#demetrian titus x reader

[heretical-cogitations]

Let me get the titus meal… with this man on his back… uhm… a side of whining… a side of fucking up into reader… and uh… can i get a large dr pepper with that?

This got out of hand as usual. More for the sub!Titus agenda spores ehehe. Here’s you Dr Pepper and the Tito meal below, hope you like it. :^)

Titus x gn!reader

Word count: ~2060

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Body worship, penetrative sex, praise kink, size kink, hand job, creampie, subby Titus, gets a lil less subby towards the end .

Please let me know if I missed anything!!

Taglist: @synfiction, @wormiusdebilius

Let me now if you’d like to be tagged :^)

It had been a rough day you suspected, tension and stress radiating off your lord, brow furrowed face held in a deep scowl. His back hunched as he worked away at the heaps of admin that came with his return and subsequent success against Imurah and the thousand sons.

Rhythmic tapping on the data slate lulling you into a trance, you spent some time admiring him, despite the clear tension he held, he still looked just as handsome, his hair longer than he usually kept it, stubble gracing his face, body glove accentuating the contours of his muscles.

A loud huff brings you back to the present, “Is everything all right, my lord?”

“Titus.” He corrects.

“Sorry, is everything all right, Titus?” You smile at his insistence to be casual.

“Yes, little one, I just have a lot to get through and the list never seems to get smaller at the moment.” Running his hands over his face.

Hopping off the bed you make your way over to him. “Hmmm, I can help.” You say softly hand coming to rest on his much larger one.

He turns towards you, brow quirked, small grin on his lips. “And how would you do that?”

“I can think of … a few things.” You hand trails over his fingers caressing over his knuckles then down the back of his hands before slowly beginning their ascent up his forearm.

He clears his throat, light blush dusting his cheeks. “I must finish my work; I cannot afford such distractions. No matter how much I want to.” Voice dropping to a deep rumble at those last words.

“It’s not a distraction. Think of it more as a break to recharge. Thaat way you can get back to work with a renewed energy.” You giggle, resting you head on his shoulder, other arm wrapping around his torso.

He says your name as a warning, huffing at your determination to pull him away from his work.

You place a series of light kisses up his neck, finishing with a light nibble on his lobe. “Please my lord, let me serve you, it is my job as your serf after all.” You whisper.

He leans into your touch, head rolling back, giving you more access to his neck, you get back to work kissing at his neck. Paying special attention to the spots that make his breath catch, biting and sucking bruises into his skin, he groans and squirms in his chair each time you are slightly rougher with him.

It amused you to no end how reactive he was to the slightest touch, how quickly he caved to you, how needy he became. It made that familiar deep heat buzz under your skin, unable to deny the euphoria that came with having an astartes so trusting of you to allow you to have control over him.

“Please kiss me, little one.”

“Of course, Titus.”

You turn his head, lips meeting in a deep kiss, teeth nibbling at the space marine’s scarred lip, he groans into the kiss as you press your tongue into his mouth. He puts up little to no fight for dominance, letting you set the pace, your hands come up to thread through his hair, his shaky moan swallowed by the kiss.

You pull away, needing to breathe, watching as he follows you, trying to catch your lips with his lips, desperate to have you kiss him again. You squeeze into the space between him and his desk, settling in his lap. The slightly awkward angle and desk edge digging into your back doesn’t stop you giving into his pleading eyes, pulling him down to resume your domineering kiss, softly yanking his hair to pull him away each time your lungs burn for oxygen before going right back to devouring him.

This time Titus is the one that pulls away. “Little one, please.” He is breathless, hair dishevelled, and a deep flush spreading from his face, down his neck disappearing below the collar of his body glove.

“What do you need?” You look up at him through your lashes, hands moving down to fiddle with the thick ribbed material of his body glove, fingers dipping below the collar and dancing around the fastenings before undoing them.

“Take your robe off, need to see you, need you.” He lifts your robe, taking it from him you throw it off, tossing it into the ether of his room, hands returning to undress him. You begin to undo the neck fastenings of the body glove, peeling it down his torso stopping at his hips, seeing that he is flushed to his chest.

“Throne, where is your underwear?” He groans out, eyes roving over your form.

“Didn’t feel like wearing any today.” You giggle leaning back against the desk, letting him take in as much as he wants.

“You are so beautiful, little one. I can’t get enough of just being able to look at you…” Hands roaming across the expanse of your torso, groping at you. His pupils blown with lust.

Want, no need, clear in his features as he fondles your chest, pinching your nipples, rolling them between his fingers, mesmerised as you let out little gasps with each tug on them.

You let him play with you for as long as he wants noticing how he already seems less tense.

This only emboldens you further to take good care of him, to make him feel better.

Climbing off him you grab his hand and pull him to stand with you, guiding him over to the bed. “Lie down, on your back.” You command turning to look at him opening your mouth to tell him to strip the rest of the way only to stop yourself when you see he has already done it somehow.

He gave you a sweet smile laying back on the bed as you moved quickly over to the collection of bottles, he had brought back that first time, grabbing one of them.

You made your way back climbing over him to straddle his waist, pouring a healthy amount of oil onto his chest, watching where it ran freely and pooled, a shocked gasp flying out of him at the cold liquid spilling onto him.

Your hands planting themselves on his chest, moving up towards his strong neck.  

His newly acquired scars from his Rubicon surgery still healing, you bring your fingers close to them lightly testing the waters, wanting to see his reaction to you touching them, a sigh rattling through him. “This feel okay, Titus?”

“Y yeah, feels good.” You smile applying the slightest bit more pressure to the scar tissue, massaging in the oil, he gasps as your fingers dance over the path of the scars decorating his neck and chest watching as his Adam’s apple bobs with each little whimper.

Your hands move to his chest, carding through the hairs decorating his pecs, spreading the oil as you went, fingers grazing his new ports before your thumbs settle over his nipples rubbing them lightly.

He shifts under you, shuddered whines escaping him as you play with his chest the way he did with yours earlier, leaning down to suck and roll his nipples between your teeth, he rewarded your efforts with pitchy moans and a callused hand palming the back of your head.

He quickly melts into a squirming, moaning mess, your name mixed in with his pleas for more.

You decide to give his abused chest a rest shuffling down him, massaging and kneading the oil into his skin as you went.

Seating yourself at the apex of his thighs gives you lovely view of his painfully hard cock, flushed red, just like the rest of him.

You pour more oil directly onto the twitching and aching length before you. He yelps, sitting up on his elbows hastily, chest heaving with each breath.

“Please, little one, no more teasing.”  

You stare directly at him as you gather the oil trailing down his cock into your hand before slowly wrapping your hands around and slowly pumping his length.

His head knocks back with a needy whine of your name.

“So sensitive, must be really pent up. Been too busy haven’t you sweet boy.” You chuckle.

“Want me to take care of you? Make you feel good?” He nods quickly, not trusting his words with your hands on his cock.

Throne, he must be really pent up, hips already bucking up to basically fuck your hands, pre cum drooling out the tip, dripping down his length mixing with the oil, adding to the already ample lubrication.

His sweet needy moans making you clench around nothing; you need him just as much as he needs you.  

He is racing towards his climax, hips thrashing against your hands sending you bouncing on his thighs. You let go, a broken whimper and small whines of why and please the only response he gives you.

“Hold on, not yet. You’re doing such a good job Titus, ready for more?” Hips rutting up against the still air of the room, you smack his hip with enough force to get his attention, watching as he wills himself to still his hips.

You sit up on your knees, hovering over the tip aligned with your entrance, his eyes wild watching how close he is to being right where he needs to be.

Holding the base, you slowly sink down his length inching closer and closer to being fully filled seated against his pelvis.

He keens, whimpering at your tight heat squeezing down on him, hands white knuckled as he grips at the bedding.

It’s a tight fit, thighs trembling and soft moans escaping you as you rock back and forth on half his length.

One of his arms thrown over his face as you grind against him. “Please, please, please, more, I can’t.” He is struggling, trying so hard to hold on for you.

“H Hands, want to hold your hands please” he gasps, reaching towards you, your hands meeting his halfway.

Spreading your thighs wider you take more of him inch by inch forcing your body down cunt flush with his lower abdomen, balls nestled against your arse.

“F feels so deep T Titus, fuckk.” You wiggle against him, you can feel his thigh muscles tense and relax under you, trying to keep some form of composure.

You slowly start spearing yourself on his cock, mewling each time it pressed into you. You forgot how difficult riding him was, bouncing on his thick length, you came up with an idea.

You still leaving just the tip of his length in you, bringing his hands to your waist. “T Take what you need, Titus.”

He takes a firm hold of your hips, feet planting on the mattress below him, ramming his cock as deep as he could over and over. His whimpers becoming broken, hands bouncing you to meet his hips halfway.

Your hands scramble against his arms, nails digging in and scratching wherever they land.

His cock is making your mind go blank, the coil in your abdomen wrapping tighter and tighter threatening to give, your moans and squeals growing in volume.

