#Black templars/reader

[mothiir]

penance

the black templars discover human women. Nothing nsfw, only vaguely lewd, with canon typical violence and religious themes. Possibly will follow up with a smut if the spirit moves me

alternative summary: where is this strumpet so I might detest her with my own eyes

—

—

Isaiah takes his helm off to inhale the sweet scent of battlefield smoke. The sky is ruddy with dawn, and the last of the heretic cities is nothing more than smouldering rubble, the would-be rebels against the Emperor’s Will either dead or soon to be. Those too young, or too elderly, to have served a meaningful part in the uprising may yet find redemption as Chapter serfs or servitors — after all, there is little point to justice if there is no mercy to go alongside it. 

Sweat gilds his high cheekbones, and drips down his nape. Taking a moment away from his brothers to say his private prayer of thanks to the Emperor is one of the small ways Isaiah keeps his sanity during these long campaigns. He would fight and die beside his brethren with pride — and yet if he has to hear one more of Reuben’s jokes, he may consider —

No. No, none of that, not even in the privacy of his own head: he must be grateful, always. Mindful and grateful of the Emperor’s blessings. Reuben is a blessing. A hardship, yes, but so often blessings take the form of hardships; of lessons to learn. Reuben is an excellent soldier, and an exercise in patience. 

Perhaps it is the thought of Reuben’s damned puns that drives him further than usual, or the desire to admire the sight of a battle hard-fought. Either way, Isaiah ends up a good five hundred feet from camp before he quite realises it, crunching over charred bones and burned, unrecognisable standards.

Then: a sound. Thin, high, and vaguely organic. At once, he replaces his helmet, Captain Ezra’s words echoing in his memory: boy, there is no point prancing around like the main character in a holo — the enemy does not need to see your pretty face, and nor do I.

Anyway. The noise. His scanners alert him to a life form, hidden behind a pile of corpses. Humanoid. Rabbit-hearted, and trying very hard to remain unseen. 

He upholsters his bolter, and stalks forwards: a faceless, merciless instrument of the Emperor’s wrath. 

—

The clouds hang thick and red, like they have absorbed all the blood spilt today, and the heat is oppressive. A thunderstorm is coming; you taste it in the air. Soon, the rain will extinguish the last of the flaming rubble on this planet you once called home. It will fill the empty eye sockets of those who died for the delusions of your rulers. It will wash the land clean. 

And you doubt you will see it. 

As the Templar yanked you from the rubble, your shoulder had popped from its socket with a sick, wet crack; you had only kept yourself from crying out by biting into your tongue. Now your right arm hangs useless by your side, radiating bright veins of sheer agony. You daren’t make a move to cradle it, to ease your discomfort. 

“Your world is guilty of the crime of sedition,” intones the Templar, his voice as final as a tombstone falling into place. “Your leaders rebelled against the Divinity of the Emperor, and —“

”And I should die for it,” you manage, through lips gummed together with dried saliva and ash. “Because we let it happen.”

He pauses. The subtle tilt of his helm could be curiousity; could be an invitation to continue; could be nothing at all. But you are not dead. Not yet. Something in your chest is kindled, and you remember when you were little, at a school now nothing but ash, how your teacher would complain: that girl, she always has something to say.   

“We let it happen,” you continue, not sure if you are arguing for your life or begging for martyrdom. “We saw the upper echelons turn to Ch — the accursed powers.” Thou shalt not speak the name of the beast, you remember reading somewhere, lest thou invite it in to feast. “And we did not stop them. We worked away, heads bent and faces averted, and we obeyed orders, and the rot spread and ruined our world. I — I thank you, for your cleansing fire, for your — for His mercy. For bringing the Light of the Emperor to this place.”

You cannot curtesy, not in this shape, and so you drop straight to the ground, knees smacking into hard stone. You bare your nape, awaiting judgement, awaiting the blade, your heart singing against your ribs, that desperate song, that too-late plea: oh I want to live. Emperor above, let me live. 

—

“That is a woman,” says Reuben, like he has never seen one before. 

”Yes, Reuben, that is a woman.”

“In our dormitory.”

”Yes,” Isaiah says. ”She is in our dormitory.”

As this world lacks any proper infrastructure — due to the intensive bombing campaign needed to bring it back to the Emperor’s Grace — the Astartes have retired to their battle barge, as Marshal Ezra Rothenberg plans their next movements. 

Isaiah is honoured to consider himself part of the Edessan Crusade. There are more than two thousand of his brothers dedicated to the continued extirpation of Chaos from the Edessan system: a task that was predicted to take ten solar years, and yet is proceeding far ahead of schedule — due, in no small part, to the enthusiastic participation of the new recruits Guilliman so kindly provided them. If Guilliman hoped that the Primaris Marines would take the edge off the Black Templar’s well-known zealotry, he was swiftly disappointed. Within a few days of arriving, the only way to differentiate between the new recruits and their more seasoned brothers was size. 

Isaiah shares a barren dorm with Reuben, and three other brothers. They sleep on plain metal bunks, with a rough woollen blanket and a thin pillow. Other Chapters, Isiaiah has heard, are so decadent and spoiled as to have duvets — which are sacks of feathers — and sometimes even something called a mattress? Absurd. He pities his fellow Primaris Marines, shipped out to such degeneracy. He hopes that they can cultivate an appropriate sense of duty and decorum in the older generation. How can anyone value such petty things as comfort when the Emperor’s enemies still draw breath?

You are sitting on Isaiah’s bed, the blanket around your shoulders, your eyes wide. You have not spoken since he brought you here — barely whimpered when he popped your shoulder back into place. 

“…what is her purpose here?” Reuben says. He sits on his own bunk, opposite Isaiah, his afternoon reading (a hagiography of one of the more exciting saints) sprawled forgotten on his lap. 

“Chapter serf,” says Isaiah. 

“Do we need more serfs?”

”Yes. We do. The ones we have are — uh —very devout — “

The pair grimace. The fact that the serfs spend so long in prayer is to be admired, but it doesn’t often leave them much time to perform their duties. Isaiah is sick of doing his own mending because Serf Osric and Serf Jean are once more faint from fasting and all-night vigils to the glory of the Emperor. 

“Did the Marshal allocate her to you?”

Isaiah pulls an interesting series of expressions. ”Not…exactly,” he allows, unwilling to lie, and yet not wanting to admit the truth. “But he has been…busy, of late.”

”Yes. Busy. With crusading against the Emperor’s enemies.”

”Too busy to be concerned with this sort of thing,” Isaiah says, hesitantly, dangling the bait before Reuben, waiting for him to take it. Reuben leans forwards to better observe you. Isaiah feels a strange twist of pride when you don’t cringe from his regard, but meet his dark eyes with your own, your chin tipped up, your fingers curling into the blanket. Then you suddenly seem to remember who you are, and where you are, and drop your head in supplication. 

“Yes,” Reuben says, slowly. “Far too busy to be concerned with this. Don’t want to bother him.”

Isaiah utters a fervent prayer of thanks to the Emperor, feeling only a little guilty at thanking Him for his brother’s aid in deceiving their Marshal. But it wasn’t really deception, was it? They weren’t lying to him at all — they just weren’t telling him! Completely different. 

“Exactly! It’s beneath his concern.”

”She’s beneath his concern!”

In total accord, both Templars grin at each other, before hurriedly smoothing their faces into expressions of solemn piety. 

“Yes, brother. I am glad that the Emperor has seen fit to deliver unto us a — hang on, can you sew?” Reuben says, addressing you directly. You glance up at Isaiah, then stammer:

“Y-yes my lord —“

“Excellent.”

Reuben kicks up and off his bunk, rummages in the steel box that contains all his worldly possessions, then throws a wad of fabric at you. It unfurls into a dozen pairs of socks that look very much worse for wear.

“Start with those. Then my tunic needs restitching — the Emperor’s Most Holy Iconography is starting to get a bit tattered. Then —“

”Brother Reuben, you cannot hog the new serf —“

”I am offering her the chance to redeem the sins of her forefathers and mothers with holy labour.“

“Well, yes,” Isaiah protests. “But the holy labour cannot just be confined to your menial tasks—“

”Why — do you have menial tasks that need attending to?”

”Yes!” Isaiah says, thinking of his own increasing pile of ragged undergarments. “You can mend Brother Reuben’s socks, and then you must attend to my laundry —“

”And then she can mend my tunic —“

”No, then she must pray,” Isaiah says, belatedly remembering the importance of even the most lowly baselines in adding their voices to the Emperor’s endless praises. “And attend chapel —“

”Where Marshal Ezra may behold her?” Brother Reuben says. “The serf that we do not strictly speaking have, as she has not been allocated to us?”

Ah. Yes. He had forgotten about that.

”She must pray while she works,” Isiaih amends. “And abase herself before the Emperor’s mercy.”

”Yes. But pray quietly.”

”Do you know the appropriate psalms to recite while conducting your redemptive labour?” Isaiah says. You chew your lip.

“The correct litanies while uh…mending the socks of the Emperor’s chosen may have not been included in my education,” you say. Isaiah sighs. Truly, you came from a blighted world. 

“You will learn them,” he says. “The Emperor will guide your tongue. If you fail to learn them then it is a sign that you have not received His Grace, and in that case fear not — we will deliver unto you the Emperor’s Mercy.”

“She will learn them,” Brother Reuben says, with a fervent and touching belief in humanity’s dedication to the Emperor.

 Or, perhaps, a fervent desire to have socks without holes in them. 

—

And so it goes. The Emperor sees fit to decree that the brothers that share Reuben and Isaiah’s quarters remain on the planet to build a chapter monastery there, taking advantage of the natural resources that are now free for use. No new brothers are installed in the dormitory — a great shame, of course, but it does have the benefit of ensuring that Brother Reuben and Isiaiah do not have to face awkward questions about your presence. 

Isiaiah has never been in close contact with baseline humans before, save the serfs aboard the fleet, and he knows that it is his duty to ensure that you are free of Chaos’s taint, and suitably devoted to the God Emperor. As such, he ensures that you have the appropriate reading material, and tests you to ensure that you can recite the benedictions. The first time you stumbled over an incorrect word, he had sighed deeply and sorrowfully, reaching for his bolter. Brother Reuben had dragged him to the side and explained — in hurried whispers — that humans do not have the same eidetic memory as Astartes, and the misstep was not indicative of a lapse in faith but simply a sign of your humanity. 

Fascinating. 

There are other baseline issues that surprise both brothers. They sleep perfectly well on their hard metal bed frames, and their serfs often deliberately braid thistles into their blankets in order to better scourge their flesh for the sin of being mortal. You, however, suffer greatly for the first few days. You end up with deep purple shadows beneath your eyes, and you wince when performing even the simplest of tasks. 

“I am sorry my lords,” you stammer, when Isaiah confronts you on your constant yawning. “It is just — I am cursed to be a woman, and thus I do not have the fortitude that you have, and my body is frail and weak and cannot find rest in the blessed conditions that you enjoy.”

Reuben magnanimously permits you the use of a blanket and two of the pillows left by his brothers. Isaiah thinks that pandering to your body’s frailty could well be slowing your path to redemption, but he bows to his brother’s greater knowledge. 

He is perturbed by how much you rest — as much as six hours a night, if you are permitted to sleep continuously. Once again, Reuben explains that this is normal for the baselines. Besides, if Isaiah wants devout serfs, he is more than welcome to once more entrust his care to Osric and Jean. 

Isaiah stops questioning your rest hours swiftly. He does not want to go back to the days of having to convince a flagellant to polish his pauldrons. Without the brothers seeking them out, the old serfs seem happy to spend most of their time in the chapel, or wandering the halls while caning themselves and loudly declaring the Emperor’s benevolence to all. 

Yes, Isaiah wants to say, we know He is very benevolent and very merciful. He also wants you to do your damn jobs. 

The first real challenge occurs ten days into your time aboard the barge. You drop to your knees before Isaiah, assuming the penitential crouch you always take on when you address either of them. The sight of you prostrate at his feet — spine a neat curve, head bowed, hands clasped — always makes Isaiah’s stomach warm and twist. He enjoys seeing you so keen to atone, so eager to please the Emperor, and to receive  His mercy. 

“My lords, I humbly beg your permission to take a moment to clean myself — I have not managed to do so since leaving my accursed planet, and I fear that I dishonour your presence by performing my duties while unwashed.”

”You have washed yourself,” Isaiah says, frowning. He’s seen you wipe your face and underarms with a wet rag, and you wash your hands every time you go to the bathroom (a sensitive experience for all concerned, given that one of them has to escort you to the nearest convenience, and the other has to stand watch to ensure no one sees you).

”Yes, but — a shower, my lords, that is what I am asking for.”

Isaiah sniffs the air thoughtfully. True, you do smell a little sourer than you did previously, but he has lived with far more odiferous people; Brother Reuben during his ‘bathing too frequently is decadent and an offence to the Emperor’ phase for one.

(That particular penitence had been ended when Marshal Ezra had thrown Reuben bodily into the icy plunge pool and announced to all that the Emperor suffered enough on His golden throne — the Templars did not need to add their stench to the tribulations He endured.)

”Humans require more maintenance than Astartes,” Reuben allows. “It cannot hurt to permit her to bathe.”

Still, they do not want to risk taking you to one of the communal showers, nor do they want to send you off to the serf quarters. Several of their brothers are already suspicious of their suddenly-improved attire, and the last thing either of them want is to face questions about your presence — or, worse still, a request to share. So Isaiah fetches a large copper tub used by the medicae for those too unwell to stand upright to bathe, and fills it with water, and Brother Reuben donates one of his scraps of yellow soap. 

“Th-thank you my lords,” you say, from your usual prostrate position; then you stand, a little unsure, eyeing them almost expectantly. The tub is set in the middle of the dormitory; Reuben is reading one of his favourite scriptures, while Isiaiah tends to his bolter. ”Uh — is it okay if I —“

You gesture at your smock. Isiaiah blinks at you. 

“Are you asking permission to bathe? I have said that you may — do not waste my time with needless questions.”

He turns back to his bolter, wiping the sacred oils onto the stock, murmuring the appropriate incantations to appease the machine spirit within. A flurry of fabric; a splash; a pained squeal. 

“This water is ice,” you yell, and Isaiah, startled, looks up. 

His hand remains looped around the bolter, polishing up and down, up and down — but he finds he cannot tear his gaze from you. The water comes up to your waist, but the rest of you is bare, your flesh goosepimpled from the cold, your arms clutching your torso. Your elbows press under your breasts, pushing them up, where they glisten under the harsh dorm lighting. As you shiver, one nipple flashes.

Brother Reuben stares as well. 

“Emperor preserve me,” he mutters, and Isaiah comes to his senses, turning his eyes aside. 

“Woman!” he says, sounding only a little strangled. “Cover yourself!”

Another splash. When Isaiah peeks up — just to check that you have ceased to offend the Emperor with your naked bosom — he is gratified to see that you are neck deep in water.

”S-sorry my lords,” you say, teeth chattering.

”You are a Chapter Serf of the Black Templars,” Isiaha says hotly, his grasp tightening on the bolter, his strokes growing surer and stronger, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm. “You must act in a way that is fitting for your station! Do not flaunt yourself so! You must conduct yourself with - with decorum, and modesty. Be demure! Mindful!”

Isaiah, a little breathless after his holy vitriol, looks to Brother Reuben for moral support. Reuben is looking fixedly at his book. 

“I saw nothing,” says the other Templar. “I am blind to that which does not beatify the Emperor Himself. The nudity of a serf has no bearing on my day’s prayer. It is as insignificant as the passage of a beetle along the floor.”

”Is that why you are reading your scripture upside down?”

Reuben does not look up, even as he turns the book the right way around. 

