#space marine smut

[ma1dmer]

Warhammer - Tarik Torgaddon NSFW

feel like pure shit just want him back x

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): always keeps some point of contact with you if you aren't straight up cuddling, his head on your lap or his hand on your back as you sleep on your front etc etc he is always touching you. if you need something he'll do it, but you definitely have to ask him several times to actually convince him to get up.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): he loves your voice, everything else too obviously, he'll rush to tell you, but there is something about the way you speak, the way you use his name, the way you laugh or yell or moan or whimper. he doesn't like it when you stay silent during the deed, he is loud therefore you have to be louder. if he isn't getting concerned looks after he leaves your room when you two are done, he knows he hasn't done his job right.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically): he is filthy, he likes the mess, he likes to let it get everywhere, on your body, on his body, on your face, in your mouth, on the floor, he is not ashamed about it, the messier the better, he loves fucking your thighs for this reason as well.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): is it a secret if he has joked about it? probably not. he absolutely has thought about sharing you with loken. he'll ask you first, ask how you feel about loken making you almost worried that you overstepped perhaps by ogling his battle brother that one time or something, he asks for you to be honest with him, his expression grim and then just as you are about to apologise, he'll grin, immediately telling you to relax and that he was just curious. he'll start bringing loken up while he fucks you, asking what you'd do or what you think his reactions would be like, almost getting off to the idea of loken as much as the idea of you with him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): not as much as he is pretending he has, at the end of the day he is part of the mournival, his work within the legion takes priority above all else. and even so ,if you pry and ask what type of experience he has it's all mostly one sided, letting someone use his mouth or using his hands on someone else, more often than not choosing a quickie that just didn't work out for him, considering size and prep required.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying): he likes to have you ride him, he sits back to enjoy the show, his big hands on your hips urging you to grind down against him every time he bottoms out, he'll also fuck your thighs this way, have you hold on as he pushes your legs together just to bounce you up and down on his lap.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.): he loves to joke around with you, you bet your ass he has tried telling you that damned bear story mid thrust.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.): he keeps it natural because there isn't much there to begin with, it's all very soft and the same brown of his hair.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): even if he is more laid back than his brothers he is still equally as emotionally stunted as them, he just does a good job of hiding it all behind teasing smiles and jokes, but he has his moments, when he's been gone for a long time, when something is troubling him, when a mission went wrong etc. he's holding you a bit tighter, mumbling things into your hair as he pins your down, urging you to hold him as well, he won't tell you what is bothering him, so he hopes this makes up for it. hopes this is enough for you to understand.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon): be puts on a show, slowly spreading his thighs, leaning back on the bed, uses both hands, one to cup his balls or run up and down his toned body, the other working on his cock, his hold loose enough that you know for a fact he isn't really getting off to it, it's mostly done to goad you into action, throwing his head back moaning loudly. once he figures out he can have a warm body to satisfy his needs he finds jacking off so boring and pointless, he'll do it just to tease you or if you ask him to.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks): threesomes, oral fixation, cum/spitplay etc

L = Location (favorite places to do the do): if he knows he can get away with it, and trust that he will, he'll try just about anywhere. he finds he really enjoys places where there is the possibility of getting caught by another astartes, not so much by serfs, or other baseline humans.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): he is totally the, you look so hot when you are angry guy and it's something you sadly have to deal with.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): there isn't much out there he would be against at least trying once, especially if he sees they get a rise out of you, he is very very giving.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): ride his face, he doesn't even need to get out of his armor for this. set your own pace and don't hold back. if he thinks you are going easy on him he'll grab you to grind you on his face himself.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): fast, he isnt rough, but he is overwhelming and relentless, once he finds what spot that makes you tick he is on it with a fervor that makes you shake, he'll have you scrambling for purchase on the sheets and trying to both push off and pull his hands on you, in seconds.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): he knows they aren't convenient for multiple reasons, but he tries ,he really tries to sneak them in every so often, it's almost like a game to him. it's enough if you get off, your back against the wall, one leg thrown over his shoulder, on his knees in his armor bent awkwardly to take you in his mouth before he has to leave for a mission, it's difficult to deny him when he makes such a convincing argument.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): he is game for almost everything, it's almost a test, he wants to see what you are capable of throwing at him and what he can handle.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): he has the energy to go for a long long time but he prefers to keep your meet ups short (for him) and sweet, he claims it's to make sure you don't get tired of him and bed someone else while he is gone, you aren't sure if he is joking or not.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): not a fan of them, it comes with that space marine pride that gets oh so easily wounded at the idea of not being enough, which is frankly an insane thought.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): a big fucking tease and unrelenting at that, he'll deny you your release a million times and still remain simply unmovable and amused at your squirming, he'll keep going until you are begging or yelling at him. he'll take either option.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): he talks, from filthy comments about how well you are taking him, how he is probably ruining you for any other baseline man, to fuelling your shared fantasies, to simply bringing up a story so he can watch you grow frustrated and try to struggle against him, this man does not shut up, but he loves to have you shut him up, put your hands over his mouth, pull him in for a kiss, anything like that and he throbs inside of you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): he is definitely the one to go for if you are interested in exploring some different power dynamics with a very large very strong man. he might make fun of you at first, how many people would love to be ravaged by the strong and heroic astartes and yet you are here asking him to kneel and beg for you...he will definitely think about it and when he agrees, boy does he beg prettily, he seemingly gets off to his own submission more than you do.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): long and it curves up towards his stomach a bit, paler than the rest of him, more of a shower rather than a grower.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): he is not as direct as his brothers surprisingly enough, he teases you from the get go, the second you have his attention he is flirting and joking around with you and you are never quite sure if he means it or not. he actually wants to be the one to be approached by you and that little dynamic stays even as your relationship progresses. he wants you to be the one to seek him out most of the time. it really strokes his ego.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): he has no qualms about falling asleep before you, he only has a few hours to properly rest, he'll enjoy them to their fullest even if you are next to him still wide awake. he is very clingy too, get's genuinely irritated with you if you move away while he is asleep.

[mournivaldisco]

The Mournival discover porn

[cardinalcanis]

Compliance

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

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

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

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x NB!OC

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

Word count: 7316

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

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

@moodymisty @lemon-russ @thisuserislilsilly

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

Mechanicus speech cheat sheet:

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

>��   -> More than. 

=    -> equals. 

!    -> negation of, no 

+++    -> increase. 

<=    -> less or equal to

&    -> and 

- - -    -> decrease 

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

=>    -> therefore, implies, if… then

!=    -> not equals to

∈    -> belongs to

⇔    -> if and only if, only.  

\/    -> or

P(statement)    -> probability of statement

Statement1 | statement2    -> statement1 happened because statement2 happened. 

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

∅    -> null

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean if I had tried jacking off?” 

“That statement is true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mu wait… ah…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want ∈ Titus. I want Titus ∈ me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Magos stop that! You are hurting yourse…” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Compliance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes Mu I trust you.” 

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

“With my life, Mu please just… ah…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Compliance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know the answer.” he smiled back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait!” He howled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ghcstpyre]

john wick x f!reader

cw: cis female reader, slight dom/sub dynamics, soft dom!jw, sub!reader, unprotected p in v, creampie, squirting, praise kink. MINORS BEGONE!

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i am in a Mood™️ and was inspired to try and write a quick piece. also yes I am procrastinating everything because of animal crossing so this is also to try and get back into the swing of writing lol. enjoy!

Your cheek squished against the flat, cool surface of the rich mahogany desk. Sometime after settling down in John's private library with your usual dark fantasy romance and John following not long after to have a nosey at what you'd been reading, you'd ended up bent over the nearest desk with your skirt yanked up and bunched around your waist and your panties pulled to the side. Thick fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, keeping your willing body right where he needed it. You were doing your best to be quiet, as per his orders, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with each delicious inch he pushed inside you.

“John…” You whined, wiggling your hips under his iron hold in an attempt to coax his cock further inside you.

This only had John doubling his grip on you. The fingers that held your hips dug in further, hard enough to bruise and leave little crimson crescent moons in your skin. The pain didn't deter you though. It only had that unsatisfied ache pulsing within your centre flaring up tenfold.

“Shush, baby,” John's voice was low and gravelly and sent a thrill rushing down your spine. Really, it was almost pathetic how much of an effect just his voice had on you. “I told you to be quiet. You sure you can do that for me?”

He leaned over, pressing his muscled slab of a body against your back to nip at your earlobe. You bit your lip in an attempt to stifle a whimper of need, just barely succeeding, and nodded.

“Good girl.”

John’s stubble grazed you and his long, dark hair tickled your skin as he pressed a tender kiss to your cheek and the weight of him lifted off of you. Whether it was out of mercy or pity - or both - John pushed the full length of his cock inside you in one swift motion. It took everything you had to not cry out in pleasure and pain as his tip kissed your cervix, filling you completely.

He watched as you struggled to keep any noises from escaping, his gaze heavy enough that you could practically feel it pinning you down to the desk just as effectively as his meaty hands. Seeing you in such a state of utter need while also being desperate to obey had his length throbbing inside you.

John set an unbearably slow pace, slow enough that it had you practically crawling out of your own skin. You so desperately wanted - no, needed him to to just fuck you, but instead it seemed he was determined to make sure you felt every vein and every inch, right up to the ridge where his swollen pink head met his shaft.

“Mmm, that's it, thaaaat's it.”

All you could do was lay there and take it without protest, however he wanted to give it to you. Your hands white knuckled the edge of the desk in front of you, serving as your anchor as you fought tooth and nail to keep any sounds of pleasure trapped behind your teeth. You knew that disobedience would result in punishment and you didn't really feel like being punished and degraded right now.

Right now, you wanted to be showered with praise. You wanted to be adored.

“You're being such a good girl for me. You want more?” He asked, relinquishing the vice grip he had on your hips in favour of smoothing those large, rough palms over the meat of your ass.

You didn't get a chance to nod. John was already parting your cheeks and chuckling deeply at the sight of his shaft, half buried in your soaking cunt and glistening with your slick arousal while the rest of it slowly dripped down your thighs.

“Look how wet you are for me. Of course you want more; you've already soaked my cock.”

With one hand he gripped one of your cheeks, while the other snaked up your spine to tangle in your hair. He pulled on the strands, forcing you to lift your head up and prop your upper body up on your elbows and forearms as his hips finally, finally picked up the pace.

If you weren't struggling to stay quiet before, you sure as hell were now. John knew how you liked to be rocked, what the perfect angle was to hit that sweet spot inside you that made you see stars. 

Tasting the tang of iron on your tongue you stopped biting your lip. You'd been so focused on keeping any noise at bay you hadn't even registered how hard your teeth were clamping down on the soft flesh while John pumped his huge cock in and out of you.

“You're doing so well for me baby, so well. Just a bit more and I'll - ngh - let you cum. I want to enjoy this sweet pussy a little longer.”

God, if his dick didn't push you over the edge then his words might just do it. Knowing that such a sweet, gentle man had the capacity to groan out words so filthy made that sick little part of you sing with glee.

The sounds of your rapid breaths mixed with his grunts of pleasure and skin slapping against skin bounced off the walls and echoed through the rows of bookcases filling John's library. Your legs began to shake as that familiar heat began coiling low in your abdomen. Sensing your building need, John let go of your hair and ass cheek to lean that glorious weight over you once again, propped up on one thick forearm while his other hand moved between your trembling legs to rub your neglected clit.

You keened into his heavenly touch and you couldn't stop a strangled little cry from escaping. You were quick to cut it off however, dropping your head to press your treacherous mouth into the inside of your elbow to muffle the noise. 

“That's my girl. You've been so good, do you want to cum? You want to cum for me? You want to be loud?” John's voice was practically dripping with honey as he whispered in your ear.

All you could do was lift your head again, look at him over your shoulder and nod pathetically while you rocked your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts.

“Cum.” He ordered, slamming into you with his fingers working relentlessly on your clit beneath you. “Cum on my cock baby. Scream for me.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

Your cries and sobs of pleasure drowned out anything else as you came, your pussy gushing over his length and thighs and the wooden floor beneath your feet while you rode out the waves of your orgasm. John wasn't too far behind, pressing his chest flush against your back to suck a dark bruise into the crook of your neck while he thrusted into you one, two, three more times, and then filled you with his seed with a loud, long groan.

Both of you stayed like that for a short while, catching your breath and begging to sober up from the lust-addled haze you were in just moments ago. Eventually, John lifted his weight from you and pulled out, letting his cum leak from your entrance. He took a few moments to run his hands up and down your back, soothing you as you came down from the high.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice returning to its usual deep, gentle lilt.

Somehow you managed to stand up and turn around to face him on your shaky legs. John was quick to wrap his arms around you to keep you steady. You were all too grateful, immediately leaning your weight against him and letting out a content sigh.

“Yeah. More than okay, I feel amazing.” You smiled up at him, cheeks rosy with happiness, and then nuzzled your face into his broad chest.

John chuckled, the baritone sound rumbling from within. “Good.” With a swift motion he scooped you up into his arms to carry you bridal style towards the door to the library. “Because I've not quite had my fill of you just yet.”

divider by @/strangergraphics

[shellswritesstuff]

𓊆ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴛʀɪᴀɴ ᴛɪᴛᴜs X ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ - general hc/drabble𓊇 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚(⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴. 𝘯𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘹. 𝘤𝘸: 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘯. 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴.

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʜɪ ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ. sᴘᴀᴄᴇ ᴍᴀʀɪɴᴇ ɪɪ ʜᴀs ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏᴋᴇʜᴏʟᴅ,, ɪᴍ ғᴀɪʀʟʏ ɴᴇᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ 𝟺𝟶ᴋ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ, sᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴇxᴄᴜsᴇ ᴀɴʏ ʟᴏʀᴇ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇs!! ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴠᴀɢᴜᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. :𝟶 (under read more.)

Chivalry isn't dead; it's walking around in huge blue armor.

Titus is known for his strength on the battlefield. His hands have eviscerated countless enemies of the Imperium. You've seen him rip a Tryanid right down the middle... yikes.

So when the same bloodstained hands hold onto yours, why don't you feel scared?

There's something about him that's different. Gadriel would comment that it's unbefitting of a Space Marine.

The corners of his mouth lift upon seeing you, despite your wrought reaction to the viscera coating his skin.

You sigh, rolling your eyes at the juxtaposition of guts and such a disarming look.

And don't get you started on his size.

Holy Terra... the size difference between you two was almost heretic. (At least, the ideas it gave you.)

Even out of his armor, he dwarfed you.

You knew Titus would never bring you harm, despite his potential to. As his hand lays on your bare chest, you become starkly aware of how easy it would be. His palm encapsulated your breast, and partially your other. If he were to just...

"Are you still with me?" That gruff, familiar voice derailed whatever train of thought lingered.

You stuttered, apologizing. Being together like this was rare. A brief respite from the cosmos.

You were skin to skin, dressed as the day you were born. Fingers tracing Titus' countless scars, you dare not ask their origin.

There wasn't much to say; a quiet understanding that you're both happy to be alive and in the moment.

That is, until your mind inevitably wanders.

You'd make an attempt to straddle Titus' waist, but settle for a strong thigh instead. Your body comes alive as the flex of his muscles meet your wet core.

"It was a matter of time, then." Titus speaks softly, as to hide his equal lust.

For the night, you would be lovers. Unknowing of what the next day will bring.

[vyzz-undercover]

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(8,800ish words) (holy fucking kill me mate)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

———————————————————————————————————

hi guys :3 guess what i got you all good im not dead,,, the gods have let me live another fateful fortnight (fortnite) also i love you all so so so much pls enjoy!!!! @moodymisty, @lemon-russ, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @egrets-not-regrets, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams, @thevoidscreams, @mothiir, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sinistermojo, @beckyninja, @passionofthesith, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @allergymoose, @scriberye, @yestheantichrist, @ma1dmer, @cucunot!!! if anyone wants off or on taglist lmk!!! im more than happy to adjust this in post OK BYE ILY ALL AGAINNNN!!!

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There should be higher security in this wing, Cato notes.

But compared to the rest of the vessel, it's safe—as in, there's senior Admech's leaving their doors open while they buff out the scratches in their mechadendrites sort of safe. He bets seeing a mouse around here would cause a stir. Honestly, he can fully render the pict in his mind of some haughty Seneschal turning their nose up to his Primarch because of that.

Cato can imagine the exact following happening, 'eugh, why doesn't Lord Guilliman virus bomb the pipes? That's what I had done on my pissy little rowboat of a void ship!' in that nasally, all too predictable tone that every single bloody one of them seems to have bar maybe a few.

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

But it is safe. You're safe, here. He trusts his Primarch to ensure that for you. Being so cozy to Guilliman as a baseline certainly has its benefits. This place is good for you, unlike the bowels of the ship—where even Cato avoids going.

Not for any risk to his persons, of course. But simply because of the tightness of the hallways. And the stink of baseline sweat and oil that practically sticks to his senses for days afterward.

It's most certainly not because the low lumen count sends his mind wandering. And the flickering—damn those flickering lights—they make him uneasy. The impossible chance they'll flicker out and reveal a reality awash with fleshed decking is completely unrealistic. But still, down in those depths, he feels like he's stuck in a dying vessel, cracked at the bottom like a broken vase, leaking. Adrift, on a storm laden sea with the blackness pouring in—where within that black there is a barely perceptible colour in infinite abundance, like the phosphenes behind closed eyes—and there are eyes in that ocean—so, so many eyes, fixed with the glowing, molten hues of the warp itself; their shades a melted tapestry, a solvent thing, ever-changing.

Eyes and screaming. It sometimes returns to Cato like a bad case of tinnitus, ringing and shrill—but the mind crafts horror that pale reality in comparison, and in that wretched plane of existence those mental horrors bore real talons, and real hooves and real thought—and the caterwauling of its victims—his brothers—ever came from maws heaving and frothing in agony.

