#astartion x reader

[moonselune]

Hi! Could I request Astarion, Gale, and Wyll with a reader who is typically well spoken until someone flirts with them? Not an overly dramatic reaction, but more like they start stuttering and blushing. I would like this to have some NSFW in it, but you absolutely do not have to. Thank you! And have a wonderful day!

NSFW | MDNI | I F!reader

This was an absolutely fantastic request thank you very much for blessing me with it also this is the first time I have written smut for the boys, I did assume f!reader but will in future try and make it more gn xx

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm golden glow over the camp as you and Gale sat together by the fire. You enjoyed these moments of peace with him, the world falling away as you talked about everything and nothing. Your words flowed effortlessly, a natural charm evident in your every sentence.

That is, until a charming stranger wandered into your camp. The traveler was on their way to Baldur’s Gate and had stopped to ask for directions. Their conversation quickly turned friendly, and before you knew it, they were openly flirting with you.

“You have a certain… sparkle in your eyes,” the stranger said, leaning in a little too close. “Are you a sorcerer, or are you simply magical by nature?”

You felt your cheeks flush, your usual eloquence escaping you. “I, um, well… thank you. I… I’m not really—”

Gale, sitting beside you, watched with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Ah, I see,” he interjected smoothly, putting a comforting, yet possessive hand on your shoulder. “It seems my partner is a bit tongue-tied at the moment. Quite the rare sight, I assure you.”

The stranger chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Well, I should be on my way,” they said, giving you a playful wink. “But do let me know if you ever need help with finding your words.”

"I wouldn't worry, kind saer, trust she has a most eloquent partner," Gale jabbed, dismissing the traveller with a wave of his hand. As the stranger departed, Gale turned to you, his amusement evident. “Tongue-tied, my dear? Now, that’s something I never thought I’d see.”

You sighed, still feeling the warmth in your cheeks. “I don’t know what happened. I just… couldn’t think of anything to say.”

Gale’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “It was quite adorable, really. But perhaps I should help you practice, so you’re never at a loss for words again.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “And how exactly do you propose to do that?”

Gale leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “By teaching you how to use your tongue properly, of course.”

Before you could respond, Gale’s lips were on yours, a gentle yet passionate kiss that left you breathless. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Follow me.”

You let him lead you to the privacy of your tent, your heart racing with anticipation. Once inside, Gale’s demeanor shifted from teasing to serious, his eyes dark with desire.

“Let me show you,” he said, his hands deftly working to remove your clothes. His breath hot on your neck, his lips mere inches away from your skin. “How a well-practiced tongue can render one speechless.”

You shivered at his words, the anticipation building as he guided you to lie down. His kisses trailed down your body, each one sending sparks of pleasure through you. You let yourself become lost under his touch and when his lips finally reached your most sensitive spot, you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair.

The grip you held on him only encouraged his lesson further. Gale’s tongue moved with expert precision, teasing and tasting in ways that made you moan uncontrollably. “Gale… oh, gods… please…”

He looked up at you, your slick coating his lips, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and hunger. “Please what, my love? Use your words, remember what this lesson is about.”

You whimpered, trying to find the strength to speak. “Please… don’t stop. It feels so good…”

He smiled against your skin, his tongue working even more skillfully, humming into your core. “That’s better. But I think you can do even better than that.”

Your body arched towards him, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable, you tugged and pulled at his hair. “Gale, please… I need... I need to come, please,”

Gale’s eyes darkened with desire at your words and his actions became more forceful, as he groaned into the wet mess of your core, “As you wish, my most eloquent love.”

The world outside your tent disappeared, leaving only the two of you. Gale’s actions became slow and deliberate, drawing out the pleasure until you were on the edge of bliss. His tongue lacsadaisically entered your core, his nose nudging your clit, his beard soaked in your fluids. You felt your legs begin to tremble and Gale held onto them with a firm carress.

When you finally came, it was with a cry of his name, your body trembling with the force of your release. Gale lapped up every bit of it and rode you through your high. As you came down, Gale crawled up your body, settling between your legs, chin resting on your chest.

“Well, my love, it seems you’ve found your words again.” Gale chuckled softly.

You smiled, still breathless. “Yes, but only because of you.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your chest. “And I will always be here to help you find them, most dutifully.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The evening air was cool and refreshing as you and Astarion strolled through the bustling market. Your hand intertwined with his, and the two of you enjoyed the serenity of being together. Despite the crowds, there was a certain peace in the chaos, a comfort in the presence of each other.

Your conversation flowed smoothly, filled with laughter and gentle teasing. You prided yourself on your eloquence, your ability to converse and charm effortlessly. That is, until the vendor—a strikingly handsome elf—began to flirt with you.

"You have an eye for beauty," the elf said, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. "Perhaps I could help you find something as lovely as yourself?"

You felt your cheeks warm, your usual poise faltering. "I… um, well, I—"

Astarion’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you struggle. "Oh, my love," he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, "you seem to be at a loss for words."

The vendor raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your sudden bashfulness. Astarion took a step closer to you, his presence a reassuring warmth against your side. "It's adorable, really," he continued, his tone teasing. "You’re usually so well-spoken."

The elf chuckled, clearly enjoying the scene. "I'm flattered," he said, his eyes still locked on you. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation later?"

Astarion's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I think not," he said smoothly, pulling you closer. "My dear here has other plans."

As you walked away, Astarion’s amusement was palpable. "You do know how to put on a show," he said, his voice low and suggestive.

You sighed, trying to regain your composure. "It’s just… I don’t know why I got so flustered."

Astarion stopped and turned to you, his eyes dark with a predatory gleam. "Oh, I know exactly why," he murmured, leaning in to whisper in your ear. "You’re not used to being the one flustered. Usually, you’re the one making others blush."

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you close as you walked into a secluded part of the alley.

"But I think I rather like seeing you like this," he purred, his lips brushing against your neck. "So vulnerable, so easy to tease."

You felt a shiver run down your spine as his hand trailed lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your clothes. "Astarion," you breathed, your voice shaky.

"Shh," he hushed you, his fingers expertly finding their way past your underwear and directly to your most sensitive spot. "Let's see how much I can make you squirm."

His touch was light at first, teasing and tantalizing. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as he increased the pressure, his fingers moving with skilled precision. "Astarion, please," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Please, what?" he asked, his tone mockingly innocent. "You’ll have to be more specific, darling."

You whimpered, your body arching into his touch. You were glad that the sun was setting and the market was beginning to close, you ddint need an audience to Astarion making a show of you. "Please, I need you."

He chuckled darkly, his fingers never stopping their tormenting rhythm. "Need me? How delightfully vague. Tell me exactly what you want."

Your mind was a haze of pleasure and desperation.."I want you inside me," you managed to gasp out. "Please, Astarion."

Astarion’s eyes flashed with triumph, his smirk widening. "As you wish," he said, his voice a low growl. With a swift, practiced motion, he positioned himself, his hard length pressing against your entrance. You were slick from his teasing fingers and it seems your predicament had had a similar effect on him, as his tip leaked with precum. It wouldn't be the first time you guys did it in an alley, and it most definitely would not be the last.

"Now, now I want to hear every sinful moan and word from you," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Just don't be too loud unless you want that dear merchant to come join us."

As he thrust into you, all coherent thought fled your mind. The world narrowed down to the feel of him inside you, the pleasure building with each movement. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he drove you both towards release.

In that moment, all your earlier embarrassment was forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly consumed by Astarion. And as you choked out his name, you knew there was no place you’d rather be.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The evening was peaceful as you and Wyll sat together in the tavern, enjoying a quiet moment away from the chaos of adventuring. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow on Wyll’s handsome features, and his deep, melodic voice filled the space between you as he recounted a tale from his past. You listened, entranced, your usual confidence shining through as you engaged in the conversation.

Then, a stranger approached your table. A charismatic bard with a roguish smile, they leaned in and addressed you. “Forgive my interruption, but I couldn’t help but notice your captivating presence from across the room. Would you honor me with your name?”

You felt a sudden rush of heat to your cheeks, your usual eloquence faltering. “I, um, well… thank you. My name is… uh…”

Wyll’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched you struggle. He leaned in, his hand gently squeezing yours under the table.

“This is my partner,” he said smoothly, his tone protective yet playful. “And I believe you’ve rendered them quite speechless.”

The bard chuckled, clearly entertained by your flustered state. “Speechless, indeed. A rare and beautiful sight.”

As the bard moved on, Wyll turned to you, his expression soft and affectionate. “I must say, I’ve never seen you quite so… tongue-tied before. It’s absolutely adorable.”

You sighed, still blushing furiously. “I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t think of anything to say.”

Wyll’s grin widened, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I rather enjoyed it, to be honest. Seeing you so flustered… it makes me want to keep you all to myself.”

He stood, offering you his hand. “Come with me, love. Let’s find somewhere more private.”

You took his hand, following him to your shared room upstairs. As soon as the door closed behind you, Wyll’s demeanor shifted from playful to intensely passionate. He pulled you close, his hands caressing your face as he gazed into your eyes.

“You have no idea how much I adore you,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Every time you blush, every time you stutter… it drives me wild.”

You shivered at his words, feeling the heat of his desire. “Wyll…”

He silenced you with a kiss, his lips gentle yet demanding. His hands roamed over your body, worshipping every inch of you with reverent touches. “Let me show you,” he whispered against your skin, “just how much I love you.”

Wyll’s kisses trailed down your neck, each one leaving a burning trail of desire. He undressed you slowly, savoring the sight of your bare skin as if it were the most precious treasure.

“You are perfect,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Every inch of you.”

You moaned softly as his lips found the sensitive parts of your body, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. “Wyll… please…”

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and love. “Please what, my love? Tell me what you need. Use your most beautiful words.”

You blushed again, your earlier shyness returning. “I need you, Wyll... I need you to..”

"Love you? Adore you? Fuck you?" Wyll’s smile was tender and bashful as he positioned himself over you. “As you wish, my beloved.”

He entered you slowly, the sensation overwhelming. Wyll moved with a practiced grace, his every thrust drawing out your pleasure until you were both lost in the intensity of your love. His hands and lips continued to worship your body, nipping and carressing, making you feel cherished and adored with every touch.

When you both reached the peak of your pleasure, it was with cries of each other’s names, your bodies trembling in unison. Afterwards, Wyll held you close, his hands still gently caressing your skin.

“You are everything to me,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “And I will always love you, just as you are.”

You snuggled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his love surrounding you. “And I love you, Wyll. More than words can say.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Then let’s stay like this, my love. Just you and me, forever.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you guys enjoyed it !! - Seluney xox

[lady-ashfade]

🥀🍄Masterlist🍄🥀

All Masterlist I have are here. You can find them easily here. More will probably be added.

Table Of Contents

@ms-fade is a NSWF page.

🫧Anything Masterlists🫧

📺Tv Shows📺

House of the dragon Masterlist.

Percy Jackson Masterlist

Bridgerton masterlist.

Cobra Kai masterlist.

Stranger things masterlist.

The umbrella academy

Julie and the phantoms masterlist

Wednesday Masterlist.

Lockwood and co Masterlist

Shadow and bone Masterlist

Heartstopper Masterlist

The walking dead Masterlist

The rookie Masterlist

🧺Anime🧺

Mha masterlist.

Demon slayer Masterlist

🎞️Movies🎞️

Narnia Masterlist

Spider-Verse Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist.

Karate Kid Masterlist

Blue Bettle Masterlist

Deadpoll Masterlist

🎮Video Games🎮

Baldur’s Gate 3

Fallout masterlist

[roroco316]

Goddess

still female reader x word bearers

[vyzz-undercover]

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(8,800ish words) (holy fucking kill me mate)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

—————————————————————————���—————————

hi guys :3 guess what i got you all good im not dead,,, the gods have let me live another fateful fortnight (fortnite) also i love you all so so so much pls enjoy!!!! @moodymisty, @lemon-russ, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @egrets-not-regrets, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams, @thevoidscreams, @mothiir, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sinistermojo, @beckyninja, @passionofthesith, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @allergymoose, @scriberye, @yestheantichrist, @ma1dmer, @cucunot!!! if anyone wants off or on taglist lmk!!! im more than happy to adjust this in post OK BYE ILY ALL AGAINNNN!!!

———————————————————————————————————

There should be higher security in this wing, Cato notes.

But compared to the rest of the vessel, it's safe—as in, there's senior Admech's leaving their doors open while they buff out the scratches in their mechadendrites sort of safe. He bets seeing a mouse around here would cause a stir. Honestly, he can fully render the pict in his mind of some haughty Seneschal turning their nose up to his Primarch because of that.

Cato can imagine the exact following happening, 'eugh, why doesn't Lord Guilliman virus bomb the pipes? That's what I had done on my pissy little rowboat of a void ship!' in that nasally, all too predictable tone that every single bloody one of them seems to have bar maybe a few.

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

But it is safe. You're safe, here. He trusts his Primarch to ensure that for you. Being so cozy to Guilliman as a baseline certainly has its benefits. This place is good for you, unlike the bowels of the ship—where even Cato avoids going.

