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vyzz-undercover · 2 months ago

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[Squad Damocles/f!serf]

(11,000 words) (OOPSIEEEE MAXED IT AGAIN)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•intercourse [M/M/M/F]

•oral sex (m & f receiving)

•discussions on the codex

•discussions on reproduction

•essentially a bukkake

•vaginal fingering

•dubcon (via power imbalance)

•definitely size kink

•mild fear elements

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i live despite god, cato chapter 6 will be coming soonish ANYWAYS PSPSPSPSPSP heeeeere kitties kitties!!!! @moodymisty, @mothiir, @sinistermojo, @kit-williams, @primarisly-marooned, @thevoidscreams, @the-raven-lady, @lemon-russ, @blasphemme, @grimdark-raccoon, @pluvio-tea, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @scriberye, @sinistermojo, @undeaddream, @historitor-bookshelf, @vivacious-hyena, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan. If you want on or off lmk!! I HAVE BAD MEMORY ILY!! ALSO SPECIAL FUCK YOU TO MY DEAR @triassicnautilus WHO IS TO BLAME FOR THIS FIC!!

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It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

Your familial line and ancestors have served the highest echelons of the great Angels for hundreds of years, and yet—of all of your far more worthy, servile kin—you're the first in generations to be sequestered to a new voidship.

It's terrifying.

You're not even sure if you're being demoted in status, because you drift between duties like they hadn't really planned to have you just yet.

When the head serf of the Barge finally has you delegated to a Primaris—it is to Lieutenant Demetrian Titus, of Second Company.

It has been less than a week, now. To say nothing of the fact he hadn't even acknowledge you in his dormitory, at first.

He has made no comment of your presence besides a huff. It's to be expected, as is his right. Your duty is to serve with or without order. But it's certainly not entirely unpleasant being freed of demands —pointedly, he appears to be largely self sufficient. Your new Lord sets his rest attire aside for you, folds sheets to be washed; and, once, brought his cot down from the wall when he saw you struggling at the task.

It takes three days of this for you to notice stern green eyes lingering.

Like most of the Adeptus Astartes who are more often called to active service, there's scant bric-a-brac to be organised in his lodgings.

Perhaps due to the fact that none of the souvenirs of his long service are small in any way.

Much rather, everything your Lord owns is each a hulking testament to his might in war. Like the intricate pauldron hung on the side wall that is the size of your ribcage, and the length of fine red fabric fitted within that which is almost the height of you.

Nonetheless, your Lord begins to try snag your gaze; despite the fact you most often keep your head bowed.

It begins first as you rise to your tippy-toes to dust off the chainsword upon a small outcrop.

It's a tap on his chest armour, that you turn to catch the sound of. Then, when you return with a small crate to stand upon to better reach the shelf, it's a rapt of gauntlet'd fingers on his hip-plating; and a curious focus in his eyes as you spin around to heed the noise.

Lots of little things to coax you to glance at him.

His strange plans pay off, more often than not. It's very difficult to ignore the out of place song of ceramite and steel being drummed against.

This all entertains your Lord, apparently. He doesn't go so far as to laugh or anything, Throne forbid; but he does huff a little from his nose while keeping a neutral, unchanged face. And to that ends, it's difficult to believe a great being as he would stoop to such.

But the Astartes aren't as stalwart every waking hour as the average individual would believe.

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

Nothing more than, 'Good, serf.' when you neatly fold his sheets under the thin mattress and press the wrinkles flat. His voice is a steady lilt, stoic and rugged, and all you can do is nod doltishly.

Then it worsens. It worsens into fully fledged questions, that you shudder and hesitate to answer. At first, it's a stray comment of asking why you have hair still, and that too is a surprise—the serf's on this Battle Barge appear to be clean-shaven on their heads, and yet nothing has been asked of you to undertake such yet.

Then the situation nosedives.

"Where were you stationed, prior to this?" He asks as he's unclad, seated on his cot in a loincloth as you mop.

You haven't dared look at anything more than the skin below his knees as you labour. Even his calves dwarf you, they may as well be one of your thighs.

"I–" you begin, stammering. "I was previously assigned upon the Primarch's Flagship, my Lord."

"Truly? To whom?"

"My mother is indentured to the Chapter Master, as were her parents," you say softly, and clutch the handle tightly.

His brows furrow before asking, "And you were bade sent here? By Lord Calgar, of all people?"

You cock your head, and you aren't sure why his tone is accusative; nor can you parse out the confusion in it. The fact remains your family served on the flagship, the point of who matters not more than simple competence pedigree.

"Nevermind," he sighs, and tips his head down.

You realise you're actively looking at him a bit too late.

He is very handsome, ruggedly so. It is a fact you've viciously tried to repress acknowledging since your assignment to his service—he is as all of his kind is—tall, mighty statue given flesh, built for warring on a million worlds and excelling at such a leviathan task; yet there's a softness to your Lord in the warm, yellow-red candlelight not afforded to him under the harsh hallways lumens.

His chin is darkened with light stubble, and his usually sternly knitted brows are steadily becoming calm and flat. The harsh lines on his face aren't at all as unnerving when they're countered by the thoughtful expression he now wears.

"I believe you may be a sort of gift from him," he supplies dryly.

"A gift, m-my Lord?" You stutter, unseated by the hulking, unclad form of the Primaris Lieutenant so close.

"Titus," he corrects softly, leaning in; and the room is a little less frigid with him practically breathing on you.

"My Lord T-Titus," you adjust, and he snorts good-humouredly.

"Close, but not quite," he tuts, "You may call me Titus."

You lower your head nervously, keeping your gaze down; ultimately receiving an eyeful of his large chest and navel. The scars littering his flesh are a hodgepodge of livid cicatrix, old tissue, and the healed over pitted marks of bullet holes. He has a light dusting of hair across the span of his pectorals, patchy with the aforementioned damage.

Then it deepens to a darker, coarser shade down his dense abdomen, arrowing lower, and lower and—

"Calgar's privy to much," he chuffs, then reaches a large hand up and you're greeted to the sound of a palm scrubbing against stubble. "My predilections, too... worryingly."

You hesitate, completely bemused by the admission—you have no clue what your Lord is talking about. Point of fact, there's a need to reply hanging in your heart; but you stifle it down.

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

There's a fey, strangled sort of anchor in his voice as he says, "Is it a stretch to say you've been with an Astartes before?"

You cock your head again, "I have served my whole life, my Lord Titus, I assure you that I am—"

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

You hesitate, and feel very real fear seize your mind as you speak, "I-I—If you mean intercourse, such has not been sanctioned for me, m-my Lord."

He stares at you with a deep contemplation, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest at the lie of omission.

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

Swallowing around the dryness in your throat once more you mumble, "Once, m-my Lord."

"We are evenly matched in that contest, then."

