#demetrian titus x reader

[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

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

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It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

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

It's terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

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

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

Then the situation nosedives.

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

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

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

"Truly? To whom?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

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

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

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

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

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

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

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

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

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

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

You blink, "My Lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sounds painfully ominous.

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

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine loudly at the sensation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

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

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

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I ought to pull out, now."

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

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he smiles.

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

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

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

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

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

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

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

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

"Care to try?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft whine is all you can offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that's what the stink is?"

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

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

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

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

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

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

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

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

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

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's—he's a lot.

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

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

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

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

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

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

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

It all happens absurdly fast.

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

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

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

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

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

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

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

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

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

"Can you show me, serf?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

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

"How's this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[beckyninja]

Jealousy

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: Sexual content, MDNI

Description: After his encounter with the Artifact on Kadaku, an already rattled Titus witnesses his serf interact with another Ultramarine... and has a rather intense reaction.

More spicy time between Titus and his serf girl, folks! My version of Titus not a fan of sharing. However, if you're looking for a Titus who is up to sharing, check out @vyzz-undercover 's excellently written fic here.

This is a continuation of my Titus x FemReader story. The previous parts, and my other works, can be found on my Masterlist.

Back straight. Hands clasped. Eyes down. You have every right to be here.

Still, as the elevator screeched to a stop, you felt your heartbeat quicken. The hangar opened wide before you. Serfs and servitors scurried in all directions, machinery growled, engines roared. The acrid smell of fuel and hot metal assaulted your senses. 

And so many Astartes.

In your time aboard this ship, you’d stayed mostly in the officers’ quarters, with occasional forays to the refectory, laundry, and baths. Even then, you kept to the serf access tunnels, like Demetrian suggested.

Strange, I live on a ship with hundreds of the Emperor’s Angels, and yet I’ve only ever seen a few up close.

You fought not to shrink back as a fully armored squad marched past only yards away. Why this sudden timidity? You’d never felt this way in the Death Watch fortress. 

It’s because they’re Ultramarines.

The realization struck you. Demetrian never interacted with other Ultramarines in the Watch. And he’d all but ordered you to stay away from them. That’s why you felt so anxious, like you were disobeying him somehow. He had implied on multiple occasions he preferred you to remain near his quarters. 

But you couldn’t, not now. Vesta had stopped by that morning. 

“I thought you should know,” the medica panted, “your lord, Lieutenant Titus? I overheard the Apothecaries saying he collapsed on his last mission!”

You dropped the scrub brush you’d been using onto the floor with a clatter.

Vesta gripped your hands. “He’s alive, and appears unharmed. The Apothecaries spoke of diagnostics-”

“Where is he now?” You barely heard your own voice over the roaring of blood in your ears.

“Last I heard he’d gone to see the Lord Captain.”

You gnawed your lower lip. No chance you’d be allowed into the Command Center.

“But if he’s going to be deployed on Avarax with the rest of the Company, he’ll be heading back to the hangar before too much longer. You might be able to catch him there if you’re quick!”

You’d nearly run straight out the door, only for Vesta to ask if you had any idea where you were going. A few directions and a mad sprint later, and here you stood.

Would you ever not be intimidated by the sheer massiveness of… everything?

“Move, Throne damn you!”

Glancing over your shoulder, you gasped and barely ducked out of the way of a rolling ammunition cart. The serf pushing it glared at you from beneath his red hood, bloodshot eyes squinting.

He sneered at your blue robe. “Go back where you belong, girl. This is no place for a pampered pet.”

Heat rushed to your face. You stammered an apology and hurriedly pressed yourself against the nearest wall, trying to stay out of the way. You cringed at how you must look to the other serfs, with your clean clothing and unscarred skin. You’d been called “coddled” before. 

A sick feeling of guilt settled into the pit of your stomach. But the thought of Demetrian in pain steeled your nerves. 

You scanned the vast chamber. Even amidst the horde of blue armored giants, you knew you’d be able to recognize him. The way he stood. The way he walked. His aura of quiet command.

The sudden longing physically ached. “Where are you Titus?”

“Why do you seek the Lieutenant, woman?”

You spun toward the booming voice. Two Primaris Ultramarines loomed over you and you dropped into a hurried bow, hands crossed over your chest in the sign of the aquila. 

