[cato/f!ambassador]
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (6.5)
(10,00ish words) (2X the pride 2X the post)
THIS IS A TWO-PARTER BECAUSE FUCKING TUMBLR POST SIZE GETS MAXED AT 11K
CONTENT WARNINGS:
•past injury
•horror themes (chaos)
•intercourse [M/F]
•oral + fingers (F receiving)
•attempted shower boning
•degrading language
•possessive behaviour
•breeding kink
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fuck my baka life everyone but i told yall id cook and inshallah it is a whopper of a serving!!!!!! @yestheantichrist @solspina @blackstarangel @bispecsual @kit-williams @ma1dmer @historitor-bookshelf @vivacious-hyena @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @scriberye @egrets-not-regrets @pluvio-tea @primarisly-marooned @thevoidscreams @the-raven-lady @triassicnautilus @undeaddream @tanknode @justfreakynothingelse @sylestine-redacted @ultramarenis @godofhonse if anyone wants on or off tags lmk its no biggie at all also fml my bad if im forgetting anyone!!!!!
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ADDITIONALLY:
•the Ao3 [upload] includes a certain SOMEONES* amazing art so feel free to check it out if you wanna,,,
(*its the brilliant pencilbrusch's work ofc!!!! and thank u again my dear freakster for letting me use it!!!! killing you ♥︎!!!!)
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Cato can't, and quite frankly shouldn't complain—though he wants to.
It happens at last that you're hastily shepherded ushered off from his watch to fulfill your duties.
It'd been so long since you'd acted like an actual Ambassador, Cato'd forgotten; but now you were bungled away to an unknown little spit of rock to curtsy and philander as your occupation asks. All to get some more halfwit Militarum forces to be levied from the population by the ruling elite.
Cato's sour at being suddenly left for an unspecified amount of time. It happened so fast he didn't have the chance to get more farewell from you than a very sad, little frown across the embarkation deck as you were moved on to a thunderhawk.
You'd been assigned a Primaris escort for the venture; and Cato's only slightly homicidal when he sees it's the prodigal's lieutenant—Demetrian Titus—following you up the far off ramp.
Demetrian Titus, the incompetent stand-in for him after Davin—the tainted, tossed tool that Calgar insisted be put back in the kit—the one brother that's gotten a smile out of you on Cato's watch.
Is he—is he like Cato? Are you just a magnet for aberrant Astartes?
Cato'd sooner opt to be rendered daft, dull and derelict before he lets that slide.
And he is very well rendered just that by the thought.
Because Cato's not given the chance to kick up the stink he wants to, and it nearly kills him. Namely because he's not allowed to tantrum complain when there's traitors running rife in a nearby sub-sector.
The particular planet they are thrashing around on like cut-snakes is Jugur-8A; the only non death-world of nine in a cluster orbiting the gas giant, Numidus, and the only one with a huge, Crusade-era Mechanicus station posited on it's large moon.
Chaos forces have broken the backs of seven of those other lesser planets, to little real advantage.
And, much like you to your quota haggling, Cato similarly answers the call to duty when he's told the Victrix are to make planet fall.
In all actuality, Cato only hearkens to it, because there's a niggling desire to remain behind pulling his leash.
That being, a very real part of him which eventually makes him stay, and wait—like some pining hound—of all bloody things.
Guilliman seems somewhat bemused by his hesitation.
It's not as if Cato actively fusses about the Primarch's request. It's more or less an offer to join his Brothers, really.
He gets halfway to readying up, and then his resolve stalls. He procrastinates. He tells the arming serfs to polish his armour a third time that day.
Still grasping for more time, Cato lets arming serfs shave him clean—and finally, he lets them give his hair a much needed cut. He tries to draw it out, almost praying Guilliman just commands him to go; if only to just to rob him of the choice he knows he'll back out of. And yet nothing comes. He sullenly stands on the embarkation deck and watches his men go.
As it turns out, the Victrix are more than happy to stretch their stiff joints in the time-honoured tradition of butchering the old foe; even if it's without him.
Cato's ultimately just... not particularly in the mood for it. He's not sulking. He's definitely not sulking—fuck off, would you?
So he stays behind, and makes the main command bridge his roost, for what turns out to be the next twenty-seven days.
Seeing as he's sans his war-gear, with nothing but a tunic, his Tempest blade on his hip is the only thing he can fidget with.
Studying the near never-ending pict-feed cast in the far corner; born of an under-deck hololithic display of his stand-in's helmet feed.
His foremost proxy's name is Cornelius Sulla, and he is not who Cato originally would've picked, given the fact he's newly filling the position.
Yes, Sulla is a good duelist—but, he is only an alright shot—as far as exemplified Veterans go. And he's certainly no Gaius when it comes to martial prowess. Cato noticed that after the first five days of watching meager skirmishes, but it's clear now the Victrix finally meet the enemy head-on.
Gaius Prabian would have minced them quicker than a muscle-tick, nigh quicker than Cato himself—Throne, the man was a good fighter, he misses having a real challenge sparring, he misses—no, no.
Cato forcibly shakes his head to stave off the train of thought, and reminds himself that he will have to grill Sulla regarding his technique; should he prove to survive this mission. But that's a later thing to ponder on, he admonishes, and keenly returns to watching.
The perspective feed whirls heavenward, and Cato sees the sky above his Brothers is little more than a bloody smear; a weeping, red-raw wound painted across the firmament. It's an ill omen, if Cato had any belief in such things. Practically speaking, it's more so a telltale sign of warp-touch made material as the field of battle becomes an abattoir.
Simply seeing the newly birthed warp-born abominations taste the teeth of chainswords for another ten days helps ease the discomfort the scene stirs; and Cato only pauses watching to lick the nutrient paste off the bottom of the food bowl, which is brought to him by servitor every simulated morning and evening.
He doesn't go back to his quarters. The few times he sleeps—if dozing for an hour could be really called sleep—he wakes to return to studying his brother's actions.
He won't leave them unattended, even if it's a pointless task from so far away.
Cato himself had not seen these particular, detestable Chaos variations before, even though he'd fought similar.
And then there are old, familiar shapes in the frame. Ones that didn't crawl, nor limp, nor drag their putrid half-bloated legs behind them.
Objectively, he knew what they were.
But then again, experience told him most of the hideous, bipedal creatures that ate man had been them once—or, well... they had started as men—and that they were nothing but seething abominations wearing flesh and filigree, now. But the clarification remains a notable point.
