thatnightlamp

[thatnightlamp]

[thatnightlamp]

[thatnightlamp]

[thatnightlamp]

Ahhhh can i request NSFW alphabet for lion?? Thanks!!!

LION EL'JONSON NSFW ALPHABET

Tags: @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16, @meervalv0, @shankss-magnificent-ass

A = Aftercare He’s awkward. Like he knows he should do something but doesn’t know how. So he just keeps you close, unmoving, body still pressed against your back, his breath caught. Eventually, he’ll wrap an arm around you, tightly, like you might be taken from him. He cleans you slowly, his hand brushing your skin with trembling care.

B = Body part His chest. Broad, powerful, always the shield between you and the world. He wants your cheek resting over his heart, your nails clawing down his sternum.

C = Cum Hot and thick, always deep inside you, he doesn’t like mess. He finishes with control, panting heavily, face buried in your throat. If it leaks from you afterward, he stares at it like a man haunted. Like it means more than it should.

D = Dirty secret He dreams of you calling him My Lion, not in jest, but in submission. Not because he forces you, but because you trust him enough to kneel before a creature of war. The idea makes him ache, even if he buries it in silence.

E = Experience A virgin for a painfully long time. His first time with you was stiff, cautious, almost clinical. But he learned fast. He trains like a knight, fucks like a conqueror. Focused, driven, precise, you’ll never need to correct him twice.

F = Favorite position Missionary, but not the kind you’d expect. You pinned beneath him, your thighs over his shoulders, his face buried in your throat as he thrusts deep. He needs to see you, needs to hold you still, needs to feel like he’s all you know.

G = Goofy Absolutely not. He does not joke during sex. If you try to be playful, you’ll get a sharp look and a punishing thrust that leaves you breathless.

H = Hair Very neatly groomed. Soft golden body hair, lightly scattered on his chest and trail to his groin. He trims but doesn’t shave. His pubic hair is the same gold as the mane of his hair.

I = Intimacy Overwhelming. He doesn’t know how to relax into it. Every act is laced with guilt, hunger, need. His kisses are hard, frantic, breaking into gentleness only when you tremble. But when he lets go, he holds you like he’s falling into prayer.

J = Jack off Only in secret. Never where anyone might see or hear. He does it face down, fists tight in the sheets, gritting his teeth through a silent orgasm. Afterward, he stares at his hand like it betrayed him and vows not to do it again. (He always does.)

K = Kink

Chastity Denial. He resists for so long, then fucks you with the fury of a star collapsing.

Control: Being your only partner, the one you look to, kneel for, beg for.

Possession: Marks you with bites, hickeys in hidden places, and lingers inside you until he feels his seed take root.

L = Location His quarters, always. He needs control, privacy, and the scent of you on his linens. But he has a secret love for taking you in the forests of Caliban, beneath the moonlight, where even the trees bow to his need.

M = Motivation Touch. Not lustful but intimate. When you run your hand down his chest without flinching, or cup his face without fear, something in him snaps. That kind of trust makes him starve for you.

N = No He will never share you. Threesomes, voyeurism, degradation,... all out. He sees you as his equal and his charge, not a plaything. Also refuses anything that risks making you fear him, he needs your trust like oxygen.

O = Oral Receiving. Tense. You have to coax him into relaxing. He’ll grip the wall behind you and moan low, fists clenched, hips trembling. It’s overwhelming. He loves it.

P = Pace Slow and punishing. Every thrust is deliberate, powerful, measured. He holds you down and makes you feel every inch, every grind of his hips. But if he’s angry or jealous, it turns to something rougher, more primal.

Q = Quickie Almost never. He thinks it’s disrespectful. But if it’s needed, if he’s about to leave on a mission and you beg him with tears in your eyes, he’ll take you fast and fierce in a hallway, armor pushed aside, hand over your mouth while he pants against your neck. He’ll apologize after.

R = Risk Low. He doesn’t take chances, and he doesn’t share. But he does indulge your more dangerous fantasies when trust is high, like binding you with his sash or fucking you in full armor. If he knows you’re safe, he’s more willing to stray from tradition.

S = Stamina Nearly endless. He can hold off his orgasm with terrifying willpower, sometimes denying himself for hours to focus on you. But once he cums? He can go again. And again. Until you beg him to stop, and even then, he might not.

T = Toys He doesn’t trust external tools. But if you use them, he’ll study them silently, then replace them with his own fingers, tongue, or cock, better, deeper, longer. You won’t miss the toys.

U = Unfair Not playful, but intensely cruel in his own way. He’ll edge you without meaning to, stop right before you cum, just to kiss your temple and slow down. He doesn’t understand why you whimper. He just wants to savor you.

V = Volume Low, rumbling groans. Sharp, hissed breaths. He tries to stay silent, but when he loses control, he growls your name like an animal.

W = Wild card He keeps a carved figurine of you in his cloak—small, hand-carved, worn from touch. He rubs it between battles like a charm. You’ve never seen it. If you did, he’d panic.

X = X-ray Long, thick, heavy, uncut and flushed deep red when aroused. Veined and dark, the crown broad and sensitive. He leaks a lot, always with a soft hiss through his teeth. His precum stains sheets, thighs, your lips.

Y = Yearning Extreme, but caged. He buries his longing beneath duty, honor, and ritual. But once he’s alone with you, it all spills out. He fucks like a man starving for touch, because he is.

Z = Zzz Doesn’t fall asleep easily. He lies awake, thinking, watching you. If you’re asleep against him, he won’t move. He’ll stay still for hours, listening to your heartbeat, memorizing the shape of your breath.

[thatnightlamp]

Corvus Corax NSFW Alphabet

Tags: @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16, @ladycoraxofficial

not so confident about this tbh, first time writing about Corvus

A = Aftercare

He doesn’t speak much. But when it’s over, he gathers you to his chest like a secret. His breath is slow, deliberate, his hands warm and light as feathers. He brushes hair from your face, watches you sleep, and disappears before dawn, but always leaves something behind: a folded blanket, a glass of water, a note tucked under your pillow.

B = Body part

Your hands. The way they reach for him, trembling or confident. He stares at them like they hold answers he’s been searching for.

C = Cum

Cooler than most, strangely. It comes in gasping bursts, painted deep inside you or streaked across your ribs, thighs, lips. He watches it like he’s done something shameful, and sometimes wipes it away with shaking fingers.

D = Dirty secret

He watches you sleep more often than you know. Not out of creepiness but reverence. When you rest, you are untouched by fear. He strokes your cheek with featherlight touches and whispers things he could never say aloud.

E = Experience

Enough. Not many partners, but the ones he’s had, he memorized. He learns you faster than you can breathe. He moves like mist, suddenly there, already inside, already reading your body like a story he's been dying to finish.

F = Favorite position

From behind, you folded over him, chests flush. His body curved around yours, one arm under your waist, the other across your chest. He moves slow, claiming every inch, forehead against the back of your neck. He wants to feel everything, and he does.

G = Goofy

No. He’s quiet, intense, and only ever smiles when you say something that surprises him. Then, just maybe, you’ll catch a soft huff against your neck, like a laugh that forgot it was supposed to be real.

H = Hair

Soft. Always clean, always untamed. His pubic hair is dark and sparse, barely there. He shaves without thinking, like an old habit.

I = Intimacy

It devastates him. The vulnerability. The softness. He loves you so hard it hurts, but he never says it. Not in words. He says it in the way he touches you like you’re breakable. Like you’re his last chance to be human.

J = Jack off

Often. Quietly. In the dead of night. He presses his face into your pillow, breathes in your scent, and fists his cock with smooth, shame-tinged strokes. He never finishes without muttering your name, sometimes even apologizing under his breath.

