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aqua-the-smiter · 4 months ago

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Part 5 baybee. I am the Harbinger of Justice for Cato Sicarius Despite everything, he is still needed. And he won't fail. Cato Sicarius x female reader Divider by @squishyowl

Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TOzkCIaXjI , https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znsUh6vBWLI

"Could you at least tell me why he's so important? Can you at least grant me that little?"

Guilliman sighed, and leaned back in his chair. Melor was resting in his arms, happily nursing off a bottle that his uncle held for him. Cato had come in as soon as he'd had a spare moment, looking about as bad as he'd ever seen him when it wasn't directly after combat.

The Primarch felt a stab of guilt at that. He'd been mulling over what to do with him the whole way to Medusa, but afterwards things had slipped his mind. He did have the little one to look after. Now that he was back, the problem was also back in his periphery.

He wondered if giving Cato this assignment had been the best idea after all. He trusted the captain, knew just how strong and capable he was. The reason he'd given the duty to Sicarius was because he wholeheartedly believed that Melor would be safe with him. The old ego had long since been tempered. Cato was a good warrior and a good man.

But now when Guilliman looked at him he could see the damage. The emptiness in his eyes, the tension in his arms and shoulders. The breakdown from the previous day. He didn't doubt Cato now because of his skills, he doubted him because Cato expected himself to fail. Expectations often were part of breeding the results. Which was why now he was willing to offer a few more answers than he'd given before. Maybe if he understood, knew what exactly what he was dealing with, he'd realize just how much he was actually trusted.

Of course, it might also backfire completely. Knowing just how much was at stake could potentially send him down a spiral of thinking just how astronomical the consequences would be if he did fail. Which would shatter his confidence.

There was nothing for it but to try anyway.

"I will tell you. But understand this." He paused, adjusting the angle of the bottle as Melor drained it. "You are not breath a word of this to anyone. I am telling you this because I trust you, and you are correct. If you are going to guard him, you may as well know who exactly it is you're guarding."

Or, most of it anyway. There were still some things he didn't need to know.

"I will not." He thought that should have been a given, but the look in the Primarch's eyes was oddly intense. "You have my word."

"Good. Now-" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "-how do I start this? Alright. His full name is Melor Manus. He is Ferrus's son. Ferrus had a wife that none of us knew about, and they had a child, him. He was born shortly after Ferrus died, a few months I think, and then was put into stasis for safety. Which is why he's still practically a newborn."

Cato had assumed as much, but to hear the whole tale laid out was an entirely different thing. "How did that happen?"

"The usual way, Cato."

He frowned. "That is not what I mean. How did Lord Manus get a wife? From what I know of him, he doesn't seem like the type."

"He loved her." Guilliman replied quietly. "That is all he told me. I don't know how he he kept her secret. But I did not know him very well. He often liked to say that nobody knew him, and I believe he was right. Fulgrim certainly didn't know him as well as he liked to think he did, that much was plain. Her name was Argena."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Remembering watching the two walking hand in hand back into the Warp. It was a bittersweet thing to witness. He had never known Ferrus could have such a deep warmth in him. There was much he had never known about his brother. It was truly a shame that his reunion with his wife had to take place in the afterlife.

And he felt like an idiot. How could he have wept for Fulgrim's state when Fulgrim did it to himself? When here was Ferrus, eternally loyal, with a broken family and an orphan child. He was not perfect, far from it, but he deserved more of a due than what he had been given. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Knowing that he would never get the chance to truly know his brother. Ferrus had been one of his Dauntless Few. He should have known him better.

Then his lips quirked up in a rueful smile. "It's funny to me. I remember Ferrus and Fulgrim, during the Crusade. I remember how proud Fulgrim was of his physical appearance. He would boast of it often, and he landed Ferrus with the nickname of 'The Gorgon'. But he was married multiple times for political gain. Ferrus married once, for love."

Now that was truly unusual. The Primarch didn't like to talk about the Great Crusade very often, and Cato couldn't blame him. The memories were bitter, painful.

"Alright. Melor is Lord Manus's son, and he asked you to take care of him. That much is understandable. What I still cannot figure out is why you asked me to be his bodyguard. Why me?"

Roboute sighed. "I chose you because you are one of my best, Cato. I know about what is going on with you. Titus came to talk to me. Others have too. I know there are things chewing holes in your mind. I know you are in pain. But the fact remains, you are one of my best. I gave you the task because I trust you."

He had hoped to reassure his son, but Cato just withered. Looking profoundly ashamed. "I am sorry, my lord. That it has become such a problem that even you have taken notice. I have done a poor job of controlling myself." "No!" Roboute would've slammed his hand on the desk if that wouldn't have disturbed Melor. "Do not think like that. It's not something you can go on burying like this. I don't know how deep it goes, but you need help. It will rot you from the inside out, if it hasn't started to already."

"You have more important things occupying your time, my lord."

"Are my own sons not to be counted as important as well?" Guilliman retorted quietly. "Moreover, I understand it. Do you think I have never once thought to myself how some of this was my fault? That if I had only done something or other, the Imperium wouldn't be in this state? That some of my brothers would still be here? It is a wretched path to tread. And one best avoided."

