#deathwatch veteran

[nightscalestudio]

The fifth Deathwatch Veteran. I remind that a complete tutorial on Deathwatch can be found on our Patreon. painting tutorials: https://www.patreon.com/Nightscalestudio

[cardinalcanis]

Compliance

*Comes out of a dark alley* "Hey kid, want some Titus smut to scramble that brain chemistry real good? I got your fix."

This is @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond 's fault.

Summary: Titus was struggling with some unexpected side effects from the Rubicon Surgery, luckily he finds relief in unexpected hands.

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x NB!OC

Tw: smut, Adeptus Mechanicus, prostate massage, edging, genitals are a social construct, technically tentacles, Astartes have more holes than you think (trust me), MATH.

Word count: 7316

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @druidwolf21 @wolf-feathers12 @artemisareia @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kit-williams @egrets-not-regrets @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal

@moodymisty @lemon-russ @thisuserislilsilly

@sinistermojo @beckyninja @justallll @ms--lobotomy @pluvio-tea

Mechanicus speech cheat sheet:

When the hyperfocus gets in my mind goes so hard into ideas it gets them pregnant. So as this has a lot of Math Symbols as I went hamm on writing the Tech Priest’s way of speaking. I’m not a mathematician, I played loosely with stuff and their meanings, do not scream at me. Here is a quick list: 

>    -> More than. 

=    -> equals. 

!    -> negation of, no 

+++    -> increase. 

<=    -> less or equal to

&    -> and 

- - -    -> decrease 

T(statement)    -> that statement or thing is always true. 

=>    -> therefore, implies, if… then

!=    -> not equals to

∈    -> belongs to

⇔    -> if and only if, only.  

\/    -> or

P(statement)    -> probability of statement

Statement1 | statement2    -> statement1 happened because statement2 happened. 

E(statement)    -> the statement is an expected result. 

∅    -> null

F(statement)    -> that statement or thing is always false. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lieutenant Demetrian Titus of the Ultramarines, Liberator of Graia, slayer of Grimskull, veteran of the Deathwatch, bane of xenos, executioner of Thousand Sons… reduced to this pathetic drooling mess.

It had started around a month ago, the last bloody bug had been ripped to shreds but still he felt this hunger to keep going. He checked the state of his armor’s system, to his surprise the reserves of adrenaline shots hadn’t been used during the battle. Why did he still feel so restless? When did his bodyglove become so overstimulating? Had the material always been that noticeable on the skin when it was supposed to be seamless? Every single one of his nerve endings was screaming for touch, begging to be rubbed against something, ANYTHING. The worst was his aching groin, he had been close to believing that his codpiece was about to slingshot off him and get someone killed any second now. 

“Testosterone > expected Astartes levels. Positive note. Risk factor = low. !(Possibility) of death.” had stated Magos Biologis Mu-Oragon, brown eyes scanning the dataslate. 

“Low risk factor? I can’t barely focus on anything else Magos. What’s causing this?” 

The mechanicus lifted their gaze from the datapad, pale skin bathed in its faint greenish glow. Titus couldn’t decipher if the person had been male or female before embracing the Omnissiah, but there was a graceful beauty on the mech priest that had been lacking on others of their kind… shit this is bad he’s now sexualizing one of those tin cans.

“This unit understands, patient’s +++frustration = expected. Rubicon <= a year.” 

“Yes.” He had started to rock slightly on his seat, trying to focus on anything else rather than the heat coming from his core. At least his armor helped with masking the worst parts of his current condition, unlike the joke that tried to call itself a robe which he had to wear for examination. 

“[(Rubicon <= a year)&(Testosterone > expected Astartes level)] = normal occurrence.” One of Mu’s mechadendrites reached for the shelf, pulling a heavy binder. They then held it open with the help of their four mechanical arms. “---Symptoms expected. T(Normal progression).” 

“And what do you want me to do in the meantime! I thought the apothecary had referred me here for a solution.” he exclaimed out of frustration standing off the examination table. “Don’t you have any meds you can give me?”

His whole body shivered at the unexpected cold grasp from three mechadendrites pinning him back into a seating position. Blood flowed to his cheeks due to the surprising arousal that came from being manhandled by the seemingly meek Mu. 

“Hormonal cycle must !(be) disturbed => not compliance.  Compliance => possible late implant rejection. I !(compromise) unit Titus’ safety.” Mu-Oragon said in what was a wholeheartedly caring tone, even through the respirator’s distortion.

Titus had been told they had been the one in charge of his rubicon surgery, the one who saved his life. An incredibly dangerous procedure in normal conditions, but with the scale of his wounds it almost meant impossible success. Even with all that he didn’t imagine the Magos would feel protective of him, he was just another number in his surgery record anyways.

“Mu I can’t fight like this…” The same shiver again but now caused by the Magos’ grasp leaving him. Only the phantom feeling of the touch floating over his skin, another painful release he couldn’t attain, adding to the breaking down of his sanity. 

“That statement is true. Hopeful contrast. !(medication) != !(relief).” 

It took him a moment to wrap his head around the meaning of Mu’s words. He had become better at understanding the Magos after the repeated checkups on his condition following the rubicon surgery, yet there wasn’t a chance he could call himself fluent in mechanicus speech, less with someone’s accent as strong as the one in front of him. 

“You can help then, is that what you mean?” 

“Titus attempted stimulation for release = True?” they asked, pulling what seemed to be an informative pamphlet from the binder. 

“You mean if I had tried jacking off?” 

“That statement is true.”

A soft flush washed over Titus’ cheeks, glad the Magos’ examination room was empty today, Emperor only knows how hard this conversation would be in front of others. How could a room feel both so hot and cold at the same time? One of Mu’s mechadendrites tilted his head to drive his attention back towards the mechanicus, the touch has such softness uncharacteristic of what a machine would have. Yet the exception existed on Mu-Oragon, every single one of their four arms and many mechadendrites was designed for careful surgery where an eighth of a millimeter could prove life or death. He couldn’t recall all the instances during previous examinations when he had been touched by them and only noticed it once the contact became absent. 

“Yes I have.” He answered, unfamiliar with the open disclosure of his intimate activities. “It hasn’t been working.”

“Elaboration on process required. Accurate solution given ⇔ accurate description of event.” 

Mu-Oragon seemed to be deciding between a collection of pamphlets and booklets, skimming through them with the many prosthetic ocular lenses around his forehead while keeping their human eyes on Titus, which added to the multiple limbs, gave them quite an arachnid appearance.  

“What do you want me to say? There is not much science to it…” Even though the theoretical was quite clear, for the first time since his neophyte years his mind found itself struggling to find a proper practical for it

Titus held Mu’s gaze, curiously the Magos Biologis had retained both of his human eyes, only attaching more ocular addons around. A thing the astartes found quite curious if compared to others of his kind, who preferred replacing the lesser biological counterparts first. Theoretical: Mu-Oragon retained their human eyes, practical: it was a conscious decision due to the more patient oriented side of their occupation, it helped to establish trust.

He found the practical fitting. Wide almond shaped eyes with a reassuring stare, a window to the candid individual living inside machine parts and shrouded in logic based statements. 

Mu-Oragon’s mechadendrite surprised him again by resting part of its weight on Titus’ shoulder, comprehending the man’s struggle for words. He pondered on how much was Mu’s intent and how much was the limb’s machine spirit acting, he would have been lying if admitting that the relationship between mechadendrites and users wasn’t something he found interesting. One of his brothers, a tech-marine, had explained how they were beings of their own possessing an individual machine spirit; yet perfectly synchronized with his mind. Many times acting upon his thoughts without realizing. 

“Following procedure occurs on common stimulation practice. True \/ false?” asked the Magos, extending a thin booklet towards him that read ‘Comprehensive guide to prostatic stimulation’.   

“No” he answered as stoically as he could, looking at the object being handed to him. 

“Inference: this unit’s previous statement = false.” chirped Mu, computer-like clicks emitted as they spoke, possibly running calculations. “Response to Titus’ current statement: compiled. Deeper stimulation > external. [+++P(relief) = P.relief (Release | deep stimulation)] > [+++P(relief) = P.relief (Release | external stimulation)]. E[(---surplus testosterone) \/ (∅surplus testosterone)]” 

“You mean I can fix this by showing things up my ass?” 

“Statement’s truthfulness cannot be validated. P[ ((---surplus testosterone) \/ (∅surplus testosterone)) | (Simple anal insertion) ] = not conclusive. Remark: Relief of ailment ⇔ proper technique = true.”   

Titus swallowed a knot in this throat, followed by a long sigh. He didn’t expect the prescription for his ailment to be a masturbation technique. 