K = Kink

Somnophilia. He loves to touch you while you’re sleeping, just soft strokes, fingers tracing the slope of your thigh or pressing against your lips.

Silent sex. Nothing but breath, thrusts, heartbeat. No talking. Just heat and the sound of skin.

L = Location

Rooftops. Abandoned balconies. Anywhere beneath the stars. He likes being above the world, where no one can see him but you. But the most sacred place is your bed, because it’s yours.

M = Motivation

He watches your hands. The way they fold in your lap. The way they touch your own lips. He wants to feel those hands in his hair, on his cock, against his ribs. He’s never been touched for the sake of love, and it drives him mad.

N = No

Anything performative. He won’t fuck for show, or speak filth for its own sake. No degradation, no crowds, no games where you pretend not to love him. He won't tolerate dishonesty in bed.

O = Oral

Giving. Obsessed. He eats you out in near silence, groaning softly as his tongue moves in slow, curling strokes. He holds your thighs still, letting you buck and sob against his face. He needs it more than you do.

P = Pace

Slow at first—agonizing, ghostlike. But once you whimper, once your body opens and pleads for more? He snaps. Harsh thrusts, hips grinding, your legs spread while he holds your wrists and loses himself in the sound of your moans.

Q = Quickie

No. It feels sacrilegious. He needs time, needs to work up to it emotionally. He’ll fuck you for hours, but if you ask for a quickie, he’ll say nothing and disappear into the dark.

R = Risk

Low risk, but high control. He’s open to new things if he feels safe, if you’ve earned that side of him. He doesn’t like surprises, but if you suggest something experimental, he’ll nod once and say, “Show me.”

S = Stamina

High, but not feral. He can go multiple rounds if you want him to, but only if you want it. If you’re satisfied, he won’t push. If you beg? He’ll edge you a second time, softer, slower, until your legs can’t hold you anymore.

T = Toys

Doesn’t own any. Wouldn’t think to. But if you give him one, especially something for you, he’ll watch you use it with wide, dark eyes and stroke himself slowly until you break. He won't touch it again until you're there to guide him.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t tease. He punishes himself with restraint, not you. But if you ask him to hold you down and deny you, whisper, “Please don’t let me cum,” he will obey. And you will weep from the ache of his control.

V = Volume

Very quiet. He gasps. Grunts. Whimpers, sometimes. But the most he ever says during sex is your name, sometimes over and over like a mantra. Sometimes broken. Sometimes in awe.

W = Wild card

He sometimes disappears after sex, not because he regrets it, but because it made him feel too much. He returns hours later, carrying a piece of jet, obsidian, or raven feather jewelry. He leaves it beside your pillow like a confession.

X = X-ray

Long, slim, and curved. Veined, but elegant. His cock is pale, like the rest of him, and cool to the touch until you warm him with your body. Precum is copious, he leaks at the first moan you make.

Y = Yearning

Crushing. He needs you like oxygen, but hides it behind silence and distance. If you touch him unexpectedly, he’ll flinch then melt. His drive is constant, but caged.

Z = Zzz

He never sleeps easily. But after sex? He rests. He holds you close, listens to your breath, and finally, finally closes his eyes. You feel safer than you ever have. So does he.

[thatnightlamp]

When you thought you found a good fanfic but it’s just inc3st/p3d0phila/non-con/something weird

[thatnightlamp]

Vulcan for the Primarch alphabets please

VULKAN NSFW ALPHABET

Tags: @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16

A = Aftercare

Vulkan is a master of aftercare. The moment he feels you trembling, he gathers you in his arms and whispers soft praise: “You did so well for me.” He’s the type to run you a bath, massage your thighs with strong hands, and feed you water or fruit with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. If you fall asleep, you’ll wake up wrapped in warm blankets with his body curled protectively around you.

B = Body part

Your hips and stomach. He’s obsessed with your softness, your heat, your trembling when he spreads your legs and lays his heavy hands there, worshipping like it’s ritual.

C = Cum

Hot. Like—hot. Literally. It doesn’t burn, but it’s deeply warm when it floods you, pooling thick and slow. There’s always a lot, and it feels like he’s pouring himself into you with every last drop. He holds you there after, deep and full, one hand splayed across your belly as if to keep it in.

D = Dirty secret

He carved a tiny statuette of you, completely nude, tucked away behind his forge’s hearth. He doesn't use it to get off, he just likes looking at it when he misses you. His fingers linger on it sometimes, almost like a prayer.

E = Experience

He doesn’t brag, but he’s deeply attuned to his partner. Patient, reverent, and always learning, Vulkan treats sex like a sacred bond. He wants to make you feel safe, wanted, full. He doesn’t chase orgasms, he builds to them with slow, molten skill.

F = Favorite position

You on top, facing him. He loves watching your face, feeling you ride him at your own pace, letting you set the rhythm until he takes over. His big hands grip your waist, lifting and dropping you on his cock like you weigh nothing. It’s intimate, worshipful, overwhelming.

G = Goofy

Surprisingly? A little bit. Vulkan has a warm, deep laugh that rumbles in his chest. If something silly happens, he’ll smile, kiss your forehead, and say, “We’ll figure it out.” In the heat of the moment though? He’s a furnace—focused, growling, affectionate but intense.

H = Hair

He’s smooth-skinned, naturally. His body runs hot, so most of his hair is sparse or singed short by proximity to forge heat. Down below, he trims carefully, it’s coarse, tight curls, and neatly kept. His scent is like warm charcoal and skin-slicked heat.

I = Intimacy

It drips from every touch. Vulkan doesn’t fuck, he loves. His forehead will press to yours, his hand will cover your heart, and he’ll murmur things like, “You’re safe. You’re mine.” He listens to your breathing like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

J = Jack off

Only when he’s away from you for too long. He’ll do it with his hand wrapped tight around his cock, balls bouncing with each stroke, staring at your shirt, your picture, even your pillow. He cums hard, panting your name, then feels guilty for not waiting.

K = Kink

Size kink. He adores how tiny you are beneath him. How you stretch, how you gasp.

Praise. His deep voice growling “So good, sweetheart” while he holds you trembling.

Breeding. He cums deep, stays inside you, and whispers about planting you full every time.

L = Location

The forge, especially when it’s dark and hot and quiet. He’ll lift you onto a stone worktable, the scent of smoke and oil surrounding you both. The bed is for slow, sacred lovemaking, but the forge? That’s where the fire inside him gets unleashed.

M = Motivation

Your scent. The look in your eyes when you want him. When you reach for him, cling to his broad chest, whisper “Please.” He responds to need, and nothing excites him more than you needing him.

N = No

No degradation. No cold detachment. He needs love in sex. If you ask him to insult you, he’ll pull back, stare at you like you’ve insulted his soul, and shake his head. “I’ll never treat you like less.”

O = Oral

Giving. Devastating. He’ll lie between your legs for hours if you let him, thick tongue curling just right, his eyes on your face as you fall apart.

P = Pace

Usually slow and deep, like molten rock rolling downhill. Every thrust powerful, hips grinding to make you feel every inch. But if he’s desperate? He’ll snap his hips hard and fast, balls slapping, sweat dripping, grunting into your shoulder.

Q = Quickie

Rare, but not out of the question. He prefers to give you time, but if you're desperate, he’ll lift you up and press you to a wall, bury himself deep and make you cum with three hard thrusts. Then he’ll whisper, “We’ll finish properly later.”

R = Risk

He’s open to trying almost anything, as long as he feels it’s safe and mutual. Bondage, edging,... he’ll explore it all with you. He may even forge custom restraints just to see how they look on your wrists.

S = Stamina

Unreal. Vulkan can go for hours. He’ll keep going until you’re shaking, limp, blissed out in his arms, and even then, he’ll kiss your jaw and ask softly, “One more?”