“Brother Isaiah, if you polish that gun any harder it is liable to blast a hole in the wall.”

”It is not loaded, Brother Reuben,” Isaiah snaps. “I am conducting my daily worship to the Machine Spirit.”

”Is that what you call it?” Reuben mutters, and Isaiah elects to ignore him. 

—

“Where did you obtain the uniform for her?” Isaiah says, the next day, his voice hushed. It is just after morning prayer-drills, and the pair are walking back to their dormitory to change, before their lunchtime prayer-drills.

”I — just from the other serf’s laundry,” says Reuben, casting a quick look around. The halls of the battle barge are more akin to that of a cathedral than a space-ship, with huge domed ceilings, and statues placed at regular intervals in well-lit alcoves. Isaiah normally takes great comfort in the stern regard of his immortalised forebears, but for some reason today he feels their gaze like a brand, like he is a neophyte and they are watching him commit some secret and terrible sin. 

“They do not fit her,” Isaiah says. Reuben frowns. 

“What do you mean?”

”I mean — “ Isaiah pauses for a moment, struggling to find the words. Emperor grant him Reuben’s lack of observational skills — truly, his brother is a sterling example of blind faith. “I mean…this morning. When she bent over to pick up the scripture. Her skirt. It — moved in a way that displayed her rump in a way that is most unbecoming to a serf.”

Reuben exhales, his jaw ticking minutely. “Oh? I did not notice. I do not make a habit of looking at the serf’s rear end.”

”I was not looking at her rear end!” Isaiah whisper-shouts. “It was…just there. Wiggling.”

”Wiggling?”

”Yes, wiggling.”

”Is our serf distracting you from your duties, Brother Isaiah?” Reuben says, in a tone of concern so genuine it feels like mockery. 

“No! I just — it would bring shame upon our crusade if our serfs are not modestly attired.”

”I quite agree. However, I would argue that our serf is very well attired. Covered up almost to the throat.”

”Almost,” Isaiah says. “When she bends over to wash her face in the morning, if you stand at the incorrect place in the dormitory, and you have the misfortune to be looking for a book on the other side of the room, and then you find yourself looking downwards at the incorrect moment so you may observe the flagstones, you will be cursed with a view straight down her sleeping smock — and you will see both her breasts, exposed quite fully! It is revolting. A blight upon the Emperor.”

”How hideous! We must of course remedy this at once.”

”At once.”

”However,” says Reuben, as they round a corner, approaching their dormitory. “In order for me to avoid benighting mine eyes with such a distasteful view, I would much appreciate it if next time the serf washes her face you were to demonstrate the precise angle that I should avoid standing at. For I only wish to see what is pure and just in the eyes of the Emperor, and in order to do so we must have a full understanding of where to avoid looking.”

Isaiah pauses for a moment. After all, is it not his duty to guide his brothers when they seek to avoid sin? “Yes,” he says. “I will ensure that I show you most where you must not stand, and where to avoid casting your eyes. And — if I may make a suggestion?”

”Of course, brother Isaiah.”

”Perhaps it is not the uniform. Perhaps it is the way the serf has learned to stand and bend. Coming as she does from such a depraved world, riddled with heresy, it is natural that she does not know the right and proper way for a servant of the Emperor to move. Perhaps we should ask her to bend over a few times for us, and thus we can best advise her on how to avoid unnecessary…wiggling.”

Reuben grins at the thought of guiding a sinner onto the path of the righteous. “Yes, brother Isaiah. I do believe we should.”

[moodymisty]

Listen I know the wall husbands heads are full of concrete but I'm interested in what you could do with a black templar

Maybe having a cleric darling (Thinking more of a lay person vs someone like a sister of battle) so there can be some delicious religious subtext

But I also know some black templars are very much into seeing when normal baseline humans can overcome the odds and rise above with their own zeal.

Maybe she isn't a combatant but by the God Emperor she will help out however she can even if it is just passing him boltgun magazines.

I got ideas for Black Templars but they're all over the place! Maybe you can make more sense of my ramblings and since it's still on the brain it could be Yandere or not just however you can make a Black Templar with a Darling work

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: So... I went apeshit. I apologize. I just fucking love doing religious subtext and whatnot. Also the frail maiden with her knight. Combining them? Awooga. Like this is my dream prompt. I hope you enjoy.

Summary: His thumb presses against your lips, and your mouth opens. You can taste the metal on your tongue, like bitter iron. His hand despite being so inhumanly large is so dextrious and gentle, and the thoughts that enter your mind are sickening.

Relationships: Unnamed Black Templar/Fem!Reader (there aren't pronouns used but the lady/knight vibe is super intense)

Warnings: A smidge lewd but not NSFW, Vague traditional gender roles-like talk (being gentle/needing to be protected etc), Religious under(over)tones, Forbidden romance undertones, Vague yandere/yandere beginnings, Armor kink if you squint, Brief mentions of blood and murder, General 40kness

Word Count: 2209 oops uwu

Ceramite boots thud against the floor like the thunder overhead, echoing in the high, vaulted ceilings.

He hears a tile crack underneath his right boot as he shifts his weight onto it mid-step.

He was always heavier than his brothers. His armor had to be adjusted three different times to fit him as he outgrew it.

'Leave him, he’s off to go for his prayers, and to stalk the locals.’

His one battle brother had laughed at the other’s comment, as he left them all behind to return to the cathedral. It's far from his first time here, in these sanctified halls. He finds himself returning here after almost every patrol, every outing, every moment alone.

His armor shifts with his movement, and he rolls his left shoulder during his walk. He’s had the armor fixed after a stray round hit him in the shoulder, but it still feels off. Like the motion is ever so slightly delayed in comparison to his other interface ports.

He'll get it looked at again. For now he has a different pursuit.

It’s the dead of the night, moon high in the sky as he walks through the nave past pews filled with nothing but air. At this time of night he knows it will only be you here, keeping candles lit and rolling scrolls. A stray servoskull might flutter past every now and again, but other than that, you remain in complete solitude.

No distractions, no needless fluff. You're always busy, fluttering about, making yourself useful where you can. You aren't able to fight, not this threat, but your obedience in cleaning armor- weapons when an Astartes allows- and other such duties has earned you enough to stay where your fellows have left.

Many of the other human refugees have been shipped off at this point, to become the Militarium's logistical problem. You and a few others however have earned your keep. At least in the eyes of the Black Templars.

You'll be far safer here than in a Militarium camp stuffed in with hundreds to thousands of others; Like animals waiting to be shipped off world.

You'll be far safer here with him.

There you are. He can spot you from across the cathedral, and a part of him wonders why it has such an effect on him. His hearts beat faster and his neck tenses; It feels like how he does whenever he's about to fight, but also distinctly different. It almost makes him feel like he's sick from an illness he can't explain.

The moment you hear him however, knowing the sound of an astartes this late and this far away from his brothers could only be him, your back straightens. You've been leaning over for awhile, and your body makes uncooperative cracks as you stand at his approach.

He stops in front of you, at the bottom of the ambulatory steps that rise up to the main altar. You stand at the top of them, quickly moving aside so he can come closer. When he does, you can feel his gaze through the lens of his helmet. It always feels heavy, even when his helmet isn't tilted you way you swear you can feel whenever his eyes are on you.

With both hands he unseals his helmet with a soft hiss, grasping it by the rim before handing it to you. It’s almost too heavy for your grip, but you manage to hold it close to your chest and avoid dropping it. Meanwhile he takes a knee, elbow on his knee as he drops his head in prayer.

His chainsword shifts on his back, over top of a long, tattered cape that's stained with mud and blood at the bottom hem. Astartes don't leave their armor during war, and so the cloth holds the weeks long stench of iron and rotting flesh. It simply burns however, until a few minutes later and then you can no longer smell. For the best, more than likely.

The cathedral is cast in complete silence, his shoulders shifting underneath plates of ceramite. He always is whenever he prays, unlike his brothers in the few times you've seen them. Perhaps it's just a quirk of his. Or maybe they're the odd ones.

Then again, they aren't the ones visiting an empty cathedral in the dead of night, only to meet a single person. Over and over again.

When he rises, he gently takes his helmet from your hands and latches it onto his belt. You speak up for the first time since he appeared.

"Have you made good progress out there? The weather seems to only be getting worse."

He looks down at you; His short, hastily chopped hair dry and pressed in odd places from the pressure of his helmet. It's mostly dry now, but you can tell it was wet not long ago. He must've taken his helmet off in the rain and was instantly soaked to the bone.

"The Emperor watches over us. We will prevail despite the deluge."

Said deluge batters on the tall glass windows of the cathedral, and thunder cracks not much later. The sound gives you a momentary jolt. This particular storm has been going all day, but the area has been battered with rainstorms for weeks now on and off. It might not slow them down, but you can see dried chunks of mud where they've had to trudge through it to progress. Most of it is washed away on him now, the rain having cleaned his armor significantly.

Your hands grasp each other tightly, no longer having his helmet to act as some sort of grounding.

"I tried to pray like you do, this morning." His eyes noticeably brighten ever the slightest, as your voice echos in the empty cathedral. "I wanted to pray to the Emperor that you stayed safe out there."

You don't know if he finds it amusing; But the corner of his mouth quirks upward ever so slightly anyways.

"Then pray for our victory, not our safety. What matters is that we succeed," He states.

You hear the mechanics in his armor shift as he leans slightly more on his left leg than right. It's like the armor is simply an extension of himself, and you suppose it is.

He is the first astartes you've even seen, so your knowledge is sparse. A small part of you has so many questions you'd wish to ask him, not knowing if he'd even entertain you with an answer.

You're fascinated by him; You wonder if he thinks the same of you. The way he acts lends you to think so, but you don't know how to feel about it.

In the corner of your eye you notice movement, and turn to the right just a bit and see someone walking across the nave. But when they catch sight of you and one of the Black Templars, the scurry out of the main hall like death was on their heels.

It isn't the first time someone has made a conscious effort to avoid you, now that you have an astartes taking such an interest in you. People are keen to spend as little time around them as possible- as despite them being the primary source protecting you all, they have more than displayed their fickle nature. One misspoken word and you could be gone. It's happened before. You know of a few faces that have disappeared with little a word.

You must look away from him for too long, as suddenly his armored hand grasps your jaw, turning your face back to him. The awkward angle due to his height makes your neck ache, and you grasp at the seams of his gauntlet for any sort of support.

"Are you going to try and run like they did?"

He says, watching you like he's looking for something more than a simple answer.

You wonder what he sees. If he notices the way your heart has begun to race in fear and something else, as he overtakes your vision. That something else was only for those rare moments of solitude where your reasoning left you, and your mind wandered to areas it shouldn't. If you'd known any better, you might've thought such things were blasphemous, or something of the sort.

Suddenly, you remember that he's waiting for an answer; You watch as the scars on his face move when he shifts his jaw.

"No."

He takes a step closer and with no more room your back presses against the altar just behind you. You risk nearly bending over it from how close he is, his dominant leg taking root just close enough that your legs have to part to let his knee past.

The shadow of the window mullions decorate the back of his armor, the light making the shadows against his face even harsher. You can even see the shadows of large rain droplets against his pauldrons, sliding down as if they've actually fallen on him. You can hear them hit the glass as the wind whistles outside and rattles the glass.

You watch him wondering; His eyes and face are completely unreadable. Astartes are so stoic, any little emotion is held invisible deep within themselves. Trying to figure out what he's thinking is an impossible task, though it's clear the interest he has in you is no longer just curiosity. That thought makes your heart pound against your chest as if it's trying to escape, your blood hot.

His thumb presses against your lips, and your mouth opens. You can taste the metal on your tongue, like bitter iron. His hand despite being so inhumanly large is so dextrious and gentle, and the thoughts that enter your mind are sickening.

It feels like he's toying with you; Experimenting with something new as he watches the way your soft skin gives under his armor. Your hands and gentle skin have faint crumbles of candle wax and ink on them from your work, as they grasp his armor.

You're terrified. You want more of him. You'll be happy to burn if that's what it requires.

"You'll come with me, when we are finished here."

You whisper his name, telling him yes as if you were foolish enough to think you had a choice in the matter. No one but him is here to hear it.

If someone was you wouldn't be able to see them from the way his massive armored form overtakes almost all of your vision, swallowing you in a sea of shadow and pitch black armor. They would see as he leans down, his thumb leaving your lips. You can feel his hot breath on your skin. The way he almost seems to suffocate you with how much of his body looms over you, just to get close. You can hear your own heartbeat so you just know he can, his eyes dilated and nearly total black.

Your back hurts pressing against the edge of the altar, feeling vulnerable underneath his unreadable stare. The fabric of your clothing bunches in places and rises up on your body, catching on the seams of his leg plates. His armor might be cold, but astartes run hot; Like their blood is boiling, so beneath that metal chill is the heat from the skin visible on his face and neck. You think if the cathedral was any colder, his hot breath would be visible.

His lips hover over yours, brushing as if he's so thoroughly detailing every step of this. Savoring each moment, or perhaps just toying with you. Watching the way a human so much smaller than him writhes under his grip at his mercy. You want to finish it, but the hand clamped around your jaw won't allow you, as much as you want to yearn and beg and plead to k-

'Brother. Return from toying with the refugees, the chaplain has returned with an update.'

Suddenly audible is a deep voice shaken by vox distortion emanating from his helmet; His head turns ever so slightly in it's direction. The bow of his upper lip brushes over yours as he does so. His brow furrows and he seems visibly irritated, interrupted during the worst possible time. You are as well, though it's more of desperation as you try to silence the way the your body aches for just him.

But as quick as it had begun it all ends, as he rises to his full height and removes his hand from your jaw. It complains with the promise of a hefty bruising, as he uses the same gauntlet to one handed slip his helmet back onto his head.

You can feel him stare at you even through the lenses, as he shifts in his armor and walks past where you stand splayed against the altar, clothes a mess. Your legs wobble as if about to give out from underneath you without his support, a weight like a rock in your lower belly.

He walks down the ambulatory in silence and leaves you alone once more, but you know it won't be for long.

[kit-williams]

I need to be folded like a lawn chair while big Black Templar man breeds me for all he's worth.

*cracks knuckles also pauses work on another boy*

Alright ya'll are getting Brother Roland again because he causes the most thirst. If you need to put this into a time line setting this is before Bun in the Oven

SMUT heavy breeding kink

He tried to be good to his Bäckerin but there were some months that his will would faulter. And as Roland would discover putting a baby inside of his Bäckerin wasn't as simple or as easy as he thought. He could smell the biological changes and the fact that something took but then he could smell her body change back. Frustrated he asked her not understanding that the human body was just too strong for it's own good. His Bäckerin soothed him by simply saying "well if my body reabsorbed it this early then there might have been something genetically wrong. A lot can go wrong... I'm certain you can put it in terms of becoming a Black Templar. Sometimes healthy aspirants just die during the process... sometimes what might have been a viable baby just doesn't make it." She would smile at him and just soothe his wounded pride.

She still humored him to make sure that they could both still could conceive and it was simply the roll of the dice. Though Roland knew him being a Space Marine probably wasn't helping him. He finished his prayer and headed to training as he was just stewing in his own mind. His Bäckerin smelt so good this morning... just like the day they first had sex. He couldn't stop himself from pinning her down and bullying his cock inside of her. Watching her whine and whimper under him just sent such a... a thrill up his spine. Chaplin Eckehard was so helpful for Roland during these times but even Roland would watch him stalk after one of his two wives.

