#Gulliman/reader

[ahrianee]

[🌌]Inter atramentum et stellas

[My English is so bad, I'm very sorry]

Here I am, entering the Warhammer 40k Fandom simply because I really liked the story, because of my boyfriend who liked it before, here I leave an unfinished sketch.

I feel a little shy posting here, it's my first time on Tumblr, be nice to this dumb girl who got into a fandom for a man with big tits and who knows how to use Excel.

[beckyninja]

Worthy

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warning: things get spicy, though nothing explicit

Description: The reader struggles with insecurity and low self esteem, while Guilliman struggles with... other things.

Oh boy, this is definitely the spiciest thing I've ever written. Be gentle, please!

“Roboute, ah….”

You reached up to him from your place sprawled atop his desk. Data slates and parchment scattered in every direction as you writhed. A sensual dance, just for him.

 He realized he’d never truly appreciated the aesthetic beauty of the female form before now. Starlight and candlelight competed to see which could add the loveliest glow to your skin. Your bare skin, on display for all to see.

No. Not all. Just him. No one else would ever see you this way. He’d slaughter anyone who-

“Roboute?”

Guilliman blinked and the fantasy faded.

You sat in a plush chair he’d recently placed in his office, legs tucked up beneath you, a book in your hands. The very picture of innocence.

Guilt gnawed at him.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve finished this one.” You tapped the book’s cover. “With your permission, I’d like to return to the library- pardon, the librarium, for another.”

He smiled. “You grow more fluent in High Gothic by the day.” 

You glanced away. “I shudder to think how I must have sounded when I first arrived. It’s difficult to master pronunciation when one has only ever read the words.”

He returned to the parchment before him, signing his name for the two-hundred-and-thirty-second time that morning. “Nonsense. Your accent was, and is, utterly charming.” 

Especially when you cry my name as I suck bruises into your delicate- by the Throne! Get a hold of yourself, man!

“You’re kind to say so.”

Something in your tone gave him pause. He straightened, observing you more intently. The muscles around your mouth tightened, turning your smile wooden. Your shoulders hunched and you gazed at the floor. He realized you resembled nothing less than a serf expecting a scolding.

But before he could comment your mood shifted once again, and you looked as relaxed and happy as before. “As I was asking, may I return to the librarium?”

“Of course. And you need not constantly ask my permission. I have given instructions for that particular librarium to be open to your access code at all hours.”

Your delighted gasp made his hearts glow. 

“Thank you, Roboute! I’ve only just finished the first volume of Epatheon’s Chronicles of Macragge and the historitors suggested I read all six before moving on to the history of wider Ultramar….” 

Guilliman’s worries faded as he absorbed your chatter. A passing cloud, nothing more. He braced himself to return to the lonely monotony of Imperial paperwork when a particularly excited gesture sent your book tumbling to the floor.

“Oh, my apologies!”

Then you bent… over….

And he was suddenly profoundly grateful to be safely concealed behind his massive desk.

Throne, damn it.

***

“Thank you, Lord Tarchus.” You smiled up at the Ultramarine assigned to escort you that day, praying you’d gotten his name right.

The helmeted head inclined slightly in response. 

As you started toward one of the only other areas you felt familiar with on this massive ship, he fell into step behind you.

You thought you’d successfully banished the looming sense of dread. But, for the second time that day, tension tightened a leaden fist around your stomach. You kept your gaze focused straight ahead, not daring to meet the eyes of the people you passed. A diplomat’s mask came in useful at times like these.

But it could not shield you from your own thoughts.

“What presumption to think you deserve this kind of attention, girl.” Grandmother’s voice pierced your defenses. “How full of justified resentment this warrior must be for wasting his time on you. Who do you think you are?”

Your heart raced as you walked faster. You needed to get your book, then get out of these halls and back where you belonged. Tucked quietly into a corner of Roboute’s office where you’d be no bother to anyone. 

Where you’d be with him. With his gentle eyes and strong hands. Hands that felt so good when they pressed you to a massive chest rippling with muscle to put the gods of antiquity to shame. You’d felt them through his tunic on the night he kissed you breathless. When his touch sent molten liquid boiling straight between your-

A gauntleted hand landed on your shoulder. “This door… my lady.”

“Oh!” Heat rushed to your face as you realized you’d walked straight past the librarium entrance. “Y-yes. Thank you. I won’t be long.”

Your shoulders sank as you entered your code and stepped into the room. What right had you to think such thoughts? Roboute hadn’t so much as touched you since carrying you to your room after the… incident. He’d been polite, chivalrous, and honorable. He spoke to you like a dear friend. You should be more than satisfied. 

But you remembered hunger in his eyes the night he proposed. Was it selfish of you to want just a glimpse of that again? 

Grandmother’s laugh, half mocking half disgusted, echoed in your ears.

“Pathetic child. The man finally came to his senses and realized the truth: you’re simply not worth the effort.”

***

A million things should have occupied the Lord Regent’s mind. Mountains of paperwork, endless strategies to compile, not to mention the meeting with Calgar and the Ultramarine Captains in an hour’s time. He’d thought having you near would help him focus. 

A foolish assumption.

Your face greeted him as you emerged from your quarters each morning. You took your meals with him, spent most of your waking hours reading in the chair he’d provided for you. And during his few free moments, or when the paperwork in front of him required less than his full attention, the two of you conversed.

He told you much of Ultramar and Macragge, his home. He recounted stories of his childhood and parents that he hadn’t had the heart to dwell upon since his reawakening. Bittersweet memories, but made more sweet by your sympathetic ear.

The sheer relief of talking to an outsider did more to brighten the shadows of despair encompassing him than anything else in the past decade. Your mind was bright and pure, unshackled by superstition or callous cruelty. Your hands unstained by blood. You did not fear asking questions, nor did he fear telling you the truth. Every moment spent in your presence was a gift….

…and a torment.

Guilliman knew he’d been staring at your empty chair for minutes now. Breathing deeply, he tasted your scent upon the air, and he knew if he approached he’d be able to feel your warmth on the fabric. 

He’d felt your warmth before, and regretted it. Because now he knew what you felt like, what you sounded like, what you tasted like.

Throne, I ache for her.

Lust had never been a factor in his life. His accelerated maturity had bypassed the riotous desire of the average adolescent, nor had his brothers ever expressed experiencing such. 

Well, Russ perhaps.

He scowled. He was no slobbering Space Wolf. And yet.

You gasped when he took you in his arms. He heard your single heart beating wildly within your chest and the sound maddened him. It took so little effort to push you to the polished floor. Your clothing came apart like parchment in his hands.

He loomed above you, higher thought lost to his most primal instincts. You submitted eagerly, turning onto your front and presenting yourself to him. Only ever to him. He snarled in satisfaction as he mounted you like a feral-

“No!” Data slates clattered to the floor as he stood, shaking the fantasy from his head.

You were precious and fragile. Such actions would only frighten you, and the idea of you fearing him was unbearable. For you, he would stifle these perverse desires. 

Even if it meant denying himself the slightest touch.

His vox crackled to life. “My Lord? Is all well?”

Guilliman took a moment to regulate his panting breaths. “All is well, Cato.”

“I thought I heard-”

“All is well, Cato.”

A brief pause, then. “The Captains are already assembling in the comm center. Would you like me to escort you to your armoring station?”

At least his armor would hide certain biological functions he found it increasingly difficult to control.

***

“Stupid female.”

For a brief moment you thought you’d somehow manifested your thoughts into reality. Then your eyes adjusted to the soft candleglow, and you saw you were not alone in the librarium.

A Mechanicus techpriest stood next to one of the writing tables, looming over a prostrated serf. You fought an instinctive grimace at the mass of metal augmentations and scar tissue that seemed to make up the majority of the Imperium’s cyborg scientists. 

A necessary evil, Roboute had called them.

But as you watched the techpriest reach down and grasp the serf’s lower jaw in his claw of a hand, you certainly felt this one was more evil than necessary.

An image of Lord O’Rourke threatening to end the lives of thousands of innocents flashed through your mind like lightning. The sudden rage that had prompted you to hurl yourself at him surged in your veins again.

“Unhand her at once!”

The priest looked up with a hiss and clatter, and this time you didn’t bother hiding your scowl of disgust as you marched toward him.

“I said unhand her!”

“Noncompliance.” Its voice screeched. “Additional human female does not equal authority figure.”

You grasped the metal wrist still crushing the serf’s jaw. “I am the Lord Regent’s betrothed. And I command-”

“Irrelevant data. Betrothed does not equal authority-”

“Do not interrupt me.” You felt…fierce. “I may not have authority over you now. But one day I will. And you know what I do have?” 

You stared, unflinching, into its corroded ruin of a face. “A very good memory.”

The techpriest whirred and buzzed for a moment. Then the metal hand unlocked and withdrew. You released its wrist, stepping between it and the serf. 

“Compliance.” It hissed.

“Thank you. Get out.”

“Compliance.”

You didn’t move from your place sheltering the serf until the priest shambled its way through the librarium door. Then you bent double, panting as the adrenaline rush faded. 

“My…my lady?”

You turned to the serf, a young woman, still kneeling on the hard floor. Blood welled from a scratch along one cheekbone. Glancing around at the shelves and tables, you saw nothing with which to clean the wound, not unless you chose to rip a page out of one of the books. Instead, you tore a strip from your sleeve. 

The woman gasped. “Oh no, my lady!”

“It’s only cloth.” Kneeling down, you pressed it to the woman’s cheek. “That brute ought to be punished.”

“It was my fault.” The woman gestured to the bucket of cleaning supplies tipped on its side next to her. “I was clumsy and jostled him. I deserved-”

Another lightning-flash of memory. A younger you, exhausted from studying all night, stumbling into your tutor as you tried to rise from your desk. The blows that followed.

“You did not deserve that.” You recognized the dark circles underneath the woman’s eyes. “How long since you last slept?”

“I don’t know.” The woman lifted her chin. “I am not complaining, my lady. My sister- I mean, the other serf assigned to this librarium, just gave birth. I am more than willing to take her burden on my shoulders.”

The scratch stopped bleeding, and you removed the cloth from her cheek. “That’s very good of you. May I know your name?”

“My name? I- of course, my lady. I am called Hestia.”

“Well, Hestia, this librarium looks fairly sturdy. I doubt it will crumble to dust if you take a day-cycle to rest. And if anyone questions you,” you felt some of that fierceness return, “refer them to me.”

***

“...refer them to me.”

The servo-skull finished its projected recording and returned to hover over the techpriest’s shoulder. Guilliman steepled his fingers in front of his face. 

“Incident equals gross overstep.” The Magus squawked. 

“I see.”

“Chastisement recommended!”

“Hmm.” Guilliman turned to the serf at his elbow. “Request the lady’s presence in my office, Marcus.”

The man bowed and jogged off, but not before Guilliman noticed him shoot a glare toward the techpriest.

Guilliman returned to examining a data slate on his desk, pointedly ignoring the Magus. In his mind, the scene of you defying the techpriest played over and over again. The grainy projection couldn’t mask the imperious lift of your chin, or the fierce look in your eye. Neither did it hide the gentleness with which you tended the serf woman’s wound. 

Judging from Marcus’s reaction, Guilliman had no doubt the story already circulated through the serf quarters.

If they liked you before, they adore you now.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Marcus entered with a flourish. “May I present….”

He gave your name and titles with respect bordering on reverence. Guilliman watched your face redden and felt a surge of empathy as he stood and beckoned you to his side. Your smile froze when you noticed the irate Magus.

You rushed to him. “Roboute, I can explain-”

“No need, my dear.” For the first time in days, he touched you, taking your hand in his.

The softness of your skin, and the way his hand swallowed yours ignited a heat deep in the pit of his stomach. He fought the wild urge to drag you up and onto his lap.

Instead, he addressed the Magus. “You are correct that my betrothed had no authority to act as she did.” He felt you tense, and gently squeezed your hand. “This is a matter I intend to rectify.”

Pulling a foot-thick stack of parchment from the pile on his desk, he handed it to Marcus. “This is an order giving this lady, my future consort, authority upon The Macragge’s Honor. She may command any person on this ship only excepting the Mechanics ArchMagi and the highest ranking Ultramarines.”

There were other caveats and exceptions of course, not to mention an extensive list of extenuating circumstances. He was nothing if not thorough. 

“See that it is posted and transmitted throughout this vessel.”

The serf’s eyes shone as he clutched the parchment to his chest, bowed lower than before, and fairly sprinted from the room.

The Magus looked as though he was about to start venting steam.

“You are dismissed.” Guilliman fixed the techpriest with a look he’d been told could freeze promethium. “See your underlings take greater care with the serfs, Magus. Any reported abuse will be severely punished.”

“Compliance. My Lord.”

As soon as the door hissed closed behind the Magus, you gripped his hand with both of yours. “Roboute, please don’t do this.”

He stared down at you, at the panic in your eyes. Before he could speak you rambled on.

“I-I can’t command anyone. I didn’t mean to suggest I could, or wanted to. I don’t deserve this kind of power! I’m so, so sorry, but-”

You tried to draw away, but he tightened his grip on your hand. All your interactions up to this point replayed in his mind, and one commonality became blindingly clear. 

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

You twisted in his grip, eyes darting about like a captured prey animal. “I’m sorry, I…I….”

“Stop apologizing.” Against all the stalwart promises he’d made himself, he drew you closer. “What has happened to you that you cannot recognize the greatness I see within you?”

“N-no, I’m not-”

“Have I done or said something to make you think yourself unworthy?”

“No! At least….”

When tears filled your eyes he felt pain worse than Fulgrim’s blade across his throat. He cupped your face in his hands.

“Tell me what I have done that I may rectify it.”

He watched you squeeze your eyes shut and lean into him. “Y-you haven’t touched me in so long. I thought, I thought you didn’t…,” your voice died away.

If the Emperor Himself had suddenly marched into his office and punched him in the jaw Guilliman could not have been more stunned. All the times he fantasized about you, all the nights he stroked himself to completion to thoughts of you, all the moments he barely held himself back…!

“Damn it all to the Warp!”

***

Roboute’s sudden bellow nearly deafened you. You found yourself picked up by your hips and tossed atop his desk. Writing implements and documents of what you were certain was vital importance scattered in all directions. But the look in the eyes of the giant leaning over you said he could care less.

“Do you remember my words the night I came to your chambers?”

By the Light and the Void, that growl….

“Yes.” You whispered.

“Tell me.”

“Y-you, you said….”

His face pressed close to yours, teeth bared. “Tell. Me.”

The sheer force of a Primarch’s lust overwhelmed you. And yet you realized you’d willingly get on your hands and knees to beg for more.

“You said you wanted me.”

His mouth crashed into yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. After a blissful eternity you felt him grasp your thighs and yelped as he flipped you onto your front, your legs dangling off the side of his desk. Then his fingers sank into your hips and he pressed against your rear.

“Ah, Roboute!”

“Do you feel that?” You heard snarling frustration in his voice. “Do you feel how badly I desire you?” A forearm the thickness of your waist slammed into the desk above your head. “I have never felt like this about anyone in my long life. The things I want to do to you, woman.”

You felt his chest expanding and contracting against your back. You heard his heaving pants.

Doubt vanished. 

“I love you, Roboute!”

He groaned. Again, he turned you and you stared up into his eyes. The hunger remained, but tempered now by something far sweeter. You reached for him and he let you pull his head into your neck.

He whispered against your skin. “I swore not to take you until I could do so as your husband. And I stand by that oath. But never again doubt my desire for you, my Hearts.”

Relief. Sheer relief like the removal of a burden you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. 

“Never again.”

