#macragge blue

[maitaiwiththecorpses]

DONT GET ME WRONG I love my kiddo and @asuryanshallwatchyou it’s not that I can’t afford it or anything I just-

Where the hell am I gonna find citadel paint colors? Fucking Amazon? Etsy?

Please ask for something else for Christmas.

Love,

Not Paid Enough For This

[leier-coyol]

Finally got time to finish my ultramarines

[vyzz-undercover]

RAAAGHHG QUICK HOLD THIS!!!

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(11,000ish words) (MAXED OUT SPACE LMFAO)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•no dubcon (growth!!!)

•hints of size kink

•references to masturbation

•oral [f receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•breeding kink (finally someone admits it)

•mild violence [on reader]

•degrading language

•tumblr's horseshit concept of copy paste formating

———————————————————————————————————

WHATS UP???? IM ALIVE ENJOY THE FUCKING SHITSTORM OF CATO FINALLY ADMITTING HES A WIFE GUY BASICALLY!!!!! oh and here's the taglist ily all mwah mwah!!! @mothiir, @moodymisty, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @thevoidscreams, @pluvio-tea, @lemon-russ, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @historitor-bookshelf, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @scriberye, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @undeaddream, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist, @sinistermojo, @vivacious-hyena, @grimdark-racoon!!!! if anyone wants on or off taglist lmk no pressure!!! enjoooooyyyy i love u alllllll :3

———————————————————————————————————

For all intents and purposes, everything is going swimmingly.

Cato is happier these days—and so are you, apparently.

So when he is called to the Command deck by his Primarch, he is somewhat unsure of what to make of the matter. Paranoia rises in his gullet like bile, but ever since the slip up in front of Guilliman, you've both been spotless.

Cato strides up the parapet and demagnetises the locking pins keeping his helm secure, tugging it off his head and letting it nest in the crook of his arm.

Slicking his hair into some semblance of order with a free hand, he sighs.

Ugh, he needs a haircut—it's starting to get in his eyes if he doesn't swipe it back. But he can't—because you seem to approve, and stubborn as he is, if keeping it this length means he receives dainty Ambassador fingers as a comb sometimes, then so be it.

It still pisses him off, though.

Regardless, Cato carries on his way—and the first face he sees upon entering the discussion area is the Chapter Master's, and two of his subordinate Victrix Guard hovering behind.

The Primarch's lesser-used vessel Dawn of Fire has been given to Calgar, and has been trailing behind the Macragge's Honour for a month and a half now; meaning the situation has granted a fair few more audiences than normal amongst them.

Nemus bows his head in unison with Lethro, the gesture familiar and practiced, while Calgar simply tips his chin down at him.

Cato reciprocates with a curt, martial bob and takes his place nearby his Primarch at the central control booth.

A few menials are fiddling with the specifications of the lithocast display before it flickers into life, the green-tinged projection juddering for a second before stabilising to a clear motion pict link.

Lo and behold, Severus Agemman's shiny bald head and pinched face.

The mere sight is enough to make Cato disinterested; and when he hears the First Captain speak his greetings to the Primarch, Cato abruptly considers himself deaf.

He turns away, looking aside, and finds you.

You're leaning on the railing of the raised observation deck while his Primarch gives feedback Cato doesn't heed.

You've dressed a little different than your usual ship-attire—clad in that same old blue robe but armed with a big navy shawl, and he suspects you've done so expecting the chill of the upper deck.

Cato's dark brow quirks as he gazes towards the high, arching, star-flecked windows. Throne, he feels like he's being hypnotised by the white shifting whorls—there is a humility to gazing up, every so often. A reminder of perspective. Cato has seen some objectively beautiful sights in the galaxy; stars and asteroids and planets untouched by Humanity, and Xenos, and Chaos alike; but none really compare to watching you stare up at the wide glass panels, absentmindedly connecting the dots between distant gas giants.

For a moment it feels like everything is unimportant.

He wants to stand beside you. Lean down and rest on the railing, and bask in the smile you'd shoot up at him.

He wants to ask which cluster of far off planets you think prettiest, perhaps if you recognise any—or if you'd like to see how the stars look glittering off the mighty oceans of his home-world—but it is not appropriate to behave that way with the current company, despite how it aches to deny himself the sentiment.

"No," Guilliman sharply answers a response Cato hadn't been listening to.

And only then does Cato realise himself, gaze and focus tearing back to reality and sticking to Guilliman's big, tired blue eyes, as he digresses, "No, no—the moment the Drukhari know we are onto them, they will butcher through the populace for sport—and the elites will cripple the dwarf planet to spite them. Farrim is a major port world, the set back of going off course, even temporarily, is worth the delay."

There are several billion inconsequential people on that rock. And all they have to thank for not being sentenced to slavery and death is the benefit of being close by.

The locale would surely not be high priority if not for the chance it is practically adjacent to Agemman, and he can simply scare off the assault with an extremely minor detour—and then obliterate the fleeing Xenos like chaff before the wind.

The only real problem is orchestrating how to go about it.

Bombard them into their base particles before they even get their hand in the jar? Or let them begin, and then close the trap to watch them squirm and suffer in it like salted leeches?

Cato knows he would chose the latter, but he's not about to dignify Severus with any sort of advice on such meagre matters.

Cato exists beyond the normal chain of discipline, as Commander of the Victrix Guard—which means felating Agemman is Sevastus Acheran's problem as Captain of the Second Company, now.

The planetary governance's reaction must be considered also—he knows of Farrim, vaguely. There are a series of vast docks in geosynchronous orbit, and that means they are host to all sorts of satellite criminal activities. It is surely a rat's nest rife with Rogue Traders returning from deep dives into hell; and that means heretical practices, like engaging in interspecies dealings; of tack, of weregild—of flesh.

Cato knows well the horrible desperation of the weak for some form of certitude in a galaxy run mad, even if the only certitude possible was that of complete degeneration. A greedy baseline would sell their kin to Xenos to eat another day. That is the reason for law. It is one of the reasons for Astartes. It is a basic truth. Because a cornered beast would sooner kill itself in the struggle of fleeing than face its pursuer—and humanity in masses are oft worse than if they were caged in a cramped pen with a starving Termagant.

But he hopes, beyond reason, that the moronic rulers that allowed the Drukhari so close would suffer far more than just the panic of the chase before succumbing to their vermin fear in such a way. Punishment would be harshly imposed, because treating with Xenos ever yielded foul results. Simply writhing in their own terror was not enough justice for their enactures, and Cato will gladly watch the meting out of greater judgement upon them soon.

Consequently, Cato had come to find almost all Aeldari are cunning, vapid, spineless rabid dogs. Naught but misery-merchants, worthless and parasitic enough to be slaughtered en masse without hesitation.

The Lord Primarch did not wholly agree with this, of course. But he had his own reasons for such beliefs, after having met with them himself. He said there are, allegedly, good and bad ones amongst the lot—then he went on to say one should ever be considerate of their fey, mercurial motives.

Cato knows a knife-eared witch had implored much of Guilliman, and his father is nothing if not a good listener.

But Guilliman is also a master tactician, and is more human than most of the Imperium is led to believe.

At times, he behaves more human than his gene-sons—but his Father was reared well, so he says. And maybe that's why he insists on assessing the uncouth. Like hearing out dribbling Xenos hierophants, or keeping you as a pupil pet.

Cato believes the Primarch favours you, truly.

He has projected his meagre hope of a kinder future on your success, against all the impossible odds.

Guilliman is a brilliant leader, and an even better teacher.

He is just, and personable—but stern.

Cato is the opposite.

He bites, and he always has.

Martinet to his core, Cato is ever succinct; almost to a sociopathic degree at times. He's never truly understood how to speak with his Father's finesse. But he can mimic it. He knows the gist of what to say, and when to say it. Largely by predicting the next words. As an Astartes, he is not inherently made to be a statesman, even if he is the Grand Duke of Talassar.

Nevermind the fact a vast majority of political dissidents opponents would sooner grant themselves the Emperor's mercy than try argue policy with him, an Ultramarine. He knows he is sullen and bad-tempered and easily aggravated in casual conversation, even amongst his Brothers—but he's not about to admit things like that out loud; and where he once sought out discourse—he's become despondent reclusive compared to his previous confidence.

He swallows down the harsh reality that he knows the exact tipping point.

He tries to forget that Damnos was the first pebble before the rockslide; the agonising strike of a Necron lord's war-scythe in his side, not to mention the sting of Severus Agemman's proverbial sabaton up his ass.

And, most importantly, he ignores the hint of tinnitus in his ears. The echoing across the decks of the Emperor's Will that sound like screa—

You yawn, and look over your shoulder to Guilliman with a weary curiosity.

You are everything Cato isn't, and he knows that now.

Perhaps that is the real allure of you, in the end; beyond the aspects of his lust, and your own affections.

Sweet, endearing—trusting to a fault, and... small.

He almost snorts to himself at that because, Throne, you really do look tiny amongst so many ceramite clad trans-humans.

The Primarch flashes you a soft glance and directs his gaze back to the lithocast.

You approach Guilliman with a preppy, yet cautious sort of diligence; standing beside him not a moment later as he listens to Agemman prattle on, and on—and on.

Agemman doesn't acknowledge your entrance in the slightest, hell, he doesn't even blink. He doesn't know you by face—but Cato knows you know him; because in Guilliman's quest to have you absorb as much information as possible, you've interacted by writing many times. But the First Captain clearly wrongly assumes the woman in his holo-field of view is a lowly attendant, not the Ambassador he's had several dissertation-long discussions with by note.

You're looking up at Agemman with a soft smile, like one would reserve for a friend—and he does not return it.

Seemingly aware of the fact your gesture is for naut, your expression withers to a sad little frown.

At that, Cato's eyebrows furrows harshly, embittered by seeing you suffer the rejection.

He ought to—

But then a bundle of data-slates are lifted off the hexagonal interface surrounding the projection system, held out to you in far, far larger gauntlets than Cato's own; and you take them into the cradle of your arms.

It's too many for you to comfortably hold, and Cato can tell solely because there's that familiar, tiny crease between your brows that only ever appears when you're unsure of something.

"I will be back en-route with the First as soon as the threat is cleared, and—" Agemman's raving wavers periodically, hologram gaze tilting down.

Cato winces a bit when the topmost slate slips out of your bundled arms and clatters to the deck loudly.

In response, the First Captain's hologram rakes you with a nigh appalled sneer that has Cato puffing up at the hackles like an angry carnodon.

"A-Apologies, my lords..." You shrink back, seeking an exit, in that frightened-mouse way of yours that Cato would've once delighted in long ago. But it's a grating, bastardised comparison when he knows Agemman's disgust is entirely, baselessly genuine unlike Cato's had been.

Another slate falls in your timid outburst, and Agemman snorts angrily at you.

More than willing to take the heat, Cato immediately steps forward into the threshold of the holo-cast's vision breadth and snorts back.

It's a standoffish moment where the First Captain becomes aware of him and turns his head.

"Cato," Agemman says sharply in that typical, dismissive tone; but his expression betrays a brooding aggravation.

He scowls, lips curling much like his fingers into a fist, "Severus."

He can play this game, because unlike prior altercations—he's not being held to a rapport of failure.

Cato answers to Calgar and Guilliman now, and yes, he's to heed Agemman—but he's not to abide orders like he'd had to during his Captaincy of the Second.

And neither Calgar nor Guilliman have stopped him as of yet for this outburst.

In fact, Calgar is apparently more interested in trying to rub away a speck of grime on his power-fist.

While the Primarch... well, the Primarch has currently shut his eyes, grimacing softly.

It appears Cato's simply keeping the peace.

And on the surface, to onlookers, it's not at all indicative of any ulterior reason aside from petty distaste for Agemman—even if Cato's real motive is possessive defensive, and solely intent on taking the attention off you.

"Enough," The Primarch grumbles at last, and opens his eyes as he leans down—his great height folding—dutifully collecting the two, small fallen objects with mild hassle. Guilliman sighs at you remorsefully as he sets the data-slates in a better position, unperturbed by your clumsiness. "The Ambassador has done me no insult, she was merely over encumbered. The galaxy as we know it has not imploded, as of yet."

Agemman blinks, "...Ambassador?" he mumbles—with the revelation, in a fraction of a second he's entirely placid and defanged, reigning himself back in and cringing slightly—unlike Cato, who returns to glaring murderously at him.

"That means you, too," Guilliman starts aloud, and he apparently knows he needn't clarify more.

Cato grinds his teeth and tears his gaze away, letting it fall aside as he unclenches his fists.

You take a step back, a pitiful sigh leaving you as you set about trying to balance with the data-slates. The Primarch finally realises that it's too much for you, just like Cato had to begin with.

"Sicarius," Guilliman says flatly, "Give her a hand."

A hand?

Oh, he's given you more than hand.

He feels himself bristle with want, an abrupt , mad rush of eager heat besieging his body as he sets his shoulders stubbornly.

In or out of armour, he's done it—and Cato is caught daft at the sudden eidetic memory of having you straining against his big forebrace shoved hard under you to keep you in place. Squirming frantically against as many fingers as he would deign allow you, drooling on his armour as you suffer a cleverly turned thumb; so wanton and pretty as you finally, finally give him his prize and cry out for—no—no, no—shut up, shut up.

At that, he tersely inhales; and remembers he's surrounded by other Astartes.

Nobody's noticed, thank fuck.

"Cato!" Guilliman snaps.

Cato blinks, "What—uh, pardon me, my lord?"

"You are utterly impossible," he half-chastises, half-laments, with little more than a sigh. "Help. Her."

Cato nods stiffly, silently panicking, and approaches you.

"Stop snivelling like a useless dog, and pull it together, woman, you're embarrassing yourself," he accosts loudly, overcompensating for his own screw-up, and it's cruel—he knows it is because you flinch a little, and one of the gathered high-ranking brothers behind you huffs in surprise at just how brutish he's acting—but he cannot show the comfort you wish of him under the circumstances.

You regard him with a profound sadness in your eyes, and he can't bear to meet your gaze; so he casts it aside.

And immediately meets the Primarch's eyes.

A strange, angered confusion has graced his Father's features. A sort of stunned disappointment—and Cato supposes that tracks, given the fact Guilliman though he'd gotten over his gripe with you.

"Check your anger, Commander Sicarius." Guilliman says with a cold discontent, and Cato immediately drops the act.

Cato holds out his helm, turned plume-down, the inside proffered up as a bucket.

The task of shovelling the data-slates in is tedious at best, but it's easy when he joins in.

When all's done, Cato practically dumps his helmet in your arms.

"It's alright, don't fret," Guilliman chuffs, smiling at you tiredly, trying to seem supportive. "Just be on your way, Ambassador."

