[NSFW] An Unplanned Alliance, Chapter 3: Servitors and Sororitas

    The chapter serf who had accompanied Cato Sicarius was an odd fellow. A young adult, on the far end of that little cusp between boy and man, had long, densely packed curls cut in a straight rim just below the ear, with neatly trimmed bangs framing his square, boyish face in a crisp rectangle of dark, bobbing hair. Guilliman eyed him with curiosity, observing the almost bird-like bouncing, tilts of the head, and rapid bursts of erratic blinking.
    “Father,” Cato said, “You have transgressed against every value that our Creator instilled in us!” Guilliman sighed, looking over to the maid servitors struggling to scrub away the aftermath of his encounter with Yvraine.
    Guilliman paused, and then spoke measuredly, “You speak of values that our… The Emperor instilled in ‘us’, yet you have not had his will instilled in you, nor did I instill it in you, nor did anyone no more than five generations separated thereby. You know little, truly, of our ‘Creator’s’ values.” Cato Sicarius, typically so focused and self-serious, was shocked, an expression of absolute disbelief on his face.
    “Father, I understand your confidence in your understanding of the Imperial Truth, but I feel confident enough in my understanding of it to say that the Imperial Truth does not sanction so much as associating with Xenos, let alone copulating with them, arrogant though it may be for me to say so,” Cato said, his eyes narrow, his face contorted into a grimace behind his thick brunette beard. Guilliman stood from his chair, his full height on display.
    Looking down upon his son, more than a meter shorter than him, Guilliman said, “My Father’s uses of his preliminary Webway project were not so far off from my current dalliances with Yvraine. You would do well to begin expanding your horizons as well.” He then gestured towards the exit of his study. The Head of the Victrix Guard stormed off, his odd serf in tow. Guilliman sighed, shook his head, and marched off between his bookshelves.
...
    As the elevator Sicarius rode in descended towards the belly of the Macragge’s Honor, he was overwhelmed with distress and shock. Father… consorting with Xenos?! The Emperor, too? Cato shook with fury, confusion, and disgust, as the elevator shot down into the sunlight of the nearby star, its glory glinting off the innumerable spires of the immense flagship. The shuttle bay he was headed to was on the underside of the ship.
    My own father! The thought disgusted him, yet the shape of the Aeldari he had seen leaving his father’s quarters was difficult to expunge from his mind. The way she moved, her flawless, perfect skin, the way that her corset held back her breasts in the same way that a wavebreak held back a tsunami…
...
    The transport’s doors opened deep beneath the hive’s surface, into a realm of bootleg Auxilia bars and pipe labyrinths lit only with red emergency lumens. He marched along, trying to ignore the flashbacks to the warp that plagued him night and day. He came upon his favored “bar”, if you could call it such, and ducked to enter, its entirety crammed within a nest of rockrete and ancient adamantine support beams.
    The bartender looked up, and gasped when he saw the immense transhuman who entered. To him, it had been fifteen years since he’d seen Cato. With the expanded lifespan of an Astartes, it felt like he’d been absent for just a few months.
Cato sat cross legged on the floor in front of the low rockcrete bartop, as he always did. The establishment was empty, save for an old woman and a pair of dock workers, each sitting several spaces apart. Cato addressed the bartender and asked, “Do you still have my usual?”
    The bartender nodded in reverence, his head much balder than Cato remembered, and reached under his bar, saying, “You’re about the only damn thing in the galaxy, besides the Tyranids, who’d want to drink this, m’Lord.” His hands emerged clutching an enormous bottle of Fenrisian ale. Sicarius grinned and said, “Hardly, Bartholomew. My cousins in the Space Wolves consider it a delicacy.”
    The bartender shook his head as Cato took the bottle and opened it with an empty bolter magazine. “What could possibly drive a being like you to drink this way?” Bartholomew asked. Cato just shrugged and took a strong gulp from the bottle. He drank for some time, chatting away with Bartholomew, even as the night wore on and the other patrons emptied out.
    Around midnight, two giggling sororitas entered the bar. They were hospitaliers, if Cato read their loungewear uniforms correctly. The knight of Macragge let his gaze linger on the girls’ tastefully exposed bodies. After a few seconds of leering, he’d caught their attention. Being almost seven feet tall with the handsome and noble features of the Ultramarine gene seed certainly made him easy on the eyes.
    The braver of the two tittering sororitas, the one with the heftier bust and thicker hips, leaned over, tapping his titanic hand. Cato looked, and saw her waving at him like a schoolgirl waving at a teacher she fancied. She was a fair woman, with soft features and large, light grey eyes, their shining allure expertly framed with dark eyeliner. He sighed, and looked back to his almost drained bottle of Fenrisian ale.
    The bolder sister spoke up, saying, “M’Lord, my name is Sister Maria, and this is Sister Arabella. We were curious if, perhaps, we could buy you a drink. You seem to be running low.” She was a pale-skinned platinum blonde with a haughty, husky, smoky voice that rolled over his senses like the warmth of a roaring fireplace on a cold winter’s night.
    Arabella was taller, thinner, and darker skinned than Maria. She smiled softly and gently brushed a strand of dark red curls behind her ear, flashing her bright green eyes at Captain Sicarius. She wore a gold tinted eyeshadow, and he found looking away from her to be difficult.
    Cato felt a great pressure weighing upon him, that old, primal feeling that his marine indoctrination had taught him to circumvent. He smiled and said, “I’m not sure what you could possibly buy me that might bring about the effect you two seem to desire, but I’m always open to receiving some of the famed care of the Adeptus Sororitas.”
    Arabella giggled, her hand covering her mouth, and Maria said, “Wonderful! Bartholomew, can we get two bolter bitches for m’Lord?” The drinks were quickly made, and Cato downed the sweet cocktails as though they were shots. Maria giggled excitedly, leaned towards him, her arms pressed together on either side of her abundant endowment, and gleefully declared, “I sincerely hope those aren’t the only two bolter bitches that wet your mouth tonight!” Cato grinned.
    Well, father clearly cares not for promiscuity… The Master of the Watch thought, and he leaned close to the sisters. “Ladies,” he said, “I see you are healers, and I would ask assistance from you in remedying an ailment I am afflicted by.”
    The girls giggled harder than before, and Maria said, “Oh, m’Lord, we’d love to!” Her eyes drifted down his loose robes as she replied, and seemed to fixate upon the bulge between his thighs. His Talassarian Tempest Blade stiffened slightly in response to her attention, and his grin widened.
    “I’m glad you girls understand my predicament,” he said, “so, lead the way to your, ah... clinic.” The girls nodded enthusiastically. Cato stood, feeling the fringes of intoxication tickle his mind as he ducked out through the door, and each of his hands slid down to the sister’s lower backs as they walked through the underhive.
    His balance was being impeded by the Fenrisian ale, though his reactions were still far beyond that of a baseline human. I should have eaten before partaking in the wolf sauce, he thought, as the official drink of the Space Wolves hit harder than he’d expected.
    By the time they arrived at the convent, the ale had fully taken hold of The Knight Champion of Macragge. He loudly boasted of his conquests in war and sang the war hymns of the Ultramarines, his sonorous baritone impressing and captivating his companions.
    As he entered the convent, he noticed a large population of Auxilia and Sororitas in the convent’s main hall, a longue strewn liberally with pillows, cushions, blankets, and water pipes.
    Arabella and Maria wasted no time, and began to disrobe him. Maria tugged at his toga, pulling his shoulder strap loose, and Arabella pulled it down from his shoulder. As Arabella unwrapped the garment from the mighty chest of Cato Sicarius, defender of Ultramar, Maria took a low chair, placed it before him, kneeled upon it so that she could reach his member, and she took his flaccid length in her mouth, pushing her face into his crotch, his entire cock sliding down her tight, warm, wet throat.
    Arabella let his garment fall to the ground, revealing the body of a God, then began pulling hers off as well. Maria continued to fellate him, her long, extraordinarily dexterous tongue blessing his mighty ultramember with a magical massage even while her head bobbed back and forth, her hands planted firmly on his lower stomach, feeling his abs with the interest and systematic exploration of an archaeologist, all the while his titanic features and Maria’s astounding oral drew stares, whistles, catcalls, moans, and lewd offers.
    Something was bothering Cato, a little niggling thought gnawing away at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it, and he lost track of the thought as Arabella came up behind Maria, slowly stripping the warrior-nun’s toga, revealing the woman’s whorish body, built for pleasure, bit by bit. Finally, Maria’s massive breasts fell free from her robe, and Cato’s greatstaff was fully erect. Cato's head rolled back, his eyes closed, and he exhaled slowly, softly growling with pleasure.