He pulled back to look you in the face. “And stop doubting your worth.”

A harder request. “I…I will try, Roboute. For you.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “Do it for your own sake, my love. You are far more than you-”

The door opened and the outraged voice of none other than Cato Sicarius spoke. “Lord Guilliman! I just read your latest proclamation and I felt it my duty to voice severe concerns-”

“GET OUT.”

You heard the hasty retreat of armored boots and burst into giggles. Roboute looked down at you, then his rumbling chuckles joined yours.

You laughed in each other’s arms, and all was perfect.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @jaghatai-khock

[primarisly-marooned]

to serve pt 1

as promised, the Guilliman fic!

summary: You're an aide to the Avenging Son, the only aide to the Lord Regent. While serving him dinner you both make a discovery about each other.

pairing: Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

warnings: bit of a food kink, feral behavior (Guilliman), threatening (?) behavior, oral fixation (Guilliman again), alluding to masturbation (reader), fic got to long so no smut but it does get a little nsfw, lemme know if i need to tag anything else!

part 2, part 3

tagging @beckyninja , @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond , @springtimeishere , @moodymisty , @vyzz-undercover, and @ailjsenutna bc they requested it! lemme know if you want to be added to the list as well

It was going to end tragically, he knew it would. All things ended this way it seemed, especially for the Avenging Son.

Denied his death, denied a life outside of the rotting corpse of his father’s failed dream, his brothers gone, his mother… Ten thousand years wasted in agony, only to inherit the Imperium. No peace, no happiness, denying himself even the basics of comfort in an effort to keep things from getting worse. All in order to keep his sons people safe.

But he could not deny himself you. A little kindness, a little humanity, is all it took for Roboute Guilliman to fall at your feet. Figuratively of course, not that you were aware of this. He made sure that there were no untoward actions from him, nothing that could be traced back to anything besides him having a favored aide. He was allowed to have preferences, encouraged even. So if he used that as permission to pull you from your normal duties to being essentially glued to his side at all times, well.

He was only doing what everyone seemed to expect, now wasn’t he?

You were a balm to his battered soul, seeming to almost literally light up the dark corridors of his ship wherever you went. The way you would smile at him when you completed the little tasks he asked of you. You treated him as a lord, yes. But as a man.

Not a god.

There was nothing holy about Roboute no matter what anyone thought. And behind his closed office doors with just himself and you, he didn’t have to be. He could be himself, bad jokes and all. He could enjoy your laugh, the way your skin flushed down your neck to your plush-

“My lord?”

Your voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he’s glad of it.

A glance to the side of his desk reveals you peering up at him through your lashes, hood tilted back enough to allow the candle light to illuminate your soft features. There was a soft smile on your face, a common expression when you were alone together. In your hands was his dinner, and a quick look at the time has Roboute grimacing. It had been hours since he last ate and even longer since he had left his office.

Truly, the Administratum had to be the greatest enemy the Imperium of Man faced in this age.

“Ah, yes,” he said abruptly, moving carefully in his armor to nudge stacks of dataslates and paperwork over enough to clear a space large enough for you to sit in. Roboute found his mouth watering already, and not just for the food. “Come, little one, this should be enough room.”

Your shy little blush comes with a rush of hormones he can all but taste in the air and his mouth fills with saliva. It’s truly depraved, for all that it started innocently enough. He is large, even by Astartes standards, what with him being a Primarch. And the Armor of Fate makes him even bigger, at the cost of his dexterity and sensitivity. It was unfortunate that he still needed to wear it most days, it’s life support a horrid fact of his current existence. Add all of this together, and Roboute found that eating was much more of a chore than he ever remembered it being.

And he had a long, long memory.

He has to swallow several times as he helps you onto his desk, one gauntleted hand under your thighs with his tray balanced across your lap. “It looks delicious,” he murmured, and it truly did, but it wasn’t the food that had hunger gnawing at him.

It was your clever, kind, debilitating solution to his food issue that had Roboute acting little more than a common beast.

Food that wasn’t nutrient paste was too difficult for him to bother with on his own truly he just didn’t want to spend hours cleaning smashed everything out of the delicate circuitry of his armor, but was easily handled in your much smaller grasp, and an offer to feed him led to this, the Lord of Ultramar leaned over you so he could catch a taste of your skin.

He felt no small amount of shame at this- this debauchery, but… this is only a small thing. A temporary indulgence.

Quitting you should be easy for one of his self control if this goes too far. You smile at him when you settle on his immense desk, almost dwarfed by the huge stacks of paperwork covering the surface. The sight of it makes his hearts clench in some unnameable emotion.

“Are you hungry, my Lord?”

Always, for you, almost leaves his mouth before he catches himself. “I could eat.” And he could. It takes a lot of calories to feed his frame, so no matter how many meals he gets to eat like this, that damnable nutrient paste is still needed as a supplement.

You were all he could smell now, sweet and warm, almost syrupy as his focus narrowed down to just you. Your delicate fingers, so small compared to him, picked up something he didn’t know the name of. A sizeable portion to one of your stature, but barely a mouthful to Roboute.

It was a game now, a challenge for himself to see how long he could hold out tasting your skin before he couldn’t anymore. The first bite was always the hardest, a mouthful of flavor exploding over his tongue as your fingertips brushed over his lips. A temptation to lick them is ruthlessly shoved aside as he puts his considerable focus onto you.

This was a time that you would tell him about your day, all the little tidbits of information you overheard or the tasks you completed. Rarely was it anything that Roboute needed to know, but he found that he couldn’t help but find every word that graced your lips as some form of sacred.

It was towards the end of his dinner that everything changed and Roboute’s legendary self control finally snapped.

A few pieces of his meal were left, smaller morsels that he shared between himself and you. Smaller bites meant he had to be careful, closing his teeth over your finger accidentally could snap it off without him even realizing. Something both of you are eager to not happen.

So a little overlap was expected at this point, his lips closing over your fingers, tongue curling under them so no crumb was wasted. It was his favorite part usually, something he could do to taste the salt of your skin and overwhelm his brain with your hormones so he can stop thinking for a while. But this time…

This time there was something extra to your scent. He had noticed something in the food, but didn’t think too hard about it. With your fingers in his mouth, it was all he could taste.

Sweet and musky, thick like honey and so overwhelmingly human, Roboute couldn’t help but close his mouth tighter over your fingers and lathe them with his tongue. By the stars, what was this?

Through the vague haze his mind had fallen under he could see that you were blushing deeply, from your chest all the way up into your hair. You were stuttering something as he gazed down at you, still sucking on your little fingers. The angle you were at allowed Roboute to see down the front of your dress and his gaze was drawn down your collarbone to the swell of your breasts pressed tightly together.

It was when his mind started filling with impure thoughts that it finally clicked what he was tasting on your hand, and his own face burned as he abruptly released you and leaned back. He had to put distance between you or he wouldn't be able to control himself anymore.

He was already painfully hard in his armor, and he meant that literally. A design flaw, clearly.

“Ah,” Roboute starts, at a loss to explain what came over him. It still lurked just beneath his skin, clawing at his stomach and howling in his ears. His lungs heaved for air, able to taste your confused arousal on his tongue. Involuntarily, he opened his mouth and breathed you in deeper. He leaned closer, armor scraping against itself as he loomed.

“My Lord…,” your voice is quiet, but he can still hear you. A little voice in the back of his head is growing louder, near purring at the way you lean back to make room for him. He can see the way you stare up at him with huge shining eyes and wet parted lips. Moving even closer causes you to draw a leg up and onto the desk, the other spreading wide to accommodate him this close to you. “Are you…” There’s a hesitation when you start to ask him a question, and Roboute manages to pull himself together enough to make an inquiring noise as he pushes his chair back to lean down enough that he can stick his face near your neck.

Roboute can feel the way your blood rushes through your veins and for a moment his head swims with the sudden need to bite.

“Do you still have a- hunger, Lord Guilliman?”

It’s the way you say his name, breathy and sweet that gives Roboute the push to open his mouth and lick the sweat off your skin. Your gasp is loud in his ears. “Yes,” is his hissed answer against your throat, lips against your fluttering pulse. “One that must wait to be sated.”

Your little hands, those perfect soft little hands, are featherlight against his head, brushing over his laurels and tracing the curl of his hair. “Why?”

Why indeed, he mused to himself, amused by the simple question. There was much you did not know, and the extent of which he needed his armor was one secret few knew outside of his most trusted. As much as he favored you, he couldn’t risk a breach. You were a weak point.

But one he refused to be parted from.

Another lick sent his brain back into the hazy almost-calm from earlier, your pheromones seeming to crawl through the grey matter of his brain and down his spine. Your fingers slowly thread through his hair and he hummed in quiet bliss, mouth opening against your skin as his arms came up to encircle you. Pain from his cock cleared his head a bit and he realized that he had opened his mouth entirely around your neck.

He felt you swallow against his tongue and fought the urge to feel it from the inside. Pulling back from you was a task almost too great for Roboute, but he managed. “Mm. Please, Little One,” he managed to work around the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Don’t come here again like that.”

Your pupils are blown wide and your skin is shiny. The expression on your face is one of confusion, and dare he say it, arousal. “What?”

Roboute was forced to clear his throat, trying to remove your scent from his mouth. “Your hand. I could… hm. I could taste you on your fingers.”

He could see your mind trying to process it, eyes squinting as you worked through his meaning. The moment you understood caused what he could only call complete and utter mortification to cross your face.

“Oh, My Lord- I’m sorry, please forgive me- I didn’t-”

“Peace,” Roboute  didn’t like the way shamed curdled your scent, bitter-sour overtaking the honey-sweet. “You did nothing wrong. I just request that you be mindful in the future.”

He didn’t know what expression was on his face, but he knew you understood from the way your gaze dropped from his and your hands slipped from his laurels into your lap.

Already he missed the touch of you against his skin.

“O-Of course, my Lord,” you give your assent, and Roboute has to fight everything in himself that wants to keep you on his desk and lay you out so he can feast.

Withdrawing from you completely felt impossible but he managed, and Roboute watched silently as you slipped off his desk and scurried to the door. But before it could open you turn and look back at him, a queer light in you eye. “Shall I return for your breakfast tomorrow, Lord Guilliman?”

He understood what you meant immediately and felt a dizzying sense of want rush through him. “Go.”

You flee from his office and Roboute is left alone in his prison made of his armor and a straining cock he can do nothing about for almost another full cycle.

A glance at his once-organized desk has him placing his head in his hands. Damn the Administratum to the Warp.

[aggresivemenace]

All Primarchs have a keen sense of smell, that’s obvious. But Leman Russ's is better than all of theirs combined.

Due to his wild nature, he often makes rather inappropriate comments, embarrassing his brothers.

Like:

Suddenly he starts sniffing the air very carefully.

— Roboute?

— Hm?

— Did you know your wife is ovulating?

A wide, toothy grin spreads across his face, while Roboute turns as red as Khorne himself.

— Father will be pleased with grandchildren - Leman adds, glancing at you as you stand somewhere near Fulgrim, obviously gossiping.

Leman isn’t exactly welcome on Macragge. Wonder why?

[thevoidscreams]

Mating Press March request here!

Can we have some Guilliman desperate to have a normal, loving family with his pretty little wife? He wants kids SO bad and Lady Guilliman looks particularly sexy today....

Thanks!

Giving him something other than some pencils to push. ;3

Warnings: Breeding, descriptions of violence, discussion of child birth (None graphically), free use sexually, biting, rough sex.

Words:2150

Guilliman watched the pict feed as the planet below him burned, the charred and brutalized remains of xenos bodies gave him a quiet measure of satisfaction but he did not voice it allowed. The movement of the crew around him was a reminder of what they were doing this for. This endless conflict. Ripping apart pocket after pocket of the tryanid's fleet. When one went down two more sprang up to take its place.

He'd been down on the ground not even twelve hours before. He could still feel the leathery flesh of his enemy and their solid bony chitin coming apart under his blade, the crack of bolter fire still echoing in his ears as he recalled the bloody splinters of flesh and bone that splattered the earth of this planet from each shot. He wasted not a single round as he fought back the tide. His presence gave his men the renewed vigor to keep fighting.

"My lord. We've taken the city square." The vox came in cut through with bursts of static and the rapid staccato of bolter fire, finishing the final few xenos that still writhed against the oncoming tide of blue armored bodies.

"Excellent work, how are your reserves of ammunition?" "They are low my lord. The tyranids did not go down without a fight. I have one clip left, as do most of my brothers." "Hold the square, I will send down reinforcements and more munitions." "Understood my Lord."

The vox cut as the human crew around him rushed to make ready a drop ship to carry down more bolter rounds and flamer canisters.

A younger hand found himself within reach of the Primarch and he nodded in deference to the towering transhuman as he went about relaying orders through the proper channels. What was his name again? Riko? Rilo? No, it was Rito. The primarch found his urge to speak to the human to be oddly palpable and so he did. "Rito." The man jumped as he turned his gaze up to the primarch in shock. "Yes, Lord Guilliman?"

Guilliman wasn't sure what to say but he'd recalled the conversation he'd overheard earlier between the man and another, most likely a friend by the sounds of their conversation. "I heard you earlier, you mentioned your wife was in the medicae. Is she well?"

The man suddenly smiled as if he was incapable of stopping the spreading joy. "Oh quite, my Lord, she's just given birth. I'm a father." Roboute found himself quietly happy about the news. "That is good news indeed. Congratulations. Have you named the child?" "Yes, his name is Andre. After my wife's late father. He's only a few hours old and already he has the old man's scowl." The primarch nodded."Is she well after the birth?" "It was a long process, more than a day, but she is recovering." "Good to hear. I wish you and your wife luck with little Andre then." He nodded down to the baseline man and he took his leave, returning to work.

He couldn't shake the feeling the conversation left him with. Hearing the good news and returning his gaze to the feed left him tired in a way. His hands itched to know what that small weight would feel like, a babe of his own. A child not only of his gene stock but of his actual genes. The mental image of you sprang to mind as he pictured it. You, corralling a small army of your children as he worked. It was an enticing mental image.

"Calgar." Roboute spoke, not needing to turn to know that his gene-son had come immediately. "Yes?" "Take this station for me. There is a matter I must see to, in person." Calgar didn't question the order, simply followed it as he took over for his gene-sire. The walk down to his quarters from the bridge was too long for his liking. He stopped into the armory on his way. The tech priests seemed to take their sweet time removing his battle plate and with each minute he grew more impatient. "Could we hurry this along please."

To their credit the augmented humans did, performing their rituals with more haste. It still took almost half an hour.

Roboute had been grateful to the healing and assistance he'd received to finally be able to live without the armor. It allowed him to finally enjoy the regular aspects of living that he'd missed out on after he'd awoken from his coma. Such as having a little wife waiting for him in his quarters, with which he could dine and speak with on personal matters and even, other things.

He felt a regularly suppressed appetite beginning to grow in lower body. He pictured your body pressed beneath him as he gave you the child you'd both eagerly craved since the wedding some months before.

When the door to the unit opened he found you curled up on your bed with a book. You looked so comfortable even as he entered and you set the book aside excitedly. "Roboute! You're back early!" He stopped at the edge of the bed peeling away the skin tight glove that helped him interface with his armor more readily.

You hugged him around his now bare torso, enjoying the heat of his body. "Is everything okay Robu? You're not usually back until much later." He smiled. "Yes, my love, all is well, I just needed to see you." One arm encircled your form and he finished pushing down his body glove down below his thighs where he could finish removing it with just his legs alone.

