[NSFW] An Unplanned Alliance, Chapter 4: Friendly Diplomatic Discourse Over Dinner

    Guilliman was anxious. Prior to his death, he had not often been anxious, and when he was, the solution to the source was usually clear. Now, though, things were more… complicated. Too complicated, Roboute thought.
   He watched as the Cawl Inferior powered up, its odd machinery whirring, the entire place filling with unnatural warplight, blast shields withdrawing to reveal armor-glass tanks filled with a mysterious green fluid and disembodied heads, their jaws slack and eyes vacant. The thrumming grew louder, and the warplight brighter, as the device powered up, a hollow pain filling his chest, the air smelling of ozone, rotting milk, poisoned blood, and sanctified oils, as the heads snapped to some perverse parody of life, twitching and silently screaming as their cold, dead eyes rolled in their heads.
   Then, after a powerful psychic pop, like a piece had been shifted into place, everything was still and a soft, mechanically filtered voice emitted from within the machine, its words pantomimed by the numerous disembodied psyker heads, “Greetings Lord Primarch, Lord Commander, Lord Imperial Regent. The Lord Guilliman of the High Twel-”
   Roboute cut the device off and said, “Cawl, I have important concerns I need addressed immediately.” He paused for a moment, and waited for a confirmatory response.
   “Lord Guilliman, as I have informed you numerous times,” the machine said, “I am not Cawl. I am a preprogrammed simulation of his personality loaded with answers to every conceivable question you could ask or event you could encounter.”
   Guilliman did not reply immediately. This damnable machine. I should purge it for the obvious Abominable Intelligence that it is, he thought. “Whatever you may be, machine,” Roboute said, his voice barely concealing his disgust with the device Belisarius Cawl had installed deep within his flagship, “I need to know what the chances are of an Aeldari becoming pregnant with my child after a sexual encounter with me.”
   There was an audible increase in whirring, and Cawl Inferior replied, “M’Lord, what harlotry have you been partaking in whilst gallivanting across the Imperium that you would need to ask me such a question?”
   Roboute growled, replying in a quiet but stern voice, “I will not have you refer to me in such a way, machine. Answer the question.” The machinery chugged slightly, and some primitive portion of Guilliman's mind ascribed a nature of mocking laughter to the sound.
   “Typically,” the machine said, its voice filled with sinister mirth, “Aeldari gestation takes several years, the length of time varying depending upon the health of the mother, the fertility of the father, or fathers, and, to be perfectly blunt, such an extensive myriad of factors that communicating them with you in this audible medium would be a waste of four hours that you will never be able to recover.” The machine’s voice paused here, and the pressure of its psychic circuitry bore down on Guilliman’s very essence.
   “In short,” Cawl Inferior continued, “an Aeldari woman bears not just the physical form of her fetus, as human mothers do, but also its soul; where her body must enrich it with nutrients, her mind must support its psychic song as well, as all throughout the process of gestation, an Aeldari woman needs to regularly receive more samples of genetic material from a man, or men, with whom she shares a truly, deeply, passionately emotional bond or the child will not form.”
   Roboute waited for a moment after the machine stopped speaking, and then asked, “If I do not repeat the encounter, will the child be quelled?”
   Cawl Inferior replied, “If you were to simply cessate any further sexual contact for a few months, the fetus would wither away, unless she were to take more lovers, and the pregnancy will fail. If she does take other lovers, then their genetic influence will, eventually, drown yours out.”
   Guilliman nodded. After a moment, the machine asked, “Are there any other asinine dalliances you would have me solve for you, m’Lord, or have I satisfied you? Additionally, in relation to satisfaction, did you derive carnal pleasure from your encounter with Yvraine, or was it truly just a diplomatic gesture?”
   Roboute gritted his teeth in anger but kept an even voice as he replied, “No, machine, I have no further conquests I wish to discuss with you. You are dismissed.” The blast shields covering the decapitated psykers slammed shut, that horrid warp light faded, and the machine rattled to a stop, a sound that called to mind the mocking laughter of a victorious foe.
   He turned about and marched out of the device, through its enormous interleaving armored vault door, the toothed edges of the locking mechanisms giving it the appearance of an apex predator's maw. Roboute shook off the feeling and boarded the elevator that led only to his private quarters.
   As his lift moved out of the range of the machine’s psychic and signal spectrum jammers, Guilliman received a vox burst. His subtle cranial cybernetics, hidden so well as to be imperceptible without an autopsy, projected the message across his cornea. Sicarius awaits you in your office.
   Dread filled the primarch as he steeled himself to speak to his wayward son. Is this how Fath- the Emperor felt on Monarchia? he asked himself, his mind filled with millennia old memories of ash and fire. The burning pain of regret filled his hearts and chest as he remembered how thoroughly his Father had humiliated the XVIIth Primarch and his legion, how they had been forced to kneel before the Emperor, Guilliman, and his Ultramarines.
