Short, sweet, and to the point: Hi! I'm not new to tumblr or the internet but I wanted a chill blog where I can post about 40k and NSFW. I'm not a big artist on my other accounts but wanted to ask that if you do recognize my art, please act like you don't! I'm cool with people following me if you know who I am just please respect the boundary that I do not want to be perceived on this account or have the two cross over in anyway (if that makes sense)
Enough about that though, helllooo I am ultramarenis, she/her, and I'm cool with being called Ultra or Nem because I know the blog name is uh... silly. In my 20s and currently going back to school for a stem degree. Just chilling and posting about space marine cock, that is really all I'm here for lmao.
Hey guys! I'm so sorry but I accidentally fat fingered a few follow requests on Twitter and rejected them. If I accidentally rejected you please refollow! I'll accept as long as you're 18+
‘Why do I still live,’ Guilliman snarled. ‘What more do you want from me? I gave everything I had to you, to them. Look what they’ve made of our dream. This bloated, rotting carcass of an empire is driven not by reason and hope but by fear, hate and ignorance. Better that we had all burned in the fires of Horus’ ambition than live to see this.’ — Gathering Storm: Rise of the Primarch, 2017.
"Hey Morg what have you been writing recently?"
Somehow more of that College AU
The grad student frowned at the restaurant, "when uncle Randy said uncle Ollie was meeting an old friend," their frown turned into a grimace, "he should've warned me there was a dress code when it came to picking them up," they sighed, slumping so their forehead bonked against their steering wheel.
After wallowing in their dismay for another minute they made themselves a bit more presentable and got out of the car. They were grateful they'd been substituting in for the lecturer today, straightening their sweater dress so it hung more straight over their leggings.
They loitered just to the side of the front doors, out of the way enough that they didn't get asked many questions, but close enough they could flag down Uncle Ollie at least.
That seemed to be in vain, at least, when a far too loud voice gleefully called out, "-proot!"
They looked up, a grin splitting their face, hands signing by habit as they crowed back, "uncle Randy! Good to see you!"
He laughed at that, clapping them in a big hug as they squawked, "don't try to pick me up, I'm-" their next few words were lost in their wheeze as he squeezed, trying to leverage them up and they patted his shoulders, feet firmly on the pavement. They finished the lost sentence by croaking out, "-kilos."
"How're ya, li'l Root?" His volume was still off, and their brows furrowed as they answered, hands still signing, "not little, and I'm alright," they stopped speaking as their hands continued to ask, hearing aids well?
He offered a far too toothy grin, instead turning back to the door, "Ollie should be right behin' me- there he is!"
The grad student's face split lit up again, "uncle Ol-," their words died in their throat as the Dean of Engineering and the Dean of Business followed him out. Their grin was wooden as their hands gestured in snappy signs, these are his friends? they turned back to closer of their uncles, how did you manage all of dinner?
Randy beamed at them, signing gleefully, turned my hearing aids off twenty minutes in. Batteries died, he nodded mournfully.
They nodded, smart. Not worth the batteries, he shrugged, turning to Uncle Ollie and asking loudly, "y' goin' to get drinks? 'r we leavin'?"
The trio approached them, and they felt their grin stay wooden, "if you need me to get you later uncle Ollie, I can," they offered congenially as they desperately tried to keep the aura of 'I would like to leave now please' off them.
They ignored the way their somewhat-employer's gaze seemed to bore into them, the man turning to their uncle, "Ollanius, I didn't realize you had-"
Uncle Ollie chuckled, "you were still surprised when I showed up with a plus one, like I said I would."
The Dean's eyes flicked down to the cross that the widower wore, "true enough."
Uncle Randy slung an arm across the grad student's shoulders, "we're headin'," he warbled, "text?"
Uncle Ollie shook his head, "we'll leave together," he said, "it's a school night," he turned to the Deans, "and I shouldn't keep you."
Their uncles said their goodbyes, the grad student simply nodding politely to the departing Deans as they ushered their uncles to the car.
