#roboute/reader

[mothiir]

put Cato in the cuck chair

….but this time with sex pollen. I’m sorry for this. Inspired ofc by @moodymisty, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams and all others who have got me into bully boy cato

cw: gangbang, sex pollen, Cato being a sexist prick.

—

—

The first indication you have that the mission has gone very, very wrong is the sight of Roboute sans helmet, cheeks flushed red, blue eyes spangling like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion — he practically barrels into Sicarius’ quarters, where you are mending a tear in an Ultramarine’s undergarment, while Sicarius himself fumes quietly in the corner, clearly still rankling from being excluded from the planet side drop. We need someone to watch the diplomat, Roboute had said, in that tone that brooked no argument. 

The diplomat, Roboute calls you. The lady, the squad say. And yet Cato Sicarius still has no shame whatsoever in calling you the woman — or, when he is especially vexed (and Roboute is not within earshot) the whore. 

Sicarius is on his feet at once. “My lord —?”

The rest of the squad follows in, collapsing into the room like a pack of hounds returned from the chase. One of them yanks his helm off, revealing a face flushed just as Roboute’s, nostrils flared and panting. 

“Daemon,” the young recruit manages, only for one of his brothers to shush him frantically. 

“Died,” another astartes supplies. His helm is already long gone; his sandy hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. His eyes are shining. 

“Yes, died but afterwards —“

”Spores,” manages a third, shucking off his gauntlets. “Father, it is too hot.” The last sentence is directed towards Roboute; it lilts almost into a whine, a sound so incongruous with the marine’s bulk that you may have found it funny, in less dramatic circumstances. “Father it is too hot, and it hurts — “

”Be at ease, Augustus — we will be fine. We will all be fine.”

Roboute moves in a blur of blue. It still shocks you how a man of such bulk can dash with the speed and grace of a hare. He grabs Sicarius by the scruff, and lifts him bodily off the ground, dropping him without ceremony into a chair, pressing a strange gun into his hands. It’s all sharp angles and edges — Eldar make? Sicarius eyes it with deep suspicion. 

“What is —?”

”If things seem to be going too far — if she is in peril of mortal wounds — I want you to shoot us,” says Roboute, his voice low and serious, and yet somehow wrenched. He clasps Sicarius’s face with one hand, pinching his cheeks together. “This is a bio-weapon — it will only effect those with Ultramarine DNA. She’ll be fine, but it will knock the men out and a few shots will slow even myself down. I would rather not use it — I would rather solve this using more old-fashioned means — but I do not want her to perish in such an ignoble way. ”

Sicarius is so rarely at a loss for words. His mouth pops open, apparently to ask something, but he’s silenced when Roboute —

When Roboute kisses him. Hard. On the mouth. Your eyes widen, and Roboute curses, shoving the other marine away. 

“Apologies, Cato — it’s all — it’s a ll a little much at present.”

Roboute turns to you. He has positioned the chair so it is facing the chaise lounge on which you perch, mending in your lap. The furniture here is all too large for you, designed for Space Marine bulk, and you are suddenly, profoundly aware of your own smallness. 

“My Lord,” Sicarius manages. “What was —“

”Slaneeshi daemon. Last minute defence strategy. It — it will wear off eventually, but we need to redirect the urges, lest it tear us apart. Augustus, stop touching Cicero — Cicero, get your hand out of your damn pants. Have some dignity.”

”But you just kissed —“

”Nevermind that, you heard the Primarch get your hands off my arse —“

Three of the squad are directly behind the chaise lounge, slap-fighting with each other as they scramble to remove their armour, dropping it directly onto the floor in a manner that would have a tech-priest weeping at the flagrant disrespect shown to the machine-spirit within. Two others are practically glued to the door, huddled together like lambs, apparently afraid to move, quivering —

Quivering with fear, or with the effort of restraining themselves? Neither are wearing their helmets, and both are staring directly at you with a focus that is damn unnerving. It seems almost — almost hungry —

In another blur of preternatural speed, Roboute is before you, removing the mending from your lap with deliberate care. His smile is somewhat fixed, and doesn’t touch his manic eyes. 

“My lady, when you took this position you swore that you would give your life up for the Ultramarines, and in service of the Emperor,” he says, his voice still rough and low. Normally, the Primarch deliberately pitches his voice a little higher, avoiding his normal voice, which is clearly inhuman, a rumbling bass that speaks of deep lungs and a biology almost as alien to you as the Eldar. 

“Of course. Always.”

”Good. Good. Then I ask this of you as. I would ask my men to go to battle. You are strong, and I know you will endure.”

”I — I’ll do anything, of course I will,” you say, lost in the magnificent glow of his eyes, unable to deny him even if you wanted to. Primarchs are practically hypnotic to their own legions; a baseline human stands no chance. 

“Good girl,” he says, and tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? So willing to please.”

”Father, can I —“

”Primarch gets dibs, shut up —“

You look back again at the bickering astartes, and your heart stutters at the sight: they’re all naked; skin flushed and glossy with sweat. The two by the door have joined their brothers, disrobing with shaking hands. 

“When you said…when you said service,” you say, pieces starting to click into place just a little too late. “Uh —“

”Hush, little one,” Roboute says. “Drink this.”

He shoves a bottle up at your face. You swallow instinctively, and Roboute stares at the movement of your throat, the flex and pull of muscles. It’s tea — you recognise the smell, if not the taste. Relationships between human women and Space Marines are rarely spoken of but by no means rare, and this tea is infamous among certain circles for making thing s a little easier. It’s a variation on an old Ultramarine recipe that aids with childbirth. It eases pain and opens you up.

”There. Good. Swallow that. Swallow it all.”

Roboute, apparently unable to wait any longer, sits beside you and pulls you into his lap. His mouth on yours is eager and demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips, filling your mouth. You close your eyes and kiss back, wondering if this is all a fantastical dream. The Primarch tugs at your dress, pulling it off your shoulders, bearing your breasts, and you hear five astartes moan in harmony. 

No. Not a dream. 

”Hold her —“ Roboute orders, lifting you up, and another astartes gathers you into his arms, his prick rigid against your thigh. He cradles you to his chest, his mouth seeking your nape, his tongue along your jugular. You squirm in his grasp, panting as his hand goes straight between your legs, thick fingers probing along your cunt, only to withdraw. Primarch’s dibs, you realise, and bite back a shrill of hysterical laughter. 

Roboute has rid himself of his own armour, his cock standing up in his lap; you try to eyeball measurements, planting a hand on your stomach. He grabs you back, and replaces your hand with his. 

“You’ll take me, little one. I have faith in you. You’ll take all of us.”

—

—

Cato Sicarius is going to shoot himself. He’s decided — it is the only honourable thing to do. The xenos weapon is cool in his hand, and he caresses the trigger in slow, circular motions that certainly aren’t meant to be echoing the movements of your slender hips. 

You took Roboute up to the hilt with no small amount of effort, puffing and mewling, and growing teary eyed — but his gene-father kept urging you down, cooing about what a good girl you were, what a loyal servant, how well you took him — and, demonstrating once more that the Avenging Son can achieve the impossible, you ended up with the full length of a Primarch in your guts, your belly bulging around him. Your thighs were stretched to their limit as you straddled him, and — lazy thing that you are — you didn’t have the strength to ride him. That did not seem to matter to Gulliman, who simply picked you up and slid you back down, using you like a toy. He started off as slow as possible, but soon abandoned that, jerking his hips up to meet you as he yanked you down again, and again, and again. 

The tears soon broke into full on sobs. Gulliman hushed and soothed you — patently ridiculous, in Sicarius’s opinion, since you were only doing your duty, and no one (least of all a damn woman) should be praised for doing their part for the Emperor’s will — and you tried your best to swallow back your cries, lips swollen and puffy as he kissed you, nipping and sucking at your flesh. Sicarius’s battle brothers flocked closer, clearly wanting to touch but not daring, not yet, instinctively waiting for Roboute to have his fill. 

