#Gulliman/reader

[mothiir]

all is fair in love and war, part i

In which our favourite diplomat faces an assassination attempt, and Sicarius and Roboute must address some feelings.

Cw: gore. No sex. That’s in the next part.

—

—

An Inquisitor is aboard the ship. An Inquisitor is aboard your ship, in your space, they are here. Fear pulses through you; the instinctive dread of a prey animal learning that the wolf is just around the corner. You have no firsthand experience of the Inquisition, but by the Emperor you have heard stories — colleagues who were threatened into taking part in the cruellest of traps, luring rebellious worlds into an accord, only for the Inquisition to burn the planet to cinders. Worse than this: you have heard stories of those who refused — lobotomised, servitorised, and not just them but their families, their friends, punishment that runs along the most tenuous of connections until everyone who heard the name of the would-be hero was dead, or wished they were. It cannot be chance that the Inquisitor has arrived now, when the Primarch has taken all of the battle-ready ships and most of the men to deal with a section of the webway benighted by daemons, coming to the assistance of their Eldar allies, a comradeship that you were instrumental in brokering. Aboard the diplomatic vessel the Hestia, with nothing more than a barebones crew, sheltered deep in Ultramar’s space you thought yourself safe. And you are — but only from external threats. 

The rot within the Imperium still finds you here, apparently. 

As the most senior civilian official here, you join the welcoming party, standing beside Captain Icarus, a now-retired guardsman who — having served decades on the frontline of the Imperium’s battles — knows the ways of the Inquisition all too well. There are no Astartes aboard the ship, only baseline humans — formidable foes, practiced veterans all — and yet as the Inquisitor and her retinue board your ship (the continent-sized bulk of her ship dwarfing your own, blotting out the stars) you find yourself possessed by the mad urge to gather the men beneath your non-existent wingspan, to shelter them. 

“My lady Inquisitor,” you say, with a deep and respectful bow. “It is an honour —“

”Are you really the most senior diplomat here? Hm. I suppose you will do, until the senior officials arrive,” says the Inquisitor. Oh, what a promising start. What a truly excellent start. You straighten up immediately. “I am Kagha, of the Ordo Xenos. I was under the impression that the Lord Primarch was resident here and came to offer my services.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, trying your utmost to keep your eyes fixed on Kagha — and not her Deathwatch bodyguards, looming like obsidian-wrought gargoyles; nor the cherubim hovering behind her, fleshy abominations with blank, unsettling faces. The other woman is a little shorter than you, hard-featured and haughty, but possessed of an ageless, sharp beauty that speaks of those rejuve treatments the upper-classes so love. Her copper hair is swept up in an elaborate braided style, ornamented with gold skulls with glowing red eyes. You would wager your life’s savings on those hairpins being secret, deadly weapons. Her outfit is equally impressive: a long black leather coat, embroidered with a motif of heretics burning in a flaming pit while an impassive angelic figure watches; skin-tight trousers; an elaborate lacy blouse that closes at her throat with a ruby the size of your fist.

She’s wealthy. Well-connected. Experienced. And yet there is something not right; an itch under your skin. 

You look to the Deathwatch marines, as briefly as possible. There are five of them — more than enough to annihilate the paltry crew here, should they wish — and all are helmeted. Two carry shields slung over their shoulders; huge oblongs of metal longer than you are tall, ornamented with strange milky stones, like opals, and yet somehow familiar —

Your blood turns to ice. Spirit Stones. The funerary custom of Craftworld Eldar is to keep the souls of their dead in these psychic tombs, thus preserving their fallen comrades, and keeping them safe from the endless maw of She Who Thirsts. To break a Spirit Stone is to send the soul contained within to eternal damnation; it is one of the cruellest fates you can imagine. And to decorate your weapons with them — and to bring these weapons to the ship of a diplomat you know brokers peace with the Eldar —

You know then what is happening, and you would laugh at the flagrant arrogance of the Inquisition, if you were not so fearful. They are so used to having nothing stand in their way — why would they be subtle about an assassination? You make a quick gesture with your right hand, keeping it pressed tight to your side. In battle-cant it means call the Primarch. Bring him back. We are in danger. 

To Kagha, you beam, trying to appear every inch the young idiot she appears to think you are. “Would you care to join me in my quarters for tea? I can send a vox to my senior — he is currently aboard a ship in the Ultramarine’s fleet, and will answer as soon as he can.”

A bluff, of course. You have no senior. And yet Kagha — arrogant, stupid Kagha — nods tersely. “This is acceptable.”

—

You do not think it arrogant to claim that you are more that a little adept at the finer points of conversation — it is, after all, much of your job to be personable and engaging. Indeed, this talent is in such short supply across the Imperium that you sometimes wonder if you count as a prodigy, just because you can engage in small talk without threatening anyone, or going on a half hour diatribe about the Emperor’s endless benevolence. You once even made a Harlequin laugh! Yes, it was because you fell over — but it still counts. 

And yet Kagha is a brick wall — no, that is an insult to masonry. She either does not answer your questions, or does so in a way that suggests she considers you the stupidest woman alive for even raising the point. Still, she is kind enough to pour the second round of tea, so you sip, and resign yourself to silence. 

After around twenty minutes, the ring on your index finger — a nondescript circlet of silver, set with a tiny little sapphire — tightens minutely. Thank goodness for that. You offer Kagha a bright smile. 

“If I were you,” you say. “I would have a word with your sources.”

Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

”Well — they’re clearly quite out of date. I did have a superior diplomat overseeing my work here — her name was Sara Buchanan, and she was wonderful — but she returned six months ago to be with her grandchildren. I’ve been running the show here ever since.”

Kagha’s brow furrows. “If you are suggesting —“

“I am not suggesting. I am telling. Do you really think you are the first member of your Order to come calling to the Primarch’s fleet, thinking that they can disrupt our mission here? Granted, you are the first one to approach myself directly — but we know your sort. The arrogance of you! You’d see the Imperium remain steeped in shadow and ignorance if it kept your position safe.”

Genuine anger bleeds into your voice, and your throat tightens. You cough into your hand, cursing the sudden flare-up of — what? Allergies? Gunshots echo outside; lasgun facing lasgun. The Primarch has returned home, and is not best pleased with what he finds. 

Kagha’s lips skin back, showing her teeth. “You stupid xenos loving bitch — you have no idea what you are doing here.”

”I know exactly what I am doing here. Following my Lord Primarch’s orders. You are the heretic who claims to know better than the son of the God-Emperor —“ you break off into another bout of coughing, this time more strenuous. It feels like something is clawing up your throat. The door to your chambers crashes open, Cato Sicarius storming in, wreathed in smoke, spattered with blood. 

“Careful!” you yell out at the gunfight outside. “Don’t break the stones on the shields!”

”We know that,” Sicarius snaps at you. “We are well-aware of the Deathwatch’s tactics —“

Whatever he was about to say is amputated as you double over and vomit. A dark grainy substance puddles at your feet, like recaf-grounds. Behind you, Kagha sniggers. 

“So, so clever — but didn’t think to check the tea, did you?”

Oh for the love of the Emperor’s left bollock — you curse your oversight. She’d poured the tea. Ample time to slip poison into it, even though you had been watching her the whole time, because Inquisitors are nothing if not swift with their petty, lethal blows. You choke on another upsurge of bile, pain now radiating from your stomach, and collapse onto the floor. 

The next two things happen so swiftly as to be synchronous. Kagha reaches for her hairpin, presumably to activate some kind of suicide device, and Sicarius leaps towards her. Before she can complete whatever last-ditch resort she was planning, Sicarius has flipped her upside down, holding one scrawny ankle in each of his gauntleted hands. Kagha shrieks in astonishment — a shriek that soon turns to a wordless, senseless wail of agony as the Astartes moves his forearms, just a little, and rips her in half. Gore showers him, and you avert your eyes, but you can still hear the wet slop of organs falling to the ground in a bloody puddle; the popping and breaking of bones, rent apart like matchsticks. 

“That is my woman,” growls Sicarius — or, at least, you think he does. The world is starting to blur at the edges; the pain is receding — or perhaps you are receding, falling away into the dark. Your last image is of Sicarius bending down to you, reaching out. And then it is all black, as black as the void between stars. 

—

You blink awake to cool white light, and soft white linen. For an absurd moment you think you’ve perished, and this is the Emperor’s rest — an endless bed, where you can sleep as much as you wish (sleep being the one resource you were always so scarce of). 

Then —

“Ah, the wench awakes. Good. I was getting sick of looking at your sleeping face.”

Cato Sicarius sits by your bed, a paperback book open on his knee. The title reads Duty and Love: The Steamy Romance of a Kriegsman and a Sister of Battle — but before you can comment on it, he’s whisked it away, hiding it in one of his armour’s many compartments.

”How long — how long has it been?”

Your voice is rough; your throat aches. Sicarius tosses you a canteen of water. 