You look back at the Primarch, stunned for a moment—who smiles at you again, and tips his chin to the exit hallway.

Nodding, you shakily curtsy at the gaggle of Astartes and stumble away with the heavy weight of Cato's helmet and it's new contents in your grasp.

Cato frowns at the entire display, and Guilliman seems to notice that too, because he immediately grits out, "Commander Sicarius, if the safety of your helmet worries you so, go make sure she doesn't drop anything else."

"Of course... yes, my Lord Primarch," He straightens up, surprised at the dismissal but certainly not about to argue.

in his mind, Guilliman is sending him to cool off. That much Cato is sure of, which works to his favour.

Promptly, he knocks his breastplate in respectful farewell and trails after you; now a little ways down the grand and lofty adjoining chamber hall.

Cato strides with his chin held high, but promptly drops it when he rounds the corner and is out of view of the Primarch a few moments after you.

You say nothing to him when Cato catches up and matches your slow march to your quarters.

Cato's practically drags his boots across the regal carpeting as he walks.

And when the carpet runs out, he scrapes his heels on steel like a petulant child.

He knows he's taken the charade too far.

Head hung low much like his, you don't look at him—and it eats away at what meagre actual backbone he's got left around you.

It continues for a while; you pass servitors, serfs, staff, and Astartes alike; not acknowledging anyone.

They acknowledge Cato of course, but he ignores any nods or salutes like he's got blinders on.

He knows the path you're taking well—it's a shortcut, but a tedious one with the load you're carrying. And when the passersby thin out to nothing eventually, you're still trudging along like a lobotomite.

You look appear much like a sullen little arming serf carrying his helmet as you are. The coarse broom-spread of his helm's Suzerain mane brushes the fabric atop your thighs—and Cato can tell it's annoying you, because you slow a little when it itches; trying to shimmy it up higher in your grasp to no avail.

Your breathing is heavy with strain, now a few paces behind him; and Cato groans when you both round a corner and he sees a flight of stairs ahead.

He pauses, and rounds about-face.

"Give it to me," he snaps.

You immediately sigh, "Why?"

"Because it's mine," Cato grumbles. "Now give it to me."

You pout, "I don't need help."

He scowls harshly, "I wasn't asking."

A gasp leaves you as you're suddenly being advanced on by an Astartes, stomping you down—and he catches the data-slate filled rim of his helmet with a gauntlet.

He's honestly surprised you hold on while he pulls it away from you.

"Let go," he hisses.

"No," you hiss back.

"Let go, now." Cato shakes the helmet around, trying to dislodge you; going so far as to lift it until you're dangling off the side.

"No," is all he receives again.

Tiny, stubborn, cunt of a waif.

He cannot sustain subtlety when he is rebutted on something. Not without pause. He's aggravated now, and it shows when he snarls, "Why are you acting like this?"

"No," you bark.

A very real temper is flaring as he says, "No, what? That's not an answer—"

"Fuck off, Cato!"

He's never heard that tone out of you directly. It stuns him for a second, because he's never actually made you genuinely angry. He can't explain why it makes him suddenly decide to play disciplinarian like you're an unruly Scout, but it does. And you're going to explain exactly why you thought to voice that opinion, Emperor help you.

"Enough of this groxshit," He tugs the helmet high, and you up with it, scooping a vambrace under your midsection to carry you like a keg under his arm; prying you and the helm apart.

"Put m-me down!" You kick out wildly behind him, snarling insults and slamming your fists back against his plate on his core, to no avail.

It's a good thing you're actually close to your quarters, because the scene you're making is more than enough to be flagged for gross insubordination if anyone saw. Striking an Astartes is of no meagre consequence. It'd be death, for anyone but you.

It takes him a try more than usual to input his locking override code, given your squirming—and him only being able to manage a pointer free on the hand holding his helm.

Your door slides open nonetheless, and Cato ducks in with you still secured, despite your tantrum; and in his seething, he fully calculates the effort it'd take to hog-tie you with your own robes.

You're hissing and carrying on as if you're a pissy little neophyte hopped up on stims for the first time, and Cato ignores you periodically to lock your door behind you both.

He empties his helm of the data-slates on the nearest pile of clothes, magnetises the bucket on his hip; and practically tosses you onto your bed.

You yelp at the rough handling and scramble to reach your nightstand.

Instead of scampering off like he honestly expects, you grab a book; and when he leans over the bed and reaches for you, you start to bat his armoured hand away with the hardcover front.

"Do you honestly think that will work?" Cato snarls, but despite himself, he recoils and starts eyeing you. "Are you that fucking dense, woman?"

You grumble sourly and hold the novel up, like it's an actual weapon.

"Fine, be that way," he rolls his eyes, and with trans-human speed, catches you by the ankle and reels you in.

You bleat out a warbling cry at being yanked, and manage to toss the book at his head in a lucky shot.

He cops the hit to the brow harmlessly, then it lands on the covers below him beside where he's dragged you under.

You freeze for a second as he brackets your arms upward above your head in one large gauntlet.

"Stop," he bites out, "Just stop struggling."

You start fighting him again regardless, legs kicking out—knocking the book sidelong into the headboard with a thud.

Cato glances at source of sound, and then he's suddenly fixated on the wall above it.

His dagger's been hung up.

It's a little crooked, but that's expected when the hooks the sheathe and blade are lodged against aren't actually drilled in place. It's done with adhesive—it's your doing.

Cato can't exactly name the feeling that washes over him as he stays staring at it, but it feels thick, and viscous in his chest. Like pain, almost—like he's hurt himself. His tongue feels leaden in his mouth. Every ounce of retaliatory anger at your earlier antics dissipates into nothingness.

The shackles his large mitt's made on your wrists falls away.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," He mumbles, before taking a deep breath—and his armour creaks at the gesture; servos humming as he settles into a crouch at your bedside, half strewn over the duvet—staring at you pinned under him.

The bed protests, because of course it does to that amount of bulk, but it still holds regardless.

You huff sourly, and suck your bottom lip into your mouth as you avert your gaze.

With a tired sigh, Cato leans close to you and frowns—straining to tuck his nose against your neck and scoop a vambrace under you to hold you close.

"I may have," he starts slowly as he smothers himself against you. "Overreacted."

A scoff escapes you, but you rest your cheek to his temple regardless.

You take a big breath in; and the politician in you jumps out—even if the politician is currently a little bit shaky.

"I-I am aware that... it's tedious to have me around given my bearing, amongst your kind," you stammer, gaze flittering to and fro from his eyes to his pauldron to the desk behind him. "I can take a snort and a scoff, but you made it worse, at the end—" your voice trails off, and you sit up; scrubbing your cheek with your palm, fussing. "It's easy to hear criticism from a stranger, but not—not from you. Not after... all of this, in a situation like that."

There was a time when Cato would've flat out turned his nose up at the prospect of apologising. He has done so to maybe ten baselines in his entire life, and he's including his parents in that number purely by an assumption—and Vedeah.

"Even in the moment," he says carefully, and tries not to think too hard about the wider implications of doing so, "I realised it was a cruelty, and I am sorry for it."

You simply hold onto him for a moment, and Cato buries his face closer; your hand combing across the side of his head.

"It's alright," you tut softly, "Seeing y-you... you getting all huffy about the First Captain for me was funny though... Throne, I feel so stupid sending him all those letters now."

"You weren't to know Agemman's a prick," he sniffs, laying a gauntlet on your thigh. "I've been on the receiving end of his sour judgment just as you, earlier."

"Were..." you start, voice hesitant. "Were you like that, when you were Captain of the Second?"

The question catches him off guard, which makes him harrumph.

Cato sets his jaw and leans back to look at you, frowning softly, "You would not have liked me in the slightest."

You look a little taken aback at his admission, and Cato feels the need to clarify before your habit of asking too many questions seizes you.

"I was..." Cato begins abruptly, cringing, "...reckless, and a lot more vain; always seeking victories at any cost despite the odds," he says, begrudgingly explaining himself and feeling a lot like his own Primarch was simply speaking through him, "I probably would have petitioned to have you tried for the simple crime of... being, despite my actual... ahem—predilection."

You eye him for a moment, and there's a familiar warmth in your gaze despite the fact he just admitted, out loud, he'd have you put to death for the crime of stirring his cock in another set of circumstances.

"Why do you think that?" You ask, curious.

Cato raises a brow, "I would have painted you a Slaaneshi temptress, like I had thought originally."

"You thought that? Really? I hadn't even—" You scoff, looking at him with a quizzical little grimace.

The deadpan expression on his own face answers you before you can even get it all out.

"Okay," you groan. "Okay, I get it."

He gives your leg a squeeze, and pulls back.

"Good," he hums and moves to stand.

"Wait, Cato—stay," you mumble, "Please."

At full height in your cramped room, he furrows his brows, "I cannot remain here, not tonight, not in this."

You sit yourself on the edge of the bed and look up at him, and Cato's forced to peer over his gorget to catch the full extent of the pleading, doe-eyes you're putting into action.

Cato has to fight back a dopey smile at the insistent, honeyed look you grace him with as you stare up at him.

So pretty, even when you're playing at guilt-tripping him.

It's risky, and quite frankly his dumbest, most thinking-with-his-cock moment; but he still offers it.

"You could accompany me, instead?" He dithers, and eventually acquiesces.

Your head cocks to the side excitedly, "...to where?"

"My quarters," Cato says matter-of-factly.

You're suddenly up and scrambling off the bed to stand beside him, and he hands you his helmet off his hip. You take it without complaint nor reason, even though Cato'd been prepared to give you an excuse.

Oh, it's an alibi, oh, it's this—it's that—it's the simple fact you looked irresistible amusing carrying his helm.

He unlocks your door, and shuffles out—with you tailing him eagerly.

Laterally, it's not too far from his quarters, but it is tedious given the levels between; and it has to be done quickly—if not for the fact if others see they will gossip, he'd throw you over his shoulder like a dead-weight and break into a run. So you need to keep up with his rush, given you wanted to follow.

He hastens down the corridor, and up a flight, and you keep pace, surprisingly.

Your breathing is a little heavy, but Cato attributes that to you having just scaled a fair amount of stairs, for a baseline.

He lingers at the top, in the elevator bay; and you bumble up to him and take the spot behind him.

Cato activates the lift and sighs as it begins to grind it's ascent into existence.

He's stunned to have not heard a peep out of you yet, and honestly that—hold on—there's a hand on his rear, and small fingers depressing the bodysuit over his left glute.

"Get off of there," he snaps, "We are in public."

"I'm just leaning to catch my breath," You huff, squeezing him a little.

Fifteen minutes ago you were sulking and seething, and now you're straight back to bothering him for entertainment.

"Don't start," he sighs, and takes a step aside from you—desperate to not dignify the heat crawling up his neck.

"What will you do?" You scoff, and he all but whips around at your snarky tone, "Snort and sneer me to death? I just fought you off with a book."

Cato rolls his eyes.

"I can and will use things against you," he says, a slight hint of a growl trailing his words.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Such as?"

"I know how easy it is to render you docile and silent, as you ought to be," Cato scowls harshly, putting some finesse into appearing menacing.

It does not work.

"You think I'm some animal to be scruffed?" Your laugh is painfully endearing, but—but he's firm in his rapport. At least, he's trying to be firm. One part of him certainly is firm and hard... and straining against his inners—stop.

"Much the same, seeing as you would preoccupy a single hand at most," he grits out flatly, but his temper wavers when he realises his own statement's double meaning—his cheeks feel a little warm, and it aggravates him that he reacts so easily.

You raise an eyebrow, staring at him, "Just your hand?"

He fights the urge to pout at the sheer cheek of you, and the lurid smugness you're letting show so brazenly.

It's a common situation now: you say something erring on insult, smile a tad, and then the brain in his cock takes the reigns from the one in his head. He thought he was past swooning starting at your antics by now; or at least he hoped to have become a lot more immune to it.

But no—despite being the belligerent, bitter bastard he is, you still manage to ferret out a weak spot for yourself in his hearts.

"I ought to take you over my knee," he says so softly it's practically an oath to himself.

Nonetheless, you apparently catch it—and blink dumbly up at him for a few seconds; a slow, creeping flush steadily finding it's place on your cheeks as you swallow so hard he hears the cartilage in your throat click.

The lift comes to a halt, and he all but harries you off it.

Thankfully, it is standard rest hours for the Victrix; that is to say those who aren't bedded down are likely on jaunts elsewhere in the ship.

It's the perfect opportunity to sneak you inside, in short.

The grand, carpeted corridor is empty, and you ogle it; and it's likely your first time having been near higher standard Astartes accomodation.

"I'll be back—" He opens the door in a quick input of numerals and ushers you in swiftly before huffing; "Don't open for anyone, not even Guilliman."

You nod and step inside, looking back at him a little sheepishly with his helm held to your chest; as the sliding mechanism activates, clicks shut, and promptly dead-locks behind you—while he quickly thumbs in his security code.

He breaks into a sprint to the nearest armour chamber, which is thankfully on this level; if not an eight minute jog at Astartes speed.

At first, Cato asks the mechanicum disarming staff to show some haste in doffing him from his panoply of ceramite—but he quickly loses patience and growls at the serfs who try to drag out the whole ordeal with longwinded rights and sermons while the adepts' machines hex-key open his vambraces. Part of the ordeal ends, war-gear shed, and Cato practically hisses at the gathered attendants when he starts to wrestle out of his body-glove and they try to smear him with unguents. He does, however, allow them to administer local numbing agents and analgesics for the more tedious, biological matters of unlinking from his interfacing.

They hose him down instead of scrubbing him at least, and Cato's glad that someone in that Void-damned room is listening to him.

He hurriedly lathers his arms and legs, dipping a cupped palm back into the presented urn of warm, fragranced oil to cover his neck and underarms—and bending, creasing points, as is typical.

He feels a little wobbly as he puts his sandals on at the hasty loss of the armour's weight—and in that aforementioned hurry, he trips a little while he tugs his tunic over his head and knocks over the servitor, who then knocks over one of the serfs, who then knocks over the tech adept.

It's not Cato's finest moment, surely, but he's in about as much of a rush to get moving as an Astartes can be in a non-combat environment.

He doesn't stop, because he has better things to do—more specifically, he has you to do.

He makes his way down the long winding halls, sprinting between the gaps in onlookers eyelines, stop-starting, like a fool. But damn, if he isn't on a mission with the thought of you waiting on him hanging over his head.

"Sicarius," the Chapter Master's voice abruptly greets curtly.

Cato swallows a scream and takes a step backwards, immediately entering grappling stance.

The aging Primaris seems to realise he's genuinely surprised him and raises a grey brow.

Cato rights himself with a forced cough and stumbles a little, "Lord Calgar?"