Eyeing the Lieutenant in place of further responding offers you little respite from the heat and panic boiling in your veins.

"If it's to your liking," he starts, "I could indulge you?"

You blink, "My Lord?"

"I'm not going to see you punished should you decline me," he says with that same terribly earnest tone, "I'd only ask you not to speak of this proposition occurring with any others."

There is something in the way the he speaks, the way his voice slips lower, into rougher and barer territories that vaguely resemble what you imagine your Lord might've-been propositioning you as a mortal man that is utterly staggering. It isn't even about what he is saying—it's more about how he is saying it.

The naked urgency is strange, and you're terrified and entranced all in one.

He pats what little space on the side of the cot his bulk doesn't consume and you take a half step before freezing on instinct.

He repeats the gesture and you drag your feet, cautiously approaching before perching yourself beside him and being swallowed by his seated form in the candle-light's shade.

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

Your Lord seems to recognise the worry and lowers it a little, only to leave it hovering over your tunic'd leg.

You imagine the great Angel sees you as some shivering wet animal at his mercy, somewhat. You eye his huge hand nervously but ultimately sigh out your nerves and relax a little.

If this was a test of some sort, surely the guillotine would have fallen by now—not that the thought eases you in any way.

His hand tentatively settles on your thigh, and you're shocked at the sheer heaviness of the thing. It's a pressure all it's own, and so heated that you're hyperaware of the warmth suffusing through your garb onto your skin.

It drags up, ever so slowly, and you inhale shakily—stunned by the strength in just one hand most definitely being more than you have in your entire body.

You feel like you should be squirming with the thrill of the gesture, moving against that huge limb; but are too frozen by the gravity of the situation to act.

"I will need an actual answer, however," he remarks belatedly, smoothing his calloused palm back down your thigh.

A cold, wild animal horror sinks in beside something wretchedly simmering as you dither, finally replying with, "I-I would, should you wish it, my Lord."

"Titus," He raises a dark, scarred eyebrow lazily, correcting you once again with a light sigh, "Calgar has schooled you on your manners a bit too well, it seems."

You frown, at shameful odds with maintaining discipline despite your Lord's repeated protest, and avert your eyes again. Trying to play off the shiver his voice so close inspires in your spine.

A choked grunt escapes him not long after and you meet his gaze haphazardly.

Only to be met by an uncanny sight, and heavy, clogged-engine laughter.

Your Lord's lips have skinned back over his teeth at you in a large grin. Charming as the gesture should be, it is certainly not something a fellow baseline would call a particularly friendly expression—maybe due to the fact it felt strange seeing so much emotion at once from him. It looks more akin to a beast in human skin baring it's fangs, and just as animalistic. The back of your brain screams there's a threat of being mauled.

It is a somewhat fey thing to witness, despite the fact it appears to be a genuine display of mirth. And when it falls away to a closed smile, it's much better to behold—the age lines on his face crinkle just right to make him just that little bit more attractive.

"We'll get there," he chuckles. "But first, you will need to be stretched."

That sounds painfully ominous.

You scowl a little in confusion and parrot the word, "...stretched?" back at him in an almost unconsciously quiet voice.

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

The breath you take in is almost choked with hind-brain panic, mind crafting a series of impossible sizes—crushing and rending, turning your insides to paste. Worse than the time you'd seen a servitor veer into the pulleys of the lift platforms.

"Move further up on the cot," he huffs,

You oblige, and slide back a little; ruining your earlier efforts of fussing with his sheets.

He lifts himself off the cot, kneeling, and breathes in solemnly; his face pinched a tad.

"Settle," comes the Lieutenant's affirmation, "I'll make sure you're unharmed... now, if you allow me see what I'm to be working with?"

You nod shakily, and the massive hand previously upon your thigh splays you out. His other joins it on the converse and mimics the gesture, spreading you.

He shuffles closer to the cot's edge on his knees and chuffs, "Lean back, and put your legs up on me."

Stuffily, you obey, resting your calves on his broad back as you sidle astride his head.

"Very good," your Lord hums; and Holy Terra, you can hardly believe that you're feeling his warm breath dance across your skin. You have a feeling of what he's planning to do, it's unfathomable—nor can you bear to watch one of the great Angels do this.

One of his huge hands cups your hip as he hikes up your tunic's hem to keep you still, nudging it up, and up, until you realise he's trying to coax you into disrobing—to which you oblige with a flustered timidity.

Emperor have mercy, you can't fathom the looming act, and it's consequence—so with scant preamble, you quickly cover your face with both palms.

What a wretched day to've forsaken briefs in favour of a longer garb. Now, you're stuck stark naked on the Angel's bed, and you can feel he's—he's kneading your waist, then squeezing your hip—you're so beyond forsaken it's laughable. You're doomed. But your insides are twitching at the contact, and the feeling of his worn palm taking a moment to grope your thigh has your nerves aflame with anticipation. What a great shame to have brought an Astartes so low, to have him disgrace himself in—oh, no.

A wide band of slick muscle drags upward, and the sensation is nigh ecstasy. The heat of his mouth is divine, and—and rolling against your clit.

Your Lord rumbles contentedly when your legs jump and you almost choke trying to hold back a ragged, stunned moan.

His huge tongue worms into you, big nose jammed against your clit; his mouth several times larger than your own forced to practically eat at your cunt—going at you with an almost desperate eagerness before raking up again and humming against your tender little nub.

"Are you aware you're in season?" He says, still smothering himself to your sex, and it is so offhanded it's jarring; like a finger stuck in a door hinge.

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

He steals another greedy lick of your entrance, "I already knew by how you smelt—but I can taste it too," he notes smoothly, and laps at you again.

Your Lord pulls away and you grow enough backbone to glance between your fingers. He has a blank look on his stern face, pupils blown out, rolling his tongue around his mouth before he apparently frees himself from whatever haze overtook him.

His chin and chops are wetted with clear, slimy lubricant—your slick—and he takes a deep breath.

It's a little mind boggling seeing his other hand rise up from beyond your view. Why is it already glistening slightly? Had he been...? Surely not, surely...

"Your turn with this, I suppose," comes the straightforward, depraved confirmation of your suspicions.

The hold already on your side turns into a vice; and then there's massive digits tracing your entrance.

"It's alright," he rasps, "It's only two."

—then you're crammed full of a Primaris' ring and middle finger.

The sheer size of just that alone is insane, but most of all, it's brilliant. And yet, somehow everything gets even better.

Your Lord's mouth claims its' place back on your clit and sucks.

A garbled whine, and the bliss has you shaking like a leaf.

His fingers stretch your walls as he scissors them out, only to curl in sharp, precise motions; as if your cunt is some weapon he's searching for the trigger mechanism inside of.

Wound too tight, it all comes to an embarrassingly quick end with you letting out a ragged sob, bucking sharply in surprise. Absolutely stunned into orgasm as your core muscles cinch up, keening.