Freed at last he lifted you up and further onto the bed, his hands tugging at the fabric between the two of you. Your heart raced as he disrobed you, pushing you down onto your back as he loomed above you.

"I see you needed more than just a hug." You sighed happily. "Forgive my impertinence in this matter, my love. I have a terrible need for you." He explained, not at all actually sorry as he slid his cock into your warmth without a moment's hesitation. Not that you cared in the slightest that he'd left his post to come lavish you with attention and sex. "Not at all. If I had known my husband would be coming home early to ravage me I would have worn something less restrictive and left myself bent over the edge of the bed to make it more convenient."

He chuckled and kissed your cheek as he began to thrust, it drew a beep moan from him, and you felt every bit as elated, your . His cock stretched you in the most delicious way, leaving you gasping under him, just how he liked it.

His mouth traversed down from your cheek to your throat. peppering the tender skin there with a myriad of kisses. He loved the way it made you writhe and giggle, which in turn made the muscles in your stomach clench and squeeze his cock oh so delightfully.

If he could spend the rest of his immortal life with you just like that it would be more than he felt he would deserve. His kisses finally landed on your lips, you welcomed them with kisses of your own until your lips melded together in perfect sync your arms wove around his neck, hugging him closer as he fucked you in gentle measured strokes. "You know you can be a bit rougher than that. I can take it." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I do not wish to rush this. I want to ensure that we are both satisfied by the end and that I do this right. I have a desired outcome from this." "Oh, and what would that be?" You panted. He fell back on an old habit as he replied. "Theoretical, if I come inside you there is a chance that you will become pregnant." You moaned at the idea. Enjoying the thought that he'd come all the way down from the bridge just to try and knock you up. "Practical, the more you cum inside me, the higher that likelihood." "True enough." He ground out as he felt you begin to return the kisses he'd given you earlier. Your mouth moved over his neck till you felt the powerful pulse of his double heart beat. In a moment of pure desire you nipped the spot. Roboute's hips jerked forward at the feeling. "Oh, enjoy that did we?" You chuckled. He groaned. "Cease." "Hmmm, theoretical, I keep doing it?"

Roboute growled, his voice a low threat as he returned. "Practical, I will plow you into this bed until you cannot move from it." Well that was your choice made for you, you latched your teeth into the spot again and felt the snarl he let loose as he wrapped an arm under your body, pinning you to his chest as the other grasped the edge of the bed to sturdy himself. He drew out slowly at first and you grumbled against his throat. "I warned you."

It was all the warning you received before he snapped his hips forward, impaling you on his cock with more force than he ever had before. It felt as if he shifted everything in your body. "Robu!" You cried but he didn't respond, only continued his rough pace and forceful thrusting, the bed squeaked under the force. Your teeth had lost their grip on his neck but he hadn't seemed to notice. Neither did you, too caught up in being his personal fleshlight as he hissed and came hard. You felt a bit disappointed but then, he didn't stop. He pressed even more of his weight onto you, forcing your legs up further. Roboute growled something unintelligible as he rutted into you with what felt like reckless abandon. His forehead pressed into the bed next to your ear and you began to gather bits and pieces of his mumbling.

'Going to fill you.' 'So full you can't walk.' 'Going to empty my balls in you.' 'Keep you nice and pregnant.' He'd let himself dive head first into his need to impregnate you, his need to breed overwhelming him.

His hips didn't slow as he came again, and with the force of his cock rutting into you and the things he was mumbling, you fell right over the edge with him.

"Roboute!" You cried out, your body tightening around him. He continued through his orgasm, painting your insides white with his seed and he went on. 'Perfect, so beautiful, my love.' He nuzzled the side of your head. Whatever switch had flipped in his brain, he's clearly needed this for a while. Your hug around his neck tightened as you replied to his ramblings. "I love you Roboute." He groaned and let go of the bed, wrapping both arms around you. "I love you too." He panted as he came back to himself bit by bit as his lips found yours once more. His body pressed you into bed further all the while kissing you as he dragged another orgasm from your tired body.

He came two more times, filling you as he promised. He rolled off of you after gathering himself. He felt thoroughly drained.

"Think that did it?" You laughed as you ran a hand through your hair to try and put it back to some semblance of order. Roboute grabbed a brush and set to helping you. "I hope so." You rested your back against his chest, and lay there basking in the moment. "I did not hurt you did I?" He inquired, setting aside the brush in favor of a lotion which he intended to use on you.

"I might have a bruise where your balls kept hitting my ass." You smiled impishly. He grunted. "Be serious here." You let him take your arm in his hand as he began massaging the lotion into your skin.

"I'm okay Roboute. I promise." You let him tend to the rest of you. Massaging and kissing his way over your body.

"I assume you have to go back to the bridge to oversee things?" "I do, yes." "Can I come with you?" You asked, and he hummed. "Why? There isn't much for you to do." "Sure there is. I'm going to need to start practicing aren't I?" "Practicing? Practicing what?" "Bossing around a bunch of your kids. I figure Calgar would be the perfect place to start." His laugh was warm as he nodded. "Very well, my love. You may join me on the bridge." "Yes! Thank you Robu." You gave him a quick kiss, and hopped off the bed, to gather your clothes.

Roboute stood to join you in the activity. Replacing his body glove as he prepared a list of explanations for his poor unsuspecting chapter master.

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ Little Secret✧₊⁺

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x Reader(f)

part 2

Arthur's Note: Guilliman has a new serf and she isn't taking his bullshit. The Imperium held on with less for 10k years. Man will stop and take care of himself. I am also finishing higher than hel.

Warnings: General Grimdarkness.

+18 Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

He could smell the food and hear you humming a little diddy down the hall; his gaze looked over at the clock, was it that time already? His stomach growled, which surprised him. That was not something his body did, ever.

Roboute smiled as he put the documents aside, you have gone and spoiled him is what happened. Not that he minded, your cooking was one of the few things he looked forward to in this new millennium. It was hardy and rustic, but bursting with flavor.

It was a home-cooked meal. It was real food.

When you open the door and greet him with your warm smile, the room feels a bit brighter. And now that the scent of his lunch filled the air around him, his mouth watered. Roboute wondered how you did it. He knew full well how much food it took to nourish him, which was why he was content to eat, or swallow the paste and other types of gruel. It was efficient and practical. But you didn't care about those things. At least not in this sense. Complained it lacked heart and care. That no man or woman could function eating such boring tasteless things.

"Good afternoon Mister Guilliman!" you say with that bright smile, "Time to let the Imperium wait so you can eat."

Guilliman chuckles gesturing to the cleared spot on his desk, "I have learned my lesson." he teased.

The first time he refused to eat properly you did something that triggered a long-buried fear. You slipped off your sandal and threatened to beat him with it should he not eat his meals. When tried to argue about what he wrote in his codex, his own logic was turned against him in righteous fury. That the codex should be a guideline, and more importantly you argued he was simply wrong.

Roboute realized you were not a woman to fight with. He knew what a woman could do with a sandal. Even thinking about it now gave him a chill down his spine.

He takes the platter from you and eyes the food. Large cuts of meat mixed with apples and peaches, clearly slowly cooked together to make the harmonious scent that he had been enthralled by. Heaping side of potatoes smashed, but hand by the looks and some of the freshest bread he'd seen in a while.

How lonely and depressed was he that looking at this meal, made by someone whose duty was to serve him, made his heartache? Surely if you were not his serf you wouldn't be this caring. If he wasn't what he was...

No, he refused to believe that. He'd seen you fixing socks and scolding his men, mothering them, some grumbled, but he could tell they enjoyed it. Someone looking out for them in a gentler manner.

"Hope you like it. It's something my momma used to make. Generally, it's for supper, but you need more meat on you. Can't find a Mister or Missus Guilliman looking half corpse half god."

Roboute felt his cheeks flare up, and his throat get tangled with the air in it. There was so much in that comment he wanted to unpack and he didn't know where to start. A rarity for the primarch.

"Mister or Missus'?" he asked with far more inflection of shock than he would have liked.

You nodded, "Yes, Momma always said we love who we love. Maybe you aren't so big on the ladies, maybe you are, Maybe you like both? Not my place to judge."

Guilliman felt genuine shock. So casually talking about him marrying like he was just another man. That such simple aspects of life were his to have. Even if marrying was something he thought on, and found himself wanting, he couldn't. Not in the current state of things. He was viewed basically as a god; a son of a god. No marriage would be from love, but pure disgusting lust and fantastical eroticism. It made him ill thinking about it.

"No, I mean think you for your openness, but I mean just the married part. How would I find someone who doesn't see me as.." a tool, a stepping stone, a thing, "well as anything but the son of a god?"

You shrug, "Well, that I don't right know, just a serf after all. But I am sure we could find someone with that big brain of yours and my baseline human charm!"

What if he didn't want someone else, he thought suddenly. He had you. You joked with him, talked to him about boring dull things like weather. You asked if he had hobbies outside governing. Fed him food, real food! Not just that, food your mother made! You shared basic things all took for granted or didn't see the importance of.

Why did he need anyone else?

He let out a small chuckle, not wanting to focus on the thoughts that just came to him. They were terrifying.

"I am sure you're right."

You patted his arm, "Well, I must be off Mister Guilliman. I have work to do, I am afraid I cannot sit and chat while you eat."

Roboute frowned. That was the other reason these extra meal breaks meant so much to him. You would sit and chat with him, about things not world-ending. What was so important you couldn't stay and talk to him?

"What work? Did I give you orders while half asleep last night? If so disregard them." Roboute replied before tearing into the bread.

Throne, it was warm and soft with a harder exterior, and clearly made this morning. You spoiled him, and he wish he didn't like it.

"Oh no! It is a little surprise I am working on. No worries Mister Guilliman you will be the first to see it when I am done. It is a surprise for you after all." You reply happily.

Something for him? He didn't like surprises. Hated them some might say. He couldn't work theoreticals and practicals when he wasn't aware of what something was. Couldn't plan for what he didn't know. But you looked so happy about this little secret! And you should be, as he had no idea you were working on anything.

Perhaps this surprise he would allow. He trusted you. Even if he was feeling moody over you not spending this break with him.

"Very well," he did his best to not look like he was pouting. Thorne was he pouting?! Roboute Guilliman did not pout! "I do hope dinner will be as normal?"

You perk up and smile, "Of course! I found a baby bird I wish to tell you about! Oh and we need to talk about your sons bathing! They stink!"

Guilliman snorted between large bites of food. Food this good would be considered heretical by the Inquisition he was sure. Mostly because he figured they thought all things good were heresy.

Satisfied he would have your ear tonight, and you his, you made your way out of the office and moved through the corridors. The fortress was in the cold mountains, and not ideal conditions for things to grow, but he was seldom down in the Capital. He was either in Hera or on Terra. It wasn't easy she convinced some of his sons to help her make this gift. There outside the fortress a small greenhouse. Well, small to Astartes and Primarchs. It had been so hard to keep this from Guilliman, and the strings pulled, but it would be worth it.

It was no Agi world Iax, where you overheard Guilliman talking to Lion about how he really did wish he could have retired there to farm, but perhaps a nice little garden would suffice.

[toto-the-cactus]

Thoughts about Guilimans daughter (who I have named Olyssia Guiliman) being the little baby sister to the ultramarine. Adorable. Now picture adult Olyssia, the Lady of Macragge being the elder sister. Olyssia seeing Ultramarines, so long lives to the baselines, but still so quickly gone to she who has lived millenia.

I'll be frank here, I pulled this short thing out of my ass at 3am so hope this actually gives you some fun when comparing old astartes regarding Roboute's daughter vs 40k astartes regarding Roboute's daughter. Not a lot, but I had fun writing it.

-°-

Titus had heard about the Lady of Macragge during his years as a Neophyte.

Most astartes do after undergoing the gene-seed implantation, but it was usually mentioned in reverence the same way one did with a Primarch’s name during the preachings. Before any of that, the primaris had never even seen a sculpture or portrait of the Lady.

To see her in person alongside her father, their Father, was quite an experience he had yet to express properly; mind still unable to believe that he is in their presence while inside the one place in the Macragge’s Honour that just a handful of firstborn astartes were allowed into: The Resting Home of the Legion Mother.

The fact that he had been brought here by Calgar himself was the one thing that kept Titus in check to not kneel rushedly in front of his Primarch and trueborn like just some initiated marine; this was a place of peace and quiet that needed to be respected and more specially when both husband and daughter mourned the prone body of the woman inside the stasis field that kept her life in a limbo.

“My Lord” saluted Calgar but once his eye strayed to the Lady, his expression softened in a way that caught Demetrius by surprise. “Hello, little one” he said this time with a tender influx. Nothing like the hardened Chapter Master that the primaris had come to know.

“Hi, Calgar” answered the young woman with obvious strain in her tone and a few traces of tears on her face.

It had been said in the past that when the Lady of Macragge always visited her mother’s sleeping form, crying could be heard from the outside. One thing was hearing the serfs mentioning such a fact but another abysmal thing to see it become true. He had heard the fates this woman, the granddaughter of the Emperor, had achieved during her years leading the Ultramarines after the Heresy.

To see her reduced like this by the grief was… humbling and strange.

“To what I own this interruption, Calgar?” asked the Primarch impatiently. Eyes never leaving the face of his wife as if he hoped to see a change in her peaceful expression.

With that question, both Guilliman and Marneus went a bit far to speak privately from them. Leaving Titus and the Lady alone.

This couldn’t be more awkward.

Demetrian still had to wrap his head around how the Chapter Master simply greeted the young woman with a familiarity that floored him. As if her status as trueborn was merely a decoration extending from her.

“You’re Demetrian Titus, right?”

At her soft voice, the primaris finally dared to look at the Lady to her eyes. She was practically a carbon copy of the Primarch, but her baseline genetics did a good job to smooth the rough edges.

“That is correct, my Lady” he answered the same he would when regarded by a superior. “It’s an honor to even be let inside this sacred room, my Lady. I feel humbled that you know my name too”

“It’s the minimum I can do as my father’s daughter… I always try to remember the names of the astartes that Big Brother Calgar always mentions more than once”

Titus, again, has to do a double take at the familiarity the Lady refers to someone like the Chapter Master.

Where he looks up at her in both reverence and curiosity, those that have lived before the Heresy had known the Lady of Macragge when still a child of bright eyes.

-°-

Titus when Olyssia knew his name the very first time they met:

[beckyninja]

Deciding to go back and reblog some of my favorite older Warhammer fics. (Not mine.)

Why? Because more people need to see them!

I give you bittersweet soon-to-be Dad Guilliman by the incomparable @moodymisty.

(I cannot wait to progress to a point in my Guilliman story where I can show him being a dad.)

Hello, I hope you are doing well. And summer ends on a joyful note✨

Roboute Guilliman/reader-eternal(can she be related to Malcador?👀) Maybe NSFW?🤭I'm sure most primarchs have a breeding and pregnancy kink🤔 But Roboute is a special case: he had a good family and loving parents. He himself wants to be the same as Conor. He has a legacy to pass on. And if these inclinations of his had previously subsided, then now that he has a reader who can endure, nothing stops him. How would his Astartes react to the possibility of their primarch having a child of his own? How do they treat the reader?

Author's note: There's a lot here, so I thought it would be best to format my thoughts in my usual headcanons with a small drabble at the end way to make sure I could speak all my thoughts. I hope that's acceptable to you ;3 This one ended up not having any overt sauce because I got so distracted by sweet Guilliman, but if you desire the full NSFW, you're always welcome to send in another request because I'm a dolt xD

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions to NSFW things but nothing overt, Tokophobia/Pregnancy mentions, Typical 40kness

I'd agree that a good amount of the Primarch's have that sort of kink, but it manifests in very different ways depending on which Primarch it is.

