A lot of stuff....

Despite what everyone thought, your life wasn't exactly glamorous as Lady Lupercal. Sure, Horus was kind to you, but there was always a tension that you could never shake. A weight pressing down on you that made it hard to stand.

It had been a purely political move, your imperfect marriage. The Emperor had been poked and prodded by Terran nobles about such things for years, and he'd always shoo them away or ignored them. But now that he had eighteen perfect sons, the demands got louder. He wasn't a man to be easily swayed, but he'd finally ceded- just a little.

One son, and after that there would be no more consideration on the matter regardless of if, when, or how it ended.

The Warmaster had been the one to volunteer for this ever daunting task. He was his father's favorite, after all, so it only made sense that it was he who stepped up to the plate. There had been whispers that the warmhearted and beautiful Sanguinius had also raised his hand in that meeting, but the only people who know for sure are the Emperor and his sons.

It had been like an ancient fairytale. The Emperor threw a party grander than any most people had ever seen, and had let Horus pick any eligable candidate he wanted. Why that so happened to be you, though, remains a mystery.

Your wedding had been surprisingly simple, and very fast. Horus was a busy man who had little time for ceremony. There were vows, he'd kissed your hand, then you were taken and dumped in his home and told to stay. You weren't even given any real duties for the first handful of weeks. The serfs claimed it was because you were technically in a honeymoon period, but you knew better. There was nothing for you to do at first. Horus was so efficient in running his own affairs that there had never been a need for a secondary person- even while he was away.

And he was away often.

You saw him for only a handful of days at a time, and they were almost never in succession. Even when he was home with you, he was a rare sight. He did not go out of his way to seek you out, and there was never any sharing of a bed. The most you typically saw of him was of the back of his shoulders.

You didn't love Horus Lupercal, but you didn't hate him either. It was hard to feel such a strong emotion towards a man you never saw, and you were just fine with that. You told yourself often that it was easier to watch him leave you when you didn't desperately want for him to stay. There was no affection from him, only distant kindness.

His sons were a different story entirely.

For the majority of them, you barely existed. You were their father's wife, but you didn't matter to them like Horus did- they often forgot you were even there half the time, and when they did remember, they were even more distant and cold towards you than your husband. The rest of the household- staff and whatnot- were quick to follow their example.

But out of all of them, the Mournival were the worst. They hated you. And they made sure you knew it as often as possible.

Aximand ignored you. He looked past you when you spoke, acting as if he hadn't heard you even though you knew he had, and you'd gotten more than a few bruises from him practically running you over in hallways. The only time he really spoke to you, was to snap at you for being in his way.

Loken and Torgeddon were awful in the way all two-faced people were. They smiled and nodded along while you spoke, pretending to listen and agree with you, only to turn around and whisper cruelties when you weren't watching. The only difference is that they didn't care if you heard them.

And Abbadon? To him, you were worse than any parasite or xenos. You burdened him just by existing and breathing the same air, and nothing you did made it any better. In fact, any attempts at speaking to him only seemed to make him angrier. You considered yourself lucky that he wasn't foolish enough to put his hands on you. Not that he needed to- his words were sharp enough to cut you open.

You never say anything about it to Horus- though you've thought about it many times. You're not sure he would really care. He may get angry, may punish them, but it would only be because their behavior made him look bad, not because your life and happiness really meant anything to him.

So you kept it quiet, and just tried to avoid his four favorite sons as often as possible.

- The door to your personal office opens without any warning, and you can feel the headache forming before your unruly stepson opens his mouth.

"Here," Abaddon dumps a large box onto your desk.

"What is this?" You ask, hesitantly.

"A gift from my father. Be grateful- you don't deserve it."

He doesn't wait to hear your response, turning on his heel and stomping off like he always does when forced to interact with you. But despite his sour attitude, you were actually a little excited.

Inside the box is a cloak of white fur similar to the wolf pelt your husband wore around his own shoulders. It's soft to the touch, and made to fit you perfectly.

Tucked in the bottom of the box is a small piece of paper with a simple note written neat handwriting.

Keep yourself warm. -H

A smile touches your lips. You'd made a comment last time you spoke with Horus about the nights getting cold. You knew it wasn't out of love, but you appreciated his attempts at keeping you comfortable nonetheless.

You ignore the stares that follow you as you head back to your rooms that evening, your wonderful gift wrapped around yourself. Perhaps it was a bit too prideful of you to flaunt it, but could anyone honestly blame you? Gifts from your husband were extremely rare- it only made sense that you showed it off a little.

It doesn't matter that Loken snorts when he sees you. Doesn't matter when you hear Torgeddon mutter that you look ridiculous. Doesn't matter that the first time Aximand looks at you in months is in disgust and annoyance.

-

You've been losing a lot of things recently, now that you think about it. First it was small- a pen, some small accessories you brought from home, makeup, and at some point you even lost your own hairbrush. But now, it's gotten worse.

The bracelet Horus gifted you on your wedding day. Clothing. Shoes. Other jewelry. The beautiful fur cloak. Things that made it look like you were slowly packing yourself up to disappear, should anyone look closely enough. You were never this careless with your things before, and as bigger and bigger items start to go missing, a worse and worse feeling grows in your chest.

You're going to have to tell someone. And soon. But your list of contacts within this house is painfully small, and any communication you have with your family or anyone else outside is highly monitored. Even if you didn't tell them, the Mournival would hear about it- then you would never hear the end of it.

They already thought you undeserving of everything you had, this was only going to exacerbate the problem.

But if you didn't tell anyone, if you kept this to yourself like you keep the bullying and unkindnesses of the people in this house to yourself, it would only make you look guilty of something when someone finally noticed. Guilty of cowardace, of betraying the husband you barely knew, of being everything everyone here thought of you.

Informing Horus was out of the question entirely. Not only was he not even home, but as Lady Lupercal, it was your responsibility to keep things in check. To keep staff under control and make sure everything stays at his perfectly strict standards. Telling him that someone was stealing from you was only going to cause you embarrassment, or worse- make him disappointed in you.

That left you with only one unsavory option. You had to tell the Mournival yourself, before they found out through someone else.

-

"Aximand!"

He doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow his pace.

"Aximand please! It's important! Just give me a moment-!"

He turns the corner. You stop following him, wondering why you even tried in the first place.

Because telling Abaddon is basically suicide, your mind unhelpfully reminded you. And considering he and the man who'd just abandoned you in the hallway were the only two of the four sons currently here, Aximand had been your only option. He still is your only option.

You take a breath, gather yourself a little, and start off after him once again.

He's fast, but then again, he's also significantly larger than you, making his casual stride enough on it's own to outpace you with annoying ease. Stars above, you hated it. Hated how you had to chase him. He didn't even need to stop- you only wished he would slow down enough for you to catch him, wished he would just pay attention to you for once.

What a childish thought, you tell yourself bitterly. You were a lady. You were the lady. You should be handling yourself with more poise, more decorum. You should raise your voice and order him to pull his head out of his ass long enough to hear what you had to say. Remind him of who you were, and maybe even threaten him with his father should he continue to refuse.

Yet here you were. The wife of Horus Lupercal, the woman who was only good at sitting pretty and taking up space- who only pretended to have authority- chasing after a man who had so little interest in you that you may as well be invisible. How embarrassing.

"Aximand-!" Your call of his name ends in a yelp, as you manage to trip over your own feet in your hurry to reach him. Pain shoots up your leg, your ankle throbbing. Horus' son still does not falter. You watch him disappear once again from view, leaving you to handle your injury yourself.

You sit there for perhaps a handful of seconds too long, but you do eventually pull yourself up. It hurts to stand, and hurts even worse to walk- there would definitely be no catching Aximand now. Using the wall as support, you begin limping back towards your rooms, deciding that it was better to rest and hope you were well enough tomorrow to try again.

Or you would, had you not collided face-first with your most spiteful stepson.

What kind of awful luck were you having today?!

"Abaddon-" You look away when he scowls at the sound of his name coming from you. "Excuse me."

You try to shuffle around, but his form blocks your way.

"What happened?" He practically spits the question at you.

"Nothing."

He scoffs, looking you up and down.

"What did you do to yourself?"

Yes, you think, because everything must be my own fault. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that your brother cannot be polite enough to stop when I yell for him.

