#guilliman/reader

[mothiir]

all’s fair in love and war, part iii

Cw: size kink. No actual cucking.

—

When Sicarius enters the baths, his face set with what appears to be pure genocidal rage, your first instinct is to flee. Unfortunately, Roboute Guilliman is knuckle-deep inside you, so the best you can manage is to press closer to his broad chest.

“Captain — “ you manage, and he literally growls at you: bestial, all teeth and burning eyes. If it wasn’t for Roboute’s presence, you’re sure he would have torn you limb from limb for the crime of —

Well, you’re not quite sure. Something. Is getting fingered by Roboute Guilliman a crime punishable by death in certain circles? Given the state of the Imperium, it probably is.

“I cannot believe,” Guilliman says, with a beleaguered sigh. “That I must do everything myself. No one in this galaxy can do anything without my assistance, can they? It is a miracle that the sun can rise without me telling it to get out of bed in the morning.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You cringe closer to Guilliman, trying very hard not to remember the last time you had seen Sicarius so angry — when he had torn Kagha clean in two, and oh you should be petrified at the memory, it should scar your tender soul. But it doesn’t. All you feel is a warm, animal pulse of desire. He had saved you. He had saved you, and he would do so again, even if he hates you.

By the Emperor’s guiding light, what is wrong with you? Why does the thought still spark such feelings in you? Why are you so greedy? The Primarch -- the Avenging Son, the Last and Best and Only Hope for Mankind is currently curling his fingers into you -- and still, still, there is that ridiculous, nagging part of you that looks at Cato  Sicarius and thinks: yes, that one too. 

He does not even like you. He has made this incredibly clear. 

“I should take my leave,” says Sicarius. “There has been a misunderstanding —“

“No there has not,” says Roboute, an element of what you have come to thinki of as his ‘battlefield voice’ bleeding into his tone: a set of inhuman harmonics that brooks no disagreement. You pulse around him, because -- well. You’d have to be made of stone, and also dead, for that not to affect you. 

Roboute clearly feels that, and takes a moment to gather himself, breathing in deeply. Can he smell how wet you are? Of course he can. Of course. 

His voice gentles: “You may leave if you wish, Cato. Of course you can. But I suspect you do not wish to leave. And if you do not -- you should come here, and sit beside me.”

Sicarius looks at the door. He looks, very deliberately, at the repeating motif of the Ultramarine signal on the mosaic walls. And then he looks back at you, and for the first time you find yourself looking at his cock and — well. Wow. He’s flushed almost purple; an erection so prominent it looks almost painful. The puzzle pieces haven’t quite fallen into place; for one half-mad instant you wonder if he just really really fancies his Primarch. He would not be the first to harbour feelings for Roboute; there is a reason why quite so many of the statues in this place feature Guilliman slaying foes while, improbably, being in a state of undress. Artistic tradition be damned, you know full well why so many Astartes lovingly sculpt Guilliman’s buttcheeks. 

Then Cato -- stiffly, and with all the grace of a one-legged Dreadnought —walks over to you, his feet practically dragging, his eyes never leaving you; then he sits down, his legs spread; a look of hunger on his face. And you understand. You finally, finally understand. 

“Now — my lady —“

Guilliman crooks his fingers just so, his thumb pressing onto your clit. He’s made you cum like this dozens of times before: seated on his lap, hand nestled in your cunt, his body warm and solid around you. He’s too large to fit inside you without considerable preparation, but you’ve sucked him off — or rather, you’ve suckled at his head, using both of your hands on the rest of his shaft — until he came all over your face. You’ve not put a label to your dalliances — only that you care deeply for him, and he for you — and yet this all feels so profoundly right. You’re meant to be here. So is Guilliman. 

And so is Sicarius. Cato. Cato 

And so you don’t need any prompting: you cum crying out Guilliman’s name, and afterwards you ease yourself off his fingers, your hole clutching at thin air — and you reach for Sicarius.

“My lord — can I?”

—

Sicarius does not trust himself to speak. Guilliman’s fingers are sticky with your juices; the whole room feels too close, too hot. It reeks of sex. And yet he nods, and you scramble into his lap, your legs bracketing his broad thighs, your eyes bright and fixed on his. Shameless, shameless whore. And yet is he any better than you? His cock throbs between your thighs, poking up between them as you shuffle atop him. He is better than you; he has to be. At least he is acting on his Primarch’s orders --

(Guilliman did not order him)

-- and you are doing this only because it is your nature to be a cockhungry little --

(let any other man or woman call you that and he’ll flay them living)

-- slut, and -- and you have bewitched him, and his Primarch and --

(you do not have that power, you are not that powerful, you are  soft helpless pathetic)

-- and he wants, he wants, he wants. He reaches up -- not daring not to look at Guilliman for permission, because if he did, and Guilliman shakes his head no, then Cato fears that he would commit a terrible sin and disobey a direct order -- and cups your hips with something approaching reverence, bare palms against sharp bony spurs, his thumbs pressing against your midsection, his fingers overlapping at the small of your back. He pulls you forward, pushing his cock between your slick thighs, and you both gasp.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Like that.”

“You don’t order me, woman,” he growls, almost as a reflex. Guilliman chuffs laughter beside him. 

“Of course she does not, Brother Cato. Of course not.”

Cato does it again -- pulling you forwards, pushing his hips up -- your flesh slippery from rose-scented oil, the same he’d used to strigil himself clean earlier, and the movement is so easy. So natural. He could cum just like this, fucking your thighs like a neophyte. 

“There. See, I told you you’re of great service to my legion,” Guilliman purrs. Is that a joke? Cato thinks it is a joke. Guilliman leans over to kiss you, bending down almost double to do so, and you kiss right before Cato’s eyes: Guilliman’s much-larger tongue filling your mouth, sloppy and all-consuming. Drool slips down your chin. Guilliman pulls back, boops his nose against yours in a gesture so achingly affectionate that Cato almost bites off the tip of his own tongue. 

That done, you stretch up to him, like a baby bird seeking food: your face pushed forwards eagerly, Guilliman’s spit still drying on your lips. 

It’s an order, wordless and demanding. He takes no orders from women, especially from you, and he kisses you solely because he wants to. He isn’t gentle with it: he invades your mouth hungrily, nipping at your lips irritably when you don’t kiss back swiftly enough. One hand moves from your hip to cup your lower jaw, fingers spanning your face, caging you. He kisses you like he wants to devour you. 

In a way, he does. He remembers watching the Eldar -- whose name he still refuses to learn -- after the inquisitor’s death, mantling the corpse like a vulture, pressing his forehead to what remains of the inquisitor’s face. The look of black-eyed junkie delight as he inhaled, the little movements of his alien throat suggestive of swallowing: the whole image reeking of a hunger long gone unsated. He had turned away in revulsion at the time, but he thinks he understands now. He thinks that his eyes, if he opens them, would burn with the same desperation. The same need. 

You pull away, gasping for breath. Cato grunts with frustration, pulls you back to him. 

“She needs to breathe, Cato,” Guilliman says, mildly. Cato growls back. 

“No she doesn’t.”

He thrusts between your thighs again, biting your mouth when you don’t immediately lean forwards, baby-bird eager, for his lips and his tongue. 