“Doubts prostatic stimulation = E(relief)?” Asked Mu tilting their head to the side. “Inexperienced = true?” 

Titus nodded, noticing how he had been holding Oragon’s gaze the whole time. 

“I can provide asistance ⇔ (consent = True). (Perform on Titus & explain) ⇔ (consent = True)” 

The booklet crunched a bit as he held it tighter, Mu had pulled him apart and back together before, likely there is no piece of him they haven’t touched… in the medical sense. Throne that simple though made him almost produce a low gasp. A different occurrence may have ended up in the rejection of such a proposal, but his situation was all but common. He could barely stay still without rubbing his aching crotch against something. Theoretical: this is just a medical procedure; practical: nothing else will come out of it. 

“Alright Mu-Oragon.” He agreed in almost a whisper. “Just… please be careful.” 

“T(Titus’ wellbeing is my priority.)” Even through the respirator their tone came out gleeful and reassuring. 

A couple days after, back at his chambers, Titus gasped and struggled to achieve the previous results he had experienced with the Magos. He was following the same movements and booklet’s instructions to the letter, his fingers were bigger and thicker than Mu’s; still the efforts left him wanting. He had made himself cum, and it had felt good, yes. But his relief was a cup with a hole at the bottom, never filling. 

Titus pressed his face against the drool covered pillow, recalling the memory from the examination room. Every time Mu had pressed their fingers inside him an asphyxiating wave of pleasure had drowned him over and over, his hairs stood with the remembrance of the Magos’ muffled exhalations due to the effort of manhandling such a heavier man. Another finger, he went deeper, a reminiscent thought of firm steel hands that had held his legs still; spread. 

Mu had played him like the director of an astropathic choir does his organ. Has Titus been the only astartes with a similar issue they’ve had to help? He bit the pillow hard enough to cause a rip, there was anger. The thought of Mu-Oragon giving similar care to someone else brewed an overflowing pot of jealousy and rage in him. But why? It was the Magos Biologis’ job to aid the Astartes, it was obvious there was no emotional attachment to the action. Despite the evidence he couldn’t stop the reassuring and borderline loving statements they had directed at him during the procedure to eat at his mind. How comfortable they had made him feel in his vulnerability, how in the time of their exchange he had silently craved for Mu to touch more of his body, to touch theirs. 

Titus sat in silence, frustrated tears sliding off his cheeks, a lone company in the otherwise relatively bare room. It was quite late at what the battle barge’s internal schedule had designated as ‘night time’, how much of a ‘night owl’ was the mechanicus? Was it proper to visit them? Were they busy? Were they saving another Astartes’ life? Were they soothing other Astartes’ post rubicon testosterone spike? Next thing Titus knew he was already dressed, one thought in mind. He should go to see them, by the primarch’s honor he had to see Mu. 

He moved with haste, weaving through the crowd of servitors engrossed in periodic station maintenance under the watchful vigilance of Mu’s brethren. No, they couldn’t compare to the Magos, none of them. Shit, why did he cram the stupid booklet and lube he was provided into his pocket? It was too late to return, his body would have not allowed him. 

Throne, those clothes were clean out of the dryer though they encountered themselves drenched with sweat. Titus’ walk to the desired wing was a blur, the fight between will and arousal occupied his focus in its entirety. Demetrian’s awareness returned to the front stage with his arrival at Mu’s laboratory, empty except for servitors. He pressed on past examination tables and towering shelves full of implements Titus had no idea of purpose, he didn’t need to anyways, he already had one. 

“Mu…” he mouthed at a sound belonging to what could be Mu’s binharic speech. 

The series of rhythmic computation sounds came out of a nearby room, the door almost fully closed. From the narrow opening left, aside from the overpowering smell proper of incense and machine oil, he could make sense that it was a private chamber.

There they were, sitting crosslegged on the floor, bathed in candle glow making their augments look like consecrated gold. Mu was perpendicular from the door, immersed in sacred meditation. In front of them a towering representation of the machine god crowned the extensive cogitator it was embedded on. The Magos’ hood was down, exposing their side shaved head, what was left of their brown hair in the middle presented tightly tied in a low ponytail. Cables came out of ports and cogitators on the sides of their head, neck and under their robes, connecting them to the one they were praying to. Two of their hands were in a prayer position, the other two resting on their knees. The many mechadendrites seemed deactivated, filling a circle around Mu as they laid over the carpet, like the resting wings of an angel. 

He had opened the door a bit more, taking one step inside yet regretting it instantly. It felt wrong, he was a trespasser, disturbing a sacred intimate rite he didn’t belong at. Titus tried to turn back but a mechadendrite stood to life, clasping hand pointed at the marine as if it could see him. Mu’s eyes opened accompanied by a quick inhalation, reminding him of someone waking up from deep sleep. 

“Unit Demetrian Titus…” surprise took over the Magos whose mechadendrites waved around them covering them until they could pull their hood back up. “Urgent assistance = true?” 

The door rattled slightly as Titus’ hand trembled. Was he feeling fear? The feeling he was made immune of? Mu tilted their head, emitting a series of concerned clicks. They patted a space on the rug beside them, limbs pulling aside to make space for Titus. 

“Permissions granted; accompany this unit. ⇔ desired so.” 

He entered further, making sure that the door was closed behind him. The intensity of the incense only increased with his approach. Titus gave the machine god’s image a look, its aura swallowed him, he was allowed into the room but that didn’t mean he was welcomed, that it welcomed him. 

“Detecting elevated blood pressure, presence of hyperhidrosis. Inference: condition disturbed.” They pointed out when he sat, the rest of their limbs focused on respectfully disconnecting the cables that joined Mu to the room’s cogitator. “Request: details needed.”

“Magos I… I have been doing everything as told.” The words were hard to come up with, this was a bad idea, he wanted to run. “Please, believe me.” 

“Complicance.” they said in what could have been a sigh. “Hormoral reading required. !(time) for a blood scan, +++urgency.” With their words they took the disconnected end of one of the cables still attached to them. “Expedited read | (direct connection = true)” 

A mechanendrite exposed the port at his nape. Even taking into account that the Magos’ intentions were clear and the connection into the ports around his body was a day to day affair; he couldn’t but instinctively want to lean away from the attempt. At least while conscious he had only been connected to external machines and his armor, making Titus and it become one. He was unsure of what linking to another conscious creature would be like. 

“Mu wait… ah…” 

He gasped at the connector’s insertion, a cold wave washed over him. Then, pressure. An extra force needed to be applied for the linkage’s proper attachment. Titus flinched when the plug was inserted to full length and secured. It has never felt this way, the imperceptive clicking shouldn’t be that all consuming, the effortless pressure shouldn’t send a shivering echo across his whole nervous system. The next breath came from lungs outside of his chest cavity. Parallel thoughts stood by his own. Connection state: stable. +++(blood oxygenation). Execute t01101000… wait what? 

“Requests: stand still for reading.” Mu pleaded, their voice sounding closer than the separation between them suggested. “Current testosterone levels = previous reading. Insulin levels within Astartes range = true. Leptin levels within Astartes range =  true. HGH levels within Astartes range = true…” they paused, Titus couldn’t see Mu’s throat but felt it on his own as it moved in a swallow. “+++(Oxytoxin levels)” 

A mechadendrite slid its rigged tentacle down his back coming into a wrap around the waist. The Magos glared at it with burning disapproval hasting the limb to release him. Unbecoming = true.

“What is that? Is it wrong?” Titus asked, a pressing heat that wasn’t the one already overwhelming him joined the room. 

“Oxytoxin = {social bonding hormone, love hormone, reproduction…}” 

The command for Mu’s arm to disconnect from him was clear, Titus’ enhanced reflexes were faster, applying pressure on the Magos’ hand before it could pull the connector out. A heart that wasn’t his drummed frantically. P(mutual) = 80%. Could it be that they have also been feeling something similar? P(mutual) = 88%. For how long? P(mutual) = 90%...

Titus leaned forwards pressing his lips on Mu’s cheek right when it met with the respirator, the skin was so soft, their smell like the rest of the room = {iron, candle wax, incense, sweat}. Mu’s arms resisted the approach but the many mechadendrites welcomed him, they acted upon their master’s subconscious wishes. 

“+++(levels) = {oxytocin, adrenaline, dopamine, vasopressin}.” They reported faintly. “Warning: Unit Titus breaching patient-magos protocol.”

“Are those hormonal readings yours or mine?” He asked with a tinge of humor, yet letting the wanting show. 

“Irrelevant.” The Magos chirped with higher pitch than normal before more mechadendrites started rubbing themselves around Titus like purring cats, then stopping when Mu directed a stern echoing mental order. 

“How long?” he asked, pressing his body against those appendages, begging for their touch. 