   The doors slid open, and Guilliman was torn away from his painful nostalgia. He stepped out from the hidden doorway as a bookshelf slid behind him, covering the secret entrance to Cawl Inferior’s shaft. He paused for a moment, rendering his immense three meter form completely still and absolutely silent. He listened, searching for any slight deviation away from the normal white noise of his library.
   A faint, rhythmic double pulse, the secondary thrum happening a half beat after the first, half as loud, as though it were an echo. He is here, Guilliman thought. He walked, quieter than most mortals could ever hope to lurk, gliding between his towering bookshelves, swiftly and silently approaching his work table at the center of the enormous maze of knowledge, rendered out of its pure form of absolute truthfulness, processed into some flawed approximation of the actual reality into a temporary, fragile form that could be held and consumed by mere men.
   Men like us, Roboute thought as he rounded a final corner and found himself making eye contact with his son, seated at the table ten meters away, in the center of a circular ring of bookshelves, as though he were some ancient shaman seated within a forest clearing as old as time itself.
   “Hello, father,” Cato said, his voice strained, as though it were being held taught by the conflicting, divergent tensions of his own emotions. He sat at a bench beside the table, looking over it at his father.
   “Cato,” Roboute said, his voice carefully measured, “I apologize for the… rough handling of the past few weeks. However, I saw an opportunity, and I needed to take it. I allowed Marneus to exile you because I need you for tasks that an Ultramarine simply cannot, and shall not, do.”
   Cato was stunned, a look of surprise splattered across his face like a bucket of paint dropped from a great height onto a sidewalk, and he asked, “Father, what do you mean by this? I… did not know you had such a vision for me. I am humbled.” He bowed his head.
   Why must my modern sons be so worshipful? Roboute thought. “Raise your head up high, my son,” Guilliman replied, “For you have been… let’s say, unconventionally reassigned to the Vigil Opertii. I will fill out the requisite forms within the millenium, I’m sure. In the meantime, you will be, for the most part, off the books. You may come upon scenarios in which my name, my word, the seal of my secret police shall hold no sway, and you will have to succeed under the power of your own will and wit.” Guilliman paused for a moment to ready himself for what he was about to ask of his son, “I would expect of you acts of subterfuge and stealth beyond that performed by even our marine scouts. I would expect of you acts that many might consider heretical, immoral, dishonorable, and treacherous. I would even expect you to be willing to kill your loyalist brothers and cousins. Will you allow this mantle to be placed upon your shoulders?” Roboute was unsure how to read the stoney expression Cato had taken on.
   After a single moment of silence between the two, the Talassaran said, “Yes, father. I will enter into your service again, reborn as a servant of Ultramar. What would you have me do?”
   Guilliman nodded, and pushed some papers on his desk aside to reveal a small, squat pyramid, its shiny black sides pulsing with glowing circuitry. The Imperial Regent tapped the device at its zenith, and the walls split open like a metal flower.
   Instead of nectar or pollen, though, the interior of the device contained a hologlyph projector. A tri-dimensional holo-map of a star system appeared, one which Cato did not recognize, with three terrestrial dead worlds and two gas giants, with a tiny, blinking red dot orbiting the larger of the two gas giants, a massive thing which was the sole celestial body orbiting inside the star system’s dense inner asteroid belt. Then, a tri-dimensional render of a familiar head appeared, with the name Titus beneath it.
   Guilliman gestured at the floating, ephemeral bust and said, “Titus, formerly the captain of the Ultramarines second company, was a veteran sergeant who served under your command before you were lost to the warp-” Cato struggled to listen, as the image of Titus’ stern face brought back horrible memories.
   Dreams that could never be awoken from flooded Cato’s mind. He was no longer in his father’s study. His perfect, eidetic memory forced him back in time. He felt a chainsword revving in his hands, his immense demi-deific might driving the blade into the skull of a Word Bearer Possessed, splitting the head of the traitor in half, but he was too late.
   Cato was surrounded by daemonic astartes, separated from his objective, a horrid sacrificial altar upon which a thousand youths were bound, their flesh expertly cut to bring forth great weeping blood flows. Some were xenos, but most were children of Ultramar. He watched as a Word Bearer Dark Apostle took a twisted power dagger in hand, cut his palm, dropped his blood amongst theirs, and summoned a hellfire that killed the children and brought the Word Bearer closer to apotheosis.