Unfortunately, set on his goal, your Lord does not let up immediately—holding fast and unmoving—and is only disengaged when, cotton-mouthed to words by overstimulation, you blindly flail, stamping your heels into the massive span of his upper back.

He looks a little confused as he releases you, as if he'd been in some sort of trance again.

Blinking a few times and righting himself, he clears his throat, "We should... learn to coordinate that better," he admits, his voice a little rougher, "Tap three times to stop. Two to slow. Once to continue."

There's a short lapse of speaking after that as you ogle his face lingering between your thighs; until you abruptly realise he's waiting for your answer.

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

A big, dark brow raises, "I believe you're simply misbehaving, now."

Your stomach leadens as panic sinks its' claws into you and with a blubbering whine you stammer, "N-No, no... please, my Lord—I mean, my Lord Titus, I-I am not, I swear—"

"It's only a joke," he huffs, and his dark brows arch down a hint in a somewhat sympathetic manner. "Do... do I really frighten you that much?"

You swallow harshly and stutter, "I-I-I—I am a serf, my duty is humility."

It's not the right answer, that much is obvious. It's strange to say that some sort of childish disappointment passes over his features.

"You'll settle in time," he says softly, more like a prayer than anything.

His hands manoeuvre you onto your belly, so your ass is poised high at the edge of the cot for easy access.

Your Lord is tall enough to mount you on his knees like this, and it's clear that's his intent when a thick cock slides experimentally between your thighs.

You try to look behind you to see just how big a thing is to be rammed into you—but he clicks his tongue like you're some unruly little creature, and that's all the discipline you need to be dissuaded.

"You'll only spook yourself," he sighs lowly.

A fat, rounded tip prods at your entrance, wet and hot.

"I'll be gentle as I can," he continues.

You strain to fit even that, and then the burning starts.

Your Lord groans, his hips hitching forward in little motions as you shake, fighting to keep yourself presented on steady knees for him as he presses deeper.

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

"Breath," your Lor—Titus urges, sounding strained himself, "Breath."

You squirm, and there's a burning at your rim as he pushes a little deeper; it's a painful reminder of your own lacking size compared to him.

"Almost there," he all but growls, then you hear him raggedly ask, "How... how are you faring?" but you're nowhere near up to the task of responding.

Still, attempting to be dutiful, you try—and all that comes out is a seizing gasp.

You are far too preoccupied with twitching on the scalding slab of Primaris currently giving your insides a stern word to manage a sentence.

In your panic, you manage to smack some part of him twice, even if you have no idea what you're hitting—dragging your hand across wall-sturdy muscle.

Titus stills.

You freeze in fear, waiting for a reprimanding that never comes.

He takes a deep breath in and grits out, "It's alright, it's a difficult fit," to which you whine dumbly, and Titus continues, "I am... larger, than I once was," he says softly, pausing to groan when a shudder sends you squeezing on him, "You're still taking me very well."

He is large, that is true; but he's also warm. So terribly warm, he's almost fever-hot inside of you.

The pain abates in the interim as the pleasure of you steadily acclimatising replaces it, and slowly, you ever so carefully tap him once to continue.

Titus shimmies and you squeal at the burr of electric sensation that makes your mind melt for a half-second, only for your ass to coincidentally scud backwards into his hips with a sticky plap.

You're struck daft when a sudden shrill of lightning sparks up your spine as you feel him bottom out at last, hitting your cervix, blinding you for a heartbeat.

You whine loudly at the sensation.

"All in," he rasps, breathing harshly as he rocks his hips to keep you pliant. "You've done it, hush... it's all inside, little one."

Your cunt's tingling around every inch of him, clenching down—trying desperately to decide wether to buck back against him or scramble off and run for your life. You doubt you could manage the latter. Despite his strange insistence on altruism, there's no way you'd have the nerve to deny the great Angel, lest the Emperor Himself punishes you for it. But you're surely not about to complain about the situation when you're enjoying it so thoroughly.

It's dazzling having him so deep, it feels more akin to being impaled than simply filled.

His balls sit snug against your vulva, heavy against your clit; and you moan—rolling your hips back against his in a moment of delirious bliss.

Titus groans appreciatively, and you strain to tip your head into the big hand petting you while your chin is tucked into the crease of his elbow.

"You're tough for such a small thing," he begins with an airy huff of satisfaction, "I was stunned the last time I managed to fit in a baseline..." he hums, then apparently something seizes his humours and he grumbles, "...let alone now after crossing the Rubicon."

His voice rumbles in his chest where it's pressed to your back, like the purring, hardworking systems of some mighty machine spirit. But the strain behind his cadence plays havoc with your mind, and the sinking realisation you've got him hilted inside your truly takes root.

Your thighs shake, and the room feels stuffier—he feels impossibly closer, and your body is boiling despite the cold press of armour interface ports against your skin as he thrusts back and forth; to say nothing of the fingers fussing your hair out of your face—he's–he's so agonisingly tender.

"Are you finishing on me?" You hear him say, but you honestly cannot even tell if you're cumming because everything is a buzzing lurch of cramping electricity. "Good, that's... very good. Throne, you're—"

You're barely cognisant of him straining forward to a stop; but your body judders with satisfaction, and the rest of his words melt together in your ears into an insensible baritone as you struggle through dazzling ecstasy. It steals the air out of you, nigh agonising bliss sharp and rising from your belly—scrambling at the huge forearms now keeping you in place while he continues fucking into you, weakly crying.

When you return to having a functioning body, you're hyperventilating; and leaving a smear of drool across the interior of Titus' elbow.

Slowly becoming audibly cognisant beyond just the ringing in your head to the wet slapping sound of him chasing his own end in your cunt.

"You'll... you'll have to forgive me for being a little quick, on the first... round," he rumbles against your ear, panting as he nails you right through your afterglow. "It's been... so long, since..."

Titus doesn't even manage to finish his sentence. Instead, he snarls out a low, subharmonic sound and his hips slam forward into you. He's bending you up underneath him; forcing you to let him stuff himself to the base. You feel his balls sandwich against you, and you hear the sopping wet squish of him bottoming out.

His cock throbs inside you, and you're left warbling a dazed whine rife with pleasure addled pain at the sudden roughness.

Hot spend fills you and you keen, acutely aware of it spilling over and dripping out between.

The sensation of having it so deep and yet still too much to contain is playing havoc with your hindbrain, and in that fucked-out state you exhaustedly rock your hips.

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

"Careful, careful..." He grits out, panting as his hand draws a smooth, comforting line down the side of your leg before he manages, "You'll get more, just... give me a moment. I promise you, there's plenty where—"

You hear the sound of steel parting, and the white lights of the corridor near blind you.

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

You sober nigh instantly as your stomach proverbially drops to the floor, and your head snaps to the doorway shutting behind the form of a tall, darker Primaris.

