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cardinalcanis · 3 months ago

Text

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.

207 notes · View notes

vyzz-undercover · 4 months ago

Text

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!!!

———————————————————————————————————

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.

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shellswritesstuff · 5 months ago

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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.

#YEAHHHH IM GONNA WRITE SMUT NEXT AHSDJAD #demetrian titus #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #warhammer x reader #demetrian titus x reader #titus x reader #space marine ii #space marine 2 #space marine 2 x reader #warhammer headcanons #warhammer drabbles #warhammer imagines #that subreddit is quaking rn.#marenis

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kit-williams · 4 months ago

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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."

#warhammer 40k #smut #nsft #ferrus manus #primarch #yandere space marine #yandere primarch #hand worship

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ladymirdan · 4 months ago

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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:

#40k #warhammer 40k #warhammer #ultramarines #space marines #fanfic #marneus calgar #varro tigurius #smut

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ma1dmer · 4 months ago

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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.

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c-u-c-koo-4-40k · 9 months ago

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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.

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!

#space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer 40k #c-u-c-koo anon #smut #night lords #oc: khopesh

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madmeks · 6 days ago

Text

"Relief: Part 1"

Pairings: Titus x Mira

Author's note: 18+ This one got away from me a little and ended up a little longer than I anticipated. But that's okay. It just means more Titus x Mira action for everyone. Look for Part 2 later today or tomorrow. Edit: Here's Part 2

Warnings: Smut. Public Sex.

Description: In this timeline, Mira and the remains of the 203rd were lost in a warp storm and emerged several hundred years later after the Fall of Cadia. Her regiment got folded into the Cadian 8th after the events of Space Marine 2 and she was appointed liason officer between the Guard and Astartes forces. Titus opens up to Mira with a problem and Mira finally gets some real non-fantasy action with Titus in their first 'encounter'

Tagging: Thank you to @beckyninja @finchly-tintinnabulation @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @flunkyofmalcador @katesfoxhole, and @justanothermemestrider for all of your kind words of encouragement on my first fics I posted. It really gave me the confidence to continue and write this. @pluvio-tea 's post was the inspiration for the Chem Geld.

If anyone wants more Titus x Mira, please check out my other fics here and here

“A chem geld?” Mira asked.

She stood with Titus on the battlements of the city they’d captured this morning, as the triple moons of Daedalus V rose above them. Before them, an expanse of boggy marsh stretched out into the distance, dotted with crooked trees, craters, and the wreckage of Votann vehicles that had been shelled as the fled the conquered city. Titus had requested she join him, she had assumed to survey the terrain, but this turn in the conversation had taken her by surprise.

Titus nodded, stoic as he scanned the horizon. “It’s a side-effect of the Rubicon surgery. Many Firstborn marines who became Primaris have...difficulty dealing with their urges.”

Mira struggled to keep her composure. Talking about this with Titus was awakening some urges of her own.

“I didn’t know space marines had...urges,” Although I’ve fantasized about it and hoped you did often enough she thought. “They say Astartes are all asexual.”

Titus smiled ruefully as he turned toward her. “It depends on the Chapter. Some of my brothers lead a wholly chaste life. Some do not. The Space Wolves indulge often and heartily with anyone willing. The Dark Angels usually pick a favored serf to share time with. We among the Ultramarines usually find comfort in our fellow marines between campaigns.”

Mira found herself pressing her thighs together at the thought of two Ultramarines finding comfort together as Titus continued.

“But it’s frowned upon among the officer cadre. Ultramarine officers are expected to abstain except for special occasions. I became an officer very young, and then after Graia…” he trailed off for a moment, eyes far away. “...after Graia I did not seek physical relief with my fellows in the Deathwatch. I turned to a chem geld to quell any urges I had, and after becoming Primaris I had our Apothecary up the dosage to compensate.”

“Wait...so how long has it—”

“Two hundred forty-seven years.”

Mira’s jaw fell open. She’d been despairing her own dry spell. Clearly it could be much worse. Then another thought struck her.

“Wait, you said your Apothecary supplies the Chem Geld drugs? Your Apothecary’s Thunderhawk was downed the second day after we made planetfall.”

Titus, nodded. “And with it my supply of the Chem Geld drugs.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Do you have a backup supply? Maybe we can find more before you run out? How long before you they're gone?”

“I’ve been out since before our landing on this world,” Titus said. Mira chewed on her lip as he went on. “Every day my focus wavers. The drive of a Primaris Marine is...it is far stronger than anything I’ve ever had to deal with. Even in the midst of combat my mind is straying to my physical urges. And I can’t ask my fellow Ultramarines to aid me in the midst of a campaign, even were I not their Lieutenant. I struggle even now to—”

“Let me help,” she blurted.

Slowly, he turned his massive frame toward her. She couldn’t take her eyes off his uncanny, gene-enhanced face as he regarded her.

“...help?” he repeated.

Mira took a deep breath, gathering her nerve. I’ve been dreaming about this forever she thought. If I ever get the chance. “Let me help you, Titus. You need relief, and I’m here…and willing.”

Titus’ breath started to come a little faster. “Mira, don’t make jests while I’m in this condition. It is...it’s difficult enough to control my—”

“I’m not joking.” She stepped forward, gaining confidence now. “I’ve been in the Guard since I was a teenager, Titus. It can be a lonely life for Imperial troopers. Taking care of these sorts of...urges...it’s something I’m more than a little familiar with. We all need to take the edge off from time to time. I can take your...edge...off.”

In all her years, she’d never thought she’d see one of the Emperor’s own angels flustered. But for the first time since she’d met him, he seemed at a total loss for words. Now or never she thought, taking another step closer to him.

“I can promise you’ll enjoy it.”

She could tell the instant his resolve broke. His eyes showed propriety losing the battle against his desires and he cleared his throat.

“...Very well.”

Those two words had her instantly soaked. She’d been fantasizing about this for Throne knew how long, and now for it to be a reality? Saints above, thank you!

Mira flashed a smile at him, then turned and headed down across the rampart toward the barracks. “I think I know a place we can go to be alone. If you give me until tomorrow I can arrange—”

“Mira…”

His tone stopped her in her tracks. She turned, and her lips parted as she saw the naked desire on his face.

