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just throwing in a last minute request for anything angsty, fluffy or smutty with dorn (bonus points if you can roll all three into one aha) :3 💕
Author's note: I like Dorn :) Heavily inspired by Pluvio's newest Dorn fic.
Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader
Warnings: NSFW flashback, and some posh gossip
You've forgotten the amount of times someone has asked you about Dorn. Both this evening and in general.
They always ask about how lonely it must be. Wife of the Praetorian. Wife of 'The Wall', less tactful men tend to say, commissars who have served just enough time around him to know his personality but yet still feel bold enough to gossip.
Sometimes people will lean inward and raise their eyebrows, curl their shoulders forward, wondering if they can get a hint. If you are displeased with your marriage; If you perhaps have another for when those weeks turn to months, and Dorn continues to place you at the bottom of his duties.
"Well, I do hope it doesn't get too cold out on Inwit alone."
A quaint lady and her lord spin glasses of wine, wanting to dig into the juicy innards of your relationship after the pleasantries about the construction of your gown were finished.
A delightful thing it was; Gold, of course. You'd wear scant nothing else in terms of color other than Gold and Imperial Fist yellow at such formal events, but it didn't matter in the end. Talking to the Lady Dorn of the Imperial Fists was a rare treat, and tidbits were oh so tempting. You rarely attend these sorts of things, your husband and his men even less.
You think he's only even been to a few, and Dorn usually keeps to himself when he does. His men are usually posted around the entrances- or the food. They are quite fond of when these events have large stacks of meat, but find little joy in anything else. Once the table has been cleared of anything they find delectable, they usually stomp back to the various points of entry and post there until they are allowed to leave.
However you are far less intimidating than your Lord Husband's men in the eyes of fellow baselines, and closer to the Praetorian in ways they find intriguing, so they pry and pry for more and more- looking for less so military secrets and more quaint gossip. Not to say they don't try for any of the former, however.
A moment before this the lady had made the slightest hint towards you being unsatisfied with your husband leaving you aside for so long, and your mind quickly wandered off into recent memory.
The furs were so warm against your skin; Soft, in contrast to the wall of unyielding muscle that held you firmly in place. Your face laid against the pelts while your ass was positioned upward, as high as it would go. Back swept in such a sharp angle you body laid completely helpless, at mercy to Dorn's ruthlessness.
Drool dribbled from your mouth and stained those furs, matting one of the many of them you had. Your chambers on Inwit were lined with them; Your chambers on The Phalanx had even more. As a baseline, your ability to withstand the harsh colds of Inwit was vastly lower than Dorn and his men, and so blankets and cloaks were one of the things your lord husband would often requisition for you.
The bed creaked under the weight of a primarch, and the room was filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers, the slapping of skin on skin, and heavy, quiet grunts.
Dorn rarely ever made a noise during such things, not more than a strenuous grunt as his hips piston forward, or a heavy, quiet groan when he would first shove himself into your tight heat.
His cock drove into you deep enough that it felt like he was pushing into your stomach, balls slapping against your clit. Everything felt so hot, your heart pounded in your chest with your heavy breathes as each time his cock dragged against your inner walls it brought you that much closer to your peak.
One of his hands wrapped around your waist- the sheer size of it covered so much he didn't need the other. That one held his body up by pressing into the bed beside you, trapping you in a cage of body heat. Your skin felt hot, and each time Dorn hammered into you and made a mess of your cunt just a bit more, you skin felt like it got even hotter. You couldn't even speak, it had been months and the two of you were content to simply keep the room to nothing but noises. Dorn could be poetic at times, surprisingly so, but not always.
Because in a way, during these rare moments he perhaps has more in common with the beasts he had hunted and skinned for you, than anything else. But once he's done, the only way you'll be able to tell that his exterior cracked for a moment is the aches and pains he leaves behind.
Dorn is very much like Inwit's vast mountains of ice; Stiff and emotionless.
He will never hold your hand so daintily, never guide you down a flight of stairs, never bequeath to you a million pet names. In some ways, he doesn't feel like a husband at all. But behind the safety of complete privacy, you see just enough. You don't need all of it. At least that's what you tell yourself. Maybe one day the gilded palace he keeps you in won't be enough, but for now, it's just fine.
You remember the lady had asked you a question, and wave her off.
Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.
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I like to imagine that if 40k Guilliman - touch-starved, stressed out, lonely as hell Guilliman - found a spouse, he would have a higher sex drive than his younger, 30k self.