These traitors had been Astartes, once. And that much is clear in the way they travel in packs; albeit those packs are really nothing more than vile mimicry of martial squadrons. Some stand upright and fight like Astartes, too—corrupted and rotted as they are—reduced to nothing but a sharp-toothed maw and a giant cancer on ceramite-clad legs; infested with rank polyps of parasitic disease eating away at them... and Throne, did they surely look to stink like it too. He can see his Brothers cautiously recoil despite their helmet filtration systems, like they reek twice as bad as plague-struck corpses. But that foul gas was the real danger of them: their toxic fumes would burst their bodies upon death, suffocating everything in a fifty step radius.
He remembers well the fetid odour of warp-molested things. He remembers the sounds they make. In the form of eidetic echoes, he hears them closing in; he can hear Gaius—no, he couldn't, the door was sealed when... he refuses to remember it now, damn it.
Cato won't listen. Cato is not there. Not now, not now—he's heard enough screaming.
Cato turns away from the holographic display, and rubs his eyes. Swallows down the acid on his tongue. Where once the tactic of watching the battle lent him peace; it's no longer enough to distract him entirely, which only furthers his wider irritation.
Pointedly, Cato's deeper irritation stems from his lack of control, in all aspects.
He can't control his own wretched mind, he can't control his wants, and he can't control what happens to you.
Regarding the latter, it's the simple, plain cut fact there's no information currently privy to him on how you're faring. The Victrix would be fine, ultimately. He knows his men have dealt with hardier foes, but what you are facing is what he doesn't know. Cato could, theoretically, pester Calgar into fessing it up, but that's... well, plainly suspicious; given the Chapter-Master's already heightened interest in someone fucking fraternising.
Cato is worried—and doesn't like not knowing, because he'll be damned if something happens to you where he can't strangle the perpetrators.
He cannot stand the impotence he feels because of it.
He cannot stand the fact that there's a very real distance between you and him.
He cannot stand the hollow space at his side that's meant to be filled by a yapping, aggravating little Ambassador.
You're off gallivanting around with that twice-accused fool on some wretched rock, and Cato's stuck waiting for you to come back. It in itself is a testament to how love affection could addle a man’s brain—no matter how beyond simply being just a man he was—and replace it instead with his loins, figuratively speaking.
It's after a Throne-knows-how-long span of time that he realises he's been twirling the scabbard of his Tempest blade into the deck.
The smell of burning is what snaps him out of it.
The bottom guard of the sheath is glowing faintly from the friction heat, and there's a hot, pitted scuff on the priceless, crusade era antique floor that he toes his sandal at—but the mark doesn't fade—he'll just... walk away, a tad.
He sniffs derisively as the burning fades, and...
Cato smells you well before he sees you.
A wild, unbridled surge of emotion seizes him and he perks up despite the vague drowsiness of too many denied proper rest-periods in a row.
His Catalapsean node is probably a cluster headache itching to pounce, but that can wait.
Because, you're back. And he's sure of it. Sure of it by the hint of you carried on the recirculating air, which sends him spinning on his heel, looking around nervously; but he fusses slightly when something itches at his brow. He swipes his hand over his forehead, skimming his hair back annoyedly—eyes frantically tracking through the personnel going about their tasks on the Stratesium deck looking out over the bridge.
A small lift pedestal lowers a gaggle of baselines, alongside two Primaris, down onto the level from the galleries.
One of the senior Tacticae is closely ushering you in the crowd, while carrying a small stack of data-slates in his arms.
Your gaze is cast down, and there's a crease between your brows that looks like worry.
Something's wrong. You're not looking at him, and Cato doesn't understand why. Did he do something wrong? Did Titus do something, did he—
The gathered step aside to rush to their stations, and the senior Tacticae and you take a fully visible step free of the crowd... and you're lob sided ever-so-slightly, Cato notices.
You've a limp, and are trying very hard not to make a show of it. It's stupid to think that the dozens of transhumans with practiced eyes for weakness wouldn't notice, let alone just Cato.
With gritted teeth, Cato has to set his stance into line to fight the urge to rush toward you.
Then he notices the Primarch is on the other side of the central mezzanine. At what point had Guilliman joined him? He is not sure how he hadn't realised.
He scrubs a palm across his cheek with a tired haste, and is greeted by the scritch-scratch sound of a beard. Cato'd enjoyed not having the damn thing on his chin and chops, and now it's back. But when had it grown...?
Shit, he must be more out of it than he thought. How bloody long had he been standing around for?
Guilliman tips his head to look down and take the measure of you, but there's no criticality in his gaze; just a familiar, thoughtful look.
"Lady Ambassador," his voice is a rumble, strangely nigh tutting.
You bow low—wobbling a slight bit as you answer, "My Lord Primarch."
"I see it did not go well," Guilliman's dark blonde brow creases, a time etched line on a face wholly marked by them, now. Since the Primarch's revival, Cato's seen them deepen; in a way only his eidetic memory lets him notice. Fractional millimeter by fractional millimeter, his Father is aging—he's grown stockier than his old, Crusade-Era portraiture, too—he's also greyer at the temples, ever-so-slightly.
Cato feels bad about the multitude of observations he's making about his Father. It feels like a swing below the belt taking the measure of the stressed Primarch like a judgemental fishwife.
Cato tries to imagine what Guilliman was like when all was seemingly well in the Imperium... but he struggles to match the character shown on ancient frescoes to the tired patriarch across the deck from him.
Functionally immortal as the mighty sons of the Emperor may be, it seems that even they are not immune to the passage of centuries.
Stasis simply staved it off, but it's all finally catching up.
That thought makes Cato melancholic—in an strange, indescribable way.
"A minor hiccup that's since been rectified," you offer quietly.
"And what of you, are you well?" Guilliman asks softly.
"Yes, my Lord."
"I think," The Primarch hums with only a thinly guised disbelief, then continues, "Some time to rest for the remainder of the week is due for you, Ambassador."
"My Lord, I'm in no pain; I do not think it's a good idea to—" you sputter out, rather boldly.
