#c russ tag

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[lieutenantsluvr]

༉‧₊˚✧

❝ run, baby, run. ❞

pairing : Keegan Russ x fem!reader

tags : NSFW, size kink, degrading, praise, blood sport, (masochism?), oral sex, little to no cnc, fear? fetish? Not realistic to canon in any sort of way, undefined previous relationship.

synop : Inspiration taken from H.D Carlton’s Haunting Adeline 

w/c 3.5k

Author’s note : first time posting any sort of writing… ever. Let’s hope it isn’t bad! (I’ve also never posted on tumblr.. So if I do anything ?? wrong?? Please tell me.) 

It was a violent, and dark mission. The dark they only really show in true crime documentaries. Dark that makes your flesh crawl with the very thought. You didn't want to admit to yourself that the things you saw on this mission would haunt your nights for the next.. Well, however many years you live in this ruthless career. 

Keegan, your field partner, sat next to you. A man who you have seen gut people on the field - yet, also hold your hand, softly, while you cry about the horrors you've had to witness just to save innocent souls. He sat next to you, shoulders tense and aflame, eyes bearing down into the metal grates of the warehouse. You didn't know him well enough to really pick out what emotion had plastered itself within the cracks of his consciousness, but you knew him well enough to know this wasn't a good emotion. The rest of the travel back to base was quiet. Keegan didn't bother to utter a syllable, but would occasionally flick his eyes down to your figure, then back to mindless reeling.

Hours later, you had decided to work off some steam - the visuals from the mission still plaguing your head. You hadn't seen any of the other members, assuming they all respectively went off to deal with their emotions on their own. The rain pelted your body like bullets, but somehow the ache in your muscles only stirred when you heard footsteps approaching.

Keegan didn't bother to speak, only watching as you slammed your fist down on the punching bag - ruthless. His eyes wandered down, a quick observation of your form.. maybe your body.. And then back up to a respectful gaze. 

You glanced back at him, almost a little off-putted by his tense shoulders, dark eyes, and the lack of emotion that usually fills his stare. He stands up, a slow forwarding step as he approaches you.

"Run."

You almost double over at the way his voice gravels. Dark, and scathed like chains dragging on a concrete floor. A simple turn of your head, as if saying, what? Heart rhythmically thudding against your ribcage, feeling as if it’ll pop from your chest and run. Another glance down at his fists, the way they curl and uncurl in strangulation. What. 

"You heard me,"

"Run." A pause, his teeth baring as he enunciated his every syllable, "If I catch you, I fuck you."

You tense at his gaze, baffled at the very words he dared to utter in your direction. Run? Run. As quickly as your brain registers his intentions, you stumble back. Boots that clung to your feet almost painfully slipping against the slickness of the wet ground. “What?” You mutter out, and it comes out weak, and embarrassingly hoarse. It’s sick. You shouldn’t be feeling butterflies rippling at your very core, or enjoy the way your flesh flares at the sight of… him. 

Keegan's eyes narrow, the muscles in his body seeming to vibrate with each second. His gaze, locked into yours, as your heart ruthlessly slams against the butterflies fluttering about in your gut. He doesn't react - he wants the chase.

"Go," He growls, eyes not daring to break away from yours, and you couldn't help the little shiver that danced throughout your skin. What is this? Your fight reflexes should have kicked in by now, but instead your body is responding with the most.. odd sensations. Fuck, I’m crazy. Sick. Sick in the head. 

Before you even have time to react, his hand is swift in motion. He closes the gap in a swiftness, his hands grasping the back of your shirt and yanking you against himself. Your body pressed firmly against his, eyes upturned to him as a silent battle of wills, or who? takes place. A breath - quick and shallow - escapes his lips, eyes narrowing.

"I won’t ask again.”

Within seconds, your body flies from his grasp - feet hitting the ground at a magnitude you can’t process. Every cylinder in your brain is firing. The hamster in its damn wheel at max speed. Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s a reminder to calm your screaming muscles, and the butterflies turned moths in the pit of your stomach. You don’t even want to turn back. Fuck, you can’t even hear him. The rain that was once pelting against your aching muscles in soothing motion is now your worst enemy. Draining your vision of any clarity, and your boots of any traction to the ground. 

He watches you bolt away - the very thought of losing you makes every part of him seethe. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? The mission. How he couldn’t keep his eyes off the way you reacted to the carnage. What if that was you? Beaten. Strangled. Maimed. He couldn't just let you go. Let you go. He needed this. Fucking needed it. Every step he took was filled with an overwhelming sense of purpose. He knew, if he caught - caught - you then there would be no way you would get out free. No way he could resist tearing away at the vulnerability in your eyes.

“I’m not some goddamn animal for you to hunt!” You practically sob out, chest heaving against unsteady inhales and exhales. Boots slapping against the mud as you weave in and out of the forest - dark, and cascading trees for miles. Why the fuck are you speaking? You don’t even know. You’re a soldier. You do this for a living. Escape. Run. Hide. Kill. Yet, your body reacts accordingly with the thought of him catching you. Arousal. Disgust. Need? You’ll definitely need to speak to a therapist after this, that much is clear. You pause, feeling the taste of iron flood your mouth, strained breathing and muscles screaming to give out. Back pressed up against the rough bark of a tree, eyes flicking around aimlessly in the darkness of the forest. Where the fuck is he. 

Quiet. Still. Pause.

Footsteps.

He appears out from between the trees - his eyes meeting yours. His lips narrow to a thin line as he observes you pressed against the bark, an image of fragility he could barely look at. He knows your body has reached its limits, but the thought of you not being able to handle this - handle him - didn't bother him. No, he relished in the thought of overwhelming you until you had no choice but to succumb to his will.

“You're fucking insane!" You chuff out, taking steps back - eyes flicking back and forth only to dictate the distance between your  numb feet and the ground. You can barely walk. Think. Eyes darting back to the predator taking slow, and painful steps toward you. Large build. God, six foot something.. It didn’t matter. Even through the mask you could see how he bares his teeth against strained breaths. Fuck.

"What is wrong?" You practically sob out, another strained step back into the mud, "We can talk about this.." His eyes narrow. His brow furrows. The corner of his lips twitch through the dark fabric of the balaclava - the muscles in his cheek jumping as he suppresses a smile. The sheer absurdity of your request, the thought of talking this out, almost makes him laugh. Though, your plea fell on deaf ears. A low, primal growl fills the air, every part of your body being consumed with an intense wave of heat - Your core burning up in a blaze. A swift motion of his hand to bunch up the balaclava, thumb hooking under the fabric and dragging it right below his nose. His muscles bunch, his lips peeling away from his teeth, exposing his incisors as his jaw flexes forward. He takes one step. Two. 

"Keegan.." You plead, taking another faltering step. It was like the gods had laughed at the way you squirmed and ran, desiring more entertainment. Slipping from the lack of traction from under your feet. A harsh thud into the ground, your elbows sliding into the rigid, and slick dirt - a whine from lips that could barely contain her own breath. At this point, you were sure you were bleeding. Some sort of road-rash against the rocks in the mud.

The closer he gets the harder it is to suppress the urge to attack. His senses are tingling, the heat you radiate as he stalks towards you, consumes him. Everything in him urges him to pounce - the only thing holding him back is the little bit of human left in his head.

“Oh, baby girl,” He drawls, the gravel in his tone sending sputters of electricity against your flesh. Fuck. Your brain can barely comprehend the feeling. Waves of rolling heat against every muscle that screamed RUN, IDIOT! But you didn’t. In fact, somewhere in that hamster wheel that echoed in your thick fucking skull, you almost told yourself to sit, and stay. He crouches down on a knee in front of you, eyes slowly slinking over the blood trickling down your forearm. The cut couldn’t have been that bad, you barely felt it. You barely felt anything. A long silent pause - your blood a thick, sticky mess against your body, but his eyes, sharp as a blade, are only set on yours. His hand is soft as it takes a hold against your wrist, raising your arm up to inspect the damage. He tuts his lips, “Silly fucking girl.” The phrase almost deprives your lungs of oxygen. He continues to raise up your arm, a now painful stretch as he almost dangles the front half of your body in front of his face. “Damaging a body,” A lulling of his tongue, before it languidly swipes against your elbow, a singular drop of blood landing against his tongue. You swear you can feel the vibrations in his throat, that of satisfaction. A deep, dark growling. One they only really talk about in stories, “A body that fucking belongs to me.”

Oh fuck. If you weren’t sure you were ruined by this image, you sure as hell were now. This is so fucked up. Beyond fucked up. Your body coils, and tightens at his action - the stinging against your wound, and berated flesh aching for an escape. Hey, God. It’s me again. His hand slides from your arm, dropping your weight on the ground, a soft thud as your knees make contact with the mud again. “Strip.” He orders. By the flaunt in his tone, he knows he’s winning. Bitch.

You comply, of course. What the fuck else were you supposed to do? Run? You tried that. It didn’t work. He’s a predator. An animal. Trained by the military, chewed up, fucked, and spit back out to wreak havoc on any prey the department sicks him on. Hands shakily fumbling against your clothes, an awkward and almost idiotic task as you slide from your dampen and muddied clothing. His eyes are plastered on your every move - you swear he stops breathing when bare flesh breaks free from the hold of your uniform. 

