#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

[deleteddewewted]

Astartes Cuddling Headcanons

A/n: Inspired by multiple posts I've seen and brainstorming with friends.

W: Platonic Relationships, Just super cute, Mega Fluff, Kinda Angsty

Astartes are not as socialized as regular children so they tend to come off as very blunt and very unfeeling.

This is why i feel that many of them seek comfort silently, mainly through physical platonic contact.

From being an aspirant and sleeping in close piles with other aspirants since they're home sick, to being neophytes who are now working towards the dream of becoming a battle brother and doing the same, these overgrown children seek companionship in their battle brothers

Not only do the aspirants, being so young, many of them orphans are denied gentle gestures by their overseers, they make their own comfort by confiding in each other.

Cuddling, hugging, sharing food is typical at this early age as their all trying to cope.

Once they become neophytes these rituals change. Many of them are now a step closer to being battle brothers, many of them being further ahead in their enhancement surgeries.

Many of the Neophytes seek comfort in their companies Chaplain or other veteran battle brothers.

Neophytes will create these cuddle piles where they all share a room or a space and just sleep next to each other or on top of each other, holding onto one another as they rest as they feel like this helps them regulate not only their body temperature but also makes sleeping easier.

Oddly smart since this also means that in case anyone sneaks up on them they can all respond quickly to that threat.

Full fledge battle brothers do the same but a little differently.

They have their own chambers, they have their own spaces, this doesn't mean sleep overs arent a thing.

Having had more in depth training and psychological indoctrination done on them, they no longer understand the aching feeling that sometimes presents themselves when they are put into very domestic situations.

Eating in the mess hall? They like being together in the community but they don't understand why.

Speaking while doing basic maintenance on their equipment? They enjoy the deep conversations they have with their battle brothers but they don't understand why they do.

Boasting about receiving praise from their Primarch or chapter master? They're overjoyed to have performed their duty well but they also don't know why they would like to hear such affirmations more often.

Its small things that should be insignificant to them that confuse them as they are told time and time again that they no longer have a need for such baseline wants or needs.

Deep down, i think they know that no matter how enhanced they become they desire such small gestures of community and comfort and that is why they develop friendships amongst each other.

Some seek company in the apothecary and others with their chaplains or veteran brothers.

[solspina]

Hope in Small Places

malum caedo ⋆˙⟡

a short story that's not my proudest work. i just want to get this posted i am so sorry its not proofread and probably horribly written amen.

a poor chaos sacrifice, bent to be perfect and compliant, meets a very questionable space marine with unclear intentions and an even more unclear identity. taken to a safe space and left to ponder her thoughts, she remembers she has more faith than anticipated.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: blood, mentions/implications of sexual assault, religious guilt probably, malum fucking caedo

Her body had sat folded in on itself since the moment she had last been placed down, the only two things that prevented her knees from resting flush against her chest were the sharp, knife-like pain of her broken leg bones poking into her muscles as they threatened to break skin the moment she put pressure upon them, and the presence of a quietly vibrating servo-skull that was being held within her clammy hands, clutched close to her body in a feeble attempt to muffle the almost ambient noise coming from it.

The technology embedded in the skull had made it warm. At the very least, she could feel and somewhat move her fingers, and that alone had been a small but welcome mercy against the freezing cold floors of whatever ship or building her heretical and deformed captors had dragged her into. Regardless of the type of architecture, what mattered was their intention - their screaming voices and bloodied knuckles as they spent day by day and night by night molding her to be the perfect little sacrifice to an unknown chaos god. One who was, without a doubt, not the emperor.

Her pounding head remained bowed, and her breath only came from her lips in sharp, trembling gasps. Whether her labored intake of air came from a punctured lung or from raw fear, she could no longer discern. Her forehead had long stayed against the servo-skull in her arms as she waited for hours at a time. She occasionally took a moment to try and quell her boredom by messaging at the rope burns that lined nearly every limb that clung onto her fragile body. Arms, neck, legs - any inch of exposed skin that had not been covered by the filthy and tattered fabric an eerily bloodstained and unfamiliar looking astartes had torn from the loincloth around his waist.

Some of the heretics had been kinder than others, of course. She had decided that she much preferred the company of the Slaaneshi over the Khornites, for at least the bruises caused by their hands were from the violence of desire and not that of hatred.

Tucked behind a small cargo barrel, she waited for a sign of safety - either from the servo-skull in her hands or from the lack of gunshots and raging of chainswords that came from the next rooms over. A mere few minutes, maybe even hours earlier, they had been right outside the door, but now they had moved to directly above her head. She did not move a muscle as incredibly apparent slaughter circled the rooms around her, never once entering the room she had been placed in with more care than she had experienced in months of captivity. She had simply been placed down in a utility closet-like room and told to stay put, not to move. She was incredibly good at following orders by now, especially the ones that entailed sitting still and letting whatever was going to happen to her body simply happen. She could do nothing to stop her daemon captors from doing what they desired, whether that be to her mind, body, or soul.

This time, it had to have been one of Tzeentch’s men, she was halfway certain. Bright blue armor and the bird-like helmet he wore would not have been out of character for someone like the changer of ways, but she had encountered rubric marines before and not a single one of them had the look or presence of a soul that this one had. Many wouldn’t have even had the vocal cords to tell her to stay put in place.

The possibility of one of the emperor’s angels had crossed her mind, but that hope faded near immediately. Greater daemons and champions of chaos wandered this building, constantly taunting her with their strengths and feats. They mutilated her flesh and made it whole again. They violated her fragile body time and time again. They preached the power of their gods and smiled when she teared up in fear of what she was doomed to become part of. She was reminded day in and day out, through endless nights of sleep deprivation only sated when she fainted from exhaustion or pain, that a single angel of the emperor stood no chance alone. And so, she had swallowed the prayer of the man in blue armor coming to save her as soon as it rose to the front of her prayers.

She had become so lost in her thoughts, in her doubts, that she had failed to realize that prayers had started falling from her lips. Her words, still accompanied by her shallow and shaking breaths, were barely coherent whispers - aside from the occasional "emperor" and "protect me" that came audibly from within her chest. She knew her cries for help would go unanswered. If they had not been answered by now, it was clear to both her and the chaos that surrounded her that the emperor was not listening. Her unwavering faith meant absolutely nothing.

