i eat glue

Memory issues: I have SDAM and live with dissociation/derealisation. My memory flashes itself every morning and I am one of 20 people in a traumagenic system. If you’re waiting for a text, reply or acknowledgement I have 100% forgotten it bc my brain physically cannot record detail anymore ( or I can't perceive you as ‘real’). Don’t ask about the things that fucked me up to this degree. It’s mercy, after what I’ve survived for so long. Conversely I do not hold grudges bc my heart cannot grip them, so no drama or beef here.

I block very, very freely and owe no explanations why. Your feelings about that are yours to bear. Multiple people help to manage my space here for my comfort and safety, and I don’t play ball with any of the fandom politics or bullshit moralizing. I write dead dove dark content that encompasses the breadth of the human experience. Yahoo!

Debating me about anything will not earn social credits for you, so pls do not try. Do not assume I am an American, privileged with an education, career and support systems, a white cis person with a 50 meter dingaling, a loud and proud political advocate or any other stuff like that. I hold compassion for all beings and understand why the world is the way it is. It’s not easy to live with.

Food is the last thing Rogal wants when you serve his repast, as your Commissar had ordered after speaking with an unusually stiff Sigismund. The cart is piled with plates of sensible-looking delicacies, crisped rice puffs glued together with calorie dense syrup and frosted in a glittery galaxy glaze. The frosting had been your idea. You couldn’t really abide serving the great Rogal Dorn a pile of grey bricks for lunch. Some of the sugar-pearl constellations make smiley faces and the Legion’s closed fist sigil when you squint. If there’s one thing you know about your primarch, it’s that he loves his patterns.

When you enter his quarters, it’s clear he was expecting someone else. A serf, because this was the duty of their station, not yours. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge you, as you expected… but damn, you really do want to see if he likes your glazed bricks.

“My Lord Dorn,” you start, and you see him freeze. His shoulders stop moving, the enormous bulwark of his broad, muscled back locked up tight. He’s wearing a loose gold robe that hides very little of his grandeur, and as he sits there, the image of a tall gilded citadel topped with tattered white flags strikes you. The jewel of a civilization, a bastion of divinity and grace. Lifetimes spent on the artistry of its arches and balconies.

The closer you draw, the more you see. The sloping bulk of his trapezius is perfectly symmetrical, thick and tough but not bowing his head an inch. His posture remains ramrod straight, arms resting on his knees at precise ninety-degree angles. You could honestly slip into his personal space and be the most well-shielded being in existence, at least until he kicks you out of his quarters for the impropriety of daring.

Sat as he is at the edge of his bed, Rogal still towers above you. Your head just barely clears his chest. When you come around the side of him, his eyes are closed… squeezed tightly shut, like he’s in pain.

Your hand touches his shoulder without even thinking about it. “My Lord?”

Soft. So soft. Rogal can feel it through the thin silk of his robe like he’s nude. He’s not wearing pants; only the tabard hanging from his long woven belt keeps him decent. Your hand is so small it can’t even reach a quarter of the way round his cock, which he calculates in a microsecond the moment your fingertips make contact.

Stop. Thinking. About. That.

Rogal turns his face away, towards the far wall. He’s trying his hardest not to count the inches between your face and his, but he already knows the distance, speed, temperature and oxygen saturation of your breathing. With that, he can try to extrapolate the texture of your lips, possibly the heat of your mouth, the…

“Hey…” You whisper to him with utmost tenderness, in the way one might address a week-old kitten. Leaning in, only daring to brush your knuckles against the fuzz of his jaw, wondering if he can actually hear you. Your breath tingles through his wiry chest hair, licking up to his collarbones. The sheer size of him is staggering. But he is human, to you. At least in this moment.

“Are you okay?”

Rogal flinches. It isn’t a hairline fracture in the wall, it’s a great big chunk shot out and damn near vaporized when he hears those three words. Nobody, not once in his life, has ever asked him such a thing. He opens his eyes because they are too wet to keep closed any longer and not risk leaking.

He stares at you, gaze glossy and pitiful. You don’t quite know what to make of it. Your hand’s turned inward a little now, tracing the line of his cheekbone with the edge of a finger. Paintings were appreciated with the eyes, but sculptures were loved best by the hands. You look at him the way he looks at architecture, with uncomplicated and wholehearted adoration.

He bites his lip. He can’t blink or his physiology will betray him and he’ll look like he’s leaking from his face. He doesn’t… do that. Why does everything stone in him turn to butter when you’re near?

“You haven’t been eating… my Commissar told me. I’ve made some food for you,” you glance to the cart off to the side, then back to him. He looks like he’s percieving the death of the universe in your face. “Do you want it?”

He wants to shake his head, but cannot find the strength. “Mm,” he manages. It’s tight. Squeaky.

The ten seconds it takes you to bring the cart over is all he needs to wipe his eyes and steel himself again. He might as well be cardboard in a rainstorm when he sees the glazed treats you’ve brought. The constellations connect in his mind instantly, some of Terra’s most famous sparkling in sugared pearls. These aren’t his usual rations. He can smell a hint of radiation on them…

…and his eyes widen. Especially when you lift one of the bars up and pretend to take a bite. His hand shoots out and can’t catch your wrist without breaking it, he’s already calculated the force to be too much, too sudden – and plasters against your mouth.

For a moment, the two of you just blink at each other, until his hand falls away. Your lips are even softer than he imagined.

“…You shouldn’t taste them,” he mutters. His voice comes out levelled and colourless, which is the best he can do. “They are made with uranium.”

“You can eat that?” Of course he can; you watch him bite into one of the bars without a problem. Absently you go to lick the icing off your fingers but this time he catches your wrist and gives you a stern look. “R-right, sorry.”

In that moment, Rogal thinks back to Sigismund asking if matters were truly in hand, and realizes that they most certainly aren’t. He swallows the bar in two bites and leans down, unwilling to manhandle you like some brute – like Perturabo, an errant thought whispers - no. He is better. He is kinder.