Cato hears himself stumble and slam a palm into the side wall to steady himself, but doesn't feel it. He feels like he's in free-fall, as if the ground has opened up and swallowed him hale and whole.

All time in that abominable realm was rendered simply nonexistent, without matter nor meaning to behold to any living creature. Naught but the notion of being practically alone and how chilling it was spiralling down the depthless lake of energy remained. No resistance of air lent to the sensation of plummeting, but he was sure he was for reason beyond any form of tongue. The distance was irrelevant and utterly unmeasurable. But the warp had no edge, no limit; and as it lacked a limit, the depth of him sinking was surely unbounded—just as it was eerily silent. A merciless wall of mute, dark unknown which swallowed all whole under it's cresting wave of solitude. Mute except the wailing, like song—song of sheer coincidence, where so many voices in unison chances harmony by mathematics beyond comprehension.

The sour taste on his tongue drags him loose of the claws about his mind.

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

Cold, unforgiving steel walling like a soothing downpour on his nerves.

Cato groans as he rights himself, shaking his head, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth; gagging a little at the bitter, acrid aftertaste of his Betcher's gland acting on instinct.

He'd thought himself largely past this now. It had been so long since it happened, and Cato tries, he tries so painfully hard not to imagine the same thing happening here, because he's okay, you're okay—nothing would try to take this ship.

The vile taste on his tongue annoys him, because he'd scrubbed his teeth raw in an effort to seem as polished as he could; and now his tongue probably stinks like an empty las cartridge.

He spits on the floor and straightens up, it's fine—at least that's what he tells himself. You're close, and you're safe and that's all the encouragement he needs to fall back into step.

Cato takes a few strides down the corridor towards your quarters before realising something rather important.

He reaches into the folds of his rest attire and practically yanks out a sheathed knife.

It'd be closer to a dagger to you, and he doubts you know how to use it, but—but—

He wants to give it to you.

It's what he'd like to receive, at least. After all, it is what he was given, once.

The smith on Talassar is long dead, from age or sickness, but it matters little. All that matters is that Cato had received it ages ago when he'd yet to make anything of himself and he wants your hands to know its weight. You never carry weapons to diplomatic ventures in the past, and you've told him as much, but he gathers it's because there's never been place for you to put them on your persons in those stupid outfits of yours.

It's a little bit brutish of a gift, yes, he's well aware. But there's no possibility of bringing any sort of cliche boon to your door, like flowers, or something of the sort. Or whatever those waifs of yore would demand as a courting gift.

He doesn't even realise he's continued walking until he's stopped and standing outside your chamber like a kicked hound.

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

He knows the universal override to all the input pads, but there's something seemingly rooting him to the spot.

The nervousness hesitation he feels regarding seeing you is a lingering problem—the longer he stays beyond the confides of your room only adds to the chances of being caught. And he's not about to wait for hours outside for a hint you're actually in there. He has right to suspect you are, but the possibility of a serf being there instead of you is unrealistic but present. Actually no, he's sure that a cleaning serf would not lock the door.

So, finally, he raps a knuckle against the door and sets his footing to a martial stance.

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

There's a clear surprise that paints across your face as he stares down at you, before it dissolves into a small, flustered smile.

His hands twitch where they hang by his sides, itching to reach for the dagger he wants to give you. He had planned how he'd do this on the way here. Thought it through and prepared, rolling it over and over in his head. And yet, actually having you before him throws any precedent out the nearest air-lock.

You're not in any sort of prim and proper way—you're in bedding clothes, more than anything: pants and a top.

The trousers are a light shade of cyan, loose around your calves but more form fitting around your thighs. Your hips seeming to be the only thing holding the pants up from showing the warm, smooth skin beneath; that, and a small thread tied in a crude bow. Your tunic is more of a inched stola, low necked enough that he can sort of see the top of your breasts.

"I didn't.. uh," you mumble. "I didn't expect you so soon."

He knows he's earlier than he promised, but he grunts in answer and looks over your shoulder.

You blink, "What?"

"Am I to wait out here all cycle, then?"

A small 'oh, right—sorry' from you is all he receives before you take a step back to allow him entrance.

When the door slides shut and locks behind him, Cato notes the lack on downlight activated. Everything is hazed in a moody, misty (hi) sort of warm, amber glow from the candles you've left burning. He thankfully wrestles down the urge to stand there scenting the air with his lip curled up like a beast. Trying not to linger on the abundant stink of you, you, you on everything, pervading every sense he has. Promising himself he won't smother into your pillows and start humping them like a rabid dog.

He distracts himself by cataloguing his surroundings. Cato has consistently focused on utilitarianism over all else, and it shows in his room. His room is accessorised in the style befitting of his many years and achievements; with walls lined with trophies and weaponry made by the best of the Imperium. It contains just the basic necessities required: a work area, a seat, a couple of lights, an agreeably Astartes-sized cot at the middle, and close to it, a dependable incense holder.

Your room is much smaller—but the ensuite appears the same, though. Which Cato doesn't know how to feel about. He surmises it was likely a converted Captain's quarters. It's not standard issue, and neither are the copious amounts of, for lack of a better word, trinkets. But he supposes being the Primarch's favourite little diplomat-bookkeeper-pet-thing is a title full of unseemly rewards. His Father has a strange, uncouth way of interacting with baselines, and he doesn't dare linger on the hypocrisy behind that thought coming from him standing in your private quarters.

Be as that may, he still feels enormous standing there in the cramped space between you, the bed, and the desk behind you, unimpressed at the amount of clothing bundled near his feet.

You stand in your own mess without any hint of shame. A silent Ambassador is typically a welcomed novelty, but a silent you makes Cato jumpy.

You near and try to urge him to lean down, clearly trying to coax a kiss from him.

"Water," he says abruptly.

You don't seem to be listening, just looking at him with a distracted sort of fascination—then the request clicks, and you stumble into the bathroom and run the tap.

He hears the glass he's to be drinking from clink with the hardware before it fills, and them you step out and close to him to hand it over.

He takes a big gulp and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, and gladly the wretched sourness of lingering acid is gone.

With the threat of burning your little nagging trap gone—and you none the wiser to the fact he's an Ultramarine who can, in-fact, spit acid—he rears down and gives you what you'd sought.

A slow kiss, nice and sweet and gentle; and he closes his eyes this time, in preparation.

You grin against his mouth and pull back after, and he smiles a tiny bit at the way your lips are a little redder.

Cato huffs in satisfaction and straightens back up, going in for another draught of water.

"I am surprised you live in squalor, despite all the benefits of your station," he murmurs offhandedly, looking aside the rim at the room once more between sculling down the rest of the cup.

You frown, and glance about the room, "It's not that bad."

"It looks like a drop zone," Cato grumbles, holding out the empty glass—and you take it, while he's fixed on staring disapprovingly at the messy stacks of data-slates stacked and leaning like two great spires. "Have you no discipline? No self-respect?"

"Clearly not," you mumble and glare at him, eyeing him up, then down, then up again with a judgmental leer. Suddenly, something about the situation is amusing to you—and you snort.

Cato scowls, crossing his dense arms over his chest, "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing," you huff.

He glares back at you in silence as you turn and set the glass upon the desk—what little free space there is, in that shitstorm bundle of random work.

"I just think it's funny that you say that," you start again abruptly, rounding about to look at him. "Given the circumstances."

The scoff that leaves him is nigh a bark, "Exceptional circumstances."

You snort amusedly, "So where's your discipline and self-respect?"

"Somewhere between your thighs," he says, and prides in the begrudgingly fought-back smile he earns out of you with it.

He sits himself down on the side of the bed and continues priding to himself at the wit of the remark he made.

Cato relishes in the moment, simple as it is—you're oblivious to his own troubles and there's a sweet, lulling sense of comfort in that.

"You're a real class act," You pout, manoeuvring your rear up onto the desk inelegantly. Something tumbles to the floor to accommodate, but you're evidently unbothered. Your pants ride down at the change just enough that it put the part where your hip met leg on display. Just the temptation has him fiending off an insidious amount of lust.

He wonders if it'll hold up against an Astartes fucking you on it. But it's not bolted down, so he doubts that.

The bed will hold, though. And even if it doesn't, he'll still manage—he's sure he'll take every bit of you he can, on every surface he can manage. It's just a matter of time before he goes down the checklist, really.

Cato, understandably, groans long and low at the thought.

"Something the matter, Commander?" You intone with an annoyingly obvious faux-stupidity, crossing your legs and tilting your head a little.

"No," he rasps, and tears his gaze from your hip.

You eye him, "You look a little stiff."

He grumbles, and reaches into the breast of his robes.

The sheathed dagger looks flimsy in his muscle and callous laced palm, and when he holds it out to you, you look bemused.

Your brow arches up and you scowl a little, "What's that for?"

"You," he harrumphs, and turns away. Then Cato cannot, for the life of him, look back at your eyes—so he fixes his stare at your sandals set by one another at the door frame.

A little giddy huff leaves you as he watches you scoot off the desk top and reach for the weapon in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't have to," you coo, wrapping your small fingers around the hilt and freeing the blade from its casing. A little kiss hits his cheek and then he hears the gleam of it being loosed—he'd polished the time-dulled filigree to a mirror finish in preparation for gifting you, and even sharpened it back to a killing edge.

Your sweet hum of fascination as he sees the reflected candlelight dancing off the steel has him finally look back at you.

There's a big smile on your face, and your cheeks are a little red—and it's exactly the reaction he was after.

Cato tips his chin up, noble in his smugness, and smiles back.

"It's lovely, but—" you say, "I remember having told you before I can't wear weapons."

He pouts, and then he's sour again, "There's a belt loop on this one so that you can."

"I don't wear them for a reason," you digress.

"What reason?"

"Because it looks bad for a diplomat to do so."

Cato huffs petulantly, "That's not good enough."

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

"It's just one knife," He grunts, and gestures at you vaguely. "Why not put it on the inside of your thigh?"

And for some reason a few neurones misfire in his head at the thought of his dagger being so, so close to your—

"Do me a favour, Sicarius," you simper abruptly, as if there's a hidden punchline to the entire conversation he's yet to discover, "Look under the bed."

Cato scowls, but ultimately allows the request, putting one big palm on the duvet to leer down.

Oh, that's—that's a small fortune of ceremonial weaponry.

"Throne, woman," he starts, still looking and a bit stunned. "Why? Do you just collect all these? You don't hang them up, or anything?"

"I don't collect them willingly," you mumble, "They're just... handed to me, most of the time. Sometimes by dignitaries, a few by other Astartes. I don't understand it much, either."

Cato arches lower and reaches his free hand out to the gilded sheath of a curved sword, blue and gold and embossed with jewels. It's crusade-era levels of ancient—and Cato swears he'd seen it upon the lobby wall before the broad doors of Guilliman's chambers. That, and the hundreds of other favoured tools of war his Primarch so loved to display. Some hadn't been touched since the heresy, but still. Their nostalgic sentiments held strong. He supposes age does that to someone. Even for someone as noble and mindful as his Father.

Cato purses his lips as he lays a hand on the sword and tugs it free from the pile with ease.

He holds it up as he rights himself back on the bed and scowls, "This is—"

"I know," you sigh, and your hand braces against the side of your neck as you tut, "He insisted."

"He insisted?"

"He insisted," you grumble, and Cato tries hard not to find the embarrassed colour on your cheeks painfully endearing. "I said I wouldn't wear it, but he said it'd be a good thing to keep 'incase of emergencies', or something."

"Guilliman is right," Cato says sourly, placing the sword back on the ground and using his heel to shuck it backwards back under the bed. "You're easily assailable."

"You're the fifth Astartes to say that to me," Your face scrunches up, "I feel like it's an insult at this point."

"It's a valid observation," he shoots back. "You may as well be held together with silk and ribbons—like some spoilt little princess. You should expect the fanfare with that behaviour."

You leave his dagger on the desk behind you and take a few bold steps closer to him, crossing your arms over your chest; scowling as you say, "Oh, so you're the knight in shining armour here, then?"

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

He raises a brow and straightens up a bit, "Yes—yes, it is."

He likes the haughty attitude you get when you're subtly seething, he likes the little scowl you wear, and the tiny crease that forms on your nose. It gets his blood up, and warp damn him if he doesn't thrill at the slightest chance to have you gratifying his antics.

"Well, you got a pretty good reward for your troubles."

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

Your brow quirks sourly, and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Groxshit," you grumble.

Ah, so it's time for lying now. You weren't desperate, no—you haven't ever raised your ass to let him mount you, you haven't groped his cock—you most certainly haven't ridden him like an unruly beast, taking your pleasure—letting him fuck your tight cunt full, time and time again.

He ought to remind you, he ought to get you flushed with the words—because he knows you'll squirm, dithering, bright red in the face and aching between the thighs.

Instead, he snorts loudly, "Shut up and come here."

"I don't think so," you laugh.

Cato growls and rolls his eyes, "Suit yourself."

Still sitting, he lifts the folds of his robes aside and works his arms out of the sleeves, baring himself aside from the underclothes hanging on his hips.

With another huff, Cato shuffles himself back up against the headboard, settling into the pillows. He locks his fingers together, raising them above his head, stretching tall and taut; huge chest bulging as a strained groan slips free from his throat, earning a chain of muted cracks from his back in reward of his efforts.

Your eyes trace his torso where you stand aside the bed. Studying the ports and ancient scars that draw up from his hips in mirrored pathways, linear and geometrically precise—utterly surgical. Their routes turned up the sides of his ribs, stopping high on his serratus anterior, dodging his pectorals and wrapping around to his deltoids; where your gaze stayed—eyeing the tattoo of an inverted omega he had gotten so very, very long ago. It's faded a little, but the upside down Ω is still well defined.

He's got your attention now.

You shuffle forward, half on the edge of the bed; and lean close, flickering your eyes up to his—as if seeking some sort of allowance.

"Disgustingly predictable," He scoffs, cocking his head and relaxing a bit.

Seeing an Astartes out of their armour always was something to behold for baselines. Ever eye-catching even to those who'd seen it a thousand times over. It garnered awe and fear; but that was the reason the Emperor made them so large in the first place. Aside from the practical benefits of throwing their weight around, their presence alone was intended to be physically intimidating as a means to dissuade the uncooperative from resisting and to scare off contest.

To you though, his bared form is a source of lust. The stink of it in the air has him toey and eager.

But it is, afterall, the first time you've had a good, close look at him in his entirety.

Cato preens at the flush he earns when he smirks at you.

"I won't stop you, you know."

"I hope not," You muse and lay a hand on his sternum, kneeling onto the bed and scooting close as your fingers graze over the dark spread of hair dusting across his chest.

You scan from the tops of his broad shoulders down the definition of muscle to the interfaces on his fused ribs; your eyes trailing for a brief second to his dense abdomen where the hair went even lower. Arrowing down his under-cloth. His entire body was marked with brutal scars of every kind. Some raised and old, others raw and sunken.

He'd indulge a question or two about their origins if asked—or well, if asked nicely.

Oh, that meagre cicatrix below his left pectoral? That was a Carnifex he had fought. It was five of them all at once single handedly, actually—and he only had his great Talassarian Tempest blade. It was a lucky mark from the beast. It died seconds later. He's just that good—he's Cato Sicarius, afterall. You made the right choice letting him have you, please tell him that he's the right choice.

Instead, you sink down against him and lie against his side, tracing the ports on his chest.

Arguably, this is just as satisfying to Cato as gloating waxing on and on about his many successes. Your warm little body tucked against his like a perfect fit, and the feel of your fingers around the thinner skin rimming his interfacing ports isn't bad, either. It feels strange, yes, but it's a different sort of sensation. It's acutely sensitive. He almost feels like he's about to shiver at it.

But then your attention shifts to raking against the grain of the hair on his chest.

"I usually have it burned away," he says abruptly, because he's somewhat bemused by your fascination. Still, he puffs his chest out a little. "To allow greater synergy with my body-glove."

"Really?" You laugh, and it's a prettier sound than carillon bells to Cato's ears—all the while pawing at a thick hunk of his pectoral, "They toast you?"

"Only a single passing," Cato admits, "It doesn't hurt—stinks though. And then it's all hosed off."

You hum in acknowledgement and let your hand wander down his middle, following the trail of fluffy, coarse hair.

"Interesting," you hum, fingers tracing the path, stopping only when you're grazing just shy of the top wrap of his undercloth. "You feel a bit like a fur rug here."

Cato breathes in slowly, "Don't test your luck."

"It's an entirely valid statement, how am I testing my luck?" You grumble, glowering at him as you pull away.

"You ought to be reprimanded for insubordination," He says with a steely, disciplinary intonation, but the threat's hollow and you're seemingly well aware of that. He leans in and pulls you close again as his touch sweeps down your legs. His nose buries into your hair, big hands appraising groping.

You set about kissing his cheek, smothering yourself against him.

The airy gasp that leaves you when he squeezes your ass makes you bold, apparently, because the next words you choose to say are; "Do you accept bribes?"

Cato's immediate theoretical response is a snarky 'No,' but then the heel of your palm is sliding up the side of his cock through the wrapped linen.

So, pointedly, he eagerly groans out, "Yes."

You simper up at him, before fussing with the fabric. Exposing the dense plain of his hip, tugging and un-pleating a little more until he's bared from the navel down.

His cock's so hard it nearly bats you across the cheek as it springs free. To which Cato snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement.

You flinch a little in surprise, a hint flustered, and eye the hard length of him as if it's personally affronted you.

He sits a little more upright, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Offering his big, sturdy quads as a cushion to lean on as you slowly pump him in a steady motion.