    After another minute or so of unbelievable oral stimulation, Maria withdrew his cock from her mouth, swallowing as she did, the contraction of her throat shaking Cato with a wave of pleasure. The pair of sisters pulled him by the hands to a staircase in the far corner of the room. They descended the spiral staircase, through a large brig filled with numerous repentant sinners being lashed, bound, and thoroughly fucked.
    “I didn’t realize such methods were part of the penance process, Sisters,” Cato said, looking around as the pair guided him through. “It is a practice designed around giving the reformants positive reinforcement for good behaviors, and we’ve found that sexual intimacy is an excellent reward,” replied Maria.
    Cato grinned and said, “Well, I’m no heretic, but I feel that I’ve behaved well as of late, am I to be rewarded?” Arabella let out a loud cackle, her hands covering her mouth as Maria replied, “You certainly will be given great gifts tonight, but I think the ones truly getting rewarded tonight shall be Arabella and I.”
    The trio descended down another short set of stairs and burst through a pair of massive double doors at the bottom, stumbling into a kingly suite, the air thick with smoke and intoxicating incense. Two more nude sisters, these ones with cleanly shaved and oddly ridged heads, were kissing each other passionately on a luxurious four poster bed in the center of the room.
    Maria closed and locked the doors behind them as Arabella gently pulled Cato towards a lounge seat, where she lavished his sicario with love from her exquisitely long tongue, warm mouth, and delicate hands.
    After a while of this foreplay, Maria gently but firmly pushed Arabella aside and trapped Cato’s hefty cock between her bountiful breasts, running her seemingly prehensile tongue around the inside of his foreskin as she stroked her breasts along his shaft, her plump, black painted lips close behind her tits, as Arabella sat behind her rubbing her clit, such that Maria moaned pleasingly with Cato’s power sword buried in her throat.
    Cato’s gene seed poured forth after some time, filling Maria’s mouth and throat. She dutifully and enthusiastically swallowed, licking his cock clean with her fantastic tongue. Arabella then mounted Sicarius, seated upon his mighty chainsword with her back towards him.
    She leaned fully against him, gyrating her hips as she slid down the full length of his member. “Please,” the soft-spoken sister whispered, her teeth shiny and sharp, “Please give me the Emperor’s blessing…”
    Cato needed no more encouragement to begin thrusting away, his face buried in Arabella’s neck, biting and kissing her, his right hand pressed to the side of her face, his thumb in her mouth, and his left hand fondling her petite breasts.
    Maria, meanwhile, poured kisses and love upon Arabella’s clit and Cato’s balls as he furiously plowed Arabella, his hands moving south to grip the chitinous armored plates embedded in the luxuriously soft skin of Arabella’s hips for more leverage, as though he were drilling for a healthy father-son relationship with his cock.
    He glanced at the bed, admiring the skullcap ridges and two foot long tongues of the other two sisters as Maria’s own extravagant tongue wrapped around the base of his shaft. One sister had produced a golden cylinder which vibrated forcefully, and she was using it to please the other laying beside her on the bed.
    Arabella was no match for the intense combination of Maria’s lashing forked tongue and Cato’s throbbing shaft, just a touch thicker and longer than her forearm; she came, hard, moaning loudly, which turned into a clattering clicking noise that came from her deep in her… throat…
    Wait…
    “GENESTEALER SCUM!” roared Cato, throwing Arabella off his cock, leaping to his feet and punting Maria away with a sickening crunch as her rib cage caved in, his brain clouded by the organic poisons drifting from the incense trays. The two false sisters on the bed drew hidden laspistols with superhuman alacrity, but they were simply not fast enough.
    By the time they had brought the pistols to bear and squeezed off their first few snapshots, Cato was already holding Arabella by her throat, interposing her between him and the bedborne traitors. Their las fire tore Arabella to pieces, blowing chunks of superheated flesh away as tissue closer to the point of impact flash-boiled and exploded.
    Cato hurled the corpse of Arabella at her former sisters, bowling them both over and knocking the pistols out of their hands. The Grand Duke of Talassar charged forward, gripping the frame of the four poster bed and flipping it over, trapping the women beneath, spraining joints and putting hairline fractures all along their skeletal structure.
    Cato whirled around at the sound of boots stomping down the stairs. He waited a few seconds, listening, crouched like an apex predator ready to spring. Six traitors came upon the door, and just as they were about to breach the room, he charged.
    His body weight shattered through the doors, and he threw himself outwards, barreling through four former guardsmen and crushing the other two behind the heavy wooden doors.
    Cato crushed a third prone traitor’s skull with a single furious stomp. He swung a hammerfist around, shattering the fourth traitor’s jaw and breaking his neck. Cato’s follow-through swing flung the body away.
    The fifth traitor tried to bring his lasrifle to bear after righting himself, but Cato took hold of the sixth damned bastard and used his unwilling body as a cudgel to bludgeon his armed comrade to death with.
    The last traitor, whom Cato was holding aloft by his head, was still alive and struggling, so the Ultramarine squeezed, crushing the fool’s head like a ripe melon held between a Sister of Silence’s thighs.
    Cato tossed the body aside like a fruit’s pit as one of the two trapped fallen sisters tried to wriggle free of the upended bed frame. Cato grabbed one of the doors, having been knocked off two of its three hinges by his brutish might, and he ripped it free from its last restraint. The traitor screamed as Cato brought it down on her skull.
    He lifted the broken bed frame and dragged the last surviving traitor out by her badly broken arm. He threw her against the wall and kicked a laspistol over to her. She looked at it with panic, and then Cato spoke, his overwhelming presence manifesting into a voice that rumbled like the engine of a Land Raider.
    “Repent,” he commanded. The former sister’s hand moved over to the laspistol. Taking it in her shaking hand, she pressed the barrel to her temple, and Sicarius watched as she ventilated her own skull.
    He picked up the dislodged door, tucked it under his left arm, and turned on his heel to march up the stairs into the dungeon above, his cock swinging freely as he did. Summiting the flight of stone steps, he was greeted by a cadre of cultists.
    Five (mostly) human men clutching stubbers and autoguns flanked a trio of former sororitas, terribly mutated by the foul xenos taint that permeated this place. Behind them lurked the hideous, chitinous, six limbed form of a genestealer patriarch, the tip of its spiked tail rattling beneath its torso, and its substantial tongue flicking about as it tasted the air.
    The central sister was entirely nude, and had the markings of a sister superior. She would have been stunningly beautiful, a mature elegance clinging to her shapely form, had it not been for the two insectile, scythe-like appendages which extended from her back. She smiled and spoke, “Dear brother, what a mess you have made! I understand your shock, it's quite natural, but I believe your reaction here was just unaccep-”
    Her sentence was cut off as Cato leaped at her, closing the five meter gap so quickly that none but the patriarch had time to react, and even it could do little more than flinch as Sicarius slammed the edge of the door into the treacherous sororitas’ head with such force that it was turned into an unrecognizable pulp.
    The turned sister standing to Cato’s right lashed out at him with her second set of arms with lightning speed. Cato blocked one slash with the door, but a clever feint on the part of the genestealer primus opened him up for a slash across the bicep. Sicarius roared with fury and swung the door flat at her, sending her flying into a nearby wall with the stomach churning sound of broken bones. She screamed in agony, her body all but shattered.
    As though they had been shaken awake by the force of the impact, the armed cultists came to their senses and started firing on Sicarius, who held the door up as a shield. Though not enormously effective at stopping the bullets entirely, the fragmented aftermath of the impacts against the thick wooden door had lost enough energy that they became mostly a nuisance for him, rather than a threat, leaving shallow craters where they should have penetrated deep within his flesh.
    The third sister backpedalled and raised her hands in a fabulous display of witchcraft, desperately attempting to summon the powers given to her as a genestealer magus; a ball of black fire shot forth from her fingertips.
    Upon parrying her attack with the door, Cato quickly realized that he would soon not have much door left to protect himself with, so he flung the broken remains at a pair of cultists who should have done more spacing drills, an issue they would not get the chance to recognize, a cruel realization of their failings burning through their minds like a wildfire as their lungs filled with blood and their ruptured organs began to fail.
    The genestealer patriarch charged Cato as he closed on the magus, her hands once again signing the arcane sigils of black magic. Cato held firm on his path towards his psyker prey, waiting until the very last minute to dodge the bloodthirsty beast as poorly aimed panic-sprays of lead slugs meant for Cato squashed and ricocheted off it's incredibly thick hide. The beast barreled past the Ultramarine and tumbled into the magus, knocking her off balance and disrupting her spell.
