I don’t usually post anything personal on this blog, but getting back into 40k and going through so many old fics and WIPs has got me musing about things that once happened and people I once knew, so open letter to the empty void of the internet it is.

I miss you, Sirithy. I still do. I believe it’s every person’s right to delete their internet presence and disappear forever, which is why I held myself back from making a big deal about it back in the day, but it hurt. I kept hoping it was a mistake, a misunderstanding, a momentary thing and you’d come back. I wish I knew why, even if I couldn’t stop you. I regret taking you for granted, not being a better friend, not reaching out more when you weren’t around before you disappeared completely.

I wish I’d gotten a chance to tell you how great you were. You were such a good friend to me. You were always there for me when I was in a rough spot, or just needed cheering up, or to be enthusiastic with when I was happy. You didn’t just give fics a kudos: you were this amazing person who wrote long, detailed, thoughtful comments on everything. I still have your damn comments copied down, in the files for my old fics, because your reactions meant so much to me. It was so great to co-write stuff with you, or write gift/response fic back and forth to each other; you inspired me so much. It was great to just shoot the breeze with you, and I wish I knew more about you, even if you were private about much irl stuff.

Also, I had a massive crush on you. It’s been years, I’m in a relationship with someone else now, and it’s not like I can mess anything up since you’re long gone and probably never going to read this, so I might as well say it.

Maybe someday you’ll feel nostalgic for people you knew back when you were in the 40k fandom and on tumblr and you’ll read this. I hope so. That’s what I really regret: never getting a chance to say goodbye, never getting a chance to tell you how much I loved and respected you and I how happy I still am to have known you. So there’s that.

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.

Summary: Euten meets Thiel. (Daemon Prince Guilliman AU, Thiel, Euten, background Guilliman/Thiel, sfw)

***

‘So you’re his new man.’

Thiel stopped politely to let the old woman catch up to him. ‘Mam,’ he said, respectfully. He knew who she was, of course he’d heard of Tarasha Euten, but the likes of him didn’t mix with such august personages. Or at least the likes of who he’d been. He’d have to get used to it. Other Space Marines he was at least comfortable arguing with, hence his history of censure, but a great lady such as this was outside his experience.

‘You gained his favour fast. Are you a cultist, one eager to listen to the revelations of the Word Bearers? You follow a daemon.’ She eyed his warding tattoos, their clearly Colchisian origins and the flickers of sorcerous power in them.

Thiel found himself more shocked than offended. He’d been insulted many times before with accusations he didn’t believe true, so was used to brushing them off. She had to have looked up the after-action reports after hearing of him. She had to know he’d killed many daemons and Word Bearers in the skies above Calth. She had to know how hard he’d fought.

But she also knew he’d failed. Any Space Marine could accomplish impressive-sounding deeds. To fail… had the task been too much for anyone, or was he a rogue who occasionally got lucky and had an inflated reputation, or (most terrible, unthinkable not so long ago) had he failed on purpose?

‘I’m sorry.’ He had never spoken the words aloud before, not to his primarch even. They didn’t seem enough. Lamely, he repeated them, ‘I am so sorry.’

The old woman stepped closer, looking more approving now, like she’d gotten a satisfactory answer. She looked quite a bit like Lord Guilliman in the expression, he thought, though he’d been adopted (though he was a daemon). He had in all likelihood learned that look to wear when being kind from her. She put her hand in a pocket and reached up to wipe his face. He hadn’t noticed when helpless tears had begun to leak from his eyes. ‘You love your lord back and your loyalty remains to him even as you mourn what he has become. That’s what I needed to check.’

‘I would have died for him, lady. I wish I had, even though there was never a practical where my death would have stopped anything or saved him. But since I live, I must do the most good I can.’

‘That is what it is. There is no longer a minimum of “because you’re an Ultramarine” that can be trusted.’

Thiel nodded. ‘The betrayal on Calth was terrible, but worse than the war against the Word Bearers was the civil war against our own. The purge.’ The former he could speak of without trouble, he had been angry not instinctively bothered, but the latter he couldn’t force his voice above a harsh whisper. They’d done what they had to. They had to for any of them to live, right then.