Lorgar wanting to corrupt purity or fall victim to primal temptations, Vulkan's desire for family, Magnus wanting to share his teachings; Guilliman's is more of the traditional sense.

For as long as he can remember, he's tossed away the idea of ever having a family. Given his lot in life, his duty to humanity, that isn't a thing he can indulge in. He has no time for such selfishness.

He's resigned himself to fighting for others to have that gift, not himself.

When you arrive in his life, Guilliman suddenly remembers how hard it had been to push and keep those thoughts down, now that you serve to constantly remind him.

He has many fond memories of training or hunting with his adoptive father, and one day he would like to have the same with his own child, if the galaxy would let him be so selfish.

When you do tell him you're with child he's an absolute mess though. You're both treading into unknown waters, after all. No matter how strong you are he still worries about your health.

The Ultramarines definitely have their qualms about it though.

Keep in mind they were raised from kids to be stalwart killing machines, so the kind of thoughts and dreams their Primarch is having are... weird to them.

They have more interaction with baseline humans that say the Dark Angels however, so they aren't totally out of touch.

You did disturb one of Guilliman's men when you keeled over in pain and he attempted to make sure you didn't fall, and he felt your child kick his palm. His disturbed face is forever seared in your memory as one of the funniest things you've ever seen. You're pretty sure the marine's squad still beats him up about the whole thing.

Mostly so, his captains and commanders worry. They know that you serve as a weakness (speaking in a logistical sense) to Guilliman that can be taken advantage of.

He's exactly where you expected him to be.

The green haze of the hologram map shines against his skin, having been growing palid over the past weeks. Guilliman often times works himself into an awful state, pushing himself to the mental limit before finally taking respite.

You can't stop him from doing it. So the least you can do is enjoy a few moments of time with him alone before he goes back to the bridge of the Macragge's Honor to hear any updates from his commanders.

When he notices you in the doorway, his face perks up considerably.

"You should be resting." He instantly comes at you with, and you can't help but sigh.

"Not even a hello?" You come closer, and it's his turn to sigh. You walked all the way here, it's the least you can get from him. He puts a hand on your shoulder and presses his lips to the top of your head.

"Hello. You should be resting." There's papers, scrolls and plastic flimsies spread across the edges of the hologram table, clearly a mess done by him.

"I just wanted a few minutes alone with you, is that so wrong?" He sees the small hint of a smirk on your face, as he pulls away to lean on his hands pressed against the holotable. He takes a glance towards your belly.

"How are they?" You're well past showing at this point, and it will only be a few months until you're finally face to face with your child.

"Finally asleep, it seems. They stopped kicking my stomach."

He lets the smallest smile on his face.

"Yearning to fight, even bef-"

The door suddenly opens, revealing an unfamilar to you Ultramarine captain. A hand rests on the pommel of his chainblade, helmet tucked into his elbow. He also has the worst timing in the known galaxy, interrupting your private moment before it even had a chance to truly begin.

"Lord Primarch, You have a vox. Legion Captain Hektor holds news of a new world." The captain looks in your direction and nods his head.

"Apologies, Legion Mother."

You'll never get used to that title. One of many you had thrust upon you when you'd entered into a relationship with Roboute, even if they technically were not official. You were not bound by law as of yet, but the Chapter had taken to calling you Legion Mother none the less. It becoming official was less so a possibility, and more so an inevitability. The Captain bows and takes his leave, and the both of you are alone once again.

"Will I be attending this diplomacy meeting as well?" You joke, looking up to the Primarch.

"If you can do so without straining yourself, then possibly." Guilliman won't deny that you have a knack for diplomacy, no matter how much you might say otherwise. He wishes for worlds to surrender peacefully; He also wishes for you to remain in good health.

"Now go rest. The both of you."

You feel an armored hand gently press against your aching belly. Carrying a Primarch's child hasn't be easy on your body in the slightest; Even more so than a normal human child. You'll happily indulge in the rest, with one exception.

"As long as you come and join me once you're finished. Please?"

Even if you can get him to take a few minutes of respite, you'll consider it a victory. Roboute sighs as he looks downward.

"I will try." You just barely hear him mumble underneath his breath, as his hand still on your stomach. It moves slightly as he kneels.

"Be easy on your mother. She wasn't meant to carry someone like you."

His sentence makes you think for a moment, before he pulls away and lets you leave.

Guilliman did technically join you; But it was only after you'd already fallen asleep. He stepped into the room and gently sat down onto the massive bed, still in his armor. He didn't want to wake you and simply watched, hand sitting close to your leg. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment and his lips parted as he took a few deep breaths, and then took one more look at you- both of you, before standing and leaving again.

[ahrianee]

[⚜️] Welcome to this "family reunion"

{Canon x Oc}

[Roboute Guilliman x Rena Caeruleun]

[Mini Comic]

A family dinner between the primarchs and the emperor, which surprisingly did not go well at all.

Roboute Guilliman thought it was a good idea to bring his fiancée and astropath.

Roboute Guilliman regretted bringing his fiancée. . .

Fulgrim is making eyes at Roboute Guilliman's fiancée

If this is my oc, and I'm a little embarrassed to show her with a colored sketch, talking a little about her, she got engaged at an early age to Roboute, knowing each other from an early age, but in the end they never ended up getting married, although they are still engaged, She is the daughter of a noble family from the Ultramar region, Tarasha liked her at first, compared to the other young girls they had seen, she at least did not look so pretentious and forced.

If you want to know a little more about her, I will gradually upload some drawings of her as well.

I hope you liked it, you know you can reblog, like and follow me if you want to keep seeing my silly drawings ✨💕

[beckyninja]

Hope

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: So. Much. Angst.

Description: Guilliman mourns his beloved's "death".

Oof, this was a rough one to write, even though it's short. I've really put this poor blueberry through the wringer.

(This is a continuation of my Guilliman x Reader series. To find the previous chapters, check out my Masterlist.)

Guilliman observed the rage in Captain Takahashi’s black eyes as if from a great distance. Dimly, he registered her voice as she bent over the holographic star map.

“We will come to the beginning of the Wards in a few standard hours’ time.” She gestured with her left arm, the right ending in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. “I’ll need a moment to observe the maelstrom and discern the patterns, before I can begin imparting instructions.”

The Chief Navigator stood at her elbow, double-jointed fingers steepled before his gray lips. “These ‘Wards’, you say? They are a… maze, in the Warp?”

“And out of it.”

“How is this possible?”

Guilliman let his gaze drift between the two.

The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the map. “You’d call it, Archeotech. The secrets of its creation have been lost to time though, thank the Light, TerraNova’s original colonists preserved the knowledge of its maintenance. I am no engineer, but every school child learns how our forebears scattered mechanical ‘beacons’ of a sort behind them as they fled the Machine War.” 

Pressing her remaining hand to her lips, she gave a single, tearing cough. A medica in a charred uniform, half her face bandaged, stepped forward.

“Captain, you should return to the infirmary for your next round of anti-rads.”

Captain Takahashi waved her away. “In a moment, Lieutenant.” She returned to the star map. “As I was saying, these ‘beacons’ emit frequencies that twist both the Warp and Realspace, bending reality and unreality into a knot of ever-shifting pathways. The Wards.”

The Navigator’s white eyes widened. “As a child I heard rumors… stories of Navigators caught in such knots… driven mad….” His head jerked toward the Captain. “How do your people pass through such insanity?”

“Few ever do.” The Captain’s lips tightened. “But for those who must, we are taught to recognize the patterns in the maelstrom, our reflexes sharpened to make split-second navigational corrections. It is a brutal process, and in the last few decades has mostly been delegated to new navigational computers.” A sharp snort. “Mine, which now happens to be charred debris in the void.”

Something rose inside Guilliman, clawing at his shield of detachment. “You made promises, Captain Takahashi.”

Every soul in the room, even his Ultramarines, flinched. The TerraNovan Lieutenant cowered back against a wall. 

The Captain trembled a moment, then turned to face him. “I did. And I will keep them, Lord Guilliman.” Her eyes rose to his face, but did not meet his gaze. “I am of the last generation of naval officers trained to manually navigate the Wards. I will see your fleet through.”

“Some would call your actions treasonous.”

Her eyes managed to meet his. “All those to whom I swore oaths of service betrayed me, Lord Guilliman. Because of them, hundreds of my crew are dead. Not just proud voidsmen and women of our Navy, but the families who sailed with them. Children. The ship we called our home lies a broken corpse.”

Her eyes dropped away. “I failed them. And I failed the only one of our royal family for whom I felt any true loyalty. Let them call it treason.” She clenched her one fist.

“I call it vengeance.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of understanding passed between them. Primarch and Captain. He felt himself nod before turning away and exiting the room.

He moved without conscious thought, feet following patterns drilled into him long before his ten thousand year stasis. Corridors, doors, people all passed in a blur. The cacophony of the ship morphed into a meaningless babble. Vaguely, he registered the heavy tramp of ceramite boots behind him.

Too late did he realize his destination.

The door to your quarters stood before him.

No….

His hand reached for the control panel.

No…!

He watched himself enter the code, heard the hiss of sliding metal as the portal opened into darkness.

Stop….

But his body refused to obey. Or, perhaps, it obeyed some urge far more powerful than conscious will. He heard himself ordering his guard to remain outside, and stepped through the door…

…into memory.

Your scent rose all around him, overwhelming, choking. It shattered the frigid defenses he’d erected around his mind and hearts. It stabbed. It soothed. He loved it. He hated it.

He stumbled forward, hands pawing blindly until they met the bed. His knees buckled. He crashed to the floor, hands still tangled in the sheets that smelled achingly of you. 

You…you…you…you….

You, standing before him for the first time, single heartbeat fluttering like a bird in his ears.

You, face earnest as you advocate for the home and people you care for.

You, giggling at one of his ill-timed, foolish jests.

You, laid out beneath him, eyes shining as you tell him you love-

“No…,” Guilliman groaned, “stop. Please….”

The memories ceased, replaced by something far, far worse.

You, dressed in purest white, standing before him at the altar, pledging love and faithfulness for the rest of your days.

You, blushing fiercely, as he presents their new Lady to the cheering crowds of Macragge.

You, panting his name as he worships your perfect body.

“No, no, no!” He buried his face in your sheets, only for the concentrated fragrance they carried to unlock his most searing fantasy.

You, glowing with joy as you bounce a golden-haired child on your hip, your belly growing round yet again.

“Pater! Pater!”

“Come, Roboute! Work will wait. Come spend time with your family, my love!”

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, wept.

He did not weep as he had as a young man when Konor Guilliman, his true father, lay dying before him. He did not weep as he had when, after his reawakening, he discovered the memorial to Tarasha Euten deep within the Fortress of Hera.

Even in those times, he’d known there to be a future beyond his pain.

But now….

Fabric tore as his fists clenched around the sheets. He raised his eyes to find one of the innumerable skulls carved into every surface upon the ship. A grisly symbol of the deity supposedly watching over them all.

“Why?” His voice felt ripped from the bleeding center of his being. “If you have the power people say, why do you use it to torment me?” 

He staggered to his feet, still clasping the torn sheets. “Have I not given enough? Did you find me undeserving of even the smallest modicum of happiness? Why, then, did you let me feel it, only to rip it away?”

His next words came as an agonized roar. “Why did you give me hope?!”

The very cruelest of punishments.

Guilliman looked down at the shreds of fabric in his hand. “What did she do to deserve your ire?”

But, deep within, he knew the truth. The Emperor had not doomed you. He had. His love was a poison worse than any follower of Nurgle could concoct.

Hadn’t everyone he ever cared for died?

“I am sorry. Oh Throne, I am so sorry, my love.” Once again, he buried his face in your fragrance. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

He knew he tortured himself. He also knew he deserved it.

Vengeance and rage could only light his steps for so long. He would destroy all who had taken you from him. And then their fire would flicker out, leaving him with nothing but a cold, lonely trudge into the gray of the future.

At the thought, all strength left him. 

Roboute Guilliman curled onto the floor, knees tucked to his chest, whimpering like a child left alone in the dark.

…ping….

His eyes snapped open.

…ping…ping….

He clawed to his feet, chest heaving in great gasps. 

…ping….

Guilliman hurtled from the room, nearly bowling over Cato Sicarius. The Commander’s queries went unheeded as he crashed through the great gilded doors at the end of the corridor and into his personal office.

ping…ping…ping…

There, on his desk, lay a small vox receiver, gifted to him by Captain Takahashi. The unfamiliar device was set to receive one specific frequency from one specific source: a miniaturized beacon set into a band of gold and sapphire.

A band he’d placed upon your finger minutes before you left the Macragge’s Honor.

“If you need me, press the largest gem in the ring. A beacon will activate.” He’d grasped your chin, ensuring you looked into his eyes. “And I will come for you.”

Ping!

The receiver lit with a pulsing, golden light.

And hope, that cruelest and most enduring of flames, ignited in Guilliman’s hearts once more.

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[beckyninja]

Wow. Just... wow! Guilliman in heat is SO much hotter than I ever imagined. And how sweet and caring he was after...!

Also, your writing is superb. The level of research you put into the very Roman-inspired baths really shows. I hope to be able to write half this well some day.

Hot Water

Lord Commander Guilliman has been expected to make a visit to your fortress-monastery, but his early arrival has sent everyone into a tizzy. At least you were able to clean the baths in time before he arrived. But the baths aren't the only mess you have to worry about, as you stumble across Roboute in the frigidarium and uncover the reason for his sudden detour... (Roboute Guilliman x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; reader is AFAB but not addressed with gendered pronouns.)

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

Want to read my original fiction? Click here!

Inspired by @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond's The Bellowing!

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

The sight of the Primarch’s ship approaching the fortress-monastery sends all and sundry into a tizzy. Lord Guilliman wasn’t supposed to arrive for another three days, so they weren’t anywhere near prepared for him. Nothing is cleaned, food hasn’t been prepped, and the room reserved for him is unmade.

Along with your fellow serfs, you arm yourselves with mops, oils, and fresh towels and robes to attack the multiple levels of the baths: the caldarium, the frigidarium, and the tepidarium. They housed hot, cold, and warm water baths for the Lord Angels to bathe in, allowing them to relax their muscles after a long day. To prevent the growth of bacteria in the baths, they were cleaned regularly—but a “regular” cleaning would not be up to the exacting standards of a Lord Primarch.

The baths are drained, scrubbed, and refilled; normally you would have given them a few days to be treated with chemicals before refilling them, but Lord Guilliman will want a hot bath after he lands. It would be sacrilegious to force a Lord Primarch to wait days before he can take a bath!

Faucets and spigots are polished to a mirror shine, puddles are mopped, towels and robes are replaced, and bottles of oil and lotion are refilled. You have the honors of restarting the waterfall in the tepidarium and it cascades into the water with a satisfying splash. “We did that in record time,” the head bath mistress declares in satisfaction, wiping sweat from her brow. “I want someone on hand when the Lord Primarch is in the bath in case he has need of anything—food, drink, more towels; if he wants his paperwork, you will bring it to him.”

Everyone nods; their murmurs of agreement bouncing off the cavernous walls of the baths. You nod particularly vigorously. Lord Guilliman’s comfort is paramount. He is, unto you, a god among men that has blessed your fortress-monastery with his benevolent presence. You are not fit to serve him; not when you imagine his broad body sinking into the hot waters of the caldarium and his arm stretching out to you in offering…

The eyes of the head bath mistress land on your flaming face and the disapproval of her gaze eats a hole into your stomach. “Remember that the Lord Primarch is an esteemed guest of our monastery. He is to be treated with utmost respect and kindness. Am I understood?”

