#dorne ocs

[asherbakugou]

Valyrian Demigods of Westeros - Daughter of Vermax

Lady Laena Velaryon held Princess Rhaenyra's hand as she screamed, stuck in the birthing bed for the 5th time. Her brother, Ser Laenor, stood on the other side of his wife, wincing at the hold she had upon his arm but supportive and encouraging. Very few men chose to join their wives in the birthing rooms, declaring it against propriety but Laenor cared deeply for Rhaenyra and would not see her endure this pain alone.

With a final scream, the midwife was able to remove the babe, using a knife to cut the life chord from her body. Wailing, the woman happily announced, "A girl, your highness. Healthy and joyous to be here."

Rhaenyra laughed, as the babe's wails softened. "Clean my daughter first, then I shall hold her."

"Right away, your highness."

The midwife rushed towards the small bath that had already been prepared and began cleaning the babe of fluid and blood, gently cooing to soothe her.

"Do you have a name for her, dear sister?" Laena asked, taking a rag to gently wipe away the sweat upon her brow.

"We do. She shall be Princess Visenya, Second of Her Name." Laenor could not help the cheeky grin that appeared, quickly catching his twins attention.

"What did you do this time?"

Switching to High Valyrian, Laenor explained, "We contacted Doran Martell to talk of uniting Dorne and Westeros. We spent moons conversing through letters and creating a contract for Dorne that would allow them to keep the independence they so desire without being allowed to rise against us. Their are conditions, for both of us, and ours happens to be that our next daughter shall marry their 3 year old son, Prince Trystan Martell, when she comes of age."

"If she wishes to. I will not allow my daughter to be forced into a marriage she despises," Rhaenyra added, wincing and gasping as the afterbirth began.

Luckily, the afterbirth was quickly epxpelled and the healers were able to tend to her. Laenor was forced into the sitting room so they could see if Rhaenyra needed stitches or just the ointment. Visenya was quite small and had slipped out in the height of day after barely a few hours of pushing.

The ointment the used would help her heal and prevent infection, a common disease women caught after giving birth. A cold wetcloth was brought to Rhaenyra to help with the pain from her womb, much to her relief.

"I wish to see my Visenya. And my husband," She added as an afterthought, making Laena snort.

"So dear sister, tell me, did you invite Dorne here for your birth? I heard rumors that a delegation arrived late last night but I was far more worried about you to question it."

"They did come. We plan to announce the contract as well as the betrothal in a few days time. I offered to allow them the chance to meet Visenya first in a more familiar setting, so that Prince Trystan may meet his future wife."

Visenya was gently placed into Princess Rhaenyra's arms as Laenor was let back inside. He smiled down at the adorable babe in her arms, reaching out to run a finger over her little chubby cheek.

She had thick curly silver-white hair, inherited from her father with the same dark skin. Her eyes though were the most beautiful shades of green either of them had seen, stunning all three of them.

"Didn't your grandmother, Princess Alyssa have a green eye?" Laena asked, leaning closer to the babe who cooed.

"She did," Rhaenyra agreed, smiling down at Visenya who reached up to smack at Laenors hand. "Did you pick out an egg for her? Or are we allowing her to claim one as her siblings did?"

"I thought it would be best to give her an egg due to her betrothal to Prince Trystan Martell," Laenor admitted. "I picked one from Dreamfyre's latest clutch."

"Good."

The door opened and a maid stepped inside dipping into a shallow bow. Laena scowled at the disrespect.

"You are in the presence of the future Queen, the Crown Princess, the future King, the Prince, and a Lady of a Royal House, wife of a Prince. You will show us the respect we command," Laena snapped, blue-purple eyes sharp as seaglass. The maid flinched back and dipped into a far deeper curtsy.

"I-I have a message. From the Queen," The maid stated, voice trembling, though none could tell if it was from fear or fury.

"Queen Consort," Rhaenyra corrected. "Queen Consort Alicent is not a Targaryen and as such is not gifted the title of Queen as my mother was."

"What is the message?" Laenor asked, frowning.

"She wishes for the babe to be brought to her before the ceremony so she may greet them. The Queen Consort was upset that she has not been granted the priveledge of meeting her grandchildren before they were introduced to the Realm."

Rhaenyra, Laena, and Laenor had all gone still before the Red Keep shook beneath the fury Vhagar voiced, making the maid flinch.

"Laena," Rhaenyra stated, staring down the maid. She switched to High Valyrian. "Find my uncle and the delegation from Sunspear, bring them to the Queens Apartments. Let them see how the Future Queen is treated."

"Your uncle is with the King, Rhaenyra. Hopefully he will see the kind of woman his chosen consort is. Green as her dresses," Laenor stated, grinning sharply at the woman. "Our mother and father would be most upset to hear what their gooddaughter is going through as well."

"Yes, they will." In a swirl of skirts, Laena dissappeared.

"Get out," Laenor ordered. "We shall bring our child to the Queen Consort ourselves."

"I could take the babe, ser."

"If you lay a hand on my child, I will order them to be removed," Rhaenyra snarled. "Tell your Queen Consort that I will come myself for what kind of mother would I be if I passed my child onto another."

The maid gaped at the blatant insult but scurried away as Ser Harwin, who had entered when Lady Laena had left, reached for his blade. He left behind her, closing the door as the servents, maids, midwives, and healers stared at the door in shock.

"Your highness," A midwife, Laya, began, "It is too soon after the birth. You could hurt yourself from walking."

"The Queen Consort has ordered my presence. Dress me. Please." Her maids immediatley rushed forward, pulling on one of her silk hose and pulled her hair into a simple, messy braid that fell down her back. A soft robe was then pulled over her shoulders and Visenya was cradled back in their arms.

The clothes she had chosen were done on purpose. Alicent would expect a show of power but this would show the Lords and Ladies of how cruel the Queen Consort was, and bring more to her side.

They were interrupted when the egg that had been placed in the fire, cracked and began hatching. A beautiful creamy white hatchling crawled forth, stubby horns of pale gold glinting and black frills swaying as it moved. Laughing to herself, Rhaenyra allowed the hatchling to clamber up her robe and perch on her shoulder, giving it free range to look down at Visenya.

Rhaenyra murmured a quiet thank you to the Gods who had so far shown to be protective of their children with her. Laenor appeared behind her, gently supporting her.

"Shall we, dear wife?"

"We shall, dear husband."

Together they made their way through the halls, Ser Harwin and two healers behind them. They earned odd looks as the Crown Princess was dressed in night clothes, holding a babe, with a hatchling perched on her shoulders. Immediatley whispers spread, so Rhaenyra played into it.

Her voice trembled, "Why would she do this, Laenor? Is she not a mother herself? To order me to have my babe taken to her when she is freshly born? What have I done to the Queen to deserve this?"

She made no attempt to keep her voice low as Laenor soothed her, shaking his head. Around them Lords, Ladies, and servents alike shook their heads in disgust.

Upon arriving at the Queens Apartments, they were met by the Dornish Delegation, the King, Prince Daemon, Princess Rhaenys, and Lord Corlys all of whom looked angry.

Princess Elia looked furious, arms crossed over her chest as her husband, Prince Dorian loomed at her side. Ser Cole looked shocked, furious, and afriad all at once as the King ordered him to open the door.

Queen Consort Alicent turned towards the door as it opened, a poorly concealed smirk on her lips. "Princess–"

She cut herself off, paling as the King stared back at her, flanked by his family and a group of Dornish strangers at his back.

"Husband, what–"

"Did you order my daughter . . . to bring her newly born child . . . to you?"

"My king, I would nev–"

"Ask her maid, Father. The one who came into my rooms, blatantly disrepsected me, and told me the Queen commanded my child be brought to her," Rhaenyra interrupted, looking at the maid who paled dramatically.

"Well," Viserys snarled, looking every bit the dragon he had once been. "Did you? As your King, if you do not tell me the truth, I will have you imprisoned!"

