Yvraine is preggy-weggy oops

             Yvraine rolled over on the bed centered within her lavish, if somewhat messy and disorganized, personal chambers. She sighed angrily, staring up at the ceiling through the sheer black and red sashes, curtains, and veils hanging from her walls, filtering the witchlights manifested above them in delightfully macabre colors. She was absently fondling her heavy breasts, which had gotten larger as of late, along with her thighs and ass.

Why now, of all times, must I have fallen for a mon’keigh? Mother warned me, every damn night, not to trust their men, regardless of how gene-hanced… her thoughts drifted off from her mother’s teachings and instead slid down a very slippery slope towards sensory memories of his flesh against - and within - hers.

Gene-hanced indeed… she thought, a smirk curling her lips.

Her hand had drifted down her body, running across her black nightgown, and sliding beneath its inner red folds, her fingers then impersonating a fractal as she slid them within her own inner red folds. She checked to see if Alorynis was asleep; the large blue feline was, thankfully, slumbering in the corner of her bed.

She wetted her fingers within her own warmth, rubbing her clit in a gentle circular motion, the memories of Guilliman’s cock devastating her body’s general structural integrity lighting up her mind as her clit lit up her ash-white skin, causing her to glow a deep red around her cheeks, ears, neck, breasts, hands, and vulva.

Her self-satisfaction was self-lived, though, having been cut through like a weakened dreadnought joint falling to the edge of a wraithbone’s blade.

“By the love and grace of our savior Ynnead, Visarch, is there any possibility within the materium that you could say something to me, right now, that would make this intrusion worthy of wasting my scantily available solitude?” She growled out, the smug aura of the Visarch permeating her living-space. Alorynis stirred; the gyrinx slinked off the bed and began lurking in a shadowy corner, his predatory eyes analyzing the Visarch’s every movement with a cold, animal efficiency.

Should her finely-tuned Aeldari ears have been any sharper, Yvraine swore she could have heard his smile. “Perhaps not any spoken communication should suffice,” the Visarch replied, “but within the purview of the physical medium I am of utmost certainty that I could make my worth known with a different sort of intrus-”

A sudden yell of exasperation from Yvraine cut his spoken communications off at the pass and startled Alorynis. Yvraine replied, “No, Visarch, I do not think I would find any worth in such ‘intrusions’ at present, particularly not from an ally lacking intimate knowledge of my form.” She sat up on her bed, drawing her knees up to her chest and glaring at the Visarch, who’s smirk grew. Alorynis’ hackles raised and he bared his fangs, but he remained silent.

“Oh, but Lady Yvraine,” the Visarch replied, “you could reveal unto me the intimate secrets of your material being, by which means I could make my intrusion useful to you.” He stood up straight, wiggling his shoulders ever so slightly as he drew himself to his full height, nearly as tall as the Primaris marines Guilliman was so damn proud of.

This time, it was Yvraine who smirked. She spun about and flopped backwards, her head hanging off the end of her bed, and half of her right breast laying exposed by an artfully implemented tug of her gown. “Oh, by the very means of creation, I beseech you, please, do elucidate through your songful voice in what manner, precisely, your assertive and intimate intrusions could ever prove desirable to me, Visarch?” she asked, her voice heavy with a breathy disdain and her natural resting expression of contempt laced with facetiously fluttered eyelashes.

The Visarch grinned, rolling his shoulders back and causing the fur that adorned them to ripple as he responded, “Dear Yvraine, it is within the full understanding of all who have known me that my skill with the blade is quite phenomenal. Perhaps you’d benefit from ascertaining a refresher on the lessons I imparted to you in your youth? I assure you, with my wholly honest heart that you’ll find the experience quite… stimulating juxtaposed with the tutorship you received from me so long ago.” He paused for effect, a habit he had which never ceased to make Yvraine smile. What a dramatic man… she thought, perhaps I should sell him to the harlequins…

Her darkly painted lips lifted at the edges, a subtle, calculated smile that she knew would not go unnoticed by her former mentor. She rolled over onto her belly and propped herself up on her elbows, pressing together her lewdly proportioned breasts, expertly crafted for her by a stupendously skilled Haemonculi (and likely a dead one, considering the recent movements of Jaghatai Khan within Commorragh).

“Shall we wager on this sparring match, Visarch?” Yvraine asked, tilting her head to the side and allowing her gaze to linger on the Visarch’s noticeable bulge.

The Visarch smirked harder and nodded, glancing down at the floor for just a moment before returning his simply smouldering gaze to her eyes. “A deal I would be most keen to meet, Lady Yvraine,” replied the Visarch, “though, I do desire to ask, what prizes are to be cast between us?”

Yvraine stood from the bed, letting her gown fall free as she strode across her chambers to her dressing room. The Visarch watched her as she went, not moving a muscle save for the turn of his head and eyes.