He continued, ‘You’ve heard the new general order throughout Ultramar? That those who cannot counterman what we’ve become may leave. If they love the Emperor more than our primarch, they can go to the Imperium. Obviously the Imperium will treat them as traitors and heretics as soon as they hear what’s happened here, no matter how true and pure and loyal they may be. But some have already left and I respect them for it and hope we can avoid fighting each other as surely as our lord does.’ In centuries to come, Thiel would never learn what became of them. No Imperial record remained. He could only hope that more of them had died in battle against Horus’ forces than executed by those they’d fought for.

‘Has he asked you to kill him if he ceases to be himself?’

‘Mam!’ he gasped, shocked. Oh, he liked her, he concluded a moment later. ‘He certainly did. Those are my orders.’

‘Good. I see no reason to think that should be necessary yet, but I never doubted he would plan for it. That means he trusts you, quite a bit. Any of you would do whatever he asked of you, that’s how you’re made, but that order… No, most of the Legion could not be trusted with it. Love blinds as well as illuminates. I could never do it, even if it pained me to see the monster he’d become, undoing all his good works and old triumphs.’

‘But that hasn’t happened yet.’

‘No, it hasn’t. He is still Roboute Guilliman, even as a daemon.’ Euten nodded to him. ‘I don’t expect you’ll ever break his heart, but tell me if he ever misuses yours. Don’t give me the martyr complex of a good subordinate–being his lover is something that deserves reciprocated respect and mutual enjoyment. I need to know if he’s changed to call him out on it. He’ll be far gone indeed before I’m unable to get through to him.’

‘Yes, mam.’ He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and added, ‘I love him. As lord more than lover, but I do. Everything I’ve done has been for him. I won’t fail him again.’

Summary: Dorn likes Loken well enough, but, well, not the way she likes Sieglinda. (AU: everyone is genderswapped, fem!Dorn/fem!Sigismund, background fem!Horus/fem!Loken, nsfw, WIP)

***

She bruises easily, Dorn had said, and those assembled had chuckled at the joke of the famed First Captain of the Imperial Fists troubled by a mere bruise. She was Sieglinda, the Black Knight, as aggressive as a Luna Wolf or a World Eater rather than more stoic Imperial Fist stereotype, the strongest of all the Legias Astartes.

But Rosaria Dorn touched her gently, because she was precious to her. Her hands were a primarch’s hands, made to crush the galaxy in her fists, so she never let herself be less than careful with Sieglinda. She pressed Sieglinda against her, feeling her calloused skin, taunt muscle, and soft breasts, and knew how very breakable she was for all the superlatives she had even among Astartes.

Sieglinda rested her head in the groove between her primarch’s breasts, her hands on the curves of her hips, boldness overcome by awe.

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure the Empress, beloved of all, will find some use for you in war, even from the bastion of Terra. Once she sees how utterly useless you are at staying behind walls.’

Sieglinda looked up at her to apologise, but saw her primarch’s soft smile and realised she was being teased. ‘If you’re going to offer, my lady… I would never do less than my duty, but I don’t feel it’s the best use of me.’

‘I saw you arguing with Loken, but what do you think of her really?’

Sieglinda considered. ‘I don’t dislike her by any means. I merely find her naïve.’

Dorn did not share her daughter’s firm belief that war would never end, but she’d never called her to task on it. Some Legions worried about becoming superfluous. The Imperial Fists had many other talents than war, as they would demonstrate on Terra, and as for Sieglinda… well, even if she couldn’t find her a steady stream of policing actions and ork outbreaks, Dorn needed her personally, by her side, like her own right hand. That would never change.

‘Good. I don’t mind you sporting with the Mournival, but genuine conflict would be unseemly.’

Dorn did like Garvielle Loken. She would have been proud to count her among her own daughters, had she been of Inwit rather than Cthonia. She would be good for Ishtar, as Sejana had been. She wondered if Ishtar and Loken were in a position very much like she and Sieglinda right now. She smiled at the thought of how Loken would look with a primarch’s attention on her, awed and blushing as she bared herself for her lady. Sieglinda kissed along her collarbone, and she turned her attention back to who she was with, the one she’d always chose above all others.

Her hand in her hair was enough encouragement for Sieglinda to lick down the curve of her breast and take a nipple in her mouth, lapping and sucking at it. Dorn ran her hands down her back, stroking the generous swell of her ass. She let one hand dip between her thighs, feeling how wet she already was. Sieglinda gasped as Dorn slipped a finger inside her, then a second.