As Sicarius is counting the threads on the chaise lounge — and only because your moans and whimpers irritate him so, not to distract himself — Roboute finally cums. Your belly is stretched so tightly around him that Sicarius sees the Primarch’s seed slip inside you, pulse after pulse. He wonders what that feels like. How you feel —

No he does not. One hundred and twenty, one hundred and eighteen, two hundred and eighty six —

“Your turn, Augustus,” Roboute pants, and the next battle brother practically yanks you off his gene-father’s prick. Apparently unbothered by the fact that you are leaking Roboute’s seed down your thighs, like the worst kind of degenerate whore, Augustus crams himself inside, taking you as he stands, one hand supporting your arse, the other holding his cock steady as he lets gravity do its work, sinking you onto him. You squeal with astonishment. 

“S’big,” you slur. All a show — he bets you’ve been dreaming of something like this. Dreaming of an excuse to bed your betters, to spread your legs and take them, to do what you are meant to do. No attempts at diplomacy here, no pretence at being more than you are, just spread thighs and a wet, greedy cunt, and a womb to be filled, and filled again. Disgusting. Disgraceful. 

He’s never been so hard in his entire life. 

He bites the inner part of his cheek, to — to try and avoid shouting at you. That’s it. He wants to shout at you, to call you a filthy little slut for tempting his Primarch so. His battle-brothers should be with an apothecary, being treated for the aftermath of their mission, not here, rutting against you like animals. When Augustus finishes — quicker than he intended, judging by the sound of frustration he makes as his balls gather up and he empties himself inside you — Hadrian and Decimus take ahold of you. The two youngest members of the squad could be twins, with hair that shades more to red than blonde, and the pale skin of Ultramar’s northern, rain-soaked wastes.

”Open your mouth,” says Decimus, and you obey, your tiny lips barely enough to cover the head of the astartes’ purple-flushed cock. “Swallow it, swallow me —“

Meanwhile, Hadrian is positioning you on the lounger, mounting you from behind, trying to ensure your mouth can reach his brother’s cock, but his cock can bury himself inside. It’s an endeavour that should be easy, but you make it difficult — as you always, always do — by squirming and whimpering as Hadrian aims for your cunt, slides on the seed his squad mates have left, and almost sinks into your arse instead. You should let him, Sicarius thinks. You should take him in the arse and thank him, you should take him in the arse and thank him, thank you Cato, my lord, thank you, I’m nothing, I’m —

He grips the gun a little tighter. Shifts from cheek to cheek. Tries to think of the least arousing things he can. Tyranid gene organs, tyranid gene organs — the weird goo that pulses out of a Nurgling when you shoot it — his genefather naked, his genefather buried inside you, his cock distending you, your expression fucked-stupid and slack and — 

Not helping. Not helping. Oh, he hates you, hates, you hates you —

“By the throne, that’s good. How are you still so tight?”

Hadrian has managed to penetrate you at least, and you cannot answer his question, even if you had the brains to: Decimus has his cock in your mouth, your jaw stretched so widely that tendons stand out in your neck, your eyes streaming with effort.

”That’s it — swallow, let me in, going to fuck your face,” Decimus promises, and you keen, with eagerness or distress. Maybe both. Sicarius hopes it is both. He hopes you want it, and hate how you want it, and hate how good you feel —

Count the stitches on the chaise lounge. Count the — the tiles on the floor. Count the number of his battle brothers who have cum inside you. With a low, drawn out groan, Hadrian makes three. And then he’s literally dragged away, Cicero taking his place. 

“You’ve made such a mess,” the astartes coos. You can only manage a gargling slurry of sound, Decimus now making good on his promise, one leg folded under him, the other dangling off the crunch to support him as he starts to hump into your throat. “I wonder if you’ll have a child after this — wonder if you’ll give us a nice little recruit —“

Slicking himself up with the spend pulsing out of you, he pushes in, and you arch your back, popping your hips up, making it easier for him. The sight of you submitting — of you presenting — or maybe the thought of you growing fat with child after this revolting display does something to Decimus, who cums in your mouth. Your throat bulges as his seed spills down inside you, but there is too much to swallow, and you hack and cough it up as he pulls out, your chin sticky and white. 

Decimus huffs, almost sulkily. “Don’t cough it up — lick it up. Go on.”

He gathers his own cum on his fingers, and pushes it onto your tongue. You’re too tired to move at first, but something registers, and you start licking his digits clean with swipes of your kitten pink tongue. Sicarius imagines you crawling to his feet, nuzzling your face against his crotch, begging him to give you a taste, just a taste — he would say no, of course, and backhand you across the face for your whorish temerity, but he would not mind the display. 

Titus is the last to take his due, settling himself down in Decimus’ place, stroking your hair, murmuring soft nonsense to you, like he is comforting you. You don’t need comfort, Sicarius wants to snarl, you want a cock in your throat. All the way down there. That’s what he would do, ram himself into your soft palette and keep going, keep going until your gag reflex was just a helpless little flutter around his shaft —

— that’s what he would do if he were a lesser man, that is. If he were — if he were tainted. If he was ordered. Would Gulliman order him to fuck you? Sicarius’ mouth goes dry at the thought. Maybe he would, maybe his Primarch would see you lying there in a pool of ejaculate and realise what Sicarius has known all along: that you aren’t a diplomat but a whore. That you’re more use to the Legion on your back. That you shouldn’t be using your sweet little tongue to convince xenos to co-operate with the cause of the Emperor, but to lick his balls until he came all over your face. 

Yes. If Gulliman ordered it of him he would. He would not be able to defy his Primarch — such a thing would be tantamount to heresy! He would take you from behind, but yank your head up so he could watch your face as he bullied inside. He would fuck you until even Titus realised that soft words were lost on you. He would —

He would try very hard not to cum in his armour like a neophyte as Titus petted your hair, your lips beginning to bleed from the stretch around his cock. Gulliman has returned to the fray, running his hands along your sides, spreading your cheeks to stare at the ruin they’ve no doubt made of your cunt. Maybe he will turn you about, just a little, so Sicarius can see — 

He does not. That’s fine. It’s fine. 

Instead, the Primarch slides a thumb into your arse, working it in and out, as you shift and mew, face boiled red and slick with drool. Titus’ eyes are closed, his head lolling back with pleasure, heedless of his brother’s impatient commentary. 

“Lieutenant, hurry up, I want her mouth again.”

”Father, Titus is hogging her, make him share.”

Roboute smiles indulgently at his men, now with a finger worked inside you. “Titus, if you don’t mind —?”

”Ah — apologies, my lord.” He strokes your hair back from your face, his fingers tracing the outline of his cock in your throat. “I’m going to cum in your mouth, darling. You can swallow it for me, can’t you?” Wide-eyed, and so eager to please, you nod as best you can. Titus starts moving his hips with intent, the wet glucking sounds of your throat audible even over the Ultramarine’s chatter and the obscene squelch of Roboute’s fingers butterflying you open. 

“That’s it — good girl —“

No sooner has he finished then Roboute snatches you up, arranging you once more on his lap — this time, however, starting to sink into a different hole. Your eyes bug with pain. “Lord —“

”Hush, little one. You can take me. And look!”

He gestures over to Sicarius. 

“Kind Sicarius is keeping watch to ensure nothing goes awry — don’t fret, I know that he does not  like you especially, but he does not wish to see his brothers dishonour themselves by killing you so. Isn’t that right, Sicarius? You’ll watch us most carefully — and I do appreciate it. As, I’m sure, does she.”

The Primarch’s burning eyes meet Sicarius’s over your shoulder as he starts once more to inch his way inside, your body struggling to accommodate him. And then — oh, it must be a trick of the light, or some of your witchery, because he swears that Roboute winks at him. 