"It's the truth! Queen Alicent sent me to the Crown Princess' rooms to bring her the babe!" The maid nearly sobbed. Alicent looked horrified as the hatchling perched on Rhaenyra's shoulder shrieked in victory.

As Princess Rhaenys and Princess Elia tore into the Queen Consort, absolutely furious that she would abuse her power in such a way towards a member of the royal family.

Noting that it was taken care of, Princess Rhaenyra was taken back to her chambers to rest before the feast that night.

At the feast, Princess Rhaenyra and her husband stood before the masses with the Martells to the right and the King to their left, using a cane to keep his balance.

"Lords and Ladies of the Realm. You have been invited here today to be informed of not one but two miracles," Laenor announced.

"The first is our daughter. Introducing, Princess Visenya Velaryon, Second of Her Name," Rhaenyra called, lifting the babe higher as the crowd cheered. "Whose egg cracked and hatched barely two hours after her birth!"

The dragon on her shoulder shrieked, rearing up to flap its wings.

Lifting his hand, the King called for silence. "When my ancestors came to Westeros, they tried to force Dorne to bend the knee but they fought back. Each King after has tried to do the same, demanding Dorne bow to their true King. But none succeeded. No King was able to bring Dorne into the fold. But the future Queen did.

"A contract has been drawn up for Dorne to be formally added into the Seven Kingdoms as long as a Targaryen Queen or King sits the Iron Throne. As per the treaty, Princess Visenya Targaryen and Prince Trystan Martell shall be betrothed and married upon her six-and-tenth nameday!"

Cheers made the hall itself tremble as the true Heir's supporters made themselves known. Lady Jeyne could be seen holding Princess Alyssa with Prince Jacaerys at her side while Lord Corlys held his heir – as the titles had been relinquished from Ser Laenor. Prince Maegor was in Prince Daemons arms alongside his cousin, Princess Baela as her mother carried her twin sister, Princess Rhaena.

Prince Aegon's supporters, who had grown weaker over the years, gave false cheers, seeking out the Queen who wore black and red upon the order of her husband. Much to Crown Princess Rhaenyra's delight the woman looked pale and washed out in the regal colors of the Royal House. It was a stark reminder that Queen Consort Alicent Hightower was no true Queen for even Aemma Arryn, who was oft bedridden, had looked absolutely stunning in black and red, her maternal house colors.

The strength of the Blacks grew and grew, furthered by the birth of Crown Princess Rhaenyra's fifth child, and second daughter.

Princess Visenya Targaryen, Second of Her Name, Future Princess of Dorne, Future Princess of Sunspear, the Traveler, the Diplomat, the Intelligent, the Learned, had been born.

[ltmctrung]

it is a time of legend. And overpriced alcohol

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

when your husband aemond wants physical affection, he comes to YOUR chambers.

sex is not the first or the only thing he asks for, aemond just really wants your full undivided attention. after an exhaustingly long day of managing affairs and telling people what to do, all he wants is for his sweet beloved wife to take care of him, starting with removing his clothes and taking a hot aromatic bath.

aemond always prefers it when you undress him, as you are gentle with your touch and you take extra precaution when removing his eye-patch. the prince regent finds a degree of comfort in you he hasn’t felt since he was a boy at driftmark.

when he is feeling extra needy, aemond will insist that you join him in the bathtub yourself, he loves to have you on his lap and chest-to-chest with him so close and intimate.

and when you eventually begin to ride him, he simply can’t stop gawking at how radiant you look under the flickering candlelights. he is completely mesmerized not only by your dornish beauty, but also by your affectionate nature and how well you understand him. it makes him cum that much faster when you ride him like this.

alternatively, when a bath is not involved, aemond will stand at your doorway with his hands clasped behind his back until you make the first move beckoning him over to your bed.

when the prince regent is feeling particularly sore after riding vhagar, you give him a deep tissue back massage, using some hot oil, usually eucalyptus and jasmine rubbed between your fingers to soften his tense muscles and relieve any back knots.

…..after that? it’s all fair game 😮‍💨💦🍆

[blighted-elf]

Re-creating my favourite Baldur's Gate 1 & 2 party in BG3 (x)

[nightscythe]

Hii can i request how the primarchs would react to making reader laugh for the first time???

Tyy<3

primarchs when you laugh because of them for the first time

i need to preface this by saying i'm not funny, so dont' expect the primarchs to be either. pre-heresy antics

your smitten primarch becomes even worse after you laugh ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈

lion: minutes into him trying to explain the importance of grip when you had a sword in your hands, something you mostly had ignored in favour of biting the inside of your bottom lip and nodding along sweetly with the gentlest smile, he’d made the beginnings of an innuendo that you’d not caught onto immediately. keeping your hand firm, gentle motions, you’d rezoned in at that point to try and understand exactly what he was trying to say it. he'd rambled on, but there was something about his delivery, how he continued like it hadn’t even occurred, that made you laugh. a little snicker at first, then something more. he'd stopped, almost immediately, blinking wordlessly at you with the slightest frown. you’re laughing at me, he’d grumble, not amused by your laughter. well, not until you told him you were laughing because of him. you’d just caught the slight blush over his cheeks as he turned away from you and cleared his throat to continue. he’d reference it again later, hoping to get a similar reaction. 

fulgrim: he’d noticed you’d been quiet most of the evening, even with his attempts to wow you. call him lovesick, call him hopelessly in love with you; he’d do anything to see you smile. so when you’re sat beside him, watching him carefully as he explains a story to you in great detail, he catches you completely off guard by impersonating his sons’ voices with near-perfect accuracy. and when you respond with a giggle, leaning into him without really thinking about it, you make his entire year. his eyes shine brighter, his grin gets wider, and maybe his ego gets a bit bigger. you’re so cute when you laugh, he tells you, reaching for a loose piece of your hair, how do i make you laugh all the time, i wonder? of course he makes it his life’s mission to see you happy at all times, especially if he’s the direct cause of your laughter and happiness. 

perty: company was never best placed with him, unless it was you. he could sit beside you for hours, watch you out the corner of his eye as you got on with whatever you needed to and accompanied his silence so beautifully. but this night he’d been so focused on what he was doing that he’d forgotten you were near him, subjected to his mumbled complaints over how the wires in his hands were far too small for him to work with and they were misbehaving as usual. his personification had got to you – just a smile at first as he spoke, then a laugh under your breath as you tried to continue with your own project. his eyes snapped to you immediately, his heart thumping in his chest as the sound replayed over and over in his head. the stare doesn’t cease for some time as he brings himself to accept what he was feeling; that was the moment he fell in love with you. 

khan: you’d not been part of the conversation, but as you always did when you stood by his side, you were listening. some banter between him and his sons, it wasn’t even that funny, but he laughed, then continued laughing, and you’d tried to stifle the laugh at your lips so not to give yourself away from eavesdropping. but a slight sound, the littlest breath escaped your lips, and he’d turned directly to you. do that again, little one? his question is voiced as he steps towards you, taken back by your unexpected, shy gesture. he leans down to you and gently continues, so sweet, aren’t you? i think i need to hear that again. and of course, he doesn’t care if you were eavesdropping on any of his conversations, so long as he gets to hear that again. 

leman: he was never quiet, especially not around you. but when he’d noticed your despondence when he spoke, how you barely seemed to pay attention, he didn’t take it personally. he offered you a place to rest, curled up on his chest, eyes heavy as he stroked your hair and wondered just how he’d been so easily tamed by someone so… soft. never being one for complete silence, he started telling you stories like he was around a fire with his sons, something ridiculously exaggerated from the depths of fenris and his childhood. he doesn’t even know what he’d said that got you, but when he felt you laugh on his chest, the soft vibrations as you curled into him, his smile could only widen. he swears you do it on purpose, make him fall for you even harder every time you do something new in front of him…

dorn: he’d been contemplating humouring you for a few days now. there were opportunities he could have said something intentionally bad to gauge your reaction, but it seemed like a risk to him. especially when one involved how structurally sound your bedroom would be with him. but when you’re walking beside him, a gentle silence between you both, he stops beside a poorly placed slab of concrete, and he tests the waters without any warning. an uncalculated risk (really it was nothing but he’s overthinking). i suppose that one was placed by my brother. you stop to look at him, pause for a moment, then chuckle before walking on. it didn’t matter to him; he’s practically beaming as he catches up to you. shall i make you laugh more often? like he needed permission – but you may regret saying yes when the jokes just seem to be more sleep-deprived rambles. regardless, in his lowest moments, it’s your laugh that replays in his head. 