“You’re taking too long.” He chuffs, a hand grasping at your forearm, pulling you to your feet in a swift motion. He practically tosses you around like a sack of potatoes. His hand presses against the valley between your breasts, a shove and your pressed up against the rough bark of the tree. “Don’t fucking tease me.” He adds, his other hand sprawling behind your shoulder blades, you assume it’s to protect your screaming flesh from the harshness of the bark. Kinda sweet. Rough, and calloused hand slipping down the ravine between your breasts, his mouth following in suit - it’s almost sweet the way he places soft, and sensual kisses down your cavity. Though, part of you thinks it’s an apology. His eyes only glint like this when he’s on the battlefield. Laser-sharp focus as he bares his claws into whatever lowlife that dared fuck with the embodiment of vengeance. He only looked this way when he ripped people in half. Haha. Shit.

His body comes to another kneel in front of you, hands slipping down your torso to follow the bend of your hips. Gloved hands undoing the belt that holds up your military issued cargoes, a sharp pull of the fabric and it’s resting at your knees. Fuck, this is embarrassing. There you are, practically served on a silver platter in front of a starving soldier. His eyes roam toward their goal. Their prize. He has the audacity to smile as he runs his lips down your stomach, to your thighs. “Dirty fuckin girl,” He begins, followed by a snap of his teeth. It grazes your inner thigh, and you tense. He could probably bite a chunk from your flesh. Honestly? You wouldn’t be too mad. In fact, you crave it. “Keegan-” You begin, but you’re cut off by his tongue slipping from his mouth. It flattens against your underwear and over your heat - a desperate, and strained whine escaping your throat. His hands, still grasping down into your hips, fingertips digging into the squishy flesh so hard you swear it’ll leave bruises. “Fuck,” He drawls, a sharp inhale as he retracts his tongue back into his mouth, “All this for me?” Your thighs shake at the heat in his voice, the gravel. Before you can even let out an embarrassingly pained noise, he hooks his finger against the fabric and moves it to the side. The cool air pokes at your flesh. Between his eyes, and the cold nip of the air, your core is screaming underneath a burning sensation. 

His tongue is quick to lap against your folds, and you swear you black out for a second. A full body shiver as he flattens his tongue, licking languidly against the excess that drips from between. “Like drinking from a fucking chalice.” He groans into you, a tightening of his grip against your hips. The right type of fear is coursing through your veins. He’s eating like it’s his last fucking meal. Tongue swiping up and down as it picks up every last single drop of arousal. Your moans, and whines reverberate through the forest, probably scaring off every animal that lives there. A singular hand of his drops down from your hip, sliding to the bend of your knee, and hooking it over his shoulder. You revel in the feeling of him suffocating between your thighs - his gloved fingers squeezing into the side of your thigh. Tongue jetting out of his mouth, he ruthlessly swirls against your clit. Before you have a chance to shiver against the arousal pooling in your gut, he bites down… hard. He’s practically rolling your aching, and screaming bud between his teeth. Your heart beats a steady cadence against your skin, the heat of his breath grazing against the flesh. The growl from his throat was something you wanted to explore in his throat - really feel. He was an untamed thing, a wild animal, and he was claiming his territory.

“Keegs-” You choke back as you sob, head rolling back until it pressed against the bark of the tree. Apparently, the brief uttering of his own name gets him even more excited. A deep, and guttural noise upheaving itself from his throat. “Relax, babygirl.” He groans between clenched teeth. Continuous cries as he murderously devours your cunt. His teeth, once rolling your bud back and forth, has ceased - now subduing the sting with his tongue, grinding against it fluidly. You notice that your once hesitant thighs are now spread apart like the red fucking sea. God, maybe you are psycho. A singular hand of yours jets out, fingers curling around the fabric of his collar and holding him there. Is this an asshole move? Practically suffocating him with your pussy? Maybe. But, he chased you into a forest… Revenge? God, you couldn’t think. To your dismay, he actually enjoys the iron-clad grip you have against his collar. Groaning into your cunt, he flattens his tongue once more, languidly soothing the white-hot screaming from between your legs. 

Between his own saliva, and the wetness drowning him - You’re so fucking wet. Embarrassingly wet. You can’t stop the clumsily motion of your hips as they begin rolling against his mouth. “Shit, Shit-” You sputter, your reaction earning a thrust from his tongue inside of you, “Keegan- Please- So.. So..” Another sputter of incoherent garbage. What the fuck are you saying? Your stomach tightens, the coil creaking and retracting in your lower stomach. 

“I know, sweet girl,” He confesses between your thighs, the vibrations from his syllables knocking around your cunt, “such a good fucking girl.” His arm wraps around your hips, raising you even higher for his mouth to indulge. You tilt, in wake, a whine of pleasure as he flattens his tongue and swirls it against your clit. He quickly dips it, and slides down to jet inside of you. He’s barely phased when you writhe above him, nails gliding against the flesh across his collarbones. You’re just clawing at anything you can get your hands on. Keegan continues to licks at you as if you’re contagious - an antidote to the animal that infects him. Honestly? You can’t even remember the fucking mission from earlier. 

“Keegan,” You call out again, head tipping back against the blurriness of your vision, “Please- Wanna come ‘m so close.” He laughs. This fucker has the audacity to laugh. Yet, the vibrations pulse through you - hitting every nerve ending like hail against a tin roof. “That’s it, good girl..” His tongue dips up, tight circles against your aching clit. It’s a full body experience. A tightening sensation that runs up from your toes, to your head. Desperate whines, and calls of his name as the feeling sweeps over you. Tightening coils in your gut, till it breaks, similar to that of a rubber band snapping back against sensitive flesh. You heave, and wheeze a call of his name, a broken sob as air escapes your lungs. Keegan doesn’t stop - no, why would he? His tongue continues to ruthlessly chase your high, lapping every ounce that runs from your cunt. Though, mercifully, he removes his mouth after a few seconds. 

Your eyes drift down, watching as he tilts his chin up to meet your gaze. Almost animalistically, his tongue dips from his mouth - swiping against fluid that lines his lips, and taking it into his mouth. A shudder escapes your body, followed by a whine at the sight. “See?” He laughs, the darkness in his tone lacing his cocky words, “Dirty fuckin’ girl, yeah?” He raises his hand, only slightly, grazing a knuckle against your screaming folds, and swiping up some excess arousal. Keegan is quick to bring his hand back, inspecting it, “Could barely fit my fuckin’ tongue in,” He jests, running the knuckle of his pointer finger against his tongue. The sight makes you shiver. “Keeping this pretty fucking pussy all to yourself.” Was it true? Maybe. Who's to say you haven’t only thought of him? Hand dipping below your pants after every training session, relishing in the way his muscles constricted and flared as he trained. He’s hot. Fucker knows it too. 

You don’t bother replying, only dragging your leg off of his shoulder and placing it gently on the ground. Body still shaking, shivering, and meekly reverberating at the carnage he just mouthed into your cunt. He’s quick to stand, towering over you with that behemoth fucking build. Listen, Keegan’s always been a big dude. His shoulders, and biceps were a knee weakening image.  Mindless thoughts earning the trailing of your eyes down to the area between his thighs, brain constricting and contorting an image up of just how big his cock could be. Your brain continues to reel at the thought. Fuck, you want it. 

“Keegan,” You murmur out, voice still a little hoarse from the cries. His eyes dip down to meet your stare, not a single visible emotion as he gazes down. Fuckin brute. Almost desperately, your hand reaches up to his vest, fingers kneading at the fabric until you can grasp at some of the shirt that hides underneath. He bares his teeth, only for a second before he steps into you.

 “I’m going to tell you this once, and only once.” A pause. “Run, and hide.” 

Oh, fuck. See, the game of cat and mouse isn’t as scary as it was before. Now it’s fucking palpable. He knows you’re willing to submit. You like this game, and he likes playing it. 

“If I catch you,” He pauses, like he knows he will, “I stuff that criminally tight pussy with every. fucking inch. of.  myself.” A sharp inhale through clenched teeth, “And, I bury myself so fucking deep inside of you that you can feel my soul in the afterlife.”  Part of you stirs for a moment, awaiting for a laugh - a lessening of his threat. But, nothing comes. Haha. Shit. Within seconds, your hands are fumbling to do the button of your cargoes, clumsy sliding them up your ass and taking off. So, here you are - running, half naked, cold, and wet through a fucking forest. Again.

[konigbabe]

NSFW alphabet with Keegan P. Russ

Pairing: Keegan Russ x fem!reader

Word count: 3.5k

Tags/Warnings: smut/nsfw; canon compliant; explicit language; praise kink; mirror sex; rough sex; p-in-v sex; canon spoilers; light dom/sub undertones; light BDSM; oral sex; aftercare; teasing; sex toys

A/N: This is essentially my own interpretation of what Keegan Russ' NSFW alphabet would look like. | source |

masterlist • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Aftercare and Keegan go hand in hand; he’s very gentle with you—with the scares of war, roughness of the battlefield, all he craves when around you is just to be present, enjoying the quiet moments you share following the post-orgasmic bliss, his hands caressing your arms, the skin of your hips, the curve of your spine; a content sigh leaving his kiss-bruised lips still glistening with your juices as he rests his head on top of yours. His heartbeat strong and steady, allowing your heart to sync with his and calm down.

Keegan’s also someone who always has a glass of water by his bed for multiple purposes—not only to give it to you to cool your heated body after he’s done absolutely savaging you but to calm down his racing heartbeat from the nightmares he still dreams about, especially after everything that happened with the Walker brothers…

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your thighs; he’s absolutely addicted to the feel of them on his palms, around his hips with your heels digging into his lower back. Keegan would always swallow your moans, inhaling you in as he grounds himself deeper into you. Harder. One of his hands would rest comfortably on the apex of your thigh, drawing tantalizing circles on your flesh—feeling the muscles underneath tremble as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you, the one that makes you say his name as a prayer, as a plea. A mantra for more.