“O Oh, Tituss, d doing such a good mmm job.”

“Y Yeah? Am I making y you feel good little one?” His eyes glassy as he looks into your own.

You nod struggling to form a response with how brutally he is fucking you. “Mmhhmm, s so good. So close baby, going to cum with me?”

He continues to fuck up into you, losing his pace, speed increasing, hips moving of their own accord as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge with him.

He holds your hips flush with his as he cums, sending you over into your own climax alongside him, tight hole fluttering and clamping down against his cock, milking each thick rope of cum out of him, both of your hips bucking riding through your orgasms in tandem.

You double over face and chest pressed against his slick abdomen. Mewling his name again and again, head fuzzy and light.

His legs give out under him, pulling you close, holding you to his chest, basking in the afterglow.

His hammering dual hearts slowly calming. “Feel less stressed?” You look up at him smiling.

“Yes, much better, little one.”

[beckyninja]

Defiance

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestiveness, a certain Chaplain being creepy

Description: Sera wakes up in Leandros's clutches. Meanwhile, her friends realize she's gone, and starting putting two and two together.

Creepy Chaplain is creepy. But never fear! Vesta, Chairon, and Gadriel are on the case!

Read the chapters leading up to this point on my Masterlist. And don't forget to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Icy water shocked you awake. Your eyes snapped open onto… darkness. Cold, wet darkness, the only sounds your own gasps as your lungs struggled for air.

Oh, Emperor… no….

It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Kneel.”

The distorted voice stabbed through you and you froze like a prey animal. Your fingers clutched at the metal grate beneath you. Water dripped into your eyes and you squeezed them shut, curling in on yourself.

“Disobedient.”

An armored hand grasped the hood of your sodden robe and yanked. The material constricted around your neck as you struggled to enforce some kind of order on your shivering limbs, finally managing to settle on your knees, grating biting into your skin. The hand released and you desperately gulped air.

You kept your eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The voice came from somewhere in front and above. You recognized it, though your mind fought to deny the terrible truth. Your body shook with more than cold.

“Look at me.”

The hand took your jaw in its iron grasp, forcing your head back until your neck screamed. Against your will your eyes sprang open.

Glowing red lenses in a white skull glared down at you. The face that had haunted your steps and your nightmares. You tried to scream, but only a weak whimper came forth.

“Silence.”

The hand forced your jaw closed. You bit your own tongue and tasted blood.

For an eternity the skull helm stared down at you, silent, judging. The hand held you pinned like an insect. Your dripping skin burned with cold. Your knees ached, your jaw throbbed, and any moment you felt your neck would snap beneath that awful strength. 

“You stand accused.”

Your heart stopped. The voice continued.

“As Chaplain of the Second Company, I find you guilty of perversion. Guilty of sullying the honored role of ‘serf’ by indulging base instincts. Guilty of corrupting the holy warriors of the Emperor with your feminine seductions.”

I am going to die here.

You only prayed it would be quick.

Then, to your shock, the Chaplain sank to one knee before you with a clang of ceremite on metal. He released your jaw and you sank forward onto your hands.

His voice dropped to a rasp. “In any other case, the punishment would be instant servitorization.”

Throne, help me!

A sob tore from your throat. “P-please… no….”

“But I am not without mercy.”

You dared glance up through your lank hair. 

“I know the corruption did not originate with you, but is a foul result of your service to the heretic Demetrian Titus.”

The raw hatred in his voice stunned you.

His hand returned to your jaw, this time almost gentle as it tilted your head back. “Your soul may still be saved. Denounce him, and be redeemed.”

Your mind spun. A small, snivelling part of you whimpered. 

No one will save you now. Spare yourself the agony and do as he wills!

But a larger part of you recoiled at the very suggestion.

Demetrian….

Kind eyes. Strong arms. Hearts that burned with compassion beneath his stoic exterior. Courage. Honor. The will to endure against all odds. 

Love.

You felt his laurel leaf around your neck still.

Your shaking subsided. Slowly, you sat back on your knees, folding your hands in your lap. Lifting your chin, you spoke your defiance.

“My Lord is no heretic.”

The kneeling Astartes before you shook his head, something that sounded almost like a sigh coming from within his helm.

“As I feared, the corruption is deeply embedded.”

Quicker than your eyes could follow, he struck. The armored hand curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet, and slamming you against the wall. Your head bounced against the metal, sparks flashing behind your eyelids. You clawed at his fingers.

Can’t… breathe…!

The helm drew close to your face. So close, you could hear deep, chugging breaths.

“I will cleanse you.”

***

“Vesta.”

The medica groaned and wiggled deeper into her blankets. “S’too early, Uncle.”

“Vesta. Now.”

She knew that tone of voice. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and stretched. Above her the Apothecary loomed. Or tried to. The cramped space of her closet-turned-sleeping chamber was not meant to contain the bulk of a fully armored Astartes.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Did the Lieutenant’s serf come here last night?”

“Sera?” Vesta looked around.

The cot pressed against hers remained as it had been when she’d gone to bed, alone, after checking on Sera in the Apothecarion one last time. The sedative had still been in effect, though her friend’s sleeping face had not looked exactly peaceful. 

“No… I, I don’t think so, Uncle. Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Callistus turned and left the room. 

After throwing on her robes, Vesta hopped into the greater chamber, struggling to tie the laces on her sandals and nearly face-planting in her hurry. The chrono embedded into the wall told her the day cycle had just barely begun. Her uncle stood by the row of baseline-sized beds on one side of the Apothecarion.

The row of very empty baseline-sized beds.

“Where is she?” Vesta trotted up beside the Astartes.

A low humph. “If I knew that, would I have awakened you, girl?” His habitual frown had deepened. “She is not in the lavatory, either.”

Vesta’s stomach flipped, but she pasted a smile to her face. “I’ll check the refectory, and the serf baths. Perhaps the sedative wore off earlier than expected, and her insomnia returned.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced down at her. “You thoroughly examined her skull when the Sergeant brought her in yesterday.”

“A nasty bump but,” she caught his meaning, “I swear I didn’t see any sign of concussion! And Lord Gadriel said she lost consciousness before she struck the-”

“I remember.” The Apothecary glared at the empty bed as if it had offended him. “Go.”

Vesta spent several hours searching everywhere she could think that her friend might have wandered. None of the refectory or bath serfs had seen her. Nor had any of the cleaning crews, or candle-lighters Vesta encountered in the corridors. 

Anxiety roiled in her gut as she paused next to a candle-lit shrine. She felt beads of sweat forming at her hairline.

She couldn’t be suffering from concussion. I checked!

Still, thoughts of her friend, confused and disoriented, wandering the ship’s corridors made her heart pound. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.

“You look distressed, Medica.”

Vesta whipped around with a shriek. Brother Chairon stood there, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I may not have the Sergeant’s fine features, but I did not think my face quite so repulsive.”

She fell back against the wall, hand pressed over her fluttering heart. “M-my Lord! Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, Medica.” His faint chuckle faded as he searched her face. “Not even a smile at my poor attempt at levity? Something must be troubling you, indeed.”

The words burst out like atmosphere through a blown airlock. “Sera is missing!”

His face stilled. “Explain.”

Vesta told him all she knew, listing every place she’d searched, and searched again. “The only other place I can think to look is the Chapel. But Sera doesn’t-” She bit her tongue.

Shut up, you idiot!

“She does not what?” 

She gnawed her lip, hesitating. Since the day she was assigned to the Apothecarion, Sera had avoided the Chapel like the plague, preferring to perform her devotions at one of the many smaller shrines scattered throughout the ship. When Vesta had questioned her about it, she’d visibly paled and changed the subject.

Vesta hadn’t given it much thought, until now.

Chairon seemed to study her. “Did the little one avoid the Chapel, Medica?”

“I….” 

The Astartes suddenly turned and began striding away. “Come.”

Vesta rushed to catch up with him. “My Lord? Where are we-”

“I would have a word with the Chaplain.”

***

“Woe to those who hold themselves in high esteem, forsaking holy humility for shallow vanity. Woe to those who relish the false pleasures of the flesh… for they will… they will- ah!”

You gasped as the blind servitor tossed another bucket of icy water over your back. The shock tightened your already aching muscles, yet you welcomed the moisture, desperately lapping at the droplets pouring over your lips. Your dry throat burned.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

It felt like hours.

You knelt before a little shrine on legs that had long since gone numb. A single candle placed atop the altar illuminated your little cell. Merely a box of metal containing the shrine and the servitor, dripping faucet on one side and a barred door on the other.

Through the bars, a familiar voice intoned. “Again.”

Again, you repeated the words he’d spoken to you. This time, the chattering of your teeth caused you to slur the scripture, resulting in yet another frigid deluge. You felt more than your legs going numb.

“Again.”

Another try. You repeated three full verses before tripping up this time. Another bucket.

“Again.”

Two verses. Another bucket.

“Again.”

One verse. Another bucket.

The muscles in your lower back burned. You gritted your teeth.