A huge power fist comes to rest on his tunic'd shoulder to steady him, "I did not intend to shock, but there is something you must hear of," Calgar says, manoeuvring to allow space for him to walk beside.

Cato matches the broader strides of the Chapter Master, although with him being a Primaris and Cato out of his war-gear—it's a tad more effort than normally required given the size disparity.

Marneus Calgar is typically a man of few words when he's not seized by his passion for monologuing... but he certainly has plenty words when he has gossip.

"I have a suspicion," Calgar huffs.

Cato swallows the lump in his throat, playing along, "And I assume you're not at all responsible for that suspicion travelling to other ears."

"Of course," The Chapter Master shoots him a downward, sidelong glance with his good eye. And if Cato didn't know any better, he'd have been amiss to the glimmer of amusement there.

Abruptly, Calgar pauses in step and quietly remarks, "One of our brothers is aberrant."

The metaphorical leaden brick that hits Cato in the temple works in his favour, because it makes it seem like he's in disbelief rather than panic.

"Corruption?" He hisses, eyes narrowing.

Calgar's grey brows furrow as he shakes his head, "Aberrant, Cato—not chaos-tainted, insofar as I am aware."

"How?" Cato snaps, and again, his bemusement that Calgar didn't equate the two for some reason surely works in his favour, making it look like a sincerely shocked reaction—but the problem remains that he, personally, would equate them. Throne, there—there must be a reason he's acted on his urges, there must be something he can blame.

Calgar purses his thin lips and sighs, "I have on good reason to believe there is a sort of... fraternisation is occurring."

"Really?" Cato huffs, he's simultaneously stunned and horrified that this conversation is even happening. Because if Marneus doesn't think it's the work of the Warp's wiles, then it can't surely have just been his own love partiality for you—that damnable, incessant yearning to have you close, and warm, and tucked against his side.

"And by that," Calgar starts, "I mean that one of them is engaging in baser ventures."

He tries very hard not to laugh out of sheer mortification, and the mental pict of Calgar clutching a string of pearls like a senile ecclesiarch.

"Are you certain?" Cato says, despite the looming dread.

The Chapter Master nods stoically, "I chanced upon an area reeking of Astartes sweat and... intercourse."

When every word may damn you, it is better to say nothing at all. And Throne, he can't bring himself to speak regardless of the fact; because his balls are in his throat. Even if it sounds as though Calgar's largely oblivious to the truth that the Astartes is him—Cato Sicarius—and although he is partially thankful he's in the clear; if Calgar's got your room identified as the source, you're in the hot seat. Every facet of your little existence would be so over for you it's almost unfathomable. Even if you escape the judgement of the Legionnes, you would be hunted down by the Assassinorum, in and beyond any Imperial system; fuck, he's going to have to smuggle you—

"I was sequestered elsewhere urgently, and I did not chance where it was coming from," Calgar continues, "But I know it occurred somewhere in the northeastern apartments."

Cato fights for his life not to sputter out a relieved sigh and buckle at the knees, boneless on the floor.

The ventilation systems must have dispersed the smell, which would have thrown off Calgar's vomeronasal organ.

He rejects most aspects regarding godhood placed upon the Master of Mankind ever since his agonising jaunt in the Warp, and from his conversations with Guilliman—but surely the Emperor must have leaned over on His throne and pelted a holy, righteous wrench at Calgar's big nose that morning.

The Emperor protects, albeit when He comedically feels like it.

"I will keep an eye out for... un-sanctioned behaviours."

"Report them to me, or Guilliman, should you find anything—no chaplains," Calgar says at last, and comes to a halt in a fork in the hallway. "Nonetheless, keep your wits about you—I must get going."

Cato blinks as Calgar rounds on his big heel, "Another vox-haling?"

"No," he sighs. "A meeting, for the next six hours."

"With the planetary governor?"

"No," Calgar says again, face completely dead-pan like a corpse, "With my cot—and if anyone needs me, tell them to piss off unless Guilliman's dying. Again."

Then he shoots him that wry, amused side-eye once more and stomps off down the adjacent passage.

Cato stands stunned in the hall for a brief time, genuinely flabbergasted.

Then he's a trans-human on a mission, thundering down the corridor—his mind immediately concocting several protocols to prevent the previous situation occurring again.

Firstly, the instant he gets to his quarters, he's going to stuff his incense burner into the ventilator grate.

Sound won't be an issue, he knows his chambers are proofed—surely not because he's woken screaming in that room without anyone saying anything. But that's besides the point, because the only screaming that's to be happening is his final plan of action; namely that, lastly, he's going to slide into you and have you crying his name—

Cato doesn't even consciously remember arriving at his door, nor coding in his numerals and doing the same behind him; but he's certainly in the present when he sees you.

Something in his chest lurches to a halt at the sight of you tucked in his sheets, the thundering of his twin heartbeats slowing and easing to a lulled calm.

There's less candles in his room than yours, but what little of your hair that peaks from beneath the blanket is bathed in flickering, warm light when he approaches.

His helm's lying against you atop the thin cover, and you're snoring softly.

Cato nears, and—with nobody to judge him, including you, simply stares.

Throne, he could live this scene out every day of his life and never tire of it—but matters need attending before he can bask in the domesticity.

Dutifully, he grabs his incense holder and follows through with his plan of action.

He doesn't intend it, but he wakes you at some point while jamming the vent back into place; and you groan softly, rubbing your eyes as you stretch and sit up.

The sheets over you slip away as you do, and he daftly fixes his haze at the drowsy, stark-naked Ambassador in his bed.

"...Cato?"

He swallow the proverbial bolt round lodged in his throat and grunts.

"When..." you pause to yawn, "When did you get in?"

It takes him a second to register the question with how intensely he's focused on ogling your tits, but eventually "...a few minutes," leaves him as an answer.

You blink lazily and harrumph, then slump back—and he's sure it's intentional, because the way your body curves with the motion is almost like you're presenting yourself. The sheets are low on your hips—not low enough that he can really take an eyeful, but the temptation of it raw and syrupy in his mind. What he can see is the warm, soft skin of your navel and stomach offered up to his roving gaze like a hunk of meat. It's bait, and it's obvious, and he's a slavering, starved dog in that instant.

He sits himself on the edge of the thin mattress, kicking off his sandals—and leans over you, breathing controlled but fast.

He splays a palm on your side, dragging it up, tracing.

You fuss a little, wanting.

He manoeuvres himself atop you, and you pout, as your elbow digs into the mattress.

He can tell in some fey way you're about to comment on the state of his bed—or rather, the lack of a real bed. Well, maybe not fey, it's mere prediction given your habit of complaining. You've probably been stewing on making a remark about it the entire time you've been dicking around in here. There's no headboard, no duvet. It's closer to a big, thin cushion on a fold out, bolted to a hinge on the wall at the top end.

You grumble, "This is the worst bed I've ever actually lain on," and there it is—the nagging, the backtalk.

"My mattress on Talassar is far nicer," he hums, nosing into the crook of your neck and sighing contently.

Your voice is barely a mumble as you say, "Well, we're not on Talassar—that's for sure."

"We could be," Cato mouths against your skin as he ventures lower.

"What?" You sit up a little and displace him enough that you can meet his gaze, and your eyes lock onto his in a hasty, focused manner—then Cato feels translucent again. As if you can see him for everything he is: prideful and doltish, disgustingly predictable—you've got him eating out of your hand.

"We... we could go to Talassar," he blurts out, one of your breasts against his chin. Then he ducks lower—planting a kiss just above your bellybutton. His voice comes out muffled against your skin, swallowing thickly, cotton-mouthed. "I'm sure I could... find an excuse, logistically."

The look you're giving him is just as flushed as his own face feels.

Cato Sicarius, High Suzerain of Ultramar, babbling—once again. Reduced to an illiterate, juddering wreck. His Astartesian dignity, honour and status petering to nothing. You have him swooning, on the back foot. Earnest and vulnerable—Throne, it makes him hot under the proverbial collar.

Cato stalls for a second, pursing his lips before digressing, "I could... I could petition an excursion to Glaudor to Guilliman, and then... arrange docking at Perusia."

Why does he feel so heated talking about this? Why is he, a several hundred year old, trans-human killing machine, flustering saying these things out loud?

"I don't actually know much about Talassar, aside from—well, aside from Guilliman's assigned readings on the Void Tridents, really."

Cato huffs, "I am distantly related to their Lord Commodore, Theodro Vethrus."

"Really? Huh..." you squint, trying to parse out his expression, "So do you... like him?"

Cato nods, "He's competent."

"High praise from you," you laugh softly, and wriggle yourself down—closer to eye level with him. "So what w-would we do? On Talassar, I mean..."

He breaks eye contact and stares at your lips instead, rearing up from you a little, "Well, there's a large hinterland that's quite nice in spring when it's not raining... and my Ancestral seat, on the coast. People sometimes swim and such, there—"

"I've never actually swam at a beach, before."

Cato harrumphs, "Really?"

"Never," you pout.

He smiles softly, "That can be remedied."

From the higher rooms of his duchy's fortress, you can get a good look at the long isthmus that sometimes peaks out from afore the sea walls when the waves calm down bi-yearly.

It's nicer on the other side where it's too small of a cove to support vessels, where the submerged canyon redirects the immense tidal forces sidelong.

You can swim in the carved rock lap pool, like he used to.

Because he's not about to run into the waves with his Tempest Blade should one of Talassar's less hospitable locals swim under the marine nets.

That, and to hell with picking the sealant-putty out of his interfacing ports. The annoyance of that is almost as bad as to be without it, and chock full of sand at exposed nerve points. With that mental deliberation settled, he lays both palms flat to the mattress supporting him either side of your shoulders, and raises a brow when your hand touches his chest.

Absentmindedly, he weighs the pros and cons or giving you the leeway to continue groping; it feels nice—but there's an aspect of mischief to your eyes he finds suspicious.

You start squeezing at his pectoral, fingers bearing down; watching the dense muscle contort and bulge.

"You really ought to bind these," you hum abruptly.

He scowls down at you, "I am not binding my chest."

"Why not?" You retort.

Cato sniffs derisively, "They are not breasts."

"Riiiight..." You drawl, dragging out the word still pawing at his left pectoral. "In my professional opinion, they seem pretty breast-like to me."

"They are not. Fucking. Breasts," Cato snarls, enunciating himself sharply while puffing up.

"No need to get defensive," you trail off, eyebrow quirking up slyly; laying the faux-pas down heavily, purposefully trying to irritate him by nipping at his metaphorical heels. "It's just that—well, even though they're hairier, they do feel simi—"

"That's enough talking out of you," he says, and promptly seizes you by the chin with his mitt, closing your mouth with his hand and effectively silencing you.

But stifling you had not wiped the smug, leering smile off your face. Yes, he can fucking feel it, you little bitch.

"You aren't funny," he hisses.

You grunt at him, huffing and puffing through your nose as you attempt speech even though your maw is held shut.

"Don't say something stupid," Cato frowns, and loosens his hold enough for you to get a few words out.

"I'd wager you could lactate w-wuh—with—" you race to say, thrashing as he quickly manages to shut you back up with his palm.

Cato tries not to grumble at the fact you're wheezing hysterically through your nose.

"Every time I think you are above something, you find a way to sink lower."

In response, you start thrashing, writhing enough in his grip to get four single words out from between his big fingers, "Sink—i-into your–cl—uh–eavage—" you manage to sputter, laughing behind his hand.

"I'll sink into you in a moment, if you do not stop," Cato growls openly.

You go still almost immediately, and whine against his palm.

"Really," he sneers, flabbergasted as he pulls his hand away and raises a brow, "Are you getting off on this, you degenerate?"

The comment clearly also stirs something in you, because then you're swatting at his face—missing, yes—but the effort still infuriates Cato to no end.

He rears back in avoidance, still keeping you nice and muzzled by his palm, but you manage to clap a hand around his mouth.

You push at him and squirm, fussing.

Then he inhales.

It's a little surprising his nose finds your fingers smell of molasses, and that means slick—the lingering hormonal melody of 'please?' is so blatant it's almost pathetic.

Cato raises an eyebrow and moves his hand from your face to ensnare the one you have on his, keeping it close.

"Is that why you're being such a scathing bitch? You're just impatient?" He scoffs, purposefully trying to taunt as he sniffs them again, just to be sure—and then licks across the underside of your pointer and middle, "Were these not big enough to entertain you while I was gone?"

You whine, flushed red with embarrassment, and try to wretch your hand away pointlessly.

A belated snort escapes him and he gives you a long, judgemental glare, letting you boil in your own shame.

"Don't start," you huff, petulant.

Cato huffs darkly, "I didn't say anything."

You frown knowingly—and his head descends, lower and lower.

You're all too willing to let him arrange you near his face.

Sure, you wriggle and flush and grumble at him as he makes sure to make a dramatic gesture of the act, but you're eager—and he knows it.

With an Ambassador's plump cunt to his mouth, Cato can't complain. But you certainly try to, despite the juddering thighs squeezing fruitlessly against the sides of his head. It's hopeless to try to fend off an Astartes, especially like this.

"C-Cato, just—"

He rolls his tongue over your clit again and again, delighting in the blissful hormone feedback lighting up his brain and the sounds you're making adding to it.

Some part of him'd be content lapping at your swollen nerve for hours, until you're a boneless mewling wreck. Tormenting you, letting you beg for him while he just roils in the simple goal of getting you to your end a dozen or so times.

"Please, just f-fuck—" you sob, squirming as he laughs against your sex at how toothless your frustration is. "Fuck m-me, Cato, stop being a-a—"

He drags over your clit again and feels your hamstrings tense, a fresh surge of slick wetting his chin.

"I'm—I c-can't," a shuddering whine leaves you, desperate.

The air practically vents out of your lungs like you're winded as he sucks; until you're so terribly close, all he'll need to do is bottom out in you to make you cum.

And that's exactly what he does.

He organises your legs off his shoulders and about his mid section as quickly as he can manage and then—

"F-f—fuh—uck," You writhe, head thrown back while you squirm at the heavy press of him rocking inside you, making your breathing stutter for a second. It's the familiar, obscene view of watching the massive slab of cock press into a cunt that's almost too small for him. But given the fact you take it so well, who's Cato to deny you? You love it, and that's the real thrill. A surge of pleasure sends you bucking; legs moving mindlessly where they're hooked over his hips, but he keeps still, simply letting you suffer your end on the thick length of him—all the while enjoying the feeling of being stuffed in you the whole ordeal.

It's only a quick orgasm, but damn if it isn't a hell of a show.

You're panting deliriously, trembling on his cock; and Cato's about to start drooling at the tightness he's being treated to.

When you stop trembling around him, you fight to steady your breathing—huffing out; "I—I ought-t-ah... squeeze you o-out."