"Brother," he receives in answer, "What are you doing?"

"Entertaining... a guest," Titus clears his throat against your ear and tips his head back a little, leaving you clearly shaking in mortification.

He still graciously keeps his body covering yours, and you try to hide under the mass of it.

"I was not aware this sort of entertainment was sanctioned," the other Primaris says, taking a deep inhale and making a strange face—hold on, you–you know this Astartes. You had served in his arming staff temporarily for a day while your judicator had been shuffling positions to keep you busy on the Barge prior to your Lord's arrival and your assignment. You remember the first letter. It was a C—perhaps Cato? No, it began with a digraph—like the end of the word stomach. Chrysion? No, no—it's Chairon—his name is Chairon.

"I ask only that you don't involve the Chaplain," Lord Titus groans, seemingly exasperated. "Just petition the Chapter Master and be done with—"

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

Titus' breath catches, "...no?"

"I want to understand why," he receives in answer, snorting a bit before taking another gulp of air and making the same strange face.

A long, tense silence—and you ought to be terrified and flee, but you can't do much more than squirm weakly on the fat cock stock stiff against your cervix. He still hasn't gone soft, why hasn't he gone soft? Is–Is this what he meant by first round? The frightening stamina of an Astartes in battle is one thing, but it extends even to this? How many rounds have you signed yourself up for?

Chairon harrumphs, "I've never heard of this sort of thing happening, so I want to understand."

Titus huffs hard through his nose like a sort of equine and regards his battle-brother with a knowing tone, "You want a turn then, I assume?"

"If you're willing to allow it," Chairon answers, then looks to you. "And if she's up to the task of two."

You hear Titus hum lowly, and then he gently—ever so gently—cups your chin and tips your head up to see his face.

"Are you?" He rasps, "We'll be mindful not to harm you, should you... accept, such a task."

It's painfully difficult to even think about denying Titus when his big, pupil-blown green eyes meet your own. Your insides ache where he's still buried, but nonetheless some brainless, whorish urgency sends you swallowing harshly and nodding, "Y-Yes, my Lord."

"Go on," Titus chuffs, clicking his tongue at Chairon as a gesture to sit.

Chairon lowers himself down on the thin mattress with one leg off the side of the cot and the other tented up on it, thighs spread.

"I ought to pull out, now."

"No," Chairon huffs, "Not yet, I have an idea."

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

You blanch, and the urge to curl up and simply die nearly overcomes you. You're still—you're still full of your Lord, in every sense of the word, what more can you fit?

Chairon slides himself a little closer until you're practically nosing at his loincloth.

A big hand tilts your chin up and stuffs a thumb between your surprise-parted maw, depressing your tongue.

"You have very pretty lips," Chairon hums as his metal hand pulls his garments away for you.

With a little pressure, you're being guided close to his mostly flaccid cock like a fish by the hook. Then his thumb leaves your mouth and you glare at the length presented to you.

You look up at Chairon's face next, and he raises a brow. So, in turn, you press a soft kiss to the side of his shaft; watching intently when he inhales sharply at the act, pursing his lips for a second.

Then he smiles.

He has a smile that makes you want to melt despite the fact he's an Astartes. It's warm, and suits his fuller cheeks—it's more personable in appearance than you would ever admit aloud out of shame.

You fluster and glance down, taking the head of him into your mouth. He's still huge, regardless of the fact he's mostly half-soft.

Your reward is a thoughtful hum, and a big hand petting your head.

"Lieutenant, do you wish to continue...?"

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

You're being driven into anew, whining around the steadily hardening member in your mouth and time, for a moment, loses it's bearing. All your mind can bother to focus on is red hot pleasure and heat on your tongue, your own airy, cock-stifled sounds and two syncopated sets of groans and grunts.

"Her mouth's nice and warm," you hear Chairon moan above you.

There's no stall to Titus' pace of thrust as he pants, "I wouldn't know."

"Care to try?"

You have no idea how long you've simply been content in having them both sink in you, but you suddenly return to awareness when you hear Titus' curt, "Gladly."

Then you're suddenly being manhandled like a doll, the cock in you slips out with a pop—as does the one in your mouth—and the room spins as they lift you and change.

You groan in confusion, and paw for the familiar figure now afore you, glancing up.

Titus' hand combs through your hair softly and he chuffs that strange subvocal sound that makes you entranced for a moment.

"Deep breath," your Lord says, and then to your surprise—Chairon's cock presses into you.

It's actually largely easy to take, after having had Titus in you for so long. Chairon's is not as thick as to send you aching, yes, he's big of course, but it's a perfect, pleasurable size inside—and judging by Titus' length now a few inches from your face, it makes sense why he needed to stretch you.

It's practically a bottle of wine, how on Terra did you manage to—

Your thoughts wither as you're forced to moan heartily; namely due to Chairon bottoming out and settling against your cervix.

He moans back, and a huge, warm hand strokes down your spine, heat thudding in your face at the sheer show that he's enjoying you.

Then you're yelping, and something bitterly chilled is on your flesh, sending goosebumps arcing up your back as you flinch.

"Are you alright?" Chairon starts abruptly, and you groan at the freezing steel now pawing at your side.

Titus scowls as he finds the issue before you can voice it, "I think it's your augmentic."

"Really?" Chairon tuts, and leans down to ask, "Is there something the matter with my hand?"

It's clearly a lighthearted accusation, but you haven't been properly subjected to this sort of teasing by a Primaris until today, and you whine.

"It's—it's c-cold," You stutter, and nose against Titus' thigh for comfort; a little uneasy by the confrontation.

Chairon pouts, "I'll keep it's use to a minimum, then."

You swoon at the meagre kindness, and feel your already scalding face boil over as excitement rises.

Titus simpers down at you and remarks, "Is that to your liking?"

You nod and seek a closer hold on his leg for leverage, squirming a little before settling. Your cheek rests against the high point of Titus' thick leg—every so often able to sneak a lick of him.

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

The cock in you jerks when the hulking Primaris inside you laughs.

"She smells it, too," Chairon coos, "Don't you, sweet little thing? You smell like you're practically sugared."

You whine needily at the words, Titus' huge cock plastered against your cheek as you leer forward desperately and lap pre-cum from the tip.

"Because she's currently mid-cycle," Titus says flatly. "Her hormones are trying to convince you to breed with her."

Chairon hums thoughtfully, "Fortunate for her that we are, then—still, I'm glad to know that's what that is."

Titus pets you as you continue licking him, one hand carefully managing your hair as the other holds his length to better allow you getting it in your mouth.

Chairon bottoms out again and your body shakes, a trying whine escaping around the cock on your tongue as you relish the sensation.

"You're doing well," Titus rasps out at you, hips making small circles that let him dip into your mouth in short pumps.

Your reaction is wantonly pathetic, if you're completely honest with yourself.