Before you could reply, the darker skinned of the two cocked his head. “Look at her robes, Gadriel. I didn’t realize our dour Lieutenant had a personal serf.” 

The other Ultramarine scowled. “Personal serfs remain in the officers’ quarters, Chairon.” 

“Please, my lords, do you know where Lord Titus might be? I heard that he…,” you found speaking around the tightness in your throat difficult, “that he was injured.”

“Devoted little thing.” Chairon smiled. 

“As she should be.” Gadriel looked unimpressed. “The Lieutenant’s health is apparently not anyone’s concern but his own, woman.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised you. “Please, my lords, if you could only-”

“How long have you served the Lieutenant?”

You almost took a step back at the sudden intensity in Gadriel’s expression. “I…um…just over a standard year, my lord.”

“You were with him during his service in the Death Watch?”

“Gadriel…,” Chairon sighed.

“Yes, my lord. For the last part of it.”

The blond Ultramarine leaned over you. “He truly served as a Black Shield?”

“He did, my lord.”

“Why?”

The conversation was starting to feel like an interrogation. “I-I don’t understand your question, my lord.”

“Throne, woman.” The look of disgust Gadriel sent you made your face heat in shame for the second time that day. “Why did he deny his chapter? What dishonor did he commit?”

“I don’t know, my lord.” His accusatory tone raised your hackles. “I can’t believe Lord Titus capable of dishonorable actions.”

Chairon chuckled even as Gadriel’s scowl deepened. 

He stepped closer, sending a jolt of fear down your spine. “Impertinent-”

His companion placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Gadriel. You would punish a serf for loyalty to her lord?”

Gadriel glanced at him, scoffed, and stomped away..

What was I thinking?! Taking that tone with one of the Emperor’s Angels? 

And yet, you realized you’d do it again. Demetrian was everything to you. To hear someone accuse him of-

“Your devotion is commendable, miss.” The other Ultramarine, Chairon, continued smiling at you.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I would know your name.”

Something about his manner set you at ease. So different from his surly companion. You told him your name.

“The Lieutenant was undergoing diagnostics in the armory, last I knew. But he should be here shortly.”

You took a chance with this surprisingly friendly Ultramarine. “Can you…can you please tell me what happened, my lord?”

“I am sorry. Mission information is classified.”

He seemed genuinely regretful, but that didn’t ease your worry. “Of course, I understand, my lord.”

The Ultramarine seemed to study you. “I would know how the Lieutenant earned such devotion, if I may.”

Suddenly shy, you glanced down. “I should not keep you from your duties, my lord.”

“But you would be sparing me the boredom of interminable waiting before deployment.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “Very well, my lord.”

***

Free at last from Magus Gallio’s poking and prodding, Titus stormed into the hangar. His hands and jaw clenched tight. His mind raced.

The Artifact….

He remembered the pain when he first looked upon it. Searing agony concentrating in the fresh scars and incisions of the Primaris surgery, but not originating there. Building and building until darkness took him.

It all felt so horribly familiar. Old memories surfaced. Names and places. Graia.

It cannot be happening again. 

Cold sweat broke out on his skin as he sensed the lie in his own thoughts. As he remembered the carnage of two centuries past. If his darkest suspicions proved true, no one was safe as long as that thing existed.

You weren’t safe.

The urge to find you hit him like a punch from a dreadnought. His logical mind said he had scant time before his team’s deployment to Avarax, but everything else in him screamed for you. Just to see you. To hold you.

A soft, familiar laugh met his ears. He turned toward the sound, eyes searching the walkway.

You? Here? 

In the darkest reaches of his mind, something primal snarled. You were not for others to see. They had no right to look upon you.

If he had rediscovered desire, who knew how many of his brothers had done the same? Perhaps they watched you even now. Perhaps their eyes traced your curves and longed to run their hands over them. Perhaps they wondered about the softness of your lips, the wet heat of your-

Stepping around a pile of supply crates, he saw the source of your laughter.

Brother Chairon stood next to you, near to you. He smiled and you smiled back. With an easy, casual motion, he tucked a finger beneath your chin, lifting your face toward his.

Titus saw red. “Chairon!”

