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Had to get this scenario out of the system real quick, so it looks a bit rough (one day i will scan my drawings, i promise. But today is not the day lol)

Sharing is caring, right? 👀

Used bluish grey paper to make it feel dark and oppressive, just like onboard of a Night Lords vessel.

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Me and some of my moots tbh

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Knight and the enemy within

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THANK YOU, THIS IS GREAT 😭

Thank you for indulging us with this NSFW Alphabet :)

can I get uhh P, K, and D for Rogal Dorn?

pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepl

okay fair warning: i am not good with writing dorn because i cannot get to grips with his lack of personality. however i will try.

also somehow this ended up in cbt i am sorry

Dirty Secret

Yeah, it’s the pain glove thing. Obviously it is. Dorn is a masochist who doesn’t want to be treated like one — that is, he likes being hurt, but he is absolutely not submissive about it, and he would be offended if someone tried to treat him as such. He has vague half-formed fantasies about you somehow procuring something strong enough to hurt him. Maybe some kind of whip that delivered very powerful electric shocks. He’d strip himself bare and instruct you precisely where to strike him, and you would listen intently, all bright-eyed attention. You strike him just as he told you: his buttocks, his thighs, the base of his prick. He’d tell you to count the strokes, even when the pain rose to a crescendo that whited out all other senses but pleasure; when he came, it would be onto your face, the whip crackling in your hand, your mouth slack and obedient and tongue poking eagerly out —

Sometimes he gets as far as starting to design said implement, before he puts the idea aside. It would be a waste of time and resources, and he has more important things to do.

Kink

As above. Masochism. So much masochism. He encourages you to bite him; your neat little teeth do so little harm that it’s both adorable and frustrating. He rams his cock into your slick wet gullet and grinds his tip against your teeth each time he pulls out; he presses your mouth into the crinkled skin of his balls and tells you to bite until your jaw hurts.

Pace.

Dorn is thorough. He doesn’t have sex often — he has a low libido and busy schedule — but when he does fuck, he does it properly. He sets aside a good few hours, bids you lie down, and proceeds to make you see the golden throne. You’ll be a blubbering whimpering mess before he’s even broken a sweat, and he will still check his timer and announce that there’s another half hour left.

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loudly going "YOU'RE GOOD YOU'RE GOOD" to myself to ward off the memory of every embarrassing thing i've ever done

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Sfw Alphabet- Jago Sevetarion x F! Reader

Okay babes, here it is. As requested by the wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous @yanagikou, here is the sfw alphabet for Sevetar. I hope I did him justice. I did my due diligence in researching him, but he's not a character I'm very familiar with so. I did my best, but I apologise in advance if I've gotten anything supper wrong or ooc.

As usual, unedited, so sorry for any and all mistakes. Please enjoy and send thru any fic or hc requests cause I love doing them. They push me outside my comfort zone (like this one haha) and I love making content for others to enjoy :)

A - Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Jago Sevetarion adores you like literally nothing else in the galaxy... but he has no idea how to show it. Like, sure, the general, more explicit-type ways of showing affection such as kissing and nsfw stuff, he understands. But the subtle stuff? Stuff like casual intimacy, loving words and soft physical touches that do not immediately lead to sharing a bed? The poor man has no understanding of it. Considering his background, however, this isn't surprising. That being said, however, after having some time to follow your example and get comfortable and familiar with the idea of physical expressions of affection, I can see Jago picking it up in some small way. For one, it's to show you he cares. That he's willing to change a few of his ways for your sake. But more importantly, it's to remind his brothers that you're his. That he is always within hand's reach of you. So, for the love of the False Emperor, they'd better stay the hell away from you or he will make them wish they were dead.

Once he is more comfortable with the idea of expressing affection, I can see Jago being a fan of pet names. He strikes me as that sort of man. A few suggestions could be "little one", "little bird" or "little lady." Anything that emphasises your size difference and the fact that you are his.

B - Best friend (What are they like as a friend? How would the friendship start?)

So long as you showed yourself to be loyal to him and his cause, I reckon Jago would be actually be a pretty good friend. He's quite charismatic and loyalty is one of, if not his strongest value. He's not the kind of friend to offer you a shoulder to cry on, but so long as you'd do the same for him, he would absolutely ride or die for you.

C - Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

I'll be honest, even after he becomes familiar with physical affection, I struggle to see Jago being super into cuddling. To accept such physical comfort, to be that vulnerable with another living being, I think he would struggle to not see that as weakness. He might hold onto you in a more protective, possessive way, but don't expect anything particularly gentle or comforting from him in that regard.

D - Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Jago loves his life as a Night Lord. Delivering justice, executing punishment on those who deserve it (all according to him, of course), it's what he lives for. He truly believes in it. And he would want you to believe in it, too.

E - Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

I don't really think I need to elaborate on how Jago might break up with you if he doesn't like you- you can put two and two together. However, if Jago still loves you, and it's circumstance that's forcing you two apart, I see it being a... tumultuous affair. He's not familiar with compassion or gentleness- even if he feels those things, he doesn't know how to express them, be it with his body or his words. Therefore, Jago would break up with you by either being so cold it drives you to leave yourself, or by ravishing you with harsh words. It's not malice, however, that makes him do this. It's to protect himself and his own hearts. Maybe if he acts like this doesn't hurt him, it won't. But, of course, it still will.

Now, if you broke up with Jago... Jesus Christ, babes, you don't know what you've done. Only person worse to break up with would be Konrad Curze himself. Whether you want it or not, Jago is your furious, heart-broken stalker shadow. And unlike someone like Sanguinius, who even amidst his possessiveness would balk at the thought of it causing you distress, Jago doesn't have any such concern. He's yours, you're his. Damn you for forgetting it, and damn anyone who thinks they can change it.

F - Fiancé (How to they feel about commitment? How quickly would they want to get married?)

Jago would want to marry you right away. One, because loyalty is everything to him. And two, for your protection. If you're cornered by a Night Lord who doesn't know better, being able to name drop Jago Sevetarion as your husband is a pretty sure-fire way to get him to leave you alone.

G - Gentle (How gentle are they? Both physically and emotionally?)

I think some of my previous answers have answered this one pretty well already: to the Night Lords, gentleness is a foreign concept at best and actively despised at worst. Jago might learn how to be gentle from you, and he might partake consciously for your benefit, but it doesn't come naturally to him.

H - Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it and what is it like?)

Similar to cuddling. If Jago hugs you, it's because he's feeling possessive or protective of you. Now, that being said, if you were injured or in a particular state of distress, Jago would hug you in comfort. For as problematic as some of his behaviours may be, he still loves you. He adores you. He wants to keep you safe. And he wants you to know all of those things.

I - I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

A long, long time.

J - Jealous (How jealous do they get? What are they like when they're jealous?)

I might be a bit contrarion in this regard, but I don't see Jago being a jealous lover. Protective and possessive, absolutely, but not jealous. He's loyal, and if he's fallen in love with you, it's because he knows you're loyal too. And, as such, he trusts you absolutely. He also doesn't see any of his brothers as a potential 'threat'; he's the Primarch's favourite son, the best Night Lord there ever was: no one can compete with that.

K - Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Fierce, hungry and so passionate it brims on obsession. Your lips are getting bitten, your breath is getting stolen, and for good measure, he might bite a chunk out of your neck or shoulder, too.

L - Little Ones (How are they around children?)

Honestly, if The Long Night short story is anything to go by, Jago might just be the best with children a Night Lord could hope to be. In general, he would be indifferent to kids, but if it was a kid that was close to you (say, a little sister or brother, for example) or a child who has been the victim of sin, Jago would try to be compassionate. He'd be a lot better at it since meeting you, too.

M - Mornings (How are morning spent with them?)

Jago is absolutely waking you up with a ravishing of fierce kisses. Nothing further your honour.

N - Nights (How are nights spent with them?)

Jago suffers from psychic headaches and nightmares, so nights with him would be pretty unsettled to say the least. They would, however, provide ample opportunity for you two to bond on an emotional level. If anything, these nights might just be the thing that bonds Jago to you forever. After waking from a nightmare or from a terrible headache, Jago can't hide that vulnerability from you, no matter how hard he tries. And when you answer that vulnerability with compassion- massaging his scalp until the pain fades or curling up on his chest so he might hold you while he settles back to a state of sleep- that shit is gonna change Jago somewhere deep in his soul. In those moments, he's going to be human again.

