#Chapter serfs

[thegoblintreasure]

As a bonus to my most recent oneshot, I have made Tari (Bottom, She/her) and her friends, Yonah (Top left, they/them) and Allegra (Top right, She/her) in djarn's picrew. Just imagine Yonah's beads are more varied in colour and Allegra has a maroon gradient in her hair and hazel eyes.

[two-reflections]

Oooh! Thanks for tagging me, this is such cool stuff! It makes a lot of sense for Salamanders successors to have their own variations on the Astartes-brander relationship the Salamanders have. Might add a Dark Kraken and his serf to my Deathwatch guys...

Next thing to consider is what role the special serf fills in their Astartes' life. Perhaps these serfs drive small, one-Astartes speedboats on Naktis. I can imagine squads of speedboats whizzing their way to hunting grounds, where their bonded Astartes drop into the water while the serfs wait above to haul away the spoils.

@fossilpainting What are your thoughts? 😃

Also, @husbandsofgidrim, since I know you're also a Dark Krakens fan!

“Chapter serfs are deeply honored in Dark Kraken’s culture. Chosen from members of Naktis’s hardy native population, each servant is bound to a battle brother by blood and steel. Upon the death of a loyal serf, Dark Kraken Space Marines will hold their remains in a belt-bound reliquary. Just as the bones of beasts symbolize great strength, so do the bones of the fallen symbolize great respect.”

•Excerpt from: The Armories of Naktis: A Law of Iron•

Warhammer 40k Space Marine Primaris Assault Intercessor - Dark Krakens Chapter

[theartgremlin]

Can’t decide if I’m gonna finish this or not…

[moodymisty]

Imagine just chilling, flirting with a pretty chapter serf, turning around for one moment, and when you turn back, the Blood Ravens have stolen borrowed your serf.

shouldn't have gotten such a stealable serf then, /shakeshead

[caiusmajor]

There's a bit of this early in LEGION OF THE DAMNED -- Kersh's serfs' duties very much involve mopping up shit when he's unwell. Not a lot of their POV, but it sure does involve messy caretaking. (As opposed to their normal duties: whipping him daily, patching him up afterword, and maintaining the whip. Excoriators are wild.)

Black Library stories I want:

A day in the life of a space marine serf. Just imagine all the shit they have to go through.

I know we got a little taste of it in flight of the Eisenstein but it wasnt focused on him.

[wh40kgallery]

Deathwatch: First Founding

by Michael Phillippi

[writingsbymish]

About You As Yourself

Fandom: Warhammer 40k Pairing: Ultramarine Original Character/Chapter Serf Original Character Warnings: Mentions of death and injury, age gap (Though it is like 150 year old Astartes and 25 year old serf)

Silvanus Odiniad was considered an outcast by the Ultramarines Second Company ever since the mission that was supposed to bring him acclaim. But his new personal serf, a former Medica who he had seen on the ship before, did not seem to care of the rumours and whispers of his name on the ship. While he was hesitant having a personal serf, she may prove to be more of a pleasure to have around than a hinderance. Well, it's time for Odiniad's introduction in fanfic. This is basically just a rewrite of my first Warhammer fic when it was still with Titus. But don't you worry, Titus will play a bit of an important role in the story, even if as a side character. Plus, some original characters from other creators may make a cameo (wink wink) Let me know if you would like to be added to a taglist!

When an intimidated Chapter serf called Silvanus Odiniad to report to Captain Acharan in the command centre, he was certain he was in for another disciplinary hearing. Letting out a subtle yet visibly annoyed sighed he complied with the serf’s instruction and followed him to the Command Centre. Already serfs and tech priests were whispering amongst themselves over what the Marine had done.

What had he done, exactly? He couldn’t recall what he had done the past year since his last disciplinary hearing, where he entered an altercation with another Astartes. One thing was for certain was that Odiniad was not going to tolerate jokes about how he witnessed the death of tens of battle brothers.

Odiniad continued to question what he had done until he reached the Command Centre, where the Captain was waiting with three other individuals. Lieutenant Titus, busy communicating with Talasa on a current mission, Jacobus Hirsch, the Apothecary that he frequented for check-ups and to treat injuries. 

And a medica under his command, a young cheerful girl who had begun her duties around a year ago. This wasn’t the first time he had seen her- he saw her grow up on the Battle Barge, and last year she assisted Jacobus in treating him over the past year or so.

Odiniad had begun to question for what purpose he was summoned, and then it was revealed to him.

The girl was going to be serving under Odiniad as his personal serf.

There was nothing wrong with the serf herself- Jacobus praised her for her work ethic, politeness, and optimistic attitude. But Odiniad felt it was unnecessary for him to have a serf working for him. He didn’t need someone to do all his tasks for him. He was capable of doing them on his own. But Captain Acheran insisted that having a serf would be good for him- allow him to focus more on his missions, instead of moping around. Odiniad would have argued that it would leave him with nothing to focus on, but Acheran was still insistent. 

Odiniad relented eventually.

Odiniad walked through the hallways of the Battle Barge, power armour off and in his robes, making his way to his quarters. He already felt perverted at having to share his quarters with her, but she served the Medicae prior to becoming a personal serf, so she is possibly more than familiar with both male and female anatomy, Astartes or no. 

He had reached his quarters, and upon the doors being opened, he had found the serf, Katarina, working through some paperwork on her cot on the opposite side of his bed.

Katarina looked up at him, and already her face seemed so striking. Freckles, albeit a bit faint, were scattered across her face, her long red hair tied loosely into two braids that hung over her shoulders. And her eyes. Her vibrant eyes, blue as a summer sky. He had encountered few people with eyes as intense as hers- Lieutenant Titus’ blue eyes were already intimidating. But her eyes were the only ones that seemed… inviting, for whatever odd reason.

She gave a polite smile. “Welcome back, Lord Odiniad. It relieves me to see your mission on Kadaku has gone successfully.”

Odiniad nodded in acknowledgement and went to sit on his bed. Most personal serfs attended their masters during missions, but Odiniad was insistent that she remained on the ship during his last mission. She initially questioned his decision, but he would not be persuaded.

“Trust me when I say it is better this way.”

Katarina could only nod as she accepted his decision, stating she would offer her services to the Medicae again as usual. Odiniad felt a wave of relief wash over him as she proved her willingness to cooperate. 

She was safer on the Battle Barge.

“You seemed to have been busy,” Odiniad noted. He cringed slightly. Of course she would have been busy while he was gone. That was what she said she would do.

If she was bothered by the comment, she was doing a good job of not expressing it. “I was just attending to your paperwork, but I did do some of my old duties while you were gone. I believe I’d be of more use to you while you are here.” Katarina set down the paperwork next to her and stood up, inspecting Odiniad up and down. “Do you have any injuries that need attending to?”

Odiniad shook his head. “None that need immediate attention. Only bruises.”

As if on cue, Katarina took one of his arms in her hands, pushed the sleeve of his robe up his arm and inspected it. Just as he said, there were a few minor bruises. She did the same to his other arm.

“These bruises appears mild at worst,” She muttered, as she pulled his sleeves down. “They should heal on their own, but do inform me if you need ice for them, or if they get worse.”

Silence fell between the two of them, as Katarina sat down back on her bed, reading through his paperwork once again. Titus was never good at conversation, especially at any that was casual in nature. While the Ultramarines generally treated their serfs as vital assets to their Chapter, he had only ever acknowledged their presence in as polite a manner as he could. Though they usually responded by walking faster away from him. Was it even heretical to know personal details about a serf? Throne, he wished he could remember the Codex better.

But the feeling of her hands on his arm. Her hands were soft, her touch was gentle, and it seemed to linger even as her hand pulled away. A part of him almost missed the sensation. 