    The three remaining cultists lobbed another volley of fire at the space marine who was now no longer hidden behind their patriarch. Sicarius, always a clever combatant, dove forward, rolling into a crouch, dodging under their fearful automatic bursts of gunfire. Standing up as he leaned into an uppercut that fully destroyed a man’s skull, the genehanced warrior juked aside, narrowly avoiding a bayonet to the throat.
    Cato grabbed the barrel of the autogun, just in front of its magazine well, and tore it from the cultist’s grip, using it’s affixed bayonet to stab the other remaining gun-bearing cultist in the chest as he struggled to reload his gun. The cultist whom Cato had relieved of his rifle was felled with a swift knee to the stomach, his body failing as his kidneys and liver ruptured.
    Another bolt of witchfire was hurled towards him as the spear-like tail of the patriarch lashed out for his head. Cato dodged both, doing an awkward duck and scoot to slip under the joint assault, but his overconfidence got the better of him as he stepped directly into the slashing arc of the primarch’s claws, which cut deep across Cato’s stomach.
    Fury fired through the synapses of the son of Guilliman, and he rolled past the patriarch, grabbing the discarded, heavily damaged door off the ground. Spinning to face the beast, he lunged and swung the door down across the skull of the patriarch, breaking his improvised bludgeon in half. Enraged, Cato sidearmed the remainder of the heavy debris directly into the chest of the magus, sending her to the ground in a broken heap. Cato brought his hands up in front of him, prepared to engage in fisticuffs with the patriarch.
    The alien bastard had other ideas, however, and it tried to skitter away. Sicarius roared with indignation at the cowardice of his foe, and grabbed the beast's tail, pulling the creature off its feet. The scion of Talassar planted his foot at the base of the captured appendage and twisted his body, putting the entirety of his gloriously bioengineered strength into wrenching the prehensile limb from the xeno’s despicable frame.
    Skin, muscle, sinew, and chitin tore as the patriarch unleashed a horrible wail of pain, and the tail was ripped free, dragging the abomination’s spine out with it. The star child’s head was pulled partially into its torso and its shoulder blades were broken in on themselves, the spine making a sickening, meaty pop as each vertebrae tugged free of the alien’s destroyed body.
    Cato dropped the unseated tail and surveyed the room. He finished off the few cultists that were still clinging to life with the butt of a stubber, and then tossed the busted rifle aside as he ascended the stairs to the main floor.
    It seemed like every traitor that had been lounging in carnal bliss on the floor above was now pointing a lasgun or stubber at Cato as he came up the stairs. He looked around the room, drenched in viscera and grinning like an idiot, and loudly declared, “This entire experience has been very illuminating already, so I’d appreciate it if you’d all put the flashlights down, now.” There was a moment of dead silence.
    Then a lasbolt zapped past his head and he dropped prone behind the lip of the stairwell as the air above him was swiftly replaced with sharp beams of deadly light and small chunks of lead.
    A grenade bounced over the edge of the stairwell, and Cato caught it, standing up for a fraction of a second to deftly hurl it beneath the feet of the clustered traitors with the precision of a sniper before ducking back down behind cover. Screams followed by a loud blast gave way to silence.
    Cato risked a quick peek over the edge of his cover, and a pair of lasguns sounded off, blasting chunks out the floor in front of his face and the wall behind his head. He crouched back down and tore an ornate metal railing out of the wall. The former Brother-Captain of the second company of Ultramarines launched himself atop the ledge with his powerful thighs, and landed in a crouch, his twisted wrought iron cudgel in hand.
    A single traitor still drew breath, seated against the wall and brandishing akimbo lasguns. Half his right leg and most of his face had been blown off by the grenade, and he was surrounded by the shredded and maimed bodies of the other cultists.
    The heretic squeezed both triggers and two streams of automatic lasfire lit up the room. Cato hurled the railing like a javelin as an unaimed withering hail of las bolts fired from the hip tore through everything but Sicarius. The Ultramarine’s improvised spear impaled the traitor through his sternum, and the defiled convent fell silent.
…
    Sicarius stood across from Marneus Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines and Lord Commander of Macragge, seated in an enormous stone throne in the fortress-monastery on Macragge. Calgar was immense. He always had been large, even for a space marine, but his large frame had only grown more towering after he crossed the Primaris Rubicon. He glowered at Cato, his permanent frown bent into a perturbed grimace.
    “I, Cato Sicarius,” the Head of the Victrix Guard began to say, before Calgar cut him off. “Enough, Sicarius. You have been nothing but trouble since your return from the Immaterium. When it was just womanizing and whoremongering, I could turn a blind eye. When you turned to drink to quell those cursed memories, I pretended that I had not seen it. But this? Going on a bender that ended with a shootout in a genestealer brothel?” Calgar shook his head. Cato Sicarius swallowed hard, and opened his mouth to speak, but Calgar raised his hand, and the former second company captain’s protest died in his throat.
    Calgar’s burrowing gaze felt like a battery of lascannons aimed at his very soul. “Yes, you did destroy the cult,” the Chapter Master said, “after almost twelve hours of intoxication and consortment with xenos. You let your guard down, and you were poisoned with dampeners of the mind, chemicals that could only take effect when your Preomnor and Oolitic glands were overloaded with that damnable Fenrisian ale. You weakened your own defenses, allowing them to dull your mind and preventing you from seeing the obvious threats that stood before you.” Calgar’s voice was growling with frustration and disappointment.
    “Had you just entered the convent, your behavior could have been forgiven,” the Lord of Macragge continued, “but it was not simply a firefight, nor a drunken brawl. You copulated with the cultists, and had you been killed or converted, they could have taken the gene seed you spilled down their throats back to their Tyranid masters. Your complete disregard for the protection of our geneseed is the primary distinction between your dalliances with xenos, and our father's more tolerable transgressions.” Cato had frozen, as though stillness and silence would allow him to hide from the consequences of his actions.
    “Have you any defense,” Marneus continued, “or shall we conclude this trial?” Cato Sicarius’ eyes were cast down upon the ground, and he shook his head. Calgar nodded solemnly and said, “Then you are banished from the Ultramarines, Cato Sicarius of Talassar. Our father wishes to speak with you before you are sent off-world. A shuttle waiting outside will take you to him.” Cato Sicarius turned and left the throne room, and Calgar sighed, shaking his head.

_____________________________________________________


    Hey guys! I know you're used to seeing a shitpost about Roboute's exotic taste in women here, but I just wanted to thank all of you for reading my fic so far, whether you found my work through the Warhammer Smut subreddit, @DrunkRembrancer’s discord server, or my Twitter. This fic has blown up really fast, with over 2400 combined total pageviews on Chapters 1 and 2, all of which was garnered over the last four days. I’m amazed and thrilled that so many people are enjoying my work. 
    Today’s chapter was a little bit more experimental, for lack of a better word, since I’m looking to expand the roster of characters I have available in an effort to pre-empt stagnation. Over the last 24 hours I have deliberated and debated over whether or not to run with this chapter, which I had essentially completed in its entirety within a few hours of uploading the last one, because it’s far lighter on smut, heavier on violence, and features some pretty dark implications (after all, Cato was not sober or right of mind when he was seduced by those genestealer cultists, and that raises questions about whether he was really able to give consent, especially once he started inhaling that brain-numbing incense at the convent). 
    That being said, I’ve decided to publish it anyways because it is ultimately a work of fiction, and I feel confident in the story threads I’m setting up with this chapter. I’ve been fascinated by Cato Sicarius’ troubled return to the canon ever since I first heard about his traumatizing Warp experience, and I figured it’d be a great narrative device with which to frame a redemption arc, as well as provide a more complex and troubled deuteragonist than Guilliman. Plus, it’ll give Guilliman some interesting motivations and complications for me to play with. 
    It also gives me a way to have a loyalist space marine out and about, plowing hot alien babes across the milky way without needing to write Guilliman as a cheating womanizer or a non-committal manwhore. 
    Anyways, please let me know how you felt about this chapter, since it’s a deviation from the norm I have established so far. If it’s something you guys find unappealing, tell me so I can course-correct and shift back over to a plot that focuses exclusively on Guilliman and Yvraine, without side characters. 
    Next chapter will feature Guilliman and Yvraine. It’s a wholesome dinner date, Robu tells dad jokes, and Yvvy gets her brains dicked out. You’ll love it, I promise. 