“Mira...now that we’re speaking of this...the urges are growing stronger. I don’t think I can wait much longer…”

“Oh...oh.”

Mira chewed on her lip and glanced up and down the battlements. The nearest sentry point was a good distance away, and most of their focus would be on looking for enemies creeping toward the city through the marshes. They wouldn’t bother with two human figures in the fading light.

“Well...as I said. We can at least do something to take the edge off.”

Titus raised an eyebrow at her, glancing around. “Here? This isn’t exactly private, Mira.”

“The barracks aren’t private either, and the place I had in mind will be occupied now,” she motioned for Titus to sit on the raised edge of the battlement, then got up next to him on her knees. “Do you want this, Titus?”

His breath quickened. “Yes...I do.”

Mira smiled at him in the moonlight and turned his face toward her, leaning in to capture his lips with her own.

“So do I, Titus,” she murmured against his lips. “I want this. Relax and let me help you. Does this part come off?”

Mira pulled aside the cloth that covered Titus’ groin and he hurriedly disengaged the codpiece from the rest of his armor, setting it to the side. His breathing quickening even more now, he showed her how to open the seals of his body glove. She reached inside to palm his cock, already finding him hard. Though that’s hardly a surprise considering what he’s going through she thought.

“Relax,” she said, taking a moment to sit up and unbutton her uniform tunic. She shrugged out of it and let it fall to the ground, then pulled her tank top over her head, leaving her in a simple khaki-colored bra. Leaning close to him again, she began to work his cock out of the body glove. “I’ll take care of everything, Titus. This is just a little relief until tomorrow. I have plans for you.”

Mira had to suppress a moan as she got his cock out. It was huge, and thick, but nothing like some of the stories that got passed around the barracks about Astartes that would split a human in two. She kissed Titus again and then pulled back enough to slowly lick her palm and fingers. She reached down to his cock, squeezing his sensitive head as she gently spread her spit and his leaking pre-cum over his throbbing shaft.

Groaning, Titus leaned his head back and reached behind her. She jumped a little as his gauntleted fingers grabbed at her ass. She returned to kissing him with a hunger, her hand pumping vigorously. Slowly, his massive hips started to thrust up into her hand in time with her strokes.

“Mira...I’m not going to last long,” Titus gasped.

Hearing the strain in his voice made her impossibly wet. She kept stroking as she rose to her knees so her lips were level with his ear. “It’s okay. It’s fine, Titus. Let me get you off. Just tell me when you’re going to come. I want you to come in my mouth.”

He groaned at her words, a deep bass rumble as her hand shuttled up and down his cock. With her free hand she turned his head toward hers and kissed him deeply. When she pulled away she held his gaze, staring into his eyes as she stroked faster and faster.

“Mira...Mira! It’s coming! Now!” he choked out.

Still on her knees, Mira bent at her waist and took the head his cock into her mouth. She began bobbing her head rapidly, still pumping his cock with her hand in time to her movements, and then he was emptying himself into her mouth.

Mira moaned around Titus’ shaft, closing her eyes and stilling her hand as she tasted him spurting into her mouth. Thick ropes of cum flowed over her tongue, and she swallowed as best she could as his cock continued to jerk and pulse. After the first few shots, she started to smoothly stroke him again, up and down, working his cock to get everything out of him.

Titus groaned her name again, and Mira kept sucking until he was empty. Finally, after his cock had stopped jerking in her grasp, she slowly pulled off him and rose back up on her knees, her eyes level with his again. Impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss him, pushing the taste of his cum into his mouth. Leaning back and settling down onto her knees, she smiled in the triple moonlight, a small trickle of his seed running down from the corner of her mouth.

“How was that for taking the edge off?”

Titus slumped back, staring at her with a touch of wonder on his craggy face.

“I think I shall need to take you up on your offer of more...help.”

#warhammer 40k #titus x mira #demetrian titus #lieutenant mira #cadian shock troopers #ultramarines #smut #40k smut #thirsthammer #stupid sexy space marines #my writing

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thisuserislilsilly · 2 months ago

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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.

#fanfiction #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40000 #warhammer headcanon #warhammer 40k #fanfic writing #oc space marines #wh40k oc #primarch x oc #angron #tw smut

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barn-anon · 10 months ago

Text

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 <.<

#black widow #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer 40k #uh #smut-ish?#one off

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gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan · 5 months ago

Text

Tailoring

Author's note: More of Petras in Divergence Husbandry AU

Summary: Petras makes a gift for his beloved whore, and they enjoy it together.

Warning: CW: Smut, lemon, NSFT, Amor Kink, Language Kink, Master/Servant Kink, Uh... Let me know if I need to add anything.

Past =-= Next

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

Tagged: @felinisnoctis

Petras heads back to where his beloved darling human is, he’s learning the common language of the baselines that live in and around Gannet Point. Which is the language that his beloved speaks with her friends, family and co-workers.

It had been mildly distressing and frustrating to find out that his beloved is dear friends with Arnault’s and Roland’s humans. Much to his chagrin, he has to interact with the pair of excommunicated Black Templars more often than he’d like due to the fact that their humans like each other.

And were trying to be helpful and have the three of them interact. He had heard from his beloved Witch-whore that there are … several younger Black Templars, and from the description that she has of them.

They are Primaris Marines. He had requested that he not meet them, in part because of what Arnault and Roland have said and requested of him in regards to the Primaris Space Marines. Another part of him isn’t sure how well he’d hold to the agreement if he had to interact with those abominations.

If he had to do so on a semi-regular or a regular basis… his urge, his understandable desire to purge the Abominations from life. Alas, trying to find others who are like minded as him is very difficult, and something he needs to thread the needle carefully, for if he talks about it to the wrong Space Marine, they might try to kill him or worse.

Petras is a fair hand at sewing and mending cloth and clothes. He hadn’t realized his skill with such things could, well more accurately, would ever be used in the way that he’s using them at the moment.