100% agree. Watch this man go from "Sex is enjoyable and I occasionally partake" to "If I don't nut in my wife in the next 20 minutes I will burn Terra to the ground".
From one writer to another, Google Docs. Use Google Docs. It extra, but at least then you dont run the risk of losing any of your work. Tumblr randomly decides to delete drafts, or it glitches them out.
Tumblr has deleted whole works from me before and ever since then ive had a tight grip on Google docs.
hey uh new type of ao3 spam comment just dropped. (I know it's spam because the fic they left this comment on . doesn't have chapters. lmfao). Report this kinda comment as spam and don't take it personally it is literally recycled bullshit
Also y'all this really ties into how impactful comments are and why it's so encouraged to leave comments and leave NICE ones. If I hadn't known this was spam, and if I'd gotten this on my currently-updating fic, it would've crushed me and likely convinced me to never update again. Adversely, even one nice comment from someone is enough to motivate me to write and share more. If you read a fic you liked, tell the author that! If you're reading an unfinished fic, leave a comment to say you're excited for more, or comment throughout chapters even! It really is so easy and quick to do, and it's not only nice but it can also completely alter a writer's motivation and inspiration
Fanfic writers, please be aware that for some reason having bots spam fics with negative comments is a thing now. Not sure what anyone gets out of spreading misery, but just know it's not anything to do with your fic. I got one that was like, "This fic is a delight ... just kidding, it's unfunny and tedious." It was very clearly unrelated to the content of the fic but for someone else it might have been heartbreaking.
what i've heard about this sort of thing is that fics that have been deleted are harder to prove the provenance of, thus making them easier and safer for AI generators to scrape for their data sets
they're trying to encourage you to delete/orphan your fics so you can no longer prove that they're YOURS
Signal boost for all writers in my network. If the comment mentions no specific details about your fic, assume it's a bot post, delete it, and keep writing your great works. Also tell your friends about this and let's keep our space on AO3 as awesome as it is.
Warnings: A lot of dark implications in this one, Leandros is almost at the depths of his corruption; mentions of surgery
The Vengeance Squad is on the way! But will they be in time?
Find the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist. Comment and ask to be added to/removed from the Taglist. And remember, my DMs and Asks are open!
Something is wrong.
Titus felt it the moment he stepped from the Thunderhawk’s ramp, back into the hangar of the Resilient. Everything looked as it had when he departed. Tech adepts labored over machinery, chanting as they worked. Servitors shuffled and clanked. Serfs bustled about on a thousand different tasks.
None of those serfs were Sera.
Unsurprising. From the expressions on my brothers’ faces, it seems no one expected my return.
Rationality declared he had no reason to expect her presence. But something else… something deeper… snarled.
Something is wrong.
Titus began his march toward the Apothecary. Reports to Captain Acheran could wait. His twin heartbeat spiked, with anticipation or anxiety he could not tell. He quickened his pace until his armor creaked in protest. A few Ultramarines called out as he passed. He ignored them.
“Little Healer.” He rumbled. “Sera.”
Throne, it has been too long!
Too long since the sound of her sweet voice. Too long since her soft arms twined about his neck. Too long since he inhaled her intoxicating fragrance.
Titus ached.
And still, the nagging thought.
Something is wrong.
He turned a corner, nearly trampling a pair of techpriests, and came into sight of the Reclusiam.
Blood.
The scent jerked him to a halt. Every detail of his surroundings burst into sharp definition. Red spattered the floor just outside the great, gilded doors. A group of cleaning serfs huddled off to one side, whispering, their shoulders hunched.
“She wasn’t supposed to be here! Who even was she?”
“I don’t know. She traded places with old Gaius.”
“Why on Holy Terra would any serf want this duty?”
“I’ve never seen… him… that angry.”
A collective shudder ran through the huddle.
“What happened here?”
The serfs flinched at Titus’s booming question. Almost as one, they dropped to their knees, heads bowed. A few trembled.
Titus frowned. A simple question, and these serfs acted as if he’d threatened them with chainsword revving.
“You need not cower. I mean you no harm.”
Finally, a woman with a nose that had been broken sometime in the recent past, spoke. “It is our great shame to tell you, my Lord, that one of our number angered the Holy Chaplain, and he visited his righteous wrath upon her.”
Titus clenched his fists, unease settling in his gut. “Who?”
