Chapter Text
Rogal Dorn did not care much for sleep. Most Astartes needed four hours a cycle, many Primarchs appreciated at least two, but the Praetorian of Terra knew no such thing. The great fortress of his mind was structured well enough to maintain operational readiness at all hours of the day, night and even in those troublesome stints of warp passage when time did not exist.
As such, waking is an arduous process. A sluggish, hazy thing, like pulling himself from wet concrete that had been setting for hours. The longer he slept, the harder it was. No light from distant stars warmed his austere chambers aboard the Phalanx, regal and utilitarian in equal measure. Golden curtains hung loosely about enormous armaglass windows, grey stone served better than carpet, and buttery silks with embroidered sunflowers draped across his enormous slab of a bed. No serfs, no alarms save in the most dire emergencies. His body was the only thing that could wake him here.
Soft amber lumens flick on in synchronicity with his biorhythms. The haze begins to pull apart. But Rogal is not conscious of anything in the material world - his body shudders, breath coming in thin gasps, and he struggles to unstick his eyes from what feels like an eternity of slumber. The lissome little body in his arms starts to fall away, smiling or smirking he cannot tell, his comprehension fraying at the edges. The heat coiling through him reaches a fever pitch, sweat beading at his brow.
It is his own voice that wakes him, a sharp cry caught in his throat as if he’d been stabbed. Through sheer force of will the Unyielding One chases the shadows away and forces himself upright, his arms shaking. Propped on his elbows, Rogal glances about the room, its edges and colours still swimming together in the dim light. It’s three in the morning, around the time he usually does his fifteenth check of the coming day’s schedule.
He should get to it now. He can’t even remember how many times he’d gone over it before succumbing to sleep. There were more efficient ways to rest, and total unconsciousness was not one of them. As he shifts his thighs to rid himself of the bedcovers, he freezes.
A viscous, sticky sensation seeped between his legs, gluing them together with enough resistance for him to feel. The lumens brighten as his pulse skyrockets into full wakefulness, a blazing dawn of horror setting his whole body alight. He grips the edge of the duvet. His thinking stutters before the screaming force of panic.
Whatever this is, he doesn’t want to see it. But he has to know.
It’s warm, in a way that might be comforting were it not soaking into the mattress beneath him in a way no science could purge. His body wants to stay in it, covered in a membrane cocooning him from the responsibilities of a life he never chose. He shoves the feelings aside so his logic can tick a little faster. Sticky. Thick. Wet.
Had he pissed himself?
White-hot shame floods him before he can reason anything else. His nose tells him that’s not the case, but even worse is that he has no idea what his body’s done at all. Bereft of ammoniac tang, a deep, heady musk emanates through the covers like an entire Legion had crawled into bed with him instead of the showers.
His fist tightens in the fabric. And when he peels it away, holding his breath, the sight that greets him drags a sound of utmost wretchedness from his trembling jaw.
An explosion of gluey, glossy cream dripped in strings between the uplifted duvet and the entirety of his waist, great ropes and pools of filth he instantly covers again. He doesn’t dare to breathe. The warm body he’d held against him was nowhere to be found, nor the opulent parlour he’d just been feasting in.
A dream. Holding you like a doll and serving you with his tongue could never have been real; he knows that now as he glances around his quarters and raggedly pieces together the last few hours of memory. The mess of his thighs is all the reality he can grasp. He tries to pull his knees up as if that will do anything about it, only drawing out a disgusting squelch that makes him curl on his side with his face in his hands.
‘How could you do this? What is wrong with you? With… with one of your own subordinates? It is your responsibility to protect, not…’
Wisps of the dream curl through his skull, filling out the treacherous wonders that had brought him so low. Fingers dragging through his unruly hair, trying to convince it into propriety as you laughed and caressed the slopes of his face. Touching him with such tenderness it seemed as if you had all the time in the universe, mortal lifespan be damned, to love him and him alone. Not the Praetorian of Terra. Rogal Dorn.
The inherent softness of your touch against nerves forged for impact and anguish. How sensitive he was to it, how easily you spread for him, how tightly you gripped him and moaned for his…
Seed. That’s what this was. He had spilled it for you, annihilating his sheets in the blast zone of imagined ardour, and would likely have to burn it all to be rid of this shame. He squirms, spreading the slickness even more and finding a patch of the bed to be sodden and cold.