"I fell."

"What are you, a child still learning to walk?"

Something in you finally breaks, just a little.

"That's enough!" You snap. "If all you have to say are useless cruelties then find yourself elsewhere! I have better things to do than be accosted by an impolite astartes!"

Abaddon blinks, eyebrows shooting upwards in what appears to be genuine surprise. You'd never raised your voice at anyone- most especially him of all people. You can see the wheels turning in his head, but you don't wait to find out what he has to say in response. You use his momentary mental imbalance to squeeze past him, and keep moving.

You don't make it far.

The sharp Hah! that comes from him is your only warning before you're unceremoniously ripped from the ground and tossed over his massive shoulder.

"Hey!" You gasp, panic flooding your whole system. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Taking you to get treated." It doesn't matter how much you struggle, his grip on you is impossible to wiggle free from.

"Stop it! Put me down right now! Ezekyle Abaddon! I am not a toy!"

"No," For once, he agrees with you. "You are my father's foolish, useless wife who can barely carry her own weight without hurting herself."

Your face burns with embarrassment and frustration.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

That, and all other protest goes ignored as he carries you away. The heavy gazes of other astartes and servants alike sit heavily upon you, and it drives you insane how little it affects him. Because he wasn't who they were staring at, he wasn't who was being judged for his behavior, for his pathetic need for assistance.

No, it was all directed at you. It was always directed at you.

- You're surprised by the appearance of your husband at your bedroom door. You hadn't even been told he was going to be home- though to be fair, you had been borderline hiding in here for the past several days.

He smiles at you, and insists you sit.

"I heard you had some trouble," He says, and you already know what exactly he means. "How bad is it?"

"It's really not that bad- I just took a bit of a tumble," You offer him a smile in return. Horus was kind to you, more than you really deserved considering what a shit job you were doing as his lady.

He kneels, lowering himself so you don't have to strain so hard to look at him, and reaches to take your foot in his hand to inspect it for himself. It's shockingly intimate, and has you turning pink, your heart beating faster than normal.

You try to remind yourself that he holds no affection for you, that he is only kind because that's simply who he is. But it's hard to do so when his touch is so gentle it makes you think he's genuinely worried he might break you, or when he warms your bruised ankle with his hands as if he, alone, can heal you.

It's hard to remember Horus doesn't love you when he's looking at you like that.

Curse your delicate heart- curse your desire for closeness with the one person in this house who you should be close to. Curse his ability to make people fall under his spell simply by existing in their space.

"You're cold," His voice rattles you back to reality. "Where is your coat, I'll fetch it for you."

You flinch and look away from him, pulling yourself from his warm grasp. He doesn't stop you, which somehow makes the guilt eating at you even worse. He says your name. Patient, but firm. He asked a question, and he expects an answer.

"I…" Stars, what did you even say? You'd failed to tell anyone about your theft issue, and now your literal worse-case scenario is on his knees at your feet waiting for you to admit to your failure. You wanted to cry. "I don't…know…"

Horus is silent for a long moment.

"You don't. Know."

You wonder if you can get to the window and throw yourself out of it faster than he can stop you. You decide that no, you most likely can't. And even if you did, something tells you one of his sons would manage to catch you before you hit the ground.

"I…it…" You try to look anywhere but at him, and find your eyes settling on Abaddon, hovering in the doorway. When he got there, and how long he's been there you have no idea. He likely followed your husband, and has been waiting for him to finish with you this whole time. But somehow, the confession spills out of you easier. "Someone…took it. Someone has been taking…a lot…of my things…"

Abaddon goes very still. You think he might even stop breathing for a moment.

"For how long?" Horus asks.

You shift your gaze to the floor.

"A while…"

You catch the way Horus turns to look at his son from the corner of your eye. He doesn't ask anything of him, nor does he need to. Abaddon already knows.

"This is the first I'm hearing of it," He's quick to defend himself. "The lady hasn't said a single word about anything going missing."

Horus hums, and returns his attention to you. Again, he asks no verbal question, but his inquiry sits in the air between you regardless.

I tried to tell someone! You want to scream. No one listens! No one cares!

"I…" You hate how your voice shakes. "It- they're m-my belongings, a-and it's my duty to keep things in order. I- I didn't want to burden your sons wh-when they're already so busy."

It's a weak excuse only made weaker by your inability to look him in the eye, finding a scuff on the floor much more fascinating than whatever expression he or his son might be wearing on their faces.

Horus lets out a hard breath through his nose and stands. Once on his feet, he hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your head back to look up at him. The way the light illuminates him from this angle is an almost surreal reminder of his ethereality. A giant of a man, made by the Emperor of Mankind himself to be perfect in every way.

"Rest. I will see it handled."

He leaves no room for argument.

- Abaddon doesn't yell at you when he returns later for more information about the theft. Somehow, that makes it even worse than if he did.

"Is that all of them?" He flips through the list of people you'd given him that could in theory get close enough to you in order to steal. He hadn't asked about what exactly was missing, though you're certain it doesn't necessarily matter in this case- if they found the culprit, they'd find their stash.

"Yes," You mumble.

He turns, making his way towards the door in the usual fashion. Except this time he pauses just before stepping over the threshold.

"You should have said something. My brothers and I were reprimanded because of your secrecy."

You let his words sit between you for a moment, your gaze finding your sore ankle.

"What would have been the point?" You ask, voice low. "The only reason you care now is because Horus does."

His hands ball into tight fists, whatever sharp remark he was preparing dying before it can escape him. He leaves you in silence.

-

Abaddon has been more attentive in recent days. You wouldn't go as far as to call him kind, but his immediate aggression towards you has somewhat faded.

You don't know if it's because he is actually starting to care, or if it's just because he's under orders from his father to look after you better. Regardless, he's become a more solid figure than he was before. He's still short with you, still glares and rolls his eyes and makes faces, but at least now he seems to listen when you speak.

You take your wins where you can get them. They're hard to come by in the Lupercal household.

There has been no word about the thief. No news as to whether they've been caught, or if any of your things have been found, and Horus has not been back to see you since that night. Not that you really expected him to, it wasn't like it was out of character for him to visit and vanish. It stopped bothering you rather early in this arrangement.

The person his absence does seem to bother, oddly enough, is Abaddon.

Whenever there is mention of Horus not coming to you, his face twists in an unpleasant way, and he lets out a huff before muttering to himself words that you can never quite catch. It confuses you, and he refuses to humor any of your questioning about it, always snapping that it was nothing, and to mind your own business.

It's almost endearing, in a way. It makes him seem so much more…human to you. And much less like an unfeeling jackass who wants you dead. Sometimes, it even makes you laugh, which has your rude, unruly stepson turning red and yelling at you to shut up.

-

You're practically vibrating with excitement, despite how desperately hard you're trying to remain calm. Your fingers rake through long hair that you never even imagined you'd be allowed to touch, catching a few stray tangles here and there. It was to be expected with hair of this length, but you still offered soft apologies every time.

Abaddon simply grunts in response.

It had been shockingly easy to get him to sit down and allow this, and a fairly large part of you is certain it will never happen again. But the two of you have gotten…well, you're not sure close is the right word, but at least he didn't seem to completely despise you anymore. If anything, you were little more than a mild annoyance to him these days.

Three very long months of dedication to forming some kind of genuine relationship with your husband's favored son was finally paying off. The other three hadn't come around yet, but they were getting curious, you could tell.

Loken started to linger in common areas where you were. Torgeddon actually asked your opinion on something and took it seriously. And Aximand steps to the side when you meet in the halls- though that one could be because Abaddon has taken to following you most places.

Part of you doesn't care if the other three sons in the Mournival ever fully decide you're not a waste of space. Part of you is just glad one of them has changed his mind.

You separate his hair into three even sections, and begin braiding it, humming softly as you do so.

It had started as him coming to inform you of Horus' expected return in a handful of days. His most recent campaign had been rather short, and apparently he was actually going to stick around for longer than normal.

You'd thanked Abaddon, and as he'd turned to escape, you'd spotted it.

"What is in your hair?" You'd asked. He'd stopped, and lifted his hand to touch his hair, frowning a bit.

"Dirt."

"That looks like more than dirt- were you sleeping outside?"

The way his eyes cut to the side told you that you're correct.

