s how you think of yourself, and that’s a problem.’

‘Fascinating.’ Sevatar stretched languidly. ‘Are you going to tell me you’re fucking me because you like me next?’

‘I do not. Prostitutes, from what I understand, are sought to be anonymous, to be totally different from a relationship with a lover, to be able to do thing they wouldn’t do with someone “normal” or worthy of respect, who is a real person.’

‘You respect me now?’ Sevatar raised an eyebrow at Dorn.

‘For all your faults, they are not all that you are, and I do acknowledge you as a warrior of the Legionnes Astartes. My point is, while you might think me willing to degrade you, do you really believe I would him?’

Sevatar didn’t have a good argument to that, because any idiot could see that Dorn and Sigismund adored each other. He spared Sigismund a glimpse: propped up against Dorn’s pillows, gorgeous as ever, obviously jealous.

‘I know sex doesn’t have to be degrading. Never took you for the harmless fun type, though.’

Now, Sevatar had turned tricks as a kid on occasion because it was just what you did, to survive. As an adult he still approached sex as something not necessarily related to emotions in any way, but it was a different matter. You didn’t enjoy whoring, while if he was something of a slut now it was because he did like the sex he had. He wasn’t necessarily nice to the people he fucked, especially if they were weak or he was proving a point, and few people were stronger than he was or had power over him.

(Curze was his own matter: he wasn’t prone to introspection or figuring out what emotions meant. He just knew Curze existing made him do things he knew before, during, and after were totally insane, and never regretting it.)

‘Should I be “respecting myself” more?’

*

[Angron/Russ, Brightest Idea AU]

‘You would think this is a good idea. Revelling in being ordered here.’ Angron snorted. ‘You want another notch on your belt?’

‘Actually, I want you to fuck me.’

Angron hadn’t gotten going, the Nails hadn’t started biting in earnest, so he was capable of stopping short. He had expected to need to chase Russ off with a good pounding, him with his swagger and casual assurance that the galaxy belonged to him, that no one could say no to him without going against the Warmaster’s intentions or would.

‘Why? I don’t expect submission from the Wolf King.’

‘Because I don’t hate you, brother, and I don’t look down on you for any of the reasons you think I do. I don’t expect you to ever like me, but when you think of me I’d rather you be reminded of how I felt under you, and that I let you without reservations. I don’t care if it leads nowhere but you mocking me for playing the woman to you next time we meet.’

‘I’m not known for my memory.’ Or any conscious thought that wasn’t fragmented and broken for that matter.

‘I can remind you anytime, though I hope to be unforgettable.’ That was Russ’ grin, like fate was convenient and went just how was most convenient for him. ‘You don’t have to hold anything back; I can take it.’

Angron’s eyes twitched spastically. ‘Bad enough you’re a cur who expects everyone to lick the boot of one who kicks you like you would, but now you’re just asking for it.’

‘I couldn’t be asking any more clearly: Fuck me.’ He made it sound like a challenge.

[…]

He’d wondered if Russ intended to lie there and take it, but he was no passive participant; he surged against Angron, kissing and biting and pressing them together. It infuriated Angron how he wrestled with him, but for fun, not as one fought a contest he intended to win. Angron wanted to hurt him, wanted to make this a contest of life or death he needed to win rather than watch someone fight him like it was a game when so many better men and women had died wanting to live.

[…]

To his annoyance, Russ had not been unsuccessful. It took conscious effort to remember why he hated him so much, while what naturally came to the forefront of his mind from looking at Russ was how good it had felt to be inside him, with his fingers digging into Angron’s back to urge him on.

*

[fem!Emperor/Russ, Consort AU, they were having an argument about Magnus and gender roles or something]

Leman Russ’ lover was always overwhelming and powerful against him–this was his jarl as well as his bedmate after all–ancient and wise and nameless, something that made his very essence want to submit and show his belly and trail after like a dog, not to mention argue with as general to lord and crush their lips and skin together. And at the moment Leman’s lover was all of those things, and undeniably female.

Not just the body, though that was. Smooth skin, glossy black hair longer than it had been, soft and wet in all the right places, the heavy breasts and thighs of a mature woman who had borne many children and always had enough to eat, and no less strength in the muscle and bone below that. The scent was female–female hormones in sweat, feminine perfumes, a woman’s familiar lust. Leman knew perfectly well that sight didn’t really see his lover with his eyes, but he liked to laugh that he never got the smell perfectly matched to the body. What his nose told him he was smelling was what was put in his mind, the projected persona and force of will he saw as scents. So his lover did not merely look or smell like a woman, but was pressing it into his mind like the weight of the deep ocean upon his chest, the very essence of womanhood, motherhood,

*

[Dorn/Sigismund morning after, specifically in response to this fic]

Sigismund was known for his temper, not sheer awestruck wonder, but the situation call for it as far as he was concerned. Dorn had made love to him, and wanted to do it again even more so. Once was a dream, a fantasy to confess to a chaplain and ask for proper punishment to purge himself of covetousness. Or it could have been an accident or experiment or momentary lapse, though he didn’t think his lord was like that. Dorn waking him with a gentle kiss, like knight and sleeping princess might share, was another matter entirely.