“Comprehension | (Unit Titus’ attention = true)” Oragon’s voice barely rose over the rushed clicking of their cogitators. “P(rubicon primaris success | healthy Astartes) = 61.6%. E(rubicon primaris success | medically dead Astartes) = ∅.” Was it a memory that flashed before him? Anger, defiance, approval, tension, relief. “Demetrian Titus: Omnissiah’s miracle. T(Demetrian Titus is my biggest pride).” Mu pressed their forehead against his. “T(Demetrian Titus is this unit’s most beautiful creation). Possessive desire = true.” 

He tried to get even closer, mind screaming to the magos’ to take him theirs as their right was. A slight passing migraine struck him, pushback. 

“I want ∈ Titus. I want Titus ∈ me.” 

They paused, a constant stream of data rushed from them to Titus. Failure = true. Unfaithful = true. Weak = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101. 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101 01001000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01110100 01100101 01101011 00100000 00111101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101.

“I’m here Mu, make me yours.” Titus purred, pressing his face on the Magos’ neck, their scent ordering his body into a surrender. +++(serotonin levels). 

“I want to execute statement compliance. Intervention. This unit !(execute) statement compliance. Mu !∈ Titus. Titus !∈ Mu. Mu ∈ The Omnissiah. Titus ∈ The Emperor.” With the great effort of several limbs they were capable of pushing Titus away, his whimper had a twin companion. “ F[P(I ∈ (Omnissiah & Titus) & Titus ∈ (Me & Emperor)) > 0]. Titus’ understanding = true?” 

“Mu, being with you will not make me stop fighting for the Emperor nor will distance you from the Machine God.” Unit Titus’ statement = True. “It will only make me fight harder, to fight for the Emperor is to fight for humanity, you are part of humanity, you are part of what I fight for; what I will die for.” 

Two of the Magos’ hands cradled his face, thumbs rubbing his cheeks, their eyes gifted him a loving painting colored in sorrow ahead of closing them tightly. Mu’s bodily cogitators’ clicking became louder, similar to a tired engine pushing itself up a difficult hill. Every single one of the mechanicus’ limbs trembled and rattled. Titus felt a piercing pain forming behind a skull that wasn’t his own. 

“Magos stop that! You are hurting yourse…” 

“I would hurt myself everyday if it means I do not hurt you Titus.” The lack of machine logic in Mu-Oragon’s statement caught him by surprise, that’s what they were doing, they were ending any process that would distort the message. To the extent of their modification, it hurt. “Attention  =... Listen to me closely please. What’s in your mind, what’s in my mind; it is a chimera Titus. Fantasy. !(logical).” continued as their registry jumped between two conflicting voice modulations. “I will never be able to fulfill your requirements for intimacy. Demand: compliance with silence = true… I am inside your head right now. You have expectations and desires that I cannot match.” Mu opened their eyes, they looked watery and puffy. The clicking sound became more urgent, the cogitators were screaming for it to end. “Body parts you crave that Mu… I…  do not possess. Blessed Cogitators Titus, look how hard it is for me to express myself in your language, do you think a relationship will work? T(I have no place in your world).” 

The hastened clicking relaxed, lungs that weren’t his struggled for air. Mu gave in and placed their forehead on Titus’ chest. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. They purred in the comfort they shouldn’t allow themselves to have. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. They were surrounded by strong arms whose warmth they had no business craving. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Their face, implants included, being covered in kisses that had a better use on someone else. Yet they didn’t want someone else to have. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true. Heretek = true.  Heretek = true. Heretek = true.

“You are no heretek” Titus spoke clearly, his voice making a body that wasn’t his own yet felt like it; to tremble. “I never asked you to change for me. I will not allow you to change for me. Whatever you bring to me will make me happy, because it’s yours.” 

“Counterargument. Titus feeling this way | (+++testosterone & +++oxytocin). (Hormonal stabilization = true) => Titus !(love) Mu. E(Desire = {∅}).” 

“Theorerical: the result of your reasoning is false. Practical: you are in my head, you must only look.” 

“Compliance.” 

There was an invasive tingle poking at his brain, searching, inquiring. They shared a long moment of silence, lullabied by cogitators and Mu’s binharic musings. It felt strangely intimate, not the idea he had in mind when he came out of his room desperate to have the Priest inside him. Yet he still ached for it. 

Mu looked up to him. Pulling their hood down then guiding Titus hands on how to properly hold their face without disturbing the cablework. Throne, they were so strangely beautiful. 

“This unit’s compliance: approval pending.” They said, “This unit’s compliance ⇔ (Titus’ trust = true & Titus’ consent = true).” 

“You pulled my body apart and back Magos, do you really need more trust?” 

“Mu-Oragon !(had) Titus’ consent for rubicon. Patient previous state = unconscious. Unconsciousness !(match) consent protocol. Repeating inquiry: Titus’ Trust = True?” 

“Yes Mu I trust you.” 

“Titus’ statement = true?” The Magos pressed. 

“With my life, Mu please just… ah…”

Another cable made its insertion into Titus, now at a port on his lower back. His vision blurred for a second after the push that made the connection click, he felt himself holding Mu’s face and Mu’s face being held by his hands. A series of satisfied binharic purrs came out of him… the Magos. A touch, a gentle hand caressing behind his earlobe and going down the jawline made him moan quite loud. Titus tightened his lips afterwards full of confusion and shame. Mu chuckled behind the respirator. 

“Proud remark: Any mortal knowledge of Titus’ body < this unit’s knowledge of Titus’ body.” Both him and them gasped in unison with the many limbs holding him in place. “Proceeding with statement validation.” 

Fingers brushed his hair back in a soothing motion, just like they did that day at the examination room to calm his nerves. 

“Retrieving previously used data; Titus = {good, strong, capable, beautiful}.” 

With every word a new limb joined the embrace. Hands, ribbed tentacles, mechadendrite claspers; they all rubbed and massaged Titus’ body over his clothes. Pleasurable yet with the Magos’ teasing, no contact was made with any greater erogenous zone. The Marine played against the scheme, moving himself in a way Mu would at least grace the most vocal centers about their hunger, the mechanicus fought back trying to anticipate Titus’ moves and not let him have a win. They both were absorbed by childish chuckle and sporadic gasps. Mu’s binharic clicks were cheerful, jovial notes, light and dark compared with the ones from earlier. 

He placed his lips on Mu’s neck, also feeling them on his. And ran kisses over both flesh and blessed metal parts. They tensed a bit when he attempted to touch their chest, Titus sensed a third heart rate increasing followed by a mental note reassuring him it was fine. Without leaving carefulness behind he went down the Magos’ neck, wrapping, what the jealous tentacle allowed, of an arm behind Mu’s thighs lifting their body enough for him not bend on a weird angle to keep kissing down, his lips making out of fleshy and non biological parts under the robe.

That was when the mechadendrites started to infiltrate the openings on his clothes and slide under. The metal was no longer cold as it had been warmed up by Titus’ own body heat. Had that been the Magos’ plan? 

They both moaned at the sensation of ribbed well oiled tentacles rubbing themselves against Titus’ nipples, lower abdomen and inner thighs. The Marine was sitting on his knees, holding Mu with one arm and kissing their upper robed body, the other hand kept making sense of the shapes hidden by red cloth. 

Anchoring themselves firmly on Titus’ shoulders with two of their arms, Mu used the leftover free hands to undo the ribbons, clasps and buttons keeping the robe on. They stopped, only them letting go would uncover their body. He eyed them expectantly, noticing how shades of pink bloomed on what could be seen on their cheeks. 

“Witness the miracle of machine and flesh ⇔ (Units > initiates). Exception logged: Demetrian Titus.” Their voice sounded even more distorted than usual, nervous binharic chirps made interference with their words. 

“You don’t need to undress more if you are not comfortable, Mu.” Titus indicated lovingly as he massaged one of their shoulders. 

The grill covering Mu’s mouth didn't impede him from noticing they were smiling, the expression brightening their whole face. Adoring notes in binharic were said yet nothing in a manner Titus could understand, but he thought how it reminded him about how their prayers sounded like. With ritual reverence they let the cloth go, causing the scarlet to part and barely hang off their shoulders. He felt Mu shiver as that skin didn’t seem used to being uncovered, it was paler than their face and very thin, so much he felt afraid of his calloused palms breaking it open. Said skin was bitten into by metal, flexible pipes and transparent wiring transporting blood. Just as they did with their head Mu guided Titus’ hands across their upper body, reaching the pant's edge, a scar continuing down into the pubis was seducing him to follow it underneath. He would have if he hadn’t  noticed how in certain places clusters of purple broke paleness’ ruling, matching where he may have innocently grabbed or kissed too excitedly.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were that sensible.” 

