#Cato Sicarius x reader

[danart501]

Ok I confess…that im a fan of bully sicarius and diplomatic reader😔

@moodymisty

[vyzz-undercover]

RAAAGHHG QUICK HOLD THIS!!!

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(11,000ish words) (MAXED OUT SPACE LMFAO)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

��no dubcon (growth!!!)

•hints of size kink

•references to masturbation

•oral [f receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•breeding kink (finally someone admits it)

•mild violence [on reader]

•degrading language

•tumblr's horseshit concept of copy paste formating

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WHATS UP???? IM ALIVE ENJOY THE FUCKING SHITSTORM OF CATO FINALLY ADMITTING HES A WIFE GUY BASICALLY!!!!! oh and here's the taglist ily all mwah mwah!!! @mothiir, @moodymisty, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @thevoidscreams, @pluvio-tea, @lemon-russ, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @historitor-bookshelf, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @scriberye, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @undeaddream, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist, @sinistermojo, @vivacious-hyena, @grimdark-racoon!!!! if anyone wants on or off taglist lmk no pressure!!! enjoooooyyyy i love u alllllll :3

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For all intents and purposes, everything is going swimmingly.

Cato is happier these days—and so are you, apparently.

So when he is called to the Command deck by his Primarch, he is somewhat unsure of what to make of the matter. Paranoia rises in his gullet like bile, but ever since the slip up in front of Guilliman, you've both been spotless.

Cato strides up the parapet and demagnetises the locking pins keeping his helm secure, tugging it off his head and letting it nest in the crook of his arm.

Slicking his hair into some semblance of order with a free hand, he sighs.

Ugh, he needs a haircut—it's starting to get in his eyes if he doesn't swipe it back. But he can't—because you seem to approve, and stubborn as he is, if keeping it this length means he receives dainty Ambassador fingers as a comb sometimes, then so be it.

It still pisses him off, though.

Regardless, Cato carries on his way—and the first face he sees upon entering the discussion area is the Chapter Master's, and two of his subordinate Victrix Guard hovering behind.

The Primarch's lesser-used vessel Dawn of Fire has been given to Calgar, and has been trailing behind the Macragge's Honour for a month and a half now; meaning the situation has granted a fair few more audiences than normal amongst them.

Nemus bows his head in unison with Lethro, the gesture familiar and practiced, while Calgar simply tips his chin down at him.

Cato reciprocates with a curt, martial bob and takes his place nearby his Primarch at the central control booth.

A few menials are fiddling with the specifications of the lithocast display before it flickers into life, the green-tinged projection juddering for a second before stabilising to a clear motion pict link.

Lo and behold, Severus Agemman's shiny bald head and pinched face.

The mere sight is enough to make Cato disinterested; and when he hears the First Captain speak his greetings to the Primarch, Cato abruptly considers himself deaf.

He turns away, looking aside, and finds you.

You're leaning on the railing of the raised observation deck while his Primarch gives feedback Cato doesn't heed.

You've dressed a little different than your usual ship-attire—clad in that same old blue robe but armed with a big navy shawl, and he suspects you've done so expecting the chill of the upper deck.

Cato's dark brow quirks as he gazes towards the high, arching, star-flecked windows. Throne, he feels like he's being hypnotised by the white shifting whorls—there is a humility to gazing up, every so often. A reminder of perspective. Cato has seen some objectively beautiful sights in the galaxy; stars and asteroids and planets untouched by Humanity, and Xenos, and Chaos alike; but none really compare to watching you stare up at the wide glass panels, absentmindedly connecting the dots between distant gas giants.

For a moment it feels like everything is unimportant.

He wants to stand beside you. Lean down and rest on the railing, and bask in the smile you'd shoot up at him.

He wants to ask which cluster of far off planets you think prettiest, perhaps if you recognise any—or if you'd like to see how the stars look glittering off the mighty oceans of his home-world—but it is not appropriate to behave that way with the current company, despite how it aches to deny himself the sentiment.

"No," Guilliman sharply answers a response Cato hadn't been listening to.

And only then does Cato realise himself, gaze and focus tearing back to reality and sticking to Guilliman's big, tired blue eyes, as he digresses, "No, no—the moment the Drukhari know we are onto them, they will butcher through the populace for sport—and the elites will cripple the dwarf planet to spite them. Farrim is a major port world, the set back of going off course, even temporarily, is worth the delay."

There are several billion inconsequential people on that rock. And all they have to thank for not being sentenced to slavery and death is the benefit of being close by.

The locale would surely not be high priority if not for the chance it is practically adjacent to Agemman, and he can simply scare off the assault with an extremely minor detour—and then obliterate the fleeing Xenos like chaff before the wind.

The only real problem is orchestrating how to go about it.

Bombard them into their base particles before they even get their hand in the jar? Or let them begin, and then close the trap to watch them squirm and suffer in it like salted leeches?

Cato knows he would chose the latter, but he's not about to dignify Severus with any sort of advice on such meagre matters.

Cato exists beyond the normal chain of discipline, as Commander of the Victrix Guard—which means felating Agemman is Sevastus Acheran's problem as Captain of the Second Company, now.

The planetary governance's reaction must be considered also—he knows of Farrim, vaguely. There are a series of vast docks in geosynchronous orbit, and that means they are host to all sorts of satellite criminal activities. It is surely a rat's nest rife with Rogue Traders returning from deep dives into hell; and that means heretical practices, like engaging in interspecies dealings; of tack, of weregild—of flesh.

Cato knows well the horrible desperation of the weak for some form of certitude in a galaxy run mad, even if the only certitude possible was that of complete degeneration. A greedy baseline would sell their kin to Xenos to eat another day. That is the reason for law. It is one of the reasons for Astartes. It is a basic truth. Because a cornered beast would sooner kill itself in the struggle of fleeing than face its pursuer—and humanity in masses are oft worse than if they were caged in a cramped pen with a starving Termagant.

But he hopes, beyond reason, that the moronic rulers that allowed the Drukhari so close would suffer far more than just the panic of the chase before succumbing to their vermin fear in such a way. Punishment would be harshly imposed, because treating with Xenos ever yielded foul results. Simply writhing in their own terror was not enough justice for their enactures, and Cato will gladly watch the meting out of greater judgement upon them soon.

Consequently, Cato had come to find almost all Aeldari are cunning, vapid, spineless rabid dogs. Naught but misery-merchants, worthless and parasitic enough to be slaughtered en masse without hesitation.

The Lord Primarch did not wholly agree with this, of course. But he had his own reasons for such beliefs, after having met with them himself. He said there are, allegedly, good and bad ones amongst the lot—then he went on to say one should ever be considerate of their fey, mercurial motives.

Cato knows a knife-eared witch had implored much of Guilliman, and his father is nothing if not a good listener.

But Guilliman is also a master tactician, and is more human than most of the Imperium is led to believe.

At times, he behaves more human than his gene-sons—but his Father was reared well, so he says. And maybe that's why he insists on assessing the uncouth. Like hearing out dribbling Xenos hierophants, or keeping you as a pupil pet.

Cato believes the Primarch favours you, truly.

He has projected his meagre hope of a kinder future on your success, against all the impossible odds.

Guilliman is a brilliant leader, and an even better teacher.

He is just, and personable—but stern.

Cato is the opposite.

He bites, and he always has.

Martinet to his core, Cato is ever succinct; almost to a sociopathic degree at times. He's never truly understood how to speak with his Father's finesse. But he can mimic it. He knows the gist of what to say, and when to say it. Largely by predicting the next words. As an Astartes, he is not inherently made to be a statesman, even if he is the Grand Duke of Talassar.

Nevermind the fact a vast majority of political dissidents opponents would sooner grant themselves the Emperor's mercy than try argue policy with him, an Ultramarine. He knows he is sullen and bad-tempered and easily aggravated in casual conversation, even amongst his Brothers—but he's not about to admit things like that out loud; and where he once sought out discourse—he's become despondent reclusive compared to his previous confidence.

He swallows down the harsh reality that he knows the exact tipping point.

He tries to forget that Damnos was the first pebble before the rockslide; the agonising strike of a Necron lord's war-scythe in his side, not to mention the sting of Severus Agemman's proverbial sabaton up his ass.

And, most importantly, he ignores the hint of tinnitus in his ears. The echoing across the decks of the Emperor's Will that sound like screa—

You yawn, and look over your shoulder to Guilliman with a weary curiosity.

You are everything Cato isn't, and he knows that now.

Perhaps that is the real allure of you, in the end; beyond the aspects of his lust, and your own affections.

Sweet, endearing—trusting to a fault, and... small.

He almost snorts to himself at that because, Throne, you really do look tiny amongst so many ceramite clad trans-humans.

The Primarch flashes you a soft glance and directs his gaze back to the lithocast.

You approach Guilliman with a preppy, yet cautious sort of diligence; standing beside him not a moment later as he listens to Agemman prattle on, and on—and on.

Agemman doesn't acknowledge your entrance in the slightest, hell, he doesn't even blink. He doesn't know you by face—but Cato knows you know him; because in Guilliman's quest to have you absorb as much information as possible, you've interacted by writing many times. But the First Captain clearly wrongly assumes the woman in his holo-field of view is a lowly attendant, not the Ambassador he's had several dissertation-long discussions with by note.

You're looking up at Agemman with a soft smile, like one would reserve for a friend—and he does not return it.

Seemingly aware of the fact your gesture is for naut, your expression withers to a sad little frown.

At that, Cato's eyebrows furrows harshly, embittered by seeing you suffer the rejection.

He ought to—

But then a bundle of data-slates are lifted off the hexagonal interface surrounding the projection system, held out to you in far, far larger gauntlets than Cato's own; and you take them into the cradle of your arms.

It's too many for you to comfortably hold, and Cato can tell solely because there's that familiar, tiny crease between your brows that only ever appears when you're unsure of something.

"I will be back en-route with the First as soon as the threat is cleared, and—" Agemman's raving wavers periodically, hologram gaze tilting down.

Cato winces a bit when the topmost slate slips out of your bundled arms and clatters to the deck loudly.

In response, the First Captain's hologram rakes you with a nigh appalled sneer that has Cato puffing up at the hackles like an angry carnodon.

"A-Apologies, my lords..." You shrink back, seeking an exit, in that frightened-mouse way of yours that Cato would've once delighted in long ago. But it's a grating, bastardised comparison when he knows Agemman's disgust is entirely, baselessly genuine unlike Cato's had been.

Another slate falls in your timid outburst, and Agemman snorts angrily at you.

More than willing to take the heat, Cato immediately steps forward into the threshold of the holo-cast's vision breadth and snorts back.

It's a standoffish moment where the First Captain becomes aware of him and turns his head.

"Cato," Agemman says sharply in that typical, dismissive tone; but his expression betrays a brooding aggravation.

He scowls, lips curling much like his fingers into a fist, "Severus."

He can play this game, because unlike prior altercations—he's not being held to a rapport of failure.

Cato answers to Calgar and Guilliman now, and yes, he's to heed Agemman—but he's not to abide orders like he'd had to during his Captaincy of the Second.

And neither Calgar nor Guilliman have stopped him as of yet for this outburst.

In fact, Calgar is apparently more interested in trying to rub away a speck of grime on his power-fist.

While the Primarch... well, the Primarch has currently shut his eyes, grimacing softly.

It appears Cato's simply keeping the peace.

And on the surface, to onlookers, it's not at all indicative of any ulterior reason aside from petty distaste for Agemman—even if Cato's real motive is possessive defensive, and solely intent on taking the attention off you.

"Enough," The Primarch grumbles at last, and opens his eyes as he leans down—his great height folding—dutifully collecting the two, small fallen objects with mild hassle. Guilliman sighs at you remorsefully as he sets the data-slates in a better position, unperturbed by your clumsiness. "The Ambassador has done me no insult, she was merely over encumbered. The galaxy as we know it has not imploded, as of yet."

Agemman blinks, "...Ambassador?" he mumbles—with the revelation, in a fraction of a second he's entirely placid and defanged, reigning himself back in and cringing slightly—unlike Cato, who returns to glaring murderously at him.

"That means you, too," Guilliman starts aloud, and he apparently knows he needn't clarify more.

Cato grinds his teeth and tears his gaze away, letting it fall aside as he unclenches his fists.

You take a step back, a pitiful sigh leaving you as you set about trying to balance with the data-slates. The Primarch finally realises that it's too much for you, just like Cato had to begin with.

"Sicarius," Guilliman says flatly, "Give her a hand."

A hand?

Oh, he's given you more than hand.

He feels himself bristle with want, an abrupt , mad rush of eager heat besieging his body as he sets his shoulders stubbornly.

In or out of armour, he's done it—and Cato is caught daft at the sudden eidetic memory of having you straining against his big forebrace shoved hard under you to keep you in place. Squirming frantically against as many fingers as he would deign allow you, drooling on his armour as you suffer a cleverly turned thumb; so wanton and pretty as you finally, finally give him his prize and cry out for—no—no, no—shut up, shut up.

At that, he tersely inhales; and remembers he's surrounded by other Astartes.

Nobody's noticed, thank fuck.

"Cato!" Guilliman snaps.

Cato blinks, "What—uh, pardon me, my lord?"

"You are utterly impossible," he half-chastises, half-laments, with little more than a sigh. "Help. Her."

Cato nods stiffly, silently panicking, and approaches you.

"Stop snivelling like a useless dog, and pull it together, woman, you're embarrassing yourself," he accosts loudly, overcompensating for his own screw-up, and it's cruel—he knows it is because you flinch a little, and one of the gathered high-ranking brothers behind you huffs in surprise at just how brutish he's acting—but he cannot show the comfort you wish of him under the circumstances.

You regard him with a profound sadness in your eyes, and he can't bear to meet your gaze; so he casts it aside.

And immediately meets the Primarch's eyes.

A strange, angered confusion has graced his Father's features. A sort of stunned disappointment—and Cato supposes that tracks, given the fact Guilliman though he'd gotten over his gripe with you.

"Check your anger, Commander Sicarius." Guilliman says with a cold discontent, and Cato immediately drops the act.

Cato holds out his helm, turned plume-down, the inside proffered up as a bucket.

The task of shovelling the data-slates in is tedious at best, but it's easy when he joins in.

When all's done, Cato practically dumps his helmet in your arms.

"It's alright, don't fret," Guilliman chuffs, smiling at you tiredly, trying to seem supportive. "Just be on your way, Ambassador."

You look back at the Primarch, stunned for a moment—who smiles at you again, and tips his chin to the exit hallway.

Nodding, you shakily curtsy at the gaggle of Astartes and stumble away with the heavy weight of Cato's helmet and it's new contents in your grasp.

Cato frowns at the entire display, and Guilliman seems to notice that too, because he immediately grits out, "Commander Sicarius, if the safety of your helmet worries you so, go make sure she doesn't drop anything else."

"Of course... yes, my Lord Primarch," He straightens up, surprised at the dismissal but certainly not about to argue.

in his mind, Guilliman is sending him to cool off. That much Cato is sure of, which works to his favour.

Promptly, he knocks his breastplate in respectful farewell and trails after you; now a little ways down the grand and lofty adjoining chamber hall.

Cato strides with his chin held high, but promptly drops it when he rounds the corner and is out of view of the Primarch a few moments after you.

You say nothing to him when Cato catches up and matches your slow march to your quarters.

Cato's practically drags his boots across the regal carpeting as he walks.

And when the carpet runs out, he scrapes his heels on steel like a petulant child.

He knows he's taken the charade too far.

Head hung low much like his, you don't look at him—and it eats away at what meagre actual backbone he's got left around you.

It continues for a while; you pass servitors, serfs, staff, and Astartes alike; not acknowledging anyone.

They acknowledge Cato of course, but he ignores any nods or salutes like he's got blinders on.

He knows the path you're taking well—it's a shortcut, but a tedious one with the load you're carrying. And when the passersby thin out to nothing eventually, you're still trudging along like a lobotomite.

You look appear much like a sullen little arming serf carrying his helmet as you are. The coarse broom-spread of his helm's Suzerain mane brushes the fabric atop your thighs—and Cato can tell it's annoying you, because you slow a little when it itches; trying to shimmy it up higher in your grasp to no avail.

Your breathing is heavy with strain, now a few paces behind him; and Cato groans when you both round a corner and he sees a flight of stairs ahead.

He pauses, and rounds about-face.

"Give it to me," he snaps.

You immediately sigh, "Why?"

"Because it's mine," Cato grumbles. "Now give it to me."

You pout, "I don't need help."

He scowls harshly, "I wasn't asking."

A gasp leaves you as you're suddenly being advanced on by an Astartes, stomping you down—and he catches the data-slate filled rim of his helmet with a gauntlet.

He's honestly surprised you hold on while he pulls it away from you.

"Let go," he hisses.

"No," you hiss back.

"Let go, now." Cato shakes the helmet around, trying to dislodge you; going so far as to lift it until you're dangling off the side.

"No," is all he receives again.

Tiny, stubborn, cunt of a waif.

He cannot sustain subtlety when he is rebutted on something. Not without pause. He's aggravated now, and it shows when he snarls, "Why are you acting like this?"

"No," you bark.

A very real temper is flaring as he says, "No, what? That's not an answer—"

"Fuck off, Cato!"

He's never heard that tone out of you directly. It stuns him for a second, because he's never actually made you genuinely angry. He can't explain why it makes him suddenly decide to play disciplinarian like you're an unruly Scout, but it does. And you're going to explain exactly why you thought to voice that opinion, Emperor help you.

"Enough of this groxshit," He tugs the helmet high, and you up with it, scooping a vambrace under your midsection to carry you like a keg under his arm; prying you and the helm apart.

"Put m-me down!" You kick out wildly behind him, snarling insults and slamming your fists back against his plate on his core, to no avail.

It's a good thing you're actually close to your quarters, because the scene you're making is more than enough to be flagged for gross insubordination if anyone saw. Striking an Astartes is of no meagre consequence. It'd be death, for anyone but you.

It takes him a try more than usual to input his locking override code, given your squirming—and him only being able to manage a pointer free on the hand holding his helm.

Your door slides open nonetheless, and Cato ducks in with you still secured, despite your tantrum; and in his seething, he fully calculates the effort it'd take to hog-tie you with your own robes.

You're hissing and carrying on as if you're a pissy little neophyte hopped up on stims for the first time, and Cato ignores you periodically to lock your door behind you both.

He empties his helm of the data-slates on the nearest pile of clothes, magnetises the bucket on his hip; and practically tosses you onto your bed.

You yelp at the rough handling and scramble to reach your nightstand.

Instead of scampering off like he honestly expects, you grab a book; and when he leans over the bed and reaches for you, you start to bat his armoured hand away with the hardcover front.

"Do you honestly think that will work?" Cato snarls, but despite himself, he recoils and starts eyeing you. "Are you that fucking dense, woman?"

You grumble sourly and hold the novel up, like it's an actual weapon.

"Fine, be that way," he rolls his eyes, and with trans-human speed, catches you by the ankle and reels you in.

You bleat out a warbling cry at being yanked, and manage to toss the book at his head in a lucky shot.

He cops the hit to the brow harmlessly, then it lands on the covers below him beside where he's dragged you under.

You freeze for a second as he brackets your arms upward above your head in one large gauntlet.

"Stop," he bites out, "Just stop struggling."

You start fighting him again regardless, legs kicking out—knocking the book sidelong into the headboard with a thud.

Cato glances at source of sound, and then he's suddenly fixated on the wall above it.

His dagger's been hung up.

It's a little crooked, but that's expected when the hooks the sheathe and blade are lodged against aren't actually drilled in place. It's done with adhesive—it's your doing.

Cato can't exactly name the feeling that washes over him as he stays staring at it, but it feels thick, and viscous in his chest. Like pain, almost—like he's hurt himself. His tongue feels leaden in his mouth. Every ounce of retaliatory anger at your earlier antics dissipates into nothingness.

The shackles his large mitt's made on your wrists falls away.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," He mumbles, before taking a deep breath—and his armour creaks at the gesture; servos humming as he settles into a crouch at your bedside, half strewn over the duvet—staring at you pinned under him.

The bed protests, because of course it does to that amount of bulk, but it still holds regardless.

You huff sourly, and suck your bottom lip into your mouth as you avert your gaze.

With a tired sigh, Cato leans close to you and frowns—straining to tuck his nose against your neck and scoop a vambrace under you to hold you close.

"I may have," he starts slowly as he smothers himself against you. "Overreacted."

A scoff escapes you, but you rest your cheek to his temple regardless.

You take a big breath in; and the politician in you jumps out—even if the politician is currently a little bit shaky.

"I-I am aware that... it's tedious to have me around given my bearing, amongst your kind," you stammer, gaze flittering to and fro from his eyes to his pauldron to the desk behind him. "I can take a snort and a scoff, but you made it worse, at the end—" your voice trails off, and you sit up; scrubbing your cheek with your palm, fussing. "It's easy to hear criticism from a stranger, but not—not from you. Not after... all of this, in a situation like that."

There was a time when Cato would've flat out turned his nose up at the prospect of apologising. He has done so to maybe ten baselines in his entire life, and he's including his parents in that number purely by an assumption—and Vedeah.

"Even in the moment," he says carefully, and tries not to think too hard about the wider implications of doing so, "I realised it was a cruelty, and I am sorry for it."

You simply hold onto him for a moment, and Cato buries his face closer; your hand combing across the side of his head.

"It's alright," you tut softly, "Seeing y-you... you getting all huffy about the First Captain for me was funny though... Throne, I feel so stupid sending him all those letters now."

"You weren't to know Agemman's a prick," he sniffs, laying a gauntlet on your thigh. "I've been on the receiving end of his sour judgment just as you, earlier."

"Were..." you start, voice hesitant. "Were you like that, when you were Captain of the Second?"

The question catches him off guard, which makes him harrumph.

Cato sets his jaw and leans back to look at you, frowning softly, "You would not have liked me in the slightest."

You look a little taken aback at his admission, and Cato feels the need to clarify before your habit of asking too many questions seizes you.

"I was..." Cato begins abruptly, cringing, "...reckless, and a lot more vain; always seeking victories at any cost despite the odds," he says, begrudgingly explaining himself and feeling a lot like his own Primarch was simply speaking through him, "I probably would have petitioned to have you tried for the simple crime of... being, despite my actual... ahem—predilection."

You eye him for a moment, and there's a familiar warmth in your gaze despite the fact he just admitted, out loud, he'd have you put to death for the crime of stirring his cock in another set of circumstances.

"Why do you think that?" You ask, curious.

Cato raises a brow, "I would have painted you a Slaaneshi temptress, like I had thought originally."

"You thought that? Really? I hadn't even—" You scoff, looking at him with a quizzical little grimace.

The deadpan expression on his own face answers you before you can even get it all out.

"Okay," you groan. "Okay, I get it."

He gives your leg a squeeze, and pulls back.

"Good," he hums and moves to stand.

"Wait, Cato—stay," you mumble, "Please."

At full height in your cramped room, he furrows his brows, "I cannot remain here, not tonight, not in this."

You sit yourself on the edge of the bed and look up at him, and Cato's forced to peer over his gorget to catch the full extent of the pleading, doe-eyes you're putting into action.

Cato has to fight back a dopey smile at the insistent, honeyed look you grace him with as you stare up at him.

So pretty, even when you're playing at guilt-tripping him.

It's risky, and quite frankly his dumbest, most thinking-with-his-cock moment; but he still offers it.

"You could accompany me, instead?" He dithers, and eventually acquiesces.

Your head cocks to the side excitedly, "...to where?"

"My quarters," Cato says matter-of-factly.

You're suddenly up and scrambling off the bed to stand beside him, and he hands you his helmet off his hip. You take it without complaint nor reason, even though Cato'd been prepared to give you an excuse.

Oh, it's an alibi, oh, it's this—it's that—it's the simple fact you looked irresistible amusing carrying his helm.

He unlocks your door, and shuffles out—with you tailing him eagerly.

Laterally, it's not too far from his quarters, but it is tedious given the levels between; and it has to be done quickly—if not for the fact if others see they will gossip, he'd throw you over his shoulder like a dead-weight and break into a run. So you need to keep up with his rush, given you wanted to follow.

He hastens down the corridor, and up a flight, and you keep pace, surprisingly.

Your breathing is a little heavy, but Cato attributes that to you having just scaled a fair amount of stairs, for a baseline.

He lingers at the top, in the elevator bay; and you bumble up to him and take the spot behind him.

Cato activates the lift and sighs as it begins to grind it's ascent into existence.

He's stunned to have not heard a peep out of you yet, and honestly that—hold on—there's a hand on his rear, and small fingers depressing the bodysuit over his left glute.

"Get off of there," he snaps, "We are in public."

"I'm just leaning to catch my breath," You huff, squeezing him a little.