She only managed to break away from those thoughts as the closet door hissed in response to being opened and revealed the white helmet peeking from behind it. She lifted her forehead from the servo-skull and allowed herself to stare into the glowing red eyes of the bloodied astartes that stepped into the room and closed the door tightly behind him as he approached, either to trap her or prevent being ambushed. She felt the tension in the air rise as he walked toward her, his boots pounding against the metal floor in perfect sync with her head before they stopped mere inches from her legs. One slight kick from him would mean immediate death. Quick and painless, at least.

Alas, the kick never came.

Instead, he knelt, tilting his bird-like helm left and right slightly and repetitively. He seemed to be assessing her closely, checking for any further signs of injury or chaos-taint before bowing his head, leveling it with hers and allowing her to place her hand upon the top of the beak.

"Are you hurt?" He asked through his still-bowed head, watching her shake her own head as she stared into his eyes through the distortion of his helmet.

"Where are... they..." She asked in return. Her voice trembled almost as much as her irises did, and trailed off all the same. She was exhausted, truthfully, and he seemed to realize it far more than even she did. Her gaze, however, even against her voice, was suffocatingly afraid. He backed away, careful not to move too quickly as to not scare her any further, even despite the blood and vitae covering his armor in absolutely every area it could reach.

"The heretics?" He said, looking for assurance he had read her question correctly. "Dead. Every last one of them."

He was incredibly careful to read the baseline's body language, wanting to ensure he had done the right thing leaving her alive. Would she attack him for killing her people? Smile at the death of heretics? The sigh of relief that fell from her lips and the slack of her tense shoulders told him all he needed to know.

She would cry, jump into his arms in joy if she had the energy to. That, he did not need to know. What he did know was that he needed to leave, and he needed to do so urgently if the baseline he had rescued would have absolutely any chance of survival.

"You need not walk." He replied to her obvious dilemma, his tone leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he had already moved to cradle her with practiced ease that made the blood and carnage on his armor seem to be a hallucination. She winced as her shattered bones in her legs shifted, but her pain faded just as quickly as it had began now that they were off the ground and away from any applied pressure.

The servo-skull she once had seemed to attach itself to the air around the astartes without hesitation. Perhaps it was his all along, and she had just stumbled across it by chance. Regardless, she hoped that it's good intentions had matched his, and that he would prove to be just as comforting in the end.

"Stay with me," The marine murmured, repeating the phrase as he opened the door and carried her into the corridors that smelled putrid of fresh blood. She was used to the scent, desensitized, and yet she inhaled its lack of comfort one last time. "Stay with me."

"The emperor protects." She whispered, pressing her face against his bloodied chestplate, no longer caring if a little heretic blood covered her skin.

They had bathed in her blood for months, she deserved a turn with theirs.

"Indeed he does, little one."

Solspina's Scribellum✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ���*.✧

@astrohymn @moodymisty @undeaddream

@kit-williams @lemon-russ @egrets-not-regrets

(please comment to be added/removed from my taglist !!)

[justanothermemestrider]

"That's My Girl" - Jago Sevetarion x F! Reader

Ask thee and ye shall receive. Here's a fic based on the sparring headcanon from my Sevetar Assorted Headcanons. The sypnosis: Sev takes you down to the training mat to help you train some sword craft, and things get... spicy

Hope yall ready for some heresy.

CW: NSFW, MDNI

Apologies for grammar and spelling mistakes. Please enjoy!

"I really don't see why this is necessary."

"Really?" Jago asks. "Sweetheart, have you seen what the people on this ship are like?"

"Well yeah, sure," you say. "But I've got you. And if you're not around, Talos and Cyrion always look out for me."

Jago clicks his tongue, twirling the wooden swords he's currently holding in both hands as he considers your words. "That is true," he admits. "But even then, there is always the chance- no matter how small- that you may be caught out alone on this ship." He offers you one of the swords with a smile. "As such, you need to prepared."

You give him a long, unamused look, eyes shifting between his proferred wooden sword and wry, lopsided smile. The skin of his face is a mess of scars and callouses, but underneath all of that is a strong, almost handsome visage with broad cheek bones and a square jaw. His hair is slicked back save for a handful of thin bangs that tumble over his forehead to frame his eyes and nose. Jago's smile broadens into a grin. "Come on, little bird," he says. "If not for you, then for me?"

You let out a sigh. Without a word, you take the sword from his hand.

"Atta girl," Jago chuckles. He steps away from you, then surprises you by sheathing his sword. His grin suddenly turns feral. Before you can ask, he unclasps the front of his tunic and lets it drop to the floor. His torso, like his face, is ravished by scars, though these are far larger and more vicious looking. Bolter holes, chain blade slashes, stab wounds and burn marks; Jago wears the marks of all of these and even more. Black neural ports run down his shoulders and chest, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. But, just like his face, his scars and cybernetics do little to detract from the beauty of the body beneath them. You can't help but take a moment to drink in the sight of him; the twistedly gorgeous demi-god you call lover and protector. At your staring, Jago chuckles. "You may remain robed if you wish," he says. "But among Astartes, it is tradition to spar as... unencumbered as possible."

"Oh really?" you ask, clearly unconvinced.

Jago laughs again. "Eyes up, little bird," he orders. "Raise your blade. We begin now."

Unable to keep the grin off your face, you does as he commands.

"You remember what I've taught you?" he asks.

You give your sword a cursory twirl. "Of course I do." As if to emphasise the point, you hold it out in front of you in a defensive stance.

Jago gives you a satisfied smirk. "Guess we'll find out soon enough, won't we?" With that, the Night Lord lunges.

You slip to the side, parrying with your sword. The wooden blades crack against each other like bone, and the force of the impact sends painful vibrations rocketing up your arms. Grunting, you take several, darting steps back, but Jago refuses to give you any such breathing room. Several more time, your training blades clash. You know Jago is holding back; he has to, for if he didn't, his first strike would've likely snapped your arms in half. But even with his abilities actively reduced from demi-god levels, he's still faster and stronger than any baseline human could dream of being. Already, your breathing hard. Sweat pouring down your brow as your heart pounds relentlessly. Jago, on the other hand, has barely broken a sweat.