Titus got his mouth close enough to a bruise yet stopped leaving the lips hovering over it, only his breath making contact. He looked up to meet Mu’s gaze, a request for permission written on his. They tightened any grip on Titus leading to a shift of their weight forwards, pressing themselves against his lips. This time he could appreciate how the binharic purrs and notes actually started somewhere between their ribs and echoed towards the grilled respirator in their face to finish being properly enunciated. The pale layer vibrated and contracted with every joint moan, gasp, huff. 

Mu took hold of another cable connected to them that had an orphan end with no port to call home. Instead of going for it right away they let the cord slide over Titus’ chest, going behind him by the left side of his neck and coming out from the right. The cables had a different texture from the appendages holding the mechadendrites, he enjoyed the contrast between stiff ribbedness and flexible softness. The port on the right side of his neck, by the joining with the shoulder, seemed to be the desired spot. The very moment the plug’s tip was to get inserted into it; Titus moved minimally away with a mischievous grin. Playfulness was older than machines, Mu wasn’t the only one with teasing rights.   

Both continued the jolly game for a couple minutes; shifting, giggling. By the end, it seemed Titus would finally accept the insertion only for the marine to get Mu’s hand holding the cable with a light-hearted bite, not exerting a tinge of actual pressure. The Magos hummed then all together, their mechadendrites compressed his body right over spots he would feel their sting the most, the appendages close to his thighs pulled them firmly; forcing him to a more open and exposed sitting position. At the same time, Mu’s free hand seized as much as Titus’ hair it could and yanked his head back with surprising command; displaying the working area. All of it teared out a pained moan out his core. 

“Delivering request for stillness.” They said, the teasing switched its tone from light-hearted into a lascivious one. “Patient Demetrian Titus !(compliance) => Execute: unit’s protocol for unruly patient subjugation. Titus != {bad patient}. (Titus = {Good patient}) = True?” 

“Apologies Magos, I do want to be a good patient, please show me how.” 

“Compliance.” 

His heightened sensitivity perceived the contact between port and connector in ways words could barely describe. When the tip of the connector touched the outer ring, for half a second he could swear that the candles and lumens seemed to brighten then dull back to their normal luminosity. The friction of smooth metal against smooth metal from the middle of the insertion sparked ripples in his brain that reminded Titus just like a vox signal trying to connect. A final push brought the connection to properly click inside, if before it rippled across the nervous system; now there was no system left unassaulted by a powerful spasm.

Demetrian Titus went blank, only remembering short snippets drunk in this unadulterated euphoria, perception shifting quickly between bodies. Once his faculties adapted to the input stream he discovered himself in the same position but things had changed a little. Titus’ top was gone and his pants were down to the knees. Coagulated crimson lines decorated him all over, evidence from scratches his healing factor closed immediately. The marine was rocking his hips at the rhythm of one of the mechadendrites crossing between his legs, rubbing its oiled shaft over the crotch and between the buttocks. He was still holding onto Mu, quite closely. The Magos’ thighs were at both sides of his neck, Demetrian finding his teeth pulling at their pants’ waist band. Two of their hands were finding support from Titus' biceps, the other two grasping at the marine’s hair for dear life; robe barely hanging by their elbows. He saw no reason to stop it there. 

Firmly holding Mu’s waist with one hand he lifted them up a bit, then using the other to grip the waistband at the back Titus slid their pants down, pulling them fully away. His lips' curiosity could finally scout the track indicated by that scar on their lower stomach. His kisses, the wetness of his tongue, the texture of his shaved cheeks; all sensations were mirrored back onto his skin. Then he made an interesting discovery, when he began charting what was left or lacked on Mu’s crotch it also reflected on his cock with curious representations. A  lick on the front was actually felt at the base of his shaft, yet going and kissing a bit to the right from there was experience at the top of his glans. Mu’s moans were his moans, deep, hungry. Their connection was a cyclical loop of pleasure, what was felt on them echoed onto Titus then back into them. He wondered if the mechanicus was capable of feeling arousal from stimulation on that area without a two way connection. Maybe he could try to investigate in the future, as the now had Titus quite busy. 

Mu moved the anchor points from Titus’ biceps to his hands, a metallic finger pried his mouth wide open making sure the tongue was fully out, then lifting themselves up they started to fully ride the Astartes’ mouth at the same rhythm the mechadendrite grinded its length between Titus’ legs. Their speech reduced to huffs and frantic binharic notes weaving the tunes of their shared pleasure. Titus almost dropped Mu when both of them were run over on climax’s path. Trembling prosthetic legs’ embrace became stronger, pressing him firmly on his face, a mortal with not as good breathing capacity would have likely perished out of air. 

They shifted their weight around Titus to climb off his shoulders, sitting on one arm holding them, they pressed their face onto Titus’. That was when he perceived the respirator being slid down, thin soft lips and skin like the one on their other covered areas nuzzled him. Lungs that weren’t his momentarily ached as they readapted to unfiltered air. Mu’s kiss was shy, sloppy, and inexperienced. Their knowledge of other people’s bodies didn’t transfer well to the skill of kissing, it was fine, not like Titus had much either. They could learn together. 

He pulled back from the kiss, not for lack of wanting but the realization he could finally admire Mu’s full face. It was round with big cheeks that were artificially parted with a depression between the cheekbone and cheek caused by the long respirator use. 

“Isn’t it dangerous to take it off?” He asked quite concerned. 

“!(Every unit).” their unaltered voice was more melodious than when muffled behind the respirator. “Mu-Oragon = {sacred binharic, chemical filtration}. Lung condition: stable. !(Risk)” They kissed him again then moved down his neck, he had forgotten, now they were connected Titus’ unquenching lust was also theirs. “Request: taste Titus.” 

“You know the answer.” he smiled back. 

Hums kept emanating from the respirator but without Mu’s mouth to guide them there was no binharic aria, just airy vibrations. He was fine without the tunes, that mouth looked beautiful with their fleshy lips crowning his nipple, disappearing into the bountiful hairy mass of his chest. Cold, a hand stroked up and down his shaft being unable to fully wrap its fingers around it. And Mu’s mouth, it was already small, yet his cock made it look even smaller by comparison, it made the whole Magos smaller by comparison. 

They licked the leftover cum around the tip and down the shaft, maybe now discovering the taste he’ll have an enlightening comeback when Chairon jokingly tells him to go eat his own dick again. 

Titus buckled and moaned not by stimulation itself but a memory, one of Mu’s hands was running its fingers in circles around the entrance to Titus’ backside. They were slippery, quite well lubricated in fact. 

“Titus = {so good patient, follows prescription well}.” Mu teased him. 

A grasping mechadendrite lifted up, holding the opened lube bottle he had stuffed inside his pocket before. Mu’s fingers barely peeked at the entrance, stretching the aroused fleshy ring. 

“Titus’ memories: seen. This Unit's touch: requested. Compliance.”

They slipped inside with the same effortless precision as before, the joy of getting filled as he had been craving was unmeasurable. Titus grabbed Mu’s head and trusted his cock inside the Magos’ mouth, barely getting a third in. In vengeance they got another finger into him, he wailed at the stretch and pressure curling inside him. If before Mu played him like an instrument, the current Titus was the whole orchestra, from groans to wines they composed a melody out of the Astartes’ desire. 

The rhythm became even faster, building a time bomb of pleasure inside his crotch. Drool and precum dripped down Mu’s chin, Emperor, Omnissiah, whoever was responsible: what a beautiful creature they were. Lustful indulgence was ramping up into a crescendo, Titus was getting close to relief he wanted to cry; and he did once Oragon stopped right at the plunge’s edge, denying him. 

Titus was about to ask why when they held his buttcheeks open for the lubed thin rounded head of a grasping mechadendrite pressed into him.

“Wait!” He howled. 

“Titus trust = true.” They whispered hugging the Astartes between their arms, and his cock between their thighs. 

Bastard, they had made it so aiding his throwing member would mean thrusting back and sodomizing himself into them. He had no choice and soon realized how Mu didn’t oversell themselves when they said they knew Titus’ body best, his hole was so well prepared it took the claw and following tentacle quite well. The stretch was so much yet it didn’t feel painful, Golden Throne, it felt like something he didn’t know he wanted but now will never be able to live without. 

Now the mouths of both of them were free he could appreciate how much of a mirror they had become, Titus was the baritone to Mu’s tenor-soprano, singing the same song in parallel harmonies. It was so much, he began bending over until he had the Magos pinned on the floor under him as he thrusted between their thighs, and the Magos had him entangled in many arms and cables as they stretched his insides. 