T = Toys

Yes. He makes them. Heated dildos, clamps, plugs forged to your exact shape. He crafts them like relics, etches your initials on the base, and uses them to edge you while he watches. “Show me how much you can take.”

U = Unfair

He can be. He’ll edge you with thick fingers, tongue, cock, whispering, “Not yet, little one.” He wants you begging, because when you do, he gives you everything

V = Volume

Deep, thunderous groans. He pants like a forge bellows, moans into your skin when he cums, sometimes murmurs praise or prayers between your sobs. You can feel him before you hear him.

W = Wild card

He made you a necklace with a shard of obsidian from his homeworld. It hums with warmth when you’re close to him. You think it’s pretty. You don’t know he carved it while thinking of you writhing under him, screaming his name.

X = X-ray

Thick, long, with a slight curve upward. Veiny, a dark bronze hue, hot to the touch. His balls are equally massive, leathery-soft, heavy, and full. When they slap your ass, you feel it. His whole package radiates heat like a forge.

Y = Yearning

Extremely high, but it’s a slow-burn. He doesn't act on it immediately, he lets it smolder until it becomes unbearable, then he takes you like a man starved. If he's gone too long, the moment he sees you, he's already unbuckling his belt.

Z = Zzz

He sleeps best after sex. You draped over his chest, your sweat mixing with his, your breathing slow. He’ll wrap both arms around you, and if you move even slightly, he’ll wake and pull you back, whispering, “You stay with me.”

[thatnightlamp]

ROGAL DORN NSFW ALPHABET.

Tags: @incrediblethirst @iluminatka16 @portabella201

A = Aftercare

B = Body part

Dorn handles aftercare like a duty, but that doesn’t make it cold. He’ll clean you with crisp efficiency, tuck you beneath his arm, and stroke your hair with a hand that still trembles slightly. He won’t say much. But it means everything. He stays up long after you’ve fallen asleep, guarding you like a sentinel.

C = Cum

Your spine. He watches the way it curves, the way you arch under him. When he fucks you, his hand inevitably slides up your back, following the line like a craftsman tracing sacred architecture.

Efficient, controlled — but when he lets go, it’s startling. His orgasm hits in deep, guttural growls. He always finishes inside, with his hips pinned to yours, holding you in place. Afterward, he won’t let it go to waste, he fingers it back into you slowly, wordlessly.

D = Dirty secret

E = Experience

Dorn has a habit of collecting… evidence. A lock of your hair, your used underthings, a worn shirt that still carries your scent. He keeps it all behind a hidden compartment in his quarters. He visits it when you're gone too long, breathing deeply, jaw tight with restraint.

F = Favorite position

Dorn learns by doing and perfecting. He studies your responses like siege architecture: where the walls give, where the defenses shatter. What starts mechanical becomes deeply effective. He doesn’t waste time with guesswork. You will be undone, methodically.

G = Goofy

Bent over a surface—his desk, a reinforced wall, the edge of his bed—with one hand between your shoulder blades and the other gripping your hip. He likes leverage, control, and full access to your throat and your sounds.

Not even slightly. Dorn doesn’t laugh in bed. Doesn’t banter. Doesn’t smile. If you try to crack a joke, he’ll just stare at you, deadpan, until you fall quiet and then he’ll resume fucking you like you’re nothing but his.

H = Hair

I = Intimacy

Meticulously groomed. His hair is short, regulation-perfect. His body hair is minimal, trimmed, precise. His pubic hair is just as clean, a white trail dusting against his thick cock. He smells like ozone, sanded stone, and something uniquely Dorn—sharp and clean.

K = Kink

Dorn doesn't express love with words. He shows it through consistency, silence, and the way he watches you sleep like he’s guarding you from the galaxy itself. When he holds you during sex, it’s with a possessiveness that borders on obsession. He may not say “I love you”, but when he wraps both arms around you and breathes against your ear, you’ll feel it.

J = Jack off

Rarely. He prefers restraint. But when the pressure builds too high, usually after too many nights thinking of you, he’ll shut himself in his quarters, bare his teeth, and jerk himself off in harsh, gritted silence. Always fast. Always efficient. But always thinking of you.

Control kink: He wants to own the moment. Your body, your sounds, your surrender.

Bondage: He ties you down with silk or leather restraints, not for cruelty, but to hold you still, keep you where he needs you.

Sensory deprivation: He likes blindfolding you, watching you twitch beneath him without knowing where he’ll touch next.

L = Location

M = Motivation

Private chambers, locked and fortified. He refuses to be interrupted. That said, he has taken you in an unfinished section of a fortress, with cold air on your bare skin and his hands keeping you steady on raw stone. It was possessive and filthy and unforgettable.

N = No

Defiance. Vulnerability. When you challenge him with your eyes, when you beg and plead and don’t look away. When you trust him to pin you down and hold you there, when your body yields but your eyes don’t.

O = Oral

No public sex. No degradation. He refuses to devalue you or himself. He also won’t entertain anything “silly”—costumes, pet play, role reversal. Sex is war. He wins, every time.

P = Pace

Giving. He sees it as necessary… until he gets addicted to the way you shake and beg. Eventually, he learns to love it, eating you out with locked eyes and unrelenting focus.

Q = Quickie

Unforgiving. He thrusts like he’s building a citadel inside your body. Every stroke is deep, hard, and meant to last. Even when he slows, it’s just to make you feel it more.

R = Risk

Yes, but only if you initiate. He’ll slam you against the wall, pull your underwear aside, and grunt through his teeth as he fucks you through the wall. But he’ll scold you after. “You should know better than to tempt me like that.”

S = Stamina

Only calculated ones. If you want to try something new, he’ll run through safety checks, position strength tolerances, and ensure you’re secured. Then he’ll try it, once, and gauge the results with a soldier’s scrutiny.

T = Toys

Relentless. He doesn’t “finish.” He completes you. He can go all night, switching positions, holding you in place until you cry for mercy. And then once more. For memory.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t buy them. He commissions them—artisan-crafted restraints, weighted plugs, cold steel implements that never break. He stores them in a locked case with your name engraved discreetly inside.

V = Volume

His teasing is cruel in its silence. He’ll edge you for hours, never speaking, just watching you unravel under his hands. He’ll bring you to the brink again and again, whisper “Not yet.”, and press your thighs back down when you shake too hard to stay still.

W = Wild card

Quiet. Alarmingly so. A few low grunts, your name like a sacred vow. But when he cums, it always escapes him, a rough, deep noise like the groan of stone splitting under pressure.

X = X-ray

He has a custom-built chastity device, yes, for you. Not out of cruelty, but because the thought of controlling your pleasure while he’s away keeps him calm. He’ll unlock you only when he returns, usually to immediately fuck you senseless.

Y = Yearning

Thick and long, though less veined than others—smooth, heavily ridged near the base, flushed pale pink. His cock curves ever so slightly upward, and he’s always painfully hard. Precum beads at the tip when he gets too focused on your body.

Very high. He just hides it. If you say “Do you want me?” he’ll pause, stare, and reply “Yes. Always.” Then he’ll press you to the nearest surface and take you like he’s been waiting for months.

Z = Zzz

He doesn’t sleep right away. He’ll lie awake, hand on your hip, listening to your breathing even out. Only when he's certain you're safe, loved, and satisfied… will his eyes finally close.

[thatnightlamp]

ROBOUTE NSFW ALPHABET.

Tags: @incrediblethirst @beckyninja

A = Aftercare

Meticulous and devoted. He makes sure you’re hydrated, gently cleaned, and wrapped in fine linens. Roboute believes post-coital care reflects moral character. He might struggle to be verbally affectionate, but his actions are unmistakably protective, tucking your hair back, whispering in High Gothic, holding you like you might vanish.