They cranked the car, uncle Randy turning his hearing aids back on, "bunch o' cunts-"
Uncle Ollie just groaned and shook his head, "I knew your hearing aids didn't go out."
"Not worth the battery," the other two said in unison, Randy cackling as Oll looked at him with good-natured exasperation.
"Where are you two staying," they asked to deflect, "so I can actually plausibly say I made sure you got some sleep tonight?"
Uncle Ollie leaned forward a bit, "we're not staying in town proper, more toward the quiet fringes," he prefaced as he told them the name of the place.
They nodded as they got into a turn lane, "didn't wanna hear the town refuse to sleep?"
Randy chimed in with far too much glee, "not a problem f' me!"
To clarify for this college au - yes it is 40k. Big E is the Dean of the Engineering College, Malcador the Dean of Business College, and the Ruinous Powers are Deans of the other Colleges the University has. Slaanesh is Liberal Arts (because it tends to be a catch-all for a LOT of subjects if they don't get their own college), Nurgle is Ag, Tzeentch is Math and Science, and Khorne I'm on the fence for in it being some physically related (ie - PT, athletics, sports medicine, etc) or give History its own college instead of letting it stay lumped in Liberal Arts. Jury's out on that one. Could always have him be in charge of like... ROTC or whatever but that would make this far more US-based than it already is.
What are Big E and the Ruinous Powers beefing it up over? The school doesn't have a president right now.
A N Y W A Y - Ro's uncle randy! Fun OC, I love him, he bullied Ollanius into not being a super depressed widower when they met in the war. Oll is just kinda like "I mean he makes a good point" and they've been at the very least roommates ever since. I don't think he was born deaf, I think he lost his hearing in the war (probably being a forward observer so he could interact with troops but would explain why his hearing is shot)
Randy is also how Ro started getting called "Root" as a kid! It was supposed to be "sprout" but he said it "sproot" and they just never heard the 'sp-' on it as a kid and it just. Root
This also goes into why they chose their online handle the way they do, which is "YCMAROOT-ND" which they shorten to Root and fend off YMCA jokes
copy pasting this taglist for the sake of the bit!!! @yestheantichrist @blackstarangel @solspina @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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Cato looks at you dumbly for a heady, dizzying moment.
"Well, I-I can have it put back in, if you—" you stammer, abruptly somewhere between ashamed and apologetic.
He cuts you off suddenly, asking, "When?" before hurriedly adding, "Why?" and finally finishing with: "How?" in rapid succession.
"I, uh... fell down coming off the landing platform after I left and landed on my arm," you digress quickly, trying to sound remorseful for absolutely no good reason whatsoever, "I bled a little two and a half weeks ago after they took it out, but that's all fine now. I should've told you sooner, though—"
Cato immediately shoves his face right back between your thighs and moans. Then he's stuffing his tongue about as far in your cunt as both your anatomies will allow. Because now that he knows—he can tell exactly what's biologically different. You're actively giving him an opening, you're letting him try. You're all but offering yourself on an Aucelite fucking platter.
You're so hot inside it's genuinely a fight to stifle another moan at the thought of sinking a finger into you. So, he gives in to the urge: he makes the sound, and stuffs not one, but two digits down to the knuckle with the hand not keeping you steady. The gasp that flees your throat is long-suffering in it's wanting, and so is the little, "S-Sicarius—" that chases it.
It's perfect, this'll be just perfect. Emperor help him, he's so hard right now he feels like he's halfway to finishing just sitting here with his tongue rolling over your clit and a few fingers in you. But you're fairing no better. The sounds you're making are already completely debauched, worsened tenfold with how they're bouncing back off the tiles. It makes him strain at the bit like a damned animal, fighting the accursed size disparity between you and him like this. Cato briefly considers the variables of how he might bend, or how he could lift you to his level.
There's not enough space. It won't work. It won't work, and he's fed up trying to make it work—especially when there's a perfectly good bed to pound you into just a few metres away.