“Again.”

“W-woe… woe to….”

With a sob, you felt your body give out. Your back spasmed and you gasped in agony as you collapsed to your side. The servitor soaked you again… and again… and again. Covering your head with your arms, you fought for breath.

“Enough.”

You heard metallic creaking and glanced up to see the servitor step back against the wall, sightless white eyes staring from its ruined wreck of a face. 

Was he… she… it… once the occupant of this cell? Is that my future?

If you had anything left in your aching stomach, you would have vomited.

The cell door opened and he entered. For a moment there was heavy silence. Then, a ceramite-clad boot hooked under your ribs and flipped you onto your back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through your ravaged muscles.

The emotionless helm stared. Somehow, you knew the hidden eyes did not rest on your face.

A glance down made you gasp. 

The thin material of your sleeping robe, made near-translucent by water, clung to your form like a second skin. It outlined every curve and divot. And the chill had hardened your nipples to defined points.

You struggled to turn onto your side and cover yourself. Tears of shame pricked the backs of your eyes.

“Be still.”

You froze, exposed and vulnerable.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Please, stop!

He didn’t stop. He stepped closer until he towered over your prone form. 

His voice lowered to a whisper. “Harlot. Even now, you seek to tempt me?”

Realization rolled over you in waves colder than the water you’d been soaked in. “No-”

“Silence.”

He bent down. Terror brought life to your numbed limbs and you frantically pushed yourself back along the floor, sobbing when the grating tore cloth and skin alike. Your shoulders finally met the wall.

You cowered. “Please-”

“What is this?”

A hand darted out and you felt a sting at your throat as-

“No!” You lunged forward. “Please, don’t! Please! Please!”

Your nerveless fingers slipped from his armor as he straightened, a golden laurel leaf dangling from his clenched fist.

“He gave this to you.”

“Yes!” You whimpered. “Please, give it back! I’ll do anything!”

“You already know what you must do.”

A despairing cry left your lips as you collapsed back to the floor. “No….”

He dangled the leaf before your face. “Denounce him.”

You shook your head, even as he dragged the laurel leaf over your cheek.

“Submit to me.”

Deep within, a spark of defiance still smoldered. “I won’t!” 

A vicious blow flung you against the far wall. The last thing you saw before slipping into darkness was the Chaplain’s retreating back, the shining token of your lover’s devotion still clenched in his fist.

Demetrian, forgive me….

***

Tumultuous thoughts filled Chairon’s mind as he marched toward the Chapel. Chief among them was the memory of the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding the Chaplain looming over his serf, practically pinning her to the railing. The stench of fear rising from her, the pathetic relief in her eyes when she saw him and Gadriel, the way she all but hid behind them.

The sound of panting behind him made him pause. “Medica.”

“Yes, my Lord?” She hurried up, chest heaving.

He tempered his gait, allowing her to maintain her position beside him. “What do the serfs think of the good Chaplain?”

Immediately, the scent of stress. Glancing to one side revealed the tension in her shoulders.

“He is greatly revered and respected, my Lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“But not loved.”

“Please, my Lord!” He watched her eyes dart about the corridor, even though few people were about at this early hour.

“Speak freely, Vesta.”

She bit her lip, a sight he found oddly appealing. 

“My Lord Callistus and I have not been on The Resilient long, my Lord. But… in that time… I’ve learned most of the serfs stay out of the Lord Chaplain’s path, if they can help it.”

Chairon frowned.

The Codex had strict regulations regarding the treatment of serfs. Many were former aspirants, after all. Others were part of families that had served the Chapter for generations. Still others, like the Lieutenant’s little one, had been taken under the Astartes’ protection for one reason or another. All deserved to be treated with respect.

Now, a creeping suspicion grew in his gut that this tenet he held close to his hearts was being violated. 

Do not jump to conclusions. What evidence do you have? Why would the Chaplain…?

The great gilded doors of the Chapel rose before him. The aroma of incense welled from within, along with the droning of hymns. A cherub fluttered by, mechanical voice box muttering benedictions. He paused in a rare moment of indecision.

“My Lord?” The medica whispered at his side. “What will you do?”

“Chairon?” Gadriel pushed through the Chapel doors, brows slightly raised. “I thought you had already completed your morning prayers.”

Well, this saves me having to track him down.

“I had, brother. But something has happened.” He relayed what the medica had told him.

“Warp, damn it.” Gadriel snarled. “Can the Apothecaries not keep track of one little female?”

“Would you have had us tie her to the bed?” The medica snapped, then paled. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Chairon huffed a laugh, even as his sergeant’s scowl deepened. “What matters now is that we find her, brother.” He hesitated. “Or who took her.”

Gadriel’s eyes snapped to his, even as the medica gasped. “You suspect abduction?”

“I think we discounted her fear too readily.” He searched his brother’s face. “You saw someone, when she ran to you.”

The sergeant looked away. “As I said, it is irrational.”

Chairon stepped closer. “Was it the Chaplain? Do you remember how we found her, the day the Lieutenant placed her in our care? The Chaplain seemed to take an undue interest-”

“For the love of the Emperor, Chairon! Do you know what you suggest?” Gadriel glared at the medica. “Leave, woman.”

She turned to Chairon with a beseeching look in her eyes.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Apothecary Callistus sent her to find the little one, brother. And she has told me the serfs fear the Chaplain.”

“As they should.” 

“That does not mean he has the right to-”

“Your fondness for baselines is clouding your judgement, Chairon.” Gadriel stepped back. “I will hear no more of this.”

Chairon’s temper frayed. “You were quick enough to accuse the Lieutenant.” 

“That was entirely different!”

“At least accompany me to speak with the Chaplain. I swear, I will make no accusations.”

Gadriel hesitated.

Chairon pressed. “The Lieutenant honored us with this responsibility, brother. Would you shirk it?”

The sergeant glared at him. “Very well.” He glanced at the medica. “But the woman stays behind. And should she ever repeat what she has heard here today….”

“I won’t, my Lord!” 

***

Gadriel led his brother into the sanctuary of the Chapel, cursing his foolishness with every step. 

What am I doing? This is insubordination, at best! 

An image of the Lieutenant’s face flashed through his mind. 

What will he say when he returns and finds we have failed? 

Shame burned in his chest. Failure. It was intolerable, unthinkable. They must do everything in their power to find the missing female. Follow every tenuous lead. 

Even if it leads to a rot at the very heart of the Company?

They moved among the pillars and candelabras, toward the platform at the front of the chamber. Only minutes before he had knelt here, repeating his prayers to the Emperor. Prayers for victory, glory, and honor he’d said a thousand times.

The Chaplain was not present. That is… unusual.

The niggling doubt in the back of his mind was growing louder. It had begun weeks ago, when they first began taking turns escorting the Lieutenant’s serf, when he’d caught glimpses of a distinctive figure who always seemed to be just moving out of sight.

And then, yesterday, when the girl charged into him in blind panic, he could’ve sworn he’d seen that same figure standing at the end of the corridor. Watching. 

But why?

They reached the platform and paused. 

“Is he not usually here at this time?” Chairon looked around impatiently.

Before Gadriel could respond, the scraping hiss of an opening door reached their ears. A few moments later the Chaplain seemed to materialize out of the shadows behind the platform, in that eerie way that could strike unease into the most stalwart Ultramarine’s hearts.

“You completed your prayers, Gadriel.” He rumbled, almost sounding annoyed. “Why do you remain? And you,” his helm pivoted toward Chairon, “you are late for your devotions. Do I need to ascribe penance?” 

Wonderful. We have caught him in a foul mood.

“We have something we would ask of you, Brother Chaplain.” He found himself saying.

“It can wait.” 

Gadriel blinked at the abrupt dismissal. True, the Chaplain had never been the friendliest, never one to mingle with his fellow Astartes, but he had always made time for questions. 

Out of nowhere, Chairon spoke. “What do you know of Lieutenant Titus, brother?”

Gadriel watched the Chaplain pause mid-stride. “You have come to ask me this?”

He glanced at Chairon, then spoke up. “Forgive us if we overstep, but when you spoke to each other there seemed to be some… familiarity.”

Chairon again. “Did you know him before his service in the Death Watch?”

A long moment of silence, save for the droning of hymns sung by unseen serfs and the flapping of cherub’s wings. 

Why are we even asking this? He will not-

“I did.” The sheer venom in the words took Gadriel by surprise.

How had he not noticed before? The scorn in the Chaplain’s voice whenever he spoke to the Lieutenant. The undercurrents of hatred.

Why? What happened between you?

“Have your doubts about the Lieutenant awoken once more, brother?” The Chaplain addressed him directly, a strange eagerness in his manner. 

Gadriel noticed him fiddling with something in his right hand. Something that shone in the candlelight.

Distracted, he stumbled. “I… I do not….”

“Should they?” Chairon stepped in.

“Hmmm.” The Chaplain fell into silence once more. 