Cato was stunned for a moment. All this time, he would have never imagined a Primarch, his Primarch, carrying the kind of haunting thoughts that he did. He couldn't find the words, so merely nodded.

"I know you're hurting. But I also know your record. I know you are a brilliant warrior, and you still have much untapped potential. I took you under my wing because you remind me of another of my sons. His name was Aeonid Thiel. Just as stubborn, just as willful. But he was tempered like any good blade. The best ones often take a very long time to make."

"I...thank you, my lord." He dipped his head.

"I trust you will do this duty, then?"

He stared at Melor for a moment. Since the boy was awake, he could see his eyes now. They were beautiful, a bright, brilliant gold with an odd metallic sheen. Ferrus's eyes had always been described as silver, so he guessed those eyes were his mother's.

"I will guard him with my life." Cato said finally.

Guilliman smiled. "I trust he'll be safe then." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was dark. The smell of incense and human pain laced the air. Blood ran in rivulets off the low altar into the channels, filling them and highlighting the design of the eight pointed Chaos wheel. Candles guttered and acolytes chanted.

The terminator Choroathe knelt in the center, free of his armor, and neck deep in his trace. He could hear them, the whispers of the Warp. The voices of the gods. And oh they had things to tell him. Secrets of the future. Secrets that the servants of the Corpse Emperor would love to keep buried.

They would be brought to light, rest assured.

Something was tickling the edges of his mind. Blurry at first, but the image was growing clearer. He felt dizzy, lightheaded. Like his soul was holding onto his body by a thread. It was euphoric.

His body stiffed. Some power ran through him like an electric current, and the visions coalesced. The whispering became legible, and told him it's secrets.

Iron seed Son of iron Lord of iron! Do not let him Go to Macragge Macragge, Macragge! Heart of Ultramar Slay him Slay the Iron Son Do not let this seed grow!

His head snapped back with a gasp, and his eyes flung open. He knelt there for a moment, his whole body shaking in almost orgasmic aftershocks. A prophecy...how long had it been since he received one? The Word Bearer struggled to contain his glee.

"My lord?"

He stood shakily, and turned around to face one of his squadmates.

"What did you see?"

"Macragge." Choroathe whispered. "The gods have granted me sight. We must go to Macragge. The seed must not grow."

A few of the others muttered among themselves. Another stepped forward. "What seed, my lord?"

"Ferrus Manus is dead, but his progeny lives. Roboute Guilliman has him now. The gods have sent me a warning. He cannot be allowed to live."

The other Word Bearer looked...uncomfortable at that.

"Is there a problem, Robavam?"

"Well...I don't mean to question the judgement of the divine, but to butcher an infant in his cradle feels...cruel." He said slowly.

"How dare you question the will of the gods!" One of his brothers snapped, and others took up similar cries.

Choroathe held up his hands for silence. "We do not always understand the will of those above us. But I have no doubt it is for the greater good. It may be difficult to comprehend, but we follow their will, not our own. If they thought he could be turned to our side, they would have told us so. But his father was unshakably loyal, and his father's blood is bound to his veins. As the father was, so the son shall be as well. He must be removed."

Robavam nodded, falling to his knees. "Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."

"It is cruel, but this galaxy is cruel. And sometimes cruel things must be done, to spare worse later on."

"I understand. Please, forgive my ignorance."

"Stand up, brother. All is forgiven if only one accepts his wrongdoing." Choroathe put a hand on his pauldron, briefly, before turning to the rest. "Now make ready, brothers! We carry out the will of the gods!"

But first, some weakening of the defenses would not hurt. He had been shown many things in his visions. One of those had been a particular Ultramarine. His armor was elaborate, and his helmet crested with a red and white plume.

Cato Sicarius. The broken one. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It had been around two weeks since the little one had come to the Fortress of Hera. And two weeks since he'd been assigned to the boy. It was, at the moment at least, the easiest job he'd ever had. The Primarch handled his day to day care, so all he had to do was stay in the room with the boy and guard his crib. Even that wasn't daily. As much as Guilliman had talked it up, it was clear he would rather be the one protecting his nephew. Cato couldn't blame him for that.

Melor's presence had become, if not normal, at least accepted. By now everyone had pretty much figured out what the Primarch hadn't said, that the boy was Ferrus Manus's son he had somehow been roped into caring for. If his swaddling hadn't been a dead giveaway, and it was largely agreed upon that Guilliman had refrained from saying anything out loud for safety reasons rather than because he thought his sons wouldn't be able to figure it out.

Cato had heard all kinds of ridiculous speculation about Melor's sire, however. Some of the younger Astartes and neophytes weren't content with the simplest answer, and were throwing out any and every Primarch with black hair, loyalist or not. Corvus Corax (the kid was pale but not that pale), Konrad Curze (no), Perturabo (had his hair even been black?), all the way to Horus himself (now you're asking to be smacked). It was absurd, and anyone he overheard spreading those particular rumors weren't let in to see the little one.