“I don’t-”
“Wait,” a younger man, missing one eye, broke in, “I think I saw her once, in the Apothecarion.”
Titus didn’t wait for more. With a speed that no being of his size should have attained, he raced for the nearest lift.
Please, God-Emperor. Not her.
***
Chairon paced the Apothecarion. Back and forth. Back and forth. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He’d never liked this place. The stench of chemicals and antiseptics irritated his sinuses. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
His eyes fixed on the door leading to the surgical room.
“I must return to duty.” Gadriel had said. “I will… make an excuse for you, Brother Chairon. Inform me when the medica is able to speak.”
If she is able to speak.
The thought hurt worse than it should have. The image of Vesta laying there, choking on her own blood, replayed over and over again in his mind. It sparked faded memories of a childhood long gone. Of a boy running through the chaos of the Word-Bearers assault on Calth, finding a burning home.
And the slaughter within.
He’d never forget the choked groan from Apothecary Callistus as he knelt over the writhing body. Never forget the look in his eyes as he gathered her up and tore back to this Apothecarion, Chairon and Gadriel close on his heels.
Once again, Chairon’s eyes darted to the door. Behind which, a team of baseline medicae fought to save a life, overseen by the Apothecary himself.
He resumed pacing.
Warp damn me, we should never have allowed this to happen! We sent an innocent into danger. Alone… unprotected….
Shame wrapped icy fingers around both his hearts. First the Lieutenant’s serf. And now sweet Vesta. Vesta with her eyes that reminded him of springtime on planets long lost.
He should have protected her. He should have protected both of them. He’d failed. And all because of… him.
Rage burned in Chairon’s chest. Clawing to be set free. The same rage he’d felt when he witnessed the cruelties of the Thousand Suns upon Avarax. And again when they fought the Sorcerer on Demerium.
Even if you are not Chaos-corrupted, Chaplain, you are a traitor. One who preys upon the innocent is a traitor to all our Chapter stands for!
And he still had the Lieutenant’s Sera in his clutches.
“Enough!” Chairon turned to leave the Apothecarion. “I can do nothing here. But I can avenge-”
The door hissed open.
“Where is she?”
***
Only an hour had passed since the Thunderhawk unloaded its passenger onto the Resilient, and rumors reached even the innermost chambers of the Reclusiam. A candelabra shattered against the wall, followed by a sparking servo skull. A cherub was snatched from the air and ripped in half.
Bestial snarls sent Sacratium serfs scuttling for safety in the darkest alcoves they could find. They whispered prayers to the Emperor and rubbed aching scars, marks of their Lord’s previous bouts of temper.
“Alive?!” The roar ripped through the incense-clouded air.
Leandros stood, bare-chested, in the midst of the ruin he’d wrought. Wild eyes darted, searching for another vessel for his wrath. They fell upon the blind servitor he’d assigned to the Harlot’s cell, creeping along, blood-stained bandages clutched in its skeletal hands. A moment later its head rolled to rest at the foot of a shrine.
Titus, alive?! How? No!
He’d been so sure. So sure the mission would bring about the Heretic’s fall. A cleansing of his soul through glorious death. Or, better, a spotlight revealing the depths of his corruption.
Either way, an end to Demetrian Titus.
But, now….
Leandros raked his hands over his face. Control. He needed to regain control! Surely this was a test of some sort. Surely the Emperor would provide clarity if he just listened hard enough, focused hard enough, believed-
The thought slipped into his mind like cool silk over fevered skin.
You tried to pass your task on to another.
He stilled.
Did you not feel it when your whip scourged her tender flesh? The rush of… purpose… when your touch made her gasp in cleansing shame?
Deep, deep within the man Leandros used to be, warning bells rang.
Punishment is your right, your privilege, your duty.
“I see….”
The Heretic returned so you could inflict the punishment that is your due. And what better way to punish him, than to take that which he calls his own?
“I… I have….”
Have you? Have you taken her? In all the ways you dreamed, alone, in the dark?
The warning bells grew louder. He pushed them away.
Images filled his mind. Images he’d barely allowed himself to dwell upon. The Harlot, broken, bloodied, bare, splayed upon his cot.
Punish the Heretic by ruining the Harlot. Desecrate the desecrated. Only then will you be able to purify her soul. And the pleasure you will feel? Your Emperor-given reward for being so, so faithful.
Don’t you want your reward, Chaplain?