Training was hardly helping as it just seemed to get his blood flowing faster to between his legs. His Bäckerin should be out... just a cold shower. He marched back to his quarters after bidding his brothers farewell. His Chaplin had explained that like with battle brothers once he had "imprinted" upon his mortal that he was suddenly acutely aware of her scent biology... he could still look at other mortals and find no desire stirring in his loins but looking at his Bäckerin and occasionally women who looked similar to his Bäckerin could cause the stirring between his loins.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to be where her scent was the strongest. But he was a Space Marine if he could not resist temptations then he was vulnerable. He did not wish to be a weak link when out in combat with his battle brothers. The cold water seemed to hiss against his naturally warm physiology but he could feel himself calming down... coming down from the frenzied high. Till he heard the front door open and his eyes snapped open.

He could hear her... he could smell her... he held his breath so he wouldn't taste her. He could smell the scent of flour, yeast, butter, and eggs against her... probably entangled into the scent of her hair. She was bringing home bread was all... she would leave... he waited those painful seconds as his eyes went over to the bathroom door... she would leave...right?! Oh by the Throne why wasn't she leaving?!

He couldn't face his Bäckerin just yet... "Oh Roland..." his ears picked up even muffled through the door. He twisted the water off and stalked out running his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he could smell her. He watched her pull her fingers out of her unzipped trousers and put them into her mouth licking herself clean.

"Bäckerin," He snapped, "Get on the bed now!"

He watched her jump as her head whipped her head to him seeing him fully naked and he watched her eyes fail to meet his as they were caught between his legs looking at the angry throbbing thing. His own eyes were no longer the soft honey brown but were black with how he looked at her with nothing but a predatory desire. But when she didn't move suddenly she was face first into a burly chest.

"R-Roland?! W-what"

"Less words." He felt himself salivating as he unabashedly inhaled her scent, "I'm going to fuck a baby into you!" He snarled as he threw her onto the bed as he punched a code into a terminal. Only the Chaplin could contact him or get in during this time. When he looked over at his Bäckerin he was pleased that she had stripped naked.

She flinched in unconscious fear as suddenly he was looming over her. She was still a mortal at the end of the day and he was a lethal weapon. As much as he wanted to pin her under him and thrust with reckless abandon, as her scent was coaxing him to do, he rolled over laying on his back. "Work yourself on. Please." He hissed giving her this one concession.

Lucky for him she was already so wet. He let out a guttural hiss from the back of his throat as her hips began to roll and bounce her way down his cock. "Du riechst so gut." He groaned arching and pushing himself into her more. She felt so full and whimpered as he gave her till she started to move.

She found herself on her back quickly as his hips began to piston in their barely restrained pattern. He really shouldn't indulge himself during these times of the month... but it was addictive to smell her fertile scent just mingling with his own when he fills her with his sperm. His drool splashes on her breasts as he is lost in his fantasy. Her breathy moans filling the room just as much as the wet squelch and slap of his hips against hers. The way his balls met her skin, the feeling of her feet against his chest and shoulders... oh he knew when he was bad she would press them against his neck to try and break him out of whatever trance he was in.

He pressed her down causing her moans to increase an octave as she was utterly cock drunk slurring his name as the bed creaked and rocked with the rhythm his hips had set. He sometimes wished his Bäckerin could handle him more... but he wouldn't give her up for anything. He could feel the way she clenched around him and the way she groaned in pleasure as he fucked through her orgasm simultaneously extending it but also building up the next one.

"So gut." He salivated on her shoulder before sucking a hickey into her skin. It didn't take him very long to get her to orgasm again but when she did he bottomed out snarling, "Meine Bäckerin, meine... meine... meine." All gutteral sounded and coming from deep within his chest and throat as he stilled his hips just rolling them as he flooded her insides. He knelt there just panting softly as he let her legs go and watch them just spread wide and she rested her feet on his thighs.

"Um... hi to you too?" She spoke softly.

"You're ovulating." Roland said as if it was completely obvious as to why he dragged her to bed, "I wasn't expecting you home."

"I was just going to leave some bread and... yeah neither was I expecting you." She moaned softly as he had softened and pulled out. He cocked his head to the side as he felt some pride and sexual satisfaction seeing at how wide open he would leave her. Pushing some of the oozing cum back into her quivering cunt. She moaned softly as he would do so. She wasn't staying as open as long any more. "Roland?"

"Hmm?" He finally looked up at his Bäckerin.

"Get my laptop I'm not going to be moving for a bit. Not with... that."

He just grinned going to get her some water and her device. He would pepper her with kisses and his tender affection till he had to return to his duties. But he was happy to return to them with a clear head even though it meant any plans his Bäckerin had were ruined.

Though he was certain she hardly minded.

[anoliverbranch]

It's been a little slow lately...Zzzヘ(_ _ヘ)

I don't know why I cant reply ur comments sorry

[thevoidscreams]

Request prompt for mating press March for you!

You have recently been assigned as a chapter serf for the black templars and have been trying your best but it’s tiring work and during one of your late shifts you have fallen asleep! You thought you’d gotten away with it and no one had noticed but the next day you are told the chaplain has asked for you. Turns out he spotted you whilst you were sleeping on the job when you should have been attending your sacred duties. Perhaps big stern dom chaplain will teach you a lesson to reaffirm your faith…

Day 19

Pairing: Chaplin Soren (oc)x reader

Warnings: mentions of religion, spanking, bondage, cumming inside, power imbalance (if you squint)

My head snapped up, and I shook it as I looked around, confused. I clenched a soft rag in my hand, and brushed a stray bit of drool from my lip. What was I doing here?

It came back to me as I smelled the smoke from the censer. I had been polishing the steps leading up to the altar inside one of the ship's many chapel.

I looked around in a panic. No one was around. How long had I drifted off for? A few minutes, a few hours.

Throne preserve me, I'd fallen asleep on the job. This was sure not to go over so well if I was seen. Hopefully, I could finish up quickly and be on my way. I didn't see anyone, and surely I would have been chastised for falling asleep in a place of worship. The chapel wasn't for napping. It was for giving praise and worship to the god emperor. I bowed my head and continued on with my task, ashamed. Finishing the task as swiftly as I could I hurried out. At least no one saw me.

Dark eyes watched from behind the visor of the skull. Disappointment and disapproval swelled in Soren's hearts. He had liked you as much as it was possible for an astartes of his station to like a serf. You'd done excellent work up until this point, so diligent, completing tasks without complaint. And your work in this very room meant that you'd built a good report. It was a shame you'd likely never see him the same after he decided your punishment.

His hands twitched as he reminded himself that you are only a human. You do not have his endurance. But still sleeping in the chapel could not be allowed to go without some form of penance being served.

He felt his body stirring at the idea. He'd have to punish you so you didn't do this again. He'd have to be..very thorough.

The next day I was assigned to the chapel again on orders of Soren, one of the kinder and more personable chaplins. I thought about him and the odd request as I ran my rag over the stone steps again. I wondered if there was a reason I was to clean it again at night. Probably as not to interfere with the worship during the day.

The sound of ceramite on stone made me look up sharply. I was almost done.

"Good evening, my lord." I spoke reverently, not looking up past his greaves. I knew who he was without having to look past that point.

I'd cleaned his armor enough times to know it by heart.

"It is rather late, little one." His rich voice greeted me from behind the skull.

"Yes, I am almost finished. This is the last step, it took me a bit longer last night as well. There’s much to do." I replied, heart beating a bit faster than normal. I liked the Chaplin, Soren. I found him insightful and he was often good company to have while I worked. He would tell me stories.

"Perhaps you would have finished sooner had you not been sleeping."

My body went cold, not like the room was chilly, but as if my blood had spontaneously frozen in my veins. My hand stopped over the step and my limbs locked up, tense as if readying to make a run for it.

"It would seem you understand just how unacceptable this action is. Perhaps it was merely a mistake. I wouldn't have taken you for someone who disrespects the god Emperor. But then again, I am no psyker, I cannot see a person's soul."

"It was an accident my lord. My body was weak, there was so much work...forgive me..." My voice came out quiet, like a mouse.

“That is no excuse. If you are not fit for the rigors of your station then perhaps you might better serve in another form.”

My chest tightened and I found tears of fright blurring my eyes.

“It will not happen again, I promise. Please my Lord. I do not wish to serve as a servitor.”

Soren laughed, it was a deep rolling sound that flowed over the stones around me and despite my fear I found the sound lifting my soul ever so slightly.

“Dry your tears serf. I will not tell anyone. You have served well until now and I, unlike many of my brothers, understand that your body has limits that you can not always fight.” So he’d been jesting, just to see me squirm. He wasn’t going to have me turned into a mindless robotic slave.

He grabbed my arm, I was going to drop to my knees and kiss his ceramite clad feet in thanks but I found myself up on my feet, his free hand tilting my face back to face his helm.

“But you will need to face some punishment for this. You have allowed yourself to falter in your duties to our Emperor. You must confess and repent for these sins. I will handle you and this event will stay between us. If I deem it satisfactory then no one else will need to know.”

I nodded, fresh tears of relief streaked down my cheeks.

“Thank you my lord. I am so very sorry.”

Soren still held my arm and forced me, much more gently than I had expected towards a room towards the back where I had never been before.

The door was heavy, an ornate carved wooden door. My body was pressed firmly against it by him as he reached for the knob. I felt a familiar heat in my belly as he grunted softly and forced it open on creaky hinges.

The room was dim, lit only by the candles on a desk.

“I will remove my armor and hear your confession.”

I tilted my head in confusion as he let me go. Take his armor off, why would he need to do that?

He began to pull away pieces of his plate, placing them carefully, almost lovingly on a stand. I averted my gaze as he began to remove his body glove, my cheeks were probably very pink.

His helm was the final thing he pulled away and I found myself mesmerized by him. He was younger than I’d thought. His hair was a deep brown, cut short and neat. His skin was pale and his features were sharp. Throne he was beautiful, I found myself unable to look away. His eyes were dark, so deep I’d thought they were black till he lit a match off one candle to light several more. The depth of that blue was entrancing. The blueness of his eyes grew more apparent.

I felt as though I could dive into those blue pools and never resurface.

Soren came towards me, I hadn’t realized that I’d been backing up until my back hit the wall. He looked good in nothing but light pants and a tabard.

“You will confess to me now.” His deep voice sounded so clear and precise without the filter of a helmet. It sent pleasant shivers through my body.

“Yes, my lord.”

He guided me to my knees and I bowed my head in shame. Remembering why I was here.

“Tell me. What have you done?”

“I fell asleep in the middle of my duties to the Emperor. Leaving them unfinished while I rested. And I did so in the chapel. I slept in a holy place of worship.”

“Good. You have made a good confession. Is there anything else you would like to confess?”

I shook my head earnestly, I was sure that that was all.

“Very well, I will administer your penance, and you will repent.”

He made a motion for me to stand. I did, he took my arm in his and slapped a black iron cuff around it.

I flinched in surprise, he only chuckled. “Do not fight me. And this will go quickly.”

He took another cuff and locked it around my other wrist.

They were heavy and linked with a thick iron chain just as dark in color.

“For your penance,” he began as he dragged me to the wall and hung my chain on a hook just high up enough that I had to stand on the tips of my toes. “You will have one lash for every ten minutes you lay on the emperor's steps.”

One for every ten minutes. How long had I slept, two hours? That was twelve! Twelve lashes!

I craned my head to try and get a look at whatever implement he'd chosen and was surprised again to see not a flail or whip, but a paddle.

His bulky hand gripped the hem of my light gown and lifted it until the dress was over my head.

I wiggle my face free of the fabric and gasped as his fingers tugged my panties down as well. Leaving me with no layers between myself and the lather paddle.

Soren moved to a place where I couldn't turn my head and see him.

Soren admired the soft skin of your ass as he looked for just the right spot to begin. Throne you were a stunning creature. He felt his own excitement at having you chained and helpless under him.

He ought to be the one on his knees confessing. He was a Chaplin after all. But the way you whined in discomfort as you tapped around on the tips of your toes and looked so meek made his body hot.

He ran calloused fingers over the leather and then reached out to touch your warm supple skin.

Beautiful. Magnificent. Gorgeous. All failed to express how perfect you looked right then.

Drawing the paddle along your rump he felt his manhood twitch at your gasp.

You were enjoying this too much, he decided. He came to your side, paddle in hand and pulled it back to deliver a hardy thwack against your skin and he drank in your cry with a stifled groan of his own.

The pain was sudden and hot. My right cheek stung as the paddle made contact. It hurt, so why did I not cry out in pain. And why was there a deep and sudden urge to feel more of that burn?

“Count.”

Soren demanded.

I drew in a shaky breath. “One.”

“Good.”

He brought the paddle down on the other cheek.

“Two.” I squeaked the number.

I felt strange, a certain anticipation for the next blow growing. I gasped as his next blow went a bit lower and I heard Soren grunt in satisfaction at something.

“Three.” I mewed.

It was much the same for four and five.

I felt something warm trickle down my thighs and thought for a moment that I was bleeding.

Soren brought the paddle down for six, his manhood was rock hard now. The sight of your excitement dripping down your thighs was simply splendid. “Six~”

He hung the paddle on the hook next to the one you were chained to.

He needed this, his rough hands brushed your rump.

“Chaplin?”

Your voice, your body, your everything. It drove him mad.

His hand came down causing an audible mewl of pleasure to pour from your lips.

He licked his parched lips.

“Number?” He growled.

“Seven.”

“Good..” He almost called you a good girl. “Five more.”

I nodded at his words.

His free hand held my hip as he brought the other down to clap against my ass.

“Mmm!~ E-eight!” This was meant to be a punishment, I shouldn't have been enjoying it.

His hand seemed to linger before he drew it away.

Bringing it back down, alternating which cheek he struck.

Soren was practically panting as you moaned the word “nine” . He looked down at your soaked thighs, licking his lips and closing his eyes as he took a steadying breath.

It only served to fill his nose with your heady and feminine scent.

The Chaplin swallowed and raised his hand, bringing it down again, you counted out and he watched a trickle of slick fluids course down from your wet lower lips.

My ass was on fire, but I'd never felt so high.

Only two more, I whined at the thought. After these next two he'd send me away. I didn't want that, I didn't want him to send me off into the world never to speak of this again.

I'd just have to savor this.

His hand came down, I gasped, and wantonly moaned the next number. “Eleven.”

Soren came around to my back again, I could hear his quiet panting. Was he as affected by this as I was?

“Just one more.”

“Yes, my lord. Give me my just punishment.” The words seemed to pour forth unbidden.

Soren tensed, his hand on the verge of delivering the final blow.

He gave it, in the center of your ass. His hands came away wet, a splotch of your juices on his fingers.

He barely registered your count as he raised his fingers to his lips, he needed this, but it was wrong. Wasn't it?

His tongue darted out and his cock jumped as your salty musk coated his tongue.

His eyes slid shut, it was a moment of pure indulgence. The flavor was unlike anything he'd ever tasted. Fertile with the promise of your body.

Soren could bear it no longer and dropped to his knees. His hands gripping your thighs, just as taste, it was all he needed. A taste.

I was shocked by his actions, my voice failing me as I waited for whatever it was he was going to do.

I felt his thumbs brush the softness of my lower lips as he pulled them apart. I moaned softly into the fabric that had been pulled up and over my neck.

“My lord? What-” My question died on my lips as his tongue ran up my thigh. Collecting the warm sticky fluids I'd been spilling since we began.

He stopped just below my cunt and I whimpered. His tongue then made the slow torturously slow path up my other thigh.

Throne I needed more, I needed him to do this properly.

Was this part of the punishment, teasing me with that hot muscle till I was half mad with need? I already felt close to that anyway. But I doubted it, none of this felt like it was calculated. A spur of the moment decision to indulge in a forbidden fruit.

I could feel his breath, hot and wet as he rubbed at the outer edges of my cunt. His fingers dug into the meat of my thighs and I felt him lean in, silently urging him to do it.

Soren's mind raced, his thoughts a jumble. The sweetness called to him. He watched as a fresh gush of arousal wetted your entrance, and his breathing hitched as he felt the desire to lap it up with his tongue.