curze: sometimes his humour came always naturally, and he wouldn’t realise he was saying anything that might amuse you. so when he heard you laugh behind him as he read over reports that really didn’t matter to him, he stopped immediately, hand mid-page turn. he turns back to you with his brows pulled together, almost cracking when he sees the grin still on your face. he can’t even meet your eyes as he asks you, was that because… of me?  though there was a touch of hesitancy before you nod, because sometimes with him it’s a guessing game of whether that was a good or bad thing, he hums and returns to what he was doing. it was nice, do it more. you wouldn’t need to be asked twice. 

sanguinius: he lays beside you, his golden curls just brushing your cheeks from how close you are. he usually found a smile gracing his lips whenever he listened to you, completely simping enamoured by you. you’d been telling him a story, one that seemed to get more dramatic as you went on about something you’d seen years ago. it was one of those ‘you have to be there’ stories, but he still listened, fingers idly brushing against your hand, still infatuated as you reach the climax of your story and end up basically snorting at your own words. your hands immediately fly to your face, embarrassed. but he just laughs along with you, pulling your hands from your face so he can coax you to continue. why do you hide? he asks, warm laughter still in his voice. just makes me love you even more. 

ferrus: he’d been hammering away when he’d stopped to inspect his work, not noticing you approaching. as he turned the metal between his fingers, he hummed, grumbling something about fulgrim’s poor interpretation of metallurgy, words not really registering with him as he focused more on the sword. but when he heard you laugh, it caught him completely off guard. he doesn’t even look at you as his cheeks become hot and he tries to bury himself in his work one more time, mumbling under his breath, that wasn’t meant to be funny. and it wasn’t, but he was cute. especially when he tried to hide his enchantment from how you’d reacted, peeking back at you from the corner of his eyes. your smile just made him even shier. are you trying to kill him?

angron: it was the first time he’d noticed you, actually. really noticed you. his humour, typically dry and unfiltered, wasn’t for everyone, but when he frankly explains that the past hour with an admiral could have been spared with one simple punch, you can’t resist the huff of laughter, and he catches it immediately. especially the way you try to hide the following laugh behind a cough and a stare down at the ground. he returns to what he was doing but only pays half attention to the conversations that followed. he thinks about it for days actually, every time coming back to the look in your eyes and the carefree sound. the logical conclusion? he’s in love with you. oh no. he’d taken blows that could kill him before, but somehow this was even worse. 

rob: he’d huffed something as he sat down at his desk, just beginning to acknowledge everything else he had left to do that evening. it was about magnus, he thinks, that his powers would be beneficial to sign a few thousand documents without getting a papercut. when you found amusement in his words though, he looked up to you, watching as you tried to hide your face and recompose yourself in front of the primarch. his intrigue prevented him from looking away. awe, fascination – he’d felt it all in that moment. he wasn’t usually dramatic, but it felt like everything else around him faded, you were the only object of his affection – and always would be from that moment on. 

morty: your hand just touched his as you laughed softly, head falling backwards as the grin widened on your lips. he just watched you, frown a little more prevalent. i didn’t mean to make you laugh, he tells you, nonchalantly, as though it was meant to convince him more than you. he didn’t think he was that amusing, especially complaining about the taste of disappointment, but you’d somehow found entertainment in it. his mouth feels a little drier as he tries to explain himself away, it wasn’t… there was nothing to indicate a joke. i do taste disappointment. when you laugh a little more, he maybe finds some humour in his words and lets his demeanour fall just a little. 

magnus: he was always assured of everything he did, except when it came to you. he could have a whole audience bent over laughing and find pride in it, but when you burst out laughing from his comment on how his brothers are yet to understand what impulsive behaviour truly was, he was completely frozen. he’d not expected you to laugh, and he stutters over his own words as he stares, eyes wide. i didn’t mean… he pauses as he tightens his jaw to prevent his lip from trembling just a little, did i sound stupid? his heart thuds in his chest for a moment until you say no, a sigh of relief as he laughs a little himself. he’d never truly get over his underlying anxiety around you, even when you were married with kids – cause he wanted to be perfect for you always, of course.  

horus: he’d been trying to make you laugh with poor excuses for dad jokes all night. every time he delivered one perfectly, then the final one he wanted to try, why did the picture go to prison? you’d looked up at him through your lashes, not flinching despite his obvious grin. he was framed. he laughs at himself, and you barely break a smile. didn’t help he’d been at it all night. oh, come on, he says, nudging your shoulder as if it would somehow make it funny, you know i’m hilarious. and as if all the times you wanted to laugh that night but didn’t, secretly enjoying his pathetically good attempts at it, you look away and exhale into a snort. you’d think he’d conquered the galaxy with how happy he is afterwards. worth every shameful moment, he tells you, cheeks almost hurting from his grin, same time tomorrow?

lorgar: humour wasn’t his thing. but somehow, as he’d run his hands over your body reverently, caught every nook and imperfectly and blessed them nonetheless, you’d laughed. gentle, shy, a reflection of your love as he told you that he’d accept the punishment of heresy for you. he wasn’t sure if it was a nervous reaction to his truth, but it didn’t matter – it showed him another piece of you that he could love with everything he had. his chest ached, his throat burned. he watched you, held you so carefully you’d think that without him, everything would be broken. but when he whispers against your temple later that he’d tear down worlds to hear that sound again? best believe it’s not a lie.    

vulkan: he’d joked about actually being fireproof, a relatively harmless joke that wasn’t really that funny, but given how you were looking up at him with huge heart eyes, you would have laughed at anything he said. he watched curiously as you looked down to the ground, lip pulled between your lip as tried to stop the coy giggle behind it. he reaches for your chin, tilting your head back up towards him as he leans closer. don’t hide from me, he says, smile drawn onto his lips, i’d like to hear that more often. he hums as he presses a kiss to your cheek, that’s everything to me. 

corvus: you’d been watching him carefully when he almost rolled his eyes and asserted that if everyone else learned to shut up, he’d have all the messes in his life sorted quicker (and therefore could spend more time with you). you’d laughed softly, looking away from him as you turned the laugh into a hum. when you look back, his eyes are wide, and you can’t help but laugh again. what did i do? he asks, suspicious of your amusement despite the way his pulse was racing. when you ask him not to look at you like that, all soft and wary, it somehow draws the shyness back in. he starts to smile, not meaning to glance down at your lips, but you’re the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen. your cheeks burn as you avoid his gaze. cutest, too, he adds, shifting closer to you, don’t think i could ever look away. 

alpharius: his hand held onto yours like you’d slip away if he took even an ounce of attention away from you. i have a tracker for your happiness, he says, eyes bright as he admits a secret he probably should have kept to himself a little longer, you’re on a ten-day happiness streak. luckily you think it’s a joke, so he gets away with his real-time tracker being hidden another day, not that he was thinking about that after hearing your laugh. he can’t help the burn in his chest and the way his lips curl. i made you laugh? he’d have to start a tracker for that too. do it again. please? and he’s still holding your hand, not prepared to let go until you just do that one thing for him. please.

this was unnaturally soft for me... i've got to write yandere sanguinius now to balance it out. i hate the word snort. this is peak sunshine and rainbows in 40k type shit. why did i make ferrus soft and shy? who knows. he's cute.