It’s metal. It’s Space Marine sized. You can’t catch it; it hits you in the chest and bounces off, leaving another bruise to deal with. 

“Next time, catch better.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. With shaking hands, you unscrew the lid and gulp at the icy water. 

“The poison ate through your oesophagus,” says Sicarius, conversationally. “Just as well it spared your tongue — a mute diplomat is no use to anyone, and we would have had to get someone new aboard. Can’t be doing with that.”

Perhaps it is your drug-induced delirium, but you smile at him. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

”Absolutely not. Give me that.”

He snatches the canteen back, spilling water over you both. It’s his canteen. There’s a jug of water on your bedside table, and he gave you his canteen — but before you can dwell on that , Sicarius is back to grumbling. 

“We had to divert our entire mission because of you. Lord Gulliman was not best pleased that the Ordo Xenos was causing trouble for him and his, so we had to go halfway across the galaxy to Kagha’s home base. He’s spent the last five days putting every Inquisitor he can find to the sword. Burned a couple of planets that were still perfectly useful just because they wouldn’t tell us what we needed to know.”

There is far too much there for your sluggish brain to process. You manage: “Five days?”

”Yes. You’ve been out for six. That poison almost killed you. It didn’t. Fortunately.”

You stare down at your hands. They are almost as pale as the sheets: sunless, drained. “And the Primarch —?”

As if in answer to your question, the door opens, and Roboute himself enters. You immediately try to greet him properly — stand, curtesy, even salute — but your body won’t obey, and you just manage to tangle yourself up in your sheets, tumbling from the bed. The Primarch catches you before you hit the ground, swaddling you up in your linen like a newborn babe, settling you back onto the bed. His armour is tarnished, swathes of it stained rusty with old blood, and he reeks of smoke. Deep shadows hang under his eyes. He looks like he has come fresh from the battlefield. 

“There,” he says. “Better? Glad to see you with us.”

Your arms are pinned to your sides, which is just as well, since you suddenly want to stroke his tired brow, comb your fingers through his hair. 

Roboute looks over at Sicarius. “Thank you for your watch, brother.” To you, he adds: “Sicarius stayed —“

”Here because I was ordered to, and now I must leave to attend to proper business,” says Sicarius, all in a rush. 

Gulliman stares at him. And stares at him. Then looks at you. Then back at Sicarius. 

“…is that really what you want to say,” he says, in a tone of infinite, weary patience. “Really. After all this. That’s your parting riposte.”

Sicarius stands up straight, throwing up a parade-ground salute. 

“I fulfilled your orders, my lord. Watched her for the five days and nights. But now I have to return to my battle brothers for my actual purpose.”

Gulliman stares at him for another long, long moment. You twitch in the cocoon that Gulliman has forced you into, feeling deeply awkward but not entirely sure why. 

“Last chance,” says Gulliman. Sicarius frowns. 

“Not sure what else I should say, Lord Father.”

”Right,” says Gulliman, and sighs, turning back to you. He tucks you in more firmly — clearly intending it to be a comforting gesture, but managing to strait-jacket you to the point where you think your fingers are going numb. “Theoretical: the potential of losing you drove me to depths of fury that I had not felt in quite some time. This was in part due to the Inquisitor’s meddling, but largely to do with the prospect of not having you by my side.”

He strokes your hair gently.

”Practical: when you are well enough to stand, you will come to my quarters and we will have nice non-poisoned tea. And we can talk. And enjoy one another’s company.”

You squeak. “S-sounds like an excellent strategy, my lord. Yes. Please. Would like to play my part for you and the Legion and —“

”Perhaps not the entire Legion,” says Gulliman. “Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Sicarius? Why are you still here?”

Sicarius’ face is frozen in a rictus of pure, delirious rage. “No — no reason at all Lord Primarch. I will…I will take my leave.”

No one can say Gulliman did not give his idiot son a chance. He leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead, pausing to inhale the scent of air. It smells of home. 

[2lim3rz]

FILLED LIKE A TAX RETURN (Roboute Gulliman X Female Reader) (NSFW)

So, like, I was going to only make this a list of headcanons because you thirsty gremlins wanted Yearning Gulliman but the more I brainstormed about it, the more this ended up as a Post-Heresy Gulliman instead of Pre-Heresy as planned

Listen, all I'm saying is that Post-Heresy Gulliman needs some outlet for stress. Congrats! You're that outlet! Now ignore the suspicious amount of information he knows about you!!

Also yeah this ended up much longer than I though

You were always something that lurked in the background. A nobody even amongst nobodies. An errand runner on better days, someone who made sure the pipes in your 'room' didn't leak on other days. Yet there were benefits to being no one. The prime of those being you were closer to things that many in the galaxy killed to have a privilege of even beholding.

And yours was Roboute Gulliman; the Avenging Son, the Azure Angel. Your personal title towards him was 'The Most Terrifying Being to Exist'. Shortly before his rise, you had only been vaguely near the Ultramarines.. which in of themselves froze you in your tracks. Made you feel smaller than ever before. Made you feel made of glass.

Yet the Primarch himself? Stole your breath away. Made something deep within you rush away or freeze entirely to only sob at the magnificent fear of him. The absolute terror that his word was life or death. Still, you were in the shadows. Divine coincidence or simply conflicting events sending you both opposite ways any time you came barely close to each other.

Until your errand was to take something to him. At first you began to simply leave it outside the doors, but that was unsafe. And when the guards in the front (equally terrifying and obscenely huge.. though that could have been your cowardly slouch) of the doors allowed you passage.. no one was luckily in the grandiose (yet.. simple? dare you thought) office.

In fact, you had just sat down the package upon the desk when you heard heavy steps; your heart plummeted as you turned around.. and there he was. Looming leagues above you and staring at you with.. a conflicting expression?

His eyebrows went from aggravated-but-neutral to furrowed. His mouth twisting as though he ate a bitter fruit. Suddenly his regal posture soured even as he stood stiffly. You remained where you where because what else were you supposed to do? You were a rat caught in daylight. Everything in you screamed insignificance to the voice of the Imperium and yet-

"Get out." his voice was terse, for a moment all you did was quiver violently before throwing yourself forward hard enough you simply floundered and fell. Scraping your elbows and knees upon the flooring, scrabbling with your hands, and finally scrambling away.

You were ignorant to how he turned and stared at you. Yet you still knew in your gut that he was doing.. something.

After that single experience of the Primarch seeing you for the first time, you were very content with that being the last. Perfectly content and yet after two days had passed, your supervisor all but had you dragged to his office where two Ultramarines stood. Only one, shorter than the other by a whole foot and yet still towering over you, had his helmet off. He held it under one arm, at his side was a massive gun you'd personally label as a hand-held heavy bolter. His face.. was as handsome as it was uncanny. As if Roboute Gulliman himself suddenly sprouted borderline-brown hair and had green eyes.

"Ah, you've finally arrived," his voice was lighter than you initially thought and you felt dread heavy in your gut as he said your name "Lord Gulliman has requested-"

The rest of his words were nonsense noise as you stared at him.

Gulliman requested you.

Roboute fucking Gulliman had requested for you.

You didn't even realize they were escorting you out until a ceramite coated hand was nudging your shoulder and you were limping forward with them. Thanking the fact that your blessing of adrenaline had given you the ability to walk more-or-less normally.

Your mind wandered the entire walk, even when it began to click in your mind that the two space marines weren't going to let you have a break. Were you to be executed? No, they'd have done that already. What if was something worse though? What if-what if-what if- what if?!

By the time to arrived to that damned office (clearly this was meant to be a private affair) you were shaking in your boots and choking back gross sobs. It didn't stop the tears and the wild eyed panicked stare you gave everything. All you knew was that you didn't want to die.

..You swore the moment you stepped into the office, that his face grew darker. Instantly drawing all over your body as if seeking something before turning the daggers towards his Ultramarines. One of his large hands was a coiled fist. You'd have searched for more details but truthfully, you were beginning to bawl uncontrollably and gibber out pleads for your life.

"Get out. Close the doors and guard them. As for you, silence your crying."

His voice was directed at you, powerful and shuddering into your core. Trembling where you stood (borderline squatting on the floor in fact) you stared up and frantically tried to swipe the tears away. Watching in terrified silence as he stood and, you swore personally, prowled towards you.

Looming above you, a giant statue of perfection contrasting to your meek and pitiful mortal frame. When he raised his hand, you flinched. He could squish you like one squashed a fly. No pain nor death greeted you.. instead his warm hand gingerly touched your chin. Almost as if he was afraid of breaking something delicate.. and he tilted your head upwards.

"When did you get those wounds,?" It only made sense he knew your name, but you shivered again. Staring wordlessly into his enchanting blue eyes. They were mystifying as much as they were studious. "...When.. you.. when you told me to get out.." your whispered voice cracked.