"No," He'd lied anyway. "I was training with my brothers."

"Ah huh. Come here and sit down, I'll fix it for you."

His face had twisted.

"I don't need-"

"Abaddon. Sit."

It was thanks to him that you'd started to assert yourself a little better, and it always felt good when he listened. He'd stomped over to you, sat himself on the floor with his arms crossed, and let out an annoyed huff.

You were supposed to be working on some basic household administration work, but this was much more fun.

"It's so long," You mused to yourself. "Honestly, I'm a little surprised you keep it like this."

"I like it," He grumbles. You let out a light chuckle.

"I like it, too. It suits you."

"Shut up." You laugh again at his words, tying off the braid and patting him on the shoulder to signal that you were finished.

"Be gone, you. I've things to do and you've distracted me long enough."

He turns to look at you, offended. The giggles that escape you frustrate him more the longer it takes for you to calm yourself back down. He lurches to his feet, glaring at you, the tips of his ears the slightest bit red in embarrassment at being successfully teased.

He stomps out without another word, leaving you to your amusement.

-

It's late- you should have turned in hours ago. But you'd had more work than you realized, and had ended up working well past your usual time. You shuffle through the halls on the way back to your bedroom when voices filter through the silence.

Creeping closer to the source of the voices, you realize quickly that it's the four members of the Mournival, tucked alone in the dining hall. You press yourself to the wall just outside the cracked door and listen despite knowing that you should probably keep walking.

"-just don't get how you can stand it," Loken is saying. "If I had to spend every day with her, I think I'd go insane."

"Shut up," Abaddon snaps back. "You don't know anything."

"Enlighten us then. How has our fine Lady Lupercal managed to sway you to her side?"

You perk up a bit and listen closer, curious as well of what his answer might be.

"Our father adores that woman. Yet she refuses to see him while claiming he never actually visits, and every gift he's sent has managed to end up 'missing' somewhere we can't find any of it. I'm not swayed, I'm staying close so that I can make sure she doesn't cause further harm to our father or his house."

What was he saying? What did he mean Horus adored you? He was never around! You never refused to see him- not once! If anything, though you are loath to admit it even to yourself, you missed him when he wasn't around. And it wasn't your fault your things had been stolen!

Was it really all a lie? A play he was acting in just so that he could expose some wickedness in you that didn't exist?

No- no that couldn't be it. There had to be something else going on- a misunderstanding or- or-

"If she vanished tomorrow, I wouldn't even blink."

Lion El'Jonson Lion is pleased. His dynasty is growing, and each of his children is an apple of his eye. Not that he will ever admit it openly. Yet, in private, he actually likes to lie with all of the kids nestled on his chest while he goes over some documents. Yes, they are indeed his pride and joy.

Fulgrim Fulgrim is beyond ecstatic. His beautiful, magnificent, perfect bloodline grows with another addition. And he is here to spend the first few days with just you and the new baby. Yes, the siblings may grow jealous, but he loves those moments of uninterrupted intimacy, the moment when he can gaze upon new perfection joining this world. How beautiful they are, the offspring of your line and his.

Perturabo You know, Perturabo actually prefers that. He knows that his blood is the only thing that will be reliable in this world. So when you present him with another child, he presents you with another perfect invention. So far, you have six weird contraptions, and he has six perfectly adequate kids who he himself can shape and mold and teach in all the ways of the world.

Jaghatai Khan It is expected for a khan to have multiple children, though usually not by the same wife, but Jaghatai is ever a rebel. Each time you gift him a child, he gives you a pelt, a weapon, or some other trinket snatched from a distant world as he travels. He gets those early, because the closer you are to delivery the less he is willing to leave your side.

Leman Russ Hell yeah! Another one! Another pup joined the pack, and he is here with your previous one so they can welcome their new sibling. Leman is beyond pleased, beyond ecstatic. His mate is strong, his seed is strong, and he hopes that you will be amenable to adding at least two more to your ever-growing pack of little ankle-biters. Yes, they do bite for real.

Rogal Dorn Dorn is actually stressing about it. Because your children are so close together, he prefers to keep them in the same room, and each new addition requires him to rearrange all the defense points and reinforce what was already already outliving itself. Of course, he is pleased that you and the baby are all right, but pleased and stressed can, in fact, exist in a single man at the same time.

Konrad Curze He is conflicted, because on one hand, children are proof that something in him can still create life instead of only fear and ruin. On the other hand, he cannot stop thinking about what sort of world they will inherit, and whether they will one day become like him. He is not openly affectionate about it, but he does hover. A lot. The children are his little night things, and he is weirdly protective in the most ominous way possible. If one of them cries, he appears in the doorway like a bad omen, but with blankets.

Sanguinius Sanguinius is radiant about it in a way that is almost unfair. He is gentle, attentive, and deeply moved by each new child, as though every birth is a small miracle he gets to witness. He is the sort to cradle the baby with reverence and then immediately be distracted by the older ones trying to climb all over him. He absolutely adores the family dynamic, especially when all the children are curled up around him and you can see the whole household settle into peace. He calls them his little angels, and somehow, somehow, he means it without irony.

Ferrus Manus Ferrus is awkward at first, because he is not naturally good at softness, but once he settles into fatherhood, he becomes intensely steady. He likes that children are direct, honest, and hard to fool, which makes them one of the few things he trusts easily. He will build them things. He will also probably make them sturdy little tools, toys, and training implements that are somehow all equally dangerous and practical.

Angron Angron is apprehensive. He was forced to kill a person he counted as his father, and he is not above a fatalistic view of fate, so maybe one day one of his children will be forced to do such a thing. But whatever it is, it is in the future. Currently, they are small, nestled in his arms, and, for some reason, he goes just a little bit quiet. Just do not let him hear screaming children, for his peace of mind.

Roboute Guilliman Guilliman does not specifically want a dynasty, but he would like some legacy, and you are ever so agreeable in providing him with each new piece every few years. His children are close in age and look almost exactly like carbon copies of himself, except for your youngest daughter, who, to his delight, looks almost exactly like you, but with his eyes. Finally. Do you think it was his entire goal to have at least one who looks like you?

Mortarion Mortarion is horrified. This was never supposed to happen. He was, well, not exactly the most lively person in the room. So for him to produce so much life, it honestly breaks him a little. He is initially apprehensive and very cautious toward children, but around the fourth one, he warms up and starts teaching them things he knows about: poisons, plagues, fumes, and other not-so-child-appropriate stuff. But this is his way to bond with his ever-growing family, and you are not going to deny it to him, are you?

Magnus the Red Magnus is delighted at his new army of young scholars, and he considers them scholars even if the children themselves are not yet old enough to read, and those who are do not exactly share his passion for warp and sorcery. But he is content that this is just growing pains and one day they will see the world the way he does. Until then, you can add to the number of his future scholarly brigade.

Horus Lupercal This is Horus's ultimate goal: an entire company of his children, all as magnificent as his, sharing his ideals, his spirit. Ideally, your eyes, but his are also accepted. So, how about once your body rests and recovers, you try for twins?

Lorgar Aurelian Lorgar is overwhelmed in the most reverent way possible. He sees every child as a sign, a blessing, a living testament to love and meaning, and he is almost absurdly emotional about it. He likes to hold the baby and speak softly as if the child can already understand the sacred importance of being here. He is also very likely to get misty-eyed over family moments and turn ordinary things into spiritual ones. To him, each child is proof that devotion can become flesh.

Vulkan Vulkan is the warmest, most openly paternal of the whole lot. He is the Primarch most likely to play with the children on the floor, carry all of them at once, and somehow make every single one feel like the most important person in the room. He is patient, soft-spoken, and completely melted by tiny hands grabbing at him. He loves the noise, the mess, the laughter, all of it. If one of the children gets hurt, he is instantly there, and if one of them calls for him in the night, he would move mountains to reach them.

Corvus Corax Corvus is quieter about it than most, but no less devoted. He is the one who watches from the side until one of the children wanders over and crawls into his lap, at which point he is finished for the evening. He likes the small, private moments more than the grand ones, and he has a very soft spot for the child who sits with him while he works. He may not be loud about it, but the children know he is there, and that matters more.