However, the idea of his beloved bonded whore in the garb of a black templar serf’s uniform has been paying for black and white, with red and gold trim (as he’s an Honorable Chaplain, his serf’s uniform would reflect his rank) cloth and ribbon.

After ensuring the texture of the cloth he’d picked didn’t bother himself or his bonded he went to work on making the garment- finding something similar enough to the uniform of a Black Templar Serf, a Concubina, serf at that, their uniform wasn’t for Serf’s who did much cleaning. But could be worn in public, but was obvious to a Black Templar just what kind of work they did.

Petras very carefully does the measuring twice- before cutting once, making sure that there was slack and give, ensuring that he has her exact measurements, then he starts the next part of the process as he starts sewing.

For the stitching that needed to be hand sewn he had done so as carefully and patiently as he could, imagining just what his beloved whore would look like in the outfit. He’s glad that his human has a sewing machine- and he’s read the instructions on how to use it, carefully using the surprisingly noisy, yet quiet machine to make the outfit.

The outfit comes together surprisingly quickly. He neatly folds the outfit and wraps it up. Petras is excited to see how she’d react to his gift. It’s one that he hopes that she’ll like, and he’ll enjoy unwrapping her, or keeping her partially in it as he stuffs her full of his cock, over and over again.

His beloved whore opens the gift and murmurs- noticing that the colors and markings of the outfit remind her of his armor. She grins up at him and they pepper each other with passionate kisses and touches. She draws away- the teasing minx as she flounces off and returns relatively quickly in the outfit and grins up at him.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?” she chirps up at him in Gothic, in the exact way he’d taught her to and he lets out a lusty purr as he stalks towards her.

“Attend to me, my Whore,” He purrs out to her in Gothic and she nods up at him, her eyes fluttering faux-coyly at him.

“Yes, My Lord,” You say breathily, as you strut over towards him, watching the way his blue eyes smolder and watch your every movement.

When Petras had told you that he was going to make you an outfit for sexy times- who had thought the outfit would be far more scandalous and skimpy, but it was surprisingly comfortable, and you could, potentially wear it out in public, and only you and he would know what the outfit actually meant.

“Clean the armor on my left hand,” Petras purrs out in English as he sits down comfortably on the floor and looks at you with half lidded eyes.

“Yes, Sir,” You chirp up at him and get out a cleaning solution that is body safe, as well as some of your favorite unscented lube.

Angela had taught you that Space Marines had far more acute senses of smells- and the scents of things could bother them a lot faster than it could for normal humans. You grab a clean tea towel and start to clean the armored hand, making sure to take care to clean and murmur how impressed you were with his armor- how it was scarred, yet well maintained. It showed his prowess in battle- how strong he is to have survived all of those Glorious Battles, how clever he is.

Once the all of the fingers, the palm and top of the hand the wrists, and up to his elbow joint were fully cleaned he rumbles out another order, “Ride my armor- show your devotion to me.”

“Yes my lord.” You say breathily as you move and straddle his arm and he helps lift and move you.

You shiver a little- his armor is slightly cold and hard, made out of some space metal- or something. Also the casual, easy way he picked you up and carried you around got your engine going as you carefully lube up his fingers and start to grind against his armor. He helps you by teasing your clit, very, very gently, but with enough pressure on your clit that it has you moan and keen throwing your head back.

“Oh- fuck!” You moan, “Petras- fuck. That feels good.”

He purrs at you again, as you continue to grind against his armor and he teases you with his fingers in your clit, slowly opening your hot, wet cunt with one finger. You whine at the burn and stretch of one of his armored fingers.

Fuck- his fingers are usually so big when he’s out of armor- that it’s almost too much to just have one of his fingers playing inside your pussy. He stills and watches you, “Are you alright?”

“Fuck yes love,” You say pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Color?” Petras insists, with an endearing frown on his face.

“Green,” You reply, “Just continue, more slowly inside me, alright?”

“I will try my best to,” Petras says. “... Ready to restart?”

“Yes please!” You whine up at him and start to grind against his armor and he starts to purr and murmur in the Space Marine language- a mixture of praise and loving insults. You don’t really understand most of what he says, but he has such a deep, rolling voice- it thunders and is smooth and deep.

He gets you to orgasm almost embarrassingly quickly and he chuckles, pleased as he gently pulls out of your pussy and lightly sets you down, “My lovely Serf- you need to clean my armor of your juices- with your mouth.”

“Yes my lord,” You say as you suck and lick your juices off of him- there is something about the way you almost worship his armor that has Petras praising you some more. His other hand had taken off his armor and was slowly and carefully teasing fingers playing with your clit and pussy again.

“Good girl,” Petras croons, “continue to service me like this. My pretty whore- doing exactly as you are told.”

Once the armor is finished being cleaned again he scoops you up and buries his face in your thighs and you squeal a little as you tug in his short silver-white hair as he eats you out. Fuck- he’s got such a talented tongue as he eats you out. His tongue teasing and tasting your clit and diving in and out of your pussy.

He lightly has one of his hands squeezing your neck- not enough to restrict your breathing, but enough that you are constantly aware of his hand wrapped around your neck as he teases your breasts with his other hand. Squishing and teasing your breast and lightly twisting and pinching your nipples as he wrings out yet another orgasm from you.

Petras looks so good, dripping your juices down his face as he presses a scorching hot kiss against your mouth. You moan at the flavor of his salvia and your cum and he removes his cod piece, you are still wearing the gift- just not wearing underwear.

“Shall I put my cock in your warm, yet pussy?” Petras purrs out the question.

“Yes! My Lord please- give me your cock~” You plead eager to feel his cock stretch you and fill you deliciously.

“Good Girl,” Petras purrs as he slowly and teasingly guides his cock inside of you and slowly thrust in and out of you.

There is a slight sting of pain and cold- as he’s almost entirely in his armor while he fucks you- but it’s also hot to see him in his armor and pussy drunk as he fucks you at the same time. Fuck- this feels soo good.

After Petras had cum inside of her twice, he purrs and tells her how good she was for him as he carefully takes her to the bathroom. You are so tired and are glad that you have the next three days off as Petras carefully washes your body in warm water and cleans you up.