Because despite everything he'd garnered a good deal of fondness from the Ultramarines. Even with the (stupid) discourse on his parentage, the ones who didn't interact with that kind of ridiculousness still found themselves curious, and inevitably came to see him.

Marneus Calgar was one of the ones brave enough to hold him. He'd held the little boy up to his face, and Melor had responded by smacking him in the nose with a tiny baby hand. The Chapter Master's usually concrete face had broken into a delighted grin and he laughed aloud. Severus outright refused, and got relentlessly made fun of by the other officers. Uriel held him and seemed to get a bit emotional, wiping his thumb over his eyes. Not openly weeping or anything so dramatic, but definitely misty eyed. When Titus held him, Melor seemed to get it into his head to copy the Primaris lieutenant's usually stoic expression with remarkable accuracy.

Even the xenos wasn't immune. Yvraine was in more often than not, cuddling the little one and cooing to him. Melor seemed to enjoy the lavishing of affection, and Roboute didn't seem to mind, so Cato let it slide.

You came in too. Since he was on guard duty, it was an easy decision to have you handle the rest of Melor's needs when Guilliman was unavailable, much as you could tell he didn't like it. You felt your respect for the Primarch growing as you noted his willingness to do whatever was needed for his nephew. It wasn't always a pleasant job, but you enjoyed it regardless. It let you spend more time with Cato, and it gave him more of an opportunity to vent.

"Are you alright?" You asked him quietly, so as to not wake Melor. He was peacefully asleep in your arms. "You haven't been very talkative today."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

You fell silent, and he didn't reply. But you could hear the sound of his gauntlets tightening around the hilt of his sword. There was something bothering him.

"Please Cato. You can tell me. Are you worried about the job again?" You knew he had a habit of thinking himself into ruts over his doubts.

"No, it isn't that."

"Is it your dreams again?"

He sighed, and didn't answer for a moment. You were worried you were going to get the silent treatment from him, when he finally replied, "One dream."

You looked up from Melor. "What?"

"It's on dream. A reoccurring nightmare. I have been having it whenever I sleep."

"You've only slept a couple of times."

"Exactly." He said, nodding. "Only twice, but I had the same nightmare."

You held out a hand to him. After a moment, he took it and squeezed it. "Maybe it's just your subconscious bringing your stress into your sleep. What are you dreaming about?"

"I..." He squeezed his blue eyes shut for a moment.

He'd never felt sick at the smell of blood, but now it made him want to vomit. The coppery tang was think in his nose, the scent of rich, not-quite-human blood in a place it shouldn't have been. This place was supposed to be safe. It should have been safe. It would have been safe if not for him.

Blood dripped between the nalwood slats of the crib and pooled on the floor. Widening, starting to stain his boots in gore. Such a small child to have so much lifeblood ebbing from him. Maybe that's why there was so much. It was all the life he would not live now.

Because he had failed. As he had known he would. He always failed when he was needed the most.

His hands gripped the wooden railing so hard it was beginning to splinter. He didn't want to look down. Look at the consequences of his action. The price of his failure. But something forced his head down. Made him look.

Amidst the scarlet soaked bedding, there was swaddling draped over a bloody form in the middle. Curled up like he was just asleep. Cato felt his jaw clench. The boy was even smaller in death than he had been in life. One tiny, pale hand stuck out.

How had this happened? He swore he had done his duty. He hadn't left the boy's side.

"I'm sorry." He rasped, falling to his knees. Feeling something wet and coppery begin to drip from his eyes.

As he knelt there, he felt a huge pair of hands grab his neck from behind and start to squeeze. They were cold, and hard. Like they were coated in metal.

If you hadn't been holding Melor you would have run up to Cato and squeezed him until your arms were sore. As it was the best you could do at the moment was meet his gaze. His expression was twisted and pained.

"None of it's real, Cato." You said softly. "It was just a dream. Just your subconscious manifesting your fears."

He shook his head sadly. "I wish I could believe it was that simple."

"...Do you think they're prophetic?"

"No. But it was the very same nightmare. The same details and all. I cannot believe it is only my subconscious."

He turned away with a clank of ceramite.

"You know it's all lies anyway, right? Whatever these dreams are." You told him finally.

He stiffened, but didn't turn around.

"I mean it. I know you. You're strong and brave and clever. You're one of the best the Adeptus Astartes has. The Primarch wouldn't have had you do this if he didn't believe you could. And...I believe in you too. As much as that sounds like a platitude, I know."

You stood up and carefully walked over to him. Thankfully Melor continued to snooze. You reached up and placed a hand on Sicarius's cheek.

"But it's the truth. When you're needed, you'll pull through. I know you will."

He turned to look at you, his expression softening. Your eyes were wide and earnest, full of concern and the love you held for him. One armored gauntlet rested over your hand, briefly. Then he removed it, and placed a kiss on your knuckles.

"Fear not. Whatever my feelings, I will do my duty." he said, stroking Melor's forehead with an armored finger.

"I know you will." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The night was quieter than it should have been.

It was snowing outside. Nearly a blizzard, coming down in huge, fluffy flakes that joined and became even larger as they fell. The Fortess of Hera was already blanketed in it, and it sparkled in the lights from lamps and windows.