He yanks himself out of bed in revulsion, cock flopping against his thighs. It’s a pitiful sight, heavy and aching dully with a slow, coiling pulse trapped at the base. The more Rogal tries to piece the dream together so he can guard himself against ever entertaining such madness again, the tighter his balls feel, a tingling rush spreading downward.
It’s rising. Right there between his legs, his essence painting his thighs and already starting to dry as he stands quivering in disbelief, he’s getting hard. Mortified, he races to the ensuite and throws a towel over the mirror, washing his hands in hasty ablution as he apologizes to the Emperor under his breath. Over and over again, until his skin is pink and his words don’t make sense.
He is above this. He is loyal, he is strong, he is sorry, so very very sorry… and he needs a shower. Now.
The glass cubicle in the corner opens automatically for him, his feet slapping against the stone floor. It had been surfaced with a pleasingly gritty roughness so he wouldn’t slip, and he digs his toes into the stone as he stands there, tense. The water falls at the precise temperature he enjoyed, scaldingly hot in a way that felt like cleansing fire.
It burns his cock, now at half mast. And still it continues to rise. Rogal hurriedly scrubs at himself with his hands, then a sponge, then a fibrous bundle of what could pass for steel wool. Every time his knuckles brush his length it twitches eagerly, and he cringes.
‘Stop it. You are better than this. This… this mortal folly. Let it go.’
His body has other ideas. Even when he’s scrubbed his skin to a flush, the glossy head of his cock still needs a good clean and he dares not touch it. But he can feel it, the stickiness pulled tight beneath his plush, meaty foreskin. It’s all that captures his attention now. Another fragment of the dream flits past and slams into the center of his mind – your wet tongue darting into his slit, your head just about the size of his glans. How desperately you worshipped him, his taste and not his siegecraft, his flesh and not his fortifications.
It’s jutting out desperately now, demanding his full attention. Rogal’s lips press into a thin line. No matter how he pleads with himself to cease his neediness, memories and dreams and the most wretched fantasies bombard him as ruthlessly as he might glass a planet from orbit. His will is unyielding, and so is his dick’s. There is no ground to give.
He grasps it. He can rationalize this, surely. A physiological response born of the human DNA inherent in all mankind. A biological holdover from evolutionary requirements. Rogal Dorn had no need for physically based reproduction. His geneseed was enough.
I don’t know how the geneseed of your big mean Astartes functions, but I wouldn’t mind tasting some myself…
Rogal flinches. It had sounded like you were right there, draped over his shoulder, your sultry voice licking into the core of his brainstem.
Aw, you’re so hard. Have you done this before? It’s alright, I haven’t either.
He flushes deeply, screwing his eyes shut. The grimace on his face does nothing to externalize the tension holding his whole body taut. His other arm raises in the typical position he takes when cleansing himself, slotting into the alcove he’d cut precisely for it. Leaning his elbow above while his head droops, water pouring down the bulky planes of his body in scalding rivulets. His massive thighs tremble as he plants his legs wide, shame searing him from within as he slowly tugs his cock from base to tip.
That should be enough to clean it.
No it isn’t. Aren’t you meant to be the smart one? Or was that Perturabo?
“Stop it…” he mutters, shaking his head and reaching for the 9-in-1 hair goop that never made his fluffy locks any more tameable. He flicks it open with a thumb, squeezes it onto his hair, roughly scrunching the white scruff into a peak and running his hand back down his neck.
You look so good like that, Rogal. Turn for me?
He refuses with a shudder, screwing up his face even harder and hunching to hide in the alcove. His hand’s at his cock again. He didn’t even realize when it got there, the slick shampoo encouraging him to jack himself off a little faster, gliding up and down. The water prickles the tip and across his slit when he angles his cock into the stream. He’s just cleaning it. That’s all he’s doing.
The meat of his palm cups around the head, rubbing his foreskin in a gloriously lush circle he can’t make himself stop. It’s your tongue – no, your body, your lovely little baseliner body almost a third of his size slithering around him, limbs trying to find purchase as he pleasures himself with you.