Unease pooled in Gadriel’s stomach and he found himself scrambling for words. “I… only ask because, when he departed, he requested we look after his serf. And since she has disappeared-”

The Chaplain stiffened. “You intrude upon my meditations with news of a missing serf?”

“Brother Chaplain, we only-”

“I have better things to occupy my time. As do you.”

“Brother-”

“Leave. Now.”

Chairon looked as though he would argue, but Gadriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Forgive our intrusion, brother.”

He all but shoved his fellow Ultramarine out of the Chapel. Once outside, Chairon rounded on him.

“Did you witness his reaction? His hatred of the Lieutenant? Call my suspicions unfounded now, brother!”

“I saw.” Gadriel’s mind spun. “And I saw-”

“My Lords!” The medica bounded up from her place standing by the doors. “Did you learn anything?”

“Woman,” Gadriel gripped her shoulder in one hand. “Did the serf, Sera, wear any,” he flailed for the correct word, “baubles? Trinkets? Around her neck, perhaps?”

Chairon gave him a quizzical glance, which he ignored.

The medica’s eyes widened. “A necklace. I saw it often when she changed her clothing.”

Chairon spoke. “Brother, what are you on about?”

“A golden laurel leaf hung on a string, yes?”

The medica bobbed her head. “She told me the Lord Titus had given it to her. She never removed it, not even when she bathed.”

“By the Warp!” Gadriel’s snarl drew startled looks from a few passing serfs.

Chairon gripped his arm. “Brother-”

He turned to face him. “I saw it, Chairon.”

“What? Where?”

Gadriel forced the words through clenched teeth. “Held in the Chaplain’s hand.”

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

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

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@sunsetlobster @nekotaetae @toto-the-cactus @thevoidscreams @vithralith

@contemporaryslug

[soka-starxi]

Savagery

Part 4

Titus x afab! medic serf, Gadriel x afab! medic serf

Warnings: 18+ MDNI

A/N: minor mentions of injury, gad having a heretical time

Part 3 here

* 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　　 ✦ .

They were due any moment now

Fiddling with the sleeves of your robe, you tried to comfort yourself as you ran the fabric between your fingers

Usually when the marines return from battle, much of the anger, irritation and possible discomfort still lingers on

Unfortunately making your job even harder which you didn’t need as you were already exhausted from tidying your lords quarters

Which was also partly due to your fidgety hands

Gods I hope he likes it, what if he thinks I intruded? Was it too much? What if-

“Medicae”

The rumble in the Astartes voice made it clear it was your lord Titus, causing you to whip your head around

“My lord”

Bowing, you awaited for him to be seated

“I will be seen to first”

You knew this, confusion briefly washing over you at the routine you’ve done many times already, unsure as to why Titus has to be obvious about it

“Of corse my lord”

You didn’t even notice the slight huff from where Chiron and Gadriel were standing

Your lord didn’t even give you his gaze

Instead, it was fixated on Gadriel

A sly grin painted on his face as he turned back to you

“Help me, my serf”

Tense was an understatement as your lord removed his armour, giving you access to the nasty wound trailing up his arm

Embarrassingly, you had to stand on your tip toes to reach the top of his wound to clean the area

The click of a tongue did not help the already delicate task of removing the shrapnel embedded in his skin

You paused for a moment as you placed your feet firmly on the floor, rolling your shoulder before returning to tend to your lord

Before you could do so, Gadriel called out

“Do you need help, serf?”

You froze

“Gadriel, I highly recommend you turn that insolence into something useful. Get me a crate for my serf to stand on. Now.”

Your lord practically snarled his words towards the younger Astartes

“That’s what you get for being smart..”Chairon mumbled as Gadriel stalked off

Only to come back a few moments later, abruptly dropping the crate just inches away from your foot

Feeling inclined to thank him as you were inferior to him, you failed to do so as you watched your lord practically bare his teeth at the sergeant

You slowed your breathing as the last of the shrapnel was pulled out, now stitching him up and gently bandaging his arm

You couldn’t help but notice how he sighed as your delicate fingers graced over his scarred skin

He had never known such tentativeness, he didn’t even think something like this could exist

“All done, my lord. Do you require any further assistance”

His features softened as he watched you step off the crate

Strangely enough, you couldn’t stop looking at him

Your lord seemed to submit himself into the trance too

And when he pulled his gaze away, it hurt

“No, you may proceed”

You nodded, clasping your aching hands together “as you wish, my lord”

Expecting him to leave to return back to his quarters or wherever the chapter master commanded him to go

You were surprised to see him stay, shooting him a curious look he tilted his head silently ordering you to continue your work

You were now up against Gadriel

Oh great…

You prayed the tremor in your hand wasn’t noticeable as you disinfected the area

When turning your head to face him your heart dropped

His injury was across his neck

Bracing yourself for the close proximity, you propped yourself up on the crate for a closer examination

Hesitation seemed to falter you slightly. It felt almost wrong to touch him, especially with your lords intense focus on you

The Astartes did not welcome cooperation, only offering you a brief glance and a cocky look upon his face

“Sergeant, I require you to please move your neck so I can access the area to treat you”

Titus tensed behind you, not even having to look at him to know his demeanour shifting

Gadriel only ever so slightly decided to move his neck causing you to sigh at his games

Until you realised his intent…

He was doing this on purpose

He wanted to feel your hands on your skin

He wanted to desperately know how Titus felt under your gentle touch

So you delicately pushed his neck to the side, noting how almost feverishly hot his skin was against yours

You began to asses the deep laceration, not even realising you were holding your breath

Focus, he’s just being a tease

Trying to make the message stick into your head was no use, you shakily exhaled knowing this was only a mild level of the sergeants taunting

Worryingly so, his pulse quickened as your fingertips danced across his sensitive skin as you applied the wound cleanse

The cooling sensation of the gel was almost too much for the young sergeant

What made it worse was that your sweet scent mixed in with your sweat and the pain/pleasure mix overstimulated all of his enhanced senses

Any clever words were now long forgotten

His stoicism was reduced to a mess of submission as he let out low groan

And this surely intrigued you

His honey coloured eyes unfocused behind his fluttering eyelashes, his dampened lips agape

A surge of confidence flowed through your veins, this new position of power igniting something that you thought you had lost

You knew what you were about to do was dangerous, but nothing felt better than the taste of vengeance (as much as a serf could obtain)

Leaning down dangerously close to him, Gadriel ls teeth clenched as your breath fanned against his electrified skin as you whispered

“That’s all it takes, huh?”

Gadriels eyes shot open, completely taken aback at the venom in your unprecedented words

He was completely helpless, he couldn’t even form a snarky comment to take the edge off, lord Titus’ intense gaze made it even more impossible

Beginning to start stitching process, you felt him writhe underneath you

Soothing him, your delicate fingertips danced over his electrified skin

Causing the sergeant to tilt his head back, his eyes closing softly as his breath hitched in his throat, a whine escaped his lips

You were amazed at such a sweet song coming from the strong Astartes

Embarrassment washed over him, but the foreign feeling was too good to suppress as his entire body betrayed him

This whole thing horrifyingly wasn’t an act

“Almost finished Seargant Gadriel”

Oh Throne…

The sound of his name falling from your lips earned another deep groan

He wanted to hear it again

As you finished up, he was left slightly panting, his cheeks flushed a light rose, his lips still agape

And what a sight that was, you thought sighing to yourself

“All finished, do you require further assistance, sergeant?”

Disappointment brought him back into the room, not wanting her to drop his name

“I’m fine serf…for now”

The last of the sentence he fixated his gaze back to you, as if you were prey

And he was gone

You breathed a sigh of relief as it was just your lord and Chairon

He was much more patient than his other brothers, and as he sat beside you his expression was almost peaceful

No taunting gaze or sly grins just..general content

This time, the injury was on the shoulder and luckily only needed a few stitches

As you began cleaning the wound he spoke

“Apologies for his behaviour, you know how he is”

It was more of a mumble, his gaze adverted

“It’s- sigh- no problem Sir”

Your lord Titus didn’t take the same off handed approach

“It’s a problem to me”

Titus’ posture was much more slacked, his jaw loosened. It was a strange sight as you were used to his unwavering, grimacing stance

You stilled at his words, unsure as to why your lord cares so much

“Lieutenant, perhaps you should speak with him”

Titus scoffed “you know how that goes”

Throne, even lord Titus does not have full jurisdiction over the sergeants games

Thoughts made your head spin, you wished sleep upon you soon to escape such chaos you’ve endured

“All done lord Chairon”

Standing up, he ran his hand over the scar

“Feeling better already, thank you serf”

Bowing you head to him, he smiled as he walked away

[agender-wolfie]

I need to be put in a headlock and prone boned until I’m fucked dumb all while being called a “good baby”… pls 🥹

[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

———————————————————————————————————

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!!

———————————————————————————————————

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.