Fifteen minutes ago you were sulking and seething, and now you're straight back to bothering him for entertainment.

"Don't start," he sighs, and takes a step aside from you—desperate to not dignify the heat crawling up his neck.

"What will you do?" You scoff, and he all but whips around at your snarky tone, "Snort and sneer me to death? I just fought you off with a book."

Cato rolls his eyes.

"I can and will use things against you," he says, a slight hint of a growl trailing his words.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Such as?"

"I know how easy it is to render you docile and silent, as you ought to be," Cato scowls harshly, putting some finesse into appearing menacing.

It does not work.

"You think I'm some animal to be scruffed?" Your laugh is painfully endearing, but—but he's firm in his rapport. At least, he's trying to be firm. One part of him certainly is firm and hard... and straining against his inners—stop.

"Much the same, seeing as you would preoccupy a single hand at most," he grits out flatly, but his temper wavers when he realises his own statement's double meaning—his cheeks feel a little warm, and it aggravates him that he reacts so easily.

You raise an eyebrow, staring at him, "Just your hand?"

He fights the urge to pout at the sheer cheek of you, and the lurid smugness you're letting show so brazenly.

It's a common situation now: you say something erring on insult, smile a tad, and then the brain in his cock takes the reigns from the one in his head. He thought he was past swooning starting at your antics by now; or at least he hoped to have become a lot more immune to it.

But no—despite being the belligerent, bitter bastard he is, you still manage to ferret out a weak spot for yourself in his hearts.

"I ought to take you over my knee," he says so softly it's practically an oath to himself.

Nonetheless, you apparently catch it—and blink dumbly up at him for a few seconds; a slow, creeping flush steadily finding it's place on your cheeks as you swallow so hard he hears the cartilage in your throat click.

The lift comes to a halt, and he all but harries you off it.

Thankfully, it is standard rest hours for the Victrix; that is to say those who aren't bedded down are likely on jaunts elsewhere in the ship.

It's the perfect opportunity to sneak you inside, in short.

The grand, carpeted corridor is empty, and you ogle it; and it's likely your first time having been near higher standard Astartes accomodation.

"I'll be back—" He opens the door in a quick input of numerals and ushers you in swiftly before huffing; "Don't open for anyone, not even Guilliman."

You nod and step inside, looking back at him a little sheepishly with his helm held to your chest; as the sliding mechanism activates, clicks shut, and promptly dead-locks behind you—while he quickly thumbs in his security code.

He breaks into a sprint to the nearest armour chamber, which is thankfully on this level; if not an eight minute jog at Astartes speed.

At first, Cato asks the mechanicum disarming staff to show some haste in doffing him from his panoply of ceramite—but he quickly loses patience and growls at the serfs who try to drag out the whole ordeal with longwinded rights and sermons while the adepts' machines hex-key open his vambraces. Part of the ordeal ends, war-gear shed, and Cato practically hisses at the gathered attendants when he starts to wrestle out of his body-glove and they try to smear him with unguents. He does, however, allow them to administer local numbing agents and analgesics for the more tedious, biological matters of unlinking from his interfacing.

They hose him down instead of scrubbing him at least, and Cato's glad that someone in that Void-damned room is listening to him.

He hurriedly lathers his arms and legs, dipping a cupped palm back into the presented urn of warm, fragranced oil to cover his neck and underarms—and bending, creasing points, as is typical.

He feels a little wobbly as he puts his sandals on at the hasty loss of the armour's weight—and in that aforementioned hurry, he trips a little while he tugs his tunic over his head and knocks over the servitor, who then knocks over one of the serfs, who then knocks over the tech adept.

It's not Cato's finest moment, surely, but he's in about as much of a rush to get moving as an Astartes can be in a non-combat environment.

He doesn't stop, because he has better things to do—more specifically, he has you to do.

He makes his way down the long winding halls, sprinting between the gaps in onlookers eyelines, stop-starting, like a fool. But damn, if he isn't on a mission with the thought of you waiting on him hanging over his head.

"Sicarius," the Chapter Master's voice abruptly greets curtly.

Cato swallows a scream and takes a step backwards, immediately entering grappling stance.

The aging Primaris seems to realise he's genuinely surprised him and raises a grey brow.

Cato rights himself with a forced cough and stumbles a little, "Lord Calgar?"

A huge power fist comes to rest on his tunic'd shoulder to steady him, "I did not intend to shock, but there is something you must hear of," Calgar says, manoeuvring to allow space for him to walk beside.

Cato matches the broader strides of the Chapter Master, although with him being a Primaris and Cato out of his war-gear—it's a tad more effort than normally required given the size disparity.

Marneus Calgar is typically a man of few words when he's not seized by his passion for monologuing... but he certainly has plenty words when he has gossip.

"I have a suspicion," Calgar huffs.

Cato swallows the lump in his throat, playing along, "And I assume you're not at all responsible for that suspicion travelling to other ears."

"Of course," The Chapter Master shoots him a downward, sidelong glance with his good eye. And if Cato didn't know any better, he'd have been amiss to the glimmer of amusement there.

Abruptly, Calgar pauses in step and quietly remarks, "One of our brothers is aberrant."

The metaphorical leaden brick that hits Cato in the temple works in his favour, because it makes it seem like he's in disbelief rather than panic.

"Corruption?" He hisses, eyes narrowing.

Calgar's grey brows furrow as he shakes his head, "Aberrant, Cato—not chaos-tainted, insofar as I am aware."

"How?" Cato snaps, and again, his bemusement that Calgar didn't equate the two for some reason surely works in his favour, making it look like a sincerely shocked reaction—but the problem remains that he, personally, would equate them. Throne, there—there must be a reason he's acted on his urges, there must be something he can blame.

Calgar purses his thin lips and sighs, "I have on good reason to believe there is a sort of... fraternisation is occurring."

"Really?" Cato huffs, he's simultaneously stunned and horrified that this conversation is even happening. Because if Marneus doesn't think it's the work of the Warp's wiles, then it can't surely have just been his own love partiality for you—that damnable, incessant yearning to have you close, and warm, and tucked against his side.

"And by that," Calgar starts, "I mean that one of them is engaging in baser ventures."

He tries very hard not to laugh out of sheer mortification, and the mental pict of Calgar clutching a string of pearls like a senile ecclesiarch.

"Are you certain?" Cato says, despite the looming dread.

The Chapter Master nods stoically, "I chanced upon an area reeking of Astartes sweat and... intercourse."

When every word may damn you, it is better to say nothing at all. And Throne, he can't bring himself to speak regardless of the fact; because his balls are in his throat. Even if it sounds as though Calgar's largely oblivious to the truth that the Astartes is him—Cato Sicarius—and although he is partially thankful he's in the clear; if Calgar's got your room identified as the source, you're in the hot seat. Every facet of your little existence would be so over for you it's almost unfathomable. Even if you escape the judgement of the Legionnes, you would be hunted down by the Assassinorum, in and beyond any Imperial system; fuck, he's going to have to smuggle you—

"I was sequestered elsewhere urgently, and I did not chance where it was coming from," Calgar continues, "But I know it occurred somewhere in the northeastern apartments."

Cato fights for his life not to sputter out a relieved sigh and buckle at the knees, boneless on the floor.

The ventilation systems must have dispersed the smell, which would have thrown off Calgar's vomeronasal organ.

He rejects most aspects regarding godhood placed upon the Master of Mankind ever since his agonising jaunt in the Warp, and from his conversations with Guilliman—but surely the Emperor must have leaned over on His throne and pelted a holy, righteous wrench at Calgar's big nose that morning.

The Emperor protects, albeit when He comedically feels like it.

"I will keep an eye out for... un-sanctioned behaviours."

"Report them to me, or Guilliman, should you find anything—no chaplains," Calgar says at last, and comes to a halt in a fork in the hallway. "Nonetheless, keep your wits about you—I must get going."

Cato blinks as Calgar rounds on his big heel, "Another vox-haling?"

"No," he sighs. "A meeting, for the next six hours."

"With the planetary governor?"

"No," Calgar says again, face completely dead-pan like a corpse, "With my cot—and if anyone needs me, tell them to piss off unless Guilliman's dying. Again."

Then he shoots him that wry, amused side-eye once more and stomps off down the adjacent passage.

Cato stands stunned in the hall for a brief time, genuinely flabbergasted.

Then he's a trans-human on a mission, thundering down the corridor—his mind immediately concocting several protocols to prevent the previous situation occurring again.

Firstly, the instant he gets to his quarters, he's going to stuff his incense burner into the ventilator grate.

Sound won't be an issue, he knows his chambers are proofed—surely not because he's woken screaming in that room without anyone saying anything. But that's besides the point, because the only screaming that's to be happening is his final plan of action; namely that, lastly, he's going to slide into you and have you crying his name—

Cato doesn't even consciously remember arriving at his door, nor coding in his numerals and doing the same behind him; but he's certainly in the present when he sees you.

Something in his chest lurches to a halt at the sight of you tucked in his sheets, the thundering of his twin heartbeats slowing and easing to a lulled calm.

There's less candles in his room than yours, but what little of your hair that peaks from beneath the blanket is bathed in flickering, warm light when he approaches.

His helm's lying against you atop the thin cover, and you're snoring softly.

Cato nears, and—with nobody to judge him, including you, simply stares.

Throne, he could live this scene out every day of his life and never tire of it—but matters need attending before he can bask in the domesticity.

Dutifully, he grabs his incense holder and follows through with his plan of action.

He doesn't intend it, but he wakes you at some point while jamming the vent back into place; and you groan softly, rubbing your eyes as you stretch and sit up.

The sheets over you slip away as you do, and he daftly fixes his haze at the drowsy, stark-naked Ambassador in his bed.

"...Cato?"

He swallow the proverbial bolt round lodged in his throat and grunts.

"When..." you pause to yawn, "When did you get in?"

It takes him a second to register the question with how intensely he's focused on ogling your tits, but eventually "...a few minutes," leaves him as an answer.

You blink lazily and harrumph, then slump back—and he's sure it's intentional, because the way your body curves with the motion is almost like you're presenting yourself. The sheets are low on your hips—not low enough that he can really take an eyeful, but the temptation of it raw and syrupy in his mind. What he can see is the warm, soft skin of your navel and stomach offered up to his roving gaze like a hunk of meat. It's bait, and it's obvious, and he's a slavering, starved dog in that instant.

He sits himself on the edge of the thin mattress, kicking off his sandals—and leans over you, breathing controlled but fast.

He splays a palm on your side, dragging it up, tracing.

You fuss a little, wanting.

He manoeuvres himself atop you, and you pout, as your elbow digs into the mattress.

He can tell in some fey way you're about to comment on the state of his bed—or rather, the lack of a real bed. Well, maybe not fey, it's mere prediction given your habit of complaining. You've probably been stewing on making a remark about it the entire time you've been dicking around in here. There's no headboard, no duvet. It's closer to a big, thin cushion on a fold out, bolted to a hinge on the wall at the top end.

You grumble, "This is the worst bed I've ever actually lain on," and there it is—the nagging, the backtalk.

"My mattress on Talassar is far nicer," he hums, nosing into the crook of your neck and sighing contently.

Your voice is barely a mumble as you say, "Well, we're not on Talassar—that's for sure."

"We could be," Cato mouths against your skin as he ventures lower.

"What?" You sit up a little and displace him enough that you can meet his gaze, and your eyes lock onto his in a hasty, focused manner—then Cato feels translucent again. As if you can see him for everything he is: prideful and doltish, disgustingly predictable—you've got him eating out of your hand.

"We... we could go to Talassar," he blurts out, one of your breasts against his chin. Then he ducks lower—planting a kiss just above your bellybutton. His voice comes out muffled against your skin, swallowing thickly, cotton-mouthed. "I'm sure I could... find an excuse, logistically."

The look you're giving him is just as flushed as his own face feels.

Cato Sicarius, High Suzerain of Ultramar, babbling—once again. Reduced to an illiterate, juddering wreck. His Astartesian dignity, honour and status petering to nothing. You have him swooning, on the back foot. Earnest and vulnerable—Throne, it makes him hot under the proverbial collar.

Cato stalls for a second, pursing his lips before digressing, "I could... I could petition an excursion to Glaudor to Guilliman, and then... arrange docking at Perusia."

Why does he feel so heated talking about this? Why is he, a several hundred year old, trans-human killing machine, flustering saying these things out loud?

"I don't actually know much about Talassar, aside from—well, aside from Guilliman's assigned readings on the Void Tridents, really."

Cato huffs, "I am distantly related to their Lord Commodore, Theodro Vethrus."

"Really? Huh..." you squint, trying to parse out his expression, "So do you... like him?"

Cato nods, "He's competent."

"High praise from you," you laugh softly, and wriggle yourself down—closer to eye level with him. "So what w-would we do? On Talassar, I mean..."

He breaks eye contact and stares at your lips instead, rearing up from you a little, "Well, there's a large hinterland that's quite nice in spring when it's not raining... and my Ancestral seat, on the coast. People sometimes swim and such, there—"

"I've never actually swam at a beach, before."

Cato harrumphs, "Really?"

"Never," you pout.

He smiles softly, "That can be remedied."

From the higher rooms of his duchy's fortress, you can get a good look at the long isthmus that sometimes peaks out from afore the sea walls when the waves calm down bi-yearly.

It's nicer on the other side where it's too small of a cove to support vessels, where the submerged canyon redirects the immense tidal forces sidelong.

You can swim in the carved rock lap pool, like he used to.

Because he's not about to run into the waves with his Tempest Blade should one of Talassar's less hospitable locals swim under the marine nets.

That, and to hell with picking the sealant-putty out of his interfacing ports. The annoyance of that is almost as bad as to be without it, and chock full of sand at exposed nerve points. With that mental deliberation settled, he lays both palms flat to the mattress supporting him either side of your shoulders, and raises a brow when your hand touches his chest.

Absentmindedly, he weighs the pros and cons or giving you the leeway to continue groping; it feels nice—but there's an aspect of mischief to your eyes he finds suspicious.

You start squeezing at his pectoral, fingers bearing down; watching the dense muscle contort and bulge.

"You really ought to bind these," you hum abruptly.

He scowls down at you, "I am not binding my chest."

"Why not?" You retort.

Cato sniffs derisively, "They are not breasts."

"Riiiight..." You drawl, dragging out the word still pawing at his left pectoral. "In my professional opinion, they seem pretty breast-like to me."

"They are not. Fucking. Breasts," Cato snarls, enunciating himself sharply while puffing up.

"No need to get defensive," you trail off, eyebrow quirking up slyly; laying the faux-pas down heavily, purposefully trying to irritate him by nipping at his metaphorical heels. "It's just that—well, even though they're hairier, they do feel simi—"

"That's enough talking out of you," he says, and promptly seizes you by the chin with his mitt, closing your mouth with his hand and effectively silencing you.

But stifling you had not wiped the smug, leering smile off your face. Yes, he can fucking feel it, you little bitch.

"You aren't funny," he hisses.

You grunt at him, huffing and puffing through your nose as you attempt speech even though your maw is held shut.

"Don't say something stupid," Cato frowns, and loosens his hold enough for you to get a few words out.

"I'd wager you could lactate w-wuh—with—" you race to say, thrashing as he quickly manages to shut you back up with his palm.

Cato tries not to grumble at the fact you're wheezing hysterically through your nose.

"Every time I think you are above something, you find a way to sink lower."

In response, you start thrashing, writhing enough in his grip to get four single words out from between his big fingers, "Sink—i-into your–cl—uh–eavage—" you manage to sputter, laughing behind his hand.

"I'll sink into you in a moment, if you do not stop," Cato growls openly.

You go still almost immediately, and whine against his palm.

"Really," he sneers, flabbergasted as he pulls his hand away and raises a brow, "Are you getting off on this, you degenerate?"

The comment clearly also stirs something in you, because then you're swatting at his face—missing, yes—but the effort still infuriates Cato to no end.

He rears back in avoidance, still keeping you nice and muzzled by his palm, but you manage to clap a hand around his mouth.

You push at him and squirm, fussing.

Then he inhales.

It's a little surprising his nose finds your fingers smell of molasses, and that means slick—the lingering hormonal melody of 'please?' is so blatant it's almost pathetic.

Cato raises an eyebrow and moves his hand from your face to ensnare the one you have on his, keeping it close.

"Is that why you're being such a scathing bitch? You're just impatient?" He scoffs, purposefully trying to taunt as he sniffs them again, just to be sure—and then licks across the underside of your pointer and middle, "Were these not big enough to entertain you while I was gone?"

You whine, flushed red with embarrassment, and try to wretch your hand away pointlessly.

A belated snort escapes him and he gives you a long, judgemental glare, letting you boil in your own shame.

"Don't start," you huff, petulant.

Cato huffs darkly, "I didn't say anything."

You frown knowingly—and his head descends, lower and lower.

You're all too willing to let him arrange you near his face.

Sure, you wriggle and flush and grumble at him as he makes sure to make a dramatic gesture of the act, but you're eager—and he knows it.

With an Ambassador's plump cunt to his mouth, Cato can't complain. But you certainly try to, despite the juddering thighs squeezing fruitlessly against the sides of his head. It's hopeless to try to fend off an Astartes, especially like this.

"C-Cato, just—"

He rolls his tongue over your clit again and again, delighting in the blissful hormone feedback lighting up his brain and the sounds you're making adding to it.

Some part of him'd be content lapping at your swollen nerve for hours, until you're a boneless mewling wreck. Tormenting you, letting you beg for him while he just roils in the simple goal of getting you to your end a dozen or so times.

"Please, just f-fuck—" you sob, squirming as he laughs against your sex at how toothless your frustration is. "Fuck m-me, Cato, stop being a-a—"

He drags over your clit again and feels your hamstrings tense, a fresh surge of slick wetting his chin.

"I'm—I c-can't," a shuddering whine leaves you, desperate.

The air practically vents out of your lungs like you're winded as he sucks; until you're so terribly close, all he'll need to do is bottom out in you to make you cum.

And that's exactly what he does.

He organises your legs off his shoulders and about his mid section as quickly as he can manage and then—

"F-f—fuh—uck," You writhe, head thrown back while you squirm at the heavy press of him rocking inside you, making your breathing stutter for a second. It's the familiar, obscene view of watching the massive slab of cock press into a cunt that's almost too small for him. But given the fact you take it so well, who's Cato to deny you? You love it, and that's the real thrill. A surge of pleasure sends you bucking; legs moving mindlessly where they're hooked over his hips, but he keeps still, simply letting you suffer your end on the thick length of him—all the while enjoying the feeling of being stuffed in you the whole ordeal.

It's only a quick orgasm, but damn if it isn't a hell of a show.

You're panting deliriously, trembling on his cock; and Cato's about to start drooling at the tightness he's being treated to.

When you stop trembling around him, you fight to steady your breathing—huffing out; "I—I ought-t-ah... squeeze you o-out."

"You'd need a dozen Dreadnauts to drag me loose right about now," he snorts and tips his head close, nudging his temple to yours a second later before smirking proudly.

The heavy swell of his balls sit flush against your ass, and you arch up, scrambling to pull him down into an embrace.

The small hands on his back are a nice counterpoint, and he moans when your fingers glide up to his shoulder; trailing the side of his neck before cupping his cheek. You pet him against the slightly grown out grain of his stubble with a skrrch skrrch, and he hums contently—and when that little hand rises to his pet his hair, it's sublime.

Your touch shifts away and he grumbles.

"I didn't tell you... to stop, damn it."

"So you are enjoying y-yourself, hm?" You smile, cupping his jaw and petting slowly.

"I don't... don't know what you're talking about, woman," he lies, nigh beside himself; pressing his bulk against you while pawing and groping at whatever he can.

He'd try for one of your tits in his mouth if the angle he's currently reaming you out at didn't make it impossible.

You work kisses across the high point of his cheek and down the heated column of his throat; seemingly emboldened by the dulcet, appreciative hums and rumbles that escape from Cato the entire time.

Doused in affection like this, he struggles to form sentences, damn it all.

He lets his head rest close, assailed with honest desperation.

"But, I..." he starts quickly, feeling a weight in his chest. His brain wants him to finish with a whole other word he refuses to even think of; because even if he's itching to say that he—he loves adores you—he's too stubborn to say it without sufficient prodding; but there's an arrow of longing lodged in his gullet and thankfully it doesn't dare to leave his mouth. "But, I do enjoy... you."

The prettiest whine escapes you in answer, and the flutter your tight cunt around him proves that for once, he's somehow said the right thing.

You swallow thickly and dither for a second, genuinely flustered but still able to get the words out, "I-I enjoy you, too."

A heady rush of heat fans across his face as he tries to properly process the information. The road travels both ways, and everything is serene, he's happy—you're happy, and that's all he ever needs. The duty and the honour, and the courage, seem inconsequential to it all in that moment.

He turns and kisses you swiftly, before leering away.

You rear up trying to close the distance again, but then Cato finally thrusts—and your eyes swim in their sockets, thighs shaking, mouth open with the heady gasp that leaves you.

So he nears, and gives you the other kiss you were eager for.

It's far messier than the former; his big tongue sticking in, dragging across yours and stifling you, saliva smearing down your chin as Cato practically laps the moans out of your mouth.

When he arches back at last, you're flushed and red at the lips, fluttering your lashes at him; eyes falling half-lidded under his gaze.

"C-Cato, move," You whine, imploring, and there's another eager clench around him when he obligingly ruts forward.

Cato can see the lurid glee on your face as your focus shifts suddenly to the point you both meet. Folded under him, it's given you a perfect vantage of the slab-of-meat that is his cock absolutely jammed down to the base in your guts.

You shimmy a bit and moan, "M-More?"

The scoff that leaves him is disbelieving, but he's well aware you're goading him to really set about fucking you insensible.

"If I fucked you as hard as you liked, you'd be getting augmetic hips tomorrow," he snarks, punctuating his point my pushing forward a little, so he's jammed riiiight against the soft ring of your cervix.

A soft gasp is all the receives for a second before you're suddenly grinning, "You're n-not that big."

It's so blatantly a lie he doesn't even dignify it with an answer. Instead, he shifts back a hint so only a third of himself stays inside you, letting you grow irate at the denial.

"I w–uh-was joking, Cato... please, don't s-stop," You whimper mournfully, raising yourself a little in attempt to coax him to slam in... and suddenly, there's a small hand on his flank.

Cato ignores it, focused on getting some much needed humility out of your darling mouth; then the hand claws at his rump.

"Needy bitc—" His would-be snarky sentence cuts short as he jumps a little, surprised, and clenches his rear; causing him to buck forward, sinking down to the hilt in you.

The thrilled gasp you make is priceless, and the shivering heat around his cock is sublime—but damn you for using that instinctive muscle reaction on him—you clever little bitch.

"Stop grabbing my ass," he grumbles, scowling down at you.

A crooked smile graces your lust-dumb features before it contorts into a flushed keen—surely not because Cato grinds deep to wipe the smirk off your face.

"This ought to keep your hands busy," He chides, rearing back and reaching sidelong for his discarded helmet on the far side of his cot.

You eagerly take it into your embrace, and Cato's impulse control violently derails seeing your tits sandwiched to the side panel; the white and red plume brushing your cheek—and you looking up at him with wanton lust.

Oh, Throne of Terra—that looks...

Cato swallows the saliva that suddenly over-accumulates in his mouth.

It's lecherous, and a glaring hypocrisy to everything the Legiones Astartes stands for—but there's something painfully enthralling about the visual that riles him up to strain at the bit like a warhorse.

Throne, he wishes he could fuck you in full-plate; just to see you drip and squirm, the adamantine of his thigh plating against your tender rear—the gooseflesh cold ceramite earns out of you to contrast the big hot slide of him into you. If only there was a way to keep the comfort of familiar war-gear upon him and the bliss of your soft skin on his simultaneously.

But he's got more than one round in him, and you've signed the warrant to be fucked to hysterics with all your insufferable antics earlier, no matter how cute you're acting now.

He's not going to last long.

Not like this.

Not with you so painfully eager, and pretty, and warm, and sweet.

He can't help acting on the urge to absolutely plough into you like his life depends on spilling inside.

"Ca–ah—to, Cato, C-Cato—" you drool, eyes shut tightly, fingers white with the exertion of keeping a grip on his helm's respirator. Each time you cry out his name it's followed by the sticky plap-plap-plap of his balls against your rear, and it's enthralling feeling you twitch and cramp on his length in rhythm with each stroke.

"Aren't you such a good little fucktoy," Cato pants, grinning when you nod on instinct. "Holding an Astartes' helm for him... while taking his cock."

A strangled 'y-yes' escapes you, breath fogging condensation against the cold steel of his helm.

"Perfect," he grunts, "My perfect... little whore," gritting his teeth, "You'll let me fill you, won't you?"