It's a desperate, nasally whimper and a sudden eagerness to please that sends you letting his cock-head bump your epiglottis. Holding for a second despite the ache of your jaw and swallowing before inching yourself away; sputtering a little and moving the heavy swell of his member to warm your tongue instead, sucking on him.

Titus groans in approval, and his hand pets just that much more; earning a sigh when you try stuffing more of him in your mouth again.

Chairon's thrusts steady as he simply takes his time, pacing himself; it's all the better to give your Lord Titus a nice, wanting hole to fuck at his own pace.

"I completely understand... why you were doing this, now," Chairon hums, his pelvis skewing with a slight jerk.

All pretence of steadiness are banished as he starts grinding downward into you, causing a wave of hypersensitivity to stagger you daft.

You clench down hard with a flinch of surprise. Pleasure swelling out of the blue to a crescendo, tipping you over the edge only moments later. The roll of your orgasm ripping through you has your legs locking stiff for a moment, your internal muscles tensing on the intrusion.

Chairon inhales sharply, holding himself perfectly still as your insides cinch down hard around him erratically.

It's certainly not the only finishing happening though, because the cock in your mouth is suddenly painting the inside of your mouth and gullet as you hastily try swallow it down.

Your hear Titus hiss, and the hand in your hair tightens when his thighs start shuddering through heavy throbs of spend.

It feels for a moment as if it's going to come out of your nose there's so much. What doesn't go down your throat definitely tastes wholly unpleasant, but the resumed affections nullify any complaints you have.

You cough and carry on a little at the rapid succession of events and hide your face in Titus's lap again; half-consciously licking your spend stained chops where hopefully neither of them can see.

"My... apologies," Titus is still panting as he says, "I... I should have warned you."

A soft whine is all you can offer.

"Are you well?" Titus asks, tone a little ragged.

You practically shiver around Chairon's cock, and the sound you let out is long-suffering, but not enough.

His voice turns serious, "I need an answer."

A moan flees your throat, "Less—less than before, m-my Lord," you whimper, breathing hard, "But, I'm okay, I'm—n-ngh... not injured."

The grunt he makes in return is an amicable noise, and Chairon seizes your hips with his flesh hand. Lifting you to line up better with his rutting, trying valiantly to ease the pressure.

Oh, that's so much better on your internal walls—the pressure is bliss, and everything is warm and fuzzy and soft; you shut your eyes, moaning—and then you hear the familiar thunk-thunk-click-vshhh of the door opening.

"Titus, you've returned! I'm so glad to hear of your—" a voice starts, then rightly hesitates.

The silence is deafening.

"Chairon?" the blonde Primaris barks suddenly, "What... what are you... what is the serf...?"

You hear Chairon blubber for a moment before laughing in astonished horror, "I'm not even going to try explaining this."

"Gadriel, this is perhaps not a good time," Titus sighs.

The blonde Pri—Gadriel, looks at what little he can of you past your Lord's form and sneers.

The expression only deepens as he scowls, "What are you both doing?"

Chairon lets out a long, trying breath and you feel him lean back a little, yet still remaining inside you as he says, "At least let the door shut before you set about interrogating us, Sergeant."

Gadriel blinks and takes a step in, and promptly sets about putting himself in the furthest corner from the spectacle as possible.

"It reeks of molasses in here," the Sergeant huffs.

Chairon harrumphs, a little strained, "We have been at her a while..." then the attention turns on you, "...she's enjoying herself."

"And that's what the stink is?"

"That," Titus answers, "And seminal fluids."

"To what ends?" Gadriel grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Procreation?"

"There's no restrictions on it in the Codex, believe me."

The look on the Sergeant's face is somewhere between intrigue and confusion, "I've never even heard of it happening."

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

"I wouldn't have guessed before either," Chairon scoffs.

"From time to time the odd one of us engages in it," your Lord digresses over them both, "But it's under absolute discretion."

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

Gadriel pouts, "I think I'll stand by, for a while, Lieutenant."

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

It's distantly amusing watching the trio of great Angels bicker like baseline teenagers.

You might've even dared to laugh at the sheer absurdity, if not for the fact the instant you're about to start you're promptly being fucked stupid again—a heady plap, plap, plap of balls against your vulva and pelvis against your rear.

You try to hide your face in Titus's warm lap, but you're still visible to them all and it's mortifying. Squirming on the heated drag of a cock in you with nothing to shield the fact you're loving every second of it, you toss your gaze aside and accidentally meet the Sergeant's.

He's—he's definitely standing by, and he's certainly watching.

There's a growing redness on his patrician face that proves he's aware of the lewdness of the situation.

"How does it..." Gadriel starts, only to hesitate; failing to feign only vague interest. "How does it feel?"

"Warm and wet... and tight," Chairon rasps, and strokes a huge hand down your back.

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

"Especially when you..." Chairon bucks forward, bottoming out and stealing a gasp from you as your cunt shivers around the sudden effort.

Gadriel's gaze half-lids with the distraction of the sound.

He shifts his weight between his feet irritably, and you can—on some strange level—tell you've got yourself into a looming predicament.

Three. You're to take three Primaris, sooner or later.

Evidently all the so-called inhuman warriors need to return to baser wants and lusts is an example and free reign.

"Where did you even get her?" Gadriel asks, and takes a step closer, keenly looking at your face as you drool on Titus' lap.

Too many eyes on you at your most vulnerable sends flustering, even if your cheeks blaze at the thought.

"I second that," Charion huffs out a wry, short laugh and pets you again, "Where, Lieutenant?"

You whine in embarrassment, insides clenching—there's an infinite torment to the moniker that sends your heart into your throat with lust so wanton you can hardly bare it.

"Lord Calgar apparently knows my tastes all too well," he says lowly above you.

His hand outstretches and cups the whole side of your head including your cheek in one huge palm.

You can't bring yourself to stifle the urge to moan at that, and lean into your Lord Titus' touch like a lovesick dog. "I'll make sure you're not hurt, hm?" Titus rasps, then, to your dismay, decides he's to extricate himself for the time being and starts to scud off the cot.

"Your turn, Gadriel," Chairon huffs at the Sergeant.

You can't really say how quickly he sets about swapping himself in place of your Lord Titus in front of you, because for some reason you blink and the Sergeant is there.

Quite frankly, you weren't sure how long you'd even blinked for. You might have dozed off for a few seconds as far as you're aware.

The cock in front of you is long, smooth, and pretty; with a thatch of dirty blonde hair. Which seems to match it's owner to a fair sum, and it's also already hard. Which is somewhat surprising, given the fact you'd had to mouth at—

"Get on with it, serf," Gadriel says with a stiff jaw; and sits a little more forward, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Big, sturdy quads that would surely be a perfect temporary cushion to rest against.