Alpharius Omegon Each time a new one is born, Alpharius and Omegon argue over who is the father, and since neither can decide, they decide that you need to have an even number of children, starting with 8. Can you get to 16? At least the do not insist on naming them all Alpharius.

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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)

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His Chapter’s symbol.

The proud mark of Ultramar displayed over bare skin, with your shoulders naked, your thighs bare, and the curve of your backside visible every time you shifted your weight.

Cato stared.

For a second, the Commander of the Victrix Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar, hero of countless campaigns and scourge of Xenos horrors, stood completely silent.

Then his jaw tightened.

“You are aware,” he said, voice dangerously low, “that this is a battle barge.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, stirring something fragrant in the pan. Your eyes were bright with mischief.

“I had noticed, my lord.”

“You are aware that this vessel contains warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.”

“Yes.”

“And Serfs.”

“Naturally.”

“And Administratum officials.”

“Unfortunately.” Your voice had taken on a slight lilt of amusement, making him close his eyes, as though he prayed for patience.

“Then perhaps you can explain why you are standing in a galley half-dressed in the heraldry of Macragge.”

You turned then, and the apron shifted with you, the fabric dragging over your breasts in a way that made his gaze drop before he could stop himself. You saw that subtle movement and a smile bloomed on your lips as you watched what felt like fortress gate crack open.

“I am dressed, my lord,” you said sweetly. “I am wearing an apron.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That is not clothing.”

“It is if one is cooking.” You blinked, almost sincere in your demeanour.

“It is if one is cooking while wearing other garments beneath it.”

You tilted your head. “Well… there’s hardly a rule that states it absolutely must be so, my lord.”

A faint muscle in his cheek moved.

“You test me.” His voice was gravely as he took a step closed.

“Constantly.” You smiled sweetly as you took in the sight of the demigod of a man in front of you.

“You delight in it.”

“Shamelessly so!”

“You will be the death of my discipline.” His eyes bore into your very soul as he said it.

You turned back to the pan, humming as though that were a compliment. “I made you something from Talassar. Well, close enough. The ship stores did not have everything, because apparently battle barges are stocked for war and not romance, which feels like a tragic administrative oversight.”

He stepped fully inside. The doors sealed behind him with a soft hydraulic sigh.

The sound seemed to change the room.

You felt it in your skin before he touched you. The way the air grew heavier. The way his presence filled the galley. He was still in the dark bodyglove beneath his armor, the black fabric clinging to the immense architecture of him, his shoulders wide enough to make the chamber feel suddenly smaller. His beard shadowed the severe line of his jaw. The three scars across his face caught the lumen glow, pale marks against stern features that should have frightened you.

Yet, they never did.

You had tended those scars with cloth and salve. You had fastened seals on his armor. You had carried trays to his quarters after campaigns when he pretended he did not need food, rest, or gentleness. You had learned how to read his silences. You had learned when his anger was for enemies, when his irritation was for bureaucracy, and when his annoyance with you was only a thin, proud veil over something warmer.

Something hungry.

His gaze moved over you now, slow and possessive despite his restraint. From the bare line of your throat to the apron’s gold symbol. From your waist to your thighs. Then lower, where your feet were bare against the cool galley floor.

“You should not,” he said.

You lowered the heat beneath the pan.

“No?”

“No.”

You turned again, and this time you leaned your lower back against the counter, letting the apron fall between your thighs. “Should I take it off, then?”

Cato inhaled.

It was not a gasp. He was far too controlled for that. This was worse. A deep, measured breath through his nose, as though he had just caught your scent properly for the first time.

Your smile faltered into something softer, more real. Beneath the teasing, desire pulsed low in your belly.

“My lord,” you murmured, “the door is sealed.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“And?”

“And no one comes here unless you summon them.”

His mouth tightened. “That is still no excuse for insolence.”

“No,” you agreed. “But it does make it easier.”

His expression darkened.

You were playing with fire, and you knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it. That was what drove him half-mad. The deliberate sweetness of your provocation. The innocence you could put on like silk while your body offered him every wicked answer, he had no business wanting from you.

He crossed the room with slow, controlled steps.

You held your ground until he stood before you, towering over you, close enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his gaze. He smelled of clean sweat, steel, and the faint sanctified oils used by the armourium. Beneath that, unmistakably, he smelled like himself. Warm. Male. Overwhelming.

“You think yourself very clever,” he said.

“I think you like this apron.”

“I think you have mistaken tolerance for permission.”

Your breath caught.

His hand rose, not touching you yet, only reaching for the edge of the apron where it lay against your collarbone. His gloved fingers brushed the gold-threaded Ultima. The contact was light, almost reverent.

“You wear my Chapter’s symbol,” he murmured. “On bare skin.”

“Yes.”

“You stand here with nothing beneath it.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“You expect me to eat what you have prepared after presenting yourself like this.”

“I thought you might want dessert first.” You bit your lower lip, surprising yourself with your insolence.

His eyes flashed.

The next breath barely left your lungs before he took your face in one massive hand and bent to kiss you.

It was not gentle.

It was controlled, because Cato Sicarius did not lose himself easily, but it was hot enough to steal sense from you. His mouth claimed yours with a sternness that made your knees loosen. His beard scraped your skin. His thumb pressed along your jaw, angling your face exactly where he wanted it, and you opened to him with a soft, eager sound.

He swallowed that sound.

Then he made another one from you.

His free hand went to your waist, fingers spreading over the tie of the apron. For one terrible, thrilling moment, you thought he might rip it off you. Instead, he only tugged it tighter, pulling you sharply against him. Your bare breasts pressed behind the fabric. Your belly met the hard plane of him. Through the black bodyglove, you could feel the heat of his body and the unmistakable line of his arousal.

You whimpered into his mouth.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders. “Yes.”

“You wanted to distract me.”

“Ah!”

“To lure me into this galley like some undisciplined mortal youth.”

You tried to smile. “Did it work?”

His mouth moved to your cheek, then lower, dragging heat along your jaw.

“Yes.”

The single word sank straight through you.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, then down, curving around the bare flesh exposed by the apron. He squeezed, firm and possessive, making you gasp. His other hand moved to the counter behind you, caging you there. The sheer size of him made the world disappear beyond his shoulders.

“You are fortunate,” he said, lips brushing your ear, “that I have locked this section’s access.”

Your pulse jumped. “You did?”

“I am not careless.”

“You planned this?”

“I planned privacy.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You were the one who planned sedition.”

You laughed, breathless and shaky. The sound became a moan when his hand slipped beneath the apron.

His fingers found you hot and already wet.

Cato went still.

The teasing vanished from your face. Your head tipped back against the cabinet, lips parting as his gloved fingers stroked through the slick heat between your thighs with terrifying precision. He watched you while he did it, his blue eyes intent, studying each tremor, each flutter of your lashes, each tiny break in your breathing.

“This,” he murmured, “from cooking in an apron?”

“From you looking at me in it.” You corrected him, and his expression softened for a fraction of a second.

Then his fingers pressed firmer, and you jolted.

“Cato.”

His name left your mouth too sweetly.

The control in his face thinned.

He sank to his knees.

Your breath stopped.

It should have been impossible, that a man like him, a warrior made monumental by gene-craft and war, would kneel on the galley floor before you. Yet he did. He gripped your hips and turned you slightly, then lifted you with effortless care onto the edge of the counter.

The metal was cold beneath your bare skin, making you hiss.

Cato’s mouth curved faintly.

“Too cold?”

“A little.”

“You should have worn more.” He chided, though there was no real heat in his words.

“You would have complained.”

“Such insolence!” His hands pushed your thighs apart, and just like that, your laughter died.

The apron still covered you from the front, hiding him momentarily from the view of any poor unsuspecting soul who might choose to override his commands, and shielding you from the cold air, but beneath it his hands were on you, spreading you open. He lowered his head under the fabric, and the sight of him disappearing beneath the blue apron stamped with the Ultima was so obscene, so absurdly intimate, that your whole body flushed.

Then his mouth touched you.

Your palms slapped down onto the counter.

“Oh.”

He kissed you there first, slow and deliberate, his beard scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs. He inhaled like a starving man trying to retain dignity at a banquet. Then his tongue dragged through you, deep and hot, and you cried out before biting your own knuckles to muffle the sound.

Cato pulled back only to murmur against you.

“No. Let me hear it.”