Not for any risk to his persons, of course. But simply because of the tightness of the hallways. And the stink of baseline sweat and oil that practically sticks to his senses for days afterward.

It's most certainly not because the low lumen count sends his mind wandering. And the flickering—damn those flickering lights—they make him uneasy. The impossible chance they'll flicker out and reveal a reality awash with fleshed decking is completely unrealistic. But still, down in those depths, he feels like he's stuck in a dying vessel, cracked at the bottom like a broken vase, leaking. Adrift, on a storm laden sea with the blackness pouring in—where within that black there is a barely perceptible colour in infinite abundance, like the phosphenes behind closed eyes—and there are eyes in that ocean—so, so many eyes, fixed with the glowing, molten hues of the warp itself; their shades a melted tapestry, a solvent thing, ever-changing.

Eyes and screaming. It sometimes returns to Cato like a bad case of tinnitus, ringing and shrill—but the mind crafts horror that pale reality in comparison, and in that wretched plane of existence those mental horrors bore real talons, and real hooves and real thought—and the caterwauling of its victims—his brothers—ever came from maws heaving and frothing in agony.

Cato hears himself stumble and slam a palm into the side wall to steady himself, but doesn't feel it. He feels like he's in free-fall, as if the ground has opened up and swallowed him hale and whole.

All time in that abominable realm was rendered simply nonexistent, without matter nor meaning to behold to any living creature. Naught but the notion of being practically alone and how chilling it was spiralling down the depthless lake of energy remained. No resistance of air lent to the sensation of plummeting, but he was sure he was for reason beyond any form of tongue. The distance was irrelevant and utterly unmeasurable. But the warp had no edge, no limit; and as it lacked a limit, the depth of him sinking was surely unbounded—just as it was eerily silent. A merciless wall of mute, dark unknown which swallowed all whole under it's cresting wave of solitude. Mute except the wailing, like song—song of sheer coincidence, where so many voices in unison chances harmony by mathematics beyond comprehension.

The sour taste on his tongue drags him loose of the claws about his mind.

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

Cold, unforgiving steel walling like a soothing downpour on his nerves.

Cato groans as he rights himself, shaking his head, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth; gagging a little at the bitter, acrid aftertaste of his Betcher's gland acting on instinct.

He'd thought himself largely past this now. It had been so long since it happened, and Cato tries, he tries so painfully hard not to imagine the same thing happening here, because he's okay, you're okay—nothing would try to take this ship.

The vile taste on his tongue annoys him, because he'd scrubbed his teeth raw in an effort to seem as polished as he could; and now his tongue probably stinks like an empty las cartridge.

He spits on the floor and straightens up, it's fine—at least that's what he tells himself. You're close, and you're safe and that's all the encouragement he needs to fall back into step.

Cato takes a few strides down the corridor towards your quarters before realising something rather important.

He reaches into the folds of his rest attire and practically yanks out a sheathed knife.

It'd be closer to a dagger to you, and he doubts you know how to use it, but—but—

He wants to give it to you.

It's what he'd like to receive, at least. After all, it is what he was given, once.

The smith on Talassar is long dead, from age or sickness, but it matters little. All that matters is that Cato had received it ages ago when he'd yet to make anything of himself and he wants your hands to know its weight. You never carry weapons to diplomatic ventures in the past, and you've told him as much, but he gathers it's because there's never been place for you to put them on your persons in those stupid outfits of yours.

It's a little bit brutish of a gift, yes, he's well aware. But there's no possibility of bringing any sort of cliche boon to your door, like flowers, or something of the sort. Or whatever those waifs of yore would demand as a courting gift.

He doesn't even realise he's continued walking until he's stopped and standing outside your chamber like a kicked hound.

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

He knows the universal override to all the input pads, but there's something seemingly rooting him to the spot.

The nervousness hesitation he feels regarding seeing you is a lingering problem—the longer he stays beyond the confides of your room only adds to the chances of being caught. And he's not about to wait for hours outside for a hint you're actually in there. He has right to suspect you are, but the possibility of a serf being there instead of you is unrealistic but present. Actually no, he's sure that a cleaning serf would not lock the door.

So, finally, he raps a knuckle against the door and sets his footing to a martial stance.

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

There's a clear surprise that paints across your face as he stares down at you, before it dissolves into a small, flustered smile.

His hands twitch where they hang by his sides, itching to reach for the dagger he wants to give you. He had planned how he'd do this on the way here. Thought it through and prepared, rolling it over and over in his head. And yet, actually having you before him throws any precedent out the nearest air-lock.

You're not in any sort of prim and proper way—you're in bedding clothes, more than anything: pants and a top.

The trousers are a light shade of cyan, loose around your calves but more form fitting around your thighs. Your hips seeming to be the only thing holding the pants up from showing the warm, smooth skin beneath; that, and a small thread tied in a crude bow. Your tunic is more of a inched stola, low necked enough that he can sort of see the top of your breasts.

"I didn't.. uh," you mumble. "I didn't expect you so soon."

He knows he's earlier than he promised, but he grunts in answer and looks over your shoulder.

You blink, "What?"

"Am I to wait out here all cycle, then?"

A small 'oh, right—sorry' from you is all he receives before you take a step back to allow him entrance.

When the door slides shut and locks behind him, Cato notes the lack on downlight activated. Everything is hazed in a moody, misty (hi) sort of warm, amber glow from the candles you've left burning. He thankfully wrestles down the urge to stand there scenting the air with his lip curled up like a beast. Trying not to linger on the abundant stink of you, you, you on everything, pervading every sense he has. Promising himself he won't smother into your pillows and start humping them like a rabid dog.

He distracts himself by cataloguing his surroundings. Cato has consistently focused on utilitarianism over all else, and it shows in his room. His room is accessorised in the style befitting of his many years and achievements; with walls lined with trophies and weaponry made by the best of the Imperium. It contains just the basic necessities required: a work area, a seat, a couple of lights, an agreeably Astartes-sized cot at the middle, and close to it, a dependable incense holder.

Your room is much smaller—but the ensuite appears the same, though. Which Cato doesn't know how to feel about. He surmises it was likely a converted Captain's quarters. It's not standard issue, and neither are the copious amounts of, for lack of a better word, trinkets. But he supposes being the Primarch's favourite little diplomat-bookkeeper-pet-thing is a title full of unseemly rewards. His Father has a strange, uncouth way of interacting with baselines, and he doesn't dare linger on the hypocrisy behind that thought coming from him standing in your private quarters.

Be as that may, he still feels enormous standing there in the cramped space between you, the bed, and the desk behind you, unimpressed at the amount of clothing bundled near his feet.

You stand in your own mess without any hint of shame. A silent Ambassador is typically a welcomed novelty, but a silent you makes Cato jumpy.

You near and try to urge him to lean down, clearly trying to coax a kiss from him.

"Water," he says abruptly.

You don't seem to be listening, just looking at him with a distracted sort of fascination—then the request clicks, and you stumble into the bathroom and run the tap.

He hears the glass he's to be drinking from clink with the hardware before it fills, and them you step out and close to him to hand it over.

He takes a big gulp and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, and gladly the wretched sourness of lingering acid is gone.

With the threat of burning your little nagging trap gone—and you none the wiser to the fact he's an Ultramarine who can, in-fact, spit acid—he rears down and gives you what you'd sought.

A slow kiss, nice and sweet and gentle; and he closes his eyes this time, in preparation.

You grin against his mouth and pull back after, and he smiles a tiny bit at the way your lips are a little redder.

Cato huffs in satisfaction and straightens back up, going in for another draught of water.

"I am surprised you live in squalor, despite all the benefits of your station," he murmurs offhandedly, looking aside the rim at the room once more between sculling down the rest of the cup.

You frown, and glance about the room, "It's not that bad."

"It looks like a drop zone," Cato grumbles, holding out the empty glass—and you take it, while he's fixed on staring disapprovingly at the messy stacks of data-slates stacked and leaning like two great spires. "Have you no discipline? No self-respect?"

"Clearly not," you mumble and glare at him, eyeing him up, then down, then up again with a judgmental leer. Suddenly, something about the situation is amusing to you—and you snort.

Cato scowls, crossing his dense arms over his chest, "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing," you huff.

He glares back at you in silence as you turn and set the glass upon the desk—what little free space there is, in that shitstorm bundle of random work.

"I just think it's funny that you say that," you start again abruptly, rounding about to look at him. "Given the circumstances."

The scoff that leaves him is nigh a bark, "Exceptional circumstances."

You snort amusedly, "So where's your discipline and self-respect?"

"Somewhere between your thighs," he says, and prides in the begrudgingly fought-back smile he earns out of you with it.

He sits himself down on the side of the bed and continues priding to himself at the wit of the remark he made.

Cato relishes in the moment, simple as it is—you're oblivious to his own troubles and there's a sweet, lulling sense of comfort in that.

"You're a real class act," You pout, manoeuvring your rear up onto the desk inelegantly. Something tumbles to the floor to accommodate, but you're evidently unbothered. Your pants ride down at the change just enough that it put the part where your hip met leg on display. Just the temptation has him fiending off an insidious amount of lust.

He wonders if it'll hold up against an Astartes fucking you on it. But it's not bolted down, so he doubts that.

The bed will hold, though. And even if it doesn't, he'll still manage—he's sure he'll take every bit of you he can, on every surface he can manage. It's just a matter of time before he goes down the checklist, really.

Cato, understandably, groans long and low at the thought.

"Something the matter, Commander?" You intone with an annoyingly obvious faux-stupidity, crossing your legs and tilting your head a little.

"No," he rasps, and tears his gaze from your hip.

You eye him, "You look a little stiff."

He grumbles, and reaches into the breast of his robes.

The sheathed dagger looks flimsy in his muscle and callous laced palm, and when he holds it out to you, you look bemused.

Your brow arches up and you scowl a little, "What's that for?"

"You," he harrumphs, and turns away. Then Cato cannot, for the life of him, look back at your eyes—so he fixes his stare at your sandals set by one another at the door frame.

A little giddy huff leaves you as he watches you scoot off the desk top and reach for the weapon in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't have to," you coo, wrapping your small fingers around the hilt and freeing the blade from its casing. A little kiss hits his cheek and then he hears the gleam of it being loosed—he'd polished the time-dulled filigree to a mirror finish in preparation for gifting you, and even sharpened it back to a killing edge.

Your sweet hum of fascination as he sees the reflected candlelight dancing off the steel has him finally look back at you.

There's a big smile on your face, and your cheeks are a little red—and it's exactly the reaction he was after.

Cato tips his chin up, noble in his smugness, and smiles back.

"It's lovely, but—" you say, "I remember having told you before I can't wear weapons."

He pouts, and then he's sour again, "There's a belt loop on this one so that you can."

"I don't wear them for a reason," you digress.

"What reason?"

"Because it looks bad for a diplomat to do so."

Cato huffs petulantly, "That's not good enough."

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

"It's just one knife," He grunts, and gestures at you vaguely. "Why not put it on the inside of your thigh?"

And for some reason a few neurones misfire in his head at the thought of his dagger being so, so close to your—

"Do me a favour, Sicarius," you simper abruptly, as if there's a hidden punchline to the entire conversation he's yet to discover, "Look under the bed."

Cato scowls, but ultimately allows the request, putting one big palm on the duvet to leer down.

Oh, that's—that's a small fortune of ceremonial weaponry.

"Throne, woman," he starts, still looking and a bit stunned. "Why? Do you just collect all these? You don't hang them up, or anything?"

"I don't collect them willingly," you mumble, "They're just... handed to me, most of the time. Sometimes by dignitaries, a few by other Astartes. I don't understand it much, either."

Cato arches lower and reaches his free hand out to the gilded sheath of a curved sword, blue and gold and embossed with jewels. It's crusade-era levels of ancient—and Cato swears he'd seen it upon the lobby wall before the broad doors of Guilliman's chambers. That, and the hundreds of other favoured tools of war his Primarch so loved to display. Some hadn't been touched since the heresy, but still. Their nostalgic sentiments held strong. He supposes age does that to someone. Even for someone as noble and mindful as his Father.

Cato purses his lips as he lays a hand on the sword and tugs it free from the pile with ease.

He holds it up as he rights himself back on the bed and scowls, "This is—"

"I know," you sigh, and your hand braces against the side of your neck as you tut, "He insisted."

"He insisted?"

"He insisted," you grumble, and Cato tries hard not to find the embarrassed colour on your cheeks painfully endearing. "I said I wouldn't wear it, but he said it'd be a good thing to keep 'incase of emergencies', or something."

"Guilliman is right," Cato says sourly, placing the sword back on the ground and using his heel to shuck it backwards back under the bed. "You're easily assailable."

"You're the fifth Astartes to say that to me," Your face scrunches up, "I feel like it's an insult at this point."

"It's a valid observation," he shoots back. "You may as well be held together with silk and ribbons—like some spoilt little princess. You should expect the fanfare with that behaviour."

You leave his dagger on the desk behind you and take a few bold steps closer to him, crossing your arms over your chest; scowling as you say, "Oh, so you're the knight in shining armour here, then?"

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

He raises a brow and straightens up a bit, "Yes—yes, it is."