Upon remembering that, he's hoisting you up like a stray and rushing to dump you on that very same surface not a moment later; wet hair and all.
You land on your back with an 'oof' and try to sit up, only to be yanked closer and rolled onto your front—lifted to arch by his hand on your hip and promptly mounted.
Cato groans when his cock slips between your legs. The press of your thighs are definitely not as tight as the vice of your insides, but fuck, it's a glorious sensation.
He can feel how riled up he is, and your antics over the past hour have only worsened that desperation.
"You're finally going to let me," he pants. "Aren't you?"
You whine, "Oh, Throne."
Almost automatically you rear back and bump your ass against his hips. Cato's brain is mush, and he's not about to hesitate the second he gets a clearance.
You keen softly when he adjusts the angle, letting his cock slide between your folds in tandem; making damn well sure he's rocking the length of himself over your clit.
With one hand firmly splayed out on your flank to keep you down, Cato thumbs the soft mound of your sex aside; and he feels like he's been punched. The view is dizzying, and he's tempted to completely pull away and stuff his mouth to your cunt again, more than anything. It's pink and puffy, and so eager to be stuffed full of Astartes cock there's a sloppy gleam of slick and his saliva giving it a hot sheen.
You try to speak, but a moan shudders out of you as you manage out, "A-Are you sure it's a good idea?"
"I can think of tactical alternatives, I—" he heaves, stopping only because he has to swallow the growing amount of drool in his mouth to hold back a laugh that'd be more dribble than sound. "I can see one, actually."
"No, no! No, you bloody can't," you laugh, flailing where he's holding you down but it's a faux-paus of true terror.
He dedicates himself to seizing you by the hips and leering closer; just to lick riiiight over your rear hole, delighting in the sudden revival of your temper.
"G-guh—get out of it!" You squeal, shaking. "Get your big snout out! Out!"
Cato feels every muscle south of your hips tense and jump under the drag of his tongue. And just to make a point, goes in for another salacious attack.
With a groan, you manage to worm out from under him in that moment; rolling onto your back and kicking at his chest.
"Oh, so your ankle's fine now? Fine enough to kick me?" He growls, promptly grabbing your leg and pulling you close, "Where do you think you're off to, Lady Ambassador?"
Another squeal leaves you, flustered as you're dragged beneath him again.
"I—I–uh, told you!" You yowl, squirming, "I told you it was almost healed!"
He huffs, "Feigning injury for my pity? For shame, woman."
A loud scoff from you almost makes him fumble his theatrics, if only to laugh at how obviously unswayed by it you clearly are.
You still say nothing, but the smile you tucked away finally, finally breaks lose and he can't help but laugh.
He leans forward, but is promptly halted by a foot still against his chest. Cato looks down at it, back at you, then down at it again.
"You're terribly lucky you're a looker, Cato," you say so flatly it's almost hilarious.
At last he grumbles, "What does that mean?"
"Whatever I want it to, thank you very much," you snark haughtily, mirroring his earlier dramatics.
"So you just get to do and say anything you like?" He snorts.
"You're terrible at acting like you don't enjoy that," you say, "I usually have very good ideas and opinions."
Cato harrumphs, "Well, that's because most of time they're base-logic groxshit, so you can understand why..."
His words trail off as your hand shoots to your forehead, faux-swooning like a damsel; and you act the part too—mock-sighing and sobbing.
Abruptly, some sort of high, holier-than-thou accent graces your voice as you warble, "Woe, so you don't want to breed me, then?"
Cato blinks.
The act drops, and you blink too, dithering. Suddenly looking mortified by your own forwardness, even if it was a slip of the tongue.
Cato takes the fuck-up for ever inch of ground it's worth.
"For all your talk," he snarks, grinning. "You might as well be begging to have a babe fucked into you."
The half-flustered, half-disgusted huff that leaves your throat is comedically loud, "T-Throne of Terra, you're foul sometimes."