Cato roared with fury, taking a power axe in hand and driving it downwards into a heretic's chest, opening a great cleave in the beast’s collarbone that continued down through its fused rib cage. The Champion of Talassar found the axe was stuck when he tried to remove it, so he used the flat of its blade as a lever, splitting the Possessed’s chest open just enough to get his fingers inside, at which point he tore the Possessed open entirely, ripping flesh and sinew, shattering ceramite and bone, until the axe fell free, leaving the Possessed’s body to fall on its back, destroyed and mutated lungs and hearts open to the foul, sulphurous air of the realm of Chaos.
   He shook himself from the fugue state and found Guilliman staring at him. “Are you well?” his genesire asked.
   Cato nodded and said, “Just processing.” While he’d been buried in the ashen mudslide of his memories, he’d been passively absorbing the info his father had been explaining to him. “Recover Titus. Bring him back to Ultramar without detection. If impossible, kill him. Kill any Inquisitors present at the facility. Avoid the Black Templars stationed there if possible, kill them otherwise,” Cato said, his voice tense.
   Guilliman nodded. “Then you are dismissed. Take the elevator at the back of my study. It is routed down a long forgotten shaft that leads to an equally abandoned hangar bay, hidden behind debris of a battle millennia long since passed.” Guilliman was not present for the battle, and the records of who won and who lost had been lost in the ages since.
   He continued, “There, you will find equipment I have procured for you. Aside from a weeks’ worth of food and water, as well as a change of clothing, you will find a modified warp spider jump generator, a cameleoline cloak, a stalker bolt pistol, and a power gladius.” Cato was staring intently at the star chart, a grim expression of focus held tight across his face.
   “We come to port in three days,” Guilliman said, “and when we do, you shall exfiltrate from this ship without being observed. Upon reaching the planet’s surface, find my contact Citrox at a bar called the Creaky Dreadnaught. He will help you from there.”
   Cato nodded, almost serene in his detachment, and stood without a word. He disappeared amongst the shelves, and Guilliman sighed heavily.
    Three weeks passed in a blur, sleepless pursuits of empire building and war fighting plaguing the waking nightmare he waded through like a swamp filled with the sewage and industrial waste of a nearby city, until a tri-dimensional holo-bell appeared above Roboute’s desk and rang. He touched its surface without looking, his eyes tearing through a digi-scribed account of a battle fifteen decades since lost that his retinal implants had projected over his vision, with a tri-dimensional holo-render gleaned from over a hundred pict-capture and scanning devices that had been present at the battle.  
   An audio message from his Victrix Guard captain played, “M’Lord, Madame Yvraine is here, and she is on her way up to your quarters. We will be sending dinner up shortly. I recommend you hurry over. She did not seem to be in a pleasant mood, and I would not personally pursue her ire.” The message dinged, denoting its completion.
   Guilliman rose from his seat and sighed, more an aimlessly pleasant exhalation than an expression of distress, though it could truthfully be described as both. He walked to an elevator hidden away amongst the shelves and rode down several decks to his quarters, a place of marble and gold. He disrobed as he entered his bath-house, the warm, misty waters already drawn and filled with a gentle cleansing agent that smelled like the herbs the elite of Ultramar used to scent their bathhouses with back when Guilliman was young, before he’d known of this…
    Of everything… he thought. The damned Warp, the Emperor, my brothers… the Imperium. What was it all for? His memories were flooded with renditions of past actions perfectly preserved within his infallible mental archives. Flashes of xenocides, entire civilizations, peoples, and species eradicated by his hands. Human worlds culled to the man because they rejected his Father’s teachings.
    What if He was wrong? … Theoretical: my Father was a Man, flawed, yet powerful. He chose the wrong course, and I am still suffering from the ramifications of His sins to this day. Practical: … I chose to follow Him. I could have been like the II Primarch. I could have resisted. I could have been censured. I could have… his thoughts trailed away as the focus of his memories was pulled away from the heat of battle towards the foggy warmth of passion. Ten thousand memories of a thousand lovers flooded his mind.
    Yvraine… his mind was permeated by her singular encounter above the innumerable masses. His other lovers had found his… titanic physiology difficult to interface with. He had always needed to be reserved and cautious, allowing his enthralled partners to explore the immensity of his form and spirit at their own pace. Obsessive though his past mortal lovers had been, absorbed by his supposedly godly presence, none had truly been his equals. They had been…
    They had been simply human… his thoughts drifted back to Yvraine. She was tall, as all Aeldari were. She was taller than most of his non-primaris sons, almost a half foot taller than they were out of armor. Her body was… accommodating, to say the least. The way her skin smelled…
    Guilliman’s eyes slid shut as his hand floated down through the hot waters of the bathhouse to wrap itself around his immense pylon, gripping it just a few inches down from the base of his third-of-a-meter-member’s head. He stroked gently downward, taking in a sharp breath as he slid his foreskin back and the sensation of Yvraine’s well-wetted womanhood filled his mind, pushing out all higher thoughts.