In a few lunging strides he stood beside you. Not giving you time to speak, he grasped your shoulder and yanked you away from his battle brother. Part of him felt guilt at your startled cry. But a louder, snarling part of him drowned it out.

The other Ultramarine’s brows furrowed. “Lieutenant. I trust the diagnostics-”

“Are none of your concern.” He spat. 

“Demetrian?” 

He heard confusion in your barely audible murmur. He ignored it.

Chairon blinked. “Have I done something to offend, brother?”

Titus growled. “Did you not learn in your neophyte days, brother, not to touch that which is not yours?”

“Deme- my lord,” you stammered, “Lord Chairon was merely-”

“Be silent.”

“There is no need to censure your serf, Lieutenant.” Chairon frowned. “I asked for her conversation.” 

“For what purpose?”

“To while away the time before our deployment. That is all.”

Titus’ sensed the truth in his words, still, the snarling beast within refused to calm. “Your time would be better spent elsewhere.”

Chairon took the hint. “Yes, sir.” He nodded toward you. “Farewell, little one.”

Titus’ hands clenched into fists as he watched his fellow Ultramarine walk away. He heard you approach, steps tentative.

“Demetrian, what-?”

“I said, be silent.” 

He didn’t understand his own reactions. Every sense seemed locked into high alert. Beneath his armor, his body burned.

He needed…he needed….

“Come.”

***

You almost fell to your knees when Demetrian all but threw you into the empty room. A storage closet, from the boxes of odds and ends scattered about. You had to press against the far wall when he followed you inside.

Your shoulder ached from his grasp. But your complaints died away when you turned back toward him. He towered above you, looking even larger in this tiny room. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Veins pulsed in the side of his neck.

And the look in his eyes….

Predator. Run.

No. This was Demetrian. Your Demetrian. You knew he would never hurt-

He fell upon you like a starved beast.

Massive gauntlets lifted you against the back wall. He pinned you there, ceramite armor cold even through your clothing. Then his mouth found yours.

You thought you knew Demetrian’s kisses. Gentle yet passionate. This was neither. You felt devoured, the way the force of his lips pressed your head back against the metal wall. The way his tongue dominated yours. He held you utterly immobilized, unable even to respond.

His kisses drew the very air from your lungs. Just as your vision began to dim, he withdrew, leaving you gasping. His mouth moved to your throat.

A part of you thrilled at the sting of his teeth against your jugular. “Demetrian, please!”

He growled like the great predatory felines of your homeworld. “Yes…say my name….”

The skin of your throat ached under his relentless assault. You pressed your hands flat against his breastplate. This wasn’t the gentle man you knew. You should be terrified.

But when he opened your robe with his teeth and tore away your breast band, your body reacted. “Oh, Throne!”

Titus buried his face in your chest. Between nips and suckles, you heard him muttering.

“Mine. Only mine.”

You began to understand. “Yes! Yours, Demetrian! Ah…!”

“Nothing will take you from me.”

“No! N-nothing! Mmm!”

One hand shifted between your legs and cupped your clothed center. Your hips jerked against him convulsively, sending sparks of pleasure searing through your lower body. Demetrian snarled again at the sound of your desperate whine.

He began to move his hand. Rubbing at you, the motions of his gauntleted fingers unpracticed and clumsy. But it didn’t matter. You were beyond ready.

You ground against him, simultaneously pressing your chest further into his face. “Don’t stop! Oh, Golden Throne! Don’t stop!”

“Never.”

The single word in his deep growl broke you. Pleasure raced through you, your back arched, and you would have screamed aloud if Titus’ mouth hadn’t covered yours again. 

As you came down from your high, trembling and whimpering, his arms surrounded you in a more familiar embrace. He nearly crushed you against his breastplate, head resting on your shoulder. You felt his hot breath against your skin.

“Damn this armor.” He mumbled.

You almost laughed as your fear melted into tenderness. 

Looping your arms around his neck, you pressed a soft kiss against his jaw. “Demetrian, love, do you really believe I’d choose any other man over you?”

***

Your words finally soothed the beast within. He still ached for you. Throne! Did he ache for you! But the mad red haze faded away.

And he realized what he’d done.

“Warp damn it!” 

Pulling away, he took in your swollen lips, torn clothing, and mauled chest with growing horror. 

Your soft hand stroked his cheek. “Demetrian, don’t.”

