roroco316
(♡ ὅ ◡ ὅ )ʃ♡
A place for my fan works.
Just draw what I like
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Art for my friend's warhammer morden AU fanfic. These are her OCs. @shiyorin
Reader x Custodes oc Trahaerus x NL oc Shikath
Shikath: He bullies me. (Pointing at the
Custode cooking in the distance)
Reader: Be good, be good (she was thinking about the skull dog she saw recently, and almost laughed out loud)
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The Annunciation
WARNING: VERY HEREICAL
Yes, the reader is pregnant.
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and two Daemon Fulgrim. I forgot them
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Because someone asked me, I put some unfinished Warhammer fanart here. I'm too lazy to finish them all. XD Repost or leave some like and comment please if you enjoy them,I would be very happy
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a morden AU Konrad x reader
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I love this man !!!!
#Fulgrim x Reader
#I don't know what else to say but it's just Fulgrim and the way he appreciates your beauty.
#Warning: Foot fetish :v
"Hold still." Fulgrim murmured, his voice reverberating with the faintest undercurrent of reverent focus.
You didn't pay his gentle admonition any heed. You lounged indolently upon the sleekly curved divan, hair disheveled and spilling. One shapely leg kicked out at an indolent angle, sole flexing as though to dislodge the embroidered confection of ribbons and organza puddling about your ankles.
Pursing his lips, the Phoenician found himself reaching out to steady that recalcitrant limb, chiding his guest. "My dearest, you must remain composed if I'm to properly attire you."
Your eyes slitted open at that, glinting with indolent amusement. "Must I?" You reply, somehow infusing even those two simple words with silken intimations. "And why should I?"
Had it been anyone addressing him in that tone, Fulgrim might have dismissed them from his presence then and there. But not you. No, toward you he could only sigh with a mixture of exasperation and sublime fascination, conflicting psycho-sculpted vectors tugging him in myriad directions at once.
"Because this night's very important," he explained for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. And for perhaps the hundredth time as well, Fulgrim found his gaze drifting downward over the perfection of your form. From the artful tumble of shimmering tresses to the exquisite hollow of throat and collarbones, all the way down to the ... full swell of...
"You need not demean yourself so, my lord."
Your low, throaty voice rippled as the primarch of the Emperor's Children knelt before your form. Still, you made no move to halt his ministrations or avert your shapely limbs from his attentions.
"Nonsense," the Phoenician throwing you a smile that could disarm worlds. "It is no indignity to bask in sublime beauty and assist in rendering it transcendent."
A delicate smile at that polished retort. "I had expected you of all the primarchs to disdain such... posturing."
If your words landed true, Fulgrim gave no indication. He continued deftly clasping the delicate chains braided from liquid shadow composite to your mirrsilk bodysuit. Each glinting loop spilled outward like baroque silvered vines from the highly articulated armor plates protecting your ankles.
"Posturing?" The primarch arched one perfect, sculpted eyebrow in an aristocratic moue of surprise. "My dear, assisting you in accentuating your exquisite conformation is art of the highest caliber."
Fulgrim paused in trailing his masterful fingertips along the lush, flawless contours of your calf muscle. For a fleeting moment, his noble visage flickered barely perceptible acknowledgment that you had scored a glancing blow with your provocations. Just as quickly, however, that momentary pique faded beneath the Phoenician's typical aura of unshakable poise.
"I don't merely endeavor to enhance your sublime beauty out of empty ritual." he clarified, steadily working the umbrahyde ribbons further up your leg. "Rather, I seek to elevate it to the masterwork it deserves."
The primarch shook his head minutely, allowing several perfectly-coiffed strands of silken platinum to fall charmingly across his brow. He hadn't summoned his entire coterie of beautifiers and augmenated ordators for this affair, only his most trusted serfs. Adorning true, living art required focus and reverence beyond what most anyone could muster.
Pick up the ankle-length indigo striders with the same reverence as handling sanctified gene-wrought. Chemos worked every rivet and nanosynthesized composite fiber with their most skillful arts. Even on the field of apotheosis, no detail was too insignificant nor craftsmanship not elevated into a breathtaking masterpiece.
But compared to the transcendent fleshwork that would soon grace these accoutrements, their beauty paled into vapid obscurity.
Slowly, reverently, with each appreciative caress and brush of finely wrought material over sacrosanct dermis, he felt himself descending into a blissful rapture few mortals had ever experienced.