Summary: Times change, words change, and people get used to it. (Daemon Prince Guilliman AU, OFCs, Thiel, sfw)

***

Penthesia Makaria knew she was a prototype, a proof-of-concept. The great primarch and ruler of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman, had decided recruiting women into his Legion was a potentially useful practical and so he would test the idea. It appealed to him—doubling his potential recruitment population and satisfying his innate sense of fairness—but theoreticals must be tested.

The recruitment notice had come as a surprise, honestly. The Ultramarines had established ways of screening the boys who competed to join them, but she’d never applied. It was not done and had not occurred to her. She had been a gymnast before, in the junior division. She remembered that, and how proud if confused her parents had been when the Legion expressed an interest in her. Now she was a Space Marine, if a work-in-progress of a neophyte as Space Marines went.

‘Br… Sister Makaria, at attention.’

‘Sir.’ She snapped a smart salute, putting down the bolter she’d been cleaning. She ignored the hesitation of the apothecaries and training-sergeants over her, their discomfort. She was something new. They’d get used to it. The other neophytes, who knew only her, not the thousands of scouts come before her, were better about it, but still teenaged boys enough to be distant from a lone girl.

She eyed the other man while doing her best to pretend she was standing at attention and doing nothing of the sort. His helmet was red, which meant he was either under censure or a sergeant, depending on where in the realm he was from. The quality and other markings on his armour suggested he was higher ranked than that, but the deference he was given did not fit with the former. He waved for them to be left alone with casual command.

‘Mamzel… I mean, Sister Makaria. That is hard to get used to, but I apologise for the slip-up. I am Aeonid Thiel, equerry to Lord Guilliman.’

‘My lord, no offence taken.’

He stared at her openly, appraisingly, and she hoped he liked what he saw. She felt young and gangly for all that her muscles were coming in thick as tree trunks. She felt like a girl playing dress up. She was blonde and pretty and so obviously female and she wondered if he thought less of her for it.

‘I must apologise to you on another account as well. We had not intended a woman inducted in the Legion, but between the small scale of the test, the apothecaries still experimenting, and the usual failure rate, you were the only one to survive. There will be new girls, but not for a year, two years, five years.’ He waved a hand to indicate the vagueness of how well anyone could predict how many of them there would eventually be and how soon.

‘I hope to set a good example and be a worthy Ultramarine, lord.’

‘I’ve come here to obtain your feedback and offer you a choice. Neophytes aren’t usually asked their opinions about their assignments, but I deemed yours important. One option is for you to be treated exactly like one of the boys and be sent with a scout company to the usual garrisoning assignment, and eventually to combat when your training masters deem your squad ready or war comes to you, where you will presumably prove yourself on the battlefield as well as any young Ultramarine.

‘The other is for you to accept a position on my staff. It will involve being visible as a symbol, a poster girl, for women in the Legion. I’m a maverick, anyone will tell you, and not a good role model for a neophyte, but I like new things and improvising. There will be combat as well, I do not only go places that are safe, but there will be much more politics and administration involved.’

Makaria considered. Her hypno-conditioning was new and strong, telling her war was what Astartes were for. Yet, she didn’t consider herself particularly bloodthirsty as Space Marines went. ‘I understand, my lord. While my sense of equity leads me to prefer a simple life on the battlefield with my brothers and only what I have earned for myself, I understand the value of symbolism and propaganda. I also understand why it was important for you to ask, rather than risk me resenting being singled out. In the grand scheme of all of Ultramar, I see that I would have more value being visibly female and getting those in command used to the idea than I would as one more scout on the front lines. I hope to conduct myself well, that those who meet me see my value as an Ultramarine and an equal, not as a pet or a token for all that I am the only women in the Legion so far.’

‘I will give you every opportunity I can find to shine. And who knows, you may be wrong on that point and have more sisters in the Legion already. The reports across my desk tell me some one Ultramarine in five hundred has gone to the Apothecary to report strange dreams of being a woman and being offered such thing outside of dreams by daemonic voices. We’re still trying to develop a policy on that, one that respects the Marines in question and Slaanesh while not promising things we shouldn’t.’

‘I would like to hear “battle-sister” spoken more casually and not just to me, lord.’

‘I suspect that will be the case soon, Sister Makaria, and a few centuries from now no one will think anything of it. Finish assembling your bolter and collect your gear. You leave with me. There are World Eaters on Armatura and I need to be there.’

‘Yes, brother.’

*

‘Tell me another, heretic.’