“I…I….”

He had no words to rationalize what he’d done. He didn’t understand it himself. Still, he tried.

“When I saw you in the hangar, surrounded by battle brothers…vulnerable…and then, Chairon….”

“You’ve been jealous before. I remember the Black Templar in the Watch-”

“You were not mine, then. Not in this way. This felt…Throne.” He couldn’t look at your sweet, understanding face any longer and leaned his head back against your shoulder. “Forgive me.”

He felt your tiny fingers card through his hair. “I do. I forgive you, Demetrian.”

“I lost control.” Shame burrowed into the pit of his stomach. “I could have killed you.”

“You didn’t though. Even…like that…you didn’t hurt me.”

Pulling back, he gave you an incredulous look. “Your breasts look as if you were attacked by a ripper swarm, woman!”

You laughed. Laughed.

He stared at you in wonder. Surely you were a gift from the Emperor for his century of unjust torment. 

“Have you no fear, love?”

“I’ll admit you startled me, but no.” Your hands cupped his face. “I’m not afraid of you, Demetrian.” Your smile faded slightly. “I do think you owe Lord Chairon an apology, though. I truly believe he meant nothing but kindness.”

Titus thought of Chairon’s attitude around baselines. The concern he showed for the Guardsmen. He sighed.

“Perhaps.” He gently leaned his forehead against yours. “You were fortunate he was the one who took notice of you. Why did you come to the hangar?”

“Vesta told me you’d collapsed on your last mission. I was worried.”

Warmth surged through him and he pulled you tighter against his chest. “Little Healer, you need not worry for me.”

“What happened, Demetrian?”

Perhaps he’d tell you one day. The whole story.

His helmet vox crackled to life. “Squad assembled and Thunderhawk ready to depart, Lieutenant.”

With a sigh, he responded. “I am on my way.”

He set you on your feet, steadying you when you swayed. “Are you all right?”

You leaned against one of the crates. “I will be, in a minute or so.” Your eyes drifted down his armored form. “Are you all right?”

“I am.” You cocked an eyebrow and he finally caught your meaning. “Oh. Ah…I will endure.”

“If only certain parts of your armor could be easily removed.”

The want in your voice. “You astound me, woman.”

“You’re very attractive when you’re jealous, Demetrian.”

He blinked down at you, at a loss for words. “Truly?”

“Mmmhmm, “ your eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Throne,” he stooped and pressed his lips to yours one last time. “Be ready for me upon my return, Little Healer.”

You clung to him for a moment, repeating the words you said at every parting. “Be safe, Demetrian. I love you.”

I love you more than you will ever know. Nothing in this universe will rip you from my arms.

***

The silent figure watched Titus emerge from the storage compartment. On the surface, nothing seemed to be amiss. The former Captain walked with a sense of purpose and confidence he hadn’t seen in centuries.

What corruption lurks beneath that facade, brother?

His eyes followed the Ultramarine until he turned a corner and vanished from sight. That wouldn’t do. He began to pursue, when movement drew his eyes back to the door of the closet.

A serf. A female serf in the cerulean robes of a personal attendant. She held said robes tight over her chest, and looked back and forth furtively before scurrying off, a slight hitch in her step.

An unfamiliar scent met his nose, mingling with the strong overlay of Astartes sweat.

Behind the scarlet lenses of his skull helmet, Chaplain Leandros narrowed his eyes.

This bears further investigation.

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

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As always, please comment if you want to be added to the Taglist!

[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.

[heretical-cogitations]

Help! My serf smells like the armoury and it's making me have heretical thoughts.

 Word count ~700 ish 

Part 2 Part 3

A/N - Never wrote anything in a fandom before I started this blog, I'm sorry if this is poorly written!!

Was thinking about Titus when I wrote this, but also Loken when he would chat to Mersadie. I think it's vague enough to fit any astartes??  Cato Sicarius not included bro would throw a tantrum, go sulk somewhere and deny he liked them even the slightest bit then get jealous if they even glanced at another space marine. (I want to tear him to shreads (affectionate)).

Kinda suggestive, nothing explicit but added a little cut.