Helping your jelly limbs return to functioning. He waits outside of the bathroom as you pee and you stumble out of the bathroom and smell food. Petras perks up and presses a gentle kiss to your nose, lips, both cheeks, forehead and chin and gently sweeps you up off your feet and gently set you down on the couch, wrapped up in your favorite blanket as the pair of watch your favorite show and he hand feeds you salty and sweet snacks.

You fully recovered from that session and yawn, tired and he nuzzles you and gently carries you to your room. He helps you brush your teeth and presses more gentle kisses and praises into your ears and cheeks as he tucks you in and cuddles you.

You wake up pleasantly sore the next morning- and Petras having made you some breakfast in bed as he helps you with stretches and some over the counter pain medications to help with some of the less pleasant soreness.

“That was a great session,” You say to Petras with a smile.

“I’m glad.” Petras says, “Thank you for talking about and deciding to do this latest session.”

You giggle at him, “You seemed to have gotten really into it.”

“Ja- you were amazing,” Petras purrs, “All lovely and pliant und wunderbar.”

“Where did you get that outfit?” You ask him curiously.

Bashfully Petras looks away before looking at you and saying, “I made it myself- I bought the cloth and it’s while I did those measurements of your body.”

“Oh!” You say surprised, “You have a talent for tailoring, Petras.”

“Danke,” Petras says, you can tell he feels a little shy about it.

“... Perhaps if we have other ideas for outfits, you could make them, if you wanted to?” You ask him gently.

“... I could do that, ja.” Petras says, “Do you have a request, My Darling?”

“Not at the moment,” You reply, “But I’ll think about it.”

He nods and cuddles you as he continues to hand feed you breakfast. He could be so affectionate after sex and for a few days afterwards. It was really sweet how he took care of you after one of your more intense sessions.

#warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer #adeptus astartes #oc: Petras #reader insert #Divergence AU #Divergence Husbandry AU #tw: Smut #armor kink #language kink?

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kit-williams · 5 months ago

Text

Anrir Husbandry

Husbandry tags: @egrets-not-regrets @liar-anubiass-blog @barn-anon @bleedingichorhearts @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@ms--lobotomy @nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @the-raven-lady

@bispecsual

Edit: forgot to thank @justahuman1757 for help with some of the translations and other help

Song on repeat: Cradles by Sub Urban (also most of the remixes for this SLAP)

tw: smut, yandere, obsessive behavior, manipulation

Anrir cooed at the little human in his arms finishing up singing them back to sleep знішчыць.... знішчыць... His voice carried low and softly. It was naptime... they needed to sleep as it was good for them of course they didn't seem to realize that. His long back hair was tied back into a slightly messy bun as his nearly completely black eyes dart around the pastel colored room just looking for anything wrong. His Dragă wanted to work with children in childcare and perhaps it took a couple of years to get here since he had first found her.

She was so much happier since he had first found her... happy about their bond... no more worry in her eyes... no more stress making her hands tremble or her loosing sleep... no more worrying about her next meal or if her car were to break... no more crying... well no more senseless crying. He puts the child down looking around at the sleeping forms but he cant help but grin as this really was all possible because of him, Anrir purrs softly at the satisfaction of how well he has done his job... and how he has covered his trail...

5 years prior

Anrir was a drifter... he drifted around as he had yet to find his own bonded, which given how some legions seemed to be more inclined to get a bond; with Night Lords being one of the ones with very few "feral" Astartes it was only a matter of time before Anrir would find his. But Anrir in all definitions was a feral Astartes having been unbonded since he arrived forty years ago. However, it was fine as Anrir hadn't spent that time just moping about he spent a majority of his time politicking and reuniting with other Terran Night Lords long dead and of course reuniting with those who were under his knife when they were aspirants and scouts which he affectionately called them his kids.

He was also using this time to take a break, a forced break, from running his warband; not that he could run it right now anyway. But he would mull over plans for when he returned back to his time period... if he did was another thought. His eyes moved up to the sky as he could smell the water gathering in the air. Which meant that the group he was with would start a debate on if they were going to settle down or continue on despite the weather. He did not care too much and decided to wander off to look around at where they were.

He walked out of the tree covering that the group was skulking through as he looked at the abandoned parking lot he had walked out into. It was rotting away neglected and abandoned as the painted lines were faded and practically gone, the pavement was cracked with plants growing through cracks; with the asphalt under his feet turning to gravel as plants come to reclaim this section of human infrastructure. And Anrir... he savored this reclamation of nature and decay of it all. Compared to the prison pit he was born into on the other side of the globe; he had already made his pilgrimage to the eventual site of his birth... a town full of people whose existence was never known as a great chasm of the guilty was there.

But that dark pit in the ground was not there now... there were no babies being born in that dark hellhole... his neck tattoo had a phantom itch as he is reminded why it was put on his neck... as he is reminded that at some point he was truly innocent... he is reminded of the hand gently petting his head... the soft voice cooing at him telling him how brave he was being... as he remembers having tears in his eyes as the ink is shoved into his skin... he gently starts to suffocate the memories of a child long gone and a woman paradoxically long dead and yet had yet to be born. His eyes flick to the far side of the quiet parking lot as a car just sits in the dark. The only other thing in this lot, far from the flickering road light... he could hear the annoying buzz of the light as it flickered... the flick... flick... flick... as it finally goes out. He moves with soft steps towards the vehicle as the summer insects scream their sonorous songs it was almost overstimulating for some of his brothers with how alive this planet felt with no foe to focus down on. Anrir felt his gums itch like he craved an oral inhalant and the way the hair on the back of his neck rose as he wandered closer not giving into the craving.

Anrir had seen many homeless humans both back in his own time and here. His eyes looked through the windows of the car seeing how it was lived in, he could hear the soft breathing akin to how someone was asleep... the slow beat of a heart was barely audible to him as the insects continued to scream their songs. There was nothing special about what he saw as it was a baseline female just buried under an assortment of clothes, a towel, a jacket, and some blanket... a bucket with a strainer lid to collect the impending rain... he chuckled at the cleverness but he understood the need to just survive. He turned to walk back to the others but something rooted him in place. He could practically taste the misery mixing with the rain. His throat tightened as it silently moved in foreign ways but he knew what he was trying to do... to mimic the noises they make at humans.