[moodymisty]

Hear me out, jealous Big Blue Berry. Say you were getting a new fitting done and then person doing it is just a bit too touchy? Finding things about your body that only he should know of like how small you are? Or how plump? How your curves are… He isn’t insecure he’s just… brooding. Only he does he want to know your secrets, in and out. :(

Author's note: Big angry blueberry <3 of course its titus lol Relationships: Titus/Fem!Reader Warnings: Jealously, Slightly lewd, Possessive behavior because astartes have an inability to judge normal attachment

"Do you do this often?"

Titus stands no more than ten or so feet away from you, looking down from a stance close to the entryway. His expression is neutral, but latent tiredness gives his eyes a hooded, lazy appearance. You smile at him from your somewhat stiff position.

"No, but a banquet with a primarch is a bit more noteworthy than my usual fare. My usual work doesn't require fancy dresses, so I'm a bit short on them."

Titus watches as one of the workers pulls at your arm, grabbing at you. You don't have your outer wear on, so it's just the flowing fabric of your blouse that covers your arms. His brow furrows when one reaches close to your shoulder, nearly brushing against the side of your chest.

He has held his tongue well this entire time, notably because you seem unbothered by what he would consider far beyond comfortable closeness; Though there is still a portion of his brain screaming for him to reach for his bolter.

You are under his charge at the moment, after all. To allow you to be harmed in any way would be a slack in his duties.

Though there are other reasons, more apparent when he watches one now brush down your clothes to measure your leg, effectively petting your thigh with a tender but firm almost caress.

He doesn't have his helmet on- it's maglocked to his thigh- so he needs to control his facial expression, pulling it inward and instead gritting his teeth. He feels them grind, muscles tensing at the seam of his armouring suit. He can hear the tension in his ears.

Astartes have an odd relationship with touch that Titus isn't entirely cognizant of. When he's being armoured, many people move to grab plates of ceramite to lock him in, but it's very formal. The way these other baselines touch you feels far more intimate, treading into territory he feels belongs to him.

He knows belongs to him.

You don't normally let others touch you this way, if one of the guardsmen or administratum in your stead did this, you would be fuming; You always keep a large breadth between yourself and others. He is aware the circumstances are perhaps different here, but it still enrages him. It isn't hard for his mind to travel from the normal protectiveness expected of his duty, into the obsession and possession of an enraged lover. After all, he has mingled the two together over the time he has known you.

Those hips are his to grab, your arm is his to pull. He is the only one allowed to touch you, to know your every contour. He can feel your body on his palms from memory alone, though the memory is admittedly not old in the slightest.

Titus had known he would be armoured tomorrow to escort you along with a myriad of other duties, and he chose eagerly to take advantage of what time he had left to feel your skin on his before a layer of ceramite was between.

Titus watches them shuffle around you like bugs and breathes harshly through his nose; Their head is far too close to your lower body, hands still firm on your legs as they travel downward. They've touched enough of you that even with clothes still securely on, Titus feels they've mapped out more of you than anyone other than him should ever know. The thought of that sends a rush of something to his brain.

"We're done, ma'am. It should be finished in a few days."

Your smile is gentle and kind when you step away from them, and Titus takes the opportunity to come closer. The heavy steps of his ceramite boots sound like they're going to crack the tile; The offending baseline quickly notices his approach.

He can smell the hesitation on them, as they shirk into their shoulders. Their pupils are like voids watching him, fully dilated. Titus doesn't wish for baselines to fear him, even if it is inevitable, but for a moment, he does relish in it. In the end it accomplishes what he wants; Getting other hands off of you.

"We should return now."

You look up to him, eyes wide before being ushered along.

You're done here. There's no reason to linger around.

His armor acts as a demonstrably large wall that quickly pushes between you and the other baselines, and you quickly move to shuffle out as to avoid getting caught up in his footsteps. Titus has an unstoppable stride, as to many astartes, so it's habitual to simply move out of their way or scurry faster.

You're so much smaller than him, he notices once again.

"I hope that wasn't too boring for your tastes," Your voice is quiet but not sheepish, just talking gently with him. "I imagine you're used to things that are a bit more stimulating."

Titus tenses up a bit upon hearing that word, as his brain misappropriates it for a moment. The idea of you doing anything of that sort with someone else infuriates him, and the idea that gets into his head next of someone else thinking of that makes his blood boil hotter. The idea of one of those baselines thinking about the way their hands groped at you... He consciously controls his tone to stay deadpan.

"I don't dislike the occasional in and out. After a few hundred years of battle, I can appreciate a moment of calm."

You smile at him, and Titus feels himself calm a bit. The muscles in his neck relax. You reach for his gauntlet and grasp it, hand able to wrap around only about two of his fingers. He can feel the ghost of your touch through his armour.

"Good. I imagine I'll need this done again in the future, if our Lord Guilliman continues this streak of politics."

Titus gives you a gentle smile that accents the wrinkles by his eyes, and dreadfully hopes that isn't the case.

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus (Interlude): "…And they will call it Heresy.”

They would not understand it, his brothers, this… pull towards you.

He isn’t sure that he does, either.

Perhaps it was his many encounters with the forces of Chaos that propelled him towards this place. Perhaps it was more; he couldn’t be certain of it. The only certainty he had was a great, dare he say, overwhelming, desire to protect you. And only you.

Why?

You were just one of many in service to the Emperor and man, fighting to see another day, fighting to see their enemies defeated, and it was thanks to the Ultramarines’ intervention that you were able to do so, but when he first laid eyes on you, battle-weary, covered in grime and Emperor knows what else, he couldn’t see anything else ever again.

And he did not want to.

What was that lurch within that he felt when you were so close yet so far? You thanked him but kept your distance, you and your comrades, perhaps out of fear and awe, and under different circumstances, he would not have spared a thought, but now…

Why?

He closes his eyes and sees you in vivid colors, resplendent unlike the battlefield, unlike the majestic figure he swore to serve unceasingly, and what would his brothers think?

What would you think, he wonders.

And so he keeps his distance, a shadow watching, protecting you to the best of his abilities, until uncertainty no longer clouds his judgement, and what would they say of this?

Those wreathed in gold would call this Heresy.

But his blade, and his being, calls it so much more.

— Demetrian Titus.

[deleteddewewted]

For those wanting a more concrete idea for his age:

I did us all a favor and bough the space marine 1 guide book. Couldn’t get a hold of the concept art book yet but soon.

[shellswritesstuff]

listen usually I’m down bad for smut (always am tbh) but what about. what about just….some fluff…..i wanna put my head on those Titus Tiddies and fall asleep…….what if i just gently stroked his hair……..

could be post-coital snuggles

𓊆ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴛʀɪᴀɴ ᴛɪᴛᴜs X ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - die with a smile.𓊇 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚(⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

rating: no rating/sfw. fluff!!! and a hint of angst.  cuddling, intimate skinship. ugh my heart.,, 

ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ oh you got it anon! i love the energy in my inbox, ty friends for the asks! ugh,, i want to hold his and and ruffle his hair and tell him everything is ok sjdalksd- (its not, 40k things u know)

Forget the worlds outside. Forget your endless anxieties, your purpose in life. To hell with it all out there, your whole existence was here in this room. This metal quarter was your paradise.

"Hush, Titus..." A faint whisper fell from your lips, pleading for your lover to relax.

A gruff hum was your response, yielding. You two were in bed like always, stealing another moment from the horrors outside. Titus laid on his back, cradling you gently. Your fingertips graced his skin, tracing the scars of his Rubicon surgery. It was unfair. Titus and his brothers bore the weight of the Emperor on their shoulders. To them, duty and living were one and the same.

You wanted so much more for him. The harsh reality of these times, it must wear him down. You'd never hear it, though. Servitude was in his DNA. His unyielding devotion to his lord and brothers alike; one of the many, many aspects you adored. Is it so bad to be selfish...?

"You told me to be quiet, but your mind is racing." Damn him. He knew you so well.

You whined, your apology coming in the form of a sigh. "I love you too much."

And you did. What would become of you if Titus hadn't returned from his mission? Had he died...

Titus pulled you impossibly closer, your head taking its resting place on his broad chest. His scent, his skin, the rise and fall of his diaphragm; you were in the moment once again. A comfortable silence swept over the room, the only noise being candle flickers. You fought hard against the comfort, not to fall asleep. Your efforts were in vain. The last thing you felt before drifting away; a hand supporting you head, and fingers running through your hair.

"Sleep, my love. I will be here."

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ This Was Not In The Codex ✧₊⁺

Pairing: demetrian titus x reader(f)

Summary: Titus is on a much-needed leave on Macragge. While there he runs into you, or rather you run into him escaping terrible punishment for being unable to tell a lord no.

Part 1/?

Arthur's Note: I am terrible at keeping POV when writing in the third person and try to do omniscient, but again I am no real writer.

Warnings: Pregnancy (reader is pregnant), mentions of SA, and general gimdarkness.

18+ Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

There were several reasons Titus was planet side, from a wound he sustained that required more rest than normal, and Calgar seemed all too aware that with everything that had happened, there was still lingering broken trust among his brothers. Moving Leandros to Chaplin was a means of stopping the boy from doing more harm, but it wasn't a move Calgar hadn't been overly pleased with.