    He could not escape the way her breasts rested on her chest when she laid upon her back, so perfectly formed, firm yet prone to rippling from the transitive force of his thrusts. He leaned back, his godly head and left arm resting upon the marble lip of the bath, his right hand working away beneath the water, rippling waves rolling out across the surface in response to every stroke.
   He was vaguely aware that a pair of servant girls were watching, thinking themselves hidden in the misty shadows, but he cared little. The simple idea of Yvraine’s very being was consuming his every neuron, burning away at the neural circuitry the Emperor had so carefully crafted, tearing apart his perfect neurology until all that he had left was an eidetic image of her every curve.
   “M’Lord,” a voice speaking over the vox comm interrupted his self-induced bliss, “Lady Yvraine is in your chambers, and is… irate at your tardiness. Two of the serfs have already been reduced to tears. Please make haste.” Guilliman heard the two serf-girls watching him scatter, and he growled at the indignity of the event as his eyes slowly opened.
…
   Yvraine sat at the great marble table, a glass of what was likely an alcoholic delicacy to the lesser mon’keigh sitting before her in a rounded glass seated on a thin, straight stem leading to a large flat base. It smelled fruity, and it was red like mon’keigh blood. I’d certainly like to make that overgrown ape bleed if he makes a habit of keeping me waiting, she thought, the psychic echoes of her fury permeating the space around her and putting the human serfs who were attending to her on edge. Though… I suppose they must have some merit, if they can produce specimens like Robu… the thought of even acknowledging the value of mon’keigh lives, let alone respecting or admiring them, was alien to her, yet Robu...
   Her musings were cut short as she heard the doors of a lift slide open down the hall. The measured yet weighty footsteps that followed caused her heart to float, as though it had suddenly found the floor beneath it was missing. He’s here! She thought excitedly, even as she desperately hardened her facial expression.
   She glared at the archway across from the table, from which hung a great blue banner with the Ultima emblazoned upon it in gold. It was split down the middle to permit ingress and egress while still sheltering either side from the view of the other. A great hand pushed it aside, and her diplomatic counterpart stepped through.
   “I apologize for the dela-”
   Robu began, but Yvraine cut him off, pulling her gaze away from the deep neckline on his formalwear and looking instead at her razor sharp nails as she said, “You seem to beg forgiveness for your lateness quite a bit, Lord Guilliman. It amazes me that a god such as yourself would make such an error so often.” She smiled with sadistic mirth as she felt rage and distress flare up in the mortal serfs that surrounded her, knowing that they could do nothing to defend their lord from her verbal attacks.
   Roboute took it in stride, smiling and responding, “Then it is convenient that I am not a god, or I would owe you, and the Ecclesiarchy, some measure of recompense for the deception.” Yvraine’s smile loosened slightly, being less forced and more genuine as the charisma of the Primarch penetrated her furious facade. She fought the urge to laugh in response to his rather pointed challenge to the faith of the mortals that surrounded them.
   “Regardless,” the Lord-Regent said, “you still waited for me to arrive, and here I am, your handsome reward for such… immeasurable patience.” Robu grinned cheekily, and Yvraine couldn’t help but suppress a giggle.
   Damnable bastard… she thought, if I’d known he’d be so… charming, I would’ve worn more than sashes last time. She cursed herself for her weakness, and attempted again to harden her mask, though the hints of a grin slipped through as she said, “I expected my reward to come with a meal, m’Lord.” Robu nodded, and waved for his serfs to go collect their dinner.
   “I appreciate you coming to discuss the pact of Ner-Eht’hul, Miss Yvraine.”
   God, why must he say ‘Miss’, she thought, closing her thighs in a desperate attempt to fight the heat rising between them. Damn this dress, she thought, the elegant but revealing garment only covering her body in a ruffled body contouring white silk from her shoulders to her mid thighs, with mid-thigh-length black stockings covering her legs. It did little to help her that she had chosen to wear no undergarments. “You flatter me, Lord-Regent, but you may permit yourself to be more casual,” she said, attempting to regain control of herself.
   Guilliman paused for a moment, then asked, “May I call you Yvvy, then?”
   Oh, Ynnead, please no, she thought, even as she rather excitedly replied, “Y-yes, I’m okay with that. Is there a… ah… a casual name I might call you?” Damn it, why am I such a fool around him? She thought to herself as she beat down intrusive memories of his marble pillar being erected within her sacred temple.
   Roboute chuckled and replied, “Well, to be honest, I liked it when you were calling me Robu during our last… encounter. There was a rogue trader I was fond of who used to call me Robu… She passed a decade or two ago, but I do value those memories.”