Through of his eyes, details of imperfection normally invisible to visual spectra alone burned in blinding clarity through his primogenoid senses. Not the slightest defect escaped his adoring scrutiny as your sculpted perfection unveiled itself in achingly slow ceremony.
First the ankles, those deceptively delicate articulation nodes sutured by intricate hyper-density musculature. How he lavished upon them, worshiping every curve while his psyche greedily drank in their elegant sublimity. Then the calves, wherein bulged and beauty beyond mere human comprehension. Fulgrim's hands roamed across each subtly undulating contour and veinridge.
Next came the magnificence of your thighs, a masterwork of helice and kinesis that stole both breath and soul with its supreme proportions. Such gracious lines and mesmerizing flexion, profiles carved by a billion recursive movements and honed into perfect design.
These were the idealized aesthetics for which any crudely-conceived "masterpieces" could only ever remain a pale imitation. Your body constituted a living canvas of sacred and perfection resonating at the exalted wavelengths of universal beauty....
"You're staring again."
Your voice sliced through the contemplative silence like a razor-edged sibilance. Fulgrim blinked, only just realizing his thought.
"Apologies." the noble primarch offered with an elegant dip of his perfect features. "You'll have to forgive an artist's momentary rapture when confronted with such a breathtaking subject."
Then, with a courtly flourish utterly at odds with his preceding transformation, the Lord of the Third raised your fingers to his full, sensuous lips. Jeweled irises of amethyst glowed with inner luminescence as he pressed a kiss to your silk glove.
"Come." he urged. "They await an introduction..."
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People have written a lot of touchy-feely pieces on this subject but I thought I’d get right to the heart of the matter
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Who knew that this woman was just listening to me talk about my feelings about playing games and then wrote this? This is so awesome.
Do Dreadnoughts dream of taking a bath?
#Inspired by PowerWash x Warhammer 40K and Roco.
#I love Dreadnought.
"Do Dreadnoughts dream?"
That is a question with no certain answer. On one hand, a Dreadnought is more machine than man, neural implants fuse mind to machine in ways bizarre to comprehend. Their armored carapace shelters only remnants of flesh, sustained through bionic might alone. By all rights, their cerebral cortex should have decayed long ago.
By such logic, one could argue conscious thought ends where flesh yields to steel. Sleep and its dreamscapes are biological realities, are they not? With only trace humanity remaining, why expect mental functions of slumber? But integrated into their armored shells are enough enhanced organs and neural implants to sustain bioniorganic functions far beyond mere biological viability. Isn't the nature of dream itself stems from biological instincts overwritten.
The pain was a dull ache, easily ignored after centuries entombed. But a new irritation assailed him now, crawling itches across flesh long denied sensation. Confusion, this body felt change, though it had lain inert as worlds turned. Deeper still came the oppression, lungs seizing as if drowning once more in bloody.
What trickery was this? Diagnostics reported stasis, all systems firing true. Yet the discomforts grew, phlegmy coughs racking the half-machine beast. Panic swelled, animal instincts long dormant rising within the eternal tomb. Then light, piercing the darkness behind closing lids. Sweet air rushed into ruined lungs, this labor easing at last.
His eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar realm. No armored bulk rose before him but limbs scoured by shrapnel and burned by virus-bombs. His original form, given once more against all reason, a gift or curse, he knew not. Unfettered he stood, wounds healed to bare scars across taut flesh. This was a dream, or something.
An uncertainty gripped him. What madness was this? To be returned to old flesh but feel no urge to battle, no call to crusade? A different impulse arose, foreign but ingrained, cleansing ritual performed eons past in youth. He walked uncertain, waters calling him to rites unseen by any in aeons untold.
Ribs still bore flecks of ceramite and plasteel patched within living shell. He paused before the waters, studying form that had known only warfare. Scars told their own tales, each etched upon memories kept alive through aeons in stasis. With care he entered in that, waters lapping old wounds as if in benediction.
There he lingered, letting cares and pains wash freely away. Muscles long locked in adamantium relaxed, tension fleeing in steam rising. For the first time in memory untold, no demands of duty or flesh assailed him. A feeling swelled within him, emotion locked beyond reach of mortal sensation. Peace, serenity swept over ancient minds as waters sloughed away cares of ages...