Titus had been shivering when he approached the same edge of the cliff as before, it being at a higher distance from the ground compared to the last. The Astartes felt as if the fall was going to make him blackout again, Mu had given him so many gifts, brought back to life and now another way to perceive life through the skin of the one he cherished, their skin. 

The timer on the time bomb in his crotch reached zero, a wave of pleasure after the other washed over him, he suddenly became aware of every pore in their skins, every hair on their heads. But it kept on, every single one of Mu’s appendages grabbed onto Titus as if letting go would cost them their life. He squirmed as his asshole didn’t see mercy nor rest, words were not able to be had with a throat so busy on pained moans. 

Wait, did he have so many cables inserted? Titus finally became aware that more than three ports on his body were in use, when did it happen? When he went blank? Realization dawned on him: he was trapped. All this time he had been a careless fly dancing around the spider’s net, every step entangling him more and more until he was fully helpless, ready to be consumed. The moans transformed into howls, those became wails, wails into whimpers, whimpering devolved into sobbing, culminating in the drained gasps of a fuck hole that knows its place. His mind gave up to the pleasure finally breaking and going  blank. 

He woke to the smell of incense and the realization of being so literally empty, laying on his side with Mu facing him. Mechadendrites and cables were still holding him, not with hunger but care. 

“I guess I ruined your rug.” He joked. 

“!(underestimate) martian chemical cleaner.” The Magos smiled sleepily at him, they hadn’t put the respirator back on yet, purplish red bite marks and bruising dressed their lips and lower jaw, Titus rubbed a finger over those. 

“My doing again I suppose, guess even my bare minimum of gentleness is still too rough. I’m sorry Mu, I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“Reasurance. Preemptive awareness = True. Exchange | risk assessed. Titus design = {Strong, powerful, deadly}. (System’s status: fully operational) => no need to disable recurrence of interactions.” they said, soothing his worries. 

Mu’s voice returned to the metallic distortion as they put the respirator back on, gentle binharic hum seemed to communicate the Magos’ bliss on that moment more than any words they nor Titus could spare. 

Then the song changed to a familiar prayer, Mu started to go over the cables connecting them to Titus in reverse, from the last to be connected to the first. Before each of the disconnections the prayers sang a layered stanza Titus attributed meaning due to the tune; gratitude, mourning, hope. One by one he saw himself dividing from Mu’s senses, his mind grasping at any pieces left of that consciousness which melted into his, a cry of loneliness as what as one was became two separate beings again. He didn’t feel gloom though, as the prayer implied, separation only meant a new opportunity to meet again. 

“Wait a moment.” Titus interrupted when Mu-Oragon got to the final plug that was the first, the one at his nape. 

“Attention = True. Unit Titus wellbeing: stable?” They asked with the leftover sleepiness of someone coming out of a deep trance. 

“Titus ∈ to Mu, and = true - and that will always be true.” He spoke slowly, doing his best to speak on their lingo, knowing they may be doing a horrible job with laughable pronunciation. “Do Mu ∈ to Titus - this is a question.” 

At least his hope of not saying anything offensive by accident was reassured. The mechanicus’ face became as red as the clean parts of the rug they were laying over, nervous binharic notes escaped them like an open faucet. 

“Theoretical” they started, earning an instant chuckle from Titus. “Mu ∈ Titus. Practical: T(Mu ∈ Titus).” 

Just as it all started Titus kissed them on the cheek, right over where the skin met the respirator. Weird, Mu was rubbing the back of his neck, plug gone yet he didn’t feel a disconnection. Maybe the Omnissiah had finally made up their mind about him.

[boredguitarfish]

Brother Damocle, black shield chaplain of the Deathwatch at Watch Fortress Erioch.

Formerly a vanguard veteran of the Astral Claw chapter, under the name of Koritan, he was inducted into the rank of deathwatch chaplains after a near standard century of service and apprenticeship in the Long Vigil at Eye of Damocles. Astral Claw called for his return prior to the start of Badab war, yet the message was lost through the layers of bureaucracy of the Inquision, and only reached the watch station after the initiation of the war. Koritan was immediately seized by the inquisition and was placed under intense interrogation and scrutinization due to his apparent connection with his former chapter, which was proven unnecessary as he ended up in the deathwatch predominately due to his disdain towards Huron. After his name was cleared, the chaplain rescinded all his previous connections, including his name given to him by his former chapter.

He requested the removal of his details and a transfer to other watch fortresses, which was granted. Now with the status of a black shield and adopting the name of his former watch fortress, Damocle rejoined his brothers in the deathwatch with unprecedented ferocity.

N.B. The character is extensively scarred with his jaw replaced with metal work, akin to the chaplain’s death mask’s mandible. He is a veteran to start with, and harbors a furious eager and self destructive passion in battle for the shame of his former chapter.

[mothiir]

all is fair in love and war, part i

In which our favourite diplomat faces an assassination attempt, and Sicarius and Roboute must address some feelings.

Cw: gore. No sex. That’s in the next part.

—

—

An Inquisitor is aboard the ship. An Inquisitor is aboard your ship, in your space, they are here. Fear pulses through you; the instinctive dread of a prey animal learning that the wolf is just around the corner. You have no firsthand experience of the Inquisition, but by the Emperor you have heard stories — colleagues who were threatened into taking part in the cruellest of traps, luring rebellious worlds into an accord, only for the Inquisition to burn the planet to cinders. Worse than this: you have heard stories of those who refused — lobotomised, servitorised, and not just them but their families, their friends, punishment that runs along the most tenuous of connections until everyone who heard the name of the would-be hero was dead, or wished they were. It cannot be chance that the Inquisitor has arrived now, when the Primarch has taken all of the battle-ready ships and most of the men to deal with a section of the webway benighted by daemons, coming to the assistance of their Eldar allies, a comradeship that you were instrumental in brokering. Aboard the diplomatic vessel the Hestia, with nothing more than a barebones crew, sheltered deep in Ultramar’s space you thought yourself safe. And you are — but only from external threats. 

The rot within the Imperium still finds you here, apparently. 

As the most senior civilian official here, you join the welcoming party, standing beside Captain Icarus, a now-retired guardsman who — having served decades on the frontline of the Imperium’s battles — knows the ways of the Inquisition all too well. There are no Astartes aboard the ship, only baseline humans — formidable foes, practiced veterans all — and yet as the Inquisitor and her retinue board your ship (the continent-sized bulk of her ship dwarfing your own, blotting out the stars) you find yourself possessed by the mad urge to gather the men beneath your non-existent wingspan, to shelter them. 

“My lady Inquisitor,” you say, with a deep and respectful bow. “It is an honour —“

”Are you really the most senior diplomat here? Hm. I suppose you will do, until the senior officials arrive,” says the Inquisitor. Oh, what a promising start. What a truly excellent start. You straighten up immediately. “I am Kagha, of the Ordo Xenos. I was under the impression that the Lord Primarch was resident here and came to offer my services.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, trying your utmost to keep your eyes fixed on Kagha — and not her Deathwatch bodyguards, looming like obsidian-wrought gargoyles; nor the cherubim hovering behind her, fleshy abominations with blank, unsettling faces. The other woman is a little shorter than you, hard-featured and haughty, but possessed of an ageless, sharp beauty that speaks of those rejuve treatments the upper-classes so love. Her copper hair is swept up in an elaborate braided style, ornamented with gold skulls with glowing red eyes. You would wager your life’s savings on those hairpins being secret, deadly weapons. Her outfit is equally impressive: a long black leather coat, embroidered with a motif of heretics burning in a flaming pit while an impassive angelic figure watches; skin-tight trousers; an elaborate lacy blouse that closes at her throat with a ruby the size of your fist.

She’s wealthy. Well-connected. Experienced. And yet there is something not right; an itch under your skin. 

You look to the Deathwatch marines, as briefly as possible. There are five of them — more than enough to annihilate the paltry crew here, should they wish — and all are helmeted. Two carry shields slung over their shoulders; huge oblongs of metal longer than you are tall, ornamented with strange milky stones, like opals, and yet somehow familiar —

Your blood turns to ice. Spirit Stones. The funerary custom of Craftworld Eldar is to keep the souls of their dead in these psychic tombs, thus preserving their fallen comrades, and keeping them safe from the endless maw of She Who Thirsts. To break a Spirit Stone is to send the soul contained within to eternal damnation; it is one of the cruellest fates you can imagine. And to decorate your weapons with them — and to bring these weapons to the ship of a diplomat you know brokers peace with the Eldar —

You know then what is happening, and you would laugh at the flagrant arrogance of the Inquisition, if you were not so fearful. They are so used to having nothing stand in their way — why would they be subtle about an assassination? You make a quick gesture with your right hand, keeping it pressed tight to your side. In battle-cant it means call the Primarch. Bring him back. We are in danger. 