“Cato,” Guilliman rumbles: this time a warning. Cato stops just short of you, his breath huffing directly into your face. Your lips are swollen almost scarlet, and on the verge of bleeding. Good. Good. 

“Yes, my Lord Primarch?”

“Give her a moment. You could break her so very easily.”

“Good,” Cato growls, without thinking. “I want to, she deserves it --”

Guilliman clips him around the ear. 

“Ow!” 

“Calm down. If you cannot place nice, I will revoke my offer to share.”

Both you and Cato whine at that -- though Cato will deny until his dying day that he whined. No: he merely vocalized his disapproval in a  manner fitting of his station. 

“Yes Father,” Cato says, and then he and Guilliman frown at the same time; they have never looked more alike. 

“I would rather you did not call me that while we --”

“Yes. Quite. Lord Primarch. Guilliman. Anything but --”

“Yes. Not that.”

The moment of awkwardness gone, Guilliman returns to his task. 

“There. Now, give her a moment and--”

Cato’s gaze drops to your breasts, quivering with each hard breath. He catches you around the thighs, lifts you up, and bites down hard on your left nipple. 

“--or that. Or do that.”

Your wail of pain-pleasure is loud enough to echo, and Cato mumbles against your flesh, pleased. When he pulls back, he sees a perfect imprint of his teeth: stark white at first, and then flushing red and warm, edged with blood. 

“Mine,” Cato says. “You’re mine --” 

Guilliman clears his throat delicately. 

“...ours,” Cato says, a little shamefaced as he looks over at his genefather. Guilliman, indulgent, only turns your face back  to him so he can kiss you.

“Sweet little thing,” he says, as Cato takes advantage of the opportunity to latch onto your right breast, giving you a matching set of bite marks. Your gasp of surprise is swallowed up by Guilliman; however, when Cato sinks a finger into you, you pull back from the kiss in order to mewl --

“Oh Cato.”

Cato’s brain goes blurry with static. He’s pretty sure that the Emperor Himself could manifest there in that bathroom and he would not be able to give a coherent answer. 

“Say that again,” he demands, working his finger deeper. You’ve already taken two of Guilliman’s fingers, and yet you cling to him so sweetly, all velvet-soft and wet. So tight and yet so ready -- no matter how vexing you are when you open your mouth, your body clearly knows how he likes to be welcomed. 

“Cato,” you pant again, wriggling a little as he slides a second finger into you. “Cato, Cato -- “

So obedient. So precious. 

A third finger nudges alongside the first two, trying to squeeze in, even as you are stretched taut around him. You whimper as he manages to edge the very tip of the digit inside, slipping through your arousal. 

“Is it too much?” he coos. When you nod, he bites your ear. “Good. You’ll take more soon.”

This time, Guilliman does not clip him around the back of the head. His genefather has gone strangely quiet, his breath stilted and catching. Cato knows he should take more time to prepare you -- he’s a full three feet shorter than Guilliman, but he is still far larger than you -- but he thinks he might well die if he doesn’t get inside you soon. More to the point: there is still a part of him that feels this is all some bizarre waking dream; that soon he will wake up in his bed, fingers around his prick, sticky and cold with the aftermath of another shameful nighttime emission. 

So: he pulls his fingers out of you, and pushes them onto your tongue. “You’ve got me so messy,” he says, his gaze fixed on how your lips distend around him, imagining how they will look stretched around his prick -- no, time for that later. If there is a later. “Suck me clean.”

You obey at once, eyes closed as you lavish your tongue over him. Slightly awkwardly, Cato tries to both lower you onto his prick while also holding himself steady -- it wobbles and misses, sliding between your thighs. 

“Here,” Guilliman says, bracing his own hands under your thighs. “A true Ultramarine never leaves a battle brother in need.”

By the Emperor's guiding grace, the Primarch is trying to be funny. Cato did not think that this encounter could get any more surreal. 

You giggle breathlessly -- oh, so you think that the Lord Primarch making a clown of himself in the heat of a very serious moment is entertaining, of course you do, you --

Guilliman lowers you onto Cato’s cock, sliding his hands away as soon as it catches, and Cato’s thoughts once more turn to howling static. There are all sorts of things he could do to gentle the experience for you, and he does precisely none of them -- instead, he grips your thighs and pulls you down, groaning with satisfaction as your warm, plush insides open up for him. 

You squeal in distress and astonishment, pressing your face into his chest -- with a little grunt of frustration, Cato pries you off him, pinching your cheeks into a drooling pout with his index finger and thumb. 

“Want to see your face,” he says, “while I fuck you -- want to see you feel it.”

He bounces you experimentally in his lap, prompting another adorable yelp. 

“Cato,” you mewl. “Cato -- Cato please --”

“You — you want this, don’t you? You’ve wanted this since you met me, you whore — you —“

You can’t reply as he ragdolls you in his lap, fucking up into you; the obscene, wet sounds echoing.

“—you whore, you slut, this is all you are good for, this is all you want, isn’t it?”

You can’t reply, the  breath punched from your lungs as Cato buries himself inside again, and again — chasing his own release, his teeth showing in a feral grin.

“Not letting go, never letting go —“

His orgasm comes completely by surprise and far too soon, ripping through his body in a tidy. He has the presence of mind to pull you flush against him so his seed spills inside you; enough to overflow, dripping out of you as he uses your body to milk himself dry.

“Cato,” you manage again, wide eyed and so so full of him. Cato feels his cock starting to stir anew, already getting ready to plough through his own cum to fuck you again, uncaring of how grotesquely sticky he already feels. He’s not going to stop until you can’t breathe without tasting him, until —

“My turn,” Guilliman says, plucking you off Cato’s lap. Cato only just manages to stop himself grabbing at you. Guilliman is his Primarch.

However, he finds his ire melting away at the sight that soon ensues. Guilliman has fashioned a little nest of towels for your knees and arranges you in it, pushing your face down, perking up your hips. Then he takes advantage of the stairs, letting them take the bulk of his weight as he starts to work his way inside, resting his palms on the rim of a step above your head, while he kneel on the one below you.  

“There — there we are. Good girl.”

The Primarch is larger than Cato in every way; his cock forces the Cato’s seed out, dripping down your thighs. Cato can’t decide if he’s angry that Guilliman is undermining all his hard work, or if he is desperately, painfully aroused.

Maybe both. He takes hold of his cock, and gives it a good hard stroke, feeling the slick of your arousal still glossing his flesh. 

“Turn her around. I want her mouth.”

Guilliman pauses mid- thrust, barely a quarter of the way inside you. 

“Are you giving orders to your Primarch now, Cato?” Guilliman says, and this time Cato is certain: Guilliman is attempting a joke. 

“I am, my lord.”

“Sit here. I’ll have her from behind, and you can see just how good our diplomat is with her charming tongue.”

Guilliman taps the stair, and Cato does not scramble over like an eager young man —  no, he moves with the strategic decisiveness of his Chapter, swiftly claiming the territory offered.

He does not even have to ask before your face is between his thighs, revoltingly eager as you drag your tongue along his shaft. He catches your hair and holds your head back, just so he can watch you strain to lick him — so eager and wanting and pathetic. 

(You want him just as much as he wants you and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy)

“Suck,” he orders, slapping his cock against your much-abused mouth. “Maybe we’ll keep you.”