“My lord, someone might…”

“No one will enter.”

His tongue found you again.

The man who commanded armies ate you like a vow.

There was no hurried desperation in him at first. He licked you slowly, thoroughly, as if learning the shape and taste of your arousal were an exercise worthy of military precision. His hands gripped your thighs to keep you open. When you tried to close them around his head, overwhelmed by the heat gathering too quickly in your belly, he held you firm with almost insulting ease.

You sobbed his name.

He rewarded you with a low sound that vibrated against your flesh.

Your hips jerked.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “There you are.”

You shuddered. “Cato…”

“You taste best when you have been wicked.”

The words ruined you.

You bucked against his mouth, and this time he did not restrain you. He let you grind against his tongue, let you chase the pleasure he was dragging out of you. The apron shifted over his head with every movement, the Ultima wrinkling against the sharp bridge of his nose when he pushed closer. It should have been funny. It was, distantly. Mostly it was unbearable.

His tongue circled your clit, then flattened over it. Two fingers pressed inside you, thick and careful, stretching you with a slow insistence that made your spine bow.

“Cato, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, fingers still working you. “Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

“I had no intention of stopping.”

With that, he returned to you with more hunger.

The first climax hit hard enough that you nearly slipped on the counter. He caught you immediately, one arm locking around your hips, mouth still on you as your body clenched and shook. You gasped, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand tangled in his dark hair without any thought of propriety.

He did not stop.

You whimpered. “Too much.”

His mouth softened, but his fingers stayed inside you, stroking with slower, deeper patience.

“You can give me another.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh but you can.”

“I’ll make a mess.”

At that, he looked up from beneath the apron.

His mouth was wet. His beard was damp. His eyes burned.

“You already have.”

Your face went hot enough to rival the stove.

He smiled; it was small, wicked, and devastating.

Then his mouth was on you again.

The second climax came slower, drawn from you with merciless devotion. He took his time, tasting you until your whole body felt boneless, until you were shaking too hard to tease him, until the only sounds leaving your mouth were broken, pleading fragments of his name.

When it finally broke, he held you through it, his palms warm and steady on your thighs while you came against his tongue.

Only when your trembling eased did he rise.

He stood between your spread legs, immense and satisfied, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture so blatantly male that your body clenched around nothing.

His gaze sharpened as he noticed your arousal climb once more.

Of course he noticed! Astartes missed nothing!

“Still?”

You swallowed.

The apron had twisted around your body. One breast was almost exposed; the fabric caught on the curve. Your thighs were slick. Your lips were swollen from kissing him. Your pulse beat everywhere.

“I wore the apron for you, cooked for you… I wanted you to see…” you whispered.

“Mission accomplished!” he chuckled as he ran his tongue over his lips, as though to taste your essence on them once more.

“And now…” you panted; his hands closed around your waist.

“And now,” he said, finishing your sentence for you, “I am going to take you over this counter.”

Your breath left you in a shaky rush.

He helped you down from the edge, but only long enough to turn you around. Your palms met the cool metal surface. Your cheek hovered over the counter as his hand pressed gently between your shoulder blades.

“Tell me now,” he said quietly.

The command steadied everything.

Beneath the heat, beneath the teasing, beneath the absurdity of the apron and the sanctified impropriety of it all, there was that line he never crossed without your invitation. You could feel him behind you, huge and hard and breathing with controlled restraint, but waiting.

Always waiting for the word that made it yours too.

You looked back at him.

“Take me.”

His eyes darkened.

He bent over you, his chest pressing against your back, mouth at your ear.

“Again.”

You trembled. “Take me, Cato.”

He kissed the side of your neck.

“Good girl.”

His hands moved with quick, efficient hunger. The apron stayed on. He only untied it at the back enough to expose you more fully, leaving the blue fabric draped over your front, the gold Ultima pressed beneath your breasts against the cold counter.

Behind you, he opened the fastening of his bodyglove.

You heard the soft shift of fabric, and then, you felt him.

Hot, heavy, and thick against your slick entrance.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

He rubbed himself through your wetness once, twice, dragging the head of his cock against your clit until your hips jerked. He exhaled through his teeth.

“You are soaked.”

“You did that.”

“Yes,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction. “I did.”

Then he pushed inside.

Slowly…. Deliberately….

Even prepared, even wanting him desperately, you had to breathe through the stretch. He was careful, as careful as a man like him could be, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside yours on the counter. His size filled you inch by inch, splitting you open with a deep, heavy pressure that made your eyes sting.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

You did, or you tried to, anyway.

He stopped halfway, jaw clenched hard enough that you could hear the tension in his breath.

“More,” you whispered.

His hand slid over your belly beneath the apron, fingers splayed there as though he could feel where he was claiming space inside you.

“Greedy.”

“For you.”

A rough sound left him, and he pushed deeper.

You moaned, long and helpless, as he seated himself fully inside you. For a moment, he stayed there, buried to the hilt, his body bowed over yours, his mouth pressed against your shoulder. You could feel him shaking with restraint.

He was so controlled in war. So exacting. So proud.

And here, with you bent over a counter in a private galley, naked except for an apron bearing his Chapter’s sacred mark, he was barely holding himself together.

The thought made you clench around him.

Cato growled.

“Do that again and I will not be gentle.”

You did it again, deliberately now.

His hips snapped forward, in response and you felt the counter jolt beneath you.

You cried out as he took you with a roughness sharpened by weeks of discipline, by the constant closeness between you, by every teasing glance you had given him while pouring recaf or fastening a purity seal, by every time you had leaned just a little too close and pretended not to see how his gaze lingered.

Now he did not pretend.

He held your hips and fucked you hard, each thrust driving you forward against the counter, the apron trapped beneath your body. The metal was cold against your breasts. His body was furnace-hot behind you. The sounds were filthy in the enclosed space, skin meeting skin, your wetness taking him, your breath breaking around his name.

“You knew what this would do,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You wanted me like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bent over my galley counter.”

“Yes.”

“Wearing my symbol while I take you.”

You whimpered. “Yes!”

His hand slid up your spine, then curled lightly around the back of your neck, holding you in place without force. The gesture was possessive enough to make your mind go soft at the edges.

He leaned close, beard brushing your cheek.

“You taste best,” he murmured, “when you are spread open for me and trying to be quiet.”

Your body clenched violently around him.

He cursed under his breath, something in old Talassarian, rough and reverent.

“Again,” he said. “Do that again.”

“I can’t help it.” You whimpered as his hips snapped against your ass, driving him deeper into you.

“Oh my poor little woman, so desperate for my cock!”

His rhythm deepened. Slower now, harder, grinding into you at the end of every thrust until you could feel him everywhere. He knew how to use his strength, knew how to hold back just enough to keep from hurting you while still making you feel claimed down to the marrow. His hand slipped beneath the apron again and found your clit, slick fingers circling in time with each drive of his hips.

Your knees nearly gave, but he caught you, arm banding around your waist, hauling you higher against him so your feet barely touched the floor. The change in angle made you cry out.

“There,” he said.

You could not answer.

He had found the place inside you that turned pleasure into white heat. Every thrust struck it. Every circle of his fingers made your body tighten. You reached back blindly, and he caught your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth. He kissed your palm, then pressed it flat to the counter again.

“Hold on.”

And you did.

The third climax rose like a wave with teeth.

“Cato, I’m going to…”

“Yes.”

“I’m…”

“Yes, come for me.”

You shattered around him.

He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until pleasure blurred into something almost unbearable. Your body pulsed around his cock, slick and tight, and he groaned into the back of your neck, the sound torn out of him.

“Perfect,” he rasped. “You are so perfect.”

His rhythm faltered.

That was when you knew he was close.

You pushed back against him with what little strength remained. “Come in me.”

His hand tightened on your hip.

You turned your face enough for him to see your mouth, your flushed cheek, your eyes heavy with want.

“My lord,” you whispered, wicked even now. “Please.”

His control broke beautifully.

He thrust once, twice, then buried himself deep and came with a low, shuddering groan, his body locking around yours. Heat flooded inside you, thick and intimate, and the sensation made you whimper. He held you there, pressed to the counter beneath him, breathing hard against your skin as his release pulsed deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The pot on the stove gave a small, offended bubble.

You laughed weakly.