"Well?" Cato snarks, "Get on with the bribery then."

You pout at him, glancing back—and huff, "You smell like an apothecarium."

Cato grumbles to himself, slow to gather his words as he watches you ogle him, "If I had... known that you wanted to get that damn snout of yours so close, I wouldn't've used such harsh soaps."

You raise an eyebrow and pout, "Wonder if they're toxic to ingest."

"I doubt it," he starts, "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Your fingers glide over his big thighs, dodging his ports and smoothing upwards to trace the old paths of his surgeries.

And even with all his stoic, anally neurotic merit, Cato can't stifle the small subvocal hum that escapes him as you flatten your tongue, licking a warm stripe up the side of his cock.

The feeling of it is staggeringly new, and he's absolutely elated at the view. It's half the appeal, even if there's no way you're getting anywhere near as much cock in you as your cunt allows.

You wrap your lips around the fat tip, keeping it in your mouth as you stroke the thick base of him with a grip that can't even meet around the width; balancing yourself better on your knees by putting the other hand on his thigh—the sleeve of your top slipping down your arm.

"This may be a better use for your mouth than diplomacy," He says as he lets out a low sigh, hips jerking forward with shallow movements in time to the bobbing of your mouth.

When you pull off to swipe away the glaze of spit and pre-cum accumulating on your chin, you lap your bottom lip and huff, "You are a prick, you know that?"

Despite being enamoured by the sight of you disheveled, he grumbles petulantly and says, "And you had to take your tongue off mine to say that."

You frown at him, then acquiesce with a petulant little grunt.

Then your mouth descends on him once more, rocking back and forth, letting gravity angle him in. All Cato can do is relish in the sensation, finding no room in his brain for anything else. Just the feeling of the wet heat of your mouth swallowing around him, and the swirling counterpoint of your tongue—eagerness in your gaze as it flicks up to find his again—Throne, that makes him groan straight away.

You hum around his length in response, the vibrations ricocheting through his nerves and up his spine blindingly. His other palm is suddenly against his forehead, a bit stunned from the bombardment of new pleasure.

Your little fingers dig fruitlessly into his thigh, making him hyperaware, sending him grinding forward a bit only to be rewarded with another lurching buzz of ecstasy. The hand pumping the base of him shifts away, and then small nails rake across his navel, then his hip, tracing a port; and he buries his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a heavy moan. They're only meagre claws, yet the pressure is strangely comforting as you lap at the blood flushed underside of his glans.

Cato's aware his voice catches as he keens aloud, pulling his arm away from his face to rest his forearm on his hairline. He's simply just enjoying the soft, hot drag your mouth around his tip again.

But a reedy little whine snags his attention, catching him unaware that he had even closed his eyes in the first place.

When he finally opens them, he swoons. Hard. Your cheeks are a stunning maroon, and your previously focused gaze now looks hazy and desperate, utterly lost in the act. He hadn't been cognisant he'd put his hand on your head, either. But watching you sink down around him again and again is intoxicating. How your pink tongue peeks out to lathe over a raised vein when you pull off for air has him dizzy. Your other hand's drifted down your pants and between your thighs at some point when he'd been lost in his own pleasure, fingers curling inside yourself. A deep inhale makes it clear you're absolutely soaking. And he's well aware that it is a meagre substitute—still, the eagerness of you is adorable lurid.

Distantly, he wonders just how many times you've had that hand there in this bed. It's the scene of the crime, really. You'd already admitted to it—and he ought to make sure you're full of his fingers to keep yours where there should be. That is, if he could move. He can't find the will to even sit up higher, let alone move the hand he's been using to keep your head steady. But, he does have the mind to comb his fingers through your tresses, at least.

You seem to realise he's realised what you're doing and you whine again, forcing yourself to take his cock further.

Cato lets out an approving moan and hisses out a feckless string of curses, thighs tensing sharply as his senses stagger at the heat that suffuses his belly.

The sick temptation to spend himself in your sweet vile maw is nigh all consuming, but it's nothing compared to the fact he's far more convinced on dumping it in your womb. Anywhere else feels like an injustice to the fact he's able to fill you—because just like some fang-toothed warp-spawn abomination, you've opened the door and invited him in, so he can make as much of a wreck of you as he likes, or as much as you like.

He yanks you off him by the reigns he's made of your hair and you choke a little.

The small groan at the messy handling of the situation is a testament to how badly you're after his end, "Wh-why...?" you rasp, the efforts having made your voice a little rough; the mix of your drool and his precum giving your chin and lips a wet, glossy sheen.

"Because—" he starts, and he's surprised by how ragged he sounds to his own ears. "Because, there's better holes to empty it in."

The little disappointed sigh that escapes you as you lick your slick bottom lip makes him immediately change his mind.

"Have it your way then," he heaves, and shoves your head back down—instinctively chasing the rising tide and rocking forward into your quickly opening mouth.

His hand is tight in your hair now, fist tangling the strands in his grip as you let him thrust freely. Your own hand grabs the side of his hip as his tempo stutters. By the Emperor, his father would kill him if he could see this. But, damn—the sight of you like this is sin. He's so much bigger than you it looks obscene with you servicing him like this. You're a mess, gagging and tearing up, but making no attempt to pull away. It's depraved, but if you're so desperate for a load down your throat, who's Cato to say no? He's more than happy to give you exactly that—and just on time, he feels his balls tighten up—static rising out up his spine as a groan tears from his throat. Caught daft not a millisecond later by a bodily shudder blinding him in a hot rush.

Cato pants as the shivers subside in heavy throbs, filling your mouth. He pets your head as you swallow, at first—and then the pockets of your cheeks puff out. And suddenly you're cringing and scrambling off of him and into the ensuite. The tap starts up, then you do, and all he hears spitting and sputtering.

You stumble out looking like you'd eaten something sour, swiping your hand across your lips before saying, "That tasted horrible."

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

A bright, wry smile plasters itself on your features, "And?"

"And, if you want more," he begins, eyeing you. "You'll have to lose the rags, woman."

You straighten, eager—and promptly start to wrestle your top over your head, just to throw it at his face.

Cato grumbles at the rudeness periodically, before he starts sniffing the article. Vomeronasal organ having a momentary frenzy. It smells of warm you, and a little bit of sleep. Like an embrace, and—fuck, his spent cock twitches back to life. He really shouldn't behave like this. It makes him assume he looks savage. Even he feels strange. So he wretches your top off himself and tosses it somewhere to the left.

Watching you suddenly appear on the bed, fighting your way out of your pants is much more entertaining.

He likes the way you shimmy onto your back and fuss yourself free; and the way you practically lunge back close to him when you're finally bare.

You lean over him and grin, and Cato appreciatively drags a hand down your back, palming your ass.

Promptly, he rolls himself and drags you along. He groans theatrically as if you're fifty times the effort to move than you are, simply because he can. And the shifting of his bulk makes the bed shake enough that the stack of slates on the table across the room falter, and tumble to the floor in a loud clatter of sound.

On your back under him, he preens at the flushed surprise on your face.

"That was too loud—you're too loud," you heave.

"I'm too loud?" He grumbles, pinning your far smaller shape down. "Says you."

That stirs a groan out of you, at least, squirming while Cato drags his tongue up the side of your neck.

"Someone can still pass by and hear," you whine, "We shouldn't make that much—"

"I doubt it," he grunts, cutting you off as he slides off the mattress and drags you to the lip of it. "We have a bed all to ourselves. Your bed—in your quarters, with six inches of steel in the way, might I add. They'd have to stand at the door to listen."

He flips you over, pressing you front down—slumping against you on his knees to grant a rough grind or two to make sure you're hyperaware of his thick erection plastered against your ass. Your legs kick out and you wriggle, a series of ragged gasps leaving you as you endure the onslaught. A small lick here, a small lick there—huffing and panting to stir an empathic response. Winding you up to writhe and flush as he groans next to your ear, only to start chuffing out mean spirited laughter when you moan back.

"See, you don't really care about anyone hearing, do you?" He rasps out against your throat before sucking the skin over a thudding little artery. "You're not sworn to chastity. They might just think, 'oh, the Ambassador's found another poor soul to suck the semen out of, shame,' or the likes."

"I don't know how you do it," You scoff, breathing hard into the covers as he pulls away and grabs you by the hips to hoist your rear up into that perfect taunting arch he remembers so well from the cabin. Aptly presenting yourself on your knees at mounting-height while he stands.

"Do what?"

You laugh, "Manage to find the worst possible thing to say every time."

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

Taking himself in hand, he angles the tip of his cock to kiss the soft rim of your entrance. And Throne, Cato's ecstatic. He finally gets to fill in the gaps of what he should've seen back in the cabin the first time. The theatrics you'd hidden under rags and your own embarrassment.

He hears the cartilage in your gullet click when you swallow dryly and grumble, "Fine then, but don't say I didn't—"

You're rudely interrupted by your own shuddering moan when he starts sliding into you, and Cato's never been happier to shut you up.

He bottoms out in you in one smooth thrust, and the sound you make next is a stellar thing. An eager, warbling 'Sicarius–' as his cockhead jars right up against your cervix. Warm, fluttering muscles around his length and the mewling of a whorish little Ambassador are ever a perfect combination.

But he wants to be closer—so, so much closer; he wants you pressed to his front, so he can absolutely smother himself against you. He wants to burn the feeling of you and him into his edict memory, so nothing can untangle it from him.

Cato has to bend himself at an awkward angle to manage it, but he's well aware of the fact he can manage a free hand to draw lethargic circles on your belly.

"And if they can hear, it's not like anyone will believe them," he pants, a little chuff of laughter chasing his words, looking down at your face buried in the sheets. "They'll think you're a busted piston, or maybe a whining pipe."

"You're such a—" you start as his hand slides slowly down your navel, and your voice tapers off, "You're a-ah..." he dips his fingers between your thighs, and you moan, "Thro—oh—ne..."

His pointer and ring finger spread the hooded peak of your folds, then the middle moves in and rolls over your clit again and again and again. Your smaller, folded body strains back from the new attention. Mewling at the stretch, and the hot, heavy press of trans-human dick inside you. It's just how he likes it. He's got you all to himself, his bulky hips flush to your ass, and his pleased rumbling beside your head. He's genuinely content, if not for the constant paranoia—but content is a feeling he never really appreciated before the warp everything went to shit. But that paranoia is inconsequential compared to the sheer amount of joy he feels with you near and receptive to his affections marauding.

"That's it," he rasps, and he has to swallow down how much he's raring to just blindly rut into you like a savage. "Now, be a good little whore—and say 'Cato, harder please,' for me."

The request falls on deaf... or rather, cock-drunk ears. You simply moan in answer and squeeze, over-eager for him to keep practically putting a dent your womb. It catches Cato by surprise when you climax all too suddenly, high-strung, and fuck, everything in that moment is absolutely perfect—Cato would gladly suffer for an eternity to stay, just like this, for as long as the accursed galaxy will allow. Your body reduced to a juddering wreck, arching forwards and suffering even more touch to your abused clit; your insides twitching in time around him with each passing graze of his finger over that sensitive nerve.

Rearing back isn't a safe choice either, because you end up getting even more of him in your cunt—unable to escape his efforts to hound you over the edge as soon as possible again.

"I c-can't, I-I—" you whine, and in response, like any reasonable Astartes, he keeps pounding until you're compliant.

"Say it," he pants.

"Ca—ah–Cato, h-harder, please—" you start crying as you shake underneath him.

His ears practically perk up at you finally using his first name; it was only quick and garbled, but he's so glad to hear it—he's already addicted to it, impropriety damned, because fuck does it sound good. It's always been Commander, and only recently had it been Sicarius—but now you're finally giving him the validation of crying out for Cato—for him, just him.

You can be louder, and clearer than smothered against the covers. So Cato acts on the brilliant idea to hoist you upright on your knees while he slams into you.

You're struggling erratically against the big hands holding you up, making the sound of a dying animal, now.

He fucks you right through your struggles, one hand keeping your head up under your jaw so he can arch down to tuck his chin on your shoulder. The mixed sound of your little rear making contact with his hips is a rushed, degenerate beat—Throne, the poor headboard of your cot against the wall too, it's almost like sabatons on steel, a rhythmic clank clank clank. And oh, then you make the sweetest little overstuffed sob, isn't that cute. Aren't you adorable.

He's only just started again and he's already liable to empty himself in you.

Suddenly, there's a scream of his name—and a quick, warm-wet splash from you that drips down his balls. Then you've apparently been struck daft and limp in his hold, sniffling out a wrecked little cry as you slacken. It's an entirely new phenomenon. It seems to be a good thing, seeing as you're squeezing on him like it's another orgasm—so he takes it at face value.

He keeps you upright and lets you cinch down around him, staying still—riding out the aftershocks of your finish and keeping his cock nice and warm and snug.

Cato is honestly surprised when you regain enough sense to weakly buck backwards and fuck yourself on him.

"Please... p-please," you slur, and it seems like all you needed was the incitement to be reduced to begging now; "Cato, in me, i-in me..."

Cato's completely enthralled, and he's never been more willing to follow an order faster. He'd walk right into an orbital barrage if you asked, right now.

He shifts his weight into the next thrust and meets your meagre attempts to get him to rut into you.

The loud, wet plap of him bucking forward is almost deafening.

His eyes roll back at the searing burr of pleasure that chases up his spine, panting through a clenched jaw, "So eager to be f-full of Astartes cum, huh?"

"Please, C-Cato—" You can barely even get the sentence around the pace of him practically rearranging your uterus into your stomach.

Fuck, he knows he's so beyond defective it's not even arguable, because he's practically feral for any hint of validation you'll give. And if you want to have your insides painted so badly, why should he deny you?

"I know," he pants, "I-I know."

You whine, well beyond words.

He's about as robbed of verbal sense as you are now, and he groans, your cries becoming hiccups.

He swears he almost blacks out for a moment when he actually finishes. His arrhythmic, choppy sighs chase each thrust. So suddenly seized by his end he slumps forward, pushing you with him, feeling half-dead and gritting his teeth as shudder after shudder wracks him. Persisting, his hips still keep pumping without a hint of respite, pinning you with his bulk while emptying himself inside you, just how you wanted. The subsequent leaking of his spend from you turns the pace of him still rutting into an even stickier cacophony of lewd wet sound. Hand splayed out beside your head supporting his weight, huffing and puffing to himself like a pissed-off bull as he works himself into overstimulation.

He stops at last with a long, trying sigh and pulls his slick and spent-wet fingers out from between your legs; dragging them across the sheets somewhere to the right before letting his palm splay on your hip, dry.

You're bent ass up under him, with your cunt still full of his cock, plus a thick load; moaning so lowly and continuously it's almost a purr.

Cato groans tiredly, rocking his hips a little for good measure despite the ache of it. "Does having me finish inside you feel that good to your little animal brain?"

Your voice is a fucked-out mumble as you say, "Well... 's not like... y'going to get me pregnant or anything."

Cato stays quiet, considering.

And that quiet seemingly sends you asking, "Are—are A-Astartes... sterile?"

"I'm actually not too sure," Cato huffs, and finally grows the spine to pull himself out.

Your gasp at his exit and subsequent little exhuasted 'hmm' is curiously without any hint of fear-smell.

He scowls, "And you're not at all concerned by that?"

A soft groan from you answers, "Got an i-implant... after the first t-time, just incase."

He doesn't have the balls energy to even begin to comment on the fact you'd correctly anticipated him trying after you again. Is he that predictable?

Cato rears back and makes an affirmative sound, groping at your ass, big thumb pulling one of your labia aside to ogle the fat pearls of cum dripping from you. You'd take another load, too. And if you ask him nicely enough, he might do just that right now—or have your mouth again. But he likes spending himself in your warm cunt far more. The way you squirm and squeeze on him when he's in you is intoxicating. Maybe later, given your exhaustion. You both have all cycle—or at least, whatever remains of his rest hours. Regardless, it's a genuine wonder the device hasn't succumbed to the stress of stonewalling an Astartes' draining his balls in you so many times these last few months.

He makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; his warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

No better than some slavering beast, Cato gives into the urge sent by his hindbrain and licks a wide band from clit to taint in one smooth motion, and pulls away, seemingly briefly appeased.

Your squeal is priceless, but—eugh, his cum does taste foul. Nutrient gruel be damned, he needs to fix that somehow.

Sputtering as quietly as he can to avoid dignifying your similar reaction earlier, he grumbles to himself—still pawing and groping at your ass.

"You've ruined m-my sheets," you manage to say.

Cato grunts, "You're the one who decided to piss on them."

He says that, but knows it wasn't. It didn't smell like it—it smelt like satisfaction, and slick, and 'harder, please—please, Cato, harder.'

The sudden shiver that runs up his spine thinking about it surely isn't born of a vaguely possessive thrill.

Abruptly you roll onto your back and sit up, grimacing at him.

"That's n-not what that was," you hiss, flustered enough that you're stammering. "T-That was..."

Cato raises an eyebrow, "What was it, hm?"

Hook, line, sinker—

You dither, red in the face as you mumble, "It–it was nothing."

—and ta-da, he reels in an Ambassador.

"Oh, that's right," he grins and leans over you, "It was you finishing so hard you screamed my name."

Something bold rears it's head in you then, eyeing him petulantly; because you start swatting at him—and Cato's never had you actively physically retaliate for any jabs—so he just freezes, bemused.

They're barely even pats to his sturdy form, and it amuses him to no end that you're so small but still trying to annoy him.

So, he acquiesces; and starts using his own strength on you. He keeps it in check, of course; because you're still a twig of a baseline, even as grating as you are. He's practically tossing you around on the bed with minimal actual effort. Big hands stroking and kneading, rolling you around, pinning you beneath him and trying to annoy you back.

