Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 9 ===
Octavia’s cognitor retorted with claims of hormonal instability and the weakness of flesh, before Rogal’s soft voice interrupted everything,
“I suppose I can stay. For a little while longer,” He said quietly, gently nuzzling at the side of her face, his stubble rough on her cheek, “At least till the rain stops,”
Octavia slid a hand around his neck, “Thank you, sir,” 
Gently disentangling her mechadendrites from around his arms, she stood, pushing her chair back, She stroked Rogal’s sideburns with the back of her hand, before turning, leading Rogal by a mechadendrite wrapped around his wrist to her bunk. The pair paused, looking at each other with puzzled looks. 

The bunk was standard issue, made for one man, of average size. Rogal was far from average size. 
“This could be a problem,” Rogal said, sitting down on the bunk gently, hoping his weight didn’t upturn it. Octavia nimbly climbed beside him, her augmented eyes taking in the situation. Diagrams and figures scrolling past her vision, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
“This is no problem,” she said happily, dropping down to her knees on the bed, “You see, it’s quite simple. You do not intend to sleep here, do you?”
Rogal shook his head, “Sorry, no.”
Octavia just smiled, “That is okay, you would not get optimum sleep here anyway, my fellow techpriestess sleeps loudly, and you lack the augments to block it out. However, you can lie with me for a while, can you not?” 
Octavia put her hands on Rogal’s trunk like thigh, as a mechadendrite ruffled his hair. The commissar couldn’t help but smile. “I can,”
“And you would wish to minimise the amount of disruption your departure would cause, wouldn’t you?”
Rogal nodded
“In that case, I have a solution.”
Octavia’s fleshbrain grinned in triumph, as her mechadendrites moved around Rogal’s body once more, pulling his arms this way and that, lowering his body to her bunk.

Rogal’s legs hung off the end of the cot, but that was the last thing on either his or Octavia’s mind. The petite techpriestess pushed the commissar’s arm perpendicular to his body, draping the other across his broad chest, before lying down in the hollow she had created beside him. She snuggled close to his broad chest, her head on his bicep, her mechadendrites pulling his forearm over her waist. She could hear his powerful heart thudding in his chest again, a slow pounding rhythm, supplanted by his lazy breathing. Her fleshbrain had melted to the floor, moaning happily, hugging itself with its mechadendrites, as her cognitor began her nightly preparations for rest rituals. Memnor files were logged and, backups were started, her power down self-test began running, as her bright green eyes dimmed, before she closed them. Her cognitor sent out the signal, and the glowglobes powered down, leaving the studio like quarters bathed in the soft blue light of various other machines in the room. A contented sigh escaped her lips, as Rogal’s finger gently traced a spiral on her hip and thigh. Her fleshbrain curled into a happy ball, her cognitor sat in its metaphorical chair, and Octavia drifted off to sleep, a mechadendrite lazily coiling around Rogal’s arm.
The commissar lay there, staring at the ceiling, for a long time. Was this heresy? He shook his head, this was about as far from heresy as he could get. He was being human, and Humanity was what the Emprah cared for. Not for machines, that was the realm of the Omnissiah, not for the xenos, but for Humanity. He let out a sigh, his mind twisting as he tried to make sense of his situation. He was just a simple man, who did what he was supposed to. That’s what was bothering him, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.
He lay there, the cool metal of Octavia’s mechadendrite gently caressing his arm, her tiny frame cradled beside his own, as he considered his life. His past, his future, and how the small techpriestess fitted into it all. The numbers on the chronometer clicked past as he pondered, before, with a small sigh, he gently disentangled himself from his hostess. She whimpered in her sleep, her mechadendrites pawing at him as he sat up. He gently placed a pillow under her head, before he stood, suppressing the groan caused from his stretching. Grabbing the blanket that had been bundled at the end of the bed, he draped it over the sleeping techpriestess, her mechadendrites pulling it closer to her. Quietly, he collected his shirt, coat and hat, and lifted the supply crate. With a quiet click of the door, he stole away into the night. 

On the table in the middle of the room, the egg heater sat, its operational light blinking quietly in the dark.
Tiberius winced as Caelistis rubbed the ointment over his back, “Could you be a little gentler?”
Digitised laugher filled the chimera cabin, “Oh you weak little man. It’s just a bruise,”
“Just a bruise? My back feels like it’s been run over by a baneblade,” The Vox officer said, before biting back on a grunt of pain,
“It looks like it too, the bruises make this wonderful banding pattern. Sometimes, just sometimes, your weak squishy flesh is quite beautiful,” Caelistis said, dragging a mechadendrite down Tiberius’s spine, admiring the purple lines on the man’s back. Her hands and another mechadendrite soaked a cloth in ointment, before dabbing gently at the bruises. 
“Yeah, well this weak squishy flesh still has feelings, you cold, hard, mechanical marvel.” Tiberius said, reaching behind him to playfully squeeze at Caelistis’s thigh. The techpriestess smiled. Humanity was a wonderful thing, she mused, as she kissed the vox officer on the back of the neck.

