#and also on the voidship

[review-anon]

I feel like Don might do something if she's allowed to roam, so, if I can I may drop Dante into the ship

Dante: Oh no nono no Don you are not doing anything drastic.

Normally I would be shocked there's a guy with a clockface but my girlfriend is a walking magical nuke so I don't have a lot of grounds to argue on.

Don: Manager? W-what are thou doing here?

Dante: I just got word you are on this ship and knowing you, you would do something drastic so I'm here to keep an eye on you!

(Don't make the obvious joke...)

Dante: Anyway terribly sorry about that young man, Don here is...a bit of a handful so I'll be taking her off the ship.

It's fine...we just had to deal with a crisis so maybe another one isn't wise at this point in time.

Dante: Having sinners on there seems like a bad idea so we shall be going.

*Don and Dante leave the Voidship*

Now what was I out here for....

Oh yes, Aliza is resting now and I was just getting some snacks for her when she wakes up.

[laugtherhyena]

Kizumom and Minagrandma

[rosykims]

WHY AM I SO BAD AT BEING MEAN IN THE BEING MEAN UNIVERSE :(

[summertide-treehouse]

hello voidshipping nation

[echthr0s]

Sparrow said this is Marazhai (and Trixie is Rogue Trader Noah trying to give him therapy)

[durgewyll]

rogue trader's chapter 3 is a trip

[vyzz-undercover]

[Squad Damocles/f!serf]

(11,000 words) (OOPSIEEEE MAXED IT AGAIN)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•intercourse [M/M/M/F]

•oral sex (m & f receiving)

•discussions on the codex

•discussions on reproduction

•essentially a bukkake

•vaginal fingering

•dubcon (via power imbalance)

•definitely size kink

•mild fear elements

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i live despite god, cato chapter 6 will be coming soonish ANYWAYS PSPSPSPSPSP heeeeere kitties kitties!!!! @moodymisty, @mothiir, @sinistermojo, @kit-williams, @primarisly-marooned, @thevoidscreams, @the-raven-lady, @lemon-russ, @blasphemme, @grimdark-raccoon, @pluvio-tea, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @scriberye, @sinistermojo, @undeaddream, @historitor-bookshelf, @vivacious-hyena, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan. If you want on or off lmk!! I HAVE BAD MEMORY ILY!! ALSO SPECIAL FUCK YOU TO MY DEAR @triassicnautilus WHO IS TO BLAME FOR THIS FIC!!

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It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

Your familial line and ancestors have served the highest echelons of the great Angels for hundreds of years, and yet—of all of your far more worthy, servile kin—you're the first in generations to be sequestered to a new voidship.

It's terrifying.

You're not even sure if you're being demoted in status, because you drift between duties like they hadn't really planned to have you just yet.

When the head serf of the Barge finally has you delegated to a Primaris—it is to Lieutenant Demetrian Titus, of Second Company.

It has been less than a week, now. To say nothing of the fact he hadn't even acknowledge you in his dormitory, at first.

He has made no comment of your presence besides a huff. It's to be expected, as is his right. Your duty is to serve with or without order. But it's certainly not entirely unpleasant being freed of demands —pointedly, he appears to be largely self sufficient. Your new Lord sets his rest attire aside for you, folds sheets to be washed; and, once, brought his cot down from the wall when he saw you struggling at the task.

It takes three days of this for you to notice stern green eyes lingering.

Like most of the Adeptus Astartes who are more often called to active service, there's scant bric-a-brac to be organised in his lodgings.

Perhaps due to the fact that none of the souvenirs of his long service are small in any way.

Much rather, everything your Lord owns is each a hulking testament to his might in war. Like the intricate pauldron hung on the side wall that is the size of your ribcage, and the length of fine red fabric fitted within that which is almost the height of you.

Nonetheless, your Lord begins to try snag your gaze; despite the fact you most often keep your head bowed.

It begins first as you rise to your tippy-toes to dust off the chainsword upon a small outcrop.

It's a tap on his chest armour, that you turn to catch the sound of. Then, when you return with a small crate to stand upon to better reach the shelf, it's a rapt of gauntlet'd fingers on his hip-plating; and a curious focus in his eyes as you spin around to heed the noise.

Lots of little things to coax you to glance at him.

His strange plans pay off, more often than not. It's very difficult to ignore the out of place song of ceramite and steel being drummed against.

This all entertains your Lord, apparently. He doesn't go so far as to laugh or anything, Throne forbid; but he does huff a little from his nose while keeping a neutral, unchanged face. And to that ends, it's difficult to believe a great being as he would stoop to such.

But the Astartes aren't as stalwart every waking hour as the average individual would believe.

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

Nothing more than, 'Good, serf.' when you neatly fold his sheets under the thin mattress and press the wrinkles flat. His voice is a steady lilt, stoic and rugged, and all you can do is nod doltishly.

Then it worsens. It worsens into fully fledged questions, that you shudder and hesitate to answer. At first, it's a stray comment of asking why you have hair still, and that too is a surprise—the serf's on this Battle Barge appear to be clean-shaven on their heads, and yet nothing has been asked of you to undertake such yet.

Then the situation nosedives.

"Where were you stationed, prior to this?" He asks as he's unclad, seated on his cot in a loincloth as you mop.

You haven't dared look at anything more than the skin below his knees as you labour. Even his calves dwarf you, they may as well be one of your thighs.

"I–" you begin, stammering. "I was previously assigned upon the Primarch's Flagship, my Lord."

"Truly? To whom?"

"My mother is indentured to the Chapter Master, as were her parents," you say softly, and clutch the handle tightly.

His brows furrow before asking, "And you were bade sent here? By Lord Calgar, of all people?"

You cock your head, and you aren't sure why his tone is accusative; nor can you parse out the confusion in it. The fact remains your family served on the flagship, the point of who matters not more than simple competence pedigree.

"Nevermind," he sighs, and tips his head down.

You realise you're actively looking at him a bit too late.

He is very handsome, ruggedly so. It is a fact you've viciously tried to repress acknowledging since your assignment to his service—he is as all of his kind is—tall, mighty statue given flesh, built for warring on a million worlds and excelling at such a leviathan task; yet there's a softness to your Lord in the warm, yellow-red candlelight not afforded to him under the harsh hallways lumens.

His chin is darkened with light stubble, and his usually sternly knitted brows are steadily becoming calm and flat. The harsh lines on his face aren't at all as unnerving when they're countered by the thoughtful expression he now wears.

"I believe you may be a sort of gift from him," he supplies dryly.

"A gift, m-my Lord?" You stutter, unseated by the hulking, unclad form of the Primaris Lieutenant so close.

"Titus," he corrects softly, leaning in; and the room is a little less frigid with him practically breathing on you.

"My Lord T-Titus," you adjust, and he snorts good-humouredly.

"Close, but not quite," he tuts, "You may call me Titus."

You lower your head nervously, keeping your gaze down; ultimately receiving an eyeful of his large chest and navel. The scars littering his flesh are a hodgepodge of livid cicatrix, old tissue, and the healed over pitted marks of bullet holes. He has a light dusting of hair across the span of his pectorals, patchy with the aforementioned damage.

Then it deepens to a darker, coarser shade down his dense abdomen, arrowing lower, and lower and—

"Calgar's privy to much," he chuffs, then reaches a large hand up and you're greeted to the sound of a palm scrubbing against stubble. "My predilections, too... worryingly."

You hesitate, completely bemused by the admission—you have no clue what your Lord is talking about. Point of fact, there's a need to reply hanging in your heart; but you stifle it down.

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

There's a fey, strangled sort of anchor in his voice as he says, "Is it a stretch to say you've been with an Astartes before?"

You cock your head again, "I have served my whole life, my Lord Titus, I assure you that I am—"

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

You hesitate, and feel very real fear seize your mind as you speak, "I-I—If you mean intercourse, such has not been sanctioned for me, m-my Lord."

He stares at you with a deep contemplation, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest at the lie of omission.

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

Swallowing around the dryness in your throat once more you mumble, "Once, m-my Lord."

"We are evenly matched in that contest, then."

Eyeing the Lieutenant in place of further responding offers you little respite from the heat and panic boiling in your veins.

"If it's to your liking," he starts, "I could indulge you?"

You blink, "My Lord?"

"I'm not going to see you punished should you decline me," he says with that same terribly earnest tone, "I'd only ask you not to speak of this proposition occurring with any others."

There is something in the way the he speaks, the way his voice slips lower, into rougher and barer territories that vaguely resemble what you imagine your Lord might've-been propositioning you as a mortal man that is utterly staggering. It isn't even about what he is saying—it's more about how he is saying it.

The naked urgency is strange, and you're terrified and entranced all in one.

He pats what little space on the side of the cot his bulk doesn't consume and you take a half step before freezing on instinct.

He repeats the gesture and you drag your feet, cautiously approaching before perching yourself beside him and being swallowed by his seated form in the candle-light's shade.

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

Your Lord seems to recognise the worry and lowers it a little, only to leave it hovering over your tunic'd leg.

You imagine the great Angel sees you as some shivering wet animal at his mercy, somewhat. You eye his huge hand nervously but ultimately sigh out your nerves and relax a little.

If this was a test of some sort, surely the guillotine would have fallen by now—not that the thought eases you in any way.

His hand tentatively settles on your thigh, and you're shocked at the sheer heaviness of the thing. It's a pressure all it's own, and so heated that you're hyperaware of the warmth suffusing through your garb onto your skin.

It drags up, ever so slowly, and you inhale shakily—stunned by the strength in just one hand most definitely being more than you have in your entire body.

You feel like you should be squirming with the thrill of the gesture, moving against that huge limb; but are too frozen by the gravity of the situation to act.

"I will need an actual answer, however," he remarks belatedly, smoothing his calloused palm back down your thigh.

A cold, wild animal horror sinks in beside something wretchedly simmering as you dither, finally replying with, "I-I would, should you wish it, my Lord."

"Titus," He raises a dark, scarred eyebrow lazily, correcting you once again with a light sigh, "Calgar has schooled you on your manners a bit too well, it seems."

You frown, at shameful odds with maintaining discipline despite your Lord's repeated protest, and avert your eyes again. Trying to play off the shiver his voice so close inspires in your spine.

A choked grunt escapes him not long after and you meet his gaze haphazardly.

Only to be met by an uncanny sight, and heavy, clogged-engine laughter.

Your Lord's lips have skinned back over his teeth at you in a large grin. Charming as the gesture should be, it is certainly not something a fellow baseline would call a particularly friendly expression—maybe due to the fact it felt strange seeing so much emotion at once from him. It looks more akin to a beast in human skin baring it's fangs, and just as animalistic. The back of your brain screams there's a threat of being mauled.

It is a somewhat fey thing to witness, despite the fact it appears to be a genuine display of mirth. And when it falls away to a closed smile, it's much better to behold—the age lines on his face crinkle just right to make him just that little bit more attractive.

"We'll get there," he chuckles. "But first, you will need to be stretched."

That sounds painfully ominous.

You scowl a little in confusion and parrot the word, "...stretched?" back at him in an almost unconsciously quiet voice.

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

The breath you take in is almost choked with hind-brain panic, mind crafting a series of impossible sizes—crushing and rending, turning your insides to paste. Worse than the time you'd seen a servitor veer into the pulleys of the lift platforms.

"Move further up on the cot," he huffs,

You oblige, and slide back a little; ruining your earlier efforts of fussing with his sheets.

He lifts himself off the cot, kneeling, and breathes in solemnly; his face pinched a tad.

"Settle," comes the Lieutenant's affirmation, "I'll make sure you're unharmed... now, if you allow me see what I'm to be working with?"

You nod shakily, and the massive hand previously upon your thigh splays you out. His other joins it on the converse and mimics the gesture, spreading you.

He shuffles closer to the cot's edge on his knees and chuffs, "Lean back, and put your legs up on me."

Stuffily, you obey, resting your calves on his broad back as you sidle astride his head.

"Very good," your Lord hums; and Holy Terra, you can hardly believe that you're feeling his warm breath dance across your skin. You have a feeling of what he's planning to do, it's unfathomable—nor can you bear to watch one of the great Angels do this.

One of his huge hands cups your hip as he hikes up your tunic's hem to keep you still, nudging it up, and up, until you realise he's trying to coax you into disrobing—to which you oblige with a flustered timidity.

Emperor have mercy, you can't fathom the looming act, and it's consequence—so with scant preamble, you quickly cover your face with both palms.

What a wretched day to've forsaken briefs in favour of a longer garb. Now, you're stuck stark naked on the Angel's bed, and you can feel he's—he's kneading your waist, then squeezing your hip—you're so beyond forsaken it's laughable. You're doomed. But your insides are twitching at the contact, and the feeling of his worn palm taking a moment to grope your thigh has your nerves aflame with anticipation. What a great shame to have brought an Astartes so low, to have him disgrace himself in—oh, no.

A wide band of slick muscle drags upward, and the sensation is nigh ecstasy. The heat of his mouth is divine, and—and rolling against your clit.

Your Lord rumbles contentedly when your legs jump and you almost choke trying to hold back a ragged, stunned moan.

His huge tongue worms into you, big nose jammed against your clit; his mouth several times larger than your own forced to practically eat at your cunt—going at you with an almost desperate eagerness before raking up again and humming against your tender little nub.

"Are you aware you're in season?" He says, still smothering himself to your sex, and it is so offhanded it's jarring; like a finger stuck in a door hinge.

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

He steals another greedy lick of your entrance, "I already knew by how you smelt—but I can taste it too," he notes smoothly, and laps at you again.

Your Lord pulls away and you grow enough backbone to glance between your fingers. He has a blank look on his stern face, pupils blown out, rolling his tongue around his mouth before he apparently frees himself from whatever haze overtook him.