Or, well... it's bold when there is such an audience around. Cato has seen you disagree with the Primarch before, sure; but that is in the confides of his offices, and it's not very often you do. It's not very often anyone does. He is a Primarch, after all—but Guilliman's never actually fully reprimanded anyone for disagreeing with him. Not without them deserving it outright. Cato has seen him become irate at discourse, but never unjustly furious. He actually seems to enjoy the fact more than anything. Probably because the backtalk is inconsequential to someone like him, largely. Still, Cato can count all the times you've done so when he's been standing watch outside on one hand. And right now, he swears he can hear each of them in his head.
My Lord, I think it would help—my Lord, may I object? My Lord, it is not this—my Lord, it is not that, it's—
"I," Guilliman interrupts, sounding on the brink of waggling a massive finger at you, "Would be loathe to make it two weeks, but I will, should you continue to protest."
He's glaring at you in the same way he glares at Cato when he routinely speaks right over the baseline consular generals.
It almost amuses Cato seeing it inflicted on another from a different perspective. But the lingering reality of your injury smothers any humour in the matter to him.
Your lips purse tightly as you break eye contact. Then you nod and bow again as best you can with your limp, before taking a step back.
Cato's still staring with a flabbergasted look plastered across his face when Guilliman turns to him. He doesn't manage to hide it in time, but Guilliman seems not to really take note of the expression beyond simply sighing.
"Escort her, Cato—" the Primarch begins, and then pauses to inhale sharply with a wrinkled nose, "—and then go bathe."
Cato blinks owlishly at him for a second; then ducks his head to sniff himself.
He isn't—hm... his Primarch might have a point. Nigh a month essentially standing around might not have exactly worked wonders to the state of his character.
Cato nods, bows a little, and hesitantly starts to follow the first part of his orders.
With you in tow, he makes his way to the lift, and tries not to let his eyes flick back to trace your form shadowing him. He plods across the mezzanine, and down the long winding hallway, dragging his heels over the long velvet carpet chasing the length of the artery.
He cuts a sharp path through the commotion, trying to clear the way ahead of you; serfs and the likes peeling away to let him through. He ignores all other typical pageantry he's afforded.
Brothers salute, miscellaneous other on-board staff bow, and Cato keeps his chin high; even though he can hear you labouring to keep up.
The large main blast-doors of the outermost chambers crack open at the behest of the high serf's manning their operation to allow him passage, and he slows. Trudging now, hyper aware of less and less passersby now that you're both out of the majority of the hustle and bustle—he's tempted to break etiquette at past—but there's still too many eyes, still too many ears.
Not enough peace and quiet to have you all to himself.
Cato blinks, and his mind promptly stuffs his frontal lobe full to bursting with a rainbow of eidetic memories. He swallows dryly, he doesn't mean having you like that. Not out in the open. But Throne, having you—it's been so long.
At last you draw to a halt, the both of you a ways down the corridor, finally out of sight of others as the last meandering serf turns a corner far down.
He pauses too, and turns.
Cato preens when he receives the grace of your eyes on his own. And you stare at him, long and focused. He is suddenly well aware his heart is thumping high in his throat. His stomach is abruptly tangled up in knots, tunic too tight and hackles raised. He feels like a live bolter round is trapped inside his rib-cage, turning him into one long, exposed nerve. You step close, until he’s within arm’s reach—close enough to touch were he quick about it; and he looks down on you in the hard hallway lights.
You're looking up at him softly, and he's a hairpin trigger away from acting on his urges.
But others could still pass down this way.
Neither of you are fully clear to break the propriety, as much as Cato aches for it.
"Why—"
"Why—" he starts, at the same time as you, apparently.
Cato hesitates, glaring as you both try to parse out who'll speak first.
You raise your hands, palms bared, indicating to him to take the lead; ever the diplomat.
"Why are you limping," he bites out sharply.
"It's nothing," you say.
"It's clearly not nothing," Cato immediately doubles down, "What happened?"
"It's fine—"
"That's not an answer," he cuts you off.
You harrumph, "I'm just waiting for the Medicae shot from last cycle to wear off, they said to keep weight off it. And it'll be healed by the end of the—"
"That's not the question I asked, woman," Cato snarks. "Stop with the yapping and tell me."
"There was a riot," you digress. "No—no, actually, more of a large, angry, communal misunderstanding..."
"So," Cato sighs, "A riot."
"No, it wasn't."
He grits his teeth to fight against the urge to dropkick you for the attempt at arguing semantics.
Whatever. Whatever, it's not important. He takes a deep breath, and decides he has a more pressing matter to attend to.
"And?"
"And..." you tut, "I had to be evacuated."
Cato lets out an exasperated breath, "Again?"
"It's only the second time!" Your voice raises sharply, before you swallow down your volume and sternly digress. "The second time, out of thousands of successful meetings."
"How?"
"How, what?" The words gust out of you, exasperated. "How did the entire thing go south?"
Cato inhales sharply, eyebrows furrowing as he shifts closer. "Are you being intentionally dense?"
"There..." you mumble softly, "There was... was an accident."
"I'm going to wring you out in a second," Cato sneers.
"It was purely unintentional!" You spit out loudly, fists clenched at your sides. "I might have been... yanked off a gentleman's shoulder, a little not-so-gently... by an Astartes."
"Demetrian Titus yanked you?" Cato all but snarls, seething now, straining at the proverbial leash tight around his neck.
You flounder, "I didn't name any names!"
"Don't you get smart with me, you little shit, I'm not as big of a fool as you think I am," Cato puffs his chest out and grits his teeth, hand raising to point a big finger at you with a tightly wound fury rising.
"I don't think you're a fool, you're just a drama—" you say haughtily, only to be reduced to that typical confused, hurried questioning when he starts stomping ahead at double pace. "Cato? Wait, Sicarius! Where do you think you're going!"
"I'm just going to have a few words with him," Cato hisses, hastening his march despite the sound of you struggling to keep up behind him niggling at his conscience.
"It wasn't his fault! He was sorry!" You warble after him, still trying to follow.
"I'll be the judge of that," Cato grumbles, absolutely furious.
Cato can hear you snarl and sneer at yourself. Then he hears your voice bouncing off the walls behind him, "What more do you want? Is this how you Astartes handle things? With some oh-so-manly sword-measuring contest?"
"My Talassarian Tempest blade is larger than the standard Primaris side-arm, I assure you, I have the bigger..." he begins hastily, only to hesitate and let the sentence putter out to nothing as the cogs in his head mesh into alignment, and he scowls, freezing where he stands and looking over his shoulder.
You blanch, "Cato, no—"
"Did he—" he starts, storming back towards you, only to be cut off.