For you, it’s his eyes; he’s quiet, reserved. Reticent��but his eyes, they speak volumes. It took you some time to understand his silent language. It started off innocent enough—he’d give you a look on a mission, telling you to follow him, to stay behind him, to stay safe. Then as you grew closer, as you conquered the walls around him, you’d see the commanding aura surrounding him. He likes control; he’d let you taciturnly know—his eyes would tell you everything Keegan demanded; to be a good girl for him, to open your legs wider, get on your knees, hands over your head; he wouldn’t have to say a word yet you’d always know and more than happily obliged his desires. His gaze would hold you captive, and you could tell he was savoring the moment and the pleasure he was getting out of it as much as you were.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum)

Keegan’s a slight clean freak; it comes from his line of work and spills over to the sex as well. Rarely he’d allow himself to cum on your body—even though he always dreams about you, drenched in his own juices, on your knees for him, his seed spilling from your open mouth, piercing eyes drowning in the view of you so compliant. Swallowing him. Savoring the taste of him, sweet and subsaline.

But there’s nothing like cumming inside you. The tight clench of your walls, urging him to finally let go. Your moans symphony to his ears, eyes locked with yours—pupils dilated, the darkness taking over the ocean blue of his irises—hips grounding into you, claiming you for his own. The way you feel wrapped around him, drawing him in with an irresistible force….yeah, there’s no better feeling than the way your body reacts to his seed inside.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There was one time when you got taken hostage by the Federation soldiers; Keegan still vividly remembers the way he felt, how worried he was, slipping occasionally, focus faltering as he and the rest of the team breached the compound in hopes to find you—well and alive. He wasn’t very keen on the feeling; he did care about you and always will but never would he thought that your kidnapping would mess his head that much.

He’ll never admit it but it was the moment he found you. Killed the guard, Logan and Hesh behind him as he bashed the door open and saw you—sitting on a chair, legs spread and each ankle tied up to a separate chair leg, a rope securing your stomach to the back post with your arms tied behind your back; you were well and alive, Keegan thanked the God, but it was the way that compromising position pushed up your chest, your prominent curves on display…and he liked the view—for a split second before realizing the reality of the whole situation but yes…seeing you all tied up and gagged ignited a spark of arousal within him that he knew he'd explore later on, when both of you were alone.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Keegan knows exactly what he's doing. He's never been into flings or one-night stands, preferring to explore his own desires and pleasure with steady partners. That stableness has allowed him to build upon his knowledge and now he's ready to share his expertise with you. His touch is confident, each caress igniting a fire in you that starts as a gentle flicker and builds to a roaring blaze with his lips tantalizing yours, exploring and teasing as you writhe underneath him, on top of him, completely at his mercy.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying…)

He likes you underneath him, facing him; and not only in bed. Let it be against the wall, ankles on top of his shoulders, legs against your chest as he sinks deep inside your sensitive walls, the position allowing you to feel the spongy head of his cock kissing your cervix. He likes to watch you, to truly see the bliss on your face, to feel you clench around him, to see you fold so easily in his grasp.

There are also days where he lets you on top—hands squeezing your thighs, fingertips caressing the curve of your ass as you stay on all fours over his lying form, one arm supporting your weight next to his head, the other delicately tracing the contours of his chest, the hard edges of his torso while you sink lazily on his cock, deliberately and leisurely bathing in the bliss of been filled by the man underneath you, eliciting soft moans and groans from him with your nails scratching his breastplate, running over the jagged skin there…

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Keegan doesn’t joke around; not outside the bedroom or inside. He’s more of a sarcastic type of person with those he cares about—but when it comes to pleasure and passion, he’s all about the business. There might be a moment or two where he says something laced with satire, where he teases you, tantalizing you and it’s no secret that you do live for those moments—to see him so relaxed, so endorsed in the intimacy of the two of you that he just lets go of everything.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Keegan has always been an unconventional man, and that extends to his grooming habits. He rarely finds the time to devote to meticulous styling, instead preferring to focus his energy elsewhere. But one area he does make sure to attend to is his facial hair. He knows how uncomfortable it can be to wear a mask over the stubble, let alone a full beard, so he takes time to make sure it's well taken care of.

That doesn’t necessarily translate to other areas of his body—he has a nice, thicker happy trail; one that you just love letting your fingertips trail along, even when you’re just lying on his chest, in your shared bed, snuggled together and about to fall asleep. It calms you, a perfect lullaby.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Keegan’s someone who always enjoys the close intimate moments between you two—even if not confirming it verbally, his body language betrays him every time. He’s gentle and loving, worshipping your body with slow and sensuous movements. Kissing and nipping at your skin, at the flesh of your shoulder, extending the gentle assault onto your neck as he slides into you, filling you to the brim; caressing your skin, murmuring sweet nothings and telling you how beautiful you are, how well you’re taking him…

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He’s a grown man with needs, especially when he was still alone, he’d get it over with pretty quickly; finding the whole act to be his own way of relaxation and release of all the built-up tension he'd been holding inside, not really something he’d indulge in. Nowadays, Keegan doesn’t have these needs that often.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Keegan definitely is way filthier and kinkier than most people have him for;

There’s the praise kink; Keegan’s not someone who talks that much during sex. He can do dirty talk and fuck he does that good—but when he opens his mouth, in those sacred moments, he always makes sure to let you know how good you are, how pretty you look and sound. Also, the sound of your moans, calling out his name and babbling about how good he makes you feel gives him an incomparable rush of pleasure.

He’s certainly fond of fucking you in front of mirrors (as explored in lose composure); having you bend over a drawer, rutting into you with his eyes staring you down in the mirror, gaze fixated on the way your eyes focus on the way his cock sinks into your walls, coated in your juices, glistening and so red and angry as he pounds you into complete submission.

There is a whole side of Keegan to explore and you are adamant about finding out more about his little secrets...

L = Location (Favourite places to do the deed)

Keegan is fine with anywhere you’re game to do it. Of course he prefers the bedroom; it used to be standard for him before ODIN fell—ever since the Federation war and ever since you, he changed his tactics a little, twisted them to your own desires; because when on a mission, there’s no guarantee you’ll return to the comfort of your own bed so when the two of you feel the need to fuck each other’s brains out and are all for it, he really doesn’t mind having you against some old rusty wall in a questionable basement with the rest of the team somewhere in the same building.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

You. Everything about you; everything you do. But especially when you’re in your game—he’s seen you shoot a guard with his own rifle and it was you, shamelessly showing off before his eyes that turned him on that time. He’ll watch you with passionate admiration and then lead you somewhere private to show you just how much he admires you. The thought that someone so gorgeous and strong-headed as you chose to be with him feels more than appetizing.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Keegan will never agree to degradation or anything to do with weaponry inside the bedroom; he’s rough, can be very demanding and fierce sometimes (but always tentative to your needs)—pushing your head into the pillows, fingers gripping your hair harshly as he grounds himself inside you, one hand guiding your hips to meet him halfway as you feel the moans getting caught in the soft material of the mattress; he’d growl into your ear to just take it. He lives for when you leave marks on his skin, crescent bruises from your nails digging too deep into his muscles, sometimes even drawing blood, bite marks on his shoulder from trying to keep quiet as he pounds into you right next door to Merrick….but he’ll never be okay with making you bleed.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Keegan never says no to a blowjob; he rather relishes in it when you go down on your knees for him, but his real passion lies in giving you the pleasure his mouth and fingers can bring you. Your taste, smell, the way you react—it’s something that shifts him into a state of euphoria. For him, it’s an opportunity to show you just how devoted he can be; it’s also oddly comforting for him, with your legs squeezing his head, locking him in place, he’s content at that time with his own pleasure just secondary to yours…

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

More than rough and fast, Keegan likes to take his time. He’ll take every minute he has with you and draw them out, make you come twice before he even lets you get your hands on him. And even then, when you beg him to finally be inside you, he’ll deliberately take it slow. Tantalizing you, punishing you as if you’ve been bad even when that isn’t the truth. It frustrates you, the way he sets a slow, sensual pace and barely pulls out of you, preferring to stay deep inside and rock against you and feel every slight tensing and releasing of your inner muscles. He’ll take advantage of every second you have together.

However, there are days when you both want nothing more than tear each other apart; those days end with him ravishing you wherever you are, taking you against the wall without bothering to take off anything, not even his gloves and mask. And sometimes it’s you who does that to him—goading him into fucking you hard and deep; or you’ll push him down on the ground (or on a chair) and just ride him, use him (until he comes, sometimes too fast because you drive him fucking insane with your wild demeanor).

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Keegan, as mentioned before, prefers to take his sweet time with you. However, if the options are quickie or nothing, you know he’ll never decline that offer. Sometimes it’s when you feel too needy in the morning as he’s about to leave; you’ll wrap your venomous fingers around his wrist, still naked in his sheets with him fully dressed, mask in his hand, just reaching for his gun on the night table when you stop him—ask him to stay a little longer. Initially, he’d decline so you’d turn to begging, pleading and when that fails (that man is strongwilled sometimes, stubborn even), you just tug at his wrist with all your strength, making him lose stability and fall right on top of you, make him give into you, even if he was already meant to be sitting in the briefing room (but let’s be honest; he’s much happier buried inside your soft slick walls, hearing you moan his name rather than sitting on a chair surrounded by the rest of Ghosts).

