A lot of stuff....

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.

@solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts

@c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen @passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan

@meervalv0 @grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova @emiemiemii

@astrohymn @synfiction @n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou

@zamzmak @ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k

@ahrianee @toto-the-cactus @thevoidscreams @vithralith @thisuserislilsilly

@runin64 @gobs-archive @sovietstrange45 @nebulaegem @ghrgrsfdesfrfg

@iluminatka16 @absynthe-mind @nekotaetae @druidwolf21 @sunni-lobber

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.

-----------

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

-----------

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.

-----------

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

-----------

His eyes were wide open. He gasped for a second, looking at the ceiling of his personal room, looking around, searching for that face, that touch, that voice.

But she wasn't there… No one was there but him. It was a dream…no, not a dream, a vision. The angel passed his hand on his face, breathing deeply the scents around himself, recognizing the few petals in the corner, the oils and balms on his skin, the candles on the walls…and something else.

He started to sniff, moving around, then his sense pointed to his hands, to his clothes, and…a new smell…her smell.

A vision so strong that it could even leave a trace in the material world? No, that couldn't be possible; what he saw was an event from the future about someone that he had never known, but…

Why did his heart still beat thinking about those touches? And why did he wish that face didn't disappear at all?

///

When he opened up his eye, Sephares felt his back still hurting from the previous night. His dark brown hair was spread like a halo on the pillows of his quarter, the lights still warm and morbid for the resting hours of the angels. It was still early, and he was still tired.

He moved his arms, searching for something around him, and started to panic when he realized that he was utterly alone in the bed.

"An incinerator fire that consumes soul and body… You feel like this with me?"

He looked up; you were sitting on his chair, the blanket covered only the southern part of your body, exposing your chest and the so many bites that he had inflicted once and in the previous hours. The majority of them covered your neck and wrist, but the bolder ones were on the chest and breasts, especially closer to the areola. He sighed in relief, a hand removed some unruly hair from his face while looking at your relaxed pose, one leg closer to your chest while the other swung lazily thanks to the height difference between a baseline and an astarte. How he wished to be good at drawing; he would have loved to have one of you with him like this. For now, you suited yourself with his poor poetry.

"It's not finished."

"Well, you certainly improved! I must say, you're quite good with words."

"I got some help." He looked at you with that cocky smile of his.

Your cheek turned red by that look, so you dragged yourself back to him, allowing yourself to receive more of his kisses and caresses from his hands. He held your face closer, trying to pull you closer while his tongue started to caress your lips to grant access. To believe that you had taught him how to do it, he was quite the scholar indeed. You retracted, your fingers on his lips to create a barrier.

"Sephares, I need to go…"

"Stay a little longer, my flame; I desire you again…"

"You had me for hours, my love, and you'll have me later as well… but now…" You rose, collecting your uniform from the serf staff. "I need to go and prepare you and your brothers' food!"

He groaned, remembering that, despite the fact that he was maddeningly in love with you, you were still one of the lower kinds of staff on their flagship. It wasn't forbidden, a relationship like yours; his squad was fully aware of you two together. The problem was the higher status, such as his captain or even the first Captain Raldoron. A few of your friends knew about it and even sighed, envying that an angel had blessed you with his love, but all of them were too smart to let the thing slip from their mouths.

Sephares wondered sometimes if he did the right thing by allowing himself to fall in love, to keep you closer than he could… to trust you with the truth. Your uniform consists of long sleeves and a high neck; no eyes would ever notice the signs from his bites and the small cuts you had inflicted upon yourself to give him enough to not succumb. That you knew was the secret of him and you alone.

Every time he drank from you, it was always enough to not kill you, yet enough to never succumb to his gene flaws, even if he knew that day would never come.

He was fixing his augmentic on his missing eye when he smelled that intoxicating smell again, noticing then your hand squeezing out from another cut some blood to refill his small vial.

"My love, no," he said, almost apologetic. "I've already taken too much from you; I don't need—"

"It's all right, Sephares." You said, "Securing the cap over the vial." "It's just for safety. I know you won't need me until your next battle, but I refuse to let you go without knowing you'll be okay."

He smiled with a hint of worry, seeing your slow movement to save the energy for your work. It wounded his heart knowing that you were there giving him so much and the only thing he could give you was just his love and his rations of meat that he was able to sneak in for you. Drinking from you wasn't daily, but the fear of seeing you collapse because he couldn't control himself was his nightmare.

Once you finished fixing your robes, you took the chance to put the vial on the cord around his neck and gently pressed your lips back to him.

"See you later, my angel…"

"I love you, my flame…"

The door closed with a silent swish, leaving him alone to hug the cover that still smelled like you.

///

"My Lord, is something troubling you?"