"No!" You bark, seizing Cato by the side of the tunic.
He stays silent, stewing in his anger, glowering down over you now.
"Listen—just, listen—I know what you're going to ask," you say quickly as you take a step backwards from him and cross your arms over your chest.
"No, you don't."
"I guarantee that I do," you hiss.
Cato's lip curls up as he scowls, "Did he try anything?"
You clap a palm to your forehead and sigh; all the while Cato's working out the logistics of cracking the Second Company Lieutenant's skull in with a nice pointy rock. Or a brick. Or his own pauldron. He could take him, Primaris or not.
If he finds out the moron dared one longing hand on you he's going to mop the sparring chambers with him.
Cato is sure he can take the twice-accused fool. Even if Calgar'll probably have a sook over it. But the aftermath is moot, whether it's reprimands or demotions, he'll take it on the chin like the Commander of the Victrix that he is—because ultimately, the torment punishment Titus deserves is paramount. Honestly, so long as the bastard eats dirt Cato could care less.
"I'm not some bloody siren luring Astartes into my quarters, Cato," you say with a steely, unimpressed tone.
Cato grunts and tips his chin up, fixing you with a wry look, "That's arguable. It worked on me."
You stare at him for a moment, sour. For some reason, he doesn't like that. It makes him feel cornered; but not in a way he can fight his way out of, like being sidelined and scolded.
Cato's not sure what to say to save his own ass.
And that makes him want to stuff his head in a sandpit and mound the rest on-top of himself.
"Do you honestly think I go around fucking every one of your Battle Brothers who talks to me for more than two seconds?" You snap, furious and hot faced.
This is hell—pure, unadulterated hell. Cato has dug himself into a pit, as he ever does with the stupid haste of his anger; and it nips at his heels that starting an argument isn't even close to what he hoped to do upon seeing you again. What he'd hoped was to—to—to simply have you back. Press close, tuck himself against you, find solace in the only person he was able to not doom to suffer by simply being near them. He didn't want this to happen. He wanted to be nice. Cato's cheeks burn, a heat born from his frustration; face flaring with fire like he's glaring into a thruster engine, and he digs his nails into his fists as if it would help ground him in any way.
"For fuck sakes," Cato says with every ounce of sincerity in the sopping, wet shivering animal he currently has as one of his hearts. "I-I don't know how to explain this, damn it."
"Are you..." You trail off, squinting. "Are you jealous, Cato?"
He averts his eyes and inhales sharply, trying not to start a scene; even though the temptation to start raging like a fool again immediately rises in him like a tide. He should have anticipated this. So there you stand: a little, biting creature of justice and pent‑up fury, poised to tear into him with the depth of your disappointment—and yet more than anything he's frustrated that you're upset.
It irks him—it irks him he's cornered. However, the reality is that he knows he deserves it. He deserves this ridicule.
Well before all of this, he'd been irked at the thought another would get to you first. Now, after everything, he's irked for exactly the opposite reason. Cato's aware of the fact he's ever seized by the neurotic vice of fussing that another would take you from him. He is always on the offensive. It's the best defense he's ever known. That obsessive need to strike before being attacked rarely fails. Because if his brothers find out about you, what's to really stop them? By intention or not, whether in malice or in lust, what's to stop them having the tiny slice of peace you offer him ripped away?
"I'm not jealous," Cato says hurriedly, lying through his teeth as he walks away with you still in tow—marching up to the blast door ahead and thumbing in the access code. "Astartes do not get jealous."
You open your mouth to speak, and Cato looks over his shoulder to watch you.
But you promptly shut your mouth, and go so wide-eyed that he can see the entire circle of your iris in your sclera.
Just because the cosmos always intends foremost to fucking punish him, the doors have revealed anything but another empty hallway.
Severus Agemman, heightened by the Rubicon, a head and a half taller than Cato—Severus Agemman, in full First company war-gear, and all his adornments, and all his weapons, and all his pomp.
There is a sudden life in Agemman's gaze when he sees you that was stony and far-off in thought a moment ago.
He huffs out a very not-Astartes-like shocked breath.
"Ambassador," Agemman greets softly with a downward tip of his bald head. "It is good to finally meet you in person, my lady."
If Cato was stupid... shut up—he'd have missed the fractional millisecond of proud puffing up Severus lets slip.
"First Captain," you manage to collect yourself surprisingly fast and offer a bow, not serf-low, but just enough to show you mean it. "The feeling is mutual, my Lord. I am thankful for your correspondence, and your tolerance regarding my questions."
"Hopefully, before my departure we will have time to meet to discuss the letters, Lady," Severus notes, voice still level but—but Cato can hear the subvocal purr to it that escapes your baseline ears. "I would very much like to schedule a meeting, there is much I could not disclose to you over wider channels. I would also like to properly apologise for my outburst over the holo, it was... inappropriate."
Cato bites the inside of his cheek, holding a one-way staring contest with Agemman like an scorned old hag.
Inappropriate doesn't even begin to cover the first thing about the situation. You'd been terrified, and fuck, he's going to make it his life goal to be there when that meeting takes place. Not to say Cato cares what Agemman has to blab on about—he could care less for the idle vapourings of a mind so hollowed out it probably had an echo when his vox-bead chirped.
Cato only wants to be there to put the fear of the Emperor into Agemman. He wants to stand in the corner and polish his bolter the entire time. Preferably with a live round still in the chamber, just in-case he gets too friendly.
Truthfully, Cato's opinion of Severus seesaws depending on his mood. Well, more accurately, his opinion seesaws depending on exactly how close Severus is to him quantum super-position-wise. The further away the First Captain is in realspace from Cato, the less judgemental he is. The closer, the more Cato wants to go off like a primed meltabomb.
That is to say, Agemman is so stuck up, and so out of touch, that he is surely the only Captain in this entire Chapter who could polish the chandeliers of Guilliman's study with his nose—simply thanks to the fact he is constantly looking over and out above everybody. And that hubris is all the more jarring considering his brain could revolve inside an ammo casing for a thousand years, and never touch the sides.
"It's of no consequence, my Lord, also I only returned aboard today so you are in luck regarding a meeting," you note lightheartedly, utterly oblivious. "Our Lord Primarch has me on a rest period."
"Truly?" Agemman blinks, "I hope he has not been underutilising your skills."