"But you'll let me, won't you?" Cato lays down thickly, knowing he's acting smart—pointedly reasserting himself by saying, "Desperate little bitch in heat, you'll let me knock you up... hm?" in an even more salacious tone, finally adding; "Isn't that right, Lady Sicarius?"
Cato thrills at the whine that slips out of you at that. You're so frazzled it's hilarious, and it's hard not to laugh when you warble, "Stop talking, stop t-talking—"
"You can always shut me up by sitting on my face, little duchess," he drawls, nosing against your ear as you curl forward mindlessly.
"That's filthy, and i-it doesn't even work—" is your flushed, almost breathless reply.
Cato crowds closer, and your foot slides up with the movement to hook over his shoulder. The angle lets him slot his cock right between your legs. With the heavy tip of him against your navel, it gives him a great approximation of just how far he goes inside you. Pre-cum smears up to your belly-button when he juts his hips up. It's a vain, degenerate thing to just idly compare the variations in size between you both. But he roils in the hot air that fills his head at the sight.
Looking down your body, your mouth falls a little slack at watching the spectacle.
"You've such a gutter brain," you say breathlessly, unprompted.
"You're hooked up on the same thing I am," Cato snorts harshly—you're being mouthy on purpose, he thinks. But true higher thought doesn't stir even though he tries to fan it's flames; because he's so horrifically hot under the proverbial collar any hope of fire starting anywhere but between his legs is a blatant impossibility. Good thing your cunt's going to be taking the punishment for your antics in a short while. He's going to put a dent in your womb and paint your insides so thoroughly you'll still be dripping him come next week.
But—but if he does that now, chances are it'll take.
He swallows the surge of saliva that forms in his maw at that. He doesn't doubt your body works, because there's ways to fix that. Probably. Cato's not really sure, but he's hopeful. The real question is if his... ahem... personal sidearm actually has live rounds in the chamber, so to say. Or if it was only ever just left there for other Astartes to knee him in when he used to say something before thinking.
Speaking of that age old habit, Cato blurts out; "The Emperor Himself is going to have to pull me out of you."
"Cato!" You lurch away a tad and stare at him, your face contorted into something between flabbergasted horror and a shocked laugh as you bark, "Don't say that!"
"Why not?"
"Because—" you sputter, "B-Because, I don't know, what if... He..." there's a flustered rush to your words that makes him amused despite himself. "Isn't... the God-Emperor a psyker? Some of them can hear things said a-about themselves!"
"Neither one of us has spontaneously combusted, so personally, I think He's fine with the matter."
"His son probably won't be," you counter.
"His son won't be finding out anytime soon," Cato mumbles wryly, and sets about planting a few kisses along the side of your throat—heading down, down, down—until he's just about got a tit in his mouth.
You laugh, "You're going to stash me away on Talassar, aren't you?"
A sort of content, agreeable guffaw leaves Cato as he lathes his tongue over the top of your right nipple, "Like a canine with his bone."
"You'd better not l-leave me there alone," you bite out, breathing hard.
Cato scoffs loudly, "You're not going to be free of my mitts for a second, trust me."
You harrumph, "You're the one who complains about my mitts on you, more often than not."
"And I'm just supposed to go quietly with your petty torments? Take the little hand squeezing my arse without a grumble?"
"Well, you could always just..." you grin, "...tell me to stop?"
Cato snorts, features furrowed. As-fucking-if he'd say that, but he's wont to let your antics slide without putting on a show of a faux-reprimand. In reality, Cato's certainly got no real issue with you pawing at his rear. If anything... it irritates him he can't get away with it like you can. The entertaining parts to grope on you are far lower down at his height. He can't manage a pinch or palm-full without leaning, unlike you.
"Keep pushing your luck," he bites out, trying to sound threatening, "And you'll get my tongue up your ass again."
You immediately squirm out from under to get away from him. It's like wrangling a wet fish suddenly. It's hilarious. It's almost theatrical. His fake ultimatum worked a treat. You've clambered over the edge of the bed—then you're turning, then you're standing; and at last your brow quirks up suspiciously.