"You'd need a dozen Dreadnauts to drag me loose right about now," he snorts and tips his head close, nudging his temple to yours a second later before smirking proudly.

The heavy swell of his balls sit flush against your ass, and you arch up, scrambling to pull him down into an embrace.

The small hands on his back are a nice counterpoint, and he moans when your fingers glide up to his shoulder; trailing the side of his neck before cupping his cheek. You pet him against the slightly grown out grain of his stubble with a skrrch skrrch, and he hums contently—and when that little hand rises to his pet his hair, it's sublime.

Your touch shifts away and he grumbles.

"I didn't tell you... to stop, damn it."

"So you are enjoying y-yourself, hm?" You smile, cupping his jaw and petting slowly.

"I don't... don't know what you're talking about, woman," he lies, nigh beside himself; pressing his bulk against you while pawing and groping at whatever he can.

He'd try for one of your tits in his mouth if the angle he's currently reaming you out at didn't make it impossible.

You work kisses across the high point of his cheek and down the heated column of his throat; seemingly emboldened by the dulcet, appreciative hums and rumbles that escape from Cato the entire time.

Doused in affection like this, he struggles to form sentences, damn it all.

He lets his head rest close, assailed with honest desperation.

"But, I..." he starts quickly, feeling a weight in his chest. His brain wants him to finish with a whole other word he refuses to even think of; because even if he's itching to say that he—he loves adores you—he's too stubborn to say it without sufficient prodding; but there's an arrow of longing lodged in his gullet and thankfully it doesn't dare to leave his mouth. "But, I do enjoy... you."

The prettiest whine escapes you in answer, and the flutter your tight cunt around him proves that for once, he's somehow said the right thing.

You swallow thickly and dither for a second, genuinely flustered but still able to get the words out, "I-I enjoy you, too."

A heady rush of heat fans across his face as he tries to properly process the information. The road travels both ways, and everything is serene, he's happy—you're happy, and that's all he ever needs. The duty and the honour, and the courage, seem inconsequential to it all in that moment.

He turns and kisses you swiftly, before leering away.

You rear up trying to close the distance again, but then Cato finally thrusts—and your eyes swim in their sockets, thighs shaking, mouth open with the heady gasp that leaves you.

So he nears, and gives you the other kiss you were eager for.

It's far messier than the former; his big tongue sticking in, dragging across yours and stifling you, saliva smearing down your chin as Cato practically laps the moans out of your mouth.

When he arches back at last, you're flushed and red at the lips, fluttering your lashes at him; eyes falling half-lidded under his gaze.

"C-Cato, move," You whine, imploring, and there's another eager clench around him when he obligingly ruts forward.

Cato can see the lurid glee on your face as your focus shifts suddenly to the point you both meet. Folded under him, it's given you a perfect vantage of the slab-of-meat that is his cock absolutely jammed down to the base in your guts.

You shimmy a bit and moan, "M-More?"

The scoff that leaves him is disbelieving, but he's well aware you're goading him to really set about fucking you insensible.

"If I fucked you as hard as you liked, you'd be getting augmetic hips tomorrow," he snarks, punctuating his point my pushing forward a little, so he's jammed riiiight against the soft ring of your cervix.

A soft gasp is all the receives for a second before you're suddenly grinning, "You're n-not that big."

It's so blatantly a lie he doesn't even dignify it with an answer. Instead, he shifts back a hint so only a third of himself stays inside you, letting you grow irate at the denial.

"I w–uh-was joking, Cato... please, don't s-stop," You whimper mournfully, raising yourself a little in attempt to coax him to slam in... and suddenly, there's a small hand on his flank.

Cato ignores it, focused on getting some much needed humility out of your darling mouth; then the hand claws at his rump.

"Needy bitc—" His would-be snarky sentence cuts short as he jumps a little, surprised, and clenches his rear; causing him to buck forward, sinking down to the hilt in you.

The thrilled gasp you make is priceless, and the shivering heat around his cock is sublime—but damn you for using that instinctive muscle reaction on him—you clever little bitch.

"Stop grabbing my ass," he grumbles, scowling down at you.

A crooked smile graces your lust-dumb features before it contorts into a flushed keen—surely not because Cato grinds deep to wipe the smirk off your face.

"This ought to keep your hands busy," He chides, rearing back and reaching sidelong for his discarded helmet on the far side of his cot.

You eagerly take it into your embrace, and Cato's impulse control violently derails seeing your tits sandwiched to the side panel; the white and red plume brushing your cheek—and you looking up at him with wanton lust.

Oh, Throne of Terra—that looks...

Cato swallows the saliva that suddenly over-accumulates in his mouth.

It's lecherous, and a glaring hypocrisy to everything the Legiones Astartes stands for—but there's something painfully enthralling about the visual that riles him up to strain at the bit like a warhorse.

Throne, he wishes he could fuck you in full-plate; just to see you drip and squirm, the adamantine of his thigh plating against your tender rear—the gooseflesh cold ceramite earns out of you to contrast the big hot slide of him into you. If only there was a way to keep the comfort of familiar war-gear upon him and the bliss of your soft skin on his simultaneously.

But he's got more than one round in him, and you've signed the warrant to be fucked to hysterics with all your insufferable antics earlier, no matter how cute you're acting now.

He's not going to last long.

Not like this.

Not with you so painfully eager, and pretty, and warm, and sweet.

He can't help acting on the urge to absolutely plough into you like his life depends on spilling inside.

"Ca–ah—to, Cato, C-Cato—" you drool, eyes shut tightly, fingers white with the exertion of keeping a grip on his helm's respirator. Each time you cry out his name it's followed by the sticky plap-plap-plap of his balls against your rear, and it's enthralling feeling you twitch and cramp on his length in rhythm with each stroke.

"Aren't you such a good little fucktoy," Cato pants, grinning when you nod on instinct. "Holding an Astartes' helm for him... while taking his cock."

A strangled 'y-yes' escapes you, breath fogging condensation against the cold steel of his helm.

"Perfect," he grunts, "My perfect... little whore," gritting his teeth, "You'll let me fill you, won't you?"

Another gorgeous few bleated notes of 'yes, y-yes, yes' meet him in answer.

"You want it here?" Cato hisses, breathlessly punctuating himself with a grind, "That's it... that's what you want?"

And that comment apparently does you in at last.

The pathetic little sob that pairs along with your frantic nodding makes him salivate like a rabid dog.

Your thighs judder as he pulls back to slam in, fruitlessly trying to lock at the ankles around the wide span of his hips; vainly attempting to keep him still—squeezing tighter and tighter as he keeps driving home into you—and the feeling is ecstasy, much like the view. You're so red across the cheeks it's almost the same colour as his plume, and you're hugging his helmet close, making the sweetest hiccuped sobs of pleasure against it.

He grits his teeth at the tightness that rewards him for pushing you to finish, helpless to it doing the same. Rutting into you, filling the eager hole he's sheathed in.

Cato slumps forward, shivering; careful to not squish you and his helm beneath his bulk despite the daze of him emptying a load in you—keeping pace even when the stimuli becomes unbearably tender and your heels dig into his flanks.

Heaving, he halts at last after the pleasure begins to really hurt, and meets your hazy gaze with a long, content sigh.

"C-Cato," you start softly, and nose against his cheek.

"Yes?" He begins in an airy tone, looming close to your ear and letting his exhale taper off into a long, curious hum.

"Your helm's d-digging into my ribs..." you cringe, and he immediately lifts himself away with a strong hand and pulls his helmet away and to the side.

Redness in the vague outline of the ceramite is imprinted on the soft skin of your side and he tuts, hand tracing the minor injury.

Kneading the area a little, you start to squirm, and Cato's suddenly hyperaware he's still inside you; and looks down.

He's fucked your combined fluids into a frothing mess.

With an air of unimpressed amusement, you snort at the show he makes of pulling out—he grabs you with a mitt on the underside of each thigh, functionally spreading you as inch after thick inch drags free so slowly it's almost jarring just how much of him you fit. The flushed head of his cock pops out, dripping a final fat rope of cum across your vulva; and then your overfilled insides start leaking more.

"Still got the implant?" Cato queries, using his thumb to pull your labia aside and eye just how deep he's emptied into you.

"Yes," you snicker weakly, "Y-Yes, I do—why?"

"It's a simple question," he tuts.

"I know w-what you're really asking, Cato."

He raises an eyebrow, "It's got nothing to do with the fact you're hard to avoid finishing inside."

A laugh leaves you like a bark, "You've never tried to a-avoid it."

"You'd throw a fit," he shoots back, and shuffles over to lie beside you on his back.

With a disgruntled huff you retort, "H-How would you know?"

"I remember your opinion on a certain... 'theoretical hypothetical scenario' quite well," Cato says slowly, and prides at the flustered smile you fight to hide in his peripheral vision.

"I... I stand by that statement," you sigh, still half-smirking.

He pouts, "You do, do you?"

"Yes," you huff, "Because now there's the t-temptation of leave to a seaside paradise on the proviso of being gravid," you say pointedly, and roll onto your side to face him—worming closer until your cheek rests on his pectoral. "Which becomes more tempting by the minute."

"You lazy little shit, I never said you had to be pregnant to get there," he scoffs, grinning, sitting up and resting his back to the wall. "Besides, I can assure you Guilliman's homework will find you even on a barren death world."

"I'm sure I can come up with something," you say, glaring at him with a conspiratorial smile. "And what was that about me not having to be knocked up to get this vacation?"

"The stipulation is I'd have you squirming on my lap daily," Cato rumbles, eyeing you arranging yourself to settle atop him. "Hourly, even; and the side effect of that may very well be a procreational one—"

"Such an egalitarian bargain," You snicker softly, saddling yourself on his hips instead of remaining prone—lifting your legs, straining to splay yourself wide enough to let him slot between them. "You're a better statesman than I thought, Commander Sicarius."

He rumbles a smooth subvocal sound of assent, and the big palms on your hips slide to cup the flesh atop your thighs.

The simple feeling of your warm skin pressed to him, and he is panting softly through his nose already. You kiss him then, with a tender sigh—more a sweet thing than a desperate scramble.

Cato stares when you pull away, keen eyes lingering on your own as you look up at him.

Something about that look plays havoc with his mind, and your next words double down on the heat in his blood, "Does the Grand Duke want for heirs so badly?"

"Fuck, yes—well, no—but... should one of your gene-stock occur by chance, who am I to object," he jumbles his words a tad when you reach down to hold his cock straight.

Throne, he wants it; he really does. Even if it's more likely considered a luxury well beyond anything he deserves, he wants you beside him in whatever way, shape, or form you'll allow.

"So," you snort, and the thick head of his length catches at the rim of your still-dripping cunt, "I'm to be an infant factorum?"

"Duchess," he groans, bristling at your soft lips against his cheek in unison with you sinking down, down, down to the hilt on him. "You're to be... a Grand Duchess, moron."

The languid sigh you make when he's buried in you is so content he's genuinely giddy as you ask, "I-Is that so, Cato?"

"You're going to adore every second of it," Cato rumbles softly, palming your ass. "Spoiled little heifer, that you are."

You make a strangled sound at the harsh grope of your rear and smile against his jaw, "...what's a heifer?"

"A female bovine that's never calved," he expects a slap for that—and yet it never comes.

You lean away, looking deeply unimpressed, and he sulks a little because it's not the reaction he was after. But it's a reaction nonetheless.

"Why do you, as an A-Astartes, even know that?"

"When Guilliman's mood ebbs to a trough, he lectures me on farming techniques," he says offhandedly, "He does so for hours."

Cato feels strange talking of his Father, the Lord Primarch, when his balls are currently smooshed against your perineum and his cock is playing whack-a-mole with your cervix.

"Would t-that make you a male bovine, then?"

Cato considers for a second before arching close to drag his tongue across your throat, grinning.

"So this i-is a breeding attempt b-by you?" You laugh with a daft, pleasured sort of delight and lift yourself a little, fucking yourself on him at your leisure.

"Yes," Cato pants, and rolls his hips upward—meeting you in the middle.

The contact makes a lewd plap along with a mixed combination of his moan and yours.

"W-Well," you sigh, "You're really trying—ah—aren't y-you, Cato?"

"For once," he rasps, mouthing a nice big bruise onto the soft skin on the side of your neck, "Keep talking."

"S-So, how m-many do—" you start meekly, stuttering a little with hesitation; your mouth to his ear. "How many do y-you want?"

The question makes Cato's head spin.

A sound that he can only assume is a braying moan escapes his gullet, because all his focus is cross-haired on the implication you've just given him on a platter.

"You're... you're going to get that implant removed next cycle," Cato pants, raring. "And," he bites out as he struggles not to just give in to the moan trapped in his throat and forsake words altogether. "You'll let me... let me breed this eager cunt of yours, won't you?"

The shaky gasp that leaves you in answer is divine, and Throne, aren't you the perfect little wife whore.

Then you nod, and that fucked-out smile is the most gorgeous thing Cato's ever seen.

It's conjecture, it's fantasy. Because Guilliman's going to skin him if anything like that ever gains actuality—and he may still very well be chemically sterile, after all of this; but it feels right to indulge in that impossible want at this instant. He'd take you as a bride, by the sea—in the high courtyards that look down at the great harbour. He'd have his pretty little wife, maybe a dozen bairns as stubborn as himself and as insufferable as you—and everything'd be perfect. He doubts you'd allow that many, but it's a discussion point. He'll barter—hell, who's he kidding. He'll take anything, even if it's just the two of you.

Whatever you'd ask he'd give; because in the end, he'd enjoy nothing more than to have you with him—and whatever boon might come from that conjunction—something made out of love, that he's not supposed to have.

He takes a firm hold of your hips on either side and bounces you, managing to steal a kiss on the up-lift and ripping a moan out of you on the down-pull—again and again; until you're squirming, slumping forward, squeezing on his cock as you're forced into a racketing orgasm.

Overwhelmed, you all but squeal, scrambling at the wide expanse of his shoulders in an effort to lock him closer, clawing at his deltoids.

It's the last push he needs.

Cato empties his balls right where you want it, groaning and heaving in desperate gulps of air as he slumps back against the wall; dragging you with him.

Your head rests limply against his shoulder and you wriggle, overstuffed—taking every drop.

He grits his teeth as each shudder milks him dry, arcs of pleasure lighting up his nerves.

It leaves him huffing and puffing into your nape, grumbling to himself.

"Perfect," he whispers, nuzzling against your neck. He can feel the sticky heat of his cum dripping out of you and onto his thighs and balls.

Cato supposes if this is what de-facto baseline marriage is like, it's not half bad.