Please let go. Please do something! Your mental voice whined. You just wanted to curl up on the transit tracks and perish forever, a number amongst untold many.

"Hm." was his only response as he tilted your head this way and that.

Which was about the same time the questions began. Simple ones like family and friends. To.. odder ones. Had strangers given you food? (The cafeterium was full of strangers.) Had you been near people of oddities? (You had two legal mutants in your work sector but no) All the way down to more personal specifics such as how many times did you sit down yesterday (Which you couldn't answer because you were reeling over Gulliman even looking at you.)

Finally, Gulliman let go of your head and turned away. Pacing in front of his desk after picking up a notebook and pen (how archaic and expensive!). A tense animal is what he was as he occasionally glanced your way, scribbling notes upon notes. You decided to test the waters.

"May.. I.. go.. my lord?" at once he froze. Staring down upon you. Gritting his jaw and flaring his nostrils. There was something conflicting in that gaze of his.

"You may. Gorerus, Sullo, lead my personal guest to her new chambers."

Opening the doors, a bit hesitantly you supposed, the two space marines from earlier stood and clearly waited when it dawned on you. Turning about, it was your turn to furrow your eyebrows and stare.

"..Chambers..? My-" you stopped as those icy eyes- no.. they weren't cold in the slightest. They were very much the opposite, burning and.. not glaring but that was the only word you had to describe how fiery he stared at you.

You felt a strange feeling in your stomach. Wiggling and squirming and all warm all over. In that instant you swore you saw the primarch before you do a doubletake before waving a dismissive hand.

"Gorerus and Sullo will bring you tomorrow morning. Be ready by then."

You relented then, taking stumbling step after stumbling step. The two space marines weren't leading you at a grueling pace but at yours. Feeling awkward about the odd dynamics at play, you sped yours up.. if only to get away from..Gorus and Sully??

"So.. Gor..Gory-" you were looking at the taller of the two when the borderline-Roboute clone cleared his through, giving you an awkward look. "Maevius Gorerus." he at once interrupted "Continue on-" "If I may introduce myself as well, I am Casmaius Sullo. And if your questions relate to your.. sudden promotion and interest of our Lord Regent, Roboute Gulliman, then we do not have answers." as Casmaius spoke, you gave a smile that certainly indicated your impending breakdown to the harsh glare Maevius gave to his taller counterpart. Great. You were in between two space marines that clearly had not-so-good comradery with each other.

Abruptly, they would stop in front of a pair of doors, causing you to backstep a few times and stare. Of course they were elaborately gilded in gold but.. no.. surely these weren't yours.. You gave a fearful look to your.. guardians? Overseers? The only response you had gotten was an annoyed grumble from Casmaius and.. a look of pity from Maevius?

Maevius gently opened one of the doors for you, remaining outside and closing it behind you. Considering you heard absolutely no retreating loud footsteps from the armored duo.. you knew they stood guard at the doors.

So you indulged yourself. Exploring the massive rooms that qualified as your temporary home-away-from-home. Of course the first thing you took advantage of was the bathroom and the whole pool-sized bathtub. All your life you had only taken the shortest and brutally cold of showers but.. this?

It was overwhelming. The choices of soaps and all that. You could almost enjoy being.. a weird prisoner or whatever you were. You didn't even have to care about putting on your grimy sweat-stained clothes. There were already some there! It wouldn't have concerned you at all if they didn't fit right, they were clean! And smelled good and-

You stood. Staring into a massive mirror at how.. just right it fitted on you. It was terrifying. As if someone got all of your measurements while you slept.. Or was a massive superhuman that could know anything from a single look.

You did your best to ignore your unease as you worked your way around the room, staring with wide eyes as a servant did as you normally would for a prestigious guest.. albeit more in the background.

You were served food. Past the open doors, you could see the two Ultramarines standing guard. You wanted answers you wouldn't be given so you relented to enjoying your last night, you supposed it was anyhow. And completely pigged out. Stuffing yourself with foods that made you moan from how good it was. The most savory of sweet things and utterly delicious meats.

After all that, you finally slept.. and woke up to loud knocking at a time that was definitely before you'd ever wake up.. and before the sun even rose. So.. it wasn't morning as in regular people time.. but morning as in Gulliman time. Oh well, you could handle it as much as you floundered and settled on a sort of odd blue and gold dress.. in fact all of the outfits were dresses compared to your favored (and only) jumpsuit uniforms. And while you felt pretty looking at yourself in the mirror.. you felt like a fraud and..

Weird. Very weird.

At least until Casmaius stepped in and announced that it was time to leave. Your initial unease and fear resurfaced as you stepped between them and were lead to the office once again. Forced to grip the fabric of the swishy dress around you in your hands to avoid tripping.

Stepping into his office was.. a whole other rodeo though. The moment you beheld him and he beheld you.. the Roboute Gulliman's face was redder than blood before he looked away and cleared his throat. You chose the smart option of remaining silent.

Even if it was hard to remain that way given how he wasn't wearing his usual armor. In fact, it was some sort of shimmery elaborately embroidered cloth that draped over him. It wasn't like the suits or other outfits you had seen many wear, but more.. one-piece and blanket like? You could only guess that it was native-wear. You knew of some foreign workers that liked to wear their planet's native dress on off time and the (extremely rare) holiday time off.

Neither of you spoke for what felt to be eons. You only shook where you stood and watched his large finger go tap-tap-tap on the desk covered in books, dataslates, and files of all sorts, a good chunk of them appearing to be reports of tithes and planetary taxation.

"Why are you afraid of me?" finally he broke the ice and you were left confused. Flabbergasted even as he asked you why you were.. scared of him? It felt like a trap. It must be a trap. "You're.. the Lord Commander?" it felt obvious. Who wouldn't be afraid of the power he held? "I don't.. want to lose my post or-or die because I did something wrong, my lord- Am I in trouble?"

The words trembled out of you before you could stop them. Staring down at you.. he stood. You hated the conflicting feelings you had since the day before. As if something within you was forcing you to notice things you wouldn't. The rippling muscles of his arms and chest as he simply stood. The way you knew those arms could turn you into paste, yet you knew the infinite gentleness they could have..

Once again Gulliman was frozen in his tracks. You heard the desk's wood fibers groan momentarily as he gripped it. His body gave a single tremble before he abruptly straightened and stood in front of you; looming and ominous. "What do you feel in this moment?"

What..?

Stunned, you blinked up at the Primarch as he waited patiently. Suddenly forced to acknowledge how much you warred within yourself. "I.. feel.. afraid. And confused...my lord" And confusingly warm all over and in areas you'd rather not. As if the treacherous thought was insistent of beating you, you felt your face grow warm and the temptation to look at the ground.

You wished he wasn't so tall. It was making a conversation (one sided as it was) very awkward. Once more as you felt your body go flush, you saw that predatory look in his eyes. The flare of his nose and stiff stance when it dawned on you.

Was.. he.. able to smell you?

The horrified pit in your stomach was confirmed as he brought a hand up to clear his throat into when he turned away. No! Surely the red face he had was from something else! The Roboute Gulliman before you couldn't- You were insignificant! A no one! A nothing! A lowly worker beneath-

His gentle hands, worn from eons of working and fighting touched your chin once more as he lowered himself. You didn't realize you were shaking until you felt your breathing hitched.

What the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the absolute Emperor-Blessed fuck?!

Your thoughts barked and bayed in the cacophony of chaos that was your mind as you felt his lips brush yours. You were stunned, shocked, absolutely decimated as you stared dimly back at him. You swore you felt his hand tremble.

"You may call me Roboute instead." his voice was low, patiently gauging your reaction. Testing the waters as it were. "Am.. I.. in trouble?" you knew of cruel lords, surely the glowing jewel of the galaxy wasn't one of them- Your mind short-circuited as his thumb brushed your cheek. "No. There are very few ways you would be in trouble in this moment." those words weren't so comforting when you saw how clearly conflicted he was. What was going on? You weren't being told something but thinking was hard to do with how suddenly intimate this had gotten.

"Roboute.." Suddenly going fuck it was appealing. If you were on impending death-row you figured you may as well go out with a bang. Raising a hesitating hand, you placed it over Gulliman- Roboute's hand and paused before you leaned into it. Testing the waters slowly as he watched you.. as though he wanted to see what you would do next.

You kissed him. Not some short peck as he had done, but a full proper kiss. With a squeak of surprise, he immediately pulled you in closer turning your show of bravado into a dominating display in a kiss that lasted forever in the most pleasant way. His invading tongue was the sweetest part of it all. Washing your worries away in an instant as he devoured you.

The moment he pulled away? It was as if you flipped a switch, or more properly, unleashed a monster upon yourself. His lips drawing from your face to your exposed throat. His hands groping for your body through the dress, and while you felt nervous, at the same time you were curious.