Snow and howling wind swallowed up the sounds outside. It overpowered even Cato's sensitive ears. The noises in the hallway were muffled. It was black as pitch outside because of the storm too. Which in turn made it feel darker inside, no matter how many lights were on.

It was dark in this room anyway. Melor was once again fast asleep. He seemed to do that more than anything else. Either sleeping or eating. Then again, most of the time he was in the Primarch's care.

The hair on the back of his neck had been prickling all night, and he wasn't sure why. Everything had been just fine. There was nothing for him to be worried about, but he was anyway, and he found himself wishing for dawn to hurry up and break already. He checked the chronograph on a small table.

Nope, not even close. it was barely passed 11:30. Not even midnight yet.

His hands curled around the hilt of the Tempest Blade. Something felt wrong, although he couldn't place his finger on what. He turned around, and walked over to where the boy lay, resting a hand on the railing.

He looked peaceful like that, and rather cute. Cato felt a pang of brotherly affection for the little one, even if he was only a cousin. Reaching down, he stroked the fuzzy black skullcap of baby hair he was growing with armored fingers before turning back to his post.

And froze.

The door was ajar.

Just a crack, just a hair's breadth.

When he knew for a fact it had been locked, because he had locked it himself.

His acute sense of paranoia was screaming. He didn't move. Didn't even twitch. The most important thing right now was to not let them know he was onto them. Let them come to him. He couldn't leave anyway to check it out, even if he'd wanted to. He was almost certain the door was nothing but a distraction. Something to lure him away from his post. Leaving Melor vulnerable and defenseless. And now, he understood why the Primarch had given him this job. Who else would have noted something so small and given it credence?

He could feels his hearts begin to speed up, and willed himself to be calm. If he wanted any edge over whatever enemy lurked outside that door, they couldn't know that he knew.

There was a flicker under the door. He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Was that shadows moving outside, or was his vision playing tricks on him? Was that whispering he could hear, or just the wind?

It couldn't be anything in here. The room was sparse, since it was Melor's only temporarily. And there wasn't a window. The only light came from what was now filtering through the cracks in the door. Or, that had been.

The weight of the Tempest Blade in his hands was comforting. His plasma pistol was a reassuring drag at his belt.

His internal display relayed a rapid, sudden drop in temperature. Over ten degrees, and it wasn't just outside either. He could feel it in his armor, under his body glove even. The cold stung his cheeks and nose even though his helmet was on.

And then his vision went black.

He heard the door burst open and slam against the wall. Armored footsteps running up to him. Hot, searing pain in his chest. Something solid and sharp running him through. Cutting straight through ceramite. He collapsed to his knees. Clutching his chest with one hand.

Melor's shriek of fear shook the fog of pain away.

Whatever was clouding his eyes vanished. Without thinking, he turned, drew his pistol and snapped off a shot. The hot plasma burned through the power pack of the Chaos Astartes. One of Lorgar's bastard whelps.

He leapt to his feet. Grabbing the Word Bearer by the back of the head and shoving him forward. There was an ugly crack as he hit the wall. He slumped and lay still.

The scent of rich Astartes blood filled his noise and mouth. He could feel his twin hearts beating against the flat of the blade in his chest. Just barely scraping the edge with each throb.

He whipped around, his red cape flaring behind him. Just in time to cross sword to dagger with a second Word Bearer. The power field of his own blade easily overpowering the weaker weapon. The dagger was wrenched out of his grasp. Embedding itself in the wall.

The Word Bearer began to reach for his pistol. That was quickly stopped when Cato took his head off with enough force to send it flying.

The corpse was kicked aside with disdain as he made his way to the door. A third was trying to make his way in and blocked it, his bolter up. He got a crater blown in his face for his trouble.

Cato kicked the body into the legs of the next Word Bearer, who stumbled backwards. He got his bearings quickly, bringing his bolter up and firing a volley along with his companion.

The second one pulled out his own power dagger and charged. Sicarius met him with a thrust that sent the Tempest Blade straight through him. He spasmed. Blood bubbled out of his snarling vox grille with his death throes.

Briefly he was reminded of his own injury. Feeling the long blade deep in his flesh, his hearts beating again it. Blood trickling down his armor, in his bodyglove.

Melor's wails brought him back to the task at hand. He charged the other gunner, using his companion's corpse still impaled on his sword as a meat shield. His horned, mutated head was exploded by a bolter round. The Ultramarine launched the body at the shooter, knocking him to the ground. Finishing him off quickly with a sword through the eye.

Yet another quickly took his place. This one had a staff and a jagged, ritual dagger. Cato felt his heart sink. He was starting to really feel his wound now. And this one was clearly a psyker. With his poisonous, sticky aura.

He raised his pistol and snapped off another shot, but the sorcerer ducked it easily, bolting to the left.

Then let out a scream of pain.

The final Word Bearer had, at the last second, ran forward and stuck out his blade, which the sorcerer had impaled himself on. He pulled it out and shoved it through the underside of the psyker's jaw, up into his brain. His erstwhile brother slid to the floor.

Cato pointed his plasma pistol at the turncoat, who dropped his dagger and held up his hands.