To Kagha, you beam, trying to appear every inch the young idiot she appears to think you are. “Would you care to join me in my quarters for tea? I can send a vox to my senior — he is currently aboard a ship in the Ultramarine’s fleet, and will answer as soon as he can.”

A bluff, of course. You have no senior. And yet Kagha — arrogant, stupid Kagha — nods tersely. “This is acceptable.”

—

You do not think it arrogant to claim that you are more that a little adept at the finer points of conversation — it is, after all, much of your job to be personable and engaging. Indeed, this talent is in such short supply across the Imperium that you sometimes wonder if you count as a prodigy, just because you can engage in small talk without threatening anyone, or going on a half hour diatribe about the Emperor’s endless benevolence. You once even made a Harlequin laugh! Yes, it was because you fell over — but it still counts. 

And yet Kagha is a brick wall — no, that is an insult to masonry. She either does not answer your questions, or does so in a way that suggests she considers you the stupidest woman alive for even raising the point. Still, she is kind enough to pour the second round of tea, so you sip, and resign yourself to silence. 

After around twenty minutes, the ring on your index finger — a nondescript circlet of silver, set with a tiny little sapphire — tightens minutely. Thank goodness for that. You offer Kagha a bright smile. 

“If I were you,” you say. “I would have a word with your sources.”

Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

”Well — they’re clearly quite out of date. I did have a superior diplomat overseeing my work here — her name was Sara Buchanan, and she was wonderful — but she returned six months ago to be with her grandchildren. I’ve been running the show here ever since.”

Kagha’s brow furrows. “If you are suggesting —“

“I am not suggesting. I am telling. Do you really think you are the first member of your Order to come calling to the Primarch’s fleet, thinking that they can disrupt our mission here? Granted, you are the first one to approach myself directly — but we know your sort. The arrogance of you! You’d see the Imperium remain steeped in shadow and ignorance if it kept your position safe.”

Genuine anger bleeds into your voice, and your throat tightens. You cough into your hand, cursing the sudden flare-up of — what? Allergies? Gunshots echo outside; lasgun facing lasgun. The Primarch has returned home, and is not best pleased with what he finds. 

Kagha’s lips skin back, showing her teeth. “You stupid xenos loving bitch — you have no idea what you are doing here.”

”I know exactly what I am doing here. Following my Lord Primarch’s orders. You are the heretic who claims to know better than the son of the God-Emperor —“ you break off into another bout of coughing, this time more strenuous. It feels like something is clawing up your throat. The door to your chambers crashes open, Cato Sicarius storming in, wreathed in smoke, spattered with blood. 

“Careful!” you yell out at the gunfight outside. “Don’t break the stones on the shields!”

”We know that,” Sicarius snaps at you. “We are well-aware of the Deathwatch’s tactics —“

Whatever he was about to say is amputated as you double over and vomit. A dark grainy substance puddles at your feet, like recaf-grounds. Behind you, Kagha sniggers. 

“So, so clever — but didn’t think to check the tea, did you?”

Oh for the love of the Emperor’s left bollock — you curse your oversight. She’d poured the tea. Ample time to slip poison into it, even though you had been watching her the whole time, because Inquisitors are nothing if not swift with their petty, lethal blows. You choke on another upsurge of bile, pain now radiating from your stomach, and collapse onto the floor. 

The next two things happen so swiftly as to be synchronous. Kagha reaches for her hairpin, presumably to activate some kind of suicide device, and Sicarius leaps towards her. Before she can complete whatever last-ditch resort she was planning, Sicarius has flipped her upside down, holding one scrawny ankle in each of his gauntleted hands. Kagha shrieks in astonishment — a shriek that soon turns to a wordless, senseless wail of agony as the Astartes moves his forearms, just a little, and rips her in half. Gore showers him, and you avert your eyes, but you can still hear the wet slop of organs falling to the ground in a bloody puddle; the popping and breaking of bones, rent apart like matchsticks. 

“That is my woman,” growls Sicarius — or, at least, you think he does. The world is starting to blur at the edges; the pain is receding — or perhaps you are receding, falling away into the dark. Your last image is of Sicarius bending down to you, reaching out. And then it is all black, as black as the void between stars. 

—

You blink awake to cool white light, and soft white linen. For an absurd moment you think you’ve perished, and this is the Emperor’s rest — an endless bed, where you can sleep as much as you wish (sleep being the one resource you were always so scarce of). 

Then —

“Ah, the wench awakes. Good. I was getting sick of looking at your sleeping face.”

Cato Sicarius sits by your bed, a paperback book open on his knee. The title reads Duty and Love: The Steamy Romance of a Kriegsman and a Sister of Battle — but before you can comment on it, he’s whisked it away, hiding it in one of his armour’s many compartments.

”How long — how long has it been?”

Your voice is rough; your throat aches. Sicarius tosses you a canteen of water. 

It’s metal. It’s Space Marine sized. You can’t catch it; it hits you in the chest and bounces off, leaving another bruise to deal with. 

“Next time, catch better.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. With shaking hands, you unscrew the lid and gulp at the icy water. 

“The poison ate through your oesophagus,” says Sicarius, conversationally. “Just as well it spared your tongue — a mute diplomat is no use to anyone, and we would have had to get someone new aboard. Can’t be doing with that.”

Perhaps it is your drug-induced delirium, but you smile at him. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

”Absolutely not. Give me that.”

He snatches the canteen back, spilling water over you both. It’s his canteen. There’s a jug of water on your bedside table, and he gave you his canteen — but before you can dwell on that , Sicarius is back to grumbling. 

“We had to divert our entire mission because of you. Lord Gulliman was not best pleased that the Ordo Xenos was causing trouble for him and his, so we had to go halfway across the galaxy to Kagha’s home base. He’s spent the last five days putting every Inquisitor he can find to the sword. Burned a couple of planets that were still perfectly useful just because they wouldn’t tell us what we needed to know.”

There is far too much there for your sluggish brain to process. You manage: “Five days?”

”Yes. You’ve been out for six. That poison almost killed you. It didn’t. Fortunately.”

You stare down at your hands. They are almost as pale as the sheets: sunless, drained. “And the Primarch —?”

As if in answer to your question, the door opens, and Roboute himself enters. You immediately try to greet him properly — stand, curtesy, even salute — but your body won’t obey, and you just manage to tangle yourself up in your sheets, tumbling from the bed. The Primarch catches you before you hit the ground, swaddling you up in your linen like a newborn babe, settling you back onto the bed. His armour is tarnished, swathes of it stained rusty with old blood, and he reeks of smoke. Deep shadows hang under his eyes. He looks like he has come fresh from the battlefield. 

“There,” he says. “Better? Glad to see you with us.”

Your arms are pinned to your sides, which is just as well, since you suddenly want to stroke his tired brow, comb your fingers through his hair. 

Roboute looks over at Sicarius. “Thank you for your watch, brother.” To you, he adds: “Sicarius stayed —“

”Here because I was ordered to, and now I must leave to attend to proper business,” says Sicarius, all in a rush. 

Gulliman stares at him. And stares at him. Then looks at you. Then back at Sicarius. 

“…is that really what you want to say,” he says, in a tone of infinite, weary patience. “Really. After all this. That’s your parting riposte.”

Sicarius stands up straight, throwing up a parade-ground salute. 

“I fulfilled your orders, my lord. Watched her for the five days and nights. But now I have to return to my battle brothers for my actual purpose.”

Gulliman stares at him for another long, long moment. You twitch in the cocoon that Gulliman has forced you into, feeling deeply awkward but not entirely sure why. 

“Last chance,” says Gulliman. Sicarius frowns. 

“Not sure what else I should say, Lord Father.”

”Right,” says Gulliman, and sighs, turning back to you. He tucks you in more firmly — clearly intending it to be a comforting gesture, but managing to strait-jacket you to the point where you think your fingers are going numb. “Theoretical: the potential of losing you drove me to depths of fury that I had not felt in quite some time. This was in part due to the Inquisitor’s meddling, but largely to do with the prospect of not having you by my side.”

He strokes your hair gently.

”Practical: when you are well enough to stand, you will come to my quarters and we will have nice non-poisoned tea. And we can talk. And enjoy one another’s company.”

You squeak. “S-sounds like an excellent strategy, my lord. Yes. Please. Would like to play my part for you and the Legion and —“

”Perhaps not the entire Legion,” says Gulliman. “Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Sicarius? Why are you still here?”

Sicarius’ face is frozen in a rictus of pure, delirious rage. “No — no reason at all Lord Primarch. I will…I will take my leave.”

No one can say Gulliman did not give his idiot son a chance. He leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead, pausing to inhale the scent of air. It smells of home. 