The efforts yield an entirely different result. You're laughing, hyperventilating, and every rough grope earns him a shrill little keen of excitement.

"Throne, you're a degenerate," Cato hums, giving you a wry look before reeling you back under him. "Getting off on being tossed around, are you?"

And with a yelp, you're made to watch him maraud his way up your body again.

You start grinning then, and it's not the typical sweet, coy smile of you luring him in; rather, it's one of a mad thing, feral and giddy.

You snigger sharply, a little breathless from struggling. "You say that like t-there's any downsides."

Cato scoffs, and rolls onto his back, pouting. "So anything that can rough you up will do, then?"

"I, unfortunately, have a very singular preference," you chuff, and snuggle up against him; tucking your chin against his neck, humming softly to yourself.

"Is that so?" He grunts, "And what would that be?"

The kiss to his jaw is heartachingly soft, and you snort a little when he turns to look down at you and your cheek is grated by his stubble.

Your big eyes are locked on his, half-lidded and lazy, and there's that familiar, honeyed look in them again. The soft, heady fixation of focused affection.

Cato feels like he's about to start weeping out of sheer joy. You're all his, your time, your gaze, your adoration—everything.

He's practically vibrating from elation.

"Despite your profession, you are terrible at hiding your emotions," he snarls, despite himself.

"Look at the time—aren't you expected somewhere, Commander Sicarius?" You ask sourly, but the warmth in your eyes stays the same.

Cato wonders if his expression betrays any of that sort of softness. If there's any residual capacity to show affection left in his face after all he's been through. He's sure there's something going on there that's got you looking at him with that sweet gaze. Or maybe you've gotten a good read on what's going on in his head now. He certainly feels as if he's been figured out. As if you've got him pried and nailed open like a xenos corpse in some creaking admech's lair. The prospect isn't anywhere near as daunting as it should be.

Still, he plays along.

"Probably, but you don't seem to really be complaining, Lady Ambassador," Cato quips low in his throat as he leans in close, only to pull away and sneer. Your lips part slightly as you swallow your words instead of speaking, clearly captivated. That said, he is also still a little breathless from teasing you so it was no surprise you seem dazed at his own attempt.

"No, I am—you've just more muscle than brain," you bite out with a flash of snark a second late, taunting him further by sticking your tongue out.

Retaliating immediately, he snares your mouth against his own; sliding his own tongue with yours and drinking in the soft moan that slips free. You nip his bottom lip vengefully, making him stifle a growl and lean away as he hisses, "Don't tempt me for a third."

It's no lie, because fuck, he probably could go for one more. Especially with the treatment he's receiving now.

"Why not?" you say in a tone that's so sweet one of his hearts aches.

"You want more already?" He drawls as he licks your jaw, your throat, everywhere and anywhere his mouth can reach. Tasting the salt of your sweat, and practically suffocating himself in the smell of you. Basking in his victory—Cato makes a sound like a great big feline, somewhere between a chuff and a growl against your neck; lazily entertaining himself by mouthing a bevy of bruises there. You almost immediately let him do as he pleases, your mouth hanging open, eyes half lidded and face flushed. Cato tries—and fails—to restrain the sudden amusement edging his tone at how easily you fall to your lusts. "You're going to overload that implant and end up gravid, woman."

"Throne, yes—" You slur, wriggling against him as he lathes his tongue across the top of one of your tits.

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

Cato glares at you, and raises a brow. You're pretending you hadn't said anything and he's stunned you think he's stupid enough to miss it, "Baseline ducal protocol likely dictates... I would have to carry you off to be wed if that happened," he says, rushed. "Or... something of the likes, I suppose."

"R-Right," You fake a cough and avert your eyes, and you're breathing a little heavy.

"Within the context, of..." Cato backpedals, suddenly hyperaware of himself. "Of... that theoretical scenario."

You harrumph meekly, and then mumble, "Oh, of course... I agree, in that hypothetical situation."

He blinks, flabbergasted, "...really?"

You clear your throat and nod stuffily, only to tuck closer against him.

There's an entire subsector's worth of unpacking those statements need; you agree, but is that you saying it's a distant assurance? That you'd let him, one day, or is it merely conjecture? The primitive satisfaction of that base biological imperative is a heady one. Dangerous, too. If there is a chance of knocking you up, it would require significant subterfuge to keep hidden. Astartes can smell that sort of thing—and fuck, a Primarch could probably tell who's it was when given a source sample. He's got no litmus test for how easy you both would be caught. Maybe if you're suddenly on leave, for say, nine-months? That's one solution.

But where would you go—oh, Throne, he's thinking about Talassar again, and you in a pretty little slip, or in his rest robes, lying next to him notating; maybe resting against his chest in the crook of his arm—the fantasy is mundane, and domestic, and anathema to his status as High Suzerain of Ultramar, but still his cock throbs and his cheeks heat at the idea of calling you Lady Sicarius.

Your hands card through his hair abruptly, combing and petting him, and hm... that's nice, why are you looking at him like that—

"What do you think you've doing?" He growls, ever the hypocrite—his face doesn't feel hot at all, shut up.

You harrumph, "Stop pretending you don't like it."

"Whatever," Cato scoffs, and leans into your touch—not before mumbling; "Cunt."

Self-admittedly, he entirely deserves the feisty little smack he cops to the snout the very next second.

"Don't call me that," you pout.

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

He's having you a third time just because of that, for sure.

[kit-williams]

Once this is all over

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog @remembrancer-of-heresy @felinisnoctis

Ferrus removes the metal from his arms.

This is Yan Ferrus and the reader is the one he put in the forever box.

This is also to make up for the noncon fic I had recently wrote with something nicer

The scarring on his arms and hands were going away as it was a long time coming... the Great Crusade was over and he could finally remove the metal from his hands. She had been in recovery for some time as long cyro takes some time to have the body return to normal. But their reunion was what he had hoped for... to feel her hands slowly glide over his arms. Gently touching where there was still a seam in his arms but just one where the metal once was but that did not matter.

What mattered was the sensation of her fingertips gliding along the pale skin. In time it would match the same tan as the rest of him but he could feel the minute way her fingers pulled on the skin of his arms. His face gave no impression of the arousal he was in as his cock was pressed into his thigh throbbing angrily as she babbled but his superhuman mind was focused on her hands touching his naked arms.

Tiny fingers gently press against the veins in his wrist as she is not as talkative as she once was... he knows he is partially to blame as he was selfish and took her but he also knows she is still recovering... but he wants to feel her body now and watch her writhe with pleasure as his hands move over her flushed form just as he did the last time he held her.

Her hands touch his palms again as she once more chirps about the lines in his hand... but he isn't paying attention as he feels his cock jump each time she moves her fingers over his palm, feeling the way she cups his hand. She looks confused for a moment as his ring finger just touches her lips... he doesn't know why he touched but his face heats up and he pants hard as he watches her wrap her mouth around his finger. The way her cheeks hollow and how her tongue moves against the skin.

He bites the inside of his cheek as he needs just a bit more but he's so close. He can spy her eyes looking down at the bulge against his thigh and when again her tiny hands just put pressure against the bulge he cums. He won't apologize... he breathes heavy as he comes down from the high... he wont apologize for anything as his hands cup her face delicately as he can feel her warmth through his hands no metal between them.

"When you recover..."

"Yes Ferrus I'll gladly join you in bed though... I can still join you now."

Hardly a beat passes between them, "I'll have you moved in right away."

[ladymirdan]

I finished up a story ivee had in my WIP for over a year.

Some Calgar/Tigurius. Calgar is such a badass and he deserves more love:

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

You know I might as well post this now...

Severe Miscalculation

Tw: misunderstanding (kinda), pretty intense descriptors of kissing and coupling. NSFW we having a literal roll in the hay!

Tag: @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts @barn-anon @bispecsual @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams

Based on the slight discourse about 40k space marines in fandom vs Canon and if they experience...the desire for physical intimacy. And what happens when you mistakenly think the Majority of space marines don't have any interest in the stuff.

Edit! I've decided to connect this story to this other drabble I did. So if you'd like more context to the overarching story, here's the prequel.

I know it looks like I'm linking to the same story but I promise it Is a different drabble.

It was evening but not dark yet, the combined boon of daylight savings and a fresh spring rain making things humid, but not unbearably hot.

You wandered your neighbor's property in the normal fashion. Normal in such that your neighbor was absent, on a trip to visit her mother in another state.

And had left you, with the task of appearing twice a day to check on things and complete the few simple chores she had lying around. For a fair compensation mind you.

The tasks weren't even that hard, but it was more work on your already tight and physically taxing schedule.

As much as you appreciated your neighbor, you couldn't deny you'd been feeling the burnout recently, and not just from the weather bandying cheerfully back and forth between drenching rains and muggy, sweaty heat.

Honestly you needed a reset. Something to just Erase all that stress you'd been feeling. But given how tight your schedule had to be to just make ends meet, you doubted you'd get the chance to say...seek out a partner to help with such things.

Perhaps you should've look into getting something more mechanical in nature to help you.

Maybe throw a wink at the next random Noise Marine you saw. Unbonded ones supposedly had a proclivity for the naughty side of things.

Which made them an odd exception as Space Marines as a whole were thought to not have much sex drive. Or even be sex repulsed.

No shame to them. You often bounced between moments of desiring absolute carnality and vulnerability, then a few days later feeling like being touched would make you break out in hives.

"The wonders of the human mind~" You sighed with mock humor. Oh well, once you were done here you could go shower, curl up in your bed and hope your currently thrumming sexual frustration could shut the fuck up for a bit.

You strode through the open barn door.

CRASH!

"The FUCK!?"

"The FUCk!? The FuCK!? tTthHeEee FfUuucK!?!? -K-k-k!?!?"

An electronic parody of your own shriek came back to you, as the large looming shape with dark blue armor nearly doubled over, clearly finding your terror hilarious.

"FUCKING Dammit Khopesh!"

"FfFuUcCkKINg Da-Da-Da-DamMit KOoOopeSHhhhhh."

Normally you tolerated your neighbor's Nightlord, even found his shenanigans funny on occasion.

After all rolling with the punches or ignoring him generally made him lose interest. But you were hot, sweaty, tired and Not in the way you desperately wanted to be right now.

Honestly, you'd had preferred if he'd left with your neighbor on her trip, but...apparently he wasn't...quite bonded to her?

It was an odd situation, with your neighbors treating him more like an adopted son. And he...seemed to appreciate them too. Like genuinely, maybe he had a partial bond with both? Meaning when your neighbor left he preferred to stay with her husband and home as it needed defending?

It was sweet, but your care of your neighbors creatures had come LONG Before he arrived. And you sometimes felt like he pushed your buttons as a show of his resentment at your longer status is your neighbor's lives.

And the fact they still payed You to do the chores over trusting him with them.

You could understand some pettiness taking seed from that.

Maybe You could be petty back...

It Was said that Astartes, and Nightlords especially, could become overwhelmed when humans approached them too eagerly.

Hmm...

You straightened your back, took a deep breath as the big blue bastard was still modulating your voice at you, and Clearly enjoying it too much.

"Khopesh~" You cooed, the change in your voice catching his attention.

You, sauntered up to the big fella, putting a sway in your hips and calling on your still present sexual frustration to aid you in making this convincing.

"You know...that voice trick of yours is pretty nifty..." You stated, now close enough to touch him.

While mostly inscrutable behind his helmet, you could tell his demeanor had changed. He was standing mostly straight, looking down at you as you came closer, nearly touching but not quite.

"I'll even admit, you got me good with that scare..." You admitted, opening your mouth Just enough so he could see your tongue run over your teeth. "But...If you Really wanted to hear me Scream~ We could explore...other ideas..."

You smoothly undid the top button on your shirt, to emphasize your point.

'Your move Nightlord.' You thought, smiling smugly with your hands on your hips.

Khopesh responded by Not moving an inch. In fact, dare you say you thought him...

'Dumbfounded,' Not entirely the idea you wanted, him flusteredly retreating would've been Peak comedy to you. But this was fun too.

"Ah well...you don't seem interested?" You shrugged, still proud of yourself for rebuffing his childish prank. "It IS a rather abrupt thing to ask for, I don't blame you for chickening out." You assured with a mock sympathy.

You turned on your heel. One benefit to wearing jeans year round (the leg protection trumping the overheating) was the definition they gave your legs and...your other assets.

And by the throne you were putting that enticing sway back in your hips as you made your exit. You couldn't resist throwing one more light jab. "But, if you're ever interested in making me scream for real, just gimme a call-Oof!"

Well that was a shock. Your sauntering exit was interrupted by an arm clad in ceremite. And the Nightlord it was attached to must have moved at ungodly speed in order to block your path.

Well this was unexpected. "Uhh...what."

You were cut off by Khopesh's lowered arm coming up to firmly (but surprisingly gently) grasp your chin. As his other hand raised to the underside of his helmet.

Click, hiss

With a quick motion he removed his headgear, and dropped it without ceremony. Another surprise the back of your mind cataloged while the forefront was taken up with watching the way his midnight dark hair fell around his gaunt but handsome face.

And those eyes, those Eyes. Like pools of ink, disturbing but alluring all at once.

You'd seen his face before, but up close like this you're reminded of when you'd let his features be used in your private fantasys.

Especially his hair, touching it, stroking it, tugging it, brushing and washing it with the soft kind of intimacy your heart craved.

"Hmmm..." Khopesh took a deep satisfying inhale, as he smiled that wicked sharp toothed grin that drove you crazy.

"I can smell your thoughts..."

What.

Well again you were thrown off because your very literal coded mind could not understand what he meant by-

"They smell...mouthwatering~" He growled, wrapping his free arm around your torso and lifting you so you were nestled up against him, and one of his armored legs brushed right against your core.

The shiver that ran through you at the contact was not missed by either of you.

Ooooh...

Oh shit.

"I accept, your offer human..." Khopesh chuckled. "Unless you wish to...chicken out? As you said."

Oh. Oh that bitch.

You know what! Screw it! You were an adult, you were clean, you were on birth control, and you'd been flustered and frustrated for Far Too Long.

And this interdimensional level Bastard thinks he's going to get the best of you?

Fuck that noise.

You squared your shoulders, rose up (as best you could), grabbed the sides of Khopesh's face and planted a kiss right on his scarred, sharp tooth mouth.

His slight confusion over your shift was quickly forgotten as the Nightlord let out an absolutely Sinful sound as he shifted his own hands to pull you closer.

Your initiative payed off as you ran your tongue over the contours of his fangs, then sucked his upper lip between your own teeth. Giving it a light nip, before soothing with your tongue, and another kiss.

Khopesh was surprised by your boldness, excited by it too! But he wouldn't be outdone!

He used his shear size to over power, so he could explore your mouth the same way. Pulling back only slightly so he could nibble and suck at your lips before diving back in.

You caved for air first, of course you did, the bastard had three lungs and you only had two.

You panted for breath as a very smug Khopesh smiled before trailing his kisses up to your earlobe, and again marking and sucking spots that made you feel weak.

You should still answer with words, you thought, one of the few thoughts that could make it through your aroused haze at the moment. "I hope, you're nh! You're satisfied! With my answer...ah!"

The Nightlord chuckled, before replying. "I understand you Perfectly, my sweet little lullaby..." He hummed, before returning to his task of marking up your neck.

"But I don't think I will be Satisfied, for a while yet..."

You swallowed your nerves...because hot damn you don't think you've wanted anything more in your life!

"Bring it!"

...

"K-khopesh!" You plead as the Nightlord ravaged you, as he had been for the past two hours.

In hindsight, losing to him in the kissing stamina was probably the first sign of things to come. But your dumb horny brain had gotten you into this, and now you were pinned here.

Literally and figuratively.

He cackled, holding you up as he drove himself deep inside your sopping walls again and again. "Oooh, but my sweet little lullaby! I thought you wanted me to 'Bring It' I'm only doing as! you! asked!"

"Mm! Ulp! S-shut up!" You groaned as every thrust rocked your whole body, and though you were sore already you were still desperate for more.

"Awww...and here I thought you Liked my voice. I could smell your arousal every time you heard me speak after all~" He cooed, not losing rhythm despite his focus on taunting you. He lowered his face to your ear. "And every time you saw my face~ Your blushing, the scent of your wetness, it drove me to near madness!"

Wait he'd wanted you that much?

Khopesh continued unimpeded. "Not being able to touch you! To ravish you! To claim you! I- Mmm!"

The warmth you felt knowing he desired you compelled you to pull him into another kiss, wrapping your hand around his head and caressing his hair.

It was still carnal, but more than that it was filled with a tender sweetness. One that seemed to sooth the Nightlord's frenzy for a moment.

His movements slowed, and eventually stopped.

"Khopesh," You cooed, continuing to kiss him between words, playing and stroking his hair gently. It was a bit wiry, your fantasy of treating him to a hair spa day coming to mind.

But that was for later. There was something else on your mind right now. "Turn me around," You requested softly. "I want to hold you."

This seemed to take the Nightlord by surprise, but he acquiesced. Lifting you easily, before a different idea came to mind.

"Actually, could you lay back, I want to try something."

He was clearly still confused, "Very well,"

But if he got another kiss like the one you just gave him he'd do just about anything.

As he settled his back on the straw floor of the hay stall, you in turn settled above his hips. He kept one hand on you as you did so, partially to help with balance, and partially as reassurance that he could snag you easily should you leave again.

But your focus was clearly completely on Him, and oh did that send a shiver of delight through him. Almost as pleasurable as when you took him in hand and aligned him properly once more.

The stretch, the warmth, the closeness and even the slight sting as your Nightlord and you were once again joined.

You trembled with your own delight as you slid inch by inch and felt the warmth burrow deeper into your soft wetness. And the comfort and Pride you swelled with upon meeting your hips with his own.