“What is it like only having vision in one eye.?”

Odiniad blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. He remained silent, as memories of Karrik came back to him. The casualties, both civilians and of his battle brothers, the Ork forces that almost literally clawed at him. He was lucky to have even survived, let alone still have vision in his left eye.

Katarina’s eyes widened and she panicked. “Forgive the intrusive question, My Lord. I was curious because not all Space Marines with injuries as severe as yours stayed with the Ultramarines for long.”

Odiniad had shook his head. Karrik happened 50 years ago, long before she was born. It was clear she had asked a question out of curiosity, not out of malice.

“The greatest challenge was learning to become accustomed to losing part of my vision,” Odiniad answered. “My aim, my perception of depth, my balance- all had to be adapted to ensure I was still efficient in battle. I spent as much time as possible training to get accustomed to my surroundings.”

Katarina let out a heavy breath. A sigh of relief? She seemed to be a perfectionist. She then smiled.

“Uncle Jacobus told me you came to him for injuries because you had a tendency to train harder than you should, even if you already had injuries from previous training sessions or missions and were supposed to be resting.”

Odiniad raised an eyebrow. “The Apothecary is your uncle?”

“Not by blood. My uncle raised me on the Battle Barge along with his sister, my aunt Annike. Both of them were good friends with my parents before they passed away.”

Odiniad frowned. “My condolences, healer.”

Katarina shook her head. “I hardly remember them. It is not a sore subject for me. My earliest memories were me walking around the Barge with both my uncle and aunt trying to keep me away from all of the hazardous machinery. They said that it would displease the Omnissiah.” 

She let out a giggle, and a warm feeling began to bubble inside of Odiniad. He quickly dismissed it.

“Where is your aunt? It has been a while since I last saw her.”

Katarina’s face dropped, and she went silent. Odiniad would have sworn to the emperor he saw tears well up in her eyes; he could smell the scent of the salty water. Her bringing a hand to wipe her eyes did little to disprove it. 

The face of grief. He knew it all too well, especially as an Astartes. He had outlived his blood family, mentors, too many of his battle brothers to count. And civilians. So many civilians.

He hadn’t realised one of his hands had been outstretched until it appeared into view. He did not know what he was attempting to do. Console her? This was inappropriate, Odiniad thought as he lowered his hand.

Eventually, Katarina blinked, and smiled once more. “Enough about me. I would like to know of some of your accomplishments sometime, if you would not mind telling me. I notice you have a stud on your forehead. I know what the people on the Barge whisper about you, but I want to know about you from yourself.”

A smile so small you would have to look closely to see it tugged at Odiniad’s lips. Katarina’s superiors seem to be justified in their acclaim of her.

“I shall, healer.”

Katarina’s eyes widened, her mouth forming into an O shape.

“Before I forget, My Lord, you may address me as Tari, if you’d like. That is what my friends among the Chapter Serfs refer to me as. Katarina is merely for formalities sake.”

Perhaps he would enjoy having her around after all.

“As you wish, Tari.”

[voices-of-favor]

A quick shout out to the brave mortals who regularly fight side by side with the Voices of Favor

From the brave chapter serfs and stalwart soldiers of the imperial navy, to the indentured xenos warriors who had no say on the matter

All help the marines keep planet Malto and its system much safer than it would be

[occasionalsnippets]

So since Fabio technically became Callister's 'God' through Ancient rituals performed by older gods in the past, what are the chances of him or maybe mc accidentally paving the way for themselves to become gods because Hapanesus surely wouldn't mind, I feel like he might accept it because if that's what Fabio wants to do to spread happiness he could do it?

Also that one post im sure you reblogged where a guy became a paladin because of their devotion to their spouse and because they said their vows so strongly the universe saw fit to give them powers(?) Athanas to Fabio and Mc

He only meant to seek them out to potentially save the world but found himself giving his oath as a paladin to love them for as long as he lives (whether mc or fabio 'reciprocate' he'll still love them cuz thats faith, also his character is just devotion incarnate, whether thats a good thing for the two players... well its not like they can stop him)

Also, mild angst for Athanas when he's faced with doubts about his loyalty towards mc and Fabio because they're still a bit set that some people are still shackled by their character settings(Ooc). You can do this Athanas!!! You'll make out the Ultra Difficult Masochist route and get them to believe in your love and devotion towards them eventually!!

- Apostle-serf Anon

ASdaklsh I'm pretty sure Fabio going to become a god in the later chapters (esp considering the kr title translates more literally into "I Played A God Game, Became a God, God Damn!"). If it happens I want him and Mc to have complementary things they’re the gods of… like beginning and end or concepts that can’t exist without the other.

Hapanesus has been MIA so far in the story I don't know what he's up to😭 Fabio's like an outdoor cat he's been letting out that's gonna get stolen by someone else.

Speaking of the recent tled chapters, Calister probably noms on MC and Fabio, becoming a weird love child between them instead of a Fabio clone...

(reference to this post) Knights and devotion!!!! Tasty!! Athanas sure is putting himself through it but it's for love! It's because he loves them! He wants to save them even though they don't always want to be saved!

[two-reflections]

Five Times Ohm Lit the Flames, Chapter 4

[Summary: Every Salamander has his brander-priest, a constant presence in his life from the moment of Ascension. Even Elysius, a Chaplain with steel-clad faith and a near-unshakeable soul, has Ohm, a blind brander who knows his more vulnerable, introspective side. This is their story.]

[Rating: M, Multiple Platonic Relationships, Chapter 4/6]

[Tags: Branding, Interrogation, Chapter Serf, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Blindness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Career Progression, Slice of Life, 5+1 Times.]

This was written for @husbandsofgidrim part of @wh40ksummerfest! Thanks to @squishyowl for the dividers!

If you haven't read the previous chapters: Chapter 1.

[wh40kgallery]

Artist Unknown

[writingsbymish]

Rumours and remarks

Fandom: Warhammer 40k Pairing: Ultramarine Original Character/Chapter Serf Original Character Warnings: Mentions of medical stuff, but not in too much detail

A worried Tari finds herself helpless as she waits for her wounded Lord by the Surgery Bay, the Lieutenant offers her advice that she may want to keep in mind. Same drill as the last fic, had the base ready and simply rewrote it to fit. Plus, a mention of a certain battle sister comes along @hatsubara-8chan 👀 I might be able to get in at least one more oneshot of Odiniad and Tari before I get a little extra busy, so keep an eye out. Remember to let me know if you would like me to add you on

“Can’t you at the very least let me see him?”

Tari stood at the door of the Surgery Bay, as a nervous Medica stuck his upper half of his body outside the door. Behind her stood Allegra, a taller Scribellum with maroon tips in her otherwise black hair and hazel eyes, and Yonah, a medica just as Tari was with beads hanging from their braids and a patch of white over one of their black eyes which contrasts their otherwise dark skin.

“Apothecary Fergus has specifically requested that I let no one in.” The serf stuttered. “Not without his authorization.”

Allegra had forced herself in front of Tari, peering down at the medica and using her height to make the already frightened medica practically shiver.

“Listen you whimpering dog,” Allegra said with a sneer in her voice “You do realise you’re speaking to his personal serf, right? She has a right to-”

“Allegra, please don’t.” Tari had her hand in front of her friend, moving her back. “I’m not any more important than the rest of us just because of who I was assigned to. I’m just a serf, nothing more.”

Allegra looked back at Tari, and back at the serf, before she raised her hands up.

“Alright, we can play the waiting game if that is what you want, Tari.” She moved sideways to lean her back against the wall. “For now, at least.”

Tari shrugged. “That’s the most I can expect from you.”

The medica nervously nodded and shut the door as the sound of shuffling feet could be heard from the other side.