[voices-of-favor]

At last: Klara of the Voices, known as "Little sister" of the chapter (even though she is larger than most of her battle-brothers)

Decorated with mementos from past battles

If any trinket gets lost, she will just have to destroy an important chaos marine and make another

This makes her the fourth (Champion Nikanor not pictured here) member of the company hero squad, along with Deathwatch veteran Michaeas and lead company ancient Kristof

[awwsha]

✨️New Chaplain✨️

Made another chaplain for the Abyssal Seals. The Deathwatch Veterans box is so good for making characters. Don't really have a name for him yet.

[corvusalbus93]

Second half is still one of my favourite conversations between the characters in DoW2, specifically the:“But do they respect you? Do they even know you?”

The idea that despite the bonds of brotherhood between Astartes, it might not be uncommon for them to be....well, lonely. 

Plenty of them, especially veterans like Cyrus, who served in the Deathwatch, probably have secrets or at least sensitive information to keep, had unique experiences or suffered specific trauma. Maybe even have thought/opinions, which should not be voiced for one reason or another. Lost those within the chapter closest to them. Any number of things really.

Anything that might isolate them from others and these things build up over the decades or even centuries of service. Until they are decorated members of their chapter, respected or infamous, but not really close to anyone anymore.

[titanomancy]

Last thing of note is the Deathwatch short film produced in collaboration with Bandai Namco and Safehouse. I'd say that it's on the whole better than most of Warhammer+'s offerings, but still feels more like a video game trailer than a cohesive narrative.

Still, it does a better job of conveying a sense of weight and momentum than either Angels of Death, Pariah Nexus or Iron Within did. I still hold up Astartes as the gold standard for Space Marines on screen, but the Enemy Without compares favorably to the otherwise unsurpassable Dawn of War opening cinematic.

As an aside, this is the second time in the last month that we've seen Deathwatch on screen and I'm beginning to notice some design elements that might suggest they're working from an updated design brief. It's possible that there is a new Deathwatch Veterans kit on the horizon.

[divineerdrick]

Warhammer 40,000 Adeptus Mechanicus Changes for June 20, 2024

AdMech have proven to be the greatest balance issue of 10th Edition. Only Deathwatch has performed worse, and AdMech has recently fallen below them. They've gone from an army of fragile but skilled warriors wielding some of the most deadly weapons in the galaxy, to what feels like raw recruits with pea shooters. They don't have rules, and they don't have datasheets. All they have is the commitment of a small cadre of veteran players that are used to needing every ounce of their skill to get results from the army. Arguably Tyranids were worse off, as AdMech frequently outperformed them at the top tables. But Tyranids have the advantage of being a relatively beginner friendly army with really good discount boxes, which helped bolster their player base. Meanwhile AdMech has been relying on the cries of a small dedicated fanbase to try and get the attention they need as their army keeps getting more and more expensive.

But GW has finally answered those calls for aid! As vaguely discussed in the WarCom article, there are a ton of rules changes for the faction. Nearly the entire second page of the Dataslate is dedicated to the AdMech rules changes, with only a small piece blocked out for Sisters and Custodes. Let's start with the big one.

Army Rule

The original Doctrina Imperatives interacted with your weapons and deployment zones, granting a special rule and a buff depending on which one you picked. The special rule was always welcome. With the reduction to hitting on 4s, granting Heavy to your units camping objectives or firing lanes is always nice. Similarly when you're surging out to seize those positions, Assault is always welcome. However, the buffs were not as useful. Protector Imperative made enemy AP worse against units in your deployment zone while Conqueror improved your AP against enemy units in their deployment zone. This was extremely limiting, and often meant you just didn't get the second part of your Imperative.

Now Doctrinas have gotten a second buff that is just always applied to the units that benefit, as well as a third that works much like many of the Skitarii support rules. This brings the AdMech's main synergy system into its Army Rule and makes it much easier to claim all the buffs of an Imperative.

Protector Imperative

Still grants Heavy as it did before, but now grants a flat +1 to BS (not Hit) to all Doctrina ranged weapons. This means your AdMech forces can potentially be hitting on 2s when you declare this Imperative. This is a significant boost to your firepower just by itself. Finally, your Doctrina units will also gain a -1 to Hit in melee if they're Battleline or within 6" of a Battleline unit. While this isn't as good as -1 AP, it's still a nice defensive buff that you can get where you need it. It also synergizes a bit more with Skitarii Invulns. This means that once you've surged forward and claimed the ground you want, not only will you hit much harder but you'll be harder to shift too.

Conqueror Imperative

Just as with Protector, this Imperative still grants Assault as it always has. But now you also get +1 to WS for your Doctrina units. This means when you have to shift the enemy off of a point, you'll be much more deadly in melee. But the third point is really nice, granting +1 AP to all Battleline units or Doctrina units within 6" of a Battleline unit. That's ranged and melee too! So AdMech just gained a lot more stopping power on the assault.

Keyword Datasheets

Next we have the addition of Doctrina Imperatives to several datasheets. Cawl, Electro-Priests, Tech-Priests, and Technoarcheologists will now all benefit from your Doctrina Imperatives. In particular, I'm betting the Electro-Priests are really going to enjoy Conqueror Imperative. But this made all your Cult units much more deadly.

Units

This is just the start of the changes for AdMech, and we're already off to the races. But AdMech has also suffered from underwhelming datasheets. Many of these have now been improved to make them much more deadly.

Belisarius Cawl

In addition to getting a new keyword, the Archmagos has received a speed boost to help him move around with his oval base. The Core Rules now also grant him the ability to move through Ruins.

But his abilities could use some love too. Mantra of Discipline is the target of this pass. In addition to granting Cawl an Aura of +1 to Leadership Tests, it now gives him the Battleline keyword. This allows him to both benefit from and trigger the new improvements to Doctrinas while also triggering all those Skitarii enhanced abilities.

Ironstrider Ballistarii

AdMech's famous chicken walkers have often been needed to prop up their damage. But these kits are expensive and only deadly in large numbers. To help them punch appropriately hard they've lost Twin-Linked and had their shots doubled. Since they still have Sustained Hits 1, the double attacks make it twice as likely to spike and get some disgusting damage off. It's a trade off, but I think with the rules changes it's a considerable improvement.

Skorpius Disintegrator

A small but meaningful buff here for the Ferrumite cannon, giving it +1 to Damage. Again, combined with the buff to Doctrinas this should make this gun much better at dealing with enemy armour.

Sicarian Infiltrators

Infiltrators have also benefited from a boost to their Attacks, going from 2 to 3 with either of their melee weapons. While this is beneficial all around, it could make the Taser Goad a more interesting choice since, again, it makes spiking the Sustained hits more likely.

Sicarian Ruststalkers

Ruststalkers, on the other hand, have all had both their attacks and strength increased by 1. This puts them at a much better break point against enemy Infantry. Combined with Conqueror Imperative, these will likely blend any Battleline units they hit now.

Onager Dunecrawler

Again, this is mostly a buff to the number of attacks each of their weapons get. The Daedalus now gets a second missile, the eradication beamer has gone to 2D3 instead of D6, and the Onager itself has gone to 12 attacks while still retaining Twin-Linked. The neutron laser, however, gets +1 Attack and Damage but loses Blast.

Huh! I also seem to recall that they were going to give the Dunerider Firing Deck. Unfortunately I don't see that here, so that must not have made the final cut.

Points Changes

These rules changes aren't free though. The WarCom article warned that they would be bumping up the point costs for AdMech to make up for their gained power. However, this may actually be the first time players will actually cheer nerfs. AdMech armies are currently hovering around 1 pts/dollar. That means a competitive AdMech army will run you around $2000. That's also a ton of painting on what were designed to be ornate, often centerpiece style miniatures. Let's see how badly they got hit.

And yeah, that's a lot of red. Most of the characters went untouched, which is good because Cawl especially is a joke at 150 pts. But Enginseers and Manipulus went up 15 and 10 pts respectively. Despite their buffs, Infiltrators went untouched. Destroyers, Skystalkers, and Raiders also were passed over by the nerf bat.

The three Archaeopters all went up 10 to 15 points. Honestly that's pretty restrained given how much GW has been hating on Aircraft. Gaining Imperatives have cost Electro-Priests 2 pts a model for Corpuscarii and 3 pts for Fulgurites. Ballistarii have gone up a whopping 20 pts per model while Dragoons have gone up 10 pts. While Destroyers were untouched, Kastelans and Breachers have both gone up 5 pts each. The Dunecrawler has gone up a massive 30 pts for having so many weapons buffed. Meanwhile each Skorpius only went up 5 pts. Pteraxii have gone up 2 pts a model, Ruststalkers have gone up 3 pts, and Serberys have gone up 5 pts/3 models. Finally, your Battleline units have both gone up, half a pts for each Ranger and 1 pts for each Vanguard.