‘It’s true, on my oath. For thousands of years women Space Marines were considered a distinctly Ultramarian phenomena. Historical record is full of examples of it being touted as a sign of moral and physical degradation of the geneseed in Ultramar and Guilliman’s heresies.’

‘Historical record as taught in Ultramar.’

‘As if Imperial record goes back that far.’ Sister-Epistolary Cassandra Oliviarch of the Howling Griffons fought the urge to roll her eyes, even though she knew the inquisitor couldn’t see it behind her helmet. ‘As if most people in Ultramar know that, because it’s so taken for granted they wouldn’t think to ask. You have to spend a lot of time with Heresy-era records or warbands made up of veterans of the Long War from that era to even notice.’

‘Why in the first place would the Emperor on Earth… No, I’m not arguing with a heretic over the logistics of their lies.’

Oliviarch couldn’t have answered, the whys and wherefores were purely speculation on her part as well. She knew better than to argue with an Imperial too, but she was a daughter of Magnus and physically couldn’t resist being a know-it-all. ‘By the Apostasy Wars in M36, creation of all-female assault companies were all the rage in the Imperial Legions, something about women being purer and better able to hear the voice of the Emperor. The fad passed within a few centuries, but it normalised the idea of female recruitment. By now, as you can see, the idea is so taken for granted here as well that it’s attributed to the Emperor before he got on his golden throne–’ the inquisitor made the sign of the aquila, ‘–and links to Ultramar are forgotten. Things are the way they always have been, of course.’

The inquisitor eyed her, sure she was being mocked (accurately), but unable to think of a good comeback other than insisting that the words she had said in a flat tone were in fact the truth.

Oliviarch set her mind back to her psychic shackles. Old work, poor work, badly tuned. She could break them.

me as a villain fan: This character is a fascinating and complex individual, whose complexity makes them sympathetic even while the evil things they have done can never be excused, and whose story provides an intriguing opportunity to explore the dark side of the human psyche.
also me as a villain fan: This is my smol fluffy murder child. They’re such a piece of shit, isn’t it magnificent? Aww, look, they’re still covered in somebody’s arterial spray.

Summary: Thiel would be the first one to admit he deserves to be over Guilliman’s knee. (Guilliman/Thiel, nsfw, mid-KnF)

***

‘If he wasn’t my brother, he’d be a political embarrassment and an impediment to the effective rule of the Imperium. I know what I’d do with him.’

‘I’m sure I could demonstrate how, lord,’ says Thiel, and then winces.

‘Was that a joke, sergeant?’

‘I may have just made a very unfortunate attempt at humour, lord,’ Thiel admits.

*

‘Do you want me to demonstrate?’

Thiel looked at his primarch like he was crazy as he was, but the twinkle in his eye told him the practical perfectly well. Guilliman was on-edge and wanted to unwind, wanted a safe outlet so that everything with his brother would go just right. He had to be perfect, even when perfect wasn’t good enough, in public.

Thiel, despite all his flaws or perhaps because of them, was someone who could tell a joke and someone who could play around without taking things the wrong way. If anything, he was grateful for the whole idea he could put his primarch more at ease and help him shed some stress and have fun.

‘Well, lord, I know I’ve been a bad boy and have it coming, but I figure what I deserve for you to do to me isn’t so different.’

Guilliman was grinning now. ‘You agree you deserve to be over my knee?’

‘Most definitely, lord.’

‘Come here then.’

Guilliman ruffled his hair when it was freed from his red-washed helmet, but was otherwise business-like in stripping him of his armour. He found a chair and dragged Thiel into his still-armoured lap on it.

‘I’ve seen your record. You just can’t stop yourself from causing trouble, can you?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Of course I forgive you, but I need to teach you a lesson you remember next time.’

Really, all those people who said Guilliman had a stick up his ass, when he was such a fucking tease. ‘Please.’

Guilliman looked at him so approvingly that Thiel had to look away; that did things to him, even more so than Guilliman’s unarmoured hand on the small of his back, then lower to trace his ass. Then Guilliman hit him, and Thiel cried out in shock, even though he’d been expecting it, at the pain of it and at how good it felt.

Guilliman modulated his slaps carefully–enough to sting for a moment but not truly hurt him, when he could break him so very easily. They also sent him reeling just enough to grind his cock into Guilliman’s knee, but then he’d known that was going to be part of the game from the beginning.