[solspina]

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

full send no context

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Horus : 8/10

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

Leman Russ : 4/10 (negotiable)

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

Ferrus Manus : 7/10

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

Fulgrim: 6/10

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

Vulkan : 10/10

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

Rogal Dorn : 6/10

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

Roboute Guilliman : 9/10

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

Magnus the Red : 3/10

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

Sanguinius : 10/10

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

Lion El’Jonson : 7/10

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

Perturabo : 6/10

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

Mortarion : 8/10

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

Lorgar : 5/10

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

Jaghatai Khan : 7/10

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

Konrad Curze : 2/10

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

Angron : 4/10

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

Corvus Corax : 4/10

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

Alpharius Omegon : 7/10

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

[moodymisty]

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

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

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

Guilliman could barely contain the sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my primarch. It is just,"

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

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

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

"Will they just keep sleeping?"

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

"Until they're hungry, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When will they need to eat?"

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

"Soon."

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

"...What do they e-"

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

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

[beckyninja]

Rude Awakening

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: Sexual content, MDNI

Description: The Reader sends a long awaited message to her home world, only to receive a very unexpected reply.

Plot, lore, and spice in this one folks! (Also, please excuse the very cliched name I decided to use for the Reader's home world.)

This is a continuation of my Guilliman/Reader series. To read the previous parts, check out my Masterlist.

“Transmitting in one minute, Lady Heir.”

Guilliman watched you sit even straighter than before, if that were possible. You’d changed out of the light, flowing dresses he’d grown accustomed to seeing you in these past months, and back into the corseted gown you’d worn upon your first meeting. Your hair was pulled back into a severe bun, your hands tightly clasped on your lap.

Every sinew in your body radiated tension. He resisted the near overpowering urge to go to your side.

“No, Roboute. If I’m to be seen to be acting independently, in the interests of my world, I can’t sit in your shadow.” You’d leaned against him in the Thunderhawk during the flight to your ship, “No matter how I might wish to.”

When he made it clear he intended to be present for the event, and therefore his Ultramarine guards as well, Captain Takahashi suggested they move the whole operation to the spacecraft hangar. Glancing around, Guilliman understood why.

It had been ages since he’d existed in a space not built with giants in mind. Even the towering ceilings of this hangar seemed somehow claustrophobic after the sheer massiveness of The Macragge’s Honor. And that was not the only difference.

Not a candle in sight.

The air still smelled of fuel and chemicals, but the cloying aroma of incense was absent. Captain Takahashi must have driven her cleaning crew hard, for every surface gleamed clean and starkly bright under the artificial lighting.

It all looked so… new. Even the crew, standing at attention in their clean uniforms.

He heard his Ultramarines shifting in their armor and couldn’t blame them for their unease. The differences in culture and technology between your people and the Imperium had never been so obvious. The clash to come….

Guilliman’s gaze returned to you.

You feel it too, the mounting pressure. If we are to avoid bloodshed, you must walk a razor’s edge.

Again, the urge to go to you. His jaw clenched.

***

Your heart felt as though it was about to beat its way out of your chest. 

Strange, how quickly emotions could change. In the days since confessing your family’s sordid history to Roboute, you’d felt… lighter. Unafraid, for the first time in years. 

When he held you, all your grandmother’s torments and scheming seemed insignificant. You were untouchable. Safe.

The folly of such thoughts crashed upon you as you stared at the transmitter. An entire world’s fate rested on your words, on a diplomatic mission no one thought would succeed. 

A diplomatic mission some had done their best to ensure would not succeed. 

Will Grandmother listen to reason? Will the Grand Council? The Military? The Church? 

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting a rising tide of panic.

Am I leading my people down the path to annihilation?

“Connection established.” The technician’s voice sounded loud in the silence. “Transmitting in ten…”

Light guide me. Protect me against the chaos of the Void.

“...eight…”

Reveal my path and grant me wisdom to protect my people.

“...six…”

Illuminate the minds of those I speak to, that they may see the Truth.

“...four…”

I can’t do this! I can’t!

“...two…”

Your eyes flashed to Roboute. His burning blue gaze met your own. Strength. Courage. Love.

“Transmitting now.”

You lifted your chin and breathed deep. “Honored Matriarch, Grand Council, People of TerraNova, I speak to you today of a new dawn for our people. Six standard months ago, I set out upon a diplomatic mission to propose an alliance with the Imperium of Man.”

Calm settled over you with each word. “I am overjoyed to report the complete success of my mission. Roboute Guilliman, Lord Regent of the Imperium, has accepted our proposal. He has agreed to ensure our continued autonomy in exchange for technology and resources.”

And now for the bombshell.

“To seal this alliance, I have agreed to take the Lord Regent’s hand in marriage.”

***

“... I await your response so that a meeting between the Lord Regent and our beloved Matriarch may be arranged. May the Light, and the Lord of Light, bless the joining of our people. Thank you.”

Guilliman felt pride swell within him as the technician cut the transmission. He strode forward, boots thundering on the metal flooring. 

“You were magnificent, my dear.”

You looked up at him, face pale. “I pray it was enough.”

He reached out a hand, gently taking your tiny fingers in his own, and helped you to your feet. You swayed slightly.

Captain Takahashi appeared at your side, a glass in her hand. “Drink, Lady Heir. You did well.”

Guilliman made eye contact with the Captain as you drank.

She nodded. “I mean it, my Lord. Our leaders will be hard pressed to deny the logic of such a statement.”

He placed a steadying hand on your shoulders. “I have seen diplomats with lifetimes of experience fail to make so compelling an argument.”

“From anyone else,” you murmured, “I’d call that flattery.”

“I am not accustomed to praising the unworthy.”

“I know.” You smiled, face regaining some color, “Still, Void take me! I’m glad that’s over.”

Guilliman chuckled slightly. “How long before we can expect a response?”

Captain Takahashi shook her head. “Hard to say. The message should have been received almost instantaneously, but our leaders will need time to formulate a reply.” She hesitated. “Though, the Matriarch is known for her decisiveness.”

His armored hand tightened on your shoulder at the mention of your grandmother. “I am… eager to meet this woman.”

He sensed your tension returning. “Let us return to The Macragge’s Honor, my dear. We can-”

“Captain!” A shout from the technician drew everyone’s attention. “Incoming communication!”

Captain Takahashi strode to the console. “A recorded transmission?”

“Negative, Ma’am. Live.”

“Oh, Light….” Guilliman watched you wilt once more.

He pulled you against him. “From your homeworld, Captain?”

“We’re too far for a live message.” The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the screens in front of her. “No. This originates from one of our naval vessels.”

“Lord Guilliman.” Sicarius spoke for the first time since entering this ship. “Transmission from The Macragge’s Honor. Long range scanners have picked up contacts exiting the Warp.”

He faced the Ultramarine. “Details.”

“Five ships of similar make to this one. One significantly larger. Numerous smaller vessels. All approaching rapidly.”

From the scowl on Sicarius’s face, Guilliman knew he expected an ambush. “Have we received any attempts at communication?”

“Negative, my Lord.”

“Captain?” The technician looked toward Captain Takahashi. “Do I answer?”

“Yes.”

Guilliman looked down at you in surprise. You reached up and placed your hand over his gauntlet on your shoulder, your expression determined.

“I will answer, Captain Takahashi. Put it on screen.”

A moment of silence, save for the persistent beeping of the console. “Very well, Lady Heir.”

You tried to pull away from his grasp. “Roboute-”

“No.” He walked with you, hand remaining on your shoulder. “This time, we stand together.”

***

You leaned back against Roboute, partly annoyed, partly grateful. In truth, you felt drained. A mere moments ago you’d wanted nothing more than to return to your quarters on the Imperial ship. Quarters that had rapidly begun to feel like “home”. 

No time for further thought before a figure appeared on screen. It was not who you expected.

The angular face. Hair that curled to his shoulders in defiance of every military regulation. Eyes that never seemed to rest in one place for more than a moment. All familiar, except for the red scar bisecting one cheek.

“Victor?!” 