O - Openess (When will they start revealing things about themselves? Do they reveal things slowly over time or all at once?)

Jago's life might be wraught with pain and suffering, but he doesn't seem particularly affected by it, if you catch my drift. Therefore, he'd be relatively comfortable opening up to you. It would be presented as anecdotes or entertaining stories rather than seeking comfort, however. I imagine he'd be deeply entertained by any of your shocked reactions to some of his stories, too.

P - Patience (How easily are they angered?)

For a Night Lord- for a space marine, even- Jago is pretty patient. He's far from saintly (obviously) but his temper is something you can work with.

Q - Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail or do they forget the minor things?)

Jago feigns that he doesn't care about such things, but in truth he remembers everything. You are the object of his adoration- he's committed everything single little thing about you to memory.

R - Remember (What's their favourite memory of the relationship?)

That first time he woke from a psychic night terror and you were there to comfort him. He'd never admit this, not even to himself. But that moment means everything to him. It's the moment he realised that he needed you- not as a serf, but something so much deeper. It's the moment he fell in love with you.

S - Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

I think I've answered this already. Jago knows how dangerous the Night Lords are to you, not to mention the galaxy as a whole. He protects you with unmatched ferocity and devotion. In spite of outward appearances, you're probably the safest person in the entire galaxy as Sevetar's wife.

T - Try (How much effort do they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts and everyday tasks?)

Much like R, Jago pretends he doesn't care about such things, but he does. And in his own, little ways, he shows it to you. It's sweet, really.

U - Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Possessiveness, overprotectiveness, borderline obsessiveness as well as a splash of astartes arrogance and night lords callousness.

V - Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not at all. This man slaughters people daily. He's covered in scars. He doesn't care about his looks at all.

W - Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He wouldn't know it at first, but absolutely he'd feel incomplete with you. If you were ever injured, captured or he almost lost you in some other way, the realisation would hit him like a bus. You could expect the protectiveness to get worse after that, too.

X - Xtra (A random head cannon for them)

If in some alternate timeline he was able to save Altani's life and take her with him, the three of you would become the most twisted but loving nuclear family. Jago would be a Night Lords girl dad, you'd be a big sis/aunt to Altani, and Altani would help further break down Jago's walls.

Y - Yuck (What are some things they wouldn't like in a partner, or in general?)

Disloyalty, someone who did not accept him for him (excluding the areas where you help him grow/change for the better, of course)

Z - Zzz (What are some sleeping habits of theirs?)

As mentioned back up in N, Jago struggles with sleep due to his psychic afflictions. Also as mentioned, your presence would help this greatly. I could even see him getting to the point where without you by his side, he couldn't sleep at all.

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fucking hate it when the stuff everybody says "actually works" does actually work.

hate exercising and realizing i've let go of a lot of anxiety and anger because i've overturned my fight-or-flight response.

hate eating right and eating enough and eating 3 times a day and realizing i'm less anxious and i have more energy

hate journaling in my stupid notebook with my stupid bic ballpoint and realizing that i've actually started healing about something once i'm able to externalize it

hate forgiving myself hate complimenting myself more often hate treating myself with kindness hate taking a gratitude inventory hate having patience hate talking to myself gently

hate turning my little face up to the sun and taking deep breaths and looking at nature and grounding myself and realizing that i feel less burdened and more hopeful, more actually-here, that i am able to see the good sides of myself more clearly, that i am able to see not only how far i have to grow - but also how much growth i have already done & how much of my life i truly fill with light and laughter and love

horrible horrible horrible. hate it but i'm gonna do it tho

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When your pookie got paper cut

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every day, hundreds of loyalist astartes are tempted to chaos by the seduction of slaanesh worshippers. with your help, we can kick that up into the thousands. do your part. offer a space marine a blow job today

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Fanfiction writers only want one* thing and it’s disgusting

*Comments where you explain in excruciating detail how each line made you feel

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I think it's about time I share this with the tumblr world

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breach in the defences

for @remembrancersticky. the long awaited stuck-in-the-wall iron warriors fic,

cw: paper thin plot, gangbang, dub con, degrading dirty talk. knifeplay. possibly ooc because i just took the names of canon iron warriors and did not bother looking up their personalities :’)

—

—

Perturabo’s drop-pod is welcomed back to the Iron Blood with minimum of fanfare, as is his preference. He cannot abide the vanity of his brothers, who strut about like peacocks before their hens — some, of course, are worse than others. He thinks Fulgrim, given the opportunity, would arrange himself a parade every time he finished relieving himself.