He lets out a dark chuckle as they were right... it really was something that he would know when it happened. Worry soon festered in his gut as his eyes roamed over her vehicle and while he hardly knew about how it worked he could see the signs of disrepair. His nose wrinkled for a moment as he unclipped his helmet from his hip, slipping it over his head as the rain finally let loose. He listened to the rain slap against the metal roof of the car, the way she moved inside her comfortable cocoon for a moment, and the way water was gathering in the bucket... Anrir had to do something.

You did your best to ignore the Night Lord that was hanging around. Affectionate bastards you were told as you remember those videos of just them being friendly. You shiver at the memory of that one gang member who thought he was so big... being homeless you quickly learned how sleeping near warbands meant that you had to ignore certain things... certain sounds especially at night. Astartes always scared you... you couldn't point to any incident that had happened involving them just that you got bad feelings from them... a certain type of dread. So it wasn't exactly like a fear of dogs but the way they looked and acted they were so human... why were they here... you make yourself look smaller as the Night Lord with what looked like a metal spider on his back sat next to you.

You hear him coo and trill at you trying to get your attention, his head tilting slightly as you could hear the slightly distorted trill to his voice from his helmet, and you did your best to ignore him. Eventually he did leave you alone and you had hoped that would be the last you saw him. But, every day for the next week he kept finding you... he would click and coo at you beckoning you closer with those armored claws of his. It was the last day in the week that you broke and approached him as you chose to fill your car with gas over eating and he had shown up with food. You feel tears gather with each bite as he trills down at you and you feel him hold you close... you hear his purr... you've seen this display online it was a bonding display. You do your best to not choak on the hot food as you can feel tears gather in the corner of your eyes, really the last thing you want is an Astartes bonding to you.

You feel the Astartis petting your head as you eat, trilling at you and you're certain if he wasn't in armor he would be purring. When you look up at him miserably he coos at you trying to sooth the clear distress you were in. His hands flexing each time you try to pull away from him, "You don't want me to be your bonded buddy," You finally speak up and that just breaks something in you and you feel those heavy tears roll down your cheeks even as you try to use the heel of your palm to rub your eyes clean they still fall, "I can't give you anything." Your voice cracks as you admit that.

Anrir sat there silently as you tried to reject the bond… he could feel it fraying at the edges like a lighter had been taken to it. But Anrir was calm even as his entire existence seemed to reel on its axis as you try to push it away. Your voice cracking gave way to the tears that ran down your face, his black eyes darting over your face as baselines crying was familiar to him given what he was but it felt so different… so wrong. Why are you letting her cry Anrir? A soft voice in the back of his mind seems to say. He could feel it fray more and more… but Anrir was aware that when a bond frays… it never attaches back normally. There was also a small high for him as would this be how he tasted death? Not after millennia of being alive just some mortal woman would be the death of him? He would have laughed if it actually broke but he pulled her against him and you did not make the effort to pull away… and so the bond repairs wrong. He did not need anything from you except you.

How you lean against him trying to hide away. So he was okay if you couldn’t give him anything now. He didn’t expect you to give him anything in the first place… but a wicked thought plants itself in his mind. Perhaps it was old fashioned… after all he watched the radical social changes in a mere 40 years and yet like always the Astartes remained unchanged. But… why couldn’t he provide for you? Anrir was a capable Astartes and he did not survive this long by chance but memories flicker by of how generous others were towards their humans. He grinned darkly as he could recognize the signs now… oh… he had intensely bonded to you… he had read the manuals and grimoires both in person and on the noosphere… he had helped write some of those too… so he knew what to look for in terms of side effects and was filing away mental notes about his deviances. And as much as he wanted to act on those feelings Anrir was patient, he was an Apothacarion after all, and his Dragă needed to be taken care of. He purrs and chirps at her to calm her down and gets her to finish her meal.

Thrones, credits, souls, cash… it was annoying dealing with baselines as most societies revolved around needing a good or currency for things and this was not their reality or time period where refusing an Astartes was suicidal. He noted his lack of desire to skin the man yelling at his Dragă to get him to stop “loitering”. But he, like most Astartes, relied on each other and the complex network and ecosystem they built like a parasite on the infrastructure of what was already there or was it the other way around? The Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists would say they laid out efficient infrastructure… but he found resources; since it was no longer allowed to simply take humans as serfs anymore and just have them live in a base full time… not that the Night Lords had one yet. It would be a few more years till the base was operational and that would be a mustering point for most Night Lords in the area. But Anrir noted how jumpy his precious Dragă got at the idea of getting help from Salamanders or staying in a shelter; he was fine with her choice. He wrinkled his nose as her car was falling apart and he couldn’t fit in it and him being a Night Lord did not help his goal of getting money. However, Anrir had a long reputation having worked in the Consortium with Bile too being a prominent figure in his legion’s hierarchy, no matter how much he tried to stay out of the politicking, so when the Alpharii approached him he wasn’t too surprised.

There were treaties and edicts that any Astartes had to agree to if they wanted to stay near the humans. Besides the obvious of not killing any humans; which before Anrir was bonded was a surprisingly hard ask, but they were not allowed to mettle with them. Technology was to be kept away from them at all costs, no extending their life spans, no augmetics beyond simple necessary prosthetics, and a few others. It all made sense as it was clear they were not ready at all for the horrors of the wider galaxy… no they would not play a hand into accidentally smothering humanity in the cradle because they helped them reach the stars earlier than they were ready for. But just like how human killers existed… and Night Lord trafficker Hunts happened… there was always some bending and breaking of these rules.