“Yes ma’am!” The chorus of your fellow serfs drowns out your muttered yes ma’am, and you disperse to your various tasks. You keep your head down as you pass her by, flinching as she squints at you.

The knot in your stomach lessens as you throw yourself into work, helping your friends ready the monastery for Lord Guilliman’s arrival. You dice garlic and onions in the kitchen, dress beds with clean sheets, and separate one of the tables in the mess hall for Lord Guilliman and his entourage to eat at.

You’re in the middle of sweeping when the docking of the ship is announced over a squealing intercom. Everything rumbles like the rousing of a sleeping giant from a long slumber as it docks, casting a long shadow over the fortress-monastery. Silence buries itself in everyone’s throats as the sound of marching Space Marines fills the air.

But there is no fanfare. No bombastic anthem. Everyone waits with bated breath to hear the long list of Primarch Guilliman’s titles, but nothing materializes. The excited silence gives way to concerned murmuring and some people leave the monastery to get a better look at the action—or lack thereof.

They’re immediately ushered back inside by a cadre of Space Marines, and the gossip ceases. Their broad shoulders block the doorway so no one can watch the proceedings beyond.

“The Lord Commander thanks you for your generous hospitality,” the centermost Space Marine intones, “but he requests privacy for the first three days while he settles in after such a long journey. We thank you for your understanding.”

Not giving anyone a chance to respond, the Space Marines march back out, leaving you and your fellow serfs in stunned silence, all sound sucked into the void left in the wake of the Space Marines.

What…just happened? ----------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passes in strained whispers and surreptitious glances. Everyone is looking for hide or hair of the Lord Primarch around the fortress-monastery, but whenever they get close to his room on the pretense of bringing him food or documents, they’re immediately halted by the Custodes. The moment one of your fellows described how the Custodes’ very words pulled his heart out of his chest, you decided to give the Lord Primarch a wide berth, until he deigned to make his presence known. In fact, if not for the sheer number of Custodes and Ultramarines hanging around, you would never know that Lord Commander Guilliman had arrived.

At least your work does not go unappreciated by your guests, and you hear the chattering of Space Marines in the bath as you refill some of the towels. Their serfs have already aided them in undressing, so their personal effects are stored in the cubbies of the apodyterium, and there are robes waiting for them.

“We really hauled ass on the trip here; I’m glad that we made it in time.”

“Just barely. I was hanging on my seat for dear life. It’s damnably inconvenient!”

There’s the cracking sound of a damp towel whipped at Astartes speed and a high-pitched yelp. “Don’t you dare speak ill of our Lord Primarch!”

“I wasn’t! Merely expressing—”

“His Lordship’s medical condition is not a topic of gossip.” The ironclad voice of a Custodes rumbles through the bath, drowning out the rushing of the waterfall and making your stomach clench tightly. “It is fortuitous that we arrived in time that he may be treated properly.”

A murmur of agreement disperses throughout the Ultramarines as they continue their ablutions. There’s another towel crack and a yelp from the first Space Marine. “Hey!”

“Got you back!” A round of towel-snapping commences despite the protests of the Custodes, and you hightail out of the baths before they can find you. You’ll come back and clean the baths once they’re gone.

But their conversation makes you think: Lord Guilliman is ill? Or at the very least, suffering from some kind of medical condition. While that would explain the Ultramarines and Custodes being so cautious about serfs approaching his guest quarters, why wouldn’t they simply return to Macragge or Terra for treatment?

Your friends are clustered in a hallway up ahead and they wave you over. “Did you hear anything about the Primarch? They’re still not letting us near his room,” one of them sighs.

“No, I haven’t. They started a towel fight so I got out of there after I dropped off the towels,” you lie. A Primarch’s health is of utmost importance and secrecy, and no one else knows that you possess this knowledge. No one must know that you possess this knowledge; not even the Primarch himself.

Fortunately, no one questions you on your lie and they all nod sagely. You go to dinner with them and listen to their theories about why Primarch Guilliman would sequester himself on arrival.

It’s about an hour later, while you’re helping wash dishes in the kitchen, when you notice a group of Ultramarines and one ruffled Custodian coming down to dinner, their skin red and tender from the hot water—along with the towel whipping. It seems that the Custodes has rattled them back in line as she watches her sheepish comrades collect their dinner trays.

You finish with your rack of dishes and slip out of the kitchen. You pick up a bath bucket, mop, and some rags. Since the oils and lotions were refilled this morning, you decide to wait until you see how much has been used before you refill them.

Walking up to the bath, you feel…strange. There’s a ball of heat in your chest that suddenly drops into your stomach and hangs there heavily. Pausing to listen, you hear nothing. You take a risk to poke your head around the corner and you are greeted with the vision of twisted towels, wet robes, and large puddles—but no Ultramarines. No Custodes.

Grabbing your mop and bucket, you get to work, ignoring the feeling of a piercing gaze between your shoulderblades. ------------------------------------------------------

First, the apodyterium. While it’s mostly free of clutter, some towels didn’t make it into the hamper and there are puddles everywhere. You take out the laundry and replace the basket before mopping up the puddles until the blue and gray tiles shine. It’s clear that some of the Astartes played many eager games of rattail, as you fetch some particularly ragged and ratty towels from the laundry basket with a grimace.

You adored the Astartes, and the Ultramarines in particular. Even if their strength could be…inconvenient, sometimes.

But there was no structural damage to the bath, as could occasionally happen when the Astartes began rough-housing. They didn’t understand their own strength when it came to mosaic tiles and plaster, no matter how lovingly crafted.

You pause, admiring the mosaic on the floor. While most designs depict great battles, the bath is a paradise of marine wildlife that gradually gets deeper the further you enter. The apodyterium is a sandy beach with waves lapping at your toes, sea urchins hiding in tide pools, and crabs peeking out from tiled corners.

Dumping out the ratty towels into a trash receptacle, you move further into the baths.

Steam rises from the caldarium and you wave a towel to fan it away while you work. While the temperature of the caldarium can be adjusted, it appears the Ultramarines cranked it up for their bath. It’s so hot and humid in the caldarium that you use a towel to put your hair back and you shuck off your outer robe so you’re only wearing your undergarments.

It’s a daunting task to walk across the slippery caldarium to refill the soaps and lotions; one wrong step and you’ll either plunge into the boiling water or crack your skull on the tiles. You don’t relish the thought of Lord Guilliman finding your body when he goes to bathe.

The tiles in the caldarium are full of brilliant coral and bright fishes darting between anemones with sharks patrolling for prey. Once the soaps are refilled and the tiles mopped, you’re able to safely cross the caldarium and tick down the temperature. It continues putting out steam, but the water will cool down to a safe temperature.

“If the Ultramarines want it hotter, they’ll just have to deal with it,” you huff. Picking up your robes, you drape it loosely over your shoulders and approach the frigidarium—

And you stop.

The frigidarium is the coldest section of the baths; the Apothecary recommends dunking yourself in alternating baths of hot and cold, so the frigidarium and caldarium are connected together by a short hallway. You know that the frigidarium will be so cold that you’ll have to put your robe back on and you’ll likely need your sandals.

But there is steam coming from the frigidarium, at the same rate as the caldarium. And when you check the temperature of the bath, it’s at the coldest setting possible. The pipes for the different pools are all separate, so it’s not like one of the pools is pumping hot water into the frigidarium…

Taking your towel, you wave it in order to disperse the steam again. Once the steam is gone, you notice a uniform thrown haphazardly onto a wooden bench. You see the Ultramarines insignia, but when you lift the uniform jacket, it’s covered with medals and badges that you don’t recognize. A Custodes, perhaps? It would make sense. The uniform is much larger than what a Primaris would wear.

The steam has filled the room again, and it’s clearly rising from the bath. But surely, this uniform means someone is in the bath?

“Excuse me? Is anyone in here? I’m going to clean the baths!” You call out, but there’s no response. The steam has obscured your vision to the point where you need to wave your towel again. Though it dissipates, you can’t see anyone in the bath. The tiles surrounding the pool are of no help; it’s a dense kelp forest with sea turtles darting between the towering sea grass. You feel like one of those turtles as you clean, darting around and hoping no one sees you.

When you move to the front of the bath to refill the soaps and lotions, you hear a splash. “My Lord?” While your vision isn’t fully obscured by the steam, you can’t see the furthest end of the bath. “I’m almost done! I just need to mop!”

A bead of sweat trickles down the bridge of your nose as you wait for more noises, but you hear nothing. Refilling the soaps and lotions as quickly as possible, you speed-walk over to your mop.

There’s another splash, this time closer to you. The steam has fully obscured your vision, and you disperse it again.

A hand grips the edge of the bath and pulls, the tiles underneath cracking from the force. The surface of the water ripples as a second hand hits the tile and both pull, breaking the seal on the bath. You squeal meekly and back up against the wall as broad shoulders clear the water’s surface and Roboute Guilliman hauls himself out of the frigidarium in all of his wet, naked glory.

Though you quickly avert your eyes, you notice that Roboute is the source of the steam as it rolls off his body in waves. Is this what it means for a Primarch to be ill? “Lord, if you are sick, we have medicine—”

“No…need….” Roboute speaks slowly, as though every word is painful for him to say. “Just…hot…”

You fiddle with your broom. What do you say? What do you do in front of an angel, steam rolling off him as though he’s on fire? Especially when his heavy breathing sounds…erotic. “Did you need the frigidarium to cool down? I can bring you some cold water, or some ice…”

Roboute groans, and your thighs squeeze together. When he doesn’t say anything in response, you peek out at him in curiosity.

Oh, by the Throne of Terra…

He’s bigger than any Custodes, a powerful pillar of muscle and fat. His skin is bright red, especially around his shoulders, biceps, and pectorals. Despite the heat of the bath, his nipples are peaked and hard.

And his cock—

You try not to look at it. To do so feels obscene. But you can’t ignore the way it throbs and smears sticky precum against his chest, the sheath bunched up underneath his swollen knot. When he realizes you’re looking at it, his cock pulses even harder.

“My Lord,” you squeak, “are you, perhaps…in heat?”

The sound of Roboute’s guttural moan is enough of an answer. Suddenly, everything makes sense: the onset of Roboute’s heat would require him to stop immediately; going to Macragge or Terra for medical intervention would have only prolonged his suffering. He would need to ride it out until it faded naturally. The frigidarium was a futile attempt at easing his heat.

There was only one way that Roboute could ease his heat, and you were standing right in front of him with your robe open.

He moves towards you with frightening speed for his size. You try to dodge to the side, but you slip on a puddle and the only thing preventing you from eating tile is his hand wrapped around your waist. And he really wraps around your waist, from thumb to forefinger.

Roboute flips you over onto the tiles, looming over you. Your robe is peeled off with a wet slap and he pulls off your undergarments, leaving you exposed to him. The hunger of his gaze sparks both excitement and fear in your belly; something primal that you hadn’t felt before.

His cock slaps against your belly, the knot rubbing on your pussy. A low, growling noise fills the frigidarium from somewhere deep in Roboute’s chest, and when his knot rubs on you again, it comes away wet.

“Please,” you whimper, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for. Roboute seems to understand, however, and he moves off of you. For a moment, you believe that he’ll let you go, and you’re not sure why it fills you with disappointment.

But Roboute goes under you, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders and locking your thighs around his head. Your ankles can barely touch as they hang uselessly over his shoulders. “Lord--!” Your voice cracks as his fingers spread your pussy lips; though your thighs tremble on either side of his head, closing your legs is impossible. Roboute has you pinned against the hard tile of the frigidarium to do with as he wishes.

His tongue presses against your spread pussy, sending shockwaves up your spine. You moan, tangling your hands in his blond hair to keep him against your pussy. Not that you need to—Roboute devours your pussy like a man starved, nosing against your clit. Between the plinking water and your squealing sounds, you feel Roboute growl moreso than you hear it; the sound reverberates through your body from your pelvis to your toes.

Once he’s satisfied with how wet you are, Roboute moves to your clit and kisses it like the jewel of a ring. With both of your hands in his hair, you can’t muffle your squeal as Roboute laps the flat of his tongue against your clit. You only hope that no one else is in the baths, as the sound bounces around the tiled walls and echoes even as far as the apodyterium.

While you’re distracted by Roboute’s mouth on your clit, one of his fingers brushes the entrance of your pussy. His tongue circles your clit as his finger enters you, pumping slowly inside of you. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he grunts but does not let up on either of his ministrations. In fact, he doubles them. Roboute sucks down on your clit and adds a second finger to your pussy.

“My Lord!” You squeal aloud, pressing harder against his face. Pressure coils in your gut and you can barely breathe from all your moaning. “I can’t—”

You don’t finish your sentence, but Roboute doesn’t seem to need you to. He’d kept his eyes closed the entire time, as though he was savoring a delicious meal, but when he looks up at you, the intensity of his gaze pierces you.

It’s what you needed to careen over the edge, and you cry out as you gush against Roboute’s face. He groans, closing his eyes again as he fingers you through your orgasm until the overstimulation makes you whine and you push him off. He goes willingly, and the sight of your slick dappling his nose and chin is both arousing and embarrassing. You squirted on a Primarch.

“Oh, m-my Lord, I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, whimpering through the aftershocks. Roboute raises his eyebrows and wipes the juices from his face with one swipe of his arm. His other arm holds your legs over his shoulders and you realize—too late—that he’s folding them over your shoulders instead of his.

His knees bracket your body; each of his legs as long as you are tall. When his cock slaps against your belly again, it hasn’t reduced in size at all; if anything, the knot is thicker and his cock is redder and angrier than before. One of Roboute’s hands lines his cock up with your pussy while his other hand cradles your head to keep it from hitting the tiles. You can’t tell if your flushed face is from his burning skin, or your own arousal. His hand is big enough to crush your head with the twitch of his fingers.

The head of his cock breaches your pussy and your breath hitches. You could have done with another stretching and perhaps a second orgasm, but Roboute was patient enough to give you one. If his heat goes on for much longer, it could be dangerous for him—and for you.

Roboute huffs as he mounts you, sliding his cock deeper into your pussy. He takes it slowly, but the stretch is obscene. You wince with each inch that slides inside of you, closing your eyes so you don’t look at the way Roboute’s cock spreads you wide…and deep. Every time you think he’s done, Roboute fits another inch inside of you. 

You open your eyes just in time to watch Roboute bottom out inside of you, his knot resting comfortably on your swollen pussy lips. He growls in satisfaction, and the sound makes you clench around him.

For some reason, you have the brief sense that you’re in danger, right before Roboute pulls back and plows into you with what you can only describe as a howl. You swear on the Throne that you feel your belly distend with the thrusting of his cock, using you as a sleeve for his own pleasure. His knot wetly plaps against your pussy, adding to the overstimulation of your primal fucking.

White stars explode in your head, scrambling your thoughts. You can’t think of anything other than Roboute’s cock filling you, pounding you into the tile. Either your bones are creaking, or tiles are beginning to break underneath you from the sheer force.

A deep purr rumbles in Roboute’s chest and vibrates the whole of your body. His thumb strokes a glob of saliva away from your lips and caresses your cheek. When you turn your face to look at him, his brows are knitted together in exertion, but his lips are curled back in a facsimile of a smile, baring his teeth.

There’s a split second before Roboute drops himself onto you, and the force of his weight shoves his knot into you, spreading your pussy apart. You let out a garbled whine that results in another deep purr from Roboute, and his nose brushes almost tenderly against your cheek. The head of his cock is shoved against your womb and you feel it pulse with his oncoming climax. His hand tilts your head up to expose your neck to his hungry gaze and Roboute bites into your neck.