Still, there is something in the echoing silence of the hangar that feels a little amiss; he cannot quite put his finger on what it is. His soldiers stand at rigid attention, and the serfs scurry about, eyes down. And yet there is something unspoken — some odd quality to the air. If he were more adept at understanding the minutiae of human interactions, he might have been able to discern the cause. But he is not, and he does not; only feels a strange unease as he clunks through into the Primarch-sized corridors, passing under vaulted processionals of artillery pieces lit from beneath by sulphurous industrial glow. There are no windows aboard the Iron Blood; Perturabo sees no point in staring out into space. All the important work is contained within — why should you waste time staring into the endless void, or examining constellations of nameless stars?

His boots ring out on the metal floors, announcing his arrival before his looming bulk ever arrives — but his Primarch hearing outpaces even the clanking of his armour. From almost a half-mile away, he hears it —

“Oh yes, you sweet little whore — you get so tight when you cum —you like it, don’t you? Like being fucked by Astartes cock, you’re just made for it —“

Perturabo’s mind short-circuits. For a moment, all he hears is white static; he is too astonished to even be outraged. Unless he is very much mistaken, that is the voice of his First Captain Kydomor Forrix.

“—yes, that’s it — by the Lord of Iron, you’re a sweet little piece of cunt —“

It is not unusual for Space Marines to invoke the names of their fathers — ‘by Guilliman’s sword!’ is a popular oath amongst Ultramarines, and most Space Wolves will swear to ‘Leman Russ’s almighty right arm’ — but hearing his title in this context is disquieting to say the least. The astonishment slowly begins to curdle into anger, as the realisation sets in. His soldiers — the supposed best of the best — are acting no better than common Night Lords, indulging in pointless carnal distractions.

He is not capable of Corvus’s stealth — but he is swift, and he can be quieter when he wishes to be, and so he covers the distance unnoticed.

(Or, perhaps, his sons are too busy to be paying attention to their surroundings.)

He finds a dozen of his finest warriors near the serf’s dormitories, clustered together, elbowing at each other as they all try to get to the front of the scrum. Peering over their heads, he sees the focus of their attention: one of the female serfs is stuck in an airvent. Presumably she crawled into there to try and unstick it — the ventilation in the serf quarters is never a priority for the Astartes, and thus always malfunctioning in one way or another — and got herself wedged. Her lower half dangles out, feet barely able to touch the ground, legs wriggling.

Forrix is taking advantage of this. Judging by the sticky white mess on her lower thighs, he is not the first. Nor, it appears, will he be the last, given the impatient cries of his brothers.

“Hurry up Captain!”

“Can’t — rush — perfection,” he pants back, throwing a sharp-toothed grin over his shoulder — a grin that swiftly transforms into an expression of horrified twisted guilt as he sees Perturabo. “Oh shit — fuck — uh —“

He freezes, still inside the girl. She whimpers and kicks, writhing in a futile attempt to get free — and something about the movement clearly appeals to Forrix, since the unfortunate Astartes climaxes, his face twisting in a series of truly fascinating grimaces as he both tries desperately to avoid eye contact with Perturabo, and attempts a salute.

It is testament to the sheer iron discipline of the Iron Warriors that not one of his brothers so much as cracks a smile.

—

You try not to whine as you feel another load pulse inside you, sticky and hot, scalding your insides. Your cheeks are wet with tears, your throat sore from the dust you’ve been forced to inhale, and the only good thing about this whole damned situation is that not one of the Astartes can see your face. You half hope that they will get bored and wander off, and then you can free yourself, and then none of them will recognise you — unless they have a look at your thighs, that is. The first one to take you took out a switchblade and carved PROPERTY OF THE IVth into your flesh. It’s probably going to scar, damn them, and the only good thing about that is that at least none of them decided to engrave their oh so original ‘iron within, iron without jokes’ into you.