He likes the haughty attitude you get when you're subtly seething, he likes the little scowl you wear, and the tiny crease that forms on your nose. It gets his blood up, and warp damn him if he doesn't thrill at the slightest chance to have you gratifying his antics.

"Well, you got a pretty good reward for your troubles."

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

Your brow quirks sourly, and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Groxshit," you grumble.

Ah, so it's time for lying now. You weren't desperate, no—you haven't ever raised your ass to let him mount you, you haven't groped his cock—you most certainly haven't ridden him like an unruly beast, taking your pleasure—letting him fuck your tight cunt full, time and time again.

He ought to remind you, he ought to get you flushed with the words—because he knows you'll squirm, dithering, bright red in the face and aching between the thighs.

Instead, he snorts loudly, "Shut up and come here."

"I don't think so," you laugh.

Cato growls and rolls his eyes, "Suit yourself."

Still sitting, he lifts the folds of his robes aside and works his arms out of the sleeves, baring himself aside from the underclothes hanging on his hips.

With another huff, Cato shuffles himself back up against the headboard, settling into the pillows. He locks his fingers together, raising them above his head, stretching tall and taut; huge chest bulging as a strained groan slips free from his throat, earning a chain of muted cracks from his back in reward of his efforts.

Your eyes trace his torso where you stand aside the bed. Studying the ports and ancient scars that draw up from his hips in mirrored pathways, linear and geometrically precise—utterly surgical. Their routes turned up the sides of his ribs, stopping high on his serratus anterior, dodging his pectorals and wrapping around to his deltoids; where your gaze stayed—eyeing the tattoo of an inverted omega he had gotten so very, very long ago. It's faded a little, but the upside down Ω is still well defined.

He's got your attention now.

You shuffle forward, half on the edge of the bed; and lean close, flickering your eyes up to his—as if seeking some sort of allowance.

"Disgustingly predictable," He scoffs, cocking his head and relaxing a bit.

Seeing an Astartes out of their armour always was something to behold for baselines. Ever eye-catching even to those who'd seen it a thousand times over. It garnered awe and fear; but that was the reason the Emperor made them so large in the first place. Aside from the practical benefits of throwing their weight around, their presence alone was intended to be physically intimidating as a means to dissuade the uncooperative from resisting and to scare off contest.

To you though, his bared form is a source of lust. The stink of it in the air has him toey and eager.

But it is, afterall, the first time you've had a good, close look at him in his entirety.

Cato preens at the flush he earns when he smirks at you.

"I won't stop you, you know."

"I hope not," You muse and lay a hand on his sternum, kneeling onto the bed and scooting close as your fingers graze over the dark spread of hair dusting across his chest.

You scan from the tops of his broad shoulders down the definition of muscle to the interfaces on his fused ribs; your eyes trailing for a brief second to his dense abdomen where the hair went even lower. Arrowing down his under-cloth. His entire body was marked with brutal scars of every kind. Some raised and old, others raw and sunken.

He'd indulge a question or two about their origins if asked—or well, if asked nicely.

Oh, that meagre cicatrix below his left pectoral? That was a Carnifex he had fought. It was five of them all at once single handedly, actually—and he only had his great Talassarian Tempest blade. It was a lucky mark from the beast. It died seconds later. He's just that good—he's Cato Sicarius, afterall. You made the right choice letting him have you, please tell him that he's the right choice.

Instead, you sink down against him and lie against his side, tracing the ports on his chest.

Arguably, this is just as satisfying to Cato as gloating waxing on and on about his many successes. Your warm little body tucked against his like a perfect fit, and the feel of your fingers around the thinner skin rimming his interfacing ports isn't bad, either. It feels strange, yes, but it's a different sort of sensation. It's acutely sensitive. He almost feels like he's about to shiver at it.

But then your attention shifts to raking against the grain of the hair on his chest.

"I usually have it burned away," he says abruptly, because he's somewhat bemused by your fascination. Still, he puffs his chest out a little. "To allow greater synergy with my body-glove."

"Really?" You laugh, and it's a prettier sound than carillon bells to Cato's ears—all the while pawing at a thick hunk of his pectoral, "They toast you?"

"Only a single passing," Cato admits, "It doesn't hurt—stinks though. And then it's all hosed off."

You hum in acknowledgement and let your hand wander down his middle, following the trail of fluffy, coarse hair.

"Interesting," you hum, fingers tracing the path, stopping only when you're grazing just shy of the top wrap of his undercloth. "You feel a bit like a fur rug here."

Cato breathes in slowly, "Don't test your luck."

"It's an entirely valid statement, how am I testing my luck?" You grumble, glowering at him as you pull away.

"You ought to be reprimanded for insubordination," He says with a steely, disciplinary intonation, but the threat's hollow and you're seemingly well aware of that. He leans in and pulls you close again as his touch sweeps down your legs. His nose buries into your hair, big hands appraising groping.

You set about kissing his cheek, smothering yourself against him.

The airy gasp that leaves you when he squeezes your ass makes you bold, apparently, because the next words you choose to say are; "Do you accept bribes?"

Cato's immediate theoretical response is a snarky 'No,' but then the heel of your palm is sliding up the side of his cock through the wrapped linen.

So, pointedly, he eagerly groans out, "Yes."

You simper up at him, before fussing with the fabric. Exposing the dense plain of his hip, tugging and un-pleating a little more until he's bared from the navel down.

His cock's so hard it nearly bats you across the cheek as it springs free. To which Cato snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement.

You flinch a little in surprise, a hint flustered, and eye the hard length of him as if it's personally affronted you.

He sits a little more upright, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Offering his big, sturdy quads as a cushion to lean on as you slowly pump him in a steady motion.

"Well?" Cato snarks, "Get on with the bribery then."

You pout at him, glancing back—and huff, "You smell like an apothecarium."

Cato grumbles to himself, slow to gather his words as he watches you ogle him, "If I had... known that you wanted to get that damn snout of yours so close, I wouldn't've used such harsh soaps."

You raise an eyebrow and pout, "Wonder if they're toxic to ingest."

"I doubt it," he starts, "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Your fingers glide over his big thighs, dodging his ports and smoothing upwards to trace the old paths of his surgeries.

And even with all his stoic, anally neurotic merit, Cato can't stifle the small subvocal hum that escapes him as you flatten your tongue, licking a warm stripe up the side of his cock.

The feeling of it is staggeringly new, and he's absolutely elated at the view. It's half the appeal, even if there's no way you're getting anywhere near as much cock in you as your cunt allows.

You wrap your lips around the fat tip, keeping it in your mouth as you stroke the thick base of him with a grip that can't even meet around the width; balancing yourself better on your knees by putting the other hand on his thigh—the sleeve of your top slipping down your arm.

"This may be a better use for your mouth than diplomacy," He says as he lets out a low sigh, hips jerking forward with shallow movements in time to the bobbing of your mouth.

When you pull off to swipe away the glaze of spit and pre-cum accumulating on your chin, you lap your bottom lip and huff, "You are a prick, you know that?"

Despite being enamoured by the sight of you disheveled, he grumbles petulantly and says, "And you had to take your tongue off mine to say that."

You frown at him, then acquiesce with a petulant little grunt.

Then your mouth descends on him once more, rocking back and forth, letting gravity angle him in. All Cato can do is relish in the sensation, finding no room in his brain for anything else. Just the feeling of the wet heat of your mouth swallowing around him, and the swirling counterpoint of your tongue—eagerness in your gaze as it flicks up to find his again—Throne, that makes him groan straight away.

You hum around his length in response, the vibrations ricocheting through his nerves and up his spine blindingly. His other palm is suddenly against his forehead, a bit stunned from the bombardment of new pleasure.

Your little fingers dig fruitlessly into his thigh, making him hyperaware, sending him grinding forward a bit only to be rewarded with another lurching buzz of ecstasy. The hand pumping the base of him shifts away, and then small nails rake across his navel, then his hip, tracing a port; and he buries his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a heavy moan. They're only meagre claws, yet the pressure is strangely comforting as you lap at the blood flushed underside of his glans.

Cato's aware his voice catches as he keens aloud, pulling his arm away from his face to rest his forearm on his hairline. He's simply just enjoying the soft, hot drag your mouth around his tip again.

But a reedy little whine snags his attention, catching him unaware that he had even closed his eyes in the first place.

When he finally opens them, he swoons. Hard. Your cheeks are a stunning maroon, and your previously focused gaze now looks hazy and desperate, utterly lost in the act. He hadn't been cognisant he'd put his hand on your head, either. But watching you sink down around him again and again is intoxicating. How your pink tongue peeks out to lathe over a raised vein when you pull off for air has him dizzy. Your other hand's drifted down your pants and between your thighs at some point when he'd been lost in his own pleasure, fingers curling inside yourself. A deep inhale makes it clear you're absolutely soaking. And he's well aware that it is a meagre substitute—still, the eagerness of you is adorable lurid.

Distantly, he wonders just how many times you've had that hand there in this bed. It's the scene of the crime, really. You'd already admitted to it—and he ought to make sure you're full of his fingers to keep yours where there should be. That is, if he could move. He can't find the will to even sit up higher, let alone move the hand he's been using to keep your head steady. But, he does have the mind to comb his fingers through your tresses, at least.

You seem to realise he's realised what you're doing and you whine again, forcing yourself to take his cock further.

Cato lets out an approving moan and hisses out a feckless string of curses, thighs tensing sharply as his senses stagger at the heat that suffuses his belly.

The sick temptation to spend himself in your sweet vile maw is nigh all consuming, but it's nothing compared to the fact he's far more convinced on dumping it in your womb. Anywhere else feels like an injustice to the fact he's able to fill you—because just like some fang-toothed warp-spawn abomination, you've opened the door and invited him in, so he can make as much of a wreck of you as he likes, or as much as you like.

He yanks you off him by the reigns he's made of your hair and you choke a little.

The small groan at the messy handling of the situation is a testament to how badly you're after his end, "Wh-why...?" you rasp, the efforts having made your voice a little rough; the mix of your drool and his precum giving your chin and lips a wet, glossy sheen.

"Because—" he starts, and he's surprised by how ragged he sounds to his own ears. "Because, there's better holes to empty it in."

The little disappointed sigh that escapes you as you lick your slick bottom lip makes him immediately change his mind.

"Have it your way then," he heaves, and shoves your head back down—instinctively chasing the rising tide and rocking forward into your quickly opening mouth.

His hand is tight in your hair now, fist tangling the strands in his grip as you let him thrust freely. Your own hand grabs the side of his hip as his tempo stutters. By the Emperor, his father would kill him if he could see this. But, damn—the sight of you like this is sin. He's so much bigger than you it looks obscene with you servicing him like this. You're a mess, gagging and tearing up, but making no attempt to pull away. It's depraved, but if you're so desperate for a load down your throat, who's Cato to say no? He's more than happy to give you exactly that—and just on time, he feels his balls tighten up—static rising out up his spine as a groan tears from his throat. Caught daft not a millisecond later by a bodily shudder blinding him in a hot rush.

Cato pants as the shivers subside in heavy throbs, filling your mouth. He pets your head as you swallow, at first—and then the pockets of your cheeks puff out. And suddenly you're cringing and scrambling off of him and into the ensuite. The tap starts up, then you do, and all he hears spitting and sputtering.

You stumble out looking like you'd eaten something sour, swiping your hand across your lips before saying, "That tasted horrible."

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

A bright, wry smile plasters itself on your features, "And?"

"And, if you want more," he begins, eyeing you. "You'll have to lose the rags, woman."

You straighten, eager—and promptly start to wrestle your top over your head, just to throw it at his face.

Cato grumbles at the rudeness periodically, before he starts sniffing the article. Vomeronasal organ having a momentary frenzy. It smells of warm you, and a little bit of sleep. Like an embrace, and—fuck, his spent cock twitches back to life. He really shouldn't behave like this. It makes him assume he looks savage. Even he feels strange. So he wretches your top off himself and tosses it somewhere to the left.

Watching you suddenly appear on the bed, fighting your way out of your pants is much more entertaining.

He likes the way you shimmy onto your back and fuss yourself free; and the way you practically lunge back close to him when you're finally bare.

You lean over him and grin, and Cato appreciatively drags a hand down your back, palming your ass.

Promptly, he rolls himself and drags you along. He groans theatrically as if you're fifty times the effort to move than you are, simply because he can. And the shifting of his bulk makes the bed shake enough that the stack of slates on the table across the room falter, and tumble to the floor in a loud clatter of sound.

On your back under him, he preens at the flushed surprise on your face.

"That was too loud—you're too loud," you heave.

"I'm too loud?" He grumbles, pinning your far smaller shape down. "Says you."

That stirs a groan out of you, at least, squirming while Cato drags his tongue up the side of your neck.

"Someone can still pass by and hear," you whine, "We shouldn't make that much—"

"I doubt it," he grunts, cutting you off as he slides off the mattress and drags you to the lip of it. "We have a bed all to ourselves. Your bed—in your quarters, with six inches of steel in the way, might I add. They'd have to stand at the door to listen."