You’re laughing as you take his tip into your mouth, lips curled up, eyes sparking with merriment - and then Guilliman pushes in another inch and you spit Cato’s cock out, burying your face into his thigh.

“Apologies my lady,” says Guilliman, as Cato combs his fingers through your hair. Not soothing you. Absolutely not. “If I am too large for you, I can stop —“

“If you stop I will kill you,” you say — bossy, brave thing, determined to take a Primarchs cock, even if it displaces your lungs into your sinuses to do so. “Keep going. Fuck me.”

Guilliman chuckles. “Let it never be said that Ultramarines shirk in their duty.”

Your little huff of laughter soon turns to a wet, glucking sound as Cato reintroduces his cock into your mouth. You can’t swallow it all the way — he’s very aware of that — but oh how he likes to see you try.

Perhaps diplomats have their uses after all.

[ahrianee]

[🌌]Inter atramentum et stellas

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

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

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

[monalisahyperdrive]

Primarch names from least moanable to the most moanable - entirely subjective.

Factors taken into account:

Name length

How easy it is to say

General vibes ('imagine having sex with a guy and having to moan gilbert')

I wrote this instead of sleeping. I don't know either. This is getting posted and I will probably never address it again if I don't delete it during my break tomorrow. I should not be given internet access past 11pm.

Perturabo

It pained me to put him all the way down (up?) here at the least moanable as I fear he may actually be one of my favourites, however... I am not delusional enough to ignore that not only is this a pretty long name, a good amount of people struggle not only to say it but to even spell it. Not at all dyslexia friendly. I would give it a good go but I feel like in order to enjoy yourself you kind of have to accept you will be calling him 'Perty' or 'Bo' or whatever you prefer.

Sanguinius

Sanguinius fans please spare me but this is a long ass name at 3? 4? syllables. I don't even know what you could call him for short instead. However, I don't doubt that it's entirely possible, I just think it would take a while to stop stuttering through.

Mortarion

Another long name. Are you sensing a pattern yet? I am. More moanable due to having less vowels than Sanguinius and less harsher (?) consonants like in Perturabo. Pretty middle of the road, easy to pronounce, could probably be easier if you just start calling him 'Morty' instead.

Alpharius / Omegon

Alpharius is again another longer name that I feel like I would trip over for a good couple weeks. I am NOT shorting it to Alpha. I must maintain my dignity, whatever crumbs of it remain. Omegon is an easier name - likely due to it having less syllables (3 rather than 4). However, I feel like the only way to shorten it would be 'Meg' and that would make me laugh and I would get distracted. Remember how I said this is subjective? This is why.

Jaghatai

3 syllables, easy enough to say, not a lot of vowels or harsher consonants to trip over. Incredibly doable, and I'm sure many have tried it. Hell, I'd certainly take a good stab at it.

Angron

Harsh G right in the middle, otherwise no complaints really. 2 syllables. Straight forward. You could certainly give it a good go.

Rogal

2 syllables - easy right? Wrong. Evil G right there in the middle again. Probably would have been higher (lower?) on the list if it was softened with maybe an H right after. Alas, it is not so.

Corvus

2 incredibly easy syllables. The V is a little evil (harsh) but with a relatively short name and a soft starting consonant I'm sure it's manageable. Best bird boy. Not much else to say.

Fulgrim

Although apparently a good chunk of people have given it a go - or at least his wives have - we're back to the G dilemma. Personally I'd suggest calling him 'Fulgie' - like Fergie but worse.

Konrad

Quite possibly the most normal name on the whole list. Konrad. Everyone can say Konrad. An easy two syllables with the harshest letter right at the start. Easy peasy.

Roboute

I actually don't know if this is 2 syllables or 3. I even went and looked on Reddit. Some people are saying Ro-Bou-Te, I've been reading it Ro-Boot. Either way these are easy, with the harshest sound being the T of all things. Either way I don't think moaning for poor long suffering Robert is too tricky.

Vulkan

Deceptively soft V and K. What a pleasant surprise. Anyone could moan this easily, and he'd probably be delighted.

Lion

Objectively this is incredibly easy, which is why it made it so high (low?) on the scale. However, I would argue moaning 'Lion' in full sincerity is somewhat hilarious. That sure is the name of an incredibly powerful (and unfortunately incredibly sexy) man.

Magnus

Easy to moan. Probably wouldn't mind if you gave it a go. Again, one of the easier names. I'm sure he'd be happy to tutor you on the subject.

Lorgar

Flows nicely, 2 short syllables, incredibly straight forward. Started mentally calling him 'Lorgie', never recovered.

Ferrus

Incredibly straight forward name. Ferrus, pronounced the same as Ferrous, like the iron tablets. Something something you should do it, it's medicinal.

Leman

Not at the top due to the time it took to decide whether it was Lee-man or Le-man (like lemon). Personal gripe, but if you've gotten this far down without understanding that I don't know what to tell you. Quick, easy, sure why not.

Horus

As much as I wish to be deeply spiteful and shove him somewhere unremarkable in the middle, I just can't do it. This is an easy name. Don't worry, if you struggle at all I'm sure he'd be willing to let you keep trying until you figure it out. Bastard.

[solspina]

Rating primarchs based on how good of a boyfriend they would be

full send no context

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Horus : 8/10

He’s a nice guy for the most part, very charismatic and though very goal focused he’s also kind and open to those he’s closest to. Outwardly, he’s very straightforward, stern, and absolutely ruthless to his enemies. There’s humanity within him though, and he won’t keep his friendly, loving demeanor away from those who deserve it. Find him at a celebratory event, drunk with Sanguinius, moments in which he’s full of nothing but laughter and love for his brothers and the one who stands beside him. His love language is quality time.

Leman Russ : 4/10 (negotiable)

Though he knows love, it seems to be quite strictly familial. He’s described often as ruthless and barbaric, naive and braggish. If you can put up with things like that, I’m sure he would be a fine boyfriend. Similarly enough though, he’s had many women try to court him all at once, and successfully. I can’t promise his loyalty if someone better looking comes along, as no one ever taught him the importance of that. Outside of the constant, lingering fear of replacement, he can have his caring and understanding moments, occasionally bringing you gifts from crusades and sieges on other planets. Maybe his loyalty to the emperor would apply to his lover too, if you tell him what it means to you. His love language is gift giving.

Ferrus Manus : 7/10

Rage is his fatal flaw if we’re being honest. Not towards you, but towards battle. Toward you I imagine he would be more straightforward and honest, though trustworthy and strong willed to make your relationship work. Loyalty will never ever ever be an issue with him, but it seems like he spends more time with war and battle than he does you. He spends time with you when he can, though, and he truly does care. Points off for his temper. He gave his brothers personalized gifts, and i’m sure he would go through many lengths to do the same for you. His love language is gift giving.

Fulgrim: 6/10

He’s constantly trying to be perfect, and he wants whoever he’s with to be perfect too. A lot of the time, it gets to his head. He can be incredibly ignorant quite often, and isn’t very considerate of your feelings. You’re more of an idol to him, a model. You’re human, so he sees you as perfect, something he and his people should strive to be like. Youre idealized, and under rose tinted lenses, this looks a lot like love… Lots of acts of service and gift giving.