B = Body part

He reveres your back, especially the spine, shoulder blades, and the small of it. He kisses down it reverently, like following a map to the divine.

C = Cum

Controlled but potent. Roboute holds back until he knows you’re satisfied—then releases with a deep, guttural growl. He prefers to cum inside, as it feels symbolic, binding, almost sacred. Clean, warm, and surprisingly abundant, he always wipes you gently after.

D = Dirty secret

He fantasizes about being debased, not humiliated, but undone. Roboute secretly craves losing control, being begged for, worshiped, or even used. He imagines you straddling him, riding his cock while he lies still, letting go of the iron discipline that defines him.

E = Experience

He’s studied everything in theory, but very few have seen the practical side. He’s a perfectionist lover, attentive, hungry to please, willing to learn exactly how you moan when touched just right. Once he starts, he’s shockingly good.

F = Favorite position

Seated in a throne or chair, with you in his lap, riding him slowly while he grips your hips and looks up at you like you're divinity. He also favors missionary, for the closeness, eye contact, and ability to control the rhythm.

G = Goofy

Rarely. Roboute is serious during sex, bordering on reverent. If he ever does smile or tease, it’s low and sensual, “Is that the sound you make for me?”, but most of the time, he treats you like a sacred relic he’s been entrusted to protect and adore.

H = Hair

Immaculately groomed. Pubic hair is trimmed and tidy, just like everything else about him. The man uses oils, exfoliates, and probably has razors from Macragge.

I = Intimacy

Unflinchingly intense and focused. He touches you with the same concentration he gives to battle plans or diplomacy. It may take him time to express emotions verbally, but he shows love through every inch of his body, his lips on your wrist, his hands stroking your thigh, the way he breathes your name like a vow.

J = Jack off

Yes, but he’s ashamed of it. Roboute treats masturbation like a tactical failure, “I should have more control.” He does it silently, shamefully, sometimes even picturing you scolding him while he strokes himself. Post-nut clarity hits him like a thunderbolt.

K = Kink

Praise kink. Needs to be told he’s doing well. Desperate for reassurance.

Light Bondage. Silk restraints, pinned wrists, or being held in place.

Uniform kink. Wants to fuck you in (or out of) your robes, armor, diplomatic silks.

L = Location

His private war room, all marble, candles, sacred texts, and battle maps. It feels forbidden, secretive, like you're interrupting divine order. He also enjoys his personal quarters, especially against a wide window overlooking Macragge’s starscape.

M = Motivation

Emotional trust. Once he believes he’s earned your love, his desire awakens like a dam breaking. The sight of you kneeling in front of him shatters him. Also? Vocal praise. Moan his name and he’s gone.

N = No

He draws a line at degradation or humiliation. Roboute won't call you names, slap, spit, or demean, he sees you as a holy companion. He also refuses anything that feels lawless or chaotic, he needs control, meaning, and mutual care.

O = Oral

Receiving. At first, he struggles. Feels guilty, overwhelmed. But once he sees how much you enjoy it? He surrenders, his head thrown back, thighs trembling, murmuring praises like a dying saint.

P = Pace

Disciplined, intense, and thorough. He starts slow, savoring every thrust like a penned line in a sacred book. But once he’s lost in you, Roboute can become ruthless, gripping, driving deep, growling orders like battle-cries.

Q = Quickie

Rare, but not impossible. If he’s pressed for time, he might take you against a desk, armor half-off, one hand over your mouth to muffle you. He’ll be flustered afterward but satisfied. You, less so— he’ll make it up to you in triplicate later.

R = Risk

Minimal at first, he’s conservative and careful. But over time, he warms up to experimental ideas. He’s less interested in physical danger and more intrigued by emotional vulnerability.

S = Stamina

He’s a Primarch, so… legendary. Can go multiple rounds, stay hard for hours, and only grows more intense the longer it goes. He refuses to stop until you're completely wrung out, glowing, satisfied, and borderline speechless.

T = Toys

He has a private collection, polished, immaculate, and locked behind encrypted vaults. Gilded restraints, vibrating rods, bejeweled plugs, and an Ultramarine-blue dildo custom-made to match his own size, for when he’s away.

U = Unfair

Very restrained, but when he does tease, it’s surgical. Long, slow touches. Eye contact. Letting you grind on his thigh without penetration. Then telling you in perfect High Gothic: “Patience, my love.”

V = Volume

Low, guttural groans. Rarely loud, but intense. He mutters your name like he’s writing it into history, and shudders with breathy growls when he finishes. If you hear him swear in Battle-Cant, you’ve destroyed him.

W = Wild card

He writes erotica in his journals. Detailed, flowery, tactically annotated descriptions of your body, of your nights together, of what he’d do if the Imperium didn’t need him so much. He’s embarrassed about it… until you find it and ask him to read it aloud.

X = X-ray

Beautifully built, like a living statue. Veins over thick muscle, not overly hairy, every inch of him sculpted and huge. His cock is long and straight, thick at the base, flushed reddish-pink, with a defined head and heavy balls. He leaks a lot when desperate.

Y = Yearning

Sky-high, but heavily repressed. He can go months without acting on his desire, but when he finally cracks? It’s apocalyptic. He’ll pin you down and make love like he’s making a saint of you. Desperate, consuming, sacred.

Z = Zzz

He has trouble sleeping after sex—too many thoughts, guilt, planning. But if you curl into his chest, touch his hair, and whisper that he did well? He’ll finally relax. Slow breaths. Eyes shut. One arm holding you to him like a vow.

[thatnightlamp]

Fanfiction is so silly. I am playing with my dolls and people are coming over to watch. Some of them even clap and give me compliments. And when I'm done playing, I can go and watch other people play with their dolls.

[thatnightlamp]

MORTARION NSFW ALPHABET.

Tag: @incrediblethirst @jackalwolfsoul

A = Aftercare

Blunt and awkward, but deeply attentive. He doesn’t talk much—just lays beside you, arm slung protectively over your waist. He cleans you up with a wet cloth like it’s part of his duty. You have to coax him into staying in bed. He acts like he’s ashamed of needing it.

B = Body Part

Your neck and collarbones. He has a fixation of feel the pulse of life rushing through you, breathing you in, pressing his mouth there, biting softly, almost reverently.

C = Cum

Hot and surprisingly thick, with a scent like ozone and metal. He doesn’t like wasting it. He prefers to finish deep inside, groaning low when he watches it drip out of you. It makes something primal in him settle—like proof you’re his.

D = Dirty Secret

He sometimes slips into your room late at night and just... watches you sleep. Breathing your clean air. Fantasizing about touching you. The first few times you fucked? He didn’t sleep for days, replaying it in obsessive silence.

E = Experience

Limited but intense. He knows pain, not pleasure, so everything with you is trial and error. He treats your body like sacred terrain— carefully, hesitantly. Once he gets comfortable, he learns fast, and with a terrifying amount of control.

F = Favorite Position

Missionary, but not for eye contact, he buries his face in your throat, growling into your skin. Or from behind, pressed down into the furs of his quarters. He doesn’t want you to see his face when he loses control.

G = Goofy

Not even close. Mortarion doesn’t joke during sex. His seriousness can feel oppressive at first, but if you tease him gently and break that wall, he gets quietly flustered, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

H = Hair

Naturally sparse body hair due to Barbarus’s poisoned environment. His pubic hair is minimal, pale, and wiry. Neatly trimmed, more out of practicality than grooming. He doesn’t care about yours either way, but he notices everything.

I = Intimacy

Incredibly tense at first. Mortarion is not used to being touched, desired, or loved. But if you show him patience, he starts melting slowly. His intimacy is silent: resting his forehead on yours, shivering when you kiss his chest, clinging like he’ll break if you let go.