He flips you over, pressing you front down—slumping against you on his knees to grant a rough grind or two to make sure you're hyperaware of his thick erection plastered against your ass. Your legs kick out and you wriggle, a series of ragged gasps leaving you as you endure the onslaught. A small lick here, a small lick there—huffing and panting to stir an empathic response. Winding you up to writhe and flush as he groans next to your ear, only to start chuffing out mean spirited laughter when you moan back.

"See, you don't really care about anyone hearing, do you?" He rasps out against your throat before sucking the skin over a thudding little artery. "You're not sworn to chastity. They might just think, 'oh, the Ambassador's found another poor soul to suck the semen out of, shame,' or the likes."

"I don't know how you do it," You scoff, breathing hard into the covers as he pulls away and grabs you by the hips to hoist your rear up into that perfect taunting arch he remembers so well from the cabin. Aptly presenting yourself on your knees at mounting-height while he stands.

"Do what?"

You laugh, "Manage to find the worst possible thing to say every time."

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

Taking himself in hand, he angles the tip of his cock to kiss the soft rim of your entrance. And Throne, Cato's ecstatic. He finally gets to fill in the gaps of what he should've seen back in the cabin the first time. The theatrics you'd hidden under rags and your own embarrassment.

He hears the cartilage in your gullet click when you swallow dryly and grumble, "Fine then, but don't say I didn't—"

You're rudely interrupted by your own shuddering moan when he starts sliding into you, and Cato's never been happier to shut you up.

He bottoms out in you in one smooth thrust, and the sound you make next is a stellar thing. An eager, warbling 'Sicarius–' as his cockhead jars right up against your cervix. Warm, fluttering muscles around his length and the mewling of a whorish little Ambassador are ever a perfect combination.

But he wants to be closer—so, so much closer; he wants you pressed to his front, so he can absolutely smother himself against you. He wants to burn the feeling of you and him into his edict memory, so nothing can untangle it from him.

Cato has to bend himself at an awkward angle to manage it, but he's well aware of the fact he can manage a free hand to draw lethargic circles on your belly.

"And if they can hear, it's not like anyone will believe them," he pants, a little chuff of laughter chasing his words, looking down at your face buried in the sheets. "They'll think you're a busted piston, or maybe a whining pipe."

"You're such a—" you start as his hand slides slowly down your navel, and your voice tapers off, "You're a-ah..." he dips his fingers between your thighs, and you moan, "Thro—oh—ne..."

His pointer and ring finger spread the hooded peak of your folds, then the middle moves in and rolls over your clit again and again and again. Your smaller, folded body strains back from the new attention. Mewling at the stretch, and the hot, heavy press of trans-human dick inside you. It's just how he likes it. He's got you all to himself, his bulky hips flush to your ass, and his pleased rumbling beside your head. He's genuinely content, if not for the constant paranoia—but content is a feeling he never really appreciated before the warp everything went to shit. But that paranoia is inconsequential compared to the sheer amount of joy he feels with you near and receptive to his affections marauding.

"That's it," he rasps, and he has to swallow down how much he's raring to just blindly rut into you like a savage. "Now, be a good little whore—and say 'Cato, harder please,' for me."

The request falls on deaf... or rather, cock-drunk ears. You simply moan in answer and squeeze, over-eager for him to keep practically putting a dent your womb. It catches Cato by surprise when you climax all too suddenly, high-strung, and fuck, everything in that moment is absolutely perfect—Cato would gladly suffer for an eternity to stay, just like this, for as long as the accursed galaxy will allow. Your body reduced to a juddering wreck, arching forwards and suffering even more touch to your abused clit; your insides twitching in time around him with each passing graze of his finger over that sensitive nerve.

Rearing back isn't a safe choice either, because you end up getting even more of him in your cunt—unable to escape his efforts to hound you over the edge as soon as possible again.

"I c-can't, I-I—" you whine, and in response, like any reasonable Astartes, he keeps pounding until you're compliant.

"Say it," he pants.

"Ca—ah–Cato, h-harder, please—" you start crying as you shake underneath him.

His ears practically perk up at you finally using his first name; it was only quick and garbled, but he's so glad to hear it—he's already addicted to it, impropriety damned, because fuck does it sound good. It's always been Commander, and only recently had it been Sicarius—but now you're finally giving him the validation of crying out for Cato—for him, just him.

You can be louder, and clearer than smothered against the covers. So Cato acts on the brilliant idea to hoist you upright on your knees while he slams into you.

You're struggling erratically against the big hands holding you up, making the sound of a dying animal, now.

He fucks you right through your struggles, one hand keeping your head up under your jaw so he can arch down to tuck his chin on your shoulder. The mixed sound of your little rear making contact with his hips is a rushed, degenerate beat—Throne, the poor headboard of your cot against the wall too, it's almost like sabatons on steel, a rhythmic clank clank clank. And oh, then you make the sweetest little overstuffed sob, isn't that cute. Aren't you adorable.

He's only just started again and he's already liable to empty himself in you.

Suddenly, there's a scream of his name—and a quick, warm-wet splash from you that drips down his balls. Then you've apparently been struck daft and limp in his hold, sniffling out a wrecked little cry as you slacken. It's an entirely new phenomenon. It seems to be a good thing, seeing as you're squeezing on him like it's another orgasm—so he takes it at face value.

He keeps you upright and lets you cinch down around him, staying still—riding out the aftershocks of your finish and keeping his cock nice and warm and snug.

Cato is honestly surprised when you regain enough sense to weakly buck backwards and fuck yourself on him.

"Please... p-please," you slur, and it seems like all you needed was the incitement to be reduced to begging now; "Cato, in me, i-in me..."

Cato's completely enthralled, and he's never been more willing to follow an order faster. He'd walk right into an orbital barrage if you asked, right now.

He shifts his weight into the next thrust and meets your meagre attempts to get him to rut into you.

The loud, wet plap of him bucking forward is almost deafening.

His eyes roll back at the searing burr of pleasure that chases up his spine, panting through a clenched jaw, "So eager to be f-full of Astartes cum, huh?"

"Please, C-Cato—" You can barely even get the sentence around the pace of him practically rearranging your uterus into your stomach.

Fuck, he knows he's so beyond defective it's not even arguable, because he's practically feral for any hint of validation you'll give. And if you want to have your insides painted so badly, why should he deny you?

"I know," he pants, "I-I know."

You whine, well beyond words.

He's about as robbed of verbal sense as you are now, and he groans, your cries becoming hiccups.

He swears he almost blacks out for a moment when he actually finishes. His arrhythmic, choppy sighs chase each thrust. So suddenly seized by his end he slumps forward, pushing you with him, feeling half-dead and gritting his teeth as shudder after shudder wracks him. Persisting, his hips still keep pumping without a hint of respite, pinning you with his bulk while emptying himself inside you, just how you wanted. The subsequent leaking of his spend from you turns the pace of him still rutting into an even stickier cacophony of lewd wet sound. Hand splayed out beside your head supporting his weight, huffing and puffing to himself like a pissed-off bull as he works himself into overstimulation.

He stops at last with a long, trying sigh and pulls his slick and spent-wet fingers out from between your legs; dragging them across the sheets somewhere to the right before letting his palm splay on your hip, dry.

You're bent ass up under him, with your cunt still full of his cock, plus a thick load; moaning so lowly and continuously it's almost a purr.

Cato groans tiredly, rocking his hips a little for good measure despite the ache of it. "Does having me finish inside you feel that good to your little animal brain?"

Your voice is a fucked-out mumble as you say, "Well... 's not like... y'going to get me pregnant or anything."

Cato stays quiet, considering.

And that quiet seemingly sends you asking, "Are—are A-Astartes... sterile?"

"I'm actually not too sure," Cato huffs, and finally grows the spine to pull himself out.

Your gasp at his exit and subsequent little exhuasted 'hmm' is curiously without any hint of fear-smell.

He scowls, "And you're not at all concerned by that?"

A soft groan from you answers, "Got an i-implant... after the first t-time, just incase."

He doesn't have the balls energy to even begin to comment on the fact you'd correctly anticipated him trying after you again. Is he that predictable?

Cato rears back and makes an affirmative sound, groping at your ass, big thumb pulling one of your labia aside to ogle the fat pearls of cum dripping from you. You'd take another load, too. And if you ask him nicely enough, he might do just that right now—or have your mouth again. But he likes spending himself in your warm cunt far more. The way you squirm and squeeze on him when he's in you is intoxicating. Maybe later, given your exhaustion. You both have all cycle—or at least, whatever remains of his rest hours. Regardless, it's a genuine wonder the device hasn't succumbed to the stress of stonewalling an Astartes' draining his balls in you so many times these last few months.

He makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; his warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

No better than some slavering beast, Cato gives into the urge sent by his hindbrain and licks a wide band from clit to taint in one smooth motion, and pulls away, seemingly briefly appeased.

Your squeal is priceless, but—eugh, his cum does taste foul. Nutrient gruel be damned, he needs to fix that somehow.

Sputtering as quietly as he can to avoid dignifying your similar reaction earlier, he grumbles to himself—still pawing and groping at your ass.

"You've ruined m-my sheets," you manage to say.

Cato grunts, "You're the one who decided to piss on them."

He says that, but knows it wasn't. It didn't smell like it—it smelt like satisfaction, and slick, and 'harder, please—please, Cato, harder.'

The sudden shiver that runs up his spine thinking about it surely isn't born of a vaguely possessive thrill.

Abruptly you roll onto your back and sit up, grimacing at him.

"That's n-not what that was," you hiss, flustered enough that you're stammering. "T-That was..."

Cato raises an eyebrow, "What was it, hm?"

Hook, line, sinker—

You dither, red in the face as you mumble, "It–it was nothing."

—and ta-da, he reels in an Ambassador.

"Oh, that's right," he grins and leans over you, "It was you finishing so hard you screamed my name."

Something bold rears it's head in you then, eyeing him petulantly; because you start swatting at him—and Cato's never had you actively physically retaliate for any jabs—so he just freezes, bemused.

They're barely even pats to his sturdy form, and it amuses him to no end that you're so small but still trying to annoy him.

So, he acquiesces; and starts using his own strength on you. He keeps it in check, of course; because you're still a twig of a baseline, even as grating as you are. He's practically tossing you around on the bed with minimal actual effort. Big hands stroking and kneading, rolling you around, pinning you beneath him and trying to annoy you back.

The efforts yield an entirely different result. You're laughing, hyperventilating, and every rough grope earns him a shrill little keen of excitement.

"Throne, you're a degenerate," Cato hums, giving you a wry look before reeling you back under him. "Getting off on being tossed around, are you?"

And with a yelp, you're made to watch him maraud his way up your body again.

You start grinning then, and it's not the typical sweet, coy smile of you luring him in; rather, it's one of a mad thing, feral and giddy.

You snigger sharply, a little breathless from struggling. "You say that like t-there's any downsides."

Cato scoffs, and rolls onto his back, pouting. "So anything that can rough you up will do, then?"

"I, unfortunately, have a very singular preference," you chuff, and snuggle up against him; tucking your chin against his neck, humming softly to yourself.

"Is that so?" He grunts, "And what would that be?"

The kiss to his jaw is heartachingly soft, and you snort a little when he turns to look down at you and your cheek is grated by his stubble.

Your big eyes are locked on his, half-lidded and lazy, and there's that familiar, honeyed look in them again. The soft, heady fixation of focused affection.

Cato feels like he's about to start weeping out of sheer joy. You're all his, your time, your gaze, your adoration—everything.

He's practically vibrating from elation.

"Despite your profession, you are terrible at hiding your emotions," he snarls, despite himself.

"Look at the time—aren't you expected somewhere, Commander Sicarius?" You ask sourly, but the warmth in your eyes stays the same.

Cato wonders if his expression betrays any of that sort of softness. If there's any residual capacity to show affection left in his face after all he's been through. He's sure there's something going on there that's got you looking at him with that sweet gaze. Or maybe you've gotten a good read on what's going on in his head now. He certainly feels as if he's been figured out. As if you've got him pried and nailed open like a xenos corpse in some creaking admech's lair. The prospect isn't anywhere near as daunting as it should be.

Still, he plays along.

"Probably, but you don't seem to really be complaining, Lady Ambassador," Cato quips low in his throat as he leans in close, only to pull away and sneer. Your lips part slightly as you swallow your words instead of speaking, clearly captivated. That said, he is also still a little breathless from teasing you so it was no surprise you seem dazed at his own attempt.

"No, I am—you've just more muscle than brain," you bite out with a flash of snark a second late, taunting him further by sticking your tongue out.

Retaliating immediately, he snares your mouth against his own; sliding his own tongue with yours and drinking in the soft moan that slips free. You nip his bottom lip vengefully, making him stifle a growl and lean away as he hisses, "Don't tempt me for a third."

It's no lie, because fuck, he probably could go for one more. Especially with the treatment he's receiving now.

"Why not?" you say in a tone that's so sweet one of his hearts aches.