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

all my feeds are covered in SM2 posts, just miles and miles of Macragge Blue and nobody shitting on us. It's beautiful 😍

[sleepyfan-blog]

Protection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OH FUCK NO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lemon-russ]

@cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond 's pocket titus has me in a chokehold I had to make a tiny Cato Sicarius 🥺🥺🥺

Clutching him like a hamster

(ik people make him blue eyed but I can't find an answer and his knights of macragge art looks brown and I like brown eyes so. Big sad brown eyes.)

[mothiir]

eyes full of stars

the reader is a diplomat working with roboute guilliman to try and broker peace with the local craftworld, and she has a somewhat strange moment with one of her aeldari counterparts.

cw: finger sucking and lewd thoughts.

—

“Hush,” Taleath says, fingertips coming up to rest on your mouth, and you lapse into silence at once, completely thrown by the unexpected contact. “The actions of Cato Sicarius have no bearing on your life, nor on mine. His tumultuous emotions are his own storm to bear, and their rain will only chill you if you get too close — which, as you are uncommonly intelligent for your kind, you will not.”

He keeps his gauntleted fingers resting on your lips, the metal chilly against your skin, smoother than silk. You are very rarely lost for words — it is, after all, an integral part of your job as diplomat — but the physical contact has shaken you. Aeldari do not touch humans, unless at war, or under considerable duress; Taleath’s actions, to another Aeldari, would be obscene as a human bearing his genitalia at a conference table.

The corners of his smile curl up into a smile, and your cheeks burn: in your confusion, you momentarily forgot that your companion can read minds. And then, you recall that Aeldari are at great pains to state how they must shield themselves from the ‘brutish, ugly, loud wailing animal thoughts’ that humans emit almost constantly. And then you realise that if he read your thoughts, it was because he did so deliberately, and —

“It is far more complicated than that,” Taleath says mildly. “A mind is not a book to be opened at leisure and perused. And yet I understand your meaning — you cannot help the limitations of your language, after all.”

You are in one of the many libraries aboard the Macragge’s Honour: this is one of the smaller ones, designed to house books on cartography that are more works of art than useful tomes. It is rarely visited, because despite Roboute Guilliman’s best efforts to encourage a variety of interests in his sons, most Astartes prefer to study strategy or to read great historical epics, rather than study stylised images of long-vanished constellations. You, however, adore it here. It is a circular room, the shelves coveringthe walls, the ceiling painted deep rich navy blue, with stars picked out in shining gold. There is one window, circular and high, that shows the endless void of space beyond. It feels like a fairytale room, something plucked fresh from a different, gentler time, when space was full of promise, and the shadows held nothing more sinister than cobwebs.

“I appreciate that my language is limited to your ears but —“ You are normally very good at countering Taleath’s arrogant asides with a witty riposte. Sometimes, you wonder if he riles you up intentionally, simply because it amuses him to see you frustrated — certainly his teasing has led to some serious issues of your own, long nights practicing hiding your thoughts, wondering if that would even work. Your a celebrated diplomat, pride of the Ultramarines, reporting to the Primarch himself — and yet a pointy-faced smirking knife-ear has you thinking things. Heretical, shameful things.

Taleath lifts the gauntlet to his own face, and — tentatively, delicately, like a cat trying a new food it is unsure of — runs the tip of his tongue along the tips of his fingers.

He makes a strange, bird like chirrup. You’ve studied Aeldari vocalisations, but in that moment everything you have ever learned about them seems to have exited your head via your ears. With the same effortless, leisurely grace that he does everything, Taleath shucks his gauntlets off, setting them down on the desk beside him. Then, with a tremendous amount of care, he removes the silk gloves beneath, revealing a pair of pale, spidery hands.

Imperial propaganda describes all Aeldari as scrawny anaemic mutants, with limbs stretched to ridiculous disproportionate lengths. The decidedly heretical texts you studied as part of your diplomatic education waxed lyrical about their ethereal inhuman beauty and grace. The truth is somewhere in the middle. Some bits of Taleath are disconcerting to say the least: he moves too swiftly for your eyes to track, giving him the uncanny appearance of a glitching cartoon come to life. His expressions are almost-human-but-not-quite; something about his smile seems to suggest that he knows exactly when the world will end. His hands remind you of knives. And yet there is an uncanny beauty to him, like a glacier viewed under moonlight, or a distant star burning in the black flank of night.

“Come here please,” he says, and you — knowing better, knowing so much better — obey. It has been months of negotiation with Iyanden, in which you have built up a civil relationship with Taleath (not friendship; you have to remember that; it is what your training drilled into you. Aeldari are not to be trusted; they play games with human lives, and even the kindest knife-ear will gut you like a fish if it is to their advantage).

You are allies only because of the mutual peril you face, from a galaxy that would see you burn, from factions who care little for the petty squabbles of xenos and human — what is the point of humanity’s supremacy, or Aeldari arrogance, if Chaos eats you all?

And yet. And yet. You stop one pace from Taleath, heart thrumming like the wings of a held bird, and the Aeldari reaches for you. His palm presses against the small of your back, urging you forwards that last little bit, so his robes brush against your bare arms. He’s so much taller than you; you have to crane your neck to look him in the face, even as he bends over.

His thumb runs across your lower lip. You always thought Aeldari would be colder than humans, their skin as chilly and perfect as ceramic, but his flesh is fever-hot. He rubs the digit back and forth until you open your mouth, your eyes fixed on him the whole time. His breathing is still slow and calm, and part of you resents him for that — so you rebel in what small way you can. You part your lips, but you don’t chase after his thumb with your tongue like a dog begging for a treat. Instead, you wait — wait so long that it starts to feel vaguely ridiculous, that you are just starting there open-mouthed and panting — and then — oh —

He slips two fingers into your mouth, sliding them first along the blunt edges of your teeth, then onto your tongue. He’s curious, explorative, stroking over the slick muscle, before prodding delicately at the roof of your mouth, where textured skin gives way to your soft palette. You try very hard not to gag as he pushes deeper, rubbing at the velvety insides of your cheeks, bulging them outwards. He utters that bird like chirrup again, and you wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. He looks utterly transfixed on you.

It’s just a trick, you tell yourself, it’s what they do, it’s what they do —

“Do not insult me,” he says, his voice lower. Rougher. “I would not need to resort to such — such base measures to trick you, if I wanted to, if —“

You hollow your cheeks and suck, drool starting to gather at the corner of your mouth. Taleath’s breath catches, and you feel an absurd swell of power.

“Don’t read my mind,” you say, the words coming out in a slurry of sound and drool around his fingers. “Jush — keep doing this —“

You start to move your head, keeping your hands loose at your sides despite the overwhelming desire to grab his wrist, to encourage him to keep going, to fuck your throat with his fingers, to prepare you to take —

Taleath chirrups again; this time the sound fades into a constant burbling coo. He pulls you closer, hand splayed on the small of your back, pulling his fingers out of your mouth — and this time you do chase after them, saliva strung between his fingers and your lips.

“I should not be doing this,” he says, half to himself, the words blurred and distorted by the constant vibrato coo. You lick at his knuckles, dopey with passion. All that time fighting down your absurd schoolgirl crush — all that time wasted. “You are human,” he continues, his voice strained. You kiss his palm.

“Yes. And you want me,” you sing-song — only for the world to blur as Taleath moves with a warrior’s swiftness, his hand sliding down to cup your thighs, lifting you up and pressing you into the wall. Bookshelves dig into your spine as he wrenches your head to the side, your hair pulled taut, your scalp singing pain. His teeth graze your jugular, his body presses between your eagerly spreading thighs and —

Then he’s gone. You collapse to the ground in a heap, panting for breath, reeling. Taleath stands on the other side of the library, clinging to his gauntlets like a safety blanket as he stares at you with open, flagrant hunger. Prey-animal fear sparks up your spine, even as your cunt slicks with arousal.

“Taleath —“

“No. Stay there.”

His mouth is red. Why is his mouth red? You suddenly become aware of an ache in your neck, of warmth on your collarbone. You reach up, and your fingers brush a deep bite mark. Taleath licks his lips clean as you probe the damage carefully.

“I — I hope this is not a diplomatic incident,” you say, attempting levity, and he offers you a thin smile. It sits oddly on his face; at odds with the ravenous look in his dark eyes.

“No. But it could be. My kind do not engage in carnal pleasures casually — “

“—and not with mon-keigh,” you say, wondering if this is when Taleath will treat you to yet another lecture on the shortcomings of your species.

“Not often. Not usually. I do not want you to be hurt,” he says.

“I’m fine. It barely stings — it will heal up soon enough,” you say, holding up your bloodied fingers. Taleath licks his lips.

“You do not understand. I do not want you to be hurt by anyone who is not me.”

You know you should retreat; every instinct screams at you too. But even if Taleath was not standing in the only exit, you wouldn’t attempt to flee.

”You…you want to hurt me?”

“Typical human — reducing complex feelings to such banal sentiments,” he says, like you weren’t just parroting his own words back. “I want to consume you. I want to own you. I want every cell in your body to remember my name.”

You — you should not find this attractive. You really should not. And yet all your life you have been told that you serve a greater purpose; that your duty is to others. You have never had anyone look at you with such naked desire and tell you that it is you they want — you alone.

Aeldari lie, you tell yourself. Aeldari lie.

“I would not lie to you, you stupid little prey-thing,” he snaps, and this time it isn’t just his voice; his accent changes, sliding from the polished vowels of an Aeldari into something more jagged, something that you don’t recognise. He visibly gathers himself, and when he speaks again it’s with the voice you are used to: “I mean — human. Girl-child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You are more than five hundred years my junior — hush. I — I need to go. And meditate. And — and think on things. And meditate. And you need to go and stop bleeding before I do something that we both regret.”

With that, he vanishes, leaving nothing but the throb of arousal between your thighs, and his teeth marks carved into your throat.

[finchly-tintinnabulation]

- Scout's Honor - Part 3

Original Ultramarine (Aristaeus) x GN!Reader

<<Prev = Next>>

Tags: Aristaeus being a protective Doberman, meeting the family (squad mates), reader facing the reality of having an extremely clingy space marine

Indulging in the absolute tomfuckery that would come with being bonded, apologies to @daily-shenanigans784 for the secondhand embarrassment of beta reading it. Have fun meeting Pallas and Diomedes, you will definitely be seeing them again lol

The Chorus: @thisuserislilsilly

- - -

You frowned, crouching to survey the new equipment delivered to Aristaeus’s— and now your— room. It was easy to move in as you only had a few belongings in the serf barracks, and a baseline size mattress fit tidily under the Astartes’s large metal bunk; it was cozy but you had a suspicion that your nights would be spent sharing the bed anyway.

In anticipation of joining Aristaeus in training and battle, you had also received gear. A few sets of fatigues, light body armor painted in Ultramarine blue, helmet, supply bag, and a medicae kit. Of particular interest was your lasgun. All residents of the fortress monastery were required to know how to defend it, and the armory was stocked for such a situation, yet this rifle was yours alone. The implications made you feel oddly light-headed.

The problem was seeing what your otherwise fully outfitted scout had been equipped with to deal with you. Eyeing the harness and straps and strategically placed pouches that were to replace Aristaeus’s backpack, there wasn’t much doubt of its function.

“This feels ridiculous. I’m really going to be strapped to your back like a papoose?” There were stirrups attached to the sides of the pack for you to climb in and out on your own, but that didn’t change the fact it looked like a giant baby carrier. “I need my hands free for combat, and sitting on my shoulders would make us a bigger target. Plus, you can watch my back.” Aristaeus looked up from cleaning his long-range bolter, having the audacity to look puzzled by your question. Of course he saw it only in terms of efficiency, and not so much your dignity. “Can’t I get, like… some handholds to hang on for myself?” Rocking back on your heels you sat heavily on the floor, glaring at the offending piece of equipment. “You do not have the stamina.” He stated, and you sighed. You probably weren’t going to get anywhere arguing logistics with an Ultramarine, so you turned to organizing your new things alongside the old, packing them into a trunk provided for you. With that taken care of, your priorities shifted to your stomach, since finding attire in your measurements meant forgoing breakfast.

Aristaeus shifted as you stood up, but you held out your hands to motion for him to stay seated, to which he seemed to pout. “Just going to the kitchens, I’ll be right back big guy.” 

Making your way to the kitchen was easy enough, especially when you had gotten in the habit of snacking on whatever food scraps were left over between meals. This time, however, you felt eyes on you. Fellow serfs stilled in their work to stare as if boring holes in your back and through the darkening bruises on your neck. 

The information you had gathered would indicate this was far from the first occurrence of a bond, but the last one had been a long time ago. That battle-brother and his mate had likely gone off to another company, in the distant memory of the residents of the fortress-monastery. It was a mistake they worked to avoid, a potential stumbling block to the noble Astartes, and that potential for disgrace was now focused solely upon you.

Holding your head high, you did your best to ignore it. It wasn’t as if you had made many allies amongst them in your few months, a newcomer to a position that was largely hereditary to the people of Macragge. In long strides you made your way to the alcove that disguised the scullery entrance without incident, before your path forward was blocked.

“Excuse me.” You politely stepped sideways to try and slip past the scullery worker, but she stuck out her arm to prevent your passage, inspecting you derisively. 

“Nobody believed me, you know. That a Drukhari toy would be unsuitable for the station of a chapter serf.” She muttered quietly and planted a hand on the doorframe, leaning in to insult your ears only as your blood simmered. “It makes sense that one who had spent such time outside the light of the Emperor would become a temptation.”

“I don’t know you.” Gritting your teeth, you tucked a hand in the pocket of your robe, trying to appear non-threatening. “Hypocrisy reflects poorly on you, the God-Emperor disapproves of gossip amongst his flock.”

“It isn’t gossip to see you waltzing around so loosely, without any regard for your place.” Scoffing, her eyes lingered on your neck.

“Move. I’m hungry.” You rested a hand on her forearm, hoping to escape a confrontation with a warning even as your emotions boiled. Unfortunately, you were only rewarded with a sneer as she snatched at your wrist.

“Careful, you’d—” Her scorn was interrupted by a bellowing growl as Aristaeus suddenly poked his head into the alcove, snarling in her face as he crowded into the small space, making her blanch an ashen shade of white. The sound wracked through your body, the subvocal reverberations of it sparking an instinctual fear despite the small relief the scout’s presence provided. Again, how could someone so big be so silent?

Easily tugging your arm out of the other serf’s slackened grip, you grumbled as you retreated from her and attempted to push the agitated scout away from the kitchen. This was quickly becoming a scene. “I told you I’d be right back.”

“You smelled stressed.” He grumbled, glare still fixed upon the frozen woman, but moving with your touch. There was no way you could physically move him, so it was some relief that he seemed to regard how you felt. For the time being you brushed aside the fact he could apparently smell you like a bloodhound from rooms away.