You look grumpy.
Okay, now he feels a little bad.
"Fine, fine..." Cato raises his hands, tutting, "I won't."
"You swear you won't?" You ask, trying to get him to reaffirm it again.
"Yes," he grumbles, though not before adding, "Now come back here."
Eyebrow somehow quirking even higher, you eye him up and down, pouting.
"Suit yourself," Cato says, well-aware he's being petulant.
There's one special trick he's got in his arsenal that's reserved for luring in spurned and sour Ambassadors. It's worked flawlessly before, and so, he lies himself down on his back and spreads his thighs a little. Sitting up just enough to make his bulk as pronounced as possible, and skates a hand down his front. Taking his cock in hand, just to stroke himself agonizingly slow, knowing full-well that you couldn't tear your eyes away from the show even if you wanted to.
Cato keeps his attention on you watching him, catching every tiny change of your features as they melt away from annoyance to complete and utter fixation.
His hand's not anywhere near as gratifying as yours would be, but riled up as he is, it's more than enough to stir a groan and a moment of shut-eyed bliss out of him.
The moment his eyes do shut—for scarcely a millisecond—you've spontaneously reappeared with him on the bed.
It actually catches Cato a little by surprise. It really didn't take much convincing to get you to join him again.
But he doesn't linger on that victory, nor is he given a real chance to. There's small fingers in his hair and a hand on his chest and lips on his.
Cato's free hand immediately cups the back of your head and tips your closer. He all but smothers his mouth fully into yours. Clumsy in your haste, you meet him, trying to kiss him back with just as much fervor. Cato opens his maw wide over yours, and is only made greedier when your tongue slides over his.
Being the first to break off for air, you whine and nudge your nose and brow against Cato's cheek; your hand moving to meet his. You're slack-mouthed, and flushed with heat in the face. Your breathing's heavy and your small palm is firmly rolling up and down the thick, blood-heavy length of him. The sound of slick, pumping friction suffocates the room. His brain screams he ought to have you on your belly with your arse in the air. He ought to, but your hand feels sublime, especially after so long since that touch.
What the fuck, why not indulge you a little.
Your hand squeezes at the fat base of his cock, tight enough that a thick pearl of precum dribbles down the side of his length.
His bottom lip catches between his teeth, brows knitted together harshly above eyes half lidded.
He fights back the shrill rush of excitement that tempts him to buck upward into your palm. The urge is only worsened when your other hand joins in. The sight is divine obscene, your hands are so small compared to him it always makes his cock look like a weapon. It's almost funny. It's—
Oh, it's getting even better.
You lower your head and drag your tongue over the underside of his glans, making sure he can see you flutter your lashes when you look up at him.
Cato tries to hold your gaze but ultimately is robbed of the ability to do so; namely seeing as his eyes roll when he finally slips closer over the deep end.
His harshly stifled moan is followed by ragged, throaty sighs as he starts thrusting up into your hands and mouth.
The contact is divine, and he's desperate—waiting and waiting and waiting—just for you.
It nearly hurts with how quickly it builds up, his thoughts are so muddy with urgency he can't even manage a full breath of air. Cato's thighs twitch wildly as his hips keep pistoning.
Until at last he's finally finishing—cock throbbing in your hand—his spent slicking a sloppy passage into over-sensitivity as it streaks from him in fat ropes; leaving him huffing and puffing.
"Fuck," you say, splaying your palm and watching his cum string out between. "You really were pent up."
Still panting, Cato raises a brow at you—there's a few drops of cum that've gone stray to your chin. You follow his eyes and notice that, too, to which you chuckle; leering down and planting a kiss to side of his shaft before swiping the mess of yourself with the back if your hand.
"Should've been... spent somewhere else," Cato's breath catches at the view. His legs tense and ache with static minutely as you move your mouth to lick at the head of his cock. It's a little raw so soon after his finish, and he hisses, "Would you stop t-that—"
Regardless of his protestations, you continue. Running the flat of your tongue over the flushed head again, "You've got more than one round in you, don't you, Commander?"