"You want more already?" He drawls as he licks your jaw, your throat, everywhere and anywhere his mouth can reach. Tasting the salt of your sweat, and practically suffocating himself in the smell of you. Basking in his victory—Cato makes a sound like a great big feline, somewhere between a chuff and a growl against your neck; lazily entertaining himself by mouthing a bevy of bruises there. You almost immediately let him do as he pleases, your mouth hanging open, eyes half lidded and face flushed. Cato tries—and fails—to restrain the sudden amusement edging his tone at how easily you fall to your lusts. "You're going to overload that implant and end up gravid, woman."

"Throne, yes—" You slur, wriggling against him as he lathes his tongue across the top of one of your tits.

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

Cato glares at you, and raises a brow. You're pretending you hadn't said anything and he's stunned you think he's stupid enough to miss it, "Baseline ducal protocol likely dictates... I would have to carry you off to be wed if that happened," he says, rushed. "Or... something of the likes, I suppose."

"R-Right," You fake a cough and avert your eyes, and you're breathing a little heavy.

"Within the context, of..." Cato backpedals, suddenly hyperaware of himself. "Of... that theoretical scenario."

You harrumph meekly, and then mumble, "Oh, of course... I agree, in that hypothetical situation."

He blinks, flabbergasted, "...really?"

You clear your throat and nod stuffily, only to tuck closer against him.

There's an entire subsector's worth of unpacking those statements need; you agree, but is that you saying it's a distant assurance? That you'd let him, one day, or is it merely conjecture? The primitive satisfaction of that base biological imperative is a heady one. Dangerous, too. If there is a chance of knocking you up, it would require significant subterfuge to keep hidden. Astartes can smell that sort of thing—and fuck, a Primarch could probably tell who's it was when given a source sample. He's got no litmus test for how easy you both would be caught. Maybe if you're suddenly on leave, for say, nine-months? That's one solution.

But where would you go—oh, Throne, he's thinking about Talassar again, and you in a pretty little slip, or in his rest robes, lying next to him notating; maybe resting against his chest in the crook of his arm—the fantasy is mundane, and domestic, and anathema to his status as High Suzerain of Ultramar, but still his cock throbs and his cheeks heat at the idea of calling you Lady Sicarius.

Your hands card through his hair abruptly, combing and petting him, and hm... that's nice, why are you looking at him like that—

"What do you think you've doing?" He growls, ever the hypocrite—his face doesn't feel hot at all, shut up.

You harrumph, "Stop pretending you don't like it."

"Whatever," Cato scoffs, and leans into your touch—not before mumbling; "Cunt."

Self-admittedly, he entirely deserves the feisty little smack he cops to the snout the very next second.

"Don't call me that," you pout.

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

He's having you a third time just because of that, for sure.

[slaaneshisass]

While I'm thinking about it more space marine(chaos or not) should be fat.

I know that space marines are engineerd to not get fat but hear me out. Not only do space wolfs have feasts, but the blood angels use art to combat the red thirst i.e that chocolateter guy who goes viral every now and then. But it could also be a reason that a space marine fell to chaos after centuries of eating the same Nutrient paste I know that at least one space marine had a meat ball or something and was like "danm food is so good when its not just paste" and if slaanesh shows up promising more food that taste and feels good and more,I know I'd take it. But it would also give more protection for their internal organs and also I think space marines that looked like this but much bigger would be so hot

Thank you for reading my rambling

[virozero]

Melech Tyrash and his Melody!~

Making this oc was heavily inspired by @kit-williams yandere space marine fics!

Maybe I'll even write fics with him!

[thememestrider]

40k Sfw Alphabet - Vulkan

I'm pretty new to 40k tumblr, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm yet to see many sfw/nsfw alphabets for our men, and I don't think I've seen any for the primarchs. As a big fan of the alphabets, I thought I'd do some; for my own enjoyment more than anything, but I'm hoping some of you guys will enjoy them too :)

I'm kicking off the biggest, strongest and most huggable of the primarchs: Vulkan.

Apologies for typos and ooc/lore inaccuracies

Please enjoy

A - Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

I think it goes without saying that Vulkan would be a very affectionate partner. He wears his heart on his sleeve and unlike many of his brothers, he's not one to hide or suppress his emotions. If he loves someone, he will want them to know it and he will want everyone else around to know it. Everyday. All the time. Without missing a beat.

Vulkan would show his affection visibly through physical touch, gestures and by saying it outright. Everyday, he will say "I love you". Every chance he gets, he's going to have a hand on you, be it touching your thigh when you're both seated at a meeting or resting his hand on your lower back while walking the halls of his flagship.

B - Best friend (What are they like as a friend? How would the friendship start?)

Vulkan is be the ultimate emotional-support bestie. This isn't even a head cannon: this is lore-accurate fact. When he reunited with Rogal Dorn, he gave him a hug. Before the Heresy, he believed in trying to redeem Konrad Curze. He is the most empathetic and emotionally intelligent of the primarchs, and all everybody knows it. As a friend, he'd be damn-near perfect.

As for how your friendship would start, I think it'd be pretty easy/straightforward. Right from the start, you'd feel how good the vibes around this man were and he'd feel the same way. You two would just click right away. It'd start with a simple conversation- maybe you bumped into each other at some political event, or maybe you met on the training grounds and wound up sparring or training together. From there, your friendship would only grow, and it would last for the rest of your lives.

C - Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Is it just me or does it feel like a lot of these are almost self explanatory? OF COURSE Vulkan likes to cuddle. When you are in his arms, he knows you are safe. He knows you feel loved. And, as I very much see his love language being physical touch, cuddles make HIM feel loved.

He has no preference as to how you two cuddle- just whatever you prefer. He does like it when you lay atop his chest, where he can lay his arms across your back, hold you like a comforter, and keep you both warm.

D - Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

At his core, Vulkan is a protector. A builder. So having a place where he can feel secure and be at peace isn't just something he would want; it's something he needs. And when you become a part of his life, this need would only grow deeper.

Since Vulkan is a black-smith, and therefore already apt at building and using his hands (wink) I can see him being a skilled cook. He'd love cooking for you, too- it's another way he can show how much he loves you.

E - Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Of all the primarchs, Vulkan would be the best to have a break up with. As mentioned earlier, he is extremely empathetic and he has very good emotional intelligence. If he were to break up with you, it'd be with an in-person conversation where he explains how he feels and let's you down very, very gently. If you were to break up with him, he would understand, and try to ensure that you both part on good terms. However, behind closed doors, he'd be heart broken and he would grieve the loss of your relationship deeply and agonisingly.

F - Fiancé (How to they feel about commitment? How quickly would they want to get married?)

Commitment goes hand-in-hand with loyalty, and Vulkan is one of the most loyal men out there. As soon as he knows he loves you, he's going to want to keep you. He wants you to be his, and he wants to be yours.

G - Gentle (How gentle are they? Both physically and emotionally?)

Do I really need to answer this?

H - Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it and what is it like?)

Again- do I really need to answer this?

I - I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

I could see him saying it pretty quickly, what with how quickly and stronglyI see you both bonding emotionally. With how intune he is with his feelings, I think he'd recognise fairly quickly that what he feels for you is love and that you need to know it- if not to be in a relationship with you, then at least to give you a heads up in case you didn't feel the same way.

J - Jealous (How jealous do they get? What are they like when they're jealous?)

Vulkan is loyal. He trusts you as much as he hopes you trusts him. As such, he doesn't get jealous- he doesn't feel he has any reason to be.

K - Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Long, deep and absolutely brimming with love. Gentle, too. Even in more passionate moments, he'd never hurt you, not even by accident. He likes to kiss you on the lips, mainly, as he considers that to be the most emotionally intimate. That said, he does enjoy it when, while laying on top of him, you kiss him down his neck and along his collarbones.

L - Little Ones (How are they around children?)

Vulkan is maybe the only primarch who is 100% perfect with children. He's just the sweetest man there ever was. I think he'd like the idea of having children, too, but only if it was what you wanted. If you didn't want kids, he wouldn't push the issue.

M - Mornings (How are morning spent with them?)

Slow and sleepy. Neither of you would want to get up. Vulkan, in particular, would simply love to spend the entire day holding you, dozing off to the feeling of your body pressed against his.

N - Nights (How are nights spent with them?)

He's definitely falling asleep with his arms around you. Either spooning you from behind or holding you across his chest like a blanket.

O - Openess (When will they start revealing things about themselves? Do they reveal things slowly over time or all at once?)

As soon as it's clear how much you two click, Vulkan will begin to open up to you. Slowly at first so as not to overwhelm you, and from there, at about the same rate you feel comfortable opening up with him. I think he'd really dislike it if you kept things from him, too. Your happiness is his number one concern, and the idea that you didn't feel comfortable or safe telling him something would distress him very much.

P - Patience (How easily are they angered?)

Already, Vulkan has the patience of a saint. But with you? It's damn-near infinite. It might be thinner if he's stressed or worn down, but if he snaps at you or says something a little too sharp, he will realise immediately and apologise right away.

Q - Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail or do they forget the minor things?)

You're the most important thing in this man's life, of course he's going to remember everything about you. Moreover, he's going to use that knowledge for the gifts he crafts for you in his forge. Did you once mention off-handed that daisies were your favourite flower? Don't be surprised if the next day, you find a box with a daisy pendant left for you on your duchess. You mention how much you'd love a pet to keep you company while he's away crusading? Vulkan's going to get you a kitten or a puppy the next day- and he'll know which to get you, because he'll remember whether you're a cat person or a dog person.

R - Remember (What's their favourite memory of the relationship?)

I thought long and hard about this for a while, but honestly I struggled to come up with a specific example. Maybe you guys tell me in the comments or the reblogs what you think it might be, based on how you'd imagine your relationship with Vulkan.

S - Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Because you're a human, Vulkan would be very physically protective of you. He would want you living as far from any war as was possible, and even then, wherever you would end up living would be heavily defended by his legion. I could see him keeping you on Nocturne or Prometheus, as they are his and his sons' homeworlds, but both those places are very hostile in of themselves (Im pretty sure Nocturne is even considered a Death World), so maybe he'd set you up on a peaceful pleasure world or something of the like; overseen by a regiment of Salamanders, of course.

Vulkan is not only the largest primarch, but he's one of the most capable in combat. He's also a perpetual, and therefore functionally immortal. For these reasons, he doesn't need much physical protection- at least none of the kind you might be able to offer. But on the other hand, Vulkan absolutely needs something to guard his heart. He is a deeply emotional man and is very sensitive to grief and the suffering of others. When he looses his sons in combat or fails to save innocents from death, he will need your comfort. He'll need you to hold him tight, maybe even offer your shoulder for him to cry on. He'll need your assurance and your unconditional love. Of course, all of these things you're more than happy to give. As much as he needs and more.

T - Try (How much effort do they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts and everyday tasks?)

Vulkan would love nothing more than to go all out with all of these things a the time, but the demands of war and his duties as a primarch make it difficult to consistently. When he has the time, he will absolutely spoil you.

Regardless of how busy he is, you would always be receiving many, many gifts- jewellery, ornaments and cute, personalised knick-knacks that hand crafted by Vulkan in his forge.

U - Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

If you're not careful, his protectiveness over you could start to feel overwhelming, especially during the events of the Heresy. Additionally, his desire to tend to your every emotional need may lead to you feeling smothered. But the moment you tell him how you're feeling, Vulkan would listen. He might slip back into those habits every now and then, but again, with time and good communication, he would eventually change for the better. Doesn't mean he'll stop protecting you, though- it just means he'll be less overt about it.

V - Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Vulkan is about the humblest man you could ever meet- vanity isn't a word in his vocabulary.

W - Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Without question.

X - Xtra (A random head cannon for them)

The Salamanders would revere you just as much as they do their father. They'd see you as their parent, and they'd hope that you would see them as your sons. Being assigned to your personal guard would be among their greatest honours, and you would come to know every marine on your guard personally. When it was their turn to return to Nocturne to see their families, you might even come along, for if the Salamanders are your sons, their families are your families as well.

Y - Yuck (What are some things they wouldn't like in a partner, or in general?)

Arrogance, a lack of empathy, selfishness and anything synonymous with those three things.

Z - Zzz (What are some sleeping habits of theirs?)

Despite appearances, I can see Vulkan struggling with insomnia and even nightmares, purely because he's such a sensitive man thrust into the most brutal and horrific wars. The insomnia would ease the moment he had you to hold at night, but his nightmares would take longer to fade. If he wakes up in a state, gasping for air and drenched in sweat, he will need you to comfort him- to listen as he talks through what he saw. To cradle his head or hold him him around the waist as he drifts back to sleep. This will become even more frequent following his torture at the hands of Curze.

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: A very lecherous gift for you authors and readers.

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You have been tricked into believing one of your bonded’s needed your help, and they do, but it turns out it was much more. Way much more.

𝕬𝖉𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘: Hura, Darsas & Blasius are bonded to the reader only for this despicable story. This is not canon.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams(It is almost exhausting to wright for 4 characters. How did you do your lovely Raven bois?), @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐂’𝐬: Hura by @/gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan & Darsas by @/sleepyfan-blog.

TW // Smut, Foursome, Breeding, Boobies, Marking, Overstimulation, Tentacles.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Oh, how you should have known better than to trust one of your fellow friends that had called for you. Telling you that one of your lovers, mates, spouses, bonded has not been feeling well. Especially Hura, an Astartes of great strength and mystery to him as well as an Apothecary: A Astartes skilled in medicine.