His cock's heavy with blood and leaning leftward, and you lap at the side—dragging your lips from the base lined by dark blonde hair to the flushed, leaking tip.

You slowly start pumping him with a small hand in a steady jerking motion as you keep the tip of his cock on your tongue.

"Not so bad, then?" Chairon ruts forward, and the push coaxes you to take the Sergeant into your maw.

"Not so bad," Gadriel groans, and a large hand cards across your scalp to fist rudimentary reins out of your hair.

He lets out a choked noise, hips jerking forward in shallow movements in time with the bobbing of your mouth.

It's too large of a thing to even manage more than a few inches, and when the Primaris currently hilted in your cunt decides he's simply got to start grinding himself against your cervix, you're nigh slack jawed on the cock in your mouth.

Big thighs judder beneath you as you let too much too far in all at once, and Gadriel makes a sound you only have a split second of sensibility to associate as an Astartes whining. Then you're gagging around him, tears in your eyes—before he rears back a little and angles himself against your soft palate, a hot flush thudding on your face when he sighs appreciatively.

You moan, and then you're being filled again; only this time it's from the back as nigh molten hot spend spills into your cunt.

Chairon makes an almost inaudible groan, subvocal and menacing; and then smoothes a war-calloused palm down your back.

A shiver races up your spine, innately aware of the feeling as Chairon lets his balls drain as deep as he can.

You're dazed and sensitive as he slackens against you, chuffing softly, "That... that was good."

"Let me have a turn," Gadriel huffs at him, to which he's obliged.

Without complaint, Chairon tentatively withdraws, moving you on top of the Sergeant as he settles on his back.

You swallow the excess drool pooling in your mouth, focus fixated on the sheen of sweat on his scarred face; raising yourself a little with a splayed hand resting between his large pectorals.

"Up, serf—" he rushes, and sneaks a hand between you both to hold himself straight, trying to quicken you sliding down onto his cock.

You can't entirely reign in the shrill whine that escapes your throat.

He's—he's a lot.

You slump against his chest and groan impotently into his large pectorals.

He's too long, and gravity is damning you.

It feels as if he's slamming into your diaphragm instead of your uterus.

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

A particularly poorly executed thrust jams into your cervix so hard it makes you yelp, blindly clawing at the Sergeant's forearm twice.

He does not heed it, nor feel it, apparently; and continues rutting, head thrown back, heaving in great gulps of air—using you like a toy.

"Gadriel," you hear Titus interject, "Slow down, she's much smaller than you."

Titus' words sends heady attention rushing south despite yourself, and your insides squeeze around the Sergeant, matching the well-fucked ache that thrums through you.

"Can't, feels... ngh—" He bites out in answer, snorting harshly as the grip on your thighs grows bruising.

It hurts, but your mind is suddenly screaming harder, harder, harder—namely thanks to the fact your clit slams into his huge pelvis on the downstroke.

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

He sits himself up in reaction, with you in tow.

Your vision smears to colours and shapes for a moment and then you're limbless, being made to bounce on his lap.

He's heaving into against your small shoulder, using you to satisfy himself like a free hole to fuck to completion—and by Terra, he's dragging you along to the same place.

It all happens absurdly fast.

Your insides feel swollen and electric, then they're suddenly jerking, finishing with a quick, wet splash—and everything's stickier where the cock inside you sits.

For a second you can't breathe, it's torment.

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

There's a heavy moan afore you, laden with rumbling subvocals—then finally an airy, pitched keen—and you're pressed flush to the Sergeant despite the fact he can hardly fit all in.

He bucks, and tucks his head against you; and you feel a big slick tongue drag across your shoulder as his cock knocks into where your cunt ends again—sending you sobbing against the huge, scarred span of his chest.

Boiling, overfilling spend leaks out between, adding to your Lord's and Chairon's earlier expenditures in your cunt.

"T-Throne... that's—good," Gadriel strains momentarily, shivering as he grits his teeth and rides out his fulfilment.

Tears have blurred your vision again as your mind reels to understand that you've just been fucked to apparent incontinence. You've just had your insides over-screwed and bullied into squirting on a Primaris, Emperor help you.

Apparently, despite your horror—none of them seem to care.

A few droplets stray from your cheeks and land on the Sergeant's skin. He makes a strange, confused chuff before he realises what's happening.

"W-Why...?" Gadriel pants, attempting to gather himself before he adds, "Why are you... crying, serf?"

You sob weakly, face buried against the hulking swell of one of his pectorals.

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

He inhales harshly, lifting you off him weightlessly with a wet, slick sound of you both disconnecting.

Gadriel's eyes glue to the cum sloughing out of you. It's mostly his, currently—and there's a foreboding look of rabid hunger on his face that almost makes you want to shut your legs.

Suddenly, another set of huge hands join the Sergeant's, holding you aloft as Gadriel moves to stand.

The metal of the right is frigid, and the pressure mechanisms are a tad too stiff to be considered gentle; but the other is warm and tender.

You glance up, and find Chairon softly looking down at you; his big brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a muted smile as he says, "He's too rough with you, isn't he, sweet thing?"

Chairon's lovely smile makes you dopey with sudden charm. It's an infectious sort of look, full of doting that makes you ogle him dumbly; trying to reciprocate with a tired, cock-drunk flutter of your lashes.

"You need to be more careful with her," Chairon glances at Gadriel and clicks his tongue before turning back down at you. The discipline seems purely theatrical, though—and that fact is wildly apparent when you hear the Sergeant scoff.

Then, Chairon is tilting his chin down to fuss over you; his wide jaw nudging your temple, nuzzling into you. Your heart jumps, and it's–it's painfully gratifying having a great Angel do such a thing. Even if you're being buttered up before finally being asked; "Do you still want more?"

You strain up to nose against the large Primaris' jaw, panting as you mumble in agreement.

"I believe that's a yes," Titus hums somewhere to the right, and your vision swims as it tries to find him.

Lo and behold, he's leaning against the wall of the small habitation, glaring low on your body over the rim of a water cup.

Chairon makes a similar sound and adjusts his handhold on you to your legs; splaying your thighs, presenting you.

"We've made a mess," he huffs amusedly.

Peering down yourself if absolutely lurid. Given how you're folded slightly, you can see the sticky lines of leaking semi-opaque white smeared down your thighs, and feel seed leak from you.

You can only imagine how egregious it looks from your Lord's perspective.

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

"Can..." he starts abruptly, "Can I have her again?"

Chairon laughs, "You've only just finished, she needs a break."

Gadriel grumbles, but gets distracted when you squirm a little and he says, "I... I could give her a break—" but abruptly hesitates and looks over his shoulder, "—unless you want her now, Lieutenant?"

Titus harrumphs, "I'll have her afterwards."

The Sergeant nods, and looks back at Chairon before asking, "Can you keep her up like this?"

"Only if I get her tongue next," he counters.