“Hello, cousin. And, ah…,” his eyes moved behind and above you, “Lord Guilliman, I presume?”

The lack of decorum brought a flush of shame to your cheeks. You felt Roboute’s hands tighten ever so slightly on your shoulders.

“Lord Regent, may I introduce Prince Victor, son of-”

“Another prince, who was the son of a Patriarch, who was the husband of our beloved Matriarch, and so on and so forth. Second in line to the throne of TerraNova. Lord of the Fleet, etc.” Your cousin waved his hand dismissively. “Very pretty, very inconsequential titles.”

Void damn him! He hasn’t changed.  

“Victor, this is-”

“Quite possibly the most powerful man in the galaxy, yes I know.” He grinned, the expression twisted by the scar on his cheek. “And your intended! Congratulations, by the way.”

“An unexpected pleasure, Prince.” 

Roboute had once explained his multiple organs to you. Now, you felt him expand his third lung, giving his already deep voice an inhuman resonance that sent shivers across your skin.

Even through the screen, your cousin couldn’t remain unaffected. You felt a tiny thrill of satisfaction at seeing his cocky smile quiver.

“Unexpected for me as well… my lord. My fleet’s interception of my lovely cousin’s message necessitated this intrusion, I’m afraid.”

You stiffened. “The message? Did it-”

“Don’t fret, my dear. I’m sure our beloved Matriarch is frothing at the mouth as we speak. Unfortunately, she no longer has the power to act one way or the other.”

Dread pooled in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that she’s currently a prisoner in her own palace, cousin. Courtesy of the only other living member of our dynasty.” 

“Conrad?” The magnitude of the disaster struck you hard. “Oh, Light.”

“Clear the deck!” Captain Takahashi snapped.

You heard the retreating of many feet, and glanced up toward Roboute. He stared at the screen, mouth set in a grim line. The Ultramarines likewise remained.

“Victor, perhaps a more private-”

“What’s the point, sweet cousin? Your fiance and his…ah…warriors may as well know what kind of mess they’re about to sail into.” 

***

Guilliman could see why you disliked your family.

The nonchalant mockery dripping from every word this boy said, set his teeth on edge. He showed no regard for the devastation his little speech wrought on you, never once used your proper title. And something in the way he looked at you….

“So, there has been a coup.” He didn’t bother to hide the growl in his voice.

“Indeed.” The boy avoided his gaze. “Grandmother and what’s left of her personal forces are holed up in the capital whilst Conrad, bookish little Conrad, and his army lay siege.”

Guilliman felt you sag against him. “The Military?”

“Apparently they think he’ll be easier to control that dear old Granny, or me, for that matter. And they thought you were dead until a few minutes ago. So they’ve made him their figurehead.” He shrugged. “I don’t really even blame Connie, locked away in that monastery for so many years, he never did learn how to think for himself.”

“The Grand Council?”

“Ran off to the Eastern Continent. Putting up a decent fight, actually.”

You seemed to gather yourself. “So there’s still hope. Wait. They thought I was dead?”

“Oh, yes. Grandmother seemed certain of it. Was almost ready to announce it to the people.” A grating laugh. “I can only imagine her expression when your message came through. I know it shocked the Void out of me.”

Guilliman spoke again. “You called yourself ‘Master of the Fleet’. This implies you have control of your world’s naval forces.”

“Those personally loyal to me, yes.”

“Your mercenaries?” You shook your head. “Victor, they’ll turn on you as soon as you can no longer pay them.”

The boy’s expression turned dark. “They’re loyal, little cousin. Ever since I saved their asses from Grandmother’s order of execution. You can count on that.”

Guilliman didn’t care for his tone. “What are your intentions here, prince?”

He ignored him, darting eyes settling on you. “You need to come home, cousin. Immediately. With me. The people are confused and divided.”

“We need to present a united front.” You nodded slowly.

Guilliman tightened his grip on your shoulders.

“You always were the smartest of us.” Your cousin smirked. “I’ll send a transport immediately.”

Captain Takahashi joined the conversation. “I will gladly transport the Lady Heir on board this ship, my prince.”

“Ah, the ever loyal Captain! You know we all thought you dead too? I appreciate the offer. But we both know my Predator is faster than your little cruiser. And speed is paramount.” He waved a hand. “You can follow along at your own pace.”

“A third option.” Guilliman tried to make eye contact with the prince, but his gaze kept sliding away. “The Lady remains aboard my flagship, and we follow you to your homeworld.”

“Cousin, would you like to explain to your fiance why that won’t work?”

You gave him an apologetic look. “For me to arrive with an Imperial fleet-”

The boy interrupted once again. “It would certainly look like a conquering horde, now wouldn’t it? Unless, of course, that’s your intention.”

“Victor!”

He leered. “It would be clever. Take advantage of our weakened, divided state and swoop in to add us to your collection of worlds. Your marriage to my cousin would give you just enough legitimacy to preserve your image. Assuming, of course, that you Imperials care about such things.”

“I gave my word to the Lady that this would be an alliance, not a conquest.” Guilliman managed to catch the boy’s direct gaze and hold it. “I intend to keep my word.”

He paled and, once again, his eyes darted away. “Well, well. How noble.”

Your hand reached up and grasped one of the gauntlet’s on your shoulders. “Do not make such an insinuation again, cousin.”

A corner of Guilliman’s mouth tipped up at the indignation in your voice.

“Still,” you murmured, “an Imperial fleet, much less the flagship of the Lord Regent, arriving at this time could cause widespread panic.”

And undermine any hope of peaceful compliance.

He never desired unnecessary bloodshed, not even in the days of the Great Crusade. The idea of attacking your homeworld appealed to him even less. Still, to send you alone into the hands of this arrogant princeling… into a war zone….

“Should she agree to this, the future Lady of Ultramar will be accompanied by an Ultramarine guard.”

An astounded murmur from the Ultramarines behind him. Your head snapped up, mouth opening in shock.

The boy remained silent for a moment, blinking. “I…ah… of course. Of course! You want to protect your investment. I understand.” He made a show of peering at the Ultramarines. “I suppose we’ll make them fit somehow.”

You turned back to the screen. “Give me one standard day, Victor. Then send your transport.”

“Agreed. It will be ever so nice to see you in person again, cousin. I’m sure we’ll get this mess sorted in no time.”

The transmission ended.

You pressed your face into your hands. “Void damn it all. Just when things were going so well.”

Guilliman looked down at you. Sometimes he forgot how young and inexperienced you were. You’d learn soon enough.

Nothing ever goes to plan.

***

You stood in the midst of your quarters aboard The Macragge’s Honor, and tried desperately not to weep. 

A fool. I’m a damned fool.

You thought back over the last months. All your life, you’d heard horror stories of the Imperium. Its cruelties. Its fanaticism. How ironic that the best moments of your life so far had been spent here, onboard its flagship.

With him. 

You’d told yourself it could last forever. That all would be well.

Damn you, Conrad. Why? Why now?

You bent to pick a piece of clothing off the floor, only for your corset to tighten further around your chest. Sudden rage filled you.

“Off, get off!”

It had taken two attendants to help you put the thing on. Tears of frustration filled your eyes as you clawed at the hooks and laces to no avail. 

“Void damn it!” 

Behind you, the door hissed open. You recognized the presence even before he spoke.

“Are you all right, my love?”

You didn’t dare turn around, face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Roboute. I just… I can’t….” You sniffled like a child.

“Let me.”

“You don’t have to- ah!”

A wrench and the sound of tearing fabric. The corset fell away. You gasped, catching it against your breasts. Your mind went blank.

A thud behind you made the floor shake. Then, hot breath on your bare back. The heat seemed to spread across your skin, burning away the rage and frustration, until only longing remained.

“Roboute….”

Lips pressed against the back of your bare shoulders. Impossibly large hands circled your hips, holding you immobile. 

“It seems our marriage will be delayed.” His deep voice resonated within you. “But, by the Throne, I will have this.”