   Oh, you ‘value’ your memories of her, do you? She thought, her mind and cheeks burning with jealousy she desperately failed to suppress. “I love it. It’s so… easy to say,” she said, her cheeks burning with a painful mixture of fury and arousal. How dare he recycle a pet name between lov-... partners… damn it, why did I ever call him that…
   "So, Yvraine, I have the treaty at hand," Roboute said, drawing a hologlyph projector from a hidden pocket in his toga and placing it upon the table, "and I'd like to discuss the agreements written therein. To start, the Craftworld of Ner-Eht’hul is allowed shelter and integration into the orbital harbors above the agri-world of Quintarn, in the Masali system. They will be provided with access to…” Guilliman’s words passed around Yvraine, as though she was a rock in a river.
   By Ynnead, he just… talks so damn much… she thought, trying to focus on his words as the serfs brought out their dinner before swiftly leaving the two alone, the plates loaded with an assortment of nuts, berries, soft cheese, vegetable oil, some sort of fileted and smoked fish, grain derived noodles topped with a slightly acidic red sauce, and bread.
   Yvraine was pulled out of her fog of boredom when Robu reached across the table and touched her hand. “Yvvy,” he said, “I don’t mean to bore you. I understand that these negotiations can be somewhat tedious. Would you prefer we eat dinner first, and then discuss the details of the Craftworld Treaty?”
   Yvraine smiled and said, “I’d like that, yes. To be truthful I’d like to get to know you better. I feel that having a diplomatic partner who I don’t understand is one of the swiftest ways for an alliance to fall, particularly since I've known you for over a century, yet we've never gotten to truly know one another.”
   Guilliman chuckled and replied, “I figured the fastest way for such an alliance to fall would be stationing the conference atop a bridge built by Ork engineers.”
   The joke took Yvraine by surprise, and she sputtered as red wine was shunted up her nasal passages by her stifled laughter. She spilled some on her dress, groaning in frustration and desperately batting away at the stain with a cloth. Why does he have to make such stupid, terrible jokes!* she thought, trying to ignore the way his joke had filled her with a giddy sense of schoolgirl joy.
   Guilliman, watching this display, paused as something clicked in his mind. He noticed it earlier with her actions and the stifled laughter… Does she actually like my terrible jokes? Theoretical: this knowledge could be used to ease tensions or elevate tensions between the two parties and possibly increase affection between them. Practical: There could be some fun in this endeavor…
   He leaned forward, a soft smile on his face, like a predator closing in on its prey. “Now, now… No need to…” He grinned widely as her face went blank, anticipating it before it came out. “Wine over a little spill.”
   Yvraine rolled her eyes and groaned audibly, a noise which quickly turned into a tittering giggle, a snort or two sneaking its way into her laughter. Guilliman’s grin widened, a look of triumph on his face. “I see you appreciate my… unique sense of humor.”
   Yvraine nodded, unable to respond in full as she was laughing so hard that tears were flowing from her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands in an attempt to recover some sense of dignity. Ynnead, how… how dare he… I should not give this mon’keigh such… validation! The way he grins is so smug. What a conceited… Yvraine thought, the engine of her anger bogged down by the weight of his self-assured smile pressed down upon her mind and blockaded by her own mirth.
   Damned if he isn’t beautiful when he smiles, though… she thought. The faint, unrefined song of the soul growing in her belly increased in volume, reflecting her own elevated mood. This unwelcome reminder of her ulterior motive behind arranging a second meeting dampened her spirits, cutting off their rise as an anti-air battery might cut away at the ascent of a poorly armored strike fighter. I really should tell him about this, she thought, especially if it is going to continue forming on its own without further input as it has been…
   “Lord Guilliman, I have something we should discuss,” she said, regaining her composure, “it is of the utmost importance.” Guilliman’s smile slackened, and he asked, “Of course Yvvy, what concerns have taken your mind?”
   She blushed when his pet name for her passed his lips. Damnable charm. The Emperor really knew how to make his boys… engaging, she thought.
   “Well, Robu, I… after our last encounter, I feel that we- or, rather, uhm… I should tell you…” she trailed off as she tried to find the words she needed in high gothic.
Guilliman cut in after a few seconds of her stuttering, “I understand. I believe that my actions were not as professional as they should have been, and we should set better boundaries if we are to act as emissaries.”
   Damn it, no! I- well, yes, I… her thoughts were out of order, jumbled like a deck of cards dropped on the floor. She replied, “Robu, I don’t think… I think we can be professional in that regard, I just… it was a bit sudden, and it was an inappropriate advance on my part. I was arrogant, and a bit… patronizing, to be honest. It was rude of me to treat you so harshly, as though you were a lesser thing for me to play with.”