It's a joke. It's Severus' piss poor attempt at a joke and, seething, Cato sucks the other side of his cheek between his teeth alongside the former.
"Nothing of the sort," You gesticulate vaguely, caught a little unawares by the flattering; only to breathe a soft huff out from your nose and shake your head, "I was slightly injured in my last venture. Our Lord has only put me on to the sidelines temporarily, I assure you. I'm not shelved just yet... or so I hope."
"That would be a surprising turn of events," Agemman smiles with his eyes, but the expression sloughs off his features a second later. "I am not surprised, however, by the presence of... Commander Sicarius," he remarks at last, dragging his gaze up from you.
Coldly, all he can really get out is a curt; "Why are you here, Severus?"
Cato refuses forgets to politely use the Captain's surname in his words. He also purposely spontaneously happens to forget to keep the venom out of it.
"Marneus requested me," Agemman says with a sharp inhale, as if he's been called to battle rather than called to have a conversation over a glass of Amasec. Which isn't very far off from the truth considering the way Calgar runs his conversations. "Apparently, there's new developments needing to be addressed, and subsequently resolved."
Cato grunts, "And those would be...?"
"Sicarius, you're the only one between us both who's primarily on board for long swaths of time," he fills, frowning at him the whole while. It's not exactly anger. The stare is intense, nearly burning Cato with the sudden burst of focus he riddles on him. It's a little weird. "I would think you, especially, would be privy to the developments by now."
An eternal fight to not roll his eyes seizes Cato at having to endure the cryptic slop—and he decides sneering out, "If it's a need-to-know basis, I suppose it's well beyond my station," is the best plan of action.
Agemman simply stares at him, and his frown falls away.
It's actually quite jarring to see the man do that, if Cato's honest. It's rare to see confusion show on his face. He looks flabbergasted, disbelieving of the whole situation. The last time Agemman had looked so stunned, it was after Damnos; when Cato had clawed his way out a coma, bolted out of a healing pod bare-arsed, and threw himself on the warpath.
Agemman blinks a few times, swallows the saliva in his mouth and sighs, suddenly resigned to the whole interaction.
"Very well, Cato..." he tuts, and turns to look at you. Another strange flash of expression lights Agemman's features as he meets your gaze. "I must be off, I fear—but I will be in contact for that meeting. It has been a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Lady Ambassador."
You bow again, "And I, you, my Lord."
"I do hope Commander Sicarius is a forgiving escort," Agemman nods, tipping his chin down politely; and starts on his way. As he strides past Cato, he quickly adds, "Try to maintain some decorum, would you?"
But before Cato acts on the urge to bark out something absolutely vile in answer, Agemman is a fair way down the corridor. It's no longer as satisfying a time to snark with the man so long gone. Damn longer Primaris legs and their quicker pace.
"I hate that bastard," Cato uffishly mumbles, plowing forwards.
You grumble softly, "You don't think what he said to you was strange?"
He scoffs, "It's Agemman, he's always strange. Always a pain. Always a disciplinarian."
Another soft grumble leaves you as you say: "If you say so... anyways, I think it's my turn for interrogating," You suddenly blurt out, sneering a tad as you hasten forward to his side and take a whiff. "Why do you smell... like that?"
You're giving him a look that means you're likely about to start nagging him further, which is honestly a solace in some respect—you still enjoy him enough to bicker, clearly. So he takes that as a sign he hasn't fucked something else up, somehow.
"I've been on the observation bridge," Cato answers matter-of-factly.
You raise a brow, "For how long?"
Cato doesn't answer, because if he does, you'll take it in stride.
"How long, Commander?"
That choice of title isn't good, nor is the tone; that tone means 'tell me, now' or suffer your tiny, niggling wrath.
He grits his teeth and huffs, "Since... your leave."
"Cato!" You bark.
"I know," He groans, raising a hand to his brow and massaging the crease between them. "I know, I know... I'll bathe as soon as—"
A hand suddenly lands on his stomach, halting him. He looks down, sees your palm on his tunic, and glances around.
You're outside your quarters. He hadn't even noticed you'd both neared, let alone arrived. Too practiced at scurrying to your door to realise his feet kept a well-trained path to it.
You thumb in your code and slide in as the entry opens, ushering him in.
The smell of you inside is a little stale after your absence, but it's still in every atom of the room.
You disappear into the en-suite and Cato huffs when you start making demands of him immediately.
"Lose the robes, Sicarius," a clatter of things moving in the washroom resound, "You're cleaning up here."
Shedding his tunic is an easy matter if not for the belt holding up his Tempest Blade being a bit finicky. But when both are finally off, Cato realises just how much the tunic stinks—and just how much he does, too. He holds the fabric bundle for a while, sniffing himself on it curiously until you walk into the en-suite and start slowly disrobing too.
He immediately loses any interest he had in his own tunic and starts to stare like a hungry wolf, standing there in his dacks as more and more of your skin comes on display.
You're done well before he realises he's still dumbly watching, and you start to shove at him.
He ducks a little to get under the threshold of the door as usual, and spots the shower. It's of hybrid construct, meaning the allowance of water to your quarters grants that you do, in fact, receive an actual wash between the humming of vibrations lifting debris away. A far, far more luxurious allowance than is given to most baselines upon the vessel. The standard bathing for humans, even aboard the Flagship itself, is strictly pulse driven—the same is not so true for his Brothers, but you don't need to know just how communal the nature of the many balnearies is. Namely because Cato doesn't rightly trust what you'd do with the information. He'd fully expect you to not believe him, purposely go on some investigative hunt, accidentally get lost among the barracks levels, and oh-so-conveniently happen upon two dozen of bare-arsed-as-the-day-they-were-inducted Astartes; like a schoolboy sneaking into a girls locker room.
Okay, that might be an overreaction. But the fact remains, the only ass you're allowed to ogle is his—which is exactly what you're doing, actually. It's a warning shot before you start groping him.
"Don't even think about it," he says sternly as he lets you nudge him into the cubicle.
You scoff, "Move, then."
"I haven't even taken off my—"
"Don't care," you laugh, and promptly turn on the jet system.
Water abruptly sprays him in the face, and he shuts his eyes and curls his lip in a silent snarl, blindly holding his mitts up to block the assault.
His palms find one wall far too close and the other finds much the same—he's too damn big to be in this small space. This shower isn't designed with Astartes in mind.