He shook his head, his knees felt shaky aashe stood. It was an alien sensation, uncertainty.

“Your punishment has absolved you of your sins… but you still lack the strength you need to finish your tasks. I will..” He swallowed. “I will fill you with the strength you need.”

The raw excitement that I felt was like nothing I'd experienced before.

“Yes, please my Lord. I am weak.” I gasped, submitting to his will and judgment.

I felt something warm and solid hit my back and jolted in place. His hand grasped the thing and his fingers grazed against my back as he stroked himself.

“Beg.”

It was all he had to say.

“Please my Lord, I am so weak. So frail, I need you to lend me your strength, your certainty. So I may serve the emperor with the same fervor and will as you.”

I felt the tip of his cock catch at my entrance and shivered. Then there was a terrible burning as he pressed in his length, made only a fraction easier by my wetness. He was big, so, so big.

He filled me, leaving me breathless as I felt his tip somewhere near my stomach.

Soren leaned over me, a groan welling up from his lips as his hands found the walls for support.

Soren's eyes practically rolled back in his skull as he pushed in as far as he could go. Breathing a few words of adoration as he regained his senses.

His right hand remained on the wall as his left arm grabbed you around the waist. Lifting you just a bit off the floor as your hands grasped the chain making it rattle

“I will give you all that you need, you need only ask.” His hips pulled back, his cock slipping out a fraction, a groan of satisfaction at finally tending to his more human needs accompanied the action.

He wasn't going to stop till he was fully satisfied.

He set a hard even pace, his hips clapping against your tender backside.

I whined, the pain hadn’t lasted, as soon as he began his cock touched all the empty places inside me that I hadn’t known were there.

I cried out for him, begging, pleading, my desperation for his cock was almost shameful. But my shame was the farthest thing from my mind at that moment. I just wanted to cum on him, and feel him cum in me in return.

It was a greedy feeling. Wanting more than he was already giving me. His chest was a persistent heat on my back and he panted out each breath.

Though I knew his transhuman form was not winded.

“Does my body please my lord?”

He groaned, and I felt a smattering of drool hit my shoulder blade as his face lowered down to press into my neck.

“It is..” He grunted, “an excellent vessel to receive the grace of the emperor. I should keep you filled, so that you may never falter. I will have to see to this task.. personally.” He moaned the last word and I clenched around him involuntarily as I understood his meaning.

“I would be honored by my lord’s offer. I would cherish the feeling of being filled by his strength and light. Please my Lord.” I squeaked, pressing my cheek against him. “Please never let me be empty of you.”

He groaned, and picked up his pace, lifting me further till my chain came off the hook. Soren held me as he stumbled back into a chair with me in his lap. He grunted and the sudden change in position forced me down on his cock further. Soren fucked me with an almost mindless need. Mumbling under his breath as if he was praying.

“Never let you be empty. Keep you full of the light. Keep you.. full.”

His left hand went to my stomach and he touched it with such love. It made me shiver and made my head spin.

“Yes.. full.” I gasped and finally came undone on his cock.

Soren fucked me through it, his pace increasing unevenly as he worked his way up to his climax.

He held me down on his cock as he let loose all of his seed.

I felt the heat with every pulse of his cock as he continued to fill my womb with rope after rope.

It felt like he came forever, but really it could only have been a few seconds. Yet I was full by the time he was done.

Just as he promised.

Soren undid the cuff, setting them on his desk and fixing my dress.

Then he took me to a cot I hadn't noticed before, he sat us down and laid me across his lap. Picking up a small bottle from a box next to his bed.

I wasn't sure what he was doing until he lifted the dress again and poured a generous amount of oil onto my still reddened ass.

He set the bottle aside and his calloused hands set to work, massaging the oil into my sore cheeks.

“Thank you.” I broke the silence and he hummed.

“I.. I will not say that I am sorry for all that had transpired here. You took your punishment well..but afterwards.. I did not intend for that. You must forgive me.”

He urged and I did something I didn't expect. I laughed.

It was such an absurd circumstance I just couldn't help it.

“Why are you laughing?” His hand clenched around my ass cheek and I could hear the hurt in his voice.

“There’s nothing to forgive my lord. I would happily do that with you again. And besides, I believe you said you would keep me full right?”

I peek over my shoulders to see his face darken with a blush. It was very cute.

“I would not force that on you.” He told me as he kept rubbing.

“I figured.. but, I enjoyed it. Very much so, that was the best I've ever had.”

“Truely?”

“Yeah, if anything, I feel I should be thanking you. It was fun, even if it was meant to be a punishment.”

Soren met my gaze and held it.

“I will have you assigned to this chapel then.. you will see to its care and when you do a good job… I will keep you filled.”

I smiled at his words. “Thank you my lord.”

He finished and I was going to get up but he pulled me into him, laying down.

“The stairs-” I began but he cut me off.

“Will be there in the morning. Rest now.”

I nodded and laid my head on his chest, sleep came easy.

Soren held you close for hours, just brushing his hands over your form and watching you as you slept. It was good that you rested so easily in his arms. You were going to need all the strength you could get because he was already planning on fulfilling his promise when you woke up.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Candy Store

Author's note: this is the next part of Mer-Cedric’s journey in the Celestial Seas AU with his bonded. First. Previous. Celestial Seas Masterlist

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

warnings: food mention, ask me to tag something if I missed it/something bothers you

Summary: Cedric brings you to his favorite candy store in the small seaside town you and he are visiting.

“How much interaction have you had with humans, before me?” You ask, looking up at the large black and white scaled mer as he flew alongside you as you and he made your way into the small seaside town you were planning on spending a couple of weeks to months working in temporarily as you stocked up on more backpacking supplies - that and the weather was going to be taking a turn for the worse in the next few weeks, and you’d rather have a more permanent roof over your head, than the tarp-tent that you used. 

“Uhm…” Cedric responded, fidgeting a little with his hands “Not much? Outside of emergency situations where they needed my help, as a healer.” 

You blink in surprise, having not known that about your aquatic companion until now. It explained why he had all sorts of satchels and bags carefully strapped to his body, and how he’d known how to wrap up your ankle when you’d tripped over a tree root and twisted it badly, a couple of weeks ago. Cedric had also insisted on carrying you for several days, after. So that your ankle could heal properly. You’d thought that he’d been overprotective at the time… But as he apparently did have medical training, you supposed that it did make sense for you to keep off of your feet while you needed ot heal. “Ah. So we tend to be a curious bunch. I’m not sure how much interaction these people have had with mer-astartes, so there’s a good chance that you’re going to attract a lot of curious attention. Most people should leave you well enough alone… And anyone dumb enough to be rude you should be able to scare off with your size.”

Cedric nodded, a soft hum leaving him, as he looked at the small town you and he were approaching “Oh! I’ve been here plenty of times. You don’t need to worry about that. A couple of my older Bruders live here, with their festhaftend, so the mort-er humans here have long gotten used to seeing us visiting from time to time.” 

“What… What’s a fest… Festhafthend?” You ask, stumbling a little over the unknown word. You politely ignore the fact that he’s once again hinted towards the fact that his people may not be mortal. You don’t know much about the supernatural species that also call Earth their home, but you do know that poking your nose into places that it doesn’t belong will get it bitten off. 

“Hmm? Oh! Bonded. It means bonded.” Cedric answers, as if that’s supposed to clarify things. He doesn’t look or sound cagey, or like he’s trying to hide something…

Which is why you ask for further clarification “What do you mean by bonded, Cedric?”

“Hmm? Oh… Sometimes an Astartes will find a being of Holy Terra - I mean Earth - whom they are bonded to. A bond is… A bond can mean different things, depending on a number of factors and I really don’t understand it but. Some brothers become like father to very young bonded, like siblings in other cases. Sometimes they become bonded like married. Other times it is the Astartes who is adopted by a being of Earth in a parental role. Bonds happen to beings of Terra and Astartes of all kinds.” Cedric explains, fidgeting more with his hands “It is. Hard to explain. In part because I have never bonded myself. It is apparently a very singular experience.”

You have so many more questions, but the genuinely perplexed expression on the young Mer’s face causes you to decide that when you get to a cafe with free or cheap wifi, you’re going to spend some of the time that you use charging your phone and external batteries looking up those terms, to see if there is any information on these bonds known on the internet. Not that you’d take everything said on the internet as gospel truth. 

~

“Oh! Come with me, this place is very good! And they give out some of their products for free! Very tasty.” Cedric almost chirped down at you, his bright blue eyes lighting up with a nearly childish glee, after you’d checked into a relatively cheap hotel room for the week. He was waiting for you at the door to your room, practically vibrating with excitement.

You can’t help but chuckle a little at his clear enthusiasm “Sure thing, Cedric.” You had your external charges charging in the room and had a couple of good prospects for seasonal work that paid decently already… Besides if you absolutely had to, you could dip into the saving that you had, but you were pretty sure it wouldn’t come to that. 

You’re surprised when Cedric practically drags you over to a brightly painted candy shop, advertising over a hundred and seventy different kinds of salt water taffy flavors. The scent of freshly made chocolates and cooling caramel hits your tongue, and your mouth begins to water. You swallow back your saliva and walk into the cool front room.

There is an older woman behind the counter, where you can see a half-dozen different flavors of fruit-based gummy candy, sugar crystals shining pleasantly in the light. You can also see a dozen or so buckets of ice cream with their tops off in a chiller counter, the names of the flavors up for sale. There are dozens of different kinds of chocolate and chocolate-dipped things. On one wall of the candy shop are different flavors of honey. 

The bulk of the shop, however, is devoted to the many different flavors of taffy, each kind in clear plastic containers that reach floor to ceiling. There is a prize wheel near the payment counter that catches your attention. The older woman calls out cheerfully “Hello young Cedric! How are you today?”

“I’m good, Irene! I’ve brought a friend in to see the delicious sweets you have for sale.” He answers with a bright grin “I have aloe ointment and wound-healing bandages for trade. Oh! I also have some of those pain-reliever ointments for trade as well.”

“Oh who’s this friend? A new-... Oh! A human-shaped friend. I see.” Irene hummed, a warm smile appearing on her sun-weathered face. “Are you going to introduce them to Arnault and Roland later? I’m sure that they’d very much like to meet this new friend of yours.” There is a lilting, almost teasing note in her voice “I was wondering when you’d get a bonded.”

“I would like to introduce you to Roland and Arnault, but you are not my bonded. At least I don’t think you are?” Cedric huffed, his ear fins flicking rapidly as they turn a rosy color. He explains that you’d helped him calm down when a thunderstorm had badly startled him, and in exchange for your selfless help, he’d offered to travel with you for a time.

“I see… Well it was very kind of you to help him, dear. Not many would approach a visibly anxious Astartes, especially one they’ve never met before. That was quite brave and kind of you.” Irene murmured, a gentle expression appearing on her face as she reaches over the counter to gently pat Cedric on the elbow. “Do you know what you’d like to try for free this time, Cedric?”

“Mm-hmm! I want to try the chocolate bon-bon filled with lemon creme, please.” Cedric answered, carefully reading off the label, squinting a little at it.

“The dark chocolate, or the milk chocolate? Also the inside is going to taste both tart and creamy.” Irene responded, smiling a little brighter.

“I know! Miss Angela gave me a small slice of lemon meringue pie the other day. It was. Really intense! But very good.” Cedric answered cheerfully. 

“Alright, then. I just wanted to give you a little warning, since I know that Mer-Astartes have a more enhanced sense of taste than we humans do.” Irene hummed, handing over the chocolate he’d asked. “And for you, dear?” She asks, looking to you.

“I think I’ll try the orange gummy fruit slice please.” You answer, as all of them look good, but gummy candy can have an off-putting texture, and you’d rather know for sure before having to pay for any of them.

“Here you go. One orange fruit slice for you.” The older human answered with a kindly smile on her face. “Now, I believe it’s time for you both to spin the prize wheel! One spin per visit, and you get what it says on the slice of the wheel it lands on. The grand prize being a free quarter pound of any kind of candy you’d like.”

Cedric has already finished his piece of chocolate and eagerly glides over to the prize wheel. He grabs hold of it with two fingers and with the barest flick of hs wrist, sends it spinning and spinning, the steady tap-tap-tapping sound of the marker against the spokes of the prize wheel pleasant to listen to.

It eventually slows down and stops just one to the right of the quarter-pound of free candy, giving Cedric four free honey sticks of flavor or flavors of his choice. He immediately heads over to the small jars holding the sticks of honey to choose and you give the wheel a spin.

The wheel spins for less time, even though you do give it a good heave. You’re also able to get the quarter pound of free candy - which amounts to twenty pieces of taffy, among other options. 

You very much enjoy picking out the twenty different flavors of taffy that sound delicious to you, before going over to the ice cream section of the store. The day has gotten nearly unbearably warm, and an ice cream cone sounds delightful to you. Cedric joins you at the payment counter and carefully pulls out two small, tightly sealed jars and slides them over to Irene, who picks them up and nods “Thank you, dears. Enjoy your purchases!”

You blink, having grabbed out your wallet to pay “Are… Are you sure?”

“Oh yes. Cedric’s pain-relieving cream works wonders for my arthritis. This is payment enough. Go on and enjoy the late-summer sunshine! It’s a beautiful day out.” Irene murmurs, gently but firmly refusing your money with a shake of her head.

“Alright, if you say so…” You blink in surprise but nod.

You happily start to eat your ice cream as you wander out onto the wooden boardwalk, Cedric at your side, taking in the sights of the small seaside town.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Like stone

Author's Note: More of Ramiel in Living Waters AU. Thank you for @kit-williams for letting me borrow Angela (Arnault's Bonded) and Becky (non-canon name for Reader Insert Roland's Bonded). Also, thank you for letting me borrow Arnault. :) Thank you to @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Cedric.

Summary: Ramiel has decided to make a quiet celebration for himself and his fellow primaris brothers and cousins to celebrate being on Ancient Terra for a while. He asks for Angela and Becky's help.

Warnings: None. let me know if I need to add anything.

Past =-= Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k, @ms--lobotomy @bispecsual @thevoidscreams

Tagged continued: @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

A few weeks later Ramiel is helping gather supplies to trade with Angela and Backerin, Arnault and Roland's Bonded. He had seen, and been impressed by the quilt that Angela had made for Cedric. It was also waterproof and comfortable to the touch. 

He double checks that he has enough to trade for something so valuable and is only a little nervous as he approaches them, popping his head out of the water. He had also heard Cedric and Roland talk about bread, and how tasty it was when Backerin made it. 

He double checks the amount of pearls, of various Sizes and colors, as well as the Neat Rocks in various colors, as well as grabbing some Sea Glass. He also has some intact, empty of a critter in the sea shells of various sizes and colors. Each type of trade goods is in a different pouch so that they don't damage each other in transit. He calls out to the pair of human women who turn and smile brightly at him.

“Hello ma’ams,” Ramiel says as he activates his flying ability and carefully lands within easy speaking range of them. 

“Hello there Ramiel,” Backerin says with an easy smile as she looks at him.

It had been a few months Since the first few times she had met the younger Black Templar mer. He wasn't as shy as Cedric could be, and is a very good listener. 

“I have a request and something to give in trade,” Ramiel says as he rummages around in a satchel at his hip.

“Oh?” Both women ask, terribly curious.

“Yes, I saw the blanket that Miss Angela made, and it's lovely,” Ramiel says,  “I have pearls and rocks for trade, but I was wondering if you would be willing to make another one?”

He would like it if he could trade them for the goods. Knowing that artistry for the blanket, means it will take a while to create. Also, freshly baked goods, at least from what he's heard, are really good. 