The Alpharii couldn’t help mettle in the affairs of the baselines, it was their legion’s expertise, they were information brokers and information hiders… they modified records to hide the sudden birth of a child from a woman and a Astartes… to all the way of covering up when forbidden technology falls into the hands of baselines and there needs to be a raid. They had their fingers in many pies as the saying goes… and Anrir could not play the moral high ground for their request. They weren’t supposed to extend the baselines lives… there was the crude method of giving them a transfusion of Astartes blood and hope they survive all the way to getting the chemicals and components needed for rejuvenation treatments. The latter took time to get what they needed as they could only synthesis so much being limited to what was only on this one planet; and it was hard to keep the Iron Hands from getting eager in “helping” them be able to colonize the Sol system.

But… Anrir looked down at the old corrupt man. Such greedy creatures humans could be and Anrir could never be like his kin who were able to see themselves as being above humanity… Anrir was far too aware of his own humanity and also his own lack of humanity too. “How do I know it will work?” The old man interrupts Anrir’s explanation of what he will be doing in transplanting his heart, “You could be some… con artist.” He says with malice in his frail voice.

Anrir never liked nobles… and he was always surprised at how… self important they could be. His smooth voice answers the question before one of the Alpharii can speak, “My reputation,” He had asked the Alpharii before this and he was not bonded to any of them… he was very much a pawn that the Alpharii weren’t ready to loose yet, “your… companions wouldn’t have gotten me if they doubted my skills. The heart is made for you so there is no chance of rejection.” He says truthfully as it was child's play growing the organ for him.

Anrir voxes one of the Alpharii, “As for my payment for this?” He hisses letting his displeasure bleed through as how dare he speak to Anrir in such a way.

“Everything is set up in ways that won’t tip off the government officials to the sudden influx of wealth. And conveniently set up so that if you choose to help us again…”

Anrir waved his armored hand over his shoulder as his medical mechadendrites unfolded like a spider on his back, “Yes yes you lot have me for several surgeries,” He goes through the process of setting everything for fine movements and working on humans, “But please be aware should anything go wrong in the payments that I can be quite spiteful.” He threatens and enjoys the place of power he is able to come from given how specialists are in such short supplies here and he is certain there is only one other Consortium member on the planet… he knows his expertise is invaluable he is certain he is on many lists to be kept alive.

“Of course Anrir.” Is all one says and that was good enough as Anrir headed into the prepared room.

You were happy that Anrir returned as he did keep you safe and maybe you were feeling those good vibes that people always say they get around Astartes. But now? You looked at what was holding out to you with apprehension. You’re sure that it was a thousand dollars in his hand and you felt hesitant to take it from him as no one just gives people money and not expecting something back… your spine crawls at a memory… He just sighs looking at you passively and perhaps a little annoyed, “Dragă. Go get your car looked at and get it fixed.” He says and you take the money from him as your AC had died and you’re certain that also meant your heating was gone�� “Unless,” Your eyes returned to his face as your eyes picked up the bit of white at the roots of his sideburns, “You want to get a bigger vehicle?”

“But I can’t-” You start.

“Don’t worry about money for a second Dragă.” He says putting his hands on your shoulders.

You squirm under his gaze as you considered rejecting it as Anrir gave you such feelings that there was something else he was after… then again you never felt truly comfortable around Astartes… always a lingering sense of dread but… “Maybe… maybe we get something you can fit in as well. Wouldn’t that be nice?” You say softly as you’re certain those cars are far beyond what you can afford and from what you heard basically never break down.

You hold your breath for a moment as Anrir cups your face, you could hear him trill at you, as he grinned down at you with a smile that you’re certain the devil himself would envy, “What a thoughtful Dragă.” Was all he cooed at you.

After that, with much fussing from him, he made you use the money to stay in a motel for a week and you don’t remember when the last time you ate so much food. Anrir in the meanwhile took care of things. You were torn on letting him do such as wasn’t this the reason you had a fallout with your family? Your hands shake at the memories… he ruined your life. Yet while you’re certain Anrir is doing the same thing… it feels different. Anrir only suggested what you use the money for never using it to tell you what to do… Anrir confused you but you took comfort in the thought that he wanted something from you that he could get at your absolute lowest… everyone says bonds are precious things so maybe you should trust him more.

Anrir makes sure he always has enough money on him as he was making sure that there was a positive association in your mind that he was able to provide for you. The fuss you made when he got the car customized so that you could live out of it as long as you wanted, he hopped it wouldn’t be much longer, but it was your choice and all he could do was nudge his Dragă. The excitement he felt rush up his spine when he heard you say “Anrir” in a specific tone… a tone he associated with his Dragă needing something… Dragă needed him to provide. Sometimes you were like a skittish animal only staying for the exchange but sometimes you lingered like an animal and he could get what he wanted from you too. He felt that dopamine rush as you tolerated his touches, the joy he felt when you let him cup your face, how loudly he purred as you let him nuzzle you, petting your head, or rubbing your back. He could still see the hesitation in your eyes… he could tell you weren’t as (warp blind) (bond blind) as other humans were and Anrir is fine with that in fact it made this all the more enjoyable for him.

Winter always comes too soon and once again Anrir brings up places you can stay over the colder months and as hard as you try you still can’t get rid of the feelings that if you acquiesce he will want something. Anrir himself is disappointed that you wont ask him for much more; he does use winter to get something he does want. He finally gets to hold you for as long as he wants, usually your whole sleep cycle. He’s slept in far worse spots and just being a little cramped is hardly anywhere near the list of worst rests he has had. He purrs loudly as you’re glued to his side or his chest at night. Cooing to you as you drift off each night with a full belly in his arms. Its hard not to drift off with how he purrs and the rhythmic beating of his twin hearts… this feels like it’s going to be an easy winter for once so of course you get sick as a dog.

“Poor Dragă.” Anrir’s voice breaks you through your sick haze as the chills don’t help but Anrir being so warm helps. “I know you won’t like this suggestion but as a health specialist I do recommend that perhaps it is time for you to live inside more regularly again?” You can barely hear the quiet engine over the Heater going, Anrir not allowing you to fuss about anything right now once more saying he had it under control, “Arata mizerabil... (Miserable looking…)” He says in Nostroman letting his tongue click as you bury yourself closer to his chest, feeling those ports dig into your skin, “At least something temporary, yes?” He says sounding a little worried, “Wouldn’t that be nice? A temporary place to stay till you find what you want to do?”