"Turn it down!" He snaps, and he can hear you trying to hide the fact you're still laughing at him.
You snigger, pulling at his forearm as you say, "Lean this way."
Frowning harshly, he complies and then he's out of the jet stream; blinking the water out of his eyes as the thrum of the pulse systems make droplets scatter mid-fall. His hair is stuck to his forehead, he's still in his bottoms—which are soggy—and he feels all but a wet feline in that instant.
You smile up at him.
He swallows a lump in his throat and stares. He's liable to wish to freeze solid, and Throne, he'd be happy about it if the view before him now would last as long as his petrification would.
Cato's brain then tells him it's absolutely imperative to ogle down at your tits for an extended period of time. He watches the water track down each globe, and imagines one of them in his mouth.
That thought shatters about all the impulse control Cato has.
He grunts, wrapping an arm around you in a concise motion, and... immediately all that cunning falls short to an overbearing embrace as he leans against you. He can't manage anything more in the small space. Still, you bear yourself back, letting him use his advantage as leeway to press forward. One arm shifting from clutching under your cleavage to kneading a breast, and Cato groans. The soaked fabric barely even a hindrance to the bliss of him rolling his hips, slowly rutting against your rear.
"You still stink, you know," he hears you say, but doesn't stop grinding. Even if that tone of yours makes it clear you're scolding him.
He hums in agreement, not really listening still, all but using your nice, cozy rump as a tool for his enjoyment. His mouth brushes against the side of your throat, indulging while maintaining shallow rolls of his hips; he holds you close, too content to let you get away.
You involuntarily moan for him at the brash drag of tongue. All too receptive to him mapping from the curve of your trapezius to under your ear, mouth garnishing flesh with soft bites and warm kisses.
"Cato, y-you're not putting anything in me until that's dealt with," you chide, in vain.
He hums again against your flesh, a decent approach to ignoring your words, biting down a little harder at the skin on your neck-side.
"Ah—'m not falling for your charms, Cato," You gasp, trying to wriggle to disengage him, but despite your complaints you're clearly steadily being convinced that letting him pound you in this pathetic little cubicle is a stellar idea. He can almost imagine it, so hot and wet that he wonders how he hasn't lost his mind yet.
While he's distracted, you manage to pull away. But Cato only realises it when the feeling of your plump ass departs from humping-range, and he grumbles dumbly; but not before you announce, "Sit down, you smelly oaf."
He grunts again, leaning in as he lowers himself—pulling you down with him into the cradle of his lap as his attentions sweep down your thighs.
You shimmy a little and reorient yourself to face him as you stay straddled.
"What now?" He sniffs derisively, bowing his head, acquiescing.
"I get demoted to bathing serf, I suppose," You huff as you hook your ankles together behind him, reaching sidelong for the pump-topped bottle on the floor to his left.
Sitting in his cross-legged embrace as the water cascades down over you both, you start to scrub the sides of his jaw.
He definitely has not had his cock this hard around a bathing serf before. That also probably has something to do with the pretty, naked Ambassador in his lap.
Content with your efforts, you pull Cato closer and let the water wash the suds free. Then you move on to his hair.
A long groan leaves him as you scrub his scalp. You apparently don't pay any particular mind to the sound, staying focused even as he leans his head on your shoulder.
"Good?" You pause, waiting for him to answer; but for once, he stays quiet and just squeezes your hips. Once you're apparently satisfied with the lather, you start to work on the back of his head; but are halted when you apparently feel his lips ghost over the skin aside your neck.
He starts placing kisses again, trailing up just shy of your jaw, before going back down. Cato fights down a smug comment at the airy sigh his affections earn. He does it once more, and he swears he can practically feel the proximal heat rushing to your face even though you don't not say anything; only shuddering when his tongue grazes over your skin again. He takes his time, licking the water off your collarbone, now.
"Fuck..." you breathe out ever so softly.
With a low laugh, he dignifies the needy little curse of yours—though not before pressing his cheek to your temple—and palming your ass in one big mitt.
"We ought to," he adds, groping harder until you've got a fist-full of his hair tightly in your grasp.
Somehow, impossibly, the minor discomfort makes him hyper aware of his cock, and he rocks his hips to roll his confined erection right against your cunt.
He hears the whine you partially fail to swallow down, "Cato, n-not here."
"Why not?" He grits out, nosing at your wet hair.
Your fingers fall away from his head, "There's no room, it won't w-work."
"We—" he starts, "We can at least try, just... lie down."
You roll your eyes and scoot backwards off his lap. Almost instantly, he becomes aware of the fact you're right. But he refuses to admit it immediately. You're half in the cubicle, and half on the tiles outside it.
Cato kneels and then tries to arch over you between your spread legs, to some mild success.
Some of his hair falls forward on to his forehead and he scowls, so he shakes his head to displace the strands that stick from itching and goes cross eyed for a second. Finally reaching up and swiping them back before looking down at you with a grimace.
You look smugly up at him, and a frustrated growl is all he can really offer.
With an almost held back smile, you mumble; "I told you it wouldn't work," and slip away out from under him.
"You—hm..." Cato stops himself. He would've continued, if not for the good look at your ass he's gets as you make to stand and reach for your towel.
"What was that, Cato?" Your laugh is muffled by you scrubbing your towel over you head and hair.
"Nothing," he grunts petulantly, settles back into a kneel, and then promptly gets up; shimmying his saturated unders off his hips, down this thighs—before finally stepping out of them.
After elbowing the water dial off, he turns to you.
For some reason you look unnecessarily cute swaddled in a fluffy white towel.
You ought've stayed bare, the part of his mind that wants to bury a bone brays lowly. It's not as if anyone can see your immodest little rump gallivanting about in the privacy of your quarters—well, besides him of course.
More than anything, Cato's mental tirade is born of the fact he's none too happy to be robbed of the chance to take another well-earned eyeful of you; but you've clearly taken to that role, seeing as you've started staring at him.
Cato contemplates it for a moment, and pretends not to feel the burning of your eyes glued to his navel.
It feels... nice, to be beheld like this. He always used to puff his chest out when met by a crowd, sure. But this is different. And Throne knows he'll never pass up an opportunity to turn his nose up and—and... act the peacock noble knight on your behalf.
He certainly doesn't look the part right now, though. He needs a haircut, again, and he needs to shave, again.
"This is getting ridiculous," Cato grumbles, watching you in the mirror as you fix your eyes on his side profile.