His chin and chops are wetted with clear, slimy lubricant—your slick—and he takes a deep breath.

It's a little mind boggling seeing his other hand rise up from beyond your view. Why is it already glistening slightly? Had he been...? Surely not, surely...

"Your turn with this, I suppose," comes the straightforward, depraved confirmation of your suspicions.

The hold already on your side turns into a vice; and then there's massive digits tracing your entrance.

"It's alright," he rasps, "It's only two."

—then you're crammed full of a Primaris' ring and middle finger.

The sheer size of just that alone is insane, but most of all, it's brilliant. And yet, somehow everything gets even better.

Your Lord's mouth claims its' place back on your clit and sucks.

A garbled whine, and the bliss has you shaking like a leaf.

His fingers stretch your walls as he scissors them out, only to curl in sharp, precise motions; as if your cunt is some weapon he's searching for the trigger mechanism inside of.

Wound too tight, it all comes to an embarrassingly quick end with you letting out a ragged sob, bucking sharply in surprise. Absolutely stunned into orgasm as your core muscles cinch up, keening.

Unfortunately, set on his goal, your Lord does not let up immediately—holding fast and unmoving—and is only disengaged when, cotton-mouthed to words by overstimulation, you blindly flail, stamping your heels into the massive span of his upper back.

He looks a little confused as he releases you, as if he'd been in some sort of trance again.

Blinking a few times and righting himself, he clears his throat, "We should... learn to coordinate that better," he admits, his voice a little rougher, "Tap three times to stop. Two to slow. Once to continue."

There's a short lapse of speaking after that as you ogle his face lingering between your thighs; until you abruptly realise he's waiting for your answer.

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

A big, dark brow raises, "I believe you're simply misbehaving, now."

Your stomach leadens as panic sinks its' claws into you and with a blubbering whine you stammer, "N-No, no... please, my Lord—I mean, my Lord Titus, I-I am not, I swear—"

"It's only a joke," he huffs, and his dark brows arch down a hint in a somewhat sympathetic manner. "Do... do I really frighten you that much?"

You swallow harshly and stutter, "I-I-I—I am a serf, my duty is humility."

It's not the right answer, that much is obvious. It's strange to say that some sort of childish disappointment passes over his features.

"You'll settle in time," he says softly, more like a prayer than anything.

His hands manoeuvre you onto your belly, so your ass is poised high at the edge of the cot for easy access.

Your Lord is tall enough to mount you on his knees like this, and it's clear that's his intent when a thick cock slides experimentally between your thighs.

You try to look behind you to see just how big a thing is to be rammed into you—but he clicks his tongue like you're some unruly little creature, and that's all the discipline you need to be dissuaded.

"You'll only spook yourself," he sighs lowly.

A fat, rounded tip prods at your entrance, wet and hot.

"I'll be gentle as I can," he continues.

You strain to fit even that, and then the burning starts.

Your Lord groans, his hips hitching forward in little motions as you shake, fighting to keep yourself presented on steady knees for him as he presses deeper.

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

"Breath," your Lor—Titus urges, sounding strained himself, "Breath."

You squirm, and there's a burning at your rim as he pushes a little deeper; it's a painful reminder of your own lacking size compared to him.

"Almost there," he all but growls, then you hear him raggedly ask, "How... how are you faring?" but you're nowhere near up to the task of responding.

Still, attempting to be dutiful, you try—and all that comes out is a seizing gasp.

You are far too preoccupied with twitching on the scalding slab of Primaris currently giving your insides a stern word to manage a sentence.

In your panic, you manage to smack some part of him twice, even if you have no idea what you're hitting—dragging your hand across wall-sturdy muscle.

Titus stills.

You freeze in fear, waiting for a reprimanding that never comes.

He takes a deep breath in and grits out, "It's alright, it's a difficult fit," to which you whine dumbly, and Titus continues, "I am... larger, than I once was," he says softly, pausing to groan when a shudder sends you squeezing on him, "You're still taking me very well."

He is large, that is true; but he's also warm. So terribly warm, he's almost fever-hot inside of you.

The pain abates in the interim as the pleasure of you steadily acclimatising replaces it, and slowly, you ever so carefully tap him once to continue.

Titus shimmies and you squeal at the burr of electric sensation that makes your mind melt for a half-second, only for your ass to coincidentally scud backwards into his hips with a sticky plap.

You're struck daft when a sudden shrill of lightning sparks up your spine as you feel him bottom out at last, hitting your cervix, blinding you for a heartbeat.

You whine loudly at the sensation.

"All in," he rasps, breathing harshly as he rocks his hips to keep you pliant. "You've done it, hush... it's all inside, little one."

Your cunt's tingling around every inch of him, clenching down—trying desperately to decide wether to buck back against him or scramble off and run for your life. You doubt you could manage the latter. Despite his strange insistence on altruism, there's no way you'd have the nerve to deny the great Angel, lest the Emperor Himself punishes you for it. But you're surely not about to complain about the situation when you're enjoying it so thoroughly.

It's dazzling having him so deep, it feels more akin to being impaled than simply filled.

His balls sit snug against your vulva, heavy against your clit; and you moan—rolling your hips back against his in a moment of delirious bliss.

Titus groans appreciatively, and you strain to tip your head into the big hand petting you while your chin is tucked into the crease of his elbow.

"You're tough for such a small thing," he begins with an airy huff of satisfaction, "I was stunned the last time I managed to fit in a baseline..." he hums, then apparently something seizes his humours and he grumbles, "...let alone now after crossing the Rubicon."

His voice rumbles in his chest where it's pressed to your back, like the purring, hardworking systems of some mighty machine spirit. But the strain behind his cadence plays havoc with your mind, and the sinking realisation you've got him hilted inside your truly takes root.

Your thighs shake, and the room feels stuffier—he feels impossibly closer, and your body is boiling despite the cold press of armour interface ports against your skin as he thrusts back and forth; to say nothing of the fingers fussing your hair out of your face—he's–he's so agonisingly tender.

"Are you finishing on me?" You hear him say, but you honestly cannot even tell if you're cumming because everything is a buzzing lurch of cramping electricity. "Good, that's... very good. Throne, you're—"

You're barely cognisant of him straining forward to a stop; but your body judders with satisfaction, and the rest of his words melt together in your ears into an insensible baritone as you struggle through dazzling ecstasy. It steals the air out of you, nigh agonising bliss sharp and rising from your belly—scrambling at the huge forearms now keeping you in place while he continues fucking into you, weakly crying.

When you return to having a functioning body, you're hyperventilating; and leaving a smear of drool across the interior of Titus' elbow.

Slowly becoming audibly cognisant beyond just the ringing in your head to the wet slapping sound of him chasing his own end in your cunt.

"You'll... you'll have to forgive me for being a little quick, on the first... round," he rumbles against your ear, panting as he nails you right through your afterglow. "It's been... so long, since..."

Titus doesn't even manage to finish his sentence. Instead, he snarls out a low, subharmonic sound and his hips slam forward into you. He's bending you up underneath him; forcing you to let him stuff himself to the base. You feel his balls sandwich against you, and you hear the sopping wet squish of him bottoming out.

His cock throbs inside you, and you're left warbling a dazed whine rife with pleasure addled pain at the sudden roughness.

Hot spend fills you and you keen, acutely aware of it spilling over and dripping out between.

The sensation of having it so deep and yet still too much to contain is playing havoc with your hindbrain, and in that fucked-out state you exhaustedly rock your hips.

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

"Careful, careful..." He grits out, panting as his hand draws a smooth, comforting line down the side of your leg before he manages, "You'll get more, just... give me a moment. I promise you, there's plenty where—"

You hear the sound of steel parting, and the white lights of the corridor near blind you.

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

You sober nigh instantly as your stomach proverbially drops to the floor, and your head snaps to the doorway shutting behind the form of a tall, darker Primaris.

"Brother," he receives in answer, "What are you doing?"

"Entertaining... a guest," Titus clears his throat against your ear and tips his head back a little, leaving you clearly shaking in mortification.

He still graciously keeps his body covering yours, and you try to hide under the mass of it.

"I was not aware this sort of entertainment was sanctioned," the other Primaris says, taking a deep inhale and making a strange face—hold on, you–you know this Astartes. You had served in his arming staff temporarily for a day while your judicator had been shuffling positions to keep you busy on the Barge prior to your Lord's arrival and your assignment. You remember the first letter. It was a C—perhaps Cato? No, it began with a digraph—like the end of the word stomach. Chrysion? No, no—it's Chairon—his name is Chairon.

"I ask only that you don't involve the Chaplain," Lord Titus groans, seemingly exasperated. "Just petition the Chapter Master and be done with—"

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

Titus' breath catches, "...no?"

"I want to understand why," he receives in answer, snorting a bit before taking another gulp of air and making the same strange face.

A long, tense silence—and you ought to be terrified and flee, but you can't do much more than squirm weakly on the fat cock stock stiff against your cervix. He still hasn't gone soft, why hasn't he gone soft? Is–Is this what he meant by first round? The frightening stamina of an Astartes in battle is one thing, but it extends even to this? How many rounds have you signed yourself up for?

Chairon harrumphs, "I've never heard of this sort of thing happening, so I want to understand."

Titus huffs hard through his nose like a sort of equine and regards his battle-brother with a knowing tone, "You want a turn then, I assume?"

"If you're willing to allow it," Chairon answers, then looks to you. "And if she's up to the task of two."

You hear Titus hum lowly, and then he gently—ever so gently—cups your chin and tips your head up to see his face.

"Are you?" He rasps, "We'll be mindful not to harm you, should you... accept, such a task."

It's painfully difficult to even think about denying Titus when his big, pupil-blown green eyes meet your own. Your insides ache where he's still buried, but nonetheless some brainless, whorish urgency sends you swallowing harshly and nodding, "Y-Yes, my Lord."

"Go on," Titus chuffs, clicking his tongue at Chairon as a gesture to sit.

Chairon lowers himself down on the thin mattress with one leg off the side of the cot and the other tented up on it, thighs spread.

"I ought to pull out, now."

"No," Chairon huffs, "Not yet, I have an idea."

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

You blanch, and the urge to curl up and simply die nearly overcomes you. You're still—you're still full of your Lord, in every sense of the word, what more can you fit?

Chairon slides himself a little closer until you're practically nosing at his loincloth.

A big hand tilts your chin up and stuffs a thumb between your surprise-parted maw, depressing your tongue.

"You have very pretty lips," Chairon hums as his metal hand pulls his garments away for you.

With a little pressure, you're being guided close to his mostly flaccid cock like a fish by the hook. Then his thumb leaves your mouth and you glare at the length presented to you.

You look up at Chairon's face next, and he raises a brow. So, in turn, you press a soft kiss to the side of his shaft; watching intently when he inhales sharply at the act, pursing his lips for a second.

Then he smiles.

He has a smile that makes you want to melt despite the fact he's an Astartes. It's warm, and suits his fuller cheeks—it's more personable in appearance than you would ever admit aloud out of shame.

You fluster and glance down, taking the head of him into your mouth. He's still huge, regardless of the fact he's mostly half-soft.

Your reward is a thoughtful hum, and a big hand petting your head.

"Lieutenant, do you wish to continue...?"

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

You're being driven into anew, whining around the steadily hardening member in your mouth and time, for a moment, loses it's bearing. All your mind can bother to focus on is red hot pleasure and heat on your tongue, your own airy, cock-stifled sounds and two syncopated sets of groans and grunts.

"Her mouth's nice and warm," you hear Chairon moan above you.

There's no stall to Titus' pace of thrust as he pants, "I wouldn't know."

"Care to try?"

You have no idea how long you've simply been content in having them both sink in you, but you suddenly return to awareness when you hear Titus' curt, "Gladly."

Then you're suddenly being manhandled like a doll, the cock in you slips out with a pop—as does the one in your mouth—and the room spins as they lift you and change.

You groan in confusion, and paw for the familiar figure now afore you, glancing up.

Titus' hand combs through your hair softly and he chuffs that strange subvocal sound that makes you entranced for a moment.

"Deep breath," your Lord says, and then to your surprise—Chairon's cock presses into you.

It's actually largely easy to take, after having had Titus in you for so long. Chairon's is not as thick as to send you aching, yes, he's big of course, but it's a perfect, pleasurable size inside—and judging by Titus' length now a few inches from your face, it makes sense why he needed to stretch you.

It's practically a bottle of wine, how on Terra did you manage to—

Your thoughts wither as you're forced to moan heartily; namely due to Chairon bottoming out and settling against your cervix.

He moans back, and a huge, warm hand strokes down your spine, heat thudding in your face at the sheer show that he's enjoying you.

Then you're yelping, and something bitterly chilled is on your flesh, sending goosebumps arcing up your back as you flinch.

"Are you alright?" Chairon starts abruptly, and you groan at the freezing steel now pawing at your side.

Titus scowls as he finds the issue before you can voice it, "I think it's your augmentic."

"Really?" Chairon tuts, and leans down to ask, "Is there something the matter with my hand?"

It's clearly a lighthearted accusation, but you haven't been properly subjected to this sort of teasing by a Primaris until today, and you whine.

"It's—it's c-cold," You stutter, and nose against Titus' thigh for comfort; a little uneasy by the confrontation.

Chairon pouts, "I'll keep it's use to a minimum, then."

You swoon at the meagre kindness, and feel your already scalding face boil over as excitement rises.

Titus simpers down at you and remarks, "Is that to your liking?"

You nod and seek a closer hold on his leg for leverage, squirming a little before settling. Your cheek rests against the high point of Titus' thick leg—every so often able to sneak a lick of him.