“I’m in a rush to get something to eat, you can wait a minute.” It was true, your hunger was making you agitated, but his presence was not helping either. Having him accompany you into the kitchen would only lead to more eyes, more inconvenience for you both.

“Eat with me instead.” Finally tearing his gaze away from the other serf, allowing her to flee back into the kitchen, his expression softened as he bent down to take your hands. “There is also the matter of meeting my squadron today, it would be convenient… please?”

Honey gold eyes pleaded with you, tipping his head expectantly. Aristaeus reminded you again of a dog, a towering sharp edged sentinel, guarding you and chasing off any perceived threat… who looked at you with a face like a sad baby seal. You sighed, mentally noting another downside of having an Astartes attached at the hip. It was unlikely for you to get out of this, especially with him looking at you like that. “...Fine.”

Holding your hand, you allowed Aristaeus to lead you away from the scullery, and much to your dismay he walked you to the 10th company’s mess hall. Many of the rows of tables along the walls were already filled with neophytes, but just as many Astartes were lined up for bowls of amino porridge from the Master of the Refectorium. The sight of the crush of enormous bodies made you nervous, even as Aristaeus positioned you in front of him, shoulders hunched to shield you as you made your way to the more orderly line for food.

If you got any pointed looks from the Master of the Refectorium, you didn’t see it, ignoring him in favor of walking in front of Aristaeus and reassuring your stomach it’d soon be taken care of. You were so focused on avoiding your surroundings, you jumped a bit at a tap on your shoulder, turning to your scout as he bent down to hand you a very Astartes-sized bowl and gestured to follow him to a table.

“Based on your sweet tooth, I didn’t expect your mate to look so sour, Ari!” A cheerful looking blonde scout called out at your approach, eliciting a growl from Aristaeus as he shuffled around you to sit across from him and the only other Astartes at the table, a brunette who appeared to be trying very hard not to smile. You climbed into the last open seat; once again, far too big for the comfort of a baseline.

“Refer to me appropriately, Brother Pallas.” Pulling out a combat knife the size of your forearm, Aristaeus pointed it at the blonde— Pallas— in warning, picking up a fruit he had grabbed with his lunch and beginning to cut it into slices. “There will be no further comments on my bond, understood?”

“Of course.” The brunette nodded solemnly, lips pursed against a grin as he reached across the table to offer you a hand. “Brother Diomedes. Charmed.” Aristaeus sullenly swatted him away before you could accept the handshake, which you raised an eyebrow at. 

“Relax, there’s no harm done.” You said soothingly. You couldn’t help but be amused, despite your chagrin at his protectiveness. It felt like you were being herded. “Besides, Ari is a cute nickname.”

You expected a retort at daring to call anything about an Adeptus Astartes ‘cute’, but the scout’s shoulders slumped as he scooped a helping of juicy yellow fruit into your bowl, looking a bit flushed.

“What!? Don’t tell me they get to call you Ari. Hey.” Pallas frowned, planting his hands on the table, glancing between you and Aristaeus with open wonder on his face.

“...It is preferable over lord angel.” He grumbled, tearing open a packet of triglyceride gel with unnecessary force and squeezing it into your food. You had to bite your lip as your face cracked into a grin at the absurd realization he was preparing your lunch for you.

“Noted, so long as I don’t get reprimanded for it.” Maneuvering a slice of fruit onto the overly large spoon, you made a show of biting into the juicy flesh, reveling in its sweetness. “Thank you, Ari.”

“Y’welcome.” Aristaeus bent his head over his bowl, hastily shoveling down his porridge, tanned face looking very pink.

The tiniest wheeze of laughter escaped Diomedes as he turned his attention to you, and you followed your bond’s lead to satisfy your hunger with mouthfuls of sweetened gruel. “Sergeant Telion provided the squadron with nesting materials, but Pallas and I have decided you are likely to need them the most.”

“Hm?” Nesting? You intoned questioningly, as talking with your mouth full to the Astartes seemed impolite.

“I suspected you had little need for extra articles of fabric, so you’d best get started rubbing your lovely scent over our spares.” Eyes widening in confusion, you heard Aristaeus make a choking noise beside you as Diomedes smiled with bemusement. “What’s that look for? He’s already marked you.” 

[aqua-the-smiter]

Healing takes a long, long time. Who knows. It may never come. Cato Sicarius x female reader you are his only solace PART 3, APPARENTLY. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. Divider by @squishyowl . I'm sorry I keep @ing you but Cato is living rent fucking free in my head Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0z53F9I-93M

Fall with me, come on and fall with me, into the dark and scary hole inside the bottom of the sea ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things weren't perfect. But they seemed to be better, at least. Even if only marginally.

Cato was happier than you'd ever seen him in the weeks since you got together. At least, when he was with you. He was a surprisingly affectionate man once you got past his shell. He was still lonely, still in pain, but he had you, and he loved you. And he wasn't ashamed to show it either.

Some Ultramarines congratulated him on it. A few seemed a little envious. That one ambassador that Cato had had less pleasant dealings had glared at you like you insulted her mother. Overall though, the reaction was positive. Even Lord Guilliman seemed pleased, laying a hand on Cato's shoulder.

Astartes getting girlfriends wasn't common, but it wasn't entirely unheard of either. Most kept quiet about it. While he didn't trumpet from the rooftops about you, he wasn't afraid to kiss you or let you kiss him in public when you accompanied him, or allow you to hold his hand, or slip your hand around his elbow (as best you could) so the two of you could walk arm and arm together.

And flowers. You loved flowers, and every day when he came to you he'd present you with some, weaving them into your hair or tucking them behind your ears. You got the impression he enjoyed finding and giving them to you as much as you enjoyed receiving them, and you were filling out a whole book full of pressed and dried blooms.

He even had a pet name for you. Peahen, after the female of the numerous peafowl that inhabited Macragge. They had been brought over by early settlers and found a very comfortable niche for themselves. The males were especially pretty, with cobalt blue bodies and magnificent, long tails of green and iridescent eye spots that could spread out into a huge fan of feathers. The females were less showy, with plain brown and white feathers, but even they had a splash of bright blue and green on their necks. And the chicks were absolutely adorable.

The name always made you giggle. You supposed Cato was a like a peacock with his bright blue armor and plumed helmet. Your peacock.

For your part, you made up for things by being equally as affectionate as possible. It was pretty clear that he needed it. Giving it to him as freely as he did to you. You would let him scoop you up and carry you around just because he felt like doing it, or rest his head in your lap when he was particularly frustrated or put out. Stroking his hair, whispering to him softly that things would be just fine. He didn't seem like he believed it, but it made him happy to hear from you.

But...it was still pretty clear he wasn't doing well, and that irritated you to no end. You wanted to help him. You want to scream at everyone who made him feel like he had nobody to talk to about his troubles. And you would, too. You felt fiercely protective of him.

It was like he was in a hole. A deep, dark pit in his own head that he couldn't climb out of. Or he'd just gotten used to sitting in the dirt. Sometimes misery and pain could be awful comfortable if you lived with it long enough. Even if you didn't want it to be. Or if not that, then extremely hard to crawl out of. Like a tar pit.

And you weren't the only one who noticed his poor state, either.

Roboute Guilliman leaned back in his chair. In one hand was a mug of steaming mountain laurel tea. On a very small clear spot on his desk was a small plate that held some Eldar sweets Yvraine had brought for their weekly chat over tea. She held her teacup in the toes of her left foot, a plate in her right hand, and her gryrinx Alorynis tucked under her left arm. He kept trying to fling himself into Guilliman's lap, which he seemed to prefer because it was bigger.

He loved these meetings with her. They had become a weekly thing under the guise of "negotiation", and she was an accepted sight around the Fortress of Hera. It was nothing short of a relief to have her to talk to.

"Let him sit." Roboute said, amused as he watched the feline struggle.

"He'll get your lovely blue toga covered in sheddings." Yvraine said, sipping her tea. Placing Alorynis in his lap anyway. The gryrinx immediately curled into a happy ball, purring.

He stroked the creature's back, smiling. Although she could see it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't mind. I like cats."

"Robu, you're frowning again." She poked his wrinkled forehead. "What's on your mind this time?"

"Nothing unusual. I am concerned about one of my sons. Among other things."

"Which one?" She said, amused. "You have so many. I'm jealous."

He snorted. "Very funny, you unbearable xenos witch. It is Cato Sicarius."

"Ah yes. The one who never smiles."

"Most Astartes don't smile too often." Roboute pointed out.

"He only has two expressions from what I've seen. Grinding his teeth behind his lips, and a thousand yard stare."

"He's been happier recently. But that's because of his serf, I believe. The root problem is still there."

Despite her teasing, her expression was sympathetic. "What do you mean?"

"He used to be a very...arrogant man. He has gone through much humbling since, but I do not think all of it has been beneficial. I think he is as bad as he was in some aspects, but in the very different way. Instead of pride, it is pain that guides his actions. Although he adamantly refuses to talk about it to anyone."

"Have you tried asking him directly? He wouldn't refuse you."

"No, but forcing him to speak will do no good either. It will make him more evasive and mistrustful." He sighed. "I have asked, but only vaguely. I do not want to be overbearing to my Astartes, but I am worried about Cato. He pulls away from his brothers, and from me. He isolates himself, and wanders around in the night. There is no light in his eyes."

"Do you have any idea as to why?" Yvraine asked. "Maybe he just prefers to be alone."

"No. Some years ago, a ship he was traveling on got lost in the Warp. It was trapped for five years, aimless and constantly being invaded by daemons and Warpborn horrors. Many of his men died. I believe it has traumatized him."

Yvraine's ears flicked up in surprise. She looked sober. "I didn't know that was even possible. What does an Angel of Death need to see that will scar his mind so deeply?"

"It is very possible. Nobody likes to talk about it, but it is. Granted, it is also not common. In that you are correct. It takes a special kind of hell to leave that kind of scarring."

"But I suppose being lost in the Warp for five years is as special kind of hell."

"It is."

"He also doesn't seem to popular with your boys. I've heard some...less than flattering remarks."

"You probably hear everything with those ears." He said with a small smile. She snorted a laugh. "He is...a divisive figure. Many respect him. Many cannot stand him. I know one of my ambassadors really dislikes him."

"I've heard people calling him sexist."

"He is not. That rumor is stupid." Roboute said, thoroughly tired of it. "I thought my sons were more mature, but apparently not."

"Boys will be boys Robu." She pinched his cheek.

He sighed. "I wish to help him, but I don't know how. And..." He trailed off, uncertain of how much to share.

"Go on Robu. You know I won't breathe a word of it."

She read him like an open book. He loved that woman. "The mission I sent the Redeemed on. It is a success so far. If all goes well, I will be off to Medusa soon. If that goes well, I will need Cato then. And I will need him at his sharpest. Beyond, even."

The Redeemed were a...peculiar chapter of Astartes under Roboute's direct control. They were perfectly normal, except for the fact that it was entirely made up of former Chaos and traitor marines. He had a soft spot for them, and they were by far his best weapon against daemons and Warp spawn of all kinds.

"Ah. The thing with your brother?"

"Yes." That was the end of that train of discussion. "I know I cannot rush his healing, but I do not believe he has even begun to heal. His wounds still bleed. I fear if I try and intervene I will make things worse. I do not wish to hurt him."

"You said he had a serf he's fond of. It seems he's not entirely without comfort."

"He loves her. And it is good he has her. He does not trust his brothers with this. He does not trust me with this. Let him have her. Someone."

"I think you could reach out to him too. Don't force him, but merely inquire. Tell him you've noticed his change in behavior and be honest about your concerns. You are still his father, after a strange fashion. Maybe he could use some kind words from his Primarch. His Primarch certainly needs kind words too from time to time."

He smiled at that. "Not inaccurate. I will see what I can do. Maybe talk to his serf as well."

"See? There's the Robu I know. Always making plans." She patted his head. "And you are still as infuriating as ever." "Shut up and drink your tea before it gets cold." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a beautiful evening. The light of the setting sun was golden, the day was warm and the breeze was cool. It was nice enough that even the Ultramarines took notice, spending their small amount of free time outside in snatches.

Cato sighed. The wind made his robes ripple and flutter. He'd received a note inviting him to share a jug of wine and some small talk with a few other officers. His first instinct was to refuse, but then he remembered he was trying to retain some semblance of normality. So now he felt obligated to show up. He would have brought you with him, but you were fast sleep in the sunshine. Instead he'd covered you up with his cape and let you nap. You were cute like that anyway.

He found the others sitting in the shade of an old willow tree, the wind rustling the long branches. It sounded like rattling bones. Marneus, Uriel, and Demetrian were scattered across the benches around the trunk. They all looked unusually relaxed and in good spirits.

"Sicarius."

"Cato."

"Cato."

He sat on the edge of the bench Titus was on, who promptly handed him a clay cup. The liquid inside was a dark red, dry and sour tasting.

"Chapter master, Uriel, Titus." He nodded to each. "I wasn't expecting an invitation. Did anything special happen?" He asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Can't we just want to enjoy your company?" Titus asked, smacking his shoulder.

He snorted. "Nobody enjoys my company. I thought that was established."

"That serf of yours seems to enjoy it. Congratulations on that." Uriel smiled at him. "I never would have guessed you to be the type to seek out something like that."

Titus nodded. "It's very rare, but not unheard of. I know the Chapter Master had a girl once, when he was young and attractive."

Calgar raised a grayed eyebrow. "What do you mean was?"

"Well...you are old." Uriel offered.

"Brilliant observation Ventris. It's that tactical genius that made you captain of the fourth."

Uriel and Titus both snickered at that. Cato offered a small smile at the Chapter Master's witticism. He took a sip of the wine to offset the fact that he wasn't laughing. A small one, though. It was starting to look a bit too much like blood for his comfort.

Then Marneus's gaze turned squarely on Cato. "But I'm not so old that a replacement needs to be considered yet. Sicarius."

He nearly choked on his wine. "Who, me? Absolutely not. I don't want to be Chapter Master. Keep your chair."

The thought was utterly laughable. He had aspired to it. Once. Not anymore though. he'd already proved himself too incompetent for that seat.

That earned him three raised eyebrows.

"What happened to you, Cato?" Uriel asked. "I thought you were counting down the days until Calgar was unavailable."

"I was. When I was young, and still had hope." He replied, then seeing the looks he was getting, "But it doesn't look like our venerable Chapter Master will be abdicating anytime soon." He added, forcing a joke.

"1st Captain Severus will be pleased to hear it." Titus told him with a grin.

"Seems I get a break from young upstarts for a while." Calgar said wryly.

"And when the time comes may someone worthy take your place."

He held up his cup in salute to the chapter master. Hoping that they believed his words were true. Because they were. Someone worthy. Not him.

The others raised their cups in return before taking a swig.

"Maybe one of you two." He added.