He dug his nails into his palms from lack of anything to hold onto. Not that there could have been any holding on when a primarch was touching him. He didn’t bite his lip despite the urge–Guilliman clearly liked the sounds he made and he wanted to show his appreciation.

He didn’t even try to hold himself back from rubbing against Guilliman’s leg. The cold, hard, unyielding ceramite was too much against his aching erection, but he moved against him anyway, loving the pain and overstimulation of it. ‘Please,’ he said again.

‘Are you going to be good now?’ Guilliman rubbed a hand over his reddened ass.

‘I will. I promise. I’ll try to be, for you.’ Thiel would have agreed to anything. Would he keep that promise? Unlikely. He’d never managed it before, but he’d never intended to do wrong, it just happened despite his good intentions.

‘There’s a good boy.’ Guilliman smiled down at him, indulgent. ‘You can come now.’ Thiel spent himself with a groan at his permission. ‘You’ll need to clean that up, sergeant.’

Thiel grinned back, unashamed of the mess he’d made of his lord’s armour, and went down on his knees before him. He put his tongue to good use, and rubbed his whole head between his primarch’s legs. ‘May I, lord? I want to make you feel good.’

‘Go ahead.’ Thiel rushed to get his armour partially undone, as close to fumbling as a Space Marine could manage, but he got Guilliman’s pleased gasp as he took him into his mouth as payment.

Guilliman put a hand on his head, gauntleted fingers stroking his hair gently, but let him set the pace and kept his hips still to keep from choking him. Thiel certainly couldn’t fit his primarch’s cock entirely in his mouth, but he could make do with every trick he knew with his tongue to wring approving groans from him. He tasted utterly inhuman, even more so than an Astartes, but Thiel liked it, and how huge and hard and hot he was.

Guilliman came with only a slight tightening of his hand on his scalp and Thiel coughed and choked a bit with the effort of swallowing around him. He wasn’t entirely successful, but used the back of his hand to clean his face and licked his fingers without shame. Damn.

Guilliman lifted him up to his feet and kissed him lovingly, in the way of someone who considered showing that affection as indispensably part of intimacy as getting off.

‘Wait here. We do need to have a serious and more articulate conversation at some point, perhaps after we’ve mustered out from Calth. However, I appreciate your insight into my thoughts now. I believe I am ready to deal with my dear brother again.’

‘Anytime, lord.’

Summary: Russ is a flirt and Dorn has only the slightest idea what he wants. (Imperial Consort Russ AU, Dorn/Russ/Emperor, PG-13, WIP)

***

Russ was a flirt. This annoyed Dorn. It was unprofessional, and Russ took more liberties with his person and personal space than Dorn considered permissible.

“Treat me with respect or we’ll need to settle this on the duelling field.”

“I’d still respect you in the morning.” Russ grinned undaunted.

“I’d prefer it today.”

Russ shrugged, a generous expression upsetting braids and his wolves, like he knew something Dorn didn’t. “Do you want to fight?”

“Get your armour.”

“I don’t need it.”

It occurred to him Russ might be tricking him out of his own armour, but honour demanded it of him. Of the few other primarchs he’d met, they’d tolerated the cold, but only Russ exalted in it. His furs couldn’t have been adequate, to anyone but an iceworlder.

Dorn struck first. Part of him wanted to hit Russ. Russ danced away, watching, measuring. Is that who you are? Dorn asked. All bark, no bite? It made him angry to be toyed with, to think he was being bothered by a coward.

Then Russ’ grin turned predatory and he struck. No probes of Dorn’s defences for him, no strike and fade looking for another opening. He used his sword with all the grace of an axe, but he put all his weight behind it. He pushed and pushed and pushed, fierce and predatory, a storm behind him.

Dorn knew with certainty he was going to lose. He was, he still believed, a better fighter. He might well win in the future. But he’d never fought a primarch before, anyone who even approached his level, and Russ had.

Dorn fought still. Russ pushed him back. For a moment, he wondered if his sword would strike home and there would be no later. Intellectually that didn’t seem likely, but nothing of Russ spoke of holding back.

Pushing him against the wall, Russ lunged. Dorn didn’t blink, didn’t look away, but Russ used his teeth rather than his sword.

Dorn wouldn’t have been surprised if Russ had ripped out his throat, but he didn’t. Not that he was gentle—he drew blood and tore into muscle. Dorn gasped in pain… and something else as Russ pinned him between his body and the wall and pressed a leg between his.