His cock twitches, and he grumbles.
You, as a matter of fact, are right.
His erection hasn't flagged in the slightest and there's still thudding heat plastered up his neck and cheeks where it's been for the last fuck-knows how long.
"Throne help your cervix when my legs decide to work again," Cato snaps.
His legs decide to work again rather quickly, thanks to the measure of Astartes he most definitely is. But it's his arms he really uses. You're all but scooped up and dumped onto his middle, and you waste no time getting right to it.
It's obvious you're rushing in your desperation, as wound up and raring as he is.
Then you take him in hand, position him at your entrance, and waste no further time in sinking down.
All the way down.
You let out a heavy, rattling sound of satisfaction when you seat yourself to the hilt on him, and he's finally back where he belongs. The wet plap of your ass against his thighs is music to his ears.
You stay there for a moment, looking down at where you've joined, before looking back up at him.
A wild smile grows on your face, before that same expression quirks into a dazed look of relief as you lift yourself. Only for your eyes to flutter shut when you drop back down. Then you do it again, and again, and again.
He tries—with an emphasis on tries—to reach his hands up to settle on your hips. He wants to dig his fingers into your waist, he wants to feel your soft skin mould to the shape of his touch; until a perfect map of his grip starts to paint you underneath his grip.
It takes Cato by surprise when you start swatting at his approaching mitts, a crease forming between your eyebrows as you scowl despite the half-fucked out look on your face.
"N-No," you start, "No touching."
He pouts in annoyance as he snipes back with, "I'm already inside you, what do you mean 'no touching', you idiot?"
There's a short moment where you're simultaneously too full of cock and too annoyed to articulate yourself; so instead, you interlace your fingers with both of his hands.
"S-Shut up, and just let me..." is the mumbled answer he receives at last. "Let m-me do it like this."
Cato snorts, "Let you ride me? Like in the libraries? Where you couldn't even manage five minutes?"
You look away, embarrassed, "I-If you're going to act like a smart-ass, you'll get nothing."
For a moment, he's honestly about to press the point just to see you squirm on instinct—about to remind you you'd been a mess, almost insensible after a short while of bouncing—until his eyes draw down to the soft thatch of hair pressed to his own; just shy of where he's hilted and cozy and kept oh-so warm.
Just knowing he's rammed in you to the hilt makes him completely unable to argue, nevermind the convincing, steady squeezing of your cunt.
"Fine," Cato grunts, palms held up and turned outward in surrender, "I'll be good—but don't say I didn't tell you."
Nodding, you lean forward and move with him as he rests his hands back.
You look insane trying to pin him like this. Over-extended to simultaneously keep him in you, and his wrists down.
Still, you manage to start fucking yourself onto his lap, panting with exertion and pleasure—and Cato's still being good, he... he hasn't even tried to move. Even though he could. He could easily move his hands. The fact your little palms are holding about his wrists either side of his head is nothing more than a suggestion of control. But he's willing to play along. He can be good.
You bottom yourself out on him and roll your hips, and Throne, it's sublime.
He feels dizzy, like he's entranced—it's very much like the escapade in the libraries. The real difference is that was an Ambassador nervously failing to maintain a nonexistent guise of decorum. But now, Cato's on his back by your will—you're controlling this, not him—you're fucking him.
That makes him nearly rear up in delight, for reasons far beyond his currently cunt-dumb brain. But who cares, he doesn't really need to use his head to watch your tits bounce with the motion of you riding him.
"Fuck, f-fuck..." Cato groans raggedly, and is suddenly hyperaware he's been making those sounds for a while now.
Why is he acting like this? Cato knows he's being loud, but can't seem to shut himself up. He ought to at least try. He's an Astartes, he's the epitome of the Imperium's warring prowess, he should be able to close his bloody trap—for fuck sakes—he's the product of hundreds of years of martial discipline and he's... he's going to be a father, if—if this works, if you let him—if it takes.