 

His serf had been staring at him for a while now, the pauldron they were cleaning thoroughly before now barely touched with each lazy pass of the cloth. Their lord angel, sitting on a nearby bench, was busy polishing the piece of armour most recently cleaned. This ritual maintenance of his armour was usually a relaxing activity for the space marine but today it was becoming more and more stressful. 

Why does his serf smell like the armoury? 

When did they go there?

Why are they fidgeting so much?

Why won't they look him in the eye? 

Why is their heart fluttering like that? 

Why do they smell so ... pleasant?? 

A prickling warmth began to spread through him. His mind was racing, his face tight, brows furrowed, something wasn’t right. He said their name multiple times, but they continued to stare straight at his chest, eyes roving over the defined planes of muscle; occasionally flicking to focus on the ports decorating his skin. They had seen his ports before so was it the difference in attire, he wondered. His usual body glove discarded for a simple loincloth. He caught their attention with a low rumble of their name louder than the last attempts. This time their eyes snapped to his, squeaking in surprise.

 "Oh! Sorry, my lord. What did you say?" Their eyes dart away, head hanging low, cloth forgotten along with the armour. Running their hands down their thighs straightening the creases of their robe. His eyes follow their hands, watching as the robe is stretched tight over their legs. It's an appealing sight... He shakes the jarring thought away.

"Why do you smell of the armoury? What business did you have there?" His gaze set on their face. They look back to him again, clearly confused. "I haven't been to the armoury, my lord. Before you returned, I had been attending to your room. "

"You needn't lie to me, little one, I am not angry you were there." He pressed for the answer as softly as he could. "My lord, I don't understand what you mean. I didn't go there."  They replied hurriedly. The shift in the smell as stress hormones flooded their body caught him off guard. He sat back, placing the armour and polishing tools down beside him, spreading his legs wider as he crossed his arms in thought. He knew enough about astartes biology to know external smells didn't mix well with those produced from the body, so it would make no sense for their smell to shift the way it did. He rested his chin on his hand, looking down at his serf. "Hmm, I believe you, no need to fret."  He finally responded pensively before closing his eyes and taking a deep but measured breath. "Th-thank you, my lord." They stuttered out relief clear in their breathtaking voice.

A new wave of the smell washed over him like a strong tide, so similar to where he dons his plate but sweeter and more palatable like it was concocted specifically for him. His mouth watered; he wanted to see if they tasted better than they sme- this isn’t right. Despite his closed eyes, he could feel their stare burning through him. It wasn't the type of attention he had come to expect from baselines. This, alongside these new thoughts, was all so overwhelming to him.

This is not right; eyes now open he cast his gaze down to his serf, their beautiful eyes almost glassy as they looked at him hands grasping the hem of their robe revealing a tease of their plush, soft thighs, his breath stuttered at the sight, the urge to squeeze and knead the- he caught himself again, this was getting out of hand. The smell was even more intense. He felt himself losing his ability to think. He stood up abruptly, "M-my lord?" They whispered breathless. "I must take my leave, little one. I'll return to you soon." With that, he shrugged on a robe hung by the door and left, not seeing how his serfs gaze lingered on him until the very last second.

[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.

[runes-and-men]

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...

[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.

[stagteeth-art]

proper design of Octavius as an Ultramarine for SM2 shenanigans!!!! alas i'm never able to be normal about a piece of media, i always need to have a self-insert

ill paste his toyhouse bio under the cut for anyone that likes reading :3 (also reposted my doodle of Titus and Octi, i plan to add Chairon and Gadriel soon)

Octavius Daneo, formerly an Apothecary of the Ultramarines 6th Company, is currently the Apothecary to the 2nd Company Squad Damocles. Born on the Ultramar capital planet Macragge, it only made sense Daneo would try his hand at the recruitment trials from a young age- Macragge was the birth planet of their Chapter Master and any young man from Macragge was expected to do so. While Daneo was content with the idea of destroying heretics and xenos, he also had a fascination with science and the art of healing- bestowing upon himself the goal to become an Apothecary, for he felt his empathetic nature would be best suited for caring for his fellow battle-brothers. During his Neophyte days, when he wasn't training physically, he was studying medicine and science.

Once Daneo was a fully fledged Space Marine, as well as a master of battlefield medica, he was assigned to the 6th Company. There, he found companionship with another young battle-brother: Valorem Gadriel, and they formed a strong bond over many missions. Eventually, Gadriel was promoted to sergeant and reassigned to 2nd Company. While sad at his friend's departure, Daneo was proud of Gadriel's accomplishments and was content with the 6th Company.