It’s only a few more thrusts before you feel his cock beginning to swell, and sticky cum is pumped inside you. It’s even hotter than his skin, and if not for Roboute’s knot, it would spill out of your womb. Though you can’t look down, you’re sure there’s a bulge from his cock and his cum.

Roboute pulls off your neck and nuzzles against the bite mark he’s no doubt left behind. He seems very proud of his work, purring and chuffing into your ear. “Lord,” you whisper, and he responds with another chuff.

But his cock hasn’t gone down, and you’re still stuck on his knot. Roboute stands and lifts you with ease until he’s standing and you’re pressed against his chest. He holds you with one hand while the other brushes something off your back and you hear the sound of ceramic clinking. He definitely broke some tiles under you.

Your hands struggle to link around his neck from where you’re pressed against his chest. There’s going to be a second ride and all you can do is hang on. Roboute’s knot is jammed inside of you and it won’t go down until he’s had his fill—and that might not be until the end of his heat.

The only thought you have before he starts thrusting is how long does a Primarch’s heat last?

Roboute bounces you on his knot, grinding more than thrusting. With this new position, your clit rubs on Roboute’s stomach, bringing even more stimulation to your aching pussy. Your fingers scrabble on his back as you crest your second orgasm and cry out, cumming against his torso.

When you come back to yourself, Roboute is holding you against his chest. His animalistic grunting and chuffing have turned into the deep moans of a man. They still vibrate your entire body, and his knot throbs. His heat is not over, but he’s at least conscious of more than his base urges.

His grinding resumes, his knot keeping you not only plugged, but spread open for the rest of his cock to fill you, to claim you and own you, wholly and fully.

Roboute’s second round does not last as long, though you are rewarded with a keening whine as he fires off more cum inside of your womb. His knot softens, not fully, but enough for him to pull out—and he does, letting his cum spill out of you.

He lifts you by your thighs so your sweaty cheek presses against his. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

And that’s the last thing you hear from Roboute before you pass out in his arms. -----------------------------------------------------

You drift in and out of consciousness over what seems like hours. At some point, you are aware of being cradled by two powerful arms and wrapped in soft fabric as a low voice buzzes in the broad chest you’re currently resting your head on.

“No, there is no cause for concern. I will take them to the Apothecary myself. Please consider them to be under my care. However, someone will need to clean and repair the frigidarium.”

There’s the sound of someone protesting, and a soft chuckle from the chest you’re resting on.

“No, I will not elaborate.”

The next time you wake up, you’re being laid into a soft bed. While the bed is unfamiliar, the sheets smell familiar. It’s vaguely herbal, with a hint of lemon…this is the same detergent you used to wash Lord Guilliman’s sheets this morning…

“Lord…?”

A soft pair of lips kiss your head, and you fall back into unconsciousness.

When you come back from your slumber, you’ve been tucked into Lord Guilliman’s guest bed. Instead of your regular robes, you are wrapped in a clean bathrobe that is slightly too large for you. The lights in the room have been turned off, but the door to the adjacent office has light spilling out from under it.

You try to sit up, but a powerful ache in your pelvis and shoulder force you back down into bed. “Oh, oh fuck, owww,” you whine, laying back down.

The door to the office suddenly opens up and the broad shoulders of Roboute Guilliman fill the doorway. He needs to stoop in order to enter the room, and he immediately kneels at your side, taking your hand. His hand absolutely dwarfs yours, and you’re reminded of how he cradled your head—

“Please, try to lay down. The Apothecary may have cleared you, but they also warned against strenuous physical activity for the next few days.” His eyebrows pinch together. “We are fortunate that I didn’t crack one of your ribs.”

He continues speaking, but his words fade in and out. The only thing you can focus on is a Primarch kneeling in front of you.

You feel like you’re going to pass out again. Roboute stops rambling somewhere between salt intake and calories when he notices the dazed look on your face. “Food is on its way if your blood sugar is running low. I have intervened on your behalf and acquired you the time to rest and recover, so there is no need for you to worry about returning your duties.”

“Th-thank you, my Lord.” You struggle to form sentences, and Roboute looking up at you with his pleading eyes is not helping. “Has your heat subsided?” Though not as noticeable as before, there is a pink tinge to his face.

Roboute goes silent, looking at your hand. “It has subsided, though it will return; likely in the next day or two. Please, do not worry yourself,” he rushes to add as you as you open your mouth, “I will be well. The onset was unexpected, but the first wave is always the strongest.”

He dips his head and his eyes lower. The hand holding yours slips. “I am…sorry that you had to encounter me in such a state. It must have been frightening to experience. I did not mean to hurt you, but I did.”

Your hands grab onto his and hold him tightly. “I was not afraid of you, my Lord. I knew you would never hurt me, even with your awesome strength, even in the middle of your heat’s first wave. You needed help, and I was happy to provide.”

Roboute thinks on this for a moment, though he still cannot bring himself to look at you. “You were happy? You enjoyed it?” His voice wavers, and your heart skips a beat.

“Very much so. You took good care of me.” Before you can stop yourself, you reach out to stroke Roboute’s cheek. Your train of thought to stop petting a Primarch doesn’t reach the station as Roboute leans into your hand.

“And you took care of me, as well. But I believe that your care could be…improved.” You hear the door open and the smell of food hits your nose. Your stomach grumbles; perhaps you should have listened to Roboute when he was talking about calories and salt intake. Taking care of a Primarch in heat was hungry work.

He kisses you softly. You hadn’t kissed when you were in the bath, so he seems to be making up for it with soft pecks on your lips and face. Roboute pulls back with one final kiss to your forehead.

“I will make no demands of you. But I would like it if you stayed with me for a while.” Though Roboute claims to make no demands, you catch the hopefulness in his voice.

“Of course.”

When he kisses you again, you feel him smile against your lips.

[thevoidscreams]

I noticed there are a few days of March you don't already have a prompt for. May I be so bold as to suggest one?

I'd love a sequel to your Guilliman fic. This time, where his wife is pregnant and he is struggling. If it isn't the unreasonable protectiveness/possessiveness he's begun to feel, it's the crippling lust for his wife's changing body. Just a breeding kink in full swing.

Love your writing so much! Thanks!

I love a man who loves his wife. (And gets her hella knocked up)

Day 31 Year 2:

Warnings: Oral, a bit of teasing, (this man plans to keep you knocked up. Watch out)

Word count:3706

Roboute was restless, his hands twitching as he glanced at the time again, it was as if every minute of this Throne forsaken meeting was five and he needed to get out. He had to find you and check on you.

Your feet had been sore today, what if your feet hurt so badly that you tripped? Or your leg gave out and you fell and.. He didn’t want to continue that line of thought. He tried to tune back into the meeting at hand. The one he’d written up the dossier for. “Yes, if we deploy troops here and here-”

His mind tuned it out. The mental image of you in bed this morning springing to mind.

His hands twitched again as he imagined running them over the swell of your stomach as he drew them down to your thighs, lifting your leg up so he could slide in and- He swallowed hard and clenched his fists, prying his mind from the gutter with force.

‘Focus!’ He scolded himself with force, he could find you later. You were with his very best astartes, you were safe.

You would be far less so if this new threat that cropped up with those damned bugs wasn’t handled.

‘Theoretical. If I do not focus I will not be able to make the most strategically sound movements and there will be far greater losses.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Practical, I will be able to see my wife sooner if I get this done by focusing and making the decisions that need to be made.’

He tuned into the conversation again and added his insight making choices that most men would quail at having to make. For the good of the imperium, and for the safety of the love of his life.

As soon as it was done he was up and out the door. Leaving the rest of the group to their confusion at his unusual behavior over the past weeks.

You were sitting with Cato, the tea in your mug warm and the plate of finger foods meeting your cravings perfectly. Vinegary pickle spears, fresh berries and chocolates with a small handful of fried potato wedges. The most recent strange combination of foods that you had requested. Cato had watched you pick at the plate, nibbling at things as you held your stomach with one hand.

He had found it odd and off putting at first how your body had begun to change as it had, but now he found a certain kind of charm to it. You were not the first pregnant woman he’d ever met, but he’d never watched the process of it up close. Not until his father put him on guard over you.

Cato also couldn't deny just how happy you made his gene-sire. To the point that the rigid and overly formal legion had even softened to your presence. He himself was one of those individuals. But never had he been one to question the primarch's decision, not openly, he'd wondered if perhaps you had been some kind of witch who'd put a spell on him. Now however he knew you were just a woman. A human with a heart and spirit who Roboute Guilliman had fallen so deeply in love with. The affection had even seemed to rub off on him to an extent. A fondness he usually only felt for the primarch had taken root in his duel hearts as he looked over you, nibbling a bit of fruit as you stared off into space, clearly deep in thought.

“Do you think he'll be back soon?” You asked Cato, who thought for a minute and opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the door opening suddenly and his primarch lunging in. Hands finding your smaller body and lifting you with practiced carefulness as he cradled you in his arms and left the room all in one swift motion. You hadn't even had time to cry out before you were gone.

Cato had been tasked with keeping you safe and keeping you there. He wasn't sure if that applied to his own primarch, but he followed behind anyhow.

Roboute hadn't even noticed that his son was following until you managed to wiggle up and look over his shoulder. “Guess that answers my question.” You chuckled. Roboute slowed and looked at you, then over his shoulder to his gene-son. “What is it Sicarius?” He pressed and the astartes snapped to attention. “I am performing my duty as you commanded.” He spoke, his voice formal and serious.

“You have done so.”

“My Lord?” Cato looked confused.

“How is it you are confused?” Roboute responded.

“You ordered me to guard Lady Guilliman until you informed me otherwise. You have not given me leave to cease guarding her. So it is still imperative that I continue.” He explained.

Roboute closed his eyes and took a deep breath. You only laughed and pressed your face into your husband's shoulder.

“Cato,” Roboute began again, “if I myself am now in possession of my own wife, do you believe it is necessary that you continue to guard her?”

Cato seemed to shrink a bit. “I would never question my Lord's ability to safeguard his own wife, but you were very specific in your wording that I must until you told me otherwise.”

Roboute sighed and you petted his cheek. “Be nice to him Robu, he's done a very good job today.”

The primarch looked down at his gene-son and nodded. “You are dismissed, please return to what other duties you are required for.”

Cato nodded. “Yes, my Lord.” He saluted with the clash of ceramite on ceramite where his fist met his chest plate and he turned to take his leave.

You couldn't stop giggling. “Oh hush.” Your husband murmured and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“He really was being so good to me.” You spoke and Roboute nodded. “He is good at following orders, but I wish he would think more for himself while doing it.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and he sighed happily.

Your personal quarters were a frequent sight as of late, with your feet hurting and all you'd been getting a lot of rest. Often with the company of his gene sons. Hormones had dictated that being alone was unacceptable.

It was also to ease his mind that you were safe. Leaving you made something in him feel hollow. But his work was demanding, and the greater imperium needed him.

Still when there was but a moment of quiet he'd come back to you, breath and reset. You gave him a peace nothing else could. He sat you on the bed, kneeling to remove your shoes. He looked them over from heel to toe and up to the ankle.

“They're a bit sore.” You told him, knowing already that he was going to ask.

He raised your leg kissing the front of your shin and sighing. “Stay, I'll be back.”

He left you for only a minute and not a second longer, returning with an amphora of oil.

He knelt in front of you again. Lifting your leg and pouring a line of oil over your skin. His hands, inhumanly warm, felt good on your cold feet. “My poor wife,” he sighed, a hint of humor in his tone. “Besieged on all sides by discomforts. Allow me to warm and comfort you.”

He massaged the limb with unbelievable tenderness, his thumbs working their magic to make all the aches disappear. You groaned as the persistent soreness finally abated and you layed back to relax into the new mattress the primarch had brought to aid with your hip and back pain. Which was more than sweet to you, since he had those pains finally vanished and you awoke with more energy and feeling much better about the whole ordeal.

As he pressed a particularly stiff muscle in your calf you couldn't hold back a pleased moan. Roboute smiled at that but it was making his earlier imagined scenarios come back with full force.

He held off, even if he wanted nothing more than to jump you and take you.

He finished your first leg and pressed a line of warming kisses up the length, stopping just before the spot he really wanted to kiss. He grabbed the amphora and began on your second leg. Fingers pressing into the soft arch of your foot making sure he got every inch of it a few times over.

“How does that feel?”

You moaned again in answer and he smirked. A rare expression for him.

“I haven't felt this good since this morning.” You smiled and his stomach fluttered with butterflies at the tone of your voice.

Throne, you were the most magnificent thing he'd ever had the pleasure of touching. “Good.”

He took his time rubbing the oil in, fingers loosing tight muscles and easing the strain of the day.

When he was done he lifted your dress higher and poured a portion of oil into his palm, setting aside the amphora he spread it between his hands, warming it. His massive hands cupped either side of your belly and began to spread the oil over the new stretch marks you'd groaned about. He couldn't get enough of them. Of all the things your body was doing, really. He felt a small thump against his palm and he choked on his breath. “He moved!” Roboute grinned, stopping the movement of his hand so he could better feel the tiny jostles of his son within.

The baby kicked again and you groaned at the strength of it. “He's been doing that all day.” You huffed affectionately. “Especially when he hears your voice.”

Roboute couldn't suppress his absolute delight and pressed his lips to your stomach. “Hello.” He muffled against your belly and you giggled until the tiny boy within seemed to do a whole flip to try and get closer.

Roboute pulled his face away and continued to rub, stopping every few moments to feel the movement of the baby.

“I love him.” Roboute sighed, content in that moment.

“As do I. He'll be here sooner than we think, according to the midwives that is.”

The primarch just knelt there in awe. You were giving him a biological son. Growing him within your own body. It was just an aspect of nature but he was amazed by it all the same. You struggled to a sitting position to look at him.

“Thank you.” Roboute whispered, warm tears burning his eyes.

“Roboute? What's wrong?” Your hands went to his face, holding him with desperation, trying to soothe him.

He shook his head and smiled. “I am not sad.” He clarified, eyes still brimming. “It is just,” he swallowed and took a moment to gather himself. “The universe is tearing itself apart, we are surrounded by terrors of unimaginable magnitude. The governing powers of Terra have conspiracy after conspiracy against myself and so many others… and yet.. I have you.” He pressed his face into your chest. “And you are giving me a gift so wonderful that nothing else in the universe could hope to compare.”

He kissed your chest, a silent act of affection.

“I am happier than I can remember ever being. And it is because of you my dearest one.”

You hugged him, eyes also filled with sympathetic tears.

“All I did was get pregnant.” Your chuckle watery as you kissed the top of his head.

“And in doing this you have given me new hope for a future I had begun to lose hope in.”

He looked up and kissed you, softly at first, but as your hands carded through his hair it grew deeper, more passionate.

You moved back onto the bed and Roboute crawled up and over you. His mouth pressing kissed over your face, neck and chest.

“My wife,” he breathed, “my beautiful, magnificent wife.”

He kissed lower, stopping at your belly once more to place more kisses, then down further, only stopping between your legs. His fingers dipped into the band of your panties and pulled them down. You shivered at the knowledge of what he was about to do.

“Roboute-” He placed his hands on either side of your hips and held you still as he dug in, lapping his tongue over your lower folds.

Your sudden sharp gasp of pleasure only drove him on, his mouth lavished your cunt with long hot strokes savoring the flavor of you. You tasted different since becoming pregnant, almost sweeter in a way, he knew it was due to the change in hormones but still he couldn't get enough.