    Stay safe, stay inside, and enjoy! I’ll have Chapter 4 out in the next day or two to help keep you occupied during this shitty, shitty quarantine. Once again, thank you all for the support and positive feedback. 

Guilliman Wept

   Guilliman entered the Throneroom, flanked by a pair of Sisters of Silence. Contrary to the first visit he paid his Father, the room was... smaller. Roboute’s Father seemed smaller, too. His armor looked less regal than it had before Guilliman had entered, yet looked no different at all. His Father... his Father was so... human, now. No towering monolith of dry bone and tattered flesh, filled with ten thousand tubes, sat upon an immense throne of gold and finery. No, He was an old, tired man. Withered to the bone, naught but a thin veneer of skin covering him. Four medical tubes connected to him; one embedded in his throat, just below the Adam's Apple, another in the crook of his arm, a third in his belly, and a fourth ran up his gown.
   "Son." The Man spoke, and His voice did not burn with the radiation of starlight like it had during the first encounter. Instead the burning was found in the penumbra of flesh and sponge tissues that surrounded Guilliman’s hearts, as though their surfaces were super heated metal embedded in his chest. Tears burned his eyes.
   "Father." Roboute replied. "Magnus has come back to Terra. Russ finally found him in the warp." Guilliman's beard had gone gray in the ten thousand years since his resurrection, but the hints of gold still speckled throughout caught the firelight of the braziers in a manner that could have been pleasing, given another circumstance.
   "Bring him in. Leave. The Sisters may stay." His Father’s curt response chilled Roboute’s divine bones. 
   Guilliman wanted to protest, for his throat scar burned like it never had before. His foreboding and grief nearly overcame him, but he quelled the fears.
   As he left, he nodded to Magnus, and the aging red fleshed cyclops nodding back. Russ hugged him, bloody tears streaming from beneath his eyepatch.
   Guilliman looked over his brothers. Russ, Corvus, Vulkan, Khan, the Lion, and Dorn stood tall, but Roboute could feel their pain. He could see the way that age and millennia of war weighed upon their souls.
   After a few minutes of silence, the sisters emerged, one cradling the body of his Father.

[NSFW] An Unplanned Alliance, Chapter 2: Diplomatic Negotiations

    Yvraine awoke first. She became aware of a crushing weight laying upon her back, and was startled momentarily before remembering it was Guilliman who laid upon her. Her mind was flooded with hazy memories of the hours of intense penetration she had laboriously enjoyed with Robu before the two had been rendered unconscious. Her face flushed red with embarrassment and arousal, particularly when her memories of begging to be impregnated flashed by. I will have to apologize for such uncouth forwardness, she thought to herself.

    She wiggled slightly beneath Guillliman, attempting to find a more comfortable position to rest in until her unintentional captor reawoke, only to realize, through a sudden shift of hard flesh thrust deep within her womanhood, that she was still thoroughly filled by Guilliman’s other Hand of Dominion. The shift was somewhat painful, as her passage was not fully lubricated anymore, being coated in far less of Guilliman’s Mercy now, and she had shrunk somewhat in capacity since her arousal had faded. Still, the sudden remembrance of the Imperator class cock she was impaled upon filled her with a sudden heat, causing her face to fully shoot bright red, like a warning lumen, and her mind began to race with lewd intentions.
    No, I must remain proper and composed! She thought, even as blood flow and hormonal responses caused her overcrowded genitals to flood with lubricating emissions. Her feral thoughts were becoming hard to ignore, and she decided to nip the problem in the bud. I need to find a way out from under him before I lose control, she thought, searching around her for some way out from under the immense mass of her superhuman lover.
    She formed arcane sigils within the air, causing two half-real rods to appear before her hands, rooted in place to the very fabric of realspace itself. Gripping them tightly, she pulled herself forward, causing Guilliman’s Gladius Incandor to shift again, this time seemingly stimulated by the movement and newfound wetness, as it started to slowly swell.
    Is he not at his full girth?! She thought, a distant panic invading her mind. She paused, her hands still tightly gripping the bars she had formed as a means of escape. Her mind slipped again, as it had the first time she’d felt his complete immensity within her. She was quickly losing her awareness of anything other than the pillar of bliss she was currently mounted upon.
    Perhaps… just one more orgasm would be okay… She thought, as she began rolling her hips in an attempt to please herself in such a confined space. After a few minutes of struggling and squirming, she’d found a position and arc of rotation she could employ that would bring her to climax, and hopefully clear the fog from her mind, with haste and efficiency. Using the rods, once an escape vector, she braced herself against Guilliman’s holy inquisition and began her conquest.
    By Ynnead, he’s so… enthralling… she thought to herself, her mind clouded by the scent of his pheromones permeating her skin and the completeness of his girth permeating her belly. She gripped the warp stuff bars tighter, rolling her entire torso in a wave of motion, bringing her hips down, forward, up, back, and down again, her teardrop breasts, toned stomach, and flawless back becoming coated in sweat from the effort. She panted, the heat of Roboute’s immense physical form, and her own exertions, causing steam and condensation to form around her. The cold climate controlled air of Guilliman’s study became more theoretical than practical to her.
    She glanced to the side, and caught her reflection in a polished bronze shield hanging on the wall beside the work table. She had a fairly excellent view of herself, as Guilliman’s massive, muscular arms were laid before him, a cushion his regal head rested upon. She saw the gyrations of her body in the mirrored shield, and found herself flush with embarrassment and arousal.  
   I’d be a fool to get caught like this, she thought, even as her thrusts become quicker and deeper. Watching herself in the mirror, seeing the ease with which such an immense manhood disappeared deep within her and the way her breasts spilled out from beneath her chest, squashed by her prone body…
    She let out a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a growl as another explosion of endorphins rushed through her, originating from her swollen clit and pounding outward, another wave of joy for every contraction of her overstuffed pussy.
   As the second wave hit, she pushed against the warp handles, shoving herself all the way down his shaft, causing the third wave to hit with the intensity of a solar flare. Her eyes rolled, and her mouth hung open. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror, panting and shivering and moaning. Disgust rushed through her mind, and it did nothing to prevent the next wave of orgasmic pleasure from thundering out across her nerves.
    “I… I’m s-so p-.... pathetic…” She moaned, in a desperate attempt to pull herself together. There was a growing wetness around her hips, and she realized she’d squirted yet again. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow, her panting turning into sobbing as the orgasm continued to batter her weakend mind.
   After what felt like an eternity of anguished ecstacy, her orgasm finally subsided. She continued panting, which turned into soft sobbing and sputtering that went on for some time, until she felt Guilliman shift above her. Panic flooded through her as she fell dead silent and she wondered what he’d do to her if he woke up furious with her seduction.
    His right arm moved out from under his head, his chest shifting slightly, and his hand slid under her. “R-Robu?” she murmured, trying to catch her breath. There was no response. The steady double-beat of his great binary hearts had not changed, nor had the rate at which he took in or expelled breath. She gently reached out with her psychic powers, to brush her mind against his. She was overwhelmed momentarily by base sensations, smell, hearing, touch… she felt her pussy from his perspective, its tightness wrapped around her cock… his cock.
    He’s still asleep… she thought. The idea of a demigod slumbering was odd to her, yet here one was, lost deep in the mists of dreams. She felt an odd desire to reach further into his mind, to see what a deity dreams of, but she restrained herself. If he woke up to her psychic proddings, he would not be very forgiving to her, and she did not wish to incur his wrath in that manner. However…
    Just feeling his base senses couldn’t hurt… she rationalized to herself, as she laid out her mind against his, the tendrils of her psychic power invisibly reaching out and blanketing his surface-level sensations in a cloak of her thoughts. She was now attuned to him, and it filled her with a perverse glee, as if she were spying upon a man bathing. She felt every inch of her own interior through his mind, and it made higher thought even harder for her.
   She rolled her hips, and was filled with not only the sensation of displacement native to her flesh, but the sensation of his foreskin as it rolled back across the head of his cock with her taught wetness pressed upon it from all sides. Her eyes widened, and she saw herself in the mirror again.
    It was an odd, overwhelming sensation, as she was being defined by not just her own spatial awareness, but his as well. She watched her movements with an overwhelming desire, as though she were a predator watching her own body from the bushes.  
   By Ynnead… she thought, Is this how all my suitors see me? She was no stranger to the beauty of the female form, as she had entertained more than a few lovers of the fairer sex, but she had never seen herself in that way. The cathartic sensation of validated egotism flooded her brain, and her black painted lips pulled back into a broad, simpleton's grin. Her movements picked back up, and she found herself stupefied.