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Keegan’s line between experimenting and taking risks is pretty thin; he’s keen on experimentation—even before the fall of ODIN, he lived by the “try everything once” phase and is still game when it comes to your love life. It’s your suggestions that mostly reveal his hidden desires. He wasn’t someone who experimented often but with you and how open you are to try new things; it allows him to find himself as well (and make him fucking fall in love with you even more, not that he might admit it to you anytime soon though).

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s someone who may not be able to last more than one, maybe two rounds (especially with how physically tiring his job can get) but this man knows how to make it count. He’ll be tantalizingly slow, leisured thrusts, sometimes just staying seating inside, shifting and grounding his hips without pulling out—drawing multiple orgasms out of you until you’re so spend that even your moans became barely audible, throat painfully dry, muscles relaxed to the point it feels like someone injected you with epidural, yet he won’t stop, drowning in the bliss your body gives him.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

For himself? No.

To use on you? Maybe—it’s kind of an apocalypse after all and people have other things on minds than trying to get their hands on sex toys. But he might have brought you something he found on one of the regular raids; it took some serious deep cleaning to make sure everything was sterile and safe for use. After that? This man is unstoppable with it; after he reaches his own climax, he’s all game to continue working your body to another blissful release with that toy.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

Keegan is undoubtedly a teaser; slowly picking up on the ways to tease you based on the way you tease him (an eye for an eye). You have a knack for knowing exactly how to make him ache: eating fruit in front of him and lick each sweet drop of juice off your fingers; your body brushing against his as you lean in close when you’re in public; you give him glances through your lashes because you know that a certain type of look makes him go hard.

He slowly picks up on what makes you do the same. The first time he put his hand on you in public (and not on a mission) with casual ease, you nearly jumped out of your skin; talking to your superior with the Ghosts around you, his hand resting on the lower of your back, the curve on top of your ass because he knew no one was able to see it, his fingers drew circles on the material of your shirt, making you stumble over your words, drawing looks from the Walkers and Merrick, all way too oblivious to the way Keegan’s fingers slipped into your jeans, just knuckle deep but still touching the naked flesh of your lower back.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s a moaner; quiet but full of emotion, keeping it contained within himself so that only are able to hear him. Keegan’s not one to be loud which isn’t really surprising, yet he’s vocal in other ways—gentle grunts, suppressed groans and muffled moans. The more he loses the ability to express himself with words, and as his pleasure intensifies, his moans become more impassioned and fervent, until he's completely overwhelmed with pleasure and can only express himself with a deafening cry of bliss.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Keegan can’t stop thinking about that time he found you bound as a hostage. He doesn’t really want to bring it up because it was after all a traumatizing moment for you; yet his imagination runs wild with the fantasy of seeing you laid out before him, helpless and vulnerable, blindfolded and restrained; laying bare on his bed— not able to move as he devours you like a man-starved beast. The thought of your hands bound above your head, unable to move, only fuels his hunger for you further. He can't help but imagine just how exquisite it would feel to be able to fuck into you in such a vulnerable state.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Keegan’s more on the girth side rather than length; still, he’s big enough to make you feel the stretch when he slides into you. Tantalizingly thick, he always leaves you craving more, filling you up completely, sending waves of electricity through you with each roll of his hips.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

His desire for you is as high as yours, if not higher. Keegan’s someone who not only is more than capable of fucking you before going to sleep but waking up and be ready to do it all over again. His sex drive is a combination of biology and psychology; one part of him completely succumbs to his desire whenever you’re around (or just on his mind) and the other is worry—he worries that this, what you to have going on, is not permanent given the nature of your lives. This fear of his only serves to strengthen his passion, and make him even more eager to please you.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

In accordance with the previous statements, he mostly takes his time; he likes to watch you drift into that blissful slumber, so spent and tired to not even bother to dress up. It lets him savor the moments between you even more. Keegan will sometimes put his shirt on you while you’re already fast asleep—he’ll move slowly and with precision so he won’t wake you up, caressing your body with his fingertips as he slips his shirt over you, taking in the sight of your bare skin against the used fabric. He loves to linger, taking in your beauty and the tranquillity of the night, before finally letting himself drift off in peaceful repose.

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

thank youuu!!!

it's 3:45pm, i just got home, i'm gonna make a big cup of tea, about to change into pajamas and stay in for the rest of the day and listen to music(russ ballard) and maybe hopefully make some gifs or maybe i'll just. get lost in a game or something for a bit. or maybe i'll sit here staring at the wall thinking of things i could do without actually doing them. while also thinking about how lovable russ ballard is. which is basically all i've been doing the entire time i was out today anyway. oh my tea water is hot, i gotta go deal with that, okay bye.

i tag EVERYONE

hello loves i did this thing a while back where you describe what you’re doing at the moment so i wanted to start a little rb chain :)

i’m sitting in my bed in a loft reading a book, listening to music, and helping my friend pick out an outfit for the day. it’s 11:43 and a little cold and cloudy outside, and i’m drinking hot chocolate and the air smells like autumn and it’s so nice! :D

tagsss!: @noctilucaa @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies @wilsons-three-legged-siamese @yourfavvgal @lv3buzzz @sweaty-toothed-mad-woman @todds-diary @basementcorelingo @ace-misplaced @xxcherryberriezxx (no pressure! ^^)

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

The Start of Things

Author's note: So- I was thinking of how to start the Ultra-moo-rines. And got bitten by the World Building bug.

Summary: An Aspirant reads about the Holy and Wretched primarchs, and the blessings (and curses) they bestow upon their gene-lines.

Warnings: None? Let me know if I need to add anything.

Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

The pages of a book are being read by an Aspirant, his eyes glance around, and he perks up and eagerly reads the words- this is about some of the most Holy of beings- The Primarchs.

The Nine Holy Primarchs, and the nine Wretched Demon Primarchs were all given many traits and genetic advantages (and some disadvantages) given to them by the tinkering of the God Emperor for a thousand years of toil and care.

The First Legion are the Sons of The Lion- the Dark Angels, and their successor chapters are occasionally blessed with The Lion's gift. The claws and ferocity of the Lion himself, getting retractable claws, among other gifts.

This Is Known. There are lesser-known traits to this Gift that are kept secret from those outside the gene-line of El Johnson. The Aspirant huffs a little, he's heard from his older brothers that the Blood Angels are a very paranoid and secretive lot.

B̵͚̄̔ͅr̵̡̹͖̯̮͉̹̙͔̜͇͍̒̈́͋̒͒̾͛̆̚ó̵̧̥͎̖̳̘̫̎̆͂͊̾͘͠w̶̡͔̣̲͐̔̏̀̂͒n̶̢̻͔̤̉ ̷̨̛̛͓̪̟̫̤͈̼̺̝̙̈́͐́̆̒̿̃̓̑̒̍͠͝B̶̧̧̧̫̫̜̘̱͇̥̫̫̺̲̝͕͔̈́̀̿̊͗̿͆͛͂̕͝͝è̷̡̧̢̧̧͙͕͎̖͔̞̘̿̓͂͐̓̍͋̍̒̽̈́a̵̛̩̦̅̈́̐̔̽́͐̂͛̓̑̾̕͝͠ŗ̵̛̛̞̱̠̱͖̱͔̞͉̯̗̫̼̮̈̓̽̓͐͐̿̈͒͘ By Order of the God Emperor this information has been redacted.. The Aspirant quickly flips to the next section- his brain had started hurting when he'd tried to read the words of the second Primarch. There is no Second Primarch, there never was a second Primarch.

The Third legion, fallen to Chaos, is that of the cursed traitor demon Primarch Fulgrim is a wretched lowly creature, whose scales of purple, the snake, is indeed a snake. Those of his wretched gene-like are occasionally cursed with the form of a snake.

This is Known. There are some lesser-known abilities and traits that the Cursed Traitors use against their enemies, should they have the snake-like traits. The Aspirant scowls angry, clenching their free hand into a fists.

The Fourth Legion, fallen to Chaos is the wretched traitor demon primarch Perturabo is known to have a prickly nature- and massive spines that he can shoot out at that will and will kill a full-grown Astarte if he aims well.

Woe be upon those in battle unlucky enough to fight against those Warriors of Iron who also have the quills of death. The Aspirant shivers a little and murmurs a quick prayer to the God Emperor- so that his brothers don't have to face such a wretched enemy.

The fifth legion, is that of Jaghatai Khan is one of the Loyal Primarchs, ever the fastest and most fleet of foot and of ship of his brothers- he ever charges forth fighting the enemies of the Imperium.

His sons are ever hopeful that one day their Lord Primarch shall return, when the need for him is greatest. What is Known of the Blessing of the Khan- is hooves that stomp- and speed unmatched.

This is Known, there are other lesser-known traits that the mysterious sons of the Khan keep to themselves and their successor chapters. The Aspirant hopes that one day, the mighty Khan will come back and help the Imperium become great again.

The Sixth legion is that of Leman Russ is one of the Loyal Primarchs. Stalwart and Stubborn, clever and fierce. A Mighty wolf- and that is a strong blessing indeed- he has given to his sons.

Those who are given the Blessing of the Wolf- have claws and fangs. A tougher hide to withstand the bitter cold of Fenris. This is Known. there are other lesser-known traits that the Space wolves and their successor chapters keep, for their own reasons.

One will never know what kind of answer you will get out of a Space Wolf- their answers very, be wary of their quick, sharp tempers. The aspirant is glad that he's not of the line of Russ- dogs are nice and all, but very smelly.

The Seventh legion was the Imperial fists and their successor chapters. Rogal Dorn- the stalwart and stubborn defender of Terra, the Praetorian.

The Blessing of Dorn is that of a Mighty white polar bear, one of the apex predators of Inuit. The claws and strength enhance an Astartes to great levels.