But Titus seemed to understand the will of their Gene-sire better than most, and his humanity despite it all remained intact. Something Guilliman wanted to make sure was nurtured.

Titus lumbered through the streets, drawing eyes as he did. Even within the great Macragge people were still awe-struck to see an Astartes. It was odd the monotonous sounds of everyday life felt more overwhelming than the loud cacophony of war. Though the smells were much more desirable. Scents of smoked meat were pulling the large man along when his ears picked up commotion and then something small bumped into him.

Oh the pitiful creature that had run into him. You looked worn beyond your years, weak from malnourishment and shaking like a leaf in the wind looking up and seeing what you ran into. Your lips busted and scabbed over from dry blood. Your feet are torn and broken apart from no proper footwear.

The thin rag you call a dress barely hides your bump. Your hands instinctively wrapped around it, as if you could protect your unborn child from such a giant. A smell rose into his nose as he heart the faint trickling of liquid. You were so terrified you were urinating yourself. Titus had seen this fear in warzones. What in the Throne had you so scared. His size aside.

Titus could see law enforcement coming up, chasing her. But they weren't local militia, these were private. His mind reeled all the practicals and theoreticals there could be to this situation.

"Can you get behind me, please? Are you able to move?" he asked quietly, as gently as he could, though with some urgency.

You nodded weakly and moved behind him, his massive body hiding you.

The guards stop short of Titus gazing upon the Asartes. His aura gave them great pause, mostly seeing how you were hugging one of his large legs.

"I see you are one of the Emperor's angels. Lord, she is a wanted criminal, and have been tasked to bring her back to our lord's estate." one guard finally spoke, but there was a shakiness to his voice.

"Wanted? On what charges, and why back there and not turned over to proper authorities?" Titus pressed. The rough timber of his voice becoming more pressing against the guards.

The guard looked uneasy and agitated, going between the two emotions rapidly, "This matter is hardly of note for one such of you My Lord, please, let us take her."

Titus shook his head, "No. You have not answered my questions. What is her crime and why is she to be taken to your lord?”

“Is not enough that she is a serf who has abandoned her duties?” the main guard responded, “She is to be taken home and punished. On top of that she is to be questioned by the Inquisition for heresy for seducing our lord with foul magic.”

Titus choked down a snarl at the mention of the Inquisition. Of course, a group of religious zealots could be tricked into seeing a poor serf as a heretic, so a piss poor excuse of a lord could get rid of his dirty laundry.

Perhaps his primarch was right and this Imperium was a rotting corpse.

“Then this is cause for my concern. I will take her into custody and our librarian will see to her.”

You start to plead and move away, as vain as you know it to be, but a large hand stops you. Holds you in place. It is firm, but not harsh.

The guard tried once again to argue but Titus cut him off, this time not holding back so much on his voice's power, “Are you challenging a member of the Astartes guard? I am not beholden to you, and she is in my charge now, so she is no longer either. Tell your lord if he so wishes to continue this nonsense he can do so with me. Now leave unless you wish a more physical understanding of my words.”

The warning was understood and the men scattered, and after a moment the crowd that had gathered went about their daily lives. Sounds of a busy community returned.

Titus turned to you, his hand still upon you. He knelled so he might be close to your eyes, “Hello, Little One. I am Lieutenant Titus, of the Ultra Marines. Would you allow me to carry you back to our fortress? You are safe. I give you my word.”

What choice did you have? None really. He could crush you with no effort, and you were dead anyhow. You just hoped when he decided to end you, it would be quick, and he would spare your baby.

You nodded, but sob quietly, “My Lord...I...” you were ashamed, “I soiled myself, I would not want that on you.”

Titus smiled, “Hush now,” he spoke cradling you in one arm and standing, “Far worse has been on me. There is no shame. I will see you get some clean clothes, food in your belly, and a Medicae Mortus to see to you.”

A soft chuckled rose from him, it was unnerving, yet comforting. This angel, was being so kind to an undeserving serf like you.

“Our Apothecaries are not specialized in baseline human needs. I am not even sure they know how babies are made, or how they grow inside you. But ask them about how to deal with a wound from a spawn of the warp? Collect gene-seed? Well then they don't shut up.”

You looked up at him with some confusion, “you do not know where babies come from?”

Titus felt warm suddenly, and adverted his gaze, “I mean. Well. It was not something they deemed important for us to know.”

You could only hum a response. Resting in his powerful harm. Held so delicately and carefully. It was dangerous. You knew this, but it was still the safest you felt in months and your worn body, gave out and forced you into a sleep that was deeply needed.

[aggresivemenace]

Found this in the depths of the Internet. I knew, they have Big E, they made him dirty on the last one...

Throne, save me...

[heretical-cogitations]

Cogi never apologize for rambling when 90% of my asks are one fat run on sentence!!!!! LUVVVV YEEWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!

-giggle anon

hehehe giggle you're making me blush again.

Here is a little soft dom!Titus, soft Dometrian Titus (if you will) as a thank you hope you like, might be a bit messy though.

Demetrian Titus x afab!reader

word count: ~740

Warnings: overstimulation, piv sex, squirting, a lil bit of cockwarming, lil bit of manhandling.

Please let me know if I missed anything!

The sounds the two of you made were obscene, overstimulated mewls forced out of you with each strong thrust of his hips. Large hands groping at your thighs as he pushed your knees closer to your ears.

How long had you been here trapped under him? You couldn’t feel your legs or ass at this point. He doesn’t seem to be slowing down though, each thrust consistently toe curling, mind set on making you squirt. He had been a bit too eager to make it happen since he found out it was possible.

“T Titus! No mmore!” You cry out hands weakly trying to push him away, it only seems to make him double his efforts, your nails dig into the meat of his biceps.

It’s all too much, your head feels fuzzy.

His mouth moves to nibble and tease your ear lobe, hot breath fanning across your skin making you shiver. “You’re doing such a good job, such a good little serf taking me all the way, know you can squirt for me.” One of his hands let go of your leg, sending it crashing against his broad shoulder, fingers trailing down your torso to tap and press your tummy feeling himself fucking into you, growling at the way your overstimulated hole quivers around him. 

Your free leg pounding against his back, digging in your heel. Your nails biting at his skin as they rake down his arms, it’s too much you can feel your mind slipping away, you can’t take much more.

He stills inside you, engorged cock twitching against your walls. His eyes flick up catching your gaze.

“Need a little break, have I pushed you too far?” he says softly hand caressing your side, you nod still gulping what little air you could in this small reprieve.

His arms carefully wrap around you sitting you up with him against the pillows of his bed. “There we go, feel comfier?”

“Y – yeah.” He kisses your temples “Good. We need to figure out a better way for you to tell me. Thought you were just acting out again.” The deep timbre of his chuckle vibrating through you, you nudge his jaw with your nose, leaning down he presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another and another before pulling away, you stay curled up against his chest for a little while, occasionally staring up at him.

He looks ethereal, light smile gracing his features contrasting the deep swirling dark of his lust blown pupils. He shifts you back slightly, seeing the slight bulge of your stomach, “feels like you were made for me, such a perfect little serf.” His fingers graze over the bump again. “Such a perfect little cunt.” You whimper, clenching against him. “Going to treat you so well.” His lips working their way down your jaw and neck.

He gasps out your name as you wriggle against him, his hands stop you, angling his hips, length slipping even deeper somehow, a squeal ripped from you.

Your hands finding purchase on his broad chest. He thrusts up into you, pace slow and impossibly deep.

“Doing such a good job, making me feel so good, little one.” He coos against your hair.

You moan his name over and over, hips rolling in time with his as he picks up the speed.

His own moans mingling with yours, pitching up the closer you both get. “You can do it, give me one more. I know you can, you’re so good, ngh, so good.” His deep voice strained, failing to feign composure. Hips stuttering more and more often.

“T-Titus, please, please, so close.” Your moans sound so beautiful to him. A large palm presses against your tummy, feeling the space, he carved inside you for himself. It felt different, heavy pressure squeezing your walls tighter against his length, hitting every spot perfectly, your legs start twitching. The series of moans you let as you climax is debauched.

“Cumming!” you hear a wet splash as your body spasms violently, legs moving uncontrollably, cunt like a vice on his cock, in one of the most intense orgasms you’ve had yet. “That’s it, let go, you’ve done so well.” He manages through moans, hips slamming against your wet thighs before he stills, hands holding you against him as he releases his thick, hot cum deep inside you, head knocking back against the pillows.

“You’ve made quite the mess haven't you?”

[beckyninja]

Promises

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: description of battle wounds, death

Description: In the aftermath of the battle on Demerium, both Titus and his Little Healer struggle with doubts.

After the intensity of my last few fics, I thought we'd slow things down with a bit of Hurt/Comfort.

(This is a continuation of my Titus x Reader series. To find the previous works, check out my Masterlist.)

“Medica! Medica! Medica!”