"Don't be shy, little bird," he says the next time the pair of you disengage. "You can't defend forever."

Between heavy breathes, you scowl at him. "Easy for you to say, Son of The Night Haunter, you."

Jago flashes that wry, crooked smile of his from the other side of the training mat. "No warrior is perfect," he says. "Even Astartes have certain aspects that can be exploited."

"Such as?"

"Just look at me, sweetheart. Two metres tall and half a tonne in weight, all of that being bloated muscle and reinforced bone." Jago holds his arms out wide. "What does that make me?"

"I don't know," you huff. "Strong?"

"Nope," says Jago

"Unbeatable?"

"Hah! I wish."

"Sexy?"

Jago laughs. "You flatter me, little bird. But no. Not the answer I am looking for."

"What then?"

The night lord sighs in mock exasperation. "It make me big," he says. "It makes me heavy. And no matter how fast or strong I am, it makes me very much at the mercy of physics and biomechanics. But you-" he points at you with his sword. "-my love, you are not so much. You are lighter. Your body, more flexible and maneuverable. Therefore, such natural laws are far more lenient on you than I. You understand?"

After taking a moment to think, you believe that you do. You tell Jago as much.

"I knew you would." Lowering his sword, Jago bares his teeth in a grin. "Now. Prove it to me."

Raising your sword, you approach him at a slink. Stepping on the balls of your feet, wooden blade out and pointed at his chest. Jago flurries his own weapon. Ripples of tension feather through the muscles of his chest and abdomen. He holds his sword low, clearly trusting himself to be fast enough to raise it should you choose to attack. But it is that very reflex that you intend to exploit.

With the technique of a fencer, you thrust at Jago's throat. Just as you'd guessed, he brings his sword up and around to block. But the moment you see his arm move, your strike turns into a feint. Ducking underneath his arm, you lock your blade around his shoulder and launch a savage kick into his knee. In the same moment, you wrench hard with your arms, turning your wooden sword into a lever over which you toss Jago to the ground. Of course, such a throw would never work in a true one-on-one fight with an Astartes. But against another baseline? Absolutely, it would. And, since he is currently moonlighting as such, Jago lets you take him down. The mat shakes as his body hits the ground. Before he can move to get up, you leap on top of him. Straddling his waist and bracing the edge of your mock sword against his throat. Your arms tremble from exertion, lungs burning as you breath hard and fast through your mouth. But as exhausted as you are there's a smile on your face. When Jago locks eyes with you, it only grows broader.

"That's my girl," he says, his adam's apple bobbing against your blade as he speaks.

In spite of yourself, his praise makes you giggle. "Does that mean I win?" you ask.

"Almost," Jago says. "But you've forgotten one very important thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "That being?"

Between your legs, you feel the rise and fall of his belly as he breathes in and out. You also feel him bending his knees and planting his feet on the floor. "When your opponent is so much larger than you..." Jago trails off. Then, quick as a snake, he grabs your sword with one hand and seizes your arm in the other. Bridging his hips, he throws you off him, sending you sprawling onto the mat. You yelp in surprise as Jago reverses your mount and straddles your hips. His weight is immense; your pelvis feels like it's being crushed beneath an anvil, while your legs and hips are completely and utterly pinned. Jago leans over you, grabbing your sword hand by the wrist while bracing his own sword hand on the floor right beside your ear. Lips peeling back into a predatory smile, he finishes his earlier warning. "...You must never take them to the ground."

Any outward observer would expect you be terrified, but in truth, you only feel flustered. Even after all this time, being this close to him- face millimetres from yours, naked, muscular body pressing against your own- still has your stomach winding itself into knots. And from the bulging hardness you can feel pressing against your lower belly, Jago is feeling the same way.

"This had nothing to do with training me, did it?" you whisper.

"Of course it did," Jago replies. "Your safety is the single most important thing to me. You know that."

"Fine. But it wasn't the only reason you brought me here, was it?"

For the briefiest of moments, Jago's smile turns sheepish. "Alright. You may have me there." Leaning closer still, he touches his forehead to yours. "You know how much I love a woman who can kick my ass."

You reply by kissing him. Tilting your head back so as to give you access to his lips, then locking them within yours with rough and enboldened hunger. Jago immediately returns it in kind. He drops his sword and releases your wrist, scooping one hand up underneath your waist while gripping you jaw with the other. Like pieces of a puzzle, your bodies fall into place around each other. Your legs wrapping tight around Jago's waist as he pulls you closer still. The heat between your legs presses the hardness between his, and even through the fabric of your clothes, the friction is enough to make you whine. The sound elicits a growl from Jago. You feel the hand at your jaw release, then slide down your front until it reaches the waistband of your trousers. He drags them off you, followed by your underwear. You gasp when the cold air kisses your exposed sex. But quickly, the sound devolves into a moan as Jago presses his fingers into your clit. Electricity bolts through your body. The heat in your core swells into an aching throb. You feel yourself growing wetter, hotter, more desperate and breathless. You claw your fingernails into Jago's back and let out another pleading moan.

"Jago..."

"I know, sweetheart," he rumbles. "But I've gotta slick you up first; don't want to hurt you."

You reply by bringing your hands up to his shoulder blades and digging your fingers into the neural ports embedded in the muscles there.

An involuntary shudder rips through Jago's entire body. His limbs buckle, sending him sprawling flat against your front. The sound that falls from his lips can only be described as a whimper.

"Oh, I see," he growls once he recovers. "And here I was thinking you liked me best when I was nice."

"Most of the time," you answer. "But not today."

Jago bares his teeth in a smile that's both affectionate and utterly lusting. "As you wish, little bird. But don't say I didn't warn you."

You open your mouth to reply, but before the words can reach your voice, Jago locks his hand around your throat. He unclasps his breeches, finally freeing his hard, aching cock. He lines his hips with up with yours, and with a single, savage thrust, drives himself all the way inside of you.