You seem like you're disassociating, really.
Your pupils are blown wide, honed in and focused on something about his face; yours looks a little hot—a little too fixed on him—probably boiling with thoughts of nagging him rattling around an empty skull, no doubt.
You blink owlishly and shake your head a little to wake yourself from your distraction, and promptly chirp, "Hm? Sorry... what's ridiculous?"
"Me," Cato starts, glancing at you. "I look as unkempt as I had after my stint in the Warp."
A sudden confusion graces your features as you furrow your brows, "You'd been stuck in the Warp?"
"You didn't know?" He snorts, "I'm surprised you hadn't heard it from Guilliman."
"He mentioned something about you being unaccounted for briefly during the his return," You begin softly, and your scowl shifts into a glum little frown. "But I hadn't thought it was that bad... how stuck are we talking?"
He grunts vapidly and looks away.
"Sicarius, wait... was it—was it that bad?"
Cato sighs, "Yes."
"Are you okay?"
The question makes him hesitate. He's not really even thought to ask himself that, he mentally scolds. Truth be told, the notion of introspection regarding it was not a fond one—some have asked him vaguely similar questions about it in passing, and he's answered—but doing so now makes his posture stiffen and his jaw set tight, trying his best to seem stoic.
Cato purses his lips, inhaling sharply through his nose, "I don't really..." he acquiesces, only to immediately stop himself to rephrase; deciding it better to ease in on the topic and cover his slip up by pretending to clear his throat abruptly, "As with all interactions with the Immaterium, my experience was... abhorrent."
"Cato," you fuss, and he finally looks back to you to find you look even more concerned than before, "That wasn't the question."
"I'm fine, woman," he snaps out. "Let it be."
Your small hand glides up his oblique as you continue accosting him with your eyes, "Are you sure you're fine?"
"I only hear screams sometimes," he says hurriedly all of a sudden, his mouth betraying him, and he's well aware of the fact he's flaying a piece of himself to speak it aloud. You look downright wilted when his tall statures sags a little and he mumbles, "It's the screaming I hate most."
It makes his chest hurt hearing how shaky your voice becomes as you softly inquire, "Who's screams?"
"The others onboard—my brothers," he fills quickly.
The lack of words you offer before you sigh has him feeling a bit bared well beyond the mere physical for a moment. That is, before you take a step closer; and snare him in an embrace.
He doesn't know how to react.
Part of him still stomps and snorts and carries on like a petulant, brutish Neophyte that he's not meant to be rolling over to show his soft underbelly—but the majority of him wants to lean into it, even if you'd probably be tipped over and squished with his full bulk weighing on you.
"Oh, Cato... what are we going to do with you?" You warble softly, and a part of his chest feels heavy with a sudden bloated heat. Your small hands pet stripes down his flanks, trailing softly over the large scar on his side; and it's all-in-all hard to fight the tender, drawn out hum that steals away from him.
He's not going to deny the affection. Because Cato is well aware he's hook, line, and sinker'd when the matter of being at your behest arises in his mind—hell, he's probably chewing on a good bit of the rod at this point as usual, too.
"Enough of that," he tuts at last, and carefully—ever so carefully unhooks your wandering hands from his form and moves you aside.
You pout at him, "Why?"
"Because I want you to go and get my knife," he says not a second later, moving toward his reflection and scratching at the coarse fluff of his jaw.
A small scoff is all the answer he receives before you repeat, "Why?"
Back to the your typical ambassadorial programming, then. A thousand and one painfully innocuous questions, a million new haughty, oh-so-incessant back and forths of why, why, why, slowly driving him to insanity—forever making it easier and easier to justify pounding you insensible if only to shut you up for a while. Certainly only for that reason. You can't bite back at his remarks or poke holes in his tirades if you're drooling from your cervix being used for blunted target practice.
"Because, I'm going to grate this bloody shrub off my chin," he grounds out with a slow, tired blink.
You're suddenly clawing at him like some aggrieved widow, and Cato hisses, proverbial hackles rising up like an angry tom.
"Don't you get handsy with me, you little shit," he all but yowls. "Either I trim my hair or my beard, pick one."
"No," your voice shrills like an approach siren, ever the over-dramatic. "You can't make me."
"I absolutely can," Cato growls, "You're lucky to even have a say in the matter, damn you, now choose."
A long suffering whine tears from you as you protest wordlessly.
Cato stares at you for a long moment, contemplating; taking in the sum of your theatrics, and ultimately finding them compelling enough to humour.
He's wrangling you up the very next instant and promptly dumping your rear in the bowl of the sink.
It's not exactly as easy as it should be for his strength class; but considering the fact you're still slippery from your wash, it's complex—and he's already half saturated with the runoff.
"What are you—" you yelp, fumbling awkwardly at the angle you're suddenly uncomfortably stuck in, only to be quickly silenced by him leaning close.
The gesture apparently transfixes you.
He doesn't say anything, just breathes in slowly, and then carefully leans closer still.
You shrink back a little where you're seated in the sink, pointedly looking up at him as he boxes you between his own bulk and the mirror.
Your legs splay to accommodate; and damn, if the act isn't welcoming.
"Cato," you whine, fussing—so painfully wanton it's almost unbearable to deny.
The towel parts, and the skin of one of your thighs peeks free. It's warm, and you're so terribly keen that just the heavy drag of his large, calloused palm over your exposed leg has your breath quickening.
A gruff snort leaves him, brow raised at the sudden eager display.
"Just can't help but meet me with spread legs, can you?" He snipes at last.
You pant a small, disbelieving laugh, "You're absolutely insufferable sometimes."
"Only sometimes?" Cato smirks, hyper-aware of the air being shared between you both.
He can really smell the soaps you used, now—they're saturating his senses, mixing with the hormone reek of molasses steadily spiking the air. But it's—it's a little different—it's a little thicker than it usually is in his vomeronasal passage.
Your gaze slides from his eyes to his bearded mouth.
All the more reason to greedily take the opportunity to press it to yours.
His tongue lathes against your lip, before managing to slide straight in to meet your own. It's not a good angle. He can't arch as low as he seeks to, nor lift you to level with him. But if he's to choose between practically lapping at your tonsils or not, there's no way he's settling for the latter. There's a messiness to the whole kiss borne of some sudden, charged desperation—whether it's yours or his matters little—and he's certainly not going to shrug off the small fingers now carding through the hair at his temples and the others cupping his jaw. Then your hands move, arms tangling around the back of his neck as you redouble the press of your tongue against his.