Another gorgeous few bleated notes of 'yes, y-yes, yes' meet him in answer.

"You want it here?" Cato hisses, breathlessly punctuating himself with a grind, "That's it... that's what you want?"

And that comment apparently does you in at last.

The pathetic little sob that pairs along with your frantic nodding makes him salivate like a rabid dog.

Your thighs judder as he pulls back to slam in, fruitlessly trying to lock at the ankles around the wide span of his hips; vainly attempting to keep him still—squeezing tighter and tighter as he keeps driving home into you—and the feeling is ecstasy, much like the view. You're so red across the cheeks it's almost the same colour as his plume, and you're hugging his helmet close, making the sweetest hiccuped sobs of pleasure against it.

He grits his teeth at the tightness that rewards him for pushing you to finish, helpless to it doing the same. Rutting into you, filling the eager hole he's sheathed in.

Cato slumps forward, shivering; careful to not squish you and his helm beneath his bulk despite the daze of him emptying a load in you—keeping pace even when the stimuli becomes unbearably tender and your heels dig into his flanks.

Heaving, he halts at last after the pleasure begins to really hurt, and meets your hazy gaze with a long, content sigh.

"C-Cato," you start softly, and nose against his cheek.

"Yes?" He begins in an airy tone, looming close to your ear and letting his exhale taper off into a long, curious hum.

"Your helm's d-digging into my ribs..." you cringe, and he immediately lifts himself away with a strong hand and pulls his helmet away and to the side.

Redness in the vague outline of the ceramite is imprinted on the soft skin of your side and he tuts, hand tracing the minor injury.

Kneading the area a little, you start to squirm, and Cato's suddenly hyperaware he's still inside you; and looks down.

He's fucked your combined fluids into a frothing mess.

With an air of unimpressed amusement, you snort at the show he makes of pulling out—he grabs you with a mitt on the underside of each thigh, functionally spreading you as inch after thick inch drags free so slowly it's almost jarring just how much of him you fit. The flushed head of his cock pops out, dripping a final fat rope of cum across your vulva; and then your overfilled insides start leaking more.

"Still got the implant?" Cato queries, using his thumb to pull your labia aside and eye just how deep he's emptied into you.

"Yes," you snicker weakly, "Y-Yes, I do—why?"

"It's a simple question," he tuts.

"I know w-what you're really asking, Cato."

He raises an eyebrow, "It's got nothing to do with the fact you're hard to avoid finishing inside."

A laugh leaves you like a bark, "You've never tried to a-avoid it."

"You'd throw a fit," he shoots back, and shuffles over to lie beside you on his back.

With a disgruntled huff you retort, "H-How would you know?"

"I remember your opinion on a certain... 'theoretical hypothetical scenario' quite well," Cato says slowly, and prides at the flustered smile you fight to hide in his peripheral vision.

"I... I stand by that statement," you sigh, still half-smirking.

He pouts, "You do, do you?"

"Yes," you huff, "Because now there's the t-temptation of leave to a seaside paradise on the proviso of being gravid," you say pointedly, and roll onto your side to face him—worming closer until your cheek rests on his pectoral. "Which becomes more tempting by the minute."

"You lazy little shit, I never said you had to be pregnant to get there," he scoffs, grinning, sitting up and resting his back to the wall. "Besides, I can assure you Guilliman's homework will find you even on a barren death world."

"I'm sure I can come up with something," you say, glaring at him with a conspiratorial smile. "And what was that about me not having to be knocked up to get this vacation?"

"The stipulation is I'd have you squirming on my lap daily," Cato rumbles, eyeing you arranging yourself to settle atop him. "Hourly, even; and the side effect of that may very well be a procreational one—"

"Such an egalitarian bargain," You snicker softly, saddling yourself on his hips instead of remaining prone—lifting your legs, straining to splay yourself wide enough to let him slot between them. "You're a better statesman than I thought, Commander Sicarius."

He rumbles a smooth subvocal sound of assent, and the big palms on your hips slide to cup the flesh atop your thighs.

The simple feeling of your warm skin pressed to him, and he is panting softly through his nose already. You kiss him then, with a tender sigh—more a sweet thing than a desperate scramble.

Cato stares when you pull away, keen eyes lingering on your own as you look up at him.

Something about that look plays havoc with his mind, and your next words double down on the heat in his blood, "Does the Grand Duke want for heirs so badly?"

"Fuck, yes—well, no—but... should one of your gene-stock occur by chance, who am I to object," he jumbles his words a tad when you reach down to hold his cock straight.

Throne, he wants it; he really does. Even if it's more likely considered a luxury well beyond anything he deserves, he wants you beside him in whatever way, shape, or form you'll allow.

"So," you snort, and the thick head of his length catches at the rim of your still-dripping cunt, "I'm to be an infant factorum?"

"Duchess," he groans, bristling at your soft lips against his cheek in unison with you sinking down, down, down to the hilt on him. "You're to be... a Grand Duchess, moron."

The languid sigh you make when he's buried in you is so content he's genuinely giddy as you ask, "I-Is that so, Cato?"

"You're going to adore every second of it," Cato rumbles softly, palming your ass. "Spoiled little heifer, that you are."

You make a strangled sound at the harsh grope of your rear and smile against his jaw, "...what's a heifer?"

"A female bovine that's never calved," he expects a slap for that—and yet it never comes.

You lean away, looking deeply unimpressed, and he sulks a little because it's not the reaction he was after. But it's a reaction nonetheless.

"Why do you, as an A-Astartes, even know that?"

"When Guilliman's mood ebbs to a trough, he lectures me on farming techniques," he says offhandedly, "He does so for hours."

Cato feels strange talking of his Father, the Lord Primarch, when his balls are currently smooshed against your perineum and his cock is playing whack-a-mole with your cervix.

"Would t-that make you a male bovine, then?"

Cato considers for a second before arching close to drag his tongue across your throat, grinning.

"So this i-is a breeding attempt b-by you?" You laugh with a daft, pleasured sort of delight and lift yourself a little, fucking yourself on him at your leisure.

"Yes," Cato pants, and rolls his hips upward—meeting you in the middle.

The contact makes a lewd plap along with a mixed combination of his moan and yours.

"W-Well," you sigh, "You're really trying—ah—aren't y-you, Cato?"

"For once," he rasps, mouthing a nice big bruise onto the soft skin on the side of your neck, "Keep talking."

"S-So, how m-many do—" you start meekly, stuttering a little with hesitation; your mouth to his ear. "How many do y-you want?"

The question makes Cato's head spin.

A sound that he can only assume is a braying moan escapes his gullet, because all his focus is cross-haired on the implication you've just given him on a platter.

"You're... you're going to get that implant removed next cycle," Cato pants, raring. "And," he bites out as he struggles not to just give in to the moan trapped in his throat and forsake words altogether. "You'll let me... let me breed this eager cunt of yours, won't you?"

The shaky gasp that leaves you in answer is divine, and Throne, aren't you the perfect little wife whore.

Then you nod, and that fucked-out smile is the most gorgeous thing Cato's ever seen.

It's conjecture, it's fantasy. Because Guilliman's going to skin him if anything like that ever gains actuality—and he may still very well be chemically sterile, after all of this; but it feels right to indulge in that impossible want at this instant. He'd take you as a bride, by the sea—in the high courtyards that look down at the great harbour. He'd have his pretty little wife, maybe a dozen bairns as stubborn as himself and as insufferable as you—and everything'd be perfect. He doubts you'd allow that many, but it's a discussion point. He'll barter—hell, who's he kidding. He'll take anything, even if it's just the two of you.

Whatever you'd ask he'd give; because in the end, he'd enjoy nothing more than to have you with him—and whatever boon might come from that conjunction—something made out of love, that he's not supposed to have.

He takes a firm hold of your hips on either side and bounces you, managing to steal a kiss on the up-lift and ripping a moan out of you on the down-pull—again and again; until you're squirming, slumping forward, squeezing on his cock as you're forced into a racketing orgasm.

Overwhelmed, you all but squeal, scrambling at the wide expanse of his shoulders in an effort to lock him closer, clawing at his deltoids.

It's the last push he needs.

Cato empties his balls right where you want it, groaning and heaving in desperate gulps of air as he slumps back against the wall; dragging you with him.

Your head rests limply against his shoulder and you wriggle, overstuffed—taking every drop.

He grits his teeth as each shudder milks him dry, arcs of pleasure lighting up his nerves.

It leaves him huffing and puffing into your nape, grumbling to himself.

"Perfect," he whispers, nuzzling against your neck. He can feel the sticky heat of his cum dripping out of you and onto his thighs and balls.

Cato supposes if this is what de-facto baseline marriage is like, it's not half bad.

[moodymisty]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Cucking Cato, inspired by @/mothiir ‘s fic. Though it’s less of a true cuck and more of a like, voyeuristic torture.

Relationships: Demetrian Titus/Fem!Reader, Onesided Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Cato is getting accidentally/partly cucked lol, Voyeuristic kind of, Light breeding kink,

The room is more than elaborate; It seems like it perhaps was meant for dignitaries and planetary officials before being given to him for his temporary stay in this planetary fortress that held their high lords.

They couldn’t have men of the Ultramarines in unsuitable quarters, he assumes. Especially a Captain such as him. They had instantly given him a place to sleep with a view of gardens and fields, far different than the mountains he had grown used to seeing from the height of the Ultramarine fortress monastery. But even if he has no need of the pleasantries, the vehement respect this planet has shown so far has proven, adequate.

Though now that it’s dark, Sicarius thinks that perhaps the dirt on the ground in the gardens he can see from this room’s singular window would be a better resting place than where he currently is.

He's tried sleeping even though he has no need for it, having slept a few days ago, pacing circles, polishing his weaponry and checking it for even the slightest nick or scratch; Praying to it's machine spirit. But each time he tries to whisper the words he remembers by heart, someone interrupts him; Something thumps against the wall hard enough that it shakes the bed he sits on.

“Titus!”

You have to know you can be heard, do you just not care? Or are you too cockdumb already; You’ve been laying underneath Titus for hours.

It has to be underneath, the way the bedframe hits against the wall combined with your mewls and squeals can only be from Titus driving into you like an animal.

“More more more, please! Just a bit harder,”

Sicarius purses his lips and wrinkles his nose at a nondescript painting of an old lord- who is more than likely long since dead - across from him as he hears you. You’re insatiable, you keep begging for him and his cock like some sort of whore, far below the privileged stature Guilliman had bestowed upon you.

It should be him you're begging to, begging for what scraps he might gift you. But instead Titus gives you whatever you ask of him, like you’re a princess instead of a diplomat.

He would right that greediness in you in an instant, have you asking sweetly for him instead of demanding like Astartes aren’t miles above you.

“You are insatiable, you know that?”

Titus sounds like he would be smiling, if Sicarius could see him. He knows he would be; The shamed lieutenant is always trying to hold back a smile when he sees you.

Now he knows why. Two kindred spirits- The failure and the harlot. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it sooner. Perhaps because he’s been so dismissive about you, taking his duty so vehemently but having little interest in you yourself, that he somehow failed to see the signs.

"It's like you were made for Ultramarine cock, little one,"

Sicarius briefly wonders what you would both do if he hit the wall; If he yelled that he could hear you both, to shut up and stop. He also debates getting up and breaking down that neighboring door himself, scolding Titus for a clear breach in duty and send him tumbling further down Ultramarine ranks.

"Yes! Yes, I love you TItus..."

He hears Titus chuckle and return your sentiment, and Sicarius snarls in his empty room. They're Ultramarines, they should be beyond things like love and lust, and yet Titus is falling for both.

"You're so tight, my sweet girl,"

Sicarius rolls his eyes. Why Titus always insists on being so soft with you- blunting all of his edges - he will never understand. You keened and mewled the most when he told you that you were made for Ultramarine cock, clearly you want him to tell you what you really are. That you want your cunt filled with only the finest of the Emperor’s angels. He would show you what your use should be instead of a prized diplomat, they very reason they are here on this backwater planet with paltry scenery. If not for your presence, they would have covered this planet in ash by now.

It should be him that degrades you, that tells you what you really are. But instead Titus remarks about how wet you are, how ready and able you are to take him. You’re a good girl, you’re strong; Sicarius would never say those things to you.

For awhile the talking ceases, and Sicarius finds it a bit easier to distract himself away from the sounds of mindless moaning, TItus' hips slapping against you and the bed knocking against the wall, though it's as if saying one torture is better than another. He manages to finish the prayers to his bolster’s machine spirit, and then once again finds his mind quickly drifting back to you.

Why is he so invested in this? Why can’t he just block it out and forget like anything else? Is it because the amount of rules in the Codex that Titus is breaking? Is it because it’s you?

“Inside, inside please don’t-“

Sicarius angrily pushes his hand over his hair, flattening it against his head. You just keep begging, you want him so badly. He swears he can hear your nails clawing at Titus’ shoulders and trying to keep him close to you.

Sicarius swears he can feel it, a ghost of that feeling, the raking bite of blunt nails against his already scarred skin. Who cares if he gets a few more.

“I don’t want you to have to explain why you are suddenly with child,”

Titus gently says, strain in his voice. He's close, Sicarius can tell even though muffled.

“Guilliman knows, Guilliman knows I am with y-“

Sicarius’ breath hitches. His brow furrows and his hands rest more limp around the combat knife he’d been vigorously polishing.

…His primarch knows of this?

All of the times Sicarius had voiced his opinion about you, complained about your uncouth behavior and lack of professionalism bringing shame to their Legion, your sickly sweet smile and soft form, he knew you were bonded to Titus? And he has neither said nor done a single thing?

Why did the realization feel like a stab, and why does it ache like one?

"You'll make fine Ultramarines, then,"

Sicarius can't stop the image of you that takes over his mind; Of your jewelry against your skin, elegant dress changed by the swell of a big round belly. No one would know that one of the Ultramarines serving in your retinue is the father of that child, and perhaps if SIcarius was willing to deny reality, he could pretend in that moment that it was him.

It should be him; He is the Grand Duke of Talassar, one of the greatest Ultramarines that's ever lived, and you chose to risk getting bred by Titus? He could give you a child that was stronger than what any other man could give you, that he would help raise to protect you, without a father that has a permanent stain on his name.

It should be him, he thinks as he hears you mewl and cry, Titus' deep voice groaning. It becomes muffled before quickly stopping; He assumes because Titus’ kissed you.

But only now does the noise and the shaking finally stop, both finished. You say something about wanting to sleep, asking Titus to say. He agrees. Sicarius gets up, but somehow doesn’t remember where he was planning to leave to, and just stands in silence

It should be him.

[scriberye]

🔞 A Secret Held Tight (1/?)

────────── DEMETRIAN TITUS x F!READER x CATO SICARIUS ⚠️🔞 Explicit Sexual Content, Rough Sex, Drinking Weeks after a night of celebrations, you find yourself pregnant and ready to run, only to have your plans thwarted by Titus who vows to keep you safe. Now you must navigate the complexities of falling in love, and the scrutiny of Captain Cato Sicarius. a/n: A little smut to start things off.

You rise before dawn, when the air is chill and nips at your bones. It’s a new day, a relentless cycle of duty, where one day bleeds into the next. You hastily eat what you can for breakfast before you’re off.

The morning sun shining in from the windows keeps you warm as you scrub the stone floors. Ultramarines walk past, their voices low as they spoke in hushed conversation. You keep your head bowed until they move on.

Then you notice they’ve tracked dirt across the freshly cleaned floor, and you sigh. You can’t help but wonder if they notice they only make more work for their serfs. With a sigh, you resume cleaning, knowing the fortress needs to be clean for the celebration tonight.

The day passes in a blur in a whirlwind of chores and preparations. The fortress is abuzz with excitement — the main force is returning from another victorious campaign. Tonight, you’ll be able to indulge in good food and alcohol.

By evening, as the sun sets, the returning Ultramarines are greeted with cheers. Even in battle worn armor, the sight of them makes your heart swell with pride. The celebration begins, laughter and the smells of food fill the halls of the fortress. You join the other serfs in the feasting hall, and as the alcohol flows, the gap between you and the Ultramarines shrinks.

One marine in particular has caught your eye, and you’ve caught his. He’s stern faced, and holds himself in a commanding manner, even when he’s speaking with his brothers.

And you’re too drunk at this point to realize you’ve been making bedroom eyes at him all night. Your heart quickens when he excuses himself from the group and approaches you. The serfs you were with scatter, leaving you alone to face him.

He leans down, his hand heavy and possessive against the small of your back. “Come with me,” he whispers. The heat of his lips near your ear sends an electric shiver down your spine, and against your better judgment, you nod.

The sounds of the celebration fade into the background as he guides you through the halls of the fortress, his hand never leaving your back.

At last, he stops in front of a door and pushes you through it. It’s a serf’s room, but not yours, and whose you aren’t sure.

He drags you close, pulling your bodies flush together. The cold of his armor seeps through your clothes, chilling against your overheated flesh. He leans down and kisses you, hard and possessive. You whimper and cling to his armor as he devours your mouth, bullying his tongue into your mouth. His hands roam your body, groping and tearing at your clothes, tossing them aside to be forgotten.

The marine breaks the kiss and lifts you up with ease, carrying you over to the bed and throwing you down upon it. In your drunken haze, you laugh and give him your best sultry, come-hither look.

“Come, breed me, my lord,” you slur your words, obscenely spreading your legs wide for him. As if he would fit between them.

The marine growls. He fights with the codpiece of his armor and tosses it aside. It would take too long, be too much of a hassle to fully undress, and he needs to bury himself as deep as he can inside of you. You bit your lip as he reaches in the bodysuit, pulling out his stiff cock.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he demands, joining you on the bed. It creaks dangerously under his added weight. When you don’t move fast enough for him, he grabs you by the hip and rolls you over onto your stomach. You yelp and giggle when he raises your hips high, forcing you to lean up on your toes to accommodate him.

He slaps his cock against the wet slit of your cunt a few times before fitting the thick head against your entrance. There are no sweet words, no considerate ‘here I go’, nothing. The marine sinks himself into you, forcing your cunt to stretch around his girth.

For a moment, the pain of it all sobers you up faster than any hangover cure. You cry out, clawing at the bed beneath you as he thrusts shallowly against you, again and again, shoving himself deeper into you each time.

“Breathe girl,” he grumbles. “Keep squeezing like that and you’ll push me out.”

You take a deep, shaky breath and try to will your body to relax. He drives his cock harder into you this time, causing you to let out a squeal. Your body shakes in his grip as you cum, gushing and soaking his cock further with your fluids.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Such a well behaved mortal. I’ll give you what you want!”

He squeezes your hips tight enough that you’ll have bruises in the morning, and fucks you in earnest. Your desperate cries mingle with his grunts. The old bed squeaks and groans, the headboard bangs against the wall. It’s enough to push you quickly into a second orgasm. Your eyes roll back in your head, your cunt leaking and clenching around him.

The marine moans, slowing down as he enjoys the feel of your cunt fluttering around him. He thrusts one last time and groans, loud and deep. He holds himself deep inside of you, his cock throbbing as he floods your cunt with his seed.

Your head spins as his cock slips from your dripping cunt and you drop back onto the bed, panting hard. He leans back and slaps you hard on the ass; the sound echoing through the room. It stings and you yelp, raising your ass higher with a whine.

He chuckles and leans over you, guiding his cock into you again.

The night wears on, hours blending together as he claims you over and over. You lose track of how many times he’s made you cum, and the number of times he’s filled you with his seed. Even after the bed collapsed, he continues. He picks you up and tosses you onto the next available surface — be it a table, wall, or floor.

You tremble, overwhelmed and caught up in the frenzy of desire, and it takes its toll. Exhaustion claims you at some point, and you pass out. The next time you wake, it’s alone in the remnants of a broken bed. You’re disappointed he didn’t stay, more so that you can’t remember anything distinctive about him.

Your body protests as you try to rise and clean yourself up, his cum still marking your thighs. The memories of the previous night are hazy, and you hope you’ll see him again.

[the-raven-lady]

Closer

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Cato Sicarius x Reader [Fem]

Song Inspiration: Closer - Nine Inch Nails [Youtube] [Spotify]

“You let me violate you / you let me desecrate you /

You let me penetrate you / you let me complicate you /

I broke apart my insides / I’ve got no soul to tell /

The only thing that works for me / Help me get away from myself.”

Warnings: SMUT. Degradation and praise, possessiveness, partial asphyxiation, hair pulling, breeding kink, right into the rough and nasty. 

Word Count: 1.3k

Author’s Note: Raven Lady’s ovulating and it’s bad. I have no excuse. This hit me while I was rocking on the floor like Apollo with the dodgeball and I let the hormones win. Not edited in the slightest.

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty

The rough prickling of his beard rubs against your shoulder, scratching against it uncomfortably, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Obediently you tilt your head to the side to grant Cato more access, which he greedily takes. The captain tangles one of his massive hands into your hair and yanks your head to the side. His lips attack the side of your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin between rough bites and sucks. You know you’re going to have hickies to cover tomorrow and for the next few weeks, if he’ll allow it. 

The day had started off so innocently with you helping the noblewomen tire out their young ones, the little tykes running about the streets without a care in the world. The sight of the young ones brought a simple joy to your primarch, Guilliman having mentioned that it reminded him of the home he used to remember. Cato had passed by with several of his company on their way to training, and you had made an offhand comment about wondering what it would be to guide your own little one about the grand fortress.

Either the thought of putting one in you or the idea of you growing round and full with his child had completely plagued Sicarius’s mind for the rest of the day, as the next moment you two were well and truly alone, you clothes hadn’t lasted more than a few short seconds. They still lie in tatters on the tiled floor, occasionally getting caught under foot.

“You’re no better than a common– fucking– slut,” Cato pants, punctuating each word with the slam of his hips against yours. 

He has your sore body roughly pinned down to the covers, not allowing you an inch of breathing room as he fucks into you. The wet squelch of him penetrating your tight cunt echoes off of the metal walls of your room, his balls stimulating your clit with each thrust. Cum drips sloppily from between your thighs and down onto linen sheets. Mind clouded and lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, you mewl underneath him for more, more, more.

You cry out as his teeth sink into your neck, adding to the masterwork he’s so carefully crafted. You were his, and until your belly had swelled enough to display it for all to see, Cato swore he would continue to fuck you to exhaustion each day.

Oh, but could he bring himself to stop then with how gorgeous you sounded caged beneath him? Begging and keening beneath him like the good little whore you were? Or would he fall headfirst into his desires, enraptured by the glow of your gravid body as it grew?

He certainly couldn’t fuck you as he was now, shoving your chest down into the bed and forcing you to present so prettily. Cato leans back, pulling you up by the hair with him to arch your back just the way he likes.

“Good girl,” he growls, using the new angle to draw more sounds out of your aching throat and abused cunt, “Taking it like the vile whore you are.” 

The way you clench around his cock has him delirious with pleasure, as if he hadn’t already just flooded your womb twice before. You must be one of Slaanesh’s finest beneath the skin with how your lecherous body always draws him in for more. The sheen of sweat on your skin makes you glitter in the low light like a treasure.

“Can you even hear me in that dumb little head of yours? So stupid, so pretty. Just a hole to be used.” Cato’s free hand snakes around your waist and up to paw at your breasts, tweaking a nipple and pulling a yipe from you. “Would you spread your legs for any common Ultramarine if he promised to put a baby in you?”

You nod your head, cockdrunk and wild, and Cato snarls. He snaps his hips up hard into you, stilling and grinding his cock against your cervix enough to send pleasure and pain alike up your spine. A whimper catches in your throat from the treatment, the pressure almost too much to bear.

“Of course you would. So eager to have your pussy filled.” The hand at your breasts fondles them. “But you won’t. You won’t—” he withdraws almost completely, cockhead nestled just at your pussylips, “—because you’re mine.” The grip in your hair tightens, and Cato yanks you back to meet him as he drives forward, ripping a loud moan from your chest. The brutal pace from before resumes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

You will yourself to speak through hiccuped breaths, voice low and breathy. “Are you going to– ah!– put a baby in me, Sicarius?”

The side of your face ungracefully meets the bed again as Cato pushes you back down. A growl rumbles within him.

“Brainless harlot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bred so full your abdomen distends?” As if to accentuate his point, the hand at your breast slides down to rest above your abdomen. “Waddling around the Fortress of Hera carrying the child of someone so high above your standing?” 

Despite the venom of his degrading words, the breathiness of his voice betrays how much the idea affects him. He clutches at you in a manner that is all too tender. Protective.

Cato’s steady thrusts begin to falter, and he slows his hips to a steady roll to feel out every inch of himself in you. A satisfied breath puffs against your ear as he leans  back over you, skilled fingers finding your neglected clit and rolling it in tight circles.