So.. so horribly curious to see what this regal man would do to you. Squealing as he settled on ripping the dress from you. Your hands felt for his own clothes, though the word 'stop' began on your lips (even if you swore they were already bruised). That one word, that single word you prayed would put some sort of pause was torn away in a squeal as he hoisted you into the air. Pressing your back against the cold wall and kissed your breast. Giving each side of you small kisses before scraping his teeth over your nipples.

Your back arched, you wiggled in his hold and choked out a moan. You had expected anything except the way his eager mouth went lower and lower and- On instinct your hands went to his hair. Gripping him roughly as you tried to squeeze your spread thighs. He so easily held you, not a single quiver except for excitement.

And that groan.. that groan he gave as he tasted- no- truly devoured you. Learning all of your sweet spots in seconds and absolutely abusing them. And how much you whined as soon as his tongue left you.. and how much you moaned right after as soon as his finger began to take its place. Thick in all the right ways and absolutely too much as his tongue circled your clit.

You hadn't even realize you were violently coming on the primarch's masterful mouth until you felt his satisfied noise. You only wished he stopped, even just a moment as his finger thrusted into you. Squirming upon him as you felt yourself stretching more when he added another. Arching back and gritting your teeth with a long groan. The way you bucked your hips for more.

"Rob-Roboute, please- Oh- oh it's too much- It's all-" "Good." his breath was hot and yet blisteringly cold against your wet heat. The world was a dizzying blur as he drove you to your brink. Until you were struggling to push away his head because if he had to make you come undone a second (or was it third?) time, you'd be left sobbing. Even if you so conflictingly began wailing his name.

And so blessedly.. he did. Pulling away and his fingers leaving you. Forcing a needy whimper from you even though your eyes were beginning to tear up. Why, why did you feel so.. yearning and empty? Gazing into those beautiful blue eyes that threatened to consume you further.

Your breathing was a heavy pant as you watch him lick his lips. How he raised the fingers that were previously pushing all your buttons in the best of ways to his mouth.. and sucked on them. Refusing for you to break eye contact the whole while. Only to be lowered and consumed once again in a ravishing kiss. Digging your fingers into his hair and on his neck. Tasting the mixed flavors of his saliva and your own wetness on his lips.

Abruptly, he pulled himself away and gently lowered you. Pulling one of the outer wrappings from around himself to drape them around you. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and.. looking ashamed?

"Pardon.. me.." he hesitated. Staring away from you before turning away completely "We will discuss matters.. at a later time when my head is calmer."

What was wrong? He seemed more than overjoyed to be ripping your dress off and devouring you just seconds ago and now he suddenly wanted to be formal?

Disappointment and hurt were blatant on your face as you wrapped the too-big fabric around you tighter and stumbled to the doors. Looking over your shoulder as Gulliman flipped through some pages on that notebook from earlier.

And very much ignoring the suspicious gaze of Sullo.. and the more concerned eyebrow raise of uncanny Gorerus as they escorted you back to the opulent chambers that you supposed was your temporary home.

You were only relieved you could soak in those hot waters for as long as you wanted after all of that.

[moodymisty]

so ummm. i also caught cato sicarius fleas. idk what happened but now i want to be bullied by the big arrogant blueberry. send help.

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author’s note: I hope this is what you meant by bullying cause uuuuuuuuuh -microwave noises-

Summary: Cato Sicarius tires of being your just your escort.

Relationship: Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Lewd but not nsfw, dubcon, bullying sorta, Titus is an Ultrachad™ and Sicarius gets jealous you like him and tries to show you who the captain of 2nd company really is (which is still Titus in my heart but in this case no) Nonconsensual kissing, Armor kink, choking kinda, Demeaning behavior

He is worth more than this.

Cato Sicarius is captain of 2nd company, one of the most honored Ultramarines in this millennium. He is worth more than guard duty, escorting around baseline humans. One of Guilliman’s prized diplomats perhaps might be worth more than a common guardsmen, but in his eyes, you’re nothing more than an idea he deems largely stupid.

His genefather had been collecting diplomats as of late. Sicarius sees little need in it, but as his Primarch insisted he grits his teeth and bares it. He must have ideas beyond his scope to understand, though it doesn’t mean that Sicarius doesn’t struggle to see the logic.

“Motion sick, Captain Sicarius?”

One of the younger marines dares to joke at his petulant expression.

“We are worth more than shuffling around diplomats,”

Sicarius spits out in response, and you speak up. You’ve been within hearing distance this entire trip, and even in the silence everyone could hear Sicarius seething.

“Your fellows don’t seem to mind.”

You’ve heard from them that Sicarius is more than a harsh captain; He’s a stoic, pompous man in need of a hit to his ego. Even by Ultramarine standards. Once you’d broached the subject, the men in 2nd company escorting you a previous time had been quite eager to complain.

The Thunderhawk lands and you can hear the engines kill off one by one, and the rear ramp falls. There’s a significant gap between it and the ground, and while the Ultramarines walk down as normal, for you it’s a hefty drop.

Lieutenant Titus, whom you’ve had multiple interactions with before at this point, turns just before you’re about to jump and reaches a hand outward. You accept his hand and take the jump off the ramp.

“Thank you, Titus.”

He nods, but says nothing. You follow beside him and for a moment realize you’ve lost sight of Sicarius, before Titus speaks up and distracts you.

“You’ve already spoken to Lord Gulliman?” You nod and cross your arms, entering the massive fortress and escaping from the harsh winds.

“Yes. Only to give me a few necessary details. I imagine he has far more to do than speak to me.” You laugh and gently pat the arm of Titus’ armor, fingers brushing against the dents and scratches.

“But we can only hope they’ll see reason," you say, referring to the planetary officials you're currently going to meet. "I’d hate for lord Guilliman to be forced on employing harsher measures.”

Titus nods in a gentle understanding, and you continue deeper into this fortress area you’ve been welcomed to. Sicarius elects to post himself outside of the room you’re delegated to have this meeting in, alongside two other of his men. The rest, including Titus, whose face he cannot stand anymore at the moment, will post inside.

With his hearing and the systems in his helmet he can just hear the goings on inside the closed room, hearing your lighter voice in contrast to the others in the room.

She's a useful and gifted diplomatic negotiator, Guilliman had said about you the first time he had placed Sicarius in charge of escorting you. Make sure she isn't harmed, her work is important to keeping Ultramar under control.

If the old planets of Ultramar don't wish to conform with Guilliman's return, they should be applying force to demand they submit, not touting around fellow baseline humans to placate them.

Sicarius', stuck in his own head, wrinkles his forehead and scoffs. A younger marine beside him looks for just a moment, before rubbing his nose with his gauntlet and looking away. Sicarius can hear you issuing farewells now, and since there was a notable lack of yelling, he assumes it went well enough.

Sicarius turns to the other marines beside him, his hand on the pommel of his chainblade. He turns just as the doors open, and gestures to his men while you stand behind them.

“All of you start returning to the Thunderhawk and watch our perimeter, I will escort her back myself.” They hesitate for only the tiniest moment, but do begin to take their leave. They have no ability to refuse their captain, no matter how odd the request.

You watch them walk past you, before Sicarius’ voice cuts the air like a knife and forces your eyes to him.

“With me.”

You don’t have any reason to refuse him per se, so you follow him with an apprehensive feeling, and expression.

"Shouldn't we return to the-"

"Quiet."

Your lip curls, though you're still apprehensive as you end up somewhere far from where you entered, and he stops your walking his a rough hand on your shoulder. Astartes are lightning fast; He doesn't it before you even truly realize. With said hand he pushes you against the wall, and knocks the air from your lungs, and his hand moves to your face instead. He presses your cheeks inward, your breath is harsh as your fingers try to pull at his gauntlet.

“What are you doing?”

You say trying to wrench yourself free, fear in your eyes. Such a task is impossible however, and Sicarius uses his other hand to pull off his helmet and hang it on his thigh. His short hair is messy, and his cheeks are flush red. With anger or something else you have no idea, though you know he is furious.

“You’ve gotten too comfortable with your lack of respect; Being Lord Guilliman’s favorite.” You lose any bit of snark when you realize Sicarius is deathly serious. An angry astartes isn’t something you ever want to face, and color drains from your face as you realize how tightly you're stuck between him and the wall.

"You're far too delicate and small to be walking around like you can order Ultramarines around. Titus only allows you because he knows he's being watched after his incident."

His nose wrinkles, and he glances away as his lips shift, trying to find the words.

“Why do I always get stuck with you,” He growls, speaking about how he shouldn’t be escorting around Imperium parchment pushers. You hesitantly look up at him, face red from his tight grip.

"I," You open your mouth just a bit, trying to find something to say that might calm him down, though it seems like he's mad at something in his own head, as much as he is you.