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

The cock in you jerks when the hulking Primaris inside you laughs.

"She smells it, too," Chairon coos, "Don't you, sweet little thing? You smell like you're practically sugared."

You whine needily at the words, Titus' huge cock plastered against your cheek as you leer forward desperately and lap pre-cum from the tip.

"Because she's currently mid-cycle," Titus says flatly. "Her hormones are trying to convince you to breed with her."

Chairon hums thoughtfully, "Fortunate for her that we are, then—still, I'm glad to know that's what that is."

Titus pets you as you continue licking him, one hand carefully managing your hair as the other holds his length to better allow you getting it in your mouth.

Chairon bottoms out again and your body shakes, a trying whine escaping around the cock on your tongue as you relish the sensation.

"You're doing well," Titus rasps out at you, hips making small circles that let him dip into your mouth in short pumps.

Your reaction is wantonly pathetic, if you're completely honest with yourself.

It's a desperate, nasally whimper and a sudden eagerness to please that sends you letting his cock-head bump your epiglottis. Holding for a second despite the ache of your jaw and swallowing before inching yourself away; sputtering a little and moving the heavy swell of his member to warm your tongue instead, sucking on him.

Titus groans in approval, and his hand pets just that much more; earning a sigh when you try stuffing more of him in your mouth again.

Chairon's thrusts steady as he simply takes his time, pacing himself; it's all the better to give your Lord Titus a nice, wanting hole to fuck at his own pace.

"I completely understand... why you were doing this, now," Chairon hums, his pelvis skewing with a slight jerk.

All pretence of steadiness are banished as he starts grinding downward into you, causing a wave of hypersensitivity to stagger you daft.

You clench down hard with a flinch of surprise. Pleasure swelling out of the blue to a crescendo, tipping you over the edge only moments later. The roll of your orgasm ripping through you has your legs locking stiff for a moment, your internal muscles tensing on the intrusion.

Chairon inhales sharply, holding himself perfectly still as your insides cinch down hard around him erratically.

It's certainly not the only finishing happening though, because the cock in your mouth is suddenly painting the inside of your mouth and gullet as you hastily try swallow it down.

Your hear Titus hiss, and the hand in your hair tightens when his thighs start shuddering through heavy throbs of spend.

It feels for a moment as if it's going to come out of your nose there's so much. What doesn't go down your throat definitely tastes wholly unpleasant, but the resumed affections nullify any complaints you have.

You cough and carry on a little at the rapid succession of events and hide your face in Titus's lap again; half-consciously licking your spend stained chops where hopefully neither of them can see.

"My... apologies," Titus is still panting as he says, "I... I should have warned you."

A soft whine is all you can offer.

"Are you well?" Titus asks, tone a little ragged.

You practically shiver around Chairon's cock, and the sound you let out is long-suffering, but not enough.

His voice turns serious, "I need an answer."

A moan flees your throat, "Less—less than before, m-my Lord," you whimper, breathing hard, "But, I'm okay, I'm—n-ngh... not injured."

The grunt he makes in return is an amicable noise, and Chairon seizes your hips with his flesh hand. Lifting you to line up better with his rutting, trying valiantly to ease the pressure.

Oh, that's so much better on your internal walls—the pressure is bliss, and everything is warm and fuzzy and soft; you shut your eyes, moaning—and then you hear the familiar thunk-thunk-click-vshhh of the door opening.

"Titus, you've returned! I'm so glad to hear of your—" a voice starts, then rightly hesitates.

The silence is deafening.

"Chairon?" the blonde Primaris barks suddenly, "What... what are you... what is the serf...?"

You hear Chairon blubber for a moment before laughing in astonished horror, "I'm not even going to try explaining this."

"Gadriel, this is perhaps not a good time," Titus sighs.

The blonde Pri—Gadriel, looks at what little he can of you past your Lord's form and sneers.

The expression only deepens as he scowls, "What are you both doing?"

Chairon lets out a long, trying breath and you feel him lean back a little, yet still remaining inside you as he says, "At least let the door shut before you set about interrogating us, Sergeant."

Gadriel blinks and takes a step in, and promptly sets about putting himself in the furthest corner from the spectacle as possible.

"It reeks of molasses in here," the Sergeant huffs.

Chairon harrumphs, a little strained, "We have been at her a while..." then the attention turns on you, "...she's enjoying herself."

"And that's what the stink is?"

"That," Titus answers, "And seminal fluids."

"To what ends?" Gadriel grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Procreation?"

"There's no restrictions on it in the Codex, believe me."

The look on the Sergeant's face is somewhere between intrigue and confusion, "I've never even heard of it happening."

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

"I wouldn't have guessed before either," Chairon scoffs.

"From time to time the odd one of us engages in it," your Lord digresses over them both, "But it's under absolute discretion."

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

Gadriel pouts, "I think I'll stand by, for a while, Lieutenant."

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

It's distantly amusing watching the trio of great Angels bicker like baseline teenagers.

You might've even dared to laugh at the sheer absurdity, if not for the fact the instant you're about to start you're promptly being fucked stupid again—a heady plap, plap, plap of balls against your vulva and pelvis against your rear.

You try to hide your face in Titus's warm lap, but you're still visible to them all and it's mortifying. Squirming on the heated drag of a cock in you with nothing to shield the fact you're loving every second of it, you toss your gaze aside and accidentally meet the Sergeant's.

He's—he's definitely standing by, and he's certainly watching.

There's a growing redness on his patrician face that proves he's aware of the lewdness of the situation.

"How does it..." Gadriel starts, only to hesitate; failing to feign only vague interest. "How does it feel?"

"Warm and wet... and tight," Chairon rasps, and strokes a huge hand down your back.

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

"Especially when you..." Chairon bucks forward, bottoming out and stealing a gasp from you as your cunt shivers around the sudden effort.

Gadriel's gaze half-lids with the distraction of the sound.

He shifts his weight between his feet irritably, and you can—on some strange level—tell you've got yourself into a looming predicament.

Three. You're to take three Primaris, sooner or later.

Evidently all the so-called inhuman warriors need to return to baser wants and lusts is an example and free reign.

"Where did you even get her?" Gadriel asks, and takes a step closer, keenly looking at your face as you drool on Titus' lap.

Too many eyes on you at your most vulnerable sends flustering, even if your cheeks blaze at the thought.

"I second that," Charion huffs out a wry, short laugh and pets you again, "Where, Lieutenant?"

You whine in embarrassment, insides clenching—there's an infinite torment to the moniker that sends your heart into your throat with lust so wanton you can hardly bare it.

"Lord Calgar apparently knows my tastes all too well," he says lowly above you.

His hand outstretches and cups the whole side of your head including your cheek in one huge palm.

You can't bring yourself to stifle the urge to moan at that, and lean into your Lord Titus' touch like a lovesick dog. "I'll make sure you're not hurt, hm?" Titus rasps, then, to your dismay, decides he's to extricate himself for the time being and starts to scud off the cot.

"Your turn, Gadriel," Chairon huffs at the Sergeant.

You can't really say how quickly he sets about swapping himself in place of your Lord Titus in front of you, because for some reason you blink and the Sergeant is there.

Quite frankly, you weren't sure how long you'd even blinked for. You might have dozed off for a few seconds as far as you're aware.

The cock in front of you is long, smooth, and pretty; with a thatch of dirty blonde hair. Which seems to match it's owner to a fair sum, and it's also already hard. Which is somewhat surprising, given the fact you'd had to mouth at—

"Get on with it, serf," Gadriel says with a stiff jaw; and sits a little more forward, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Big, sturdy quads that would surely be a perfect temporary cushion to rest against.

His cock's heavy with blood and leaning leftward, and you lap at the side—dragging your lips from the base lined by dark blonde hair to the flushed, leaking tip.

You slowly start pumping him with a small hand in a steady jerking motion as you keep the tip of his cock on your tongue.

"Not so bad, then?" Chairon ruts forward, and the push coaxes you to take the Sergeant into your maw.

"Not so bad," Gadriel groans, and a large hand cards across your scalp to fist rudimentary reins out of your hair.

He lets out a choked noise, hips jerking forward in shallow movements in time with the bobbing of your mouth.

It's too large of a thing to even manage more than a few inches, and when the Primaris currently hilted in your cunt decides he's simply got to start grinding himself against your cervix, you're nigh slack jawed on the cock in your mouth.

Big thighs judder beneath you as you let too much too far in all at once, and Gadriel makes a sound you only have a split second of sensibility to associate as an Astartes whining. Then you're gagging around him, tears in your eyes—before he rears back a little and angles himself against your soft palate, a hot flush thudding on your face when he sighs appreciatively.

You moan, and then you're being filled again; only this time it's from the back as nigh molten hot spend spills into your cunt.

Chairon makes an almost inaudible groan, subvocal and menacing; and then smoothes a war-calloused palm down your back.

A shiver races up your spine, innately aware of the feeling as Chairon lets his balls drain as deep as he can.

You're dazed and sensitive as he slackens against you, chuffing softly, "That... that was good."

"Let me have a turn," Gadriel huffs at him, to which he's obliged.

Without complaint, Chairon tentatively withdraws, moving you on top of the Sergeant as he settles on his back.

You swallow the excess drool pooling in your mouth, focus fixated on the sheen of sweat on his scarred face; raising yourself a little with a splayed hand resting between his large pectorals.

"Up, serf—" he rushes, and sneaks a hand between you both to hold himself straight, trying to quicken you sliding down onto his cock.

You can't entirely reign in the shrill whine that escapes your throat.

He's—he's a lot.

You slump against his chest and groan impotently into his large pectorals.

He's too long, and gravity is damning you.

It feels as if he's slamming into your diaphragm instead of your uterus.

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

A particularly poorly executed thrust jams into your cervix so hard it makes you yelp, blindly clawing at the Sergeant's forearm twice.

He does not heed it, nor feel it, apparently; and continues rutting, head thrown back, heaving in great gulps of air—using you like a toy.

"Gadriel," you hear Titus interject, "Slow down, she's much smaller than you."

Titus' words sends heady attention rushing south despite yourself, and your insides squeeze around the Sergeant, matching the well-fucked ache that thrums through you.

"Can't, feels... ngh—" He bites out in answer, snorting harshly as the grip on your thighs grows bruising.

It hurts, but your mind is suddenly screaming harder, harder, harder—namely thanks to the fact your clit slams into his huge pelvis on the downstroke.

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

He sits himself up in reaction, with you in tow.

Your vision smears to colours and shapes for a moment and then you're limbless, being made to bounce on his lap.

He's heaving into against your small shoulder, using you to satisfy himself like a free hole to fuck to completion—and by Terra, he's dragging you along to the same place.

It all happens absurdly fast.

Your insides feel swollen and electric, then they're suddenly jerking, finishing with a quick, wet splash—and everything's stickier where the cock inside you sits.

For a second you can't breathe, it's torment.

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

There's a heavy moan afore you, laden with rumbling subvocals—then finally an airy, pitched keen—and you're pressed flush to the Sergeant despite the fact he can hardly fit all in.

He bucks, and tucks his head against you; and you feel a big slick tongue drag across your shoulder as his cock knocks into where your cunt ends again—sending you sobbing against the huge, scarred span of his chest.

Boiling, overfilling spend leaks out between, adding to your Lord's and Chairon's earlier expenditures in your cunt.

"T-Throne... that's—good," Gadriel strains momentarily, shivering as he grits his teeth and rides out his fulfilment.

Tears have blurred your vision again as your mind reels to understand that you've just been fucked to apparent incontinence. You've just had your insides over-screwed and bullied into squirting on a Primaris, Emperor help you.

Apparently, despite your horror—none of them seem to care.

A few droplets stray from your cheeks and land on the Sergeant's skin. He makes a strange, confused chuff before he realises what's happening.

"W-Why...?" Gadriel pants, attempting to gather himself before he adds, "Why are you... crying, serf?"

You sob weakly, face buried against the hulking swell of one of his pectorals.

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

He inhales harshly, lifting you off him weightlessly with a wet, slick sound of you both disconnecting.

Gadriel's eyes glue to the cum sloughing out of you. It's mostly his, currently—and there's a foreboding look of rabid hunger on his face that almost makes you want to shut your legs.

Suddenly, another set of huge hands join the Sergeant's, holding you aloft as Gadriel moves to stand.

The metal of the right is frigid, and the pressure mechanisms are a tad too stiff to be considered gentle; but the other is warm and tender.

You glance up, and find Chairon softly looking down at you; his big brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a muted smile as he says, "He's too rough with you, isn't he, sweet thing?"

Chairon's lovely smile makes you dopey with sudden charm. It's an infectious sort of look, full of doting that makes you ogle him dumbly; trying to reciprocate with a tired, cock-drunk flutter of your lashes.

"You need to be more careful with her," Chairon glances at Gadriel and clicks his tongue before turning back down at you. The discipline seems purely theatrical, though—and that fact is wildly apparent when you hear the Sergeant scoff.

Then, Chairon is tilting his chin down to fuss over you; his wide jaw nudging your temple, nuzzling into you. Your heart jumps, and it's–it's painfully gratifying having a great Angel do such a thing. Even if you're being buttered up before finally being asked; "Do you still want more?"

You strain up to nose against the large Primaris' jaw, panting as you mumble in agreement.

"I believe that's a yes," Titus hums somewhere to the right, and your vision swims as it tries to find him.

Lo and behold, he's leaning against the wall of the small habitation, glaring low on your body over the rim of a water cup.

Chairon makes a similar sound and adjusts his handhold on you to your legs; splaying your thighs, presenting you.

"We've made a mess," he huffs amusedly.

Peering down yourself if absolutely lurid. Given how you're folded slightly, you can see the sticky lines of leaking semi-opaque white smeared down your thighs, and feel seed leak from you.