“Daycare.” You croak out.

“Hmm?” Anrir looks down at you cocking his head to the side surprised you answered him.

“I want to take care of kids. I like taking care of kids. Don’t know why… so I want to start a daycare.” You say but you soon get weepy, “But who is going to let me do that. Look at me! I’m living in my car running away from my family and I can’t -” You stop your distressed rant as you cough and your nose plugs up again making it hard for you to breath and you can’t help but squirm in Anrir’s grip.

“Shh Dragă, I’ll take care of you.” Anrir says softly a uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice you weren’t expecting from a Night Lord, “You don’t need to worry anymore, Dragă.” Again it’s a soft and warmth to his voice you didn’t know he could have, “Do you trust me?” He asks in a tone you have trouble reading.

Bonds are supposed to be good things… that’s what everyone says… you have a companion for life… and you can tell that they get so much out of what we give them as they were clearly made for something far more violent. But… did you trust Anrir. No… you did not trust him as that feeling never goes away… “What do you want Anrir?” You finally say after a minute of silence.

“You, Dragă.” Anrir says quickly breathlessly.

Again you lay there silently thinking… you didn’t know what he wanted… was it really just being with you? You’ve been with him for months at this point and you couldn’t figure out what he wanted. You did research on bonds from what little you could find and everything kept coming back to just wanting to keep their bonded alive and safe. You were scared to let someone in your safe little world but you were so tired of keeping everything so tight to your chest. Maybe it was because you were sick but you nod and let out a heavy sigh softly saying, “I trust you Anrir.”

His reaction was immediate as he pressed his cheek to yours and you could feel the purring in your teeth as it was so loud, your finger bones felt like they were vibrating, but you didn’t feel the quick kisses that he leaves on your skin. You whimper at the sudden affection. It was anrir’s quirk as he was odd with his affection as whenever you would seek him out for affection he would smother you in his affection but you were okay with it because it was on your terms… your gut wouldn’t stop at the feeling that sometimes it was on his terms luring you in… He presses a kiss to your forehead trilling, his accent thick, “I don’t want you to worry any more my Dragă. I will take care of everything.” His black eyes seem to glitter in delight as he makes his declaration. And you just let go of that tension a bit more.

You don’t know how Anrir found this place, it had a horribly short lease but you knew that it was just to get you out of the weather… you’re certain this place wasn’t built for Astartes in mind so usually that meant they weren’t allowed. You guessed that the landlord looked the other way if said Astartes was paying in cash. It was small and cramped... but it was warm and you could store more than just a bit of food. You were sitting in the tub as Anrir sat on the side shirtless as his hands were massaging shampoo into your hair. You didn't need help with your hair but that didn't stop you from leaning into his hands as he helped you feel clean.

Anrir chuckled at your gentle groaning and moaning as it was clear you were enjoying yourself. He enjoyed helping you feel this way helping you clean and take care of you in this small way... he shivered as he was cleaning his Dragă... he wrapped his Dragă in a nice fluffy towel... he carried his Dragă to the bedroom and savored the laugh that left your mouth as he just tossed you onto the bed with a bounce.

You just laid there, eyes closed, enjoying yourself... sure there was only one bed which was fine as you had spent most of the winter snuggling up to Anrir in the car, it was not the most comfortable mattress in the world... the apartment was quiet...no it was never quiet not with the thin walls... but Anrir was quiet. You became aware of how you were just laying naked on the bed... alarms were going off in your head as you feel his smooth hands run over your knees, feeling his thumbs push into the side as he spreads your legs open slowly. This wasn't normal... and yet this felt like what everything was building up too... but you were always told that bonds were selfless things, right?

Your skin trembles as his hands move over your drying flesh, your breathing shivers, you can feel the bed shift as Anrir climbs onto it. Your throat bobs as you swallow the nervous energy but your eyes open as you feel the bare skin of his legs as he had divested himself of his pants. Anrir's silent still as he presses his scarred lips against your cheek, his body leaning over yours as he settles between your legs, and you feel his hand move to your chin to slowly turn you to meet him. His lips dragging against your flesh as the scarred flesh presses against your own lips. You were close enough that you could tell that his eyes were not fully black... you could see the dark blue of his iris darting with micromovements as he took in your face. But, you could see the predator in his eyes... but it was something more the term hyper-predator comes to mind because what monsters would someone like Anrir need to hunt?

Anrir presses his mouth to yours more and you close your eyes allowing the kiss to deepen. Anrir had been nothing but good to you... but you worry... would he use this against you? You desperately hope that he wouldn't. "Mina..." His voice rumbles like thunder as his hands drag across your flesh in a way that feels dominant and possessive. You can't stop the shuddering moan that leaves your mouth as his mouth moves against the front of your neck, licking the way your throat moves in its swallowing motion. "Toate ale mele… (All mine...)" He says whispering to you in a language that you don't know, "Fiecare parte din tine… toată a mea… trupul și sufletul tău. (Every part of you... all mine... your body and your soul.)" He says again as Anrir presses his cock against your entrance. His mouth continuing its worship of your neck and chin as you open your eyes slightly and just watch Anrir with lidded eyes. He cups your face as his tongue presses hard on your lower lip before pushing his tongue back into your mouth just kissing you hard.

You knew you had fringe thoughts about Astartes... Anrir was just proving to you one thing... that they were far too human to ignore. Far too human and far too predatory... you could never get that feel good emotion from Anrir... from any Astartes really. They were all predators... they were man made monsters made to fight monsters that you didn't know would exist beyond the silver screen of Hollywood or the writings of horror writers. He pulls his mouth away trilling at you and pausing when he sees the look on your face. You were looking at a predator looking at prey a malicious looking thing that tried to play the part of a friendly thing... a wolf playing the role of a dog. "Anrir."

"Yes Dragă." He says as a hand cups your face.

"What do you want?" You again ask... because... you don't think he's lying about the bond but this wasn't normal? You felt everything rushing anxiously to a point.

"You, Dragă." He says devotedly.

