Yandere Guilliman has my brain firing-
After transferring you directly into his service (you were surprised, but mostly elated that you had done exceptional enough work to ascend this far in the ranks of the Historico Verita.) Guilliman started to woo you.
It was subtle, and a terrible part of him wondered why he bothered. You couldn't refuse an order from him, after all, if he told you that you'd be retiring from your position to be his spouse, so it would be.
But you'd probably hate him for it, deep down. He wanted to ask you.
So it started with the gifts.
You were pouring over a set of ancient tomes when a servitor delivered the basket of fruit. It was expensive stuff, and you couldn't for the life of you figure out who sent it. It couldn't be Lord Guilliman, of course. That would be ridiculous. Had you forgotten your birthday?
A week later, a new set of robes was left in your chamber, heavy, rich, gold trimmed, and Ultramarine blue. You had assumed they were being given to all your fellow- no. Just you. Hmm.
The new journal, a week after that, with paper like silk, and a set of new, perfectly balanced pens. This made sense, you needed such tools for your work, and yet, something about the beauty of the pieces was... Sentimental. Whoever your secret admirer was, you couldn't afford the distraction. You couldn't fail Lord Guilliman, not after he favored you so.
They kept coming. A set of jeweled hair pins, a blanket so soft you thought it was made of clouds, a bottle of alcohol you'd been known to favor, each accompanied by a small bouquet of flowers. Your room has started to look like a hot house.
You had begun a list of potential senders. You had eliminated all of your fellow historians, none of them had the resources, or were close enough to you to develop what was clearly an intense feeling. You had also eliminated all of the Ultramarines with which you worked. They weren't allowed relationships. You had eliminated the rouge traders, nobles of Terra, and millitary personal with whom you'd had contact. That left... No one. You'd exhausted your list and were no closer to an answer.
Unless...
Oh Throne.
The memory rushed to the forefront of your mind. The night had been late, but you refused to budge from your desk until your translation was completed. This was the only original account any of you had found of the preservation of tech after Old Night, and it was intact. You couldn't stop-
The door opened. You continued to write, hovering over the ancient dictionary.
"It's very late, historitor."
The scratching of your pen stopped, the voice of the Lord Commander was unmistakable. You stood and bowed. "My Lord, I've been translating, I'm close to a breakthrough."
"You need to rest. You'll be of no use half dead from exhaustion. Come, I'll walk you to your chamber." He turned, his massive from towering over you as you scrambled behind him.
Most of the walk was spent with you excitedly updating him on your progress, he looked down at you, some kind of unreadable expression on your face. You had known him long enough to know it was a schooled neutral. A mask meant to hide intention and feeling.
When you reached your chamber door you turned to him. "Thank you, my Lord, for walking me back, I'm sure you're busy."
"Not at all. It's my pleasure, truly." He smiled at you, by Terra the man smiled at you. A strange day indeed.
There was an almost tense moment between you, your gazes meeting, his almost burning through you. You saw a flash of conflicted emotion across his face, so fast that in the dim light you probably imagined it.
He reached down, pulled your hand against his face, pressed a soft kiss to the back of it, then turned away and he was gone.
You closed the door, befuddled completely, and wandered to your bed.
Two weeks later, you kicked yourself for not seeing it sooner. A tome on the culture of Macragge lay in front of you, and you couldn't breathe.
Those were courtship gifts.
You were running down the hallway faster than you could curb yourself, brushing past guards and servants and probably some nobles you shouldn't anger and Marines and you're making a mistake a mistake that's not what it meant you couldn't possibly think he'd even look twice at you but every time you were in a room together he brushed past you he smiled at you did smile at anyone else he even asked if you had family and where they were by the Throne was he going to ask-
You nearly collided with his office door. You hesitated, barely, before knocking.
"Enter."
You looked at him, sitting at his desk, scratching away at a set of documents.
"Lord Guilliman?"
At the sound of your voice the scratching stopped and he looked up. The doors closed behind you.
"Are you well, historitor? You're flushed."
"Yes, uh, I've been running."
He stood from his desk, "Has something happened?"
"N-no." Yes.
"I don't enjoy being lied to." His tone darkened and a primal panic welled up within you. "What happened?"
You attempted to calm your racing heart. You wondered if he could hear it pounding in your chest. Probably.
"Was it you? All the gifts?"
He paused. There's that unreadable expression again. "Yes."
"W-why?"
He chuckled. "You are a brilliant historitor. One of my very best." He cupped your face in his hands and tilted it up, looking down at you tenderly. "But dear, you're terribly unobservant."
(Guilliman is brilliant but so bad at relationships. Also this is on mobile and not proof read we die like men)
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