A cry bursts from your lips. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate his length, but even then, the fit is impossibly tight. Jago moans into your ear. The hand around your throat tightens. Without skipping a beat, he starts moving. Thrusting his hips hard, filling you up, pinning your clit against his public bone and rubbing it to the point of pain. Sparks and black spots burst within your vision. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Every one of your exhales is a whimper or a moan. Ecstasy doesn't come close to describing this feeling. This raw and primal pleasure that's got your every nerve in a chokehold. Meanwhile, Jago growls and snarls like a beast in rut. His breathing is loud and laboured, his every muscle bulging against his sweat-slick skin. The hand he hasn't got around your neck is pressed hard into your lower belly, forcing his cock deeper and deeper still.

The coil in your belly reaches critical mass. You can feel your orgasm coming, just on the horizon, but not quite there yet. There's no way in hell you could string together a sentence, so instead, you say his name. Once again finding Jago's shoulderblades with your fingers and clawing them into his neural ports.

"Jago... Jago..."

Jago's body shudders again, and a long, almost pained whine interrupts his snarling growls. On his next thrust, he rears up onto his knees, scooping up your leg with one hand and throwing it over his shoulder. The sparks in your eyes become stars. The coil in your belly becomes agonisingly tight. Your spine arches until it's not longer touching the ground and you let out another, desperate cry.

It's then that Jago decides to say something. The words are whispered in your ear, barely comprehensible amidst his growls and moans. But they're there. And they are what finally send you over the edge.

"That's my girl."

Orgasm grips you like a lightning strike. You throw your head back as a scream of ecstasy erupts from your throat. Every muscle in your body clenches and your walls squeeze Jago so tight it makes his voice crack. His rhythm suddenly falters. He releases your throat to claw his hand into the floor. With a throat-tearing roar, Jago finally hits his release, burying his face into your shoulder and pumping you full of his hot, thick seed. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you entangle your fingers in his hair, holding him close as you both ride out your orgasms.

When yours finally fades, you collapse against the floor. You still have the energy to gasp at the feel of Jago pulling out, but aside from that, you're completely and utterly spent. Means when Jago rolls you onto your side and drags you into his body, you simply let him. Both of his hearts are beating hard; you can feel their twin pulses pounding against your ear. He doesn't simply hold you, either, but rather he's actively pulling you close. Pressing you hard against his chest and wrapping his arms around you tight as if he were trying to shelter you or keep you from being dragged away. His grip is crushing. His skin and hair both slick with sweat. Gently, you reach a hand up to his face and brush your fingers against his cheek. "Careful," you says softly. "Squeeze me any tighter and you might just break something."

You hear his breath hitch. Slowly, the pressure around your waist and shoulders diminishes. "Sorry," Jago mutters. The extra gravel in his voice confirms what you'd suspected from his pulse, that he's still coming down from his high.

Tilting your head up a little, you press your lips to his collarbone, then nuzzle your face into his chest. "It's okay. I forgive you. This time, at least."

Jago smirks, but says nothing. After a handful of quiet moments, you hear his heart rates finally begin to settle. His breathing deepens, then levels out and the residual tension in his body releases.

You choose that moment to caress his scarred cheek again. "I love you," you whisper.

His chest vibrates against your ear as he chuckles softly. "By the Warp. I don't think I'll ever get used to hearing that."

"Do you doubt me?" you ask playfully.

"What? No! Of course not."

"You do not feel the same, then?"

That actually makes him growl. "Of course I do." The grip around your waist and shoulders tightens. "You know that."

You reassure him with another kiss to his collar bone. "So, why, then?"

"Why?" Another rumbling laugh. "Sweetheart. Look at me. Recall who I am and what I've done."

Retracting your hand, you start tracing one of the dozens of scars running down his chest with your finger. "I see Jago Sevetarion," you say. "The man who cares for me and protects me." You let your head fall against him, eyes slipping shut. "I see the man I love."

Your earnestness seems to take him by surprise, for he does not reply nor react right away. He doesn't seem to know how to. All he can think to do is pull you closer still and bury his face into the crook of your neck.

Sorry if I've missed you. If I have or you wanna be added, please let me know :)

Taglist: @yanagikou @nereidof40k @yurihasurunbara @beckyninja @moodymisty @wolf-feathers12 @justfreakynothingelse @egrets-not-regrets

[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.

[yagodnyizefir]

Quick sketches of astartes with cute aggression

[moodymisty]

Talos giving his serf a hug <3 Done on stream.

Full is on poipiku, password is hamwarmer

[toto-the-cactus]

Hey Toto.

I discovered your headcanon with the primarchs as girl dad and gotta say, it breaths life into me to read. But it made me curious and wonder if you would do something similar, but with the legions? How they will act around the child and if there would be any heartwarming moments between the daughters and their brothers? To be honest I would die if you did that.

Cheers ^^

You ask and you shall receive, my good dude

-°-

Dark Angels

These people, in the general sense, are the very definition of strict discipline and unmoving soul. I don’t see these astartes being that incredibly cozy with the daughter of their Primarch and any ideas of that kind of interaction would even be perceived as a disrespect towards the demigod himself. This is more of a professional correlation tbf so I don’t even see the little girl of Lion associating the astartes as big brothers.

Emperor’s Children

To this bunch, the daughter of their estimated Primarch is nothing short of a fascination. Sure, they regard her with the same respect as they do with Fulgrim, but there’s also the amusement that comes when you see a child being both adorable and innocent. They entertain her when she wishes to spend time with someone while at the same time standing protectively around her. There’s no such thing as “big brothers” with them, but I can see an amicable relationship… probably similar to the one you may have with a friendly teacher: all fun and games but still a distinctive line separating you both.

Iron Warriors

No… just no. This one is easily self-explanatory.

White Scars

There’s both mutual respect and friendship. Even as a small child, these astartes consider the daughter of the great Khan as someone that deserves respect and guidance, but they are understandably aware that they aren’t any parent of the little girl to go around bossing or cozying her around, but if the sweet lady ask nicely if they wanna play with her, they wouldn’t hesitate to make a game into some sort of training for her since the Legion still feels like their Khan’s daughter needs to be prepared for anything to defend herself. While not ALL of the astartes may be perceived as big brothers, the closest to the Primarch probably can be considered close family.