You can only imagine how egregious it looks from your Lord's perspective.

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

"Can..." he starts abruptly, "Can I have her again?"

Chairon laughs, "You've only just finished, she needs a break."

Gadriel grumbles, but gets distracted when you squirm a little and he says, "I... I could give her a break—" but abruptly hesitates and looks over his shoulder, "—unless you want her now, Lieutenant?"

Titus harrumphs, "I'll have her afterwards."

The Sergeant nods, and looks back at Chairon before asking, "Can you keep her up like this?"

"Only if I get her tongue next," he counters.

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

"You're to be in her cunt twice," he claps back rather swiftly, "Why can't I do the same with her maw?"

Gadriel snorts sourly, "I'm not going to be just yet, I..." he hesitates, "I have a plan."

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

"Just be careful with her," You hear Titus grunt from the sideline, and then—then you're being lifted a little higher, spread a little wider—and the blonde Primaris gets to his knees.

Two big thumbs spread your labia and you squeal, dithering at the fact he's fondling you in your current dishevelled state.

"If her mouth on us is pleasurable, then the converse must be the same..." he mumbles.

A loud, dry humoured, sarcastic huff from Titus is quickly followed by, "Impressive deduction, Gadriel, you've discovered cunnilingus."

Gadriel shoots a petulant pout over his shoulder at his Lieutenant, before your wriggling drags his attention back.

"You want to...?" Chairon hums.

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

"Now, where do I..." the blonde starts almost inaudibly, seemingly more to himself than anything.

Titus takes a ling sip of water before clearing his throat, "There should be a nub at her upper flesh, that's the female equivalent to our glans."

The Sergeant nods, then turns his big blue eyes up to yours.

"Can you show me, serf?"

You whine and chew your bottom lip, "L-Lord?"

"You'll show me, won't you?"

Your mind can't even begin to think to decline nor argue with him. Swallowing your useless shame, you tentatively move your hand and spread your own folds to give him a target.

Your skin is slippery with slick and cum and hard to properly get a hold on, but you manage and he grins.

It's not as vaguely friendly as Chairon's, nor as strangely brutish as your Lord Titus'... but it's still a little unsettling. Even if it's eager.

"Good, serf..." is the last thing he says before wet warmth is practically locked on your clit.

An airy whimper leaves you, and your body jackknifes pointlessly at the sudden acute pleasure.

You shudder bonelessly in Charion's arms, and you're only vaguely aware you're tugging two-handed at Gadriel's hair while you squirm.

His tongue curls against it, rolling in nigh tidal attenuation; making your hamstrings pull taut and shudder lax. He's not as precise in his torments as Titus, but the enthusiasm makes up for it.

Both Chairon's organic hand and mechanised one grip under your thighs, while Gadriel's firmly keep your hips still.

Throne of Terra, you can feel your own heartbeat reverberating through you against his tongue.

Your fingers dig into his scalp but it just makes him lap just that little bit faster, only for him to discover that sucking makes you cry out. Your abdominal muscles start to hurt at the strain of your body being tormented while reaching down to tug, as do your hips from being so wide.

Your left's fingers find cold metal instead of hair in a mindless haze and you hiss, and try to find a hold.

Gadriel's suddenly open-mouthed against your cunt, keening with a groan.

His scarred chin is saturated with cum and slick, and he's bright red across the belt of his cheeks and sloping nose; he looks dazed periodically, like a slavering hound going at it's cut of meat.

One hand moves from your hips, and a finger prods at your perineum—then jabs you in the arse entirely on accident.

To your surprise, there's enough of his semen coating you that half of it slides in with lubricated ease; still, you yelp loudly.

It burns almost as much as it stings and the stretch of just his finger is maddening, but it starts to disappear in an instant when he licks your clit again.

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

"I..." Gadriel pants, huffing in bemusement as he licks his lips and pulls away from your cunt. "I only put a finger in?"

Titus groans and claps a palm to his own forehead, "In the wrong hole, Gadriel."

The blonde pouts, looking up to Chairon with open confusion, "Should... should I pull it out?"

Even squirming with a Primaris' ring finger up your ass, it's surreal to be treated to the spectacle of them bickering once again.

"It's not my rear," Chairon laughs a little and looks down at you, straining and thudding hot in the face.

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

You manage a quick, "F-Fuh—feels a lil w-weird, m'lord."

"How's this?"

His finger curls inside your guts and by sheer blind luck pokes right into the back of your uterus. There's only a membrane and a thin bit of muscle between the two channels, afterall; and the shiver of surprised bliss that assails you doesn't go unnoticed.

Gadriel's breathing quickens, "Is that better?"

You nod shakily as he repeats the gesture, and then ogles up at you from between your spread legs.

His middle finger suddenly crooks to fit into the hole he intended, and you're overwhelmed at the feeling.

It's a combination you can't even begin to explain, new and odd, but addictive and then you're crying out something—something you're barely even cognisant of saying, a high pitched; "P-Please, please—"

Gadriel all but groans at the words, drawing his fingers out and rearing up to lick your abdomen; trailing his mouth up to one of your breasts and dragging a wide band over one with his tongue before groaning.

Before you can even moan, Gadriel's crowded himself against you and his cock is sloppily pressing back into you.

A sob rackets out of your throat, and your eyes swim in their sockets for an instant. Head thrown back against Chairon's clavicle as you heave in desperate gulps of air.

You're hyper-aware of the two sets of massive hands now holding you in place, and the huge cock sawing in and out of you; kissing your cervix on every thrust. This position is easier on your insides, but not by much. Gadriel is still a fraction too long to manage sheathing himself without your mild discomfort.

Both their eyes are locked upon your face, one pair of brown and one pair of blue—both half-lidded and focused on the surely fucked-out expression you're wearing.

It's pure, utter debauchery; and you paw mindlessly at the Sergeant's pectoral, gasping as he grows more and more frantic.

"She's... she's s-still so tight," he groans.

Chairon laughs lowly, "Never thought you'd be brought so low by something so tiny."

Gadriel's too preoccupied to meaningfully argue beyond curling his lip derisively.

Time blurs into delirious moments of aching and bliss, and Gadriel is much less feral in his pace than the last time—every thrust is easier, as your body begins to learn to take it. Or at least, you're certainly getting there—even if there is probably another agonising orgasm on the dusty blonde's cock.

You're only cognisant of being spoken about when Chairon's smooth voice offers, "Put your thumb on it—"

Gadriel snarls, "I... I know."

You blink, and glance downward, confused—and then you're fighting uselessly against the massive vices holding you open.

A reedy, straining shriek tears from your throat as the Sergeant's finger depresses your clit.

Your struggles make the overwhelming sensation so, so much more intense; and you may as well be getting electrocuted for the abrupt sensation you experience. It's as if you're being doused in ice and steam and promethium in one fell swoop.

They're beasts scenting weakness like blood on the gale in that moment, for all intents and purposes.

Chairon rocks you forward into Gadriel's hips and you're overfull of cock and shaking—dragged insensibly into your finish with another scream.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire as you try to fight the severity of it, mindless to the fact you're clawing at skin that's too invulnerable to even hope to mark.

They force your crest higher and higher, Charon still fucking you into the Sergeant's animalistic rutting, even as you cramp and squeeze helplessly.

Lungs several times larger than your own gust out a rapid series of breaths, and abruptly there's a long moan reaching your ear—and fresh heat in your cunt.

A weak, exhausted moan leaves you as you're carefully relieved of the massive cock inside you and deposited on the cot, on your back—only for Chairon to take his place near your head like he had to begin with.

Except this time you're on your back, and his cock is already at your cheek.

Meanwhile, Titus moves your thighs to bracket his hips as he kneels; sliding himself in place, seating balls-deep.

A whimper tears from you at the heavy sensation of being filled so soon again, and you moan when he slowly pulls out, only to slide back in. The pace is tender but firm, keeping you alert to the stretch but not suffering from it. Your body has had what feels like—and what very well may have been—hours to get used to having an Astarte in it.

You mouth at the side of Chairon's length with a daft sort of hunger; drooling across the blood-fat shaft before tilting your head to let him angle the swollen tip of himself in.

"That's it," he huffs, and pets your cheek.

You can taste your own slick, plus he and Titus' cum, and it's still not an entirely pleasant of a tang on your palate—but the big hand raking soft strokes through your hair riles you to continue.

It's clear he's high-strung after having to help Gadriel with you to no service to himself, and it's all the better to give him that attention.

You're getting tired, but regardless, you offer your tongue to Chairon and try heartily to let him take what he can; and he's more than happy to apparently just use your mouth to keep the head of him nice and warm while he strokes the base of himself.

His breathing starts to stutter as Titus gains pace, and you're actively tipping your head forward into his thrusts to let him stuff more of himself into your mouth.

The thrill of having the two of them panting like beasts is sending you spiralling, bucking your hips up against your Lord's pelvis in time with his thrusts in a sloppy, uncoordinated desperation that he rewards with a moan each time.

You hear Chairon keen, heaving through his nose as his hips jerk forward; groaning heavily as he finally finds his end.

A fat, heated spill of cum on your tongue makes you whine and double down your efforts, swallowing the Primaris' load.

"Hah, there... you go," he grind, teeth gritted and sneering a little.

Chairon pets you again before he runs a thumb across your lips to wipe away the few ropes of his spend that you hadn't managed to wolf down. He promptly sits himself back and continues carefully patting you while Titus manhandles you closer beneath his frame.

You glance down to watch your Lord's cock disappear inside you, pulling free and then sinking back in before repeating the action; eyeing big sturdy hips made for supporting a huge cock.

The Emperor surely is all knowing given his proportioning of His Angels.

But you aren't given a chance to think further on the matter as you're suddenly being folded under Titus.

Squirming, you're deaf to the sounds being driven out of you as you're locked in place by a body infinitely stronger than your own.

You paw at his chest, whimpering nonsense and he groans—and you're all but stunned daft and pliant by what he says in answer.

"That's it, one more... good, very... very good," he pants, fucking just that little bit harder.

You're helpless to your own orgasm, crying openly when it's claws sink into you. It's too much, it's far, far too much and this is as far as you can go—anymore and you feel like you'll dissolve into the cot. And you can't even stop yourself from sobbing your Lord's name as the tide of it nigh smothers you.

"Finally..." He groans loudly and his rhythm deteriorates almost immediately to choppy little bucks—and with a last bit of effort, he keeps you pinned and held down despite your overstimulated squirming and his load is emptied right into your womb like it's always meant to've been there.

Titus keeps you like that for a moment as you barely scrape your sense off the proverbial floor. Legs twitching where hooked over his hips, all the while you cunt's milking him for every drop he's got.

"I think... I think you've had... enough, hm?"

Titus lifts himself away and pops loose of your sore, puffy hole with an audible wet slide and a frothing mix of cum layered on his cock.

A soft groan escapes you as the weight and toll of exhaustion sets in, drowsy and well-fucked almost to the point of limpness.

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

Despite the fact you feel like you're about to pass out, you try valiantly—and get about a forth of the way there, leaning forward while resting back on your elbows as Gadriel takes a seat beside you, with a mug of water precariously filled a bit too high in his huge hand.

Gadriel thrusts the cup close to your face, sending a few drops over the cusp and onto your chest, trailing down a cum splattered chest.

You and he both ogle the water dumbly for a moment in surprise, flickering your gaze between him and it a few times for good measure.

He pouts and his cheeks redden a little as he mumbles, "Drink, serf."

You lap at the side for a second and manage to gulp down a mouthful, swishing it about for a second before swallowing.

You get three more sips as he steadily tilts the cup into your mouth, before he decides you've had enough kindness for the time being and pulls it away.

Titus hums, "Up you get, little one."

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

"There we go," Chairon tuts as he lifts you by the arm as you struggle to stand, supporting you effortlessly.

The care is flattering, even moreso seeing as they've apparently drawn a line in the sand for your apparent usefulness as a seminal dump.

Titus has long since settled back into a kneel again at the side of the cot, petting your thigh like he's trying to calm a skittish stray animal.

He reaches sidelong for the discarded fabric of his loincloth, before promptly deciding it unfit; and reaches for a stray corner of the half sloughed off bedsheet, tearing a large piece away.

You start at the sudden display, half in belated surprise and half in concern for the state of his bed—it's your duty to make sure it's in good keeping foremost, and—

"Hush," your Lord says with a small chuff, "Don't worry about that, just stay still."

Gadriel lowers the cup towards Titus and he dips the edge of it in the water before carefully dragging it across your cheek.

The three of them are very much ogling you, and it's very hard not to dither and fluster at the attention as you're methodically wiped clean. Especially when the cloth dips between your thighs and drags over your abused, sensitive sex, making you whine.

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

You nod sheepishly as your insides cramp, and rub your legs together, accidentally making a show of liquid leaking out of you.

"Poor sweet thing, look at you drip..." Chairon interjects.

You dare a soft, impish smile which your Lord mirrors.

But the comment makes Gadriel almost instantly tilt his head to watch your overfilled cunt weep their combined slurry of cum; to which he decides the best thing to say is, "Shouldn't have bent over for us so easily."

In your weary, near fucked-to-delusion state, the urge to frown sourly like a petulant child supersedes any decorum, and you're met by a husky snort of amusement from your Lord.

"Some of that's yours, Sergeant," Titus remarks dryly.

Chairon begins laughing as Gadriel's face colours a pretty, endearing pink.

[thethronezone]

I think being Big E High Consort should also come with some amazing perks as Making 1 (One) Ridiculous/Serious Law Per Year. The ridiculousness/seriousness depends on Consort's mood and can range from rules for protection of orphans on voidships to forbidding nobility to eat cheese on Sundays.