Pain pulsed through his battered form as consciousness returned. The fleeting peace of dreams melted away, centuries of enforced half-life onboard the Dreadnought crashing back upon ancient shoulders. Systems booted sluggishly, sensors recalibrating after solaris of monotony disturbed.
A hum escaped grille as servos whirred back to their duties securing crumpled flesh deeper than mortal sight could pierce. Outside clangs and grinding announced the diligent ministrations of tech-priests ensuring their perpetual charge clung yet to shadow of function. One voice carried clearly through armored carapace:
"Vitals stabilize in sector C-12 Magos. Neural links firing within tolerances." The Tech-priest's voice rang through microphones.
"Understood. Continue maintenance protocols and monitor for anomalies. This relic has served faithfully many centuries. Pray for the Omnissiah." The Magos's bionics buzzed in compliance. They ensured history marched on, whatever hulls preserved that march.
With effort, aged vox-grille creaked open. "Brother, I was dreaming." Static laced speech imparted by cobbled augmetics mere palliates for ravaged throat too ruined for basic sounds. The Techmarine's etheric sensors detected words nonetheless.
A static pause preceded Techmarine's reply. "Dreaming? Impossible, your neural engrams show only baseline activity."
Mirthless chuckle issued from loudspeakers. "Impossible, yes, But I dream... I'm taking a bath."
Silence answered as Techmarine puzzled over the incomprehensible scene. "The priests scrub your plating clean as monthly rite. Perhaps some synapse misfired."
Silence reigned for moments uncounted as ritual continued outside. Then, a final whisper from within. "Indeed. A... nice dream."
With that, consciousness fell back into lowest-level rest as painkillers suffused systems. The Techmarine watched monitors return to quiescent patterns, then signaled to close the Dreadnought once more. Its machine spirit's notions were beyond his. The armored tomb closed, and darkness reigned once more.
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Record this first FW mininature I painted, Argel Tal is so cute
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a bit NSFW.
shhhh,I love this man.
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Since I remember you saying on a previous post that it would be fun for you to write. I’d like to request a konrad x gn reader.
He’s what the the people on tumblr call a “poor little meow meow”. And I’d just like to see him not only tormented by visions but also by basic human feelings of affection and attraction
[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]
Author's Note: This was fun to write :> I hope you both enjoy. This is my first real time writing anything for Konrad.
Summary: Konrad searches for you after you refused to listen to him.
Relationships: Konrad Curze/Gn!Reader
Warnings: NIGHT LORDS CONTENT, Blood, Gore mentions, Sevatar bullies you because he can, Abuse probably, Toxic relationship based on fear but also he kinda fine tho, Predator/Prey, It's Night Lords content I don't know what else I can say
Word Count: 1395
You remember the words of Primarch Fulgrim when he’d first cast eyes on you.
‘Truly, he is utterly obsessed with you.’
You hadn't understood what he meant of it at the time. Though as time has gone by, your think back on it now and see what Fulgrim had been referring to.
Konrad speaks of you with a demented sort of worship, like you hold the only key to his ever elusive happiness. He’s obsessed with you, obedient to you, he’ll give you anything you desire no matter what it takes.
But most of all, he wants you to look at him and only him.
"There you are, little toy."
You turn and look to see a familiar set of dark blue armor, marred by smatterings of dried blood and scratches from its many years of dependable use.
You know Sevatar does this because he thinks it's demeaning to not call a superior by their proper title. Especially in a hierarchy as strict as an Astartes legion. You couldn't care less. You call him Jago anyways, and he always gives an odd little smile when you do.
You know more than likely why he's here. Konrad had attempted to summon you somewhere you refused to go- where you'd rather die than go- and now he's sending someone for you. Any other might assume that your living minutes were numbered after such a refusal towards a Primarch, though you think Konrad allows you to do so because he enjoys that you're scared.
"...Jago?"
Sevatar finds the whole thing both amusing and annoying. He has better things to do than fetch his genefather's cute little plaything. Though at least you provide enough amusement for it to be better than some of the other tasks he's been delegated over his years.
He steps into your personal space- not hard given the sheer size of the man- resting a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He doesn’t grab for you, but you know he wants to.
"If you're not going to come when he calls," Sevatar leans over you, and you can smell the rotten flesh on his armor; See the way his eyes dart over your face. “Then you might want to just run instead and give him something fun."