When she’d disappeared within, the Visarch heard her voice slip out from the dressing room. “Honorable Visarch,” she said, “if either of us should confront the other with a firm victory, we may ask but one favor of the other, a favor which must be fulfilled to the best of one’s ability.”

The Visarch laughed and shot back, “You present it so plainly. What hidden condition do you play at, Lady Yvraine?” For a little while there was no reply.

Then, Yvraine strode out, wearing her black body glove, bearing her cronesword and bladed fan in hand. “The ‘hidden condition’, my dearest mentor, lies within the stakes of our battle; I will be fighting to draw you down, to bring you within an inch of your life.” She paused, and watched as the color, warmth, and friendliness drained from the Visarch’s face; the mask of a warfighter had formed where his eyes had once been.

Yvraine smiled and said, “I suggest you do the same.”

The Visarch lunged across the room, and the blade at his waist flashed out from its scabbard. His movement was dead silent and nearly instantaneous. His blade clashed against the blade Yvraine was holding, having just barely interrupted his sword strike. His blade slid along the flat of hers and skipped off the handguard. He was already rolling away from her before she could follow her parry up with a riposte.

The Visarch stood five paces away, a cold anger lighting up his eyes. “I did not spend decades training you for you to lay out slack on your fundamentals, Lady Yvraine,” he spat out, his glower intense enough to incinerate lesser elves. “How could you become a Succubus with such a flawed technique? Or is your focus perhaps clouded by memories of Mon’keigh co-” His taunt was cut off as Yvraine flung herself at him.

“You speak as though you stand above me in sexual discretion,” Yvraine hissed, “throwing about your ‘affection’ for young women without a care for how they’d be hurt should they leave your current fancy!” Her blade swung high, and the Visarch smoothly slid away from its biting edge. 

The Visarch countered with a light slash at her belly, cutting through her body suit and opening a hairline gash on her skin, painting the flesh around it with a thin veneer of blood. Yvraine exhaled forcefully as she pushed down the pain. 

“I haven’t the slightest inkling of what you mean by that!” he roared in response, “I have courted you earnestly for the past three decades, seeing no other woman! I have offered up nothing but love, respect, care, and support, yet still it is you who has cast my affections aside!” His blade glided past hers, leaving a long but superficially shallow slash pulling down from her collarbone and ending across the top of her left breast.

Yvraine growled, the heat of the cuts burning her thoughts from below. She swung her blade and shouted, “You dare?! Three decades! You bastard! You slept with my mother while you were training me! You were courting me, training me, and fucking my mother! You were the first man I fell for as a young woman, of course I am spiteful towards your advances!”

“Your father wasn’t meeting her needs! She was lonely!” The Visarch parried.

Yvraine shot out a warp bolt from her palm and screamed, “Because you were FUCKING MY FATHER!” The Visarch’s blade was shattered in his hand, and he flew backwards.

The Visarch skittered and rolled backward across the ground, coughing. “You… you… you wench!” he sputtered out after coming to a stop, “How dare you! At least I don’t forget myself, breeding with lesser creatures. After all, unless you suddenly decided to stop caring for that body you spent so damn much on, that’s the only explanation for why you haven’t been fitting so well in your clothes lately… that is, when you aren’t taking them off for that mon’keigh warlord-” his spiteful rant was cut short as Yvraine lifted him into the air upon psychic tethers, one tightening around his neck.

“Mind yourself, honorable Visarch,” she growled, her eyes burning with contempt, “when you speak ill of the father of my child in my presence.” 

The Visarch sneered and hissed back, “Y-you’re keeping the bastard!?” Shock had overtaken his voice and face.

Yvraine smiled, an expression entirely forced in nature. “Yes, Visarch, I am,” she said, her voice strained by her anger, “and perhaps you should wield a thicker, heartier blade next time you wish to spar with me. After all, you’ve seen Guilliman’s longsword; and I assure you that his technique is certainly not ‘flawed’, nor is the inheritance granted to him by his Father lacking.” Yvraine threw the Visarch back, his defeated form coming to rest at her doors.

The Visarch stood, coughed, and brushed himself off before saying, “What was your favor, then, Lady Yvraine?” He had put a poisonous emphasis on ‘Lady’.

Yvraine met his eyes with hers and said, “You will do me the favor of never again interrupting me while I am pleasuring myself to the thought of Lord-Commander Roboute Guilliman taking me as his wife, lover, queen, and breeding-consort. You are dismissed.” She shut the doors in his face, locking him out of her chambers.

She sighed and walked back to her bed, flopping down onto it and wriggling her way out of her damaged body suit. She cooed at Alorynis, who had firmly curled up on a pile of pillows and blankets beside a hookah-couch across her room. The Gyrinx seemed unwilling to come to her call, so she slid beneath her covers.