   Guilliman smiled, and said, “I appreciate your acknowledgement of your failings. It is wonderful to know that you are so self-aware and humble. I find those traits to be attractive in a prospective partner. Ah, a diplomatic partner, of course.” He put on that vile little smirk from earlier, clearly knowing what he’d said. Her cheeks, neck, ears, and breasts reddened, and she found his scent to be somehow more prevalent than it had been just a moment ago.
   By Ynnead, keep praising me like that, and you’ll find me humbled indeed, she thought. However, outwardly she spoke more modestly, “I appreciate your, um… appreciation, Robu. It’d be wonderful to have you as a partner! A d-diplomatic partner.”
   She noticed Guilliman’s eyes had found themselves pinned to her ample and intentionally prominent cleavage. Finally, I have some measure of advantage, she thought.
   “Is something distracting you, m’Lord?” She asked, leaning forward, placing her forearms flat on the table, her hands clasped together and her breasts pressed together between her slim but toned biceps.
   Guilliman’s smirk widened, and he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Miss Yvraine, there is something bothering me,” he replied, “you seem to have done a poor job of cleaning that stain from your dress.”
Yvraine grinned despite herself, and asked, “Oh, I don’t seem to be able to see where exactly it is, would you mind pointing it out to me?” She lifted a hand and rolled her wrist such that her palm faced upwards, her face forming a parody of ditzy confusion.
   Guilliman eyes became heavily lidded with lewd intent as he said, “Well, I could point it out to you, but I think it would be more expedient if you simply relinquished the garment to be cleaned by my servants.”
   Yvraine moved her hand to her chest, placing it across the top of her breasts, and said, “But m’Lord, whatever would I wear? I couldn’t possibly remove my dress before you, as I seem to have forgotten my undergarments at home.” Her voice was rich with amusement.
   Guilliman stood and waved his hand, dismissing the remaining serfs who seemed all too happy to leave with haste and efficiency.
   It’s just a little harmless flirting, she thought, standing up as he walked around the table, coming to a stop behind her. I mean, I’ll just… tell him afterwards, the thoughts already disappearing into a miasma of warm arousal as his titanic hands slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders.
   She looked up into his eyes, her left hand running down the outside of his thigh as she laid her right hand across his, following it as it drifted down with her dress in tow.
   He hooked his left thumb under the front of her dress and pulled it away from her ample breasts, which had halted the removal of her dress. He leaned down to kiss her as the dress fell free, floating silently to the floor.
   Yvraine pulled away, a sudden burst of mental willpower pulling her mind away from the warm firelight of her passion. “Robu,” she said quietly, “I… I think… like I was saying, perhaps this is not… the best place for this, right now.”
   Guilliman let her leave his hands without resistance, and replied, “Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right. Shall we go to my chambers instead?”
    No, you colossal oaf, that’s not what I meant! Yvraine thought, even as she said, “Of course! I apologize for the request, I just feel so exposed here.”
    By Ynnead, perhaps I’m the fool, she thought, her mouth pulling back into a stupid grin as Robu lifted her in his arms and carried her through a hanging tapestry. She was passionately kissing his neck and whispering horribly lewd little promises in his ear, her arms wrapped around his neck as her playful mirth turned into an impish glee that drowned out the tiny voice in the back of her mind screaming for her to tell him of their child, to explain that there was a nascent soul growing in her womb.
   She lost track of these thoughts when they entered his quarters, an immense marble hall with a hot springs bath, a selection of fine wines, and a bed that was large even for the immense scale of a Primarch.
   Her brain started to melt as Robu fell backwards onto the bed and gently shifted her up such that she was now seated upon his face, his tongue buffeting her into a near stupor. She was leaning down on her hands, tucked away under his rather revealing toga with her fingers spread out across his pectoral muscles. She slowly slipped forward, moaning luridly as his mouth took from her what little dignity and composure she had left.
   She clumsily undid the shoulder of his toga, pulling it away to expose more of his chest, but as she did so, he sat up, still holding her such that he could continue eating her out. Her heart dropped a bit, and she tightened the grip her thighs had on his head as a yelp of surprise escaped her lips.
   She was upside-down, pressing herself up and away from his mountain-esque torso with one hand as her other shakily pulled away the rest of his torso wrapping, leaving only the portion wrapped around his waist and thighs.
   Guilliman laid back down and lifted his hips up to allow her to finish unwrapping him, his hands moving to tightly grip each of her ample but firm buttocks. She leaned forward so she could reach, her cheek pressed to his rocky abdomen as she undressed him by touch alone. As she pulled away the last of the fabric, Robu’s half-cocked heavy bolter fell free from where the fabric had pinned it to his thigh, landing across her face, a pool of his pre-ejaculatory lubricant forming on her cheek.