[doeindahdeck]

don't ask why he's on all fours

[megsdoodletag]

yes ok I have been asked about the updated codex let’s talk updated codex

So. Post Plague-Wars. Ultramar system. Guilliman and Yvraine have a strong alliance, and in completely and totally unrelated news have a daughter named Juno Vaeyncaria Guilliman.

MEANWHILE…

on the other side of the Imperium, the Emperor is given a Text-To-Speech Device. Now the original ITEHATTSD obviously happens prior to Plague Wars so while the basic framework is there (kitten exists, magnus is back, dorn and his Boy are there, etc.) it’s obviously a lil different. Through a series of convoluted events we don’t need to discuss at this point, Magnus accidentally pokes the timeline in a weird way and pops the dead primarchs back into existence. They remember everything just fine! They are just. no longer dead. and now in 42k.

This brings us to what I’m affectionately calling ‘2012 Avengers Tower Imperial Palace.’ All the known primarchs are active, though some are still running around 'lost-ish' in the warp. Most of the previously dead primarchs are ‘recovering’ in their former residencies alongside the TTS crew, seeing to what’s left of their legion and figuring out what the hell is going on with. whatever is happening in M42.

Horus in particular is in a weird spot. first, of all the returnees, he’s alone. Ferrus makes up with fulgrim pretty immediately, sang is permanently covered in various marines of his geneline, konrad’s having a Great Time Actually (we’ll get to that later). but nobody seems to like horus much, a position he’s never been in, and this includes his legion which is entirely under abaddon’s control and not going anywhere in the near future. so he does what any guy going through a midlife crisis does and gets himself a hobby.

See, two supposedly dead primarchs remain unaccounted for after Magnus’ spell, namely the two original Lost Primarchs. by logic this means they must still be alive, somewhere. everyone else is unbothered by this, as Malcador’s memory spell disallows any concentrated thought of the two, and even though the primarchs are aware they had more brothers, to their knowledge dad went out to meet with them and something Went Wrong 🤷🏻‍♀️ and then he came back and retired shortly thereafter. weird! oh well.

but horus was not just killed, he was Unmade. when he was reconstituted it was as though he was new, without the stain of chaos.

and free of malcador’s influence.

while ostensibly crashing on dad’s couch, Horus throws himself into finding out what he believes is the key to all of this, the thing that poisoned the imperium before even the Heresy, the original Deviation from the Plan: whatever actually happened to the two lost primarchs?

Ok it’s later now. Konrad Curze always believed in fate. He followed it dutifully into its darkest depths, to his own grisly death.

And then he came back! He never saw anything about that! He figures that, having lived out his fate to its completion, he’s now free of it entirely. Oh he still has visions, but he’s much more lax in interpreting them, and thinks himself above their dictates besides. So. He still likes flensing people and thinks fear makes a fine method of control and hes still got…issues…but he’s not quite as stuck and he's having a wonderful time about it. and he’s also hanging around the palace bc he’s also got very little contact with his legion, which is either scattered or under Sevatar and/or whichever NL prophet we're on now.

So he gets roped into fucking around in emps’ restricted history section with horus! yippee!

The two actually work really well as a buddy-cop kinda pair, with horus slowly repairing his relationships where he can while konrad trails him and learns how to be alive outside of the narrow scope of his futuresight. Magnus inevitably sticks his nose into things and gets to work undoing the mind-block on the rest of them. Alpharius gets involved because it turns out one of the lost legions might actually still exist. and even lion and leman join the hunt cause honestly they're really curious at this point.

Eventually the uncles drag their niece and her friends into the whole ordeal, in part because she happens to have a particularly strong psychic presence that attracts lost and dead marine souls in the warp. Like a cooler, named character version of the Legion of the Damned. Usefull when trying to gain accurate historical info.

oh yeah and emps gets off the throne at some point. he’s not bothering with the Mystery Gang because he’s too busy being one half of a political deadlock with guilliman, where it’s very clear gman does not actually trust him to lead the imperium anymore and is essentially running his own show off-leash from ultramar, but neither of them are remotely willing to like, discuss this. in any way. so instead they’re just stuck awkwardly across from each other, guilliman never offering control of the imperium back to his father and emps never reaching to take the regent position from him and i think if he stopped to think about it this is bc emps would be. a little nervous about resuming full command back from guilliman. because he’s not sure guilliman would give it to him. and he’s not sure he’s in a position to handle that. again. but emps is allergic to being emotionally competent so his brain skates over that thought, unable to confront it directly with any introspection, and instead he just. doesnt mention it! and guilliman doesnt mention it and emps sits in the wreckage of the dream he accidentally set on fire himself while his son methodically does the work to put it out and they won’t look at each other and its fine its all. fine.

and that’s the Updated Codex! 👍🏻 feel free to ask more

thanks to @wolf_feathers12 for the chance to give my ted talk, and tagging @thisuserissilly for lore posts (tm)

[puddingdemonlair]

My ASOIAF OC Visenya Targaryen + flats n extras. She's the grumpy-goth daughter of Aegon IV (Unworthy) and the elder twin of Daenerys of Dorne. She weds Daemon Blackfyre for political purposes and bears him five children: Aemon, Viseryn, Daenaeron, Daenaera (twins) & Rhaelor.

[councilofcastamere]

SAINTLIKE | AEMOND TARGARYEN X READER

a b r i d g e m e n t : when you, now a Lannister, return to King’s Landing, Aemond ensures you won’t leave.

TW: smut, groping, mentions of anal, penetration, oral (fem receiving), degradation mixed with praise???, creampie, breeding, slight cum eating

CREDITS FOR THE AEMOND PICTURE TO ultravi0l3t on Pinterest!

TAGLIST: @toodlesxcuddles , @imsoshygirl

“Gods, Helaena,” you sigh softly, spraying your perfume on your dress. your slender fingers continue to spray it on your neck, behind your ears and the inside of your wrists. “It feels strangely comforting to get away from all that gold up in Casterly Rock.”

“I’ve missed you, sister.” she said in response, sitting on your bed with her eyes focused on her sewing. "But Aemond missed you more.”

“I'm sure he did,” you say softly, biting your cheek to prevent a smile from spreading. your eyes flickered to the bed Helaena was sitting on. the chambers Aemond had snuck a thousand times in to get some comfort to sleep. “Do you have any-"

“The dragon eats the lion,” your little sister suddenly interrupted you, looking up from her sewings. “The lion is blinded by pride, but the dragon is blinded by rage.”

you dropped the perfume on the floor, dumbfounded by Helaena's interruption.

“Come again?” you asked softly, careful as to not undermine her. you knew better than to undermine her sayings after the time she proclaimed Aemond had to close an eye. “What are you talking about, sweet sister?”

she only hummed, and sprayed some perfume to the back of your knees as you lifted up your dress.

"I will see you at supper, sister." she dismissed your question with a gentle tone, standing up.

you bid her goodbye, your confusion present to what it meant. However, you shook it off. Your boys were with the Septa, Aemond was practicing his swordsmanship, Aegon was doing god knows what...

you readied your hair again, making certain the curls at the bottom were luscious enough. you then headed out to the halls, your flat flootwear tapping against the ground with each step you take.

“Aunt y/n!” you heard a masculine voice call out, causing you to turn your head at the voice. you recognised the two brown-haired princes instantly.

“Nephews,” you smile warmly, embracing Lucerys first. you rubbed his back and asked him how he was doing, to which he delightfully replied that he’s officially betrothed to Rhaena.

you rise up again and turn to the eldest, Jacaerys. you could have sworn you saw him blush, but you knew better than to act as if you know the truth. you engulfed him into a hug, your scent rubbing off on him. “How have you been?”

he blinked twice, his mouth slightly parted at seeing you again. “Good, auntie.” he said softly, attempting to stand tall and noble.

“Good.” you nodded respectfully, trying to brush them off politely. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some urgent business with your mother.”

they both nodded, and scurried off to the courtyard, you knew that if you mentioned you’d be visiting your dear brother’s chamber, all you’d hear are subtle sighs of annoyance and whines disguised as uncertainty.

you treated down the grand halls again, finally reaching his chambers. there were no guards, strangely enough, and you took the liberty of opening the door, entering, and shutting it behind you.