J = Jack off

Rare, grim, and shameful. He doesn’t indulge unless it’s unbearable, and even then, he resents how badly he needs you. You’ve caught him once, hunched over in his warplate, whispering your name like a curse.

K = Kink

Breath control. Gentle, symbolic, he wants to feel your breath stutter against his palm.

Praise kink. He denies it, but hearing “you’re doing good, my love” undoes him.

Worship. Not in the submissive sense, but like you are sacred, and he’s unworthy

L = Location

His personal chambers, cold, dim, filled with strange incense and relics. Or deep in the toxic wilds of Barbarus, where the air could kill anyone but you and him. He likes isolation. He wants you where no one else will ever find you.

M = Motivation

Touch. Softness. You. The feel of your fingers in his hair. The way you say his name like it’s not a curse. He doesn’t know how to ask for love, but the moment you offer it? He breaks. You’re the only clean thing in his ruined world.

N = No

No mockery. No public play. No emotional manipulation. He doesn’t want to perform desire, he wants the real, raw thing. If you laugh at him or feign arousal, it wounds him more than any blade.

O = Oral

Receiving. Mortified by it at first. The first time you drop to your knees, he stiffens, refusing to let you. But once he lets go… oh, the sounds he makes— rasping, breathless, disbelieving.

P = Pace

Slow and brutal. Like a storm rolling in. He builds tension until you’re trembling, and then pounds into you with wild desperation. He doesn’t know how to be playful, it’s always need, always devouring.

Q = Quickie

Rare. He’s too methodical, too fixated on control. But if something snaps, say you’re both bloodied after a battle, he’ll pin you against a wall, tear your clothes, and rut into you like an animal, breath hitching, mouth biting skin to stay quiet.

R = Risk

Low appetite for dangerous experimentation. Mortarion has been hurt too much. But if he trusts you, he’ll try anything, as long as you guide him. He likes whispered suggestions. Gentle pushing. He wants to give you what you want.

S = Stamina

Unreal. He doesn’t even breathe hard until after round three. His body was built to survive poison air, and this? This is nothing. But mentally, emotionally, he breaks easier. The sex lasts long. The aftermath? Shaking hands. Clenched jaw. Guilt. Longing.

T = Toys

None, at first. But once he trusts you? He’ll use anything you like, for you. He doesn’t care for using them on himself, but watching you squirm under a vibrating plug while he whispers how beautiful you are? That? He loves.

U = Unfair

Very. He’ll edge you for hours if he’s in a dark mood. Not out of cruelty, but because he needs to watch you fall apart slowly. It’s control. It’s safety. It’s punishment, sometimes for himself.

V = Volume

Low growls, hisses, gasps that sound almost angry. He tries not to make noise, trained himself into silence. But the moment you hit a sensitive spot? He makes a sound like he's being broken open. It’ll haunt you, in the best way.

W = Wild Card

He has a habit of sleeping in your clothing when you’re away. Tucking your worn tunic under his nose, breathing it in like a dying man remembering the sun.

X = X-ray

Massive. Pale and veined, with a slight curve upward. He’s wide more than long, the kind of cock that stretches you. He doesn’t thrust hard unless you beg, but when he does? You feel it in your ribs. Always cold to the touch until he’s buried in heat.

Y = Yearning

Terrifyingly high, but completely repressed. He wants you constantly but denies himself until he’s snarling with frustration. One touch from you and he shatters, dragging you down into the sheets like a man possessed.

Z = Zzz

Sleeps like the dead afterward. Curled around you tightly, one arm around your middle, face hidden in your neck. You’re the only reason he sleeps at all. If you try to move, he grumbles and holds tighter, like letting go will kill him.

[thatnightlamp]

Thinking of making NSFW Alphabet but don't know where and who to start with. Request your Primarch.

[thatnightlamp]

I did it my lovelies, I present to you my Dorn Smut. I love this idiot and his stupid brain. I worried I dragged out some things a bit too much but I also wanted to get down to the nitty gritty of just what exactly Dorn's problem is. Either way, the man is down bad for you.

Don't You Know I Burn For You? Part II

Rogal Dorn x Fem!Reader

Tags: Obsessive Behavior, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Emotional Confessions, Rough Sex, Size Kink

Tag List: @nereidof40k @mask-knife-is-scarecrows-wife @incrediblethirst @kit-williams

Dorn did not suffer fools gladly. He did not put his energy into paltry ideas such as faith or destiny. There was only cold, hard truth. And yet as he watched you, his dear little wife, struggle so desperately to wring out another orgasm from your body, he started to wonder if perhaps... there was something bigger than just unforgiving reality. How had the Preatorian of Terra, the Loyal Golden Son of the Emperor, fall prey to the most basic of human desires?

Much to his own shame, Dorn understood his humanity still dwelled within him. He felt it mlst when he was amongst his sons. The pride, the paternal devotion, the secret worry and hidden grief at their deaths. But such feelings did not distract him from what he was born to do. But you— am insignificant baseline, one in a trillion, somehow found your way onto his ship and into his beating hearts. He dared not think of the odds stacked against such an event and how it looked on paper. Lesser (heretical) beings would call it fate or worse— supernatural.

But the sight of you made him feel... not himself. He was unused to the warmth, pooling from his chest and into his very loins. He was untrained in how to deal with the smell of your arousal and your tiny whimpers and how it made his teeth ache with the compulsion to bite. Dorn did not require food, yet he hungered for you in such a way that it would appear he had never eaten once in his immortal lifetime.

Soon, he promised to himself, feeling the ache of his erection under his dress pants. He would rid you of your ache soon. He simply needed to see you suffer a fraction of what he had these past 10 years.

When he had first known you, the depth of his own feelings had yet to be realized. At first, Dorn merely wished to be in your presence longer. He'd request your opinion, invite you to read with him, and discuss and debate the ideas of ancient philosophers- or rather discredit their logic once put up against the Imperial Truth. 

You had a knack for architectural design and with an ease that bordered on impudent, you pushed him to look past the domineering edficices and striking aesthetics of Imperial Gold and instead consider the strength that lie within delicate craftsmanship and artistry. "The cradle of humanity should represent more than just enduring strength, my Lord Primarch, our creative minds and crafting hands are what prove and guide our humanity." Such sweet sentiments, somehow preserving within a time where humanity could not falter one iota and you dared to bring it all down with your gentle truths.

While his honesty was iron-wrought and unyielding, yours was a candor that was the most painful; the glaringly obvious kind. Dorn found himself nearly vibrating at his fingertips to wring every thought, opinion, and secrets you held close.

He kept his urges at bay, but steadily he began to desire, no— need your input. Forget the rigid order and straightforward laws of the universe; what did this small woman think of the stars? What did she consider true friendship? What were her hopes? her disgusts? her ridiculous proclivities that only further indeared him to your innately human contradictions.

You were witty, animated, open, and…vulnerable, in your talks with him. He could easily read every thought on your face, and not once did fear take refuge in your gaze when aimed at him. Your attitude could be downright flippant when it was just the two of you. He appreciated your discretion and ability to discern when being solemn was the required mode of conduct. But behind closed doors, that cheeky gleam would return to your eyes.  

And yet, as the months wore on, there was a darkness growing in him. At the very base of his chest that slowly rose through his heart up his neck over his skull and back down his spine. It was the unfamiliar and shameful feeling of possessive jealousy. You had duties on his ship and people who required your attention. Your duty to the Emperor eclipsed your companionship to him. In normal circumstances Dorn would want for nothing but complete and utter devotion to his father. You were the perfect servant to His imperial aims.