“What scene would you want on the quilt?” Angela asks with a slight hum as she looks through the pouches of shells, pearls, preserved fish, and neat rocks.

“An ocean scene with a cave and an island, Astartes big,” Ramiel responded after a few moments of thought. “It’s not pressing, as I know that Quality work, like what you do takes a while- and you are likely really busy with other things-”

“I think that an ocean background with a cave and an island would look lovely,” Angela says- cutting him off a little. As she had gotten to know the Primaris Black Templar- she had learned he had a tendency to overthink things, and sometimes talk himself out of something if she, or someone else didn’t make him pause for a moment.

Roland’s beloved bonded human, Becky asks him, “What kind of bread and pastries are you wanting, Ramiel?”

“Sourdough- it’s so good,” Ramiel says, “And to try some of the sweet pastries as well.”

Becky hums a little as she goes through the pouches- only grabbing some of the pearls, they are so lustrous and pretty. Besides- he’s one of Rolands little brothers- one of the few that doesn’t treat him with hostility for… Space Marine Reasons. 

She’d heard Roland and Arnault speaking in a blend of Space mer and English about how they were- almost giddy, and worried, at meeting Ramiel- A Chaplain, whatever that meant, who’d been so open about meeting Bonded brothers.

And without the Judgement and passionate, fiery brimstone and damnation that most would inflict on them. Ramiel had just wanted to know if they were happy. His older brothers and the Bonded Humans. 

Becky asked Ramiel to follow her to her Bakery and watched as he peered down at the various treats with a hungry almost puppy-like curiosity on his face. She tried not to laugh, his expression and mannerisms reminded her very much of Roland at times. 

Ramiel is more openly expressive, likely due to his younger age- or so Roland says. Honestly, her bread fiend would happily stuff himself full of bread until he was almost sick if she didn’t stop him. 

Seeing Roland’s faux-innocent expression as he rapidly chews the bread, his cheeks stuffed full, almost like a chipmunk with their mouth full of nuts. Honestly. That man. At least Ramiel was more polite about it and tried to take smaller bites as he expressed his delight and joy at her baking.

He’d try to sneakily give her more pearls, Neat Rocks, and shells when she wasn’t looking. Sometimes she’d pretend she didn’t see him as he did it, a sneaky little grin would cross his face when she’d exclaim in delight at finding the little gifts.

Becky had gotten it out of Ramiel that he’d started planning a picnic for himself and his squad of brothers- their being on Ancient Terra together for six months would be happening soon and he wanted to celebrate the fact that they were all safe, relatively happy and whole.

It seemed like a sweet sentiment and she’d told him as such, his ears had gone bright red at that, which had her hiding a smile behind one of her hands. Angela had said that she’d try to get the quilt done before that six month mark.

Ramiel had reassured her that if it took longer, then he’d talk to his brothers about the picnic to celebrate at a later date and time for a slightly different reason. Angela had gently patted one of his hands at that, despite how nervous she could get around others sometimes, Arnault’s little brothers tried their best to not Seem Scary. Which could be quite the task with how big they are, how powerful their frames are, but they managed it at times.

A few months later Angela finished the requested quilt for Ramiel and had asked her beloved Arnault to let Ramiel know that his commission was completed and ready for pick up. Arnault had pressed a kiss to her lips and sent a message through his helmet communication device to send Ramiel a message.

Ramiel came by to pick up the waterproof quilt in two days, happy with how the quilt turned out, and insisted on giving her more pearls, shells and neat rocks, which she had protested that it hadn’t been that expensive to make, but like Cedric, had insisted that it was nearly priceless for the beauty of the created item.

He’d also gone to Becky to get a picnic basket full of bakery goodies- he’d also been making other foodstuffs for the picnic and had sent a non-urgent request to the rest of his brothers to join him at a low-key meeting.

Gratifyingly, his brothers and cousins replied swiftly and they joined him, noticing the new quilt and the baskets filled with foodstuffs he gave them all a smile and gesture for them to be seated and tells them.

“It’s been slightly more than six months since all of us reunited together on Ancient Terra,” Ramiel states, “And I thank the God Emperor and his infinite Mercy for sending us here. I am glad and grateful that we are whole, hale, healthy and hearty. Some of us have gotten into a better state of health, in one way or another, than from when we were… in the Before Times. I just wanted to celebrate this moment and give us a time to eat, drink, and be merry.”

“Aw, this is wonderful!” Jophiel says after a moment or two of silence, the first to respond to his words as he lunges forwards and wraps his arms around Ramiel. “I’m glad that we are all here, together, safe, and alive.”

“It is good that we are able to celebrate little moments like these,” Caitus says as he leans against Ramiel’s other side, wrapping an arm around his fellow Primaris Marine.

Claude nods and joins the impromptu hug pile, “I hope we are able to celebrate more moments like this in the future.”

Cedric is the last to respond as he gives Ramiel and the rest of them a hug, his hearts are full of emotion. Mostly good ones- he’d thought Ramiel would be lost to him, until he joined him in the embrace of the God Emperor’s light when he fell in battle. 

The hug pile remains that way for a little while longer before they let go and start to eat the feast of foods that Ramiel had prepared for them.

The flavors of the foods are delicious and they talk about everything and nothing and it’s nice to reflect on all that has happened, and wonder, with hope, what the future holds.

The rest of the squad helps Ramiel with cleaning up, waving away his protests stating that since he’d come up with the idea and gathered all of the supplies, that they were going to handle the clean up, which he’d reluctantly agreed to.

[msflora-lynn]

Rating the fanbase of every Primarch & their legions.

This is my opinion, I love all of you ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

Lion'El Johnson & Dark Angels fans (8/10): I like the fanarts they make, also 100 points for portraying Lion like a rouge kitty cat sometimes. Oh I also like how the Lion fans are embracing the 'our primarch is obviously neurodivergent and we love him for it'

Fulgrim & E.Children fans (10/10): This part of the group always produce the best fanart?? Or at least a lot of artworks for E.Children in general. Though browsing his fanart must be done with caution cause 20% chance I might see schlongous or booty.

Perturabo & I.W fans (8/10): I'm sorry about your favorite character. Not many of them are around though :( But so far their fanart production have been solid. I like how they kinda just chill and embrace the 'neurodivergent manchild' persona for Bo and makes no attempt to refute it.

Jaghatai Khan & W.Scars fans (8/10): Surprisingly not many of them. I'm kinda bummed out about it since I like this character. Though his fanarts are mostly adorable! They're always chill, I'm happy to see them on my feed -`♡´-

Leman Russ & S.W fans (7/10): I would rate it 8/10 but I hate stimky wolf grrrr so -1 point (msflora found dead in fenris more at news 6). Anyways fanart-wise, they're so good!! I like how they always draw Leman like a scrunkly lil guy. I also love to read their fanfictions.

Rogal Dorn & I.Fists fans (6/10): WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE?! I CAN'T FIND YOU!! I RATE IT LOW BECAUSE I'M SCRAPING THE GROUND FOR ROGAL DORN CONTENT! But in all seriousness, loving how they embrace the 'fortify' meme. I don't like the weird Black Templar larpers from twitter, but that's just a 1% of the fanbase

Konrad Curze & Night Lord fans (8/10): Your fanfictions scares me, most of the hashtags are nowhere written in the bible, but I read them all so who am I to judge. I love how this side of the fandom just embrace the 'we are bad and disturbing and creepy' schtick and go ball. I blame this side of the fandom for making me love Jago Sevatar tho.

Sanguinius & Blood Angels fans (10/10): Insane artworks from this side of the fandom, always impress me. A lot of vampire and angelic stuff, I love you guys. Sorry about your primarch tho.

Ferrus Manus & I.H fans (all six of them) (7/10): I'm sorry about your primarch, I'm sorry he get crumbs in the lore. I rate it low because I'm scraping for any IH/Ferrus content here....

Angron & World Eaters fans (8/10): Loving the contents you guys made here! A lot of red, so many red, oh god. I'm sorry about the sinking ship of Argel Tal x Kharn though.

Roboute Guilliman & Ultramarine fans (9/10): Spoiled, well-fed, their favorite guys have insane plot armor and I'm jealous >:(. Keep the bulky half-naked Rob fanarts coming tho I have them all liked & downloaded.

Mortarion & D.Guards fans (6/10): I do not like Nurgle stuff so I rarely go there... But my god most fanfictions yall made for Mortarion x reader is heartbreaking. Rating it low because I get scared of some fanarts they make, but pre-heresy Mortarion is kinda baddddddd👅

Magnus the Red & Thousand Sons fans (100 Tzaangors/10): We are so cool and awesome, not a biased rating. In all seriousness we Tsons fans r eating GOOODDD this year (thx SM2). Though we suffer from a disease called 'inconsistent writing of our favorite primarch's power levels' and it's not getting better.

Horus & L.Wolves fans (9/10): Guys I understand, Horus is big daddy, a father, he's an icon, you guys made it clear with the abundant of breeding tags in your fanfics. Sorry that the way he's corrupted into chaos is kinda bootycheeks tho :( Wishing they explore more into his corruption.

Lorgar & WB fans (Where Are You Guys/10): While being small, they make the best artworks for Lorgar. Questionable fanfic tags, but I love yall regardless. They kinda eats with all the Word Bearer fanarts tho I've seen. Sadly, Erebus is from here and everyone hates him.

Vulkan & Salamander fans (8/10): I would like to pet them. In all seriousness I'm happy to see the majority of Vulkan fanarts are created with African features in mind ♥︎!! Everyone from this fanbase are cute and sweet!!

Corvus Corax & RG fans (Birds/10): I love all the raven aesthetics often seen in their fanworks. Corvus having wings is so cool, and often I see amazing OCs spawning from this legion.

Alpharius Omegon & A.L fans (What are you guys doing/10): I can't find much about them but I fw with the entire 'we dont know what our primarch is doing so we just ball it'. BUT HEY CONGRATS ON YOUR PRIMARCH COMING BACK!!!

:3 And I love all of you... Thank you for reading this nonsense of a post.

[s0larine]

𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄 [𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐂 𝐗 𝐅! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

summary ☩ The reader, an undercover Assassin, goes at a high-society masquerade ball to gather information about Templars and unexpectedly meet her former friend, Shay, now fully allied with the enemy. Neither can afford to reveal their true identities in such a public place, but they are drawn to each other through the anonymity of the masks.

[a/n] ☩ [y/f/n] means your fake name because baby we’re playing undercover tonight~ reminder that english is not my mother tongue. UNEDITED

word count ☩ 3,979

pairing ☩ shay cormac x f! reader

content warnings ☩ slight sexual tension, female reader, enemies to lovers, mentions of shay's deflection, fluff, assassin! reader, templar! shay, reader in a gown, shay being a man, shay having a long time crush on reader, mutual pining, ...

　　　New-York, June 1756

“Everything is in order. You can enter, Lady [y/f/n].”

The red coat handed you your invitation. As you entered the huge place, your eyes wandered around you, detailing every nook and cranny, taking in and memorising the layout of the area. The grand hall was indeed a spectacle of opulence. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above, casting a golden glow over the sea of masks that danced and mingled below. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of violins filled the air, creating a scene that was far removed from the dangerous world you were familiar with.

Your mission tonight was simple: gather information, and your mentor was clear about your purpose here; not to engage at any costs. The Templars were holding this extravagant masquerade in the hopes of attracting allies from high society, and you had been sent by the Assassin Brotherhood with—of course, a fake name—to blend in, to listen, to learn. The gown you wore tonight was unlike anything you were used to—luxurious, intricate, and adorned with a mask that glittered in the candlelight. Your hair was gathered in a half bun and some golden hair clips adorned them. In order to pass for a member of high society, you even took the time to put on a jewellery set; a necklace, dangling earrings and a few bracelets and rings. But beneath the facade of wealth and elegance, your blade was hidden, strapped to your left thigh under your luxurious gown, ever ready. If I'd been born as a man, hiding it and having simple access to it would have been easier, but there's nothing more I can do in this puffy dress… you thought. 

As you walked amongst the other attendees, getting as close as possible to people whose clothes meant something to you, such as high-ranked Templars, you noticed a very particular group of men at the other side of the hall. Among them were Colonel George Monro and Sir William Johnson, both members of the Colonial Rite of the Templar Order. Your eyes fell on their silhouettes with their recognisable clothes from beneath your own mask but quickly continued their search. And who else…

What you hadn't expected was to find him here.

Shay Cormac stood with the group of men, dressed sharply in a black tailcoat with accents of silver and red. His mask, a sleek black piece that covered half his face, did little to hide the sharpness of his features or the air of authority he carried. His eyes, however, were unmistakable. The same stormy brown eyes that had haunted your thoughts since the day he defected from the Brotherhood.

You hadn't seen him in years, but the memories were fresh, the betrayal still raw.

But there was one detail that made your blood run cold: the young man's eyes were already riveted on you. When has he ever noticed you before? Your heartbeat quickened and you finally looked away, turning to a passing servant. You picked up a glass of champagne as he passed by you and began to sip the golden liquid, your eyes frantically searching for a place to rest in order to pass for an innocent. Maybe it was just a coincidence... No, no, he's far too clever to think that I'm just a random young woman...

You risked looking back up at the group of men he was with, but he had already disappeared. Your breathing quickened and you turned away from his previous location towards a random group of people, just to pass for a guest sympathising with others. Your heart raced as you opened your senses; you knew he was coming for you and you couldn’t do anything but pray he hadn’t recognised you yet. This was supposed to be just another mission, a simple infiltration, but now everything felt different. Could you approach him without giving yourself away?

A voice behind you jolted you from your thoughts, soon followed by a delicate 

"Would you care to dance?"

You freezed. A delicate palm soon rested on the small of your back and another one entered your field of vision from the right, at the level of your own right hand. Closing your eyes, you inhaled sharply before turning; you found Shay standing before you, his right hand still extended and a dangerous smile playing on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat once again at your inattentiveness. You needed to be more careful around him… The recognition in his eyes sent a chill down your spine. He definitely knew. He had seen through your disguise, just as you had seen through his.

But you couldn't afford to let him know the depth of your awareness, not here, not now.

"Of course," you replied, your voice steady despite the tension that coiled in your chest, giving away your champagne glass to a passing servant. You placed your right hand in his left, feeling the warmth of his grip, and he led you onto the dance floor.

The music swelled around you as Shay pulled you close, one hand resting firmly on your waist, the other holding your gloved hand in his. His touch was confident, and his movements were smooth as he guided you effortlessly through the steps of the waltz. The crowd around you faded into the background, your focus narrowing to the man before you.

"You've been watching me, [y/n]," Shay said softly, his lips barely moving as he leaned in. His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a hidden challenge.

You met his gaze, your mask hiding the flash of defiance in your eyes. "I could say the same about you, Shay."

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Not long enough," you whispered with clenched teeth, your voice sharp despite the graceful steps of the dance.

Shay's grip on your waist tightened slightly, which made you tense, a silent acknowledgment of the tension between you. "You always did have a way with words. Tell me, are you here for pleasure, or are you working tonight?" You did not fail to notice his gaze sliding down your neck to the start of your cleavage, checking you out shamelessly. 

Your cheeks flushed, feeling like a lamb trapped in the fangs of a wolf. You felt the heat of his breath as he spoke, the proximity making it difficult to keep your composure. Every instinct told you to draw your blade, to end this now, but the crowd was thick, and the consequences of a public confrontation were too great.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" you replied, your lips curving into a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He twirled you effortlessly, the skirts of your gown swirling around you as you spun, and when you came back to him, his hand was lower, lingering just above the hidden blade at your thigh. He didn't touch it, but the threat was clear. He knew exactly where it was. Your blood ran cold at the thought that he had found your dagger.

"Careful," he murmured, tilting his head, his voice a soft warning. "This is a delicate dance we're doing. One misstep and it could get… messy."