    His hand, gently cradling her belly… their hand, their belly… the way their cock penetrated and filled them… She found it harder and harder to distinguish “her” from “him” the longer she held her mind against his. She felt a hand tighten slightly around a waist, a cock harden slightly in anticipation of orgasm, a womanhood pulse as it was drawn to climax, and then…
    Her mind shattered. Cum flooded a womb, an abdomen pulsed with feminine contractions, skin was slick with sweat, the hand tightened its grip, and hips moved. She was no longer in control, and was just along for the ride, as the majesty of a kingly column roughly penetrated a whorish elf cunt, superhuman hips pounding away against a pinned prize.
   She looked into the mirror, made eye contact, and felt just grounded enough to realize what was happening. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her makeup running with it, as Robu’s hips rocked away, with the gentle but unstoppable rhythm of an ocean tide. She felt every inch of herself through him, and she felt…
    I want to breed you, she thought, looking at herself. I want you to bear my child… She shook with every thrust, her tight ass bouncing every time his hips slammed home. She tried to pull away from his still-slumbering mind, but found herself reluctant to. I want to own you… she thought, staring into her own eyes, her mouth closed around her forearm, small beads of blood forming around the bite marks.
    Any chance she may have had to pull away from his mind was crushed under the weight of their next mutual orgasm. The thunder of a small, singular heart rushed in her ears, even as two immense, ponderous beats nearly drowned out the hummingbird rhythm with their own explosive report every few seconds. She was half asleep, half awake, half human, half eldar, but the one universal truth she did feel was pleasure. She felt long ropes of cum pour through her, spraying geneseed out of her womanhood as it became overfilled, nectar of victory leaking out around the tight seal created by his cock.
    By Ynnead, I shall bear this man’s child! She thought, her brain hindered by her own animalistic desire to procreate, ancient genetic edicts instilled in her species by creators long dead, an impulse that was overriding any sense, logic, or intellect she could have possibly brought to bear to defend herself from the primitive motives. Her mind slipped away into its own state of near-consciousness, and all she felt, for what could have been an eternity, was two bodies becoming one in mutual ecstacy.
    Her bliss was cut short, however, by a psychic spike deftly cutting her mind from his with the grace and precision of a surgeon. Suddenly she was her, and he was him. She was beneath him, cut off from his senses, his essence, and so she was filled with despair. Her brain was brought back into its full function, and she saw herself again in the mirror, writhing beneath him as he pumped away at her, his eyes still closed, still completely asleep.
    Woman, what are you doing?! A familiar voice rang through her mind, reaching out through the warp. She sensed the origin, another Eldar, an aide of hers, standing mere meters away. She sighed, and her motions slowed, even though Robu’s did not.  
    Diplomacy. She replied, her message sent out as a needle-like spike. She got back a simple wave of disgust and disappointment followed by a simple question, Are you well? She closed her eyes, trying to calm her fury, and replied, I am excellent. I will call for you when I need you.
    The crackling report of a teleport sounded in the room, and the second eldar presence was gone. She probed back towards the Lord Commander’s mind, and began to rock her hips again. She wrapped her mind around his once more, allowing herself to indulge that intoxicating shared sensation again. Unfortunately, in her lustful fog, she clumsily pawed too deeply within his mind, and the giant stirred above her.
    Damn, she thought, withdrawing her mind from his, feeling his grip around her waist tighten, and his breathing increase in depth and frequency. She felt the roll of his hips slow, his Imperial might coming to a stop deep within her. She remained still and silent, and felt his weight lift off her as he looked around, grunting in confusion. “Oh! Yvraine! I… I apologize. Oh… Oh my… I did not realize that I… I’m sorry…” he said with surprise and embarassment.
    She cut him off, saying, “Need you apologize if I instigated it?” Her mouth curled back into a smile, her ruined makeup caking her cheeks, and she stared at the two of them in the mirror. He had lifted his torso off her, resting his weight on his forearms, with his right hand beneath her, propping her belly up off the surface of the table as her own arms acted as a cushion for her head, allowing her breasts to rest upon the table in a manner that made her heart race.
   His cock was still sheathed entirely within her, his hips pressed hard against her shapely ass. His wall of steely abdominal muscle, along with the thick bands of muscle that ran across his hips, ass, and thighs, were fully flexed, keeping him frozen in place and his enormous thunder hammer encased within her.
    He was stuttering, searching for words. He’s cute when he’s flustered, she thought. Her eyes continued to run along his reflection, admiring his rather prodigious buttocks, muscled to perfection, forming a round, beautiful dome atop his legs, which were themselves proof of humanity’s superiority.
   Why did I ever fuck Eldar men? she wondered, as her gaze drifted forward, lingering on his statuesque arms, shoulders, and chest, built as though they were chiseled from marble by a lustful sculptor. Finally her eyes found his face, beautiful in its perfection and flushed red with embarrassment.
    “Were you having a pleasant dream?” She asked him, a smug look on her face. He paused for a minute, his mouth half-open in a particularly unstatesman-like manner. He stuttered out a response, “W-well, uh… Yes. Yes I… I was.” Yvraine giggled, her eyes surveying the reflection of the puddle of gene seed and eldar emissions that surrounded her hips.
   “I was rather shocked to be woken up so lewdly, Lord Commander,” she said, “but to be honest, I’d let you take me anywhere, and anytime.” She smiled as the redness in his face grew brighter, and stopped smiling as he pulled his immense cock out of her, his invigorating loads pouring out with it.
    “Well, I’m pleased that I managed to thoroughly entertain you, Miss Yvraine, but I think we should get back to our… other negotiations.” Yvraine rolled her eyes and pouted, grumbling, “If I just agree to your terms, will you go back to entertaining me?” She rolled over onto her back, stretching and moaning as her joints popped and aching muscles flexed.
   Her thighs, stomach, and womanly accommodations glistened with a lurid sheen, and a pearl of his genetic material had gathered at her entrance. Her hair, damp in places, was also partially tangled around her body, like a blanket wrapped around a restless sleeping form.
   Her left hand covered her mouth as she yawned, and her right hand drifted down towards her nethers. She touched herself briefly, smiling with the joy of seeing Guilliman leaning over her, frozen in lust, staring at her every move.
    She brought her hand back up, fingers coated in his gene seed, and she licked it from her hand. It tasted strongly of metal and wine, like drinking from a copper goblet. She sighed in pleasure, and Guilliman quietly said, “I think we could make such an arrangement work.”
   Yvraine smiled and laughed, leaning forward, her hands pressed flat against the tabletop, and her breasts pushed together by her arms. “I have conditions,” Yvraine said.
    Guilliman, having moved off the table and stood up, asked, “What are your terms?” Yvraine straightened her back, kneeling now, and said, “I want to ride you before I leave.” Guilliman sighed, looked over at a chronometer across his study, grimaced slightly, and then, after pausing for a moment, said, “Very well. But I’d prefer we do so somewhere more comfortable,” and he gestured to an enormous chair beside the table, made of ancient dark wood and padded with exquisite Ultraman cushions.
    Yvraine held up a manicured finger and said, “I do have an important question for you first, though. What did you mean when you shouted, ‘I’ve found the Queen of Ultramar!’” Yvraine did a mocking impression of his voice, roaring loudly as she did.
   Rouboute froze in place for a moment, before responding, “What did you mean when you asked me to ‘Use you for heirs’?” His eyes narrowed. For a moment, it was Yvraine’s face that reddened.
    Quickly regaining her composure, she quietly replied, “Honestly, I… it was a throes of passion sort of… I was lost in the moment…” she trailed off.
   Guilliman chuckled. She laughed as well. Guilliman leaned forward and lifted Yvraine, holding closely in his arms. Though the action surprised Yvraine, she didn't resist it. She pressed her face against his chest.
   When Guilliman reached the chair and sat down, Yvraine adjusted herself to get above his member and descended upon it, excited to feel whole again.

[NSFW] An Unplanned Alliance, Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor

    Roboute Guilliman’s throat scar itched slightly as the private elevator connecting his quarters to the hidden chamber of the Cawl Inferior ascended 200 decks in mere seconds. It wasn’t due to a pressure differential, as there was no such thing as “altitude” aboard a voidship, with all the decks present being equally affected by their particular set of gravplates, ancient things formed with arcane sciences which Guilliman understood, but often tried to avoid considering with any great measure of earnestness. Best not to look for answers I’d rather not find regarding the maintenance of The Macragge’s Honor in those hundred centuries I’ve been gone, he thought.