The roar sends their enemies running from their sight. This is Known. It is said that there may be lesser-known gifts to this trait, but none outside of the Sons of Dorn know what they are.

It is said that all that remained of him was a bloodied, gauntlet fist and arm. The Aspirant wilts a little, he's a young Black Templar Aspirant, and he hopes that his Lord Father will one day return.

The wicked, cursed, corruptm and cruel fallen renegade 8th legion and their dead Primarch Konrad Curze. The bats who hunt and lurk in the dark. Beware their stare- and their ever hungry, hunting gaze. This is Known.

No one knows what other horrors lurk within the 8th legion, for those that try, never return. The Aspirant shivers a little and murmurs another prayer to the God Emperor.

The nineth Legion, and one of the First Founded Chapters, The Blood Angels, and their beloved, fallen, loyal Primarch Sanguinius. With those sons who gain such a blessing are excetionally rare.

The wings of Sanguinius marks out a brother of that chapter for all to see. This is Known, other lesser-known abilities granted aren't spoken of to outsiders.

The Aspirant gives a respectful pause, woe and weep, weft and moan. The loss of the Great Angel is still affecting his sons to this day, or so the whispers say.

The tenth legion- the Iron hands, are said to lament the death of the holy Primarch Ferrus Manus. Who was slain by his traitor brother Fulgrim.

It is said that some of his sons are blessed with skin hard as Iron. This is Known, what other traits this blessing gives them, they don't speak of to Outsiders.

The Aspirant shrugs a little- Ceramite is a protective second skin to most Astartes- so having actual Iron skin sounds painful or miserable to them. Not that they'd say such a potentially heretical thing out loud, of course.

R̷̼̼̺̞͚̮̼̝̯̹̔͂̆̈́̌́̿̊̈́̈́̀̒ę̷̧̪̝̟̰̺̬͔̾̐̀͜͝i̶̲͔͇̮̠̦͙͊͛͌̉̓́͐̓͌́͆̊n̸̛̠̹̤̭̻̮̖̭͔̰̬̖̑̔̀͂̎̅̈́̌̕͜d̸̨̧̥̺̞̖̬͓̼̠̥̰̬̏̇̅̅͊̔͊͊̚e̷̢͈̼͉̤̟̝͓̓ͅȩ̵̳͉̜̜̖̲͖̘͍͕̋̆̉̀̆͋͝ͅr̸̼̊͐̈́̅͊̿̃͐̃̔͂̅̀̎̈́͠͠ Redacted per the Orders of the Emperor. There has never been an eleventh legion. There never will be an eleventh legion. The Aspirant shudders and flips to the next page. Perhaps he should go to an Apothecary, as that's the second time he had a sudden headache at trying to read something that isn't there.

The fallen, traitors, those disgusting, wrathful, blood covered creatures, Angron- the red Angel, is a mockery, of the Saintly Sanguinius.

This legion is sometimes cursed with the form of a Quokka. No one knows, or at least remembers what form this curse gives those that receive it.

The mad berserkers enjoy killing and murder, blood and skulls for their depraved rituals. As the Aspirant reads the page on this legion he grimaces- as well as the warnings on the page about the difference between Righteous Wrath and Sinful wrath are expounded upon.

The Holy Primarch Roboute Gulliman, the Avenging Son, the Lord of Ultramar and his sons. His many blessed sons, those of The Ultramarines and his successor chapters are many and vast.

The Blessings of the Avenging Son are manifold and can take different forms. Robust and with a complex social hierarchy, the Sons of Ultramar are more able to socialize with their brothers, even those from very far-flung parts of Imperium. This is Known.

The Aspirant frowns scratching his head, the actual creature or bug or something wasn't spoken of in this book. Which he wondered why that was.

Surely whatever creature it is, it would be as noble and powerful as the rest of the Holy Primarchs? A creature of power and strength, not all of them are predators, but are powerful all the same.

The Aspirant had checked- the Author of this version of the Primarchs and First Founding and the Blessings is a Son of Guilliman, which means the author surely knows. He wonders why it was deliberately left out.

He flips the page to the next chapter and reads about the disgusting, traitors, those fallen, bloated undead creatures of the 14th legion and their disgusting Demon Primarch Mortarion.

The Sons of this cursed, fallen legion are sometimes granted the features of a goat. The horns and unsettling eyes of the creature. This is Known. What other abilities this grant, no one in this time knows any more.

The aspirant shudders and sends a quick prayer to the God Emperor, he's heard whispers from his older brothers about how bad those disgusting, bloated corpses can be to try and fight against.

The shattered, fallen 15th legion, those wretched unfaithful psykers and their lost Primarch Magnus. What little is remembered and Known about them is the bird-like wings of ab Ibis and claws are sometimes granted.

The Aspirant finds it an Insult that those wretched traitors also sometimes have bird-like features. For the Holy Angels of the Imperium should be the ones with that blessing, and not any sort of traitors should.

The Sixteenth legion, those lying treacherous dogs, and their dead primarch, slain by the God Emperor themselves. Are occasionally cursed with the form of a hound. They can howl, shriek and hunt after those the find as prey.

This is Known. None alive can remember if those wretched dogs gain more than that. The Aspirant scowls and spits out a curse to that damned legion, and their hand in the interment of Him on Terra.

The Fierce and loyal Salamanders and their Loyal Primarch Vulkan are occasionally blessed with hides of sparkling green scales and the ability to breath fire. This is Known. There may be some other lesser-known blessings of this Primarch.

Be cautious of the temper of the Dragons of Nocturne and their successor chapters. The Aspirant winces, he's heard some of the stories of the Dragons- how kind they are to mortals, and how harsh their fury and judgment of their fellow Astartes can be.

The Holy Primarch Corvus Corax and his sons fly on silent, swift dark wings of a Raven. This is Known. If there is any other lesser-known blessings, the silent, stealthy sons of the Raven Lord don't speak of it to outsiders.

The Aspirant huffs, so many of the First Founding chapters are close-mouthed about just what they are capable of. It's frustrating, even if it's sensible from a strategic standpoint.

The 20th legion. Those traitors. Those L̷̗͚̙͓̭̺̤̭̣̤̝͍͚̘͕͓͗̏͘ớ̵̧̧̧̼̤͔̥̩̟́̍͌̾̒͗̅̇͑̕̚y̴̝͇͕̮̩͙̌̒̎̿̆̚̕͝a̶͉̠̩̹̳̭̮͙̔̓͑̌̓̑̈l̸̜̦̜̹̟̓̈́̿ḭ̶̢̣̮̟̯̟̱͙̼̍̈́̃̉̄s̷̖͕̠̖̗͒̋͑t̷̟̝͎̥͔̰͕̖̿͘͜ş̶̢̤̘̼͓̝͙̫͔̫͕̪̓̈́͘͝. The Sons of the Hydra are many. The form o̸̩͖̻͙̹̮̼̼̞͉̤̭̓̎̑̀́̍̍̊͘f̸̢̛̻̬͙̯̀̂͒̉̀̈̊̄̏̄̀̏̕͝͝͝ ̶̧̨͓̜̯͉͙̗̱̝̖͚͇͍̈́͑̚̕͘͜a̸̱̭̺͔̖̹̣̰͋̓̾̂ ̷̨̬̙̰̜̜̗̲͙̹͈̖̭͉̗͔̈́̈́h̶̡̬̲̹̘̞̳̻̣̝̩̩̅͌ỵ̴̗̊̽͗̇͊͂̐̂̋̋ḑ̸̛͍̦͈̯͉̙͇͍̤̤̯͉̯͔̄̔͂̀̏̈́͂̈́̕͝ŕ̶̡̬̩̪̞͕͗͆̊̒͗͗̎̓̿̋͜ȧ̴̡̛̠̗̦̠̤͍̔̿̉̎̔́̽́͝ is what they are c̴̛̲̦̊̓͗̅̎̊̕͠͝ų̵̰͙̦̘͚̗̰͓͔̬̖͎̼̠̃̏̑̄͠ͅr̶̼̬̤͉͉͔̙̳̫̟̻̤̩̟̻͔̈́́s̶͔̫̄͆̈́̔̈́̿̍̕͝ę̸̧̛̣̻͓̼͇̻̗̱̞̳̱̇̃̎͑͗̌̌̄̍͘͝ḏ̷̡̝̠̥̖͇̳̟͎̫͉͗́́̉͒̀̚̚ ̷̲͔͉̘͖́̉̅͒w̵̧̧̘̻̝̘͇̳͎̬̝̳͉̮͗͜i̷̧͔̍̀͊̾̉̒̑̏̅͊̅͛́̈̔̀̕t̴̢̪̻̙̩̼͔͓̩͐͐̌͋̕͜ͅh̴͇͕͕̯̗̀̑. Blessed with. It is Unknown what their form is.

[ms-unfortunate24]

Is that all you got? (Keegan P. Russ X Reader) Pt. 1?

Prompt: Keegan isn’t very talkative nor is he known, he’s a ghost literally.. He has his eyes on someone specific that he’s sure doesn’t notice him but what if they do? (The reader is Kick’s partner)

Warnings: Slight Angst and cursing

Reader Inserts: Y/N= Your name, Y/L= Your last name, Y/CN= your code name, Y/H= your hair, Y/HC= your hair color, E/C= Eye color, H/S= Hair Style, N/N= Nickname.