Woozy on the rush of that train of previous though and the sudden downward slam of you hilting yourself again, Cato all but drool out, "You're—you're... ngh... gonna be the death of me, woman."
You roll your hips, keeping him fully sheathed and grin down at him. The nigh shattered noise that rips from his throat at that makes you whine empathetically.
He could help you along. He could move. Nothing is really stopping him. You're hardly a real restraint, and all he really needs... all he needs is to be better restrained if he's to be used like this—hold on, where did that thought come from?
Cato fights with the urge for a moment. Then he swallows harshly and rasps, "Wait, wait..."
"What's w-wrong?" You pant, finally coming to a stop.
Unfortunately, your cunt doesn't get the memo, because it squeezes hard enough to make Cato's legs twitch the very instant he wants to speak.
He fights to not acknowledge the way he stumbles his words as he answers with, "This isn't —" he flounders, "—this is stupid."
"A-And w–wuh... why's that?"
"Because I'm an Astartes, this... position... is losing, in close combat," he lies. Well, half-lies. It's not wrong, he just... can't admit the rest.
"Cato... you rolled belly up w-when I told you I'd fuck you this way, so... w-what's the actual problem?" You say tryingly as you lean a little closer to him, your still-slightly-damp hair curtaining his face as you do. The angle and height disparity make it a mismatch so you're unable to kiss him properly, and distantly that bothers him.
Unless he sits up, that is—but he's not going to move, not while you're still pretend-pinning him. His brains scolds it's a feeble shackle. Another thing that frustrates him.
He grunts, and glances aside, frowning with an almost comical harshness.
"It's—" he starts, "It's not enough."
"What's not enough?"
"I can still move," Cato mumbles, hyperaware he sounds like a child.
"I don't think I could stop you from doing that," you harrumph, a tad breathless. The flash of resignation on your face he catches when he returns to looking at you is acutely funny despite his agitation, and he huffs amusedly as he tips his head toward your hands to hint for you pull them away.
You oblige, and place them on his navel, still seated on him.
"Let me try this," he chuffs, "Hold on."
He tucks his arms behind himself as he sits up a little against the headboard, using his bulk to pin them back.
That's better—much better, really—it feels far more secure. And, even more importantly, it lets you get face to face with him properly.
You're smiling when you close in, hands settling on his chest.
"Sorry that I'm not strong enough to manhandle you," you nip out with a wry, good humoured laugh; pressing a kiss to his lips.
Cato makes a thoughtful hum, "I know a way you can atone for that."
You harrumph, "Oh? How's that?"
"By fucking moving, fool."
"You asked f-for it," You bark a laugh and your hands clamp down on either side of his traps, with a pretty fair amount of force for a baseline. At the same time, you speed up on his lap, breath hitching violently.
Now this feels spectacular, in some strange way that adds to simply being inside you. He can't even begin to articulate it, but he can definitely sound the part.
"That's it," Cato groans loudly, and you whine in tandem; barely able to keep your eyes open with the pace. "That's it, keep going. Aren't you pretty—aren't y-you so pretty."
A strangled, keening sob leaves you as your body bucks abruptly. He knows that tell far too well, and the tears that fill your eyes before a finish a bit too hard. It's blazingly apparent you're not gonna last, but he's not about to stop you crying out on his cock.
"Not yet, come on—not y-yet," he heaves, trying to keep you going just that little longer. But, unsurprisingly, it achieves nothing. If anything him talking harries you along because suddenly you're clawing into his shoulders and pressing closer to him, so close he can feel your ragged breathing against his ear.
"O-oh... fuck," you curse, moving even faster. "C-Cato, f-f-fuck—I can't—'m..."
You come with a shaking gasp, slick walls flooding heat and convulsing around him in waves.