So, the Astartes medic should have been alright, right? Though, by being a loving spouse. You choose to be ignorant of how your friend said those warning words to you. All full of snarkiness and hidden amusement, and yet… You continued on to see how your lover was doing, checking up on him. Fearing no one would help him despite being a well known Astartes.

Oh, how you should have known from the start.

“Hura!” You cry, arching your back into the bed as the Apothecary has his hand positioned lightly on the back of your head, pushing you down and keeping you pinned into his mattress. His huffing, hot breaths painting across that back of your neck as you can feel how his cock twitched inside of you, spilling his warm seed deep into your womb. His lips then nibbling; biting at the back of your neck.

“So sweet, little mouse.” Hura purrs down at you, gently into your ear. Sending a shiver down your spine. His form thrusting a few times when you do, gaining that little bit of extra friction while he groans. Pumping more of his seed into you. “Coming to my aid.”

“Perhaps, I shall call for you more often?” The Death Guard Apothecary thinks to himself. His breath tickling your neck as he started up again, slowly thrusting in and out of your marked walls. Your body completely melting underneath him as you bite into the sheets, muffly moaning into them. Not really expecting him to go at it again after a round or two, maybe more? “You seem so willing, so pretty…”

Hura doesn’t seem that he is quite done with you. Not at all actually… He can finally breed you with almost reckless abandon while you were just trying to help him with his situation after all. Walking into him at the wrong time. A time where most would prioritize this certain situation and should take a leave for it.

Admitly, you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into at first, but with a couple well played coos, praises and soft words towards you. You eventually inch closer to him, and he had you right where he wanted you. Nude and willing to provide relief for him.

The Apothecary can feel you withering underneath him, moaning and crying out for him, biting into the sheets below you. Pleasured tears running from your eyes as you didn’t expect such intense of an intercourse from a gentle Apothecary like Hura himself. It was not many times he would be so sexually driven to the point where he was rough and deep like he were to… like he was trying to breed you. Yet here he was, going at you once more, again and again. Driving your mind numb with your only thoughts about being him and only him.

Oh, such a sweet thing you are. You should know their breeding times. He has taught you all this before. Some have these… primal, sexual desires; the need to breed while others were more… normal as they can be. Telling you how overwhelming it can be for a baseline human like you. How most do not stop until they are satisfied with how well they stuff you with their mark, their kin and Hura the Apothecary was no exception to these delicious whims.

Soon as you entered through the doors of his quarters he doesn’t hesitate to lure you over. Cooing and talking to you softly, getting you ever closer to him before he snags you. Bringing you into a very intoxicating kiss. A kiss that has you buckling your knees and falling right into his hands. If you were to refuse the kiss, (which you didn’t.) He would have let you go, let himself suffer the primal drive of an aching cock. Though, he could always ask the other bonds to see if they can provide him the relief he craves for…

He groans again, pressing himself up against you more, squishing you lightly into his sheets. His own armored chest pressing gently up against your back, completely covering you in him: his scent, his mark, his body. Enjoying how well you taste on his rotting tongue as he continually nibbles and kitten licks all over your skin, pleasing his senses well.

“You are like the nectar out of the Garden of Decay.” He rumbles, his chest vibrating through his armor. His tongue giving you a lick at the back of your neck before returning to his mouth, savoring your taste with a hum. His nose coming in to nuzzle into the side of your neck, inhaling your scent. Comforting him that you wouldn’t leave him any time soon. That you would be stuck with him until he is finished with you.

“Rightfully sweet and savory.” He mumbles, purring into your skin. Shifting a bit against your back so you cannot wiggle without him allowing you to do so. One of his hands grasping at your hips while the other holds him from absolutely squishing you beneath his armor and weight. “I wonder if you taste just as good from the inside just as you do out?”

He knows the answer to that one, but he can’t help question it over and over again, like he almost forgets your taste, and by Nurgle he will swear that he won’t. It’s why he has to come back for more. To feel you move and rut into his face while his tongue explores the depths of your baseline anatomy. Drinking up anything your body can give him.

His body shivers as he climaxes again, nuzzling into you more. His hand on your hip keeping you in place as he can feel you shiver and whine; whimpering into the sheets. His cock twitching and stilling all the way inside of you, keeping you full of him.

Tucking his head into your neck. He snuggles on top of you all while keeping track of how much you can take from him. If you need any water or snacks for him to provide you with… your more fragile body. Listening to your stuttering breaths and slobbering moans you voice through his sheets as he purrs lightly at you, comforting you.

“You are doing so well for me, little mouse.” He praises, raising up a little from your body to look down at you properly on his bed. Keenly observing how your body was pinned tightly beneath him and how you were shaking slightly. His Apothecary side coming out just a bit. “Do you need any water, any food? Would you like to continue?”

“N-no, just want you.” It takes you a moment to respond considering his cock was still inside of you practically cockwarming you, and he had just railed you like… three times or more? “Always want you.”

“Oh, such sweet words my little mouse.” He can’t help but purr down at you. Placing his gauntlets on your ass and giving it a little squeeze. “Don’t let Blasius hear you say that.”

“Don’t let Blasius hear what?” Another, masculine voice comes out of nowhere. A figure of armor walking into the room and closing the door behind them. Restricting access to those who were not permitted in Huras quarters.

“Ah, Darsas…” The Apothecary coos at him, not at all bothered by his sudden appearance. In fact, it pleases him more to know that his other bond was doing okay. “How are you?”

“I knew I felt something… primal going on here.” Darsas comments, either ignoring Huras question or too enraptured with that was going on in this room. His form kneeling down on the side of the bed; next to you. His gauntlet coming up to gently pat you on the head.

“Should have told me you were in your season, Hura. I would have also provided you.” Darsas states to him, looking up to the Apothecary while still patting your head. “I know how you are during your time of… need.”

“I would have summoned you, but it seems little mouse had wanted to aid me…” Hura responds, gently squeezing your ass again. Thrusting a little bit inside of you. Hearing you whine out and push up against Darsas gauntlet on your head.

“Is that so?” The Psyker hums, looking down at you. Inching a bit closer so he can caress your head, going from your scalp to your jawline; gently hooking your chin with his armored finger, making you look up at him. His dark brown, almost black eyes taking in your hazy, blissed out ones from beneath his helmet.

A tiny crack sounds out from Darsas while his helmet spits where his mouth would be. Not splitting up into different sections of a mouth, simply just like taking off a piece of his helmet. Showing his mouth littered with needle sharp teeth, and a long tongue escaping his mouth, rolling like a snake before slowly drags it up your cheek, tasting you. His saliva staining your skin with his smell.

“Such a sweet little mouse, isn’t she?” Hura asks Dursas, gently massaging your ass as he thrusts slowly inside of you. Groaning a bit as he can feel you tighten around him.

“Hmmm, very sweet.” Darsas agrees with a hum, moving his tongue along your face. Going from your cheek, jawline, chin then your lips. Prodding at them, asking you to open up. Purring at you when you do. His tongue evading your mouth, taking it over. Swirling around your own, trapping it. His saliva mixing with yours, and it is a bit more thicker and hotter.

You try and recuperate with them, but it hard when you have a medic in his cycle behind you that has railed you multiple times already, and you can’t remember how many times. Then, you have the Psyker in front of you, making your mouth his. Tasting you for all your worth, making sure not to leave anything untouched.

“Darsas…” You manage to moan out, muffled by his tongue. Your shaky hands coming up to grasp tightly at his helmet. Unsure if you wanted to push them both away because of their intensity or not… They were being so soft with you, going slow and letting you recover before starting up again. It was almost like they had found an infinite cycle to fuck you at a rewarding pace.

“Yes, little flower?” He purrs, pulling his tongue out of your mouth and licking the excess saliva from your lips, making sure you stay clean. Knowing how Hura can be…

“I— hah! Fuck…” You curse and shiver, grasping onto his helmet more harshly, tucking him into the top of your chest. Another wave of bliss over coming over you while your body shivers and melts into him. A thick warm feeling going through your nerves and womb as Hura coos down at you. Leaning over again to nip at your shoulders.

“Pretty little mouse.” The Apothecary praises in your ear, giving you a couple more thrusts, making you rock into Darsas as the Psyker rumbles lightly at you. His gauntlets gently coming up to rest on the sides of your torso, liking the feeling of your naked breasts being pressed up against his helmet. “So helpful, so tasteful, all ours…”

Darsas purrs into your chest. Once again agreeing with Hura, shaking his head a little bit. His tongue coming back out to slot right between your breasts, lapping at you slowly and curling around the curves of your chest. His gauntlets squeezing your sides lightly as he can feel your breath stutter at his sudden actions to feast on you.

The Apothecary breeding you chuckles, leaning back up to trace the spine of your back. Pressing his armored fingers gently into your back, up and down. Watching how you keen into his touch, very sensitive to both of them. He wonders how much longer you can take before you need to take a very needed, and rewarding break; in other means, grateful aftercare.

Hura attention snaps up to Darsas as the Psyker suddenly whines. His Apothecary senses going wild that something may have happened when he released that Blasius had somehow came into his room. The more… animalistic Death guard pulling Darsas back gently from their little mouses’ chest, rumbling deeply down at him, giving the Psyker a gentle nuzzle to the side of his helmet.

How did Hura not notice the other Death Guard, his other bond come in? He was sure he would have noticed him, but he supposes not. The cycles does tend to make some oblivious to their surroundings, but very aware of the bonds.

Either way, he is strangely happy that he had all his bonds around him. A content purr coming out of him as he watches the two other Death Guards nuzzle on one another. Though, he not one to leave out his little mouse. His gauntlet coming down to grasp at her waist and pull her back into him.

She gives him a little whine at the sudden movement. Her hands coming to grasp back at him. Nuzzling into his vambrace when he wraps his arms around her front, keeping her up against him as he was still inside of her walls, cockwarming her. His nose nuzzling the top of her head before kissing her neck.

“Look what you have done, little mouse.” Hura coos into her ear, making her shiver on his cock. His gauntlets slowly tracing her front up and down. “Made us all eager.”

“Can you go one more round, little mouse? Hmmm?” He asks, still aware that you were just a human. He didn’t want t break you, and that would leave a heavy mark on him if he did. He was an Apothecary, not so much of a killer… unless he had to be.

You not sure if you could go another around. Sure, you loved the sex, but it can go on for too long and put a strain on your body. Plus, you know better to but upfront with all your Death Guard’s. Especially, with Hura. No one ever plays with the medic unless he wants to himself.

“I-I’m not sure.” You stammer tiredly, but still buzzing with almost numb pleasure while you glance at Blasius and Drasas. Both of them getting into a bit of a power struggle with their tentacles. Trying to see who would fold first, and with Blasius having more tentacles than Drasas… it is an unfortunate advantage for Blasius as he uses them to wrap around Drasas own and under the poor Psyker armor. A surprised sound coming out of Drasas then a heavy gasp when Blasius uses everything in his advantage to dominate. One of other tentacles coming out to go under Darsas helmet and drag along where his hair would be. Knowing just what makes any of his bonds, partners tick.

If he wants to breed, he’ll make it happen with all the best advances. Using everything out of a book or a… specialist is such matters. Though, the whole room is a bit lucky Blasius is not in such a mood, not they wouldn’t finding it rather exciting…

“That’s alright, little mouse.” Hura hums into her ear, nuzzling just right below her earlobe. Glad that she wasn’t going to try and push herself, even with him in such a… “horny” state. Learning such a word from a peculiar Emperor child. “We always have tomorrow.”

“T-tomorrow?” You hesitate to even recite that word back to him. Your mind trying to comprehend doing such heavy acts again tomorrow. Your walls tightening around him at the thought…

Hura laughs lightly at you then rumbles when he feels you tighten around him. His body shifting a bit to hit your g-spot in return in a teasing manner. “Yes, tomorrow. You are not leaving my quarters untill I dismiss you.”

You can’t help but groan at his words, leaning back into him more. Sometimes, you hate Apothecaries like any other normal person and Astartes alike… So bossy… “You’re going to have to give me a doctor’s notice…”

The Apothecary laughs at you again, nuzzling into your neck before he slowly lifts you off his hard cock that was going to be that way for a few weeks… His hands adjusting you carefully up against his armor and heading for his bathroom. “Of course, little mouse. Let’s leave these too to… explore for themselves.”

You nod at that, grateful that Hura is always so caring. Your body snuggling up into his arms as you catch a brief glance of the Blasius and Darsas. Their armor shifting as Blasius hisses at the Psyker to stay still. He is just trying to tease the hell out of his second most sensitive lover. :(

[moodymisty]

Hi! I am SO happy your requests are open again, could I Ask for Logan Grimnar x Reader!Inqusitor where she was sent as punishment to monitor Space Wolves and with time she warms up to them and starts having crush on Logan because of his charisma, and after few months they chill in his chambers as he casually mentions that he knows you are into him bc he can smell arousal of you whenever he is around which leads him to confess that he also has feelings for you and asks if you want to tame the Great Wolf? I'm sorry if its written so wonky but its my first ever request😭

Author's note: Sorry this is so short;;; I'm at my wits end with block and i saw this was your first request and really wanted to make sure you got SOMETHING;;

Relationships: Logan Grimnar/Fem!Reader

Warnings: A bit nsfw, a lime if you will ;3 but nothing else

'For a woman sent here on punishment, you've seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.'