You were tired... so tired of being on your own for years before Anrir came. Oh how much Anrir had helped beyond just the money he gave you and the food... just being here... even if it was wrong... even if... you were so tired. You pull Anrir into a kiss as you didn't want to think anymore! You didn't want to worry any more... you whimper as Anrir just purrs loudly as you decide to let Anrir take care of it... take care of you... just for today you tell yourself as you melt into the embrace.

You feel the slight discomforting sensation of your walls spreading open as his cock slowly pushes in. When it becomes too much your hand or foot pushes against his chest which makes him stop till your brow stops furrowing and you for him to continue. This continues until his hips are flush with yours and Anrir hisses in delight, "Atât de strâns atât de bine cu mine… draga mea… a mea. (So tight so good to me... my dear... mine.)" You once more don't understand him but you decide to not worry about it as he starts moving. Your thighs burn slightly at the stretch to have them spread open wide for Anrir to thrust into you. Your eyes close as you focus on the feeling and enjoy that he doesn't ask you to look at him but that doesn't stop him from talking, "Mă simți fată frumoasă? (Do you feel me pretty girl?)" He trills in that unknown tongue, "Te concentrezi pe penisul meu din interiorul tău? (Are you focused on my cock inside of you?)" He asks something else perhaps not realizing or caring that you don't understand him.

He picks up the pace as he pants down at you and you just yowl and moan in pleasure. Porn making everything feel so fake when real sex sounds so unsexy at times but you had no need to make things sound sexy or be perfect. You could hear Anrir chuckle at an unflattering noise you make as he slams his hips into yours again making you repeat it. Eventually things feel tighter and more anxious as Anrir tilts you slightly so his cock pushes into you at a downward angle and you just laugh at the unflattering squeak and squawk that you make. Anrir laughs with you at all those weird and all those distinctively you vocalizations but you just don't care as no one is telling you that you're being unappealing... you throw your head back and arch up as you earned the right to not worry. You moan loudly moaning his name as you feel so good! You earned this reward! You deserve this... you deserve to just let go... you orgasm with little fan fair... just a simple gasp.

You feel so good... everything feels so good as Anrir continues to chase his release, the feeling of a bed against your back, the fuzzy climbdown from an orgasm, the oily drop of sweat from Anrir that lands on your shoulder, and the comforting stutter from him that stutter causes you to open your eyes to watch his brow furrow and you watch how surprisingly expressive he gets as he cums.

The apartment is mostly quiet... as quiet as you can get with thin walls... you lay there with him not thinking about anything... not thinking as you feel his cock softening against your inner thigh. He lets out a loud breath as he lays back in bed in his spot as you meanwhile are pushing away the worry about the consequences of sleeping with Anrir. You cuddle against his side, his arm wrapping around you, you feel the cum ooze out of you ... you're still tired of thinking... you're so tired of it... so tired of worrying why and what Anrir was doing for money... You put your head against his chest over his hearts ignoring the discomfort of the ports against your face... you just listen to the way his hearts beat.

Present day

You were in a much better spot than when you were a couple of years ago... you actually came into money, no it wasn't a rich distant relative dying but it was another person you had camped with when you were homeless. They had actually won the lottery and were being smart with it, which you think was more so their Ultramarine had helped in making smart choices. Though you had your suspicions... the Alpharii... a few seem to come by every few months some to coo at the kids, eager to find a bonded, and some to talk with Anrir as you watched them take containers from your home. But being given money you sudden just kept finding yourself with more money and it was stupid how much money you got after investing some of it... you didn't want to question it and Anrir was very good at distracting you.

Oh speaking of Anrir... he got you so many gifts. He would still give you random bouts of cash but he was finally acting more and more like how a bonded Astartis is supposed to act. You also were seeing how talented he was with his hands as besides his occupation you discovered his macabre hobby that all Night Lords seem to have... bone scrimshawing and taxidermy. You could point out all the time that he acted like a normal bonded Astartis and yet at the same time... how many gestures were more. You got outfits, jewelry, wines, your current house, and hell even your job you know he had a hand in financing... it spiraled out of control with his gifts that your friends noticed and asked who your 'sugar daddy' was or rather if he had any friends.

You smile warmly and wave goodbye as the last child finally gets picked up. You head back inside letting out a soft exhale and start picking up the room not getting very far into cleaning up when Anrir wraps his arms around you and purrs into your shoulder... purring into where he tattooed you years ago. You feel him give a playful tug onto the choker collar that he made for you, expensive thing and you know he liked you wearing it. You were lucky that no one asked you what Anrir was... everyone just assumed he was a Raven Guard...

"I can smell your worry Dragă." He says nipping your earlobe.

"I'm just tired Anrir."

"Then lets go home." He kisses your cheek.

"But I have stuff to pick up-"

"And this is why we hire others to clean," He says gentle cocking his head to the side, "You're worried about something." Anrir takes the toy from your hands as you pick at the seams.

You let out a heavy sigh bringing your thumb to your lips, "I'm just scared everything is about to go wrong." Anrir takes your hand to stop you from biting your nails.

"And if it does... I will take care of it." Anrir says with such certainty and authority that makes you believe him.

The breath in your chest you let out with a heavy sigh, "Okay." You nod.

He tugs on your choker bringing you close for a kiss as he trills softly, "I will always take care of you my frumoasă dragă (beautiful darling)." And you chose to believe it.

#space marine husbandry sentience #warhammer 40k #oc: Anrir #darling: Draga #carnal bond #intense bond #yandere bond #tw: smut #tw yandere #tw: obsessive behavior #I have been working on this for so long #the smut was debatable on adding it #but the longer this took to get out the more I was like #“Fuck it”#because momrad hasn't been able to write a lot #and so its like here's some smut guys #also Raven being super ovulating right now and just being unwell for my guy so yeah another thing to convince me to keep the smut in it #also sorry about the POV switching between Draga and Anrir #I enjoy letting people see what both of them think and feel and I know its probably messy but just... yeah #no beta we die like horus #no beta we die like sanguinius #no beta we die like ferrus #no beta we die like the emperor #these tags are a mess #these tags are getting silly #im just so happy that im finally done with this and can move onto other projects

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