Slumping with a waning series of sobs, you stop fucking yourself on him, seeming insensible despite the juddering squeeze of your insides. Cato's nigh rabid at the loss—he told you that you'd tucker yourself out—he told you, and he can't move—he's so close—he needs you to keep going, you can't stop yet, you can't—
As soon as that wave of frustration hits, he jerks forward in a lunge, obeying the shrieking want in his mind; but he's unable to dedicate himself to the venture wholly. He stops short of sitting up with a jerky, pyrrhic effort, like he's reached the end of his lead and was now choking himself. It leaves Cato open mouthed and heaving, he's pinioned himself too thoroughly. In a rabid, urgent succession of events; he attempts a different approach—wantonly trying to hip thrust you on his lap. It's some complex fulcrum of angling his shoulders into the bedhead and bucking that make the muscles in his abdomen overcompensate nigh to the point of cramping.
Panting, ribs heaving like a forge bellows, he tents his knees and plants his feet flat firmly to the mattress; bouncing you in his lap. As if he isn't already as deep inside of you as he can get. As if he's not slamming into the soft tissue gating your womb like a beast in rut. But as with any slavering thing lost in it's desire, he doesn't feel like it's far inside enough.
You're whining loudly, and then you finally regain enough sense to work with him. Fucking yourself back into his thrusts at last, making a lewd cacophony of wet, sticky bliss nigh deafening.
"Still—" he snarls, "Still want a-ah babe?"
The question has you slamming back into him faster, dragging another garbled, pleading noise out of yourself. Scrambling at Cato's shoulders, clenching hot and slick on his cock, sobbing in pleasure.
"Yes, yes, y-yes... C-Cato—" you're crying, pawing at him; "Ple—ah—ease, Cato—in me, i-in me, in me..."
How could he even possibly argue with that?
He grits his teeth. The sides of his vision edge in static before he screws his eyes shut, both his hearts feel like they palpitate off rhythm for a second—and then a white-hot line of fire races up from his gut. Somehow in the process he's managed to worm his arms out from under himself. They're glued to your hips faster than the conscious thought to do so arrives in his head. Now that you're really being treated to a ride, the rapt sobs of 'yes-yes-yes' increase tenfold. Your cunt shivers around him again, and he's got no alternative nor want but to fill a warm, inviting womb to the brim.
You wanted it—you wanted it, and who's he to deny you? He's already more than willing to give you anything you could ever even think to ask for, so what meagre thing is this in comparison?
Cato doesn't even get a chance to properly moan. It's just one long, defeated keen as his nervous system stalls. The last time he'd made a noise like it, a Necron Lord had run him through. It feels like he's dying. His legs strain, and he's wrung dry. His mind blanks. It's red hot pleasure that has him wincing like he's in pain as he spills as deep as he can go. He's stupid afterwards. Drool drying across his cheek, his head pounding. After-tremors of your pleasure squeezing actually hurt his poor cock still lodged so far up you he's practically a new organ. And yet, he gathers enough sense to glance down himself to you.
You're limp against his haired chest, face-down between his pectorals.
After some indeterminate amount of time, Cato notices you're still conscious, thankfully. That much is clear as you stir on shaky palms, sidling yourself up; before being promptly pulled up and off his sore length by two big Astartesian hands.
Cato's treated to an absolutely depraved view. The second his cock pops out of you, a thick, milky rope of cum drips down your thighs, and you whine, "N-No, no, stay in... C–ah—Cato, leave i-it in..."
"Later," he swallows dryly, "It's all yours."
He sits you on his navel; only for you to then slump into his chest again and start grumbling.
"I think," he rasps, tilting his head to accommodate you tucking your chin on his shoulder, "I've spoilt you rotten today."
A soft scoff slips free from you as you arch up just enough to be nose-to-nose with him. He cards his fingers through your hair, and you kiss him slowly. It's a long, tender thing—and his hearts, still beating hard, flutter at it.
He moans softly at the gesture.
It's perfect, you're perfect, and everything's as it should be. Well... aside from the all-round stickiness. But that's to be expected, so he rolls onto his side, pulling you along with him; despite the fact you're both still absolutely filthy.
Cato falls asleep, with you—his little duchess—tucked right up under the bough of his arm.