Because yes. There have been a lot of those.

Your innards ache, red and deep. You’re so full of Astartes cum you swear you can hear it sloshing inside you, and every time another one of them pushes inside he forces his brother’s ejaculate out, leaving it dripping in glutinous streams down your thighs. Your cunt is sore and stretched, and your clit throbs from their rough attentions — because oh no, they don’t just want to force themselves inside you. No, they like making you feel it. The latest — Forrix, the others called him — was the worst for that, rubbing the tip of his finger against your oversensitive nub, cooing about how sweet and soft you were, how he loved slutty human girls who knew their place.

The place, of course, being stuck in a fucking wall and being used as a fucking fleshlight. You hate that they’ve even managed to use your orgasm for their own ends, mocking you for coming apart on an Iron Warrior’s prick, taking bets on which of them made you cum the most, telling you to clamp down tighter — like you could do that at all. Your inner muscles are so sore you don’t think they will ever work properly again.

But it’s stopped —at least, there’s a pause. You hold yourself very very still, waiting for. the next cock to press inside you. You lost count around number six, and you pray that there aren’t that many left — though the darker part of your imagination conjures up an awful picture, of Iron Warriors all over the ship joining onto the end of a queue that stretches all the way down the corridor.

Forrix pulls out. You can’t help the mewling sob that claws up your throat. It’s all so much and it hurts and you want to rest. The raucous laughter has hushed; now you feel rather than hear the conversation, as Astartes converse in their equivalent of a whisper — pitched at a bass rumble that human ears can’t discern.

Then you hear Forrix clear his throat.

“Well, you could always try.”

“Why would I bother with such depravity?” says a new voice, and oh no. You know that one. Everyone aboard the Iron Blood knows the voice of the Breaker. “It is a waste of time — time better spent preparing for war.”

Silence. Then: “We’re not at war now though, are we? And it’s uh. Good. To relieve stress.”

“I am not stressed.”

“I never said you were, fa- my lord Primarch. Just that it’s enjoyable.”

The wall trembles as Perturabo steps closer. His huge hands spread your thighs open, forcing your cunt to gape further.

“She’s a mess. Has half the legion had her?”

“No, Lord Primarch. Just uh—“ you hear him muttering, wonder if he’s doing a head count. “Eight of us, plus me. These five were late to the party.”

You hear nondescript grumbling.

“Hm.” You feel one of Perturabo’s huge, gauntleted fingers sink into you. The metal is cold, and your toes curl at the intrusion. “Soft, but still too tight to take me. You and you —“ You imagine him pointing at Iron Warriors, ordering them about like he would any other lowly servant. “Have her next. Loosen her up for me. Then I’ll have my turn.”

Icy fear floods you as Perturabo lets go of your thighs. He needs other Astartes to stretch you before he can take you? Just how large is the Lord of Iron —

The next Iron Warrior pushes into you with no warning, his bare fingers stroking along your folds, deceptively gentle. You cry out, and bury your face into your hands as the obscene squelching starts up once more.

Iron within; iron without. But, mostly, iron within.

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IM IN LOVE WITH THIS!!1!1!!! ROGAL DORN ALERT. I will, in fact, be writing about this.

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For you

Night yall

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Relief

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: talk of periods, sexual content, MDNI

Description: Titus "helps" his serf lover through a particularly painful time of the month.

Forget whatever I said about my last fic. This one is definitely the spiciest thing I've ever written! I had planned on something entirely different, but then "that time of the month" reared its ugly head. And suddenly all I could think about was having a strong, handsome Astartes to help me through it.

Titus didn’t sprint, though he wanted to. 

After enduring the ominous warnings of the Chaplain, the disdain of Captain Acheran, and the incessant prying of his new squad (not to mention the small matter of a tyranid invasion), he longed for the solace of your presence.

Your touch.

Rage still burned like promethium within him when he remembered entering his quarters to find you half-starved. 

“You’re alive.” You’d whispered upon seeing him. “You’re alive.”