Titus shook his head. "I think I'm happier where I am."

"I never considered it." Uriel admitted. "I try to keep my aspirations reasonable."

"You would be a good pick though." Titus mused, agreeing with Cato.

He nodded.

"You have the track record." Calgar nodded slowly. "If you're not dead by the time I am, and if Agemman doesn't want to job for some reason."

"You're a hero, Uriel. The things you have accomplished go beyond even our line of duty." Cato said. "I believe you have a lot of qualities the Primarch likes to see in us as well. That might make you more a favorable choice."

"Don't sell yourself short Cato. You have done a lot of good too. Lord Guilliman wouldn't have made you captain of the Victrix for nothing."

The wine was starting to acquire an oddly metallic taste. Like iron. "Everything I have done has come off the heels of a spectacular blunder."

"I got sent off to Medrenguard because I didn't follow the Codex Astartes. Remember?"

Cato shook his head. "You did what needed to be done. I sent my men to their deaths."

"The Emperor's Will was not your fault, Sicarius." Calgar interjected. "Blaming yourself accomplishes nothing."

"And what about the losses at Damnos? Or Black Reach? I have proven time and time again that I am not a good commander."

"There is no leader of men who has only victories. Not even Lord Guilliman can claim that. You have failed, and you have failed hard. That is certainly true. But you have learned from it since. I doubt you would make the same mistakes again. Would you?"

"Of course not."

"There you have it then."

He felt a warmth in his chest for a moment before the doubts he held to be truths reasserted themselves. He had missed this. This fellowship. It was like he had been gifted a taste of the brotherhood he had lost, and he hadn't realized how bitterly he had missed it.

"That is something easier said than applied." He countered, and before he could stop himself, added. "Some things still haunt me."

It eve smelled like blood now.

Uriel nodded sagely. "I still think about the things I saw on Medrenguard sometimes. Although time has sanded the edges a great deal."

"Yes, of course." He said, a little too quickly. "It always does. But it's still unpleasant."

It didn't. He thought. Everything is still as sharp and painful as ever. Do you still smell the charnel reek? Do you still hear the screaming and moaning of the poor wretches of the Daemonculaba? Is your sleep full of daemon music and rot? Do you see Tyranids in every shadow and Iron Warriors in every doorway?

Time hadn't healed any of his wounds. He could still feel them, deep in his mind, pulsing with pain and oozing infection. That's how he felt. Like an infected wound. He had simply gotten worse and worse over time. That's why he was in this state now. Both his honor and his mind in pieces.

He wondered why they had asked him here in the first place. His hand shook, and he put the wine cup down. It all tasted like blood anyway. He wasn't like them. They were all heroes. They were everything an Ultramarine was supposed to be.

Maybe that's why he was here. So he could see everything that he wasn't.

He fell silent for the most part after that, listening to the other three and occasionally answering yes or no to some question or another. As quickly as that moment of warmth had come it was gone, and he felt hollow again.

Eventually he stood up to take his leave.

"Wait." He turned to see Titus holding out a few long sprigs of mountain laurels. Clusters of beautiful, star shaped white, pink and red flowers.

"Take these to your lady. I notice you've been bringing her flowers all the time." He said with a smile. Cato took them with a nod of gratitude.

"She likes them. Thank you."

"Good luck with her." Titus called after him, before his expression turned stony.

He was going to have to talk to someone about this. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Peahen." Cato called softly, opening the door to his quarters.

You were awake, sewing up a few ragged edges on his broad red cape. Looking up, your face broke into a wide grin when you saw him, and the gorgeous flowers he had for you. Putting your sewing down, you sprung into him like a rabbit into a trap. He gathered you up in his arms and held you tightly. Tucking the laurels into your hair.

"They're beautiful Cato. Thank you so much." You beamed at him. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

He smiled. Feeling all his earlier distress draining away as he held you close. You could see his expression soften, the tension drop from his shoulders.

"One of my brothers suggested them." He said.

"He has good taste." You ran your fingers gently over the petals. "You know you don't have to bring me flowers every day." He sat down, pulling you into his lap. "Maybe not. But seeing your eyes light up every time I present you with some makes it worth doing. I like making you happy."

You snuggled against him, as content as a cat with a stolen fish. "I appreciate it. You know I've saved every single one. I'm filling a book with them."

"Really?"

"Yep." You nodded. "I dry and press them. It's like a record of sorts. Since we...became and item."

He took your small hand in his and squeezed it.

"I want to make you happy too." You told him.

"You make me happy just by being here."

He kissed your cheek.

"You are my solace."

You pulled one of the springs of laurel from your hair and tucked it behind his ear. "You look so handsome Cato."

"I love you." He whispered. Holding you close. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Titus." Roboute greeted his son as he walked into his office.

"Lord Primarch." He returned. "Am I interrupting anything?"

He sighed. "Nothing out of the ordinary, lieutenant. Is something wrong? You look troubled."

"Forgive me if this is nothing, but I felt that I needed to speak to someone about this." Titus began. "I...believe there is something going on with Cato."

To his surprise Roboute's expression darkened almost immediately. "Tell me." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hole-dwelling, hole-dwelling, hole-dwelling, you’re just like me

[cockodemon]

Pro tip for painting carrion, start with a macragge blue base coat, then slap som aethermatic blue overtop that

Quick food for your chaos army to eat

[historitor-bookshelf]

Reunion

Summoning @robot-roadtrip-rants over our mutual disappointment of the ending of Space Marine 1 not including Mira pegging Titus. Unfortunately, there still is no pegging (yet).

Ideas has been bouncing around in my head, so here is part 1.

Tags: Mentioned character death, past and present trauma, Channeling a bit of McNeil at one point, no smut

Part 1 of ???

Titus had been told to go and wait in his new cabin on the Macragge’s Honour. Central, warm, larger than the cabin he had on the Righteous Fury, and - to his surprise - it had an actual bed. Sturdy, built with Marines in mind.

It was his Primarch - it still sounded odd in his mind, his Primarch, who without hesitation and with much annoyance had gotten the Inquisition of his ass once more, told him to recover in his cabin from the long journey and the exhaustions caused during the campaign. And, he said, with an almost mischievous glint in his eyes, there was someone who was waiting to see him.

Titus rubbed his neck with a towel - armour and bodyglove removed, clad only in his loincloth, after a long pulse shower he had sorely needed. The serf assigned to him had rubbed him down with oil, making his skin glisten in the dim light and scraped away afterwards, ridding him off the dead skin. And now, he could sink back onto the matress, doze and wait for whoever was coming to see him.

His hand came to rest over the scar on his abdomen - the newest one, the one that almost killed him. A ridge, crescent-shaped, larger than his own hand.

Death had almost come for him in many shapes. He had accepted it - he was a Space Marine, and death was his duty and his destiny.

It still shook him.

He remembered the pain, the shock that his end was about to come at the claws of this tyranid abomination. Regret, that he could not have done more. Grief, at his brothers’ death. Relief, that he was able to deliver the virus bomb to win them, to win humanity some time.

And this did not even touch on what he felt when he saw the deep blue of the Ultramarines. His first brethren, the ones he thought had cast him out. Confusion, yes, thinking that it may be an hallucination caused by his death throes or by some neurotoxin wrecking havoc on his system.

Titus swallowed, acid in his mouth running down his throat. He cursed softly, swinging his legs of the bed and rushing into his bathroom. He cupped his hands und gathered water, gargling and spitting into his sink, before wiping his face dry again.

Why did it come back now?

The door bell chimed.

Titus walked to his door, loosely pulling on a robe to greet his visitor at the door. One more time, he combed through his hair with his fingers to look presentable, before he opened the door.

He had to look down to see her.

It had been 200 years.

This could not-

“Lieutenant Titus.” Mira looked up at him. “It is good to see you again.”

[moodymisty]

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔲𝔪 𝔒𝔣 𝔄 𝔙𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔵

Author's note: I have a few requests left to do but I really wanted to kind of do this sort of thing after a few asks brought it up. And the Victrix Guard designs fucking slap so, here. Part 1 of something maybe? I don't know guess I'll see how people respond.

Summary: Marcellus of the Victrix Guard has a crisis of faith.

Relationships: Marcellus(oc)/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Very vague references to lewd things, Digging into an astartes brain figuratively

"8th Company has requisitioned seven more landraiders, 2nd company needs another thunderhawk,"

Marcellus' ears picked up on your voice quickly this time, as you entered the massive room. Your Ultramarine branded robes are frayed at the bottom but in good shape overall- ornate and fitting of your stature. Unlike other chapters that allow their Administratum members to retain their original clothes, Ultramarines prefer they wear the deep blue that is symbolic of Macragge.

He watched with a bored interest, but as time goes on, the feeling yet again began to rise in him like water boiling in a geyser.

Why does his chest feel like this all of the sudden? He cleared his throat in the direction of the tiled floor.

No change.

He however still continued to watch you from his post as you flutter around, reading and writing papers. Commissars and Ultramarines give you orders, requests for more materials or arms. You shuffle around response times for fleets, combat data; Administraum taxes and tithes.

He watched you do it all with deftness- a grace and dedication- from his post at the entrance, silently.

He's spoken to you a handful of times; Thanking him for allowing you to enter and exit the room. A few times you've dropped things- and once he helped you pick them up, a gesture that made you smile and thank him profusely for the assistance. Your words stumbled off your tongue like they were just falling out, before your scurried away and leaving him with a feeling of, unfulfillment.

That moment is where he's traced this feeling back to. Where it all started. Ever since he crunched your parchments in his gauntlet to hand them to you, which you took with fingers so much smaller than his own and thanked him like he’d saved your very life- there was something in his gut that swirled like nausea.

First, he had tried the apothecary.

'All vitals come back normal, brother. You are in peak shape, as one would expect as a Victrix Guard. But if you are still feeling unsure, perhaps your ailment might be spiritual in nature. A visit to the chaplain would perhaps be your next option."

He had gone to the chaplain next, as suggested, walking through the nave as he approached the brother chaplain at the altar standing in contemplation.

'Brother chaplain. I might be in need of your guidance."

He turned to him, a peculiar and almost amused look on his face.

'Might? An interesting one.'

Marcellus adjusted his jaw and hesitated speaking for a moment; This feeling of unknown, of unsure nature, eats at him like a parasite.

'I feel, wrong. I have already gone to the apothecary and he said nothing is abnormal. He suggested that I, might need your guidance.'

He had listened to the chaplain's words with the utmost vehemence, prayed with him, remembered his vows as an Ultramarine- a Victrix Guard. He spent hours in that chapel the incense burning at his nose, the taste of its smoke coating his mouth- The Emperor’s glow casting over him through the stained glass mural.

He felt better afterwards. He rose from his knees and thanked his brother chaplain before returning to his duties. Perhaps a bit of righting was all he had needed. Doubt had planted its first seed in him and the chaplain was able to pluck it, righting his path back into the brightest of holy lights.

Three days later however, upon seeing you again, the feeling returned.

You nearly stumbled to your knees, a servoskull flying over your head. You quickly scurried to pick up your things and nervously laughed.

I am so sorry my lord, I seem to make a fool of myself in front of you quite a bit.'

Marcellus hummed, it coming out of his helmet with a distorted crackle.

'I suppose we cannot all be as deft and agile as those in Corvus Armor.'

You gave a soft laugh, smiling. When you stop why does he feel, disappointed?

'No I suppose not.'

You seemed like you were going to move on, but he impulsively speaks before he has a chance to catch himself.

'What is your name?'

You had hesitated, before uttering your name with a tilt of nervousness. He gave you his own, for no other reason that it fell off his lips without his control. Whatever his ailment is now coming for his ability to speak next, what in the name of The Emperor is next? His very ability to see?

Throne, what is wrong with him?

As soon as he could, he returned to the apothecary.

Once again, nothing was physically wrong with him. He'd begun to think maybe the apothecary was missing something. But he was the only apothecary aboard, one who’d served for over one hundred years- he throws the doubt of his brother away. That’s what this illness would want of him; To sow doubt.

He considered going to the chaplain again, standing outside of the chapel, but hesitated before making himself know .

If he keeps this up, what if the chaplain begins to suspect corruption? In a Victrix Guard? Even the mere suspicion would bring a stain upon him and his brothers.

He ended up entering despite the hesitation, and prayed in silence and solitude. For whatever was wrong with him to rear its ugly head so he could cut it off.

He returned to his post four hours later, the ash of incense on his armor.

He stood vigilant, though he feels the unconscious squaring of his shoulders as he noticed your approach.

'Greetings, Lord Marcellus.'

He found his eyes drawn to the shape of your lips. The soft skin, the peak of them under your nose, like the double head of his Aquila.

'Greetings.'

You passed by him, and he turned his head to continue following.

The way your hips gently curved was, interesting. You don't have the sharp lines and angles of armor, every part of you is this smooth, soft shape that confuses him. It’s so different, it felt almost unknown.

Marcellus abruptly bit the inside of his cheek, and pushed a sharp exhale through his nose. He doesn't understand why his eyes wander so. Yet again. He is lax in his fortitude- his faith. He is allowing trifling distractions possess his mind-

You're speaking to someone.

He watched you smile at the man. He can hear talk about the frigid air of the ship over other voices and the sounds of rattling pipes, and you laughed when he jokes about them turning to icicles. It's not until after the man leaves, that Marcellus realized how tight his gauntlets had gripped his shield until he loosens them with considerable noise complaint.

Staying stalwart at his post eats at him like a pack of rats, he can see his hearts rising and lowering in beats from the HUD of his helmet. When it is time for him to rotate out, he leaves with no parting words or even glanse.

He rushed to a corner of a random hall, tearing off his ornate helmet and allowing it to tumble across the floor.

His hearts raced in his chest, his throat is tight; His body is hot and his lower stomach is twisted in a knot.

Throne, it's getting worse. But he knows now.

It's you. You're doing something to him.

Anytime you are in his sight or in his mind is when this sickness overtakes him, when his body gets hotter and his hands almost feel like they're- Throne- like they're going to shake. His stomach tightens in knots, his skin feels like his blood is burning; He wants to tear off his armor and cure this indiscernible, throne-forsaken ache that overtakes his lower body.

He's never felt anything like this before. Bloodlust in the heat of battle sometimes felt similar, like fire was running through his veins, his hearts pumping hot blood. But this feeling is so much heavier, and isn't sated by the slaughter.

"Lord Marcellus?"

You let his name slip off your lips so gently, so innocently. He knows better.

You approached cautiously with your arms pulled close to your chest, tentatively looking at him.

"Are... Are you alright? I saw you leave quite quickly and forgive my prying I just, wanted to make sure you were-"

With a speed only an Astartes could muster he grasped your arm with a strength that has you yelping in pain, pulling you closer to him.