High Consort: "I promise, next time I see that son of a bitch I am going to wrap my hands around his neck and-!"

Custodi Bodyguard: "Would it make you feel better if you taxed the rich for some made up reason?"

[review-anon]

Post Kana's Christmas Adventure: Now What?

//So now I've given it a few days and I think I'll update you all on what my plans are going forward.

//Firstly I'm taking a week break since I've been working on Kana's Christmas Adventure for 3 months non stop and I'm bushed.

//Once that's past, I'm gonna actually do my job and review ASOOT stuff. More specifically I'm reviewing the Valentine's Day arc. That will be done and published on ASOOT itself.

//When the review is out it will migrate to this blog but not just yet, since its the first Writing Project I'll do with the sketches up. You know what means?

//That's right it'll be time for the second arc and its a Promotion Arc about Valentine's Day. Here Review Anon struggles to do her review on Valentine's Day and she decides the problem is that she's Aromantic and thus needs guidence in the form of Yukari Koime and Whit Young. Join them as they to teach Review Anon about romance and the various hijinks that involve. Just be warned as there might something sinister about this day. Plus other adventures occuring in this arc.

//But before I release the 2nd arc; I need to do a few things first and these will be done after I done my Valentine's Day Review;

I'm going go and fix the sprite sizing/position since I don't like the fact that everyone is weirdly positioned. The goal is to have them be a similar position to ASOOT and DTFA so if the sprites start changing positions that's way.

As a result of this, Review Anon and the Penguins, my original sprites will be getting a glowup as I will be redrawing them to fit these new parameters, so they will be looking nicer.

They aren't the only sprites I'm drawing since I'm doing sprites for two original characters that will appear in the next arc. Don't panic, it's not anyone brand new as you know these guys from Kana's Christmas Adventure, its just they are getting official sprites now.

I'm also gonna do a Lore tab since I've seen quite a few newcomers arrive and be confused of all the jargon running around the Voidship, so a lore tab will answer all those questions.

In addition, I'm gonna do tabs for the Pokemon and Abnormalites. I will list who has which Pokemon and what rules I have for them because I don't want Pokemon running amock on the Voidship. As for Abnormalities I will list all the Abnormalities which have appeared, their effects on the Voidship and the Ego Suits, this will have spoilers so be warned.

I'm also gonna be doing some actual story planning since the lack of direction from the previous arc will not be an issue anymore. I will leave room for Anon sheningians and hijinks but this will give me an general idea where to aim for.

Lastly, I'm gonna comprise a list of all the stats of the Danganronpa characters as if they were in Lobotomy Corporation. I will send @lorrikai a copy so they know what Ego Suits are good and bad to use but this is mostly for my own preference so I know what to do when suits/weapons get summmoned.

//The sprite sizing repositioning might be done eariler since its a mammoth task but the others will be done after the Valentine's Day Review.

//And that is my plans moving forward. Hope you all have a good day and take care.

[neonhellscape]

okay its no secret i dont buy into marazhai being the persona he puts on. so as i've officially met him in game now, im making a list of all the in-game reasons i think he's a bit of an idiot [which i love btw. i find him far more compelling if he's a bit stupid/weird and he's trying so hard not to be but you just know nobody in commorragh is inviting him to parties]

the very first time you get a glance of him on a rooftop and. 'deal with this' "of course" proceeds to just walk off like 3 seconds after the other two

ambushes you. has you cornered. is in optimal position to kick your ass frankly, high ground and better weapons and utilising shock against you. ...he bitches at you for a while, gets insulted, then runs off into the forest with a maniacal cackle

heinrix fired a mild insult [considering what he's like to everyone else its barely an insult] and he took big enough issue with it to start saying how he'll break him and turn him into a pet. oh sure dude you're responding super well to this mild comment from the guy who accidentally insults everyone and their entire ancestral line at some point

i think it says something that he's learned to speak your language fluently too. that Has to be some kind of Yikes moment to admit publicly in drukhari culture. buried family secret great great grandfather drukhari-georg learned to speak mon keigh and now we claim he just spoke oddly because was shot in the head as a child to prevent the shame

he also knows the mon keigh lore that says youre a super special little guy as rogue trader and actually LISTENS to the fact you're the special little guy as rogue trader. and he does treat you as more equal/with more respect than the other characters. thats not just a drukhari culture yikes thats what gets you checked for a concussion or brain damage

literally socially atrocious enough its believed he's working with you [read: with you. not using you, not manipulating, cooperating. this is a big difference i feel] and only he himself doesnt believe it

ignore the fact he eventually DOES work with you which. is its own follow up statement

challenges you to fight him, to give chase then and there. i made him wait while i went through english government simulator where i queued for multiple days, did multiple day/week voidship trips back and forth, got distracted by accidentally starting jae's romance, pasqal telling me to servitorise her, getting blackout drunk with her, shipwide broadcast tm, giving her a voidship, her getting me a space cat, attacked by pirates, dealt with a plague, explored a few extra systems.......................

he destroys your palace. ...its rebuilt effectively within a week. most of the damage is in bodies which are just sent to the poor district to rot [almost feels worse than the damage done good job imperium]

the throne has claw marks. he could've blown it up or shot it or piled corpses on it but no he wanted to sit on the fancy chair and so turned into a common housecat mauling the sofa arm

how long was he just sitting there lounging on that chair? again see how long i kept him waiting. he was just sitting there trying to find a comfy position on this [for him] kinda small chair JUST so he could briefly taunt, break your window with his space motorbike, jump off the chair in a dramatic [but not gunna lie not that impressive] feat of gymnastics, then fly out. he doesnt even shoot at you as he leaves

i will continue my list as i see more that entertain me

[aqua-the-smiter]

Part 2 of being nice to Cato because nobody else will.

Cato Sicarius x female reader Divider by the lovely @squishyowl seriousy I love your dividers SO MUCH Also snuck in a tiny little nod to @moodymisty 's Cato stuff. It inspired me quite a bit Song for the dream and the part with the reader - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-r5DWT0Z-A Song for Cato's musings - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I15sK7dNMOM

Cato hadn't set foot back on the Emperor's Will in years, but it felt like he was never free of the damned ship. He saw it everywhere. Dark hallways would flicker into the lonely metal corridors, every voidship he boarded would make his skin prickle briefly. He found himself drawing up plans for if his vessel was ever lost in the Warp again. What he could do differently to minimize losses.

Even his sleep wasn't safe. Then again, weren't dreams the most volatile, fickle things?

There were no walls. Just an endless, dark room that seemed to go on and on until they hit the hull. It took him ages to walk to it, where it would just stretch on into the blackness until he hit a curve or a corner. The lumens in the ceiling were dim, weak. Their light only went so far.

He was frantic. Running around the seemingly endless room. He could hear things. Screaming, so much screaming. And that infernal music again. The pipe organ, and the singing in a language he couldn't understand. He still couldn't understand it.

He searched and searched. Going in circles. But there was nothing there. The room was empty.

The lumens flickered. There was scratching.

But still there was nothing. Although he swore that was a lie. He felt something there. A presence. Several. Like they were all just out of reach. He couldn't be alone. The only one left alive. There had been more. Not as many but there had been. Wherever he moved, it felt like there was something following him. Something he either couldn't see, or something that didn't want him to see it. Lingering in the corner of his eye, the back of his mind, clinging to the shadows that even his vision couldn't discern.

He could still hear the music, even though he couldn't find the organist. Screaming, begging for mercy in a starless sky where there was none to be found. The scratching again. Then he noticed something.

The floor felt oddly...spongy. Like it wasn't completely solid. Like it was sagging with his weight. It looked like normal metal tiles. But when he stepped on one, he felt it move. Just by a fraction of an inch. Something dark and viscous welled up between the tiles. His eyes grew oddly wet and sticky. The scent of iron filled his nose and throat.

Suddenly, very suddenly, he knew he wasn't alone. He hadn't been alone this whole time.

Slowly, he got to one knee and pulled out his blade. Wedging it under a tile, and using it to pry the heavy slab up. It pulled away easily with a sickening, wet squelching. Strings of liquid clung to the underside. A wave of fetid air rolled out, like cold from a meat locker.

Oh no, he hadn't been alone. Everyone was right here. Right underneath him.

Under the tile was a roiling, disgusting mass of flesh. There were people sunk inside. Melted together. Screaming faces, jaws wrenched wide open in agony. Eyes with no lids, hands reaching up to him. All bare, glistening muscle and sinew. Slick with blood and dripping slime. Groaning in pain. Begging, pleading. For help, or to end their suffering. Who could say?

He wanted to help, but he could not. He knew he could not, not when they were like this. But the guilt crushed him anyway. He could feel the red iron wetness in his eyes dripping out, rolling down his cheeks.

He couldn't save them. He couldn't save anyone. Groping for the tile he had removed, but it had vanished.

A hand covered in broken ceramite grabbed his ankle. Quickly, it was severed at the wrist. Cato jumped back, and stumbled. The tile behind him had disappeared. He looked around. They were all disappearing now. Sinking into the twisting, liquefied horror. He looked around, but there was no door out. He looked up, but there was nothing on the ceiling for him to grab onto. He looked down again. The half rotted faces of his battle brothers stared back up. With a jolt of horror he realized he could recognize them all. They screamed at him, even as they grabbed at his ankles and dragged him off the one remaining tile. He screamed too, thrashing and kicking. Screaming the whole way down.

Cato woke up with a scream. His twin hearts hammered against his ribs, his body wet with sweat.

It was times like these where he was grateful he had his own quarters. He didn't sleep often, but this time the Primarch had insisted he get some rest. He'd wanted to protest, but there had been something in Guilliman's eyes that had stopped him.

Concern.

That troubled him. His out of control mind was getting so noticeable even his gene-father was worried, when he had much more important things to worry about. Not for the first time, Sicarius cursed himself for letting it get to this point.

The worst part about all of this was just how alone he was. He figured he should talk to someone about it, but who could he even go to? Who would actually understand? Calgar was not fond of him. Many of his brothers were not fond of him. The idea of talking to the lord Primarch was so absurd he nearly laughed. He got the feeling that Guilliman was...exasperated with him at times. No, he was alone in this.

A part of him wondered if anyone would even listen to him, or if his earlier arrogance had burned a certain perception into everyone's minds. He certainly still had a reputation. He was respected. Of course, he was still the commander of the Victrix Guard. That alone carried immeasurable prestige. That, at least, he was acknowledged for. His skill in combat, his sharp mind as a tactician. No matter what had happened, he still had that. But that colored things too. Sometimes he wondered if he was even a brother to the other Ultramarines, or if they saw him more as a tool. A good one, but a tool nonetheless. Respected, applauded, but not liked. Some of his battle brothers probably blamed him for the losses on the Emperor's Will. He'd heard as much from gossiping serfs and Astartes alike. And he couldn't blame them, because he did too. He was no Titus, or Ventris. If anything, it felt like his reputation had gotten worse in some aspects. Granted, he had become quieter, and more withdrawn than he'd used to be, but somehow he'd even ended up with the label of a misogynist. That, he had no idea where it had come from. He had questioned it, but the answers he got didn't make sense. Perhaps it was his dealings with one of the Primarch's diplomats? He had been a bit short with her, but that hadn't been anything personal.

It was like two completely different versions of him existed simultaneously. The one his battle brothers and Primarch and everyone else thought they were seeing. The one that everyone projected their negative perceptions onto. And the one he actually was.

He thought back. When had this spiral started? Damnos, maybe. The first crack in his mirror. The first was always the ugliest. It had been humiliating. Maybe that was when the illusion was broken. If anyone had doubted him then, all those doubts had been confirmed, and minds were hard to change. Maybe it was then his brotherhood had been revoked. And when Guilliman's opinion of him had turned, after he heard or read about it. Maybe that's why he kept Cato so close. He knew that he couldn't be relied on anymore.

And if that was the case, why would anyone think twice about him? Why would they care if what they said about him was true or not? Anyone could make up anything and people would just nod along and say "That checks out. I heard he was like that" even though he hadn't been for a long time. That smugness had been burned out of him on the Emperor's Will like poison from a wound. But it didn't matter what he was actually like now. He had been ousted and had been too blind to realize it until it was slapping him in the face. It was a bitter thought to swallow. He could feel it putting down roots.

Why would anyone care about his tormented thoughts, then? About the ghosts that scratched at him when he was alone. The nagging, the screaming, the singing. If him changing had not mattered, why would his pain matter? And he realized right then with horrible certainty that things would never get better.

It didn't matter, he supposed. He felt isolated, although he did his best to keep it under wraps. Something he was going to have to do a better job of, it seemed. Whatever was boiling in his head, it wasn't important. It was his problem, and only his problem. If he could bury it deep enough, then it didn't have to be a problem. He had a duty to fulfill.

Right now, that entailed trying to get back to sleep. As hopeless of an endeavor as that felt. The next time he awoke it was to sunlight and the general noise of the Fortress of Hera.

And to the only music he could stand nowadays.

He looked over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, to see you settling back in a chair after flinging the curtains open. His helmet was sitting in your lap, currently being polished with care. The plume had been brushed out.

"I overslept." He stated, looking at how bright the day was outside. "Dammit!"

"It's ok, Cato." You soothed, reaching out to pat him on the arm. Corded muscle underneath your fingertips. "The...well, the Primarch said not to disturb you."

"He...what? Why? Have I done something to displease him?"

"Of course not. He thought you could do with the extra rest. You've seemed...off for a while."

Well that was certainly true. He ran a hand through his short hair and sat up. "Still, it's bad form."