Vulkan : 10/10

The only man you will ever need point blank period. He’s patient, he’s empathetic, he’s kind, he’s humane. He’s incredibly easy to love, and he truly is beloved. The Salamanders love you too, sometimes listening to your commands as if they were his. You’re respected as long as you’re under his arm. He wants to understand the way humans feel, especially understand the reason they wrap their arms around each other and sleep with their bodies entwined at night. His love language is physical touch.

Rogal Dorn : 6/10

He’s incredibly loyal, and also incredibly honest, but his seriousness can get in the way sometimes. You love him, very much, but there are times you get into petty arguments and he has to go consult Horus and Sanguinius for advice on what to do. He’s also very reserved at times, a lot like a single dad who’s just doing his best to keep his job and go about his day. Acts of service would be his love language.

Roboute Guilliman : 9/10

Guilliman is a great boyfriend, a great tactician, a great warrior, all of the above. The only reason i’d take a point off is because I believe he may be a little arrogant at times. He believes that his way is the right way, but he’s usually willing to listen to you and your concerns. He’s incredibly intelligent, very sympathetic and understanding of human trials and concerns, and he’s a lot like we are modern times. I think he would look for comfort in a significant other, and his love language is likely acts of service.

Magnus the Red : 3/10

Another man that I don’t recommend being with. He’s more arrogant than Fulgrim. When I said Guilliman believes his way is the right way, Magnus takes it a step up. He thinks he’s ALWAYS right. He cares, and he means well, but he’s way too much to put up with. Highly manipulative and self absorbed, don’t put yourself in that situation. He values knowledge more than he does you.

Sanguinius : 10/10

Besides the fact he’s a vampire, you’re probably the most safe with him. He genuinely cares for you and your well-being, and sleeping next to him at night with his wing draped over you is an absolute dream in a universe plagued by war. His sons may fall to their bloodthirst when they’re on the home ship, and Sanguinius is fast to wrap himself around his human partner and protect them from any and all harm. You hold him through his sorrow every time a mass of humans or his sons lose their lives, and you watch him kneel to offer you his loyalty and unconditional love rather than you offering it to him. He gives both physical touch and words of affirmation.

Lion El’Jonson : 7/10

Of course he has his moments where he can come off as aloof and paranoid, but that’s for the most part only on the battlefield. Outside, he’s incredibly charming and charismatic, but in a noble way. When his paranoia gets to him after an argument, he seeks out Sanguinius and Horus for advice, wanting nothing more to fix your relationship and solve whatever went wrong. He become more secretive as time goes on, but old habits die hard. I believe he’d offer acts of service.

Perturabo : 6/10

He’s incredibly smart, but finds relating to you and your human tendencies incredibly difficult. His moods can shift and change rapidly and violently, but I believe he means you no true harm. He would never hurt you intentionally, often opting to back away and give himself space, sometimes for days. He never returns to you without a mechanically engineered gift, though, one of his design. Alongside a very gentle hug and a conversation about how you care about him, what he loves. You love him, not for his usefulness to the emperor, but for him. His love language is definitely gift giving.

Mortarion : 8/10

He’s very confused as to why you would choose him. He’s disgusting, an abomination, he hated everything from psykers to his oppressors, what did anything matter if he would be left to the mercy of another oppressor anyways? All thoughts he had until he met you. He was cold and hateful to you at first, untrusting, and yet you showed him kindness. You showed him kindness over and over again. For once, it wasn’t just a one time thing. You’re the only thing in this universe who sees him as more than a warlord, more than the embodiment of death itself, so for you he has a soft spot. He hates the idea of having a human curl up next to him, absorbing his warmth and disease alike… and yet you do. You remind him that his touch is not deadly, and he too is capable of humanity. He will be more considerate of his decisions, because for once, something matters. His love language is physical touch, because he’s been deprived for so long, you’re the only one who allows him that piece of humanity.

Lorgar : 5/10

Does he love you? Does he not? No… He needs you… Maybe he just needs space actually.He loves you, he really does, and by god he tries his best, but when you’re as impulsive and indecisive as he is, it’s hard to know sometimes. If you’re okay with it working 50% of the time, maybe more maybe less, I’m sure you’ll be fine. His love language is… uh… well?

Jaghatai Khan : 7/10

Loyal, decently humble, and a relatively peaceful man. Outside of war, he has potential to be great to you. When war is his focus, however. Expect no attention, he’s a fierce warrior and needs to focus on his allegiance to the emperor, that’s what comes first. You follow very closely after, though! He’s quick to praise you for the things you do well and gently remind you of a better course of action when it comes to the things you don’t do too well. Acts of service enjoyer.

Konrad Curze : 2/10

DO NOT DATE THIS MAN. Konrad is a walking red flag. The self loathing, the anger, the angst, the general belief in humanity as a fallacy. He’s also incredibly violent, and may cause you serious harm if you ever managed to anger him. He’s a primarch, and you’re a human. Don’t you dare piss him off. I don’t know why anyone would realistically want that. Please continue to paint him as mean angry babygirl with a soft spot in your fics though. If you think you can fix him, you can’t. The emperor already tried.

Angron : 4/10

Before his conversion to chaos, Angron would’ve been a great boyfriend if we’re being honest. He was kind, compassionate, encouraging. He loved you when you were enslaved beside him, but once he became a primarch and lost everything, his beloved included, he became one of the most ruthless and cruel people out there until he succumbed to Khorne. He doesn’t remember you. His love language was words of affirmation.

Corvus Corax : 4/10

A very melancholic and depressed primarch. He’s very angsty and honestly a major drag to be around. He and Konrad, i feel like, would be better boyfriends to each other than either of them would be to you. Corvus isn’t as violent as Konrad, but he definitely carries on the hatred, the sorrow, and the bitterness. He’s also very sensitive, so expect to be met with either violence or a breakdown if you try to leave. 2 extra points because you may get to keep your life, his love language is words of affirmation, always followed by self deprecation.

Alpharius Omegon : 7/10

He’s they’re a great boyfriend to be honest, though very secretive, and that raises many questions. You don’t know that there are two of them. It’s a secret, not even one that you’re allowed to know the answer to. Alpharius is obviously the more dominant brother, the one who you think has a soft side. He doesn’t. That’s not him, that’s Omegon. Omegon is much more gentle, quiet, and quite honestly a little more touchy. Why? because you make him feel seen. Alpharius is used to the spotlight, so giving him every ounce of your attention feels like the usual, though he still enjoys it very much. Alpharius expresses love through acts of service and gift giving, while Omegon expresses love through words of affirmation and quality time. They make up for everything the other lacks, as long as you don’t know the massive secret they’re keeping from you…

[beckyninja]

Worthy

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warning: things get spicy, though nothing explicit

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

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

“Roboute, ah….”

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

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

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

“Roboute?”

Guilliman blinked and the fantasy faded.

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

Guilt gnawed at him.

“Yes, my dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re kind to say so.”

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

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

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

Your delighted gasp made his hearts glow. 

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

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

“Oh, my apologies!”

Then you bent… over….

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

Throne, damn it.

***

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

The helmeted head inclined slightly in response. 

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

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

But it could not shield you from your own thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

A foolish assumption.

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

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

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

…and a torment.

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

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

Throne, I ache for her.

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

Well, Russ perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it meant denying himself the slightest touch.

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

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

“I thought I heard-”

“All is well, Cato.”

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

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

***

“Stupid female.”