Cato’s forehead rested between your shoulder blades.

“Do not laugh,” he said, though there was no bite in it.

“You ravished me in a galley while dinner burned.”

“It is not burned.”

“You checked?”

“I can smell it.”

You laughed again, softer this time, and he kissed your shoulder. The tenderness of it made your heart ache in a way the roughness had not.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. You shivered at the emptiness, then at the warmth of him beginning to spill down your thighs. Cato saw it and went very still.

You looked back at him.

His gaze was fixed between your legs.

“Oh,” you said, breathless. “You like that too.”

His eyes lifted to yours with dangerous dignity.

“You will not survive your own mouth one day.”

“I survived yours just fine.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as though appealing to the Emperor for patience.

Then he reached for a clean cloth, wet it with warm water, and began to clean you himself.

That was Cato, too.

The same man who had bent you over the counter and fucked you until you forgot the ship around you was now careful with your tender skin, one hand steady on your waist while the other wiped you clean with almost ceremonial gentleness. He adjusted the apron over you when you shivered, tied it properly again, then turned you to face him.

The Ultima symbol was wrinkled now.

He looked at it.

Then at you.

“You have desecrated sacred heraldry.”

“I think you helped in that desecration, my lord.”

“I am certain I did most of the work.” He said, ruefully as he tried to straighten out the wrinkled apron the best he could.

You smiled up at him. “Would you like me to apologize?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to never wear it again?”

“No!” His answer came too quickly.

Your smile widened.

He sighed, long-suffering and utterly defeated.

“You are impossible.”

“And you my lord, are hungry.”

“Yes,” he said, and kissed you once, slower now, and you tasted yourself on his mouth. “I am.”

You reached behind you, turned off the heat fully, and then, lifted the lid from the pot. Steam rose between you, fragrant and rich. Cato watched as you spooned the food into a bowl with hands that still trembled a little.

When you offered it to him, he accepted.

The first bite made his expression shift almost imperceptibly.

You knew that look. A tiny softening at the corner of his eyes. A memory finding its way through duty and discipline.

“Good?” you asked.

He swallowed.

“Very.”

You leaned against the counter, bare legs still unsteady, apron crooked, hair coming loose.

“Better than ration brick?”

“That is not a high standard.”

“Better than the officer’s galley?”

“Easily.”

“Better than the honoured kitchens of Macragge?”

“Careful now!”

You laughed.

He took another bite, then set the bowl down. His hand came to your chin, tilting your face up.

“But you,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your lower lip, “taste better than all of it.”

Your breath caught as Cato kissed you again, deep and lingering, as the battle barge moved silently through the dark between stars, bearing warriors, weapons, duty, and war.

And in one sealed little galley aboard that immense machine of conquest, the proud symbol of Ultramar lay warm against your naked skin, wrinkled from his hands, and beloved because of it.

GODS... I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAME OVER ME!!!!

I swear I did NOT intend for this to turn into whatever this monstrosity is!!

Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and douse myself with a cold shower!

For a moment there was no sound but the deep, bellows breathing of the Primarch barely muffled by the rushing of blood in your ears. Then, a long sigh.

“Very well.”

He shifted you in his arms. When you began to descend you panicked, fingers locking onto the engravings on his pauldron. 

“Wait! What-”

“Hush.”

His deep voice pulsed through you like a rolling tide. Your rigid muscles relaxed and you allowed him to set you upon his bed. The firm mattress barely gave beneath your weight. Your feet dangled. Finally, you gained the courage to open eyes that had remained tightly shut since that awful moment in your grandmother’s cell.

Sparse, heavy furniture. Clean lines. Shades of blue. A desk the size of a small land vehicle, almost totally obscured by precisely stacked columns of parchment. Somewhere data slates buzzed and pinged with incessant notifications. 

You felt your heartbeat slow.

Safe. I’m safe here.

Safe to sort through the maelstrom of emotions swirling within you.

She’s finally gone.

Most likely, she’d been gone even before Roboute’s sword fell. The look in her eyes… the voice coming from her mouth… the strength in her clawed hands. You touched your throat again and winced at the sting.

“At the end… she wasn’t human anymore, was she?” The steadiness of your voice surprised you.

Roboute had his back to you, murmuring something into his personal vox set. It should have been difficult to read body language through the sheer massiveness of his armor. But you saw him tense.

The silence stretched long before he finally spoke.

“No.”

Light, the old records were true. It hasn’t happened in over half a millennia, but now….

You whispered an ancient, terrible word. “Void-cursed.” 

“Is that your people’s term for it?”

“One of them.”

Void-cursed. Plagued by a being from the Warp. Possessed. 

Your shaking intensified. “When she looked at me, at the end, she reminded me of how Victor had looked. Like something other had crawled inside her skin.”

Roboute did not reply.

“I’ve heard stories.” You needed to talk, to process what you’d seen. “The reasons why every Light-blessed child undergoes the Dampening. What happens if they don’t.”

Guilliman turned toward you again. His face reminded you of marble. But emotion flickered in his deep eyes. In a single stride he stood before you in all his titanic majesty. Then, his armor groaned as he sank to his knees.

Even seated on the high bed, you were barely at the level of his eyes.

“My Hearts,” he placed his gauntleted hands on either side of your hips, “Listen to me.”

Something in his tone made you stiffen. 

“We must never speak of what occurred in that chamber.”

You furrowed your brows. “Roboute-”

“Never.”

You flinched. His eyes widened, then he brought one hand up to cup your face. 

“I do not mean to frighten you. Please, try to understand. To speak of… such things… carries great danger.” 

You pulled away. “The Matriarch is dead, Roboute! I was not so insensible when you brought me back to this ship. I heard the whispers. If everyone does not know by now, they will soon. For the Light’s sake, Conrad was there! He saw!”

His jaw flexed. “I am aware. That will have to be remedied.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked away. Reaching out, you curled your fingers around the edge of his gorget as if you had the strength to pull him back. 

“Roboute, what do you mean by that?!”

He stared into the middle distance. You could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes.

“Rumors can be suppressed. We will craft an acceptable story. And I do not think your cousin a fool. He will agree to keep silent. Drastic measures need not be taken.”

Your blood ran cold.

“You wouldn’t hurt him.” You whispered. “You wouldn’t.”

Those burning blue eyes turned their full force back on you. “I will do what is necessary to protect you.”

An invisible hand wrapped around your lungs and squeezed. 

“I don’t understand. Conrad wouldn’t harm me.”

“My Hearts, please-”

“You did not react this way when people whispered of Victor’s betrayal and corruption.”

“Love-”

“Granted, this is… different. But surely things are not so dire that you must-”

“Enough.”

He stood. The air in the chamber grew heavy, pressing upon your body as if the gravity had suddenly doubled. 

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, towered over you.

“It will be as I say.”

He stood less than five feet away. Yet it felt like a chasm had opened between you.

***

Guilliman saw you retreat into yourself and regretted every word that had come out of his mouth. 

No, not the words. Rather, the manner in which they were spoken.

He would say the words again. And again. As many times as it took to make you understand. 

I must.

Still, as he looked down at your silent form, perched like a bird on the edge of a bed far too large for you, his hearts ached.

He softened his voice as much as he was able and whispered your name.

The vox buzzed.

“My Lord, the serf you requested is here.”

Guilliman sighed as he replied. “Let them through, Cato.”

The door hissed open. The young man in serf’s robes bowed low. The cart he pushed held a bowl of steaming water, clean cloths, and basic medical supplies. Guilliman motioned him to leave it. With another bow, the serf departed. The door closed. 

And they were alone again.

Guilliman pulled the cart closer. Kneeling once more in front of you, an action his armor protested, he carefully dipped a cloth in the warm water.

“Tilt your head, my Hearts. Please.”

You did, your eyes still not meeting his. 

It took an inordinate amount of focus to press the damp fabric against your throat. The smallest overcorrection and he could render you unconscious. Or worse. Twice, the cloth slipped from between his armored fingers to splat softly against your lap.

“Throne damn it.” He grumbled. “Again, manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton.”

I should have removed my armor first.

A soft huff made him look up. Your lips were pressed tight, but he swore he saw the faintest trace of a smile.

Both his hearts leapt.

“I have many skills. Nursing, it seems, is not one of them.”

The smile did not return. 