“Ass.” Allegra crossed her arms.

“Allegra! He might hear you!” Yonah scolded.

“What? Fergus has always been an ass to us, Yonah. Especially to Tari.”

That part was certainly true. Fergus had never liked Tari. Even when she tried to act courteous to him, he always looked down upon her with a glare that could strike down a Carnifex in one blow. She found the best way to get on his good side was to focus on her duties. Under her uncle or under Lord Odiniad.

“Antagonizing him or anyone of his team will not get us anywhere.” Tari crossed her arms. “It will always be like this. He despised my family the moment they arrived on the Battle Barge. And by extension, that contempt will latch on to me. As long as we all are on the Barge, he will despise us.”

Tari could only pray to the God-Emperor for Lord Titus’ well-being. She had not received word of what his injuries were, let alone how severe they were. She only saw two of Lord Odiniad’s battle brothers helping him to the Surgery Bay, and Apothecary Fergus and his preferred team of serfs and servitors to help him.

Allegra scoffed. “I think this is a lot of bull-”

“There’s not much we can do on that front. He had been with the company before my return.”

A voice interrupted Allegra, and a shadow covered over them. Tari had recognized the voice and soon looked up.

"Lord Titus," She bowed. "It is a pleasure."

Allegra stood up and looked at Tari, confused. “Wait, you know him?”

Yonah chimed in. “When you’re in the Medicae, you get acquainted with everyone on the ship, Astartes or no. It is good to see you again, my Lord.” Yonah finished off with a bow for both the Marines

“What about me?”

“What about you?” Yonah looked at Allegra confused. “You’re part of the Scribellum.”

“And you do not share their dirty secrets with me? There’s already a rumour that he is involved with an Adepta Sororita, is it true or not?”

Yonah whacked at Allegra’s shoulder with their hand. “Allegra!”

“What?”

“Not in front of the Lieutenant!”

As the two bickered, Tari turned her attention back to Lieutenant Titus.

“Excuse them, My Lord,” She apologized with an embarrassed smile.

“You certainly keep interesting company,” Lord Chairon said with a raised eyebrow. “Including the Lord you serve. I’ve overseen the recent operation.”

“That indeed.” Tari blushed a little. “Speaking off.”

She looked back at the Surgery Bay with a concerned expression.

“You worry for him, healer?” Lieutenant Titus asked.

“No one was telling me anything about him,” Tari answered. “It might just be the former medica who speaks, but no one has even told me about the severity of his injuries.”

“Reports from one of his battle brothers informed me he was attacked by a Trygon,” The Lieutenant stated. “There is a wound on his side, and on his forehead, but I was informed neither are severe.”

Tari sighed. “Thank the Emperor.”

“Your Lord will be fine,” Lieutenant Titus reassured her with a small smile. “It just appears the reaction of the Apothecary treating him is … What is the word?” Lieutenant Titus thought for a bit. “Out of proportion?”

Tari had assisted with the Lieutenant’s wounds the year he returned to the Medicae. At first, he was withdrawn, cold even. It intimidated her more than when she first started working with Odiniad. Over time, however, he seemed to have been a little more relaxed with everyone, battle brother or humble serfs. First, it was after he earned the Laurels of Victory and was treated after his mission with Calgar that Tari noticed it. He was still reserved, but not entirely withdrawn. Over time, the 2nd Company started working alongside the Adepta Sororitas, and he seemed even less withdrawn…

Suddenly Allegra’s rumour did not seem so implausible.

“You see? He is more lighthearted than usual,” Allegra pointed out. “This is the first time I’ve seen the Lieutenant smile!”

“You are impossible, Allegra!”

“You want to know what’s impossible? Your ass!”

Tari turned to her friends, who were still arguing and smiled apologetically at the Lieutenant.

“Allow me,” Lieutenant Titus offered. Tari stepped back, and watched as the Lieutenant returned to his usual, serious self, picking up both Allegra and Yonah in each hand by the hem of their robes and pulling them apart. Allegra was about to protest when she saw the look on Titus’ face. She was taller than the average serf, but even he towered over her. She went quiet afterwards.

Yonah, on the other hand, already knew it was time to stop. “Leaving with haste would be my suggestion.”

Allegra nodded frantically. “I agree.”

Seeming to be satisfied with the outcome, Lieutenant Titus let them both go, and the two began walking past Tari, but before they could say anything she spoke.

“I will be with you in a moment,” Tari informed them. “I would just like a word with the Lieutenant, if he would not mind. It’s about Lord Odiniad.” She looked over at the Lieutenant expectantly, who gave a nod. 

“We’ll be with your uncle when you come find us,” Allegra said, before she and Yonah walked in the same direction with some distance in between them. Once the two were gone, the Lieutenant spoke.

“I have worked with Brother Odiniad before, and will be fine answering your questions. Should I confirm his current status?”

Before Lieutenant Titus could enter the Surgery Bay, Tari stood in between him and the door.

“That will not be necessary, My Lord,” Tari affirmed. As much as she wanted to know that her Lord was okay, having the Lieutenant check on her behalf might raise suspicion to her, and her Lord Odiniad would be dragged into Apothecary Fergus’ list of people to despise.

“But you brought up the point I wanted to ask,” Tari continued. “I’ve only worked with him for a few weeks now, but you have been supervising his operations over the past year. I was wondering if you had any insights on how to work with him. I think he is becoming more amicable towards me, but he still seems to shut himself away. As if he was hiding something.”

Lieutenant Titus thought for a moment before he had an answer ready. “Lord Odiniad is not the type to open up even with his own Battle Brothers. The fact that you believe he has been amicable towards you already tells me a lot about how you two have been fairing together.”

Tari blinked in surprise, but did not say anything and let the Lieutenant continue.

“He does however exhibit a desire, from my understanding, of wanting to keep his fellow Battle Brothers safe, even if they view him as an outsider. The operation ended with him getting wounded because he sensed the Trygon and pushed one of his brothers out of the way before it could strike.”

It started to make sense why Lord Odiniad was insistent on her remaining on the Barge. He seemed to display this behaviour towards everyone. But where did it come from?

“Do you know why he acts that way?” Tari asked. “Everyone always looked at him as if he does the opposite?”

“I’ve only known him for a year, so I’m afraid not,” The Lieutenant frowned. “But I’ve heard him being referred to as the Wanderer of Karrik. My suspicions tell me wherever he earned that title is the cause of his behaviour.”

The Wanderer of Karrik. She had heard of that title before when people referred to Lord Odiniad. It was supposed to be a title of honour, according to some of the older Astartes on the Barge, for heroic duties that saved countless of lives from heretics.

“Forgive me for being unable to answer your questions, healer,” the Lieutenant apologized. “My only advice would be to approach him with patience. He seems to be fond of you already, so I would advise you to continue to interact with him as you have done, and he will be more willing to open up.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Tari said with a bow. “I should meet up with my friends and with Apothecary Jacobus.”

Lieutenant Titus nodded. “As you were, healer.”

—---

Tari walked towards her- Lord Odiniad's quarters later when the Night Cycle had begun. After the loitering with her friends, it may be a good idea to finish some of her duties- make the quarters as neat as possible for when her Lord returns, finalize some additional paperwork. 

She recalled her conversation with Titus, and the mention of the title. Tari did not know much about the mission, and when she asked her uncle about it, he said it happened when he was a child, thus he knew little of it as well. Was it where he achieved his stud from? She couldn’t ask one of the older Marines- they look at him with glares that would leave a dreadnought feeling ashamed. The only way she would find out about his title would be to ask him directly, and that would take time before she could get him to that level of comfort.

Tari had reached the quarters and opened the door to see Lord Odiniad, sitting on his bed in his robe. Tari heaved a sigh of relief.