Why must men be so much to deal with, she thought, her hand already descending down her belly as her mind descended upon her memories of Robu like a hungry falcon upon a yard of fat chickens. 

----

The Visarch stormed through the halls of the craftworld, his handsome features slicing through the air like a shark’s fin through the water. His eyes were alight with fury and hurt, burning so bright that none dared meet his gaze as they passed him, squeezing themselves against the walls to put distance between themselves and the scorned swordsman.

Pretentious cunt… he thought, his jaw clenched tightly as his teeth ground against one another.

Coming to a door marked with the symbol of Lelith Hesperax’s Wych cult, the Visarch waved a gloved hand before a panel set into the door frame, and the solid sheet of metal unfolded itself like the purple petals of a fell-flower. He stepped through the entrance, and the door silently reformed again behind him.

A group of Succubi laid lounging before him on a litter of exquisite pillows, smoking some sort of intoxicating herb from a set of complex water pipes. They dozily looked up at the Visarch, then one waved her hand, and a pair of Hekatarii slinked out from the shadows to begin disrobing the former Incubus.

“Wherefore doth the honorable Mistress Hesperax retain her absence?” he asked pointedly, his formal speech belying a demanding intent. The Succubi tittered and chortled amongst themselves, but did not immediately respond, instead preferring to look upon the stunning and sculpted form of the Visarch’s pale-skinned abdomen, which had been revealed to them by the busy hands of his Wych attendants.

The Visarch waited a moment before he followed up his initial question with, “I request again, wherefore-”

A dark skinned Succubus propped herself up on her elbows and said, “Oh, dear Visarch, your request did not fall upon deaf ears, for we did register your inquiry initially.”She had a dainty smile on her face, one imposed by a passive state of intoxication rather than any true glee.

The Visarch’s greaves came away from his flesh, permitting his substantial member to fall free from the codpiece’s captivity. “As such, I must implore you, do justify your choice in remaining unspoken in response to a simple inquisition, relayed truly and succinctly.” The girls on the couch giggled harder, and the one to whom he had initially spoken snapped her fingers.

The pair of Hekatarii who had been removing from him his arms and armor sprung upon him, running their hands across his body, the silky, translucent scarves worn over their enticing bodies stimulating his skin in a pleasing manner. “What is the meaning of this?” The Visarch growled.

Yet again, the Succubi tittered. “We are merely ensuring you possess no weapons by which to do us harm, most honorable Visarch.” Her voice was lofty and swirling, akin in form and composure to the charming smoke that filled the upper reaches of the chamber they lounged in.

Before the Visarch could respond, one girl had taken into her mouth the entire length of his hexblade, which began to stiffen within her throat, whereas the other had taken upon herself the responsibility of performing an exploratory digital search of his internal abdomen, her other hand running along his hip as her lips caressed his skin. The Visarch groaned softly, his outstanding girth running past the girl’s tongue as she pulled away from the root of his evil.

“A very thorough search, Visarch.” the lounging succubus said, biting her lip as she observed the security measures continue as planned.

“Surely,” the Visarch replied breathily, “You know that even without armament, I can slay a handful of Succubi?”

Now seated fully upright, the leading Succubus replied, “Oh, dear Visarch, are you levelling menace at me, or swearing an oath?”

The Visarch grinned and replied, “Engage with me and come across the truth for yourself.”

----

Cato came to a t-intersection that led out into a gantry held fifty meters above the ship-bay, where he found himself fenced in by a Grey Knight bearing a power halberd. The Knight’s fist came up to target Cato with a storm of bolt shells, but the blind grenade Cato had primed moments prior detonated in his hand, releasing a massive cloud of smoke and electromagnetic-blocking filaments from either end of its casing, forcing the Knight to guess Cato’s location. A line of shells shot to his left even as the son of Guilliman dove right.

Barreling out of the cloud, he dove and rolled under the arm of the Grey Knight, finding his cousin spinning about to strike Cato down. The Talassarian drew his power gladius just in time, parrying the halberd just enough to deflect its arc, saving him from a certain bisection. Rolling into a crouch by the balcony, Cato sheathed his blade even as his legs launched him into the air like some great and mighty toad of death, leaving behind a second primed blind grenade.

Flying through the air, Cato drew his pilfered plasma pistol and shot a section of rigging free from its ceiling-mount, causing enough to fall down that Cato could catch onto it with his free hand, clambering up into the centuries-old rat’s nest of wires and scaffolds in the ceiling above.

----

Sighing heavily as he withdrew his member from the underhive of the Succubus, the Visarch paused to watch a thick pearl of genetic material drain out in his wake. Then, he asked, “Now that I have played your games, it is time for you to answer me: where is Lelith Hesperax?”