'What do you mean by that?'

Grimnar had gotten a confused and a bit miffed expression thrown at him, after he had caught you alone.

He has a habit of doing it. You've presumed that the lucky foot charm attached to his belt actually has some sort of borderline heretical power; Or perhaps he's actively seeking you out to- with a word unfitting of him- pester you.

The old astartes laughed, a deep bellow that nearly hurt your ears and cast a weight in your belly that you hate to admit even existed. All astartes voices are deeper and heavier than most average men, and much louder. Grimnar however seemed ever heavier, and you could feel the way his voice weighed on your body.

'I think it would only be a dumb pup that wouldn't notice the way you smell when you watch me train my men.'

'Part of my duty involves obsv-'

You crossed your arms tight around your chest, as if trying to use them as an extra layer of armor against his words that's peeling it all away piece by piece far faster than you can withstand.

Heat blossomed on your neck, from anger or embarrassment you weren't sure, and your words came out harsher and less respectful that you perhaps intended.

He laughs again, though this time it's almost more like a snort than a full belly laugh. He was so unafraid to look you in the eyes, smirking down at you through the thick hair of his beard.

'Don't try that lie on me, little one.'

He took a step closer, lodging himself firmly in your personal space. You held firm and didn't give him an inch, attempting to hold together your cracking exterior. Your skin felt like it was on fire, boiling in your veins as your guts twisted in your stomach.

Grimnar reached up and with his gargantuan gauntlet grasped your jaw with a practiced gentleness, looking at you as if he could read your mind.

'If you want to tame a wolf, you can sure try. You're a smart girl.'

'I might be an old wolf, But I'm sure you'll be plenty satisfied once I'm finished.'

You've hated that he always calls you girl since first sight; It demeaned your stature, your position, your acomplishments. You also hate the way it hits you where it feels far too good and makes your knees want to buckle beneath you. Your gut felt like it's full of lead, count clenching around nothing as if already disobeying you and yearning for him like a bitch in heat.

[kit-williams]

-hands payment type of your choosing-

I'll have one ticket to the 'Lamenters/Blood Angels being able to smell and/or consume menstrual blood, possibly even having a preference for it or maybe just liking that they can get blood without killing their favorite person' please. Feel free to toy with it at your leisure, I will enjoy anything you make even somewhat close to this topic >:D

and of course take your time, I'm just putting this in the box for whenever/if you want to write the idea

And you get the honor of seeing the latest OC... A Khornite Lamenter of the Red Corsairs... Berserker Varial Blood-drinker or also known as Varial the Insatiable.

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog

tw: somnophilia, blood, idk do I put slavery and limb loss because that just feels par for the course for 40k

"Cherish?" Varial's rage rotted mind woke up to the smell of sweet blood and instantly called out for his reward.

The maimed slave known as 'Cherish' was asleep next to her master. Varial had to maim her or else she would end up like other Cherish's that did not obey and it would leave him inconsolable. How his jaws clamped down on one of her legs. He did not like it when his Cherished screamed... it brought up painful memories... all their screams did. Her leg was healing up nicely but his room smelt of blood.

He moved over to the locked door sniffing the seams wondering if they were trying to lure him out... no the door was still locked. Panic rushed into his rage rotted mind as he went over to Cherish, her hair kept short to keep it out of the way of his mouth, did he bite her? She whined at his rough handling... then why did he smell Cherish's blood?

A memory floated through the miasma of rage that often occupied his mind. Back upon Badab a slave explaining why she smelt of blood and ways she could relieve it. The dirty threadbare outfit that Cherish wore was lifted up as Varial his nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of old blood... old tissue... mixed with her feminine discharge of that acidic crevice of her body. Moments where words wanted to come to him yet flee him upset the corrupted Lamenter as he could remember poetic songlike prose spilling from his mouth with ease now he struggles to string sentences together... but the price he must pay for the thirst to be quenched and his foul luck kept at bay.

A long slow lick up his beloved Cherish's thighs licking up the smeared blood there before he stuck his tongue deep between her folds. She mewled so sweetly... he always picked good Cherishs' who made such good noises for him... made Varial feel so good... His warped mouth opens up just a little too wide as his mutated black tongue pushes deep inside. Arousal burns in his nose as her fingers grip the bedding tightly as she moans still stuck in a haze of sleep. Globs of sheded lining cling to his tongue as he pulls it back into his maw and snapping his jaws in a pleased motion before repeating his intrusion into her woman hood.

"Cherish!" He trills pleased by her; He cherished her... he cherished her... that's all he could remember at times was his need to cherish a mortal... they only let him have one mortal at a time to cherish. Talons push into the flesh of her thighs as he feasts on the blood offering. "Cherish!" He trills again getting excited.

"Varial!" A voice hisses on the vox causing him to look to the door. It was his handler. "Stupid thing..." he hears the fellow traitor astartes mumble, "We're going to need you planet side to scare the mortals." Varial did not care... his Cherish was bleeding for him and his head dipped back between her thighs to listen to her breathy whimpers. "VARIAL stop acting like some pussy drunk Slaaneshi-"

The cord snapped hard as his body slammed into the door it holding but barely finally startling his Cherish awake as she scrambled to the corner, pleasing Varial as her blood smeared onto his pillow. He snarled and snapped his maw at the vox caster before turning around to grab the splotchy red helm where faded yellow paint could be seen between the chipping red paint.

"Cherish!" He says again reaching out to her and pulling her into a hug and nuzzling her head, "Be good. Stay. Come back soon." His rough unnaturally deepened voice clips out those basic sentences as anymore he turns into a snarling mess. She just nodded weakly as he puts her in his spot in the bed before heading over to the door. At least he had something to quench his thirst. Lest he try to take a bit of his handler... oh... he would eventually run out of luck but Varial was patient... he could wait to taste astartes blood on his tongue.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Protection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OH FUCK NO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[roroco316]

😂Because I recently collected a miniature of Argle tal, and I colleted so many now. So I drew this, which is basically a girl’s daily delulu

[aqua-the-smiter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked again. No it wasn't.

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

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

"My lord!"

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

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

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

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

Thankfully he had never started to sing it.

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

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

He really hated that song.

"My lord?"

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

That was how he'd met you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it satisfactory?" You asked.

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

"You're welcome, Lord Sicarius."

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

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

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

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

"Not an inaccurate assessment."

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

"Are you well, Cato?"

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

"I will be fine." He said.

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

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

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

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

I love you.

[remembrancersticky]

I had a shower epiphany a few weeks ago and have just been working on cranking out this oneshot. Oh, I had so much fun with this. Thanks to @squishyowl for the dividers! They are very pretty!

You get dragged along for a fishing trip, scent a space wolf, and he carves your name onto his (metaphorical?) heart. Fenrysian is just Norwegian here for the sake of simplicity. Very fluffy given this is 40k. TW for hunting, non-sexual nudity, and cannon-typical violence. Asmundr art here and here.

Space Wolf OC(Asmundr) x Serf!Fem!Reader - SFW - 2.8k Words

The world of Silġ was not the coldest you had ever been to. But it was still the thickest part of winter on this side of the planet, and you could feel the moisture of your breath catch and freeze against your eyelashes when the wind shifted.

You waddled behind the three wolves you served today, waylaid by the heaviest furs and boots you owned and the sled-cart you pulled along behind you. The blizzard that had raged for the last month ended a few days ago, though the warp storm that trapped your ship here had not. The sky still sputtered out a sporadic scattering of snow, powdering the dense ice on which you tread.

The three in front of you wore no more than training armor and pelt. You were envious of their enhanced thermo-regulation as you flexed your fingers to stave off the chill that had seeped through your thick mittens.

“Here,” the venerable veteran, Ægir, announced, stabbing his chainsword into the ice.

You slowed as you caught up to the group and looked about. You were the only thing besides flat ice for several kilometers in any direction.

“Finally!”

The youngest, Asmundr, was not known to keep his opinions to himself at the best of times. He was brash and stubborn in every aspect of his life. He was the one that insisted you join them on this venture.

The company and ship’s crew were trapped on Silġ until the warp storm passed. You had already been stuck more than several weeks and many of the younger warriors were antsy for activity beyond their regular training. And, while rations were not depleted, it did no harm to secure supplementary provisions while they were available. Ergo, the Wolf Lord had allowed the formation of a few small hunting parties.

While you assisted the entire pack as your services were needed, Asmundr had all but named you as his personal serf. Not that he had asked anyone in particular, nor would he ever be granted a personal serf given his rank and status if he had. He was simply dogged in requesting your time, specifically. Not that you minded spending so much time with him; he had grown on you quite a bit, and you enjoyed the stories he would regale you with as you cared for his armor.

And so, here you were. Accompanying the small expedition on their fishing trip. You had given up on getting an explanation for exactly what you were meant to do beyond ferry equipment or attend to whatever unfavorable task may arise. Frankly, it was simply a nice change of pace from the monotony of the last few weeks, nice to be away from the stagnant air of the ship, and you were thankful to have been allowed to attend.

Hodr swiped his boot along the ground to disturb the thick layers of snow and reveal the solid ice beneath. Though not as old as Ægir, the scars upon his face told a story of numerous battles fought with unfettered ferocity. He was cold, stoic, but on occasion you glimpsed something wild lurking deep within his eye.

After stomping solidly on the ice without so much as a crack, Hodr gave a nod to Ægir, who activated his chainsword.

Still stuck in the ice, the blade began throwing up shards of ice and compact snow. You turned slightly and covered your face with a mitten to prevent anything from lodging in your eyes. You felt the pitter patter of debris against your form suddenly disappear. Looking up, it seemed Asmundr unthinkingly shifted his position to effectively shield you from the onslaught.

“Mortal,” Hodr called, as the roar of the sword died down. “Bring the pick and shovel.”

You pulled the tools from the sled and made your way to the hole-in-progress. In order to support the weight of three space marines (and especially the earlier stomping), the ice was undoubtedly thick. This pass with the chainsword had not even been close to reaching the water below. Hodr reached down to grapple with the large slab of ice that had been cut away while you worked on extricating the smaller shards. Once the site was cleared, Asmundr gently pulled you a step back as Ægir began his next series of cuts. This process repeated three times before a sufficient opening was formed.

Standing, you wiped the snow off of your knees and pushed the ice shards nearest the opening away with your boot. Suddenly, you felt something thick and heavy land across your back and weigh down on your shoulders. You were almost embarrassed about the surprised yelp you let out, but it was worth it to hear the youngest of the wolves let out a full bellied laugh.

“I trust you to keep this warm for me, vennen min!” Asmundr’s voice bounced with mirth behind you. You rearranged the large pelt he had thrown on you as you turned to face him. And quickly decided to look anywhere else as he undressed to the fullest extent possible.

“O-Of course, my lord.” You elected to keep your head pointed towards the sky as you extended your hands to take the remainder of his clothes. You could clearly hear the other two wolves snickering behind the sound of blood rushing through your ears. It did not seem nearly as cold out as it did just a few minutes ago.

Asmundr placed the wad of clothes in your hands with a smirk before leaning into the sled to fetch his polespear.

“Be ready, brother,” Ægir said as he nudged Hodr bodily. “You’ll have to make up the pup’s slack.”

The young pup bristled in agitation before he sharply pivoted on his brothers with a note of forced laughter. Coincidentally, you suddenly received a full view of all his glory.

“Ha! Afraid you’re not gonna be able to keep up, old man?”

You forced your eyes not to wander below his ribs, which was very difficult as he stood with his chest puffed out and fists confidently resting on his hips. Your face felt so hot that you thought the ice would melt under your feet and swallow you whole.

Despite your years in service to the Vlka Fenryka, you doubted that you’d ever understand just how…comfortable they seemed to be in their plain skin. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact they were Astartes, specifically. You’d imagine it would be difficult to feel vulnerable in any state with the physique of one of the Emperor’s Angels.

“Worried that you’ll drive the best game away in your haste.” Hodr’s voice sounded suddenly closer than you anticipated. Your heart jumped when you felt his hand reach around from behind you, lifting your chin to look Asmundr in the eyes and gently squishing your cheeks together. “It just won’t do if there isn’t enough to go around.” The narrowing of the younger wolf’s pupils was almost hidden by the steam billowing from his flared nostrils. “We can’t have thralls of skin and bone.” His whisper tickled your ear, sending a shiver shooting up your spine.

“I do not leave her wanting,” Asmundr snarled, closing the distance and gripping Hodr’s wrist tightly. You could hear something creak beneath your chin, but the grip on your face never tightened.

“Prove it.” You could hear Hodr’s grin as he finally released you.

Oh, something in Asmundr’s eyes sparked as he threw his brother’s hand away. He spared you a brief glance as he squared his shoulders and quickly cracked his neck.

“Time me!” Asmundr yelled back to Ægir as he raced to the opening and jumped into the abyss.