From being riveted on his chest, your eyes looked back up into his own, the familiar storm clouds swirling with something darker, something more dangerous. "You think I'm afraid of a little mess?"

Shay's lips quivered into a smirk, and for a moment, you saw a glimmer of the man you once knew, the Assassin and friend who had fought beside you. But that man was gone, replaced by the Templar before you.

"You should be," he whispered, pulling you closer as the music slowed.

The world around you seemed to fall away, the crowd, the mission, the masks—all of it dissolved as the tension between you reached a boiling point. The weight of your shared history hung in the air, unspoken but palpable. You had fought side by side once, and had trusted him with your life. And then he had betrayed everything.

But here, in this moment, with his hand on your waist and your bodies moving in sync, the lines between enemy and ally blurred. You hated him, you were sure of that, but the way your heart pounded in your chest told a different story. There was something more, something you had never fully understood.

"Tell me, Shay," you said, your voice barely more than a breath as the music began to wind down. "Why did you do it? Why did you turn your back on us?"

Shay's expression darkened, the playful smirk fading as his eyes grew hard. "You wouldn't understand, [y/n]."

"Try me," you insisted, your grip on his hand tightening.

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze searching yours. And then, just as the final note of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Because sometimes, the Brotherhood is wrong."

With those words, the music ended, and Shay released you, stepping back with a final, piercing look. He bowed slightly, a mockery of the formal dance, and then turned, disappearing into the crowd.

You stood there in the middle of the dance floor, watching him go back to his Templar associates. You were unable to move, your heart racing, and your mind spinning. His words echoed in your ears, and for the first time, you weren't sure where your loyalties truly lay.

As the night wore on, you realised that this masquerade was more than just a mission—it was the beginning of a far more dangerous game. One that you and Shay Cormac were destined to play, whether you liked it or not.

The evening continued around you, but it felt as though you were standing still. The swirling skirts, the clinking of glasses, the murmurs of conversation—they all faded into background noise as your mind raced with Shay’s parting words.

“Because sometimes, the Brotherhood is wrong.”

Your hand unconsciously grazed the hidden blade at your thigh, the familiar weight suddenly feeling heavy. Shay had betrayed everything you once stood for. He had walked away, abandoned the Creed, and joined the very enemies you had sworn to fight. And yet… there was a flicker of doubt creeping into your thoughts, a doubt you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years.

The Brotherhood had given you purpose, structure, a cause greater than yourself. But now, for the first time, you wondered if Shay’s defection wasn’t just a selfish act of betrayal. His eyes when he spoke had held something you hadn’t expected: conviction.

You shook your head, banishing the thought. No. I won’t question the Brotherhood. Not now, not because of him.

But that resolve felt brittle.

You caught a glimpse of Shay again through the crowd. He had made his way toward the far end of the ballroom, mingling with Templar officials, exchanging pleasantries. But his eyes kept darting back to you, just as yours did to him.

What was his game?

Your mission was still clear. Gather information. You weren’t here for personal matters. You couldn’t afford to let Shay’s presence distract you. But despite your attempts to stay focused, your thoughts kept wandering back to that dance, to his touch, to the way his breath had brushed against your ear when he whispered those final words.

Suddenly, a hand landed lightly on your shoulder, jolting you from your reverie.

“Care to join me for a drink, my lady?” The voice belonged to a man in a silver mask, a high-ranking Templar based on the insignia on his sleeve. His eyes were sharp, watching you with interest. It was clear he had noticed your distraction.

Forcing a smile, you nodded, reminding yourself of your mission. “Of course.”

As you followed him to a quieter corner of the room where the drinks were principally gathered, you could feel Shay’s gaze burning into your back, but you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The Templar was speaking now, sharing something about the recent victories they’d secured in the colonies, but you weren’t really listening despite the purpose of your mission tonight. Your mind was still with Shay, turning over everything he had said—and everything he hadn’t in a way. After a few minutes of absent-mindedly drinking champagne and listening to the man recount his false prowess, you finally excused yourself from the conversation, your head buzzing with alcohol and of course the weight of your conflicting emotions. You were a little hot and needed air, away from all those rich folks.

You headed for the balcony overlooking the formal gardens of the period building. Stepping out onto the balcony, you took a deep breath of the cool night air, leaning against the marble railing.

It wasn’t long before you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Opening your senses once again, you closed your eyes and you instantly knew who it was.

“You always did like your quiet moments,” came a familiar voice.

You didn’t turn around immediately, your hands tightening on the railing as Shay approached. You could feel his eyes boring into your back, or even your bum, and the tension rolling off him.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” you said, still facing the darkened city beyond. “You’ve made your point. Or was there something else you wanted to say?”

Shay didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he stepped beside you, his presence warm and solid in the cool night air. You could feel him watching you, studying you, but you refused to meet his gaze.

“Tell me,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, “do you truly believe in everything the Brotherhood teaches? Or do you just follow because that’s all you’ve ever known?”

The question hit harder than you expected. You had spent years training under the Creed, living by its rules, carrying out its missions without question. But standing here now, with Shay beside you, that certainty felt… shaky. He wasn’t just talking about betrayal; he was challenging everything you had built your life around.

“Why are you asking me this?” you shot back, turning towards him and leaning against the fence that was now behind you. The action made the dark-haired man's eyes slide towards your protruding chest, and they stopped there for a few seconds before returning to rest in your eyes. You frowned slightly, licking your lower lip, you decided to ignore his gaze and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. “You’re the one who abandoned us. Who betrayed your brothers and sisters. You walked away, Shay. And now you want to question my loyalty?”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “I didn’t betray the Brotherhood. I saw the truth. The Assassins… they’re not as righteous as you think. They preach freedom, but they’re willing to sacrifice anyone who gets in their way.”

You inhaled sharply, your chest suddenly pressed against the corset of your dress. You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your lips. There was a certain fire in his eyes, a depth to his conviction that shook you. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t manipulating you. He believed what he was saying.

“I followed the Creed because I believed in it, just like you do, [y/n],” seeing that you didn’t speak, Shay continued, his voice steady. “But I couldn’t ignore what I saw—the innocents we put at risk, the people we hurt for the sake of an ideal. The Brotherhood is supposed to protect people, not destroy them.”

You felt a pang of anger, but also of confusion. Shay wasn’t wrong about some of the darker sides of the Assassins’ work. You had seen it yourself—the collateral damage, the grey areas where right and wrong blurred.

But you had always trusted the Creed to guide you, to show you the path forward.

“And what about the Templars?” you countered. “They’re no saints either, Shay. You think they’re any better?”

“I don’t think they’re perfect,” Shay admitted. “But they offer something the Assassins never could—order, stability. A chance to build a world where people don’t have to live in fear of chaos.”

You clicked your tongue and turned away again, staring out at the city while shaking your head, your heart pounding in your chest. You couldn’t believe what he was saying. Part of you wanted to reject everything he was saying, to cling to the teachings of the Brotherhood. But another part of you—a part that had been growing ever since Shay’s defection—couldn’t ignore the doubts.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” you asked quietly, your lips quivering with sadness.

Shay’s silence was heavy before he finally spoke. “Because you deserve to know the truth. And because I don’t want to lose you to the same blindness that I was caught in for so long.”

His words were raw, unguarded. For a moment, you weren’t an Assassin and he wasn’t a Templar. You were just two people standing on the edge of something far bigger than either of you.

Your heart ached with the weight of it all—your history with Shay, your loyalty to the Brotherhood, and the undeniable pull you felt toward him. The night had begun as a mission, but it had become something far more dangerous. The real question was: what would you do now?

Slowly, you turned to face him a second time since you stepped on the balcony, the air between you charged with everything unsaid.

“What happens now, Shay?” you breathed, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Shay’s eyes held yours, the storm of emotions mirrored in his gaze. He stepped closer, his voice low but resolute. “Now, we decide what side of history we’re on. Together.”

The weight of Shay’s words lingered in the cool night air, settling between the two of you like an invisible barrier. His eyes held yours, intense and searching yet soft, as if he was trying to read the turmoil inside you, to understand the emotions you weren’t sure you could admit to yourself.

“Together?” you echoed, your voice softer than you intended.

Shay stepped even closer, his tall frame casting a shadow in the moonlight, towering over your gentle but firm and well-trained one. The tension between you shifted, no longer just the push and pull of conflicting loyalties. There was something else—something that had always been there, beneath the surface, but never acknowledged.

The air around you seemed to thicken as he closed the distance. His gloved hand reached up slowly, hesitating for a moment, before gently lifting your mask. The gesture made you swallow your saliva in order to get rid of the lump that was starting to form in your throat. The intricate piece slid off, exposing your face to the night’s cool breeze. His gaze softened as he studied you, no longer the dangerous man who had left the Brotherhood, but someone familiar—someone who had once meant more to you than just a fellow Assassin.

“I never wanted to lose you,” Shay murmured, his voice lower now, more intimate as his eyes gazed at your opened lips. “Even after everything, I never stopped thinking about you.”

His confession sent a jolt through you, and you had to look away, your heart pounding in your chest. The years of anger and betrayal clashed with the warmth that was blooming inside you now, a warmth you hadn’t felt since before Shay had turned his back on everything you believed in.

“Shay, we’re on opposite sides now,” you whispered, though even as you said it, the words felt hollow.

He didn’t back away. Instead, his hand moved to your chin, gently guiding your face back to meet his eyes. “Does it matter? Here, right now, do sides really matter?”

Your breath caught in your throat. This was dangerous—not just because of who he was, but because of what you felt for him, what you had always felt. His hand moved from your chin to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so dangerous, so conflicted.

“I couldn’t let you go then, [y/n],” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I can’t now.”

The vulnerability in his words, in his gaze, disarmed you completely. All the questions, the doubt, the anger—it melted away in the warmth of his touch. For so long, you had convinced yourself that you hated him, that what he had done was unforgivable. But now, standing here, feeling the heat radiating from him, you realised the truth: you had never stopped caring for him.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer, his lips just inches from yours. You could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your heart pounded in rhythm with his, the magnetic pull between you undeniable.

“I’ve never stopped thinking about you either,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath as your gentle eyes switched from one to another of his and sometimes stopped on his chapped lips for no more than half a second to switch back to his eyes.

That was all the invitation he needed.

Shay closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savour every second. His hand on your cheek slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. The warmth of him, the way his lips moved against yours, sent a shiver down your spine. The world around you disappeared—the masquerade, the mission, the war between Assassins and Templars. None of it mattered. Not now.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath the fabric of his coat, and absent-mindedly stroked the Templar sigil on his torso. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body warm and solid against yours. The kiss deepened, the slow burn of passion igniting into something more urgent, more desperate. Years of unspoken tension, of denied feelings, seemed to pour into that kiss, both of you trying to make up for the time you had lost.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting together as you tried to catch your breath. His thumb gently stroked the side of your neck, a soft, intimate gesture that made your heart race even faster.

“I don’t care about the sides anymore,” Shay whispered against your lips, his breath warm. “I care about you.”

His words sent a wave of emotion crashing through you. You knew it wasn’t that simple—nothing ever was in your world—but for this moment, it felt like it could be. Like the war, the betrayal, everything else could fall away, leaving just the two of you.

“I don’t know if we can ever go back,” you whispered, your voice shaky with emotion. “After everything that’s happened…”

Shay’s hand tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer. “Maybe we don’t need to go back. Maybe we can start something new.”

You directed your gaze to meet his own eyes, seeing the same conflict mirrored in his eyes—the pull of duty against the pull of his heart. But there was something else too: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find a way forward together.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you admitted, chuckling softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his collar.

Shay leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Neither do I. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself savour the moment, the feel of him against you, the warmth of his embrace. For now, that was enough.

And maybe, just maybe, it could be enough for whatever came next.

　　　PART 2 in writing...

© solarine. i do not allow my works to be copied, translated, modified, adapted or published on other platforms without my permission. thank you for your attention.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[kit-williams]

hehehehehehehe

Just Backerin being so casual about it; like this is 100% how she would have been and Roland just Blue Screens for a moment the panic in him for a hot second as somehow there was a robber at his beloved's work?!

I laughed at that ending

𝐊𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: Been letting this poor one rot :(

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You return back to your home town and visit a very familiar Bakery; not knowing that a rather gentle robbery would be present.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐂’𝐬: Brother Roland Lichtner and his Bäckerin(NonCanon Name: Becky) by @/kit-williams.

TW // Attempt of Robbing.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°| • {Chapter II}

Cold wind blows at the layers of your clothing as you make your way down the dim lit sidewalk, night time beginning to rise. The new snow under your boots crunching underneath your weight, packing it more into the glossy, white sidewalk: used by many other people and Astartes walking the streets from the light of day. The different prints of sizes and shapes in the snow telling you the differences between the two, even from loyalist, chaos and inbetween. It was funny however, to see how big the prints were compared to a human in the snow.

Breathing in deeply and pressing your hands in the coat of your pocket closer to your body for better warmth. You catch a whiff of something warm and fresh passing through the cold, crisp air. Pleasing your senses as your stomach lowly grumbles at you. Reminding you that you haven’t eaten much of anything today besides a few snacks as you were too busy trying to get settled in your hotel rather than prioritizing your hunger. Trying to get yourself checked in as the woman at the counter stares at you weirdly, like she’s trying to remember you, and she honestly might.

This town was once your hometown, and it has changed a lot from the last time you have seen it. There definitely has been some Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists roaming about now than before, from what you remember. Designing some new structures here for the people and their bonds, their bigger, eccentric creation is very hard to miss. Also, there have been a lot more people moving here as it has suddenly became a hot spot for more loyalists and a few acceptable chaos for their bonds. Leading for you to believe and question this area might be protected or have a loyalist base nearby. Not that you didn’t know that already, but where in the area is the question.

Your stomach growls at you again, trying to sway you to follow the yummy scent. Telling you to eat something already and stop thinking of matters at hand, you have got to get some fresh goods to eat and now. Your belly isn’t liking its neglect, for the disinterest in food all of the sudden as you kept yourself rather well fed most of the times. Needing to always keep your proteins, nutrients and other things high as not only do you burn all that off, but you’ve been scolded by your medic once or twice before. He was not happy about it; including his Astartes.

Sighing and unable to deny such demands from your stomach. Your breath makes a cloud of carbon before you slowly follow the scent, taking your time as you walk. Not wanting to suddenly slip and fall in the snow and be absolutely winded by it. You already have done that a couple times going down a hill, but at least you have gotten to some places faster by just sliding down a sidewalk because you had fallen to the damn packed snow. It was horrible to not be able to breathe because of it, but it was kinda worth it at the same time.

Your stomach grows for the third time in a row, impatient, clutching at you. Your eyes just spotting the warmly lit up bakery up ahead and to your side. The warming glow coming from the windows of it very opposite to the darkened day. The big, red brick walls of the bakery definitely have been made by the hands of an Imperial Fist or Iron Warrior with big one sided windows on it (you can’t look in, but you can look out.) The frame of the windows being painted black. Half side columns of black being embedded into the brick walls between the entrance door and the windows, making the building pop out more. You honestly would bet yourself 20 bucks that it looks just as pristine inside just as it was outside by just looking at the exterior of the bakery.

Shuffling through some snow to just get up to the bakery’s door. You open the door with a little bell ding, not really expecting it to open as you figure that whoever works here would be closing up shop. It was getting late or rather is late. Perhaps, the worker here had just lost their time?

Gently shutting the door behind you as to not let the cold, snowy air in and the snow itself, you look up and all around you. Observing the bakery, swearing that so much has changed inside of the bakery since you had lost saw it. Your lungs inhaling deeply at the smell of the freshly baked goods this place was coated with, and maybe with just a dash of coffee beans lingering in the air.