Sanguinius shook his head, waking up from a deep sleep. thought he had just a few seconds ago. His perfect smile graced his features as he dismissively shook his hand.

"Oh, forgive me, Raldoron, I had…" He inhaled the same scent, impregnated in his hair. "I had trouble sleeping."

He kept telling himself to keep it together, that it was improper and out of place for him, but that dream seemed to have decided to haunt him during his waking hours too. He tried to focus on his duties, but every time he tried to concentrate, his kind gaze went back to that precious vision. Those eyes so sad and full of love, that adoration…

That woman… Why was he there to heal his pain? What pain even?

She seemed in pain too… Why? What would have wounded him and her in such a way as to seek comfort in each other?

He could only keep his eyes glued on the statistics, alarming his closer men with his curious attitude.

When those excruciating hours ended, he could finally rise from his seat and try to head for his quarters.

"I need to rest. I wish to not see anyone else unless serious matters arise."

He really didn't want to attend more meetings; it would have been futile, especially since his mind was somewhere else or on someone else.

Who was she? Someone he met and then forgot? Someone he was meant to meet and create a bond with? And why did his body react like it was on fire when he remembered that face? That perfect face—he swore he could touch it if he had raised his hand enough.

He walked slowly, ignoring the greetings and the bows, ignoring everything while his mind wandered, searching every possible explanation. It was frustrating; he knew she was real, he was sure, but he had no idea where or how to find her…or why he wanted to find her. She was just a baseline; he had no claim against her, especially for his nature. He had no right to claim someone that was meant to disappear like sand in his fingers; there was no way that this was supposed to happen.

Deep in his thoughts, he kept on walking, now completely absorbed when the same scent from that night came to him; like a gale from Baal, it met him relentlessly, almost like a storm. He had to stop and collect himself. Another of his visions?!

He needed to support himself against the wall when—

Tap, tap, tap…

The soft sound of footsteps, fast and light like the one of a mouse that is trying to avoid the presence of its predator. They came from the wall… the passages for the serfs? Used only by them to move faster on the ship?

He was able to hear them clearly. In one series, they were alone; they were following the directions of the main corridor of the ship, and he, like in a trance, started to follow the scent, now stronger than before, that accompanied those footsteps. It couldn't be her. Yes, she wears the same outfit as the serfs on the Red Tear, but what were the chances that she could actually be there NOW?

He marched on, ignoring everyone and everything that was around him, almost scaring the few that tried to get closer or to distract him. The beloved angel now looked like the predator he usually tried to conceal, and he didn't plan to stop this hunt until he caught the object of his attention.

The footstep led him to a less crowded area of the flagship, an area that he remembered was used only on specific occasions, an amphitheater used by the Iteratos, now completely empty and illuminated by the dim lights of the stars. The windows were colored with images of the great conquests of the emperor and his sons and iconography of humankind rising to the stars. With the proper lights, the colors would have reflected on the entire area with gracefulness and splendor, but now the only thing that showed up was the sudden light of a door opening.

Still hidden in the corridor, the Primarch refused to show himself, only to admire with stupor the woman that had decided to grace him in his dream and clouded his mind during the day.

Maybe it was the sleep, but here in his waking hours you were quite different from what he had previously seen, yet it was still without a doubt you. The same eyes, the same face, the same hair…

You looked so small, completely oblivious to the danger that he and his sons could do to you, here alone in this place. So helpless… He could literally just grab you and—

NO! What was he thinking?! You were a baseline, someone under his care! You were a serf, but you were wearing his colors, for goodness sake! He tried to collect himself. His hand played with the flask hidden under his robes; in the worst scenario, he still had something to quench his thirst. Better to direct you somewhere else; this was still a private area, and it was clear that you didn't belong there.

Before he could fully get out from the tunnel, another pair of footsteps, this one heavier and from another of the various tunnels around the amphitheater, caught his attention again. You did not notice, captivated by the stained glass, the hulking figure that started to approach you with attentive steps.

Black shirt, a red tunic with the symbol of the legion, a bionic eye to replace one lost in battle, his same smell… one of his sons?

The figure approached, silently, moving carefully without making a sound towards you, and something in Sanguinius's head started to roar.

A fear started to bloom: the image of your poor, desecrated body on the ground in a pool of blood, his son losing control over his own senses…

His wings quivered with the thoughts, and his feet moved on their own. His teeth bared, crimson eyes fixed on the future scenario in front of him. He was just a few steps closer; he begged you to just turn around, to notice, to sense the danger, and—

The figure opens his arms, holding you in a loving embrace. You made a short scream of surprise, then turned to laughter. He put you down; his face was empty of every malice that one creature could possess, his eyes thoseof a lover.

To the primarch's surprise, one of his sons started to cover your face in sweet, gentle kisses, and you reciprocated each one of them.