Space Wolves

Now, we enter the real game. Like the others astartes, respect will be given to the daughter of Leman without question, but there's also that sense of camaraderie that extends too to the little pup. Roughhousing just like canines usually do to play with the younger ones is their best way to bond but imagine it with a huge astartes using a single hand with the fierce girl the same way you wrangle a cat’s head to play. Over all, they cherish the laughter of this sweet child and make sure to always be there to take care of her when their Primarch or the Mother aren’t able to (not like they would make it a habit, tho. No one should use the space marines as babysitters). I can see this precious girl calling a few of the astartes simply “Brothers” but mostly because she tries to imitate the Legion when they call each other.

Imperial Fists

We go back to square one with these guys. Just like the Dark Angels, you will not see any of these astartes being too familiar with the daughter of their Primarch. If anything, they simply KNOW that Dorn has a little girl born by his union with a baseline and accept her with the same loyal disposition they have to the demigod, but that’s it. One or two are ordered to guard the precious child? They will do it without question and limit it to just hovering close to the girl. They don’t engage in games unless Dorn or the Legion Mother tells them it's alright to do so. Overall, it's a professional sort of relationship despite the little girl always hearing the astartes refer to her papa as father too. Very confusing for her.

Night Lords

Hell to the no! They do know their Primarch has a daughter and THAT’S IT.

Blood Angels

It was kinda hard to think of a better explanation about the kind of familial relationship that existed between this astartes and the daughter of Sanguinius. The way I see it, this Legion has more of a devotee sort of disposition for the little lady just like with her father. If the precious child asks to play, the astartes will do so just because the idea of watching her pout and be sad about it makes their hearts wrench. Being called “big brother” by her is quite the honor since it means that you have been around guarding and accompanying the little girl so often that she recognizes you as family.

Iron Hands

These guys are… something indeed. Considering the kind of motto the tenth Legion possesses, I don’t think even Ferrus feels his daughter would be kindly received by his astartes just like it happened with his SO. It had been his past mentality of despising weakness that came back to bite him in the ass and now he can’t trust his gene-sons around his precious girl as she would be immediately rejected because of her baseline mother and overall weak appearance as a child. The only thing giving a single respite to everyone around is that these space marines have enough respect and loyalty to their Primarch that they wouldn’t dare to hurt or be mean to the little girl.

World Eaters

Louder for everyone in the background… HELL NO!!

Ultramarines

Probably the funniest reactions and acts out there when regarding the daughter of Roboute. They would act as if they forgot how babies/toddlers are supposed to be like DESPITE them having been children themselves at some point. The most common thing about them is that 1) they aren’t sure why their Primarch have debased himself to the most baseline act of them all: to have a child with a mere mortal too, to top it, and 2) what was the purpose to have a child if it wouldn’t be of an advantage to the Imperium. Don’t get it wrong, as time passes, they became more welcoming and cozy regarding the little girl, even feeling kind of excited when she starts to call them “big brothers” because that means that she recognizes them as family… just give them the chance and they will surprise you.

Death Guard

The stubborn little blorbos! So yeah, if we consider that eventually most of the Legion came from Barbarus after the coming of Mortarion, I can see them regarding the daughter of their Primarch with a certain amount of respect and amused curiosity. Children aren’t an unknown to them but the little girl is quite the opposite of the Primarch and watching her being all happy and cheery beside her intimidating father makes a contrast that would entertain anyone so I can see this Legion being similar (surprisingly!) to how the Emperor’s Children Legion treat the daughter of their Primarch too: They would protect her without question and still be amicable enough for the precious kid to regard them as her friends too.

Thousand Sons

If Magnus isn’t around, then you can bet that the astartes of this Legion will love to be around a kid who asks them about any fun fact they know. They find the daughter of their Primarch a delight to have around and quite adorable, not hesitating to entertain her while either her mother or father find her. Probably the easiest of the Legions that get called in a single breath “big brothers” by the precious princess of Prospero.

Luna Wolves

This one is a weird mix between the Ultramarines and the Thousand Sons: they are baffled and confused as to why their Primarch has stooped to such mortal acts like bedding a baseline human and be tied to her. Despite their reservations, once the little lady is born, all around thoughts change. Horus' daughter has the same charm of her father and knows how to wield it with these astartes, but since she also wishes to be a good daughter too, you won’t see her taking advantage of her position. If some of her “big brothers” aren’t too busy, she’ll ask nicely if they wish to play with her or to simply make her company at which they won’t deny her and do so gladly.

Word Bearers

Ho boy, these dudes are their own kind a'ight. They cherish and celebrate the daughter of Lorgar as a miracle that must be adored. Similar to the Blood Angels, I see these fun fellas being more like devotees to the image they think this little girl represents so, rather than being perceived as “big brothers”, they are more like those guards that follow the precious princess around whenever her parents aren’t around. If they engage in any game with this child, they accept mostly out of duty than actually wishing to make her happy.

Salamanders

These boys are the excellency among them all! They are the most humane among the rest of the Legions and show it by being the best “big brothers” all around. Vulkan would encourage both his astartes and his child to regard each other as siblings, so it isn’t hard to imagine the little girl easily knowing the name of all her brothers and even going to the lengths of recognizing them by only their voices. To these big guys, making the daughter of their Primarch laugh loudly is the biggest of feats just behind their duty as warriors to the Imperium.

Raven Guard

It’s hard to pinpoint the kind of feelings these guys may feel regarding the daughter of their Primarch but I can see them at least being quite warm towards her, engaging in games of hide and seek and sometimes giving her trinkets they “found around” as a token of respect. They would act surprised each time the little birdie jumped on them to scare them with a loud “gotchu!” but it’s hard for me to think that the daughter of Corvus would call the astartes “Big Brothers” when they aren’t extremely close.

Alpha Legion

Everyone is Papa… no hesitation there. The daughter of Alpharius/Omegon will be respected and loved by all the Legion with no questions asked since all of them are her “father”.

-°-

Hope this was of your liking, dude!

[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

[brox-not-a-badger]

Oh, Dear Night Haunter

A much-longer-than-intended Konrad Curze x Reader fic because there aren’t enough on him.