But onto the main event. You began rotating your hips, sliding back and forth, never allowing him to slip completely from you. And of course squeezing with your inner muscles in a rhythm with your movements.

Khopesh groaned as the pleasure of coupling returned. He'd been staving off his own end to pleasure you, but laid back like this, seeing you not just accept him but Eagerly take part in this act. He found himself growing close.

"Mm, hmm! I, quite enjoy, this...something." He struggled to find the words, and struggled as he wanted You to reach one more peak before he did.

You chuckled at that, a genuine thing that actually made Khopesh blush. "I'M! G-glad! I wouldn't m-mind doing this with you...again."

Again? A bit of Khopesh's wicked grin came back. He gripped to his lullaby's hips and began picking up that savage pace from before.

"K-khopesh! Ah!" You yelped feeling your next peak approaching fast as he hammered your throbbing core.

"I! Have No! INTENTION! Of letting you slip away! My sweet Lullaby~" He growled as he finally let his full desire reach its peak!

"You! Are! Mine!" He hissed bringing his arms around your form and pulling you into a nearly suffocating embrace as he felt the incredible buildup finally release.

"Khope-aAaaahhh-!" You trembled as that bursting firework of tension finally crescendo ed for you as well. Leaving you trembling and clenching as Khopesh let his milky warmth fill you.

"Mine!.. mine...mine...min..e," He panted, his pace slowly reducing as he rode out those Wonderful aftershocks inside you, letting you both share in the pleasure as it faded.

You remained like that for a bit. Sticky, hot, tired, sweaty, but Satisfied. Just bringing your breathing back to normal and feeling the burn in your muscles the arousal had kept at bay.

You glanced at the Nightlord, not nearly as winded as you, but he had worked up a sweat, and his beautiful dark hair was tangled with stray bits of hay.

It was a comedic sight.

Khopesh found himself stirred by another of your adorable giggles, though he was confused by its source.

His confused face just made him look Cuter. But you stifled your laughter so you could explain.

"You've ah...you've got some barn glitter up here." You reached up to his dark hair and gently removed some to show him.

Khopesh actually snorted and grumbled, pawing at the other pieces to remove them. Again you found yourself amused.

"Here, let me help you." You offered sweetly.

You used your smaller hands and delicate touch to remove what pieces you could, and as you did Khopesh stared at your cute face that was set in a positive, but focused expression.

Your seriousness at such a simple task was endearing.

He wanted to keep you So Badly.

"Done," You stated cheerfully. "Well as much as I can, I think your hair will need a wash to get the smallest stuff out." You recommended. "I'll probably need a wash myself."

You were probably correct, though part of him loathed the idea of letting you go.

"I guess...since we both need one...we could shower together at my place...you know, to save water?" You gave him a wink.

Now it was his turn for his more literal thoughts to misunderstand. Would showering together reduce the amount of water needed for them to wash that drastically-

"Op! Looks like I missed a bit of barn glitter."

"What? Where?"

"Mwah!" You kissed him on the very tip of his slightly crooked nose.

Oh

OOOOOOH!

Ooooh~

He smiled that wicked smile, and he saw your blush erupt once more as you realized he understood your intention.

He Loved your boldness.

He was Definitely keeping you.

Edit: Hey this has a sequel now! Found here!

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐀𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: I try my absolute best to not include to much control with the reader like race, hair color what you wear etc… but in this remake I’m having the reader is something else rather than a dress for the club. However, the clothing is still imaginative for you, I didn’t detail it.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams(Have a refined treat, for your birf day.), @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You get swindled into going to a shitty party, but now? You don’t think it’s too shitty…

"Automotivo Bibi Fogosa" by Bibi Babydoll X DJ Brunin XM.

TW // SMUT/NSFW, Using Water As a Bit Of Lube, Fingering.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

“It would be fun!” Stacy had exclaimed to you, pressing her hands together in hopes you would follow her. Her green eyes begging you, pleading with you. “It will go great!”

Yet, her “promising” words never seemed interesting to you. Especially when it came to parties: Stacy was never a good person to stay in one spot. She was a wanderer when she was drunk, and it was a wonder how she even returns safely sometimes. Also, you didn’t feel nor think some hormonal party was fun to go to. Everything felt… judgmental, sweaty, shoving and grinding… It was 10x worse if it was some youngsters' party that didn't know what to do with their life. Which, it most likely was with how much Stacy was encouraging you to go and pleading with you, wanting you to be her ride.

Yeah, she wasn’t fooling you.

“Please! You need to get out!” She groans, unfolding her hands to pull at your upper arm, shaking you; rocking you back on fourth on the balls of your feet. “Get laid! Something! You have a boring life!”

“Boring life?” You scoff at her, barely amused. How dare she say responsibility was boring? She knew how life works too! Not that she abides by it…“It’s called adulting, Stacy.”

The young woman deeply and loudly groans at your response, hanging off your arm and tilting her head back like a toddler having a temper tantrum of not getting what they want. “I knooooow that!”

“Good, that means you can leave me in peace.” You immediately say after her whine, shrugging her hand off your arm. Heading for the small kitchen of your 2 bedroom 1 bath apartment that was 3 stories high.

“Wait! No!” Stacy denys, rushing forward after she had gained a temporary disbalance from your shrug off. Her hands tightly grasping at your wrists to stop you. “How about I make a proposal?”

A proposal? Hmmm…

“What do you have to offer?” You bite into her play, turning back around to face her while she lets go of your wrists. Wondering what she could offer you. Surely, she can’t offer anything good? Well, besides some bomb ass pasta but that wasn’t the point…

“You come to the party, and I…” She pauses for a moment, thinking, hesitating as her eyes roam the archway of the living room and kitchen. “I won’t bother you for a month.”

For only a month? You fold your arms and shift your weight, raising a brow.

“Two?” She raises a brow herself, questioning.

You don’t budge.

“…fooooour?” She tries, cringing at even offering such a high number.

You shift your weight, nothing else, not a peep.

“4 and a half. I’m not going any higher.” She states, shaking her head and hand in a ‘no’ motion. Her form standing up a bit straighter.

You think on it for a moment, hoping she would go to five months… but you suppose 4 and a half would be logical enough… “Fine, give me the address…”

Stacy squeals out at your answer, throwing her arms up in excitement. Practically jumping in her spot before she suddenly dashes off into her room. Immediately getting ready for the party she had swindled you on. Shoes flying from just peeking in through the archway to her messy room.

“You’re the best! I’ll give you the address when we get in the car!” She shouts at you, making you cringe at the noise level before you shake your head and deeply sigh. Slightly regretting your choice to even accept her offer.

Well, at least you have a bit of a ‘“membership” of her leaving you alone for 4 and a half months…

The party was absolute shit.

So shitty that you regretted even making the offer with Stacy, it was that bad. The young adults (more like fake ID teenagers) were flat faced drunk, couldn’t even get a word in to greet them. It made you wonder just how much alcohol count could be served here, not that you would drink alcohol. You were more of a wine person, and this place didn’t even have that either. This was supposed to be what? A high-end party? That's what Stacy had told you…

Taking a sip of your-self bought drink (as you knew not to trust youngster parties drinks and bar drinks themselves.) You eye the party around you, being weary of your surroundings. Looking at every possible shadowed corner within the building playing an made-up, self imaginary game called “Is there a Night Lord or not?” It was honestly a… fun game if you were extremely bored yourself, and if there was actually a Night Lord involved. Which, you believe you saw a flash of purple in one of the many dark corners, and you silently hope one doesn’t follow you home like the other one had. You had to report the poor, bat-like Astartes to some local Ultramarines. It wasn’t like you really wanted to! You just didn’t want to risk being an object of their… desires.

Sighing out deeply at your predicament, you swirl your drink in your hands, looking down at it. Wondering where Stacy may have gone, if she was still at this party or not— Oh, wait, there she is, stumbling into view and using other people as support… Oh, lord…

“Heeeeyyyyy, best friend!” She laughs, throwing her hands wide and aiming to hug you, nearly missing you as she puts you in a surprisingly tight hug. Her breath drowning in alcohol and a hint of… lime? So that Cherry Limeade is spiked, too spiked. “I got something for youuuuuu!”

You give a grunt at her tight lock around you, looking down at her practically folding herself in half to hug you around your waist. Her dark blue, shimmering and wrinkled dress very much done for the night. You're surprised she wasn’t complaining about her heels yet with all the flirtatious activities you watched her do all night.

“Stacy, let. Go.” You gently as you could, demand of her: voice low and a bit irritated by her drunken acts. Your eyes narrowing down at her before relaxing a little. She did say she had a gift…

“Hre’ you goooo…” She ignores you, sliding her hand down the side of your waist before putting her four fingers in the back pockets of your pants, shimmering something down in the pocket, and you're not sure if you should be disturbed by her or not. “I hop’ you ike’ it!”

Then she was off, slipping away from you, like she hadn’t just stuck potential illegals in your back pocket. Her form just slaunting away; confident in her surroundings and ability to get home safely. Never once did you see how she gets back home safe as she would always tell you “You can leave me at the party, I can find my way back,” and sometimes you do take the offer, but most of the time you’re pretty patient with her. You know how the world could work.

Sticking your hand down in the back pocket she placed the object in. You take it into the palm of your hands, observing it… confusingly. What was this… thing? It was small, black and has an option to turn on?

Oh, oh! Oh.

How the hell did she have one of these… vibrators? Tiny, portable… is this what Stacy does most of the night when she isn’t flirting with people? How in the hell? Where did she even purchase such a thing? Most importantly, was it even new? Clean? On your mercy, you hope it was…

Puzzled and a bit… icky, you try and put the thing back in your back pocket to hide it from the public eye because you did not want to be caught dead with that tiny thing if someone recognized it somehow. Your arm moving back to your side to put the small vibratior back in your pocket. Your hold on it light as if you feel like you must be sneaky with the thing. (That, or you just didn’t want to touch it.)

However, your hand holding the vibrator is thrown out of your grasp and somewhere in front of you as you turn to look at the cultript that knocked into you, and of course. It was a couple of ‘young adults’ grinding into one another, not even knowing they had bumped into you. Their forms still shuffling around, and for a brief moment you wanted to snap at them but decided against it. You would be 1 against like… 100+ other people here.

Deeply sighing out, you look away from the 2 youngsters and towards where you remember the vibrator that had flew out of your hands. Only to jump when you find a regal purple with a magenta gradient Space Marine, kneeling and shivering in front of you. Your form taking a step back to give the both of you some space when their gauntlet abruptly shoots out, grasping tightly at your arm. Not enough to break bone, but enough to give you a bruise.

Your heart is stuck in your throat while your breath (that was normal) turns into long exhales and inhales as if you were trying to hide yourself where you stand. Your eyes never leaving the Marine while you look at them over and over again, trying to find a reason why this Marine was grasping at you; making you stay in place from where he kneels. His other gauntlet rummaging around the joint of his armor near his waist.

“Enough of that.” A masculine, French accent comes out of the marine. The fingers of his gauntlet squishing something within their armor with a small, electric crack. His voice sending a tingling sensation down your spine. “Is that your way of a greeting?”

“I…uhhh.” You stammer, stammer! You're an adult and this was making you blush like a schoolgirl? Get a grip! “Not preferably…”

“Preferably?” The Marine repeats with a chuckle, rising his form from keeling. His stature, now seemingly tall rather than shaking when he was kneeling… His grip was still tight on your arm, never letting you go. “You don’t greet everyone with a vibrator?”

“I…what? No!” You scoff, trying to pull your arm out of his grip to no succession. Your face going red, burning with embarrassment. You do not greet everyone— especially Astartes with a vibrator! Fuckin’ Stacy!

“Oh, no need to be embarrassed, little rose.” The marine purrs, leaning forward to nearly press his helmet against your blushing face, and you swear to god you can feel his words against your skin. Your nerves just tingling with the sensation of his voice. Not only that, but he moves you with such ease. (Gently) pulling your arm out to make you stumble more towards him. “I wouldn’t mind a greeting like that everyday with that petite face, and body of yours~”

Oh, fuck. He was going to have you in a choke hold—

“It’s uhh… not for free.” You come up with something quick, wanting to just dash off and burry yourself 6 feet under some Astartes-made concrete. Yet, you just had to say something even more stupid?! “Not for free.” Who the fuck says that?!

“Hmm, no?” He hums deeply, leaning his helmet into— near your shoulder. It definitely felt like he was on your shoulder. His gauntlet on your arms slowly sliding down to your shoulder, ribs then waist. “Then what do you offer, little rose?”

“Your voice.” You blurt out, your eyes flickering over the sides of his helmet. Both of your arms now able to brace yourself on the pauldrons of the Marine. Unsure if you wanted him close or not. This feels dangerous; unspeakable.

“My voice?” He rumbles, almost surprised by your answer, but at the same time it pleases him greatly. His helmet slightly tilting into your neck. His armored fingers gently digging into your waist. He still needs your offer, not your demand. “What is it that you offer then?”

Ah, right, so stupid of you! Him and his sexy voice and accent! Gah! Stupid! Stupid! Wait… what could you possibly offer this Marine? A Emperor Child no less? A new bottle of perfume? That you didn’t have at the moment? No, that was too minuscule… He needed something… suitable, lasting, up to glory…

“If, you have nothing to offer…” He pauses, grinning beneath his helmet, noticing your silence. His helmet gently nuzzling the side of your neck, touching you. Sending bolts of tingles down your nerves. “Perhaps… you, can be the offer? Lié (Bonded.)”

“M-Me?” You stutter, bamboozled by such a proposition. Were you willing to do such a thing? To have… a stand with a Marine? Wasn’t it up the Marine to accept you too? Did he really…?

“Yes, you petite rose.” He purrs a small laugh, leaning back a little bit to look down into your eyes that look up at him in total surprise, or was it confusion? “I don’t see anyone else that is as sober as you here nor as extravagant.”

His comment makes you blush, but his own offer still hesitates you. If you were to go with the Marine… How would it fit? This man was like… 3x bigger than you, but oh… that is the trick? Isn’t it? Trying to straddle him and struggling to take him—

No! No, we must stay focused.

“I can smell your arousal, little rose~” He purrs, leaning in close again. His armored fingers twitching, just itching to pick you up and toss you over his pauldron.

Fuck it.

Going on your tippy toes, you bring one of your hands to the side of his helmet, bringing him down a bit more. Your lips coming forward to give his helmet a kiss to the cheek, (and giving the kiss extra pizzazz.) You open your mouth, pushing your tongue out and slowly giving a lick, tasting the metallic ceramite of his helmet. His lime green visors flickering in and out for a split second.

You don’t even have time to react when he has you over his pauldron. His gauntlet giving your thigh a tight squeeze as he hurries to go to some employee restroom, and growls at anything that gets in his way (including the frolicking employees inside the restroom.) His gauntlet quick to close and lock the door before placing you down on the counter: between the sink and wall.

“Oh, little rose, little rose, little rose.” The Marine repeats like a mantra, raising one of his gauntlets to his helmet and the other down to his codpiece. A hiss going through the bathroom that dully thuds to the bass of the music. “You play unfairly.”

“Unfairly?” You deride, shaking your head slightly as you look up at him taking off his helmet. You form still clothed with your thighs wide and your shoes positioned on top of the counter. One of your hands on the counter and the other on the tile wall with your back touching the cold mirror behind you. “You’re the one with all the thick layers of armor on. I can’t rip through that, you know.”

The dark purple haired Marine deeply chitters down at you for your snark. His eyes a full on pink color as he places his helmet on the opposite side of the sink. His other hand still messing with his codpiece while he uses the other again to turn on the water of the sink. “I’m sure you would like the armor kink, little rose.”

“Hmmm, would I?” You ask, tilting your head. Looking up at him through your lashes. Your legs extending to press up against the sides of his waist, trying to pull him closer (which he allows.) Yet, your legs cannot wrap around him fully, especially with his armor on.

“Your smell is telling on you.” He rumbles, managing to take off one of his gauntlets before he puts his fingers under the running water. Another hiss sounding out as his codpiece dislodges. “You may lie, but your smell betrays you. You want me to fuck you.”

“You’re obvious yourself, Marine.” You huff, rolling your eyes but smirking at the Astartes. Moving your legs slightly. “I don’t think one will be eager to get laid.”

“Hmmm, with you, yes.” He hums, moving his codpiece off of him and on the counter too. His cock jumping up in proud arousal, and you can’t help but blush at the size of him. His gauntlet moving to your waist, thumbing at you. “Your scent is deep and sweet like a field of roses.”

“Really? I’m not wearing any perfume…” You tilt your head, just how much could the Marine smell? How powerful were their senses that goes beyond yours?

“Good, it hides your natural scent; your beauty.” He doesn’t hesitate to reply, his gauntlet moving to the zipper of your pants, pressing lightly into your clothed folds. Threatening to rip your only pair of pants and underwear tonight. Not that you would really complain… “Ambrosius.”

“Hm?” You hum, questioning. Your eyes focused on how gently he actually rips at the bottom of your clothing with eerie ease, like he may make experience with this…

“My name is Ambrosius: Ambrosio Vérany.” He introduces himself, his gauntlets pulling the rest of your bottoms off before moving his hand: wet with water at your folds. “I want you to scream it once I’m inside of you. Giving you what you want, what you need.”

“Oh? Ambrosius.” You test his name, teasing him with it. A little growl leaving him when you do, his wet finger pressing lightly between your folds, going up and down in a slow motion. A small pleasured grunt leaving you as your hands come to grasp at his hand threatening to breach you.

“You say it so sweetly, so teasingly…” He rumbles again. His middle finger going between your folds with a slick squelch. Your back arching and your mouth opening to silently moan out. Your hands grasping up to his rerebrace as he pushes forward through your unprepared walls. “Again, little rose.”