“Come for me,” he pleads, fucking that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. The spring within you draws tighter, tighter, making you feel afloat as every little sensation coils it further. 

The gentle press of Cato’s lips against your jawline makes you shudder, the affectionate gesture enough to snap the tension within your belly. With a loud cry, you spasm and clamp down around the Ultramarine’s cock, digging your nails into the sheets of the bed. Your legs shake from the intensity, giving out from under you.

The feeling of your pussy like a vice around him causes Cato to moan, low and desperate as he chases his own orgasm. With a final harsh thrust, he stills, moan breaking into throaty stutters. His balls draw tight against you, cock throbbing inside of you as he pumps your cunt full of his seed for the third and final time. Muscular arms wrap around you firmly, holding you to Cato’s chest as he gently cants his hips against yours to milk the last of his cum into your waiting womb.

The both of you pant as you wind down, barely able to get a full breath as the astartes’ much larger form rests on top of yours. Slick with sweat, you turn your head to the side to look at his handsome face. His eyes crack open to meet yours, and he grants you a rare smile, white teeth peeking out from behind his lips. You reciprocate.

“How do we tell Guilliman if anything does happen?” you ask, resting your head on your arms.

Cato immediately grimaces, looking away with a roll of his eyes. “Can we discuss my genefather when I’m not still inside of you?”

Chuckling, you lean over to press a kiss to his nose. He huffs, but his breath hitches when you clench down around him. Instantly, he freezes, and his eyes are back on yours, darkening and boring into you. The muscles of his jaw tighten.

You meet him with a challenge, purring out, “We might as well make it certain that he’ll have something to worry about.” In invitation, you wiggle your hips.

Fingertips dig harshly into the swell of your ass to hold them steady. “Insatiable woman,” Cato chides, gripping your jaw and pulling you once more into a bruising kiss.

[ms--lobotomy]

I started this when I couldn't sleep last night. Even more self-indulgent than normal. You can thank @moodymisty and @kit-williams for getting me into the funny blueberry. The fleas. The fleas. THE FLEAS-

Summary: Cato Sicarius hate fuckin'

Content Warnings: SMUT and rough smut at that, Heavy degradation kink (to the reader), Semi-public, could be seen as dubcon but it's consensual in my head, Armor kink, Unhealthy relationship (sorry to all my healthy relationship stans), blood, the use of the word "whore" to degrade, body worship (take a wild guess whose body), crying,

Image Credit: @squishyowl (I don't know whether to apologize or say you're welcome)

“Cato, where are we going?”

His response was as cold as his gauntlet on your skin. “It’s Captain Sicarius to you.”

His hand gripped your wrist, threatening to leave a nasty bruise, and you had to jog to keep up with him. Most of the Ultramarines and serfs around you seemed to mind their own business, but a few cast quick glances towards the two of you. After a while, one of the sons of Guilliman spoke up.

“Captain,” he began. “Is everything alright?”

“It is,” he replied. “Hurry along. You have better things to do.”

You watched ever so briefly as the marine absconded in the opposite direction. You had to crane your neck upwards to look at the man on your wrist. You opened your mouth to say something, but decided against it right before he stopped by a closet, one just big enough to fit a fully armored space marine.

“Is this…?”

“In,” he hissed.

He turned the doorknob and it made a click before he swung the door open, ushering you in with a hand on your back. He followed suit and swung the door shut before you could have a look around the room. Absentmindedly, he pushed a spare broom to the side.

“What—“

“Undress.”

“Did you just say—?”

“Undress.”

You sheepishly pulled your shirt over your head as you heard the hiss of him removing his helmet, the clang of it falling to the floor before the clang of another piece of armor dropping to the floor. Oh. As you pulled down your pants, a question arose.

“Captain? How am I going to find my clothes?”

You felt arms loop around you and a hand at your back unhooking your bra. Your heart skipped a beat. “We will deal with that when we deal with that.” His breath was warm against the top of your head.

Not a moment after your underwear hit the floor did you feel that familiar feeling of being pushed against the wall. You let out a slight “mmh” at the motion, your feet dangling above the ground. There was a little ledge under you, barely big enough for you to fit on with a little help. You could assume that you were at eye level with him, it was far too dark to tell. You grabbed for his armor and you could feel him recoil before he made his way back to you.

“Dirty cunt,” he spat before he pressed his lips on yours. You hadn’t time to gasp for air, air that left your lungs quickly when he grazed his teeth along your bottom lip. Your hands grasped for whatever they could find, eventually resting between his shoulders and neck.

When he finally pulled away you gasped for air, limp under him. “By the Throne, you’re pathetic,” he huffed, coming in for another kiss. Your legs squeezed together, trying to hide the mess already present between them. He pulled away soon enough, sliding a finger between your legs. Blood rushed to your face at the almost crackling sound that it made against his cold armor.

"Wet already?"

You pressed a hand to your chest, leaning forwards slightly. “Nngh… Cato…”

“Captain. Sicarius,” he commanded. “Spread your legs for me, you little whore.”

You spread them, as wide as you could. He stuck an armored finger into you and you gasped, grabbing onto his armor again. Your hands slipped on his armor, and you leaned into him.

“Quiet,” he hissed before he jammed his lips on yours again. You moaned into his mouth as his armored finger trailed along you, making you quiver underneath him. You felt your naked body press against his armor, rough against your skin. He bit down on your lower lip, drawing a little bit of blood. You felt your eyes start to wet. You tried to pull away but he grabbed you and kept you on him as you started to taste metal.

Finally, he pulled away. "You're going to leave such a mess," he grumbled as you wiped your lip. Faster than you could think, he pinned your wrists to your side and kissed your collarbone just like he'd kissed your lips--roughly and jaggedly. You felt his teeth hastily graze your skin, threatening to sink in before he sucked hard.

You pressed your lips together before you couldn't hold it in any longer. "A-ah..." you cried, his outline barely visible.

Sicarius pulled away. "Quiet down, or they'll all know how much of a whore you really are." He pressed himself lower, dangerously close to your nub. His hands moved away from your wrists towards your waist, and you ran your hands through his short, dark hair. You felt that same sucking and you cried out again before he stuffed two of his fingers in your mouth. You tasted ceramite, and the lids of your eyes lowered as you moaned into his fingers.

With his remaining hand, he took your nub between his fingers, squeezing it. "Are you going to be quiet for me?" he asked, slightly pulling on it.

You moaned into his ceramite again before he removed it with a wet pop. His hand grazed the side of your face before it trailed down to your shoulder, holding you down as you writhed underneath him. You could hear his armor shift briefly before he bit down on your nub, hard.

"C-Captain!" you exclaimed, your hands sinking into his hair. Before he could draw blood, he moved onto your other side. You pressed him into you, wrapping your legs around him.

He rose up, his form back to towering above you. "Took you long enough," he huffed before taking you off of the ledge. You took a few seconds to steady yourself, rubbing one of the spots that he bit.

"Now kneel."

"Captain...?"

"I told you to kneel."

You found yourself on your knees and you felt an armored hand on your head. Something brushed up against your face, something warm and hard. You had to turn up a little bit to reach mouth level with him.

"I want you to pleasure me."

"Okay..." you said quietly, taking him in your hand. You touched him gently, peppering kisses along him and fondling his balls. It wasn't long before you took the tip in your mouth. He grabbed the sides of your head as his hips began to gyrate, pressing himself deeper into you. Despite everything, you let out a high-pitched squeal, desperately gasping for air.

With a deep grunt, he shoved himself in deeper. You felt a tear streak down your cheek, and you wanted desperately to wipe it away but there were more pressing matters at hand. "I told you that I wanted you to pleasure me," he grunted, thrusting a few more times before he popped himself out of your mouth. You leaned over the ground, gasping for air.

"Captain..." you said between sharp breaths.

"Back on the ledge," he barked, kneeling in front of you. You felt a hand on the side of your face, his thumb barely entering your mouth.

You tried to speak, regardless. "Captain, I can barely see in here," you said, your breath evening out.

"You're too soft to be on this ship," he huffed, picking you up by your underarms and placing you back on that ledge. "It's a wonder your puny ass is still alive."

"Alright..." you said before he shifted you down a little bit. You felt him press at your entrance, holding you on him like you were nothing but a toy. You felt his breath hot on your skin, his armor cold against your legs.

"I still haven't came yet," he remarked. "I won't enter unless you beg for it."

You gulped and your wet, messy eyes widened. "...Beg?" you asked softly, your hands tracing the indents on his armor.

"You heard me."

"O-okay..." you said shakily. "I'm so desperate, Captain... I need you in me." Your hands reached out for the outline of his face, but you could barely reach him. "I need to be used. I need to be disrespected. I..." you paused, your face warm and wet. "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm just a little whore."

He chuckled. "You do realize people might hear you?" he asked as he finally pushed himself in. He didn't spend any time acclimating you to him, but that didn't stop you from going over the edge. Tears streamed down your face as you cried out, your hands balling up into fists.

"Captain!" you cried out, your eyes barely open. You cried out with every thrust, and before long, he was burying himself to the hilt before exiting again. You felt a sharp pain where he was, and you tried to speak again.

"It hurts..." you let out between moans.

"Good," he snarled, his hands enveloping your waist and slamming you onto him again and again. Your hands trailed towards his arms, the armor still cold against your skin. You came again on him, crying out as your eyes rolled back into your skull.

"Again?" he asked, keeping pace. "You're so pathetic. I can't believe I'm in a supply closet with such a... such a whore."

"I am," you said meekly. Almost as if on cue, he buried himself in you one last time and pumped you full of his seed. As he throbbed inside you, you felt his head between your shoulder and neck. The position must be at least a little uncomfortable, but you weren't going to say anything. A mix of blood and seed dripped down your leg, forming a small puddle on the floor of the closet.

"I can clean it--"

"No. I will," he huffed, setting you down. He ran a hand along your thigh, cleaning it off. You shivered under his touch again, leaning against his armor.

"Thank you," you said as he ran a hand through your hair.

"Stay here," he said. "You're going to get water."

[sleepyfan-blog]

Protection

Author’s note: this is the fourth in the Bully(ing) Cato Sicarius fic series. First. Prev. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @i-am-a-dragon34 @passionofthesith

Warnings: Cato Sicarius Being Himself, ask me to tag if something bothers you, canon-typical violence, disparaging descriptions of food

Summary: Cato is your escort to an Imperial Gala. He’s very bored until he isn’t.

Cato dislikes going to these events when his duties as Second Captain of the Ultramarines mandate him to within Ultramar. Or when he is called upon as the Knight Champion of Macragge to aid in the raising of funds for one thing or another. He's almost always in his dress uniform which offers fuck-all in terms of actual protection, is stiffly starched, inhibits his full range of motion and the cloth is itchy to boot. And speaking of boots, instead of his usual combat boots, he's wearing fine, soft-souled leather boots. He's sure that the leather is ridiculously expensive - it'd taken an annoying amount of credits to get them created in time for the Imperial Gala. At least his family's ancestral sword was at his side. One of his hand drifted down to the hilt of the blade - not that he was going to draw it (and stab himself out of the sheer, unending boredom that gnawed voraciously at his sanity) but merely to reassure himself that it was there, when you come up to hi m, looking frustratingly beautiful in the dress you were wearing.

As your escort, the two of you had color-coordinated… And given that you were part of the Lord Regent's retinue, both Cato and yourself were draped in the colors of the Ultramarines. You were wearing a beautiful deep blue dress with gold accents and jewelry. The central gemstone on the pendant necklace you were wearing was an ultramarine blue lapis lazuli that shone brightly in the light. You thrived in this sort of situation. There were many people of high influence who were willing to be convinced to spend money on the cause you were giving voice to - which was additional funds to repair certain devastated regions across a dozen worlds in this sector of the Imperium.

Cato glared down at the plate of food that had been put in front of him. As an Astartes, the amount of mortal food he'd need to consume in order to properly sustain himself was laughable. These miniscule portions with all sorts of strange crap dribbled across the plate was entirely unappetizing. He poked the… Meat? It was a deep violet color and was oozing a fragrant liquid that was nearly overpowering to Cato's senses. He took one of the far too small eating utensils and poked at it. He'd been to fancy meals before, but most event organizers knew better than to try and feed a space marine anything other than foods and rations made specifically for Astartes.

You nudge him in the side with your elbow "This is Sheldeer tenderloin. It's very expensive and only served to guests of high status. It's supposed to look like this, and the sauce is made out of Splumes - which are a dark purple fruit that are equally sweet and musky. If you refuse to eat, it's an insult to the host."

"… Fine." He had promised Father to do his best to behave himself. Cato's scowl intensified and he cut into the insultingly tiny portion of food, bringing it up to his lips and eating it. He had enough experience with mortal food to be able to keep from flinching as the barrage of intense flavors assaulted his tongue. He swallowed down the tiny morsel without much chewing and grabbed at his wine goblet - the wine had been provided by Father from Macragge itself as a generous gift. The familiar flavors of the wine washed away the strange tastes and textures. There were dozens of reasons why young Ultramarines were given lessons on how to eat at mortal events like this, including them to the assault on the senses that mortal food could prove to be. Especially expensive mortal foods, with their love of anything that was obscenely expensive - no matter how vile it actually tasted.

Acquired tastes his left ass-cheek. Cato didn't care how expensive Purple Truffungus was, it was disgusting. He'd smelled soldiers who'd been suffering from Nurgilite trench foot for weeks and that smelled better than the second tiny dish that he was served. Rancid fish eggs with purple truffungus shaved over top. He glared at the dish, as it was a personal offense to him. The scent alone was making him nauseous.

You nudge him in the side and hiss "Eat it."

"No! I refuse! I've smelled rotten corpses more appetizing." Cato hissed back, shooting you a glare. He could tell that several of the local nobles were watching them. The temptation to cross his arms over his chest after shoving the dish out from under his nose was tempting beyond words.

"Stop being a picky eater! I thought Astartes could eat anything, including dirt and concrete! This is specifically made to be not only edible but allegedly delicious." You counter. You didn't enjoy fermented fish roe either, but he was being ridiculous.

The glare he sent you could melt a glacier within seconds. "Just because we can eat nearly anything doesn't mean that we do." He wasn't going to admit to eating building materials or ground. Even as a dare during his scout-hood days. Reluctantly he picked up a tiny spoon and shoved the dish into his mouth as quickly as propriety would allow, swallowing without chewing to avoid feeling the fish roe bursting disgustingly in his mouth.

~

Once the vile dinner had concluded, Cato followed you onto the dancefloor, taking one of your small hands in one of his, his other hand coming to rest lightly on your waist as he led the two-person dance as the first song played. The food settled unpleasantly in his stomach, but none of it had been poisoned. Simply horrific and nausea-inducing. He remembered the steps to this dance, effortlessly leading you from step to step, his grip light as you spun in the middle of the dance.

"We're going to need to dance with other people. Mingle with the other guests." You murmur, voice low so as to not to carry over the sound of the live music playing.

Cato scowls at that, his grip on your hand and waist tightening a little "No. I am your escort for the evening, which means I am to stay by your side no matter what, in case of emergency or attack."

You sigh a little, eyes softening a bit. He's an asshole, but you're keenly aware of how seriously he takes his duties. "You don't have to be on the other side of the dancefloor, but part of the reason we - I - am here is to make friendly contact with the nobles here, to encourage positive relations between nobles of differing worlds and sectors of the Imperium. Part of how that is done is spending time getting to know them, at least on a superficial level."

The scowl on his face intensified "I agreed to escort you and dance with you. I did not agree to dance with any mortal who wishes to dance with me tonight."

Considering the ferocity of his glare, you doubted that all but the very bravest would get close enough to ask him. "Captain… Cato, please do this for me? I'd be grateful if you did." You plead, looking up at him hopefully. You had to get him to go along with this, for the night to be successful. If he loomed over your shoulder and dance partners all night, it would cause problems. You had to get him to agree to back off, at least a little.

Cato stares down at you, looking as if someone had shot him point blank with a bolter. He stares down at you for several minutes, the frown on his face having shifted into something more thoughtful. His movements during the dance felt automatic - and you could practically hear the many gears in his head churning and churning. Eventually he managed out a gruff "Fine…" He sounded marginally less likely to stab someone than he had all night, which you were counting as a success. With a surprising amount of reluctance, he let go of you when the first song ended.

Since then, you had been flouncing around from person to person as the songs played on, batting your eyelashes at the other mortals. Coaxing them into spending the wealth that their families have been hoarding for untold millennia in exchange for a sweet smile and the occasional dance or flattering comment. You'd been working on Lord Fuckwit the Two-hundred and Eighty-Ninth of his name for the past ten minutes, giving him some of your most professional smiles as he drones on and on about how lucky she was to be even in the same space as him, how illustrious his family was, and how important he personally, was for the Imperium.

Cato had danced with a steady stream of shorter partners, none of whom seemed to have realized that he was an actual Ultramarine from the way they gossiped and griped about the changes to their power-structure that Father had made, more than a few making nearly treasonous comments before spluttering and back-tracking, saying that they'd drunk too much wine, and of course they would follow the mandates that the only known living Holy Primarch had handed down to their rulers. He was mentally categorizing the complainers between those who were likely just talk, those who likely would side with the high lords of terra should those corrupted bastards try for a coup against Father (again) and throw who would get involved and then crumble into a thousand pieces at the slightest bit of threatened hardship if they didn't spill all they knew of such things.

After the tenth song, a number of the mortals had retired to the edge of the dancefloor to refresh themselves. You were busy speaking and dancing with Baron Shitface the Jabbering, so Cato politely excused himself from his latest dancing partner - an empty-headed little mortal who had tried to guess which branch of the Astra Militarum he was from by the cut of his uniform. He didn't even smack or yell at her once for how utterly wrong she was. You better be grateful for how tolerant he's being. Cato stalks to the edge of the dancefloor, the mortals sensing his dour mood and showing some of the sense the god-emperor gave them when they were born by getting the fuck out of his way as he made his way over to the nearest server with a platter of non-alcoholic drinks. He grabbed two of them, taking a sip of both of them and waiting to see if his Bletcher's gland would activate.

It did not, and you looked like you were in need of rescue from Duke Asshole the Seven hundred and four, so Cato made his way over to where you were dancing with him. He was well-passed tipsy and hovering around shit-faced drunk. It was obvious from his swaying movements and slurred speech. You were handling him well, as the seasoned diplomat you were is capable of. He even waited for the most recent song to end before cutting in. "Would you like a refreshment, *cor meum?"

Duke Whoever from Fucking Nowhere spluttered "And just who are you to cut in while I am dancing with this lovely lady?"

Cato didn't so much as glance in the drunken fool's direction, knowing that he only just had control of his temper as it was "I'm not talking to you, Duke." His intense gaze was focused on you.

You could see the way his fingers twitched around the crystal goblet he was holding out to you, the slight furrow of his brows that never meant anything pleasant unless you redirected him away from his fury. You were taken aback by the pet name. You do gratefully take the goblet of water "How thoughtful of you, yes I very much would like a drink, Cato. Duke Thendali, it has been an honor to dance with you, but I would ask of you an indulgence and let me rest for a moment. I have beendancing since the first song and need a moment to refresh myself."

The furrow in Cato's brows softened a little, and he gently tapped his glass against yours "To a successful evening."

The duke wandered off, muttering drunkenly to himself, his eyes set on someone else to speak or dance with.

You echo the captain's sentiments, a small smile appearing on your face. You've been trying to get away from this drunken noble for several minutes, and Cato has given you an excellent out. You wonder if he did that on purpose, and what the cost of that is going to be, or if he feels it is his duty to rescue you out of awkward social situations tonight, in addition of any physical danger you might be faced with. If so, his timing is impeccable. "To a successful evening. Have you been enjoying dancing?"

Cato stared down at you as he sipped on his drink before answering "Dancing with you, perhaps. My other dancing partners have been… Informative. A couple of them I'll mention to Father." From the veiled but dour expression on his face, whoever those people were, were likely to be getting visited by an allied Inquisitor soon.

But that wasn't part of your position and not something that you'd concern yourself with. You finish the drink that Captain Sicarius got for you, going to the drop-off table, humming along to the beautiful music, a genuine if small smile on your face. Despite the fact that you can tell that captain Sicarius has been seething for most of the night, he's… He's clearly trying his best to be pleasant. And he hasn't flung a single baseline human yet, You're almost proud of hi-

Cato watched you as you moved through the crowd to where the empty cups and goblets were supposed to be placed, the irritation and boredom he'd been feeling all night once again bubbling just beneath the surface of his mind. He tensed as one of the servers walked directly over to you, their movements off.

The server pulled a large kitchen knife out of one of their pockets, raising it up as they aimed for your unprotected back.

OH FUCK NO!

The second captain of the Ultramarines sprinted over to where you were standing, oblivious to the danger, not bothering to suppress the furious growl that rumbled in his chest as he bodily slammed into the fool, one large h and crushing the wrist of the idiot who thought to strike at you while under his protection. "You dare strike at her? She who is under the protection of the Lord Regent? Of the Ultramarines? Of myself?"

"Wh… Who are you? Why are you so fucking big?" The idiot spluttered, their eyes going wide as they struggled weakly in his grasp. "She is a hindrance and will be remo-urgk!"

Cato plucked the knife out of the idiot's hand and casually flicked it into the foot thick, solid hardwood table, knowing that it would be buried to the hilt. No one short of an astartes or Ogryn was getting that blade out of the table with any kind of swiftness of ease. In the same motion with the same hand he grabbed the yapping fool of a would-be Assassin as he slowly moved backwards, ensuring that his bulk covered you entirely from all eyes in the room, his own cold as the deepest depths of space "I am Cato Sicarius, captain of the second company of the Ultramarines. This diplomat is under my protection. No harm will come to her tonight or at any other time that she is in my care. You will be questioned and you will spill all of the information you have."

He paused for a moment, looking you over. Your eyes were wide and you were trembling ever so slightly. Fear and confusion plain in your scent, though your Diplomat's Mask kept a calm expression on your face. "Did he nick you anywhere before I could come to your side, my lady?" His voice was warmer, gentler but carried just as far.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and shake your head, noticing as several guards began rushing over. You signal for them to slow down - Sicarius was not likely to take more clearly armed strangers moving at speed towards you. Not with the terrible temper he'd been in all night and the casual violence he'd already showed. "No, he didn't do me any harm. The guards are here, you should give the would-be attacker to them for processing."

Cato huffed, sending a suspicious glare at the sheepish and startled guards "… As you command, my lady. You, catch." With that he flung the would-be assassin to the ground, aiming him so that he hit the ground in front of the closest pair of guards with the ease that a baseborn human would chuck a couple of grapes.

The assassin wheezed out "THERE'S ONLY ONE OF HIM! ATTACK! WE'LL GET HER!"

Nearly two-dozen people suddenly drew weapons and charged yourself and Cato. You froze up, unsure what to do.

Cato snorted, entirely unimpressed. He grabbed the large table filled with empty drinks with one hand and threw it at the closest five would-be assassins, scattering them as he pulled you to his side with his other hand. "Stay close my lady. I will make short work of these fools." He picked you up one-handed, setting you on his shoulders and out of the immediate stabbing range of your would-be attackers. He then drew and activated his power sword. He kept one hand on your back to keep you in place as he hacked and slashed at the charging baseline humans.

With each swing of his sword he either decapitated one of your would-be attackers or took off the arm that held the short blade that they'd been wielding. Twelve of them were dead before anyone really had a clear idea as to what the fuck was going on, and Cato was stalking after the closest three, a predator's smirk on the one handed idiot.

"W-wait… Please… I… I've… I've decided to surrend-aaah!" One of them pleaded, screaming when Cato cut one of their legs off, in order to slow them down.

"I don't think that you and the rest of the idiots who made this suicidal charge understand just who and what you're dealing with." Cato purred as he cut another would-be assassin shoulder to naval, spilling their intestines as they staggered back with a pained gurgle. "I am an Ultramarine captain. Do you know how many centuries of combat I have in order to qualify for that position? How many successful campaigns I've lead, mmm? And you idiots sought to harm my charge. Those of you who survive the next several minutes will regret your idiocy for the rest of your lives. Not that the Lord Regent tolerates traitors and assassins to live past their interrogations. With this stunt, you may just get his personal attention… And you should believe me when I say that he has a way of making a person reconsider every life choice that led them to putting them at odds with him."

Two more of the assassins tried to run from Cato - not that they got near to where the illustrious people had fled to the edges of the large room of, screaming and watching in terrified horror as they watch a furious space marine dismember those who dared think that they could fight against them.