You could only whimper in reply as the lips traced across your shoulders, your neck, and down your spine. The hands on your hips slid upward until they met the corset you still clutched to your chest.

Light forgive me.

You let the piece of clothing drop to the floor, and gasped as the hands covered your breasts. 

“So soft.” He rumbled.

No one had ever touched you like this. You whined as he began to squeeze and knead, calloused skin against your nipples sending shocks of pleasure through your body. Liquid warmth pooled between your legs.

You felt yourself yanked back into a hard chest, only then realizing he’d sunk to his knees. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder. One hand continued to play with your chest, while the other spread down over your belly.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

I want this.

He groaned, and the hand on your belly moved lower, fingers dipping beneath the waist of your skirt and underclothes. You suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“I heard you last night.” He rasped. “I heard you touching yourself, calling my name as you climaxed.”

“Oh, Light!” You should feel ashamed, but his words only stoked the fire within.

“I almost went to you. Throne, I have wanted to go to you every night since the first. Now you are leaving me, and I cannot….” A deep, gasping breath. “I cannot hold back anymore.”

You moaned his name.

“Show me how to bring you pleasure.”

You reached one hand behind you, carding your fingers into blond hair, feeling the massive demigod shiver at your touch. With the other hand, you guided his hand lower, until his fingers met your wet center.

Both of you hissed at the sensation.

“L-like this….”

Spreading your legs a little wider, you pushed his fingers until they brushed against your nub. Your back arched at the sudden sting of pleasure.

He caught on quickly, beginning to rub circles. You ground against his hand, revelling in the wantonness of your actions. Enough with decorum. Enough with following the rules. You wanted him.

You wanted your husband.

“Roboute, faster!” 

He obeyed. And you writhed, no longer recognizing the sounds that came out of your mouth. You heard only his deep, panting breaths against your shoulder. You felt only his fingers against you. Nothing else mattered.

As you leaned back against him, you felt something hard against your rear. You’d felt it before, when he held you down atop his desk. Without hesitation, you rubbed against it, and he let out a strangled growl.

“Yessss….”

His hips began to move. Even as he rubbed you, his massive hand also pressed you back against him. You felt him hard and hot through his tunic. And big. So big. It should have frightened you.

Instead you felt the tension inside you grow tighter. 

“Roboute, I… I…!”

“Give it to me.” He snarled. “Only to me.”

The tension snapped. You opened your mouth, but no words came. Your vision went white. 

Hot and wet and so so good…!

The sudden sting of teeth in your shoulder. A muffled roar. Scalding liquid against your lower back.

And then all was soft, melting warmth. You went limp, and he caught you against him. You felt the swelling of his chest, the thunder of his double heartbeat.

“My love…mine….” He turned your boneless body until you looked up into his sweat-streaked face. “Forgive me.”

You snuggled into his chest. “There’s nothing to forgive, my husband.”

He shuddered at your words. “My beautiful little wife.”

For a moment you stayed there, keeping the outside world at bay.

“Just a little while longer, Roboute.” You whispered. “And then I’ll never leave you again.”

***

Guilliman remembered your words as he watched the transport depart. In the end, only one of his Ultramarines had gone with you. The ship your cousin sent simply couldn’t fit any more.

He hadn’t been surprised when Tarchus volunteered for the duty. He believed, in his own way, the Ultramarine had grown rather fond of you in the past few weeks. And the man was capable. He’d keep you safe.

Still, what I would not give to be the one at her side.

The previous night with you in his arms had been an indescribable joy. Whatever the Ecclesiarchy might have to say on the matter, you were bound to him now. Even if he hadn’t had you fully. Not yet.

He had plans for that. Some customs he couldn’t quite bring himself to disregard. Such as the matter of a ring.

“Roboute, it’s beautiful!” You’d gasped as he slipped the gold and sapphire band on your finger.

“And long overdue. It belonged to my mother, one of the few things I have left of her.”

Your eyes had widened. “Are you sure-?

“I am.” He’d smiled down at you. “She would have liked you, I think.”

“I’ll treasure it.”

“I have added one thing.”

He’d shown you the device embedded inside the band. “Captain Takahashi graciously gave me this. I intend to take my fleet to the asteroid belt her star maps show lies just beyond your system. If you need me, press the largest gem in the ring. A beacon will activate.”

He’d grasped your chin, ensuring you looked into his eyes. “And I will come for you.”

He would, he vowed. Even if he had to carry you off like the barbarian warlord your people thought him to be.

“My Lord,” one of the baseline crew suddenly spoke up, “something’s happening.”

His eyes never left the departing transport. “Yes?”

“One of their fighters seems to be malfunctioning. It is moving erratically.”

“More power to the forward void shields.” Captain Sicarius barked.

A tiny ship, smaller than a Thunderhawk, appeared in the corner of Guilliman’s eye. It twisted and bucked as if the pilot had gone mad. And yet….

The crewman continued. “If it keeps its current course, it will not impact any Imperial ships, my lord.”

A horrible revelation flashed through Guilliman’s mind. “Fire on that ship!”

“My lord?”

“Now!” He lunged toward the hangar opening, as if he could reach out and strike the ship down himself. “NOW.”

He heard the crewmen frantically issuing vox orders, and yet knew they wouldn’t matter. It was too late.

The fighter screamed toward your transport.

“No.”

Your pilot must have seen the threat. He jerked the ship away, but the fighter followed.

“NO.”

Impact.

Guilliman dropped to his knees as all the light left in his life went out.

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As always, comment if you'd liked to be added to the Taglist.

[theoreticalfishsticks]

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

[toto-the-cactus]

Primarchs + Daughters (2)

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

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Konrad Curze

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

Sanguinius

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

Ferrus Manus

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

Angron

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

Roboute Guilliman

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

Mortarion

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

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

[monalisahyperdrive]

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

Factors taken into account:

Name length

How easy it is to say

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

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

Perturabo

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

Sanguinius

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

Mortarion

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

Alpharius / Omegon

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

Jaghatai

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

Angron

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

Rogal

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

Corvus

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

Fulgrim

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

Konrad

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

Roboute

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

Vulkan

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

Lion

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

Magnus

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

Lorgar

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

Ferrus

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

Leman

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

Horus

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

[f1shz]

Ta Da~ here you go @beckyninja

Sorry if it looks kinda weird

[ms--lobotomy]

Maybe you celebrate Easter. Maybe you celebrate Trans Day of Visibility. Maybe you celebrate both, or neither. I am here to make those holidays infinitely worse or better, depending on how you look at this post. Special thanks to @squishyowl for giving me the parameters to calculate their (hard) schmeat sizes.

Without further adieu, Primarch cock descriptions. and also kind of how they fugg

LION EL'JONSON- 11 inches, 27 cm. Untrimmed and uncut. He shows a godly amount of restraint to you. Behind closed doors, he's much softer than he lets on. As far as girth goes, he's in the middle of the road... for a Primarch. He may not be the most experienced of his brothers, but he's going to do a thorough job anyways.

???- Dick fell off.

FULGRIM- 10 inches, 25 cm. Long and slender. You may expect a piercing, but he does not want to mar his natural appearance (at least before the Heresy.) Shaves religiously. He likes when his partner can't move, when they squirm underneath him, though he'll have a hard time admitting this.

PERTURABO- 7 inches, 18 cm. The smallest cock on the list, but he more than makes up for it while he is using it. He's got a bit of girth to him, but he can still fit in your mouth. Somewhat. His hands engulf your head as he pushes you down on him. Once he's out, tell him how good he feels.

JAGHATAI KHAN- 13 inches, 33 cm. The fastest one out of the Primarchs as far as each thrust goes. It curves up when erect, not unlike a scimitar. Veiny, but not strikingly so. Even though he's exceptionally fast, he likes being ridden. Especially on his bike.