"I don't know. You haven't been well for a while, Cato." You told him hesitantly.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem so...dull. Lost. Like you're wandering around in fog. Like there's a light in you that's burnt out. I don't really know how to describe it." You wrung your hands. "But you've changed. You're quieter, your temper is shorter. You're only social when you need to be, and you brood so much. I'm...I'm worried about you too. Did something happen on that ship? On the Emperor's Will?"

He cursed inwardly. He'd never wanted to put the burden of his internal pain on you. But he had done such a poor job of controlling himself that even Guilliman had noticed.

You, he wasn't surprised about. You were his personal serf, after all. Moreover, you cared. About him. He wasn't a tool or a faraway, high ranking officer to you. He appreciated that, more than he could say. Still, it wasn't on you to shoulder his problems.

Did something happen? Of course something happened. They were lost in the Warp for five agonizing years. He could still hear the screams of his men and the haunted music when he closed his eyes.

But...

The look on your face was nothing but kind. You had always been a kind woman. Of all his nagging worries and doubts about opening up to someone about the things that wove themselves into the fabric of his mind, he knew for a fact none of them would apply to you.

"Yes. Many things happened on that ship. I still see them when I close my eyes. I still hear them when all is calm. It lingers in the back of my mind, in my waking moments. I hear the screaming and the music. I can find no peace."

It hurt to admit. The longer he had kept this close to his chest, the harder it became to speak about. A leaden weight in his soul. But it felt good to be rid of.

"Oh Cato..." Your voice was a soft whisper. Putting the helmet down, you sat on the edge of the bed next to him and threw your arms around his neck.

He stiffened, and was still for a long few minutes. You wondered if you had done something wrong, before you felt his huge, strong arms wrap around you in return, and pull you tight against his chest. He pressed his face into the crook of your shoulder, and you felt something wet soaking into the fabric of your robe.

You didn't know what else to do, so you just squeezed him tight. As tightly as your slender arms could. Cato didn't make a sound, but you felt his hands clutch your robe.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I am sorry for putting this on you. You do not need my burdens on your shoulders."

"No, it's ok. It sounds like you really needed to talk to someone. How long has this been going on?"

"Too long."

You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then his cheek. You expected him to protest, but he didn't. He let himself be cuddled like a defeated cat.

"Listen, Cato. I...I care about you. A lot. If you don't want to tell anyone else about this, please at least talk to me. You can trust me, I promise. I don't know how much I can actually help. But surely it's better then living with this eating you. Surely? You don't even have to go into detail. Just tell me it won't leave you alone again."

He didn't answer for a while.

"Do you know that I can't stand music now? Any music. Except for yours. I still like the sound of your singing."

That made you blush a little. And you were happy to be able to provide some comfort to him, even if it was something so small.

He removed his head from your shoulder, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he placed one on your soft lips.

You were surprised, to say the least, but you'd be lying if you said it didn't fill you with joy immediately. You reciprocated it, eagerly, and when the two of you finally pulled apart he had a small smile on his face, despite the fact his cheeks were still wet with his tears.

"Thank you, my lady." Cato said softly, so much more softly than you would have ever believed an Astartes capable of. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Cato. I..." You swallowed. "I love you. I'll be here for you."

He placed a hand on your cheek. It was huge and rough, but warm. You layered your hand over his, holding it against your face.

It wasn't an instant fix to his troubles, but it was something. The beginning of something. Maybe things could finally scab over now.

Maybe Cato could finally begin to heal.

[rosykims]

ik the implication of the von valancius succession is that our RT is just some random fucking 7th cousin twice removed but i actually think its so funny if leda is theodora's daughter.

[cawyden-gaming]

Regicide seems to be really common, actually. I kind of had the impression it wasn't based on Heinrix dialog, because apparently he hasn't played in a long time:

But guess who also likes regicide? Somehow I had that totally overlooked...

On Footfall regicide is also very common

Even on RT's voidship on the lower decks it is played:

And Jae plays it too (-> spoilers for her quests), although Heinrix doesn't seem to agree:

I know it is just Footfall and our ship but apparently regicide is common enough that even poor people play it.

[inquisitornocturn]

◇─ 𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖎 𝖊𝖙 𝖆𝖒𝖆 𝖒𝖊 ─◇

⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Abelard Werserian x Rogue Trader!reader

⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: we fuck old men in this house lol, comfort, fluff, so much fluff (by my standard), guess what consent can be sexy, smut, body worship, cunnilingus, PiV, creampie, even more fluff at the end

⚜ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: So much has changed since you have taken the title of a Rogue Trader and the worries just don't seem to stop. Day after day something keeps happening. More casualties, more damages, more things to do before your dynasty falls apart at the seams. And one person who you hope can comprehend the pressure you're under, do not seem to understand that you could use just one moment of reprieve. Until you make him understand.

⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 7,740 | on AO3

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: okay, full disclosure, i don't know how the first fic i'm posting for this fandom is Abelard and not Xavier or even Heinrix. he is in my top three for sure, but i fully expected myself posting something for the other two before Abelard and yet this is very much happening. i will reiterate my tags by saying - we fuck old men in this house and that's on that. on a side note - i have been also horribly enabled by @liocreates and @nananarc. Emperor sees that not only my flesh but also my mind is weak, so here we are, i am officially stepping into the fandom with probably the sweetest smut i have ever written. enjoy♡~

“Lord Captain.” Abelard’s voice punches through the cloud of your thoughts that seem almost physical in how much they fog your head.

No, not right now, you don’t want to hear whatever it is he wants to tell you.

Your trusted Seneschal, your most experienced advisor, your right hand man who became such within mere weeks of you taking the title of a Rogue Trader, however abruptly it have come to you. Too many things, too many loses, too many tasks need to be accomplished before your bloody inheritance of a voidship falls apart. Again.

Supplies, crew, the vessel needs repairs. If it can even last that long, until your spacecraft arrives at Footfall dock after you battled some xenos when defending one of the worlds that now belong to you, and even then – if she can survive the journey itself. And then there’s Kunrad and his betrayal that still are causing ripple-like effect over everything, and your aforementioned abrupt claim of a title, with mutinies simmering just at the surface line, tethering the edge of begrudging obedience and outright treason. All because Theodora was killed and you took up the mantle.

“Lord Captain.”

Abelard calls again and you clamp your palms to your ears, not wanting to hear it. You had your eyes closed since the moment first officer entered your study and found you behind your desk, piles of reports and several dataslates towering with their mountainous workloads. Two cups of recaf, neither of them warm or finished, balancing the edge of a desk and a servo skull that slowly but ceaselessly keeps printing a strip of parchment, the needle-like pen etching tiny black words in every possible centimeter of the white canvas.

Footsteps, and you lower your head, shaking your head slightly.

“Not now, Abelard. Please.” You say in a strained tone and footsteps stop, a second pass, then they resume. “Abelard, please.” Last word comes out nearly as a choked sob as you battle your exhaustion, your anxiety and your overwhelming desire to shut yourself in an airlock and have a servitor press the release button.

You can’t cope, not anymore. There hasn’t been a moment of peace ever since damned Voigtvir treason made your entire world turn upside down twice over.

“Lord Captain.” Third time’s the charm they say, but not tonight. Even though Abelard’s tone sounds softer, he’s no more successful in making you look at him than previous two times.

Having nothing else to say you just shake your head again in a silent plea for him to walk away and give you a moment, an evening, of reprieve from things constantly going wrong. This can’t be life of a Rogue Trader, can it? You heard of luxuries and parties, of admiration and battles, of claiming planets and bringing Emperor’s light upon the corners of the galaxy. This – is the farthest thing from stories that you have heard before Theodora got you brought to this ship.

More footsteps, this time to the side, and you hear glass clinking, liquid pouring, more glass sounds, then more footsteps and then – a hand on your shoulder than makes you flinch ever so slightly. Startled and with your heart beating much faster now, you rise your head and lower your hands, looking at Abelard who is standing by your side with a soft look in his eyes and a half-filled glass in his ring-adorned fingers.

“A drink might be in order, Lord Captain?” More of a question rather than him insisting you take the offering, but you do so gladly, your fingers brushing against Abelard’s when you take the glass, making you turn your eyes away.

What you wouldn’t do to have a warm embrace right now. It makes you ache in a way that you even miss your previous partner, who you dumped when he decided that joining Adeptus Mechanicus was his life calling. All of a sudden, just like that. And truth to be told, maybe it was he who dumped you and made up a lie so that you don’t feel as bad as you possibly could.

Still, in this moment, the loneliness of your life weights heavy on you. Too powerful for a casual chitchat, too respected to share a drink with, too blessed by the God-Emperor for a simple hug. Unless you order someone, but you find little comfort in seeking human contact in such way. Very little indeed, so that even this small touch with the man who you trust with your life is making you yearn for something more, a moment of peace that you know won’t happen.

“Thank you, Abelard.” Is all you murmur in response and the senior officer nods, making a step aside, but observing you keenly, watching you take a first tentative sip, then another, and a third that you swallow with a brief closing of your eyes.

“You seem exhausted, Lord Captain.” This time it’s a fact that is spoken out loud and you manage a crooked smile when you gaze up at the man.

“You think so?” You can’t help the sarcasm in your voice and Abelard’s eyebrows furrow slightly, then he scoffs and clears his throat.

“That’s quite obvious, Your Ladyship. Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Maybe I should, but…” You trail off and your gaze sweeps over the piles of reports, the same dataslates, two of which are silently blinking with unread messages like vile daemons winking at you in an attempt of foul seduction. You even make an effort to give a pointed look to the servoskull, still printing the strip of paper that has already accumulated a nice pile underneath it on the carpet.

“You have your officers, let us help you.” Abelard sounds positively serious and steps back to your side, reaching for the nearest winking eye of the dataslate, rings on his fingers glimmering in a soft light of illumination in the room, but your own hand darts out almost on reflex and grabs his wrist.

“It’s fine, I just need a moment to catch my breath and I can continue.” As you speak you feel Seneschal’s pulse under your fingers, thrumming in a slow, relaxed rhythm.

Abelard pauses, giving you a look of poorly disguised concern and he heaves a sigh.

“Generally, I would appreciate stubbornness in Lord Captain’s attitude, but you are going to run yourself haggard if you don’t allocate your duties, at least partially, to those serving you.” He doesn’t pull his hand away and in this moment you are grateful for it. Not only for the warmth of Abelard’s skin in your grip, but for another small contact with a human being.

Whether he already caught on that you yearn for it or not, is impossible to tell and you prefer if he didn’t know. You don’t want him to pity you even more, even if you might deserve it with how you are currently feeling.

“I will, just… not tonight. I will finish what I have to do and tomorrow I shall see what can be done.” Offering a small smile you finally let go of the Seneschal’s wrist and he remains quiet for a second, then sighs again and leans over the desk, flipping the blinking slates so that their screens stop flashing.

“You need a good night’s sleep, Your Ladyship, not more duties to keep you up until the late hours.” Undercurrent of softness in Abelard’s voice does not elude you and corners of your mouth twitch ever so slightly.

“Maybe not, but I worry that the vessel…” You can’t finish the sentence and you don’t need to, Abelard knows the situation after the space battle as well as you do. “I will sleep better when we manage to arrive at Footfall.”

“And we will.” Firmness in Abelard’s tone catches you by surprise and you look at him again only for your eyes to meet his. “Lord Captain, while I would be the first to tell that a healthy dose of paranoia is needed and even necessary for a Rogue Trader, I have to remind that you also need to think about your wellbeing. Millions of people depend on you and none of your subjects wish you to fall ill with worry or stress.”

“You sound worried yourself.” You manage another crooked smile but Abelard’s stern eye remains affixed on you with an unwavering look.

“I am. For you.”

The ancient chrono by your personal cogitator is the only one making sounds as you both look at each other and you finally give in, buckling under the intense gaze of a Seneschal’s grey eye. Your shoulders slump a little and you look at your glass, then sigh in capitulation.

“Very well. If you so wish for me to take a step back, then share a drink with me. I could use some company.”

Before Abelard has a chance to object or try to find a way to remain his usual stoic self, you stand, your massive chair slipping easily over the floor and forcing the Seneschal to step backwards from you.

“Lord Captain-“

“No lord captains, Abelard.” After a brief pause you add with defeat and resignation. “This is an order.”

There’s no mistaking the solemn tone in your voice as you issue your command and Abelard hesitates, but you do see him give you a curt nod with a corner of your eye while you walk around the desk to the right where a big, wooden couch is pushed against a wall, only a column separating it and the chrono.

When you approach the near ancient furniture piece, noticing that the padding has been replaced recently (most likely to remove Mort’s blood that was splattered on it on the night Theodora died), you sit, realizing that until now you haven’t done it. Couple weeks passed with so much happening that a simple act of sitting on a couch in your own study didn’t even occur to you. Not that you had any reason to do so until now.

Sounds of the decanter reach you when Abelard pours himself a drink and he makes an effort to look in your direction. It’s not hard to decipher his inquisitory glance and you nod, watching the Seneschal carry the crystal pitcher towards you and refill your glass.

“Thank you.”

Gratefully you look down at the pale amber liquid and take a sip while Abelard walks back to reinstate the decanter back to its rightful spot and then return to you, hesitating for a long moment until he finally sits down, with respectable and polite distance between you two. It makes your heart sink, but you try not to show it and just lift your glass to the first officer and smile.

“Don’t look so sour, it’s just one drink. Cheers.”

“I’m not displeased, Lord Captain, just worried for your wellbeing.” Abelard responds and watches you keenly when you drink at the same time he does. “You need to rest instead of staying up, drinking.”

“For a man your age, I hoped that you can understand a need for some company.” You raise an eyebrow at him and Abelard looks like he’s about to argue with you, but then lets out an exhausted sigh and finally offers you a small smile of his own.