But you can't find the words, nor would you even have the time to say them, as Sicarius' face leans downward to smash his lips against yours, and freeze you in the sheer shock of it. You have no hope of pushing him away despite your effort and his gauntlet keeps your face firmly forward; You can feel his hot breath on your skin, and his even hotter skin against your own. His lips are rough, you can feel tiny scars rub against your own softer lips, his hand gripping your jaw forcing your mouth somewhat open. His kiss is so angry it doesn't feel entirely like one, when he moves his teeth brush against your bottom lip, and for a moment you think he's going to bite it.

When he pulls away you can hear the soft pop of your lips separating, and see the shine of your spit on his mouth.

“Sicar-“

He does it again, your hands grasp the collar of his chestplate for leverage to try and push him away, and to stay upright. He’s barely letting you breathe, and when his hand moves from your jaw you’re gasping for air. Though his hand simply moves to press against your collarbone, still keeping you pinned between the wall and him; It's just high enough that it slightly presses against your neck, and you can feel his one armored knee force itself between your legs. You smack his chestplate desperately for air, and he pulls his mouth away from you for a brief moment as you gasp.

He only returns moments later however, but in that brief moment you see his face had less anger than it had earlier. You feel his nose press against your cheek, how cold his armor feels as you desperately grasp it.

Your legs wobble as you groan into his mouth, and when he finally pulls himself far enough away from you and takes his supporting knee from between your legs, you crumble to your knees holding your chest and taking in air.

On the floor you're at height with his thighs, and he leans over just enough to grab your face gently.

“If you’re going to be in my company again, I’ll expect you to be on better behavior. You should act as soft as you look.”

His hand leaves your face, gently pushing as he does.

“Captain Sicarius, are you still returning to the Thunderhawk?” An astartes calls him with vox in his helmet, and Sicarius grabs it off of his belt. It'll help hide how red his lips are from how hard he kissed you, your own looking similar; He wipes his mouth with the back of his armored hand before slipping it on and responding.

“We are. I’ll be there in a moment. Just a small detour”

Sicarius casts a glance to you, out of breath with your hand on your chest, before grabbing your arm and gently hauling you up to your feet.

"Not a word about this."

He says, and you can feel his gaze through his helmet. You wipe your mouth with your hand, feeling your swollen lips and the spit on your face.

"Lead the way, Captain Sicarius."

[xenosgirlvents]

The amount of Self-righteousness that the Imperium characterss grinds my gears, especially since the narrative seems to agree with them. See Gulliman suing over how far the IOM has fallen even though I barely notice any changes other then more overt regliouslty. And this undercurrent of anti-religiously from when the game was conceived which is wrong and bullshit the R/Atheist religion makes you Dum dum is bullshit to almost anyone with a basic understanding of the humanities. At least not the

I understand completely, and do agree. It would be one thing to depict these characters as believing something themselves but then still making sure to textually critique it.

But, as you say, characters like Guilliman, despite explicitly supporting notions of Manifest Destiny, genocide, child murder, slavery, tyranny etc. etc. are depicted as right, with the text itself agreeing with them. At worst they will have a single moment of ‘is this right?’ only for the book to then instantly assure the reader; ‘yes, they are right, trust the plan,’

It’s frustratingly self-righteous because of how often they say things which are blatantly untrue but, to stop them being called out on this, the authors just make everyone they speak to such absolute idiots that even the obvious, massive, huge flaws in the logic they tend to promote themselves as supporting are just ignored. Case-in-point the Last Church which has the Emperor making the most facile and feeble claim for any sort of authority or power I’ve seen in a long time. 

I’m actually not even sure what to think of the Imperium’s ‘nu-atheist’ shtick. The Emperor, who the authors and fanbase tend to insist is always right about everything, is, as you say, an incredibly puerile sort of these anti-religious internet dwellers, but the text...seems to disagree with him. Read Dark Imperium book series, for example, and the overarching narrative of them so far seems to be...Guilliman needs to learn to accept the Emperor is a god? It’s strange, I’m honestly not sure where they are going with it, because their messaging seems conflicted.

Anyway, ultimately, yes, I despite and hate the self-righteousness of numerous Imperial characters in the lore only because, for some reason, the authors often write them as if the objective facts confirm this viewpoint. Which, simply, they do not.

Like, imagine Aeldari arrogance but now imagine the authors didn’t every two pages also undermine that arrogance and make the Aeldari look like utter idiots. That would get frustrating. This is similar to that hypothetical. 

[mothiir]

little rabbit, the bad ending

Inspired by reading about the big e’s mind control powers on @moodymisty’s asks and yeah this happened. It’s pretty bleak and answers the question- what happens when the emperor keeps hold of what he wants?

It is by no means the first time she has dreamed of the Emperor; he invades her dreams as he invades her body, appearing sometimes as a towering pillar of golden flame, sometimes as a slavering wolf with blood on its breath, sometimes as a a conquering barbarian, standing taller than any man she has ever known, hewn from copper and red stone, with eyes of fire. This time, he relaxes on a golden throne, his toga clean white linen, draped loosely over his muscular shoulders. She knows she is dreaming, because she can look at him without the well-accustomed headache — and because she can see out of both eyes, rather than having her right eye covered in a milky red film. 

“How dare you?” she says, giving voice to the words she swallows down during the day — oh how she hates how he forces her to choke down so much; her emotions, her thoughts, his damn cock. “How dare you sit there, and pretend to be humanity’s saviour? You’re not a damn saviour. You’re a tyrant.”

He watches her impassively, and says nothing. Emboldened, she draws closer. In the manner of dreams, their surroundings are hazy and undefined; it is like she walks through early morning fog. 

“You say you will save us all, but what from? You won’t say. You won’t tell anyone anything. You destroy what does not bend. You treat your sons as tools. They are human! We are all human! And you tell them that they have to purge what makes them human, all the love and the joy and —“

Her voice catches. 

“Roboute loves me! And I him! And you took me! You took me, and you won’t give me back, and you — you r-r-rape me, and you toy with me, and if I am truly nothing to you, as you claim — I hear you claim! — then why don’t you just let me go?”

She dashes tears from her eyes. It’s a dream. She can cry from both eyes, here. 

“What happens if you get your way? If humanity becomes like you? Cold and cruel and uncaring? If we lose our ability to love? To care? To sing and dance and — and create? If every civilisation we meet is destroyed? If everything is made in Your image? Then what? We’d be a shell! Humanity would not be human anymore! We would be a shadow. You’d sit there and rule over a universe of grey automatons, manifestations of Your will. Is that what You want?”

She stops before the throne. He’s not towering over here, here, when her mind can reduce him to the proportions of a man, not a divine being that denies its divinity. He is a tall man, but still a man. She can look him in the face.

”You claim not to be a god, but you act like one. You want to be a god but answer no prayers. You want to be obeyed as a father but not love like one. You’re a hypocrite. A coward. Dodging responsibility. Dodging everything.”

Breathless with rage, she stops, waiting for the dream-Emperor to respond. When he does, a thrill of fear races down her spine. 

“How interesting.“

Her mind can replicate much, but not that — not the reverberating echo of the Emperor’s true voice. This is not a dream. Against all probability, this is him. 

(Of course it is.  He’s a psyker, the strongest psyker that ever lived, and to him the minds of humans are just another plane to wander.)

”I have seen the future. I have seen the horrors that await our kind. I have torn myself apart and built myself anew to avoid them. And yet…maybe. Maybe some amendments are required.”

”I don’t understand — “

He catches her by the waist, and pulls her into his lap, smiling down at her. His eyes are the heart of a sun. His mouth is the throat of a forest fire. Be thou afraid —

“You do not have to. But you are correct — Roboute does love you, and it pains him to see you so. I will fix this. I will fix everything.”

The light blinds her. And she wakes. And she doesn’t. 

—

Roboute Gulliman, Primarch of the Thirteenth, walks beside his Lord Father, discussing their latest campaign against a nasty strain of orks in the distant reaches of the eastern Imperium, and how best to deal with them. It is an honour to be so close to the Emperor, and he feels his approval like a golden balm as he presents strategies, and the Emperor congratulates him on having such a sharp mind. It would be so easy for one so powerful to be a distant, unreachable god-like figure, but the Emperor is not — he may not have raised Roboute, but he is wholly his father. Roboute barely recalls his foster-father’s name these days. 

A slight disturbance draws his attention; a human woman, clad in an ornate gold gown, ducks out of one of the side rooms. The Emperor beams at her. 

“Excuse me, Roboute. I think my consort needs my attention. She is a needy little thing — and quite insatiable.”

Roboute’s cheeks colour a little — he’s no Leman or Horus, happy to trade bawdy jokes with the Emperor — and he politely averts his eyes as the Emperor scoops the woman up and plants a kiss on her, his tongue sliding between her parted lips. 

“How’s my girl? Restless? Be at ease; I’m almost done here, and Roboute will be on his way — and you’ll have me all to yourself.”

He settles her on one of his hips, and nips at her throat. She’s looking directly at Roboute, her expression quite unreadable. Roboute realises he’s being unfanthomly rude, and offers a little courtly bow. 