Your nails scratched over his scalp as your fingers buried themselves in his hair.

“Roboute, throne that's good, don't stop.” you moaned and he obliged. His tongue pushed deeper and as gathered your sweetness on his tongue, drinking it in with a please hum.

Your back couldn't quite bow with the weight of the baby but he could feel you shifting, pushing more of yourself into his mouth. Good, he wanted you to have all the pleasure you could. It was the least he felt he could do for what you were giving him.

You tugged at him, fingers grasped tight in his hair. He hissed as he looked up to see what it was that you needed. You were panting, red in the face and there was a familiar gleam in your eyes.

“Love, I need you.”

The primarch didn't hesitate raising up to your level again, only stopping to give you a kiss.

He grabbed your tummy pillow, a soft wedge that he placed at your side and another under your head as you rolled to your side. He stayed there for the long minute it took you to get comfortable before he stood to disrobe.

“Is there anything I can get you before to make you more comfortable?” He asked kneeling on the edge of the bed and carefully pulling the dress up more to so that he could more easily access lower half.

“No my dearest, just you.”

He nodded and laid down behind you. Even down on his side his body was much longer and it gave him some measurements of anxiety that he might squish you or hurt you by accident.

The one time he'd rolled over onto you in his sleep he'd been woke by you patting his face and he'd slept on his back or stomach ever since.

He thrilled as you snuggled back into him. His cock pressed against your thighs as you adjusted into place. His hand began at your hip, massaging as he trailed lower.

“I love you beyond my ability to express.” He hummed and you leaned your head back to look up at him.

“I feel the same.” You blushed, feeling just as giddy to make love to him now as you did the first time. It would never not be a special occasion to either of you.

Finally h stopped at your knees, scooping his hand under it and lifting it gently. His cock slid between yojr thighs and he brushed it over your entrance, preparing it to enter.

“Ready?” He asked softly.

You nodded. “I am.”

With your verbal assent he angled his hips and pressed in, slowly and carefully. He let out a low long groan. Void take him it was perfect, how warm and tight you always seemed to be for him.

Even after having you once earlier he was ready to go again, as were you. The pregnancy had made you seem insatiable, especially the farther along you got. Roboute had breached the idea of getting you some toys, but you only wanted him, stating that in this state he was the only thing that could actually give you any relief. Which he had silently allowed to stroke his ego.

His cock slid in another few inches until he had as much of himself inside you as could comfortably be managed. You exhaled a long breath and he looked down, watching closely for any discomfort.

“Good?” He asked, rubbing your knee idly with his thumb.

“Yes, it just feels good.” You smiled and laced your fingers with that of his free hand and he held your hand back gently. “Alright, I am going to begin then.”

His hips drew back a few inches, till he was half way out before pressing back in. It was a slow, easy pace. A careful and steady roll that allowed him to feel every inch inside you, much to his delight and your soft grumbled frustration. You wanted it harder and faster, but he wouldn't rut into you since you started showing, expectedly concerned about the welfare of the babe growing inside you.

You whined his name, needing him to speed up a bit, his show pace was blissful torture.

“Yes, my love?” He asked, voice teasing as he drew back again and lifted the hand he was holding to kiss the back of it.

“Robuuuu!~” you whined again and he smiled. “You wish to moan for me? Is that all?” You chafed at his cruelty, as he gave you only the slowest thrusts.

“Faster, please. I need you to go faster.” You gripe, and Roboute kisses your hand again. “I see… Theoretical, I will continue to enjoy this slow pace for a while longer.”

You glared up at him as best you could. “Practical, I roll off this bed and finish myself in the bathroom.”

Roboute laughed and hooked your leg over his and with his bow free hand tilted your face up to look at him.

“Alternative Practical. You know you cannot; you told me yourself that you can't get off without me.” He rumbled, voice husky and deep with his lust.

He was right of course but it only frustrated you further. Your eyes went a bit glassy as they filled with the unshed tears and you put on your most pitiful expression.

“Please Roboute… please.” You pleaded and his expression softened.

“Oh very well.” He brushed your cheek with his thumb and withdrew slowly one last time, just because and then picked up his pace to give you what you so desperately craved.

The first proper moan was long and tremulous. The soft slap of skin on skin louder, and you could feel his hefty sack drag over your lower thigh. You reached down to cup them and Roboute groaned. “Enjoying your balls?”

You smiled. “Yes, it is only proper I give them my thanks whenever I am able.” You gave them a loving squeeze and let them go. The primarch groaned so loud it shook your body.

His free arm wrapped around your chest as he hugged you closer. His pace picked up slightly and your head fell back against his chest.

“Throne that's good, just like that.” You moved your hips as best as you could to meet his thrusts.

Roboute grinned ear to ear as he watched you get off on his cock. He loved the way you startled him, the way you needed him. As if it proved he was good enough. It also got him off to know you were enjoying yourself. He kept the pace, knowing it would be enough unless you told him otherwise and he would gasped more easily if you came first.

Your movements became more needy, pushing back with more force, he increased his force but kept the pace. “Is my wife going to cum for me?” He asked and you nodded, your eyes going a bit hazy and half lidded. “Words.” He ordered softly and you moaned as your fingers tightened around his. “I'm,” you moaned again as his cock pressed into the sponge bit of your inner wall and your walls clamped down on his cock. “I'm going to cum. Roboute Im going to cum, don't stop.”

He kept on as he felt your pussy clench, his own guts tightening with the telltale sigh he was going to cum as well.

“Good, cum for me, come for your husband. For your primarch.” He growled, and you did, with a gasp and the clenching of your hand and body.

He came just a few thrusts later. And even if this seed would not fertilize you as you were already full of life he knew that in a few weeks, after the birth of his son, you would be at peak fertility again and it made his cock harder once more.

You looked up at him and touched his cheek.

“Round two?”

He nodded, you didnt even need to ask.

The next morning he was back for another meeting, and his mind felt numb. All he could see was your sweet smile, your beautiful eyes and the way you looked, cumming for him.

He needed to touch you.

The chatter at the table came to a standstill and he looked up from holofeeds to see why.

Your soft, well rounded form came waddling through the door. A very stressed Cato came in after eyes wide as he watched you waddle away with more enthusiasm. “My Lady please!” he urged quietly.

Roboute sighed deeply. “Cato?” He asked. “I'm so sorry my Lord, she wouldn't listen.” The promarch held back his laughter as you came to his side of the table and crawled up into his lap.

“You didn't think to stop her?”

“You never told me how I should.” he seemed a bit panicked. “And she has not done this before!”

The primarch just shook his head. “You may go Sicarious.” He gestured to the door. His son looked crushed to have failed his father.

“You're not in trouble Cato.” He called after him and his gene-son nodded before he went.

Calgar went back to his previous business. And the primarch looked down at you. “You are incorrigible.”

You leaned up and kissed his chin. “Indeed.” You smiled and he placed a kiss on your forehead, turning his attention back to the strategy at hand, finding his focus much less divided as you snuggled into his chest.

He held you close. His tiny wife. His tiny, amazing and magnificent wife.

[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.

[ahrianee]

[🎀] Ribbon

Yes, I left work (when I saw the drawing) and I was thinking about Roboute with a ribbon all the time until I got home and could draw, Cosmic, I blame you for this, but I love you for drawing it too(?)

I swear I never thought a ribbon would look so good.

It's a bit dirty because I didn't want to give it so much time, and in the end I finished coloring and shading it, ironies of my life, I may render it when I have time

Post that made me do this @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond

There is nothing more to say, just that yes, Roboute's little ass shines (⸝⸝⸝-﹏-⸝⸝⸝)

✨💕

[beckyninja]

Dark Intentions

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: Violence against those who do and don't deserve it

Description: Dark plots are uncovered in the aftermath of the Guilliman's fiancée's "death".

Did any of you really think I'd end Guilliman and the Reader's story like that?

This is the latest in my GuillimanxFemReader series. Check out the previous fics (and others) on my Masterlist.

She is gone.

Sirens blared. Voices shouted. 

She is gone.

“Their ships have disappeared from all scanners!” “Picking up a warp signature… they’re fleeing!” “Wait…missile launches!”

Gone.

“Report on missile trajectory!” “They’re not aimed at us, Lord.”

Gone.

“Holy Terra!”

New explosions lit the void as missiles riddled Captain Takahashi’s ship. The sleek, tapered vessel writhed as if in agony for a few moments before its spine shattered. Charred debris spun in all directions, bouncing off the Macragge’s Honor’s void shields.

Gone.

In the time between heartbeats. Between breaths. One moment warm and full of life. The next….

“My Lord Primarch!”

Guilliman looked upon the scowling visage of Cato Sicarius, only to see his expression morph into something else. Something pale and wide-eyed. The Captain of the Victrix Guard took a step back.

“Prepare to enter the Warp.”

His words? Yes, he felt his lips move, the vibration of his vocal chords.

“We pursue.”

Why could he not recognize his own voice?

“My Lord,” Cato struggled to maintain eye contact, “without a set destination-”

“More contacts, my lords!” The serf at the communications cogitator shouted. “I am picking up numerous small vessels. Life pods from the destroyed cruiser.”

Guilliman turned away. Back toward the void. He heard himself speak once more.

“Send transports to retrieve the survivors. One of them will show us the final approach to… her… home world. We will chase those who did this back to their very gates.”

Something flickered within the hollowed out shell of his soul. It grew into a howling conflagration, yet his voice remained colder than a Fenrisian winter.

“And they will know pain.”

***

Battle Brother Julian Tarchus fought to awaken. He felt as though he was drowning in the ocean he’d swam in as a boy, clawing toward the surface with all his might. Fragmented images raced through his mind.

Bent nearly double in the passenger compartment of the foreign transport… you seated next to him… your sympathetic smile….

A sudden thrum… another, identical ship appearing out of nowhere next to them… an impact…an explosion…curling himself around you….

The bitter taste of chemicals as gas filled the compartment.

“...metabolizing the sedative. Faster than anything I’ve ever seen!”

“Increase the dosage again.”

He forced his eyes open.

Bright, white lights nearly blinded him. He lay in what he could only describe as an Apothecarion of some kind. Screens flashed data. Unfamiliar medical equipment loomed above him. No candles. No holy shrines. 

Not an Imperial ship.

He tried to rise from his prone position, only to meet resistance.

“Doctor! He’s waking up!”

Tarchus turned his head to see a male baseline in a flimsy looking uniform of some kind, white as everything else seemed to be in this damned chamber. A cloth mask covered his lower face. Fear flickered in his wide eyes.

“I said increase the dosage, damn you!”

Turning his head the other way brought another male baseline into view. Slightly different uniform. Same mask.

He glared at the first male. “Useless! I’ll do it myself!”

He reached for a bag of clear liquid hanging to one side, syringe in hand.

Tarchus reacted first. He tore through whatever bound his wrists with contemptuous ease and lurched upward. The world spun. He felt his body breaking down whatever poisons they’d injected into him, but his reaction time still seemed pathetically slow.

The first baseline screamed and fled, dodging the Ultramarine’s grasp by millimeters as he scrambled through a door on the opposite side of the chamber.

“Warp…damn it….” Tarchus rasped through a bone-dry throat.

“We have an emergency!” The Ultramarine turned to see the second baseline babbling into some kind of vox-caster set into the white wall. “Subject has awakened and appears hostile! Send armed aid to Surgical Room-” His voice turned to a gurgle as Tarchus’s fingers wrapped around his throat. 

The warrior lifted the writhing baseline off his feet, watching the man’s face begin to purple. Only then did he realize they’d stripped him of his armor and body suit.

He stood in the white room in nothing but his loincloth.

Rage tightened his grip on the struggling chirurgeon, for so the baseline must be.

“Where…is…the…Lady?”

Lord Guilliman had given him a sacred task: protect his betrothed at all costs. It was a task Tarchus had volunteered for, even against the disapproval of Captain Sicarius. Their Genefather saw value in you. 

You who looked at him with neither fear nor slavish subservience.

You who went out of your way to converse with him.

You who he found himself liking.

You belonged to the Chapter now. He would not fail you.

The baseline’s eyes rolled back in his sockets. Tarchus huffed and dropped him to the tiled floor. The man gasped. The Ultramarine smelled the sour stench of fresh urine.

“I…will not…ask again.”

“Sh-sh-she is-”

The door burst open. Tarchus grunted as what felt like a half dozen projectiles slammed into his back. He spun towards the intruders.

Theoretical: Charge is missing. Probability suggests you remain somewhere in this locale. Crew has proven hostile. Armor and weapons unavailable.

Practical: Attain armor and weapons. Search locale. Permanently remove obstructions. Not necessarily in that order.

He charged the armed baselines in the doorway. 

More projectiles peppered his  upper chest. To their credit, the soldiers in strange, carapace-like armor held their ground… for the first few seconds. 

He crushed a helmeted head in one fist. With the other hand he backhanded a soldier, sending him flying into the wall. A kick dispatched another with a wet crunch. Blood spattered. The thrill of battle lit within his veins.

Then the enemy broke and ran.

Tarchus found himself in a broad corridor of shining metal. When he straightened, the top of his head brushed the grated ceiling. Alarms blared and red lights flashed.

Well, it is not as if I was trying for stealth.

A grim humor twisted his lips as he strode forward. He considered going back to question the chirurgeon again, then decided against it. If these humans held you captive, he could not afford to waste a second.

Signs dotted the doors and walls he passed. He scowled, wishing he’d thought to learn to read your language as well as speak it. Nothing to do but press forward. Glancing through the few open doors revealed more medical equipment and tables. 

Still in whatever passes for the Apothecarion, then.

The sheer amount of artificial illumination disoriented him. He found himself longing for the dim corridors and flickering candlelight of an Imperial warship.

Am I even on a voidship? How long was I unconscious?

He pushed such questions from his mind.

Shouts and the pounding of boots on metal sounded ahead. He frowned. The projectile weapons the first soldiers had used did little against his toughened skin. But his enemies knew that now, and doubtless would utilize more destructive arms.

Without his armor he remained at a disadvantage.

I should proceed with caution.

A sharp cry from around the approaching corner electrified every nerve in his body. He knew that voice.

Caution be damned!

He bellowed and charged. “For the Emperor!” 

The pair of soldiers setting up what looked to be a heavy lasgun had no time to even cry out before he was upon them. Wiping blood and brain matter from his eyes, he lifted the weapon. Not a lazgun, but he could see no projectiles either.

No matter. As long as it deals death and ruin.

Just ahead, more soldiers crouched behind a makeshift barricade of crates and tables. One hefted a long tube to his shoulder and pointed it in his direction. Tarchus pulled his weapon’s trigger and the white beam it produced reduced the soldier to a charred husk.

The Ultramarine grinned.

“Tarchus!”

He shifted his attention to a knot of figures further behind the barricade. There was a short struggle, and a disheveled female pushed forward.

You.

“Praise the Emperor.” He rasped, feeling a great weight lift from his shoulders.

His relief turned to white hot rage as another figure stretched out a hand and caught you by your hair. The tall baseline male yanked you back against him, pressing a pistol to your throat.

Tarchus growled.

“Drop the cannon, brute. Or watch me paint the walls with her blood.”

For an instant, the Ultramarine hesitated. A mistake that cost him dearly.

Weight like a Land Raider dropped upon his shoulders. It drove him to his knees, the breath forced from all three lungs. He heard you scream and fought to rise...

…to no avail. 

Whatever trap they’d laid held him pinned to the floor like an insect beneath a boot. He squeezed the weapon’s trigger once more, bisecting the first two soldiers who dared approach, before feeling it yanked from his weakening grasp.