"I will allow you to explain yourself before you die." Cato said, trying not to pant. He could feel blood bubble over his lips as he spoke.

The Word Bearer nodded. "Choroathe received a prophecy. The boy must die. But the thought of murdering an infant in his cradle did not sit well with me. It still doesn't."

"Honorable, for one like you."

Robavam gave a lopsided smile under his helmet. "Unusual, I'm aware."

Before either of them could say anything else, there was a thundering boom followed by the crackling of a power weapon charging up. Coming from Melor's room.

The Word Bearer joined Cato in his dash for the door, even getting there before him. Inside stood a hulking figure in terminator armor. A gray robe covered it, and a cowl was pulled up over his helmet. His Lighting Claws flickering and sparking with power. He glared at his brother.

"Traitor." He growled through his vox.

In a move that he should have been too heavy and slow to perform with such speed, he surged forward, stabbing his claws into the other Word Bearer's chest. He collapsed in a heap, wheezing through his one, undamaged lung.

Then he turned his attention to Cato, who had just finished sending out a distress call on all available channels of his vox. Hoping the whole Fortress wasn't swarming with Chaos Astartes.

"NO!"

Sicarius's first instinct was to get between Melor and the looming brute. He stepped into the room, feinting to the right, narrowly avoiding a set of claws in his gut. He ran around the terminator's left side, bringing his pistol to bear. Ducking another swipe of his lighting claws by milimeters.

His finger squeezed the trigger as if in slow motion.

The aim was perfect, hitting the monstrous Astartes in the back of the knee. Blowing the leg out from under him. Choroathe toppled over with an enormous crash.

Cato grabbed one of the spikes of the Terminator's trophy rack, his muscles screaming from holding up such a weight. Yanking him back. Quickly, he grabbed the Tempest Blade with both hands and shoved it with all his strength through Choroathe's helmet. Through skull, brain, until the sword came out of his vox grille. then he ripped it out and let the daemon worshiping bastard fall to the floor.

And then all was still.

He could feel his Larraman cells struggling to clot his wound. Hear the ragged breathing of the one Word Bearer in the galaxy who still had some humanity in him. Over all of it he could hear poor Melor's pitiful, terrified cries.

Slowly, he picked his way over the fallen Chaos marines. The boy's golden eyes were wide with fear and wet with tears. Carefully sheathing the Tempest Blade and replacing his pistol in his holster, he picked him up gently. He held Melor in one arm, rocking him slightly with it. With his free hand, he clutched a corner of his cape and held it in front of the babe like a curtain.

He pulled his helmet off, and maglocked it to his belt.

"Easy little one, easy." Cato said, trying his best to soothe the boy as he reached for the sword in his chest.

"Don't, brother Ultramarine." The turncoat wheezed. "That blade is keeping the rest of your blood where it belongs."

He nodded, and took his hand off the hilt. Turning his attention back to his little cousin. He was whimpering now, still crying but more quietly.

"Shh, shh." Cato soothed. "You'll be alright. I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. I will protect you."

Sicarius held Melor like that for a long, long time. It felt like hours as he stood there, comforting him as best as he could.

Eventually he heard footsteps outside. Ceramite on the marble floor, running at full tilt. Astartes, baseliners, and one huge set that could only be the Primarch's.

Cato limped his way to the doorway just as the group arrived. Going slowly and carefully. He leaned against the frame.

Roboute, the Ultramarines and auxilia saw Cato leaning weakly in the doorframe, holding Melor in one arm with his cape held up with the other. His face and hair were drenched with sweat. Blood leaked from his nose and the corner of his mouth, and his legs were starting to buckle. Stuck in his chest, straight through the ceramite, was a jagged old sword. More blood oozed from the wound.

All around him were the corpses of Word Bearers. The hallway was practically painted, splattered with gore and bolter impacts, strewn with bodies.

At their approach he looked up.

"Captain, what happened?"

"He's safe, my lord." Cato said to Guilliman. The wooziness setting in. "They tried to kill him, but he's safe. Just shaken."

His breath came in wheezing rasps. Slowly, he stepped forward and held out the little one to him. Gently, Roboute took him, holding him protectively. Melor cuddled against his uncle.

"Did you kill them all?" Guilliman asked, looking at the two dead marines and one dead terminator over his shoulder

Cato nodded. "Except for...one. The psyker. I had help from...a turncoat."

Robavam raised his arm weakly at that.

"Melor's safe." Cato said, his voice sounding far away. Everything felt so far away. He was conscious for just long enough to hear his gene father yelling for an apothecary before everything went black.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #adeptus astartes #space marines #ultramarines #space marine x reader #space marine x female reader #cato sicarius #cato sicarius x reader #cato sicarius x female reader #cato has ptsd #bullying cato #roboute guilliman #warhammer 40k x oc

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cardinalcanis · 1 month ago

Text

Pig

Genre: Smut with fluff and FEELINGS,

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x M!OC

Warnings: Explicit, degradation and humiliation kink, shoe kink, fisting, scent kink, porn with feelings.