“Sister.” his voice startles you, causing you to turn around. “What brings you here?”

“Aemond,” you smiled, trying not to let your eyes flicker to his tunic less form, stepping a few steps closer to look him up in the eyes. “You are attending supper, are you not?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked gravelly, his hands sliding down to the small of your back. you tried to avoid it, but you felt a small sense of arousal affecting your thoughts. “After all, nothing more than a supper with… family.”

“Aemond,” you whisper, as if he had just said a sentence condemning the gods. “No matter how you think about it they are still Rhaenyra’s. Half Targaryen.”

“Is that what she told you after you confronted her?” he asked huskily, his hands sliding down to your hips. “That her fucking a strong was just, and that they’re still half-fucking-Valyrian?”

“Aemond, stop,” you say in a hushed tone, feeling his other hand run across your stomach area, covered by the dress, unable to feel your full breasts due to the material of your dress. “We shouldn’t. My lord husband-”

he broke off your sentence by pressing his lips upon yours, his tall figure looking over you as if it was a shadow, your face in his hands as if it were a precious gem needing to be cradled.

“Your craven of a husband is out fucking whores, not seeing the absolute fucking beauty he has in front of him,” he murmured between kisses, his slender hands working to unbutton your dress. “But it’s fine, I suppose. You were meant to be mine anyways. Meant to be carrying my children.”

you tried not to kiss back, you really did, but his hand crept up the second your dress was dropped, and kneaded your breasts. then he took advantage of your little gasp as to slip his tongue inside. you let out soft moans, your hand flying to his hair.

“Perfect, rōva mandia,” he coos, his hand once again switching positions to rub at your asscheeks and hips. “After 4 sons, you've remained sensitive. That cunt of a Lannister must have not pleased you enough, has he?”

the only thing you could do was shake your head, placing little kisses on his neck and face which in all honesty, were adorable to him. your eyes looked at him so purely, yet he couldn’t see you as anything other than a vixen born to seduce him.

“Be a dear and show your little brother what he has missed,” he whispered in your ear, and you obliged rather quickly, crawling onto the bed, your tight little back-hole showing for him.

“Hm,” was all he said as he took his time stepping, coming to rub one of your ass cheeks as he took a look at your tight asshole. “We'll have countless nights to do that.”

you were about to open your mouth, before he tenderly turned your body over, leaning in to lick the corners of your lips, purposely drooling some of his saliva into your mouth.

“The gods have made us be together, for they know how we belong.” he murmured in between planting kisses on your jaw and throat. “You belong in black and red. I’ll give you the gold anytime you desire it.”

you grow even wetter at his words, pushing your hips up to rub yourself against his already rock-hard cock prominent through his breeches. the feeling did not last long, as one of his hands moved from gripping the sheet next to your head, to pinning your hips down.

“Oh, do you desire me now, rōva mandia?” he whispered, brushing your nose against his. “I’ve grown, sister. I am a man now. A man worthy of you.”

his lips kissed the top of your breasts, before latching onto your nipple, swirling his tongue around it while he kneaded and pinched the other with his hand.

“Ae-aemond,” you whine, your eyes trained on his bulge. you looked up at him and you couldn’t look more possibly beautiful than now. “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, sister,” he rubbed your stomach, his other kneading your tits. you whined but quickly stopped once he brushed some hair out of your face. “You’ll be given my cock, but beforehand I'll have to taste your sweet essence I’ve been thinking about for years.”

“Aemond, I need it,” you begged him, rubbing your foot all over his crotch to rile him up. “I need you.”

he only let out a satisfied hum, kissing each toe and trailing up to your calves, knees, thighs up until his big hands spread them apart.

you remained too aroused to properly function, letting out a deep breath when his tongue only took one lick of your folds. what followed after was his thumb rubbing your sensitive pussy, having you let out fast breaths.

“Are you not used to having anything other than your husband’s cock touching your cunny?” he asked mockingly, placing a kiss on your wet folds. “Of course not, my sweet sister deserves to get fucked like a whore, and treated like a princess.”

you let out a whine at his words, practically thrusting your hips into his face. he licked at your folds and used the muscles of his tongue to fuck into you pleasurably. he let out a few grunts himself as if he was tasting the sweetest essence ever known. his hand rubbed up and down your thigh as you wrapped them around his head.

he continued tongue-fucking you, occasionally stopping to suck on your sensitive bud, his big hand continued to caress and massage your thighs, slurping up your sweet taste. you let out the most melodious moans he has ever known.

“Valonqar,” you moaned out, thrusting your hips against his face. he sucked and swirled his tongue against your clit. your muscles clench around him tighter and tighter, feeling something build up in your stomach. your body tensed up as his tongue gave his final thrusts.

“Come for me, rōva mandia, come hard for your brother,” he murmured, his tongue making his final trust on your stimulated clit. “Scream my name.”

you finally bursted, your orgasm washing over your. half of the juice shot down Aemond's throat and the other half drooled down his chin. he eagerly slurped up your juices, before rubbing his cum-covered chin against your breasts, rubbing the cum off on your breasts.

“My sister, my love,” he coos, kissing the shell of your ear. “The best woman to give my cock to.”

he got rid of his breeches and pulled out his hardened member, throbbing with pre-cum. he let out a soft hiss as it rubbed against your entrance, teasing you endlessly.

“We should stop,” you say softly. “Anyone could come i- ah!”

you let out a gasp as he began to began to circle your sensitive button with the tip of his erection. his hands were placed on your waist, pinning you down.

“Let them,” he murmured close to your lips, his unoccupied hand coming up to trace his thumb over your bottom lip. “Let them see how a dragon has claimed another dragon. As it should be.”

you moan loudly, feeling him push his fat head into your throbbing pussy. his cock was much better than your lord husband’s, thrusting slowly into your tight heat. his face cane close again to plant suck and kiss on your jawline, holding your face to the side.

“My sister is too beautiful,” he murmured in between occasional quiet grunts, feeling you deeper with each trust. “The only cunt that’s perfect for me.”

he could feel you tightening around him, your sweet eyes looking up at him. his one eye met yours, locking eyes intensely. your gasps and moans, accompanied by clapping sounds lingered around the room. his hand creeped down to knead your breasts, brushing a thumb over your hard nipple. his hips went upwards to thrust deeper. he could hear those telltale cries of ecstasy, and basked in it.

“You wish for me to put a babe inside of you?” he asks mockingly, rubbing your cheek against his hand. “Of course you do. You’re mine, and once that husband of yours knows his place, we will be wed.”

you clenched around him, juices already wetting his cock inside of you. your eyes roll to the back of your head as his hand rubbed your clit. you looked up at him once again, and he looked majestic and vulgarly gorgeous. his hair sticking to his forehead, not as straight anymore now that it’s wet. you were a sight for sore eyes to him as well, your dark hair messy and disheveled, your cheeks red and your neck scattered in hickeys.

after a few moments, you came undone, spilling against his cock. not soon after, he slowed his thrust and shot his load inside of you, a part of him forever embedded within your womb.

“Too beautiful,” he murmured, planting kisses all over your breasts and collarbone. “You have been mine since we were children. You were meant to be my betrothed. Tis I who has always loved you.”

you only smiled, but even that made his heart flutter and his cock twitch. he slowly engulfed you into a kiss, slipping his cock outside of you.

“My children have taken a liking to you,” you smile, rubbing your nose against his. “I’d love for you to stay by our side.”

“Which I will do,” he replied, his big hand rubbing your stomach. “After all, they ought to meet one of their own.”

you were about to attempt to stand up on shaky legs, but his veined hands cupped your face and slowly pinned you back down.

“Do not clean yourself up, rōva mandia,” his melodic voice ringed. “Let us depart to supper with my seed, deep inside of you. The bastard might realise how little chance he makes with you.”