“Nnng, Ambrosius.” You sigh, leaning forward a little bit, curling up while his finger works you. Your eyes looking down at his finger going in and out of you at a leisurely pace, but it brings so much pleasure of how big his finger feels inside of you, stretching you.

“Hmm, yes little rose?” He purrs lowly with a teasing tone in it. His body curling forward to press his lips to your forehead before he opens his mouth himself, a long almost silky-like appendage going down your cheek. A heavy weight of wet heat suddenly staining your cheek, the tip of his tongue nearly prodding into your mouth and ear before he returns his tongue with a deep chuckle. “Show me; tell me what you need~”

“I… I— ah! I need you Ambrosius.” You groan, throwing your head back before looking back down to his finger that continually penetrates you. Your grip on his rerebrace tight. “I want to cum on your cock Ambrosius, please.”

“How can I refuse such sweet manners?” He teases, rubbing your wall just right, leaving you on a high before his finger leaves you. His form standing tall as he positions his tip leaking pre-cum at your entrance and if feels; looks bigger than you have originally thought…

You move your hands back to the tile wall and counter, mentally preparing yourself to take this Marine. Your form shifting a bit, getting a bit more comfortable before he makes his attempt. His hand staying on his cock, leading it as he slowly pushes in. Your breath leaving you as you throw your head back once more.

“No need to be breathless yet, my little rose.” He grunts, throwing his own head back for a second before looking down were you two join together. “I have plenty more to offer.”

“Nngg, really?” You gasp, failing to keep yourself up right as your hand on the wall slips, your body going down a little, his cock jumping a bit more further into you as you turn a bit to your side to have your elbow hold you up on the counter and your other hand just right beside it. “Show me then, Ambrosio.”

He laughs, his French accent showing through. Taking his time putting you on his cock before thrusting in small motions, rolling his hips. His armored body suddenly curling over yours, blocking out the bathroom light, casting his shadow over you. His hot breath on the top of your head.

“If you say so, little rose~” He purrs into your ear, keeping up his purring to send vibrations through his cock and through your walls. His hips going back a bit before sliding through you again, shocking your nerves with pleasure as you shiver and shake. Your breathy moans coating the counter and tile with heat.

He grunts and groans loudly with each thrust he gives you. Both of his gauntlet and hand on your waist has he pistons in and out of you, slowly gaining pace with each movement. His armored body ever slowly curling over you more and more, his mouth opening again as his tongue rolls out. Swirling before lapping at your cheeks and down your neck. He isn’t really sure if you would… accept him with your mouth as his tongue is… inhumane; not even Astartes level… but he doesn’t mind tasting your skin.

“I’m going to nest you, little rose.” He groans, briefly putting his tongue back in his mouth. His pace going swift as your walls’ pulse. “I’m bring you back to the nest and fuck you properly.”

You could only moan back a response. Your head resting on the counter as he uses you. Saliva leaving your lips; your eyes almost delirious looking, absolutely blissed out with how his cock ruins you for another man. You definitely won’t be fucking a human man after this either.

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” He growls, thrusting a bit hard to get your whole body to bounce. A pleasured yelp leaving you. “To be nested? To be cared for?”

“Tell me, little rose. Tell me you would like to be underneath me, withering… or perhaps on top? Taking me the best you can. I’m open to try.” Ambrosius continues, feeling your walls constrict around his cock, trying to milk his cock. Your climax coating his cock while he continues to thrust. Feeling how your body relaxes a bit more in his hold.

“Already? Such a good little rose~” He thrusts just a bit quicker, burning a bit but still pleasurable in your afterglow. His cock twitching and pulsing inside of you before he shuffles a bit in his spot, coming in closer. Stilling when his cock goes the furthest it can inside of you, pulsing while a new heat coats your insides. “Good little rose…”

Everything takes a moment to register. Your body still a bit… limp. That climax being one that was rather intense considering you haven’t gotten laid in a long time, and you were pleasured by an Astartes no less…

“…Want to go again little rose?” Ambrosius sighs, nuzzling the side of your neck. His gauntlet and hand still on your waist, and his cock still hard inside of you. “Preferably in my nest?”

“Nest?” You say, a bit confused. Not really sure what he was saying. Raising a bit on your elbow to give the Astartes a glance.

“Nest it is.” He rumbles a light laugh, pulling out of you slowly. A whine leaving you at the emptiness that suddenly envelopes you. His hand and gauntlet gently wrapping around you, covering you with himself. Having a bit of decency in order to claim you more properly.

Oh, how he was going to leave your bare and stained in his nest.

[ma1dmer]

Warhammer - Garviel Loken NSFW

i was put in this fandom for nefarious purposes, this one is a bit boring and i might revisit it eventually because i know i can give my princess something better

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): he likes to sit with you and simply talk. face to face so you know he is listening to you, a hand on your back or on your thighs, if you let him he'll read to you until you fall asleep before he let's himself rest as well.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): he is as proud of his physique as any astartes. however he doesn't quite think of himself like that, he is a weapon, a tool of war meant to kill people as efficiently as possible, it's hard to separate that from his mind at first, but he grows really fond of the way you make him see himself and his body differently. feeling your touch long after you have left his room, tracing the phantom feel of your lips over his own, his neck, his shoulders and if he stands up a bit straighter next time he meets up with his battle brothers it doesn’t really have to mean anything.

on you he likes any softer part of you, your tits, your thighs, your ass, your stomach, anything he can firmly grab as he fucks you. he likes the contrast, he likes to feel how, human you are, how soft and maybe even fragile you are compared to him, makes him think about protecting you, it really motivates him to go out there and fight better, more carefully, finish that damn crusade so he can get back to you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically): inside. he can’t quite explain the animal urge that takes hold of him when he is about to cum, but he always makes sure to bury himself as deep within you as possible, pulling your hips flush against his own, stilling almost abruptly as he finishes. he knows he is sterile, doesn’t know if he is happy with that fact or not considering how often he cums inside of you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): this man has no secrets, let alone dirty ones. if he likes something he likes something and he straight up tells you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): none, zero, nothing, always looking to follow the rules, always prioritizing his legion, he obviously neglected such wants/needs if he even had any to begin with, he comes to you with only the clinical understanding of everything, but he is a quick study, smart and very conscious of your comfort and pleasure. he likes to hear you tell him what you like in the beginning, don't let him stumble around blindly. he takes his sweet time learning your body inside and out before he is fully ready in his mind to take you. you meet up multiple times where he just uses his fingers or mouth to get you off, before he finally let’s you escalate things, the wait is worth it for both of you though.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying): laid flat down on your front, legs spread for him to fit between them. this way he can control things more easily, pull your legs up over his shoulders to eat you out from the back while grinding his cock down on the bed or push you down fully to lay over you pinning you against the covers or pull you to your hands and knees so he can mount you properly.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.): on first glance he is an unreadable-unmovable block of ice, the perfect soldier, they don’t call him starch-arse for no reason, but thats just the first layer. it is very important that you are having fun with him, that you are relaxed and comfortable in his bed, he doesn't crack out jokes as easily as others but he is a bigger tease than you might expect.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.): he isn't very hairy to begin with and whatever he has is very fair like the rest of him, fair and soft and curling at the base of his cock. no happy trail sadly.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): he isn't exactly romantic, he doesn't know how to do romance, but does it really matter at the end of the day? when he leans down to press his forehead against yours as he cums or when he reaches up to hold both your hands as he eats you out. he is very affectionate and very soft when it's the two of you beneath the sheets, he is always moving your hands so you are holding onto him/hugging him or taking the initiative to hold you himself.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon): in the past he’d just ignore such a need, a cold shower, a quick round of training or sparring with someone, maybe some reading, but after joining the mournival and/or after meeting you he learns how much it helps him to unwind. on his bed, seated at the edge of it as if ready to stand up and run out of the room, not fully able to relax, his pants around his thighs, his hand on his cock, he doesn’t really drag it out, almost guilty about such indulgence, if he has any piece of your clothing, you bet your ass he is burying his face in it, inhaling and panting like a winded animal, when he is done he might still need that cold shower AND the round of sparring, he also has the decency to ask the serfs to wash said piece of clothing so he can give it back to you next time you meet.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks): nothing special he is pretty vanilla on almost all aspects. you do find out later on he likes to have his hair pulled a bit, it shocks him as much as it shocks you, you are simply running your fingers through it feeling how long it has gotten since you two last met as he trails his lips down your neck when he sinks his teeth playfully in your shoulder. you yank instinctively and the lupine growl he lets out startles both of you.

also, fight this man, not seriously, but ask him to show you a fighting maneuvre, ask him to help you train a bit to get stronger, ask him for self defense tips, anything like that, there is a fifty fifty chance he gives you actual fighting tips, his priority always keeping you safe or he sends you off to his room to wait for him after one(1) grappling move.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do): in his room, behind closed doors after he has made sure you won't be disturbed for the night.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): he'd like to say its after a battle or after a good sparring session, when his blood still runs hot, but in reality it's when you two simply get to sit quietly together, talking. i am gonna burn in hell for sure here he is talking about his poor dead mother and i can't stop wishing his hands were unbuttoning my dress vibes, he'll turn to you smile and thank you for listening to him before leaning down to kiss you asking you what are your plans for the night as he gently nips at your jawline, his hands already moving at the hem of your shirt, thumbing the fabric as if asking for permission to keep going.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): he will never bring whatever you are doing outside his bedroom, he takes his job too seriously to do so, his brothers might tease him and goad him on joking about him showing off his pretty little toy, letting them meet you, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut, so don't really expect any surprise sex outside the safety of his room.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): he is very very very dedicated to the task of pleasing you, let him bury his face between your legs and stay there the entire night, the size difference really works in his favour when he puts his mouth around you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): he has one consistent pace, he rarely falters from it, in and out of you like a machine, you don't even get to know when he is about to cum, he just suddenly stops deep inside of you and stays there for a good solid minute growling as he empties himself.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): they make him nervous, he needs to take his time, make sure he has handed over his vox for the night, called in a favor from someone to take over orders if he is called up and even when you are in his bed, he just can't rush it, he needs to prepare you, it's also very common for him to lose track of time with you after, quickies just don't work.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): following up from some of the things established above, he does not like calling in favors from his brothers, they always grin and give him knowing looks about what he has planned for the night, but he refuses to half ass anything and put you, himself or his position in the mournival at risk, he just sucks up the embarrassment with flushed cheeks and his tail tucked between his legs. needless to say he isn't very spontaneous or experimental.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): he tends to underestimate just how much you can handle. he paces himself to give you one good solid round and doesn't bother you after that even if you can see that he is ready to keep going.you really have to reassure him you can take more than that.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): he doesn’t care for them, in the beginning his pride definitely gets wounded at the thought of not being enough to satisfy you, once he thinks it over though, he understands the toys aren’t his enemies. he still doesn’t care much about bringing them in your bedroom but do tell him how you use them and how you were thinkng of him while he was gone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): he is a big tease, he surprises you with that, he knows your body, you know he knows your body, he can feel you, smell you, hear you, so when you feel yourself about to cum and he pulls back for the fifth time that night, in favor of kissing your trembling thighs or lazily pump his fingers inside of you, his other hand stopping you from wiggling your hips against his face, you know he is doing it on purpose. all you have to do is ask for him to stop teasing you and he will just act as if he wasn't even aware he was doing so while finally finally pushing inside of you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): he is quiet but he pants like an animal, it's not that he necessarily silences himself, but he is always so focused to the feel of everything, lost in pleasure or trying to keep his mind clear enough to make sure he isn't hurting you, that he just forgets he can ask you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): he loves kissing, once he gets the hang of it, he is a big kisser, stealing you away briefly to greet you with a quick peck to your lips or when he is about to leave a kiss to your forehead or when you are in his room on your sides lazily making out. he definitely has an oral fixation loves when you shove your fingers in his mouth as he is fucking you, he'll have you on your back and as you move to cup his face he'll turn his head to pull your fingers between his lips, it's instinctive.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): he has a very pretty cock, pale like the rest of him with a pink head you have to tug the foreskin back from, thicker towards the base

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): he is very straight forward, there is a bit of a learning curve, figuring out what exactly the emotions you stir within him are, then accepting them, maybe asking around about the possibilities, getting laughed at by torgaddon, and finally he simply comes to you. it’s one of those nights after a good battle, after a decisive victory against the imperium’s foes, with blood rushing to his face from excitement and his brothers laughing with him, he steals away a moment to ask you to talk. he has no real plan about it, but he won’t let himself get tormented by thoughts of you any longer. after that you are kind of left initiating, he never denies you, but if you leave it up to him it's rare that his mind will fully go there.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): he sleeps like a little freak, on his stomach, face mushed into his one(1) pillow, it makes you wonder if he can even breathe like that, he likes when you hold him, he won’t outright ask you, still making peace with the nature of your relationship but whenever you move away in the middle of the night he always lifts his head up to see what you are doing, the complaint evident in his grey eyes.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: Angron is interested to see how far does the will of a man can go before it breaks

Save me Angron smut, save me from writers block

Pairing: male original character x Angron (Enemies to lovers)

Genre: SMUT/Drama

TW: Smut, rough...ahem...partner, non-con, just....just Angron shenanigans, self degrading thoughts, foul language

Goblin tag squad: @cardinalcanis @finchly-tintinnabulation @artemisareia @echo-of-damnation

@meervalv0 @jaghatai-khock @druidwolf21

Crimson desires

Angron fist slammed against the metal, groaning in frustration and liberating the stress in something else that wasn't a poor bastard face or one of the Conqueror's machinery. The rest of serfs and crew of the command deck looked at each other doubtful, not knowing hat would happen next or to whom the Primarch would unleash his anger next; the only two people not intimidated and with their arms crossed waiting for Angron's fit to end was Khârn and Lotara Sarrin.

It was the third day Alexos had refused to join the Primarch in a friendly reunion, as soon as he had boarded the Conqueror, the knight had made it very clear to anyone who attempted to speak with him that he was not there out of his own will and definitely not in the mood to make friends. The man considered himself more as a prisoner than another member of the World Eaters fleet, despite the countless efforts of Iterators, preachers and officers of the Imperial Army had tried to make Alexos see the positive side out of his new living conditions.

"My Lord I need an answer rather soon on what to do with him..." Khârn was more uncomfortable than nervous, hating he had been the one to inform Angron about this

"And I need the Primarch to stop making damages to my ship!" Lotara scoffed, hating the Primarch usual whining

"I KNOW! But that bastard cannot simply do as he pleases....! I could have his head for this! I oughta-!" Angron mumbled, stomping the ground and making the whole ship shake "I am the Primarch, I AM who he needs to obey, how could he-!?!?!"

The worst of it all was that Angron could understand the rebellious attitude, he sympathized with it, after all his Father had done practically the same to him whenever the Emperor took his son with a transport beam unto His ship; now, years later, Angron had taken Alexos out of his world and had left it burning. There was one thing, though, that was different this time: Angron wanted to make amends with the knight, he wanted to begin again this time with the right foot, but Alexos repeated negatives placed Angron on his nerves and made the Nails sing in his skull of the thousand ways the Primarch could dispose of the insulting man. No matter how. any gifts, speeches and different people to reason with the Primarch had sent, nothing worked.

"I guess he leaves me no other choice but to go MYSELF!" Angron suddenly spoke up again, roaring while beginning to head out towards the barracks deck

"My Primarch please, if you may, think about this. We could leave the man in any other Feudal World we find in our journey, you wouldn't need to worry about what would happen to him, just-" Khârn attempted to walk beside Angron

"I am NOT going to give HIM the satisfaction of getting rid of ME SO EASILY KHÂRN!" The Primarch roared, pushing Khârn away with a strong fist and causing the Captain to stumble back, falling on the ground and hitting his head hard.

The knight's rooms were located at the far end of the deck, a huge set of quarters that resembled an old medieval dorm, specifically modified at the orders of the Primarch in an attempt to sway his guest into being more cooperative, a scheme that had failed just like all the others. The room had a large bed, a huge bath, and an extra-large closet for the knight's belongings. It was all for nothing, Alexos had not even set a foot on the place, preferring to sleep in the ship's corridors or, as some reports said, in the engine room.

Lotara and a couple of officers ran towards the Captain, helping him stand up while a medic checked for any signs of injuries. Lotara had a furious expression, one that didn't take a genius to know was directed towards the Primarch, yet she was a smart woman, so instead of shouting, she just helped the Captain up, dusting the back of his armor and glaring daggers at the retreating figure of the Primarch. Angron kept heading in the direction of Alexos quarters, not once glancing back at that he had done to his first captain.

When Angron finally arrived at the door, the Nails were singing louder in his brain, urging the Primarch to kick down the door and just get it over with. To make the knight pay for the humiliation, for the mockery, for the disrespect. The Nails were telling him that Alexos deserved no better than be thrown off the ship into the nearest sun, they would enjoy and praise Angron at the sight of the man burning.

With a loud sigh, Angron closed his eyes and placed both hands on the door, taking deep breaths. He knew what Alexos was thinking, how his mind must have been turning at the thought of everything he had lost. His family, his friends, his life and his planet, everything had gone away in a matter of hours, leaving behind only memories and a feeling of emptiness that would never fade. Angron knew that pain and, perhaps as a reflection of his old self, had tried everything he had in his power to make the man not think of all what he had lost.

"What's wrong with me…?" Angron whispered to himself, the Nails had made him angry and bitter, unable to forgive, to love or to even care about someone else. The Nails had made him into a monster, just like his father had wanted him to be. But he didn't want to be that, not for Alexos at least, if he could make one single person not see him as a monster, Angron would know the Nails hadn't won the battle on his mind yet.