Leandros eyes turned toward the cell. His body burned. Hardened.
“I do.”
***
Ultramarines were supposed to be rational. Logical. In absolute control of their emotions.
Titus stood like the marble statues so prevalent upon Macragge. He neither frowned, nor snarled. No bared teeth. No gasping breaths. Still and silent.
He’d never felt more out of control in his long life.
Not Sera.
The sheer relief he’d felt at Chairon’s reassurance. Followed by confusion. Then consternation as his battle brother revealed who did lie near death, in that surgical room. Questions had followed.
Then… emotions. Wild and mixed and nothing like any Ultramarine, any Astartes, should ever feel.
Chairon was apologizing, his voice cracked. Titus barely heard him.
Sera.
He should never have left her behind. Calgar would have understood. Why didn’t he explain? Why didn’t he try?
The Apothecarion door hissed open again behind him.
“Lieutenant!”
Titus turned, slowly, to face Gadriel.
“Sir, I… we… she-”
Titus slammed him against the door with a bang of metal on ceramite. “She was supposed to be safe with you!”
The Sergeant looked stricken. “Forgive me-”
“Forgiveness? You ask my forgiveness?!”
He drew his fist back, only to have it caught by another.
“Brother, no!” Chairon forced himself between the two of them. “Brother Gadriel and I share blame for this. But you never warned us of the hatred the Chaplain bears you. We did not know!”
The anger bled away.
My fault. If I had been honest with my brothers, trusted them!
And now Sera paid the price for his reticence.
“Leandros….” Pushing away from his squadmates, Titus lunged toward the door. “I will kill him.”
For her, for my Little Healer, for Sera. And Warp damn the consequences!
He sensed Chairon and Gadriel falling in behind him. “This is not your fight.”
“If the Chaplain is so corrupted, it is every Ultramarine’s duty to see him removed.” Gadriel intoned.
“I would kill him for Vesta’s sake alone.” Chairon spat.
“As would I.”
All three of them turned to the bloodstained figure exiting the surgical room. Callistus’s eyes burned with vengeful fire.
Chairon stepped forward. “Vesta…?”
“Lives.” The Apothecary sighed. “We repaired the lung, set the ribs. Now we wait.” He looked down at the blood on his gauntlets and spoke as if to himself. “So small when I took her into the Chapter. I worried she would be crushed underfoot, so I sat her on my shoulder as I worked. A never ending stream of questions rattled into my ear.”
Titus had never seen the veteran smile. Then that smile faded, and he looked up.
“You are not the only one who has failed to protect one dear to him.” Moving to a locker against one wall, the Apothecary removed a chainsword. “Vengeance, brothers.”
“Vengeance.” Gadriel and Chairon growled in tandem.
Titus said nothing.
The four of them stalked through the halls of the Resilient. Serfs fled before them. Ultramarines watched in bemused silence. They shouldered through the doors of the Reclusiam to find it empty.
Good. Titus thought. The fewer brothers who see this, the better.
The door to the Chaplain’s inner chambers was locked. A few kicks and chainsword cuts solved that. Somewhere, an alarm blared.
“No going back, now.” Gadriel muttered.
“Look!” Chairon took a few steps to one side, bent, and lifted what looked like a cleaning serf’s bucket.
Opening it, he revealed a battered servo skull. “Perhaps Vesta managed to record something after all.”
“Keep it.” Callistus grunted. “We will need its evidence when we are tried.”
Titus clenched his teeth. “I care not for trials. I care only for-”
Blood. Again. Stronger.
The four of them moved as one toward the tiny barred cell set into the far wall.
“What is this?” Chairon sounded shocked.
“Hmph.” Callistus leaned forward to peer through the bars. “I have heard of such things for punishing erring Sacratium serfs. I did not know our Chaplain made use of them.”
Gadriel remained silent, fingers flexing around his bolt pistol.
Titus inhaled, and nearly choked. “Sera’s blood.”
The cell reeked of her. Of her fear. Her pain. He took in the manacles… and the shredded robe. A dark suspicion grew.
“Emperor… no….”
“He must have moved her.” Gadriel rasped. “But where? And where is he?”
Titus snapped his head from side to side. The dark suspicion consumed all before it, filling him with sick dread and a sense that they were running out of time.
Then, something glimmered in the candlelight, on the floor next to another, smaller door. He rushed to it.
My laurel leaf. Her laurel leaf.