Here's the thing though. Many of these values are much closer to where GW originally put them when 10th Edition started. So while these are definitely all nerfs, they're much closer to where AdMech was intended to be and the kind of army they were supposed to represent.

Edit: Errata

Whoops! I forgot that many armies are getting updated FAQ and Errata! This is where that Dunerider Firing Deck went! Sad it's only Firing Deck 2.

There's not a lot here, but there are a few things. In addition to the afore mentioned Firing Deck, the Skitarii Marshal is getting a few changes. The first is a new standardized wording for Redeploys. The second is a change to Servo-skull Uplink to reflect the changes to Stratagems. Now, the ability is a once per battle end Battle-shock. Finally, the Dunecrawler is getting a Scuttling Walker ability similar to the one on Defilers. Combined with the new movement rules should help its mobility a bit.

Final Thoughts

Honestly, I think this is all good news. I think most AdMech players will happily cancel some painting projects to get a smaller, more elite army on the table. Yes, their units cost more now. But those units are going to be hitting on 3s more often, occasionally hitting on 2s, with more attacks and a bit more damage. Defensive and reactive AdMech players will find their firepower much more consistent while their models are harder to shift. Aggressive players or players that "gotta go fast" will find they can much more easily take the fight to the enemy and clear opponents off objectives. The faction is still pretty fragile, but they're back to being a glass cannon instead of just glass. I think AdMech players actual have an army they can play with now.

[domjordanillustration]

deathwatch veteran

[nerdnproud]

Space Marine 2 got me back on my Deathwatch. So here's some Intercessors I converted into veterans.

And as per usual with Deathwatch, did some freehand on shoulders.

We've got Hades

Hollow Knight

Mass Effect

And Gary's Mod missing texture

Very happy with how they all turned out!

[nightscalestudio]

The Watch Sergeant and Champion of Deathwatch Vanguard Veterans. I remind you that the tutorial for Deathwatch can be found on our Patreon, including a tutorial for Xenophase Blade will be added. painting tutorials: https://www.patreon.com/Nightscalestudio

[just-some-troglodyte]

i've got a 40k OC bumming in my mind-space;

Azukos, a night lord who sells-out his warband and becomes a black-shield working in the deathwatch. he's snarky, sneaky, and a bit elitist. no, he's not a veteran of the long war, but a more recently produced night lord who felt like his warband was being lead to ruin and decided to throw his hat in with the imperium.. he gave the imperials where the base was located, but they had abandoned that base because they didn't want to fight the 'Yellow Jackets' chapter of space marines. Azukos' main motivation is that of survival. he's skilled in guerrilla tactics, spreading terror, assassination, and psychological warfare.

[2lim3rz]

Okay, as the guy behind @askrobouteguilliman40k I must know the husbandry of the Ultramarine.

(first of all, screaming crying and losing my ahit because I lowkey consider you a 40k celebrity on here so holy fuck)

Personally I don't have that many Ultramarines as I specialize in 'mutt' Chapters and T'au friendly breeds! @horuslupercal is right that they should be, AT MINIMUM, put into a squad of 5 with LOTS of activities to do! Out of all of the loyalist breeds, Ultramarines are the most studious and social and I found this out when my first Primaris found a way to escape and nearly got torn to shreds by my Salamanders that were protecting my T'au. I still have no clue how as all of my Space Marines have their own dedicated enclosures

I HAVE found out that smaller Ultramarine squads ALWAYS do a LOT better when there's a Much older squad leader to keep them in line and teach the youngest how to function and run drills

But like I said, these are WORK BREEDS! Ultramarines should have at least one task that will occupy them for a few weeks or month with multiple little tasks in between. Of course don't forget to provide breaks in between. If you overwork them they might start growing beards and thats so so so bad! The more seemingly overwhelming the odds are, the better. For some reason mine seem to like 'conquering' borderline impossible odds

Also DEFINITELY DO NOT GET THEM NEAR YOUR CODEX UNFRIENDLY BREEDS!!!!

I tried to socialize the younger scouts (under watch of the squad lead of course!!) With my friend's Carcharadon Astra and they were NOT happy!

However there are exceptions of course! I found that even the most unlikely of veterans can get along together if their squads or chapters get rid of them for some reason (I heard from some people that this is called a 'deathwatch' and it's to take on threats an average squad can't handle??? I think it's because some of my squads have been getting worked up by all of the coyotes or a cougar here)

But in the end, if you like having a lot of planning to do, like VERY Codex friendly breeds, and in general like very attention needing breeds, I do think you should get an Ultramarine after doing your research

[ikarusix]

Doing a little painting tonight. I’m really hoping that Deathwatch get their own codex/index back as I really miss these models. Inquisitor Draxus is coming along nicely although the wyvern is giving me a headache. The captain with jump pack is for my Blood Angels/Flesh Tearers and is a Deathwatch veteran.

[syncopein3d]

Pain that can only be relieved by touch, pressure, weight. I don't mean sexually. I never mean that with whump, in fact. I mean, imagine a whumpee who has been worked so hard that every muscle is agony if they even think about moving. Massage is painful at first, but as the muscles warm and loosen the pain starts to gradually ease. Now they're desperate for it not to stop, where when it started they were gritting their teeth and stifling noises of pain.

Consider a space marine from Warhammer 40k's Deathwatch. (I know a lot of y'all whump friends prefer twinks to these inhuman genefreak monsters that I love, but imagine the marines as all drawn by the great Vezimira or tagedeszorns if that makes you see the vision.) The only way you can canonically get veterans from radically different chapters to work together seamlessly is to drive them to the point of collapse.

Space marines do not tire out easily, so we're talking days to weeks of training in armor without a pause, living off the recycling systems. By the time they're finally allowed to pause they practically have to carry each other back to quarters. A Salamander might have to literally carry an Ultramarine (Guilliman is a less physical guy as Primarchs go) or an OG Blood Angel (depending on where they are in their Red Thirst progression; they probably can't stop and slurp down a Serf Capri Sun during DW training). A Templar helps haul a literally unconscious Blackshield who's some kind of comparatively smaller purple-eyed albino from who knows what ancient chapter. He hates that, hates this weakness, but he will not shame his own chapter by letting the squad fail.

So at some point all of that is over, the tech-priests have taken the armor away to be serviced, and everyone has been slapped back to consciousness and been given a good talking to by the Templar veteran and a more surreptitious word of encouragement by the old Salamander. They all stumble through scrubbing down with scouring powder in the showers, and the Salamander, every scar of achievement twinging, can finally flop facedown onto the slab in his quarters. Maybe his branding priest or priestess is there, a trusted grandchild of a niece or nephew twice removed, not the first of his extended family to perform the office and already growing old in his service. He can hear them bustling around murmuring orders to the serfs. When the first pour of hot oil hits his back a heavy muscle twitches, startling the younger ones, but with a little encouragement they roll up their sleeves and dive in. Massaging ceremonial oil into an Astartes is no easy task, but now it is made easier by the limp exhaustion of the Son of Vulkan's muscles. At first they can see sinews pop out in his jaw and temple against the pain, because they've never had an unkind word from Milord the Astartes, and he's not about to start now. But as they go along his face slowly relaxes. The middle back between the shoulders proves a bit stubborn, and at a nod from the elderly branding priest, a bigger and younger serf climbs up to kneel on the Salamander's back so he can pound on it with his two fists bunched together. They all see the sigh of relief from the triple lungs, raising and lowering the young man in place.

On his night-black skin with its network of little red cracks, the older of the whorls of paler scarring are hard to read, faded with time. They'll have to be renewed one of these days, while the priest remembers what they were. But for now the space marine is at rest, breathing easier as a dozen little weights knead at his sore body.

The ones who serve the Templar veteran are probably going to need mallets, and if he thinks any one of them is trying to spare him he'll bat them across the room. They'll die, or they'll learn. The Blood Angel's serfs are pale and listless, and at least one definitely won't survive the night, but at least he'll be unfailingly gentle and courteous with the survivors. The son of Guilliman's serfs run like a well-oiled machine. He might mumble a mild reprimand if he notices anything isn't precisely according to routine, but he's not a harsh man, only a very meticulous one.

The Blackshield has no one who is particularly his servant. They serve the Deathwatch. They handle him carefully enough, aware of how temperamental some Astartes are, but not with any affection or reverence. He wouldn't be a Blackshield, chapterless, brotherless, if he was not dishonored in some way. In the end, there will be a pile of serfs sleeping on rugs around the base of the Salamander's slab. The Blackshield will be alone.