His body reacted in primal, instinctive ways. Accept your loss and submit. Show your belly. He tilted his throat back to give Russ better access.

The Wolf King pulled back, too soon (and where had that thought come from), and licked his blood-stained teeth. “Oh, he’s going to like you.”

He sauntered off, firelight and shadow playing in his red hair. Dorn was left mystified about why he’d stopped, and snapping at himself about what else he wanted Russ to do anyway.

*

Russ made no attempt to seek him out after their fight, but he watched and Dorn looked away, hoping he looked like he was flushing in anger, not blushing.

Horus took his leave before the Emperor returned from surveying the outer reaches of the Inwit system. A primarch was busy, the Emperor’s son and chief general most of all. (The phrase “Ew, I don’t even want to think about it, Leman” may have been uttered in his presence before Horus left the system quickly, but Dorn wasn’t sure what that was about.)

The tension built between them. The electric current that was Russ made him snappish; Inwit was inclined to blizzards, not thunderstorm.

It was a relief when the storm broke, at some signal Dorn couldn’t guess.

“Drink with me.”

“Why?”

“The night is cold.” His eyes said, You want this, and damn him, Dorn did.

Russ didn’t waste time beating around the bush, drinking from Dorn’s mouth as often as his own cup. Dorn shivered at Russ’ teeth nipping his lips, looming over him, lowering him to the warm furs of his bed.

He groaned in approval at Russ running his teeth (fangs) down his throat, leaving bites and bruises behind and lapping at them with wet strokes of his tongue. And in frustration as Russ didn’t go further. So eager for him to get your trousers off, he complained to himself, but it didn’t help the fact he really did want his hands on him even more than he had.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m waiting,” Russ corrected.

Before Dorn could ask what for, he became aware of another presence. It was the sort of presence that made it impossible to believe he could ever had been unaware of, yet he hadn’t noticed a door opening or Russ’ wolves stirring from the mouth of the cave he carved around himself.

“Are you now?” asked the Emperor in a voice Dorn heard more with his mind than his ears, smooth as honey and immovable as the mountains.

“I want him, but of course I wouldn’t take what’s yours or pre-empt you, my jarl. I was just testing the water.” Russ wasn’t defensive or apologetic in the least, totally confident he wasn’t being genuinely censored.

It was strange to see Russ’ body language change so completely as the Emperor drew him to him with a hand in his hair. The arrogant, aggressive Wolf King so pliant and submissive, so eager to please.

Dorn had never been more turned on in his life.

Oh, he’d heard the rumours. There were always salacious rumours, someone said to have gotten some position or favour on his or her back. He’d thought those calling Russ the Emperor’s consort had meant that.

They were having a conversation Dorn wasn’t privy to. Maybe in the way of long-time acquaintances everywhere, in the angle of Russ’ gaze and the turn of the corners of his mouth; maybe a silent conversation Dorn couldn’t quite overhear more than whispers of.

Russ chuckled aloud. “You and your kink for submissive iceworlders.” It was strange to hear Russ describe himself that way, but after that display he’d just seen, well. The tales said Russ had fought, in the beginning. He couldn’t imagine it. It was one thing to fight Russ, who his instincts told him was no more than his equal, but it had been the most natural thing in the world to bend knee to the Master of Mankind.

Russ still watched him with open, visceral hunger. When the Emperor tilted up Dorn’s chin to meet his eyes, Dorn couldn’t have called up a single detail about him except the absolute dominion there, the will to rewrite the galaxy utterly. Everything genecoded into his being to submit to.

“Yes,” he said, an answer to an unspoken, formality of a question. A plea.

Summary: The next morning, Russ gets his turn in. (sequel to this fic in the Brightest Idea AU, Russ/Lion+Russ/Guilliman, background Guilliman/Lorgar, nsfw, WIP)

***

Guilliman awoke to the slight tightening of the Lion’s grip on his upper arms. He took in the scene before him instantly, but his mind wanted to luxuriate over every detail. The Lion’s fingers digging into his flesh, the way his breathing was quiet and even but he was biting his lip and his eyes were tightly shut. Russ moving behind him, face hidden by golden hair and growls muffled by the Lion’s neck.

It was different than but similar to how the Lion had looked a few hours ago with Guilliman moving inside him. This time Guilliman could give his full attention to the look on his face, the tensing of his muscles, and all the tiny cues he gave of how much he was enjoying himself without the distraction of his own pleasure.