Tw; none, just tooth-rotting fluff and domestic Curze shenanigans (and poor writing)

_____________________________________________

Curze is sweet on you, to a painful degree. However he struggles to convey his affections without seeming too “weak” and mushy.

______________________________________________________

Konrad Curze. The Night Haunter. Primarch of the VIIth legion. A master of terror and torture. Though, when faced with much more tame and domestic situations, Curze was far out of his element. Not only was he out of his element, but he was also wildly uncomfortable. Thus his infatuation with you. You didn’t seem uncomfortable around him, nor did you pay much attention to his staring habit. That much seemed to both terrify and intrigue him. Why? Why were you so fearless? Why did you treat him with such blatant bravery, or was it stupidity and insolence? Why were YOU, a serf, his lesser, so bold around him?

It didn’t take long for you to notice him watching you again, like a cat watches a mouse. He was staring as you preformed your duties, seemingly confused and even more intrigued by every delicate move you made. He watched how you moved with such grace and elegance. Every small detail, from the way you seemed to glide with every step to the soft smile you gave the second you’d realized he was staring.

Curze seemed to stare even more intensely at you, now that you’d locked eyes with him, it was almost like he was daring you to speak, to say something. He found himself yearning to hear that silky smooth voice of yours. Yearning was not a feeling Curze was used to.

“My lord- I don’t mean to pry, but you’re staring. Again.” The moment those words left your lips, he found he was enthralled once more. You were his muse, but, of course, you didn’t know that yet. Damn you, you enamoring creature.

“You’re beautiful.” The words left his lips before he could even give a second thought. You had taken a quick pause, and that made Curze panic momentarily. Had you thought lesser of him for that comment? It was improper of him to speak out like that, even if he didn’t much care for being proper or professional, but around you that part of him melted. He wanted to ‘clean up his act’ so to speak. At least, around you.

The moment you smiled at him, his concern and panic over his impulsive speech melted. That smile, that enamoring smile was like the song of a siren. He felt his hearts slamming in his chest, heat rushing to his cheeks. Blood of the Emperor himself, was he dying? Was he dying over the smile of a mere mortal woman? He could handle blood and screaming, and flaying the skin off of civilians to wear like a horrible patchwork cape, but he could not handle your mere smile. What was wrong with him, to act out in your presence? The presence of a mere mortal?

“You’re.. uh-… My lord, you’re blushing quite profusely. Are you okay?” You asked him. The sight of the Night Haunter so flustered was a rare sight indeed. You relished in the way he seemed embarrassed and even distracted by such simple gestures. One could even call him cute, in a way. Unfortunately though, you could not afford to linger, having duties to still attend to. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I do need to attend to other business-“

“No. Stay… please. Stay.” Curze abruptly commanded with a sharp edge of pleading to his voice, even reaching for you, his hand landing on your shoulder to hold you in place as momentary jealousy and a sense of protectiveness rushed through him at the mere prospect of you tending to one of his other astartes and not him. He wanted you all to himself and it was clear as day in the way his obsidian-black eyes stared at you longingly.

The fearsome Night Haunter. Fawning over a mortal woman’s company. Instead of slipping into cowering submission, you chuckled, despite knowing the horrific actions he was capable of, you found amusement at his obsessive gesture. “You want me to stay with you, my lord?” You asked him. He returned with an awkward and slightly flustered nod. “Are you well? You look flushed.”

“I need you.” The words once more spilled off his tongue like blood from a fresh wound. You stared at him with wide eyes at his surprising confession. Curze, of course, thought this was a negative response. He panicked again, squeezing your shoulder slightly tighter, his entire palm basically engulfing your shoulder. He was bad with affection, but he still wanted to show you affection. Why? What was wrong with him? Why was he so obsessed? He needed answers as to why he felt the need to act so painfully out of character just to be around you.

“P- pardon?” You ask him, staring like at him like he’d gone mad. He had gone mad. Curze has always been mad with visions of a horrible future, but he set those aside long enough to show want for you so badly that he felt the need to behave like a loyal dog for you.

“I want you. Badly. I need you.” Curze said almost sharply, he sounded frustrated and confused with his emotions. “I-… want to touch you. Blood of the Emperor, I twist and turn at night thinking about you.” This confession was both bizarre and somewhat sweet in his own strange way. “I need you like I need the hearts in my chest to pump my lifeblood through my veins, and I don’t understand why.” He reached up to place his hand on your cheek, fingers borderline trembling with such painfully built up emotion.

Curze looked about ready to snap in that moment. You were struck with confusion and a strange sense of understand. His hands were surprisingly cold on your bare cheek, yet you still leaned in. The air felt electric as he leaned in in return. You opened your mouth to speak to him, however he swiftly interrupted your would-be words to kiss you directly on the lips.

Even his lips were cold, but not an unwelcome cold. More like the cold of a soft breeze, rather than the biting cold of an oncoming storm. To him, though, you were so, so warm. He yearned for it. Curze wanted that warmth from you the same way a cat laid in the window sill on a sunny day to bask in the heat of the sun. You were his sun. His sol, his heat. And you’d had no idea up until now, of all times.

When he finally pulled away, you were left in a harsh, speechless daze. Curze was terrible with emotions. He was awkward and clumsy with his confession like a newborn foal trying to walk. He spoke more through actions than words, that much was obvious. For a primarch with such a vicious and tormented reputation, and no clue how to love, he was starting to grasp the concept. All because of you.

—————————————————————————————

Oh good god, finally finished. Apologies if the writing is poor, this is my first ever fic I’ve written and it’s on my beloved babygirl, the Night Haunter <3

I love him sooo much, I’m not normal about this lil freak

[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

[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!

[deleteddewewted]

The Different Ways To Fuck Titus Headcanons

Titus x Reader

MDNI

W: NSFW, Pegging, Fingering, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Dom! Reader, Sub! Titus, Chest Play, Bondage, Shibari, Oral, Handjob, Minor Somno (Consentual), Oral Fixation, Reading the Codex while sinning, Hickeys, AFAB! Reader suggested in the pegging one but most of this is GN! and doesn't mention Reader genetelia

If you want to buy me a Ko-fi

Titus doesn't know much about his sexual desires as most of them have been repressed but once he enters a relationship with you all of a sudden he's in need of you constantly.