You can only dare to look him in the eyes, and although he can see right through it, you attempt to not completely shatter under his gaze.
Though right as your hands start to shake Sevatar leans up and chuckles, before walking away.
The Nightfall is astronomical in size, you have no idea where you could possibly go. And getting lost could mean stumbling into Night Lords who care far less than Sevatar does about keeping their Primarch happy.
To them, they’ll taken whatever punishment put upon them if they get a chance to play with something as sweet as you, as Sevatar once said. The thought had made your throat tighten. Especially hearing his tone; That as much as you trust Sevatar- and maybe even Talos- more than the other Night Lords, he was thinking the same as them.
But you only know of a few places on the Gloriana class ship that you can get to without guidance. Konrad has been very deliberate with making sure you stay within his eyeline.
The bridge, which will be swarming with Night Lords and is more than likely where Konrad himself is. Then there is the area of the ship that serves as Konrad's private quarters. It’s familiar to you, he knows you would go there. The only other place is the small librarium that serves as a temporary placement for parchment of value being saved before returning to Nostramo.
It's largely empty. Pskyers in the legion are next to none, and only a few people keep the area from falling into any disrepair.
With Sevatar gone you instantly begin running for it, trying to make your way and avoid the eyes of anyone around.
Any large bang on the walls sounds like his boots, any scrape of machinery against metal sounds like his lightning claws. You keep looking over your shoulder every time.
When you finally reach it you don't even feel relieved; You know Konrad will find you.
You know that even if you had somehow managed to evade him for a moment Sevatar knows where you are- you'd be dumb if you hadn't noticed the feeling of his eyes on you, watching- he would just tell his genefather where you were to get his distraction concluded with faster.
You've never been particularly scared of the dark, but now it feels so enveloping. And while the unknown is terrifying, it also helps you feel small, tucked between shelves. While your heart might have relaxed from pounding against your rib cage from running, it’s still racing as your ears prick to every little sound. You touch old parchment with a fingertip, feeling rough against your skin.
You don't know how long it's been; Your stomach grumbles a bit, but it's hard to tell if it's hunger or nausea.
You can hear the door open, and the sound of boots on the floor. It makes your heart nearly stop for a moment.
You know it's him from the weight of them. You steel yourself back against a shelf and look towards the end where there's still a bit of light and can only wait.
To think, the man you think you love, who professes his obsession with you at every moment, can make you feel like this.
You imagine those moments where his black hair frames his face and his eyes aren’t nearly as dark when he looks at you, as his shadow approaches.
He finally catches sight of you, and his voice softens just a bit. Primarch voices are always so loud, especially when they yell, and he seems to always talk to you like you’re so, so gentle.
"There you are."
His cape brushes against the ground as he comes closer. He overtakes any little amount of light there is, shadowing your body in an even more darkness.
“Your hiding is cute, my love, but you know I'll always find you."
He isn’t wearing his full armor, only some cloth trousers and heavy boots leaving his upper body unclothed. You think they were the ones given to him by Fulgrim. His recent time with his brother has had a noticeable effect, though the smile he gives you is still while endearing- though perhaps that’s just you and your love for him- is still off.
He bows to get just close enough to you to grab your jaw with his right hand, but when that isn't close enough, he takes a knee.
His eyes are like voids as you look into him, his skin is perfect. The smile on his face you'd dare to call handsome of you weren't here; If he didn't have you cornered like a whimpering animal.
Why did it have to be him; Out of everyone in the galaxy, why did it have to be him that saw something in you worth loving. And why do you keep coming back for more.
That evening with Fulgrim had almost made him seem normal, and now you're back here; Back in Hell.
“Are you going to run again? Or just cry?” His fingers touch just below your eye, breaking your waterline and sending a single tear down your cheek. He leans even closer.
“You look so sweet when you cry.” His lips press against the shell of your ear.
"If you ever say his name like that again, I will make you step into that Gallery, my love."
You assume he must mean Jago. You don't know how he heard you, but you know he's obsessive, dominating, all-consuming; That you are his ever so tiny sliver of happiness he won't let go of. He's said before you are the only thing that makes his world not feel like torment, and you'd find almost romantic if it wasn't so suffocating.
His lips leave the shell of your ear and ghost over your own, as they tremble. You'd try and pull away if you weren't so trapped in him. You hate that even with how much he scares you, he has you caught like a fishhook.