You remember how this place used to feel so, so big to you (it still does.) How minuscule you felt just by standing next to one of those Astartes-sized beanbag chairs that sit in the corner next to some book shelves. There has been so much more added here since the time has passed, but you definitely could still feel all the warm coziness this bakery still brings. That, was undeniable.

In all honesty, you were just a child back then, so of course things were much more bigger than regular. Everything felt like you were in a damn castle, but you mostly took most of your time enjoying the baker lady’s presence, carefully watching her bake as she wouldn’t allow you next to the ovens and mixers. Though, she would always give you some free little snacks of bread when she was finished with the bread, closing the bakery or even when you ran over to visit her for a quick snack before running off again. It was honestly a… sorrowful shame you can’t remember much of your childhood anymore. You don’t remember the lovely lady’s face, but you definitely felt that she was like a second mother to you, and damn. You would be proud of her if she was your first.

Shaking your head of your memories, you come forward to the counter. Your eyes taking in the coated wood before gazing around you once more. Patiently waiting for someone to either tell you the shop was closing and they wouldn’t be selling anything more until they open up again or they will actually take your order at this time of night. Where you just realize you are the only one in this homey bakery. Your thoughts questioning if there was a curfew set in this town.

“Hello! How may I help you today?” A woman pokes her head out from behind the kitchen area, gathering your attention. Her form walking over and dusting her hands off of flour as she smiles at you. Her hardworking hands then settling on her hips while she stops right behind the counter. Telling you that she is rather experienced on what she does here.

“I’m not imposing your time, am I?” You ask her gently, not wanting to order something if she was going to leave and lock the place up. You would feel kinda bad if that is what she was on the verge of doing.

“Oh, not at all!” She dismisses you with her floured hand, shaking her head. “I was just making the next batch for tomorrow, and I don’t mind customers surprising me when they do this. Some Night Lords do it all the time with a few teenagers here and there.”

“Are they troublesome?” You engage in some small talk, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. This woman feels open to talk to; trustworthy.

“Um, sometimes.” She nods, settling her hands back on her hips. “But mostly the teenagers are here to get some bread to calm down their hangovers either by tonight or by tomorrow so their parents won’t catch them. The Night Lords just like to scare, but leave once they have their share.”

You nod at that, a little amused by the fact there were teenagers coming in at night. Hoping to make their hangovers disappear before their parents would catch them. The Night Lords however? You like to think that is common for them to do. They had always liked the thrill, the scent of their hunt.

“Well then, is there anything I can get you young one?” She asks again. Trying to dust off her hands once more, and then just smeared the flour over her apron.

“May I get a traditional kipferl, please?” You answer her, looking up at the order board, and down and over the baked goods in their display cases. Taking note the kipferl was the freshly baked one tonight and decided to go easy on the lady.

“Yes you may, just give me a moment, I’ll have your order right out there for you.” She nodded then held up her pointer finger, inching to go back into the kitchen. No doubt having to attend to some more breaded goodies back there. “Feel free to have a seat.”

Nodding at the woman. You back off and twist around to find a spot that you might like. Your eyes glancing over the many booths in front of the windows. Deciding the booth all the way in the right corner next to some of those bean bag chairs would be nice to sit at. Your back would be protected, it may be a lot quieter and you can see everything that will be going on in front of you. Ready for anything possible.

Happy that it was available,(even though the bakery is empty. You just like the solitude it was giving and it was just ripe for the picking.) You go over and take your seat right in the middle of the booth seat. Making yourself comfortable and gently resting your arms on the table, your fingers intertwining, and looking out at the dark, snowy landscape. Watching as snowflakes begin to fall to add more to the snow.

You wait and stare out the window for a couple of moments. A feeling of nostalgia washing over you that makes you shift in your booth seat. There was just something about the comfort of this place that made you feel sad but happy about it. You can’t tell what it is as your memories of your childhood are a bit faded, but eventually in time you believe you’ll remember it just like you remembered what the baker lady did with you in that past. You still don’t remember her face or her voice, but it’s her actions that count, right?

“Right, here you go.” The lady sighs softly, gathering your attention while you lean back; hands coming off the table. The woman puts down a beautiful baked kipferl on a small, glass plate with little vines and crosses circling the rim of the plate in front of you. Her still floured, fingers adjusting it slightly so you can look at the more glowing side of the baked good with a bit of powdered sugar on top. A little steam rising off of it too. “Here is one kipferl for a lovely lady.”

“Thank you.” You nod again at her again, coming forward to observe the kipferl closely. Taking note of how the woman seems to hover at your side by your peripheral vision. Taking you in before taking her leave back to the kitchen with her hands folded in front of her.

You, however, were not too bothered by her stare. You had plenty of people around staring at you all day, trying to remember who you are. You were just more focused on the big and powdered sugar, looking kipferl in front of you. The perfect golden brown bread smelling ridiculously tempting to just gobble down your raging hunger for the piece of beautifulness that just sits an inch in front of you, teasing you for all that you're worth.

Your mouth begins to heavily salivate the more you continually get the whiff of the freshness of the bread, and it’s like you were waiting for a prayer to be said before you can dig into it as you didn’t want to absolutely ravage the whole kipferl in one impossible go. You have impeccable manners and you are going to use them, no matter how temping things and food can be. You were better than a deprived-striken cannibal waiting for their next meaty dessert.

Gently picking up the kipferl, you sniff it and almost sneeze. Quickly regretting and practically inhaling the powdered sugar on top of the kipferl, but you still bite into it. Loving how the powdered sugar dissolves on the top of your mouth. Its buttery yet vanilla-like taste melting in your mouth with a fluff and light crispness to it for the texture.

Oh-ha-ho, you are definitely coming and running back here for more delicious, warm baked goods! This tasted and felt like a ratatouille dish! Just with bread!

Taking another savoring bite from the kipferl. You hear the bell on top of the front door ding while someone else enters the bakery at this time of night. Your eyes unbothered to look up at who and what it might be. This baked good was more important than anything at the moment, and your stomach was enjoying the bread you were offering it. No longer growling at you all grumpily.

Happily just munching on your baked good. Your happiness is suddenly diminishing when you hear these familiar, metal clicks. Your fingers twitching on your kipferl as you slowly set it back down to your plate after you almost bit back into it. Your gaze finally wandering up to the newcomer that stands just off to the side of your table with a pistol in his hands.

“Money, now.” A male voice comes out of this man dressed in full black: including those wonky ski masks, demanding assets. His gun pointing straight at your forehead, and gesturing for your pockets with it.

You take a… unlogical moment to study this sudden robber. Noticing how slim his figure was, not starving wise, they just had a slim figure. Not only that, but he was also kind of short for a male so this has to be a teenager or just a rather small male. Oh, and they were inexperienced with the way their gun was still on safety, probably didn’t even have bullets either.

“Hmmm, no.” You deny with a stern gaze. Looking them up and down as they seemed rather surprised at your denial, not expecting that. Their gun lowering a bit before rising back up.

“What? Why?” They ask, clearly having no experience in robbing someone. They would have been more hostile than this; not asking questions. “I’m robbing you.”

“So?” You shrug, taking a chance to shuffle out of your seat and stand up next to the robber. Your eyes practically looking down at him as he shuffles back a little, his gun still pointed at you, almost looking shameful of himself. It was almost amusing and a bit bitter.

“So? You should be giving me your money.” They counter back with a smaller tone. Turning their gun at you and holding it like some sort of gangster. You fit the urge to roll your eyes in order to not make this rather easy looking situation worse. This person will be redeemable if this was their first time (and it is judging by how soft this person was being) trying to do these types of acts. “I’m pointing a gun at you.”

“With a gun that is on safety?” You question him with a risen brow. Glancing between their face and the gun while they seemed even more puzzled by your statement. Tilting his gun and looking at and noticing that it was in fact, on safety.

“I…um…” The robber stutters in both the fact that he feels embarrassed by himself for not knowing how to use a gun properly, and for the fact that you don’t even seem all that afraid of them. Most would cower and lay themselves down on the ground when they would see a gun pointed at them, even a toy one, but not you. You were not even fazed, just unamused. The robber doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Give me the gun.” You simply say, sounding like you're a disappointed parent. Holding out your hand and waiting for the robber to place the gun into your opened hands.

The robber can’t help but dip his head in shame and embarrassment. Flipping the gun to its side and handing over the gun to you as you check the magazine in it. Amusing yourself as there was no rounds in the magazine, just like you had thought.

“Will I be charged?” The robber asks once more, twiddling with his fingers. His head still lowered while he glances between me and the lady behind the counter that had been watching the whole thing since I’ve gotten out of the booth.

“No.” You simply say, lifting up the back of your coat and putting the gun behind you, slotting it at the waistline of your pants. Your eyes watching the robber in front of you; more amused than anything now with them. You have never had such an… innocent encounter before. It makes you wonder why this person was trying to rob in the first place. This attempt-to-be robber was definitely not meant to be one. “But you will need to justify your actions.”

That spurs the person a little bit, jumping in their skin with worry. Their body tensing up while they look back down to the ground again. “You mean go to the police station?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” You hum at him, coming forward to grasp at his shoulder firmly, but not restrictingly so. You kinda felt bad for this person. “It’s just how the law goes.”

“Aw, come on!” The robber pouts, but moves when you push him towards the door. “I didn’t really threaten anybody!”

“Pointing a gun at somebody is a threat.” You inform the robber of his crimes. “Including attempted robbery.”

The robber huffs then shivers when a blast of cold air comes through the door as you open it up. Mumbling something about how they should have worn a warmer coat before begging. “Can I please not go to the police station?”

“No.” You immediately say, closing the door behind you and hesitating a bit afterwards as you forgot to pay the lady for the golden good she had given you.

“Can I try and sway you on the way there?” The robber tries again, glancing back at you while you shake your head, pushing him forward through the snowy landscape. You’ll be coming back here from more of those goods, you’ll pay when you come back.

“…Sure.”

“I swear I have seen that woman around…” Becky hums mostly to herself. Finally in the comforting grasp of her Space Marine while she lays on top of him; her chest up against his as he traces his fingers up and down her back.

“See who around?” The big man below her mumbles. His voice vibrating through his body and rumbling lightly against Beckys’ own body.

Becky shifts a little bit on top of him before looking up at him. Her cheek resting on top of his pecs; watching her fingers as she traces her own fingers against his chest. Gaining a quiet, loving purr from her Marine.

“There was this lady that came in at the bakery at night while I was making goods for the morning.” She starts, her eyes going a little distant as she remembers the lady walking in and ordering a simple kipferl. “She was surprisingly sweet and well… familiar.”

“Familiar? How?” He hums almost tiredly, his interest peaked a little, but not by much. If anything, it may just be one of those pesky, drunk teenagers again.

“I don’t know, it’s like I know them from somewhere.” Becky says, shaking her head lightly in a form of denial. “Like I have known them before.”

Roland rumbles at that, vibrating his chest. Questioning this stranger a bit more. His fingers getting slightly tangled in Beckys’ hair. “Do you have any details on this stranger?”

Becky nods, leaning up right on his chest and gives him the appearance of the lady. Giving him every single detail of the lady as she could while his fingers suddenly stops on her back. His mind instantly recalling his memories of what Becky provides him with. Remembering a little child that has the similarities with this lady, and a fellow Black Templar Chaplin that has been suffering the effects of an intense bond since that little lady was sent out… for 10 years… wait.

“Oh, and there was a robber.” Becky says so casually and suddenly. The Black Templar underneath her tensing up. His head quickly straining up from his pillows to look down at Becky. A long silence capturing the air.

“A what?!”

[moodymisty]

“He was always heavier than his brothers. His armor had to be adjusted three different times to fit him as he outgrew it.”

“His armor might be cold, but astartes run hot; Like their blood is boiling, so beneath that metal chill is the heat from the skin visible on his face and neck. You think if the cathedral was any colder, his hot breath would be visible.”

Our black templar bf is large and warm??? Everyone in the reblogs is talking about sleeping with him, while I’m thinking about how nice it must be to sleep (nap, rest, snooze) with him. That man is a human version of a heated weighted blanket! The cuddle sessions with him must be astonishingly good!!

You're thinking good thoughts, anon. Honestly other than the interface ports, a big ol' space marine would be a fantastic cuddle partner in the cold. But maybe that's just me deluluing.

Also I know writing requests are closed because of my backlog, but I just really wanted to do this. So enjoy.

Warnings: Unnamed Black Templar from this fic/Fem!Reader, Possessiveness, Size difference, General 40kness, A very rough drabble so plz forgib

The wind outside howls, battering against walls much less suited for keeping heat comfortably indoors.

To think, you would now very much prefer to return to the Sigismund's Oath instead of having to face weather significantly more severe than just the cold hollowness of the ship. At least he is of a high enough rank that he's allowed a barracks of his own; You don't know how you'd feel in a hall with ten other astartes.

If you already feel like some sort of prized animal in the brief moments you're around them, you can't imagine how that would feel. Particularly if your only protector had to leave you alone.

Suddenly you look up as the only door opens, teeth clattering against each other. You neck hurts from how tense it's been, toes curled in worn shoes as your body desperately tries to keep the most important parts warm.

He enters, no longer in his armor and now sports the loose cloth trousers and robing astartes usually do when out of their ceramite gear. You can see the scars that are scattered over his skin; An untold amount from both battle and his creation.

You rub your hands together fast to try and warm them, before sticking them between your thighs. He watches with that same stoic, unreadable expression.

"You're cold." He says it so matter of fact, you can't help but purse your lips to avoid smiling. You nod and try to hold back the clattering of your teeth.

"I'll be fine. I just need to get used to it." You'll be here awhile is the assumption, so 'getting used to it' is going to be a necessity.

He walks closer to where you sit on his temporary bed. Important enough that he couldn't remain stationed on the ship until needed, but not enough that he couldn't be relieved of duty a moment of actual rest. For a brief moment, you wonder what he's like in battle.

Coming closer to you he in one fell swoop sits down onto the bed, making you to wobble.

"Come," He says, looking at you.

When you freeze for a moment, he speaks again with more words an a more exasperated tone. "Are you like my battle brothers from Inwit now, and prefer the cold?"

As of late he's becoming a bit more talkative around you- though you suppose 'talkative' might still be a bit of a stretch. Out of the many things, humor was not one of the skills bestowed upon them by his Primarch Dorn's genes. At least from the stories and scripture he's taught you as of yet.

Quickly you shuffle closer to him, and he grasps your arm tightly and pulls you against his chest. You quickly adjust in his lap with your legs pulled closed to you. He sleeps sitting- unsurprising to you given his history- with his dagger in arms reach. You suppose this is the most natural extension of that, curled in an almost upright fetal position.

Other than his interface ports pressing against your skin he is overwhelmingly warm, and within moments it feels like you're barely even cold anymore. Astartes and their blood, you swear it almost feels like it's boiling. No wonder he pays the cold no mind.

His massive hand covers good portion of your upper thigh, as he keeps you held close. His nearly inhuman amount of muscle isn't as uncomfortable as you'd thought it would be, as your shift your hands.

It's comfortable and snug, but you doubt you'd be able to leave now even if you'd wanted to.

Your shoulders relax a bit now that you're no longer shivering, and safely in the arms of your Black Templar, you finally feel like you can fall asleep. Even if you'd been warm, the idea of doing so in an unknown place with the one who'd brought you here no where in sight isn't a good one.

You know that unless they suddenly have need of him, he'll have five hours of sleep. You'll have the same, though unlike him you have to daily, whereas he can apparently stay awake for days at a time. Another odd quirk.

You don't know if he's asleep as it's impossible to tell, but you fall asleep not long after, finally warm and comfortable.