During the beginning of the Recidious Campaign, Captain Acheran of the 2nd Company had taken note of Daneo's skills as an Apothecary. Much like sergeant Gadriel, the Apothecary was given a spot in the squad when Demetrian Titus crossed the Rubicon Primaris and was given his place back in 2nd Company, and Daneo's addition was used to monitor Titus' recovery after the Primaris surgery.

With Daneo as a brother of Squad Damocles, he also reunited with Gadriel and their bond is as strong as it was before Gadriel's promotion. Daneo is, of course, friendly with Meduras Chairon- both of them being the more easy-going members, and they enjoy each other's sense of humor. Daneo had slowly grown on Titus; the Apothecary's more optimistic attitude being slightly jarring to Titus at first. Titus also initially detested Daneo's attentiveness to his recovery, as he was already feeling smothered by the Chaplain, the last thing Titus wanted was another pair of eyes on him. Titus eventually recognized the genuine care and dedication Daneo had for his brothers, and soon his mind was at ease around the young Apothecary and they, too, formed a great bond.

[haarmaanrios]

By far the best AI that I have found.

[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 👀

[beckyninja]

Relief

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: talk of periods, sexual content, MDNI

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

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

Titus didn’t sprint, though he wanted to. 

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

Your touch.

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

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

When I find the one responsible for her suffering….

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

Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door hissed open and-

Blood.

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

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

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

“Little Healer?”

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

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

“Demetrian?”

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

“I am coming in.”

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

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

The door slid open.

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

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

“Demetrian-”

“You are still unwell.”

“Demetrian, please-”

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

“No, Demetrian! Listen-”

“I should not have left you alone.”

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

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

“My lord?” He muttered. 

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

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

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

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

The Warp it is. “Explain.”

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

“No.” 

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

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

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

“And this…cycle…causes pain?”

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

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

“Why have I not noticed before?”

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

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

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

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

“Did you request pain suppressants from the medica?”

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

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

She may be right.

“Oh Emperor….” 

Your whimper felt like another Carnifex talon through his chest.

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

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

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

“And, on my back, please?” 

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

“Oh, oh yes.” 

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

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

Throne damn it.

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

This time your moan sounded of pleasure.

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

“Demetrian….”

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

“Demetrian, stop!”

The magnitude of his selfishness crashed upon him.

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

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

“Would it cause you more pain?”

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

“Truly?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You want this as much as I.”

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

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

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

“Are you ready for me, my love?”

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

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

“Demetrian! S-so big…!”

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

The Wolves were right, damn them!

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

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

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

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

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

“D-Demetrian…,” you whimpered. 

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

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

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

“Are you well, my love?”

“Mmmm.”

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

“You were right about one thing.”

“Mmm?”

“That was rather messy.”

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

“Better?”

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

“I was not too rough?”

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

He heard tears in your voice and held you closer.

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

“I enjoy your clinging.”

“But you need to go.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Who…?” 

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

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

“Um. Hello?”

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

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

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

Oh, Demetrian…. You fought a smile.

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

“This is incredibly kind of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock

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

[deleteddewewted]

Astartes Cuddling Headcanons

A/n: Inspired by multiple posts I've seen and brainstorming with friends.

W: Platonic Relationships, Just super cute, Mega Fluff, Kinda Angsty

Astartes are not as socialized as regular children so they tend to come off as very blunt and very unfeeling.

This is why i feel that many of them seek comfort silently, mainly through physical platonic contact.

From being an aspirant and sleeping in close piles with other aspirants since they're home sick, to being neophytes who are now working towards the dream of becoming a battle brother and doing the same, these overgrown children seek companionship in their battle brothers

Not only do the aspirants, being so young, many of them orphans are denied gentle gestures by their overseers, they make their own comfort by confiding in each other.

Cuddling, hugging, sharing food is typical at this early age as their all trying to cope.

Once they become neophytes these rituals change. Many of them are now a step closer to being battle brothers, many of them being further ahead in their enhancement surgeries.

Many of the Neophytes seek comfort in their companies Chaplain or other veteran battle brothers.