Summary: Vulnerability will get you eaten alive in the 41st millenium, no one knows it better than Roboute Guilliman. The cold wraps around his exposed body, tendrils of fate, binding him to the moment, to the man who stood above him. There was no escape in this darkness, only surrender.

Words: 3074

If you prefer AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59665513/chapters/152472043#workskin

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Macragge has always gotten chilly nights this time of the year, Roboute Guilliman felt as the cold wraps around his exposed body, tendrils of fate, binding him to the moment, to the man who stood above him. There was no escape in this darkness, only surrender. Tanned naked skin kissing the decadent marble floors, many of the natural veins on it resemble the scars adorning the Primarch’s muscular physique.

“Aren’t you paying attention pig?” Said the fully dressed man standing up in front of him, a fine leather dress shoe pressing Guilliman’s face against the tiles “Clean. It. Well.”

“Apologies sir, I’m just a stupid pig.” Answered the giant of a man in a meek tone before running his large tongue over the shoe’s sole then all the intricate golden details on the top, an imposing Aquila, the kiss on the symbol of Ultramar. A soldier must never forget what he fights for, what pulls his chain, what demands his blood.

He let out a purr when going up the man’s foot his lips touched the thin socks covering the ankles and legs, digging his nose in to take into Ovidius’ scent that always made his whole being open up and surrender. That’s what he was made for, not to have a will but to be a tool for someone else’s.

“The renowned diplomat, nothing more than a bootlicker” half of Ovid’s shoe was inside Guilliman’s mouth, thick strings of saliva dripping down his chin and neck. “Is this your secret? Getting on your knees, face down and spreading up your worthless hole to everyone?”

That’s a lie, he IS the head of the imperium, a broken dystopian world compared to the one he closed his eyes to ten thousand years ago. There was a wet suction sound going off as the shoe was taken out of Roboute’s face hole, dragging his thought process back into the moment at hand, where there was no Roboute.

“No one wants my used asshole sir, you do me a favor every time you violate it.” he answered, looking at the floor, the bullet doesn’t have the right of choosing how it is loaded into the barrel, just cry out when it is time for it to be spent.

“Is that so?” a calm rage was packed in that question, polite yet waiting to pounce for the throat.

A long silence cut by the sound of a cigarette being lit and a long exhale full of smoke, the uncertainty weighted heavy on his chest, he could hear his heart beating like those of a cornered animal. How did he end up like this? He is humanity’s finest, second only to The Emperor, every second in this exchange should earn that man a death sentence, but still he cannot but obey. It is just the logical progression, he was a tool, tools follow what they are ordered. They are utilized and discarded when they are no longer of use.

He felt a strong kick on his stomach, followed by others, making him roll over his back. There was a part that was Roboute giving into the hit and pretending the tiny man was actually doing true damage to him. Isn’t it more humiliating than just being defeated by someone stronger? Either way the hidden ceramite layers reinforcing the inner point and soles of the shoe helped to add a nice sting to the hits.

Ovidius Sulla stepped on top of the Primarchs girthy erect dick and rested his full weight on it, no matter how much of a demigod one was, it hurt.

“Look at you, some trash that is already fully hard and leaking precum at a human stepping on you. Shameful failure of a god, best you can do is doormat.” He gave his cock another kick, sending that wave of pain right to his core “Tell me, if your hole is for me to rape, why don’t you have it ready? You have but one single purpose and you managed to fuck it up.”

“Because I am a failed pig with no control, you should dispose of me into a pit Sir.”

“Yes I should”

Ovid leaned onto Guilliman, digging his mechanical fingers on the man’s face then forcing the thumb into his mouth, prying it open tongue fully out. He took a final use of his cigarette, exhaling all the fumes on his pig’s face painfully slow seeing him gasp uncomfortably. Ovidius pushed his thumb deep into his tongue, cold golden eyes ordered not to move a muscle as he extinguished the cigarette butt into it, the metallic taste mixed with that of pain, burnt flesh, ash and chemicals. In his mind, the calculations never ceased. Strategies, outcomes, survival. But here, under Ovid’s hands, there were no calculations, only raw pain and degradation, command into submission.

His grip, once forceful, now softened, thumb tracing the edge of Guilliman's lips as if to erase the brutality of the moment. Cradle the Primarch’s aged by stress not nature face in hands that by all means should be frigid metal made of the Mechanicus, not a reinforced warm safe haven keeping the vulnerable from the frontlines.

“All good so far?” Ovid asked in a whisper breaking character for a second. The cruel edge in Ovidius' voice melted away, replaced by something slower, calmer.

Guilliman nodded with a smile, the burn already healed in his mouth. “I’ve gotten thrown out of an airlock and died twice, don’t be afraid of hurting me, I want you to.” He pulled the man closer to kneel on top of him so they could lean into a soft kiss followed by pressing both foreheads together “So many have fought to bring me into submission, to inflict pain and wound onto me. But you are the only one with a claim to it, the one I will give what he asks for willingly.” a deep blue gaze mixed with honey kissed eyes. “I’m an overflowing cup made only for your lips, drink me dry so no one else can.”