A/N: So I'm just bored messing around, if anyone actually likes this please send in requests, and if you wanna be mutuals just add me and ask, I wanted to give the reader like a lot of options but by the time I was writing that all down I couldn’t remember anything else💀 BTW first fic everrrr

08:45, THE OFFICE

You were sitting in Elias’s office, he was going on a rant about the last mission he had and how things could've gone south. Kick looked at you rolling his eyes as you giggled, “Right I'm so boring, Y/CN do you know why you were called in here?” Elias then asked with a bit of annoyance in his tone. “No, I do not know why maybe because of the privates?” you then questioned with a little sarcasm just to get his blood boiling a bit. “I called you and Kick in because I'm separating you two” your expression stayed at a frown as you furrowed your eyebrows, turning to your current Partner you then realized he had nearly the same expression. “What's this all about?” he questioned, you can feel a worry start to build up in Kick’s body and you couldn't help but wonder how this would affect you. “Look, I feel like maybe separating you two can build stronger relationships with others.” Elias sighed out before he continued, “So.” he began as he tossed you a file, “Keegan P. Russ?” you questioned, “Open it” and you did, while opening the file a small gasp escaped from your lips, “but why him?” You looked up he shook his head, “Dismissed Y/CN” he looked over to Kick and tossed him the file. When you shut the door behind yourself, file still in hands you heard Kick interrupt your clouded thoughts with a loud “NOOOOOOOO”.

22:02, THE MEETING

Cleaning your gun and refilling your utility belt you felt a presence. Of course, you didn’t hear it come in but you noticed it about 2 minutes ago, “How long have you been here?” You questioned with a dark tone, back still facing the unknown intruder. There was silence, after 5 long seconds, you turned around to see dead silver-like blue eyes that almost put you in a trance first gaze. Still keeping stature you asked again but firmly this time, “How long have you been here, SGT. Russ?” this time you had caught his attention as his tall frame loomed towards you. “How long do you think?” his monotone voice echoed, his words being laced with slight venom which was supposed to intimidate you. Hearing footsteps outside marching in sync and random voices all around the empty room with just you two, you decided to back up just a bit so things didn’t look wrong. “2 minutes” you then mumbled to him before the doors were busted open. The walker brothers Logan and Hesh were also following behind Merrick. You knew the Walker brothers well so a small playful smirk rose on your lips when they noticed you in the room. “Keegan and Y/CN? A little suspicious if you ask me” Hesh teased, “Naughty” Logan then tagged on, the two brothers laughed as you rolled your eyes. "Aha, really funny Tweedledum and Tweedledee" you sneered at the two, you turned to your side to realize your silent newly assigned partner had disappeared. A shocked look in your eyes showed as you realized he was in the farthest corner from you. Logan walked up to you taking the dirty cleaning rag out of your hand, "He does that a lot, be careful" He winked.

NEXT DAY, 06:30 AM

It was early, not too early to spar with Hesh as Logan kept score. A loud grunt was let out of Hesh's mouth, "That's all you got? I can go all day Hesh" You grinned trying to assert dominance with Hesh, in reality, you were getting tired out yourself. He tried to pounce on you as you jumped back, trying to land on your feet gave him enough time to throw himself back at you again. Barely dodging his reckless attack you were both interrupted by a certain tall man, you were distracted by his chest, a black tank top covering it, and the tactical pants that he was wearing... Of course, he had his mask on still, you were so distracted that you barely noticed that you were pinned to the ground, "Ha! tap out Y/CN!" Hesh cheered, snapping back into reality "Fuck that hurts" You squirmed under Hesh, tapping the floor three times with your dominant hand. Hesh helped you back up as you guys headed toward Logan. "Y/CN 5 and Hesh 3" Logan read out the score as Hesh complained saying that Logan was picking favorites, you were too distracted by Keegan, he was putting the hand wraps on as he looked in need of a good spar, you slowly gulped and walked up to him. "Hey. Wanna spar?" you didn't want to ask that, it was the last thing you wanted to do... You had no idea what he was capable of and here you are asking if he wanted to spar with you- "Let's go then" His low voice sent shivers down your spine, and playing it off you hurried to the sparring ring. Hesh counted you two off, the second he hit one you hopped backward to distance yourself a bit from Keegan. The way he moved was quick and silent, you wouldn't expect it from a guy who's 6'1 but there he is looming over you again, you backed up into a wall as he struck his fist next to you, "You seem distracted Y/CN," He commented grabbing you by the shoulders and tossing you back into the ring, "shit" is all you could muster up as you got up and grounded yourself. "Hey, Keegan be a little more gentle with them!" Logan said more concerned about this whole sparring offer you gave Keegan. "I got it.." you mumbled charging at Keegan, charging a kick to his core he backed up from the impact. Now groaning and pissed Keegan's moves have gotten quicker. He still hasn't directly struck you but instead picked you up and forced you into the ground, wrapping his hands around your wrists and putting his weight on your hips. His bleak void-like eyes put you in a trance, your body started to heat up, your heart was racing, and you couldn't help but squirm under him in a pathetic attempt to get out of his grasp. His hands tightened their grip and he moved his head closer to yours, the void pulling you in deeper. Your lips slightly departed, and finally, words slipped out, not your words, his. "Get your head in the fucking game if you want to even be seen near me.” That was all you could think about while in your office at the base, a silent knock slightly startled you because you couldn’t hear any footsteps. “Come in,” you said brushing that feeling off and skimming through an email you were supposed to respond to a few days before. A familiar man appeared at the doorstep and a smile crept up on your face, “Kick? I thought you were out on a mission?” the masked man took his baseball cap off as he sighed. “Well Y/N, we finished a lot earlier than predicted, I mean I had this whole plan and this new program I developed on this chip, and- well let's just say my new partners are a little too quick for me” a bit of sadness filled his voice, “Partners? As in Scarecrow stuck you with two people?” you questioned looking at the man through his visors, “Yeah the two walker meatheads” he sighed, throwing himself onto a chair in front of your desk and taking his visors off. You couldn't help but to have giggled at the realization that you're not the only one struggling with the new adjustment. He chuckled out of reaction and then stopped, “So how's Sgt. Russ?” “He’s quiet just like the tales. He's also a dick” you said rolling your eyes as Kick bursted out laughing at the remark. “You got a lotta of work Y/CN”

[spurloz]

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[tectuto]

Top +100 Meilleures Idées Gadgets et Cadeaux GEEKY en 2023

Aliexpress best seller 2023

Voir Aussi: Top 10 des T-shirts Impressionnant pour les geeks

#1 ECOUTEURS EDIFIER TWS

Edifier existe depuis 1996, il est déjà bien connu dans le monde entier et possède des bureaux dans le monde entier. Il a été lancé par un groupe d'audiophiles de Pékin qui souhaitaient produire des équipements sonores de haute qualité à bas prix. Ces écouteurs sont livrés avec 8 heures de lecture, ont Bluetooth 5.0 et aptX.

#2 Baguettes Magiques

Vous avez toujours su que vous aviez un peu de magie en vous. Maintenant, il est temps de prouver à tout le monde que vous aviez raison. Achetez cet ensemble de baguettes de 11 pièces (ou achetez-les individuellement pour voir quelle baguette fait ressortir la magie en vous) et montrez à tout le monde que vous n'êtes pas fou. Chaque baguette est en métal et le design est commercialisé pour les débutants.

#3 LED NAME TAG

Plus petit que vous ne le pensez probablement - juste la taille d'une étiquette de nom ordinaire que vous verriez sur un serveur ou un employé de banque. Une chose unique, néanmoins. Programmable et personnalisable, mais seules les lettres latines sont prises en charge.

#4 STYLO SANS ENCRE

Un stylo qui ne s'épuisera pratiquement jamais. Peut-être parce qu'il n'utilise pas d'encre. Magique? Peut-être (mais surtout l'alliage utilisé dans la pointe)

Voir Aussi: 5 cadeaux de fitness pour impressionner vos amis actifs préférés

#5 GOMMES

Des gommes en forme de petits smartphones - qu'est-ce qu'il ne faut pas aimer?

#6 Organisateur de câbles

Une version améliorée des supports de câbles. Organisateur de câbles de gestion de rangements de bureau.

#7 MONTRE À AFFICHAGE MINIMALISTE

Voici une montre abordable à ajouter à votre collection. elle dispose de numérotation minimaliste unique qui ne vous montre que l'heure actuelle. C'est comme une horloge numérique mais avec un design plus élégant.

#8 ENCEINTE BLUETOOTH ÉTANCHE

Et lorsque vous êtes dans un environnement où la lecture de votre musique à haute voix n'est pas désagréable, il y a aussi ce haut-parleur Bluetooth. Nous aimons le design graffiti, mais il est également disponible en camouflage et en couleurs unies. De plus, il est résistant à l'eau, vous pouvez donc l'emporter avec vous à la plage, au lac ou à la piscine. Mais ne le mettez pas à l’eau, vous ne l’entendrez pas de toute façon.

#9 TAPIS PERSIAN MOUSEPAD

Si vous êtes déjà allé dans un appartement russe, vous avez probablement vu un de ces tapis accroché au mur. Vous pouvez imiter l'esthétique slave fine sur votre bureau d'ordinateur avec ce tapis de souris.

#10 STATION DE CHARGE USB

Ce produit est une station de charge pour vos smartphones et tablettes. Cet appareil vous aidera à garder votre téléphone en position verticale pendant la charge. Il est disponible en 5 couleurs différentes et aide à garder la surface plus organisée. Il y a des options pour iPhone, micro-USB et des prises de type C.

la suite https://www.tectuto.com/2021/12/meilleures-gadgets.html

[kit-williams]

oh my god this is amazing WHY HAVENT I REBLOGGED IT YET

(btw you need to seperate out the tag lists to 5 people per line so you have 5 tags hit enter then enter another 5 tags)

@bispecsual @lemon-russ @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye

@bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen @passionofthesith

@the-californicationist (you probably would like this)

Revelation

Pairing: Lt. Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: descriptions of torture

Description: Our favorite Ultramarine Captain Lieutenant realizes his personal serf means far more to him than he thought. And all it took was his subconscious concocting a truly horrific scenario.