Neophytes will create these cuddle piles where they all share a room or a space and just sleep next to each other or on top of each other, holding onto one another as they rest as they feel like this helps them regulate not only their body temperature but also makes sleeping easier.

Oddly smart since this also means that in case anyone sneaks up on them they can all respond quickly to that threat.

Full fledge battle brothers do the same but a little differently.

They have their own chambers, they have their own spaces, this doesn't mean sleep overs arent a thing.

Having had more in depth training and psychological indoctrination done on them, they no longer understand the aching feeling that sometimes presents themselves when they are put into very domestic situations.

Eating in the mess hall? They like being together in the community but they don't understand why.

Speaking while doing basic maintenance on their equipment? They enjoy the deep conversations they have with their battle brothers but they don't understand why they do.

Boasting about receiving praise from their Primarch or chapter master? They're overjoyed to have performed their duty well but they also don't know why they would like to hear such affirmations more often.

Its small things that should be insignificant to them that confuse them as they are told time and time again that they no longer have a need for such baseline wants or needs.

Deep down, i think they know that no matter how enhanced they become they desire such small gestures of community and comfort and that is why they develop friendships amongst each other.

Some seek company in the apothecary and others with their chaplains or veteran brothers.

[heretical-cogitations]

Help! My serf smells like the armoury and it's making me have heretical thoughts. Part 2

Word count: ~870

Part 1 Part 3

A/N - I was really struggling trying to write this to work for any space marine but don't think I have the skill. Wanted to give writing in 2nd person a go as well. So it morphed into :

Titus x reader

Probs ooc but fuck it we ball.

Already have ideas for a final part....

As the door closed behind him you were left in shock, what just happened. 

Smoothing out your robe; you pick up the piece of armour you had neglected when you were distracted by your Lords ...presence.

Cleaning the filthy ceramite your mind is filled with thoughts of him; worried you had upset him but despite your concern you recall to how he looked in that tiny, flimsy loin cloth, you were certain you could easily rip it off with you tee— BY THE EMPEROR STOP.

Covering your face with your hands, guilt and shame set deep into every atom of your being.

How could you be so disrespectful, he had treated you so well, been so kind and in no uncertain terms made your life considerably better than it would've been otherwise.

You scold yourself again, annoyed at yourself for objectifying one of the emperor’s chosen, especially one so chivalrous and caring.

You looked at the spotless armour you had haphazardly lugged towards a corner of the room, proud of how the ceramite was now gleaming despite arguing with yourself the entire time, it now taking up as little of the communal space as it could.

The only piece missing is his helm currently placed near your feet, it had suffered quite a lot in this last deployment and needed more than a good scrub to get it back to its true glory. So, you have graciously taken it upon yourself to polish and repaint his helm.

You definitely weren’t going to use this as a peace offering to your lord or as a distraction from your inappropriate day dreaming.

Your gaze lands on the gauntlets, the sheer size making you blush, you need to get out of this room. Picking up his helm you scurry out, hoping the walk to his chamber would clear your mind or if that didn't the helm maintenance would. 

He couldn’t be in there any longer, it was too much, he needed to get to the bottom of this now. Titus, newly appointed captain of the 2nd company, was mortified at his lack of self-control; he is a mighty astartes and yet one smell has him splitting at the seams.

His mind wanders has he walks heavy footed through the ship’s corridors, before he finds himself at the armoury, making his way in, it’s quiet. The rooms usual smell almost completely absent, something usually so strong barely present now. He decides to search around to investigate what might produce such a smell, hoping to find why it made him react the way it did. His search is cut short as he hears the distinct armoured footfall of the chapter master.

“Titus.”  

Titus turns to face him saluting, “Chapter master.”  Calgar smiles and raises a brow “At ease lad, you look concerned is something bothering you?”  Titus breaks eye contact with his superior shifting on his feet appearing almost meek in front of him. “Well… I am concerned about my behaviour towards my serf earlier, it is hard to explain I apologise, but I felt overwhelming urges to touch them in less than appropriate ways.” He hangs his head low expecting to be reprimanded for acting in such a debased way, but such rebuke never comes instead Calgar stifles a laugh. His gauntlet clapped Titus on the shoulder knocking him forward with the force. “I'm sorry Titus, I shouldn't laugh, this issue is quite common amongst our battle brothers. As we astartes age we can rekindle some of our, let's say, baseline urges. Though you are on the younger side for this to occur.”  Calgar’s chuckle tapers out, smile still lingering on his face.