[kit-williams]

@moodymisty I've brainrotted this into existence

I went with chapter serfs though I could see the Black Templar also just snatching up a civilian

tw: Yandere Black Templar, Yandere Flesh Tearer, Blood mentioned google translate/translation dictionary German, female reader (first try doing a y/n or reader)

Black Templar

He was sick... he had to be sick. It was the only thing that made sense to what was going on. As Flagging himself in the mornings more wasn't helping him... it was only making it worse. As his Taube would be there tending to the gouges in his back at the end of the day. Their delicate hands going over his skin.

He called them his dove after he wanted their delicate hands touching his armor. They way she would chirp out those hymns and the pleasant hum of her devotion to him to the God emperor. They way her brow would knit in worry as she would look over his back and flit and flutter around like a Taube... his Taube. How she would coo at him and fill the small room with her singing... her laughter... her life.

He wanted to carve himself open and create a space for her. A place she could roost and listen to his hearts beat for the God Emperor and her. He had two hearts... he could devote a small part of one to her... she didn't need much... but how he wanted to give her so much more he wanted to make the overseerer bleed for making her tired he wanted to make them bleed for causing her to cry.

He looked over his shoulder as her doe like eyes looked into his own as he felt the corner of his lips turn up and the concern melted away, "I suppose I'll clean your helm next since it offends you my lord." She says with her small bit of laughter as she continues to clean the flogging wounds on his back.

"Do you remember the next verse?" His voice rumbles softly.

She nodded and hummed as of course it was not the liturgy the Black Templar knew but she was but a mortal... he would not fault her for what her duty was.

Flesh Tearer

His mouth moved over her neck as she whimpered softly. Those milky white eyes darting around as he scraped and licked from his favorite blood thrall. He knew he took too much, as he sucked on her skin till it blossomed into a hideous bruise, so that she couldn't leave his quarters. He was so kind to let her stay here with him. Her tiny trembling hands as she weakly pushed against his neck. All the serfs of the Flesh Tearers were blind or blinded as if they could not see Chaos they would be less likely to fall right away.

He pulled his mouth away and slowly ran his tongue over the bleeding bite mark. How her body trembled and twitched as she felt so dizzy and cold, tears overflow her eyes as she felt so scared. His bloody tongue lazily runs over her teary cheeks as his face pressed against hers like a large cat.

He crooned softly, "Oh little one... did I take too much again... you look much paler than you normally do. So cold too." He said with a smile etched upon his face as he held her chin as she tried to get up and failed.

" 'm fine." She slurred trembling as when he let her go she just fell over whimpering and bleeding on his bed.

"My silly little blood thrall. You aren't fine in that sense... it seems your delicious blood riled me up again. Let me make it up to you." He purred and he grinned like a maniac as she just curled up and covered her head whimpering knowing that she wasn't leaving this room for a few days and would only be able to leave when he would be distracted long enough to let her hide from him. But until then she was the focus of his tender mercy.

[arioloyal]

Could you please write a fanfiction based on previous request of obsessive insecure Baldwin IV with female reader

I'll accept this idea since all of you are in love with his obsessive mood but I warn you, it's angst :) but don't worry, I'll do fluff one next time♡

(King baldwin iv x reader one shot)

Warning: angst, mention of blood and d🥀eath

:"I thought that you kept me by your side until now just because of your interest in me"...

:"It's not what you think, I have kept you until now so that I can keep the peace between Jerusalem and your father's empire . Believe me. It's good for both of us."

:"How could you be so selfish like your father?...

:"I'm not!...

"Please... let me go. I have to go back to my family. My father is surely mad with that. I beg you."

:"what about me?"...

Teardrops appeared like a shaky curtain in front of y/n's large and beautiful eyes. Her mouth was open and ready for another protest, but no words came out.

While holding both of y/n's hands in his own, the half-life king, in a sudden movement, weakness overcame his strength and fell to his knees.

"You thought I would let you go? I will never let you be separated from me.

:"I...it really breaks my heart to think that I've only been here as a hostage until now. I swear I'll get out of here anyway."

:"I am ready to k*ill you with my own hands, but I will never let you leave here. Your whole body and soul belong here. And also to me. Only me."

.....

:" god help me!... My legs can't take it anymore. How much left?...

"My lady! Now we are approaching the gate of Damascus, but the front of the gate is full of guard knights. It seems that the king has heard of your escape."

:".....

"My lady, do you have any idea?"

:"We have to wait for a convoy so that we can impersonate them and pass through this gate. A convoy is coming from far away. Hurry up and tell them that we will join them from now on. don't Tell them our real name. Hurry up."

:"Obeyed, my lady."

They finally managed to convince the head of the caravan to join their trade caravan. It wasn't long before the sound of fast hooves could be heard, kicking up dust on their way. After the guards finished inspecting the convoy, a man's loud voice broke the silence.

:"Stop! Nobody move!"

And that was the exact moment that panic sent shivers down y/n's spine. her eyes widened. This was the voice of Tiberias who had come here with his knights. There could not have been a worse disaster.

:"What happened, Lord Tiberias?! It's usually very rare to see you among the caravans!" The leader of the caravan stated with an almost mocking and sweet tone.

:"We're looking for a lady! She's tall and fair-faced. With dark,long curly hair. Have you seen such a person here? Has she asked you for help? If so, hand her over to us, or I'll confiscate this caravan and get you all in prison."

His strong words and threats caused a wave of protest and panic among the people who were there. Y/n would never let innocent people be sacrificed for her. There, she gathered all her courage and surrendered to God's will. she suddenly came forward from the crowd and shouted...

:"Wait!..." y/n took off her veil and black turban. For a few moments, breaths caught in their chests and all the knights stared at their king's lover in surprise.

..

Finally accompanied by Tiberias and his knights, Y/n arrived at the entrance gate of the palace. That palace was like a hell that had no escape and the owner of such a beautiful hell was a masked ghost whose blood stained eyes were visible under the mask.

Soldiers and knights were lined up on either side of Baldwin, all the templars, lord Lusignan and some nobles were also there. Was this a greeting? Or a trial?

:"my lord. We found Lady y/n trying to escape from Damascus Gate. This was her third failed attempt to escape."

Baldwin IV didn't seem to pay attention to what Tiberias was saying and the whole time he was staring at y/n who was now helplessly looking down at the ground.

:"Didn't I tell you some time ago that I won't let you go?"

:"My love for you was undeniable. But you abused my love and chose selfishness. I will never stay here as a hostage. I won't stay where I don't belong."

Everyone present witnessed their conversation when suddenly y/n turned away from the leper king and looked towards the exit gate. ready to leave for good.

:"STAY THERE!" His loud and scary voice made the heart beat in everyone's chest. In an unexpected move, he took Tiberias's sword with his good right hand. Everyone there looked in horror at the king approaching y/n and now standing in front of her. No one dared to speak.

:"If you take one more step..." The hand that was holding the sword started shaking. he wished this wasn't the last resort.

Unfortunately, y/n moved forward without listening to him. A tear fell from her eye at the last moment...

That was the moment...

y/n's scream echoed there. No thoughts, no words. just pain the pain. just pain.

There was nothing she could do but helplessly hold her hand to her stomach to stop the warm, red liquid from running down her long dress. The king's sword was stained with blood...

Her knees was getting weaker by the minute. Y/n was hugged by baldwin iv before she fell to the ground. The king, who was now out of his instincts, just realized what a disaster he had caused. He had sent his lover to d*eath.

:"No...n...no! I..I didn't mean to...I was wrong...forgive me. Please...forgive me my y/n. My beautiful white rose, Forgive me..." he sobbed nonstop and begged like a little boy.

:"Still... I still love you... poor you... poor me..."

:" Y/N!!"....

[suekeyyyy]

- It's a party - pt 1.2

Serious: Somewhat single moms. - the boys x reader -

-Homelander- John x black! Fem! reader

Summary: Firestrom and Queen maeve have a little girl time and hit it off, and Homelander sees the two together and stocks then in Homelander fashion.

Warning: short, bad words, drinking, girl talk, Homelander being a creep.

Y/N walks into her room, Homelander's eyes are locked on her. His lust was beginning to grow. Homelander began to think of all the things he could do with Y/N if she allowed him to he walks over to her wall and looks though it Y/N puts her stuff away and begins to get ready for a bath Homelander's eyes are still on Y/N.

He is watching her get ready, taking off her bra and panties. His eyes were so close to seeing into the fabric that her clothes and his eyes were only a second away.

After the every childish argument between the two number ones, Y/n sits in a heart-shaped bath that Steve said he had to pull string for her to have.

She heard a small knock at the bathroom door. Only one person had the second key cared to her room. " Adelante!"

She said, looking at the door with disinterest. " Gracias." The white American Steve Jayson he representative walked in." What do you want, Steve?" Oh, that's how you treat me, Firestorm?" " Sí." She answered just a little too quickly.

He only sighs. " There is a party tonight." She looks at him. "Where?" " Here a-" He was cut off " Bussuines party filled with old men and women with nothing to do but tell me about their medals and how I should be grateful that I was kept safe for so long or How they served in Bolivia."

She didn't care for those kinds of parties. " Firestorm, come on just once it helps you, Vought, and Patina." She only stared at him. " You look like a child." She smirks." Fine, I'll go, but tomorrow I get to wear whatever I want to A-tain and Shockwave's race."

" Anything to make you go." Steve walked out,"Gracias!" He yelled, making her dryly chuckle.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Y/n walked into the 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 with her work daughter Ice-breaker she was a red head with ice powers and she loved her in a motherly way and showed the girl a black dress with was appropriate for her age.

- Ice-breaker - Trixie Robertson power: I.C.E 16 years old

Homelander sees Firestorm walk in and looks at the unknown girl with her. Homelander didn't recognize the girl, and instantly, his eyes grew wide with curiosity.

Firestorm always took the new heroes under her wing, so Homelander knew for certain that the girl was a supe. He looked over to Ashley, who was standing in his line of sight.

"Ashley, who is that girl with Firestorm?" He asked, his eyes still locked on the girl with the red hair. She caught a glimpse of Homelander and Ashley's eyes on her and looked back at them.

She looked at the two. " I umm that's Ice-breaker She's one of the new.heroes in Patina also Firestorms favorite. " she says, making air quotes. " Good." The man pits her back and walks away to the two women.

" Why, hello, Ladeis." He gives them the Homelander smile."HI." Ice-breaker looks him up and down uncomfortable with his smile. " Hello Homelander1, nice to see you again." " Please see you to Firestorm." She smiled and rolled her eyes.

" Voy a ir. " ice-breaker says to y/n. " ve a la cabeza cariño." Y/n say, and ice-breaker walks away.

Homelander looked at Ice-breaker as she walked away, wondering what Y/N and her talked about. He didn't need to translate Ice-breaker's words.

That was an easy language to understand. But when Y/N spoke in Spanish, he didn't understand anything she was saying. But Homelander wanted to be the only one talking to Y/N. "What did she say?"

Homelander asked in a demanding tone."And you speak Spanish?" He asked her with a smug smile on his face.

What a fucking prick. " I'm from bolivia. I'm South america's number one hero." "Bolivia huh? Never knew their superhero's were any good." He said, looking her up and down."Where is Bolivia again?" He says with a chuckle. He felt superior to Y/N and wanted to display that fact to her.

" I have helped South America in ways you could never." "Well good for you." He says, rolling his eyes at her."Don't get too big of an ego on yourself, though. It wouldn't look good on a young lady such as yourself."

He says in a sarcastic tone as he looks Y/N up and down. She looks beautiful with her short red curly hair, her light red dress, and her perfect face. Homelander knew he wanted her. The only thing he didn't like was the fact that she spoke in different languages. It made it harder for him to talk to her.

" cara de puta doesn't look good on you ether."

Homelander was surprised at what Y/N said. It sounded like she was insulting him, but he didn't understand fully what she said. So he pretended to know what it meant. "I know what that means." He says with a grin on his face

"I'm sure what you said, but it sounded very erotic." He said to her with hunger eyes. His eyes were trying to suck her in, his eyes wanting her badly.

Firestorm was a little shocked, but she burst out into hard laughter. Covering up her face

Homelander laughed with her. This was a weird feeling for Homelander. To actually be laughing with someone. His laugh grew more and more genuine as he found himself wanting to be around Y/N.

His eyes were still glued on her green eyes as he sat only inches away from her. He couldn't help it. He knew Y/N felt the tension, too. There was something about her that he couldn't get enough of. He just wanted to be with her, to be alone with her.

She did feel it. She felt like Homelander with any other white guy in a suit.

≻───── ⋆🔥⋆ ─────≺

Y/n sit at the bar waiting for her drink when she sees Queen maeve drinking wine and looking around as soon as y/n ho her she walked over there.

" Hello, you must be Queen maeve. I'm firestorm nice to meet you." " Same for you." Queen maeve smiled she really needed to talk to another female. All the men around her were making her sick. " Anyway, what are you doing at this party?" Maeve asked, looking at the woman.

" Same boring stuff as you." Firestorm says, making Maeve chuckle mostly, not expecting her to say that. The two women Continue to talk.

Homelander, watching the two look at my girls go. He thought he was being a disgusting pervert where his eyes were.

( A/n: the end hoes hope you liked it 💖💖 I know it short.)

[sleepyfan-blog]

Held Close

Author’s Note: This is set some time in Cedric’s future, after he’s found a human to bond to. 

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel

Warnings: none

Summary: Cedric shares a gentle moment with his bonded.

You hear a knock on the door to your office before the door opens, revealing your Space Marine. Unlike most, Cedric rarely wears armor, preferring to wear scrubs when on duty, or casual Astartes sized clothing when off-duty. If you remembered correctly, today was one of the days that he works in one of the free health care clinics that the Space Marines offer to those who need it - be they marines or normal humans, like yourself. "How was your day today?" You ask as you turn, smiling warmly up at him.

The calm look on his face crumples into distress as he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, pressing his face into your stomach, his shoulders shaking a little. You can feel his tears begin to soak through your shirt. "Bad." Is the only verbal response you get from him.

"Oh.... Oh honey... You're alright... You're okay, love. I'm safe. You're safe." You murmur soothingly, one of your hands coming up to run your fingers through his hair as you press a loving kiss to the crown of his head. Your other hand begins to rub circles into his back. Part of you wants to ask what has upset him so much, but considering how tightly he's holding onto you (You can breathe, but only just) and how much he's trembling... You're not sure that he's going to be able to tell you what's upset him so much, until after he's calmed down.

You continue to run your fingers through his short, silvery blond hair, and press kisses to what you can reach of his forehead, beaming when you hear a weak and watery purr rumbling in Cedric's chest. He's always been a quiet purrer, as if he's worried that being too loud will attract the Wrong sort of attention. 

"*Danke Schon, liebling." He manages out, several minutes later, face still buried in your belly, though his purring has steadied, and his grip on you, though still tight, isn't nearly as desperate. "**Ich liebe dich, meine kliene Biene." He shifts so that he's sitting down comfortably, and rests his head on your shoulder, still taller than you, despite the fact that he's on the ground and you're sitting in a chair. 

You smile again and press a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose, and on each of the freckles on his face that you can easily reach, murmuring between each kiss "I love you too, Cedric. Now and for always."

His freckles stand out more as he blushes, and he turns his head a little, to catch your lips with his. The kiss is gentle and lingers, as Cedric's purr gets a little bit louder.

You carefully telegraph moving one of your hands up to his face, gently wiping the tears from his eyes when the two of you pull away from each other for air. 

His smile in response causes your heart to soar, and he brings one of his large hands to gently tuck a wayward strand of hair out of your face.

You kiss his fingertips, as his hand retreats, before going in for another proper kiss.

*Thank you, darling

**I love you, my little bee (Biene is - according to google - a loving pet name in German and the black templars have been assigned as space Germans by the fandom)