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

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

A necessary evil, Roboute had called them.

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

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

“Unhand her at once!”

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

“I said unhand her!”

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

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

“Irrelevant data. Betrothed does not equal authority-”

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

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

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

“Compliance.” It hissed.

“Thank you. Get out.”

“Compliance.”

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

“My…my lady?”

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

The woman gasped. “Oh no, my lady!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“...refer them to me.”

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

“Incident equals gross overstep.” The Magus squawked. 

“I see.”

“Chastisement recommended!”

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

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

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

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

If they liked you before, they adore you now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Compliance. My Lord.”

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

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

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

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

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

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

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

“N-no, I’m not-”

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

“No! At least….”

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

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

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

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

“Damn it all to the Warp!”

***

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

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

By the Light and the Void, that growl….

“Yes.” You whispered.

“Tell me.”

“Y-you, you said….”

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

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

“You said you wanted me.”

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

“Ah, Roboute!”

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

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

Doubt vanished. 

“I love you, Roboute!”

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

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

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

“Never again.”

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

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

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

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

“GET OUT.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@missmannequin @jaghatai-khock

[moodymisty]

Author's note: Funny Guilliman snippet. Guilliman/Fem!Reader implied, Tokophobia warning maybe, @lemon-russ enjoy

Guilliman often found himself preferring the feeling of writing on the rough surface of parchment than anything else, dipping his pen in fresh ink to finish his sentence. He nearly fumbles it, grumbling to himself. The pen he manages to catch, but his slight shifting causes him to wince and wait for noise.

Cradled in the elbow nook of his right arm his own child lets out a soft murmer, just barely disturbed but not enough to wake. They shift just slightly, wiggling in the warm blanket and continuing to suck on their thumb.

Guilliman could barely contain the sigh of relief.

This is the first time he has taken care of his child without you close by to help him; He isn't entirely confident he could soothe them if they woke up. The nervousness is, unfamiliar to him- though he can't help the fear of this new unknown.

But you desperately need the break, and Guilliman knows he can only cower in fear of his own child for so long. He can no longer use the excuse of their tiny size in comparison to his own hands to hide his broader fear of failure.

Shifting in their little blue blanket and resuming their nap, Guilliman resumes his work, but a feeling on the back of his neck causes his eyes to glance upward and to his left.

Decimius Felix is looking down at Guilliman's lap with an odd expression, brow furrowed as if... Confused. Guilliman turns his head to meet the astartes face on.

"It is a baby, Decimius. Are you familiar with the concept?"

The Tetrarch reels backwards as if hurt, his armor plates clicking against each other.

He then gets a bit irritated at his Primarch clearly poking fun at him, his nose wrinkling just a tad. His men are still quite shocked by his sense of humor, a trait Guilliman sometimes enjoys messing with.

"Yes, my primarch. It is just,"

Guilliman is well aware that his relationship with you had shocked his legion. They were unfamiliar with why he would even consider such a thing. His child had been an even greater surprise; Even months later, they are still confused. Many of his captains had vocalized their displeasure with him for bowing to baser things, though this displeasure he preferred over the Eclessiarcy's obsession over his believed holy child.

His chapter's standoffishness has started to fade a bit, but disapproval still lingers within all of his command, apart from Calgar.

He reminds himself to thank the Chapter Master for his personable attitude in spite of everything before Felix speaks up again.

"Will they just keep sleeping?"

Guilliman has to resist the urge to smile. It's such a painfully innocent question. One that he had thought as well, at one point.

"Until they're hungry, yes."

Guilliman can see the shift in Felix's lips, like he has another thing he wants to say, and Guilliman prays that he won't ask what happens then. He would rather throw himself out of the airlock and let the cold vacuum whisk him away into the grand unknown then explain to one of his men why he would need to get you for that process.

Thankfully however he doesn't say anything more, and simply hums, looking at the infant a moment longer. Not that there's much to see; They're swaddled up in the thick blanket to the shoulder, only a pudgy face with a thin wafting of light blonde hair is visible.

You had laughed hysterically the moment the hair started to grow in; They had gotten blessed with Guilliman's bright blonde hair, and around the same time their real eye color had come in; In which they'd inherited yours.

There, lets brush all the hair down just like that. Now you have silly little bangs just like your father- Right Robu?

He glances down at them again and smiles. He's never felt happier, prouder, than he is now. And to think it's because of something so simple.

He wonders if Tarasha and Konor felt the same, when they held him as a child.

"When will they need to eat?"

Guilliman has a gathering of his men scheduled for a bit from now, and he assumes Felix is prodding him due to wondering about a potential conflict of time.

"Soon."

Guilliman's hand drifts to the bottom of the page, eyes on the tip of his pen rather than the vaguely perturbed expression of his Tetrarch.

"...What do they e-"

Guilliman's hand suddenly jolts and the inked pen skids across the parchment, ruining his signature and making a rough scratching noise that surprises even himself. He doesn't need to look in Felix's direction to know he's a bit surprised.

"This conversation is over. Go ask that question to the serfs if you need an answer desperately."

[esteemedbastard]

Everyone talks about how the Primarchs would eat pussy (myself included,) but how would you eat Primarch pussy?

Fulgrim fucks your face, holding you in place while you eat him out, moaning about how good you are, how sweet you are, and how hard he's going to peg you later.

You insist on Sanguinius sitting on your face on the pretense that you don't want his wings to be uncomfortable. His strong thighs shudder on either side of your face as you eat him out, struggling not to put his full weight on your face.

For you 40k fans, you offer Roboute Guilliman some stress relief from running the Empire. After a full-body massage so he's relaxed and loose, you get under him and eat his pussy until your jaw is sore and he's sobbing with gratitude.

[primarisly-marooned]

to serve pt 1

as promised, the Guilliman fic!

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

pairing: Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

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

part 2, part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a god.

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

“My lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

And he had a long, long memory.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you hungry, my Lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But one he refused to be parted from.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Already he missed the touch of you against his skin.

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

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

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

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

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

[theoreticalfishsticks]

Thinking about dad Guilliman or Fulgrim's partner telling them about that silly "test" thing people do with their baby where they put the different items in front of them (money, a pen and something else I can't remember, I think?) to see which one they'll crawl to as a means of predicting their future careers or whatever and the Primarchs think it's a fun idea only to end up a weepy mess because their little one crawls right past the objects to get to their papa instead

[fyxestroll]

Whose Problem Is It When the Primarchs Fall in Love? Pt.1

note: this was meant to be crack-ish but I sniffed some angst powder so some of these came out angstier than expected. also for anyone who sent requests, I'm working on them family problems and school are just getting in the way <33

Lion - It’s his problem. On the outside nothing is wrong everything is fine but on the inside everything is wrong and everything is NOT fine but you wouldn’t notice anything is going on. For Lion, falling in love involves a lot of self-discovery and constant repression. It’s all internal and his resting bitch face isn’t helping.

Unnamed Primarch #2 - You got erased out of existence too.

Fulgrim - On everybody’s soul, especially Ferrus Manus’ it’s EVERYONE’S problem. Not even the Chaos Gods and Empy are safe! This man right here has so many unaddressed self-worth issues that he constantly feels the need to have someone to validate his acts of courting before even doing the thing. 