[thethronezone]

Dorn remembers meeting Maximus as a young boy, before the son of Perturabo had yet to go through the procedures to become a space marine. He had been on the way to his personal chambers when he had spotted a small figure, a child, standing by one of the palace garden's many fountains.

Now, it wasn't unusual to every now and then spot a child in the Imperial palace. Usually, these belonged to serfs or visiting nobles. Some were quiet and still out of a feeling of reverence while others all but ran amok before their flustered parents finally managed to rein them in. But Dorn remembers being impressed by the way this boy held himself, back straight, head held high and gaze alert. A child with the posture of a soldier.

So, intrigued, Dorn had approached the boy.

Of course, he had known from the very start who this child was. Even if he had somehow managed to miss the Iron Warriors emblem embroidered on his collar, the resemblance to the Primarch of 4th legion was unmistakable. There was that chin, the arched nose, the bushy eyebrows and the steel grey eyes, familiar features softened by youth. A mini-Perturabo, as Leman would say.

But Perturabo would never gawk at him like Maximus did, all wide eyes and an expression of pure wonder on his face. Had Perturabo ever gazed upon him with anything other that scorn and jealousy? Scouring his eidetic memory, Dorn was disappointed to find that the answer was a resounding 'no'. It only seemed that with every conversation, these feelings of pointless animosity grew. Luckily, Maximus turned out to be a much more pleasant conversational partner than his father.

It was, honestly, quite charming to see the boy express himself all while trying to remain disciplined. One second, he would stand with his hands clasped behind his back as he expressed his appreciation for the architecture of the main hall, and the next he would be rocking on his feet, awestruck when Dorn explained just how many gigatons of force the outer walls could endure.

It quickly became evident that Maximus was quite a spectacular young boy. Dorn had met aspirants twice his age that could not hold a conversation half as well or present themselves with a quarter of the dignity. Yes, Dorn thought, Perturabo was quite lucky to have such a splendid son.

Unfortunately, it did not seem like Perturabo shared his opinion.

Like a rolling cloud of thunder, the Lord of Iron marched into the palace garden with an expression that bordered on murderous. But that was not the reason why Dorn placed himself between the father and his son. No, the true reason was because Dorn heard how Maximus' hearts sped up with fear and saw the way he flinched when Perturabo shouted the boy's name.

The same boy that had just a minute earlier gushed about the complex locking mechanisms on the vault doors now bowed his head and all but shrunk in on himself like he had committed some grave, unforgivable sin.

And in Perturabo's eyes, that might as well have been the case. Through gritted teeth, he ordered his son to come closer and, to Dorn's silent disappointment, Maximus obliged.

Like a snake lying in wait in the grass, Perturabo's arm snatched his son's arm and pulled him closer. Had it been anyone else, maybe the gesture would have looked protective, but the way the boy winced as Perturabo's grip tightened told another story.

Dorn was not stupid, he knew that his brother loathed him, almost to the point of obsession. But as the Praetorian observed what was happening in front of him, he came to a startling realization; that Perturabo harbored a similar animosity towards his very own son.

How? Why? In Dorn's mind, it did not make sense. Hating a child was already irrational but your own child? As someone who had been raised to value family, this was the height of idiocy to Dorn and as such, the disappointment he already felt for Perturabo only grew.

And as the Primarch of the 4th legion dragged his son away, Dorn could only lament the fact that such a splendid son would go wasted on a man who was too insecure to see the gift he'd been given.

[green-square-anon]

I don't know how to do it without it seeming Gary Stue/Mary Sue due to the whole "multiple characters in love with oc" (don't let that discourage you! This might just be me overthinking) but imagine if multiple primarchs were in love with Konrads beloved, and they still chose him. Like it wasn't just that oooh they got a primarch or that they were a social reject and Curze was the only one they could get, even when presented with more "popular" options they wanted him for HIM. (Bonus points for Konrad in a better mental state gaining another potential suitor that he then rejects so the same "I wanted you for YOU" gets reflected back on his beloved.)

Spoopy nightmare man starts sobbing.

In my lore for how the OC meets him (Konrad) she does spend a lot of time around both him and Sanguinius but I can also see this happening with Corvus having a simmilar comedic and self esteem effect as someone choosing Perturabo over Dorn.

[theoreticalfishsticks]

I love all of the Primarch children content people make, especially the discussions about how potentially horrific the pregnancy would be for the baseline mother, and I wanted add my own little spin on it. So here's the pitch:

What if they weren't perfect? What if, instead of superhuman demigods like their father - or even a normal, healthy baseline like their mother - the Primarch’s child is a weak and sickly little thing; the natural gestation process having been unable to properly compensate for the extraordinary weirdness that is Primarch genes?

'Cause, they were made in a lab, right? With each gene painstakingly implemented and worked to compensate for oneanother in order to create a viable being. So, what if without outside intervention their genes just can't healthily gel with a baseline's?

So, what the couple had thought was the baby sapping their mother of her vital nutrients to fuel a Primarch's level of growth and strength was actually their baby fighting tooth and nail to develope at all. And even after having taken such a steep toll on their mother's health, the child still comes out small and underdeveloped, barely clinging to life.

That's it, that's the idea. Primarchs with chronically ill and disabled children because of their fucked up genes. Send tweet.

[ltmctrung]

When I cop a joytoy figure I won't post pictures but there would be signs

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.3

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: mentions of the heresy via nightmares, recovering from an injury, slight brief nonsexual nudity

Word Count: 1465

Requested tag: @noncon-photobomb

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16

Silence settles over them, Kessa stoking the flames, keeping silent as Dorn gives into exhaustion and falls asleep. His dreams plagued with twisted memories from his service to the Imperium. It feels as if no time has passed since he had first fallen asleep as he wakes with a jolt. Taking a deep breath as he settles himself, focusing on the things around him. The fire crackling low in its cradle of stone and rusted vent tubing. Outside, the winds scrape along the cave's mouth, carrying the last breath of the toxic season—acrid, dry, and sour on the tongue.

Kessa ladles something thick from a battered pot into a dented metal bowl. The scent is strong—root-heavy, spiced with salt and smoked bone. A stew made from what she had left from her last kill. Bringing it to him as he sits, propped against the wall beside the bed with a salvaged pelt over his lap, muscles still stiff from months unmoving.

“Found some herbs before the rain started,” she says, holding the bowl out. “Should be more palatable now.”

Dorn looks at the bowl. Then at her.

“I don’t need broth,” he says, voice firmer today. “I can handle real food.”

Kessa just raises an eyebrow. She doesn't argue—just returns to the pot and scoops into the bowl pieces of colorful roots and chunks of meet before handing it over. The fire crackles low in its cradle of stone and rusted vent tubing. Outside, the winds scrape along the cave's mouth, carrying the last breath of the toxic season—acrid, dry, and sour on the tongue.

Taking the bowl, fingers wrapped tight around its battered rim. Carefully sets it upon his lap. Gripping the spoon is harder than it should be. Balance is off. The bowl wobbles slightly as he fumbles for a stable position. Kessa doesn’t move to help. She just watches, eyes steady, lips pressed in a line. Let me try. That’s what this moment says. Not out loud—but in the way he shifts his grip. In the effort it takes just to steady the damn thing against his thigh.

He scoops a mouthful. The first chew is fine, the second is harder. By the third, his throat tightens. His jaw tenses. Muscles seize. His body, unfamiliar with bulk and texture after months of nutrient drip and thin broth, begins to revolt. He freezes; lips pressed shut. The strength in him falters suddenly, all at once. The spoon clatters into the bowl. His hand goes to his mouth. He leans forward, retching—not violently, just enough for the shame to sink in deeper than the nausea. The bowl teeters, then spills, stew hits the ground with a dull splash. He doesn’t speak, simply stares at the mess. Just breathing, shallow and low, chest rising in tight, ashamed movements. His single hand, the one that tried so hard to make this moment work, curls into a frustrated fist. Kessa doesn’t rush to him, doesn’t flinch.