The Succubus exhaled warmly as she shut her eyes and an expression of utter satisfaction passed across her face. “Lady Hesperax is visiting with the Mon’keigh of Ultramar, milord…” her voice trailed off as she began to pass into a slumber.

The Visarch’s face lit up red and he sputtered with fury.

----

As Cato slipped down from the ventilation shafts in the ceiling, he found the monomolecular edge of an impaler pressed to his throat. He heard a subtle shhh come from the wielder of the blade, and he dared to risk his life as he turned his head to look at who was holding him to account.

His eyes met Lelith’s, and he sighed a barely audible exhalation of relief. She shook her head and held her finger up to her lips. 

A moment of silence passed, then a squad of Scions armed with pulsating plasma guns sprinted past the shadowy hallway they were standing in. The pair waited a few more moments before Lelith’s blade drifted down to her side and she said, “Lady Yvraine requested I aid you.” 

Cato smiled. “Come, then, my brother is in containment not far from here,” the Defender of Ultramar replied.

----

Theoretical: through shared belief in the divinity of the Emperor, the Adepta Sororitas have created for themselves a communal psychic shield that protects them in battle. Practical One: The Sororitas have created an entirely new warp entity from their shared belief, and this entity is granting them eldritch powers. Practical Two: The Emperor is divine.

No matter how many times he ran through the mountainous pile of accounts, evidence, and testimonies about the Emperor’s divine reach, including encounters Guilliman himself had with so-called “Living Saints”, beings closer to Imperial Daemons forged from human souls and Imperial faith than any sort of ascended mortality, he found himself coming back to the same answer.

He lied before… thought Guilliman, as new theoreticals and practicals began to form in his mind centering on the Emperor’s potential reasons for hiding his divinity when a vox-alert chime sounded out from a vox-caster resting upon his desk. He reached over to press the glowing red tri-dimensional holo-glyph floating above the device.

A soft click sounded, then a simple message spoken by a familiar voice played, “I have managed to secure the asset.”

Excellent, thought Guilliman.

----

"Lord-Commander! This is an outrage! Your mutant son conspired with Aeldari militants to infiltrate, sabotage, and ultimately destroy an Inquisitorial vessel, free a heretical Astartes, and slaughter dozens of Ecclisarchy assets, including a Grey Knight! What have you to say for yourself!?" The small, bulbous Inquisitorial representative was waving their decrepit and knurled finger up at Guilliman, though they were almost a meter and a half too short to come anywhere near the Primarch's nose.

Guilliman maintained his composure, despite the growing desire in his belly to take the Lord-Inquisitor by the skull, crush their head in his hand, and cast the corpse onto the immense stone table as a matter of principle. Instead, he glanced over at the Captain-General of the Custodes, a towering, bronze-skinned man who almost met Guilliman eye-to-eye; granted, the Captain-General was wearing his full powered armor regalia (sans helmet, which was tucked under his armor), whereas Guilliman was barefoot in a toga.

The genehanced warrior shrugged his gilded shoulders, indicating a lack of interest in intervening. Guilliman sighed, and turned back to the Lord-Inquisitor. "My friend, I wish to tell you a story my Father told me, during the Great Crusade," Guilliman held up an immense hand when the Lord-Inquisitor attempted to interrupt, which quelled the complaint in their throat, "about omelettes. Omelettes were an ancient food item, far preceding myself, the Imperium, the Dark Age of Technology, and perhaps, even, my Father himself. They were a simple dish; to make an omelette, you would take a handful of eggs from a small food-fowl, and you mixed the yolks and whites together until they formed a thin, runny liquid. You then added chopped vegetables and meat to the mixture, poured it all into a pan, waited for the egg to cook, and folded the omelette over, thus rendering it ready to eat."

Guilliman paused to relish the looks of anxiety and anticipation growing on the faces of the mortal High Lords. "But to make an omelette," he continued, malice seeping into his voice, "you must break open a few eggs."

Guilliman's glare had become so intense that the four century old Lord-Inquisitor had shrunk back against the table, and sweat had drenched their robes. "Your assets are my eggs. In the absence of my Father, who is by all means preoccupied as of now, the entirety of the Imperium are my eggs. I loan these eggs to you, by the good grace of my twin hearts, and by the good grace of my twin hearts, I will break them whenever I please. I really wanted an omelette, and your assets became obstacles, rather than aids."

Guilliman paused just long enough that the Lord-Inquisitor began to speak, then he roared, "SO I BROKE THEM AND I MADE MY OMELETTE. PRAY TO THE CORPSE OF MY FATHER THAT I NOT BREAK YOU NEXT, LORD-INQUISITOR!"

The Lord-Inquisitor fainted, and Guilliman waved his hand. "Dismissed. Begone from my sight, all of you, save the Captain-General."