Exploration comes with a romantic relationship and Titus for one is not complaining about learning.

He loves it when you take over. Control is something he doesn't easily give but, by Terra, did it feel good to give it up.

You had eased him into trying new things. From having him lay on his back and receive attention to his sex by the quick and dutiful care of your mouth, to the fixation he had developed with your hands as you slowly stroked him to completion, Titus truly enjoyed having sex when it was with you teaching him.

You had once suggested going further trying out something he had never heard of.

You had him half awake lying on his side facing you as you stroked him. He was panting and twitching with each pass you made with your thumb over the head of dick. He could feel himself inching nearer to his orgasm as you took care of him in this vulnerable state. Soft moans escaped his lips and so did needy whines for more attention to his sensitive parts.

Fingering would be another thing that he would want to try, not because he doesn't know what it is but because he wants to know how it feels. Fingers in his ports feel different and strange but erotic all the same. He doesn't know why but your fingers are electric and set his nerves on fire. If you finger his ass instead he is even more thrilled by it. By the throne, he never knew with just simple digits could get him to moan out loud and arch his back. Whatever you managed to press against inside him sent chills down his spine and he spilled his cum over his stomach and your arm in the process.

Loves it when you play with his chest. When you simply fondle them and tell him that he must need some relief only for your mouth to latch onto his nipples, it drives him up the wall. You don't touch his dick or any other part of him, just his breasts. Heavy and soft, he finds it unbearable to simply sit there and take your biting and sucking without pressing his legs tightly together. He's cummed in his underwear more times than not when you do this and he hates it because it's slow torture.

Pegging was something he never thought about as he had always been the one to fuck you but when you had suggested it he wasn't against it. The preparation was the thing he loathed the most but he was still eager and happy to try. What he wasn't expecting was that you would tie him to the ceiling of his chambers and fuck him while his legs and arms were tied behind him. You had full control over how hard and how fast he would be fucked, your strap-on making a wet sound against his skin as you thrust it into his hole. He loves how light it makes him feel, almost like he isn’t over 300lb of pure muscle. Dig your fingers into his skin, pain and pleasure are practically the same thing for him.

I’m the rare opportunity that he has time to himself to indulge in his hobbies, which is reading, he also wouldn’t mind you fucking him during this time. Ride him, give a blow job, or even fuck him against his desk as he tries to read out loud in between breathy words and muffled moans, Titus has no complains. It’s thrilling to do such debaucherous things when reading such a sacred like the Codex Astartes, it makes him cum harder he feels.

Oral fixation was not something he had saw coming as he never did understand it. He quickly came to like it as it helped muffle his screaming moans. You fingers in his mouth as he sucked them and licked them clean from your own fluids or his, to using them to have him keep his mouth open so he could cry into the room and have others hear him, there was not much he could do about your fetish to hear him enjoy himself.

Loved the hickeys you leave behind. In rare occasion would he ever be nude in front of his brothers but I’m the occasions he is he is always met with questions or concern. You leave him looking like he had been mauled by a Tyranid or some other beast. Little did they know that as you two made love in his chambers you were sucking and biting at his body with the intention of leaving behind dark bruises and marks. Little did they know that such an action left him with tears in his eyes as he gasped for breath as the sensation overwhelmed him.

[moodymisty]

Author's note: Feeling Night Lordish today <3 I'm not happy with this one, but I wanted to just finish it and work on requests.

Relationships: Shang/Fem!reader

Warnings: Vaguely nsfw, Shang uses derogatory language but you're very much into it and he knows it, Armor kink, Kind of voyeur? It'll make sense

Shang has a secret, and Sevatar has spent weeks figuring out what it is.

The Equerry was quite good at covering his tracks however, and it had taken quite a long while for Sevatar to wait for a slip up. If it wasn't for how keen the Prince of Crows is, Shang could very well have kept it hidden forever.

He tails Shang briefly, and in his security the equerry doesn't seem to expect it. He walks all the way throughout the pitch black halls of theNightfall to the neglected Librarium, and heads inside. Sevatar lingers by the entrance to listen, cloaked in darkness still. He doesn't risk getting any closer yet.

Someone else is in there already however, he can hear the heartbeart. It's quieter, only one- it's a baseline.

The Librarium however means it's more than likely not a serf. The rustling of fabric that isn't coarse and ragged supports such a thing. Sevatar picks a moment to slip inside the Librarium fully, disappearing into the darkness beyond the dim few candles that are still burning ever after so much neglect. He sees you huddled at one of the tables closest to a batch of old candles, and his suspicions are all proven.

It's one of the remembrancers.

Sevatar is confused for a moment, though he supposes Shang might have some business with you all as equerry. It however still seems off for him to come all the way out of his way here just to speak to a single one. Why wouldn't he just summon you to him?

Though Sevatar doesn't need to keep himself wondering for much longer, as Shang approaches you from behind. You don't hear him coming- Shang's blended into the darkness enough that your less than keen baseline senses don't even realize a Night Lord is descending upon you until he speaks.

"Busy?"

You suddenly turn and a deep inhale is caught in your throat, the chair you were sitting on skidding across the floor as the back of your legs push it away. Your heart has suddenly revved up in terror, but when you turn and see Shang, the expression that blossoms on your face is...

Joy?

"Shang!"

The armored Night Lord approaches closer and quickly you're trapped against the table, enveloped in his shadow. In one fell swoop he grabs the back of your thighs and plops you on the table, bringing you up closer to his face. If he hadn't, he would tower over you in his armor so much so that looking down on you would require a near hilarious tilt of his head.

You gleefully let yourself get thrown about, putty in his hands. Sevatar can see his gauntlet dig halfway up your blouse, firmly gripping your ribs.

"I'm going to rip their eyes out if one of them leers at you again."

Sevatar watches. He wonders who them is. One of his brothers, is his first guess.

"Don't you leer at me, Shang?"