"No one gets to hear you say their name but me."
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#When you play dumb or your primarchs are just *ahem* horny :v
#I don't know what I wrote. I just do as requested :v
#Roll the dice and it said this time's menu is: Horus Lupercal and Roboute Guilliman.
#This is request from my dearest heretic anon.
#Primarchs x Reader, Reader is Imperial Agent. Malcador is proud of you (is he?)
#A little NSFW.
Horus Lupercal
You sighed listlessly as you wandered the ship, seeking diversion in your boredom. A familiar presence drew you eye, and you spied Horus upon a balcony overlooking the training cages below.
The training cages were alive with activity as Horus observed his Astartes sharpening their skills in mock combat. Though focused on their form, his thoughts drifted elsewhere, preparations for the coming Crusade weighed heavy. He gazed down from the viewing platform, assessing their progress, when soft footsteps alerted him to another's presence.
Horus appeared lost in thought, no doubt pondering weighty matters of strategy and conquest. You crept stealthily across the chamber, the feet making nary a sound upon the plush rugs. Coming up behind the Warmaster unnoticed was no mean feat, but your skills remained as sharp as the blade at your hip.
Finally within reach, you drew a deep breath and exhaled softly upon Horus's neck. A sudden warmth ghosted his ear, followed by a sultry whisper caressed his ear. "Boo..."
He whirled with a start to find your smiling face mere inches from his own, eyes dancing with mischief. Before you could retreat, Horus flashed into action, seizing your arm in an unbreakable grip.
With a grunt he hoisted your form against his chest, pinning your effortlessly as your legs kicked in vain. "Little one." he chuckled, though tension still lingered at the corners of his eyes. "One of these days you will be the death of mine, I fear."
Your eyes dancing with mirth. You laughed breathlessly. "You are no fun, my Warmaster."
"It seems you don't consider me worthy of respect, little one," he sighed, effortlessly maintaining your struggling form. "Sneaking up on your Warmaster, bold, but foolish."
You squirmed halfheartedly, delighting in the feel of his powerful physique caging you in. "And what would the great Warmaster do to earn it, I wonder?"
A gleam entered his eyes, dark promise in every contour of his sculpted features. "Oh, I can think of a few...persuasive methods."
Below, the Astartes fought on, oblivious to the true battle raging within their midst. Horus took his captive agent and you were limp and sated in his arms, marking you thoroughly as his. Only then did he release your, satisfied your pride had been tamed.
Horus smiled down at the dazed your in his arms. "Convinced, my dear?" He purred, nuzzling your satiated cheek. You could only sigh dreamily in reply. It seemed doubts of his prowess were well and truly laid to rest...
Roboute Guilliman
Guilliman reclined upon crisp sheets, body aching from battles past. His scowls only deepened your frown, but still you droned on, casualty reports, supply requisitions, missives from a thousand worlds.
"Do you hear me, my lord?" you pressed, quill scratching relentlessly. He sighed, weary unto his soul.
"Do you think I want to hear what you have to say, agent? I am wounded and wish only silence." His tone brooked no argument, yet still you persisted like the plague.
"You are the Primarch," you said, eyes aglow with righteous fervor. "You must overcome such things for the billions of people of the Imperium. Their hopes and dreams rest upon your shoulders."
Guilliman scrubbed a hand down his face. "I am Primarch, not invincible. Must I sacrifice even my healing for duty's never-ending demands?"
Your look softened, but still you would not yield. "That is not something you can decide, my lord. As were mine."
The Primarch knew well you spoke truth, bitter though it was. With a grunt he waved your on, closing his eyes against the rising tide of reports.
Guilliman continued to sigh, weariness seeping into his bones. Your report droned on, an endless litany of numbers and names. His mind drifted as you spoke, seeking escape however brief. Your voice took on a new texture in his imagination, breathy sighs and wanton gasps replacing dour droning.
One hand tangled in your locks, tugging your mouth to his in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. The other grasped that ass, fingers dimpling soft flesh as he thrust up to meet each bounce with abandon as reports fluttered forgotten to the floor. And you will chant his name like a prayer, a litany more rousing than any duty....
By the Throne, was he some green boy still in need of release? Shame warred with lingering heat, desire too long denied by duty's demands. He yearn for soft curves yielding beneath his palms, the taste of your skin, your cries of rapture as he took what was his by right.