   At this precise moment, she was brought to orgasm by his tongue. Oh… Ynnead, this is so humiliating, she thought, her right hand moving to grip the base of his mighty thunder hammer, as though she were gripping the hand rails on a transport ship that had just breached the atmosphere of a particularly turbulent planet, the nails of her other hand digging into the flesh of his stomach.
   After her waves of pleasure subsided, she realized that she had drooled a small puddle onto his stomach, even as his member had dribbled on her face.
   Well, I shouldn’t be rude, she thought, gyrating her hips as she leaned back to place her mouth before the head of his member, both hands gripping the base of its titanic shaft.
   Her tongue slid under his foreskin as she shifted her hands on the shaft to stroke downward as her mouth descended along his length. She did not get very far on her journey before he began to assist her progress by pushing his hips forward and forcing his cock down her throat. Her eyes watered as her tight throat struggled to accommodate his girth.
    She dropped her left hand onto his right hip, gripping him tightly as he picked up speed. She tried at first to maintain her right hand’s grip on his shaft, but her hand quickly fell down onto his left hip as well, doing everything she could to hold onto him as his monument to the glories of Ultramar continued thrusting ever deeper down her throat.
    Her makeup was running, her neck and back were aligned so that she could orient her head upwards to create a straight path for his cock to to run through, removing some of the stress on her throat, enabling smoother thrusts for him, and causing her well-endowed breasts to bounce pleasingly in time with his thrusts as his thickly muscled abdomen knocked against them softly and rhythmically.
    His thrusts became deeper and harder, her throat fuller and fuller each time, and the lewdness of it all got past her haughtiness; the second orgasm hit her, and she was only vaguely aware that she had sprayed Guilliman’s neck, chin, and upper chest with her intimate emissions. Soon after, she felt Robu’s entire body tense, a split-second warning before his first blast of gene seed shot down her throat.
    She swallowed the first load as she pulled away, the second blast of pearlescent fluid spraying across her neck and chest, and then his own. She was still shaking and panting from her own climax, and from his continued, and intensifying, oral attention. She watched his cock pulsate, coating both their torsos with his gene seed, his hips shaking from the intensity, and she couldn’t help but cum again.
    She felt her arms turn to jelly beneath her and she fell forward, her head resting beside his massive twin-linked gene seed vaults, while his staggering, and still pulsing, girth became fenced in between her sizable breasts.
   Eventually, the strength left Guilliman’s legs, and his hips fell down to the bed, causing Yvraine, barely aware of her surroundings, to slide downwards. Her chest, still straddling his cock, slid along its length, causing one last shot of gene-seed to leak out of his stunning spire of imperial might and a growled moan to escape his lips, muffled by hers.
   Her head now rested alongside his shaft, the tip of his column resting beside her chin, her body still shivering as Robu gently licked her. She moved her right hand up to hold its girthy crown, kissing and licking it weakly, her body shaking and her breath short.
   They stayed like this for some time, each thoroughly satisfied by the other. Eventually,  Yvraine broke the silence.
   “R-robu…” she murmured, “let’s go bathe…” Roboute shifted beneath her, gently rolling her off his torso. He staggered over to the bath and ran the tap, adding in a powdered mixture which caused the room to smell faintly of a spring afternoon in the mountains, after the morning rain but before the cloud cover had cleared. Yvraine closed her eyes and buried her face in his warm, soft bed sheets.
   After a few minutes of cleaning himself, he walked back over to the bed. He gently pulled her thigh-highs off her legs, then lifted her up and carried her to the bath, where he placed her down gently on a submerged ledge that acted as a seat. He sat behind her, his lewd length pressed between both of their left thighs. He reached over and took a small washcloth from a shelf built into the marble wall and began washing her back.
   Oh, this shrewd bastard, Yvraine thought, I know what you’re doing, putting your shaft there, pressing it against me… her ears flicked, and she couldn't stop herself from imagining the lewd things he was about to do to her.
   Guilliman did not, however, act out any depraved fantasies on her. Instead, he simply continued his task, seemingly entranced by his work, solely focused on bathing her. He softly pulled back on her shoulder, and she leaned backwards, pressing herself flush against his chest and laying her hands across his submerged thighs.
   Two can play at that game. she thought, leaning her head back, taking in deep breaths in such a way that caused her chest to rise and fall in a visually pleasing manner. Soft, barely audible moans slipped from her lips as he ran the cloth along her chest and stomach, his free hand gingerly lifting each breast in turn to wash beneath them.
   I shouldn’t have been so rough, Guilliman thought to himself, his hands delicately cleaning his lover as though she were a fragile artifact of a bygone era, such brutishness and unchecked pragmatism is what led my Creator down the dark paths He took, and such methods bred the conditions necessary for the Imperium to exist as the shambling corpse that it is today.