LEMAN RUSS- 14 inches, 35 cm. He's uncut and hairy down there, he's never shaved his bush. He's also girthy. But what's most remarkable about him is his knot. This makes it hard for him not to breed his partners, where applicable. He'll hold you down and lock himself in on you, holding you down on him with his massive hands.

ROGAL DORN- 10 inches, 25 cm. He's circumcised and he keeps a clean shave. He's girthy, but not unbearably so. He enjoys tying up his partner and watching them melt as he goes down on them. Ever stoic, his expression rarely changes as he plows through you. Also a fan of doing it in his office.

KONRAD CURZE- 9 inches, 23 cm. Veiny, almost paper white, and uncut. He's not a gentle lover, especially considering his size. Usually there will be blood involved, and usually it is yours. He doesn't normally just use his cock; if he can reach you, he'll be biting you. And if not, he'll draw blood anyways.

SANGUINIUS- 8 inches, 20 cm. Surprisingly girthy, with low-hanging balls. He's uncut, but his bush is usually trimmed. He doesn't just use his cock, he bites where he can and envelopes you in his wings. He's gentle... for the first five minutes. He'll leave the most marks out of any of the Primarchs, prompting you to cover up the day after.

FERRUS MANUS- 17 inches, 43 cm. Lord have mercy. He is the most well-endowed Primarch, with balls to match. He'll hold you down with his cool silver hands as he pushes himself in. He's gentle, far more than he lets on, but he is still a Primarch. He's become quite the aftercare giver.

???- Penis serious, Penis delirious. Penis in the woods, call that penis mysterious

ANGRON- 9 inches, 23 cm. The arena had not been kind, as he is scarred in several places around it. Fortunately, no blade has ever found its way there. He isn't gentle, not one bit, even if he is chained down. The Nails eat at his head, screaming for bloodshed. He thrusts faster in a vain attempt to block out the agony in his head.

ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN- 8 inches, 20 cm, and girthy. Despite his size being closer to normal for a baseline human, it's harder to fit it in due to his circumference. With some lube and determination, though, you can make it work. He likes putting it in you and watching you try to keep your composure before you inevitably slip up.

MORTARION- 11 inches, 27 cm. It's long and gaunt on him, but it's still massive in your hand. He's one of the more sensitive Primarchs, but he'd prefer if that fact were kept under wraps. Gentle touch gets him going like nothing else. And once he gets going, you'll get to bear firsthand witness to the endurance he's known for.

MAGNUS THE RED- The bastard can change his dick size on a whim. He already knows what size would make you feel best, and he can open up more than one hole at once using the Warp. He doesn't even have to touch you to open you up, turning you into an incomprehensible mess in front of him.

HORUS LUPERCAL- 12 inches, 30 cm. The most striking thing about it is the Prince Albert that adorns it, a simple iron thing with a dull shine. Even if by some miracle you're on top, he'll always be the dominant partner, and if you have the ability you are most definitely bearing his children at some point.

LORGAR AURELIAN- 11 inches, 28 cm. You weren't expecting the second shortest Primarch to pack so much, were you? Golden tattoos come close to it, but he hadn't the will to cover himself there. You'll spend a lot of time with him; he'll use his tongue for hours on end before finally gratifying himself.

VULKAN- 10 inches, 26 cm. He's warm all over, and below the belt is no exception. In the cold reaches of space, he's a great comfort. Even if he's not the biggest of the Primarchs, he likes watching you struggle on him. He's girthy, and he likes to choke you with it too. Gives the best aftercare.

CORVUS CORAX- 11 inches, 27 cm. He's long, slender, and he keeps a close shave. He's a gentle lover when you're properly going at it and not hiding your risque behavior while in public. He'll hold your hands and whisper praises into your ear, even if he has to bend himself at an uncomfortable angle.

ALPHARIUS- 8 inches, 21 cm. He's hairless, circumcised, and his balls are almost unnaturally even. You've seen many an Alpha Legion cock, and they all look similar. He likes to finish in his partner, leaving no trace that he was there except for the slightly odd hobble you have the next day.

[primarisly-marooned]

to serve pt 1

as promised, the Guilliman fic!

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

pairing: Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

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

part 2, part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a god.

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

“My lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

And he had a long, long memory.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you hungry, my Lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But one he refused to be parted from.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Already he missed the touch of you against his skin.

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

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

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

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

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

[mothiir]

Kinktober request: giving guilliman a titjob

cw: what it says in the title

—

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hang on, isn’t that a quote from —“

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

[vyzz-undercover]

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

———————————————————————————————————

im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you were as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

[moodymisty]

Based off this post sorry I fucking HAD to

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

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

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

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

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

“Roboute!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he realizes it’s Sicarius.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my primarch.”

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

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

“Are you alright Captain Sicarius?”

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

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

“Yes he is busy, do not disturb him.”

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

“I need to leave. Do not go in.”

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

[beckyninja]

Comfort

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: Some light suggestive content

Description: Lady Guilliman comforts her exhausted husband

Here's my first venture into the world of fanfiction, people. Keep in mind my knowledge of the Warhammer40k universe is mostly second-hand. Details may not exactly line up with canon. Be gentle, please!

By the damned Throne, I am tired.

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, Lord of Ultramar, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, held his head in his hands. The words on the parchment before him blurred. He blinked rapidly, to little effect. His eyes burned.

What time is it, anyway?

The minutes, hours, days even, merged together in his mind. That same mind normally buzzed with a thousand thoughts, plans, theoreticals, and practicals. Not now, though. It seemed exhaustion had finally won. He felt… numb.

Why do I even bother? Why keep fighting?

He rubbed his hands over his face, struggling against the despair that had begun to haunt his waking hours once again. 

Wake up, you fool! Think! There’s too much to do! Too much-

“My Lord?”

Guilliman’s eyes snapped to the tall, armored figure standing before his desk. He hadn’t even noticed the Ultramarine’s approach.

“Yes, Sicarius?”

To anyone else, the Captain’s face would have been a stoic mask. But Guilliman could see the slight twist of the lips that marked his disdain. That was a look he usually reserved for-

He pushed himself upright in his chair. “She’s here.”

Sicarius nodded stiffly. “Lady Guilliman,” he said your title like it tasted sour in his mouth, “has requested an audience.”

Guilliman winced. “Were those her exact words?”

“She requested,” again the look of disdain, “I repeat them verbatim, my Lord.”

Guilliman stifled a sigh. “See her in.”

A few moments later the door slid open and you entered. Guilliman felt his hearts stutter. Nearly a Terran standard year since the wedding, and the sight of your face still made him catch his breath. So small, so soft, so lovely.

And so very annoyed.

“My Lord,” you murmured, dropping into a formal curtsey. 

Oh yes, you were most definitely annoyed.

He spoke your name, loving the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. The irritation in your eyes faded softly as they glided over him.

To anyone else he knew he would appear the image of the semi-divine Primarch. Indomitable and confident. He knew you saw more. You saw the furrows between his brows. You saw the hollows in his cheeks. You saw the weariness in his eyes. From the first moment he’d met you, he’d sensed your uncanny ability to strip away all pretense and see things clearly.

To see the man behind the demi-god.

“Oh, Roboute.”

Throne… 

He could listen to you say his name for hours. He had, in fact. He’d heard you pant it. He’d heard you scream it. He wanted to hear you do so again.

Your eyes widened. Then the annoyance on your face vanished completely and you laughed.

“No, no, Roboute. You’re not distracting me so easily this time.” You approached, circling the desk you could barely see over to stand next to him. “We need to talk.”

“I can guess what about.” With effort, he tore his eyes from you and refocused on the stacks of paperwork littering the desk.

You reached out and laid a hand on his thigh. “You’ve been in here for a week, my love. An entire week. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept.” You sniffed, then wrinkled your nose. “You haven’t bathed.”

He felt his cheeks heat. “I have been working.”

You continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “The administrators and officers are concerned. The serfs are whispering. Roboute, look at me please.”

He did, reluctantly.

“Your sons are even starting to notice something’s wrong.”