One of the assassins desperately threw a blood-soaked dagger at him, which he didn't bother to dodge - he knocked it out of the air with his own blade, so that the wayward projectile didn't harm any of the other quests. He was going to be scolded for frightening the baselines as it was… He was doing his best to minimize potential civilian casualties. The mortal guards were just as useless as Cato expected them to be - half of them had frozen up in fear, the others were trying to avoid being trampled by the wealthy guests.

Cato killed all but two of the would-be assassins, using the fools own knives to pin them in place by their clothing. He did have some blood splattered on his unform, which was a shame, but at least he had made sure that you were wholly clean of blood. He pointed the tip of his power sword at one of the whimpering sword as he heard the familiar rumble of jump-packs. The smile on his face widened a little as a squad of his subordinates in full ceramite entered through one of the large windows, lead by lieutenant Titus.

Titus called out "I heard that there's a commotion going on. If I'd been told that the gala was going to end like this, I'd have sparred you for the honor of guarding our diplomat, captain. I'm not much for fancy parties, but killing idiots is something I revel in. Father's on his way. Who's the weepy bastard at the other end of your sword?"

"One of the fools who attempted to harm our diplomat, Titus. If you and Numitor would please escort her back to Macragge's Honor, where I know she is entirely safe, I would be most grateful. I am going to start interrogating this idiot now." Cato ordered Titus. He was unwilling to let you out of his sight, but he knew that the lieutenant would die to ensure that you were safe. Not there was anything on this world likely to be able to kill him.

Titus sighed "I figured you'd say something like that. Father says to not interrogate prisoners in public. I've got three squads following me to processing the living and the dead. We're all heading back to Macragge's Honor. Father's orders."

Cato huffed but nodded, sheathing his sword "As Father commands." He scoops you up in his arms, tucking you into his chest as he broke into a swift run, Titus and the squad of Ultramarines he'd led surrounding yourself and Cato protectively.

*according to google translate this means my heart in Latin and as Ultramarines are Space Romans... I went with Latin for pet names.

[lemon-russ]

hoooo boy. It is 3am. I started this at 1am. Almost stream of conscious writing. Lots of sex. Like, 3k words of sex. And I got emotional so like. Bone apple teeth, you heathens.

Fuck forgot tags, its too late lmao: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye, and thanks @squishyowl for dividers

Part 17/ ???

< previous || next >

Ao3 || Taglist request ||

Cato Sicarius x F!Reader

CW: Sex. Just. Lot of sex.

Summary: Cato and ambassador reunite

word count: 3,219

Song: Like Real People Do - Hozier (even get some easy listening with all this porn)

There is a sharp knock on your office door, making you jump a little. It wasn't Guilliman's knock.

“It's Open” you call out, standing and trying to tidy yourself and your desk. You'd been daydreaming and doodling again, not actually working, and tried to hide the evidence of your slacking with other papers.

Your door slides open, and to your surprise, Cato stands there, leaning in the door jamb, smirking.

It takes you a moment to process what you're looking at, but in a second you're scrambling around your desk, knocking papers on the floor as you sprint to the door.

Cato looks a little surprised himself when you fling yourself into his arms. He catches you, chuckling as he lets you cling to him.

“You weren't worried, we're you, little Ambassador?” He asks through a soft laugh.

You pull back and look up at his face in astonishment. “You're- You're home!” You gasp in shock.

“That I am.” He said smoothly.

“You found a ride? From all that way?” You ask, leaning back in to hug his chest.

He chuckles and pets your hair. “That I did. Surely you didn't expect the Captain of the Second Company to be bested by, what, finding a ride home?” He replies with some disbelief.

You laugh, burying your face in his shirt and sighing as you take in his scent, like wood and spices. For a second you realize he must use cologne to purposely smell nice, and almost laugh at the thought of him preening himself so much when he acts so aloof.

“I didn't think you'd like, die-” you say, muffled by his fatigues shirt. “-but I also expected you to take longer getting back.”

He pulls you back to look at your face, smiling and sighing as he lifts your chin. “Ye of little faith, Ambassador. After sorting things out with Titus, I had secured a ride home by the next morning.”

You smile wide. You were surprised to see him but, he's right, as much as he is cocky, it isn't unearned.

“Still,” you say, leaning your face into his palm as he moves to cup your face, “I'm so, so happy to see you.” You say softly.

He makes a soft hum, “And I have been loosing my mind missing you.” He says, mirroring your tone.

He lifts you up a bit and takes a step into your office, hitting the control panel on the door and setting it to locked. You raise an eyebrow and look up at him curiously.

Before you can formulate a question, it's already answered by the look in his eyes.

Hunger.

“Cato…?” You ask anyways, but squeak when he picks you up and plops you on your desk. He cages you in with his arms, towering over your little human size desk and grinning ear to ear.

“I have really missed you, my little Ambassador…” he says with a huskier tone. He moves his mouth to your neck and starts trailing warm kisses down.

You shudder, chuckling shyly. “Seriously? I worry for 3 days, thinking you were dead on some back water agriworld-” you stifle a gasp as he nips at your throat gently, “-and th-the first thing you want to do is-”

“Fuck you? Yes.” He purrs, pushing you gently onto your back on the desk. You flush, but it isn't not working on you. You feel your core warming as his hands roam up your curves and he nibbles at your collar bone.

“I walked into my Primarchs office today expecting to be given a death oath.” He says in a low voice.

You gasp softly. You thought he'd be in trouble, but, a death oath? A chill runs down your spine at the thought of your Cato having to swear himself to a suicide mission for the dishonor of bedding you…

He sees the look of worry in your eyes and gives you a reassuring smile. “Ah, don't stress about it. I was being a little dramatic.” He chuckles.

He goes back to kissing down your chest, humming happily and tugging your shirt away. “But dramatic or not, I thought I was going to at worst be sent to die, and at best, never see my little Ambassador again.” He sighs against your skin. “Though I think I'd prefer the death oath to knowing you were there and I just couldn't be near you…” he murmurs between kisses.

You let out a sigh, running fingers through his hair, letting yourself be comforted by the fact that he's here and safe right now. “So… you're not in trouble…?” You ask.

He grimaces, resting a cheek on your breasts and looking up at you. “Well, I mean, I'm suspended for a minute. But, thankfully a little diplomat worked her magic over on Guilliman.” He said with a smirk. “He said he, what was it, pinky promised not to kill me?”

You chuckle and blush a little. “Hey, you're not supposed to know that. The contents of a pinky promise are highly confidential.” You tease.

He grins up at you, nuzzling into your chest. “Well, thanks to you, I'm not only not going to be killed in some fashion, but I've been given permission to keep seeing you.” His expression softened into one of warm admiration. “Have I ever told you you're quite skilled at your job…?” He chuckled.

You gasp and put a hand to your chest, mouth agape in feigned shock. “Captain Sicarius! Was that… was that a genuine compliment?!” You say aghast. “And of my silly diplomacy skills, no less! Don't I recall you once saying my job was, what was it-” you tap your chin. “Ah, ‘frivolous and a waste of imperial resources’ I believe were the words…”

He rolled his eyes, laughing gently. “Oh be quiet, don't make me regret being nice” he said, turning to playfully mouth at your chest with his teeth.

You laugh and push playfully back on him. “What? I'm just trying to get clarification, because surely the great Cato Sicarius isn't actually admitting some things can be talked out-”

You're interrupted by him tugging your shirt up and snapping your bra off in a quick motion, making you melt into giggles as he pulls you closer to the edge of the table by the hips.

“You can be quite mean to me, you know that?” He chuckles playfully, mouth assaulting your breasts and making you giggle harder, punctuated by light gasps when he finds your nipple.

“You-” you gasp, “you're calling- me mean-?” You stifle a small moan as his hand finds your other breast and starts playing with it in tandem.

“Yes.” He says between kissing and sucking your nipples. “Quite mean, actually. You're a little bully.”

You laugh and give him a small smack on the shoulder, only eliciting more chuckles from him.

“No no, you aren't turning this on me Cato Sicarius!” You try to scold between breathless giggles. His hand has started working its way under your pants and tugging them down, which greatly distracted from your indignant rage. “You're the bully here- you tripped me for fun! You would hide my paperwork and tell important nobles crazy rumors about me!”

He pops his mouth off your breast, laughing in a low growl as he tucks you further against him and finally pulls off your pants. “You have no proof that you weren't raised on an agriworld entirely dedicated to manure farming.” He says with a mischievous grin.

You huff and smack his chest uselessly. “That's not even a real thing! And you didn't say ‘manure farming’, you told the planetary governor I was raised as a shit shoveler!”

“Tomato tomato.” He says, flippantly waving a hand. You start to growl out an argument but your words die in your throat as he tugs off his pants and kicks them to the side in one movement.

“We're-” you rasp, eyes glued to him stroking himself between your knees, “We're coming back to this later, I won't forget it.” You manage.

He rumbles a low chuckle in his chest, pushing your knees apart. “Oh, of course. Can't miss an opportunity to berate me, can you, little bully?” He needles at you playfully, but your frustratingly are having trouble keeping your thoughts straight while his fingers are trying to work into you.

He makes a happy hum as you interrupt yourself with a sweet, soft moan when his finger gently pushes into you at last.

“What was that, Ambassador? It sounded like you had a well thought out argument to make-” he chuckles as he pushes it deeper into you, pulling another noise from your throat.

“Y-you- mmhhhf-” you moan, squirming under him as he leans in and starts kissing you across the neck and jaw.

“Speak up, Lady Ambassador.” He chuckles, “why, this is no way to conduct yourself in a negotiation, making all these noises…”

He cuts off your next attempt at words by capturing your mouth with his own, and pulls his finger free of your clasping depths. You whimper against his mouth at the emptiness, but you aren't left alone long as you feel the head of his cock prod at your now somewhat more prepared entrance.

He releases you from the kiss, pulling back to grin mischievously at you. “Well?”

You blink, bleary eyed and confused. “…well what…?” You rasp breathlessly.

“Well, aren't you going to defend yourself against all my ‘bullying?’” He teases, rubbing his head along your soaked lips.

You blink again. “D…defend….” You frown, “What- you're the one who always bullies me-”

He stops you with another kiss, making you whimper a needy noise. “Well, maybe do your job you're so good at, hm?” He grumbles in an amused tone. “Go on, negotiate.”

The gears slowly turn in your hazy brain. “Negotiate… so you'll fuck me…?” You mumble.

He pushes the head of his massive cock just barely into you, making your hips instinctively rock, seeking more. He holds you by the waist and chuckles. “That's right. Maybe if you can argue your way into it, I'll bully you over it less.”

You frown, furrowing your brow. “You are such a brat, Cato.” You sigh.

You try and think through your sluggish, hazy thoughts. To negotiate, you just need to know what the other actually wants, and what they aren't willing to give up. Cato might think himself clever- and in all aspects of war he is. But when it comes to emotions, especially his own? The man barely figured out he liked you romantically, then was snappy while fucking you in a cave.

You clearly have the advantage.

“Fine.” You say, crossing your arms and putting one leg over the knee of the other. “I don't feel like playing your games today, Cato. You can't come into my office, days after me worrying for you, toss me on my desk and then push me around.”

He frowns, hands still holding your waist. “What?” He asks flatly.

“I don't want to play this game.” You repeat, huffing. “You can go. Find me when you actually want to fuck me.”

He looks like he was slapped. “You-” he sputters. “You're not serious.”

You shrug, turning your face away. “Nope, lost your chance.”

His mouth falls open a little. “I- I mean- I was just joking-”

You shrug again.

He frowns, scrunching his forehead hard. “Come on, little Ambassador, I just thought we were playing-” he says, voice tinged slightly with desperation as he rubs your crossed knees.

You pout. “I dunno. Didn't sound like playing.” you huff.

He frowns harder. “I- I mean- I'm sorry. Please don't throw a tantrum.”

You give him a small scowl of annoyance, and he snaps his mouth shut so fast you can hear his teeth click. “Sorry, sorry, not a tantrum-” he says, nervously clearing his throat. “Please, can we just…?” He smiles nervously, rubbing your thighs.

Your suppress a smirk. He's so easy to tease.

“Please what?” You say, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

He blinks at you, then grimaces. “Oh, come on-” he starts before you smile and shake your head.

“You won't be coming on anything if you can't use your words. Go on, Captain. Negotiate. I'm open to begging.” You smirk.

His jaw falls open again. “You crafty little-” he shakes his head and sighs, leaning over your legs. “Please, little Ambassador?” He says, cheeks tinged pink.

You grin. “Use your words, Captain.”

He groans. “Please can I fuck you?” He mumbles, cheeks warming further.

“You don't sound like you want it very badly.” You say with a mischievous grin. You uncross your legs.

He sighs and smiles, eyeing your teasing sex before leaning over you again. He cups your face, leaning his lips down to your ear.

“I need you, my little vixen.” He whispers with warm breath ticking your ear.

You swallow to sooth your suddenly very dry throat. “Oh-?” You rasp.

He prods at you with his head again. “Mm, I need you. I've thought of nothing but how you feel wrapped around my cock for three days…” he purrs, nuzzling your jaw. “Please, please let me have you…” he whispers huskily before nibbling at your earlobe.

You have a split second thought that you may need to get rehydrated after this with how quickly wetness rushes between your legs at his sweet, desperate words.

He feels your slickness and chuckles, rubbing the head of his cock between your lips and making lewd, wet noises from it. “Is that a yes, little vixen?” He rumbles softly.

“I- I suppose- I think I can spare a moment of my- busy schedule-” you barely rasp out.

He grins against your neck. “Then we have come to an excellent, mutually beneficial agreement. I suppose my earlier praise stands, you're pretty good at your job.” He teases, then lines himself up and pushes into your slick entrance.

A deep, husky groan is ripped from your lungs as he stretches you. Your hands instinctively cling to his neck and tangle in his hair.

“Uhnf- Cato-” you moan, head falling back and hair cascading across the still paperwork covered desk.

He lets out a deep, primal groan of his own, voice shuddering. “By the throne, you feel-” he moaned gruffly, “-amazing- I don't think I'll ever tire of this feeling-”

He sank deeper, filling you in a way you've been craving since he last had you. He bottoms out and sighs. He pants softly and grins down at you, flushed and squirming and panting little hitching noises.

“Holy Terra, you're beautiful like this.” He says almost dreamily. He tucks some hair behind your ear. “You're mine, right?” He purrs, rocking slowly in and out of you.

Your eyes roll back a moment as he starts to move. “Cato-” you groan.

He chuckles again. “That doesn't answer my question, my lady~” he slows his movement, making you whimper. “Tell me you're mine.” He demands in a soft, heady voice.

Your mind wipes blank a moment. “I- I'm yours-” you rasp, and you're rewarded with his cadence picking up again.

“That's right-” he pants, falling forward to cage your head in with his arms. “Mine-” he growls. “A-again-”

You gasp needily as his hips start slapping to yours faster, the sound of your thighs meeting his muscular stomach echoing with his balls slapping against your ass as he moves.

“I- I'm yours-” you pant out again, “yours- yours-”

He lets out a primal noise as he curls around you and begins hammering into you, losing himself in instinct. “Mine, mine, mine-” he snarls softly into your ear, pulling you sharply down to meet him every thrust like a toy. You worry a moment as you hear the wood creak on your poor desk, but it's drowned out in your mind when he slams back into you.

You feel your mind going hazy, lost in the feeling of being stretched over his cock over and over. As your gasps get higher and higher pitched, he pulls back just a little to watch your face with a dazed smile. “Mine…” he murmurs, cupping your chin and tilting yor face to meet his eyes. “I want to watch your face when you come for me.” He rasps huskily between pants. “I want to see that sweet face fall apart with how good I make you feel. How good it feels when I make you mine-” he growls softly.

You feel your stomach tighten at hia words, and its hard to keep your eyes on his as you feel your orgasm edge closer each deep thrust. “Cato-” you gasp. “I- I- unff-”

He grins at you, eyes lidded and breath coming in ragged gasps. “Good girl, look at you, so pretty like this-”

You whimper again, fists grasping desperately at the papers on your desk.

“Cato-! Cato!” You pant.

“Cato- I- oh throne-” you desperately grab for him and he holds you up by the back so you can press your forehead to his, looking up desperately into his eyes.

You gasp sharply as you feel the tightness snap in your belly, your walls squeezing his still pistoning cock in you.

“I love you-!” You cry out as you come.

He stumbles for a half second, eyes going wide and jaw slacking. Then he follows suit with you, and you feel him start to twitch in you as he snaps back into thrusting.

“Oh, throne-” he groans your name, then pants it hazily as you feel the full force of him like you haven't before, filling you to almost uncomfortable tightness before his come can spill out from you.

He hilts into you a few times more before collapsing around you, one knee on your desk, elbows holding him from crushing you while he gulped air like he was drowning.

Your fuck hazed mind slowly catches up with you.

Did you just-

During sex--!?

Your delirious warmth starts creeping with cold panic as you look up at his face- but it's quickly stopped when his mouth crashes into yours.

His tongue pushes needily around yours, and you quickly return it best you can, losing the fight against his aggressive, possessive need.

He breaks the kiss, both of you gasping, and holds your face between his hands.

Your eyes go wide again when you see his eyes are wet with unshed tears. He's fighting back crying clearly by the way his mouth keeps trying to tug down at the corners, the way his forehead is scrunched between his brows-

“I love you, too.” He whispers.

You don't realize you're crying until his thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Much more softly, he leans in and kisses you again

[aqua-the-smiter]

Got sick of watching everyone bully Cato, so here's me being nice to him. Cato Sicarius X female reader. Warning, some real Nurgly imagery in the beginning. Organ music in the beginning - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uoSR1zG3H78 Divider by the always lovely @squishyowl

It wasn't always screaming he heard. Sometimes it was singing.

In the dark of that cursed ship, in the blank quiet as it floated through the Empyrean, the hollow rooms would echo with music. He was the only one who ever heard it. He was the only one who knew about it. When he was alone, when the most recent crisis had abated. When there was silence, when all was still. In the empty galleries he heard it sing. Whispering melodies that haunted his hearing.

He'd only ever followed it once. It had been driving him mad, hearing snatches of a song when he was alone.

It tickled his mind like fingers brushing directly over the meat of brain. Like it was beckoning him over with a "come here" gesture. He knew it had been a terrible idea, but the infernal singing had gotten on his nerves. Frayed them. He was fraying. Everyone was. At least, everyone who wasn't already dead.

So he had followed it. Followed it far too close to the sealed off areas for comfort.

It was starting to hurt to listen to. There was something warm and wet in his ears. But the tune stayed gentle. The singer's voice was soft, the instrument that accompanied it almost tender. Sweet. He couldn't make out the words, like he was listening to them underwater. He didn't recognize the language. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. The knuckles going white under his gauntlet.

If you asked him why he followed it, he wouldn't have been able to answer it. He still couldn't now. Even though it was far away and behind him.

The room was vaulted and dark. Lit by weak candle stubs that guttered at the slightest gust. It was long and narrow, and at the end was a hunched figure playing a pipe organ. It was shrouded in shadow, and oddly misshapen. Singing along. He still couldn't make out the words, the lyrics more muddled than they had been before. The music was louder. It felt like his ears were full of water, but it was sound instead of water. He could feel himself singing along even though he hadn't even noticed his mouth moving. And he still couldn't make out the words. Even when they came from his own mouth. His vision blurred, his throat felt raw.

Only on his second glance did he realize the organist it had more arms than any human should.

He blinked hard. Once, twice. Clenching his jaw to keep it from moving. To stop himself singing.

The walls were glistening now. Covered in stringy flesh and glaring eyes. There were men in the walls, rotting men in the walls and on the ceiling and floor. It bloated near the ceiling, but then as it crawled down it festered and softened. Growing blackened. The ceiling dripped expired fluids. The floor was both soggy and crunchy with thick, black, dead strips of muscle and fat.

The organist turned to face him. Slowly, with the slimy noise of raw, wet, moving flesh. It had no face. It had too many faces. All swirling and flowing together like melting fat. Too many arms, too many eyes, too many teeth and maws. There were more rotten men making up its form. Men and marines. He could see the colors being leeched out of shards of ceramite. The paint bleeding into the surrounding meat, which twisted, contorted. It didn't really have a form so much as a vague outline, a lump of amalgamated meat and metal and teeth. Every single eye was a different color. Some wept pus or blood. All stared right at him.

The stench or the organist worked its way past his respirator just as the sound worked its way into his ears. It was putrid. The whole creature was putrid, and so was its music. But that wretched stench. Like it was crawling into his nose and down his throat. All the way into his stomach, settling there with the weight of a brick.

Somehow some of its arms continued to play. All of its mouths continued to sing. And he still couldn't make out the words. His eyes felt wet and sticky, his vision oddly red. The reek of iron filled his nose and mouth, along with the smell of rot. His ears felt plugged and wet.

Fleshy hands reached out to him. From the walls or the organist, he couldn't tell. Before he could think his sword was in his hand. Glowing blue against the fleshy color of the dark room.

Severed limbs fell to the floor. More took there place. More and more. Even as he cut and cut and cut. The dead men were crawling out of fleshy cavities in the walls. In the floors and ceiling. Wriggling out like maggots from a corpse. Extracting themselves with a wet pop.

They littered the floor, wherever his blade struck home. Cato fought on, not thinking. Nothing registered but the feeling of blade through gristle and bone. He heard nothing but the music and the roaring in his ears. He blinked, hard.

The room was empty. For a moment it was a plain, small box of a room. No organ, no organist, no flesh.

He blinked again. No it wasn't.

It was empty because everything but him was dead. The dead men were dead once more. The organist lay in pieces. Its infernal music had ceased. But the noise had not.

He heard screaming, from all around him. Daemonic shrieking and battle cries.

"My lord!"

He turned to look. Two of his battle brothers stood in the door way, gazing around in horror.

"They've broken through once again! We need you."

Cato nodded. He could feel blood still dripping from his eyes and ears. The song still running through his head. "I will be there."

He could still recall that song with perfect clarity. It was not always screams he heard. Sometimes it was that song. Over and over again. Looping.

Thankfully he had never started to sing it.

He sat on a marble bench in some hall in the Fortress of Hera. On his other side was a tall window. The sky of Macragge was overcast, and pouring rain. It made the corridor dark. Raindrops studded the glass.

Cato's armored shoulders slumped as the memory ended. Slowly, he rested his head in his hands. Fingers tangling in his hair. Gripping at his scalp.

He really hated that song.

"My lord?"

Cato sat up, and shook himself out of his thoughts. Trying to bring more present information to mind. You were standing in front of him, his helmet cradled gently in your arms. You were a serf of the Ultramarines, born and raised on Macragge. While your brother had joined their ranks as a scout, you were a woman. But you had wanted to be close to him, so you volunteered to become a chapter serf in the Fortress.

That was how he'd met you.

You held out his helmet to him. "Your helmet is all finished, Lord Sicarius."

Right. He had asked you to take it to get the plume repaired. It had been starting to get very ragged. You had hummed as you walked away with it, and your singing was just about the only music he could stand these days.

You had been so pleased when he asked. You were very fond of Cato Sicarius, although you weren't quite sure why.

"Thank you, my lady." He said, extracting it from your hands and setting it on the bench next to him.

He was quieter than he had been when you first met him, years ago now. You had only been 18 then. He didn't speak with the same bravado in his voice, or walk with the same swagger in his step. When he'd returned to Macragge, he had seemed...muted. Something had broken inside of him, draining some of him away.

Maybe that's why you liked him more now. Immediately you cursed yourself for the thought. He hadn't been the nicest of his battle brothers, but he wasn't unkind. Perhaps a bit more dismissive, but you weren't offended. He was a space marine, and a captain.

But when he'd come back he'd seemed to soften to your presence.

Cato inspected the plume. It was perfect, made of soft red and white fibers.

"Is it satisfactory?" You asked.

He nodded. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Lord Sicarius."

"You may call me Cato. I have told you this."

"A-apologies. It's so...informal. It will take some getting used to. But...anyway. If your plume lost any more bristles it would have looked more like a toothbrush."

He snorted a laugh at that. You said so many little things that simply amused him.

Maybe that was why he liked you. You never tried to pry into his mind. You were simply...there. A sweet, gentle presence.

"Not an inaccurate assessment."

He smiled, but it looked far away. Hesitating for a moment, you reached out a hand.

"Are you well, Cato?"

He stared at it. It was so small. Delicate and soft, with long, nimble fingers. Gently, impulsively, he took it in his own huge gauntlet. Squeezing it with the utmost care and control over his strength. Reassuring you.

"I will be fine." He said.

Will be. You noted. Not am. Although even if he had said that, you would have wagered it was a lie.

Extracting your hand, you place it against his cheek. You could feel his warm skin and beard on your palm. At first he looked confused, then like he wanted to protest. Conflicting emotions chased themselves across his face.

But finally, they settled on gratitude. And...something else that you couldn't quite identify. It made your heart give a girlish little flutter.