“My lady. It is a delight to make your acquaintance. I have heard tales of your beauty, and I can see that they were all correct.”

”Thank you, my Lord Primarch,” she says, her voice tiny. 

“She’s more than a beauty,” says the Emperor, fondly. “She keeps me human, don’t you my love? She shows me how to not lose sight of the small things, when the grand design occupies so much of my attention. Without her, I fear I’d forgot how to relate to humans at all!”

Roboute chuckles politely, but there’s something about the woman’s gaze — something so sad. Maybe —

A flash of gold out of the corner of his eye — probably the sun reflecting on the walls. The thought vanishes. He will head out soon, out to war for the sake of his father, and for humanity. His great purpose. His birthright. 

And all he ever wants, and all he ever wanted.

[2lim3rz]

IN THE EYES OF THE LION (VHA) (Lion El'Jonson x Reader) (WH40K)

As a gift to a friend (you know who you are) Enjoy! Hopefully I can write more! (Part 2 to Gulliman's fic should follow shortly)

You were a nobody amongst the privileged servants. Performing your duty as you always had. Cleaning where no one trusted servitors to. Polishing all the nooks and crannies their bulky metallic bodies couldn't. It wasn't too uncommon for one of your rank and file to be in the same room as one of the primarchs in the grand hall. Yet every time it took your breath away. One of you would stow away and whisper it over your meals. Describing in your meager words of the might. The beauty. The magnificence.

The one visiting your resident Primarch's fortress, Rogal Dorn you recall his gleaming golden figure, was one you hadn't seen before. His steps were somehow lighter and as you peaked around the corner, fighting your human need to scamper and hide, you saw his armor etched delicately with foreign symbiology. Another planet's cultural markings. On his chest in the sea of silvery-blue was a sword with wings. Held in one hand with respect towards his brother was a winged helmet.

Yet it was his face that stole your breath, as all the primarchs did but this one was somehow more intense, an impossibly handsome face passively greeted Rogal Dorn. Elegant blond locks crowned his head and the similarly colored beard didn't look as course as an average man's beard did. Indeed it somehow looked soft.

Though as he spot, no, barely was past the first words of introductions, you saw (hard to see as it was from your hunched ogling manner) the way his steeled face gave a strange twitch. His nostrils flaring and eyes giving the briefest flicker about before settling undeniably where you were.

"Lion?" Rogal Dorn's low voice echoed in the empty chamber hall. You felt a shiver down your spine. A human's predator instincts switching to prey animal overdrive. Your heart thudded. Your palms sweated. All the while the new primarch, Lion (a name so fitting your breath hitched in its nerve wracked fear), just stared and stared and stared.

"We have a spy." his voice was somehow higher than Dorn's and still perfectly masculine. Your skin shivered again so strangely as he idly pointed an armored hand towards you. As if you were somehow so beneath him. You were. A mere mite in the glory of the higher beings.

Rogal Dorn, though his back was against you now, gave a full turn to where his brother's hand was pointed. Looked at you. Little groveling you as you trembled and shook and stared and stared and stared back at the glowering Lion.

Familiarity flashed in those eyes. Amusement on his features. The snapping of his gauntleted hands made you shriek and fall backwards. You saw the minute twitches in the solidly armored Astartes performing ceremonial and true guards. The trusted few around the Lion had their hands twitch to weapons.

"Come here." the primarch's voice, though not harsh, left no room for patience. Though as you stood on trembling hands you only watched Lion's face give those soft twitches as though fighting a snarl. The metal of his helmet gave a protesting groan as you started walking forward.

Rogal Dorn, thank the Emperor you mentally would praise later, noticed the actions of the fellow Primarch. His head looked towards him impossibly quick. The Lion reminded you of a feline. All subtle tensing muscle.

You didn't know it then how out of character it was for the Lion to be so out of characterly ill-mannered. The heavy and fast way Rogal Dorn's hand all but slammed on the breastplate of the other primarch. Steel eyes glaring into the luminated green of the Lion's face face.

"You are dismissed. Leave." Rogal Dorn's angered voice struck you to your core. You turned and scampered away like a punished canid. Yet before you could abscond through servant's corridors, the Lion's smooth snarl of a voice pierced your heart. "You must be rid of that one, brother."

.

.

You recounted the tale to your fellow servants during evening mealtime. Holding your hands together during the moments they threatened to shake. The gasped and held your hands during your dismissal. They tutted their worries, hoping that you would not be fired. Surely, it was just a case of wrong moment and wrong times. Surely, surely, surely.

As sure as the winded runner that panted and breathed you were needed. Personally requested by the supervisor. Worried looks. Murmured rumors already beginning. You were a gossipy lot. The supervisor shouldn't have seen to you. You were just doing your job as scheduled.

You were given a parcel. A location (the loading docks) and a time of leaving. You were being sent off. Punished worst than you ever would have thought. Lashings were preferable to totally being sent away.

Fighting your tears, you made your way at the selected time to the docks. Fighting through the blurry world as you choked sobs and the overwhelming presence of more and more Astartes about you. You were so used to the presences of them and yet there was more than usual, different ones and-

You stopped at the dock you were told to go. Your meager belongings in your arms.

You stared, disbelieving. Waiting for you were stone faced or helmeted Astartes in that familiar silvery blue. Fear washed over you as you mutely followed them. Fear froze you completely from your woe was me sulking. Fear chewed and chewed and chewed. Was Rogal Dorn giving you over personally to the Lion for punishment? He was not like that. He was a kind, if not impersonal, master.

Stepping off with a nudge to your back from a ceramite encoated fist, you nearly fell to your knees as you looked up and up and up. The Lion stood in front of you. Your heart stuttered in your very chest. "Leave me be." Lion did not need to shout his orders. His men obeyed in silence. Slinking off like the predatory beasts in men's flesh that they were.

You were alone.

Watched by the Lion.

[moodymisty]

Request; Guilliman's partner comforting him? He is so sad in 40k, and has so much on his plate. The Lord Regent needs cuddles when he has a break!

Author's Note: #LetRollarcoasterGhilliesuitRest. I'm having fun writing all these cute requests while I work on some Konrad stuff >:3

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None apart from Cato Sicarius being an stick in the mud because that's just who he is ✨ he just born that way ✨

Word Count: 932

Guilliman's chambers remain unchanged from when he had last entered them, a massive room adorned with the symbols of his legion. It is all ornate, golden, tapestries hanging and filigree tracing the edges. It's all decorative, indulgent. But none of it is his; The room feels nothing but sterile, to him. There isn't a single remnant of his life, only his legacy.

"You look tired."

You sit small on his massive bed, Guilliman's gaze having turned to you upon hearing your voice. It's quiet in the massive room, nearly drowned out by the high ceiling.

He is tired. Incredibly so. Perhaps mentally more than physically. Though the sight of you serves to act like some sort of drug to give him a boost, abit only temporarily.

He works tirelessly, endlessly, with no goal or end in sight. The Imperium is no less rotten, galaxy no less plagued since he'd last looked. You serve to be a small candle for him, a hope for a future, but a candle can't light a cavern. But still, he hates to imagine his life without you now.

Though Chapter Master Marneus Calgar and the Commanders of the Legion had not taken well to it. To you. It seems their Primarch having wants and desires beyond his supposed godhood is upsetting. They seem to almost speak of it, of you, as if it's an illness- being in love. Wanting a life beyond war.

Gulliman still remembers Cato Sicarius' attempt to discipline you for referring to him as Roboute so casually, spitting venom at your supposed disrespect.

The holotable shined against blue painted armor and skin, sickly green blending with blue and gold. Guilliman had been expecting a moment alone with you, to voice his thoughts, though it has quickly seemed to have turned into a meeting of sorts. You moved to take your leave, as you know well you were unwelcome in the Ultramarine chapter's private dialogues. Guilliman doesn't disagree that you shouldn't overhear, but his chapter takes it much more seriously. Vehemently so.

You look up at him, holding your hands close to yourself.

"I'll be in the Librarium, Roboute-"

Cato Sicarius turned his gaze to you, searing even through his helmet. His stance across the holotable was firm and unmovable, one hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He is ever the epitome of Ultramarine valor.

"You will speak of Our Lord Guilliman with the proper respect-"

Guilliman turned to the Ultramarine, who's zealotry has been wearing on him like waves against a ragged shoreline. To him he can begrudgingly deal with it, but he will not let him trample you.

"She can refer to me however she wishes," Guilliman said, his armor making noise as he resisted balling his hands into fists. "Do not speak for me again."

The Primarch had shut the Astarte down within moments. But the burn still remains. Their overwhelming zeal has proven irritating, but in that moment it finally turned him to anger.

They treat him like a god, speak of him as such; You are the only one who still treats him like a man. Perhaps he might be far removed, but he is still human, underneath his overwhelming size and power. At least he feels he is. Sometimes he isn't quite sure anymore.