His beloved presses another kiss into his mouth with increased hunger, grabbing at what he could of the short hair on the back of his head. Then in a vigorous movement stood up and dragged him by hair as Guilliman moved himself, driven in any direction Ovidous fancied him. For example being knocked into the nearby wall and having himself being kicked into a wheezing pile.

“Face down ass up pig.”

His body moved not by will, but by a command issued deep within his marrow, a soldier once again obeying the silent call of a force greater than himself. Lowering his upper body into the ground as much as he could, letting the spine form a graceful curve leading his bountiful muscular rear and thighs spread wide to allow full access, just as he knew Ovid loved to see him. His mouth watering thinking of how hard his beloved was now, the smell of his sweaty reddish pubes and cock under those pants after kicking him for so long. Throne, he wanted that man to force his scent all over him so everyone knew, without even asking, who he truly belonged to.

“I know that stupid drooling face,” Sulla ridiculed him. “The pig is thinking about my cock, a cock he doesn’t deserve. But he might get still”.

“My sir is so merciful, this pig is honored to be your fuckhole … “ Every word Ovidius uttered and every answer he uttered chipped away at the once towering fortress of Guilliman’s will, leaving behind only the ruins of what was once considered unbreakable. But within those ruins, he found peace.

“Enough, you need to get yourself ready.” Ovid ordered, then aimed a thick warm load of spit right on top of his butthole “That’s all you get, make it last”.

Guilliman didn’t answer, just guided his hand towards his ring of flesh making sure not to let Sulla’s precious spit to slip down, coating his fingers the best he could then pushing one in a hooked motion until he spotted that tender spot around to the second knuckle deep. It takes its time to build up, more time for Ovidius’ stare to eat him alive as he gets himself nice and stretched. A second finger and he starts to groan and huff, rocking his hips around the thick digits, aiming his beloved desperate glances pleading for it to be the throbbing flesh in his silken blue pants, the one getting in him.

“Another one” the man circling him like a bird of prey ordered.

Who is he to deny him? The legend of Guilliman was nothing but ash in the wind now, scattered and forgotten beneath Ovid’s gaze. All that remained was the soft, pliable clay waiting to be molded. Another finger in for the stretch, another desperate moan out. He can feel the beads of sweat coming down his frow, strings of precum leak onto the floor as he milked himself for Ovidious’ entertainment. Talking about him, the man gives Guilliman a sudden kick, stepping on the hand he is fucking himself with and pushing it with his whole weight; getting it inside a bit deeper than his fists knuckles in.

“You do not deserve to be stretched with such gentleness.” he growled unceremoniously jacking Roboute’s hand away, leaving him frustratingly empty.

The wanton emptiness didn’t last long, it was replaced by an incredibly cold and uncaring mechanical prosthetic that pounded into him without mercy. Four fingers from the start, soon it’ll be his hand, the stretch was painful on purpose; mechanical limbs had so many straight and jagged edges that got caught in the flesh if not well lubricated, just as he wasn't. Panting and begging alongside the fleshy damp damp sound of his body breaking down from the inside. Any possible scratch would immediately clot and close just to be opened again. Pain radiated through every nerve, each jagged edge of the mechanical hand carving its way inside. But it was a necessary kind of pain, the kind that rewrote every nerve and rendered him nothing more than a vessel, hollowed out and waiting to be filled.

“Look at all the drool you are leaving on my floor, you must be feeling thirsty, pig.” Teased Ovid while keeping the rhythm that was making his legs fail. “Don’t worry, my broken thing, I’ll take care of you.” The statement died in a deeper breathy tone and the rip of a zipper being pulled down. Ovidius Sulla positioned himself in a way he could keep fisting Guilliman’s pulsing asshole but get proper handle of his own cock with the other. “Been holding it in as I knew you would need something to drink, this is the part when you say ‘thank you Sir’”.

Did he answer? Not even the Emperor knew (or wanted to), Guilliman knew something came out of his throat that sounded like half assed word salad as the immense wave of pleasure kept building up into his groin. At that point in time a stream of salty bitter watery liquid hit his face, and that’s all it took. Bent down on his failing knees, humiliated by a puny human alongside being torn open, finally urinated upon… the denigration released his climax as wave after wave of pleasure smashed over the rest of his body. His skin felt super receptive, he felt every hair follicle on his scalp and it didn’t end, it started building up again. He ended up groaning repeatedly, quite loudly, and shot multiple volleys of cum all over the floor under him. When it was over and his hole was now released from the abuse leaving him empty, overstimulated, quivering and gasping for air.

“What a messy pig I have!” Said Ovid as he unapologetically whips his cock inside Roboute’s mouth, making his poor body spasms and gasp for air.

There he was, in a pool of urine, cum and blood. He needed a moment to put the pieces of himself together, but it would not be a Roboute Guilliman story if rest came easy for him. He recoiled when the sensation of a familiar cock grazed his entrance.

“Sir please…” he gasped almost in tears “I can’t take it anymore…”

He was forced to flip around onto his back, legs flexed towards his body the most Ovid could push with his own strength. The Primarch was pretty sure his overstimulated body had a legit seizure when the cock was rammed in his puffy abused ass, he was ugly crying, just a bare graze on his nipples took him into a full body shudder.