Perturabo -  Its everyone’s problem. Not unlike Fulgrim, Perturabo has so many unaddressed self-worth issues and feels the need for validation but unlike Fulgrim, its all out in the open. He’s already bitter about a lot of things and if he falls in love it wouldn’t be surprising if he’s already given up on pursuing that person. You’d be something he deems out of his reach, someone not even worth reaching because the rejection is in his mind guaranteed. He’s bitter towards you, loving hating everything you do and say. If you express any sort of positive reaction towards any of his gene-sons his ire towards that specific astartes worsens. The worst part? If your feelings towards Perturabo are reciprocated you’d have difficulty reaching him with him practically pushing you away. Please be patient with him, his heart is fragile.

Jaghatai Khan - Problem? There’s no problem! Genuinely, if this guy falls in love there wouldn’t be an issue because he’s in tune with his emotions and doesn’t have a penchant for skinning people alive (sorry Konrad). The closest thing this man would have to a problem when falling in love is the issue of courting. Chogoris courting norms involve matchmakers, families and of course bride-prices and dowries. If you aren’t from Chogoris he’ll try his best to follow the equivalent of/mix Chogorian traditions in courting. Either way, it’s less of a problem and more of a brief logistical headache at most. 10/10 would marry him tbh

Leman Russ - It's your problem.  He's enthusiastic about it and so is his entire legion. Thats a lot of wingmen and they're probably singing the Fenrisian equivalent of kiss the girl every chance they get. It's very endearing to be honest but the eagerness borders being overbearing.

Rogal Dorn - Dorn falling in love only affects 3 parties, you, him and his Iron Fists. Out of the 3 parties, Dorn falling in love is only disastrous to 2, the Fists and him. Dorn’s acts of affection are quiet, and if you aren’t aware of his affection these acts are easy to miss. It doesn’t help that a painted brick has more self-expression than this man. Pair that with not wanting to be improper this results in what he deems romantic and not lacking in proprietary  (He helped you landscape and design your garden). Now, the Fists come into play here by being Dorn’s feedback loop of ideas and internal turmoil that more often than not involves building things. The Fists don’t really mind but they are a bit miffed about fortifying your house or something when they could be something that they believe is more effective.

Konrad Curze - Its your problem and his problem. Look, this man is a murderous mess that's haunted by the visions of the terrible future if he falls in love he’d hate himself for doing so because it feels wrong. Positive emotions and experiences are foreign to him, so for Konrad love is something he feels he is entirely undeserving of and is just waiting for the ball to drop. In all honestly, he expects you to die or be the subject of his terrible visions so he immediately expects the worse and resigns himself to watching you from a distance. As this is all internal no one knows what’s going on with Konrad other than his usual Konradness so imagine the terror of being constantly watched by the Night Haunter with no clue on what drew his attention in the first place. 

Sanguinius - It’s his problem but he like all his problems its ignored and repressed. Sanguinius tries to deny the fact that he’s fallen in love for numerous reasons, including The Red Thirst and his impending doom. Also, a part of Sanguinius fears rejection, or at least a form of it. He’s beloved and he knows it but to be loved in the way that someone seeks to know all of him feels impossible. He is loved as an idol, a figure of all that is and could be good and that he’d come to accept. Being truly loved is a dream to him, a dream he holds close to his heart and something he’d take to his grave.

 Ferrus Manus - It's your problem because this man is like a rock. Feelings? What’s that? It’s not that Ferrus is unfeeling, in fact I feel like he’s one of the Primarchs who fall in love the easiest but when he falls in love he doesn’t know how to categorize that person exactly. He is fond, sure, but he can’t put a finger on how fond he is so he puts you in the my-favorite-people box with Fulgim. Basically,  he shoots himself in the foot early on by putting you in the friend zone without realising it. Good luck falling first with this guy, its slow-burn pining with a metal wall for you.

[mothiir]

Kinktober request: giving guilliman a titjob

cw: what it says in the title

—

—

—

“My love,” says Roboute, in tones of infinite gentleness. “I do not think that this is going to work.”

Your brow furrows; the tip of your tongue protruding between your teeth. Your giant of a lover sits on the edge of his bed, while you perch on a footstool, kneeling upright to try and press your breasts around his cock.

The book you read went into great detail about how erotic it was for the man to view his flushed pink prick slide between his beloved’s tits.

There were, unfortunately, a few things that you did not take into account.

“They’re — hang on,” you huff, pressing the sides of your breasts together, pushing yourself closer. His cock is nestled between them — though, perhaps, nestled is a strong word. Balanced might be more apt. The head of his prick is poking into your collarbone. “Move your hips,” you tell him, and — obediently — he thrusts between your tits. You mouth at his tip (and that brings a breathy sigh to his lips) but after a few motions it is clear to both of you that he is essentially humping your sternum. You have to squash your breasts together so much to provide even the tiniest bit of friction and, frankly, it’s uncomfortable.

“My love, there are a thousand ways I will have you besides —“

“Give me a moment,” you tell him, rocking back, glaring down at your own chest. Without the assistance of Macragge’s finest underwiring, your breasts perch on your rib cage in what can kindly be referred to as ‘modest handfuls’.

Handfuls, providing the hands in question are very small indeed.

“I thought it would be a good idea,” you say, sulkily, clambering off the footstool and into his lap.

“I believe that the heroine in ‘The Only Thing I Crave More Than the Emperor’s Justice is Your Sweet Kiss’ is not an accurate representation of the average human woman. I do not think that many have — ahem — ‘flesh ample enough to wrap around his cock entirely, cushioning it as he thrust’ —“

Your cheeks flush scarlet. “What have I told you about reading my books?”

He chuckles, and kisses your cheek, then the curve of your neck. “My love,” he says. “You give such instructions, and then I look at you and forget myself.”

“Hang on, isn’t that a quote from —“

Before you can suggest that the Primarch is lifting his sweet talk verbatim from the Imperium’s finest pornography, he has dragged you into a fierce kiss, and all your thoughts melt away.

[zackprincebooks]

Hot Water

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

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

Want to read my original fiction? Click here!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t! Merely expressing—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, by the Throne of Terra…

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

And his cock—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I will not elaborate.”

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

“Lord…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

[ahrianee]

[⚜️] Welcome to this "family reunion"

{Canon x Oc}

[Roboute Guilliman x Rena Caeruleun]

[Mini Comic]

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

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

Roboute Guilliman regretted bringing his fiancée. . .

Fulgrim is making eyes at Roboute Guilliman's fiancée

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

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

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

[toto-the-cactus]

Primarchs + Daughters (2)

Finally finished the damn part two. Been kinda busy here and there with my new job but lo and behold, the one yall asked for. Soon enough, yall find out why it took me a while writing this one for the two main guys I had to add here.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Konrad Curze

A’right, I’ll open this one with the fact we all know that this man shouldn’t even be legally allowed to have children. I’m gonna be real for a hot second and admit that I stared at the screen for HOURS not knowing what to write because any poor little girl that is born from this guy will have the dubious privilege of being the most sheltered and hidden secret the Primarch ever kept close. With all those visions of death and inevitable doom mixed with the sudden power rush that fatherhood gave him, it left in its wake a perfect storm for this lunatic to develop a paranoid and obsessive need (NEED) to keep his daughter safe; something hard to achieve when he already knows the essence of his Legion. His fatalistic nature regarding his own future would suddenly clash violently with the Primarch’s new found protective stance concerning his child. It's almost sad to consider that this poor man GENUINELY wished to avoid becoming the monster his visions showed, but knowing that he’ll be balancing in the thin line of one day hurting his precious girl (or worse than that) it'll put him in the hard decision of having to let go of her eventually. He is no Perturabo, for that matter. In the rare and far away moments of lucidity, I can see Konrad choosing to protect the innocence and life of his child by trusting in the last person ANYONE might expect the Night Hunter would seek help: Vulkan. Honestly this is just plain sad, man.