You can use me any way you want, my love. I’m all yours…
A shuddering little moan seeps through his lips, but it echoes through the alcove twice as loud and rebounds into his ears like a siren. He strangles it into a gasp, the most pitiful noise possible grinding in the back of his throat and out through his nose. A primarch wasn’t meant to make sounds like that. His voice was built for commanding Astartes and here he was whimpering and whining for a baseliner. What would his brothers say? What would his father say? He’d be punished for certain. Beaten. Flayed.
You’re leaking, Rogal…
He doesn’t want to believe it. He doesn’t want to see. He squeezes his hand painfully tight around his cock to force it to shut up and let him shower in peace – but all that does is mimic the vicelike tightness of your body. A biological impossibility that fits in his dreams, so long as he doesn’t think too hard about the logistics of it.
Logistics are the furthest thing from his mind right now. The sweet sounds pouring from his throat are surrounding him, deep sighs interspersed with gravelly, rolling huffs. He pants against the alcove wall hidden from his own sight, making himself small as possible even though his back arches, muscles rippling beneath his slick, steaming skin and pushing his ass out in blatant display. His legs brace even further apart now, letting his heavy balls hang and sway as he bucks into his hand, moaning hotly for you in ragged gasps.
The pleasure washing through him blots the harsh edges of his embarrassment to a distant pressure, visions behind his eyes changing to the rhythm of his deeply repressed desires. One moment he’s fucking you between the thighs on his strategium hololith, another he’s filling you with his seed until you’re gravid enough to pass for full term. He bites into the meat of his shoulder, tucking his face away and snarling out curses he’s never heard in his own mouth. A heavier, longer series of drawn-out moans rises from a unique twist of his hand and the curses fall away to slack-jawed ecstasy.
He’s smiling into his shoulder now, ohs turning to ahs, eyes rolling under flickering lashes. The stupid, blissed-out look on his face feels so right he can’t even begin to judge it. You would want him to be happy. You would do everything in your power to paint that look on him time and time again. You would…
You like that, don’t you? I knew you were a soft little thing under all that stone. I can’t believe you came in your sleep. I didn’t even have to touch you. How precious…
The dripping condescension almost sounds like cruelty, with a much sweeter edge than the shame. His hand stills as if it is your own denial, your voice dripping through his ears mocking him for how easy he is, leaking like a broken construct. No matter how hard he squeezes, a thin line of fluid still trails from his tip.
Where is your discipline, Praetorian? It seems I shall have to remind you.
His cock pulses where he holds it, face drawn tight with restraint. The blissful smile gutters into a wretched mask of agony, jaw agape, brows drawn together and squeezing up until crags crease his forehead. He grunts, voice coming strangled and thin. It isn’t working. Just trying to control himself has the pressure building, backwashing through his core and seizing his limbs as if possessed. The universe narrows into his throbbing meat and the way you smirk at him in his mind’s eye.
Go on, then. Come for me.
A thick spurt jets into the alcove followed by another, and another, his balls clenched hard and hand shaking so much he can’t even milk himself through it. He comes so hard his mighty legs fail him, spasming as if electrocuted from the force of his first conscious peak. He tries to brace himself against the wall but the stone offers no purchase, his palm slapping and sliding, scrabbling to grab hold of the reinforced steel bar at the top. It just barely holds his weight, giving him precious seconds to sink slowly to one knee as if pledging allegiance to the force of lust that had gripped him.
He can’t stop coming. White paints the wall, the corner, clogs into the drain and he just kneels there with his face against the stone gasping, shuddering, panting clouds of steam into the air as he shakes bodily with his cock in hand. Rogal almost passes out, lightheaded in ecstasy warring with a thick, heavy blanket of shame.
Flustered and whimpering, he curls into a ball and hides himself in the meat of one arm, covering his cock with a hand nowhere near broad enough to span its impressive length. The vision of you is fading, leaving him with only the hot water pattering down on his skin, itching at his overstimulated body.
No-one had seen him. This secret was his to bear, and by all rights his logic should iron out the embarrassment in the hours to come. But how in all the worlds is he going to face you in his strategium again?