When I find the one responsible for her suffering….

His growl sent several serfs darting out of his path. He walked faster and, at last, the door to his quarters came into view. Soon, he would have you in his arms.

Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought. 

The first time he lay with you, before Kadaku and his remaking, had been beyond his imaginings. Baseline anatomy lessons from his neophyte days supplied the rudiments. But he had the Space Wolves and a solitary Salamander he’d met in the Death Watch to thank for the rest.

He’d encountered the former boasting of their conquests one evening in the dining hall after one of them had smuggled in a few barrels of foul-smelling mjod. As they grew more intoxicated, they delighted in shocking the more puritanical Astartes in the Watch with detailed descriptions of “fraternization”. 

Titus remembered being repulsed at first. Though, against his better instincts, that repulsion soon turned to wary curiosity. 

While the Wolves howled about conquering and claiming, a Salamander Apothecary had taken a seat next to Titus and shaken his head.

“Not all baseline females are the wild she-wolves of Fenris.” The old drake had rumbled quietly. “If an Astartes is blessed with the affections of a woman, he should cherish her with gentleness, for she is rare and precious.”

Titus remembered a sorrowful look in the veteran’s red eyes as he spoke, and the way he stroked a bone reliquary tied at his waist. 

He had tried to incorporate all he’d overheard into your union. You’d been so fragile in his hands, so vulnerable. And when your body welcomed him inside. When, amidst the white heat of his own ecstasy, he saw you gaze up at him….

Throne of Terra, I would slaughter every tyranid in the Hive Fleet to have you look at me like that always.

He punched his code into the access panel. He only had a few hours of leisure to spare, and a third of that had already been taken up in removing his armor. But he needed to feel your skin upon his again.

The door hissed open and-

Blood.

Every enhanced sense he possessed sharpened to a razor’s edge as the metallic scent filled his nostrils. Unlike before, when his mind had been clouded by sleep, he knew with absolute certainty this blood came from your body. 

The room was empty. Half the candles lit. One smoking tapir on its side by the cot. Indents on the mattress the size of small baseline hands. Drops of red on the floor. The sharp taste of stress and pain chemicals. Soft whimpers from the lavatory.

All this came to him in the time between heartbeats. Another heartbeat and he stood before the closed lavatory door.

“Little Healer?”

The medicae had said you would be fine. An injection of nutrients, a high calorie meal, and rest. You already looked better when he left you in the infirmary. They said you would be fine.

He’d had to leave. He had no choice. They said you would be fine!

“Demetrian?”

Conscious and able to speak. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the door.

“I am coming in.”

A sharp gasp. “No! Just, just give me a moment, please.”

He heard pain in your voice. His instincts screamed at him to tear through the metal to reach you.

The door slid open.

Pale skin. Sweat beads on your forehead. Hunched shoulders. You smiled up at him, but reeked of misery.

He scooped you into his arms. “We are returning to the infirmary.”

“Demetrian-”

“You are still unwell.”

“Demetrian, please-”

He strode toward the door of his quarters. “Or did you injure yourself?”

“No, Demetrian! Listen-”

“I should not have left you alone.”

A tiny fist bounced off his jaw. He stopped mid-stride and looked down at you in shock. You looked back at him, then down at your clenched fist, seemingly stunned by your own actions.

“I…I…,” you closed your eyes and breathed deeply, “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t know what came over me.”

“My lord?” He muttered. 

“Please put me down. I’m not unwell. And I’m not injured.”

He scowled. “You reek of blood, woman.”

Throne, has whatever hurt she suffered affected her mind as well?

“I know, but it’s…it’s natural, Demetrian.”

The Warp it is. “Explain.”

She sighed. “Can you put me down first? Please?”

“No.” 

He tightened his grip. If her mind was unbalanced, who knows what she might do if he released her.

Another sigh. “Fine. Once a month, a woman’s body undergoes a certain process….”

He remained silent during her entire explanation. When she finished, he carefully set her upon his cot.

“And this…cycle…causes pain?”

“Every woman experiences it differently. Some only ever feel mild discomfort, for others it’s little short of agony.”

You bit your lip. The pain smell spiked and, with it, his concern. 

“Why have I not noticed before?”