Alright guys, you seemed to like my fluff. Now I thought I'd try my hand at some angst. As always, please forgive any non-canonical details. And thanks to @solspina who's Dante dream fic heavily inspired this.

Pain.

Demetrian Titus knew this feeling. In his long life as an Astartes, he’d experienced more kinds of pain than most Imperial citizens dreamed of in their worst nightmares. Stab wounds, shattered bones, burns, bites. He’d endured them all, healed, and moved on.

Not this time, though. This pain… lingered. It welled and pulsed within his very nerves, bypassing all attempts by his enhanced body to neutralize it. It stemmed from the chains bolted to his wrists and ankles, from the hundreds of injection sites scattered across his skin.

And from the mind of one Inquisitor.

“Ah, awake again, I see.”

The deceptively calm voice echoed inside his skull. A face came into view, seeming to float in the endless void.

It smiled.

Once, he would have lunged at that smug face. He would have strained against the shackles that bound him, warrior’s instincts screaming at him. Fight back! Kill!

No longer. That time had passed. Days? Months? Years ago, perhaps. Now he simply stared. He would not speak. He could not give the answers this madman desired, and he would not dishonor himself by lying. 

His silence was the only resistance he could give.

Normally, this infuriated his tormentor. He would rant and rail, promising new and varied forms of agony. 

“There is heresy within you, traitor. And I will dig it out, if I have to do so from your broken corpse!”

The Inquisitor often promised death, either as punishment… or reward. At times, Titus welcomed the idea. Then thoughts of the shame such a ignoble death would bring his Chapter filled him and he silently vowed to live another day. 

Eternal service. The vow of an Astartes. The vow of an Ultramarine. It did not matter the circumstances. He would endure. He would-

“I have something new planned for you this time, Titus.”

A sickly light illuminated his surroundings. It slowly revealed a figure crouched at the Inquisitor’s feet. After years of silence, a word fell from Titus’s torn lips.

“No…”

You. It was you. How? Titus’s mind whirled, trying to piece together a timeline that suddenly made no sense. You couldn’t be here. He hadn’t even met you yet! A deception. It had to be.

Then the Inquisitor reached down and yanked your head back. The hood of your serf’s robe fell and Titus looked into your eyes. Those beautiful eyes that had looked at him with hope and adoration. Now full of terror.

He jerked against his bonds without thinking, trying to reach you, trying to shield you from what was to come.

The Inquisitor laughed. “Such a reaction! And here I thought Astartes were above such mortal frailties as affection,” his hand left your head and strayed lower, “and desire.”

You yelped as that hand groped your flesh. Blind fury filled Titus and he lunged once again. 

“Do not touch her!”

“Or you will do what, exactly?” The Inquisitor gripped your chin and forced it up. “Look at him, girl. Look at your hero.” Another cruel laugh. “So strong and noble. And now all he can do is watch as I do this… and this…”

Your cries brought a pain greater than all the Inquisition’s tortures combined. Your eyes fixed on him, begging him to save you. He thrashed against his chains harder than ever before.

They only grew tighter.

The Inquisitor’s laughter rose to a shriek. “You swore to protect her, Titus! You swore to never let her come to harm again!”

He drew back his hand and struck you across the face. Again. And again. Titus watched welts and bruises bloom across your skin. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed. 

“This is your fault, Titus.” The Inquisitor grinned.

My fault. 

He had taken you for his own. Your companionship, in a galaxy that had abandoned him, soothed the ache in his soul. 

Now you suffered the consequences of his selfishness. 

For the first time in his life, the proud Ultramarine begged. “Stop, please!”

The Inquisitor threw you to the ground and brought his booted foot down on your arm with a sickening crack! You screamed.

Titus felt something break within him as well. “I WILL CONFESS!”

Silence. Darkness. He found himself alone in the void. He could no longer see you or the Inquisitor. For an eternity he hung there, waiting for something… anything.

Then, a voice whispered in his ear. “She means so much to you, doesn’t she?”

The sound of a blade splitting flesh. The overwhelming scent of blood. 

***

Titus’s eyes snapped open. All three of his lungs expanded as he gasped for breath. He lay on his cot, in his quarters, surrounded by the soft glow of candles. The omnipresent hum of the ship buzzed in his ears. 

His torment at the hands of the Inquisitor had ended over a century ago. You were not there. You had never been there. 

Why, then, did he still smell your blood?

At that moment, a soft beep came from the door as it slid open. You stepped inside, a bucket of cleaning supplies perched upon your hip. You glanced at him with a smile.

The scent of blood grew stronger.

In the blink of an eye he knelt before you, hands grasping your shoulders. “Where are you wounded?” 

“My Lord?” You gasped, the cleaning supplies clattering to the floor.

He noticed the reddish marks on your sleeves and growled, low and predatory. “Who hurt you?”

He’d find them and tear them limb from limb.

“No one, my Lord. I am not hurt.”

“Do not lie to me!”

You flinched. He winced, removing his hands.

“I am not injured.” You repeated. “The medicae are short-staffed at the moment and I offered to assist with the wounded in the infirmary. I know I should have asked your permission, but I didn’t think you’d disapprove. I’m sorry, my Lord.”

“I… I do not disapprove.” Titus closed his eyes and tried to regulate the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “There is no need for you to apologize.”

You were silent for a moment.

“You had another nightmare.”

“Yes.”

“It involved… me?”

“Yes. You were… injured. I could not… I tried to…”

Emotions ran riot through him. Some he could name: anger, guilt. Others were entirely foreign. He felt unmoored, severed from the comforting order of practical and theoretical.

“Perhaps I am indeed corrupted in some way.” He muttered, almost to himself. “Perhaps I deserve to suffer.”

“No!”

Something soft pressed against his face. He opened his eyes to find your hands cupping his cheeks. 

“Forgive me, but I hate it when you say such things.” Your beautiful eyes burned with conviction. “You saved me when no one else would. You are honorable and courageous and deserving of whatever happiness can be found in this life. You, Demetrian Titus, are a good man.” You hesitated then, your voice dropped to a whisper only an Astartes’ ears could have heard. “Emperor forgive me, I love you for it.”

Your words. Your touch. The strange emotions stirred up by his subconscious. All these things ignited in his mind… and Lieutenant Demetrian Titus of the Ultramarines experienced a revelation.

He covered your mouth with his own.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bispecsual @lemon-russ @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen @passionofthesith

I hope I tagged everyone who asked!

[lcstinfantasy]

Spell Out Your URL With Song Titles - Then Tag As Many People As There Are Letters In The URL:

L - la la land - demi lovato

C - call me when your sober - evanescence

S - same old story - five north

T - take you down - chris brown

I - i don't wanna know - mario winans

N - never say never - glee version

F - flesh - ghostemane

A - ain't going back - russ

N - nervous girl - lucy hale

T - tequila - dan and shay

A - ain't worth the whiskey - cole swindell

S - sativa - jhene aiko

Y - year 3000 - jonas brothers tagged by: @brckensociety & @r4chelamber tagging: anything who wants to

[manic-volcanic]

Got tapped by @charaznablescanontoyota in one of those little tag games to recommend one song for every letter of my username. Here goes

M - Cornelius - Mic Check A - Vantage ft. Phaun - Aloha N - Daniel Avery - Naive Response I - Yuksek - I Could Never Be A Dancer C - Chet Faker - Cigarettes and Chocolate

V - Future Sound of Antwerp - Volium O - Opiuo ft. Russ Liquid - On Your Side L - Everything But the Girl - Lullaby of Clubland C - Lifeformed - Chloroplast Skin A - Circuit Bent - Arachnid N - !!! - NRGQ I - This Is The Glasshouse - I Was an Ocean, I Was a River C - Unknown Mortal Orchestra - Can't Keep Checking My Phone

Gonna tag in @lautumn-otus @sharpeclo @jelloraain and @aazzuurree if you wanna do this, I think it's fun. Also if someone else wants to do one you can just say I tagged you I don't mind

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

The Starring Astartes of Poor Unfortunate Soul AU

Author's note: So, this is based on the wonderful, wicked Idea that @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams were talking about how Biochemical Rejuvenation treatments are used by certain ranks of the Imperium.

Tagged: @whorety-k :) I had to have some sweetness for Smyith before his life goes... to Nurgle.

Part One

Warning: Illness, chronic pain, chronic fatigue, late-stage breast cancer, early-stage dementia, Comatose, car accident, PCOS, parkinson's disease, please let me know if there is more, I need to tag and add to the warnings! Keep yourself safe.

It's not been unlocked by Ancient Terra and how the Loyalists and Chaos Marines usually aren't trying to give too much technology and medical knowledge that isn't already made/discovered by the ancient humans upon Holy Terra. But... sometimes, the bonds between Astartes and Human pull the Astartes to doing things that are... ill-advised.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams, @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Tagged: @whorety-k

This post isn't really going to be story, but it will help me, and anyone who reads understand who's-who, of the Main Character Astartes who read this AU. This is more of a "set up" not-chapter.

Seven is the favored number of Nurgle, and very important in Nurgilite Cultist stuff. So, Seven Astartes with humans suffering that will be going to a Death Guard for help. To keep their human safer, happier, 'healthier', and with them.