You curled into a ball atop the cot in your and Demetrian’s quarters, covering your ears. But the desperate cries echoed in your skull.

“Medica, over here!”

“God Emperor, have mercy!”

“The voices…the voices! Can’t you hear them?!”

“It hurts it hurts it hurts….”

With most of the Ultramarine Apothecaries called to the battle on the planet below, the senior Medicae had been left in charge of the wounded Guardsmen ferried aboard The Resilient. Soon, broken, bloodied bodies lined the hallways.

Overwhelmed, the Medicae conscripted any serf they could. You remembered Vesta, face devoid of her usual cheer, cornering you outside the Chapel where you’d stopped to pray for Demetrian’s safe return.

“We need you!”

You’d welcomed the distraction from worrying about your lover. You’d often helped treat the everyday accidents suffered by the serfs in the Watch Fortress. Burns, lacerations, broken bones. 

But the sheer trauma of battle… human beings turned into slabs of screaming meat… the stench of charred flesh and excrement… the raving of minds shattered by corruption….

Those were the worst.

Your arms bore bruises from the grasp of one maddened Cadian.

“I see it! I see it” He’d howled, though his eyes were nothing but red ruins, torn by his own fingernails. “I’ll make you see it, too!”

It took four serfs to drag him off you. You’d stumbled away, only to hear the retort of a laspistol a few moments later.

Time lost all meaning. Your eyes burned, your lips cracked, your limbs grew numb and caked with filth. The hood, sleeves, and hem of your robe went to tourniquet torn arteries. And still the casualties came.

You remembered a canteen being shoved into your hands. A rasping voice you barely recognized as Vesta’s ordering you to take a moment of rest. You stumbled out of the Apothecarion, searching for quiet, aching eyes finally landing on a small shrine alcove.

But more suffering waited for you.

A single stretcher lay in the cramped space. And from that stretcher, a gurgling whimper.

“Mum….”

You’d thought yourself numb. But your heart ached anew for the Guardsman laying in his own blood. Hastily wrapped bandages covered his entire body. A single, blackened hand reached up, fingers grasping at nothing.

“Mum… help….”

Just looking at the extent of his wounds made you realize why no Medicae tended him. They couldn’t afford to waste their time on the hopeless. 

But you could.

You’d taken the flailing hand and pressed it to your heart. “Shhh. I’m here.”

The charred fingers tightened with surprising strength. “Hurts….”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You’d used the last of your pain suppressants ages ago. 

“Don’t go….”

“I won’t.”

“Pr… promise?”

“I promise.”

You’d stayed. As the chaos outside finally calmed, shouts and screams fading into whispers and whimpers, you held the Guardsman’s hand and sang lullabies from your childhood…

…until his grasp loosened for the last time.

Now, back in your quarters, you lay upon Demetrian’s cot and stared at your bloodied fingers. 

Useless. Useless!

You wept until exhaustion claimed you.

***

Titus’s feet dragged as he stumbled down the hallway. Every bone, every muscle in his enhanced body throbbed. His vision blurred and it took all his rapidly dwindling energy to keep moving.

Toward rest.

Toward you.

The younger Ultramarines still celebrated, revelling in the glory of victory against Chaos. Once, he would have done the same. But these days the rush of victory faded all too quickly, leaving only the faces of the dead in its wake. And exhaustion.

Throne, I am weary.

He yearned for your solace. His arms were greedy for you.

Greedy. Selfish.

Imurah’s taunts during the battle had stung. But he’d known their falsehood, swatting the lies away like annoying insects. Only one, whispered in the darkest depths of his mind even as the Chaos sorcerer screamed his last breath, still haunted him.

“When you return to your little slave girl, Titus, consider this: did you save her from her old life? Or did you doom her to this one?”

He gritted his teeth, pushing the gnawing doubt away. 

He’d rescued you. He hadn’t stolen your future to satisfy his own desires. He hadn’t forced you to be with him. You were happy with him.

By the time he’d reached his room and keyed in the door code, he’d almost convinced himself.

Then he saw you on the cot.

You lay in a ball, asleep, knees tucked to your chest. The ragged remnants of your robe were stained with blood and sweat. Your tangled hair fell from its bindings into your face, but failed to hide tear-swollen eyes.

Titus swore he could hear Imurah laughing.

He took a step forward, reaching for you, then stopped. Filth caked his gauntlets, staining the armor he hadn’t had time to remove. He shouldn’t touch you.

I should not have ever touched you.

His arms fell back to his sides.

You jerked at the rasp of ceramite, reddened eyes flying open. He cursed his carelessness.

“No, Little Healer. Go back to sleep.”

“Demetrian!”

You rose onto your knees and he saw the sway of exhaustion in your movements. Guilt ate at him.

“I am sorry I disturbed you. I will let you rest-”

“No!”

The desperation in your voice jolted him. You reached out and he came to you like iron to a magnet, helpless to resist. Ceramite clanged against metal as he dropped to his knees before the cot. Your arms encircled his neck. Your face nuzzled against his gorget.

So soft.

Still, he could not bring himself to return your embrace.

“Demetrian,” you whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

What?

Before he could begin to form a reply, you rambled on.

“Vesta called me to assist the Medicae soon after you left, and I went gladly, thinking I could… I could….” Sobs shook your little body. “Demetrian, it was awful and I was scared and overwhelmed and, and I tried so hard but they still died. So many died.”

Throne, what have I done to you?

He tried to speak, but his tongue seemed molded to his palate. You pulled away and looked at him for the first time. Your teary eyes widened.

“Oh Emperor, Demetrian.” You touched his face and he resisted the urge to jerk away.

Do not stain yourself with me!

“Sit here.” You patted the cot before scrambling down and rushing toward the lavatory.

He sat, head bowed. The damned sorcerer had been right. He’d doomed an innocent soul to a life of death and horror.

You returned with a cleansing cloth and a basin of water, placing them on the cot next to him. 

“Hold still, and close your eyes.”

He did, and felt warm, wetness against his filth-encrusted skin. You washed his face and neck, your hands gentle, your voice soothing. What little strength you had left you spent in caring for him. 

Giving and giving and giving.

And what have I ever given in return?

Reaching out, he caught your wrist in a loose grip. “Enough.”

“But Demetrian-”

He opened his eyes and looked at you, silencing your protest. Then he took the wet cloth from your hand and rinsed it in the basin.

“Let me.”

Cupping your face with all the gentleness he could muster, he slowly cleansed it, wiping away the stain of blood, sweat, and tears. You leaned into his touch. You looked at him as if… as if he….

A word pushed through his gritted teeth. “Stop.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

The cleansing cloth fell from his armored fingers into the basin with a splash of murky water. “Do not look at me as if I am a saint to be revered.”

“But-”

“You deserve better than this.” All at once, the words wouldn’t stop. “I should never have taken you into my service. I should have found a place for you, far from suffering and death. You have seen horrors you should never have had to witness, and it is my doing.”

Inside his armor, his shoulders sagged with the weight of his sins. “You surrendered everything to me. Your future. Your happiness. Even your body. For what?” 

You cupped his face. “Oh Demetrian, never once have I regretted coming with you. I’ve told you this!”

He finally met your eyes. “Not even today?”

“No. Not even today.” You sighed. “I only wish I could do more.”

Something weighed on you, Titus could tell. Something more than just the general horror.

“What happened, Little Healer?”

He listened as you told him about the Guardsman, his hearts swelling with more emotions than he’d ever felt in his long life. More emotions than any Astartes had the right to feel.

“...he died. I didn’t even know his name.” Tears flooded your beautiful eyes once again.

Throne, I love her.

Titus leaned his forehead against yours. “Listen to me, my love. I have seen more death than you will ever know. And I know, for Guardsmen, it is often a lonely thing. But not for that man.”

His head slid from your forehead, down to rest upon your shoulder. “Even if you could not heal his body, in his last moments, you healed his soul. As you heal mine every day. That is a gift beyond price.”

Soft lips brushed against his cheek. “I offer it freely, with all my heart.” Your hands came up to rest over his breastplate. “All I ask in return is yours.”

“Both belong to you.”

Once again, your arms wrapped around his neck. This time he returned the gesture, clinging to you like his life depended on it. 

“There will be other trials.” He rasped. “I can promise neither peace, nor comfort.”

“Demetrian, just promise to love me, and I will be content.”

The uncertainty had vanished from your voice. Hope flickered in his chest. The sorcerer had been a liar, after all.

“I swear it, Little Healer.”

Titus felt you smile against the skin of his neck.

“Throne of Terra,” he groaned, “for the first time in my life, I wish I had the silver tongue of a Son of Sanguinias, just so I could sing your praises.”

You giggled. “You would sing for me?”

He felt the corners of his mouth curve upward. “I would.”

“I believe I would like to see that.”

“You would not enjoy it.”

“Oh?”

He buried his nose in your hair to hide his growing grin. “Sidonus used to say I sounded like a dying grox whenever we sang hymns during Chapel.”