“I was looking for what I suspected to be the catalyst but have had no luck.” Huffing as he speaks, almost sulking. “What did you expect to find in the armoury, Titus?” Calgar said still smirking, almost as if he knew the answer. “The smell, that caused all of this” Titus admits.

“Ah, so you are unaware of the predicament here in the armoury…” Calgar leans closer to him, voice dropping to a whisper no baseline could hear. “What you smell when you don your battle plate is baseline arousal, Titus. Of those who know, we each have our own interpretation as to why armouring serfs react in the way they do when dressing us, but one thing we all agree is that this is kept close to our chest and only shared on a need-to-know basis.” Calgar leans back smiling again teasing Titus. “And this seems to be one of those situations”. Calgar turns towards the door “I hope will keep this secret as well as the rest of us.” He says chuckling as he walks out of the room. Titus is left blushed red and gaping at the grey-haired space marine as he takes his leave.

Once the shock of the revelation settled, he couldn't contain the smile that split his features, his little serf finds him attractive.

His little serf returns his feelings.

No matter how much he tries to temper it he cannot control his giddiness. The other implications of the situation flying far above his head in this moment.

He must return to them now.

[shellswritesstuff]

Titus without a doubt gives the best (and slowest) head

𓊆ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴛʀɪᴀɴ ᴛɪᴛᴜs X ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - ᴇsᴄᴀᴘɪsᴍ.𓊇 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚(⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

rating: explicit. (explicit sex, oral.) cw. size difference, afab!reader, g. neutral pronouns. 

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴏɴ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ǫᴜɪᴄᴋɴᴇss ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ. ᴏᴍɢ, ɪ ғᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇnʟɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ. ᴍᴏsᴛ ʜᴏɴᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴀɴᴏɴ. ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴀᴡᴅ. ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

In this grim universe, little to no solace existed. Death was more of a paradise than anyone could imagine... yet many choose to fight on. Every damn day was a struggle for a cause much bigger than you know. Nothing was, or ever will be in your complete control. That includes your fate. It was a damn depressing fact.

Though, having a handsome space marine between your thighs does help ease the mind.

"Mmph.." Honorable Lieutenant Titus was making a mess of himself between your thighs. The sight was downright pornographic; your much smaller frame spreading wide to welcome his needy mouth. One leg was slung over his broad shoulder, while the other was gently held in place by your lover. "Dear one, I can't help but get lost in your.."

You rise your hips off of the bed, silencing Titus. Your aching slit closing the dreaded distance. Sweet nothings would have to wait. Thankfully, the space marine got the message. His heavy tongue gave languid strokes across your clit, pleasure with every movement. He ate your pussy slow, intently, and skillfully. Where he'd picked up such talents, unknown to you both. To quote your lover; he just followed his instincts. Fucking hell.

You writhed under the act, staying anchored in place only by Titus' will alone. The heavy muscle bullied your swollen bud, the exerted pressure only heightening the coming orgasm. You wanted to cry out his name. Not the one his superiors wore out, but his first name. A deeply personal gesture, now turned corrupt by lust. Damn his quarters being so close to others. It was a battle to keep quiet, Titus makes it so fucking hard not to scream. Deep down, you knew that fact got him off. Pervert.

He made eye contact with you, not ceasing his actions for moment. Your climax had been steadily building, it's peak dangerously close. You wanted to cum so bad, beg Titus to speed up and give you more, but you weren't the one in control here. His subtle dominance made you drip. Titus took a moment to breathe, looking at his work. A plead was about to escape your mouth, but got quickly forgotten as your lover pressed two large fingers into your entrance. Your hands shot up to your mouth, muffling the squeal. It was a sinful stretch. Not one your body hasn't experienced before, but a welcome challenge nonetheless.

Like it always happened, Titus's fingers and tongue guided you to climax. You'd cover his face in your juices, marking him with the love you two created. The feeling was unlike any other, your body convulsing to a beat that was never there, hushed cries of your lover's name... Titus committed the sight to memory. His and his actions alone wrecked you. It was one of the selfish comforts he took in this dire world.