He was still pressed against him, head pillowed on the solid wall of his pecs, as Dorn leaned down to reach his lips. Dorn had a hand on his cheek, guiding him to exactly where he should be. ‘I love you,’ Sigismund said, for what could be more right than to speak those words first each morning and last each evening?

‘I love you too, my son.’

Dorn’s other hand moved to stroke his side and he remembered the promise that after they’d taken the edge off they’d have plenty of time to explore every inch of each other. There were those who called Dorn cold and he could be, cold as the mountains of Inwit, but they’d never seen him smile ever so slightly every time he saw Sigismund, hear his dry and understated sense of humour, understand the passion driving his dedication and duty.

*

[Perturabo/Sigismund hatesex, Porn industry AU, something something porn movie excuse plot where Sigismund was in command at the Battle of Phall and was captured]

Perturabo hated him. The best. Of course Dorn had to get the best. Oh, there was Horus’s Abaddon and Curze’s Sevatar and Sanguinius’s Amit who were exceptional, but Sigismund, Sigismund was the best. And now he was Perturabo’s to possess, to hold down and despoil.

Almost as good as Sigismund was the immediate feedback of Dorn himself frowning, arms crossed, out of the view of the camera. Perturabo had fucked Dorn before, but that Dorn liked as much as he hated himself for liking it. This was fucking what Dorn loved most.

“You should have stayed home, boy. You should have never tried to match your strength against mine. I am iron. I will win.”

“I had to fight. I will do my duty. If my life is forfeit, then take it.”

“I can think of better use for you.” Perturabo ran a thumb across Sigismund’s sneering lips, holding his chin in place.

Sigismund held his gaze, defiant, as Perturabo claimed his mouth brutally. He didn’t fight as much as he could have, though. It was defiance for form’s sake, while he acknowledged his loss, for all that he was an Imperial Fist. If victory was denied him, he would accept with stoicism what he got. Perturabo didn’t want that.

*

[Lion/Curze, pre-UE]

The scent of rot in his nose, but it was only black mould growing on one of the abandoned decks of the Invincible Reason. Sudden sound, but only deck plates shifting and the ventilation cycling. It echoed strangely, not coming from exactly where his eyes and knowledge of his ship’s layout said it should, but that was only a pressure in his ears from the Warp transit throwing him off.

Yet the Lion knew his prey was close, the stain of him on the edge of his mind if not visible on the walls. He could smell the dried blood scent of him, seeming to come from everywhere without respite.

The faint glow of emergency lighting every few metres across the deck only served to make the shadows darker, where Curze hadn’t smashed them. He didn’t always, liking the contrast of it, the weakness of the light, almost as much as complete darkness.

The Lion felt a tug on the long strands of his gold hair, but Curze wasn’t there, only the breeze, only the shadow (it had been him all the same). He didn’t turn to look, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but all the same the next brush came across the cheek opposite his gaze. Wet, like a brush of lips or the flick of a tongue.

‘Curze,’ he growled. A laugh like a dying choke.

‘Frustrated at their dance of ours, brother? There are ways of taking that frustration out.’

‘You and your innuendo. You’re as bad as Russ.’ That was unfair to Russ, even the Lion had to admit. The wolf annoyed him with his flirting and their rivalry; the Lord of the Night was his enemy, a rabid thing that wanted to violate him mind and body.

‘Father did some strange ideas when he got started with you and Fulgrim,’ Curze said companionably. ‘Such beautiful monsters. I guess he changed his mind later, except with that bloodsucker.’

‘Don’t call him that.’

Curze laughed again, perfectly aware that the Lion hadn’t been defending Sanguinius’s honour. ‘No brother of yours am I? I could not have been make as you were, for then you would have to be like me.’

The Lion took a deep breath, still trying to smell for him. Rancid grease all around him. ‘I know I’m not like you.’

Breath on his ear, the scrape of sharpened teeth on the shell of it. ‘No, you’re too pretty for people to see through your lies to what you are, while I wear it writ on my skin.’

*

[Porn Industry AU, I think this was supposed to be part of the lead-in to the Ultraorgy]

It was a solid theoretical, Guilliman admitted it. It was certainly… eccentric that his father had decided to finance the war effort by sale of adult entertainment, but it had its benefits. People would certainly fall over themselves to give them money, compared to quotas and tithing that left resentment behind.

He didn’t mind getting naked. He didn’t mind the sex; sex was enjoyable. He wasn’t about to insist sex was only permissible between people who were in love or for the purpose of procreation or what have you. He simply maintained certain standards that any film he appeared in make at least some effort to establish the sex as consensual, respectful, and mutually pleasurable. While there were some of his brothers who he might have been inclined to argue with about the wider social implications of not holding to those standards in pornography, somehow the conversation would always descend into kinkshaming Dorn, and better not to open that can of worms.