    Neither was the hardened regrown flesh tingling from natural causes of abrasion or dryness, as The Macragge’s Honor was kept at a comfortable humidity and room temperature at all times, and the Primarch’s genehanced epidermis was resilient to adverse atmospheric conditions regardless. Further, despite the difficulties his armourers seemed to find when attempting to tailor the environmental seals on his warplate so that they would not catch on his scar, the discomfort from the tight sealant rings and undersuit he would wear into battle never lasted longer than the time he spent wearing the gear, with all discomfort fading almost immediately after doffing his equipment.
    No, it was when he felt apprehension, anxiety, or a disquieting sense of foreboding that his scar itched. Ten millennia ago, when he was more thoroughly immersed in his Father’s Great Deception, he would have denied such a superstitious thought, and likely would have ordered the resealing of his power armor to better fit his slightly altered topography. His thoughts paused for a moment, not more than a neuron’s pulse in timespan, as the last battle he fought with the Pheonician replayed in his mind; the screams of his sons as they were cut down on the steps of that damnable arena, the four envenomed blades wielded by his estranged serpentine brother lashing out like a whirlwind of hate edged with a monomolecular lust for destruction, each gash opened on the ceramite and flesh of his felled sons refracted five fold in the cracked view lenses of his helmet’s eyeports.
    The memories stopped suddenly, just before the blades came down on him. I mustn’t dwell on the mistakes of the past, lest I become trapped in them like Curze, he thought. He glanced over at the tri-dimensional hologlyphs denoting the elevators vertical progress. Just a few more seconds, then I can get back to my notes. The lift slid to a smooth, nearly imperceptible halt just before the doors opened, but very little could escape the demi-god’s insurmountable senses. Like Yvraine lounging across his immense wooden work table, her left thigh tensing as she lifted her leg straight into the air, pulling it towards her collarbone, as if to stretch the ligaments and rotator cuffs at it's base. His eyes hungrily pored over her unclothed body, draped only in a few red sheer sashes and her own unpinned stark white hair, its prodigious length flowing across her unblemished chalk white skin like a snapshot of an avalanche thundering down a snow covered mountain, the transparent silk sashes intermingling with it like ethereal rivers of blood.
    Guilliman’s reaction time was so far beyond that of a baseline human’s that he often found himself slowing his interactions down with mortals to a fraction of their godly maximum, as he’d discovered that many humans would process his nearly instantaneous reactions as being precognitive, and this did little to discourage his worship. However, in this moment, when his response came half as quickly as it might otherwise have, it was not due to an intentional input lag on his own behalf. It had been... some time since he had last seen the soft, supple form of a woman out from behind the artificial defilade of worn clothing, war grime, and battered armor. Even before his brother had put him down for an unwanted 10,000 year rest, he had been crusading amongst only his sons and their chapter serfs, all men, more or less, for...
    His initial thoughts, and the practical/theoretical analysis sure to follow, were cut short by a rich, luxurious voice, deeper than that of some mortal men’s, yet still drenched in feminine smoothness. It did not grind like the gritty growl of Guilliman or his transhuman sons. “Robu, you were a touch late to our meeting, so I figured I’d let myself in,” Yvraine said. Her voice, though deceptively soft in texture, struck him hard, like an adamantine cudgel wrapped in craftworld velvet. Guilliman glanced up through the glass dome of his quarters, his eyes running across the surface of the icy moon his flagship was orbiting, fixating finally upon the ring of light which represented the rogue trader outpost upon which he was meant to have met the Aeldari. “Do tell, what was so important to you that it kept me waiting?” Yvraine asked.
    Guilliman began to speak, the rumbling, inhuman baritone of his ocean-deep voice barely mounting in his throat when the Herald of Ynnead cut him off, “Lord Commander, I’m unsure why I asked, seeing as you are wearing that stony face you always have on when you’re about to tell me something you know I won’t like. May I guess what the delay was caused by? Or should I assume it’s some classified project you’ve started, but will never finish? Perhaps it is a secret which you refuse to share, in an attempt to maintain the tattered veil your father threw over the pulsating mists of the Warp in some desperate but ultimately vain quest to save all of Humanity from its dangers. Or, maybe, you wish to keep the project a secret because it is using some method, technology, or material otherwise banned throughout the Imperium, and you are loathe to be proven a hypocrite,” Yvraine’s verbal onslaught, though certainly delivered in a pleasing manner, was anything but when processed by Guilliman.
    “You really are just like your Father.” Yvraine concluded, a smug smirk on her lips, her heavily lidded eyes drilling into Guilliman’s very being. A singular, infinitesimal moment of panic coursed through Guilliman’s mind. Does she know of Cawl’s infernal machine? His face, however, remained stoic, and the fear passed as quickly as it came on. “I was 58 minutes and 13 seconds late when the doors to my elevator opened, ma’am. Hardly an amount worth distressing over, considering our shared longevity.” Yvraine’s eyes narrowed, and she rolled onto her left side, placing her right hand flat between her thighs, her thumb resting on the front of her left thigh, stroking her soft, xenos flesh. Roboute struggled to pull his gaze away from her hand, his eyes seemingly locked onto the manicured nail, black as night, as it's exquisitely honed edge glided nanometers above the surface of her exquisite form. Yvraine did not seem to notice the placement of his gaze, or she simply didn’t care, as she continued to speak, her head resting upon her left hand, propped up on her elbow.
    “Yet, after exiting that doorway, you would have needed to travel through your flagship to your armory to be outfitted in all that bravadacio and pageantry. Then, once you’ve donned your ceramite eyesore of a combat suit, you’d need to board a dropship and head down to the surface, after which there would be Ynnead knows how much diplomatic foreplay between dignitaries and translators, proof of identification, landing code verifications, pleasantries…” Yvraine drifted off mid-sentence, as she finally seemed to notice Roboute’s wandering eyes. Her smirk turned into a mirthful grin, and she coyly said with a gasp, “Robu, oh the indignity! My eyes are up here!” She accompanied this barely veiled mockery by sliding her hand out from between her thighs and tracing her fingers quickly up her legs and torso, before flicking her wrist with a flourish and holding her slightly fanned out fingers just below her eyes, with her right knee now lifted and her entire leg pulled back up towards her torso, revealing her inviting labia to Guilliman, and doing nothing to help him maintain eye contact.
    “Guilliman,” she said breathily, her warm exhalations misting up in the frigid, preservational temperature of the Primarch’s study, “I didn’t know you could be so lurid! Was this also part of your Genesire’s intention, or did you learn it from your adoptive fath-” Guilliman’s temper got the better of him, his typically bronzed cheeks now flush with anger, and he shouted, “Enough! How dare you come into my study uninvited, let alone infiltrate my ship without reason! I was less than an hour late and you decided to… to mock the sovereignty of Ultramar’s greatest warriors? What have you to say for yourself, you knife-eared harlot!” Yvraine seemed taken aback for a moment, her eyes widening ever so slightly, but she took his sudden wrath in stride, quipping, “It was not after an hour of tardiness, Robu. I decided to come see you myself when you were only ten minutes late. You’d be surprised how long it can take a transport ship to warm up on that frigid death world. Then I had the transit time between the surface and orbit, and then we had to evade your primitive sensors to get close enough for me to be teleported into your vessel! There was at least forty minutes of forethought involved.” She smiled with self-satisfaction, and Guilliman inhaled deeply, his fists clenched in rage.
    “Is this a joke to you?” Guilliman asked, waving a hand at her sprawled out form. Yvraine paused, insincerely so, sardonically contemplating his query, a razor sharp fingernail tapping her chin in a parody of deep thought. “Mmmm… no, I don’t think I am joking. Is this funny to you? Am I funny to you, Lord Commander? Are you… mocking me? Is my insistence on punctuality, and my willingness to meet you more than halfway in guaranteeing our agreed upon timetables are met, a joke to you? Is that what you are implying?”
    At this, she dramatically flopped onto her back, the palm of her right hand pressed to her forehead, and her left hand clutching at her chest, pushing her ample, pale breasts together in a most pleasing manner. Guilliman’s cheeks blushed a deeper shade of red as he snarled, attempting to hide his building desire to plunge himself deep with her exposed womanhood, and through gritted teeth replied, “No, witch, you are not a source of amusement for me. What matters are you so doggedly keen on discussing with me?” Yvraine’s face lit up, and she propped herself up on her elbows, her gorgeous breasts dropping from the cradle of her arm, which the Spiritual Liege found himself incapable of looking away from. Her voice, once harsh with impatience, had now softened, and it permeated his frontal lobe like a sedative as she said, “Guilliman, you are always so concerned with efficiency, but I will have you know that your hour long dalliance was extraordinarily inconvenient for me! You would not believe how much trouble I could have been in had I been caught by any other than yourself, and then you would have had so much Munitorum paperwork to fill out. Really, I think you owe me recompense.”