After repeating himself that trail of thoughts for a couple of minutes, Angron decided it was enough, if the man would not listen to him then perhaps Alexos would hear what the Nails had to say. The Primarch pushed and began to slowly wait for the door to slide open, the metal creaking loudly from the motions. The Nails were urging him to smash the button, to grab the door and slam it open, but the Primarch took his time, waiting patiently for the click of the locks to secure the door in place. With a sigh he looked around, seeing Alexos stripped of his armor, in a robe, with his back turned to the wall reading something on the small desk that had been set up in the room.

"May I come in?"

Alexos' shoulders jumped at the sound of the voice, yet he did not turn to look at the Primarch, just nodding his head as a gesture of consent. Angron sighed and entered the room, closing the door behind him and moving to sit on the bed, looking down at the floor while Alexos turned his seat around. Angron tall figure reached the ceiling, having to look down at Alexos just to fit in the room, his presence alone demanded respect and admiration, yet the knight had been refusing to meet his eye.

"We need to talk," Angron stated, looking up at the man's face, finding nothing but the reflection of the light from his reading "And, no matter what you do, I'm not going anywhere until you look at me."

Alexos tensed and clenched his fists, taking a deep breath before he looked up at Angron. His eyes were tired, puffy and red, yet he had a fire in his eyes, something that was ready to fight for anything. Angron smiled internally at the sight, a warrior spirit, the same that was reflected in the mirror whenever Angron looked at it every morning on his quarters.

Alexos growled, showing his teeth in defiance; he wanted to punch the Primarch right in the face, at least have a chance to release his anger in some way against that cruel, stupid, uncivilized fool; the frustration of the height and strength difference was killing the man on the inside. They stared down at each other for another tense minute, Alexos thinking of the thousand things he wanted to do to Angron.

"Was that so hard?" Angron asked, raising an eyebrow at the man's reaction.

"I was reading…"

"You've been doing that ever since you've got here," Angron leaned back, the wall of the room creaking as it held the weight of the Primarch

"Then I'll keep doing that," Alexos huffed, turning his seat back around "Now leave"

"No," Angron simply replied, crossing his arms over his chest "I'll leave when I have decided to leave."

"And when would that be?" Alexos' head snapped back to look at the Primarch, glaring at him.

"When you decide to listen to me"

"So you're holding yourself hostage on my room" Alexos stood up, slamming the book shut and throwing it into the table, making a few papers fall.

"If you insist" Angron chuckled, shaking his head.

"How did I ever get myself into this mess!?" Alexos rubbed his face, walking in circles and mumbling a few curses under his breath.

"You didn't"

"What?"

"It wasn't your decision, it was mine," Angron's tone was dry, he chuckled

When the knight attempted to throw a punch, the massive hand of the other stopped him mid air, squeezing the hand and twisting it; Alexos grunted in pain and threw his other fist right at Angron jaw, the Primarch smirked as it allowed it to connect with his face leaving a barely noticeable mark in the sea of bruises and cuts. With his hand still tightly gripped, Angron pushed Alexos onto the bed, making the man fall flat on it, the Primarch soon stood above him, the shadow of Angron blocking the only light source of the room. He grinned once again, looking at the panting knight, who glared back up at him.

"You really want to kill me huh" Angron said with a grin

"You have no idea" Alexos huffed

"Try it" Angron leaned forward until he was on the same level as Alexos

"You don't stand a chance"

"I hate you" Alexos snarled

"I know"

"Let me go"

"No"

"I'll rip you a new one"

"Go ahead, I'd like to see you try"

Alexos attempted to push himself off the bed, only to have Angron knee press down onto his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. He was trapped, unable to move from his position, the pressure of the Primarch's knee not allowing him to do so, even the slightest. Angron licked his lips and felt the Nails singing, this time differently, not wishing the man's death, but his submission, making Alexos "his" by any means necessary.

The man thrashed under the knee, trying to get free of the crushing weight of the other, Angron sighed and decided to help the man a little, sitting on the knight's lap and keeping him down with the weight of his body. Alexos gasped as the knee was removed, coughing loudly as he tried to take a deep breath, while Angron ripped his armor off and tossed it aside.

"What are you doing!?" Alexos panicked, attempting to push Angron away

"You don't want to talk, I get it. So we're going to do something else," Angron's tone was dead serious, grabbing Alexos wrists and pinning them above his head, he leaned down, his warm breath hitting the exposed neck of the other man "Something I think we both would enjoy"

Alexos opened his eyes widely, his face flushed red as he finally understood what Angron was doing, the Primarch lowered his head until it was at the same level as the man's neck; he opened his mouth, his tongue brushing against the soft skin of the knight. The other man tensed up and looked away, his heart beating fast inside his chest, as if it were threatening to escape his rib cage.

"Relax" Angron mumbled against the neck, placing kisses along the throat.

Alexos had no idea what to do or say, the Primarch was practically eating him alive, and he did nothing to stop him. A part of him wanted to be left alone, but the other pulled hard in the direction towards Angron, wanting this to happen no matter what. Alexos closed his eyes and felt the rough hands of Angron exploring his body, grabbing the loose fabric of the robes and ripping it open, exposing his torso. Alexos gasped and opened his eyes again, seeing Angron looking down at him, his eyes glowing with desire and hunger, he could see himself reflected in those eyes.

Angron groaned, his fingers brushing against one of Alexos' nipples, making the man squirm in place. He could feel the knight growing hard under him, his cock pressing against his own through their robes. The Red Angel felt proud of himself, having the man at the palm of his hands, ready to be molded at will and shape, he smiled at the idea of claiming Alexos, of making the knight his alone.

The Primarch moved his knee up, his thigh rubbing against Alexos' crotch, earning a low moan from the man. He grinned, enjoying the reaction and repeating the movement, again and again, Alexos covered his mouth to muffle the sounds, but it didn't work when Angron removed his hand from his mouth and replaced it with his own lips. The kiss was sloppy, wet and uncoordinated, Angron bit Alexos lower lip and slipped his tongue into the other's mouth, their tongues exploring each other's mouth.

The Nails were singing, demanding more of Alexos, to claim the knight whole, to give the Primarch what he wanted, and Alexos was slowly bending to the desires of the Primarch. They kissed and kissed, the air slowly disappearing from their lungs, the kiss broke apart only when the need for air was too much, both men panting heavily. The Primarch quickly recovered, giving enough time for Alexos to brace himself before the other man returned to claim his mouth once again.

The kissing soon became a game to Angron, he would keep Alexos occupied while his hands traveled down the man's torso, his fingers exploring every muscle, scar, and curve of the man. His hands then moved to the man's thighs, moving upwards until they found Alexos' member, wrapped tightly inside the clothing; Alexos out of instinct moved his hand to slap Angron approaches away, only to have the Primarch grab his hand mid air and pinning it above his head once more.

"You want this…" Angron said against the lips of the knight, rubbing his erection "You know you want this… You just don't want to admit it"

Alexos turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and biting his lip as Angron continued to rub the bulge in his pants. The Primarch chuckled, seeing the man trying to keep a straight face, his efforts failing as Angron pushed the clothes aside and grabbed the man's cock, stroking it slowly. Alexos grunted and moaned, turning to look at Angron, the Nails demanded Angron to keep going, to continue touching the knight, to claim him completely.

"Stop-" Alexos huffed, moving his hips upwards "Stop!"

Angron stopped his hand movement, his eyes traveling from Alexos' face to the other's dick, throbbing in his hand. He licked his lips and returned his gaze to the knight, who was looking back at him with a pleading expression.

"What's wrong?" Angron asked, raising an eyebrow "Don't you want this?"

Alexos remained silent, his mind torn between the desire of his body and the hate towards the Primarch. He didn't want this, but he also did, it was wrong, but it also felt so right; he had no idea what to do or say, and he hated Angron for leaving him so confused.

"I-" Alexos whispered, his voice cracking "Fuck you!" He desperately cried out, feeling the arousal growing on his stomach.

"Gladly" Angron smirked, moving away from Alexos and standing up, making the man shiver at the sudden lack of contact.

The Primarch grabbed Alexos by the wrist, pulling the man up and pushing him against the wall, his face flat against the cold metal. Angron placed his hands on the other's back, running them downwards until he reached the hem of the man's pants, he pulled them down, exposing Alexos ass. He growled at the sight, spanking one of the cheeks hard, earning a loud groan from the man. Angron slammed himself against Alexos insides without mercy, earning another painful sound from the other. Alexos whimpered and tensed at the intrusion, trying to find comfort on the wall.

Angron groaned, pushing his cock further into Alexos, earning more pained sounds from the knight. He pulled out only to thrust back in, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, their moans and groans mixed together, creating a symphony of pleasure. Angron leaned forward, placing his head on Alexos shoulder while grabbing the man's dick and pumping it in rhythm with his thrusts. Alexos was a mess, moaning loudly and moving his hips in a desperate attempt to gain more friction.

"Didn't you hate me sooo much? Huh? Come on…let me hear it" Angron taunted, speeding his thrusts.

"I-I hate you so much…" Alexos huffed, trying to keep his voice steady "I hate you…! I hate you! I fucking hate you!"

Alexos clenched his fists and closed his eyes, the pressure in his lower stomach growing tighter and tighter by the second, his body screaming for release, his mind begging for more, for everything Angron had to offer.

"Look at you…" Angron chuckled, biting down onto Alexos neck, earning a yelp from the knight "So fucking desperate for me"

"I-I am not-" Alexos moaned, slamming his hands against the wall.

"I want you to beg…beg…BEG! TO MAKE YOU REMEMBER THIS ALL OF THE COLD NIGHTS YOU WILL TRY TO REJECT ME AGAIN!" The Nails bit into Angron skull harder than before, driving the Primarch to act more roughly than he intended to.

The Primarch looked almost...pathetic. His pants were halfway down his legs, his member hanging there, the top portion of his armor had been thrown to the left corner of the room and had stayed there for a while. He had completely frozen in place, staring at his hands in total shock. Angron had hit Alexos, he had actually done that while under complete control of the Nails; that godforsaken contraption had in an instant not only taken Angron agency away from his acts, but also hurt whom he had told himself never harm, Alexos.

Alexos grunted in pain when Angron sped up even more, the pain of being rammed over and over again making the man's legs shake, unable to hold his own weight anymore. He felt dizzy, his mind turning blank as the only thing he could focus on was the pressure building up inside him, begging to be released, all that pent up tension came to an abrupt end as he felt Angron backhand him so hard blood came out of his mouth while his body was tossed to the other end of the bed; ending the lock between their bodies. Alexos coughed, raising a hand to his face and feeling totally dumbfounded, his ears were ringing still from the heat of the moment and the new injury, he was pretty sure his mouth had been dislocated; he stopped everything he was thinking when his eyes finally met Angron's.

For the first time ever, the gaze of Angron was soft, warm and calm. There weren't any other words spoken at that moment, just the Primarch lifting a hand to caress the injured mouth of Alexos and, softly, placing a kiss on his lips that did not last longer than a couple of seconds.

Angron started to whimper, his lipless mouth shaking as he knelt and cried, hitting his head over and over in punishment for what he had just done, his knuckles soon bleeding from the self-inflicted injuries. The Primarch's whines turned into screams as he began to slam his hands against the metal floor, denting it and cracking it, the ship shook under his feet. The knight waited until the banging had stopped, seeing the Primarch covering his face with his hands; it was a sad departure from the cold and bitter men he had seen before, the contrast between the way he handled Alexos and now was day and night. The knight wanted to hate the Red Angel, yet...

He had stopped, as soon as Alexos had been hurt, the Nails did that to him, not Angron. Feeling the need to do something, to not stare at the weeping Primarch like a fool, Alexos slowly and shyly placed a kiss in the bald forehead of Angron, pulling away as soon as he heard the Angel stop crying and lifting his eyes to met Alexo's.

They laid there again, purposely going slower this time as to not trigger a sudden reaction from the Nails; now Alexos was smiling, his hatred had subdued for now, no longer thinking about killing Angron or making him suffer, the Primarch had suffered enough already, gone through too much because of the Nails; despite not entirely forgetting how he was ripped away from his home and leaving everyone he knew behind in a pile of bodies, Alexos had known another side of Angron and, as painful as it was to admit it, the knight did not want to leave that go.

"I" Angron opened his mouth to talk

"Hush, don't say a word..." Alexos moved Angron arms away from his face, trailing with one finger the scars of war in his face "If you finish what you were doing before this whole thing happened, I'll agree to go eat with you in the hall like you wanted me to, deal?"

"Deal..." Angron grumbled, leaning forward to hold Alexos again tightly in his chest.

[barn-anon]

Just imagine on the night of your 5th husband’s funeral, you’re in your bedroom playing the role of the grieving widow when your space marine comes in. He’s purring, in his hands a jewellery box containing a necklace your late husband never got to gift you.

He helped picked it for you, of course he did. He knows you better than any of your late husbands. Eyes watch as you put it on, deep rumbles as his hands grip the short sleeves of your dress. Pulling them down.

He’s worked hard for this latest one, shouldn’t you reward him?

He’s gentle, gentler than your late husband by far. Of course he is, he knows that you’re sensitive, that you deserve only the most tender and gentle of touches. Hot kisses along your skin, not once does he bite down even though he wishes more than anything to leave some sort of visible claim on you.

It wouldn’t be right for you to be seen with lovebites all over your neck so soon after your late husband’s untimely death. He knows the rules. Though you? You dig your manicured nails into his back and rake them down, leaving red lines. He purrs, if he can’t leave his mark, you at least can leave yours.

Large calloused hands touch your soft skin, trailing down your arm as he pulls the sleeves down, unravelling his prize. Oh? Nothing under? He growls, pleased. Imagine what your late husband's family would've thought if they knew.

Picked up, you wrap your legs around his waist the best you can given how much bigger he is. A hand grip tightly on your upper thigh and one on your butt. Something cold is suddenly pressed up against your back. You realize he has you up against the window and he's quick to stop your protests with a hard kiss.

It has been 2 agonizing years of watching you getting courted and eventually wed that useless man. 1 year of having to listen to you fake your pleasure when that worthless man tries to grow his family. The original plan was 5 years but fuck that, he cannot bear to listen to that good for nothing man prattle on about how lucky he is to have such a youthful and beautiful wife.

Gasping when large fingers brush against your folds, checking if you're ready for him. Of course you are. You whimper and dig your nails into his arms, leaving crescent indents on his skin, unable to control yourself. One finger, then two. You bite your lip, trying desperately to stifle your sounds.

Your husband may be dead but the household staff are not.

Your Space Marine smirks in the dim light and his fingers withdraw from your wet heat. Replaced by something larger. He leans in, capturing your lips and muffling your moans when he sheathes himself within your tight heat. His human, his perfect jewel. All his to claim.

Tagged: @kit-williams • @egrets-not-regrets • @bleedingichorhearts

This is entirely Kit’s idea and depending on how the poll goes, it may or may not be considered canon. Also first time writing this kind of stuff so <.<

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

A Good Princess

Author's Note: More of Husbandry AU with Hura and his Bonded

Summary: Hura and his Bonded fuck nasty.

Warnings: Smut. Let me know if I need to add anything else.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

His cock hardens as he watches his little mouse on her knees. His sitting in a comfortable chair as she crawls over to him on her hands and knees.

She's wearing a gorgeous sexy outfit. A green leather collar, and his left hand holds the leash which is attached to the collar that wraps around her neck.

She's wearing a green and black leather outfit that accentuates her curves and titillates the senses. She crawls over and leans against his leg and peers up at him with large doe eyes.

His right hand is out of his gauntlet and he gently brushes some of the hair out of her faces and she nuzzles his hand, pressing kisses to the palm of his hand.

He can smell her arousal and lightly strokes chin with his thumb before he lightly presses the digit against her lips. She opens her mouth and starts to bob her head as she sucks and licks his thumb.

He curls two of is fingers closest to her face and lightly strokes her chin as he tilts up her face as he watches her suck his thumb diligently as his cock gets harder.

"Good girl," Hura purrs in pleasure at that. He gently tugs her chin and she moves at his silent command as she climbs into his lap, still sucking his thumb as he uses his other hand to play with her pretty cunt and the smell of her arousal and slick becomes stronger and she whines a little in pleasure at the stretch of his fingers.

[felinisnoctis]

Chaos Prime: Fucking Around

The chaos trio meets @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan's Emperor's Child and Slaaneshi disaster marine, Zaarius

CW: Smut, blood, mechadendrites and various other appendages... look it's chaos space marine porn, you have been warned.

Tags: @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams

“I did say I’d introduce you to some of the other regulars at the base here,” Hura explained to the three primaris newcomers following him around the chaos base.  “This is Zaarius, who despite his occasional dramatics is a very good chemist.”

“Well hello there handsome.”  Zaarius smirked at the younger marine, giving his usual somewhat flirtatious greeting.  Sure the last young primaris he’d used that on had nearly strangled him, but this one didn’t look quite as jumpy.  Then again it was hard to get jumpier than a young Black Templar.

The former ultramarine looked Zaarius up and down for a long moment.  “You look like you’d snap in half if you followed up on that thought.”  Zaarius grinned back at him “I assure you I’m stronger than I look, young one.”  Hura managed to glare at both of them.

“So you’re the one who makes those little candies.  Hoping to put that theory to the test?”

“I make delicious goods that others Desire and Crave. Care to have a bite?”  New customers were always good, even if he wasn’t supposed to be promoting addictions or whatever.

“Sure, but I think Hura might actually vomit if I gave you one here.” Oh.  

“If you are going to continue please do so somewhere in private.”  By this point Zaarius had learned that particular smooth tone meant Hura was getting slightly irritated.  Felix meanwhile had a very shark-like grin going.  “Oh, but I need to call my brothers in first!”

“Wait-wait-wait, how many brothers are we talking here?”