You breathed slowly now, in through your nose, out through your mouth. “You’ve always been on mission during this time. And…agh…in the Watch Fortress, Lord Apothecary Nev’ran made sure to set pain suppressants aside for us female serfs.”

The old Salamander always had a soft spot for the baselines, Titus remembered.

A low moan drew his attention back to you. You folded on his cot, arms wrapped around your midsection. 

His fingers twitched, automatically seeking a weapon. The instinct to destroy whatever caused you pain surged. He needed to fix this.

“Did you request pain suppressants from the medica?”

You started rocking slightly. “I…tried. He said they were unnecessary and dismissed me. I didn’t dare argue. In the Fortress, there were serfs I could go to for help during this time.” You looked up at him with a tight smile. “But I’m beginning to think I’m the only woman on this ship.”

Titus thought back over the last few days, and all the baseline crew he’d encountered.

She may be right.

“Oh Emperor….” 

Your whimper felt like another Carnifex talon through his chest.

“There must be something I can do.” He knelt before you, cupping your face in his hand. “Anything.”

You pressed against him. “Heat. Heat sometimes helps.” 

He let you move his hand to your lower stomach. You opened your robes and pressed it against your skin. 

“And, on my back, please?” 

Before you’d even finished asking, he slipped his other hand in and around. You gripped his arms and whined.

“Oh, oh yes.” 

He shouldn’t be aroused by this. You were still in pain. But your soft sounds of helplessness, the feel of your skin beneath his hands, the way you trembled. All of it called to a primal part of him only recently awakened.

And when you looked up at him in wonder and said, “You’re…you’re so much bigger now.”

Throne damn it.

Titus yanked you to him and took your mouth. You yelped, but did not struggle, instead throwing your hands around his neck and digging your fingers into the hair at his nape. He snarled at the sensation, pushing his tongue past your lips like you’d shown him that first night.

This time your moan sounded of pleasure.

He pressed his body against you, lowering you to your back on the cot. Your hands left his neck and fluttered against his chest. You pulled away from his kiss.

“Demetrian….”

He pressed his mouth to your throat, laving it with his tongue and tasting your sweat. He searched for a spot he could bite without leaving a visible mark. 

“Demetrian, stop!”

The magnitude of his selfishness crashed upon him.

“Throne. Forgive me, Little Healer.” Reeling back, he searched your face for any sign of pain. “I…I did not think, I…,” he raked a hand over his face, desperately trying to rein in his baser instincts.

“It’s all right. It’s just, now might not be the best time.”

“Would it cause you more pain?”

A blush spread across your cheeks. “Um…no, that’s not it. In fact, some women say…this…actually helps.”

“Truly?” 

Desire welled within him once more, washing away any lingering guilt. He bracketed your small body with his hands and loomed over you. 

“Then why should I stop?” You turned your face away, but he gently grasped your chin. “Look at me, and tell me why.”

“It, it,” he heard your heart beating wildly, “it could get a bit…messy.”

He blinked, then allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. “Woman, when has an Astartes ever shied away from the sight of blood?”

A new smell met his nose, one he had only recently become familiar with. He lowered his face close to yours and inhaled deeply. 

“You want this as much as I.”

You nodded frantically, hands suddenly pawing at his collar. “Yes! I want this. Please, Demetrian. Please, please, please!”

He tore his robe open and flung it to the floor. Your clothing swiftly followed. The scent of blood and arousal maddened him. He tried to pull your thighs around him, but you winced at the stretch.

For the first time he cursed the Primaris surgery. Grasping your hips, he turned you on to your front and settled behind you. He ran his hands down your back and sides, loving the way you trembled.

“Are you ready for me, my love?”

You pushed back against him. “Please, Demetrian.”

He thrust and your wet heat welcomed him in. His eyes rolled at the sensation, still so unlike anything he ever thought he’d experience. You cried out far louder than you had the first time. 

“Demetrian! S-so big…!”

Again. Again. Again, he thrust. In this position he felt powerful, primal. Like a beast claiming its mate.

The Wolves were right, damn them!

All at once, you tightened and screamed. With a growl he followed you over the edge. 

You collapsed onto your front. “Please…more….”