Yet the moment you had to excuse yourself from a discussion on ancient theater, or quietly remove yourself from his side on the command bridge in order to prepare for a meeting with a planetary delegation, that darkness within Dorn only grew. In a most uncharacteristic behavior for him, Dorn became distracted with finding ways to monopolize your time and attention. He started to require your expertise more often, quietly complete your future tasks in your stead, or have one of his deckhands take on your larger responsibilities. You were none the wiser, and in his eyes, you seemed happy for the extra time at his side. 

But within that growing darkness in him, he realized with ever increasing frustration that the compulsion enveloping him did not disappear.

Those around you still sought you, still believed they were owed your attention, thoughts, and gentle smiles. They did not know that every breath used to tease, every stern gaze to warn, and every encouraging touch to comfort was meant only for him to enjoy.

He needed to ensure everyone knew where your priorities lie. Where your energy was best focused on. The thought of a baseline taking your time, your smiles, your affections, away from him made the Primarch silently seethe. They were a finite resource, and he was quickly falling short of his necessary supply. In the attempt to ward off any possible interlopers trying to take you from him, Dorn took it upon himself to officially court you.  

Your interactions with him hardly changed, only this time, he did not hide his devotion. He informed you of his intentions rather bluntly the moment he realized his plan. Your response was, at first, hesitant. Inwardly, this reaction made Dorn inwardly frantic with fear. You could not deny him. You would not. It was an impossibility. You were a smart woman, how could you in your right mind deny a Primarch your hand? But in a merciful short span you accepted his proposal.  

By the time he had you in his bed and had felt, learned, and worshipped your body with his own, that darkness now enjoyed a cozy place within his very soul. But that bestial craving was insidious. And once again, Dorn found himself fighting that itch in his teeth and rush of his blood past his ears as he watched your exhausted body reach a point of utter defeat.

You had laid there for what felt like hours, your hand had cramped, failing you once again and you felt the cold, sobering emotion of defeat as you understood you would not be getting what you wanted. Lifting your gaze to your husband, you shook your head. You couldn't do it. 

“I can't." You admitted quietly, your voice feeble. Dorn lifted a quizzical eyebrow, his eyes staring in yours intently, his expression comfortably stoic.

The hopeless defeat clear in your eyes must have been what the bastard wanted as after a tense pause, he silently motioned for you to scoot up the bed. Frowning, you did as he ordered, your back aching slightly from the position it had been forced in minutes before. 

A jingle of metal hit your ears and you watched in rapt attention as Dorn removed his clothing. Removing his expertly sewed to his body's proportions. His undershirt followed and then finally, his trousers and underwear. His cock was red, weeping and angry, but he didn't touch himself like you thought, instead he crawled onto the bed, caging you under his expanse.

Your heart stuttered as you felt his searing hot hands grip your hips. You raised your head slightly to see the joyous sight of your husband finally lining himself to your center. His gaze was unreadable as you felt the head of him push inside you once more, only this time, he didn't let up the pressure. A sob— this time of relief, escaped you as you felt that perfect stretch, the familiar and much more welcome, ache of his body inside yours. It had been so long, it almost felt like your walls had forgotten how to make room for him. But his own spend and the torturous, previous orgasms forced upon you made his breech that much smoother. You felt his grip at your hips tighten, the only thing giving away his quickly dissolving control. 

You two didn't speak, only the sounds of the occasional whimper from you or the rush of air from Dorn as he eased himself further inside your spasming walls.

His expression was almost angry, but you knew from experience he was only concentrating. A valient attempt to keep a tight leash on his restraint. A part of you wished to push his threshold for control, but you feared that if you tested him, he would remove himself entirely from you and leave. So, instead, you admired his face in silence.

Too soon, you felt him reach that physical barrier inside you. He was heavy and unyielding and you bit your lip at the heavenly stretch. Your walls clenched and unclenched around the girth of him and you could hear the grinding of your husband's molars at your body's warm welcome. An attempt to tilt your hips was stopped by the gentle but non-negotiable hold of Rogal's grip. 

Glancing up at his face, you paused at the new expression there. His eyes were squeezed shut, sweat had formed at the sides of his forehead as a grimace appeared on his lips. Was he in pain? You reached up in an attempt to brush a hand against his cheek but the height difference was too great. Instead, you rested it on his forearm. Your delicate touch seemed to pull him from his agony and Dorn released an unsteady breath, slowly his eyes began to flutter open again. 

You felt him everywhere within you, the weight of him nestled so deeply was comforting, you were almost content with just this. You had wanted him so badly, you had only wished to entice him back to you, and instead were met with a side of him that was unfamiliar and a little frightening. 

“Had I offended you?” You whispered finally. In the past, Rogal could be a tease if he wanted, but it had never lasted to this extent. The occasional stall of his thrusts or removing his mouth from your clit right before you orgasmed? That was what you were used to. But this…what had triggered this? His teasing seemed to have stemmed from legitimate anger. Was it because of you?

Dorn did not answer at first, his focus was entirely on where you two joined. His gaze was completely glassy, devoid of any critical thought. He eased out just slightly to watch the absolutely filthy sight of your lips gripping him as he eased further out. If it were in him to laugh, he would have in that moment. Your body was perfectly crafted to be his achilles heel.

Already missing your warmth however, he pushed the full length of himself back into your welcoming cunt, letting the tip of once again rest against the barrier to your womb.

His cock strained against the wall of your cervix and you cried out at the sudden pinch, your legs seized and kicked as your hips tried to ease up the pressure. Yet your husband seemed to be refamiliarizing himself with the feeling of your insides, the tightness and ridges of your walls, the way your muscles fluttered and clenched around him instinctively. He looked at your two joined bodies like he was observing a planetary siege from his command deck; completely enraptured.

Finally, his eyes took a moment to meet your gaze and you almost flinched from the pure emotion in them. It was too vulnerable, you had never seen that expression on him before. 

“I have never hated what I was until I met you.”

You stopped breathing. 

Another push to the barrier of your womb made you grit your teeth and clamp your nails onto your husband's wrists. You arched your back and tried to breath from the overwhelming feeling, before finally Dorn relaxed one again, you both gasped as he stilled once more. 

“I dont-” You tried to form words, but your brain was short circuiting. Your eyes couldn't even focus on the details on the ceiling. 

“I never questioned my purpose, nor ached for a different life. But when I met you…” Dorn lifted one of his hands to lovingly caress your side, trailing from your hip, the angle of your waist, before resting to cup the underside of your breast. The size of his hand nearly covered the entirety of your ribs on one side.

“You-” Dorn made the uncharacteristic sound of choking on his words, but he powered through. “You made me hate my very nature.” 

Taking his hand back to your hip and lifting your hips to a delicious arch, Dorn began to move. Your attempt conjuring a response stopped as your husband slowly slid himself from your warmth, his previous release now surrounding his cock in a messy thick coating before he slowly, agonizingly, thrusted back in.

A contented sigh left your throat as he maintained the lazy pace. You weren't going to complain, the feeling of him inside you was like coming home. Your heart filled with a loving warmth as you finally had your husband where you wanted him.

But it seemed Rogal was not finished with his speech, it was an incredibly rare thing, as he very seldom lost all his composure, but your husband did become quite chatty if he allowed himself to get too lost in your body. You tried your damndest to pay attention to his words which you knew would never be repeated after today. 

“Once I had you the first time, I knew you had ruined me.” Your brows pinched at that. You certainly wouldn't have described that sleepless first night within those terms. It was a nervous, apologetic, awkward affair at first before Dorn had quickly adapted and— like his biology allowed, perfected the various paths leading your pleasure.

“The Crusade, humanity's future, my father's approval…” He sounded like he was out of breath, but it was less him losing momentum and moreso a glaring attempt at keeping his composure.

“I instead began to dream of pretty eyes and coy smiles…hnng…o-of soft skin and seductive words…” His pace never picked up but his desperation was bubbling to the surface through his strained voice. Only Rogal could make sexual arousal look so regal while barely hanging on. 