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

"You're to be in her cunt twice," he claps back rather swiftly, "Why can't I do the same with her maw?"

Gadriel snorts sourly, "I'm not going to be just yet, I..." he hesitates, "I have a plan."

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

"Just be careful with her," You hear Titus grunt from the sideline, and then—then you're being lifted a little higher, spread a little wider—and the blonde Primaris gets to his knees.

Two big thumbs spread your labia and you squeal, dithering at the fact he's fondling you in your current dishevelled state.

"If her mouth on us is pleasurable, then the converse must be the same..." he mumbles.

A loud, dry humoured, sarcastic huff from Titus is quickly followed by, "Impressive deduction, Gadriel, you've discovered cunnilingus."

Gadriel shoots a petulant pout over his shoulder at his Lieutenant, before your wriggling drags his attention back.

"You want to...?" Chairon hums.

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

"Now, where do I..." the blonde starts almost inaudibly, seemingly more to himself than anything.

Titus takes a ling sip of water before clearing his throat, "There should be a nub at her upper flesh, that's the female equivalent to our glans."

The Sergeant nods, then turns his big blue eyes up to yours.

"Can you show me, serf?"

You whine and chew your bottom lip, "L-Lord?"

"You'll show me, won't you?"

Your mind can't even begin to think to decline nor argue with him. Swallowing your useless shame, you tentatively move your hand and spread your own folds to give him a target.

Your skin is slippery with slick and cum and hard to properly get a hold on, but you manage and he grins.

It's not as vaguely friendly as Chairon's, nor as strangely brutish as your Lord Titus'... but it's still a little unsettling. Even if it's eager.

"Good, serf..." is the last thing he says before wet warmth is practically locked on your clit.

An airy whimper leaves you, and your body jackknifes pointlessly at the sudden acute pleasure.

You shudder bonelessly in Charion's arms, and you're only vaguely aware you're tugging two-handed at Gadriel's hair while you squirm.

His tongue curls against it, rolling in nigh tidal attenuation; making your hamstrings pull taut and shudder lax. He's not as precise in his torments as Titus, but the enthusiasm makes up for it.

Both Chairon's organic hand and mechanised one grip under your thighs, while Gadriel's firmly keep your hips still.

Throne of Terra, you can feel your own heartbeat reverberating through you against his tongue.

Your fingers dig into his scalp but it just makes him lap just that little bit faster, only for him to discover that sucking makes you cry out. Your abdominal muscles start to hurt at the strain of your body being tormented while reaching down to tug, as do your hips from being so wide.

Your left's fingers find cold metal instead of hair in a mindless haze and you hiss, and try to find a hold.

Gadriel's suddenly open-mouthed against your cunt, keening with a groan.

His scarred chin is saturated with cum and slick, and he's bright red across the belt of his cheeks and sloping nose; he looks dazed periodically, like a slavering hound going at it's cut of meat.

One hand moves from your hips, and a finger prods at your perineum—then jabs you in the arse entirely on accident.

To your surprise, there's enough of his semen coating you that half of it slides in with lubricated ease; still, you yelp loudly.

It burns almost as much as it stings and the stretch of just his finger is maddening, but it starts to disappear in an instant when he licks your clit again.

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

"I..." Gadriel pants, huffing in bemusement as he licks his lips and pulls away from your cunt. "I only put a finger in?"

Titus groans and claps a palm to his own forehead, "In the wrong hole, Gadriel."

The blonde pouts, looking up to Chairon with open confusion, "Should... should I pull it out?"

Even squirming with a Primaris' ring finger up your ass, it's surreal to be treated to the spectacle of them bickering once again.

"It's not my rear," Chairon laughs a little and looks down at you, straining and thudding hot in the face.

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

You manage a quick, "F-Fuh—feels a lil w-weird, m'lord."

"How's this?"

His finger curls inside your guts and by sheer blind luck pokes right into the back of your uterus. There's only a membrane and a thin bit of muscle between the two channels, afterall; and the shiver of surprised bliss that assails you doesn't go unnoticed.

Gadriel's breathing quickens, "Is that better?"

You nod shakily as he repeats the gesture, and then ogles up at you from between your spread legs.

His middle finger suddenly crooks to fit into the hole he intended, and you're overwhelmed at the feeling.

It's a combination you can't even begin to explain, new and odd, but addictive and then you're crying out something—something you're barely even cognisant of saying, a high pitched; "P-Please, please—"

Gadriel all but groans at the words, drawing his fingers out and rearing up to lick your abdomen; trailing his mouth up to one of your breasts and dragging a wide band over one with his tongue before groaning.

Before you can even moan, Gadriel's crowded himself against you and his cock is sloppily pressing back into you.

A sob rackets out of your throat, and your eyes swim in their sockets for an instant. Head thrown back against Chairon's clavicle as you heave in desperate gulps of air.

You're hyper-aware of the two sets of massive hands now holding you in place, and the huge cock sawing in and out of you; kissing your cervix on every thrust. This position is easier on your insides, but not by much. Gadriel is still a fraction too long to manage sheathing himself without your mild discomfort.

Both their eyes are locked upon your face, one pair of brown and one pair of blue—both half-lidded and focused on the surely fucked-out expression you're wearing.

It's pure, utter debauchery; and you paw mindlessly at the Sergeant's pectoral, gasping as he grows more and more frantic.

"She's... she's s-still so tight," he groans.

Chairon laughs lowly, "Never thought you'd be brought so low by something so tiny."

Gadriel's too preoccupied to meaningfully argue beyond curling his lip derisively.

Time blurs into delirious moments of aching and bliss, and Gadriel is much less feral in his pace than the last time—every thrust is easier, as your body begins to learn to take it. Or at least, you're certainly getting there—even if there is probably another agonising orgasm on the dusty blonde's cock.

You're only cognisant of being spoken about when Chairon's smooth voice offers, "Put your thumb on it—"

Gadriel snarls, "I... I know."

You blink, and glance downward, confused—and then you're fighting uselessly against the massive vices holding you open.

A reedy, straining shriek tears from your throat as the Sergeant's finger depresses your clit.

Your struggles make the overwhelming sensation so, so much more intense; and you may as well be getting electrocuted for the abrupt sensation you experience. It's as if you're being doused in ice and steam and promethium in one fell swoop.

They're beasts scenting weakness like blood on the gale in that moment, for all intents and purposes.

Chairon rocks you forward into Gadriel's hips and you're overfull of cock and shaking—dragged insensibly into your finish with another scream.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire as you try to fight the severity of it, mindless to the fact you're clawing at skin that's too invulnerable to even hope to mark.

They force your crest higher and higher, Charon still fucking you into the Sergeant's animalistic rutting, even as you cramp and squeeze helplessly.

Lungs several times larger than your own gust out a rapid series of breaths, and abruptly there's a long moan reaching your ear—and fresh heat in your cunt.