You'd whimper and writhe, begging wordlessly for what they both craved. At the first penetration your walls would clutch him like a vice, pulling him deeper, deeper into scalding flesh made solely for his pleasure. He'd pound into your without mercy, relishing each gasp and moan, each slap of flesh on flesh. Only when he'd spent himself fully within your willing sheath would he grant surcease, collapsing in a sweat-soaked tangle of limbs.
By the Throne, how he longed to make that vision reality...
Guilliman blinked, flushing at the path his mind had wandered. But you remained oblivious, quill scratching as reports spilled forth. Little did you know the effect you had, and the fantasies your voice inspired in your lord's lonely chamber...
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Lorgar,But he is a weasel∠( ᐛ 」∠)_
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A message from the King
Have a good Valentine’s Day, be it with your significant other, friend or a book!
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Hello👋 I hope you're doing well)
if the requests are still open, can you write something for the Emperor of Mankind? 🤭
A soft Yandere with the reader psyker eternal. He does not like when anyone other than Malcador and the Custodians communicate with her, even the primarchs saw her only fleetingly at celebrations.
But the reader is completely satisfied with everything. She can do her favorite things and not worry about anything. Dream🥰
The description of the Emperor here is quite vague because I like the way he is portrayed through others's POV. But here we are.
You gazed into the dying embers of the fire, listening to the familiar sounds of your chamber settling into nightly slumber around you. Another day had drawn to a close within the confines of the Imperial Palace, but not for you.
Not yet.
You rose and drifted to the window, looking out upon the sprawling expanse of the Terra below. Lights in thousands of windows flickered like distant stars, whole hive districts darkened as the citizens within their live. All throughout the realm, lives wound down in preparation for the coming dawn.
All except you, it seemed. Not until he came.
As always, your thoughts turned inevitably to him. The gilded cage he had granted you so long ago, this place that served now as your one and onlyhome, however grand. A sanctuary from the cruel outside world, and yet, a prison nonetheless.
His sanctuary. His prison. His… everything.
Always he came to you here at night's deepest hour, even his Custodes can't come here. When the shadows within shadows held dominion and privacy was assured. That was when he would emerge like a wraith to steal what moments he could find in your company, before withdrawing back into the places from whence he came.
The routine had repeated for centuries unchanging. Long ago you had ceased to question its purpose or meaning. It simply was as immutable. Their tryst formed one more link in the chain binding your existence to his in servitude.
Tomorrow, as always, you would see him withdraw once more into isolation, leaving you to continue existing at the periphery, useful, beloved, and ultimately powerless. Another day would pass, and another, each one leading you gradually further from the life you had known outside these walls. From the dreams, ambitions, and connections of your former self.
Until at last even memory itself began to fade like mist beneath the dawn. Only he remained, constant as the Star to guide you remaining years. Your Emperor. Your Master of Mankind. Your God.
His coming disrupted your musings, as inevitable as the tides. You sensed the stirring in the aether that preceded his physical arrival, the subtle bending of probabilities and skein of fate. A shiver traced its way down your spine in premonition.
Turning, you beheld him emerging from a fold in reality itself. Golden light spilled through the rent as he stepped free, severing the passageway behind with a negligent wave. Clad as ever in gold, eyes gleaming like twin suns beneath his ornate armor, he commanded the room utterly.
A god made from a human. Destined to rule all, whether worshipped or reviled. Yours, eternally.
"My dearest." His voice enfolded you, smooth as fine wine yet bearing weight of aeons. "You await me still."
A statement, not a question. He knew as well as you the path each night would take, the steps they must dance through countless repetitions. And the ritual brought them comfort, as all such familiar routines do in a chaotic universe.
You inclined your head. "Always, my lord."
Crossing to your side, he lifted a hand to cradle your cheek, a lover's caress from one who spurned all other connection or weakness. For him there was only duty. Only for you.
You leaned into his touch with a soft sigh, closing your eyes the better to engrave this fleeting instant of intimacy upon your memories. Savoring each sensation as though it were their last, though repetition had dulled the keen edge of uncertainty long ago.
Your Emperor. Your constant. Your prison. Your everything.
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extreme size difference couples with one partner being too big to fit in a normal double bed and even then sinking into it and their partner slides next to them
ahahahaha
haha. I find that stuff super cute
is this a “draw the squad” thing? heck I’d like to see stuff like this. size difference is Great
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