“I am relieved to see you are recovering from your injuries, My Lord,” Tari said as she approached Lord Odiniad. “When were you released from the Surgery Bay.”

“Recently,” Lord Odiniad responded. “The Apothecary wanted to keep me in the Bay overnight. But he can honestly kiss my ass about that.”

Of course he did.

Tari took a closer look at the cut on his forehead. She could see the shoddy suturing work on his forehead, and she had to try her best to quell the anger inside her.

“The sutures are too loose, the wound is practically still open,” She muttered out loud, before she looked at her Lord. “Who did the suturing?”

“Two serfs were focused on my wounds,” Lord Odiniad responded once more. “No one really oversaw them.”

“May I see the other one?”

Tari realised that she had practically asked her Lord to remove part of his robe, and she blushed.

“Only if you wish, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable My Lord.”

Lord Odiniad did not seem to react in any obvious manner and simply lifted his robe on his side to allow her to inspect. She took a closer look at the wound. The serf that did the suturing on his side seemed to have done a good job at least.

“You can lower your robe now, this is very awkward.”

“Why do you say that?” Lord Odiniad lowered his robe.

“Well, it’s just…” Tari tried to think of an answer. She had seen him without his clothing before during his Rubicon surgery, but to think of 

“You were a medica,” Lord Titus responded. “You should not have to feel uncomfortable about wanting to see my wounds. Every mission I go on, you seem to insist the check up on me in case I receive any wounds. Why do you feel ashamed now?”

Tari remained silent for a moment, not sure how to answer. It was true, as his serf who served in the medica, she shouldn’t have to feel awkward about wanting to check his wounds, no matter where they were located.

Why was she feeling so hot? Was she developing a fever?

No matter, she had to tend to the wound on his forehead.

“I shall have the wound on your forehead immediately tended to,” Tari bowed, before she ran to her belongings. She took her medica kit from under her Aunt’s old bow and placed it on her cot, rummaging through the bag for what she needed. Some rubbing alcohol, suturing supplies, a cloth. Once she had everything, she took the supplies and placed them on the ground near her. She first took the rubbing alcohol and cloth, pouring some of the alcohol onto the cloth.

“This may sting a little,” She stated, but it seemed to have elicited a low chuckle from her Lord.

“That is the least of my troubles,” Lord Odiniad said.

“I just like to say it in case,” Tari said, as she started cleaning the wound to prevent further infections. Lord Odiniad did not even wince in pain, and Tari’s mouth went agape at his apparently high pain tolerance.

Once she was done, Tari put away the cloth and picked up the needle and suture. She carefully arranged everything before she got to work stitching the wound. On occasion, she would look down at Odiniad, and her cheeks would feel warm. His features were rugged on his tanned skin. His hair was longer, and he was not clean-shaven compared to the rest of his battle brothers. He looked as if he had seen so much suffering, but she could see the kindness in his eyes. At least, the one dark brown eye that could still see, and didn’t have scars running through it.

Now was not the time to stare.

Tari sutured the wound as quickly and efficiently as possible. If Lord Fergus saw the work she had done, he would certainly throw a fit. But at least the wound was now on the right path towards healing.

“Thank you,” Lord Odiniad nodded. “To be fair, the Lord Apothecary was rather… unpleasant to have been treated under.”

Tari was no stranger to that story. A lot of Astartes who had been treated by Apothecary Fergus complained about his… unsavoury attitude. But he had been with the 2nd Company for almost a century. Even though her uncle had earned his place as Apothecary, Fergus was still his superior.

“You are not the first to complain about him.” Tari packed away her medica kit, chuckling a bit. “And I doubt you will be the last.”

“Your uncle is much more pleasant to work with.”

Tari smiled. “I’ll be sure to let him know you said that.”

“As are you.” 

Before Tari could respond, Lord Titus sputtered a bit.

“As a healer and a serf. Your superiors respect you a lot.”

Tari tried to distract herself from the butterflies in her stomach before she shook her head, smiling.

“That is very kind to say, My Lord,” Tari responded. “Now you need to rest. Your wounds will take a few days to heal.”

Lord Odiniad laid back in his bed, his usually tense demeanour surprisingly relaxed.

“Understood.”

[reclusiarch-orm]

Happy dental health day. every month the toothbrush serf distributes new brushes to the chapter's neophytes. it is an event much anticipated

[vyzz-undercover]

[Squad Damocles/f!serf]

(11,000 words) (OOPSIEEEE MAXED IT AGAIN)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•intercourse [M/M/M/F]

•oral sex (m & f receiving)

•discussions on the codex

•discussions on reproduction

•essentially a bukkake

•vaginal fingering

•dubcon (via power imbalance)

•definitely size kink

•mild fear elements

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

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It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

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

It's terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

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

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

Then the situation nosedives.

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

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

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

"Truly? To whom?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

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

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

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

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

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

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

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

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

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

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

You blink, "My Lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sounds painfully ominous.

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

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine loudly at the sensation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

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

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

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I ought to pull out, now."

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

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he smiles.

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

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

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

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

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

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

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

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

"Care to try?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft whine is all you can offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that's what the stink is?"

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

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

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

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

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

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

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

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

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

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's—he's a lot.

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

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

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

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

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

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

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

It all happens absurdly fast.

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

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

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

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

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

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

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

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

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

"Can you show me, serf?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

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

"How's this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[purplebutwarhammer]

I came up with some ideas for how a Primarchs wife would be titled by the legions and by the general public.

Legion mother is sort of a generic term across the board. For an example Astartes from different chapters would use Legion Mother with each other since it has no implications other than being their Primarchs wife, that and in official circumstances it’s considered their formal title, ie Corax’s wife would be introduced as Lady Corax, Legion Mother of Raven Guard.

This is not a full list since I’m not as familiar with some legions so I may make a part two one day

Night Lords:

Domina Nox

- Literally means ‘Lady of the Night’ but doesn’t have the same implications (although I’m sure the joke has been made, and the would be comedian is swiftly taught the error of their ways)

- Domina on its own can also mean ‘mistress of the household’ or just ‘wife’, however it can also be translated as ‘owner’. the legion probably wouldn’t use the shortened version in most cases, but Curze might recreationally.

The Dark Queen of Nostramo

- This would be mostly used by people outside of the legions and off Nostramo, for example a newspaper on Macragge might say “The Dark Queen of Nostramo today met with our ambassadors”. It’s a reflection of Curzes title that simultaneously recognises her as an equal to him but also makes a dig at what she represents. The kind of snarky wordplay politics loves

- It’s occasionally used by some Night Lords and Curze in a shortened form, ie “The Dark Queen requires our presence” or “My Dark Queen has no time for your foolishness, leave now before I present her with your head.”

The Mad Queen

- A term used exclusively amongst civilian populations and meant in an insulting to occasionally sympathetic manner. Usually it’s in reference to the fact she married and stuck by Curze even as he began to spiral, the juxtaposition between her more tempered manner and her continued enforcement of her husbands laws makes her seem unstable to the untrained eye.

- In the future when the true story has become blurred it’s used to refer to her much like an archetype from a play, a queen dragged down into her husband’s madness and driven to extremes. It’s said in a hushed saddened tone that conveys a warning about following in her footsteps and what love can drive a person to.

White Scars:

Khatun

- This one’s fairly obvious, it’s the title given to a Khans wife. I can imagine many of the White Scars would use “The Great Khatun” when in conversation with others, both as a show of respect and to remind others to mind how they speak when she’s the topic of discussion.

Dark Angels:

Lady El’Johnson

- Lady ‘first name’ was typically used for wives of Knights, and I can see this being the norm of Caliban but off planet surnames are more of the norm for formality.