“That I do, Lord Captain. Although I’m sure you could find better company for a casual conversation other than me.”

“And who you would suggest then?” Your smile widens and you watch with delight as Abelard’s composure wavers in light of you pushing back against his self-deprecating sentiment.

“Well, you can ask anyone aboard to share a drink with you.” He says with a degree of hesitation and your smile becomes bitter on your lips.

“You mean I can order them and they won’t be able to refuse.”

“Those willing to refuse a Rogue Trader would be, pardon my language, idiots, Lord Captain.”

“But I don’t want to order people to have a drink or a chat with me, Abelard. Even if I had… to order you.” A smile on your face fades as it was never there to begin with and you sigh, your shoulders slumping once again and you look at the glass in your hand, swirling the liquid briefly.

The weight of reality is just too much for you right now. You used to have friends before this, comrades, people who joked with you and didn’t need to be commanded with a threat of execution looming above them if they even thought of refusing you. Where’s that camaraderie that you miss so much right now? You don’t know if you will experience the joy of having friends and allies like you had in the past. You knew that with power and duty - loneliness comes as well, you just couldn’t guess how all-encompassing that loneliness can get and how quickly it will get to you.

Now you know.

You don’t notice how long the silence lasts, but a quiet shuffle finally draws your attention and before you even see it, you feel a hand on your shoulder. Abelard slid across the couch a little closer so that he reaches you and offers you one compassionate gesture that he comfortably allows himself.

First you look at his hand, marred with scars from countless battles while serving the Imperial Navy and then Lady Theodora, before you look at his face again, noticing expressed worry in his features.

“Lord Captain…” He begins, hesitating and picking his words carefully, then gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze while warmth of his palm begins to seep through your clothes already. “Feeling a tad… isolated as a Rogue Trader is not an uncommon sentiment.” Abelard’s voice is even, steady, like bedrock. “But you will find allies worth sharing your private moments with. You found yourself in this new life quite recently. It is difficult right now, it’s just the beginning, I understand, but don’t let it get to you, Lord Captain. In due time you will have a network of worthy allies and trusted friends.”

“Are you not one of them?” You can’t help but ask, and wonder if your eyes betray just how hopefully you voiced your inquiry.

Abelard does see, clear as day and he sighs, smiling to you.

“Of course I am, but I’m your officer, your Seneschal. In the end – I am just your loyal servant, Lord Captain, and you deserve people who are your equals.”

You blink few times in surprise and swallow dryly, bringing the glass to your lips to wet your throat.

“You don’t think we’re equals?”

At this Abelard part laughs, part scoffs as if with humorous disbelief.

“I am but a soldier, Lord Captain, and you are a head of the von Valancius dynasty. There’s oceans of difference in rank between you and me.” Then after a pause, he gives your shoulder another comforting squeeze. “But that doesn’t mean that I do not enjoy serving Her Ladyship, even if that means sharing a drink during a late night.” Softness in Abelard’s voice makes you look at him again and you take another sip from your glass while your eyes search his for the truth. Does he say this because he means it or out of duty that you haven’t seen waver even once since you came aboard this spacecraft?

“That’s not exactly what I meant.” You admit and feel Abelard withdraw his hand. Again you capture his wrist and nearly let go immediately, but refuse your instinct of propriety take over, holding onto it like it’s a fragile lifeline keeping you from sinking into the waters of solace.

“I know what you meant, Lord Captain.” Abelard sighs, somehow not surprised that you are holding onto him again, but you should’ve suspected that a man of his long life and even greater experience would notice what’s amiss faster than you were willing to show. “But I don’t want you to look for camaraderie in your subjects, you will find men and women more worthy of your time than your servants.”

No, he doesn’t understand and a feeling akin to desperation grips you. You have to make him understand so you squeeze his wrist firmer and lean in his direction, making a point of holding eye contact even before you start speaking.

“You are my equal, Abelard. To me – you’re not just my servant. You’re my most trusted ally, you’re my Seneschal, you are… the only friend I have aboard this ship, or maybe in the entire galaxy.” Something begins to choke you as you finish and turning your eyes away you let go of his wrist, feeling that you just overstepped an invisible line. “Apologies.” You whisper and empty your glass, unable to look at Abelard in this moment.

You hear the man let out a heavy sigh and he too drinks some more, unsure of what to say. Seconds pass, then maybe a minute, with increasingly uncomfortable silence mounting while neither of you speak.

“I think I better return to those reports. And I promise to look into what tasks I can delegate to others tomorrow.” A smile, forced one, makes its way onto your face and you stand, but don’t get to fully finish your movement because Abelard’s grip prevents you from doing so, his fingers wrapping firmly around your own wrist this time.

You plop down onto the couch and look at him with mild worry and curiosity, even some reluctance because you don’t want to hear he might possibly want to say. Something about that you shouldn’t think of him as a friend, maybe that you shouldn’t be so trusting, but no, the Seneschal just looks slightly sad, like indeed he is pitying you.

“You may feel lonely, but you are not alone.” Abelard says quietly and that mysterious, but very overwhelming sensation of choking returns. You swallow once or twice, trying to push the ball of emotion beginning to strangle you. “I am honored to keep you company in your moments of need or those of celebration, but one day you will find your people, not those who have sworn to serve you or to protect you because of your elevated station, you will-“

You don’t want to listen to this anymore, sugary words and promises of things to come when you’re aching now. So you do something brave.

Brave and very very stupid.

Letting your empty glass drop onto the metal grate at your feet, but ignoring the sound of shattering crystal, you move forward and throw yourself against Abelard, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that leaves no room for you to disguise how much your entire body is shaking. You press your face to the cold steel plate of Seneschal’s armor and close your eyes so tightly, like you want to prevent them from ever opening again.

“Lord Captain!” Senior officer exclaims and stiffens in your embrace but when you don’t move you hear him sigh and place his glass somewhere to the side. “Lord Captain… This is very inappropriate.” He murmurs and yet after a moment of vacillation, when his duty versus his desire to comfort you battle, he at last slowly puts his arms around you as well.

You don’t respond, don’t want to and don’t need to. You just sit still, with your body against his and smell everything that is Abelard: a musk of his masculine perfume, faint scent of oil from his trusty chainsword, even fainter smell of his bathing products. He smells clean, strong and strangely reassuring. A scent of a hard working, loyal man in your retinue. It makes you feel safe and protected, even more compared to when the Seneschal stands by your side with his sword raised and a pistol aimed at anyone who wishes you harm.

“Do you feel any better, Lord Captain?” He asks after a long, wonderful moment passes and you breathe easier, smiling even if he cannot see it at the angle your head is pressed against his chest. It’s a genuine smile, relaxed one, the kind of smile you have near forgot how to smile with.

“Yes, thank you.” You whisper and Abelard lets out a relieved sigh, then strokes your back with one palm so caringly that you begin to crave for this hug to last forever.

But there’s more. You want more than this, you want to forget yourself or your new life even just for a moment longer, something that haven’t happened even once since that day when Kunrad’s betrayal shook the entire dynasty to its core. And you forget yourself.

You forget and you yearn.

When you lift your face to Abelard you see a comforting smile on his features, making his scarred face look even more handsome than usual. Before you can think better, before you can stop yourself, before you can even realize that what you’re doing is now truly stepping over any and all appropriate boundaries between a Rogue Trader and her Seneschal, you straighten your back and press your chest to Abelard’s, pushing him against the backrest of the couch. When his eyes widen in attempt to comprehend what are you doing, your face levels with his and your gaze betrays your intentions so clearly that the man has a hard time processing the sudden change.

“Lord Captain, what is…” Abelard trails off when you lean closely to him, so close that you sense his breath fawn over your skin and man’s arms around you flex for a moment as if unable to decide if to pull you off or draw you closer.

“Please, just this… one… thing…” You hear yourself speak in a whisper so quiet it’s barely voiced at all and you can’t stop yourself, your overwhelming need for more just takes complete control. With your hands steadying you with a grip on his sides, you lean to Abelard, closing whatever is left of the distance between you and him, and press your lips against his.

Even the chrono seems to stop counting seconds and you feel Abelard freeze in spot, his fingers twitching briefly while they are still on your back, then you pull away slightly and look at him from under your eyelashes. Has he always been so alluring? The cornerstone of your new life from the moment you stepped into your shiny, novel role. Why you haven’t seen Abelard for what a man he is until now?

But now that you have, you are unsure if you can stop yourself with just stealing a kiss, and how your Seneschal blushes, ever so slightly, how his eye is wide with disbelief at what you just did, how his lips, slightly glistening from being pressed to yours, quiver just before he speaks… yes, you want even more than just this and your body responds to your mind’s desire, lighting a flame within you that can only be quenched one way and one way only.

“Lord Captain, this is way out of the line of appropriate conduct! You absolutely cannot do this!” Abelard speaks and his voice does sound offended, yet his eyes glance to your lips and he doesn’t move to push you off.

“Do you not want me to do this?” You ask with a small smile, confident that he won’t refuse you, that you can break this man’s impeccable bearing and experience, just to see what kind of fire roars behind the closed gates of his perfect conduct.

“It’s now about one’s wishes, Lord Captain, and you very well know this. This is an utterly improper behavior for a Lady of your status and as my direct superior!” And yet he still doesn’t dare pushing you off, only glances down when you rise one hand, caressing downwards his breastplate, then find the buckle of the straps holding it together. Soft sound of metal as you undo the clasp fills the temporary silence and you bite your bottom lip briefly.

“Maybe I’d like to know your wishes, Abelard. Do they include more than just pure duty? I hope they do.” You whisper and lean closer, watching Seneschal’s face become a shade redder when your palm slides under the steel plate now that it has been loosened and stroke his chest through his coat.

“My… wishes?” For a second he’s caught up in your gaze which is clearly showing your desire and the man considers you for a moment longer while you feel his heart beating harder against his ribcage. His eyes sweep down your face, noticing your own soft blush and your parted lips, enchanting him like an invitation.

It’s been so long he felt this… wanted. This desired. This much needed, and Abelard tries to grapple with his self-control, reminding himself of duty, of honor, how utterly infelicitous it would be if he responded to your advances. And yet the stirrings in his loins and the beat of his heart makes him yearn in return. Maybe if he allowed himself just another little kiss. Maybe, he can stop before it gets completely out of hand. Clearly his Lord Captain is in need for consolation and the Seneschal is not sure if he has the heart to deny you.

“My wishes remain the same.” He finally speaks again, the fingers on your back twitch again ever so slightly and move as Abelard’s fingertips begin to trace your spine so slowly you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t completely still. “I wish for your wellbeing, Lord Captain.” And yet, despite his words, there’s that undercurrent you have been hoping for – the one of poorly controlled desire.

A widower who might as well have forgotten how a woman’s touch feels like. Are you the first since his wife’s passing to show interest in a man like him? The answer doesn’t matter, because when you inhale, preparing to respond, to push his limits of self-control a little further, your command over the entire situation gets usurped in a way you have no wish to protest – Abelard kisses you after quickly craning his neck while his hand at the same time press against your back, pushing you against him.

Just a kiss, you both tell to yourselves, just a moment of weakness and desire for closeness. It doesn’t have to go further than that, lead to anything more than this, to break protocols of conduct or rank, and yet it grows… the passion.

You are lost in this reciprocated kiss, your lips parting and letting Abelard in to taste liquor on your tongue just as you can taste it on his and you press yourself against the officer even firmer, control slipping like sand through your fingers. Abelard is not immune either, because one hand moves from your spine to cradle the back of your head as he deepens the kiss even more, expertly making your own heart thunder in your chest with how much passion he’s pouring into this seemingly simple exchange. Your breath hitches and you gently push against the Seneschal’s chest, parting your lips in exchange for deep breaths that mingle with his own labored panting.

One last chance to stop before this gets completely out of control and you destroy it with your hand as if you’re wiping off a fog from a mirror by placing a palm on his crotch and feeling a needy hardness there, just as you wished for.

“Abelard…” You whisper, pouring all the unsaid words into the syllables of his name and the man responds by conquering your mouth with another deep kiss.

“My Lady…” He utters against your lips in turn and you hope with all hope that he doesn’t stop because you don’t know if you can return from this until you reach the very end.

There’s no risk of Abelard stopping now though, because when the kiss breaks again he stands, for a brief moments startling you that he indeed will walk off, maybe even without a word, just to preserve whatever dignity he imagines he needs to save on your behalf, but no, with a huff he kneels in front of you and places his palms on your thighs. With upturned face your Seneschal pauses as you try to catch your breath.

“Lord Captain… Forgive me.” He says in a quiet, almost reverent voice, but then slides his hands higher and begins to undo your coat. You watch him unfasten two buttons before you caress the side of his face, careful of the augmetic connections to his bionic eye.

“Don’t apologize. Unless you want to walk away.”

“No, I… I don’t. I just hope neither of us will regret it.” He mutters and you see a shadow of worry slip across his otherwise determined expression and you make him pause, lifting his face to you by the chin.

“I know I won’t.” You assure Abelard and he shows a small, but confident smirk to you.

“Then neither will I, Lord Captain.”

You lean lower and place a nearly innocuous kiss to his lips, wanting him to return to your side on the couch, but he has other ideas and Abelard lets the kiss break so that he can continue undoing your coat. Once that is done, your jacket follows and then, your shirt. You notice a slight tremble in the officer’s fingers as he works one button after another, but his face betrays eager anticipation rather than reluctance, so you don’t mention it, just watch Abelard’s expression as he finally parts the edges of fabric that hid you from him until this very moment.

A breath hitches in his throat and Abelard pauses, tracing fingertips over your stomach, higher, around your bra-clad breasts until he cups them fully with both palms.