"Perhaps I am. Sleep is rare for us all." He finally responds to your comment, neither disagreeing or agreeing fully. Despite it, you look up at him with this soft, caring face- It reminds him of Euten. You gently pat the bed.

"Can you come here?"

The Primarch listens, coming closer. He gently sits on the bed to avoid jostling you, watching the way you curl your hand to gesture him closer. He furrows his brow.

"What do you have in mind?" Guilliman watches you intently, trying to read you and figure it all out. You just give him that same sweet look.

"Just come closer. Lay down." When he doesn't move, you sigh.

"Please?"

Then does the Primarch finally give in, laying back; Feeling your hands as you adjust until the back of his head lays across your thighs. Your hands brush through his hair, and Guilliman swears for a moment he could die right here and be satisfied. With such a simple gesture, you've healed him just a bit from the horrors gnawing at him.

His eyes are hooded, not quite closed as he looks off. He looks deep in thought, or tired. More than likely both.

"You have the time to sleep, if you want." If he returned here, it could only mean he finally had managed to obtain a moment to himself. He's looking away from you when he responds.

"I don't wish to weigh you down for so long." Your hand brushes across his cheek for a moment, brushing a chunk of short blonde hair behind his ear.

"I know you Roboute; You won't be asleep for that long."

The sentence makes him let out a dry laugh. You had him down to a science within months; His Legion barely knows him, and they worship him.

His hand reaches up to gently cup your face, and it swallows so much of it. You lean into his palm none the less. You put your hand on his own for a moment, before returning it to his head.

"Take a moment to yourself, Roboute. You've fought for everyone else for so long. The galaxy can spare you a minute."

He doesn't remember anything else, after. Just the soft look in your eyes and the feeling of your fingers against his skin.

[2lim3rz]

Warhammer 30k Emperor x Reader is quite popular but think about 40k Emperor x Reader. Many have said how the emperor, despite claiming that he was a human and not a god, behaved so much like the latter. So consider him rising from his throne after so many centuries, weakened and well… horrifying. Did people really think he was going to return looking like a normal person? Because he didn’t. He of course still had his charming voice (though raspy after thousands of years of not using it) and his golden eyes. But it wasn’t as beautiful when paired with the body of a walking corpse.

At least that’s what you thought. Nobody else seemed to care, they gazed at him and praised him and welcomed their ruler into their lives. Nobody seemed to give a shit that he was 12 foot tall monster, wasn’t he exactly like the beasts and demons of heresy that the inquisition warned us about?? Why did your neighbours flock to him when he paraded around the streets, why did they grasp at his hands with awe (even when one of them was just bone), and why did he look towards your direction (how could you even know he looked at you? He was so far away and covered in so much fabric and jewellery), and why did you see him smile at you?

The beginning is a reference to a little thing I wrote eons ago! You can find it here! [ LINK ]

Some warnings: Mild description of a panic attack

He knows. He knows that you had seen his gaze even from so far away.. He knows that you felt the instant gut wrenching fear and worshipful mania all felt when in his physical presence.

Yet you know. Your sane mind knows he wasn't looking directly at you, surely. For he is the Emperor. The God Emperor and Risen Savior of Mankind. All quiver before him, even his one of his most beloved sons, Roboute Gulliman (oh how many stories have you heard of him?)

However your instincts truly have knowledge in what your mind is hoping isn't happening. The long pause in his parade. The staring. The flesh-not-flesh crinkling in a macabre smile before you ran.

Your dreams were nightmares of eldritch things. Of colors so unknown and unseen that everything was grey in them. Of swirling colors and shapes.. of things that did not act the way they should nor shouldn't function but did. Touches, sensations. Feelings that should not happen.. Before there was a flash of gold.. As if you were thrown into a vat of cold water. You could breath and when you awoken..

You could breath. You were alive. Your skin was on your flesh, your flesh was on your bones, and your bones were of biological what-nots instead of painful needles. You were you. You were alive. You were human..

You knew what the gold was. The flash of bone encased in undulating flesh as it tried to stretch over its framework. You knew the reason of why every breath you took it was a blessing.

So you walked. It did not matter that you were in your night clothes, that your feet were growing raw and blooded. You walked. It did not matter that the Palace was miles away and the journey was treacherous; you walked.

Only when day arose did you return home to cry. Why? You wondered. Why was the terrifying so heavily worshipped. Why was it hard to breath? Why were you so lightheaded?

These why's began to grow, to multiply. Becoming multitudes until you could do nothing in your tiny home (that did nothing but make you feel even smaller) but gasp for air.

The onslaught only stopped when you found yourself waking up. Neck hurting from the awkward way you had curled into the corner. Everything ached, everything hurt.

Yet you had to leave. You dressed hurriedly.

You threw what credits you had left. Tossing practically everything away to get yourself to a spot you could view him best.

And sure enough. After his grandiose speech (was the talks of taking the fight to the enemy always so daunting?), he turned his head (was.. it always so corpse-like?) and looked upon you (Were you always so.. small?)

You felt it. Felt him. Felt the presence of a god touching the mind of someone feeble. Akin to the touch so doubt an insect felt when it was grabbed by a human. Small. So small. Fragile.. too fragile. Miniscule. Nothing.

Go.

Was that your thoughts? You swore your instincts said to run away and scream. Yet you moved. You had too. For too long those nightmares plagued you; hurt you even.

So you moved. Onward and onward as if a servitor upon its track. Unwavering.

It took.. quite some time (was everything always so.. large?) until you found yourself frozen stiff. Until you found yourself looking up into the purest gold.

It was not warm, as the Emperor was always said to be in some cases. It was not forthcoming. It was nowhere near kind.

You realized then, that perhaps everything was a warning as you stared up from your knees. Practically breaking your back backwards to look up at him. Even as he stretched out his hands to encase yours and gently pull you up even if it felt as if ice was burning your skin away.

He is the God-Emperor of Mankind.

And he was not the savior you all hoped he would be.

[2lim3rz]

Y'all are thirsty fucks for the Volatile Hearts AU and Lorgar X reader content

Working through some older requests so once I catch up, you'll get part 2 on Gulliman's tax filling

[2lim3rz]

While we're on the 40k heresy train...

The Emperor is yandere in a romantic way, Guilliman is yandere in a platonic way. He starts as your saving grace, your bright spot, but becomes attached to you as a surrogate/step parent. The two of you are still close, but he won't help you escape, even if he could. Not only would that put you in danger, but he sees it as undermining his "parents'" relationship, and deep down, he wants this family unit. Now you're double trapped! You'll probably never leave the palace again.

Have fun at the family dinners dealing with the both of them.

(also can you imagine cuddling with ANY of these men? You're very safe and warm but the arm on top of you is the size of a tree trunk-)

I feel like the longer this goes on the more we're gonna have to think of a better AU name than Yandere 40k, just sayin

BUT!! PLATONIC YANDERE!! I adore this!

And going back onto my first post; As I've mentioned multiple times, escaping the Emperor or any deity thing is a no-go. Escaping Gulliman? A chance. But in fairness, this is also fresh out of bed to a bunch of bullshit Gulliman, so... take that as you will

But! But but but!! 1. Depending on how the Emperor's mood is, Gulliman will help shield/protect you from his more.. violent of moods? Let's face it, to the Emperor (no matter his feelings towards you) you are his trophy. This precious treasure to be toted about like a tiny dog in a handbag. His shining jewel.

Gulliman? If Gulliman wasn't so useful to him, Gulliman's.. intereference would NOT be appreciated at all.

Though unlike the Emperor, Gulliman's 'fall' for you is more.. gradual. At first it was through sheer courtesy. 'Kindness' even (if you could call politely shooing you away from the emperor so he can do his business that). Then he gets to know you more and more and more. He realizes he wants to protect you. From the dangers in the palace. From space. From your room. From yourself.

There's no way out of it. You now have two superhumans one's not even human smh that will ruin worlds to keep you where you're at.

You are trapped in a prison of luxury. Everything except freedom at your fingertips.

Maybe the dangers of Chaos doesn't sound so bad now?

(Also pros of cuddling the Emperor: He, like Magnus, can be any shape. But no matter what it's bigger than you just to flex)

[2lim3rz]

THE HATE OF LORGAR [40k FANFIC] [LORGAR X READER]

This has been sitting in my head since April, so it's about time I wrote it!

Lorgar really didn't deserve some of the shit he got tbh, he just needed a better life. Anyways..

WARNINGS: Self-flagellation/harm , Lorgar's moods are pretty flip-floppy

You were a Remembrancer aboard the ship that held the Primarch of the Word Bearer's themselves, Lorgar Aurelian. You didn't know much of the other Primarchs, just that not many of them were... least to say, much fans of your job title.

But it was your job. You had been selected by thousands who were desperate for the position you were in. You had worked your literal and proverbial ass off. On the ship, you lost some of your flow at the complete master-crafters of the various historical arts. You felt incompetent, a mere toddling child amongst some of them.