He tried to curse his enemy, to make any noise at all, only to find he lacked the breath to do so. Craning his neck, his eyes met your horrified gaze.

Forgive me.

A half hysterical laugh. “Well, well, dear cousin! It seems the famed Space Marines aren’t so invincible after all! Kill him.”

The approach of boots. A cold muzzle against his temple.

Not like this. Emperor, not like this!

“Wait!” You screamed.

Your captor’s voice sank into a vicious hiss. “Are you fond of your betrothed’s attack dog, my dear? Would you have him live?”

Tarchus thrashed with all that remained of his fading strength. “No…,my Lady, do not….”

Your next words drowned him in shame. “Don’t kill him, Victor. I’ll do whatever you want. But please don’t kill him!”

No.

“It’s a deal then.” Victor’s triumphant laugh rang throughout the corridor. “As long as you cooperate, the beast lives. Sergeant? If you would?”

The muzzle lifted from his temple. Tarchus heard the crackle of electricity. Then white hot pain lanced through his skull, driving him back down into darkness.

It paled in comparison to the agony of failure.

***

Victor’s fingers dug into your arm as he dragged you through the bowels of his ship. You felt his nails break skin, adding to the innumerable cuts and bruises covering your body. You ached.

Part of you still prayed this was all a nightmare. That you’d awaken in your bed aboard The Macragge’s Honor, soon to bask in the warmth of blue eyes again.

Oh Light! Roboute! 

He thought you dead. You knew it with absolute certainty. Tears filled your eyes as you imagined his anguish.

“Crying again?” Your cousin snorted. “How very unattractive.”

In an instant, your grief turned to fury. “You bastard!”

He laughed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!”

The mercenaries escorting the two of you snickered. Your face burned.

“I hate you.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes. “Careful now. You know what happens if you try me.”

Tarchus….

He’d fought so hard to save you. How your heart had leapt when he’d come charging around that corner, bellowing his battle cry! How it had bled when he lay helpless under tons of scrap metal.

The look in his eyes when you surrendered your dignity to save him.

Even if he survives, he’ll never forgive me.

“Where did your animals take him?”

The mercenaries stopped snickering and glared. You lifted your chin and glared straight back.

Victor didn’t spare you a glance. “The Predator’s brig is extensive, cousin. I had it expanded just recently.” He giggled. “And he won’t be lonely.”

“What have you done?”

“In a moment, fair cousin.” He jerked to a halt, pushing you roughly against a wall. “Ah! Here we are!”

A few punches of a key code and a door slid open. You were dragged into a room that could have belonged to your family’s most luxurious manor house. Plush carpets covered the floor, except for the gilded tiles beneath a bubbling fountain. Heavy, cushioned furniture of rare wood furnished the chamber: chairs, a table laden with flowers and delicacies, and a massive, four-poster bed.

“Impressive, no? I had it designed as an exact copy of my bedchamber in the Palace.” He shoved you toward a chair. “Sit. Relax.”

You gazed up at him.

“Speechless?” He grinned, the scar on his cheek gleaming scarlet, and turned to his guards. “Out.”

The older of the two hesitated. “Any orders for the Captain, my Prince?”

Victor sighed. “The same as they were the last time he asked. Make straight for TerraNova with all speed.”

“And…if we’re followed?”

“By who? The Barbarian King thinks she’s dead.” He jerked a thumb in your direction. “Investment gone. He’ll cut his losses and move on. And even if he does try to follow,” Victor grinned, “without the good Captain to guide him through the Wards, he could spend centuries wandering the void and never find our system.”

You leapt to your feet. “What have you done to Captain Takahashi?”

“Oh, I sent a dozen or so nukes into her cruiser as we entered the Warp. Had to make sure, you know.”

Horror. Fury. You threw yourself at him with a scream.

He caught your flailing hands and laughed. “Temper, temper, cousin. That little outburst will cost your beast an eye.”

You froze. “No, Victor-”

“See to it, Sergeant.”

“Wait, wait! I’m sorry!”

He only laughed again, catching you against his chest as the mercenaries left the room. You sagged against him.

Tarchus, forgive me.

Helplessness. You remembered this feeling. You swore you’d never feel it again. What a fool you’d been.

Victor’s hands ran up and down your back. “There we go. Isn’t it easier when you stop fighting?”

He pushed, and you collapsed back into the chair, staring at nothing. Numb.

Your cousin crouched before you. “And here I was worried you’d grown a spine. Happy to see I was wrong.” He grasped your chin, tilting it back and forth. “Pretty enough. Though I still can’t see why a so-called demi-god would want you.”

Roboute.

He’d had such faith in you. Your eyes focused once more.

“I’ll ask again, Victor. What are you doing?”

He stood and sauntered over to the table, poking amongst the fruits and sweets. “I was supposed to make sure you were dead. That’s what Granny Dearest ordered. You dead, me the Heir, and she the ultimate power.”

“What about the coup?”

“Oh, it’s going wonderfully! Grandmother’s forces have trapped the Grand Council on the Eastern Continent. She’s been stocking the military with her supporters for decades now, you see. And those who wouldn’t fall in line?” He shoved a chocolate into his mouth. “Well, the asteroid mining camps always need more free labor.”

Decades. They’d been planning this for decades.

You took a deep, shuddering breath. “And Conrad?”

“Disappeared. But who cares about him, anyway? Pitiful little intellectual.” He spat the word.

“Did my message even make it through?”

Victor shrugged. “And if it did? Who would react? The Council is fighting for their lives. The Military is ours.”

“The people-”

“Are a rabble of cowards, so used to being under Granny’s boot they couldn’t rise up even if they wanted to.”

You gritted your teeth. “The Church, then.”

Your cousin’s grin sent chills down your spine. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Grandmother began a purge of the Abbeys and Monasteries shortly after you left. Hotbeds of rebellion, those places.”

You felt as though he’d punched you in the stomach. 

The Abbey. The Holy Sisters. My home.

Rage boiled within you again, but this time, you held it back.

“Why do this, Victor? Grandmother is already Matriarch. What more could she want?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” He slouched against the table. “Ever since she usurped the Patriarch, our much revered Grandfather, Granny’s craved power like a twitcher craves stims. The Council, the Articles of Government, all these things stood in her way.”

You thought of the years you’d spent locked within the Palace. Alone. Isolated. While schemes were being hatched all around you.

If I’d been braver, stronger, could I have prevented this? How many lie dead because I was too stupid to-

No. You could not let regret paralyze you. Not now.

Your hand sought the ring Roboute had given you. Perhaps touching it would bring you some much needed strength.

By the Light! The ring!

You stared down at your bare hand.

“Looking for this?” Victor tossed something that glittered gold and blue up and down in his hand. “Pretty bauble. Did he give it to you?”

You clenched your hands into fists.

The beacon. How could I have forgotten?!

Victor’s hand closed around it. “I think I’ll hang onto it. Wouldn’t be right for my consort to wear jewelry gifted to her by another man.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Your consort.”

He stalked toward you. “I saved you, you know. Grandmother wanted you dead, but I defied her.” 

You pushed yourself back into the chair as he knelt before you, idly slipping Roboute’s ring into his uniform jacket. “When she defeats the Council’s forces, she’ll be weakened, cousin. Vulnerable. And then you and I and my fleet will swoop in and vanquish the tyrannical hag.”

His hands landed on your knees and slowly slid upward.

It took everything in you not to cringe. “And…we’ll rule together?”

“Of course.” His eyes burned. “The people already love you, their Princess in the Tower. They sing songs about you in the taverns. And I’m the War Hero who fought off a Tyranid invasion!” His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs. “Who would stand against us?”

No one. Until it was too late.

Fighting back waves of revulsion, you leaned forward and ran your hands up his chest. How frail it felt compared to your betrothed’s! You watched your cousin’s face twist with lust.

Forgive me, Roboute.

You kissed Victor.

He snarled into your mouth, his teeth catching your lips and drawing blood. His hands dug into your hair. You felt yourself slammed backward, your head knocking against the chair’s hard frame. 

Your cousin took no care with your body. He pawed and tore, aggravating your bruises and cuts, without a thought for your pleasure. Nausea threatened to overwhelm you. You heard the fabric of your bodice rip.

“What the Void is this?!”

All of a sudden you were dragged from the chair and thrown to the floor. Victor stood above you, mad rage in his eyes. He jabbed a finger toward your shoulder.

The shoulder Roboute had sunk his teeth into on your last night together.

“You whore! You damned slut!” Victor’s boot met your ribs with a crack.

You folded in on yourself, arms wrapping about your head.

“You spread your legs for that… freak?!” Your cousin straddled you, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking your head back. “You think I’d let you rule beside me? A stupid little scrap of used flesh like you?”

He pressed his mouth close to your ear. “I don’t need a consort. I just need a working womb. Remember that, bitch.”

With a final curse, he slammed your head against the carpeted floor and stalked out of the room. You heard the door lock behind him.

For a long while you lay there, letting the pain ricochet around your body before finally fading into a dull throb. You knew how to take a beating. Light knew, you’d taken more than your fair share.

Your split lips stretched in a smile as you gazed down at the gold and sapphire ring in the palm of your hand.

Pray the Light has mercy on your soul, Victor. For he will not.

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[primarisly-marooned]

Tee hee have some Guilliman writingsssssss

Inspired by the AMAZBALLS art @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond did here! Also tagging @beckyninja bc they requested it dndndnnd

Wanted to start this by saying THANK YOU everyone who left such nice messages on my first ever wh40k fic!!!! It was super encouraging, and I'm sooooo glad to be here!

Now on to the good stuff!

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x Reader

Warnings: non sexual massages, kissing, fluff, minor sexual themes, general size difference stuff bc Primarchs, World building apparently???

when i see your face

You staggered through the doors to your Lord Guilliman's office, arms laiden with scrolls and data slates from various other officials scattered across the McCragge's Honor and missives from off-ship. Your solemn duty was being a glorified serf for your Primarch, Roboute Guilliman of Ultramar, a duty many had said was beneath someone of your station.

But you were helping.

You could see it in the way your Lord's brow eased when you came trotting up with a cup of tea, or carried a plate of foods for him to browse. It was in the way his lightened and his lips relaxed, the rigid tension in his shoulders loosening enough that he no longer looked built into the ship.

If given a choice, you would chose this every time.

Even on days like this one where everything seemed to happen at once and seemingly needed to be done Right This Instant.

You could just about see your Lord sitting behind his enormous desk (made of real wood from Holy Terra!) his face settled in a harsh expression as he scowled down at his overrun desk space.

"My Lord," you squeaked out, near panting from your long walk carrying all the various forms. You clear your throat and try again, glad that your face is already flush from exertion. "My Lord, I have the data you required, and those new lordlings from the fourth quadrant finally sent their replies."

He grunted, a deep noise in his chest. A gesture had you carefully maneuvering around his surprisingly cluttered office to the stairs leading up to his desk, an added feature Lord Guilliman had installed a few weeks after you started.

Captain Sicarios had apparently taken umbrage at the fact that you couldn't reach the surface of Lord Guilliman's desk and was thus required to hand everything to him. The Captain's reaction to the stairs were well worth the minor humiliation you felt at needing the assist.

"Place them here, little one," his voice tired, and up close you could see the way his face was starting to sink in around his eyes and in his cheeks. "I'll get to them soon."

You both glanced at his overburdened desk. "Eventually."

He sighed heavily, running a massive hand over his face. You wince in sympathy, twisting your lips in a grimace. There truly was just so much. And Lord Guilliman looked so, so tired and worn.

Only ever in this room, you've found. Only ever when it's just you two alone. Did that make you special? You didn't think so, but your loyalty was absolute. You would not speak of your Lord's exhaustion to no one.

You slowly drag your gaze from the desk top to where the massive arm of your Primarch lays almost limp. His hands are almost brutish, and heavily scarred. The hands of a warrior.

Seeing it gives you an idea you almost reject immediately, but then Lord Guilliman exhaled long and slow, bringing your gaze back to the slow slump of the mountain range that were his shoulders. You steel yourself.

"My Lord? May I... try something to aid you?" Your voice is hesitant, but rings loudly in the almost oppressive silence of the room. His burning eyes peer ar you through the gaps in his fingers and you drop your gaze, unable to bear meeting his gaze for long.

He seemed to mull over his answer for a moment, and you feel his eyes on you the whole time. "...very well. Quickly now, I do not have much spare time."

An eager nod is your answer before you're reaching for the hand splayed across the desk on some unrolled scrolls. His smallest finger is longer than your entire hand, and you marvel once again at this demigod before you.

The first touch of your hand against his skin feels like it burns you, like touching a fresh spent bolter casing searing your flesh. It makes you flinch, and his fingers twitch across the dark wood.

You feel his eyes burning into you, and you do your best to ignore it, gently wrapping both hands around the edges of his and pulling slightly. "...could you move your hand for me, My Lord?" His hand weighed more than you expected, and a blush burns across your cheeks.

His near silent chuckle rumbles through you as he lifts his hand and allows you to direct it, flipping it over so the palm was facing upwards, fingers curling naturally towards his palm.

"This is something my mother used to do for me," you explain quietly to him as you started pressing your fingers into the thick meat of his palm. "I wrote constantly as a child and would get horrible cramps, so she would massage the muscles in my arm until I was able to use it again."

The faint memory of your mother had a bittersweet smile crossing your face, an old ache flaring softly in your chest. He doesn't respond, but neither does he pull away, so you continue digging your little fingers into his hand and wrist, slowly working your way up his arm.

You started humming at some point, even once your hands started aching. Your persevere through it, determined to help one more way.

At this point, you're halfway up his arm and kneeling on his desk, leaning forward to reach his bicep. Even relaxed his muscles feel like steel, his arm almost thicker around than your entire body. It's a strain to your thighs and back to be balanced so precariously, but your determined to see it through.

...though you might not be able to get his shoulders. No matter how much you'd love to.

Time passes as you continue in your self-appointed task, face keeping a steady blush at the way his eyes stayed on you the entire time. He never said anything the entire time. You don't even think he blinked. The only way you knew he didn't turn into a statue was the slow, deep breaths and the way his muscles jumped under your fingers.

At this point, you're at the joint of his shoulder, one hand braced against his arm to keep you upright as the other cups the joint tenderly. Your gaze wanders across the expanse of his skin, up his arm to his shoulder, to his neck, before finally resting on his face.

You don't have a name for the expression on his face, but it lights a gentle fire in your heart, igniting an incredibly stupid impulse.

A quick movement had your feet under you on the desk so you were standing, putting you at a height advantage over your Primarch. A thrill raced up your spine at the way it had him looking up at you.

But you cut the distance between yourselves and, before you lose your nerve, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

You withdrawl quickly, face feeling like a little torch and peek at Lord Guilliman's expression.

His eyes were blown wide, lips parted, separating the stain of your lipstick pressed into his skin. A violent flush starts at the base of his collarbone and steady climbs up his neck and you suddenly remember what you are and who he is.

In a rush of motion you're down your little flight of stairs, words tumbling over themselves in your mouth as you all but flee the room in a panic. What did you just do?

Roboute could only stare in blank shock as the door swished closed behind you, the hand you were rubbing slowly reaching up to touch where you kissed him.

His arm felt no different save where his skin tingled at the memory of your touch, and a deep inhale had your scent flooding his hindbrain with dopamine.

Licking his lips had the taste of your mouth filling his palate with you, making him want.

A groan left him as he buried his face in his hands, mindful not to smudge the little smear of color splashed across his lips. (He needed to find something to transfer that to, he needed it.)

Fire and damnation, he wanted your touch again.