“Rogal…” You whimpered out, but your husband clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. He was going to explode right then and there if you called his name in that wretched tone. 

“If I allowed myself the luxury— the sin, of having you the way I wanted-” His sweat was dripping onto you, you felt your hipbones creak under clenched fingers. Dorn was practically in agony…it was the most arousing thing you had ever seen. 

A quick glance toward your eyes resulted in a sudden, vicious growl of frustration erupting from him “Enough with that look!” Before he promptly ripped himself out of you. A cry of protest left you, but a casual flip of his hand and you were on your knees. Hands gripping your hips once more, you felt Rogal drag you back to him where he entered you in a single motion, his balls kissing your clit as the angle allowed him to go deeper. You gave a pathetic moan as he grinded himself into you like before. 

“In another universe,” You felt thick fingers slide up to grip your throat. “...you would never see the outside of this room.” he hissed. You felt goosebumps erupt across your back and arms, your walls clenched instinctively at the feral quality of his voice. “The Imperium would crumble within a day simply because the Great Praetorian of Terra couldn't bear to be separated from his wife's little cunt.” His tone was so vicious but his strokes were long and controlled. You were sure you were actively dripping onto the comforter with how wet he was making you. 

Finally, a quick and punishing thrust nearly made you choke out a scream. Oh by the Emperor yes! You bit your lip to keep from laughing in maniacle relief as your husband preceded to fuck you into the mattress, his thrusts so strong you felt he would fuck you through it. 

You could hear how he was affected by this entire ordeal too, as his other hand still on your hip moved around to hold onto the nape of your neck, his pace unrelenting and his voice sounding strangled: 

"I almost hate you for it" He rumbled. You nodded dumbly. Yes he should hate you, if this was what his hate got you, you wanted him to absolutely loathe you.

You felt the clench of his fingers on your scalp and you finally released that giddy laugh, hidden under your breath. You heard Dorn curse at the sound.  “I should be better than this. Better than some slobbering beast.” He held you down like you were going to flee from him, but you would sooner die than remove yourself from his grip. 

You began to chant his name, your voice more than pleading; it was borderline pathetic. Dorn spit out another curse before his hand in your hair suddenly left, only to then force your arched back to flatten completely on the bed, leaving you prone. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as Dorn continued to unleash his frustration onto your poor body, the hand cradling your neck tightening ever so minutely. The stretch, the burn, the itch, was finally— finally, being scratched, and the slightest increase of pressure around your neck only intensified that feeling. You knew your husband was now mumbling to himself. You tried to pay attention as he was cursing his lack of control, how you would be his ruin, how his brothers would condemn him, if he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying you as often as he truly wanted. 

“All my silent suffering, my willpower constantly tested, and I find you provoking me with such temptation.” You were worried your husband was going to break into tears, you tried to form a comforting sound but an extra deep thrust from him forced out a whine in its place.

The feeling of him rutting into you was becoming unbearable, your desperation was steadily climbing. More, you needed more of him. “Mocking my restraint, dangling your traitorous body right in front of me. Daring me to absolutely ruin you.” Your poor Rogal was babbling it seems, and in your heart of hearts you wished to listen, but for the life of you, you couldn't be made to care. 

You felt Dorn freeze again and you seized in panic, worried you had spoken your thoughts out loud. Mercifully, you felt Dorn lower a little more of his weight on you, completely pinning you into your prone form. His pace started up, once again, slow and steady but the squish of your body between the mattress and the mass of your husband allowed his cock to absolutely assault that delicious spot inside you. 

You began to hum nonsensically, your voice occasionally descending into drunken giggles. You had lost your mind. The Emperor could walk through the door and as long as Rogal stayed the course, you probably would not have batted an eye. You were surely smearing drool onto the blankets. 

Your poor husband had finally gotten lost in the act as well. His tangent temporarily forgotten as he focused solely on your mindless squeals and the greedy clench of your cunt. 

But as evidence would prove, you were a insatiable woman, and to the best of your ability, you wiggled your hips and tried to bring your hand under your body to rub your clit, that well-deserved peak was right within your grasp.

You heard Dorn give a click of his tongue at your maneuvering before he forced his hand past your searching one, his fingers quickly finding that neglected nub.   

You're hips jerked automatically, your swollen clit had become too sensitive, but Rogal— proving why you married the bastard man, already knew exactly what you needed. He needed only to press on the nub, allowing the simple pressure of his calloused fingers to send you over the edge. Like the push of a button. 

A euphoric sob escaped you as you finally came around his cock, tears dripped down your cheeks as your body convulsed and shivered from the overwhelming feeling. Dorn kept his thrusts steady, fucking you through your orgasm and keeping pace with your jerking hips. Your walls seemed to want to desperately keep him in place but Dorn was on a mission of his own. 

His relentless assault on your pulsating walls was too much and you mindlessly tried to escape the quikcly unbearable stimulation. But Dorn's weight kept you in place, forcing your body to take it. You felt your cunt seize, your walls now keep a constant vice grip on your husband's pistoning cock. The vicious snarl rumbling from his chest was the only response he could muster. You were absolutely suffocating him with your body's desperate attempt to hold him in place. The pleasure was surely going to drive you both dumb with how it thrummed through your very bones.

Finally, your body submitted itself to its delightful fate. You laid motionless as your husband used your limp body to reach his own peak. You heard him let out a strained grunt when he noticed your prone form yield completely to his own. That primitive, possessive darkness within him calmed at the sight and like a damn unleashed, his hips stilled, and you felt him twitch and spill a years worth of pent-up frustration inside you. 

You were gasping like a fish out of water as your husband slowly lifted himself off of you. You allowed the cooling touch of the room to hit your sweaty backside.

Sleep had its clutches almost around you until you felt the sobering feeling of your Primarch removing himself from you. The part of your brain that had become dependent on him cried out in anguish, but your brain kept you silent. You needed a respite if you hoped to enjoy him sooner rather than later.

In your half-asleep haze, you felt your husband wrap an arm around your upper body and turn you up and around to allow you to rest on his warm and steady chest. 

You could hear his twin hearts beating in a steady rhythm and you gave a contented sigh. This was also what you secretly craved, Dorn so rarely had time to hold you and allow you to get lost in his warmth. 

A lazy thumb stroked your shoulder as he clutched you a bit tighter to him. You were nearly on the edge of consciousness when everything clicked. Your eyes flew open and you lifted your head to look up at your Lord-Husband.

“Is it true?” You whispered in an exhausted tone. 

Dorn raised an eyebrow at your question. “I don't lie, wife.” He deadpanned. The incorrigible bastard didn't even have the decency to look remorseful.

You returned his look with a matching quizzical brow. “Im supposed to believe that my iron-willed husband Rogal Dorn is under a constant cloud of sexual frustration?” It was less of a question and more of an accusation. 

Rogal did not even have the decency to look apologetic, instead he used the full force of his bright gaze to glare back at you. “Did you honestly think I abstained from our conjugal visits becuase I simply ‘lacked’ the drive?” You could almost laugh at the offended tone he responded with. Instead you rolled your eyes in an exaggerated fashion and gave a long-suffering sigh before slamming your head back down on the solid wall of muscle beneath you, the impact hurting you more than your husband. 

“Its hardly a wild assumption.” 

“I abstained for your sake, not for my own.” 

You scoffed. “And yet you punish me for your self-imposed celibacy.” 

A heavy pause followed before your ears picked up the tantalizing sound of your husband humming in defeat. “I felt you did not truly appreciate the danger I posed to you if I were to allowed to fully indulge.” 

“So you felt my seduction stemmed from hubris?” The incredulity in your voice was heavy. You felt Dorn hold you even closer, as if he were worried you would up and leave. 