“No….”
The muffled sob hit him like a bolter round.
“Please… stop….”
“SERA!”
He rammed his shoulder-pauldron into the door with all the force only an enraged Astartes could muster. It shattered.
And Demetrian Titus stepped into a scene from his darkest nightmares.
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The air was cool as you sat swinging your legs on the edge of the desk as you listened to the low rumble of conversation.
"Sector 524c needs reinforcements in these brackets here. I also see some deviation in-"
You flicked your eyes over to the large table. Militarum officers in olive fatigues and astartes in vibrant yellow ceremite let over as they pointed at the map sprawled out over the iron slab. Complex architectural designs scattered along the surface, intermittent with flashing data slates and yellowing parchments.
Rogal Dorn stood at the head of the table, nodding and pointing. His silvered eyes found yours for a split second before returning to the table and you smiled, watching him drag a large hand down his face.
Clearly you werent the only one getting tired of this discussion.
Watching the gathering from your perch on the primarch's heavy oaken desk, you sighed. The marines showed no signs of leaving as they began arguing over measurements and scale whilst the baseline soldiers nodded.
Rogal lent away, pulling himself upright as he rubbed his chin. Bare arms exposed in a heavy yellow tunic, the muscles rippled and popped as he gestured over the plan, the collar of the shirt dipping low towards his pecs when he bent back over to scrawl out part of the diagram.
You allowed yourself to linger a little too long on the tanned skin exposed as he moved. Heat growing in your gut, you catch yourself when your eyes returned to his face, meeting his as he smirked.
Flushed at being caught, you rolled your eyes and picked at a loose thread from your clothing. Your dress was vibrant yellow, long and double lined to warm against the chill of the ship, it came to rest around your ankles. A long slit from the bottom trailed along the side of your thigh, ending up by your hip. High necked and cropped at the shoulder, you buttoned it right to your throat, regretting your choice to leave the long sleeved undercoat and thermal trousers in your chambers.
Although maybe this would work to your advantage.
Waiting for Rogal's sight to fall on you once again, you held his gaze as you slowly began unbuttoning the dress. Popping each pearl clasp open slowly, you trailed your other hand up the slit in the fur, revealing the bare skin of your thigh.
The Primarch glared at you, his jaw clenched. Reaching the last clasp at your clavicle, you chewed your lip as you pulled it loose, tugging the slit of your dress further up, exposing the plush of your waist.
And the distinct lack of a panty line.
"Enough"
Everyone stilled, all eyes on the imperial fist as he blinked. Coughing into his fist, he quickly regained his composure.
"Bring these back to me when you have something cohesive. I refuse to waste any more time discussing plans that have no common sense."
The marines obeyed quickly, clattering steeled fists to armoured breastplates as they filed out, quickly followed by the confused militarum, visible worry on their face from the Praetorian's outbursts.
The office door sealed shut with a soft hiss and the room fell silent, save for the soft whisper of imperial banners across iron walls as they fluttered against the ships hull.
"I suppose you think you are amusing"
Rogal stepped towards you, clearing the distance in a few long strides. He towered over you, frowning softly when you grinned back at him.
Grabbing a chair, he dragged it around the wooden desk, sitting in front of you as you shuffled to perch on the edge, feeling the carved ebony bite the back of your thighs. The movement caught his attention as your dress snagged and lifted, pulling itself over your thigh and exposing your other leg.
Rogal's eyes trailed along the slit hemline of the skirt and along the rosy, chilled skin of your thigh before coming to rest on the exposed skin inches above your core.
"Is this really what we're doing?"
His voice was low and even as he spoke, but you could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. Feigning ignore you shuffled your legs wider, the dress bunching up along your hips revealing your bare cunt.
"I have no idea what you're talking about"
The Primarch made a noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a growl.
"Are you so desperate for attention?"
You shrugged, running your foot along his thigh and upwards, pausing near his groin.
"You've been talking for hours."
Steely eyes met yours and he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his crop of platinum hair. You could feel the muscle in his leg tensing and relaxing as he shifted in his seat.
"And if you keep trying to distract me, It will last a few more"
"Oh? Am I distracting you?" You smirked, sloughing the heavy garb down your shoulders and fully exposing your collars and the swell of your breasts.
"you're a man of action, Rogal."
You lent forward, looping your finger into his collar and tugging him towards you.