You say it with a smile, letting the Night Lord lower his head deep into your personal space. You wouldn't have a choice to refuse- Shang is your master and more powerful than your delicate body to an unfathomable degree- but Sevatar finds your enthusiastic consent interesting.

"Perhaps," He says, his lips coming to rest just brushing over your own.

"Though I remember you saying that it makes you wet."

The look you give the Night Lord is cruel within itself. Pure unending want. The smell that begins to radiate from you is more sickly sweet than the wine that Sevatar gag at in the Terran Palace, bottles popped by the Phoenician Fulgrim himself.

"It does."

The noise Shang lets out is nothing short of an inhuman growl, holding your body tighter. The fear you feel of him only seems to make your body run hotter, as Sevatar can see your breathing pick up pace as your chest rises and falls beneath the fabric of your clothes. If your heartbeat is ringing in his ears, in Shang's, it must sound like a clock tower ringing midnight.

"You little Terran whore, do you know how many of my brothers I have to beat and kill to keep them from tailing that sweet little cunt of yours around and trying to get a bite?"

His mouth latches to your neck just underneath your jaw, your head tilting to let him access the pulsing veins. His tongue glides across your skin as he bites and kisses your neck; Your hands grip at his armor trying to find stability, gasping as he bruises your skin with intensity. Eventually they slip into his hair, fingers knotting into the pitch black strands.

"When, when will you be out of your armor again?"

You're mewling, and even in the pitch dark no less than a hundred feet away Sevatar can smell that you're still getting even more riled up. He isn't even pushing on them, but your thighs unconsciously spread wide, ready for him. You're either well trained- a mind broken baseline or Nostroman whore, or...

You want him.

The feeling Sevatar has in his chest is, unfamiliar; Watching you pull the Night Lord closer instead helplessly sobbing and crying while attempting to push him away.

"Soon. You can wait, you're not starving. Keep that cunt of yours under control or else you're going to have a squad of men wanting to tear it apart."

You whine, and again ever louder when Shang grips your hips, pushing his thumbs into the soft fat of your hips just above your groin. It makes you writhe helplessly underneath him, as he hisses at you.

"Even if they won't get to, because it's mine."

His lips roughly meet yours, a ruthless aggressive kiss broken up by his growling voice. Muffled against your skin it's a bit harder to hear, but he still manages it.

"Once I am out I was intending on fucking you within an inch of your life whether you wanted it or not."

You mewl for him, and even Sevatar can admit that the sound is delicious; Like squeaky, active prey. You attempt to pull your body closer to him, hands still deep in his hair. Shang sighs.

"I must return to Kurze. He'll return from his gallery soon."

Your hands linger on him, and the look of blissful stupidity you had on your face fades to one much more lucid and becoming of your station.

"I'll miss you."

Sevatar feels that thing in his chest twist tighter. The shadows around him almost seem to shake at his loss of concentration.

"Why do I think you're just missing one part of me, you hungry little bitch."

You pout at him, displeased by his overt implication; Your lips shift with a search for words.

"I'll miss you, Shang. I-"

Shang leans closer to you and your voice fades to something Sevatar can barely hear, but you do say something. He leans away once you finish, and his expression is much more neutral. The way Sevatar is used to seeing his ugly, scarred face; Stoic.

"Stay out of their sight."

You nod. Shang leans forward and kisses you again, a hungry gesture that has you moaning into his mouth. But the act itself is still, soft. Sevatar has never seen anything that gentle from one of his brothers- they don't even handle their few possessions with such care.

It, feels wrong.

Shortly thereafter Shang removes himself from you and pulls from your personal space, as much as your weak little limbs try and hold him close.

Sevatar moves to slip out before Shang does, but he catches the forlorn look on your face as this brief moment is cut.

When Shang finally leaves the librarium, he comes face to face with Sevatar a short ways down the hall. Sevatar can tell by how Shang reads his expression, that his knowledge of what transpired is obvious.

"You should keep out of equerry business."

Sevatar laughs, a full belly laugh that reverberates in the hall and mocks Shang to an insulting degree.

"Baseline cunt is equerry business? I was unaware."

Sevatar makes a crude mention of you, and he can see Shang bristle instantly. It's even easier to piss him off now.

"I didn't think you were so low as to go around peering in on others."

Sevatar crosses his arms. The plates of his armor softly knock against eachother.

"If you mind your business, I didn't see a single thing."

The equerry sneers and raises his voice, but it only makes Sevatar laugh. He couldn't find this intimidating now when not minutes ago, he was damn near trying to croon at you.

"You intend to threaten me?"

Once again the first captain laughs, rolling his eyes. The display Shang is putting out now is embarrassing for a Night Lord of his reputation, compensating for being caught in a situation far less that becoming of him.

"No. I am telling you. Stay out of my business, and I will not inform Kurze."

Sevatar isn't stupid. He knows that Kurze would love nothing more than to find a weakness in any his sons he could exploit, especially for a son such as Shang, who Sevatar knows the Primarch already sees as weak.

You would be gone in moments- stolen away and Shang would be forced to know in detail every disgusting and inhuman thing Kurze did to you. If he wasn't forced to watch it.

Judging by how possessive Shang clearly is over you if the mere idea of another's eyes on you sets him off, Konrad could quite easily break the man in one fell swoop- if he wanted.

If he knew he could.

Shang's nose twitches in his sneer. Sevatar hit a nerve; A deep one, the inkling that his affinity to you goes deeper than carnal is more than obvious. And he knows Shang will be easily manipulable because of it.

He could get another fresh cunt, if he wanted. No one would stare if he found a random serf and dragged them back to his quarters. But he wants you specifically, and Sevatar finds that interesting.

Not enough to pursue, but, interesting none the less.

"Very well."

Shang curtly decides to take his leave, pushing past Sevatar to make his way towards the front of the ship. Presumably to return to Kurze's side.

But for a moment Sevatar lingers in the comfortable pitch black of the hall, and considers going to speak with you.

A word lingers on Sevatar's mind.

They can't. Sevatar knows they can't, and Shang is merely indulging in some more primal part of his brain he and some other astartes have managed to unlock. Nothing more.

Sevatar moves on, wiping it all from his mind and returning to his duty. He'll honor what he said, as long as Shang does as well.