He winced. “I should not have spoken so harshly. I only….”

A strange feeling. To be at a loss for words.

What could he say? 

Time and time again you had been pulled from his arms. Threatened. Harmed. Nearly killed. He knew the gray emptiness of thinking he’d lost you forever. His mind slipped back to that moment in your empty chambers. Curled on the floor like a lost child as he contemplated a future without your light to warm him.

“I cannot lose you.”

The words were raw, unpracticed. The voice a rasping wreck no one would ever think could come from a Primarch. Much less the Lord Regent of the Imperium.

“I cannot.” He ceased his paltry medical attempts. “And if the events of that chamber reach the wrong ears, if the words spoken within are learned….”

***

“You would run Anathema’s sword straight through her if you knew! We know. We know what she is!” 

“Halfbreed bitch!”

***

Roboute Guilliman was many things. A fool was not one of them. 

He knew the implication of your grandmother’s, or the Thing possessing her’s, final words. He suspected she… It… had been on the verge of revealing a secret that would have damned you in the eyes of the Imperium before someone intervened.

An intervention not entirely necessary.

I would have ended that foul hag before she spoke another syllable. 

“Roboute….”

You took the cloth from him and dabbed at the scratches on your throat. But your eyes fixed on his face.

“I don’t know what she was talking about. In the end.”

You weren’t lying. The air left Guilliman’s lungs in a rush that ruffled the loose hairs around your face. 

“That is most likely for the best, my Hearts.” He spoke before you could ask the questions he saw poised on your lips. “We will not speak of it.”

You frowned. “Not now, perhaps. But-”

“Not ever.”

This time you did not back down. Something in your face hardened, a determination he both admired and dreaded.

“Roboute, I agree with you there are more important matters than my parentage to focus on right now. The Matriarch’s death will make my succession both easier and more difficult, and power must be consolidated lest anarchy reign.”

He smiled, pride burning in his chest. “A practical mindset.”

“But,” you lowered the red-stained cloth and gripped it hard, “I know you suspect something.”

I do. And it could destroy you.

He remained silent.

You softened, pressing a hand against his stubbled cheek. “I don’t want secrets between us, Roboute.”

He almost laughed at that. Almost.

“This Imperium runs on secrets.” He didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his voice.

“But a marriage can’t.”

A marriage.

The words sent a jolt like lightning through every nerve ending in his body.

He was going to marry you. Despite what he suspected, he would still marry you. Love you. Protect you from everything and everyone who would tear you from him. Xenos, TerraNovan, or Imperial. 

I will have your life entwined with mine and DAMN whatever blood runs in your veins!

He kissed you.

It was not planned. It was not gentle. 

Guilliman gripped the back of your head, digging his fingers into your hair, and pressed his mouth against yours with just shy of crushing force. Building on his most recent experience, he swept his tongue between your lips. He could have classified your exact taste if he wished. The precise chemical make up.

But he didn’t care, so long as it was you.

I could subsist on your mouth, your breath, alone. 

Only when you began to pat desperately at his cheeks did he pull away. You panted, sagging against his chestplate. He gave you precisely thirty seconds to catch your breath before lifting you by your waist and attaching his mouth to your bruised throat.

He drew his tongue over the scratches, relishing your gasp. The tang of iron stirred something filthy and animal in him. 

Throne, I wish I was out of this cursed armor!

“Tell me you are well.” He growled between kisses. “Tell me you are mine.”

Your pulse pounded wildly against his lips. “You are… ah… trying to distract me!”

“Tell me.”

“Yours! I’m yours, Roboute!”

“Mine.”

And I will do what I must to keep you.

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Lion El’Jonson He would freeze for half a beat, then go very quiet. Lion is not good at being surprised in tender ways, so the first reaction is usually stillness and a searching look. If he’s feeling safe, he’ll lean back in with a softness that almost no one else gets to see. If he’s embarrassed, he’ll pretend the moment never rattled him, which is how you know it absolutely did.

Fulgrim He would be delighted, flustered, and immediately dramatic about it. Fulgrim would probably act as though you’ve just given him the highest compliment imaginable, because in his mind you probably have. He’d want to kiss you back properly and with a lot of feeling.

Perturabo He would stop dead and look almost suspicious at first, like he’s trying to figure out whether he imagined it. Once he believes it’s real, he’d react in a very contained way, but you’d still see the shift. Perturabo is not naturally easy with affection, so a spontaneous kiss would hit him hard and leave him visibly softer for a moment.

Jaghatai Khan He would smile like he had already decided he liked this development very much. Jaghatai is one of the more easygoing Primarchs about affection, so he’d recover quickly and make it into a teasing moment. He’d kiss you back with warm confidence, then probably say something light just to see you react.

Leman Russ He would look stunned for a second, then completely thrilled. Russ would very likely laugh, pull you closer, and act like this is the best thing that has happened all day. He’s the sort who makes tenderness feel huge and obvious, so the kiss would become an excuse for him to be more openly affectionate. He’d also probably brag about it later, because of course he would.

Rogal Dorn He would go very still, then become strangely earnest. Dorn is not flashy with his emotions, so the surprise would show in the way he pauses before responding. If he’s comfortable, he would kiss you back with serious, careful tenderness, like the moment matters enough to handle properly.

Konrad Curze He would react as if he’s been caught off guard by something dangerous and precious at the same time. Curze would probably stare at you for a moment, almost disbelieving that the kiss was real and meant for him. If he allows himself to respond, it would be intense, almost desperate, because he does not trust tender things to last.

Sanguinius He would be charmed and deeply moved. Sanguinius would smile first, then look almost shy in that rare way he gets when something genuinely personal surprises him. He’d return the kiss with a kind of grace that makes the whole moment feel warmer than it started. He would probably hold your face afterward like he’s making sure the world stays kind.

Ferrus Manus He would look momentarily blank, then visibly flustered in the least graceful way possible. Ferrus is not great at spontaneous tenderness, which makes a surprise kiss especially effective on him. He’d recover with a very blunt comment and probably kiss you back more firmly than he meant to. You’d know it worked because he’d spend the next few minutes being unusually focused on anything except his own face.

Angron He would be shocked, then very still, like his body doesn’t know what to do with kindness that arrives unexpectedly. The kiss would probably disarm him more than he’d like to admit. He might not have a polished response, but he would likely lean into you in a way that says more than words could. It would be one of the few moments that makes him look almost gentle.

Roboute Guilliman He would try to maintain composure and fail very slightly. Guilliman would register the kiss as both a surprise and a welcome interruption, which makes him deeply and visibly distracted. He’d respond with careful affection, probably with a small smile he did not intend to show. Then he’d overthink it for about five seconds before deciding to enjoy it anyway.

Mortarion He would be awkwardly stunned, and then suspiciously affected. Mortarion is not used to vulnerability being offered freely, so a surprise kiss would make him feel exposed in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. If he trusts you enough to accept it, his response would be subdued but very real.

Magnus the Red He would be amused, delighted, and instantly affectionate in return. Magnus is one of the easiest Primarchs to catch off guard in a way that becomes a game, so he’d likely grin and make a big deal out of how bold you are. Then he’d kiss you back with theatrical warmth, because he would absolutely encourage this behavior.

Horus Lupercal He would be charmed in that effortless, magnetic way he has, but you’d also catch the flash of genuine surprise. Horus likes being admired, but a spontaneous kiss from you would feel more intimate than simple admiration. He’d respond smoothly, with warmth and confidence, and then probably give you that look that says he is now fully invested in the moment.

Lorgar Aurelian He would react as though you’ve just offered him something sacred. Lorgar would be intensely moved by a kiss that came without warning. He might go soft and reverent for a second before returning the kiss with overwhelming sincerity.

Vulkan He would be openly delighted and incredibly gentle about it. Vulkan reacts to affection like it is both precious and deeply reassuring, so a surprise kiss would make him smile almost immediately. He’d kiss you back with warmth and care, then likely pull you in as if to protect the moment from the rest of the world.

Corvus Corax He would go quiet for a moment, then soften in a way that’s easy to miss if you’re not watching closely. Corvus is not flashy with emotion, so the surprise would show in the small pause before he responds. He’d kiss you back with careful tenderness, like he’s making sure not to break the moment. Later, he’d probably be more affectionate than usual without ever naming why.