You don't seem to be complaining.
At least, not yet.
But eventually you do softly whimper before you pull away for air, panting hard, saliva stringing out between you both.
In a haze, you peek your tongue out over your bottom lip and suck the mix of yours—plus an Astartes' spit—right back in.
Cato hums, and mirrors the gesture.
Then he pauses.
Your saliva tastes... sweeter than usual, too, which is strange.
He opts to ignore that for the time being and scoops you out of the basin to stand again.
Cato tips your chin up and guides your head to face yourself in the mirror over your shoulder, letting you turn with the gesture.
"See? It rubs you raw," he grumbles, "I'm getting rid of it."
There's a sour little scowl painting your features in the reflection alongside the friction-borne irritation around your maw.
"I don't care," you hiss.
He scoffs, "You look like you're anaphylactic."
The sneer that paints your face is so utterly toothless a display he can't help but laugh a little.
"Get the knife, or I'll make myself as bald all over as Agemman," he taunts plainly, still smirking.
You scowl, "You wouldn't."
"Want to bet?"
"You're lying."
"I'll more than happily allow the attendants to toast every hair off my body if only to win out on a bet," Cato says with a raised brow.
You huff and puff, but ultimately opt to disappear for a moment through the doorway in a soft rhythm of bare footsteps, only to reappear with the large drop point blade he gifted you in hand.
It's amusing seeing such a large weapon in your small grasp. You're two-handing the little scabbard like a sword as you hand it to him.
Dipping down to turn the faucet and splash some water up from the sink on his chin, he reaches for a rather sad looking bar of soap and scrubs it against his jaw to a lather. The handle of his blade balances easily in his palm as he unsheathes it and brings it up to his face.
You make some grumpy, feckless sound, knitting your brows as you lean over to fix your gaze on his foam covered beard once again.
Cato moves as if about to drag the edge along his cheek in the direction of his stubble; he knows the act well, so well he often does it himself instead of delegating it to attendants—it's a series of slow, methodical swipes, rinsing the blade every so often under the faucet—before mirroring the same technique on the other side. Then he'd tilt his head back, mimicking the same downward strokes on the underside of his jaw before pursing his mouth taut and starting on the mustache plaguing his top lip. The fact he's not starting the task he's done thousands of times before is more the result of curiosity than anything... namely aimed at a certain little pest of an Ambassador peering closer and closer.
You lean in so close Cato can feel you breathing.
Then again, that is probably because you've started inhaling and exhaling harshly from your nose.
He meets your gaze.
"Cato... please," you warble, misty eyed.
He scowls, "Why not?"
"Don't," you warble again, even whinier this time.
"Give me one good reason."
It's apparently a leviathan task for you to do. Suddenly you're cringing and dithering, stalling for time like a dolt—until eventually, he's finally met with a mumbled:
"I... like it."
"That's it?" Cato quirks his lip, "You like it?"
"I..." the forced harrumph you make to clear your not-clogged throat only makes the fact of just how embarrassed you are about the matter more apparent; but still, you carry on, "I really like it."
Finally, Cato's chance to give you a taste of your own medicine arrives and he sharply asks, "Why?"
"Is me liking it not enough of a reason?" You supply nervously, glancing up, gesticulating.
"No, it's not," Cato counters.
Your face scrunches up, and you meet his eyes again, more irate than shameful now, "Screw you, maybe I also like how it—it..." your confidence putters out and you're left grimacing, holding back.
"Go on," Cato taunts, "Where's that silver tongue of yours, Ambassador?"
You're flustered, and thoroughly goaded, and your words spill out like they're only held back by a sieve, "It feels, nice... when you're... lower."
Of course, you like a nice, coarse Astartesian carpet to sit yourself on. It's a filthy, egregious statement—but it's true—you really are partial to a bit of fine seating as a spoiled little diplomat, aren't you?
"Happy now?" You grit out, still trying your best to seem unfazed.
"I could be happier," Cato chuffs, self-content, or much rather... plotting.
"That sounds ominous," You scoff, shuffling on your feet before placing your hand over his as he slots the blade in it's scabbard, and rests it on the sink-top.
With his attention now unburdened, he moves you to slide between his bulk and the basin easily. Your palms settle on his upper pectorals, slowly skating upward through the dusting of hair to paw at his scruffy chin and cheeks.
"You're aware it'd grow back?" Cato says offhandedly, trying not to dignify the triumphant smirk you're wearing.
Your smirk turns into a pout as you grumble, "Haven't you tormented me enough for a night?"
Cato doesn't even think before he answers, "No," and promptly drops to his knees.
He's so quick about dropping to his knees and scooping your lower half up on his shoulders you yelp in surprise. It's only a matter of arching ever so slightly forward to stuff his face between your thighs, towel be damned.
It sloughs to the floor with a half-hearted slop. And finally, Cato's got his eyeful. You're—you're absolutely sopping wet. Throne of Terra, the sight is mouth wateringly obscene. He's stunned because you're supposed to be spotless as a power-washed rig after the shower you'd both had, and yet you're dripping slick well before he drags the thick, solid flat of his tongue up from hole to hood.
An indulgent suck at your clit has you wriggling already.
"...ngh, Cato," you pant, squirming like you're trying to not fall slack as you fight to keep your elbows up on the sink top. It's a very intense reaction to him only starting on you, but he doesn't bemoan his lot until a heady wave of something lights up his Omophagea like a struck match. Something's different, something he couldn't discern under the spray of water on your skin earlier. You definitely taste different—ever so slightly, but enough that he's hyper fixated on the change.
He takes the opportunity to give you another long, greedy lick and you shiver; partially losing your grip and settling with only an elbow keeping you angled up.
One hand sinks into his hair, but your upper arm slams back against the surface. A little 'ouch' snags his attention and he pauses, letting up slightly to look and assess.
"Still a little bruised," you keen.
He hesitates, "What? What happened now?"
Breathless, you take a few seconds to gather your words before saying, "I-Implant extraction."
Cato's tone is plainly egregious, "You had it taken out?"
"I was about to tell you, if you hadn't jumped my bones the second we stopped bickering, Commander Sicarius."
Never mind acknowledging the backtalk, he's too stunned to indulge; all he can say is, "It's gone?"
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