- It would also play into the Dark Angels penchant for secrecy, only on Caliban and amongst trusted company would their Legion Mother be Lady ‘First Name’ in any other situation it’s Lady El’Johnson

The Lioness

- This one is a little more tongue in cheek and largely used amongst the Primarchs to refer to their sister in law and some of the other legions in recognition of her ferocity.

Mistress of the Knightly Orders of Caliban

- This one is a formal title used mainly on Caliban and formal events on Terra when her arrival is being announced. The Lion specifically created the title as recognition of her station and to give her rank amongst the legion so her authority isn’t only seen as an extension of his.

- It gives her domain over the ‘womanly’ tasks of the order, acquisition of food, clothing, and maintenance of household. Essentially the entire homefront falls under her command, and her authority on these matters often outweighs that of her husbands.

- The largest part of this is overseeing and organising the serfs for the entire legion, it’s mainly just the ones serving on Caliban but any major changes throughout the entire legion have to go through her first.

Space Wolves:

Wolf Mother

- Another self explanatory one, she is the Space Wolves mother so she is ‘Wolf Mother’. I like to think that on their wedding day Leman gifted her a wolf pelt to wear which became a trademark of her appearance.

Frue Russ

- Frue was the title given to a Jarls wife, I see this as being what the citizens of Fenris would call her instead of anything like queen.

- I’ve seen mixed sources that say Frue was specifically for a wife who owned land in her own right, but I’m not 100%. I can see Lemans wife as someone who can lead in her own right so bringing her own land and people into the marriage wouldn’t be far fetched

Ultramarines:

Lady Guilliman

The Lady Ultramar

- I’m going to group these two together since they’re both fairly generic, they’re the kind of on paper titles that get the point across

The Imperial Regent Consort

- This is after Guilliman becomes Regent and naturally his wife gets a title to match, it’s wholly an invention of Terra and only sees use from them and other Imperial citizens outside of the Ultramar sector.

Augusta

- Historically it’s Roman title given to empresses of exception that allowed them to wear imperial regalia and hold their own court.

- I imagine that Lady Guilliman can do all of this and more and so is given the title to match, she’s another who I think manages the ‘home’ whilst her husband is away on campaign.

Mater Ultramar

- ‘Mother of Ultramar’, similar to the Roman title for the empress ‘Mater Patriae’, may be called Mater for short informally by some Ultramarines but this is usually an indicator of dire circumstances or moments of great strife when the boys in blue just want their mum.

Salamanders:

Forgemother

- I assume that Vulkans wife would know her way around a forge, and I like to think she makes little trinkets for the Neophytes to put on their first set of armour

Lady of Drakes

- Matches her husband and would usually be used as a formality on Nocturne, like when she’s being introduced at an event.

Raven Guard:

Raven Mother

- This one would be used by legionnaires when speaking to Lady Corax directly ie “Raven Mother, we have news from The Shadow of The Emperor.”

- The civilians of Deliverance would also use it when referring to her to others ie “The Raven Mother is holding an event later”

The Shadowed Lady

- She doesn’t command the shadows as her husband does but is protected by them just the same, shadows can often be seen draping over her like a cloak when in her husbands presence.

- This would also be the name used to refer to her in Corspake and other semi coded communications.

Word Bearers:

The Madonna

- This would be in the religious sense (not like the singer). Especially after the heresy the Word Bearers come to idolise their Legion Mother as the perfect woman. Sermons are given on how all wives and mothers should strive to emulate her.

[zackprincebooks]

Sir That's my Emotional Support Baseline

After a study between the Salamanders and Ultramarines shows that a baseline companion is helpful for Space Marine mental health, Chapter Master Dante begins implementing the practice among the Blood Angels--starting with Chief Librarian Mephiston. (Mephiston x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; Reader is AFAB but not addressed with any pronouns. I did have to lock this work on Ao3 due to the recent round of AI scraping; sorry!

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

(Tagging my fellow Mephiston enjoyers @solspina and @angronsjewelbeetle)

There are few things in the Imperium of Man more beautiful to you than the Librarius of the Arx Angelicum. With shelves carved out of volcanic rock rather than constructed of wood, new shelves can be added as needed to accommodate the growing collection of relics, scrolls, and data crystals. Fragrant incense smoke rose to the cavernous ceiling in pale wisps, mingling with the candle smoke that cast shadows along the walls. Occasionally, one could hear the chanting of Blood Angels in the Holy Sepulchre above.

Every inch of the Librarius is covered in Blood Angel history; even the floor is a massive mosaic of the Emperor of Mankind’s arrival on Baal to tell Sanguinius of His fate. Those working in the Librarius reverently avoid stepping on the tiled faces of Sanguinius and the Emperor as they go about their tasks.

But that is not the only place where the golden vision of the Great Angel oversees your work. A statue of Sanguinius greets you, holding the chapter’s founding copy of the Codex Astartes on a stasis plinth in his outstretched hands. You bow before it upon entering the Librarius, as you do every day.

The candlelight of the Librarius blurs into a sea of orange and gold, and the clicking and chattering tunes in and out of your ears. You sway back and forth as a presence settles over your body. Anchoring yourself on a nearby shelf, you open your mind to accept the message beamed into it.

“Come. I have work for you.”

It disappears and you right yourself, blinking until you can see each individual candle. Another serf approaches to inquire after your wellbeing, but you brush them off with a brief reassurance and venture deeper into the Librarius.

You don’t want to keep him waiting.

The air deep in the Librarius becomes chilled, and the candles cast longer shadows on the wall. Your nose stings with the scent of incense but you resist the urge to itch it. You are the only serf down here, surrounded by lexicani and epistolaries, and it behooves you to be on your best behavior if you wish to keep these privileges.

The shelves around you display alien technology and trophies from wars waged long before your great-great-grandfather was born. You linger, only briefly, on a sword encrusted with as much gold as it is blood.

But a greater treasure lies further within.

He awaits you in a yawning vault full of ancient scrolls and books, their delicate nature requiring delicate storage away from grubby paws of lesser archivists. Mephiston stands with his back to you as he leans over a wide platform with several papers pinned for restoration and research. He doesn’t address you immediately; preferring to finish applying a protective coating to a few pages with a brush clenched between his nimble gloved fingers. The only indication that Mephiston is aware of your presence was an imperceptible twitch of his left shoulder.

He cuts an imposing silhouette, and his white hair sets him apart from his Blood Angel brethren, but the candlelight throws shadows across his proud nose and strong jaw that makes your hands clammy and your knees weak. 

When Mephiston finally turns around to address you, your composure is perfect: hands at your sides, head bowed reverently, eyes averted respectfully. “My Lord. You have work for me?”

A deep, shuddering sigh comes from within Mephiston’s lungs. A peek at his face reveals that one hand has pinched the bridge of his nose and his jaw is set.

“Raise your head. I wished to put aside this conversation for a later date, but Lord Commander Dante has pushed my hand.” You slowly raise your head, though when you accidentally meet his piercing gaze, you immediately redirect it to his shoulder, wrapped in red fabric. Space Marines are always more intimidating when they’re outside their armor, and you realize they really are that big.

“I am at your service, Lord. What would you have me do?”

Another sigh, this one deep enough and powerful enough that it raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Mephiston’s eyes roll upwards to the ceiling as if to seek counsel from the benevolent face of Sanguinius patterned above.

“Our brothers in the Ultramarines and the Salamanders have recently published a joint study discussing the benefits of attaching baseline companions to Space Marines. Are you aware of it?’

“Only in passing, Lord. The Ultramarines make liberal usage of charts and graphs, so I find there are very few words worth reading.”

He snorts in jest. “Very true. But their study suggests that keeping baseline companions increases the health of Space Marines. Various legions have begun adopting the practice on varying levels, and Lord Commander Dante has suggested a “trial run” within some of our ranks.”