Silence followed and you were left to connect the bits and pieces of information around you. Sleep was no longer at the corners of your mind. 

Once again, you pushed against the weight of your husband's arm and he allowed you to sit up and stare at him head on. You stubbornly ignored the feeling of him leaking out of you as well. With shoulders pushed back and chin jutting out, you declared your verdict. 

“You spiteful old brute!”

Dorn glared at your petty name-calling but remained silent. He couldn't disagree with your assessment if he truly wanted to. You returned his glare right back to him and crossed your arms. 

“So this whole ordeal was because you'd been pent up for so long you'd become bitter at my…” you waved your hand around “...my appeal?” You raised an eyebrow at your stone-faced husband. “Am I getting that right?” 

Dorn released a breath from his nose that was more akin to a wary bull. "You knew what I was when you married me."

You narrowed your eyes at his attempt to place the burden of blame back onto you.

"Rogal, do not take me for a fool. And do not try to change the subject, your reaction to my playful teasing was completely unreasonable."

Your husband was not looking at you anymore. Instead, he glared at a random corner of the room. You gritted your teeth at his petulance. Before you could push away from him further, You felt his arm at your waist raise up and gently force your head back down to his chest.

"Somedays, I wish I was born a normal man," He confessed in a guilty whisper. The admission made you freeze again. This was the second time Rogal admitted to such a treasonous thought, never in your wildest dreams did you think your husband wished to be anything other than what he was. Keen to the rare moment, you remained silent.

A prolonged rise and fall of his chest gave away his silent, exhausted sigh.

"Sometimes I would dare dream...of waking up next to you every morning, having you every evening and indulging in the freedom of holding you whenever the urge struck me. But considering what I am...who I am...to love you as freely as I wish would damn you to the warp."

You were holding your breath in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. So, this was the core of the issue. Dorn was known to be a man with a singular purpose and vision. His father relied on him to do what he was made to do and if it were discovered just how distracting the Preatorian's wife was to him...well...it was no secret how the Emperor dealt with obstacles to his plans, no matter how small.

"Your playful teasing as you put it— only reminded me what I could never truly have."

"I wouldn't dream of mocking your pain, Lord-Husband." You whispered reverently, your hand massaging his chest. You felt the comforting hum of his acknowledgment.

Silence fell between you two for several peaceful minutes before once again you separated yourself from him. The stoney expression on Dorn's face cracked ever so slightly with the lowering of his brows at your parting from him.

"I will concede that my mode of conduct was unfair, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't bitter at your ability to so easily convince me to throw away my itinerary. You do not fully comprehend the power you wield my tiny love." You felt the burning rush of blood to your cheeks at his compliment.

"Did you at least enjoy it?" You asked tentatively.

A brush of his thumb on your shoulder and a small shake of his chest betrayed his amusement.

"It is a good thing you married me, my little wife," a coaxing finger brought your eyes to meet his startlingly affectionate ones. "The very sight of you would have seized the heart of any lesser men."

There was that classic, Primarch-driven arrogance. You rolled your eyes at his compliment but could do nothing to hide your self-satisfied smirk.

With that same sultry voice you used earlier that started this whole mess, you rested a hand demurely on your shoulder, tilting your head in a seductively innocuous way.

"What other benefits are there to marrying a primarch that I could not get from...lesser men?"

The effect was immediate, and so was your body's response as you looked into the eyes of what was once your noble Dorn morph into something much more dangerous. His body turned toward you with a smoothness that revealed just how outclassed you truly were against the perfect specimen that was your Lord-Husband.

"Plenty."

[thatnightlamp]

I can only imagine my oc dancing in Vinahouse, writting it out is cringe and hard af

i want to talk about my ocs but im literally this image. i got nothing

[thatnightlamp]

Love your new commissioned art. Your OC is lovely

nyeheheheheheh best girl ever😼

[thatnightlamp]

Sanguinius

"Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?

Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?

I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will.

Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?"

[thatnightlamp]

Mr bobo is that guy who says he doesn't like you and fucks you harder. NSFW. Toxic,... maybe?

He doesn’t like you. He’s made that very clear.

He tells you with every sneer, every withering glance, every time he cuts you off mid-sentence with a gruff, "Silence." Every time you’re dismissed with a sharp gesture or a cold command, like you’re just another tool in his war machine. An asset. A servant. Not a person.

But every time he’s inside you, it tells a different story.

Right now, for instance—his weight crushes you against the cold metal wall of his private forge, one gloved hand wrapped firmly around your throat as his hips slam into yours with the precision of a siege cannon. Every thrust makes the reinforced wall behind you groan. Your palms brace against the steel, but it’s not for leverage. You’re not in control.

He is.

"Don't flatter yourself," he growls into your ear, voice low, vibrating with something that feels dangerously close to hunger. "You’re not special."

Your thighs are shaking. He hasn't let you come yet, hasn’t even let you move unless he pushes you first. Your body’s pressed so tightly against the wall you can feel the temperature difference of your skin compared to the cold surface, the spread of sweat down your back, the way your nipples stiffen at the contrast.

You breathe out his name, just a whisper, not even a plea, and that’s enough for him to tighten his grip on your throat until your breath stutters.

He leans close, breath hot at your ear. “Don't say my name like that.”

"Like what?" you rasp, dazed and needy.

“Like I belong to you,” he snarls, voice cracking. “I don’t. I won’t.”

But his cock pulses deeper into you the moment he says it, hips jerking involuntarily, like he hates himself for enjoying how tight and wet you are around him. His teeth clench hard enough to crack a stone.

He’s lying.

You know it. And he knows you know it.

—

This started the first time you pushed back. The first time you dared to speak your mind, challenge his decisions, call out his callousness. Everyone else feared his wrath, his legendary cruelty, his intellect honed to a razor’s edge, but you, you didn’t give him the submission he expected.

And he hated you for it.

Or so you thought, right until the night he cornered you in the strategy chamber, slammed your back against the edge of a table, and stripped you down with a fury so controlled it made your skin burn.

He said it was just stress relief.

He said it wouldn’t happen again.

He said he felt nothing for you.

He’s been inside you a dozen times since.

—

Now, he growls low in his throat, voice vibrating with contained frustration. “Look at you,” he snarls. “Fucking dripping, and I’ve barely touched you.”

You have been touched. You've been pinned, shoved, choked, ground against—your legs are shaking, your body aching. But to Perturabo, this isn't touching. Not the way he wants to. Not the way he denies himself every time.

You manage a breathless smile, even as his grip tightens around your neck. “You say you don’t like me,” you whisper, “but you keep coming back.”

His hips jerk forward hard enough to rattle your teeth. You cry out.

“Don’t confuse my desire with affection,” he hisses. “You’re convenient.”

But the hand not wrapped around your neck is cupping your thigh now, dragging it higher up his hip, forcing you open. His fingers are digging into your flesh like he wants to bruise you, like he needs proof that this happened, that you gave in again.

That he did.

You pant against his shoulder, mouth brushing aganst his bare skin. His blacksmith’s gloves are still on. The leather bites at your skin as he shoves your hips into position.

“Beg,” he demands suddenly, voice low and sharp. “Beg me for it.”

You don’t. You never do. And that’s what makes him snap.

He growls something harsh in Olympia’s language and slams your back against the forge wall again, bending you slightly at the waist. The next thrust is brutal, tearing a moan from your throat that he drinks, face buried against your temple like he’s trying to erase himself inside your body.

You want to scream at him. Say it. Say you want me. Admit you care. Admit it hurts when I don’t call you back.

But you know better. He’s a fortress built of grief and pride and cold rationality, and he’d rather die than admit he needs something soft.

Still, when he comes, grinding against you so deep it feels like he’s trying to brand you from the inside, his voice breaks with something that sounds suspiciously like your name.