    Guilliman sighed heavily, his shoulders tight with anticipation and anger. “What, in the name of my Father, could you possibly want for such a recompense, woman? I am short on time and even shorter on temper, so it would do you well to moderate your answ-” Yvraine once again cut him off, speaking with such speed and excitement that the words almost tumbled over one another, “Robu, I think it would be best for both of us if you provided me with some carnal stimulation. I’ve had my eyes on you for quite some time, and a not insubstantial portion of my drive to bring you back from the twilight between life and death was spawned from an even greater drive to find out what it feels like to have the greatest son of man deep inside me. After all, your sons often speak of the supremacy of man, yet none have yet had the gall to prove it to me.”
    Guilliman’s lips parted into a furious sneer and he growled, “You dare attempt to defile the sanctity of my genetic progeny? You wench!” Yvraine rolled her eyes, replying, “I wasn’t successful at it, Robu. None of the loyalist sons I’ve encountered wanted to sleep with me, and few even comprehended why I would want them to. In many ways, your geneline have been indoctrinated into childishness.” Guilliman paused, a moment in thought spent with absolute focus. Theoretical: this invasion of my flagship by the xenos witch constitutes all but an outright declaration of war, and she came unarmed and unarmored. To purge her would be an easy task, and one which would be readily explained. Practical: it has been… centuries since I last permitted myself the release of intimacy, and perhaps some stress relief couldn’t hurt… it wouldn’t hurt me, at least.
    Guilliman’s hand moved to the clasp of his robes, and he pulled himself free of his clothing as he began to approach her. Some quip, most assuredly asinine, was halfway formed in her mouth before Yvraine stopped, seemingly awestruck. Her breath, typically as fine and even as mastercrafted bed sheets, caught on the ragged edges of her mind, the perverse experiences she had lived out a dozen lifetimes ago as a Succubus flooding forward into her conscious thoughts. It's so... massive! She thought, as Guilliman's enormous blue robes piled upon the ground with a soft thud, and his expansive length was revealed to her, half hard with the frustration she had instilled in him.
    It was far longer than her forearm, and almost as thick as his own wrists. It swung mightily between his thighs as he strode towards her, and for a moment she felt a severe, almost inescapable mixture of arousal and terror, her genitals becoming so flush as to start steaming in the chilly, air conditioned atmosphere of Guilliman's study. She had not truly appreciated his sheer body-mass before, having almost entirely interacted with him within static environments, and she certainly had not seen him move with such purpose, such... unquenchable fury since his awakening, and it was no longer the mindless hordes of Khornate Berserkers he was marching toward, but her.
    His hand, massive even within the context of Roboute's own superhuman proportions, came at her, applying a gentle but firm downward force upon her chest, his entire hand reaching from one side of her ribcage to the other. She made no attempt to resist him, and her arousal intensified. Her eldar mind, crafted though the template originally was for the singular purpose of war by the Great Old Ones so many eons ago, had seen unknown levels of genetic drift as generation upon generation of Elven obscenities had run through the neurons of her ancestors.
    She was not in control anymore, teasing and prodding Guilliman into getting the reaction she craved. She had the exact outcome she'd wanted, yet now she was no longer a biological, sapient, psyker superweapon, designed to kill gods composed of undead metal. No, she was a terrified prey animal looking up into the distant, desperate eyes of a recently uncaged apex predator catching its first meal in months, burning with a primitive hunger. Any higher thought she should have been experiencing was being drowned out in a tidal wave of sexual thirst and overwhelming, animalistic exhilaration. Her breathing intensified as Roboute's cock began to rise, filling with the wrathful virility of human perfection.
    Guilliman’s hand was not so much pressing down on Yvraine as much as it was caging her. His fingers reached around her waist and the pads were flat against the wooden table she was laying upon. Yvraine was squirming under his grip, her skin slick with sweat, as the heat between her thighs began to feel unbearable. Her hands were running up and down his muscular forearm, her adamantium reinforced nails carving deep into his thick, rough skin. She was beginning to pant as the intense pheromones given off by Guilliman’s genehanced biochemistry overwhelmed and all but shut down her capacity for reason, planning, and civility.
    Her voice, once so noble and haughty, had broken somewhat, cracking with lust and insatiable desire, “P-please, by Ynnead, Robu…  I… I need you...” Guilliman tilted his head slightly, his own mind equally fogged over with lust, centuries of sexual frustration built up to hurricane force winds within his thoughts, preventing any but the most base of impulses from coming to the forefront of his consciousness.
    Guilliman’s tight lips, but a moment ago sealed in anger, broke into a shallow, hungry smile. His free hand reached down between her legs, and his fingers pressed at the soaked entrance to her womanhood, its tightness offering up a strong resistance to his thick fingers. Yvraine rolled her torso in frustration, casting out a line of warpstuff from her hands that wrapped itself around the back of Guilliman's head, pulling him down, a suggestion he wholeheartedly complied with, burying his face between the Eldar’s strong, soft thighs. His tongue, broad though it was, performed excellently, running along the entirety of her labia as his index finger penetrated her. Yvraine let out a loud, almost shouted moan of surprise, pleasure, and a touch of pain. Guilliman continued his advance, pressing against her within while flanking her from above, his tongue focusing its aggression on her stiff clitoris.
    It was not long until Yvraine’s soft, incomprehensible moans of pleasure loudened, culminating in an intense climax, her vocalizations almost song like in nature. She shouted his pet name, “ROBU!” at the top of her lungs as Roboute was sprayed with fluid. She threw her hands down toward his head, cradling the back of it as she sat up halfway, her legs tightly wrapped around his head for leverage. Her body was shaking, and she suffered spasms each time his tongue stroked her clit. She felt a shock of energy run through her body as his free hand reached up from behind, supporting her now elevated position.
    Yvraine began swivelling her hips, assisting Roboute in his pleasure crusade against her labia. It was not long until a second orgasm hit her, penetrating through her very skin, then detonating just under her diaphragm, hitting her like a mass reactive bolt shell. Again she squirted, and the Blade of Unity’s face was drenched. Yet still Robu pressed on, even as she put small scratches in the back and side of his head and neck.
    Right as she was nearing her third climax, the Ruler of Hosts began to pull his head back. The Herald of the Ynnead tried to resist his retreat by moving to tighten the grip her thighs had on his neck, even as her hips kept gyrating, attempting to finish the work with his tongue on her own. The Eldar witch was no match for the might of the Son of the Emperor, and he broke her hold with ease, only to roll her hips and legs back, such that the soaking, pulsing entrance to her womanhood was facing directly up. Guilliman held her legs up with one hand, and gripped his immense majesty of manhood, dripping with a substantial amount of his own pre-cum, in the other, stroking the upper portion of the shaft along her clit. After a moment of sexually induced idiocy, Yvraine recognized what the primarch was about to do to her. Though she knew he was likely to injure her in this act, she would have had it no other way, and instead of trying to prevent the immense, exterminatus-level fucking she was about to receive, she braced herself, digging her nails deep into the wood of the Primarch’s prodigious work bench.
    Roboute pulled his hips back, running the entire length of his rod of lordly might along her engorged clitoris, bringing her so near to orgasm that her entire existence was filled with an anguished longing. Robu did not want to leave such a valued ally as her suffering in such a state, and so he plunged his cock directly downward into her impossibly tight cunt, the girth and velocity of his entrance carrying such power as to nearly break the Elf in half. She screamed, not an elegant or beautiful noise, but one composed entirely of carnality and base, unfiltered sensation. Robu was bent almost entirely over her, like some performance art representation of the Ultima that adorned the pauldron of every son he had.
    Yvraine’s head was so close to his, with his face buried in her neck and chest, his powerful, firm lips kissing her collarbone, jaw, and breasts incessantly. Yvraine, having almost recovered from her fourth orgasm, managed to get out a jab at Guilliman, saying, “To… to see the L-Lord Commander of Ultramar, Regent of the 500 Worlds, Genesire of the Ultramarines b-brought so low, turned into s-such a sav-avage beast… I am truly a-amazing, aren’t I?” She laughed, a pure manifestation of her all-encompassing pleasure that only intensified as Roboute’s speed and depth increased, until he hammered away at her with the power and efficiency of a thermal drill, burrowing deep inside her. Her fleeting moment of intelligent lucidity quickly passed, and Guilliman did not notice it all, so enthralled was he in the softness and sweet smell of her skin and the unforgiving tightness of womanhood, his cock facing considerable resistance on every outstroke, as though she was doing her best to pull him back inside herself every time he tried to escape.