Mephiston’s brow creases. “I wished to take more time with my decision, but Lord Dante informed me that if I do not choose, he will choose for me.”

You are barely able to smother a squeal, as Mephiston moves so you are forced to make eye contact with him. There is a light blue glow in his gaze that makes your eyes water, but you refuse to blink. “If you are not the current companion of a Blood Angel, then I ask that you become mine.”

Goodness, with how serious Mephiston was asking, you’d think he was proposing to you! Your mind reels with the mental image of Mephiston solemnly getting down on one knee, under the gaze of his genefather, to ask you for your hand in marriage. To his credit, Mephiston waits patiently as your mind does somersaults, cartwheels, and backflips.

“It would be a great honor to become your companion, my Lord,” you finally wheeze. Is it your imagination, or does something in Mephiston’s shoulders relax by inches? You bend the knee to him, and it feels as though you ought to be the one with a ring and a vow. “Please instruct me in this new, sacred duty.”

Mephiston nods, the crease in his brow smoothing. “Good. Very good, indeed.” Your stomach flutters and your fingers clench on your knee. “I will have your belongings moved from the serf dormitory into my quarters. In the meantime, visit the Sanguis Corpusculum for a physical. I would also recommend you read the study about baseline companions to better acquaint yourself with your new obligations.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Mephiston’s hand rests on your head, briefly holding you in place. His entire hand is enough to encompass your head, if he wanted. “Go in the name of the Great Angel.”

“Yes, Lord. Thank you for your blessing.” ---------------------------

Brother Caphriel is the Apothecary who tends to you, drawing your blood for a routine blood lab. While his hair is almost as white as Mephiston’s, under direct light, you see the streaks of platinum blond in his tight braids.

“I wondered when Lord Dante would begin the practice of companions,” Caphriel practically chirps as he wraps the tourniquet around your upper arm. “Though I was shocked he began with the Chief Librarian himself. The study recommended the practice start with younger Space Marines.”

“Then you have read the study?” The smell of the disinfectant stings more than when Caphriel applies it to your skin.

“Yes, and I personally know the two Salamanders cited in it. Make a fist, please.”

You look away as Caphriel draws your blood into a vial. “Do you believe the study has merit?”

“I do, and I am glad that Lord Dante believes it does, as well. Though my commitment is to the physical wellbeing of my brethren and our serfs, I fully believe that mental health is one of the first steps towards physical health.” Caphriel fills two vials and bandages your arm. “Coming back to the Arx Angelicum to a warm bed, a hot meal, and a friendly face will do a world of good to the weary mind of a Space Marine.”

His eyes close, briefly. “I cannot wait for Lord Dante to make it a chapter-wide practice.”

You are quiet as Caphriel administers the rest of your physical; checking your heartbeat and looking inside your mouth. Mephiston may not see as much combat as an average Space Marine, but surrounded by alien relics and ancient technologies, tempted by the warp, his mind is constantly at war. Wouldn’t it be nice to hold Mephiston in your arms as he let down his guard, knowing that he was finally safe with you?

You can imagine his long, deep, bone-shuddering sigh—this time, one of relief.

Caphriel releases you with a full bill of health and a copy of the companion study “for educational purposes.” You tuck it under your arm, behind another tome, to hide it as you move through the halls. Outside of Brother Caphriel, no one else knows about your transfer to Mephiston’s service—and you’d rather that no one would know, at least for now.

A quiet corner is your escape, and you wedge yourself into it with a soft grunt. Propping the ring-bound study onto your knees, you fold the cover over to read the title page:

Health and Safety of Space Marines:

A Study of Baseline Companions

By Sgt. Valorem Gadriel and Brother Meduras Chairon of the Ultramarines,

And Captain Tal’Gin Gandor and Sgt. Ursan B’Dann of the Salamanders

It is endearing to see that each of the Space Marines dedicate the study to their respective baseline companions in the foreword, thanking them profusely for their time, patience, and perspectives. Brother Chairon specifically thanks his companion, stating that this study was “for them.”

You take your time reading it over the next half hour, occasionally skimming when you reach pages mostly comprised of charts and graphs. But their results are interesting: of the Space Marines they interviewed, roughly forty percent of them considered their baseline serfs to be a personal companion. They expressed a mental and emotional attachment to their serfs, and it was a pleasure to return to them after a long mission.

“It is a relief to feel my companion laying on my chest at night,” confesses a Salamander of the 8th company, “to know that they are safe and the work I do helps keep them safe.”

“One of my small pleasures is eating a meal with my companion when I return to them. We even have a special room where we sit, as the window offers a beautiful vista of the mountains of Macragge,” Sgt Gadriel admits.

The study is peppered with more anecdotes that make your heart squeeze, but the data is what makes you want to swoon. Space Marines with baseline companions were found to be at least 65% more stable than those without, which is on par with Space Marines who answered that they preferred their fellow battle brothers as companions.

Partnered Space Marines were less likely to feel the pull of Chaos in battle (55%), less likely to be reckless in battle (73%), and had a higher return rate than unpartnered Space Marines (60%). Captain Demetrian Titus reported that Brother Chairon and Sgt Gadriel appeared more focused and calmer in battle after speaking with their companions.

85% of previously unpartnered Space Marines who picked up baseline companions over time noticed an improvement in their mental health, and even in their physical health: it drove them to train more, take care of themselves in battle, and see the Apothecary more frequently for checkups.

Space Marines also gleaned enjoyment from taking care of their companions; bringing them food when hungry and medicine when ill. Watching them heal and grow was rewarding to know that they were part of that process, and it only encouraged the Space Marine to grow with their companion.

“My companion celebrated my promotion with me, and my baseline family,” Sgt B’Dann gushed, “or, more accurately, I celebrated my promotion with my baseline family. Including my companion with them is second nature to me. I could not have done it without them.”

There was one data point in the study that made your eyes water and your face burn. 50% of partnered Space Marines said their baseline companion took care of their sexual health as well as their mental and emotional health. Having sex with their baselines was not only pleasurable, but it was also relaxing. Being intimate and vulnerable with someone they trusted allowed them to feel more confident outside of the bedroom, and the rush of reward chemicals let them see intimacy as something worthwhile.

“Sometimes it can be difficult, given our size,” Brother Chairon said, “but it is only another benefit. We learn to be patient with our companions, and sometimes the workup is its own reward.”

You lick your lips, briefly tipping your head back to think about a “workup” between you and Mephiston. Would the blue tinge of his eyes soften as he looked at you in his bed? Would he prefer to watch you open yourself up for him, or would he rather do it himself? Does he kiss you with fervor, his tongue plundering your mouth while his cock plunders your cunt? Or would he kiss you softly, whispering sweet nothings between pecks about how good you feel wrapped around his cock?

With a groan, you bury your face into the baseline study packet. Your mind suddenly cannot banish the image of Mephiston’s cock between his powerful thighs, twitching and leaking precum. Surely he must be large; Brother Chairon’s anecdote suggests that Space Marines are well-endowed enough to require a long foreplay with their baseline lovers in order to take them.

If Mephiston is big enough, you might not be able to take him the first time. Your thighs squeeze together with the phantom feeling of Mephiston sliding his cock between your legs, teasing your pussy lips with his cockhead. Would he have a knot? Something like one in four Space Marines did—

You stand up on wobbly legs, feeling all the blood rush from your pussy to your head. None of this has been decided. Mephiston only asked you to be his companion; he’s made no other overtures. And the numbers in the study indicated that not all Space Marines enjoyed sexual relationships with their baseline companions.