The Lion was stunningly beautiful, but so out of touch with his own emotions and those of people around him. Even Guilliman thought that. He sometimes wondered why Lorgar couldn’t have managed to get into a feud with their other brother instead.

And he really did not need to be thinking of Lorgar, crying out under him, cursing him and begging for it harder all in one.

The Lion flinched in surprise as Guilliman leaned forward to kiss him, but he didn’t pull away and rubbed against his leg eagerly as he moved closer. Russ spared Guilliman a grin, but continued his work on the Lion. Guilliman could feel the force of his thrusts through the body between them, could tell by the hitches in their brother’s breath every time he found the exact right angle.

No wonder Russ had been practically drooling to watch them together.

The Lion shuddered between them and gasped for breath, unable to remain perfectly stoic. Guilliman reached down a hand to work him through his orgasm, making the Lion shiver violently with sensation and getting his fingers wet and sticky.

Russ pulled out slowly, dropping kisses along the Lion’s neck and shoulders. He was still hard, and Guilliman had to look away rather than stare at how his erection throbbed, but not before Russ caught his eye and grinned wider.

Leaving behind a glassy-eyed Lion sprawled on the bed, Russ pounced across him to land against Guilliman’s back and roll closer to press against him. ‘Going to fuck us both?’ he asked, happy how his voice sounded: light and teasing, and rough with lust.

‘Aye. Think I was bragging about my prowess?’

‘Oh, you were bragging alright.’ Guilliman ground back against him and let himself be rolled over onto his stomach, half on the bed and half on the Lion. ‘But I never believed you were all bark and no bite.’

Summary: Thiel and Sevatar go on vacation. (No Nails AU, Sevatar/Thiel, sfw, post-wedding)

***

‘We deserve a vacation.’

‘We need to get someone to feed the cat while we’re gone,’ Thiel said immediately.

‘I didn’t mean leaving right this moment.’

‘Yes you did.’

Sevatar shrugged. ‘I’ll let the cat out and tell our parents, and you do the research. It’s hardly fair they got to put us through so much shit and then go off on honeymoon. They’re back, so we should bugger off.’

‘I’m not arguing with you! No, wait, I am arguing with you making me do all the work. Sev, wait!’

*

They ended up travelling by Land Speeder, a compromise between his initial impulse to take two separate bikes and Sev’s to take a Land Raider.

‘I have the perfect thing,’ Sevatar said and two minutes later he had the Ultramarine vehicle blaring Nostraman death metal from its vox. For once Thiel regretted being able to understand the language, or it would have merely been unpleasant noise and screaming. Thiel rolled his eyes and resigned himself to shouting anything he needed to say, and Sevatar grinned, but seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself, tapping his fingers as well as taking in Thiel’s discomfort.

The wind felt good in his hair when he took off his helmet, the hills of rural Macragge spread out before them, the sun rising behind them.

‘Campaigning makes me forget how big planets can be. Drop in near some population centre, kill a few leaders or strategic placements, then leave. But we could fly for weeks and see a whole lot of nothing.’

Sevatar grunted, but Thiel could track the subtle movements of his helmet, watch him watching the grackles on fence-lines. He turned up the music, as if unaware that the quiet he was hearing was that of absence of minds around him the way they would be in Macragge Civitas or on the Nightfall. Thiel grinned.

*

They looped back around and reached the ocean a few hours later, around midday. Thiel explained, ‘This stretch of beach is restricted access because when they were landscaping it a few years back, they accidentally scooped up sand from where the Legion used to do aquatic training a century back. So be careful of unexploded ordinance. I’d hate for you to step on a landmine.’ Sevatar laughed. ‘Anyway, there’s a popular tourist destination a few kilometres south, though more so in the summer than now, so we’ll have some privacy without being totally cut-off.’

Abandoning their Land Speeder near the ecological station Thiel had found in his research (the students who often occupied it being up a river inland for some sort of fish spawning natural event), they abandoned their armour in the sand as well.

There weren’t such things as swimming trunks in their sizes, and their fatigue bottoms would get waterlogged and annoying and make this feel like training. So they were naked when Sevatar tackled him into the water. The cold was invigorating, not icy but the warmer jet stream from the tropics didn’t reach this far north this time of year. The water was salty and briny compared to the filtered and recycled water of a spaceship, but that gave it character and made it interesting, in Thiel’s opinion, like flavouring it with fruit or syrup. Eventually he had to bite Sevatar to get him let go so he could surface again and gulp in new air.