His eyebrows shot up at that. “They’ve… spoken to you?”

“Lord Calgar himself suggested I might talk to you, Roboute. It’s gotten that bad.”

“Sicarious hasn’t seemed unduly concerned.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That man has all the emotional sensitivity of a hunk of ceramite. Besides, I think he’d rather be fitted for a dreadnought than ask my help on anything.”

Guilliman huffed a short burst of air through his nose. “Still not getting along, I see.”

“I practically had to order him to let me see you. Yes, yes.” You waved a hand. “I know you’ve given me the authority. But I can’t imagine pulling rank on The Cato Sicarius will endear me to him.”

You shook your head. “All that is beside the point. In all the time we’ve been married, you’ve never shut yourself away for this long. You’ve never shut me out for this long. Roboute, what’s wrong?”

He stared back at the never-ending paperwork. Frustration welled within him, momentarily displacing the exhaustion.

“What’s wrong? Void, what isn’t wrong?!” He stood suddenly, causing you to shy back. “Here, a missive from the Ecclesiarchy, pontificating on and on about my lack of ‘enthusiasm’ for their nonsensical rituals. There, another Inquisitor foaming at the mouth about supposed heretics within my own Ultramarines. And there, the damned High Lords of Terra respectfully refusing to put another of my reforms into effect!” He slammed a fist onto the desk, cracking the priceless wood. “And all this while planets are screaming for aid from Tyranid hive fleets, Astartes chapters are stretched to their breaking points, and millions of lives are being snuffed out by the day! Stupidly! Wastefully!”

He only realized he was shouting when he saw the pained look on your face, hands clasped over your ears.

The frustration drained away, suffocated once more under the tide of exhaustion. “I am sorry, my love.” He slumped back into his chair. “I… I am sorry.”

“Stand up.”

“What?”

You smiled gently up at him. “Please, Roboute.”

He stood. 

“Thank you. Excuse me.”

Blinking burning eyes, he watched you scoot past him and clamber onto the seat of his chair. Then, after carefully moving a few stacks of paperwork aside, you climbed onto the desk itself, settling on your knees. Now your head was nearly at the level of his chest.

“Love? What on Terra are you-?”

You shushed him. “Turn the chair around, push it back against the desk, and sit down.”

He was a fool for you, that was the only possible explanation. That, and he was simply too tired for questions. He did as you asked, now facing the great window looking out upon the starry void. He took in the constellations and idly calculated the Macragge’s Honor’s exact position.

“Lean back.”

Something soft cushioned his head. Two somethings in fact. Two somethings he was quite familiar with under different circumstances. Then delicate fingers carded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. 

Oh. Oh Throne, yes.

You laughed softly at the groan that emanated from his throat. When one of your hands moved to knead the back of his neck, he swore he was melting.

“I cannot halt the Tyranids, or increase the Astartes.” You whispered. “I cannot talk sense into the Ecclesiarcy or the Inquisition. I could possibly chastise the High Lords, if I didn’t know they’d go straight back to being idiots as soon as my back was turned.”

Guilliman closed his eyes and focused on your words, your touch.

“I cannot take care of the Imperium. That is your duty, and no one else could do a better job.” Warm lips pressed against his cheek. “My duty is taking care of you. I knew it from the day I met you.”

“I love you, Roboute.”

“I love you too, my hearts.” He pressed the words past the lump in his throat.

“Then please, please let me do my duty. Let me care for you.”

What did I do to deserve this woman?

The fact that you’d come to him when he was at his lowest was almost enough to make him believe there was some all-knowing force for good in the universe. Almost.  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

You sighed in relief. “Thank you, my love. First, we’ll return to our quarters and you’ll sleep. Then, I’ll have the cooks prepare a meal. A real meal, not that vile sludge you feed your sons. Then, a bath.”

“You’ll join me?” He muttered, already feeling the lure of sleep.

“I will.” Your voice was suddenly right next to his ear, “And, if you're very good, we’ll do more than bathe.”

At that his eyes opened and he craned his head back to look at you. You blushed at the look of hunger on his face.

“Sleep and food first, my husband.”

Suddenly energized, he surged to his feet, turning and sweeping you into his arms. “We’ll see about that, my wife.”

As you gasped and giggled, he smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in weeks. The universe was still on fire. The Imperium was still a cesspit. A million problems still awaited his solutions.

But you were here. His personal symbol of all that was still good in humanity. His one comfort.

He would keep fighting for you.

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @bispecsual @kit-williams @sleepyfan-blog

(I would tag more but I don't want to annoy anyone who didn't specifically ask for it. I'm just going to hope this makes the rounds eventually.)

[kit-williams]

This is Mythical coming at you live from your ask box! You know the horny brain worms have been absolutely squirming so imma request some down bad Roboute Guilliman and his unexpected yet untamed need to breed!

I’m talking full on primal, face down ass up even prone boned breeding. I want the most unhinged breeding session where Guilliman’s beloved will feel it WEEKS afterwards. And of course you just know we gotta have the dirty talk, we need to know who well Guilliman gives it. It’s so good you can’t form even a thought afterwards. Hell he might not even let you get too far from him, he’s gonna stay right where he is and keeping you right where you need to be just to make sure it takes <3

(I’m sending this just so I don’t forget, I also apologize if the brain worms got too feral!)

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog @remembrancer-of-heresy @felinisnoctis @solspina

@the-californicationist

(Cali this is about one of the Primarchs aka the really big guys)

tw: SMUT; its ovulation time for the homies so its horny

edit: Thank you to @squishyowl for the divider

Uh uh uh is all that could leave your mouth at this point. Your knuckles white as you fisted the bedding tightly to keep you in place. Your face against the bedding as you still couldnt decide if the way your nipples were slightly rubbing against the sheets and other fabrics was enjoyable or not. You could feel his hand in your hair just pulling your head back slightly as you could think as he was now lazily sinking in and out of your cunt.

Guilliman doesn't know what happened... just he saw you with one of the other high ranking women of Ultramar and really there was nothing special about it... you simply were holding a baby. He was certain he was sterile, what use would breeding be for a tool, but then again why give them the parts? Why give them the inklings of desire? Perhaps at some point he would have asked the Emperor but now he doesn't care. But the thought of her holding that baby wouldn't leave his thoughts... it kept drifting in and out... in the background... just a background thought that he would associate akin to one thinking about what was for dinner that night.

But... he wanted her to be holding his baby on her hip. A bright eyed babe with curly hair... he wanted it to be their baby she was bouncing in her lap and cooing at. "You're so tight around me love." He says with a purr in his voice, "And to think you've just been screaming your head off with how I've been handing you." He thrusts in hard eliciting a whimper from you. Watching you arch your back more trying but with him holding your hair keeping you from hiding that blush on your face and breasts. Guilliman leans in whispering, "I am certain the entire Fortress knows I'm fucking you with how you've been screaming with pleasure."

His eyes follow the drool on your bottom lip and moving down your chin. As you just pant and he can't help but grin watching you react as his cock lazily throbs inside of you. Sex did not mean much to Guilliman as he was already fully grown by the time he was old enough to partake in it which scared off many who would try. But he looks at you trembling... swallowing down air... as he could see the way his cock stretched you to almost your limit and he knew how his cum would ooze out of you when he pulled out for the night.

Something about you ovulating made his brain ITCH in a good way. It made him want to be like this... buried to the hilt and fucking you till you were incoherent. If he was feeling selfish enough he would just like tonight. "I'm going to put a baby in you." He says watching you shudder with some form of pleasure. "I'm going to make you so fat with my babies. Oh yes I want to give you multiple." He says lazily lowering his voice to those octaves he knows you like... flexing his vocal cords and swelling his third lung to add that extra oomph and reverberations to his next words, "Watch your breasts leak with milk... watch you rub your swollen belly... truly make you a mother to my Ultramarines."