The air was pregnant with silence for a moment.

“Well,” Ægir laughed, rough and gravelly, “He should be plenty motivated now!”

Ten minutes. It had already been ten minutes.

A space marine could hold his breath for approximately twenty-five minutes, or so you’d been told.

You had heard from one of the company’s Kaerls that she had once heard a story of a chapter that regularly held their breath for the better part of a standard hour. You thought it sounded a bit outlandish, but you prayed now it was true as the minutes continued ticking on.

The first several minutes were spent in a bit of an awkward silence. Or, at least, you felt it was awkward. You busied yourself by meticulously folding Asmundr’s clothes and running an inventory of the little equipment in the sled before cleaning the hole of any lingering debris. You noted that Hodr’s gaze seemed to return the distant tree line frequently while Ægir whittled away on a piece of bone.

“It’s been ten minutes.” The booming voice of the veteran seemed to rattle through your chest, and you nearly lost your footing at the sudden announcement.

 The undignified sound you made as you recovered your stance drew a chuckle from the eldest wolf.

“I’m curious,” Ægir said, pointing his knife in your direction. “What do you suppose the pup’s hunting for right now?”

You stared blankly at him.

“Fish, my lord?”

That veteran laughed, tried to control himself, and began laughing some more before he started coughing.

“You’re not wrong, thrall,” he conceded. You watched a flock of dark birds chitter and flee their roost in the distance. So far away they were like a smear against the sky.

“You know,” he started back up, dropping his gaze to return to the bone figure he was making. “I was out on campaign with the pup.” A thin flake fell away from his hands. “And it was fierce, to be sure. Well, while we were holed up in some throne-forsaken pit, the daft boy starts singing. Badly, mind you, and quiet, but singing nonetheless. And so, I ask him ‘Boy, what do you think you’re doing?’” Ægir looked up and you realized that you’d thoughtlessly drifted closer as the veteran continued. “And do you know what he tells me?”

“No, my lord.”

“He says, ‘Well, that little serf sings this when she’s in the armory, and I thought maybe it would help me focus.’” Another flake fell from his hand as he scoffs, “Focus, my missing big toe.”

Ægir looked like he was about to continue, loudly, but shut his mouth and looked past you a moment before you heard it.

A loud wet thwacking noise echoed across the empty plane and time seemed to pass slower than usual as you saw a vibrant, gleaming, blue fish that could rival the stature of terminator power armor surge out of the icy depths and caress the grey sky, before making its arched decent like an angry torpedo with needlepoint teeth.

You hadn’t survived this long in such a cruel galaxy without any wits at all, and ran to give the beast a wide berth upon its impact with the surface. Its furiously flailing body splashed little droplets of water against your form, which froze solid in the cold air.

“Ha! No wonder he likes you so much,” Ægir ribbed at you, as he seamlessly stabbed the wriggling thing through the back of its head, piercing whatever brain it could have. “You scurry about like ei lita kanin!”

The burning retort that had definitely been on the tip of your tongue was tragically cut short by a sudden series of muted vibrations that traveled up your legs. Something was hitting the ice…

Your feet were moving before you could think. What help could you realistically offer Asmundr from here? You could not dive into the freezing water, you could not drag him back to safety, you could not even pull his body up onto shore without dislocating your shoulder in the attempt. But you knelt stupidly by the hole anyways; you had to be as close to his side as possible, in case he needed you. Because you would do all those useless things if he so much as hesitated in telling you not to.

Not long after, the surface of the water began bursting with bubbles of air from the depths, bringing with them deep oily blood. You called out to him, as if he would be able to hear you meters away and underwater.

“Mundi! Are you okay?!”

Time seemed to drag on for an eternity as the bubbling died down and the water remained still.

You had just started to loosen the straps of your outermost layers to dive in yourself when a crimson streak began racing towards the surface. You could feel your heart fall back into place.

Asmundr’s red hair clung to his forehead and neck as he beamed at you in pride. Or, as best he could.

The spear he lifted out of the water held four native fish, each easily as long as your arm and thicker around than both of your thighs. A massive bony fish with pearlescent armor still wiggled in his maw, cracked where his fangs dug tightly into its flesh. He threw the spear up onto the ice before hefting his bulk out of the hole.

Sitting on the ledge of the ice beside you, he pulled the fish from his teeth. His smug smile showcased the gleaming red that clung to his canines and dripped down his chin. He glanced about briefly before his expression morphed into one of confusion.

“Where’s Hodr?”

Oh. You hadn’t even noticed he’d left.

“Not far,” Ægir said. “He picked up a scent while you were out.”

“Are you okay, Mundi?” You had been keenly looking him over for any obvious injuries he may have sustained since he surfaced. He didn’t seem any worse for wear, but maybe he just rammed the ice with his thick head. You stood up to get a better look. “It sounded like you hit the ice pretty hard.”

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t near the ice at all.” Rivulets of water trickled down Asmundr’s body, his core temperature just enough to keep the water from freezing against his skin in the cold air. “Are you sure you’re not the one that hit the ice?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed by his teasing tone. You were just relieved that he was okay.

Asmundr’s gaze turned sharply from you to the horizon at a noise you could not hear.

“Finally done batting that pest around, Hodr?”

You turned towards Ægir’s call and watched as Hodr dragged along an enormous, white-feathered land-shark behind him.

“Six minutes,” the wolf bellowed, shaking the leg of his kill. “How long was the pup?”

“Thirteen minutes!”

Something rumbled deep in Asmundr’s chest at the veteran’s announcement and he huffed in irritation. If you hadn’t just been willing to throw yourself into the icy void after your companion out of shear worry, you would have found his pouting cute.

“Mundi,” you started softly as he plopped himself away from his brothers to work on his kills. He did not look up. He was still wet and bare and the wind was still so cold and you did not think you could handle the implausible thought of him catching a chill.

“Mundi, you need to dry off,” you chided as you unwrapped the outermost fur you wore from your waist. It would be warmer and drier than the one he placed on your shoulders, which had kept you plenty warm, but also collected a non-insignificant amount of flurries.

He grumbled something as he continued to work on dislodging his kills from the spear.

You pursed your lips before running the fur across his shoulders and up his neck, before tousling his hair the best you could. You left the fur draped across his shoulders, which he gripped closed across his chest with one hand. He remained incredibly tense before in-taking sharply and shaking his upper body vigorously. You did not escape the resulting splatter.

He tilted his head back to look you in the eyes, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you recognized amusement and joy in them.

“I’m keeping this!” Asmundr announced, sounding very pleased. “But you have to hold onto this,” he tugged slightly at the pelt that still engulfed the entirety of your upper body, “for me, in return.”

The request turned something in your chest.

“Of course,” you agreed, and you couldn’t help the smile on your lips.

 He smiled up at you in turn, his eyes softening as his gaze lingered. In that moment, it felt as if something in the universe had clicked into place. After a few seconds, he abruptly looked back down and dragged the armored fish over to him.

“And,” he drew the word out for a long moment, as he began carving familiar runes into the pearlescent plating with his spear. “You need to make good use of this.” He passed you the fish barring your name, and you had to steel yourself to keep from tumbling under the weight of it.

[annasmafroo]

Pov: You're on your period and you ask your astartes boyfriend to buy you pads

[chaoskull]

J. Doyle Penrose - Idun and the Apples

Feast of Hope

Space Wolf Oc x Gn!Reader

Summary: On a mission, looking for a possible threat on a planet, Helgi finds a kind human in the midst of a emotionally desperate moment.

I was looking at some paintings and entered a rabbit hole of depictions of norse gods. My first thought was space wolves, so I just let my imagination just run free. It's based in the image of the painting.

A tender world, no harsh ice winds covered its surface, only but a breeze of the fields, a green land that had come to bless the long awaiting wolf, Helgi was no stranger to hotter climates, although they would only come in times of war, where blood was bound to be found.

Some of his brothers accompanied him, out of the grassland, into the woods, no forest as what he heard from tales of other worlds, this one is bright, filled with life, and light that seeps through the canopy of the tall, slim trees. The vibrant vegetation gave him comfort he could never seek on the surface of Fernis.

They head to the heart of the forest, what is to be done, he hasn't been told - merely that they were to kill, as if that was not their duty already - if he was to question anything about the mission the much older astartes of the group would definitely start to complain, as he would always do.

That is until they reach a clearing, they sat themselves on rocks there present, it's been a long travel, walking on foot, as they were told to not disturb the humans present in this planet, ‘Screw them, should have brought those ravens if it was needed to do that’ he reasons.

Helgi was no beginner in tracking, he had many years of servitude, he knew when something felt different in an ambient, as they start discussing what is to be done he notices a smell in the air of fresh fruit, the forest, as he observes, had nothing green and yellow leaves.

The others did not seem bothered by it, but he was, Helgi had not eaten anything since the landing he had been distracted, he was highly alerted of his surroundings, he'd been drinking before the mission again, even though I was clear to him that this would soon destroy him.

Before the sickness stopped he felt no hunger, but as they sat and talked, he wasn't so lightheaded anymore, the dizziness had left and now he was starting to feel starved.

Deciding to end this quickly he got up to seek this smell, the older man was not content with the action. “Helgi, where are you heading to?!” He shouted from his seat.

“I'm starving, you old drunk” He barked back at the man and spat on the floor. “Ha, well look who says that, you were stumbling like an idiot the entire ride on the ship here, boy” The man laughs, it was merely playful banter between the two, though aggressive, they were both accustomed with it by now.

It still hurt Helgi deeply to hear that, he knew most of his brothers had their burdens, but his being so obvious to others it made him feel less than them. He wasn't a new recruit any longer, he was getting old, he had nothing to himself, it was an honor to be an astartes, but he had none left at times he wasn't battling.

Others kept their distance as he left, but the older man followed him. “What are you looking for, you hopeless bastard?” He asked, patting the man on the shoulder.

“Smelled fruit” He answers, he didn't care what was there to eat, though he'd definitely prefer a nice piece of meat. The older man snickers in amusement, not expecting such a response.

They both find the source of the smell not too far, sitting on a rock, eating said fruits, Helgi finds a little human. They recognize them as astartes, space wolves most likely, and quickly take the box where they stored the fruits ready to take a leave, not just from slight fear, but from reverence as well.

Though they were interrupted by a growling sound, it came from the belly of the younger man, and the older one started to laugh at him. They were left confused, he was hungry, they opened the box to offer a fruit to the man.

Helgi felt as his life had come from misery to a miracle in an instant, the two astartes approached his savior, kneeling to get as close as possible to their sitting stature.

They handed him a red ripe fruit, it was big in their hand, when he took it it seemed times smaller, taking a bite of it he almost devoured it whole, juice dripping from his hand, it was just as sweet as it looked.

“You want more, my lord?” He lifted his head to the sound of the voice, met with a gentle smile a hand held another in front of him, dangling in their fingers. His head falls to their lap, loosening his grip of the fruit, it rolled through the grass.

The older man was sitting near the scene, about to make fun of him. He looked at them and decided to leave instead, returning to do a mission with the others, who were too watching while they waited, without Helgi noticing.

What he saw was a blessing, he wanted to take you to Fernis, he couldn't leave you on this planet, he was a selfish man. This forest was a distant paradise, and you were an angel, one not made by imperium means, one made of kindness.

He wonders what you must make of him, he was barely holding his tears, and yet you placed your hands on his hair, slowly running them along his red mane.

Leaning his head up to meet your gaze, one hand travels down to scratch his bearded cheeks only to move it away his face, leaving him yearning for more.

Taking the fruit and holding it close to his mouth, Helgi lets you feed him, he was chewing slowly this time as to savor it, truth is he wanted to have far more time in your hold. He'll have only a memory of your gentle expression, if not to leave with you today.

“Come with me, It’s cold on Fernis, but I'll give you my warmth, I promise you, let me” He begs, leaning closer to your face. “I'm a failure at everything my legion stands for, I'm not prideful of my actions, I'm not nice to be around, I can't make myself likable”

“You say a lot of negative things about yourself, I'm certain most are not true, my lord” They comment, trying to make the man less desolate.

He looks at you, eyes imploring for you to depart with him. “I shall take my leave with you if that is wish for, I'll become your serf”

“No little one, not a thrall, I will cherish you, you'll be mine to spoil” He grins at them, he suddenly gets up, much faster than what they would expect for a man who was just inconsolable moments before. He holds their hand, drawing circles on their palms.

“Helgi, you done?!” A yell is heard not far from where they were.

“I believe in you, lord Helgi” They get up and take the box in their hands, hugging it close to their chest. Having such an immense height difference, they crane their head up to look at him.

“Enough with the lord stuff” He huffs back at them, grabbing them, he pulls them closer to himself and runs one hand on their back, almost engulfing them in the pelts around his belt.

“Ha, got yourself a spouse, that's surprising!” The older wolf shouts as he laughs, suddenly appears from behind the bushes and trees, covered in what was most likely blood and guts of an unknown creature.

“They are not!” Helgi retorts the old man's remark, he leans closer to their head. “...yet” He mumbles, leaving them with a shocked, embarrassed expression, he chuckles at the sight.

Thank you for reading this little thing from my mind!