#complicated man

The first swipe of his tongue is not bliss, but contains the promise of it: a wide stripe dragged over your cunt, large enough to encapsulate every inch of you. His pose is awkward, his shoulders braced, resting on his forearms like a great bird mantling its prey. You lie on his thin, primarch-sized mattress -- which is the same colour as concrete, and about as comfortable -- and let your eyes flutter shut. 

After that first lick, Mortarion pauses. He hums appreciatively, dropping down onto his belly, his hands sliding along your sides. He still touches you like he does not understand how you came to be here. Reverential isn’t quite the right word, but it comes close. 

Then he licks again: harder, with purpose. If the first stroke was an experiment, this is him becoming more confident in the theory. You squeal as somehow he undulates the middle of his tongue, even as the edges curl along your inner thighs. 

“My lord --” you gasp, your hands clutching at the air. Instinct tells you to grab handfuls of his hair, but decorum -- and survival instinct -- keeps you from touching him without permission. 

You may be in his bed, and under him, but you know who he is. What he is. You are closer to him than most, but he is still death manifest, raining plague from the skies onto heretic worlds. When you first heard the gargle of his lungs, rancid with old chemical burns, you felt a spark of pity for him. When he returned from battle, reeking of the chemicals he had rained down upon the populace -- innocent and guilty alike -- of a rebellious system, you had hidden in his cupboard until he cleaned himself and ordered you fetched.

Such is your life now. In one hand: affection. In the other: terror. And -- 

Another lick. Greedy, this time. Hungry. Digging in. He grabs you around the waist, pulling you onto his face, his fingers digging into your thighs -- later, you’ll find bruises, marbled reminders of where his grasp tightened in his need. 

Impropriety be damned. He’s tongue-deep inside you, lapping at your inner walls like the cure to all ills can be found there. You grab his hair, winding your hands into wiry curls. His hum of approval is subvocal, vibrating your muscles in a way that has your mind short circuiting with pleasure, and you’re close, so close -- 

-- and then suddenly: an itch, sharper and starker than any you’ve ever felt, burning across your thighs. It feels like the time you plunged your hand into nettles, back when you lived on a planet with soil and skies and breathable air. You instinctively try to pull away, succeeding only in spreading your legs further. Mortarion crowds into the space, slurping with the eagerness of a starving dog. 

The itching doesn’t go away. It intensifies, spreading over your tender flesh. And then your hands spasm, burning with the same pain. You open your eyes, staring down at your palms in horror as your skin blisters red and raw. 

“Fuck --- wait -- my lord --” you stammer. “My lord, wait --”

You’re no fool; you know what experiments Mortarion conducts in that foul-smelling laboratory you’re forbidden to enter. The reek of chemicals and ignoble science hangs around him like a shroud. He bathes more frequently now that you are here to object -- politely, of course -- to the scent of him, but --

-- but how thoroughly does he wash his hair?

You wipe your hands frantically on the bedsheet. It does not help. It hurts. It still hurts, and his head is between your thighs, and his hair is streaking poison over your skin, and when he bobs his head back you see the blistered stripes he’s left. It hurts. It hurts --

“My lord -- my lord -- “

He’s not stopping. He’s devouring you. Not concerned with your pleasure, paying no more attention to your clit -- like it was only a fun little sidequest on his way to obtaining his true objective, which is exploring your insides with his tongue. You swear you see your stomach move as his tongue delves deeper, the mattress beginning to rock as he grinds his hips into it. 

“Mortarion --” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try in vain to escape. He holds you in place with no effort at all; you doubt he even notices your frantic attempts to squirm away. Your thighs are agony, and the pain is spreading, spiderwebbing to the back of your knees, your buttocks; your own juices and his saliva mixing with the toxin, and dripping --

You feel Mortarion’s moan of release rather than hear it. It shudders through your bones. The mattress stills as he stops frantically humping at it. His tongue slides out of you, inch by inch, terrifyingly long. He gives you one final lick, like a goodbye, before finally -- finally -- lifting his head to check how you found this whole encounter. His chin is slick with saliva. He has a dazed, faraway look in his eyes. 

“Mortarion, it hurts,” you whine, miserable. “You -- I think there was something in your hair --”

You show him your palm, and try once more to wriggling away from him. This time he lets you up, his brow furrowing with -- concern? Maybe? It’s hard to tell. Most of his expressions are variations of ‘angry scowl’, and you’re still learning the differences.

“You should have said,” he says -- ah. Irritation, then. 

“I did --”

“I did not hear you,” he says, and that is a lie. He’s a primarch. He hears a butterfly die from halfway across the ship. But you don’t argue with him. You cannot. 

“Next time, I’ll speak louder,” you say, and he nods, returning his gaze to your cunt. Your legs are splayed open, but not for his viewing benefit. You just can’t bear the thought of anything touching the still-intensifying soreness blazed scarlet over your thighs. 

He has serfs fetch soothing ointment, and applies it himself, remonstrating you the entire time for not being more aware of your own mortal frailty. The next night, when he summons you to his bed, his hair is brilliant white, and softer than silk.