"So instead of more talking, why don't you do something about it"
He was over you in a moment, jumping from his chair as he pressed his lips to yours. He felt warm, achingly, deliciously warm as you wrapped your arms around his neck and dragged your nails through a shock of snowy hair.
His tongue ran over your lips and you moaned, parting your lips and allowing him to taste you.
"You have no patience " he muttered, pulling away to kiss at the soft skin below your jaw. "Do you need my focus that badly"
You gasped softly as he nipped at the pulse point in your throat, his hands wandering across your thighs as he lapped at your skin.
"I always need you"
A soft whine clawed itself from your throat as his thumb found your clit, gently pressing into the nerves. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your whimpers when a large finger traced its way along your folds. Gathering slick it teased your entrance before pulling away.
"what do you want?" he whispered against your spit stained lips.
"I want you, please Rogal"
With a soft laugh, he pulled away. You watched as he unbuckled his trousers and pulled his hard cock free, the tip a dusty pink and already leaking precum. He stroked his length, gliding his hand up and down before falling to his knees in front of you. Strong fingers bruised your skin as he gripped your thighs and pulled them apart before returning his hand to himself, pumping along the shaft.
"Look at you. I've barely touched you and you're already a mess"
You opened your mouth to retort, only to find every word vanished from your thoughts when his tongue dragged along the length of your cunt. Rogal Dorn moaned as he lapped at you, his tongue flicking and rolling over your clit before probing at your clenching hole.
"You are correct" he mused, biting your thigh. "This is much better than talking"
Clawing at his hair, your head fell backwards as his sucked and nibbled, his nose nudging against your clit before his tongue returned to flick against the bundle of nerves.
Throwing your legs around his broad shoulders you fell backwards against the desk, scattering paperwork off the worktop and along the floor as you writhed.
"Oh fuck- Rogal-"
Gasping and low groans filled the air, accompanied by the sound of his lips against you and the schlick of his hand along his dick. The Primarch grunted as he lapped at your cunt, moaning into your heat.
"Rogal I'm so close, please"
Your fingers clenched around the edge of the desk as your muscles tensed. Heels digging into Dorn shoulder your back arched and you shuddered, crying out as his other hand left your thigh to slide a finger into your aching hole, curving upwards and pushing into the soft spot in your walls that made your scream.
"Cum for me" he growled, thrusting his finger into you as he rutted against his own hand.
Your whole body shook and your hips jerked upwards as you came, phosphenes dancing across your visions and your voice a choked warble as you panted his name.
Blood hummed in your ears and your heart hammered in your chest. Gasping for breath you watched Rogal slowly rose to his feet, still fucking his fist as he stood over you.
"Rogal please, I need you inside me"
The Primarch cocked his head as he looked down at you, your slick still coating his mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips before he replied.
"Do you deserve it?"
Your eyes bulged as you looked up at him.
'wh-what?"
He hummed, pushing his tip against your entrance, his hand quickening as he slid it up and down.
"if you'd been patient, I would've had you over and over until you couldn't think straight" his voice coming in forced breaths, he reached out, pulling your dress up over your stomach. He continued to brush the head of his cock against your hole.
"But you couldn't wait, so now you get nothing."
He grunted as he came, his dick twitching in his hand as he shot a thick rope of cum across your abdomen and over your cunt.
He stilled, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked over you, admiring the mess that covered your stomach.
"Rogal~"
He chuckled at your whine, pressing his fingers into your mouth. You opened, lapping and sucking the digits clean before he pulled them free with a wet pop. He pulled his trousers back up and slid your dress over the mess before pulling you upright.
"Go back to the room and tidy yourself up."
"But I-"
Rogal pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.
"No. I told you I have to get back to this meeting." His eyes sparkled, amused as he watched you slump and stagger towards the door.
"Will you join me soon?"
"Well I would've been finished up by now if you'd left me to my work. Now I don't know how long I will be"
He stepped back towards the center table, mind already turning back towards the fortress plans. You rolled your eyes, grimacing as you felt his spend smearing across your skin beneath the dress.
"Who knew the Praetorian was so easily satisfied with an easy victory"
You walked away, feeling his eyes burning into your back as you hurried towards the door, already feeling his ire rising again at your words.
"...It seems to me you haven't learnt anything from this"
"Maybe you need to teach me again, Lord Dorn?"
Pulling the great iron door open you glanced backwards at Dorn as you stepped through, feeling your heart skip a beat as he stared at you.
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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.
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