Loyalist Space Marines:

Su'cona he is a Salamander from post-heresy, after the second death of his Lord Father, Primarch Vulkan. His human has Chronic pain.

Zadakael is a Blood Angel who fought in the same battle that slew his Primarch Sanguinius and is one of the first to have fallen to the Black Rage and survived, somehow, and landed on Ancient Terra. His bonded has Parkinson's disease.

Symith is a Space Wolf who is from after the Heresy and during the time when his Primarch Leman Russ just got lost in the Warp, and they realized that he isn't returning. His Bonded was in a bad car accident and is now in a coma.

Renegade Space Marines:

Karlsor is a Night Lord from after the Heresy, and after the death of his Primarch, and the scattering of the Night Lords. His human has PCOS.

Alpharius nicknamed Chief by his human, true name Zariel, his bonded human has late-stage breast cancer.

Chaos Space Marines:

Zaarius is an Emperor's child from after the Heresy and is a Slaneshi space marine. His human has chronic fatigue.

Zeth is a Black Legionnaire from after the Heresy. His human has early stage dementia.

Hura is a Death Guard Chaos Marine and is the one that is providing the cures for what ails their humans. For a Price, of course.

[spurloz]

[FREE] #AWC Dark Guitar UK Drill Type Beat 2024-TRUST 143 bpm C# min (Prod. by Soundz Of Da Forest)

💰 Purchase this beat | Instant Delivery: https://bsta.rs/aHqUfA 💳 Buy 2 Get 1 FREE: https://soundzofdaforest.beatstars.com/ 🥶 🥶 🥶 Subscribe 4 more cold beats: https://linktr.ee/SoundzOfDaForest 📸 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/SoundzOfDaForest 🎧 Soundcloud https://soundcloud.com/soundzofdaforest @   Threads https://www.threads.net/ 📑 Facebook https://www.facebook.com/SoundzOfDaForest ✉  Mail spurloz83@gmail.com 🥁 Drill Drum Kit - Soundz Of Da Forest - Drill High Kit - https://soundzofdaforest.beatstars.com/sound-kits 🐦 Twitter https://twitter.com/spurloz 🎶 Distrokid https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/soundzofdaforest/beatz-fo-underground 💲  PayPal https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/soundzofdaforest • DON'T USE CONTENT ID on your song unless you purchased exclusive rights, otherwise it will be hit with a complaint. • NOTE: This beat is only free for non-profit use. For profit use, you must purchase the beat at https://soundzofdaforest.beatstars.com/  You must credit me with  (Prod. by Soundz Of Da Forest) #DrillBeats #DrillBeat #DarkDrillBeat #DrillTypeBeats #DrillTypeBeat #DarkDrillBeats #DarkDrill   #UKDrill #UKDrillBeats #UKDrillBeat #UKDrillTypeBeat   #UKDrillTypeBeat2023 #DrillBeats2024 dark drill beat 2024 dark drill beat free 2024 dark hard drill beat hard dark drill type beat hard drill type beat drill type beat drill type beats drill type beat 2024 drill beat 2023 drill beat free free drill type beat 2024 drill beat 2024 drill type beat dark hard drill type beat 2024 drill beat 2024 hard free drill beat 2024 drill beat hard dark drill beat dark drill type beat dark drill type beat free dark drill free drill type beat hard drill beat UK Drill Type Beat x NY Drill Type Beat  UK Drill Instrumental 2024 Drill Type Beat 2024 Uk Drill Type Beat 2024 Type Beat 2024 Trap Beat 2024 Uk Drill Instrumental Drill Beat Drill Beat Instrumental Fredo Santana Type Beat Type Beat Type Beat 2024 Drill Trap Beat Drill Trap Instrumental Uk Drill Type Beat Hard Beat Instrumental Drill Beats 2024 Chicago Drill Type Beat Drill Beats Instrumentals Uk Drill Music Drill Music 2024 New York Drill Beat NY Drill Beat Instrumental NY Drill Type Beat Pop Smoke Type Beat Pop Smoke Type Beat 2024 Drill Beat 2024 M1 Type Beat Top1 Type Beat Ny Drill Type Beat 2024 Trapx10 Type Beat Teeway Type Beat Gully Type Beat Bandokay Type Beat Zone 2 Type Beat Block 6 Type Beat Young a6 Type Beat m24 Type Beat RV Type Beat Yanko Type Beat Trizzac Type Beat Yanko Type Beat 2024 V9 Type Beat V9 Type Beat 2024 Kwengface Type Beat 2024 Kwengface Type Beat Central Cee Type Beat Central Cee Type Beat 2024 Central Cee Type Beat 2023 Fumez The Engineer Plugged In W/Fumez The Engineer Plugged In Russ Millions Type Beat Russ Millions Type Beat 2022 Russ Millions Type Beat 2023 Tion Wayne Type Beat Tion Wayne Type Beat 2022 Tion Wayne Type Beat 2023 RV Type Beat OFB Type Beat Bandokay Type Beat Double LZ Type Beat RV Type Beat 2022 OFB Type Beat 2022 Bandokay Type Beat 2023 Double LZ Type Beat 2023 Dutchavelli Type Beat Dutchavelli Type Beat 2022 Dutchavelli Type Beat 2023 Dutchavelli Only If You Knew Dutchavelli  Circle The Endz Tion Wayne Type beat 2022 Tion Wayne Wow Russ Millions Big Shark Russ Millions Big Shark type beat Russ Millions  Big Shark type beat 2022 Russ Millions  Big Shark beat Bandokay Slide type beat Bandokay Slide 2Smokeyy type beat 2022 2Smokeyy type beat #Drilltypebeat #Drilltypebeatfree #Drillinstrumental Tags ignore: uk drill,uk drill type beat,uk drill beat,drill beat,drill instrumental,uk drill instrumental,abra cadabra type beat,dutchavelli type beat,headie one type beat,headie one type beat free,abra cadabra type beat free,dutchavelli type beat free,central cee type beat,pop smoke type beat free,abracadabra type beat 2020,meekz type beat,drake x headie one type beat,ofb akz type beat,ofb type beat,abra type beat,abra cadabra drill type beat,ofb type beat 2024,headie one type beat 2024,m1llionz type beat,melodic drill type beat,bop,ice spice bikini bottom,bikini bottom ice spice,ice spice type beat,ice spice x dd osama,elvis beatz,buba100x, bum bum tam tam drill type beat,bum tam drill,drake 0 to 100 drill remix,nardo wick wicked, moove it drill type beat, wicked freestyle drill beat,kezii,psa drill type beat,psa instrumental, stan drill type beat, pop smoke uk drill, type beat free,uk drill type beat hard bass,uk drill ,uk drill beat 2019 free,lil tecca type beat free for profit,type beat free for profit,uk drill type instrumental type beat beat,uk drill type instrumental 2019, digga d type beat, digga d type beat free, digga d type beat toxic, digga d, digga d toxic, digga d emotional guitar beat,uk drill slang,uk drill songs,best of uk drill,uk drill murder,uk ,how to uk drill rap,how to make uk drill, uk drill type beat,uk drill beat,uk drill,free uk drill type beat,uk drill type beat 2019,drill beat,uk drill instrumental,drill type beat,uk drill type beat 2020,drill,type beat,pop smoke type beat,uk drill beat

[mxquill]

@catherinerusse2: Having fun with your brilliant boy today @KathyLette #jason #julesrobertson #HolbyCity

[evilcokito]

THANK YOU CERU I discovered Calliope Mori thanks to you!!!

Love music tags, they help me discover things.

E Ven Flow - Pear Jam V oices- Russ Ballard I n the club - Mishashi Sensei L onely in Gorgeous - Tommy february6 C Radle of love - Billy idol O riginal Sin - INXS K iss them for me - Siouxsie and the Banshees I wont Fall apart - Jager T he top- Ken Blast O ro de Ley- Luis Miguel

El Luisimi del final cierra con broche de oro.

Tag: @anevilbunnyinthehat @mediocremelatonin235 and who wants to do it!!

spell out your name or url with songs !!

P - Prom Queen (Beach Bunny)

I - I’ll Make Cereal (Cavetown)

G - girls (girl in red)

E - Empty Bed (Cavetown)

O - Oh Ana (Mother Mother)

N - No Surprised (Radiohead)

tagging: @angerycat @ast3ria-blue @swiftieannah @melancholy-melomaniac @melancholypessimism @whyybesocial @i-have-no-idea-111 @the-literary-anything-blog @underappreciatedtomato @livelaughlovebillzo @charlie-is-missing @chronic-stressed @v4nillaskies @nonsensical-space-ghost @alm0std34d and any other mutuals or people who want to join in !!

[drabbles-mc]

I was tagged by @lovebarefootblonde 💖

Rules: Make a new post and spell out your URL with song titles, then tag as many people as there are letters in your URL.

D- Dirty Laundry by All Time Low

R- Relapse by Divided by Friday

A- Anna Sun by WALK THE MOON

B- BEST ON EARTH by Russ ft. Bia

B- Black by Dierks Bentley

L- Loyalty by Kendrick Lamar ft. Rihanna

E- Eyes Closed by Halsey

S- State of Grace by Taylor Swift

M- Monaco by MKTO

C- Cold Coffee by Ed Sheeran

Tagging, but no pressure obviously, and it’s probably not one for every letter of my URL but it’s fine lmao: @garbinge @withmyteeth @broiderie @espieviolet99 @narcolini @frattsparty @scribbuluswrites @thatsfuckingpathetic @beardburnsupersoldiers