“Holy Terra…” He whispers, making you smile with a satisfied and warm smile that he doesn’t see because Abelard is too focused on your body. Again, with just fingertips, he grazes the mounds of your breasts and hesitates, but only to make up his mind between diving in and peppering your skin with kisses or undoing your bra entirely.

He chooses the latter.

A brief glance to your face as if to assure himself that you still very much need him just as he needs you and Abelard moves his hands to the alleyway of your breasts where the clasp resides, hiding what little decorum you still have left. No words are spoken when he undoes the mechanism and carefully, like a worshiper handling a holy relic, he peels the thin layer of your bra. You hear him audibly inhale when your breasts, released from their lacy prison, rise with each of your breaths.

“By the Emperor’s grace…” Abelard whispers again, not able to help himself and without hesitation or a second of pause he leans in and presses his lips against your chest, to your collarbone, forcing you to lean backwards against the backrest of the couch and tip your head upwards.

You mutter his name like a quiet prayer and run your fingers through his short, grey hair, letting your eyelids close and his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid that you might disappear if he doesn’t hold onto you. Slowly, gently, his kisses a trail lower, back to the mounds of your breasts, giving attention to each equally all the while his trimmed beard leaves your skin tingling where it rubs against you. He whispers your name, so quietly it almost escapes your notice and you forget it completely when suddenly your right nipple is engulfed in the heat of Abelard’s mouth, accompanied by gentle sucking that increases when you respond with a soft mewl.

With fingers still clutching the Seneschal’s hair, you lower your chin to watch him lavish attention onto your breasts, not taking too long to move onto the second and elicit more soft moans out of you, especially after he tests your limits and pulls at the left one with his teeth before releasing it and making you squirm where you sit. A confident smile, one that you haven’t seen on your trusted advisor, appears on his face, in tandem with a look in his eye that tells you that all the titles and ranks are now forgotten until later notice.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers against your skin, leaving your saliva lathered nipples to cool in the room’s air while he leans down again, kissing between your breasts, and again traveling lower while with a firm grip he supports you just under your ribcage, pulling at your waist and making your back arch.

You don’t know what to say or even if you need to say anything at all, but you chew on your bottom lip in anticipation while Abelard takes his time to unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants. A glance up and your eyes meet, a shared desire reflected in them, then you finally let go of his hair to prop yourself and lift your hips for him to peel your pants down your legs. Just for a moment he halts, then drags your panties together with your trousers. Buckles of boots get less time spent on them and then you’re naked in front of him, with a heat pulsing between your pressed legs.

Still on his knees, Abelard gently takes an ankle of your right leg and leans down pressing a chaste kiss on top of it, then begins trailing more of them upwards, to your knee, then over your thigh, all while his hands slide upwards the sides of your legs, following his rise. After a moment his hands slip to your knees and Seneschal rises his eyes to you, pure lust reflecting in them so much it makes you swallow, your own desire flaring up to match his.

“Don’t be shy, Lord Captain, let me see.” Gruffness in Abelard’s voice yields you even wetter than you were up until this point and you feel him pull your knees apart, to which you submit and grip the edge of the couch, seeing your arousal shamelessly smeared on your inner thighs.

Abelard inhales at the sight and you watch him involuntarily swallow, just like you did a second ago, and then he leans in, pressing his tongue to your drenched folds. You let out a moan as you inhale with sudden new sensation instantaneously clouding your mind and again grip his hair, then cup the back of his head when Abelard wantonly laps at your core, tip of his tongue slipping easily between each fold until it teases your entrance at which you mewl again.

“Abelard, Emperor…” You huff as he slides his tongue as deep into you as he can, as if wanting to taste your very essence, everything that makes up your desire for him, but he doesn’t linger, first brushing his upper lip over your swollen clit until his tongue follows, moving in circles and making you gasp with each breath you take.

Your fingers in his hair tremble as you watch your Seneschal lap at you like a man starved and you shudder each time he presses his tongue flat against the bundle of nerves that shoots a jolt through your spine with increasing euphoria. You mutter his name again, calling for him with a siren song he cannot resist. Abelard very much would like to see you come apart like this, to feel your thighs tremble against his ears and clamp over them as you shake with your climax, but he knows that he can make you feel so much more if he doesn’t rush. So he lifts his head, licking his lips clean after tasting the sweetest ambrosia you could have offered to him, and finally rises from his knees, gripping your hips with firm grasp and maneuvering you onto the couch and onto your back.

You reach up, wanting to remove at least some of his clothing that the officer is still wearing, but with one knee between your parted legs, to prevent you from closing them and hiding the most inviting view, Abelard begins to swiftly undress. Practiced movements of his fingers unfasten the clasps of his breastplate, placing it by the couch before he undoes his coat and shirt underneath. Your eyes roam his chest, still toned from battle and active lifestyle that he lives even under your command, and your fingers trace the top of it, slipping down over the grey chest hair that you so desire to be held against.

Abelard can see the passion and desire in your face, but he doesn’t need any more proof that you want him and only him, he got that confirmed when he felt your twitches and heard your moans just earlier while on his knees.

“Wider.” He softly says despite his tone having a layer of coarseness from his own need, and you spread your legs further apart for him while Abelard swiftly, in curt movements, undoes his belt, then his pants, finally showing you as much of himself as he is seeing of you.

You inhale sharply when you see Seneschal’s desire for you on full display and your eyes travel the length of his cock, from the root that is surrounded by neatly trimmed hair, then along the shaft, to the tip that is already weeping for you. You. You are having this effect on a man who you’ve come to know having steel-like resolve and composure.

While you swallow at the sight of Abelard’s hardness swinging gently but with heaviness, he slides a knee under your left thigh, keeping one foot down on the floor and his hands caress your breasts, ghosting over them at first, as if he’s too afraid to touch you again, but then his gaze washes over you like a scorching wave, seeing moistness seep out of you and downwards, last bits of restraint that he might has still been clinging to evaporate like a morning mist.

He grasps your breasts, massaging them while your fingers slide down to his abdomen and lower, then you take the slightly twitching length into your hands, giving it couple slow strokes that makes you moan softly. You want to feel him inside you and you can barely stop yourself from begging. Thankfully, Abelard does not have a mind to prolong this more than he already has. After playfully pinching your nipples and making you cry out, he grips the base of his cock, waiting just a moment longer for you to release it before aligning it with your entrance and beginning to slide in.

“Throne preserve me…” He says with a grunt and a sigh of utter satisfaction at the sensation of your wet heat surrounding his length, accommodating him with ease because of how aroused you are.

Abelard alternates between watching himself claim you and your face, to make sure that you’re comfortable, but you are much more than comfortable. You yourself are watching his cock push inside of you and you sigh with a moan when at last he buries himself fully inside. Your left hand clings to his thigh that is under your leg and you grab the armrest of the couch just above your head as well.

“You’re so beautiful, Lord Captain.” Abelard grunts, trying not to immediately begin plowing into you, starting it slow. One stroke, then two, prolonging the sensation of each and making both of you mark them with moans. “So… beautiful…” He says again and presses a palm to your right thigh, pushing it even further apart, then he places a palm on your stomach and his thumb presses against your clit, making you arch your back ever so slightly.

You watch his face, watch his eyes roam over you as he begins slowly picking up the pace, all while moving the pad of his thumb in circles and making you moan louder and harder, making you quiver already. Your fingers clutch his thigh and the armrest stronger and the ancient wood creaks under the weight motion of you indulging in each other.

“Deeper…” You huff, knowing that he can give you more of himself and Abelard eagerly complies, moving his palm from your stomach to grip the underside of your knee that was draped over his thigh just a moment ago, lifting it near to your chest while he leans in, and with one swift stroke, enters so deep that you cry out with pleasure.

“I knew you were needy.” Abelard whispers with a smile and you smile too, your flushed face and misty eyes etching themselves into his very heart.

“And you’re willing to oblige.” You whisper back and he chuckles, leaning onto his elbow and entangling his fingers into your hair when he cradles the top of it.

“That’s because you make it impossible not to.” Abelard huffs and kisses you deeply, beginning to move again, slower until you adjust to the new angle and depth, and then harder, his desire making him chase for his bliss. He doesn’t know how long exactly it has been since he felt this way, but the sensation is so overwhelming he cannot stop himself. “God-Emperor…”

He moves faster and stronger, with the new angle he keeps your leg firmly in place and his grip becomes almost bruising as he groans and sighs with every thrust that he delivers, making you moan and grasp onto him in return. Sheen of sweat on your brow, his beard tickling your neck as he kisses it and hard, deep pumps that Abelard grants you every time he rolls his hips against yours make beautifully licentious sounds each time his skin slaps against yours, accompanied by your body squelching around his soaked length. It’s like a melody to you both. This feels good, too good.

“Abelard, I’m-“ You start but cry out when he once again sheathes himself into you to the hilt and you sense him smile into the crook of your neck before the Seneschal rises his head and gives you a short kiss onto your bottom lip.

“Let me see you come undone, Lord Captain. Grant me this privilege.” He huffs and you suddenly realize that he’s tethering the edge of a climax himself, holding back only for you.

“Will you grant me the same sight?” You somehow manage to whisper a complete sentence and another kiss presses against a corner of your mouth.

“Of course.” He smiles and this time kisses you deeply, but briefly. His desire to see you fall apart under him trumping over his desire to keep tasting you.

Few more erratic yet precise strokes, few more thrusts that have you crying out with increasing pleasure and then – utter bliss. Your back arches, your nails dig into Abelard’s side and into the wood of the couch and you shiver, your body spasms with a wave after wave of pleasure that eradicates every worry, every doubt, every shadow from your mind. All while you don’t even realize how you keep crying out Abelard’s name as if you’re calling for the Emperor himself.

It’s everything to the Seneschal and he can’t endure this any longer, his restraint falling away completely and with a moan, while keeping his eyes on you, as you cup the side of his face after releasing your grip from the armrest, he spills himself in stuttering spurts that make his body tense and his thrusts falter in their rhythm until he stops completely, pressing his sweaty forehead against similarly slick yours.

Seconds or minutes pass while you both try to catch your breaths and remain still, yet Abelard’s muscles begin to shake from strain and he presses one gentle kiss to your parted lips, before he sits up and carefully pulls out of you, making you whimper both from small burst of pleasure and the absence that you weren’t quite ready to feel. He strokes your high with a tired, but content smile and eyes you entirely.

“I see my Lord Captain has been thoroughly sated, or am I mistaken?” He asks and his voice is hoarse, but you find yourself wanting to hear it like this forever.

“Temporarily.” You smile to him as well and Abelard’s face gain near comical expression of surprise until he chuckles and shakes his head.

“I may be too old for this.” He laughs softly and you sit up, gently cupping the underside of his jaw and leaning closer.

“Not too old for me.” You let your words hang in the air as you both smile to each other and then you kiss him, rejoiced when Abelard pulls you into his lap and your chest presses against his, skin to skin.

Your protector, your Seneschal, your advisor and now your lover.

Perhaps the ally you truly needed has been by your side all along and you wouldn’t dare complain about it.

Not even a little bit.

[cassegrainarts]

My beloved lady navigator Cassia Orsellio from the cRPG Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader. First time I've noticed her when the game was still in development, and I was truly excited. I played Rogue Trader eventually, and she became my favorite companion. I can't help but note how wonderful and powerful Cassia's abilities are. She literally kills everything that moves, and what doesn't move, she moves and then kills :D

Her staff on this drawing is not default, it's the staff of house Cassini, she used it the most part of the game since I've found it on the gutted voidship. Also I rescued Hann Cassini from there, I just couldn't kill a navigator from my favorite house.

[woofmatic]

RT's companion age - speculations and what we know.

Cassia: Cassia seems to be the youngest. I've seen some people who did the math and the most common answer was... She's around 18 and 20 at best.

Kibellah: The ending stated that Kibellah and Cassia both bonded over being in a high position at a young age. So my guess is that they are around each other's age? I don't know, to me Kibellah feels a little older somewhat, but not by much. 20-24 in my opinion.

Idira: 30-40? I'm not sure....... Edit: The game described her as a "tall, middle aged woman". So, more on the 40 side.

Jae: Honestly, I have nooo idea. I would put her in her mid to late 30s.

Heinrix: He's 57?! 😳

Thank @anderish for the info. I'm way off then. The way he talks about things makes it sounds like eons ago 🫣. Thanks again for letting me know!

Pasqal: When you ask Pasqal about himself on the voidship bridge, you'd get "I belong to the priesthood of Explorators and came to the Koronus Expanse over two hundred years ago." I would add 50-80+ years from that event and we get... Around 250 to 300-ish? He definitely doesn't feel as old as Abelard who I'd say is around 300+ years old... That sass keeps you young I suppose.

Abelard: He seems to have been through several rejuvenations. Both of his knees has been replaced with augmetics and he started serving under Theodora 68 years before the game started, plus before that he's been serving in the Imperial Navy for many years (iirc he's a senior officer). My guess is 200-300ish but nowhere near 400. I remember something in the lore that stated rejuvenation won't work well past 400 years old, and Abelard here is still standing like a category 5 typhoon reinforced commercial brickhouse, so not quite 400 yet, but old enough to feel like he should retire to take care of his family on Dragonus.

Ulfar: Your guess is probably better than mine.

Sister Argenta: I also have no idea. I don't bring her around enough unfortunately.

Marazhai: The bottomless pit described him as "a broken youth", plus Abelard called him a "young man". So I think he's young-ish, for a Drukhari.

Yrliet: Older than Marazhai, that's for sure. Plus the bottomless pit description of "The ancient woman who only recently joined your caravan".

Let me know what you think & any things that I might have missed~