Cato placed his hand over yours. "Thank you." His voice was barely a whisper.

I love you.

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(6,600ish words) (please fucking sedate me)

{i dont usually write in whatever perspective having a 'you' in this sort of context is, so forgive any oopsies besties!!!}

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•pisspoor cliche of 'oh no you're freezing haha body warmth eh?' trope

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

•tumblr's dogshit formatting from phone notes to the app

———————————————————————————————————

super special thanks to all the writers im too much of a spineless coward to actually @ because i only ever lurked on anon asks on old main for, like: moodymisty, mothiir, lemon-russ, the-raven-lady, scriberye and many others. you're all the unknowing reasons why i made an alt to post this, cheers for your amazing works and ideas!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

It was doomed from the start, honestly.

Not to say he had any hope that an assignment would ever actually go easily for once.

It's supposed to be an apparently simple diplomatic procedure. Namely, you get to stand around, run your ambassadorial trap and bat your lashes and trollop about in front of pompous baseline fools. While he, Cato Sicarius, stands at attention in pissy formal wear; pretending like he's not a hair-breadth from an aneurysm watching it all take place.

Oh, and not to forget the brother who's a head taller than him, in full plate, and isn't being held to a standard of mock-humility.

He realises belatedly he's forgotten the Primaris' name. That shouldn't happen. He never used to forget things. Eidetic memory shouldn't let him. He shouldn't be able to—or, well—maybe his subconscious deigned it unimportant and emptied it out the proverbial airlock of his mind. It was admittedly largely inconsequential. He'd been told, surely. He remembers he was a Sergeant of some sort from his markings. He also remembers being gawked at by the Primaris, borderline felated by eyes alone. He's Cato Sicarius, afterall. Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar—of course he'd been inspiring awe. But for some warp-damned reason, alongside all those great titles, his Father'd decided to add Master Babysitter of His Ambassador to the list. But Cato does doesn't let it bother him. He's always got better things to occupy his time. Like furiously glaring at you across the thunder-hawk, even if you'd been dead-set on counting the rivets in the floor plating.

You'd looked absolutely idiotic in an Astartes troop seat. Like a toddler in an adult-sized wheelchair, draped in furs that seemed a size too big; hiding a dress that looked a size too small.

Simply put, the entire assignment was to be an event in circle-jerking—until shit hit the fan with all the painful similarity of a Nurgling thrown headlong into a thruster engine.

To begin with, it was a trap—a trap where he's separated from brother-Sergeant 'whatever-the-fuck-riel' in the commotion and responding bolter fire. That'd left Cato pointedly responsible for evacuating you, the useless little chatterbox, by the scruff of your fuzzy coat through side halls.

On another note, of all the accursed biomes, he hates tundras the most.

Pointedly, it's exactly what seventy percent of this backwater, shit-hole planet is this time of year; whereas the other thirty percent is glacial mush.

He discovers firsthand just how much sloshy ice-water there is to be found as he kicks in a shutter door and gets doused for the first time of many to follow; only to vault from the eastern rampart. Sliding down a long, raised and sleet covered run-off canal that passed over the keep's lesser residential rooftops with you in his grasp.

Melt water soaks you both as he scrambles fights to a halt on the steep decline before the drop off. Wobbling balancing on the edge for a second before he manages to scud back up and down a side chute, worming through the raucous hellscape of filthy baselines and too-tight alleys into the scrappy frozen wilds.

There was little time to hesitate when he decides breaking into a dead-sprint with a soggy ambassador thrown over his shoulder's the modus operandi of the situation.

He didn't stop until he was at least fifteen clicks away, or rather—he only stops when he's able to recognise a spot to hide and await for emergency evacuation.

A half-standing shack. Probably some peasant's hunting hovel. Clearly in poor condition, and honestly, a cave would've been preferable—but he isn't about to pass up the opportunity.

The door doesn't even swing open when he nudges it with his elbow. No, it falls inward, because of course it does, and he grumbles belatedly when it thuds.

The inside of the structure is a damnable mess, but, at the very least, it's dry.

He moves to tug you off his shoulder and toss you onto a pile of rags in the far corner, but he hesitates periodically. Even through his own wet outer attire, he can tell very little body heat is coming off you. His hearing catches on the way your breathing labours below the incessant chatter of your teeth.

Some wretched part of him implores he let you down carefully next to the nested mess of dirty cloth; and for once, he acquiesces to granting mercy.

You curl up into a ball on the floorboards almost immediately.

In his eyes, you're the pict of some drowned rat. The fur coat you'd been wearing over your dress is just as soaked through as everything else. Your hair is full of small, frozen rivulets at the ends, mixed in with powder snow and ice; and all the while, you're whining softly and trying to coil tighter into a fetal position.

He's trying very hard not to just stand there and dumbly listen to your little noises of weakness like a salivating dog.

Instead, Cato turns and lifts the door back into place against the frame; then he activates the honing beacon on his belt.

No latency pings, no close contact.

He grumbles again, eyeing your shivering form over his shoulder begrudgingly.

He hates you.

He hates that he's the one who's responsible for you.

The fact he is also currently out of his power-armour because of this charade only makes him even more irate, impossibly.

Sure, he has his combat bodyglove on under the tacky regalia, but it's no real consolation. He'd feel a lot better if there was a couple extra hundred kilos of plasteel and ceramite on him.

He could've had his armour on, had someone else been the one to babysit you.

He would have preferred anything but sole custody of your wretched, annoying existence falling on him. But because he's the only competent Astartes around ninety percent of the time, and you're the root of all problems—it means he's the only one who's capable of handling your stupidity. He can't even imagine letting anyone else do it. You'd probably deafen Trajan with your yapping if he was in his stead. Or Prabian. And if Titus had watch of you, you two'd probably be—ugh, he won't even dignify the thought. He can't believe the man'd been Captain of Second Company before him, or how or why Agemman gave the captaincy to him. He understands why Titus'd been struck from most records aside from high clearance. To say nothing of the fact that one would think being a Blackshield for a century would humble someone. But no, it seems crossing the Rubicon Primaris gave him his balls back.

Cato had almost flown into a blind rage when he'd heard him jokingly warning about rough weather to you on the embarkation deck the last time you'd been in each others general vicinity—because oh, of course Lieutenant Titus is suddenly a subsector-renowned fucking comedian as soon as you're there. Cato ought to subpoena the dribbling Inquisition like that little snake Leandros did. See how Titus'd like a real stage to perform on again. Maybe they'll have a new rendition of the cunted Rubicon Primaris to piece his sorry fat-arse back together once more by then. But he won't. He won't because Marneus would sulk, and Cato would feel bad. Plus, Cato's infinitely more likely to kill an Inquisitor than help one. But you—you little skank—you find Titus so funny. Hiding a giggle behind your hand, pretending to look demure and professional despite your wretched nature.

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

It was always all because of you. Every single time. Because you're so useless in any situation that can't be rambled out of. Which is all of them when you're involved, in Cato's opinion. His Father should leave the talking to professionals who wouldn't break a hip from a smack on the rear.

But now you are going to die of hypothermia, like a typical, pathetic little baseline—well, unless you start following his orders.

Cato tries not to think of how you were acting when rounds started going off earlier. Of course, like a spooked animal, you'd been all ears to his commands then. Hiding against him with your hands pawing at the side of his dress uniform as bullets careened across the dining hall, looking up at him with those big, terrified, caught-in-the-crosshair eyes—and, Throne, it had been so easy to pick you up. You were so soft flimsy, he could fling you around like a rag-doll if he really wanted. Manhandling you would be a singlehanded venture. He's liable to just hoist you up whenever you think yourself bold enough to bother him next. Grab you by your uniform's scruff and just pin you against a bulkhead, you'd be bent at the perfect height to—no—no, no.

Abruptly trying to distract himself, Cato draws his blade from it's ceremonial sheath and activates the disruption core, trying to stoke some sort of heated spark as he drove it into the fireplace.

He brutishly nudges it amidst the old wood and long dim coals. It isn't his finest moment of critical thinking, but it seems to be working; seeing as a few weak embers sputter to life.

Gratingly, he's aware that even a servitor would've known starting a fire in hostile territory was a fool's surest way at getting caught—but he has no other choice. Either he acts the moron and plays his poor hand, or you die from the shock of your chill; and if that happens, he'll have to face his Father's wrath.

And Guilliman would have his left testicle as a paperweight if you died under his watch.

In conclusion, if Cato is to choose between stupidity and complete failure, he's opting for stupidity. Which aggravatingly felt like an ongoing occurrence, ever since you started existing anywhere near him.

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

Even practically hypothermic, you've still got enough of a two-faced-bitch's spirit hidden away in you to hiss and swat at him blindly. So much for his Father's claims you were of 'sweet, kind temperament.'

For a moment, he genuinely wants to throttle you for the outburst; but he swallows down the urge.

"You need to get out of those," he snaps, glowering down at you. "Or you are going to die."

Your response is a poignant little groan as you glance dizzily around the room.

Cato huffs, "There are blankets beside you, fool."

He holds up a dingy plaid throw, half fraying and stinking of stale mould. It was an assault on his vomeronasal organ, but he wasn't about to let you act the typical spoiled cunt routine of an Imperial ambassador. He would have you wrapped in it sooner rather than later, wether you liked it or not. You dying reflects poorly on him, afterall.

"T-T-Turn, p-p-please—" you say, but your stammering mangles the words into a juddering mess.

He growls, almost tempted to snarl something about 'the fucking audacity in thinking you can tell him what to do—' but acquiesces out of sheer force of will and pivots on his heel, settling into a martial line stance.

Cato can hear you struggling to wriggle free of your clothes. The whines of effort and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the almost comedic slop sound one miscellaneous article makes as it hits the rotted wooden floorboards.

Even if he's taking it to his grave, he's admittedly itching to look over his shoulder.

It's a completely degenerate urge.

But he's—he's wanted this. He's wanted this exact opportunity.

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

Nothing and nobody to distract or detract from your attention finally being all on him.

You make a fey little groan, and he takes that as a signal you're finished.

He rounds about-face, and, for lack of a better word, ogles the shape of your covered form.

You've dragged that pile of rags closer to the meagre fireplace, lying on it with the plaid blanket strewn over the top of you.

Even completely hidden beneath, he can see you are still shaking under the ratty thing. Even moreso than before, in all actuality. He supposes that's a good sign. It proves your feeble body is still well and keen on living.

But the suffocating concept you're bare weak, soft useless and needing pathetic underneath that scrap of fabric worms its way into his brain like a cancer.

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Tearing his gaze away, he finds the embers his blade coaxed are a small flame eating away at the old timber now.

Looking back, your shivering's subsiding, but your rapid breathing is increasing; which is surely not good.

He has an idea, which definitely isn't influenced by depravity at all—shut up.

Cato tries for a moment to actually unbutton his attire. His fingers are too large, unsurprisingly. And with the body-suit, he's got no leverage of a nail or two to do away with the dainty fasteners. So, ultimately, he tears the regalia down the front, sending buttons flying—and continues to pry and rend the sopping garments off his arms and legs until they're a pile at his feet.

Then he sets about a more strenuous matter. He releases the locking mechanism at his clavicle, and promptly undoes the thick claps over his pectorals so he can pop free the catches beneath, peeling the layered material back and shucking his arms and hands loose of their constraints.

The top of his bodyglove hangs around his hips now, and he sighs. The chill is of no real annoyance to him. He's built to endure most conditions. Sure, it's cold—but Astartes run hot. And right now, he's boiling for so very many accursed reasons.

He settles on his side next to you and scuds himself to bracket the pile of fabric.

"Move closer," he bites out.

He tries not to groan when you actually do, and surprises himself when he manages to stifle the sound. Even through the blanket, he imagines his warmth is a welcome change to freezing.

"T-Thank you," you say softly, soaking in his body heat like a banal reptile under a sun's rays.

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

He supposes it stems from his habit of humbling you. The opportunities are unsurprisingly plentiful. He often finds enjoyment hearing you back-pedal when he would cut you down for so much as genially inquiring on Astartesian discussions. Putting himself in the middle and shutting you out, even if you were welcomed in them prior to his arrival.

If you want to ask something of his Brothers, it'll be his answers.

All it ever took was a growl and a curt reminder to know your place. Then you'd fumble and take two steps back. Snipped down to size as you ought to be. Forced to suffer an ounce of the shame he feels. Oh, and then your big doe-eyes'd cast down at Cato's ceramite boots, fussing; trying to apologise to him.

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

It's an act, he's sure of it.

You play at being difficult to anger, and that makes you just that bit more grating. You've unknowingly caught him with an unfair advantage. One that his prowess as a statesman and a warrior cannot seem to scratch. He's always left feeling robbed in your presence. In a way that furiously giving in to the alien urge of palming himself afterwards doesn't ever fix. He's toey and irked to be excluded when you talk to other Astartes, but simultaneously darkly glad that you shy from such antics with him.

It's paradoxical, yes. But no, he's not a hypocrite. Though some part of him is scolding him for being one. No, he's aching to sink his proverbial claws into you—though he won't ever say it to a soul. He won't because he knows he's not supposed to have tastes such as this. A pit in his gut taunts that the stint he'd suffered in the Warp is to blame. But he's the commander of Roboute Guilliman's Victrix Guard. He is not aberrant. The sidelong, fraction-of-a-second glances Cato receives from his Primarch when you enter his office to give briefings surely mean nothing.

It's clear why you have his Father's favour, but he'll never admit that either. Aside from Guilliman's desperation to find baseline company for some strange reason. You're surely just a pet to him. Like a small rodent he pries off a little wheel and sets out in a clear sphere to roll about on the bridge, or something.

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

They won't show it in a group, but he knows the Astartes beneath him preen at your every query.

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

You must have somehow beguiled them all, just like you've done him.

But you're still right there—right where he wants you.

And damn it all, does he want you.

He wants—he wants you on your front, squirming underneath him. No, wait, he wants to see you—but then you'd need to be on top. He can watch, like that. Then afterwards he'll have you on your back, perhaps. Why not sideways? You're already like that, now. Or—or... who's he kidding, he'd take anything, and everything.

Throne, he's so hard he swears he is going to have a brain haemorrhage. He feels like he's already had one, honestly, for all his thoughts are hazing. It's a million leagues worse than the time you'd accidentally called him 'Lord Sicarius' by accident instead of your usual choice of 'Commander' and Throne, he'd rubbed himself raw after that.

Maybe if you weren't such a whorish little wretch, his fantasies wouldn't be running so rabid right now.

You wriggle and your half-covered back slides up against his front.

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

Your skin feels like fine silk to his spiralling mind; and even worse, your damnable wriggling doesn't stop. You start making little movements with your feet to try to get circulation back in them—and again, there's a fey similarity to your behaviours and some soaked rodent he recognises.

Decidedly, you've realised it's not enough and promptly jut your feet backwards between his quads. Still continuing the motions, but more furiously.

The touch is dangerously close to the cradle of his inner thighs.

He swears he actually feels the blood drain from his face in mortification. The touch is meagre, but it's real. It's more warming than any he's ever known. And of course, to add insult to injury, that blood drains straight to were he's already painfully hard—which is currently pushed against his navel, halfway jutting out of his bodyglove's zipper.

Thankfully, you withdraw yourself from between his legs and sigh again, snug.

Then, you shuffle closer.

Your rear scuds right up to the swell of his confined cock.

Cato's immediately beside himself in an instant, flying into a rainbow of emotion. First, he's disgusted. Then he's seething at the audacity—which makes him furious—and finally, he's... he's ecstatic.

He groans, raring like some rutting animal; but the sound ultimately leaves him as an angry, subvocal snarl of transhuman harmonics.

You flinch, and wriggle away sharply, and he repeats the sound again at the loss of contact. You're only a hair away from being there still, he can feel how close you are—but you remain just beyond him again.

"My—my apologies, Commander... I-I—" you blurt out, voice still a little chill stuttered, "I didn't... I didn't mean to overstep."

He inhales steadily. He notes you're doused in human stress hormones; but he's acutely aware of a honeyed smell just below the surface. It's so suffocatingly sugary it's actually hurting his nose to scent the air. It's addling his thoughts, turning his focus to mist.

He can smell you failing to juggle all the reactions and thankfully rottenly settling for the one that makes you reek of mollasses.

"Come back, shut up," he hisses. "And stay still."

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

There's an eternal breath of time in which he's about to go mad with anticipation, and the instant you're slotted against him again.

Some base urgency sends him frotting forward, and the thick, leaking head of him that peaks out the top of his zip brushes against a warm cunt; all thanks to that blanket of yours having slipped loose slightly, and lo, the blessed horrid consequence.

He'd live off the way your surprised gasp makes his nerves thrill.

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

He grimaces, unsurprised you're ever stupider than you look. Recklessly, instead of lying—instead of saying 'no, it's a combat knife,' his mouth decides he's to act the most pathologically honest town crier alive.

"It," he intones sharply, before the words "...is your fault," leave him as a rushed hiss.

A belated pause wins out for a moment, and he's mortified as he realises what he's just confessed. There's a leaden feeling at the back of his throat. One option to recover the situation is that he could just hit you on the head. What'd be a shiner of a punch to a brother would be a terminal concussion to a baseline. Then, he'd tell the Primarch, oh yes, you died. Very sad. How? To shreds. To shreds you say? Truthfully, he can't really bring any actual conviction to the plan. He wouldn't. The notion is merely a hypothetical, in a perfect world where violence solved everything. Because if you die, Guilliman will send him to an Agri-world to be some peasant's plough-puller or someshit for a few centuries—and Cato's going to kill himself before he has to suffer that indignity. Uriel would never let him live it down. He's bound to suffer the same consequences, ultimately. Even if he's got no idea what an Astartes with a sex drive would be liable to be punished for. Oh, right. Corruption. So now, there's a credible witness to his flaw and one that his Father'll believe, worst of all, and... abruptly, you reply instead of scream in revulsion, your voice a mumbled little squeak as you say, "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't think—"

"Believe me, I am well aware you lack the capacity to think," Cato cuts in, and swallows down a snort at his own mean spirited joke. He's fucked, and for some reason he's suddenly further struck by the hilarity of the bastard, warp-spawn wiles of fate and chance. May as well be hung for the sheep as for a lamb, he decides.

Your breathing gains a shallow edge, and he feels you make as if to inch away again.

"I said not to move," He growls, and keeps you flush against him—holding you there by way of folding an arm across you.

"I just... uh," you reply, "I'm just..."

Your ass grinds back against him.

There's contact, your skin against the flushed, drooling head of him that feels painfully tender—and then you ruin it by speaking again.

"Curious, I suppose...? I was of the belief the Adeptus Astartes didn't..." your voice is soft, at least; slow and distracted, "Have an appetite for... this sort of thing?"

Cato momentarily stays fixated on the breathiness of your tone, and has to remind himself he's supposed to be angry at being robbed of silence—so he grumbles, "I told you to shut your trap," and promptly smothers a palm over your mouth.

You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a mumbled curse and settle, breathing hard through your nose to compensate.

Still, your rear presses back against him.

Cato takes the gesture at face value and fusses, roughly wrenching his bodyglove down to his thighs with his free hand.

Unconfined, his cock slaps the small of your back, and he manhandles you to readjust so it glides between your thighs instead.

Everything in place, he skews his hips forward, and his eyes roll back at the smooth, sublime drag of skin against skin. It's genuine perfection, wet and soft and molten.

The little hitched breaths you steal through your nose with each roll of his hips make him grind faster. Pressing closer with each, until the abhorrent, sticky sound of him steadily fucking against you is nigh deafening.

"I go in or I stay out," he says, and he can feel his molars grate against each other as he adds, "...or I can stop."

You shake your head furiously, or at least as much as the huge mitt on your chin, maw and jaw allows.

"Then decide," he snaps. "In?"

Cato hears the cartilage in your gullet move as you swallow dryly and nod.

Chuffed with your allowance compliance, he hums—and then it's his turn to hesitate.

When he draws his hand from your mouth, he curtly says, "Stay silent," and starts as if to tell you to arrange one way, then decides against it; dithering uncharacteristically. Then, rarer yet, Cato stumbles his words as he adds, "Move on to y-your front, then."

He doesn't know why he asked for the least preferred option when he'd been deliberating over the hypothetical for so long previously but nonetheless you, miraculously, comply without complaint. And despite himself he frustrates as you roll, his cock slipping away from between your thighs.

Draped in covers, he can't see much of you aside from the shape of you slowly arranging onto your hands and knees; before your chest sinks, and your ass stays up.

Like a rabid dog, he scrambles onto his haunches and scuds over behind you.

He's not entirely sure what to do first, and harrumphs.

In answer, your back arches even further in a dangerously luring bow, a display of willingness whorishness that turns Cato's thoughts to mush. Ass up and still in the pile, covered in blankets and rags, it's painfully easy to tug you from them just enough so that a decent portion of your raised lower half is exposed to him.

All he's able to comprehend the very next instant in some hind-brain, primitive way is a shapely ass, and a pretty pink cunt.

He grabs your hip, and the size comparison is so stark his head swims. With the span of one hand, he could palm a whole globe of your rear.

He does just that, and spreads you to take a nice long look.

You've a glossy sheen of clear slick that's starting to string down where it's collecting between your labia, and Throne—it's that. That's the sweet smell. And it's all for him—you're everything he's wanted.

Inspecting, he finds the hole leaking lubricant and a much, much smaller one below it—the vagina and then the urethra, he reasons by way of thinking back on a baseline biologis graphics; and, eyeing lower to a hooded fold, he finds a swollen little nub.

Pointedly, he's got a suspicion of what it is and turns his curiosity to it.

It's an easy target for his large thumb, even as slippery as your lust has made you, and—

A shaky little keen, then your knees pull together; body curling.

"Keep your damn legs apart," he grunts, wrenching them wide, and splaying a big palm on your ass to lift you into an arch again.

He's tempted to just bask in the glory of it all, grope, smack, lick—make you beg for it until he's sure you know he's in charge. Until you're as high strung for him as he's ever been for you. But he's frenzied, and well beyond being able to linger on those broader wants; not when he's got an Ambassador to fill.

He's aware of what your clit's really for now, and keeps rolling the pad of his thumb over it until you're squirming. It doesn't take long until your hole is visibly twitching. Nothing but a sloppy, wet mess of your own whorish excitement for him, as you ought to be. Cato bites back a longing sigh as he gets the delight of watching a fresh rivulet of slick string down your thigh.

And when he works up the gall, he jams that same thumb to the hilt in your cunt.

Your insides squeeze around it, and you start shaking, then. But it's not from the cold. No, anything but that. You're warm now, and he's deliriously happy to find you're as soft inside as the rest of you looks and feels. Warp damn him, he's no better than some slavering genestealer wretch fiending for its pound of flesh.

Your smaller baseline frame makes every part of him look huge in comparison. Even his thumb is big. And you're so much less—and the fact the disparity is so glaringly obvious plays havoc with his brain; but he's got an idea. An idea that he refuses to acknowledge sounding painfully like a boarding action to him.

With little tact, he sidles up and positions himself so his tip slots right against you, while stretching your opening with his thumb.

Lining himself up with his other hand, he nudges your entrance, smearing precum in with your wetness while inching forward; sliding his thumb out in tandem with pushing his cock in—and his efforts succeed.

Cato's transfixed watching the head of himself fill the gap, sliding in—and you let out a muffled yelp, still half-buried in the blankets like some stuck animal; your thighs juddering as you suck in air.

Honestly, he's glad you've smothered yourself like that, because he can't imagine keeping it together if you were actively watching him. He thinks the stark reality of it would have him run right out of the shack. Even the idea of having your pretty damning eyes on him makes him swoon sick.

With an over-eager roll of his hips, a shiver races up his spine. But he earns a cry from you.

He takes a deep breath.

There's a twinge of pain-smell and the vaguest hint of blood in the air, but it's impermanent compared to the amount of lust.

He pushes a little more, and you ripple internally around him; making a racketing, breathless noise—twitching before slacking, and then twitching again. A few perfect little moans escaping you at last.

Abruptly, all he's able to give a fuck about is the sensation of wet and hot, and how you're finally all his—it's a strangling fit, but it's satisfying a craving bone-deep. Infinitely better than his war calloused hands.

You feel sublime, and it's pure bliss finally getting what he's wanted for so very long.

All those rest cycles wasted furiously humping into his own clenched hand, all those hours of torment seething about your latest unintended slight against him.

He's so dazed by the new sensation he's massaging small circles with his fingers on your flank, humming lowly. Who would have known all he really needed was to hilt in a warm, velvety, absolutely sopping wet cunt to come around to you? Maybe you're not so bad afterall. That is, for an insufferable little cock-sleeve; but it's nothing Cato can't grin and bare. He can almost imagine tolerating further babysitting assignments, if it means he can use you as a hole to ram his frustrations into like this.