“Told you,” she says softly. “You’ve been a drip-feed ghost for half a year. Your stomach forgot how to hold anything.”

He’s quiet. Anger simmering at the edges, but it’s not at her. It’s at himself, at this failure of flesh. A body that used to stride through catacombs of steel now can’t even keep a bowl of stew down. Lifting his head to look at her—not furious. Just tired.

“How long before it remembers?”

“Depends how patient you are,” she says, crouching to clean the spilled stew. “You eat in slivers. You chew more than you think you need. You learn again.”

“I’m not used to learning again,” he mutters.

Glances up at him, not smiling, though her gaze warmer than before.

“You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Either way, I’ll still be making broth.”

               Dorn doesn’t answer right away, chest rising and falling, breath shallow. Shame lingering in his throat—thicker than the stew. He’s not used to this kind of helplessness, this kind of vulnerability. Kessa finishes wiping the spilled food into a cracked tin basin. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t lecture instead she looks up again, she studies him—not the Primarch, not the war-thing in broken armor—but the man trying not to let his failure choke him twice.

Standing up, she sets the basin aside and walks back to the pot. Scoops another small portion into a new bowl. This time, less. Enough to try, not conquer. She returns and kneels beside him, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other.

“Let me help.” It’s not a question, although it’s not an order either.

Dorn’s jaw works—stiff, resisting. But not from pride, from habit. From old instincts honed across battlefields and star-wrecked fortresses. Only giving a singular nod. Taking a seat down beside him on the edge of the bed, close but not crowding. Holding the spoon with the ease of someone who’s done this before. Maybe for an injured beast. Maybe for a dying scavenger. Maybe once, a long time ago, for a sibling who never made it past their first vent season. Lifting the spoon which he welcomes into his mouth. One bite. Small. Slow. The heat settles in his mouth before sliding down. His body doesn’t fight it this time. Just… accepts it. Silence hangs between them as she feeds him, heavy but not cold.

Eventually, she speaks—not looking at him, but her voice steady “You’ve got bones like steel cables. But they cracked. So, you start over. Bit by bit.”

He chews slowly, jaw moving with careful rhythm. His one hand rests on his knee, steadying himself with the same control he once used to hold entire bastions together.

“You do this often?” he asks.

“Only when they’re worth the broth,” she replies without missing a beat.

Taking a moment to swallows the spoonful “And am I?”

She looks at him, spoon still in hand “You’re getting there.”

The second time around the stew stays down. It’s not a triumph, not really—but Dorn doesn’t spit it out, doesn’t double over, and Kessa doesn’t have to spoon it to him. That’s enough. The days that follow easily fall into a ritual of sorts. He starts small, picking up his own waterskin, folding the pelts when he rises, stretching beside the fire until the muscle tremors stop lasting more than a second.

By the fourth day of waking, he starts to move more—still wrapped in the pelt she threw over him after cutting him free. It hangs uneven on his frame, cinched at the hip with a vent-cord belt, baring too much of his torso and leaving his legs chilled in the cave’s recycled air.

“You’re going to catch sick like that,” Kessa mutters.

Standing up from her work bench “Come.”

She leads him to a runoff chute a quarter-klick above the cave—an old steam outlet from a long-buried manufactorum, where heated vent-water gathers in a stone catch basin. The climb is slow. His legs are still stiff, lungs shallow. Kessa doesn’t hover, but she doesn’t leave either. Upon reaching the basin, she dumps a jar of herb ash into the water—it hisses green and froths. He doesn’t ask what’s in it.

“Washes the stink,” she offers, already turning away. “Take your time. I’ll be examining the area to see what damage the rain has done.”

When he strips, he sees the truth of himself under daylight for the first time. Scars, fused skin. Muscles that once rippled with divine strength now drawn taut with weeks of atrophy. Pulling himself from these thoughts and distracting himself by washing away the grime. Hand over his scarred chest, ribs, through matted gold-and-grey hair. The water is shockingly cold, but as he washes away the filth it feels like shedding something.

Once done he makes his way to the shore, over to the rock where he had discarded the pelt. Laying there beside the pelt is a scrap bundle. Fumbling it with one hand, unfolds it. It’s not much—stitched synth-cloth, layered patches of beast-hide, some fabric he recognizes as pieces of her own wraps. They’re worn, but clean. Getting dressed, slowly. The act itself is a ritual—pulling himself upright, testing muscle, balance, memory. It feels strange to wear anything not sealed to pressure plates and armor sockets. Tucking the pelt under his arm and heads to where he could barely see her. She meets him halfway and descends back to the cave alongside each other.

“Had to resize ‘em,” she says. “Didn’t figure you for modest, but it gets cold when the pressure shifts.”

When he looks at himself in the mirror shard she keeps tucked behind a pipe—he doesn’t look like a warrior but looks like a survivor.

[blighted-elf]

Baldur's Gate - OCs + Romance - Gorion's Ward / Tav / Durge

[nightscythe]

primarchs being overstimulated**

**sexually -- nsfw, 18+ below the cut. pre-heresy

you've broken a primarch. congratulations! enjoy your prize ˃ ᵕ ˂

lion: he’d not seen it coming – he’d not been going at it that long with you, but truthfully, so many things you did utterly enamoured him. his hands gripped your hips, his breath was all over your neck, but one last feeling of you clenching around him had been enough. his hips stuttered, he held his breath for just long enough for you to notice, his weight almost falling onto you. in one last ditched effort to maintain his control, keep his eyes focused on you, he’d rolled his hips forward, voice commanding behind you. i’m not finished with you yet, kitten. but the way you moaned his name in response, arched your back a little more and begged him without asking? he shakes at the feeling, even comes close to begging you, too. don’t… don’t fucking move. 

fulgrim: you’d smirked when he’d told… asked you, with a delicate hand placed on your shoulder, be good for me, won’t you my love? you always were so good for him, sat on your knees like he wanted, asked him for permission, nodded along to every one of his requests like the good little thing he wanted you to be. somehow you being good always ended up with him beneath you, in whatever form, begging you to let him come. it was always when his cock was in your mouth that he’d be at his worse, crying, whining, fisting the sheets beside him whilst trying to find the words to beg you with. so when he asks through tears after what seems like hours of your slow and controlled mouth all over him, please, i can’t… i can’t take more, you just laugh and tell him to wait a little longer – and he loves it. 

perty: you knew he could get worked up when he was completely drunk on sex with you. he’d begged, just once, a whispered please as his hands found you and held you in place as he truly writhed at the sensations he was feeling. you weren’t sure what had caused such a reaction, you’d barely been taking his cock a few minutes when it had happened. but now, you craved it, wanting to hear him choking on his own pleasure, his body shaking, his mind broken. you’d edged him over and over, feigning innocence, you needed to stop for a second, you needed to readjust, just to see if pushing him over the edge that way would have the same reaction. it never did; or you never had the stamina to fully test it. his overstimulation was sporadic, and nothing you’d ever be able to control, so the next time he whispered more, please, more you never would have expected it. 

khan: it had been too long for you to remember, and you’d truly given in to the feeling of him fucking you raw, twitching inside you as his pants filled the air and he fell down above you, his chest pressed to your back. mine, he’d growl, his fingers gripped your waist, or anywhere he could hold you, leaving the beginnings of purple marks beneath them. he’d fucked you deep before, he always did, but you could feel him so much further this time. mine, little one, he’d choke out, faster again, mine to ruin, mine to make come… mine. you’d see stars far more times than you could count as the arm which held him up began to shake, something close to a moan left his lips, and he forced himself through the feeling to reward you one more time. 

leman: it was a near impossible feat to try to overstimulate him, but you’d prepared. patience, time, and your never-ending love for someone who craved it so badly. you had never seen him like this. usually so controlled, usually calling you his perfect little pup as you drool from how he makes you feel. but when he looks to you, desperate eyes searching for something as he feels something new, his lips parted and hands reaching for anything which gave him stability, he moans like it was the first time he’d ever released. i’m… fuck… again… he barely gets his words out as you ride him through it. he may have struck his claim on you the moment you smiled so sweetly back at him. no one else could ever make him feel that way. 