He was +400 pounds of folded over trembling flesh being pounded in such a humiliating position. Guilliman had stopped containing himself quite long ago, one could only wish no one was in need of the thirteenth at this time of night for some official matters. Theoretical: they would hear the most desperate, wanton and overall pathetic sounds any demigod could make. Practical: they will turn around and never talk about it because of the mere impression it left on them. But that was not on his mind, theoretical/practicals were the last notion occupying the thought process and it was… freeing.

“What a beautiful pig I have”

The words took a moment to process, yes he was a pig laying in his and Ovid’s fluids, he was worthless, dull and stupid. No one would expect anything from a pig, nothing is put on an stupid pig’s hands, a pig is not expected to come up with correct decisions, not a soul would put a pig in charge of getting millions upon millions of pieces of a struggling empire together, pigs’ mistakes cost no lives.

“Sir… “ Finally an intelligible moan that was slowly getting drowned by the increasingly lascivious thumb of flesh coming together and apart. His spasming form had already discharged itself so many times, he can’t take it anymore, too much stimulation, no more stimulation, no more empire, no more problems that will only give birth to seven others, no more tyranids, no more guilt of 18 lost brothers he’ll never see again… he just cries “...Sir I can’t do this anymore.”

“It’s okay my pig, I am here.” Ovidious Sulla’ hands found their way to his face, lifting his chin so their eyes could meet.

Guilliman instinctively tensed, a phantom echo of the sharp commands still lingering in his mind. But the touch that followed was different—softer, slower. He didn’t know if he could trust it yet, but there was no cruelty in it now, only care.

“I am here and… everything is under control” he said low and tender just about to reach his final release inside him, slowing the pace into a couple of very deep thrusts.

Guilliman’s gaze faltered, lingering on the floor as though weighed down by something heavier than just exhaustion. His jaw clenched, resisting the tenderness he didn’t yet believe he deserved. Ovidius’ fingers, patient and sure, found his chin, lifting his face to meet his eyes.

“I’ll take care of you, nothing bad will ever happen. You just need to be mine, that’s all you need to do”. Ovidius’ hand hovered, just for a second, as the echo of his own words hung in the air between them. Could he really make it right, after all he’d said? His fingers twitched with hesitation, but then they fell gently against Guilliman’s skin, as if he, too, needed to believe the tenderness was enough.

Yes, tenderness. As his hands soothed Guilliman, Ovidius found himself craving the touch just as much. It wasn’t just about healing what he had broken; it was about the way they fit together, two parts of the same moment, needing each other in ways words couldn’t quite capture. He lets Rouboute’s legs go and lets himself down on top of the huge man, face nested between voluminous pectoral muscles. A soft purr came out of him when the Primarch wrapped arms thicker than his leg around him, right right, he was the small one. It took them around ten minutes of whimpering and huffing until someone could make a single movement.

“I love you Sir.”

The words made the Administratum accountant blush with such pure glee, who dragged himself up his body, giving Guilliman his turn to get his face squeezed in Ovid’s chest.

“I love you too.” he said, planting a kiss on his forehead. “You did so well, you are very strong and beautiful. And you will keep doing well.” he hugged the man as strong as he could, as strong as it would take to convince him no one would be able to pry him off his embrace. “You know,” Ovidius said, his voice barely more than a murmur, “this isn’t about what you can take. It’s about you, who you are.” He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over Guilliman’s cheek. “And you’re more than enough.”

Without a word, Ovidius reached for Guilliman’s long abandoned tunic at the edge of a chair, draping it over the giant’s shoulders. The gesture, small as it was, felt like a promise, a quiet vow of protection after the storm they had weathered together and how dark the galaxy they would have to weather was. He wasn’t strong enough to face his beloved’s enemies, but at least he could shelter him from those that lurk inside that overactive mind. A flicker of guilt crossed Ovidius’ face as he wiped away the remnants of sweat and tears. He didn’t say anything, but Guilliman could feel it in the way his hands lingered; gentle, almost reverent.

The room seemed to shift, its sharp edges softening under Ovidius’ care. In the low light, the grim world outside melted away, leaving only the quiet sanctuary they’d created in the aftermath. He was no longer just a weapon to be wielded; he was Roboute now, with every breath Ovidius shared in the quiet, their connection more than just power and submission. It was trust. Long minutes followed until Ovidious moved up, or at least tried to.

“Come Roboute, we need a long bath… and a mop.”

“Theoretical: I am still a little shaky.”

“Practical number one: crawl your ass into the bath. Practical number two: you’ll bring me the paperwork to bed tomorrow as shakiness will be the least of my body pains.”

They both chuckled, Macragge’s night wasn’t feeling as chilly anymore.

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Pray for our poor Ovidious' wellbeing, topping your Primarch takes a big toll on the body.

#wh40k oc #warhamer 40000 #smut #fanfic #roboute guilliman #m!oc #roboute guilliman x male!oc #they are two dorks #guilliman is a bottom #my writing #so many feelings #can you believe they are not married?#Cato is just dying in the corner

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