   Yvraine’s face became flushed as Guilliman’s hand ran the wash cloth across her inner thighs and over the entrance to her womanhood, wiping away the stickiness she had left on herself.
   What lewd mindgame is he playing, she thought, her mind clouded with pent-up arousal and anger, both aimed squarely at him, he has yet to so much as grope me. What is he trying to pull? She tried to fight back the rogue thought that his gentleness would make for an excellent fatherly attribute, were he to sire children.
   Having cleaned his lover, Guilliman reached under her arms and wrapped himself around her stomach, his forearms forming a shelf upon which her ample bust rested. He kissed the top of her head, and then rested his chin on her head.
   Yvraine’s mind spun as she attempted to sort out what he was doing, but she could barely think about anything other than the way he held her. She felt as though an orbital strike could not hurt her.
   “I’d like to apologize,” Guilliman spoke softly after a few minutes of silence, “I feel as though I was too rough with you earlier. I did not give you a clear warning of my intentions, and that was unfair to you.” His voice was so deep and powerful that she could feel it reverberating through her bones, and the water around them rippled anew with each syllable.
   “I enjoyed it greatly,” she said after a moment of contemplation, “There’s no reason for you to apologize.”
   She felt Guilliman shake his head before saying, “No, Yvvy, I have every reason to apologize, whether you enjoyed yourself or not. I should not have asserted myself so confidently without having a proper discussion with you beforehand.”
   Yvraine smiled, an odd, almost stinging sensation of joy building up in her heart with so much pressure that she felt she might die. “I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but in the future, you may feel free to be as you were today unless I tell you otherwise.”
   After a few more minutes of silence, Yvraine softly pushed his arms away, stood up, kissed him, and exited the bath, taking a towel that had been folded beside the large basin and drying herself with it. It was sized for a Primarch, and she could practically wear it like a cloak.
   She giggled softly at how absurd she must have looked, covered almost entirely by the towel, save for her head and lower legs.
   Guilliman followed soon after, drying himself off as well. The time he spent drying his member off, running the soft towel along his shaft slowly and methodically, was disproportionately longer than the time spent drying the rest of his body, but Yvraine certainly did not mind.
   If he wishes to stroke himself, then I ought to give him something worth provoking such improper behavior, she thought.
   She shrugged her towel off her shoulders and walked across the room to his bed, her hips rolling with an exaggerated luridness with each step. She shot a smoldering glare over her shoulder, and caught the Lord of Ultramar staring at her perfect feminine form, cock held firmly in hand.
   Her round, fuckable ass was half hidden behind the curtain of shock-white hair hanging down her back, but he stared at her as though  her thighs were on the cusp of revealing to him the secret mechanisms needed to restore the Imperium to it's pre-Heresy glory. His hands were stacked fist over fist and slowly pumping away at his shaft.
   She crawled onto the bed, sliding down onto her belly with her ass still in the air, sighing and moaning lewdly as she stretched. An unintentional pop of her back elicited a genuine gasp of satisfaction, and it seemed to be too much for Guilliman.
   With the swiftness of lightning, he was upon her, his stomach and chest pressed against her back, his cock sliding between her thighs. He moved to pull back his substantial measure so that he could penetrate her, but she interrupted him with a tsk, and said, “You have to ask nicely,” looking up into his eyes as she had in the dining room.
   Guilliman lowered his head down so that his lips were next to her ear, and he whispered, “Please, Miss Yvvy, may I fuck you? May I cum inside you? May I kiss your neck and lips and breasts? May I whisper sweet nothings in your ears? May I grope your hips and ass and thighs? May I run my fingers across your labia and clitoris? May I have you as mine to do with as I please, to enact my carnal whims upon, if only for tonight?” The closeness of his face, the thunderous depth of his voice, the scratchiness of his blonde stubble, the heated lance of his lewd, desperate pleas for the privilege of fucking her... her ears began to flick involuntarily.
   Oh, Ynnead, fuck YES, she thought, though her verbal response was more reserved, “Yes you may, Lord Guilliman. You have my absolute and unconditional endorsement to freely impose your will upon me.”
   Robu lifted her chin with one hand to kiss her as he gripped the middle of his shaft with the other, and she gently guided his head to her entrance with both her hands. He slowly pushed himself inside, meeting no resistance from her, and he made love to her.
   Damn you, Robu, you… gorgeous, square jawed, insufferable… bastard… she thought, her mind growing weaker with each of his deep, slow, loving thrusts.
   Perhaps… I’ll just tell him some other time… Yvraine thought as Guilliman wrapped himself around her chest and she buried her face in the hairy warmth of his forearms. Her hands descended down to play with her clit as her mind was filled with those hot, inescapable mists that only Roboute and his perfect, godly cock could manifest.