dorn: you’d be lying to say you weren’t pleased with your work. he never broke his control, he never showed less command than he wanted to, yet here he laid – his cheeks flushed a bright pink, his body covered in sweat like you’d pushed him to the very limits, his breaths coming in small pants. every time he tried to speak his voice would crack, never giving you more than a few sounds at a time. it hadn’t even been that long, but shutting him down seemed to do something to him. allowing him to feel pleasure outside of the bounds he’d created, pressing a kiss to his lips and telling him it was okay to let go, it was enough to ensure he did. the only problem you hadn’t calculated for was him becoming addicted to the feeling of falling apart at your fingertips. 

curze: he’d committed himself to take care of you, to reward you with whatever pleasure you deserved as a kind gesture to thank you for what you did for him. he loved the way you looked when you were utterly spent yet coming from him one more time because he really wanted to reward you. so when he feels himself falling into that exact same position after what he considers not that long, with his hips jerking, his cock aching yet begging to feel more, he’s furious with himself. tries to push himself through the feeling, focus on you, but the way you feel when you’re around him is just too much. one whimper, then the feeling of your fingers in his hair, he can barely understand what’s going on around him. it never happens. he tries to tell you that, but in the moment, he just wants to feel your arms around him and hear your heartbeat. maybe he’ll go again, it hadn’t taken too long for him to feel that way. 

sanguinius: he was made to serve you, and he’d never let you go without what you both wanted or needed. but everyone has a breaking point, and sanguinius is no different – it just takes a while for him to feel it. just one more, he’d ask you, please love. when you’d agreed, let him pleasure you whilst getting himself off, you’d not imaged what it would end with. minutes after he came he’s still hard, whimpering each and every he’s reminded of your touch, the way you made him feel too. he cries, almost sobs at the way you purr his name and bring him back to you. he wanted more, yet knew he couldn’t take anymore – but if it pleased you, if he got to see you come one more time for him? he’d go through anything to see that, even if that meant breaking himself. 

ferrus: you’d seen him overstimulated before because it wasn’t hard to get him to that point, and what a sight it was. he’d wind himself up, rougher with each minute that passed as he cursed his own weakness for how susceptible he was to the feeling of you – no matter what you were doing to him. it felt like he was being pulled deeper, yet pushed over the edge, something he couldn’t explain or rationalise, which made it feel even worse. as he groaned from the sounds you were making, his teeth sink into the skin near your neck and he basically growls at you, you can’t break me. but you can, and you are, and you have many times before. he’d bury his cock into you like he’d never feel you again, silently whispering a flurry of words you’d never hear again. 

angron: anything with you is a sensation he would crave; love, hate, or sex. every time he comes for you, he always wants more, but he’s always right at the edge already. his hand wrapped around your throat, not to do anything more than rest there, hold you in place as his mouth finds your ear and his hips buckle and he presses you between him and the wall. now, come for me, he’d tell you, now, right now, want to feel you when i break. his aggression is hidden behind the moan that meets your skin, how his breath trembles each time he ruts into you. his mind short circuits the moment you listen to his command, and in that second, nothing matters other than you.  

rob: he’d prized himself on his own composure, and it was no different with you. like another of his brothers, it was your mouth which truly ended that composition. his fingers weaved into your hair as you take his cock in your throat so well, looking up through those pretty lashes to meet his eyes and moan around him. his breath stutters as he bites back his own moan. what are you doing to me, he’d muse, gripping your hair a little tighter. when he starts to feel too much, he’d pull you off his cock, making you wait for a moment before having you deepthroat him nice and slow until the sensation began to wear off. he’d not let you witness his true overstimulation, not until he’d come at least once. 

morty: you’d not known what to expect from him. always so controlled, measured, his dominance never falters around you. he’d tell himself to stop even if his body ached for more, begged him for just a little taste of something, someone, so sweet. so just before he comes again, again, unexpected yet chasing the high of feeling you all over him and so eager to please him, his hand slams down beside you and he ruts into you like he’s never had the pleasure of coming before. he tries to keep control, but it was slipping, his desperate fucking doing little to disguise the needy little sub he really is inside. he’d ride out his high again, minimal words offered to you, but somewhere amongst everything he says a thank you, then another, knowing he’d never find another like you. 

magnus: he's always wanted to please you, serve you silently in your pleasure and know that the way you squirm and writhe is because of him. he never knew that he could feel the same way - but if you took your time with him, he'd get there. could take days of build-up. if you got him truly lost in the way you took him, made him feel so loved and appreciated and truly fucked out, praised him like he truly was the brightest star in the whole universe? he'd shatter the presence of the warp around him. starts with a quiet beg, please my love, please. ends him stuttering parts of his words without any meaning. don't... can't... please... please... love..., his hands grasping at you, needing to hold something for his own sanity. he enjoys the unexpected feeling that overstimulation gives him, never truly wanting it to end. 

horus: he loved seeing you on top. nothing made his day brighter. except for maybe when you were straddling his soaked thighs, your hands reaching for his own that shook at your sides, consoling him as he told you it was too much, hurts, and not sure i can take more, sweetheart. even as he says that he’s reaching to slide his cock into you, ready to watch you ride him and really break him. because it never took too long for him, not as he gasped your name, threw his head back and let you take over. only thing that could make it even better was if you laid beside him afterwards and whispered sweetly how much you loved him and stroked him until he came again, but that was too much to ask for... right?

lorgar: he’d give you anything you wanted, really. so when you ask him what’s wrong, whether he can’t take one more round of you fisting his cock, maybe even fucking him, he shakes his head and practically begs you for it. he can barely breathe, he’s lasted for so long that you didn’t think he’d ever reach this point, and even as his fingers twitch and curl into something to stabilise him, he’s still trying to praise you. just a few words, movements, anything from you is enough to have him over the edge. every time you come, he thanks you. every time you make him come, another thank you. when he feels his body shake, when he’s completely broken, that’s what he considers worship – and it makes him cry the hardest. 

vulkan: you’d never anticipated being in this position, given what it would take to actually reach the point where he was overstimulated. but when he looks down at you, his chest heaving beneath him as his lips tremble, one feverish kiss pressed to your lips as he buries his head into your shoulder and fucks you through the feeling, you realise there’s only need buried behind his eyes. he speaks so softly through his own high, telling you again how much he loves you and, somewhere along the lines, that you’ll be the death of me when his hips stutter and a hiss leaves his lips, only to be followed by a low moan. he tells you i’ll take care of you, that it’s all okay beloved, but he won’t stop until you’re worse off than he is. 

corvus: he’d not realised how close he was to breaking. i’m not done with you, he’d barked as he held you right where he wanted you. his voice was shaking, his hands barely held the same strength as before, but he’d not allowed himself to stop. all this to give you, he’d mumble against your skin, sweat dripping down his chest as he stops to look at you, you’re going to take it all, aren’t you, little dove? he’d not realised that the only thing keeping him upright was your pleasure. he only sinks the tip in and he loses everything. a whimper leaves his lips as tears prick in the corners of his eyes, yet he forces himself to endure and fucks you through every second of his overstimulation. he can lay beside you afterwards – all he wants now is to see you come undone one more time for him.  

alpharius: he was always craving more than he needed, maybe more than he wanted. it wasn’t enough to come once, twice, even three times for you. it wasn’t even enough to see you come double that for him. he’d worn himself out, ruined himself to the thought of you because you were the only thing that mattered to him. hurts, angel. even if it did hurt, he buries his cock inside you once more. i need more, angel, i can’t stop. you… he’d stop for just a second to look at you. you’re everything. and every time he feels broken from how good you feel, he falls a little more in love with you, sinking his claws in just a little deeper so you’ll never leave. 

for @constanceisonline, thank you for the request ◡̈ intriguing to consider and think about, thank you for being so patient!