Rogal returned to his tent, dumping the crate to the floor with a thud. He threw his hat to the table and his coat over the chair, before sitting heavily on his bunk. Running his hands through his tousled hair, he let out a grunt of frustration, flopping back to stare at his ceiling. Reserved to his fate of another sleepless night, he rolled off his bed and stripped down to his undergarments. Stretching his powerful limbs, the commissar warmed up, before starting his night time workout. It wasn’t long before he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The hours melted away as the commissar huffed and grunted, his huge muscles burning, before he finally crashed back into his bunk.

Rogal’s eyes opened to slits, his chronometer’s alarm blaring. He silenced it with a slap, and rolled over in his bunk, wishing to the saints for a few hours more sleep. Instead, he knew he had to get up, duty needed to be done. He rolled out of bed, his blanket wrapped around him as he shuffled to the sink. Rubbing his stubble, he looked at himself in the mirror, tired eyes looking back at him. Stifling a yawn he took his razor and began to shave, hoping it would be a quiet, uneventful day.
Octavia’s mechadendrites moved, searching for her guest in her bed. With a saddened sigh, she confirmed what she already knew. He wasn’t there. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked around blearily, her augments filling in the details of the night before with the light that now flooded the room. Where they had sat, how his huge frame had left the sheets disturbed, the egg heater still on the table, his gloves sitting beside them. Her cognitor jumped - his gloves. He needed his gloves. Uniform codes demanded he have his gloves.

Throwing her cloak around her shoulders, Octavia yelled a hurried good morning as she raced past her still sleeping roommate, the door slamming behind her. Caelistis moaned, rolling over and pulling her blanket over her head. Her augmented feet were soundless as Octavia ran, her red cloak streaming behind her, caught by the wind. She deftly avoided the morning bustle of the compound as she made her way to Rogal’s tent, his gloves clutched to her chest, her mechadendrites gently pushing people out of her path. 

Rogal hummed to himself as he continued shaving, savouring the cool lather on his cheeks. The blade sounded like a knife over toast as he dragged it over his stubbled face, before flicking the white foam into his sink. He finished shaving, washing his razor and replacing it in the little cup by his mirror, before burying his face in a fluffy black towel. Wiping his now smooth face, he threw the towel over the bar, and returned to his bunk, flipping the lid of his foot locker with a boot. He knelt down, unpacking a fresh uniform for the day ahead. Socks were joined by trousers, and then undergarments, and a small pile of clothing took its place at the end of the Commissar’s bunk.

Octavia saw her objective and put on an extra burst of speed, bounding gracefully forward towards the tent.
Rogal threw his blanket back onto his bed, and peeled off what he had slept in.
Octavia threw the tent flap open with a mechadendrite, skidding to a halt, the flap closing behind her with a gust of air.
“Rogal, you forgot your-” Her words caught in her throat, as her fleshbrain squealed like a juvie on Emprah’s day. Rogal stood frozen, bent over his bed, dogtags around his neck, a fresh set of undergarments in his hands, and his… laspistol openly carried. Octavia’s cognitor spluttered, questioning the compatibility of her hardware. Her fleshbrain lounged languidly on a metaphorical couch, ducking down and peeking over the arm, and muttering about lascannons.

An eep escaped from Octavia’s lips and the pair of them blushed a deep crimson. Rogal’s body powered into action, snatching his blanket from his bed and throwing it around himself like a toga. He then pulled his undergarments up, looking sheepish, his weapon now holstered. Octavia’s mechadendrites had leapt to her mouth, one breaking off to fan his mistress, as she desperately forced the Memnorpicts from her mind.
“Priestess, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rogal managed to stammer, his body snapping to parade rest. Octavia’s fleshbrain marvelled at the man before her, such perfect proportions, she noted, perfect proportions. Her cognitor continued drawing a diagram of a piston, pointing out how a piston needed to fit in order to work. Her cheeks still flushed, Octavia offered her bundle forward,
“You forgot your gloves, which are a part of your uniform. Which means that without them you are in violation of uniform codes alpha three niner seven, and section delta two four. Both of which carry a punishment of five lashes.”
Her fleshbrain conjured images of her tied to the lashing post. She shook her head to clear them, offering the gloves to Rogal once more. He grinned nervously, reaching out to take the leathery items from metallic hands.
“Thank you, Octavia,” He managed to say, “But, do you mind, calling out first?”
Octavia blushed harder, “But this was the most efficient way to get to you, what if you were to be inspected? You would have been strung up on the post and flogged and your back would be covered in scars and-” She was silenced by Rogal’s finger to her lips,
“It would have been mine to bear. You’re too kind to this humble servant of the Emprah,” He said, before pulling her close to hug her, his hand stroking down her spine, “But thank you. You’re a shining light of the Emprah’s work. I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.”