Sanguinius

This is it! The golden boy, yall! We all know the kind of person Sanguinius is, but add a precious little daughter in the equation and all you get is the perfect example of textbook girl dad. No matter how busy this man is, somehow he’ll squish some playtime with his baby and enjoy every bit of it. Seriously, this guy acting like a dedicated father is worth being in a stockphoto image. His baby girl asks him to play tea party? Some astartes will find their Primarch hunched over, awkwardly holding a comically small cup between his thumb and index while his precious princess pretends to pour more tea for herself. The daughter of Sanguinius doesn't go a single day without knowing that her papa loves her a lot and when the man isn’t around, the Blood Angels Legion are close to keep her company to the point that even she calls them ‘big brothers’. No one is safe when she wants to play dress-up. The single problem I see with Sanguinius when raising his little girl is that he sins of being completely oblivious to the more mortal side of his daughter’s needs. He easily gets so wrapped up in his role of The Perfect Angel that he doesn’t realize his tiny princess has boundaries that are being constantly crossed, but since she feels the need to prove that she can be like her father, endures all those problems and refuses to seek help about anything. It becomes a kind of toxic mix considering how much Sanguinius is loved and adored by others, to the point that his daughter becomes like a coveted gem too by relation, making her need to prove her own ‘perfection’ an unconscious action the older she grows. I’m not even gonna touch with a ten feet pole the “fun fact” called the Red Thirst on this one because, let's be fair, that would require for me to write more than 3 pages with ONLY Sanguinius and his daughter in the spotlight and that’s only assuming his baby girl didn’t inherit it. I specialized in visual arts and marketing, not psychology jfc.

Ferrus Manus

It took me a while but after some investigating and more reading I can safely put this man in between the Papa-tier and ‘tough love’ guys. His practical mentality and belief of the strongest are (oddly enough) healthily separated from his parenting skills. This is one of the few Primarch that can see their daughter as an individual of their own and makes sure to be as present as possible in her life but the loyalty of this man to the Emperor is his own flaw. Not in the case that he’ll choose the Imperium before his little girl, but because it’ll put him in the dreading and guilty notion that he’ll always prioritize his daughter despite his oath to serve for the Great Crusade. Most of his brothers (except maybe Jaghatai and Konrad) just assume or don’t even think about the long term future of their daughters or simply presume that they will become a great part of the Imperium’s well oiled structure. Not exactly their fault since they never grew up with anything resembling normal. On the brighter and wholesome side (whiplash change!), this is a man who finds handmade gifts more meaningful and always makes sure to explain the reason behind them mostly out of the enjoyment of watching his little princess look so amazed at her papa’s skills. More often than not, Ferrus’ belief of the strongest would falter a little as he perceives the true fragile nature of his daughter and, even if she share the resilient blood of a Primarch, that isn’t enough to convince him that she isn’t vulnerable but instead of letting the worry fester, he’ll try to teach the girl the art of fighting. That’s where the ‘tough love’ kind of guy I mentioned comes out to light. He will not spare kind words during those moments of teaching, as he wishes for his princess to prevail any difficulty but he’ll make sure to always end any sort of training with “I love you so much that the idea of one day not being there to protect you, pains me beyond any form” to make sure that his harsh actions have a reason behind. Honestly, it's the kind of father-daughter relationship that possesses so many shades that makes its own drama novel. Good thing that uncle Fulgrim is always there to smooth the hard edges that may come in the future and makes up for the lack of spoiling the little girl deserves. Ferrus is not amused by it. Forgot to mention that the Primarch will be even more motivated to take off the metal of his hands, for he has yet to truly feel the warm and soft flesh of his baby’s hand. It's the one feeling he keeps missing and craves so much.

Angron

Oh man, another of the hard ones. Okay, if I managed with Konrad, I can tackle this bitch too. You need to comprehend that we are talking about a guy that has been so intimate with the meaning of pain that it's amazing he’ll be capable of ranging through other emotions that don’t involve fury into that combo too. That being said, this whole shitshow of being the father of a young girl can only be described as sad AND tragic. First off, Angron’s daughter wouldn’t even be allowed to leave her chambers at The Conqueror for obvious safety reasons and having her stay on Terra can’t be an option too, as Angron would rather be death than leave in a silver plate this one single pittance of good he helped to create under the light of the Emperor. That being said, any little girl born from Angron would be terribly isolated and one can’t even blame the Primarch for that as he, despite his disposition, finds his daughter as a genuine reflection of what he could never ever dream to have or be. That sometimes results in him feeling short and spontaneous moments of anger from the impotence of not being able to be close to his daughter, let alone console her with anything resembling compassion. This is a man that is horribly aware that he’s away from one sharp stab of the Nails to his brain to end up killing his little girl in one single swat of his hand. The moments of anything resembling fatherly love are few and very tense, for Angron has to constantly be focused on not letting the pain control his actions and that always looks as if he’s dismissing his child’s love language or actions. What else can I say that most people don’t know already? This is just a sad story waiting to end in tragedy and had it not been for how Sanguinius ended during the heresy, I can see The Great Angel taking Angron’s daughter under his care as the only consolation and promise to his corrupted brother before his demise. After becoming a Daemon Prince, Angron’s only genuine and foggy memory of his little girl is her crying while calling him with heavy despair. Goddamn I almost tear up with this one.

Roboute Guilliman

Look at my big nerd! One of the few guys that actually is humble enough to feel more human than any of his brothers… sometimes. I gotta say it, Roboute has the vibe of what happens when someone incredibly autistic suddenly becomes a parent; expect lots of books to try and be prepared for what entails to take care of a mortal baby. He’ll have a wholeass strict routine of activities and diets that you AND the baby must follow to ensure both of your health along with “fun facts” regarding a toddler’s development that half of the time lack the keyword ‘fun’ in there. Honestly, Euten will be a BLESSING sent, for she’ll be the one railing back the most extreme attempts of her adoptive son to try and raise his little princess like she was just another task of paperwork. Over all his quirks, the Primarch of the Ultramarines is absolutely trying his hardest to be a good father just as the one that raised him, but this is a man that half of the time ends up clumsily trying to spend time with his little girl only for it to backfire as he simply doesn’t understand how to entertain his daughter. Good thing the child will simply be happy to spend time with her papa despite his weird personality. More often than not, some of the astartes will see the young lady at her father’s chambers in a little booster chair beside him, doodling on some papers to pretend that she’s a big girl helping her papa with his very important job. It's probably the most adorable sight anyone can ever get the chance to see. Just like most of his brothers, Roboute isn’t that good at expressing his love towards his daughter with words, so he simply let his little princess be on his lap and hug her as if it will be the last time.