    Yvraine did not know for how long they made love like this, though she did vaguely notice the sun pass a considerable distance across the sky visible overhead, and on occasion an alert for an unanswered voxcall would sound somewhere in the distance, but she hardly cared, and it did not seem like leaving the caller on the other end unanswered bothered Robu, either. Her hips had begun to hurt, but it did not bother her, because she had never felt so… overpowered, consumed, possessed in her life. She felt as though she was just another treasure of Ultramar, a marvel of nature within some great catalogue of his, a tool for him, and him alone, to use for his own private whims.
    Yvraine did not want, for once in her existence, anything but this, and from the way Guilliman growled, she doubted he did either. For once, he seemed not just unperturbed by his existence, but joyful, pleased, alive with passion and energy. His movements were beginning to get faster and more erratic, and Roboute whispered, “I… am close. I should withdraw…” but Yvraine only tightened her grip on his hips with her legs. This time, however, Roboute made no attempt to escape. He let his pleasure over take him, pressing the entire titanic length of his manhood deep within her womanhood, and an almost explosive orgasm shot heavy strings of geneseed inside Yvraine, and with each pulse of his godly cock she felt more of her presence of mind melt away, until there was nothing but the throbbing of his measure, and the slick weight of fluids he left within her.
    His emissions were voluminous, so much so that they had been simply torrential, a fact that Yvraine did not fully appreciate during the extended time that guilliman and her laid there, lips interlocking, sharing a kiss that burned with the passion of the stars above them, his still-hard cock buried to the hilt in her depths. She ran her hands along the ceramite-like musculature of his neck, back, chest, and upper arms, feeling the peak of human biology in all its glory holding her in place, ready to be used as his personal masturbatory aid. Yet she did not feel endangered, nor was there some other task she’d rather perform. I swore to assist the mon’keigh in his tasks, and this seems to be the precise kind of assistance he has needed for a very, very long time, she thought, his lips pressed against the base of her neck, her breasts covered in his bite marks and hickies.
    Eventually though, Robu did pull out, despite her anger and protests, and when he did, a not insubstantial portion of emissions poured out of her, and only then did Yvraine appreciate the true virility of the Son of the Emperor. It was thick, glossy, and pearlescent, flowing from her pussy like a tipped over wine jug. Yvraine felt… almost embarrassed, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Roboute cleared his throat with a slight cough, and asked, “Is there… any risk of pregnancy?” There was only a slight look of concern on his face, but she knew he was more anxious than he seemed. “No,” she replied, “If I do not have any further encounters over the next few months, I will not bear your child.” Roboute breathed a short sigh of relief. “Excellent,” he said, “though an heir may be necessary one day, I do not feel it best for me to father a.... Womb-heir quite yet.” He smiled sheepishly.
    “It will be a shame, though, that we will not be able to do this again soon,” he sighed, his cock still fully erect, her lubrication mixed with his seed to create an enticing sheen of wetness. Yvraine’s smile broadened, and she said, “Well, no, Robu, we may well be able to. I am only fertile to seed sown within my womb, but I do have other avenues you could take.” Yvraine rolled over onto her belly, her hips tilted up to expose her even tighter anus to the Son of the Emperor, and her heart rate began to climb. The last penetration had been so intense, and that was with an entrance designed for such accommodations. Too late now, she thought, swallowing hard as the Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion wrapped his enormous hands around her waist and brought his cock to bear. She reached down between her spread legs to grip and guide his shaft to its target, like she was a self-destructive cogitator-guided targeting system for a planet busting vortex torpedo.
    She gritted her teeth and steeled herself as he pressed the tip of his sceptre against her rear entrance. His hefty rod, though certainly well lubricated by prodigious Eldar emissions and the gene seed of the Avenging Son, was still an appendage that put her own arms to shame, and though her bones and soft tissue alike had the plasticity of the most resilient rubber, she worried that she would be more than a little sore after Robu had finished absolutely ravishing both her holes.
    Any worries she had were shattered, along with the rest of her higher cognisense, when her hole finally opened to the absolute enormity of his cock. Where before, she had used Eldar magicks to slowly change the depth and capacity of her womanhood to accommodate Guilliman’s slowly increasing depth of stroke, she had no such time here, and only her biological plasticity kept her together. She felt full to bursting, and it felt… painful, at first, but when she recovered, she managed to alter herself with the biomancy she knew to expand that region of her body’s capacity, and reassign pleasure receptors in her neurology, at which point pain gave way to ecstacy, and her millennia of life, the perfection of Eldar intellect, it all failed her.
    “Y-you… com-comple-e-ete m-m-me…” she stuttered out, her voice muffled somewhat by her own forearm, which bled from self-imposed bite marks. Guilliman’s strokes began to accelerate, her sentiment invigorating him even more than he already was. His voice rumbled to life, nothing less than a lion’s roar, “By the W-Will of my Fa-a-ather, I have found the Queen of Ultramar!” His grip around her waist tightened, and he pitched forward, his left hand no longer wrapped around her but instead bracing him against the table. She felt her lower body being lifted up into the air by this change in position, until her knees were off the ground. His thrusts were now made with the greatest leverage he could get, and she truly was nothing more than a self-lubricating cock sleeve for the Uncrowned Monarch. She let her legs go limp, and wrapped her arms around his gargantuan wrist.
    “Oh, Ynnead! Y-you… You mon’keigh! You s-s-sa-avage!” She could not think of anything else to call him, and instead began biting and kissing his hand and forearm, for her divine ecstasy had rendered her little better than a beast. Guilliman, for his part, fared little better, his superhuman grip having locked her body in place as his hips pounded away at her, achieving a cyclic rate that would put squad-support automatic weapons systems to shame. His voice, growling with such volume as to be confused with that of a dragon, filled her ears as thoroughly as his cock filled her abdomen. She tensed her entire body, hoping to make him erupt for a second time faster than the first. She wanted his seed. No, she needed it. She wanted it within her womb, and she breathed a silent sigh of despair that his cock was not currently being used to fertilize her.
    “Oh, R-Robu…” she murmured, his Primarch’s senses hearing her over even his own brutish grunting. “Please, don’t stop… u-use me t-to produce your h-h-heirssss…” Roboute made a noise that sounded like more of a threat than an affirmation, and pulled his cock out of her ass, sliding the tip down just a touch, and then savagely penetrating her womanhood. Yvraine screamed, a sound of triumph, pleasure, and validation. It was not long until her lover had come close to his second orgasm, his thrusts turning so furious and erratic that she began to think she may have done something to anger him, though her fears were assuaged as another orgasm rolled out from her annexed pussy and barreled through any higher thoughts she wanted to have.
    Fifteen... Maybe fourteen? She asked herself, trying to keep count, yet she simply could not. She had been receiving his Imperial Edict for a duration of time the length of which she simply could not know, given how thoroughly his sexual aggression had destroyed their individual and collective higher sapience. She was brought back to her present reality as she felt his cock tense, and the first shot of gene seed blasted into her. He began to withdraw, and whether he wished to simply pull back for another stroke or pull out entirely, she did not care. She pushed her body backwards into him, shoving at the table with her forearms, all the while wrapping her legs around him, awkward to maintain though the position was.
     “N-no,” she mumble-shouted, “st-stay iiiiinnnnn!” Her complaint dragged out into a juvenile, selfish whine, as Robu spasmed from his tsunami of absolute pleasure, his voice eeking out only a low growl. He collapsed from the sensation, nearly smothering her with his weight, his cock sliding as deeply as it possibly could inside her, as yet more blasts of cum forced their way into her womb. She could not remember a single distinct moment in her life that was not the present, as all her past experiences blurred together into one memory. She could not really remember a time at all that hadn’t involved Robu inseminating her, as this singular moment was all she had ever wanted, without even knowing it.
    For his part, Robu seemed even more devolved by this experience, his legs intertwined with hers, his hand gripping her waist from beneath her belly, his other hand gripping the side of the table, his vocal chords so completely relaxed that he simply did not vocalize anymore, the only sound coming from his mouth being his steady, heavy breathing. All the immeasurable output of his musculature was spent on keeping his still ejaculating manhood buried to the hilt within her. Yvraine did not know when she lost consciousness, only that it was while she was the safest she had ever been.