He continues petting you, absentmindedly.

But the involuntary mercy didn't stop you from jackknifing when he bucks in more—each little motion seating him deeper and deeper. He's stunned he fits. You're so... small, and Throne, he feels monstrous even fixating upon the disparity; nevermind the shiver that races up his spine at the thought.

He yanks you backward and you stop squirming for a moment.

When your wriggling starts up again, he holds you still with the sheer willpower only a neurotic control-freak could muster. He stops your motion, yes—but your insides also stop shivering around his cock and he's resentful of that.

Nonetheless, you make to move again then, keening and bothering him; but you're seemingly struck daft when he bottoms out at last, hitting your cervix. Your internal muscles tense on the intrusion, practically cramping around him, blinding him with ecstasy for a heartbeat as you clench down hard; and a squeak of surprise escapes you. Your legs lock stiff for a moment, air venting out your lungs in shock.

You garble out a sweet, hoarse curse that sounds more like a sob than anything.

Cato supposes the theatrics are what an orgasm on something his size does to a woman. And he finds he's appallingly keen to see and hear you do it again. Keen to feel it, too. He adjusts himself and grinds, making sure you're getting every bit he's got to give. It's no small feat of restraint from Cato to not simply drive into you with all his might like a hydraulic press.

Maybe that'll make your tight little hole cinch up again? He thinks you'd like that. No—no, you should be begging for him to keep fucking you. You should be thanking him while you're at it too, really. Thanking him for deigning to take you to begin with.

Your arch falls away to a prone slump with a whine, thighs trembling, leaving him straining forward to stay in you.

He is irate at your antics, now; and his retaliation betrays it.

Cato seizes your hips and yanks you back up his cock, shimmying you a little so he's nice and sheathed and stuffing you full, nigh folded under him. Warm cunt stretched taut around the base of his thick cock, like a perfect scabbard.

He's suddenly absorbed in watching your covered form consciously trying to counter the overwhelming forward mass of him starting to drive into you like he was part battering-ram.

"Better than all those limp-dicked, bastard lordlings you've let empty in you to even chance a cushion near my Primarch's table, hm?" His tone is little more than a scathing drawl, pulling almost entirely out of you just to dip the head of himself in.

You moan into the fabric smothering you, and he holds you with a controlled desperation.

"Answer me, you little shit."

He watches you nodding desperately beneath the cover a second later, failing to get an actual reply out around your huffing and puffing.

Cato groans, "Far keener for Astartes cock, aren't you?"

You nod again, needy.

"Throne, you're pathetic," he chides harshly, delighting in the soft whine of protest you make when pulls out to the tip one last time. "All that haughty bullshit, just to turn out to be so—so easy," then he's sliding back to the hilt and starting his rutting anew, grinding into that perfect spot that has your insides shiver around him again and again. "Isn't that right? This is all you're really good for?"

Beneath him, you're too much of an insensible mess to even think about answering; and somewhere in that depraved miasma of sound, he swears you're trying to say his name.

So, understandably, he inches forward on his knees and boxes you under him. Pinning you under the span of his bulk, two big hands firmly planted either side of your blanketed head.

He can see a few strands of your hair sticking out from beneath it and he can see the fog of your breath and the tip of your nose through a tented section, and only one of your hands—clawing out at the scraps of fabric.

"Prick-dumb animal," he sneers, flagrantly showboating; trying to sound as if he's not feigning lucidity and completely at the mercy of his lust.

He drops from his hands to rest on his elbows, manoeuvring a forearm under your head to prop your chin up. He's so bent over you that your ass is practically glued to his massive pelvis.

You can't stifle yourself now.

The sounds you make when he starts ploughing into you again are unrestrained and absolutely debauched. Practically music to his ears. He can feel your saliva smearing across his arm, and he's absolutely stupefied at the mantra of 'Sicarius, S-Sicarius, Sica-ah—rius—' you start panting. To say nothing of the keening whimpers that escape when you're not crying out for him. Louder with each thrust, and warp damn it all—his perfect memory is never going to let those gorgeous sounds go. He's going to fiend off you mewling his surname like a full dose of battle-chems until he fucking dies.

Cato groans and delights in the involuntary squeeze you make around his cock again; your hips skewing up into his own, meeting him.

He just wants one more thing—he wants—no, needs—he needs to hear you scream his name in that reedy voice. Telling him that you like him playing guard for you, and you're all his and you love hi—

Rather abruptly however, you're cinching down on his cock as you come again. Throne, your cunt may as well be Marneus' clenched powerfist the way you're wringing him for everything he's got. Crying out like you're inconsolable, and so painfully eager and—oh, fuck. He tries to hold off, but it's of little use. The dam cracks, and it's all too much for him far too quickly.

"You rotten w-whore—" the words leave him in between ragged, staggered pants, gritting his teeth even though it's achieving absolutely nothing. "Stop s-squeezing, I-I—"

He's finishing in you the next second and letting out a rough, unbecoming moan instead of the rest of his sentence; despite trying to muffle himself against your shoulder and save face. Emptying all his pent up spend as deep as he can inside you and rutting himself deliriously into oversensitivity. The simple feeling of it is a more profound experience than he can even begin to explain—and he's rendered daft. Fighting just to stay awake against the warm, coddling bliss running rife in his nerves as his muscles twitch.

Still trying to recuperate, he's drunk with afterglow for a few seconds. Head beside yours, sharing the same air and hurried breaths.

In his stupor, he notes that your hair smells nice even after everything. And he tuts softly, resting his eyes. Lulled by the soft sound of your hyperventilating evening out and the continuous, weak fluttering of your cunt around him, hot and tight, and still a perfect fit.

He almost understands why mortal men so frequently fought over baseline women, now.

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

Pointedly, he opens his eyes and begrudgingly lifts himself away, slipping free and leaving a big sloppy smear of combined fluids across your ass and thighs as he settles into a kneel.

You're still presenting yourself as Cato scrubs a palm across his face, and blinks slowly.

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

Just as ready to rut as he was to start with, despite the fact he's only just finished.

And, much like a beast in season, he genuinely contemplates another round—what would be the harm, anyways? He could be sliding himself back into you, right then, and he doubted you'd do anything but buck up to meet him. So much for some diplomatic prodigy. You're little more than a mewling wreck. And what better way to prove it than another wet layer of your mixed fluids on his cock?

A soft sound escapes you abruptly and he looks back to the place he's itching to slam back inside of.

A few fat rivulets of his cum drip out your abused entrance, but you're too well-screwed to even care, it seems.

He thumbs one of your folds aside and smiles smugly at the mess.

You poor thing, it must be so humbling to be put in your place. He hopes it felt good. Having your better's cum leaking out of you like a banner on a conquered fortress.

He's tempted to stuff his spend back into you and give you another load to drip. Let it leak down your thighs as you pad past his men on the flagship, that'd make them well aware of who you really admire—

At that brilliant jarring thought, blazing post-clarity arrived; an abrupt and unsettling feeling. The fact he'd even—even dignified your almost Slaneeshi-tier temptation—the fact he's raring to go again—he must already reek of your lust, and you of his—and Emperor have mercy, one quick scenting betrays everything, his men would tell their Father, and—you—you groan and worm yourself back under the blanket, likely truly feeling the chill now without his body to warm you.

The urge to say something becomes almost suffocating all at once, and Cato opens his mouth—just to be interrupted by a beep.

Hesitation seizes him, and he eyes his pile of half-frozen attire in the far corner.

Eighteen and a half seconds pass and it beeps again, indicating a second for every minute of arrival estimation.

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

But the matter of hastily cleaning up what insanity just happened becomes the real concern now.

Suddenly stuffed to the brim with adrenaline, Cato gets to his feet with Astartesian speed. He tries to take a step but sways, almost toppling. Looking down, he realises himself; and gingerly stoically waddles marches away from you, his bodysuit stuck around his knees. There's a cupboard in the other corner, covered in a frosted cobweb that looks a little like gossamer. Rifling through it provides him little. Most of it's contents are iced through, but a bottle of what stinks like absinthe is good enough, and he doesn't think it matters what he cleans up with. He definitely does doesn't look like a servitor on broken wheels as he scuds on his heels back beside your pile. And if he suffers any more injuries to his ego, they definitely don't include him bungling a kneel and being forced to wobble down on to his haunches. It's not his fault he's mentally accommodating for power armour that, currently, isn't there.

Pausing, he pokes the mound of scraps you're under, trying to rouse you.

When your answer to his 'kinder' effort results in you whining and curling up tighter, he settles for tossing any mercy out the window with a petulant grunt; and identifies the shape of one of your legs and tugs you half-free by your ankle like a speared fish, earning a yelp as the cold assaults you.

Grabbing one of the loose rags in your pile, he saturates it with spirit and scoops you up under the hips, before starting to wipe away the evidence.

You begin thrashing almost immediately when the rag makes contact. Then you're practically yowling, "It hurts, it h-hurts—wait, wait—" and okay—yes, maybe using high proof alcohol to clean the smell and slime of his cum off your freshly fucked hole wasn't his best idea. In his defence, you're one of the most stubborn baselines he's ever met, and you should learn to handle a little pain. Secondly, booze is the only thing that stays liquid at freezing.

"Enough with the bloody caterwauling, woman," he barks, effortlessly holding you steady despite your struggling. "It's not that bad, toughen the fuck up."

When he's done with you, he's actually remorseful of the situation. Certainly not his finest choice. Because now you're sniffling weakly, fussing about the residual stinging; and then you promptly scramble back under the blanket.

"There was nothing else I could use, okay?" He says sourly, scowling at the bundle of fabric you disappear into; before tossing the soiled rag he'd used to clean you into the fireplace to ignite.

He grabs another from the pile and douses it, wiping himself off—and at last, he's finally able to start to pull his bodyglove up over his hips. Wiggling and straining to fit the thick, skin-tight material over his still very much erect cock.

From the edge of his vision he can see you've peaked your head out to watch as he fixes the sternum latch in place.

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

He ultimately expects you to look away like the mouse you are—but no, what actually happens is worse. You just keep silently raking him with an expression that makes him feel like he's made of glass and every secret he's ever had or ever known is laid bare.

He can't stand it.

It makes Cato want to sneer at you fiercely in the hopes it would scare you off, remind you he's an exemplar of the Adeptus Astartes and shouldn't be stared at—something, anything except that look.

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

The beeping is once every two and a half seconds, now.

Two and a half minutes, then.

"You let me fuck you," he bites out.

You're sitting now. Covered in one of the larger articles of rags. A tartan, fraying thing crumpled atop you, frowning and looking dejected. Then you open your mouth to speak but promptly stop. He can tell you're trying to form a diplomatic reply, and he grumbles, fuming.

"Tell anyone of this—" Cato's well aware he's being cruel as he adds, "—and I'll wring your little neck, Father's favourite pet or not."

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

So, to souse his bruised ego, Cato decides he's going to burn the shack down as soon as the transport lands and you're onboard.

He also decides he's going to burn that tacky formal tunic of his too, simply because he can.

[moodymisty]

Post-depression beard Sicarius is very mad he has to escort some random baseline human around

[scriberye]

A Secret Held Tight (3/?)

────────── DEMETRIAN TITUS x F!READER x CATO SICARIUS ⚠️ Romance, Pregnant!Reader Weeks after a night of celebrations, you find yourself pregnant and ready to run, only to have your plans thwarted by Titus who vows to keep you safe. Now you must navigate the complexities of falling in love, and the scrutiny of Captain Cato Sicarius. a/n: Cato makes his appearance! This could probably do with another round of editing since I was writing it between dungeon queues. chp. one / chp. two

You awaken slowly, groggy and disoriented, as the events of last night come flooding back. Your body is heavy, and your spirit drained. With a weary sigh, you sit up, a sudden wave of nausea hitting you. You clutch your stomach as you fight through it. Thankfully, nothing comes up.

Taking a moment to recover, you look around at your new quarters. The room is small and barren, save for the bed you sit on. With time and care, you could make it cozier, maybe even squeeze a bassinet in for the baby. The two doors pose a challenge though — one leads to the hall, while the other likely connects your room to Titus’.

Rising carefully, you make your way to the door and knock. There’s no response. You open it cautiously, peering inside only to find Titus’ room empty. Curious, you step through.

His room mirrors your own in its simplicity. A neatly made bed pushed up against the wall, and a desk nearby with a modest collection of books stacked in the corner, their spines worn from use.

Just as you’re about to examine the books closer, Titus enters, a tray of food balanced in his hands. He’s surprised to see you up, and he smiles. It’s awkward at best, as though he’s unsure if he’s doing it right. In truth, there haven’t been many causes to warrant smiling lately.

“Good morning,” he says, placing the tray down on his desk. “How are you feeling?”

You take a moment to answer him, resting a hand on your rounding belly. It wasn’t obvious yet, but you could already feel the changes. Just last night, you had steeled yourself for a life of solitude with your child. Now you were safe in the place you tried to flee — safe under an Ultramarine’s protection.

“I’m better, thank you, my lord.”

“Titus,” he corrects softly. “Please, when we’re alone, there’s no need.”

“O-of course. Titus,” you echo, testing his name on your lips. It’s strangely intimate to address him without titles, and both of you blush like bashful teenagers.

An awkward silence follows until Titus clears his throat, gesturing toward the tray. “You slept through breakfast, so I brought you some.”

“Thank you,” you say, sitting down at the desk and looking over the contents of the tray. It’s a modest feast — bread, an array of fruits, and a jug of clean water, far more than what you were accustomed to eating before. You nibble at the bread. It seemed the safest of the options for your rolling stomach.

“I informed the kitchen it was for a pregnant woman,” Titus says, sitting on the edge of his bed, “and they insisted I bring it all. You’d think I stumbled into a nest of nids with how frenzied they were.”

You laugh quietly, and Titus’ gaze softens when he looks at you. “When you’ve had your fill, you may accompany me to battle practice.”

The meal passes in silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages as Titus reads through the codex astartes. You eat what you can, mindful of the persistent morning sickness that kept hounding you.

Once you’re finished, you follow Titus to the training grounds. He joins his brothers, exchanging a few words as they wait for others to join. You find a bench in a cloister that’s out of the way and settle in to watch.

The respect the other marines have for Titus is obvious, even amongst the younger brothers who look at him with open admiration. You’d heard that Titus had been demoted, though the particulars remained a mystery — details a serf wasn’t privy to. Still, losing rank did nothing to reduce their respect for him.

You brush your hand over your stomach. He’ll be a great father.

With all the brothers assembled, training begins in earnest, their first drill focusing on close-quarter combat. The sounds of power armor whirring and the grunts of exertion fill the air. And Titus is magnificent. His form, stacked with muscle and powerful, moves with grace and precision from years of training. Each swing, every punch, every move is efficient, nothing is wasted.

Every so often, his gaze drifts towards you, and when your eyes meet his, your cheeks bloom with warmth and you duck your head with an embarrassed smile. A younger brother nearly gets a hit on him while he’s distracted by you, but Titus recovers with a dodge.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a figure approaching, clad in gleaming blue armor — Cato Sicarius. It’s almost theatrical how the sun glints off his armor, casting a bright reflection. His piercing gaze is locked on you, and your heart races as he gets closer.

“Serf,” he says, his voice calm, yet the way he addresses you cuts deeper than any blade. It’s like an insult. You lower your head.

“My lord,” you murmur.

“I had heard Titus took on a pregnant serf. I’m disappointed to find it true.” His eyes narrow, his eyes boring into you with a strange, unsettling familiarity. “And who is the father?”

“I-I don’t know, my lord. It’s complicated,” you stammer.

Sicarius regards you with a mixture of frustration and annoyance. He doesn’t give you a moment to collect yourself. “Complicated? How do you not know?” he presses harder, his voice low and urgent. “You must have some idea.”

Your hands tremble, and you clasp them together to keep yourself from shaking. The world seems to close in; the accusations are heavy and crush the air from your lungs. Before you can muster a response, another marine strides purposefully towards you, his face stern — Titus.

“It doesn’t matter who the father is,” he declares. “What matters is her safety and well-being, and that of the child and I will take that responsibility.”

Sicarius jerks his head to face Titus with a frown. “Titus. Remember your duty. Do not let these personal matters interfere with that.”

Titus is unwavering, a bulwark against Sicarius. “I assure you, Captain, my duties are my priority. If you take issue with my decisions, we may take this to the Primarch.”

Sicarius glances once more between you and Titus, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, he nods curtly. “Very well, brother,” he concedes, though his tone implies this matter is far from over. He turns and strides over to the group of marines, his voice rising in stern commands as he begins scolding and correcting their forms.

Titus sighs, relaxing as he looks down at you. “Are you alright?” he asks, jolting you back to reality.

You nod, clutching your hands protectively over your stomach. “I-I am, thank you. I feel like I can’t stop saying that…”

“There’s no need for thanks, I am happy to aid you.” Titus smiles, and this time, it seems more natural. “Do not dwell on his words, Cato has always been difficult. Come, midday meal is soon. I’ll see you to the kitchens.”

He holds out his hand, and you slip yours into his. Titus’ grip is steady and reassuring as he helps you to your help, and you take comfort in that — in him.

Later that night, after concluding evening prayer, Titus made his way towards the kitchens, planning to retrieve a meal for himself and you. He wonders what they’ll suggest you eat this time. How much did you need to eat, anyway? A million thoughts race through his mind as he rounds a corner.

From behind a column, a figure emerges and Titus stops, watching as the person hurries to him. It’s a serf, one he recognizes as serving Cato Sicarius. This can’t be good.

“Lord Titus,” the serf begins, his voice hushed and heavy with fear. “I have something important I must tell you, concerning your serf.”

Titus straightens, snapping to attention. “Speak.”

The serf hesitates, casting worried glances around as if someone might overhear him. Walls of the fortress had ears. “Captain Sicarius is the father,” he blurts out, eyes wide with fear. “I-I saw him leaving my chambers that night, and when I entered, I found her.”

A heavy silence falls upon them, thick and oppressive, as the revelation hangs in the air. The tension stretches into a long, suffering stillness. The serf wrings his hands in an attempt to calm his nerves, searching Titus’ face for any sign of emotion — and finds none.

Finally, Titus speaks, his voice cold and measured. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

With a hasty bow, the serf scurries away, gone as quickly as he appeared, leaving Titus alone with his turbulent thoughts. Titus breathes deep, his nostrils flaring. His fists clench at his sides, the knuckles turning white from the force.

That bastard.

🏷️ @danart501

[kit-williams]

I need this

I need to be so cock drunk

God yes

Closer

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Cato Sicarius x Reader [Fem]

Song Inspiration: Closer - Nine Inch Nails [Youtube] [Spotify]

“You let me violate you / you let me desecrate you /

You let me penetrate you / you let me complicate you /

I broke apart my insides / I’ve got no soul to tell /

The only thing that works for me / Help me get away from myself.”

Warnings: SMUT. Degradation and praise, possessiveness, partial asphyxiation, hair pulling, breeding kink, right into the rough and nasty. 

Word Count: 1.3k

Author’s Note: Raven Lady’s ovulating and it’s bad. I have no excuse. This hit me while I was rocking on the floor like Apollo with the dodgeball and I let the hormones win. Not edited in the slightest.

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty

The rough prickling of his beard rubs against your shoulder, scratching against it uncomfortably, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Obediently you tilt your head to the side to grant Cato more access, which he greedily takes. The captain tangles one of his massive hands into your hair and yanks your head to the side. His lips attack the side of your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin between rough bites and sucks. You know you’re going to have hickies to cover tomorrow and for the next few weeks, if he’ll allow it. 

The day had started off so innocently with you helping the noblewomen tire out their young ones, the little tykes running about the streets without a care in the world. The sight of the young ones brought a simple joy to your primarch, Guilliman having mentioned that it reminded him of the home he used to remember. Cato had passed by with several of his company on their way to training, and you had made an offhand comment about wondering what it would be to guide your own little one about the grand fortress.

Either the thought of putting one in you or the idea of you growing round and full with his child had completely plagued Sicarius’s mind for the rest of the day, as the next moment you two were well and truly alone, you clothes hadn’t lasted more than a few short seconds. They still lie in tatters on the tiled floor, occasionally getting caught under foot.

“You’re no better than a common– fucking– slut,” Cato pants, punctuating each word with the slam of his hips against yours. 

He has your sore body roughly pinned down to the covers, not allowing you an inch of breathing room as he fucks into you. The wet squelch of him penetrating your tight cunt echoes off of the metal walls of your room, his balls stimulating your clit with each thrust. Cum drips sloppily from between your thighs and down onto linen sheets. Mind clouded and lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, you mewl underneath him for more, more, more.

You cry out as his teeth sink into your neck, adding to the masterwork he’s so carefully crafted. You were his, and until your belly had swelled enough to display it for all to see, Cato swore he would continue to fuck you to exhaustion each day.

Oh, but could he bring himself to stop then with how gorgeous you sounded caged beneath him? Begging and keening beneath him like the good little whore you were? Or would he fall headfirst into his desires, enraptured by the glow of your gravid body as it grew?

He certainly couldn’t fuck you as he was now, shoving your chest down into the bed and forcing you to present so prettily. Cato leans back, pulling you up by the hair with him to arch your back just the way he likes.

“Good girl,” he growls, using the new angle to draw more sounds out of your aching throat and abused cunt, “Taking it like the vile whore you are.” 

The way you clench around his cock has him delirious with pleasure, as if he hadn’t already just flooded your womb twice before. You must be one of Slaanesh’s finest beneath the skin with how your lecherous body always draws him in for more. The sheen of sweat on your skin makes you glitter in the low light like a treasure.

“Can you even hear me in that dumb little head of yours? So stupid, so pretty. Just a hole to be used.” Cato’s free hand snakes around your waist and up to paw at your breasts, tweaking a nipple and pulling a yipe from you. “Would you spread your legs for any common Ultramarine if he promised to put a baby in you?”

You nod your head, cockdrunk and wild, and Cato snarls. He snaps his hips up hard into you, stilling and grinding his cock against your cervix enough to send pleasure and pain alike up your spine. A whimper catches in your throat from the treatment, the pressure almost too much to bear.

“Of course you would. So eager to have your pussy filled.” The hand at your breasts fondles them. “But you won’t. You won’t—” he withdraws almost completely, cockhead nestled just at your pussylips, “—because you’re mine.” The grip in your hair tightens, and Cato yanks you back to meet him as he drives forward, ripping a loud moan from your chest. The brutal pace from before resumes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

You will yourself to speak through hiccuped breaths, voice low and breathy. “Are you going to– ah!– put a baby in me, Sicarius?”

The side of your face ungracefully meets the bed again as Cato pushes you back down. A growl rumbles within him.

“Brainless harlot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bred so full your abdomen distends?” As if to accentuate his point, the hand at your breast slides down to rest above your abdomen. “Waddling around the Fortress of Hera carrying the child of someone so high above your standing?” 

Despite the venom of his degrading words, the breathiness of his voice betrays how much the idea affects him. He clutches at you in a manner that is all too tender. Protective.

Cato’s steady thrusts begin to falter, and he slows his hips to a steady roll to feel out every inch of himself in you. A satisfied breath puffs against your ear as he leans  back over you, skilled fingers finding your neglected clit and rolling it in tight circles.

“Come for me,” he pleads, fucking that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. The spring within you draws tighter, tighter, making you feel afloat as every little sensation coils it further. 

The gentle press of Cato’s lips against your jawline makes you shudder, the affectionate gesture enough to snap the tension within your belly. With a loud cry, you spasm and clamp down around the Ultramarine’s cock, digging your nails into the sheets of the bed. Your legs shake from the intensity, giving out from under you.

The feeling of your pussy like a vice around him causes Cato to moan, low and desperate as he chases his own orgasm. With a final harsh thrust, he stills, moan breaking into throaty stutters. His balls draw tight against you, cock throbbing inside of you as he pumps your cunt full of his seed for the third and final time. Muscular arms wrap around you firmly, holding you to Cato’s chest as he gently cants his hips against yours to milk the last of his cum into your waiting womb.

The both of you pant as you wind down, barely able to get a full breath as the astartes’ much larger form rests on top of yours. Slick with sweat, you turn your head to the side to look at his handsome face. His eyes crack open to meet yours, and he grants you a rare smile, white teeth peeking out from behind his lips. You reciprocate.

“How do we tell Guilliman if anything does happen?” you ask, resting your head on your arms.

Cato immediately grimaces, looking away with a roll of his eyes. “Can we discuss my genefather when I’m not still inside of you?”

Chuckling, you lean over to press a kiss to his nose. He huffs, but his breath hitches when you clench down around him. Instantly, he freezes, and his eyes are back on yours, darkening and boring into you. The muscles of his jaw tighten.