Then he threw a jellyfish at him, Sevatar blinked in confusion through the see-through creature covering his face and leaving acid stings behind, and Thiel jumped after it to wrestle him under the breakers.

*

‘I’m not sure I’ll survive. Tell Tovac he can have my skull collection. Valzen is welcome to dissect my corpse to study the cruel and unusual way I died. Vanek may want to duel you over my spear, but whichever of you wins can keep it.’

Thiel let the door swing closed behind him, his arms full of boxes of pizza and his other purchases from town. ‘Dictating your last will and testament?’

‘As I die a long and lingering death, I have nothing better to do with my time.’

The amount Sevatar could complain was inversely proportional to how much discomfort he was actually in (which, joking aside, also reflected a deep unwillingness to admit to weakness, and Thiel knew perfectly well that was warranted in the presence of Night Lords). Still, Thiel amused himself slapping him on the back and moving his hand up to pet the back of Sevatar’s hair. Sevatar winced and hissed in response, and Thiel grinned.

‘I admit, I have never seen such a bad sunburn in my life.’ He’d noticed the early warning signs of it earlier in the evening, but Sevatar’s normally white skin had gone an impressive lobster red while he’d been out shopping. His skin had the sense to tan to a healthy, warm gold. He retrieved a value-sized bottle of gel from one of his bags.

‘Why did you get so much lube? Going to take advantage of me in my infirmity?’

‘It’s aloe. “For external use only,” the label says.’

Sevatar made a pleased hum at Thiel’s tattooed hand rubbing the cool relief into his back and sprawled boneless across the floor, submitting to his ministrations.

(It made good lube too.)

*

‘If you think I’m going back out there, under the fiery death orb, again, you have something coming.’

‘That’s fine. Sun’s up: you take a nap, I have tactical simulations.’ Thiel waved a dataslate absently. ‘We can train on the beach and swim again tonight.’

‘Tactical simulations.’

‘Tactical simulations.’

‘That’s Pokémon Adamantium.’

‘I’m an Ultramarine.’

*

‘If you can wait to watch the fish slowly drown on dry land, you can wait for me to cook them.’

‘There’s entertainment and then there’s food.’

‘Your seagull friends will enjoy the entrails if you let me fillet them.’

Sevatar rolled his eyes. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact it happened behind the largest, tackiest pair of rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses Thiel had managed to find, under a broad straw hat against the morning sun. Thiel didn’t look up from what he was doing with a bonfire and an industrial-sized tub of barbecue sauce.

+Mob him,+ he suggested to the gulls, helpfully.

‘I swear to science…! Get your birds off me or I’ll roast them instead.’

*

‘You have billions of bacteria in your intestines and I can hear all of them,’ Sevatar told him matter-of-factly.

‘Go back to sleep. We’re still on Macragge, not hundreds of lightyears from civilisation. You can’t be going crazy–crazier–from the quiet in your head this soon.’

Sevatar snorted, already more of a snore.

*

Thiel couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly as he and Sevatar raced along the beach at a dead sprint. Even without their armour, they were too heavy for the shifting of loose sand to put them off balance. No, it was the pit-traps and the landmines they had avoid while luring each other into. Sometimes they set them off just for the concussive waves of explosion to toss the other to the side, heedless of real danger in their game.

Sevatar laughed to, approvingly, as if to say Look at how adorably sneaky and devious my Ultramarine is. Thiel glowed with it, and ran faster, determined to win.

*

‘Got everything?’

‘Am I keeping the sunglasses? Of course I am. But I should be the one asking you that.’ Sevatar leaned against the Land Speeder and showed every sign of planning to put his bat winged skull helmet on without taking them off.

Thiel rolled his eyes. Yes, he had been the one to call the Legion serfs who would show up soon to clean up after them from how thoroughly they’d trashed the place.

He took a last look at the sun setting over the sea, and threw an arm over Sevatar’s shoulder. Kissing him on the cheek, he asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Sevatar was frozen against him. Thiel could almost hear the cogs turning in his head, as he tried to figure out what this gesture meant and how he was expected to respond to it. Finally he drawled, ‘I suppose you don’t bore me, so that was the best I could hope for between wars.’

‘Love you too,’ he said, the words coming easier each time he said them. Then he pulled his helmet on and locked it in place. ‘Let’s go home.’