The first time, he’d only taken you once, denying his satisfaction for the sake of your overwhelmed little body. But now you begged him to continue. Who was he to refuse?

Three more times he released deep within. He pressed himself to your back, hand fondling your breasts as he pounded relentlessly. He lost count of how many times you shook apart around him. His own blinding pleasure paled in comparison to the knowledge that his actions relieved your pain. 

A tool designed to inflict suffering on others, but he brought you ecstasy.

“D-Demetrian…,” you whimpered. 

His fingers dug into the bruised flesh of your hips. “One more.”

You wailed as he filled you one last time, arching his spine to sink his teeth into your shoulder. Then he collapsed on his side.

He caressed your sweat-streaked back, allowing himself a brief moment to revel in the haze of pleasure. You lay still and panting next to him. 

“Are you well, my love?”

“Mmmm.”

By now, he recognized the sound of bone-deep satisfaction. He smiled down at you, already feeling his own body recovering. 

“You were right about one thing.”

“Mmm?”

“That was rather messy.”

You turned your head and attempted to glare at him. He chuckled, rose, and fetched a wet cloth from the lavatory. Ignoring your reaching hands, he cleaned the both of you. Then he sat on the edge of the cot and lifted you into his arms.

“Better?”

Your dreamy smile answered him. An entirely different kind of heat warmed his hearts as he cradled you. He ran a thumb over the imprint of teeth on your shoulder.

“I was not too rough?”

“You were perfect.” Your hands traced his new scars. “Throne of Terra, I came so close to losing you, didn’t I?”

He heard tears in your voice and held you closer.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled. “Another side effect of this time. I tend to turn into something of a weepy, clingy mess.”

“I enjoy your clinging.”

“But you need to go.”

“Yes.” As always, your respite, brief as it was, left him better prepared to handle the weight of his duty. “Will you be alright?”

“You have enough trouble without worrying about me, Demetrian. Human women have endured since our species began. I’ll be fine.” Your smile flickered. “Please, be safe. I love you.”

“And I you.” He pulled his robe back on and leaned down to kiss you once more. “I will return.”

And, I swear, I will find another way to ease your pain. 

***

An hour passed. You rested for a bit, then dressed and cleaned yourself more thoroughly. You stripped the sheets from the mattress and prepared for the trek to the laundry and then the serf’s dining hall. Not only had Titus's attentions eased your cramps, but you thought you might actually have an appetite again.

Just as you were about to leave, a few sharp raps sounded at the door.

“Who…?” 

You opened it to find a slight young woman with a face full of freckles and a satchel over one shoulder. Her robes marked her as a serf and a medica.

“Thank the Emperor!” She gushed. “I was afraid I’d gotten the wrong room!”

“Um. Hello?”

“My name is Vesta. I was just transferred here alongside my Lord Callistus. He’s supplementing the Apothecaries already in residence, you know. I was afraid I’d be the only woman! There are so few of us serving on the battle barges.”

You blinked, head-spinning from the rapid-fire chatter. “I see?”

She continued, stepping straight past you into the room. “I was just on my way back to the infirmary, when this massive Primaris Lord Angel barreled down on me. How fearsome he was! I don’t need to tell you I was terrified I’d done something wrong, and on my first day on a new ship, too! But he said you were experiencing some difficulties and needed assistance.”

Oh, Demetrian…. You fought a smile.

Vesta plopped the satchel on the cot. “I have pain suppressants, cleansing cloths, sanitary napkins. I do hope I brought enough.”

“This is incredibly kind of you.”

“Us women have to stick together, right?” She smiled cheerfully. “I hope we’ll be great friends!”

You found yourself warming to her effervescence. “I would like that.”

“You’re so fortunate to have a Lord Angel who’s attentive to your needs!”

You turned away, suddenly all too aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs. “Yes. I am.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

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If you enjoy my writing, check out the rest of the stuff on my Masterlist.

[coolestork]

Guilliman in 30K: *Is bright eyed and hopeful, genuinely believes he can help lead humanity to prosperity, is very proud and vocal about his home Macragge*

Guilliman in 40K:

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come out lorgar, I just want to talk

art: Corax by Misha Savier for Games Workshop