You meet him with a challenge, purring out, “We might as well make it certain that he’ll have something to worry about.” In invitation, you wiggle your hips.

Fingertips dig harshly into the swell of your ass to hold them steady. “Insatiable woman,” Cato chides, gripping your jaw and pulling you once more into a bruising kiss.

[ms--lobotomy]

The Cato fleas have not gone away. I doubt they ever will, chat. @whorety-k was talking about Cato so I'm tagging you too <3

Summary: Pegging

Word Count: 889

Content Warnings: SMUT, porb without plot, soft domming, no pronouns used for reader but they do use a strap, ass smackin,

Image Credit: @squishyowl

He sat on the bed in front of you, eyes averted from your gaze. He donned his body glove and that alone. It clung to all of the divots in his body, dark against scarred flesh. He huffed. His ass scooted back on the bed while you ran your hands along his thighs. There was a slight blush on his pale, smooth face. You, meanwhile, were looking up at him, your eyes trained on him. Your hand moved up to the side of his face, cupping it gently.

"You can always say no," you coo, your hands moving up his thighs towards the top before you cupped his face with your hand, turning it back down to you.

"...Fine," he mumbled as you feel a shiver going down his spine. He reached for the hand on his face, his massive hand engulfing yours as he closed his eyes. "I trust you."

"Thank you," you replied, pressing a kiss to his nose. "Now. Turn around for me, please?"

He huffed again, turning around on the bed and sitting there like a giant boulder. You tugged at the zipper of his bodysuit, pulling it down and pulling the suit off of him. You marveled at his body for a few moments, running your fingers along muscular yet not dehydrated arms.

"Are you going to get to it?" he asked, his right leg thumping against the bed.

"Soon, I promise," you said, grinding your strap against his back.

He let out a little "ggh-" as you looked over his shoulder. He was hard. Your lips parted into a smile as you lowered yourself to wrap a hand around him.

"You're hard," you remarked.

"Don't rub it in," he replied, hands settling on the side of the bed to let you play with him.

It wasn't long before you were done with him, shiny precum leaking out of him. He sighed, looking back at you with your pleased expression before turning his gaze towards the ceiling. Your hands roamed to his waist, feeling the divots where his legs began. You ran your fingers along him, not moving your hands before you rested your face on his back.

"On your stomach," you said gently. He looked back at you again before he situated himself on the bed, positioning himself with his head on a pillow in such a way that mounting him would be easy. You hummed, running your fingers over his ass before grinding your strap closer to his hole.

"Mmh," he groaned, folding his arms above his face.

"I haven't even stuck it in, Captain," you smiled, giving his ass a light smack before spreading his cheeks wide open. You found his entrance, carefully lining up your strap with it before entering with a pop.

"Nngh!" he cried out, his normally steady voice shaking underneath you.

"Good boy," you mumbled as you sank in. You were slow, yet steady about it, letting him acclimate to you as he moaned underneath you. You felt the sheets bunch up in front of you, and you smirked to yourself as you settled in.

"Enjoying it?" you asked, setting a hand on his back as you sheathed yourself to the hilt.

"Mmm," he replied.

He was shaking under you, and you pressed kisses to his back as you slowly began to fuck into him. His moans started out a little more restrained, but as you kissed into his back, ran your hands along scarred skin and pressed into him, he began to get louder. Soon enough, you'd felt vibrations in the bed.

"Harder..." he moaned, gripping his pillow tightly.

"Harder?" you smirked, thrusting in harder. "Never thought I'd have you begging for me, big boy."

"B-- big boy," he repeated through gritted teeth.

"What, you like that one?" you asked, grunting as you slammed yourself in to the hilt. You felt it slightly above your own legs, where strap met clothing. You grit your own teeth, your eyelids lowering as you looked down at him. "Mmh..."

"And what if I did," he growled through the pillow.

You smiled. "Maybe I'll keep that in mind," you said.

Before long, he whined into a crescendo. You grinned, knowing he was close. You ran a hand along his ass, just as scarred as the rest of him, before giving it a gentle smack. Cato moaned your name one last time before he came, spurting into the mattress while he cried out into the pillow.

"That's okay, big boy, let it out," you cooed, pressing into him as far as you could before he finished. He turned his head to the side before he cried out and the last of it came out. He panted, his chest heaving up and down as you pulled out of him.

"Tell nobody of this," he mumbled, turning over on the bed. You took the strap off and threw it to the floor before climbing on his back. You looked more like a backpack with the height difference, but he closed his eyes anyways.

"You have my word," you replied, closing your eyes as you ran your hand mindlessly through his hair, your other hand over his stomach.

"Mm."

He may have fallen asleep first, or you may have. But you eventually closed your eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep, perfectly content.

Taglist: @bispecsual @justeverythingnothingelse @bleedingichorhearts @nekotaetae @historitor-bookshelf

[lemon-russ]

They tried to flea bomb me but I endured. The fleas return.

Thank you as always @squishyowl for the dividers

Part 15/ ???

< previous || next >

Ao3 || Taglist request ||

Cato Sicarius x F!Reader

CW: Mentions of sex, not much going on today

Summary: Cato and Titus have to hitchhike the galaxy, Ambassador is grounded

word count: 1,849

Cato Isn’t sure he actually wants to go home now. Sure, he and Titus are being forced to work together to find a way to get home, and for once at least have a shared dread that is helping them get along. Nothing brings Brothers together like getting in trouble by Dad, it seemed.

But if he goes home, he has to face the consequences. Has the Ambassador explained anything to Guilliman? How much did she tell him? Was he walking into a guillotine? He doesn’t know the penalty for sleeping with a Primarch’s diplomat / assistant / Pet?, but he knows that he also disobeyed his orders, technically hijacked a ship, and went AWOL for two days. AWOL to go bury his face between the legs of a baseline human that he’s starting to think his primarch is treating like a surrogate daughter.

“Maybe you can go on ahead and I’ll catch up.” He says to Titus, who is looking over the ship ports itineraries for a way home. Titus glances over at him with a confused look.

“What? You want to hang back and see if there are any other vulnerable baseline girls for you to defile?” He says with a small snort, turning back to the papers.

Cato presses his lips into a line. “I may be a little reckless, but I’m not unfaithful.” He grumbles, turning to watch ships land and leave.

Titus chuckles tiredly. “That’s the part you have a problem with…?” He mumbles as he turns a page. “Look, I know you’re afraid of what Guilliman is going to do to you, but you don’t get to just hide.” He gives a casual shrug. “If you die, you die. Face it like a man.”

Cato glowers at his battle brother. “Wow. Thanks. Really comforting, Demetrian.”

Titus rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that. We aren’t first name friendly. And I’m not going to rub your back and tell you it’s going to be ok. You committed like, four crimes. I know I’m not one to go around thumping the Codex at people like Leandros, but even I have a line. Four is a lot of crimes for a week, Sicarius.” Titus says tiredly. “Plus, I still hate you.”

Cato huffed a breath out his nose and crossed his arms. “It was probably only three crimes and maybe a grey area misdemeanor, Titus.” He grumbles.

“Ah, grey areas, we all know how much the Ultramarines love grey areas.” Titus says sarcastically. “I think I found a route we can take to a trade planet, and from there we can probably get a ride home or at least charter one.” He says, closing the stack of pages. “We have about an hour until the ship arrives.”

Cato sighs deeply, slumping his shoulders. “Do you think Lord Guilliman will believe me if I say I had a lapse in sanity? A mental break from over work?”

Titus chuckles. “I think you would be the first Astartes to ever break their programming to do so, so, no. I don’t think he would. I think your only chance is to confess to it all.”

Cato grimaced. But Titus was right. Guilliman valued honesty and taking responsibility. The issue was to be honest meant he would have to admit he had no regrets. He wasn’t ready to apologize and agree to stay away from the Ambassador. He tried staying away from her and it made him lose his mind and steal a ship. Even now, he was anxious that she was out of his sight again.

Was Guilliman being easy on her about this? Likely. He spoils her, and he probably assumed everything was Cato’s fault. Which was absurd- He is the victim here, if anyone. The Ambassador was the one who wanted to talk about feelings after they slept together, and she was the one to kiss him when they got home the first time. She clawed her way into his psyche and cursed him with obsession. Not that he can be mad with her, which is only further proof of her mind games honestly.

“What about you? Aren’t you nervous, or are you too used to getting reprimanded?” Cato asks, following Titus as he leaves the hangar and walks to the lodging areas.

Titus rolls his eyes. “Getting in a scrap with a brother is not a serious offense, especially not when he finds out why I hit you. I think in this case of ‘I was trying to defend the Ambassador from a predator’ I will be okay. You, not so much. But that’s what you get for being a deviant.” He says with a mocking shrug and smirk.

Cato scowls at him. “And I think when I explain you were checking out her ass all day and just are jealous because of some crush you don’t wanna admit, you’ll be in trouble with me.”

Titus grits his teeth. “I am not- you’re insane, you know that? You’re projecting your perversions on me.” He snaps. Cato rolls his eyes as they walk into the lodging area, heading to their rooms to pack. ”Right, well have fun trying to unravel all that. I just know the way you were looking at her in that dress was the same way I was, and only one of us has her permission to do that.” He huffed, heading to his door.

Titus growls a little, then slammed his door behind him. A moment later he flung it back open. “You still have my clothes, too, asshole, and left your dirty ones on my floor.”

Cato laughs a bit. “Sounds like a you problem, Demetrian.” He says as he shuts his door behind him.

Titus lets out an angry huff. “Don’t call me- argh!” He grumbled as he slammed his already splintered door again.

__________________________________________

You stare at your pile of paperwork, pouting a bit and doodling aimlessly on a scrap paper. Things were a little awkward since you returned to the Macragge’s Honour with Guilliman. He knows about you and Cato now, though he has to keep asking you to clarify that yes, it is romantic, like dating, like intimate, and yes you are a willing participant, and noCaptain Sicarius does not have blackmail on you.

He also made you get more head scans, Recalling how Cato was worried you’d bumped your head when you got back from the first mission together. The scans thankfully showed your brain was squeaky clean and, despite what Cato says, full of wrinkles. You even got a copy of the scan to show him when he got back, next time he calls you smooth brained.

None of this comfoted Guilliman though. And now you were grounded. Well, not grounded, but lets be honest. He grounded you. He doesn’t want you to speak to Cato until he does, and in fear of your apparently “erratic and confusing” behavior, you now had new babysitters.

Brother Gallan and Brother Brutus took turns hanging out outside your office door, reporting to Guilliman any time you left the office and where you went. They were specifically not allowed near you quarters though. Embarrassingly, Guilliman would not take your word for it that you don't have some sort of low level psyker effect on his Sons that makes them fall in love with you.

You shudder at the thought. It was a new, previously unknown level of mortification that now your boss is afraid of letting his supermutant soldiers around you too long for fear they will fall for some siren song of yours. He actually locks down your quarters- if you leave, he gets an alert. You’re allowed to go where you like of course, but now he wants to make sure no one is leaving with you, or Emperor forbid returning with you.

You sigh and rub your face. You haven’t gotten any of your work done, because also mortifyingly, you still can’t stop thinking about Cato. Is he ok? Are he and Titus pummeling each other still? How do you get home without imperial ships? You frown and rub your temples.

There’s a knock on your door, and you can tell who it is by the height of the sound. “Come in, sir…” you say tiredly, as Guilliman lets himself in and comes to stand at your desk. He smiles awkwardly down at you.

“Ambassador. How goes your work?” He asks with forced casualness.

You press your lips and move a paper over your doodles. “Uh, fine, sir.” You lie.

Of course he doesn’t actually care how your work is going, so he doesn’t press. “Of course, diligent as always. On another note, I have been… Thinking.”

You frown a bit. “On what, sir…?”

He clears his throat, glancing at the wall. “About… you and Captain Sicarius.” He says. “I think, if I can talk to him- and after he serves punishments for his actions, I can’t let hijacking go- then if he seems sufficiently reasonable and dedicated, and you in turn…” he sighs and gives a resigned frown. “I’ll consider looking the other way on your…. relationship.”

You sit up, eyes widening. “Oh- um, thank you sir” you say with a little surprise. “That would mean a lot to me. I know it is odd but, I do like him a lot.” You add with a small smile.

Guilliman gives a tight frown. “Yes. You’ve made that abundantly clear, Ambassador.” He says with a small sigh. “…I mean… Have you considered Ventris…?”

“Sir!” You gasp, blushing. “Please! Th-this is not just me wanting to hook up with any Astartes-” you stutter.

He lets out a small groan. “Fine, fine. I just thought maybe you could consider your options. I have so many nice, obedient, responsible sons, and you choose Sicarius?”

You frown, crossing your arms, face still pink. “Please, sir, don’t make me explain it in any more detail than we are both comfortable with” You plead.

He sighs a long, deep sigh. “Okay, fine. I’ll be heading back to my office then. Just… keep up the good work.” He says tiredly. He starts to the door, looks awkward, then walks back to your desk and pats you on the back. “You… you do a good job, Ambassador.” He says, clearing his throat.

You blink up at him, knitting your brows. “Uh… thank you, sir?”

He clears his throat again. “I did some reading. Some literature suggests that baseline women who do not feel like they receive approval from their patriarchal figures in their life will seek out men who do not value them well-”

“SIR!” You snap, cheeks burning.

He puts his hands up defensivly and returns to the door, “Okay! I’m going.” He chuckles. “I value and appreciate you, Ambassa-”

“LORD GUILLIMAN!” You interrupt with a shout as he chuckles and closes the door behind him.

[aqua-the-smiter]

Part 2 of being nice to Cato because nobody else will.

Cato Sicarius x female reader Divider by the lovely @squishyowl seriousy I love your dividers SO MUCH Also snuck in a tiny little nod to @moodymisty 's Cato stuff. It inspired me quite a bit Song for the dream and the part with the reader - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-r5DWT0Z-A Song for Cato's musings - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I15sK7dNMOM

Cato hadn't set foot back on the Emperor's Will in years, but it felt like he was never free of the damned ship. He saw it everywhere. Dark hallways would flicker into the lonely metal corridors, every voidship he boarded would make his skin prickle briefly. He found himself drawing up plans for if his vessel was ever lost in the Warp again. What he could do differently to minimize losses.

Even his sleep wasn't safe. Then again, weren't dreams the most volatile, fickle things?

There were no walls. Just an endless, dark room that seemed to go on and on until they hit the hull. It took him ages to walk to it, where it would just stretch on into the blackness until he hit a curve or a corner. The lumens in the ceiling were dim, weak. Their light only went so far.

He was frantic. Running around the seemingly endless room. He could hear things. Screaming, so much screaming. And that infernal music again. The pipe organ, and the singing in a language he couldn't understand. He still couldn't understand it.

He searched and searched. Going in circles. But there was nothing there. The room was empty.

The lumens flickered. There was scratching.

But still there was nothing. Although he swore that was a lie. He felt something there. A presence. Several. Like they were all just out of reach. He couldn't be alone. The only one left alive. There had been more. Not as many but there had been. Wherever he moved, it felt like there was something following him. Something he either couldn't see, or something that didn't want him to see it. Lingering in the corner of his eye, the back of his mind, clinging to the shadows that even his vision couldn't discern.

He could still hear the music, even though he couldn't find the organist. Screaming, begging for mercy in a starless sky where there was none to be found. The scratching again. Then he noticed something.

The floor felt oddly...spongy. Like it wasn't completely solid. Like it was sagging with his weight. It looked like normal metal tiles. But when he stepped on one, he felt it move. Just by a fraction of an inch. Something dark and viscous welled up between the tiles. His eyes grew oddly wet and sticky. The scent of iron filled his nose and throat.

Suddenly, very suddenly, he knew he wasn't alone. He hadn't been alone this whole time.

Slowly, he got to one knee and pulled out his blade. Wedging it under a tile, and using it to pry the heavy slab up. It pulled away easily with a sickening, wet squelching. Strings of liquid clung to the underside. A wave of fetid air rolled out, like cold from a meat locker.

Oh no, he hadn't been alone. Everyone was right here. Right underneath him.

Under the tile was a roiling, disgusting mass of flesh. There were people sunk inside. Melted together. Screaming faces, jaws wrenched wide open in agony. Eyes with no lids, hands reaching up to him. All bare, glistening muscle and sinew. Slick with blood and dripping slime. Groaning in pain. Begging, pleading. For help, or to end their suffering. Who could say?

He wanted to help, but he could not. He knew he could not, not when they were like this. But the guilt crushed him anyway. He could feel the red iron wetness in his eyes dripping out, rolling down his cheeks.

He couldn't save them. He couldn't save anyone. Groping for the tile he had removed, but it had vanished.

A hand covered in broken ceramite grabbed his ankle. Quickly, it was severed at the wrist. Cato jumped back, and stumbled. The tile behind him had disappeared. He looked around. They were all disappearing now. Sinking into the twisting, liquefied horror. He looked around, but there was no door out. He looked up, but there was nothing on the ceiling for him to grab onto. He looked down again. The half rotted faces of his battle brothers stared back up. With a jolt of horror he realized he could recognize them all. They screamed at him, even as they grabbed at his ankles and dragged him off the one remaining tile. He screamed too, thrashing and kicking. Screaming the whole way down.

Cato woke up with a scream. His twin hearts hammered against his ribs, his body wet with sweat.

It was times like these where he was grateful he had his own quarters. He didn't sleep often, but this time the Primarch had insisted he get some rest. He'd wanted to protest, but there had been something in Guilliman's eyes that had stopped him.

Concern.

That troubled him. His out of control mind was getting so noticeable even his gene-father was worried, when he had much more important things to worry about. Not for the first time, Sicarius cursed himself for letting it get to this point.

The worst part about all of this was just how alone he was. He figured he should talk to someone about it, but who could he even go to? Who would actually understand? Calgar was not fond of him. Many of his brothers were not fond of him. The idea of talking to the lord Primarch was so absurd he nearly laughed. He got the feeling that Guilliman was...exasperated with him at times. No, he was alone in this.

A part of him wondered if anyone would even listen to him, or if his earlier arrogance had burned a certain perception into everyone's minds. He certainly still had a reputation. He was respected. Of course, he was still the commander of the Victrix Guard. That alone carried immeasurable prestige. That, at least, he was acknowledged for. His skill in combat, his sharp mind as a tactician. No matter what had happened, he still had that. But that colored things too. Sometimes he wondered if he was even a brother to the other Ultramarines, or if they saw him more as a tool. A good one, but a tool nonetheless. Respected, applauded, but not liked. Some of his battle brothers probably blamed him for the losses on the Emperor's Will. He'd heard as much from gossiping serfs and Astartes alike. And he couldn't blame them, because he did too. He was no Titus, or Ventris. If anything, it felt like his reputation had gotten worse in some aspects. Granted, he had become quieter, and more withdrawn than he'd used to be, but somehow he'd even ended up with the label of a misogynist. That, he had no idea where it had come from. He had questioned it, but the answers he got didn't make sense. Perhaps it was his dealings with one of the Primarch's diplomats? He had been a bit short with her, but that hadn't been anything personal.

It was like two completely different versions of him existed simultaneously. The one his battle brothers and Primarch and everyone else thought they were seeing. The one that everyone projected their negative perceptions onto. And the one he actually was.

He thought back. When had this spiral started? Damnos, maybe. The first crack in his mirror. The first was always the ugliest. It had been humiliating. Maybe that was when the illusion was broken. If anyone had doubted him then, all those doubts had been confirmed, and minds were hard to change. Maybe it was then his brotherhood had been revoked. And when Guilliman's opinion of him had turned, after he heard or read about it. Maybe that's why he kept Cato so close. He knew that he couldn't be relied on anymore.

And if that was the case, why would anyone think twice about him? Why would they care if what they said about him was true or not? Anyone could make up anything and people would just nod along and say "That checks out. I heard he was like that" even though he hadn't been for a long time. That smugness had been burned out of him on the Emperor's Will like poison from a wound. But it didn't matter what he was actually like now. He had been ousted and had been too blind to realize it until it was slapping him in the face. It was a bitter thought to swallow. He could feel it putting down roots.

Why would anyone care about his tormented thoughts, then? About the ghosts that scratched at him when he was alone. The nagging, the screaming, the singing. If him changing had not mattered, why would his pain matter? And he realized right then with horrible certainty that things would never get better.

It didn't matter, he supposed. He felt isolated, although he did his best to keep it under wraps. Something he was going to have to do a better job of, it seemed. Whatever was boiling in his head, it wasn't important. It was his problem, and only his problem. If he could bury it deep enough, then it didn't have to be a problem. He had a duty to fulfill.

Right now, that entailed trying to get back to sleep. As hopeless of an endeavor as that felt. The next time he awoke it was to sunlight and the general noise of the Fortress of Hera.

And to the only music he could stand nowadays.

He looked over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, to see you settling back in a chair after flinging the curtains open. His helmet was sitting in your lap, currently being polished with care. The plume had been brushed out.

"I overslept." He stated, looking at how bright the day was outside. "Dammit!"

"It's ok, Cato." You soothed, reaching out to pat him on the arm. Corded muscle underneath your fingertips. "The...well, the Primarch said not to disturb you."

"He...what? Why? Have I done something to displease him?"

"Of course not. He thought you could do with the extra rest. You've seemed...off for a while."

Well that was certainly true. He ran a hand through his short hair and sat up. "Still, it's bad form."

"I don't know. You haven't been well for a while, Cato." You told him hesitantly.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem so...dull. Lost. Like you're wandering around in fog. Like there's a light in you that's burnt out. I don't really know how to describe it." You wrung your hands. "But you've changed. You're quieter, your temper is shorter. You're only social when you need to be, and you brood so much. I'm...I'm worried about you too. Did something happen on that ship? On the Emperor's Will?"

He cursed inwardly. He'd never wanted to put the burden of his internal pain on you. But he had done such a poor job of controlling himself that even Guilliman had noticed.

You, he wasn't surprised about. You were his personal serf, after all. Moreover, you cared. About him. He wasn't a tool or a faraway, high ranking officer to you. He appreciated that, more than he could say. Still, it wasn't on you to shoulder his problems.

Did something happen? Of course something happened. They were lost in the Warp for five agonizing years. He could still hear the screams of his men and the haunted music when he closed his eyes.

But...

The look on your face was nothing but kind. You had always been a kind woman. Of all his nagging worries and doubts about opening up to someone about the things that wove themselves into the fabric of his mind, he knew for a fact none of them would apply to you.

"Yes. Many things happened on that ship. I still see them when I close my eyes. I still hear them when all is calm. It lingers in the back of my mind, in my waking moments. I hear the screaming and the music. I can find no peace."

It hurt to admit. The longer he had kept this close to his chest, the harder it became to speak about. A leaden weight in his soul. But it felt good to be rid of.

"Oh Cato..." Your voice was a soft whisper. Putting the helmet down, you sat on the edge of the bed next to him and threw your arms around his neck.

He stiffened, and was still for a long few minutes. You wondered if you had done something wrong, before you felt his huge, strong arms wrap around you in return, and pull you tight against his chest. He pressed his face into the crook of your shoulder, and you felt something wet soaking into the fabric of your robe.

You didn't know what else to do, so you just squeezed him tight. As tightly as your slender arms could. Cato didn't make a sound, but you felt his hands clutch your robe.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I am sorry for putting this on you. You do not need my burdens on your shoulders."

"No, it's ok. It sounds like you really needed to talk to someone. How long has this been going on?"

"Too long."

You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then his cheek. You expected him to protest, but he didn't. He let himself be cuddled like a defeated cat.

"Listen, Cato. I...I care about you. A lot. If you don't want to tell anyone else about this, please at least talk to me. You can trust me, I promise. I don't know how much I can actually help. But surely it's better then living with this eating you. Surely? You don't even have to go into detail. Just tell me it won't leave you alone again."

He didn't answer for a while.

"Do you know that I can't stand music now? Any music. Except for yours. I still like the sound of your singing."

That made you blush a little. And you were happy to be able to provide some comfort to him, even if it was something so small.

He removed his head from your shoulder, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he placed one on your soft lips.

You were surprised, to say the least, but you'd be lying if you said it didn't fill you with joy immediately. You reciprocated it, eagerly, and when the two of you finally pulled apart he had a small smile on his face, despite the fact his cheeks were still wet with his tears.

"Thank you, my lady." Cato said softly, so much more softly than you would have ever believed an Astartes capable of. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Cato. I..." You swallowed. "I love you. I'll be here for you."

He placed a hand on your cheek. It was huge and rough, but warm. You layered your hand over his, holding it against your face.

It wasn't an instant fix to his troubles, but it was something. The beginning of something. Maybe things could finally scab over now.

Maybe Cato could finally begin to heal.