He listens to you gasp and feels you once more orgasm around the slowly moving cock inside of you. He lets your head drop back down to be face first on the bed. His hips move quickly as he pants himself, "Oh I'm going to make sure it takes! They already know what I do with you! So why not have something to show for all the effort we've put in? Wouldn't you agree my Lady?" All you can do in reply is incoherently moan pushing your hips back like a slut desperate for release. Maybe it was his aura... his presence... just the way he spoke to you... but by the THRONE you wanted this man... this demi god to put a baby in you right now!

You don't know how much longer you two fuck it could have been five more minutes or an hour just you lay there in the blissful afterglow feeling so sweaty, as per usual after having sex with him. You could hear the haptic feedback noise from his dataslate as he was always busy but at least you two had a concession with this... he could do unintrusive things and you got your cuddles and it felt so normal. You nuzzle into his pectoral and you feel his lips on the top of your head... but you could feel it... you didn't know how to explain it but you could just feel his desire still there as if it was a storm brewing in the distance and all it needed was a breeze to suddenly head your way.

[coolestork]

Of Surprising Encounters

Rogal Dorn x Reader (Fluff)

-

Description: Guilliman finds Dorn in an... Unusual scenario.

Note: some teeth rotting fluff for the soul. This idea popped into my head and I wanted to see it done so here it is. BONE APPLE TEETH!!

-

The halls of the Imperial Palace were silent as Roboute Guilliman made his way toward Rogal Dorn’s quarters. His own business had concluded sooner than expected, leaving him with an uncharacteristic gap in his schedule—a rare opportunity to speak with his brother. He hadn’t seen Rogal in days, and he found himself wondering how his stern brother was faring under the relentless demands of fortifying Terra. A quick conversation, perhaps even over tea, might offer a brief respite for them both.

As he neared Dorn’s quarters, however, a strange sound reached his ears—one that was so unexpected he paused mid-step, a look of puzzlement crossing his features.

Laughter.

Guilliman narrowed his eyes, his mind already racing to account for such an occurrence. Rogal Dorn, laughing? The man who rarely allowed even a glimmer of amusement to touch his face? And it wasn’t a dismissive chuckle or a faint smirk, but the unmistakable, genuine laughter of his often-impervious brother.

He moved closer to the source, curiosity tugging him forward with each step. He reached a doorway that was half open and, after a moment’s hesitation, glanced inside.

There, in a secluded corner of the room, stood Rogal Dorn, his back half-turned to the door, speaking to someone—a human, Guilliman realized—a young woman who wore the austere garments of Dorn’s personal serfs. Her head was tilted up to look at him, her expression open and honest, a warmth in her gaze that Guilliman hadn’t expected.

Dorn’s laughter was already fading into an amused murmur as she spoke to him, her voice low and animated. “Well, my lord,” she was saying, a glimmer of boldness in her tone, “even if it isn’t exactly protocol, I hardly think the universe will come apart at the seams because you took an extra hour to rest.”

Rogal’s shoulders shook faintly with another rare chuckle as he looked down at her, a faint smile tugging at the usually stone-set corners of his mouth. “Careful, or I’ll put you to work fortifying the outer walls yourself,” he replied, but his voice held no malice. In fact, it sounded… lighter. Almost kind. “Let’s see how cavalier you are when you’re stacking stone.”

The serf’s eyes widened dramatically, then softened with a mock plea. “If it’s for you, my lord, I suppose I’d even take up a chisel and hammer.” She straightened, affecting a faux solemnity that made him chuckle again.

Guilliman felt his eyes widen slightly, a touch of shock filtering through his otherwise composed expression. He had always known Rogal Dorn as a paragon of composure, of discipline. He was as impassable as the fortifications he built, his loyalty and resolve as unbreakable as his stern demeanor.

This? This was a side Guilliman had never seen.

Uncharacteristically uncertain, Guilliman considered stepping back quietly and pretending he hadn’t seen them. But Rogal’s sharp instincts were not so easily circumvented; his head lifted, and he turned, catching sight of Guilliman lingering at the doorway. For a split second, his face fell back into its usual impassive look. Yet, something almost… hesitant remained in his gaze, as though the tender moment he’d shared with the young serf wasn’t something he was inclined to dismiss.

“Roboute,” he greeted, inclining his head in polite acknowledgment. His tone was as calm and composed as ever, but Guilliman didn’t miss the subtle tension that had crept back into his posture, like a soldier instinctively returning to his watch.

“Rogal,” Guilliman replied, struggling to mask his curiosity as he entered the room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to speak with you and—” He stopped, unsure of how to finish his sentence. And I overheard you laughing with a serf? Even for him, that sounded presumptuous.

Rogal’s eyes narrowed, catching the faintest flicker of amusement. “And found me neglecting my usual stern image?” he finished dryly. The hint of a smile remained in his eyes as he looked over at his serf, who was now observing the two Primarchs with an air of tentative curiosity, clearly uncertain if she should stay or leave.

The young woman bowed her head slightly, her voice a respectful murmur as she addressed Guilliman. “My Lord Guilliman. I apologize if I caused any disturbance.”

“Not at all,” Guilliman replied, still studying her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. She held herself with dignity, but he noticed a touch of warmth in her eyes that was far from the dutiful stoicism he usually expected from Dorn’s retainers. And what struck him most was the way Dorn regarded her—not with indulgence or aloofness, but with an unexpected respect that seemed to border on… fondness.

Rogal nodded toward her, a subtle yet protective gesture. “She’s my chief aide,” he said by way of explanation, though Guilliman hadn’t actually asked. “She insists on pushing the boundaries of propriety from time to time,” he added, his voice carrying a faintly amused grumble, as though he were resigned to her occasional audacity.

She smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth curving up as she glanced at him. “Only when you push yours, my lord,” she retorted softly, meeting his gaze with a trace of courage that took Guilliman aback.

Dorn’s eyes flashed, but he gave a slight nod. “She keeps my hours in order and my duties attended to. I would trust few others to speak as plainly.”

Guilliman observed this exchange, marveling at the subtle but undeniable ease that existed between them. “I admit, brother,” he said finally, his voice laced with a touch of incredulity, “I didn’t expect to find you in such… informal company.”

Rogal’s lips quirked briefly in a nearly imperceptible smile. “There is no threat to Terra in a few moments of levity, Roboute.”

“I see that,” Guilliman replied, watching the serf with a new sense of admiration. It took a rare spirit indeed to draw Dorn out of his self-imposed fortress of discipline, to coax laughter from him without compromising his principles. “It seems you’ve found a rare and valuable asset.”

Rogal inclined his head. “Indeed. Her efficiency speaks for itself. The rest…” He glanced at her briefly, an almost imperceptible warmth flickering in his gaze. “The rest is merely a… byproduct.”

Guilliman looked between the two, feeling the unspoken bond that filled the air like a quiet current, subtle yet deeply rooted. He could see that there was no act, no artifice here. Just a shared sense of purpose and, perhaps, something more.

Turning to her, he offered a courteous nod. “You serve well. It’s not every day my brother grants another the privilege of a… laugh.”

She dipped her head, a touch of a smile on her face. “Thank you, my lord. And if I may, I would like to keep this occasion in quiet confidence.”

Guilliman’s lips twitched with a faint smile of his own. “Very well. Let it be our secret.”

With that, he turned to Rogal once more, meeting his brother’s gaze with an understanding born of respect. “I’ll leave you to your company, then,” he said, his tone light.

“Thank you, Roboute,” Rogal replied, a faint nod of gratitude in his words.

Guilliman turned to go, but not before glancing back one last time. There was a warmth in the air he hadn’t expected, a quiet peace in Rogal’s usually impassive stance.

With a final nod, Guilliman left the room, feeling the faintest of smiles on his face as he walked away, carrying with him a newfound understanding of his brother and a memory he knew he would keep close in the days to come.

-

Note: isnt this cute!!1 Dorn laughing with a serf is such an abstract concept I had to bring it to life. anyway, what do yall weirdos think