Did you back down? No. You were close to it once, but some other Remembrancers and even a couple of the Astartes helped your courage. Even though you couldn't fathom why, as one the Astartes clearly held some form of disdain for baseline humans and had a sickly sweet charming voice. Most of the Word Bearers were very charming with their words, but his always had an undertone you never liked; yet given his rank, you couldn't do anything about it.

Of course, his help was the entire reason of why you were Lorgar's personal Remembrancer. Or.. that's how it began. Your meetings getting more frequent despite both of your myriad of duties to attend. You both found excuses. You both grew to know each other. Maybe that's why you paced in worry in the massive in-between hall of his grand room. Two doors on either side, one leading to the ship and one to his room. Maybe that's why you paced, the tip of your thumb in your mouth as you gently gnawed.

You felt his hate. You felt his grief. In fact, you felt all of their grief and hate. Even the most terrifying of the Word Bearers aboard the ship almost seemed to shake. Lorgar, and in turn the Word Bearers, felt as though they were an extended family.. so when you heard the news.. Monarchia was attacked. What was the galaxy turning to if the Ultramarines was turning against them? You took a shuddering breath. You wished you could have gone, but you just couldn't keep up with the Astartes, that was fact and he convinced you of that. So you were here, waiting for Lorgar to come and share his feelings and whatever else happened in the day. For your tradition.

Thoom, thoom, thoom, thoom. You heard his steps. Your head lifted, thumb drifting away as you wiped your hand on your clothes. He was coming, that was clear from the weight of the steps. Your instincts screamed at you, however, at how quick they were. At the clash of something hitting the metal wall. In the distance, a low sort of howl from a grieving beast. Oh, how lucky you were that you pressed yourself against the wall due to the sheer force the doors slammed open. One giving a horrible groan as if it cried out.

You felt your heart drop. His once shining armor was covered in grizzly ash. From his ear was caked blood. The man's eyes was wide and terrifyingly feral, tears had carved rivers in the ash smeared on his face. The already perpetually overwhelming feeling of being near a Primarch grew tenfold at how terrifyingly heavy his breathing was.

"Lor..Lorgar?" you hesitated, feeling as if you couldn't breath. Like a predator, his head snapped towards you. All before he fell to his knees, a sob causing a roaring racket in the silence. Stumbling one step forward, followed by another, you rushed towards him and fell to your own knees, clinging to his hand. "Lorgar! Lorgar, are you- What happened?"

He wasn't looking at you. It was as though you could have disappeared and he wouldn't have noticed one bit. His once beautifully clear eyes were almost glazed in a trance. Tears still falling steadily, his face slack. It was a grimly pretty sight, in the same way one would admire a sad painting. You knew you could not get to his mind when he was so emotional, recalling how he got when you not-so-politely stated how Kor Phaeron didn't deserve his rewards for what was clearly abuse to the Primarch you adored out of all the rest (despite not really meeting any others quite yet).

So it was silence you both dwelled in. Silence that shattered as Lorgar lunged. A roar bellowed from his lips as he tore forth one of the massive doors off its hinged and slammed it against one of your favorite murals on the wall. One of the many dedicated to the Emperor of Mankind, your favorite because it was Lorgar's masterful work. You wisely screamed in fear, stumbling back from the crumbling debris.

"He murdered them all." you thought his eyes were wild once. You thought once that you had seen a feral light in his eyes when he was angry. You thought you would see grief. Sad, sad grief in those eyes. Instead, there was only anger. A roiling blaze in this tear-filled orbs. His ash covered face torn asunder in a snarl. "He killed them because I was right! I was right and he murders millions for it!" your ears hurt. Oh, stars they hurt so bad at the force of his screaming. Letting go of his hand and covering your head, your back slid against the wall as he slammed his fist against the crumbling facade of the Emperor.

"All this sacrifice! All of humanity's blood spilled, all of my blood spilled! And this is what we get?! The moment I tell him the truth, I am spat upon and treated as a mutt!" the Primarch screamed to the air before snapping towards you. Your vision blurred as your own terrified tears emerged. It was as though he had to remember you were there.

"You write the truth, and nothing but the truth, right," never before had your name felt so terrifying. The way he snarled it in his question. You knew he wasn't angry at you and yet you felt so scared. Hiccuping, you frantically nodded, not trusting your words. "Write this. Let the galaxy know He forced the Word Bearers to kneel. He forced me to kneel. He allowed Gulliman to murder entire cities of innocents. All because the Emperor wishes to live a lie."

Just as soon as he spoke those seering words, his eyes staring so deeply in your eyes you swore he could melt you from within, he whipped away. Stomping heavily towards his room. Instincts within screamed at you to turn away. To run when Lorgar was so volatile. He was always emotional and you adored the fiery passion he showed for things.. but sometimes it was too overwhelming, like now. Perhaps some inane part of you figured you could still offer comfort.

So you followed him. Watching from the doors that closed behind you as he took off his armor. If it was any other day, perhaps you two would have traded jokes. If by traded jokes, meant you joked about as he sheepishly stammered his way through it. An unseen side of the Primarch, really, was that he always seemed to stumble his words around you. But not now. Not now as he barely bothered to don a robe before going low onto his knees again, hanging his head low.

You jolted, surprised as he spoke a low order and a man emerged with a large bowl that he seemed to struggle holding. Dark powder emerging in the air as he quickly sat it upon the ground and skittered away. It was as though you were invisible in your terror as he withdrew a long glittering object that was clearly barbed. A whip of sorts.

"Lorgar....?" your whispered voice almost echoed as he splayed his hands across the ground. His tears were back again as he silently dragged one large hand into the bowl of black powder.. no, it was ash. The ashes of Monarchia. The other hand lifted the whip and you covered your mouth with a shriek at the horrid crack it made. How Lorgar hardly winced.

"LORGAR!"

You were shocked, you knew this. But you couldn't move. You could barely breath as you watched Lorgar perform the wretched flagellation. Somehow, you broke your grim reverie to stumble forward, nearly knocking the bowl of ashes away as you threw your arms around his neck with him finally being low enough for you to do that.

The whip was so close to hitting you, but that didn't matter as he stopped. You could feel the hot blood and sweat making your sleeves and skin sticky. You were sobbing into his neck, clinging tighter. "Stop! Stop, please! Just stop!" you pleaded. You had no right to order a Primarch, but you couldn't stand to watch whatever wretched ritual was happening. He was hurting in his grief for Monarchia, but there was no right for him to hurt himself for whatever wrongs the Guilliman and the Emperor did.

Silence passed between you, Lorgar feeling limp in your arms as his own breath hitched twice before a sob broke forth. You heard the rattling clank as he let go of the torturous whip and clung to you as though you were a lifeline. "He forced them to kneel..." the Urizen whispered in another whimper "He looked at m..me with such hatred. At my sons as though they were not worth the dirt beneath his foot, the spit in his mouth."

You opened your own mouth to speak, but he continued. One large and bloody hand stroking yours as you felt a tremble wrack his body. The power of it shook you and it took all your might not to go into blubbering sobs of your own. "I hit Malcador. I hit Guilliman, my own boot-licking brother." a low snarl began to enter his wavering cry "I hit him. And.." he murmured your name, pulling you back so he could look you in the eye.

This was not your Lorgar. Your Lorgar was smiles and stammers. Your Lorgar had a serene focus about him as well as an intensity when he spoke. This man torn asunder with grief and anger was not yours. "It felt satisfying." it seemed to hurt him as he said this "It did not give me joy but I was satisfied at the Sigilite's pain." you trembled at the whispered words.

"Ven...vengeance is not worth the effort, Lorgar.. you.. you've said this-" "This is no longer vengeance, this.." for once he was lost for words, trying to grasp for one before a hiccup tore through his throat with the faint repetition of how the Emperor forced him to kneel. "Just.. please, Lorgar.. Look at me.. Look at me.." you murmured gently, pulling your hands away from his neck to cradle his face. You knew you would cringe later at the sight of the blood and ashes covering you, but for now you were here.

"He does not see the truth.. all I have spoken is the truth.." it was then you saw what was wrong. He was growing lost. If there was the one and only thing you appreciated of Kor Phaeron and the rest of the Word Bearers, it was they they helped Lorgar stay on track. They were more of his family than anyone could have been.. Kor Phaeron more literally even if he was the worst parental figure you could think of.

"It's.. it's not okay what he did, Lorgar.. but please, get cleaned. This isn't healthy." you stroked his ashy skin as he leaned his head against your hand. Closing his eyes and taking a deep shuddering breath. "You are right. There's much to do and.. and my Legion needs their Primarch." that wasn't what you meant. Everyone needed a break sometime or another, Lorgar especially right now. "Y..yes.. they do.." you mumbled after him. If he wanted to work, you would let him work. Anything to stop him from his self abuse. Anything to help comfort him, you would do.