Mortarion

I’ve written enough of this man being a father that you all can get a wild idea of how he will be when confronted with parenthood. Even if he believes himself to be undeserving of anything resembling happiness thanks to his perception of being nothing but a tool of the Emperor, this guy will only need to see his precious little flower and feel like everything in the world can be forgotten, including his ever festering negative emotions. His daughter is the single light of love that he selfilish believes is his right after such torturous upbringing although that mentality rarely affects his princess, as he simply shows nothing but care and tenderness towards her. He may be a nervous trainwreck, fully aware that his Legion and himself aren’t exactly safe-hazardous, but that never has stopped him from doing his utmost best to protect the little girl from anything that may hurt her. Like most of his traitorous brothers, Mortarion would not hesitate to bring entire worlds into devastation if it meant that his family can be safe, even if that’ll end up making a terrible gap to grow between him and those he loves. It's quite terrible and sad to know that, unlike Fulgrim or Angron, Mortarion was the closest to his daughter and showered her with as much genuine love as he could in an attempt to avoid being anything like his supposed father (adopted or creator equally), so when he turned into a Daemon Prince, the festering and rotting resentment that consumes him sometimes simmers down when he remembers the laugh of joy his little princess often released when he would carry her up in his arms. Oh yes, some good ol’ gut-wrenching emotional damage, teehee.

I will not apologize for being a mean bitch by writing sad shit. XOXO

[beckyninja]

Dark Intentions

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

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

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

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

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

She is gone.

Sirens blared. Voices shouted. 

She is gone.

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

Gone.

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

Gone.

“Holy Terra!”

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

Gone.

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

“My Lord Primarch!”

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

“Prepare to enter the Warp.”

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

“We pursue.”

Why could he not recognize his own voice?

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

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

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

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

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

“And they will know pain.”

***

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

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

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

The bitter taste of chemicals as gas filled the compartment.

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

“Increase the dosage again.”

He forced his eyes open.

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

Not an Imperial ship.

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

“Doctor! He’s waking up!”

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

“I said increase the dosage, damn you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where…is…the…Lady?”

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

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

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

You who he found himself liking.

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

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

“I…will not…ask again.”

“Sh-sh-she is-”

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

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

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

He charged the armed baselines in the doorway. 

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

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

Then the enemy broke and ran.

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

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

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

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

Still in whatever passes for the Apothecarion, then.

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

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

He pushed such questions from his mind.

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

Without his armor he remained at a disadvantage.

I should proceed with caution.

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

Caution be damned!

He bellowed and charged. “For the Emperor!” 

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

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

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

The Ultramarine grinned.

“Tarchus!”

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

You.

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

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

Tarchus growled.

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

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

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

…to no avail. 

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

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

Forgive me.

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

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

Not like this. Emperor, not like this!

“Wait!” You screamed.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

It paled in comparison to the agony of failure.

***

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

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

Oh Light! Roboute! 

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

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

Tarchus….

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

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

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

“Where did your animals take him?”

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

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

“What have you done?”

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

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

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

You gazed up at him.

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

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

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

“And…if we’re followed?”

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

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

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

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

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

You froze. “No, Victor-”

“See to it, Sergeant.”

“Wait, wait! I’m sorry!”

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

Tarchus, forgive me.

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

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

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

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

Roboute.

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

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

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

“What about the coup?”

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

Decades. They’d been planning this for decades.

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

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

“Did my message even make it through?”

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

“The people-”

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

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

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

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

The Abbey. The Holy Sisters. My home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the Light! The ring!

You stared down at your bare hand.

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

You clenched your hands into fists.

The beacon. How could I have forgotten?!

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

Your eyes snapped to his. “Your consort.”

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

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

His hands landed on your knees and slowly slid upward.

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

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

No one. Until it was too late.

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

Forgive me, Roboute.

You kissed Victor.

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

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

“What the Void is this?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[moodymisty]

Based off this post sorry I fucking HAD to

Warnings: Vaguely NSFW, Sicarius walking in on you and Guilliman

Why must all his men break protocol? Sicarius wonders if the Codex is merely kindling to them, if they are so willing to break the sacred rules so easily.

Titus, Uriel, and now new men of second company have decided to be a pain. He only hopes reporting this to Guilliman himself will prove to be enough of a threat to his men and whip them all back into shape; Both current and future troublemakers.

In his frustrations, so wrapped up in his own mind on how to deal with this consistent issue, he fails to do a proper knock at Guilliman’s door. Instead he simply walks in, slamming the controls with more force than needed.

Within moments he freezes, as a musky, heavy smell hits his nose and the full noises of the room echo in his ears without the soundproofing in the way.

“Roboute!”

You squeal, hands wrapped tight in the short crop of Guilliman’s thin blonde hair. Most of his head and face are obscured by your skirt- and thighs, which wrap around his head like a vice. The holotable is on but unused, symbols placed randomly from your accidental touches as you sit on the edge.

Sicarius stands frozen, unable to will his body to move as his ears are suddenly filled with the sounds of you and his primarch’s moans- accompanied by then odd, wet sounds of whatever his mouth was doing. What is only two seconds is plenty to him, given how fast his mind moves in comparison to a baseline.

He… was aware of all the basics of sex and reproduction, but the intricacies of pleasure beyond that were spotty at best. He had no need to delve into such useless things, unlike some other, less proper Astartes.

He was also unaware you could do such things with your mouth.

How beneath a primarch’s holy stature; Guilliman’s words have guided armies but now he’s on his knees in penance and using his tongue like its just a-

A loud scream rips through your throat as you spot him and sit up, and Sicarius’ two seconds of internal thought is interrupted as you see him frozen in the doorway with a hand still on the door’s controls.

Guilliman of course is instantly on the defensive hearing your scream, rising to his feet- and removing his hand from his trousers - before reaching for his blade.

Until he realizes it’s Sicarius.

Guilliman relaxes with an angry look on his face; Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before using the same hand spread flat outward to try and shield some of you from Sicarius, and reserve some of your modesty, while you adjust your clothes.

“Did your time in the warp remove your ability to announce yourself before entering, Captain Sicarius?”

Sicarius is angry at his primarch now, and has zero care for you behind him hot faced and attempting to cover yourself to some level of decency.

“I, I did not think it was needed, my primarch. I have an urgent issue that needs addressing.”

Guilliman angrily breaths through his nose, and Sicarius can see the veins in his neck.

“Go. Leave. Whatever you came here for I am sure it can wait until we both forget this encounter ever happened.”

They are both painfully aware that each other have eidetic memories, but they can only hope this moment somehow slips from their minds.

“Yes, my primarch.”

Sicarius finally manages to get his armor to move, and Guilliman sighs. Sicarius swiftly takes two steps backwards and closes the door, facing it at it closes.

He stands there for a moment, the image of his primarch on his knees between the legs of a simple baseline, and a hand doing something in his trousers is seared into his mind. Why is his primarch doing such things when there is work to be done?

“Are you alright Captain Sicarius?”

A marine says as he walks by, looking at his dead expression as Sicarius turns to face him. He points the door.

“Is Primarch Guilliman busy-“ Sicarius quickly speaks, cutting him off.

“Yes he is busy, do not disturb him.”

Sicarius has a far off stare that makes the random Astartes look at him oddly.

“I need to leave. Do not go in.”

Sicarius walks off, rubbing his hair with his gauntlet and grumbling to himself.