A weak, exhausted moan leaves you as you're carefully relieved of the massive cock inside you and deposited on the cot, on your back—only for Chairon to take his place near your head like he had to begin with.

Except this time you're on your back, and his cock is already at your cheek.

Meanwhile, Titus moves your thighs to bracket his hips as he kneels; sliding himself in place, seating balls-deep.

A whimper tears from you at the heavy sensation of being filled so soon again, and you moan when he slowly pulls out, only to slide back in. The pace is tender but firm, keeping you alert to the stretch but not suffering from it. Your body has had what feels like—and what very well may have been—hours to get used to having an Astarte in it.

You mouth at the side of Chairon's length with a daft sort of hunger; drooling across the blood-fat shaft before tilting your head to let him angle the swollen tip of himself in.

"That's it," he huffs, and pets your cheek.

You can taste your own slick, plus he and Titus' cum, and it's still not an entirely pleasant of a tang on your palate—but the big hand raking soft strokes through your hair riles you to continue.

It's clear he's high-strung after having to help Gadriel with you to no service to himself, and it's all the better to give him that attention.

You're getting tired, but regardless, you offer your tongue to Chairon and try heartily to let him take what he can; and he's more than happy to apparently just use your mouth to keep the head of him nice and warm while he strokes the base of himself.

His breathing starts to stutter as Titus gains pace, and you're actively tipping your head forward into his thrusts to let him stuff more of himself into your mouth.

The thrill of having the two of them panting like beasts is sending you spiralling, bucking your hips up against your Lord's pelvis in time with his thrusts in a sloppy, uncoordinated desperation that he rewards with a moan each time.

You hear Chairon keen, heaving through his nose as his hips jerk forward; groaning heavily as he finally finds his end.

A fat, heated spill of cum on your tongue makes you whine and double down your efforts, swallowing the Primaris' load.

"Hah, there... you go," he grind, teeth gritted and sneering a little.

Chairon pets you again before he runs a thumb across your lips to wipe away the few ropes of his spend that you hadn't managed to wolf down. He promptly sits himself back and continues carefully patting you while Titus manhandles you closer beneath his frame.

You glance down to watch your Lord's cock disappear inside you, pulling free and then sinking back in before repeating the action; eyeing big sturdy hips made for supporting a huge cock.

The Emperor surely is all knowing given his proportioning of His Angels.

But you aren't given a chance to think further on the matter as you're suddenly being folded under Titus.

Squirming, you're deaf to the sounds being driven out of you as you're locked in place by a body infinitely stronger than your own.

You paw at his chest, whimpering nonsense and he groans—and you're all but stunned daft and pliant by what he says in answer.

"That's it, one more... good, very... very good," he pants, fucking just that little bit harder.

You're helpless to your own orgasm, crying openly when it's claws sink into you. It's too much, it's far, far too much and this is as far as you can go—anymore and you feel like you'll dissolve into the cot. And you can't even stop yourself from sobbing your Lord's name as the tide of it nigh smothers you.

"Finally..." He groans loudly and his rhythm deteriorates almost immediately to choppy little bucks—and with a last bit of effort, he keeps you pinned and held down despite your overstimulated squirming and his load is emptied right into your womb like it's always meant to've been there.

Titus keeps you like that for a moment as you barely scrape your sense off the proverbial floor. Legs twitching where hooked over his hips, all the while you cunt's milking him for every drop he's got.

"I think... I think you've had... enough, hm?"

Titus lifts himself away and pops loose of your sore, puffy hole with an audible wet slide and a frothing mix of cum layered on his cock.

A soft groan escapes you as the weight and toll of exhaustion sets in, drowsy and well-fucked almost to the point of limpness.

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

Despite the fact you feel like you're about to pass out, you try valiantly—and get about a forth of the way there, leaning forward while resting back on your elbows as Gadriel takes a seat beside you, with a mug of water precariously filled a bit too high in his huge hand.

Gadriel thrusts the cup close to your face, sending a few drops over the cusp and onto your chest, trailing down a cum splattered chest.

You and he both ogle the water dumbly for a moment in surprise, flickering your gaze between him and it a few times for good measure.

He pouts and his cheeks redden a little as he mumbles, "Drink, serf."

You lap at the side for a second and manage to gulp down a mouthful, swishing it about for a second before swallowing.

You get three more sips as he steadily tilts the cup into your mouth, before he decides you've had enough kindness for the time being and pulls it away.

Titus hums, "Up you get, little one."

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

"There we go," Chairon tuts as he lifts you by the arm as you struggle to stand, supporting you effortlessly.

The care is flattering, even moreso seeing as they've apparently drawn a line in the sand for your apparent usefulness as a seminal dump.

Titus has long since settled back into a kneel again at the side of the cot, petting your thigh like he's trying to calm a skittish stray animal.

He reaches sidelong for the discarded fabric of his loincloth, before promptly deciding it unfit; and reaches for a stray corner of the half sloughed off bedsheet, tearing a large piece away.

You start at the sudden display, half in belated surprise and half in concern for the state of his bed—it's your duty to make sure it's in good keeping foremost, and—

"Hush," your Lord says with a small chuff, "Don't worry about that, just stay still."

Gadriel lowers the cup towards Titus and he dips the edge of it in the water before carefully dragging it across your cheek.

The three of them are very much ogling you, and it's very hard not to dither and fluster at the attention as you're methodically wiped clean. Especially when the cloth dips between your thighs and drags over your abused, sensitive sex, making you whine.

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

You nod sheepishly as your insides cramp, and rub your legs together, accidentally making a show of liquid leaking out of you.

"Poor sweet thing, look at you drip..." Chairon interjects.

You dare a soft, impish smile which your Lord mirrors.

But the comment makes Gadriel almost instantly tilt his head to watch your overfilled cunt weep their combined slurry of cum; to which he decides the best thing to say is, "Shouldn't have bent over for us so easily."

In your weary, near fucked-to-delusion state, the urge to frown sourly like a petulant child supersedes any decorum, and you're met by a husky snort of amusement from your Lord.

"Some of that's yours, Sergeant," Titus remarks dryly.

Chairon begins laughing as Gadriel's face colours a pretty, endearing pink.

#SHARING IS CARING BROTHERS #demetrian titus #warhammer 40k #demetrian titus x reader #ultramarines #sergeant gadriel #warhammer fanfic #sergeant gadriel x reader #chairon x reader #space marine x reader #writing #calgar fr said my bad you got sent to inquisition cringebox heres a creechur that may be to your tastes as an apology #do i think this is happening in the background of cato fic? maybe #would it make it funnier catos stressing? yes.#katya: the whole hallway smells like cuhhhm #reader insert #warhammer 40k x reader #i was gonna write leandros walking in but i JUST COULDNT FIT ITTTTT

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vyzz-undercover · 3 months ago

Text

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

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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.

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