But the thought does not leave your mind through the rest of your duties around the Arx Angelicum. Your friends occasionally stop you with creased brows and pursed lips to ask after your soundness, and you are doing well…

…perhaps a little too well. You cannot meet Lord Mephiston’s eyes in the refectorium when you take your supper. --------------------------

By nightfall, the Arx Angelicum is beginning to slow down. Baal Prime and Baal Secundus hang in the air like two eyes, watching over humanity on its surface.

You feel as though there are eyes on the back of your neck as you stand outside of Mephiston’s quarters, a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. The light on the passkey is green, indicating that the door is unlocked.

Which means Mephiston is inside.

It’s a good thing his quarters are separated, as any Space Marine or serf would be suspicious at how much time you spend outside, waffling. Do you knock? Do you announce your presence? Leaning closer to the door, you can hear movement inside. Is he unawares? The thought of catching Mephiston changing turns your knees into jelly. His broad back and strong shoulders, dotted with ports, flexing as he undresses—

“I am not unawares. You may enter.”

His voice passes over your mind like a caress. You hadn’t even noticed Mephiston had been monitoring your thoughts until your body rattles with the rumble of his voice. You try to smother your previous thoughts, ashamed of what Mephiston will find if he tries to dig deeper.

“I don’t mind.”

As the door to his chambers slides open, you can’t help but wonder if he sounds…amused?

The stained-glass window of Sanguinius triumphing over a Chaos demon shines a red-gold light into the room, and the curtains are parted to give it the full effect. When the light falls on the bed, you struggle not to see the tableau as romantic.

Especially not when Mephiston enters your field of view, wearing nothing more than a loose robe, his hair wet from the baths and smelling of fragrant herbs. You immediately take a knee, partially out of respect and partially to avert your gaze from his muscular body, still dripping with water.

“Please,” and despite pausing to clear his throat, Mephiston isn’t able to get rid of the gravel that rattles your bones, “do not kneel before me in such a private setting.” He reaches a hand down, lifting you as easily as he would a cluster of grapes.

“Yes, my Lord,” you whimper, not wanting Mephiston to remove his hand from around your waist. Throne, he can wrap his hand index finger to thumb around you.

Does Mephiston feel your heartbeat picking up speed? Does he feel your lungs scrabbling for air? Your ribs creaking beneath his thumb?

He holds you for longer than he perhaps should, cocking his head to one side. His thumb strokes against your side, gently pressing into your ribcage.

“Lord…?” You whisper. It seems to snap Mephiston out of his trance, and he finally lets you go; though his hand lingers on your hip before slipping away.

“Your belongings have been moved,” he rasps, “check that everything is in order and put them away to your liking before tending to me.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips and your eyes narrow on the streak of wetness it leaves behind on his thin lips. Turning away, Mephiston settles himself at a desk to look over some scrolls, but the shifting fabric of his robe indicates his shoulders are shivering.

It’s a frightening sight to see. A Space Marine, the Chief Librarian, brought to his knees by his baseline companion? Do you really have that kind of power over him? As the thought marinates in your mind, you hurry over to where your belongings have been stacked neatly and unobtrusively in one corner.

Taking the study packet out, you place it with your belongings. “I received a copy of the baseline companion study from Brother Caphriel, Lord.”

“Oh?” The shuffling of scrolls ceases. “Did you find it enlightening?” Your ears strain, but Mephiston’s voice is annoyingly level.

“Yes, indeed. If I may be self-centered, my Lord, I did not consider my position in the Arx Angelicum to be so necessary.” Your shoulders prickle with the sound of Mephiston’s snort.

“Not self-centered, but self-deprecating. There are only so many Space Marines in the Imperium; we cannot concern ourselves with the daily obligations of a fortress-monastery. The study merely shows that emotional support is another obligation.”

You fail to stifle the gasp in your throat. “It is not an obligation, Lord. We…I am happy to be your companion.”

“Are you?”

You turn back to Mephiston sitting at his desk. The scrolls are pushed to one side and he is turned in his chair to face you. The candles dotting the desk give a dim, golden light to Mephiston’s hair and his sudden resemblance to his genefather is striking.

But his fine lips are permanently pulled downwards, and the shadows under his eyes are not the fault of the candlelight. You feel the gentle caress on your mind again and you simply allow Mephiston to see himself the way you see him.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and silently, Mephiston raises one arm, beckoning you to his side. You need no other bidding; scrambling to your feet without even shutting the drawer and hurrying across the room. Mephiston’s hand finds a place around your waist, thumb underneath your ribs, and pulls you into him so his nose nestles into your collarbone.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, untangling the knots left over from his bath. When you kiss the top of his head, you hear a deep rumble emanating somewhere from underneath Mephiston’s sternum. It vibrates your entire body and your toes curl in your shoes.

He’s warm, and whatever salt scrub he used in the bath makes his skin soft. You can’t help but wonder if Mephiston took a bath in preparation for you staying in his bed.

Hot breath cascades over your neck from Mephiston’s chuckling. “Don’t tell Lord Dante that he was correct, or I will never hear the end of it.”

“Would you have chosen a companion even without his prodding?” You inquire. Beneath Mephiston’s purring, you hear him hum in affirmation.

“I merely wished for more time with my choice.”

“Are you happy with your choice?” You try to keep the hopefulness out of your voice, but you still crack on “happy.”

Mephiston slowly lifts his head so his nose brushes against your neck. He holds there for a moment, breathing deeply of your scent. His tongue strokes your jugular vein, groaning softly when your heartbeat jumps. The rumbling in his chest has only increased in volume.

His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you into his lap. Your hands grip the lapels of his robe, pulling on it hard enough to loosen it, revealing the hard muscles and softly-glowing ports underneath.

You feel…something nudging at the underside of your thigh.

Mephiston pulls away from your neck, but he does not pull back from you. His nose continues sliding up your neck and jaw until his cheek brushes yours.

“Yes.”

You brace yourself for Mephiston’s kiss, but it is unneeded. His lips nip on yours, letting his tongue slip between them to make his kisses soft and slick. Your hands slide under his robe, occasionally brushing against his ports until your palms press against his nipples. Mephiston’s moan interrupts his purring, but it vibrates your body all the same.

His fangs poke your lower lip as he pulls away, but no blood is drawn. Mephiston’s hands slide from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer up on his lap so his erection sits firmly between your asscheeks.

“I cannot describe to you the elation I felt when I touched your mind and found it full of thoughts of me,” he whispers. You try to tuck your head to avoid his gaze, but Mephiston grabs your chin with your forefinger and thumb. “When you knelt before me, I had to fight the urge to push you on the ground and ravage you.”

A squeak leaves your throat, and his lips curve upwards, revealing his fangs. It would feel threatening if not for your hands on Mephiston’s chest, feeling his thudding heartbeat. Testing a theory, you grind back on his cock and relish in his shuddering moan. The blue lights in his ports flicker and his eyes flutter closed.

“Why didn’t you?” Your voice is barely a whisper above Mephiston’s purring. His eyes open.

“I am…aware of my size,” and to add emphasis, he grasps your ass tightly and grinds tightly on you, allowing you to feel the length and girth of his clothed cock. Though you cannot see it, you estimate Mephiston’s cock to be nearly the size of your forearm. “I do not want to break you on your first night in my quarters.”

Mephiston scoops you up with ease, holding you against his chest as he carries you over to his bed. You scramble to wrap your arms around his neck, your ear pressed against his chest so his rumbling voice shakes your body. “I, too, have read the study—thoroughly. I paid close attention to how my fellow Space Marines cared for their baseline companions.”

He lays you down so your upper half is on the bed while your lower half is wrapped around his waist. Mephiston’s bulge slides between your thighs, curving upwards towards your bellybutton. The fabric of his robe darkens near the tip of his cock.

“Look at how deep I will be inside you,” he growls.