Alpharius Omegon They would react with a mix of amusement and immediate recalculation, because of course they would. A surprise kiss from you would throw them off just enough to make them interested in everything about why you did it. They’d recover quickly and respond in kind, probably with a teasing line that makes it hard to tell whether they are flustered or plotting to kiss you again.

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Lion El’Jonson At first, the reader might almost respect him. The Lion has that distant, implacable quality that can be mistaken for honor. But once the reader sees what “compliance” actually means - the old laws erased, the familiar places repurposed, the people made smaller under Imperial rule - that respect curdles into something sharper. The Lion becomes the face of a cold, efficient betrayal: not cruelty for its own sake, but cruelty wrapped in duty.

You would come to hate how unbothered he seems by the damage. Even if he truly believes he did what was necessary, that only makes it worse. He did not just take your world. He judged it, found it wanting, and helped turn it into something unrecognizable.

Fulgrim Fulgrim would be unbearable to hate in the most personal way, because he would likely speak of the world’s “elevation” as though he had done it a kindness. He would see compliance as refinement, as the crude world being transformed into something worthy of the wider Imperium. You could hear that and feel sick, because to him it means their culture was not improved - it was scrubbed clean and repainted over a corpse.

The hatred here would be intensely bitter. Fulgrim’s beauty, charisma, and certainty would make him feel even more monstrous. He would not just represent conquest, but the contempt that conquest can wear when it smiles at its victims.

Perturabo Perturabo would feel like a verdict handed down by a machine. You would hate how the world was reduced to a problem of logistics, resistance, and structural failure. Whatever was alive and meaningful in their home would have been measured, broken, and replaced with something harder and less human.

That kind of destruction makes hatred deep and practical. You would not just resent him - you would resent that he can look at ruin and see efficiency. Perturabo is the sort of figure who turns grief into a ledger of losses, and that makes him especially easy to despise.

Jaghatai Khan The Khan is complicated because he can seem freer, more sympathetic, less suffocating than many of the others. That only makes the betrayal sting differently. If he helped bring the world to compliance, you would hate the contradiction: the man who seems to understand motion, sovereignty, and wildness also helped cage them.

Your hatred would likely be quieter here, but it would cut just as deep. You would not hate him for being cruel in an obvious way. You would hate that he may have understood the value of your world and still accepted its loss.

Leman Russ Russ would provoke a very raw kind of hatred. He is loud, proud, and prone to acting like violence proves righteousness, which makes him easy to blame for the scorch marks compliance leaves behind. If he was the one who broke their homeworld, you would likely never forgive the arrogance of it.

What makes him especially hateful is that he might think the whole thing was honest. He would say what he did was necessary, that he did not mean disrespect, that the world needed discipline. But to you, that just sounds like a barbarian’s excuse for wrecking everything and calling it honor.

Rogal Dorn Dorn’s version of compliance would feel like being built over while still alive. You would hate the cleanliness of it, the sealed doors, the reorganized streets, the old institutions dismantled and replaced with something efficient and inflexible. He would not have to be sadistic to be hated - his severity would be enough.

You would especially despise how unmoved he might seem by what was lost. Dorn treats order as virtue, which means he may not even notice how much human memory gets crushed in the process. That indifference is its own kind of violence.

Konrad Curze Curze would be the easiest to hate and the hardest to forget. If he was involved in bringing the world to compliance, you would not only despise what he did, but the terror that followed him like a shadow. He would leave behind fear so deep that even after the conquest, the world would still feel haunted.

Your hatred here would be almost physical. Curze is not just a conqueror - he is a warning that suffering can be made into governance. Every nightmare you could have about the compliance would likely have his face on it.

Sanguinius This one hurts because Sanguinius is the sort of Primarch who can inspire genuine love. That makes his betrayal, if he helped ruin your homeworld, feel almost sacrilegious. You would hate him not because he is obviously monstrous, but because he seems too radiant to be responsible for so much loss.

If he spoke gently about necessity, mercy, or the greater good, you would feel the wound reopen every time. His beauty would become part of the insult. It would be easier to hate a brute than someone who looks like hope while standing on the ruins of your world.

Ferrus Manus Ferrus would be hated as the embodiment of hardness. If your homeworld was forced into compliance under his hand, you would see a man who believes that what cannot endure deserves to be replaced. That attitude would be unbearable to someone who watched their living culture get hammered into Imperial shape.

You would despise his refusal to bend. Ferrus would likely speak as though the world had failed its test, and that would make him sound like the executioner of everything you loved. He is not subtle, which makes the loss he leaves behind feel brutally final.

Angron Angron would inspire a different sort of hatred, because you could probably see that he is himself a wound. But that would not excuse him. If he helped bring your world into compliance, you would hate that your home was broken by someone already broken, as though suffering had become contagious.

What makes him uniquely hateful is that he might understand pain better than anyone and still leave only more of it behind. You would probably despise him for turning his own misery outward and letting whole worlds pay for it.

Roboute Guilliman Guilliman would be hated for making ruin look reasonable. He is one of the most dangerous Primarchs to a grieving world because he can turn conquest into administration and atrocity into policy. You would watch your culture get filed, categorized, corrected, and absorbed into an Imperial framework that calls itself enlightened.

That creates a deep, enduring resentment. Guilliman does not have to shout to be devastating. He is the kind of man who can tell you your world is better now while you are standing in the ashes of what made it home.

Mortarion Mortarion would feel like suffocation. His presence would turn compliance into something dead, poisoned, and airless. If he was responsible, you would hate him for bringing not just rule, but decay and misery in the name of cleansing the world.

The disgust here would be intense. Mortarion has the energy of a plague given a voice, and that makes him the kind of conqueror who leaves you with a world that feels contaminated after the fact. Even if the Imperium calls it order, you would remember only rot.

Magnus the Red Magnus would be a tragic kind of hated figure, because he may have thought understanding was enough to justify what happened. If he helped bring the world to compliance, you would hate the arrogance of being “seen” by him without ever being truly respected by him. He could explain the world perfectly and still fail to preserve what made it theirs.

That would make the hatred especially painful. You would despise how someone so wise could still be so blind to the value of a living culture he helped destroy.

Horus Lupercal Horus would be hated as the smoothest liar in the room. He is the Primarch who can make conquest sound like brotherhood and submission sound like unity. If he was the one who led the compliance, you would hate how he could smile while your world was being broken into Imperial shape.

This is a particularly poisonous kind of resentment because Horus would likely know exactly how to make people trust him first. You would not just hate the act. You would hate the charisma that made the act possible.

Lorgar Aurelian Lorgar would be despised for sanctifying the destruction. If he brought the world to compliance, he would likely frame it in terms of faith, destiny, and the correct place of all things under the Emperor. To you that would make every ruined street and silenced custom feel like a religious insult.

The hatred here would be fierce because Lorgar converts violence into meaning. He would not just take the world - he would explain why losing it was good. That kind of moral theft is very hard to forgive.

Vulkan Vulkan would probably hurt you the most in a complicated way. He is kind, humane, and associated with protection, which makes it devastating if he still participated in the ruin of your home. You would hate him for being the sort of man who might genuinely care, and still go along with the destruction anyway.

That creates a very bitter conflict. You might not want to hate him, which only makes the hatred more painful when it arrives. Vulkan’s gentleness would feel like a betrayal of trust if he failed to prevent the world from being crushed.

Corvus Corax Corax would be hated for the silence around his violence. He is the Primarch of shadows, strikes, and unseen removals, which means you might never get a clean, glorious memory of what he did - only gaps, disappearances, and an old world that never came back. That makes the damage feel intimate and haunted.

You would resent how easily he could vanish into his own legend while your home was left with the consequences. Corax is the sort of figure whose righteousness can make him seem more distant than cruel, but distance does not soften ruin.

Alpharius Omegon They would be the hardest to hate in a clean way, because you might never be fully sure what was true. That uncertainty would become part of the wound. If they engineered the compliance, you would hate that your homeworld was treated like a game board, where people were moved and erased for a larger plan no one was allowed to understand.

That kind of hatred is cold. It is not just anger at conquest, but at manipulation, secrecy, and the feeling that the truth itself was stolen. Alpharius and Omegon would leave you with the sense that even their grief had been managed.

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