You laughed out loud, and he found himself joining you, the stress of the last few days melting from his body.

“Ohhh, I am tired.” You finally sighed, going limp in his arms.

He shifted and laid you back on the cot. “Sleep.” He hesitated. “If you feel well enough, there is a… ceremony planned for tomorrow.”

“Mmm?” You yawned.

“Chapter Master Calgar will be reviewing the company and I-”

You bolted upright. “The Chapter Master is here?!”

“I assumed you knew.”

“I haven’t exactly had the time to listen to the serf gossip recently, Demetrian.” You shot him an annoyed look before your eyes widened. “Oh Throne, your armor…!”

He glanced down at his wargear.

“Look at the state of it! It’ll take me hours to clean!” You rubbed your hands over your face. “All right. I can do this. Go to the armoring room and get it removed, I’ll get fresh cleaning supplies-”

Titus shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?!”

“I will find other serfs to tend me.” He placed a hand on your chest and gently pushed you back. “The ceremony will take place at the beginning of the day-cycle, in the hangar. Come only if you feel rested enough.”

“But-”

He arched an eyebrow.

You closed your mouth with a huff.

“Good girl.” Biting back a groan, he stood and made for the door.

“Demetrian?”

He paused and turned back toward you.

“Try to find time to rest.” Your eyes drifted closed. “Love you.”

Before he could reply, your body relaxed. He marveled at the beauty of your features in slumber. Baselines called the Astartes “angels”, and yet, here lay a truly divine being.

Let others call him selfish. He could no longer imagine life without you.

Emperor, make me worthy of this woman.

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[soka-starxi]

LISTEN UP!!!

okay so what if titus and gadriel secretly crushing on the reader and both suffering from jealousy and they try to keep it secret but it all fucks up?

If anyone wants to expand on this or whateva send me a dm <3

what if…I start writing again 👀

[boneapplet]

Even Space Marines Get Sick pt.2

Relationship: titus x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: minor illness, minor illusions to depression

Word Count: 1151 part one || part two

The sound of steps echo through the vacant hallway as Nessa approaches the door to Titus’ quarters, the heavy metal door giving a low groan as she knocks upon it. She’d heard through the ranks that Lord Titus had received her stew, and she wondered, as always, how he fared behind those cold blue eyes.

With a metallic creak the door slides open, revealing Titus seated at the table, Codex Astartes in hand. His eyes glancing up, narrowing slightly as he looks at her—just enough for Nessa to feel the weight of his gaze, like a challenge to hold her ground.

"Good evening, my lord. I’ve brought your medicine," she said, holding up the small vial.

Her voice is steady, but her heart feels as though it may leap out of her chest from how fast it is beating. It has been a few days since their last interaction, and she could still feel the distant pull of his presence.

Titus takes in her appearance, his voice as rasping as it was before, though his posture remains firm, unwavering.

"Thank you, little one," he said, his eyes not leaving her as he gestured to the small bench across the room.

"It is my honor to serve you, my lord," she replies, stepping inside, her eyes briefly taking in the cramp, scarcely decorated room.

It was eerily quiet, and the faint smell of incense and herbs filled the air, masking the usual scent of metal and machinery.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though concern slips into her tone.

Titus doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he stares at the Codex in front of him, and for a long moment, Nessa wonders if he had even heard her. Then, his lips twitches slightly, his gaze flicking back up to meet hers.

"The same as before. The illness has not claimed my resolve" his words rang with the strength of his pride, but his voice was hoarse, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he reaches for the vial she has brought.

It was subtle enough that she might have missed it, but not quite.

“I’m glad to hear that, my lord,” she says quietly, offering a soft smile.

“I’m sure you’ll overcome this” Nessa reassures.

Giving an almost imperceptible nod, his expression unreadable “We all must endure. Duty does not wait for our health to return.”

His gaze shifts toward the small cot where he has been confined to, the only sign of his true condition, the stillness in his posture, the slight hunch of his shoulders "I am... unaccustomed to being unable to serve."

Noticing the flicker of frustration in his eyes, something beyond his usual composed demeanor. The faintest crack, but it is enough to show the burden of a warrior’s mind, even when his body was failing him.

"Sometimes, taking a step back is part of serving the greater cause, my lord," she comfortingly says, walking toward the table.

Gently placing the vial in his hand, her fingers brushing his for just a moment longer than necessary "The Emperor requires us to rest as well, though it may feel... unnatural."

This causes him to take a pause, his eyes lingering on the vial in his hand before meeting her gaze again. There is something in his look—an understanding, perhaps, or a silent acknowledgment of the truth in her words. But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he simply gives her a short, respectful nod.

"You are wise, Nessa," he says, his voice quieter than before "I thank you for your care."

The days seem to blend in this place—long, silent, and full of work. But something about today feels different. Perhaps it is the memory of Lord Titus’ quiet words that night. Nessa is carrying a cart of fresh provisions for the quarantined marines, the sound of the wheels scraping across the metal floor filling the hall.

Approaching the familiar door again, knocking lightly. It slides open, revealing Titus sitting by the small window this time. The only movement was the slight rise and fall of his chest, wearing the plain uniform he’s chosen to wear while recovering.

He doesn’t turn as she enters, but she can see that his posture remains perfect, almost rigid, despite his illness.

"My lord, I brought some fresh bread and fruit. I thought you might appreciate a change from the usual fare," setting the cart near his table.

Turning his head slightly, though he doesn’t rise. His gaze is distant, as if he is lost in thought—perhaps too lost to even acknowledge her presence at first. But then, his lips curve ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, a glimmer of warmth returns to his eyes.

"Change is... welcomed," he mutters "But only if it serves the cause."

Nessa raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It might serve the cause of keeping you in better health, my lord," her tone light but tinged with genuine concern.

"And if it can lift your spirits even a little, that is a victory in itself."

Titus gives a quiet chuckle—more of a dry rasp, but it is a sound that surprises her.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, finally looking up at her.

“Perhaps. I have not forgotten my duty, little one. But you remind me that there is more to a warrior than a weapon and a battle.”

For a moment, she thinks she sees something in his expression—a flicker of appreciation, or even gratitude. It was fleeting, but real.

“I will take your advice, Nessa,” he says, his voice steady once again, but softer than usual "Thank you."

As she turns to leave, her heart beats a little faster. He hasn’t let his guard down entirely, but the connection was clear. She is not just a cook or a serf; in this brief, subtle exchange, she has begun to matter more to him than he perhaps realizes.

Days pass, and their exchanges grow more frequently. Though the rules emplaced regarding quarantine keep them apart, they find moments to talk—brief conversations in his quarters, or quick exchanges at his door as she passes by. In these moments, Nessa sees more of the man behind the soldier.

Titus might never admit it, but she can see the struggle in his eyes when he watches his brothers, weakened and bedridden. He is fighting an inner battle: his body feels frail, but his pride stays intact. It is as if his illness has become a test—not just of his physical resilience, but of his emotional fortitude.

And yet, as he silently endures, Nessa became a quiet source of strength for him. Not because of her words or actions, but because she allows him to be seen—not as a warrior, but as a person. It is in these small moments that their connection deepens.

[beckyninja]

Um... I know yandere is supposed to be a negative thing but... 😳

I would willingly put up with, if not outright enjoy, all of this. If it was Titus, of course.

Yay req is open 🥳 if you don't mind... What's your opinion of yandere Titus 👀?

Author's note: Cute! I don't do a ton of like, full on yandere, but i like it <3 Relationships: Titus/Gn!Reader Warnings: Besides some brief alluding to yandere in general, no warnings

- Yandere Titus is a very subtle, sweet one. Honestly you won't even realize what's happening for a long, long time; Unless you suddenly start to pull back very quick and he's forced to make a more drastic move. That would be the moment where you realize that he's been slowly tightening the noose over the time you've known him, and that you have no one to run to now. (I mean, who would even help you if you did? He's an astartes.)

- Titus will let you have independence and freedom but only under his supervision, so you don't harm yourself. Humans are small and you're on a massive battlebarge filled with stomping, angry Ultramarines, he wants to keep your safe. It comes across as him being a tad bit overbearing but endearing, only when he snaps at people like Gadriel or Charion do you wonder if he's going a bit too far.

- Charion and Gadriel can observe/talk you without triggering Titus, but if you ever respond to their comments in a way Titus sees as inappropriate, Titus is wrangling you in tight. He knows Gadriel in particular has no manners and will sniff around you too close if he has the interes

- Titus is more possessive around baseline males then other marines, he knows that they are you 'expected' partner, and most of the other Ultramarines don't have much more than a curious interest in you. At least that he's able to detect. The baseline males however, be they serfs or commissars or administratum workers are more than eager to sniff around his well kept and well fed serf, and are less than subtle about it. It makes his blood boil.

- Prefers claims of possession that are subtle to you, but obvious to everyone else. Scent, a particular piece of clothing, you being so much more well kept than the other serfs. It's very much clear to everyone else that you are Titus' but at least to you, he's just being kind.