"Woman, what is this foul trickery you've placed on me?"

You looked up at him with eyes stricken full of fear, facing the full brunt of an astartes' booming voice. He could hear the fabric of your clothes scratch as you shook like a prey animal.

"Trickery? I, I have no idea what you're talking about!" He leaned inward.

“You know well! I feel this curse take over whenever you are close!”

He could already see the welling of tears in your eyes, shoulders rolled forward meekly.

Throne- damn that- he needs answers!

"I, I am so sorry for what I've done my lord, but I don't know what that is..."

Your arm shook in his grip, crippled by pain that surely radiates throughout your body. You've crumbled under his stare like a wounded animal laying down prepared to die- an expression he finds unfamiliar.

He let go of you. Your hand curled limply as you held it against your chest, unable to flex it without pain in your arm.

"Retrieve my helm."

Your eyes dart around his face for a moment before looking around, scurrying to pick up his golden helm off the ground and tentatively giving it over, while looking at the ground. He could see a few tears had fallen and stained your cheeks.

He took it with one hand, before leaving.

His quarters were the first place he thinks to retreat to. They're close, and he'll have a moment without the risk of prying eyes.

The walk there however is absent of such a mercy. Astartes look at him and the petulant expression on his face- he decided to put his helmet back on halfway there. Only when he reached the confines of his quarters did he remove it once more, hooking it onto his belt before sitting on the bunk as the metal let out a resounding groan of complaint.

His armoring suit felt like a gentle, teasing touch on his chest and back under his heavy armor. With each movement it sends jolts of something through his body as it brushed against his skin. He's never been able to actually feel it against him like this; Normally it feels like nothing. A second skin.

The sensation isn't... bad.

Marcellus shifted his jaw, feeling the muscles in his neck strain. He tries to ignore it, all of this, but time doesn't weather it in the slightest.

He wonders if you’re still crying.

"Lord Marcellus," A voice spoke over vox and interrupted a moment that had haken hold of his senses to a concerning degree. "You're needed on the deck."

Why must everything test him? What did he do, who did he scorn to have his mind fogged and in it for everyone to test his patience? Nothing works- it's only getting worse- his failure for letting the Emperor leave his mind and allowing it to darken.

"…I am on my way."

Marcellus rises to his feet- the mechanics of his armor let out a soft hiss.

He walked there with an overblown show of confidence, hiding his fear of the unknown underneath it.

What eats at him? He intends to find out.

[ladymirdan]

I'm still thinking about that boy that showed up one day in my mini painting class.

He is about 10-12years old and was very excited to show me, a fellow Ultramarine player his Ultramarines.

They were all base coated with Macragge blue but then heavily dry brushed with a lighter blue leaning more towards turquoise. The decals were all unevenly applied but they all had in common that they were upside down, making them look like an Omega and not an Ultima.

I joked with him alsking if they were Alpha legion infiltrators, but he just looks at me confused; explaining that they are Intercessors not Infiltrators.

Im explaining the joke, he has never heard of Alpha Legion.

To this day im not sure if this was a happy accident or if he is the greatest Alpha Legion player I've ever met.

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

Fun fact: macragge blue is the official sports drink of the international microsoft excel league

Well, I suppose it’s better than nuln oil

[lemon-russ]

More smutless (for now) Leman Russ fic. Whats important is that I'm having fun and subjecting you all to it lol.

(Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers. Idk if getting tagged every fic bothers you, lmk :,) )

Wolf Mother (Ch. 2)

<Prev. | Next>

Ao3

Leman Russ x Fem OC

CW (not necessarily this chapter but overall): Trauma, anxiety, PTSD, General WH40k violence, Sex, probably breeding kink stuff eventually, if there's something I miss and you want labeled let me know!!

Summary: Wren and Guilliman arrive at The Fang and meet The Wolf King.

Word count: 1,637

Wren Vaille walks down the corridors of the Macragge's Honour to the door of Guilliman's office. He smiles a greeting to her when she opens the door, and walks beisdes her down the hall.

“Thank you for giving this a chance, Captain.” He says with a smile.

She gives a small smile back, walking around him so he walked on her right side where she could see him. “Of course, sir. It would not be very honorable of me to not even attempt to help you.”

Guilliman raises a brow, then glances at her blinded left eye, scar running through it, and has a small look of understanding, moving aside to give her room. “Still it is a huge favor. But I wouldn't send you somewhere you're in danger. My brother may be rowdy, but I think he will like you.” He smiles at her. “You have the same indomitable spirit.”

She scrunches her brows together. “Uh-huh. Sometimes I fear you have a very inflated idea of me, my Lord.” She says with a small chuckle.

Guilliman chuckles back. “I think you have a very under-inflated view of yourself, Captain. You'll handle the space wolves well, I think.” He says with a pat on her shoulder.

She stumbles a little under the sudden weight of his ceramite gauntlet, bionic leg whirring a groaning noise as she tripped and caught herself before falling.”um- thank you, sir, I suppose.”

They reach the bay doors to the hangar, peppered with blue armored forms and uniforms scurrying around gunning ships and thunderhawks.

A thunderhawk near them was being loaded with what few material possesions she had, a few boxes and a large bag. She swallows hard, her mouth dry.

Guilliman waved to a serf, who brought over a folded coat. “Here, I had this brought for you.” He says, holding up a warm looking, fur lined coat in ultramarine blue. “Fenris is bitterly cold, especially for baseline humans. I worried you wouldn't have sufficent layers.” He smiles.

“Oh, thank you my Lord.” She says, taking the warm, insulated coat. She swallows back some emotion. This may be the last Ultramarine thing she'll own. The rest of her uniform would be packed away with her old Auxillia fatigues.

She gives him a tight smile, trying to not get sentimental. “I really appreciate this, it was very thoughtful.” She says as she pulls on the thick coat.

He smiles and pats her shoulder again. “It's ok to feel emotional, Captain. It is the human thing to feel sad at goodbyes.” He says in a softer tone.

She bites her lower lip. “This is probably only temporary, anyways, my Lord.” She says, walking with him toward the thunderhawk. “I doubt I'll be able to actually keep up with space wolves.” She says with a forced smile.

He smiles and offers her a hand to help her up the ramp of the ship. “Of course, Captain Vaille. It's hardly permanent.”

He helps her settle and buckle in, then tells the pilot to head off.

“I'll see you off to my Brother. It's been too long since I visited, anyway.” The primarch says, sitting next to her as much as the small seats allow.

The ride to the surface of Fenris is short enough, and soon they are landing on the landing bays of The Fang, the massive mountain fortress that serves as the seat of the Space Wolves.

An icy blast has Wren clutching her new coat tight around her shoulders and shivering as the doors to the ship open. Guilliman chuckles, patting her back.

“That's why I got you a coat. Come, Leman should be around and he is terrible at sitting still, so we should be quick so he doesn't run off on us.” He says as he helps her down the ramp.

Her bionic leg, junky as ever, immediately tries to seize as the cold air plays havoc on the metal gears and hydraulic pistons. She gives it a couple whacks with the side of her fist and hobbles off after Guilliman.

They enter the Valgard, the uppermost structure of the fortress and the only place with ship bays. The rest of the fortress is in underground tunnels through the mountain. Thankfully the interior of the mountain is a bit more hospitable.

They walk through corridors of metal, wood and cave tunnels, with busy lifts moving Space Wolves and serfs around. Guilliman leads her through a massive, ornate room of pure granite, down a concerning lift, and through more halls until he stops at a door and knocks.

“Skítja, Who knocks in the Aett?” Someone curses in a rough voice, stomping to the door and flinging it open.

“What- Oh!” The Primarch goes from annoyance to joy in a flash. “Ah, Roboute, I was wondering who would be so formal, I forgot you were coming today.” He laughs.

Leman Russ is a couple feet taller than his brother, and grins down at him with a fanged smile. “Come, come- I was just rehashing defense nonsense.” He says, waving Guilliman in to the defense overlook. Wren, seemingly forgotten, scurries after their long strides into a smaller room of cluttered papers, books, scrolls, and maps laying across a table.

Russ flops onto a large wooden high back chair, leg over the arm, grinning and motioning for Guilliman to sit in a similar one. “So, you sent word of some sort of paperwork thrall?” He asks.

Guilliman chuckled under his breath as he sat, and Wren awkwardly stood beside his chair. They call Serfs thralls? That isn’t very reassuring, she thought to herself.

“Not quite, but yes. This is my assistant, Wren Vaille.” Guilliman introduces, and she gives a polite salute. “I want to offer her to you to do what she does for me- Paperwork, scheduling, some logistics, communicating on my behalf with other Primarchs…” he says, patting her back. “Clerical type work that you seem to need.” He adds, eyeing the piles of strewn papers with a tight frown.

Leman looks at her for the first time, eyeing her up and down, then quirks his head to the side in a way that can only be compared to a curious dog. “Where’d the other half of you go, girl?” He asks curiously.

Guilliman’s eyes go wide, “Leman, have some tackt-” he snaps softly, but Wren chuckles a bit. No one every even acknowledges her differences, let alone so boldly. It is always your condition and because of, well, you know.

"Long gone, I’m afraid.” She says with a small smile. “But I assure you I can work just fine with one eye and a bionic leg.”

Guilliman looks embarrassed, but Leman grins his sharp toothed smile at her. “Hah, well I’ll get a story out of you yet girl. No one loses and eye and a leg and walks away without a tale to tell.”

He hops up from his chair and walks over to her, standing close enough it forces her to crane her neck up. He looks her over, walking in circles around her and making her purse her lips nervously at the inspection.

“Any more of you missing?” He asks, bending down to look at her closer.

She raises her brow. “Uh- a kidney? On the left side, but otherwise no just the eye and leg…” she replies, stepping back a step as he gets close to her face.

He hmphs, then sniffs her, making her blush a bit.

Guilliman sighs. “Leman, she’s only here on a trial, please pretend to be civil for 5 minutes…?” He says, gently pulling Wren back toward himself by her shoulders.

Russ huffed through his nose. “What? I can’t smell her? You can tell a lot by someone’s smell.” He grumbled. “My sons will sniff her too, she may as well get used to it…”

Guilliman and Wren made a mirrored uncomfortable look, and Russ rolled his eyes. ”Fine fine. Tell me, thrall, can you fight still?” He asks, quirking his head to the side again.

Guilliman frowns. “She is here to help you file paperwork and make meetings, Leman.” He says sternly.

Russ frowns, furrowing his brow. “Well she obviously fought at some point- it is important to me that this secretary thing can follow me in dangerous places.”

Wren purses her lips. “I can fight, if needed. Not so well with shooting anymore, what with the eye, but, I can defend myself with melee and I can flee.” She says nervously.

He seems satisfied with that, smiling and giving a nod. “Good. We will get you back up in proper fighting shape so you do not get killed the second something looks at you.”

Guilliman sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Remember, this is a trial, Leman. If you scare her off I’ll take her home.”

Russ scoffs, “If she is scared off, she would make a poor assistant to me.” He grins and claps her on the shoulder, making her leg whine mechanically as she stumbled a little from it. “You look sturdy, though, even for a female so small. Humans do not get that amount of scars from twiddling their thumbs.” He turns on his heel, heading for the door. “Come, paper-thrall, I have duties to attend.”

Guilliman lets out a tired sigh, then pats her back gently. “Thank you again, Wren. I’m always a messenger away, if anything happens and you want to return early, you need only ask.” He says gently. She smiles nervously, giving him a nod, before Leman calls again.

“Thrall! Come! I shall not wait for your tiny legs!”

She stiffens and scrambles out the door.

[thegodemperorsmycopilot]

I am surprised that no one has created or published their own Space Marine Chapter named the Twilight Kings.

There're the Angels of Twilight and the Twilight Lords, as shown below, but no Twilight Kings. Nor Princes.

So, here's a random addition to the lists of homebrewed Astartes.

Twilight Kings

The Twilight Kings are a Space Marine Chapter of unknown provenance, rumoured to be a Chapter created in secret during the second or third Foundings.

The truth is that this Chapter's original core was made up of Night Lords Great Crusade veterans - loyal to the Imperium, Terra, and the Emperor of Mankind - left behind by their Legion to ensure continued Compliance and forgotten before the Heresy truly began. The rest were survivors from the Shattered Legions, lost Dark Angels, and excess troops from the Ultramarines & Imperial Fists.

Given a far-flung system on the edges of the Imperium as their fiefdom, and a protectorate prone to Xenos-induced rebellions and Old Night heresies, their tactics and culture evolved over the millenia as their geneseed did the same, with a little help from Mechanicus biologists.

The Twilight Lords are now akin to knights of noble orders with the capacity for brutality that is only exercised for the most savage and demanding of foes. The mutations in their geneseed leave them with alabaster skin, fully white eyes, and a propensity for clairvoyance, which has led to the Chapter's Prognosticars, a unique combination of Librarian & Chaplain.

However, the geneseed is challenging for aspirants' bodies to accept, and their Chapter's numbers have been dwindling for some millenia.

Bellisarius Cawl's Primaris reinforcements were a miracle for the Chapter, bringing much needed numbers and a legacy to impart.

However, rumours circulate that the Twilight Kings' Primaris geneseed may actually be of Night Lords' stock, despite Lord Guilliman's decree.

The Twilight Lords are on the very edge of Imperium Sanctus, dealing with the Imperium-splitting Warp rift on their very doorstep as well as a Tyranid splinter fleet they've marked as Chimaerae.

Allegiance: The Imperium of Man

Faction: Adeptus Astartes

Heraldry: The Chapter's symbol is a gold crown, with subtle lightning bolts creating its pinions, on a midnight blue background. Companies are indicated on their right pauldrons by half skulls of ivory stamped with their company number occupying the aft halves and Noxean runes for squad designation & number in the bottom forward halves over a midnight blue background.

Colours: Deep purple with dark blue highlights and bleached bone accents.

Iconography: Veterans of the First Company wear suits of bone & ivory. Assault troops bear crimson helmets. Leadership positions are denoted by crimson vambraces/gauntlets and blood drops on helm and/or pauldrons. Banners are crafted from the flayed hides of their enemies and hung from squad & hero backpack poles. Symbols of death, such as bones & skulls, adorn their armour.

Homeworld: The Twilight Lords have a fortress monastery and facilities upon the moon Nyxes, which is one of three moons that orbit the planet Noches, the system's namesake. However, the Chapter's forces are stationed on defense facilities within the massive asteroid rings that surround the system itself.

System: Noches

Protectorate: The Quartraghast Nebula, Upper Eastern Fringe

Motto: Crepusculum in caligine. = In twilight shroud.

Colours (hexcode) :

- #59003e Ford Purple

- #0d407f Citadel Macragge Blue

- #ffecc1 Bleached Bone