“There's two more to our little band here. You sure you don't break, my dear little firstborn?”

“Three?  Ok, just be gentle.”  The cheeky smile was back.

Hura put his hand to his face before looking at Zaarius.  “If they kill you, I want your organs for research purposes.”  He turned back to Felix “I do actually need this idiot alive and intact and able to do his chemist duties.  He does have use and value to me, despite his..tendencies.  That means all limbs and brain matter intact.  Also read these before you do anything too stupid.”  He handed Felix a couple of pamphlets.  The top one was entitled Safe Pleasure and Gifts from the Gods.  Underneath another bore the title Protecting your Partners from Slaaneshi Poisons and Nurglite STDs.  The last one was Safe, Sane, and Consensual - Boundary Negotiations for Unusual Physiology and Psychology.  “There’s also a stockpile of assorted condoms and other coverings for different appendages in the hall closet.”

Felix slipped the pamphlets into a combat pouch.  “We’ll look over them, I promise.”  Hura simply glared meaningfully at both of the marines.  Felix started to protest and changed course.  “I’ll look them over while I wait for my brothers.”

Hura glared at him one more time.  “Please do.  And please take any further slaaneshi nonsense somewhere private.”

Zaarius grinned up at the pair.  “Want to take it to one of the practice rooms, big boy?”  Hura gave an exasperated sigh and walked off.  A minute later Felix and Zaarius headed down to the practice rooms, his two brothers finding him and falling in behind him.

“You didn’t mention you had a techmarine,” Zaarius commented, seeing Mic’s mechadendrites come into view.

“That a problem?” Mic queried, one camera scanning up and down the firstborn’s body.

“Not at all, darling.  Specialists are so rare these days though, I didn’t know we had a new one in town!  And so well endowed.” Zaarius gestured at the variety of mixed flesh and machine mechadendrites sprouting from the techmarine’s back.

“Usually people ask about Batsy’s wings,” Mic grunted, looking up at his towering bat-winged companion.

“They are very nice wings.  And very large.”  Batsy’s wings twitched at the commentary as they entered the sparring chamber.  All three primaris looked like they were ready for a fight in full armor.  Zaaruis’s smaller size was enhanced by his chemist’s garb of a bright pink scrub top covered with images of small heart shaped candies, and matching purple scrub pants.

“Quick ground rules before we get started.  Hands only and be gentle on restraints, pain is ok but don’t take it too far, got it boys?”

The three nodded assent.  Mic added on “Mind the claws.  Poison.”  Felix added in response “And stay away from Batsy’s fangs, you’ll get sick.”  Zaarius nodded in his turn in response, then blew a kiss at Felix as the other two finished leafing through the provided pamphlets.  “Ready to go yet?”

“Nah, I think I’ll wait a little.” The ultramarine crossed his arms over his chest and gave a small signal to the other two, grinning at the firstborn.  Batsy reached in to grab under Zaarius’s arms, pulling him down and back against the bulk of the large primaris.  “Gotta enjoy the show after all,” Felix finished.

Mic reached a couple of mechadendrites in, deftly slicing through the seat of his pants.  One mechadendrite, thick with oil, began to tease him open as others finished tearing his pants apart and ran bites up and down his thighs.  A delicate little manipulator mechadendrite flicked pieces of fabric away and wrapped around his cock with a small whirr.

“You’re so pretty” Batsy whispered into his ear as he cut a line across Zaarius’s hand and pressed the wound to his mouth.  Small hot pink dams covered his fangs, keeping the poison away, as he licked the blood from the wound.  “You taste so sweet too, it’s like having cake for dinner.”

Zaarius leaned into the armored chest behind him.  The armor felt oddly soft, likely fusing and merging with the skin of the occupant within it, as was common in chaos marines.  Batsy’s gauntlets were off though, and one hand rubbed small circles on Zaarius’s shoulder through his shirt.  “Aww you're sweet.  And very good at shoulder rubs too.  Mmm”.  Felix was, so far, standing off to the side observing, arms folded across his chest.  Zaarius grinned over at him.  “Enjoying the show, big boy?”

Felix just looked at Zaarius, before slowly pulling a bag of chocolates out of one of his combat pouches.  Specifically a bag of Zaarius’s excessive delights.  “Hey, where did you get those?” Zaarius demanded.  Felix didn’t respond, just very slowly pulled his helmet off.  “You know those have slaaneshi poison in them right?  Highly addictive drugs?”  Felix grinned at him before opening the bag and popping one of the chocolates into his mouth.

Zaarius looked back at the ultramarine.  “Suit yours….oh” his statement was interrupted as the other two lifted his hips up and pushed him back onto Batsy’s lap.  The primaris marine had his codpiece off and his cock already pressing into Zaarius’s back.  “Ready, beautiful?”  Zaarius wiggled his hips back in response, still giving a cheeky grin at Felix.  “Of course, handsome,” he murmured back at Batsy behind him.

Batsy’s hands guided Zaarius’s hips slowly down onto his erection, nuzzling at his neck and running his tongue over the pulse points.  Another of Mic’s mechadenrites wrapped around Zaarius’s cock, squeezing it as he rocked back onto the cock pressing inside of him.  “Fuck.” He leaned back as his orgasm left white cum over the mechadendrites.  “That all you boys got?”

“Hmph, mouthy little bitch aren’t ya?” Felix growled at him from the sidelines, smooshing a second chocolate in one of his hands.

“You gonna do something about it, big boy?”  Mic’s mechadendrites pulled back as Batsy’s arms and wings wrapped around Zaarius, holding the firstborn marine to his chest while working his way deeper inside him.

Felix rolled his eyes and pulled the codpiece off his armor in response, wrapping a chocolate covered gauntlet in Zaarius’s hair with one hand and unzipping himself and pressing his half-hard cock into Zaarius’s mouth with the other.  Zaarius licked at it teasingly, arching his eyebrows and murmuring something that was probably rude but not intelligible enough to confirm.

“There, that’s a better use of that whore mouth of yours” Felix’s hand dropped down to rest under Zaarius’s chin, stroking a finger along his windpipe.  “I’m going to make sure by the end of this you can’t do anything but whimper onto someone’s dick.”  Zaarius made a somewhat obscene gesture in response.  Felix pushed himself in deeper in lieu of a reply, closing his eyes as Zaarius continued attending to the cock in his mouth as the bat-winged marine underneath him pressed deeper inside, hands crossing over Zaarius’s chest and lingering around his nipples, holding him still for each thrust inside his ass.  “Mmph, good” Batsy mouthed into Zaarius’s shoulder, pulling Zaarius closer into his chest as he climaxed inside the emperor’s child.  Zaarius’s own wings fluttered lightly at the sensation.

Felix cuffed one of his ears lightly.  “Focus, slut.  We’re not done with you yet.”  The ultramarine was close himself, the poison in the chocolates speeding his reactions.  He pulled away just as he finished his own orgasm, suddenly picking Zaarius up and carrying him over to one of the benches before laying the firstborn across his lap.  “In fact, we’re just getting started.  I’m going to make you beg, you little slaaneshi whore.”

“Aww, you’re such a tease” Zaarius wiggled himself into a more comfortable position, propping his head up in his hands on the bench.  Batsy came over and sat down by his head, a bright colored condom contrasting nicely with the yellow-gold of his armor.  Very carefully he reached out and ran one finger along Zaarius’s wing, drawing out a shiver from him as Felix pressed down on his hips.

  “Mouthy whore at that,” the pinning ultramarine faux-grumbled at his captive.  “Oh, but I’m your whore for tonight, boy,” Zaarius snarked back, reaching a hand out to tease at Felix.

“Hmph, ought to teach you some manners.”  A primaris-sized gauntlet smacked down onto Zaarius’s ass, driving the breath out of him for a moment.  “Should’ve brought a whip.”

“Maybe…next…time…darling”, Zaarius managed to choke out between hits.  Batsy knelt down beside the bench and started running his tongue up the edge of a wing, causing the diaphonous wing to vibrate in excitement.  Felix shifted his approach as well, cold metal gloves tracing lines along Zaarius’s ass and thighs and ever so briefly brushing over his dick.  One gauntleted finger worked its way slowly inside his ass as a large claw protruding from one of Batsy’s wings wrapped around Zaarius’s wrists.  Zaarius kicked a little at the sensations, pulling him back towards the edge without ever quite letting him reach it.  Mic ambled over and wrapped large hands around his ankles to still the motion, mechadendrites flicking up against Zarrius’s bruised thighs.

“Oooo.  Meanie.”  Zaarius whined at the trio.  “True sons of chaos, torturing your prisoners.  I shan’t beg for mercy though.”  He did his best to stick his nose in the air in a dignified manner, given the position.  A thin mechanical tendril flicked up against his cock.  “Mmmph.”  His voice started to be come breathless.  “Still no.”

Felix and Batsy pulled back from him, leaving just the sensation of being pinned down as a toothed mechadendrite nipped into the very top of his thigh.  That was going to leave a mark.  Zaarius whimpered a little at being pulled back from so close to his climax.  “Fine, fine.  Please?”  He made the saddest puppy dog eyes he could manage at the trio as Batsy leaned in and cut a long line across his shoulder, lapping up the oozing blood hungrily.

“Mic, shut him up,” Felix ordered.  The codpiece on Mic’s armor hinged open as he stepped back and pulled out a part-metal dick, somehow already covered in a specially reinforced condom.  “Here!” He pressed himself into Zaarius’s open mouth as Felix straddled the marine on the bench.  “Naughty little slut,” he mocked as he inserted himself into Zaarius’s ass.  Zaarius raised one hand with the middle finger extended in reply.  Such a charming gesture that he’d learned from the baseline humans around here.  He keened as Batsy returned the attention to his wings as well, bringing him up to a shuddering finish under the combined unwavering attention of all three primaris and leaving him moaning as they continued until their energy was expended as well.

As they finished, Batsy scooped Zaarius up in his wings, enclosing the smaller marine entirely in the warm skin.  “Aw, we’ve gotten your clothes all ripped up,” he crooned as he settled down against the wall with Zaarius in his lap.

“It’s fine, love,” Zaarius crooned back as Batsy started to comb out Zaarius’s long silver hair.  “Can someone get some shorts from my quarters?  The sparkly purple ones, I think.”  He leaned back against the wing behind him, tired and slightly woozy from blood loss.  Somewhere off to the side, Mic pressed a glass of orange juice into his hand.  “Drink,” the techmarine commanded as he picked clothing scraps and discarded protection up from around the area.

“Thank you dear,” Zaarius said as he slowly drank the juice down, endeavoring to keep his head still as Batsy began to braid his hair and tie it in place with ribbons.  “You’re quite creative, Batsy,” he said between sips.  “Aww, thanks,” the lamenter sounded almost shy in his response.

Felix returned with the requested pair of hot pants and a primaris-sized t-shirt, which draped over Zaarius’s body, leaving a trail of bite marks and bruises running up his legs and a healing cut and several more visible through the wide neck.  “Well then darlings, are you going to buy me dinner after all that?”  After a second of thought, Felix burst out laughing as Batsy scooped Zaarius up in his arms and carried him up the stairs.

Somewhere in the medical wing, Apothecary Hura felt an unexplained headache coming on.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Phantom

Author’s Note: Sirass part three! I hope you enjoy :D

First.

Previous.

Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel@whorety-k 

Warnings: none

Summary: Sirass and Pollux go to the afflicted reef to scout how many fellow Astartes they’ll need to destroy the burgeoning garden of rot. What they find surprises them.

“We’re going to have to burn all of the samples the humans took of the diseased wildlife and plants.” Pollux muttered, swimming back and forth in agitation as he waited impatiently for Sirass to finish gearing up.

“I know that, you’ve left instructions and warning for the blue stylus pushers to handle that, right?” Sirass snapped, rolling his eyes beneath his helmet as he continued to check over his gear, wanting to be sure that none of it had any flaws before they went diving into a territory defiled by Nurgle’s Worshippers. “We’ll need to check the machinery as well.”

“... But the Plague-bastard’s curses and afflictions only affect the living. Metals rust and decay but don’t fall sick.” The Imperial Fist spluttered, eyes going wide under his helmet.

“Clearly you’ve never had the dubious misfortune of having to deal with Glitchlings.” Sirass huffed, shaking his head a little “... When were you brought from?”

“Mid M-32, why?” Pollux asked “What the fuck is a Glitchling?”

“My bastard Primarch decided to cut a deal with the Plaguefather for… I’m not sure why… Some time in the past as I know it, after you were brought here. The ritual he used to seal the deal fused Machine Plague and Warp Bullshith together to create Glitchlings. They’re Nurglings, but for machines instead of living creatures. They delight in the corruption of machines and twisting them into horrific monstrosities.” Sirass explained “I heard about it from some of my Chaos brothers in passing and the knowledge stuck with me.”

“Oh fuck that entirely. They aren’t going to be thrilled about having to purge the data.” Pollux sighed. “And don’t call the Ultramarines stylus pushers. They do far more than that and you know it. They’ll likely handle the data as well, and explaining why fire and destruction is the only safe path forward.”

“... True enough.” Sirass sighed, reassured that his gear was in perfect working order. “I’m ready to go.”

“Finally! Remember, this is a scouting mission, as neither of us can deal with a full Rot Garden, we don’t have the kit to do so. There are Salamanders inbound, but it’s going to-” Pollux stated.

“It’s going to take them a few days to get here. Yeah, I know. This isn’t the first shit-awful mission I’ve been on, and I doubt it’ll be the last.” Sirass finished, cutting off the Imperial Fist. “We need to have a rough estimate of how many Death Guard are making this fucking thing, and whether or not they’ve managed to corrupt any humans into worshipping their shit-ass deamon-god. I remember the briefing protocols for something like this, I don’t need to be reminded. Let’s get going.”

Pollux grumbled under his breath, and Sirass pretended not to hear the bitchy bastard as they swum swiftly over the deceptively beautiful waters, diving in.

~

“... Wasn’t the garden bigger, the last time we were here?” Pollux asked Sirass over vox, sounding as perplexed as Sirass felt.

“It was. I helped with the last survey of the afflicted reef two days ago. Something’s changed… I could almost taste the Chaos in the water, but that’s faded somewhat too…” Sirass murmured, scanning the area more closely. “The densest bit of fuckery is this way. I haven’t seen any signs of Death Guard here today, what about on your side, Pollux?”

“No signs of Death Guard on this side of the Garden, either. Maybe they’re deeper in, or off on a hunt?” Pollux offered. “I… Suppose we should push further into the territory.” It went without saying that they should touch nothing in this cursed place unless they absolutely had to.

The signs of decay and illness were still very much present in the plant and animal life, but it wasn’t nearly as dire as it had been a couple of days ago. Some of the fish were actually moving at close to their normal speeds, doing their usual behaviors. The numbers of parasites in the waters had gone down according to Sirass’ scanners, and the amount of chaos taint had plummeted precipitously, now that he knew to look for it, knew what the signs were.

This was true even as the two mer cautiously swum deeper into the garden. Signs of healthy life were beginning to appear, and the dead were no longer crawling or moving in a parody of life. Sirass stilled completely as he reached the middle of the garden, eyes widening beneath his visor “What… Who?... Why?”

Before him was the crawling vine-rose things that marked the heart of a plague garden. It’s tendrils should be glowing and pulsing, trying to reach for anything that wasn’t tainted by Nurgle in order to consume. The center mass of the foul creation should be undulating and hard to look at without nausea and pain ripping through his body and mind.

Instead, the thorn-covered vines were a dull grey color. Lifeless and unmoving. The center mass looked like it had been ripped or slashed apart by something large and pissed off. Clearly someone else had killed the heart of the this Rot Garden, which was what helped to perpetuate Nurgle’s curses and diseases. They hadn’t completed the job, and if left unattended, the Plague Heart would come back to life and start causing problems if it wasn’t thoroughly torched in Promethium-based flames and torn out, roots and all.

But it was an excellent start. 

“I have no idea who did this… I didn’t think there were many Astartes in this area, apart from the group who lives with the humans nearby. None of them reported in, attacking this and they really should have…” Pollux muttered to himself. “We should retreat from here. It may be dead for now, but it’s still dangerous… And the Death Guard could come back. They’ll get nasty as they’ll assume we did this.”

“Mh, let’s get going then.” Sirass agreed, nodding shortly. Agreeing with an Iron Fist felt very strange and vaguely wrong… But Pollux was correct in this instance. The two of them took turns flitting from cover to cover around the periphery of the slowly shrinking Garden of Rot for the four days it took for the Salamander Flamer squads to arrive. Not a single Death Guard, nor any cultists appeared in that time.

Once the Salamanders had arrived and began the task of purifying the area with flames and psykery, Sirass and Pollux left after being checked and cleared for corrosion. The Ultramarines attached to the humans’ ocean preservation group had indeed purged all of the Nurgle Shit from the area, including information and explained why.

Sirass’ human sprinted over to him as soon as he cleared the ocean water. You hesitated for a couple of moments asking “You’ve been through decontamination, right?”

“Yes, my love I have been. The area is being purged by experts.” He explains with a nod.

“Good… It’s going to be a lot of work to restore that area, but it’ll be worth it. I’m glad that… That you’re okay. The… The stories they told us about what those twisting-illnesses can do to a person were awful!” You shudder, running up to him and hugging him tightly.

Sirass smiles a little, holding you close. He nuzzles you lovingly as he takes off his helmet, attaching it to his belt and giving you several loving kisses all over your face “I apologize that you were frightened for and worried over me, love. But I am fine. If you’d like to thoroughly check me over once we get home, I won’t object~”

You blush at his tease but nod, going up on your tiptoes and giving him a loving kiss “Yes please.”

He grins as he scoops you up, swimming through the air towards your apartment.