Held in place by Mephiston’s hands, you watch breathlessly as he thrusts his cock between your thighs. Your hips shudder against his, starting to grind in time with his thrusting. The fabric around his cock slips away until Mephiston’s cock is bare to your wide eyes.

“Dear Throne,” you whisper. Your earlier estimation of his length was correct, though Mephiston is thicker than you expected him to be. Pulsating veins spiral up the shaft, reaching towards the bright red head, glistening with precum. 

Your eyes only get wider as they travel down Mephiston’s cock to his knot. While he’s not fully swollen, his knot is almost as red as the head of his cock. It throbs in time to his heartbeat, and Mephiston shifts so his knot presses against your clothed pussy.

“Do you like it?” For all his lust, Mephiston almost sounds shy. He cannot meet your eyes when you look up at him, instead directing his gaze to where your hands grasp at the bedsheets.

“Every inch of you is exquisite,” you whimper. Releasing the sheets from your iron grip, you reach up for Mephiston and he leans down to you, hand cupping the back of your head to pull his face towards his.

Your lips crush together in a symphony of muffled moaning. Mephiston’s cock slips out from between your thighs and presses against your stomach, wetting your uniform with precum. Where it seeps through your attire, it feels hot against your skin. Mephiston continues grinding on your stomach, huffing into your mouth. His eyelashes brush your cheeks, leaving tingling in their wake.

Mephiston pulls away. “I need to see you naked,” he pants, his fangs extended from his kiss-swollen lips. “Give me your hands.” Obediently, you place your hands over your head and Mephiston holds you by your wrists before closing his eyes and focusing until a pale blue light emanates from beneath his closed eyelids.

Something slides under your uniform, pressing against your chest and rubbing your belly. It’s firm and warm, and large. Your breath hitches as it skitters over your ribcage, seeking the ties of your robes. Mephiston’s face doesn’t give any indication of what he’s doing, though when the invisible hand pulls the tie of your robes, he lets out a soft moan.

It’s almost a shame that his eyes are closed when your robes fall open. The invisible hand parts them so your naked body is sprawled on Mephiston’s bed, held into place by his hands on your wrists and his thighs bracketing your hips. He squeezes his thighs against your hips when you try to grind on him again.

“Lord,” you whine, but Mephiston does not respond—at least, not verbally. The fingers of the invisible hand pinches one of your nipples hard, making you squeal.

“Hush,” he grumbles. The glow under his eyelids briefly shines brighter and a second invisible hand presses on your body, cupping your hip. While the first hand moves to your other nipple, the second hand slides down to the apex of your thighs where you’re dripping from his attention.

One invisible finger splits your pussy lips, rubbing your quivering slit. “You’re so wet,” Mephiston whispers in a shuddering voice, almost incredulously. “Is this all for me?”

“Only for you,” you whisper rapturously, and Mephiston moans softly. His cock is a brand where it rests on your thigh, drooling precum that mixes with your juices on the bed in a glistening puddle. An invisible index and ring finger spread your pussy lips before a middle finger slides inside.

These invisible hands are the size of Mephiston’s physical hands; you can even feel his heartbeat through the middle finger pumping in and out of your pussy. It beats in time with his cock, with his knot; and it skips a beat when your pussy lips flutter and gush.

The palm of the hand tilts upwards and you cry out as it rubs your swollen clit. Instead of losing his concentration, Mephiston almost puts too much force into his psychic hands and you whine when his finger roughly jabs your soft walls. But he reigns it in, and the pad of his finger soothingly rubs the spot where he jabbed.

“I can’t last…much…” you whimper, your clit throbbing. Looking down at your pussy, it’s a little jarring to watch your pussy quiver and spread for an invisible finger fucking you to orgasm.

Instead of speaking, a warm caress settles in your mind. “Good. I will not wait for you much longer.” Even when speaking in your mind, Mephiston’s voice is rough with lust and he sounds out of breath. “Cum for me.”

The invisible hand slams into your cunt so the middle finger is plunged deep inside, the palm groping your clit. Pulsing, tensing, arching, your mouth opens in a silent scream and white spots dance across your vision. The sound of your wet gushing is overridden by Mephiston’s moaning in your own mind. To his credit, he does not dispel his invisible hands immediately after you cum, and continues fingering you through your orgasm.

“Good pet,” he whispers, finally opening his eyes to gaze upon your wet and disheveled form. The invisible hands disappear from your body as Mephiston’s physical hands let go of your wrists and travel your heaving body to wrap around your hips and hoist you into his lap. “Now, it is my turn.”

Your mind blinks into consciousness as the bulbous head of Mephiston’s cock nudges your pussy. He grinds on you again, letting your juices wet his shaft and knot and sending little shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body.

“Would you give me your knot, Lord?” You whimper, digging your fingers into the meat of his shoulders. Mephiston’s mouth hangs open, fangs exposed. 

Taking the advantage, you press onwards. “Would you knot me? Fill me with your seed and plug me up? I don’t want a drop to leak out.” Rolling your hips, you let the head catch on your slit and push down—

—Until it pops inside.

You and Mephiston moan in tandem; with his eyes open, you are treated to the sight of Mephiston’s eyes briefly overwhelmed with the blue glow of his psyker powers. The head of his cock carves a path for the rest of his shaft until you feel it prodding the head of your womb. Your stomach feels heavy where his cock stretches you open, and looking down, the sight of your belly bulging is almost…obscene.

And then Mephiston moves.

The bulge slowly withdraws before pushing back up, the indent of his cockhead appearing just under the skin of your belly. His knot doesn’t fit in you yet, but Mephiston makes good use of grinding it against your pussy lips and short-circuiting your brain. Your body spasms in his lap, fingers dragging down his shoulders until they grip his biceps.

“All this talk about wanting my knot,” Mephiston huffs, shoving his knot against your clit and savoring your scream of ecstasy, “and yet it won’t fit in your tight little pussy?”

With one hand, he wraps it around your waist so his thumb presses against the bulge his cock makes in your stomach. “My cock won’t even fit in you, and you want my knot?” Despite the grin on Mephiston’s face, he gulps for air and each time he lowers you onto his knot, you feel his stomach shuddering.

His other hand grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “I asked you a question, pet. You want my knot?”

“Yes!” Tears leak from the corners of your eyes. “Please, I need your knot, Lord!”

The bulge in your belly distends further as your body relents to the superior strength of a Space Marine, and you gush all over Mephiston’s knot as it finally shoves inside you. With his entire cock fitted inside of you, your womb is likewise forced open by Mephiston’s cockhead and it sits there snugly, like he belongs inside of you.

He lets go of your face, stroking your cheek as he does. “I didn’t think you could,” Mephiston huffs, nuzzling your neck. “I haven’t fit in a baseline before.”

“Does it feel good?” Your stomach clenches around his cock and you both shiver.

“I never want to take you off my cock.” As though to demonstrate, Mephiston lays back on his bed, bending his knees to support you on his thighs. With your head resting on his chest, you hear Mephiston purring again. If not for his cock and knot lodged in your pussy, you might be tempted to fall asleep here.

“Do not fall asleep on me,” Mephiston warns in a breathless chuckle, his breath stirring your hair. He grinds into you, letting his full balls rub on your asscheeks. “You begged to be seeded, and I need to be drained.”

You push yourself up on your elbows, anchoring yourself on Mephiston’s chest. “Then let us fulfill each other, Lord.”

The glow in his eyes flashes again and Mephiston grasps your ass to spread the cheeks. “Oh, you are the only one going to be filled, pet.” You have but a second to brace yourself before he thrusts upwards, popping his knot in and out of your pussy with a lewd, wet noise.

There’s just enough squeeze when Mephiston shoves it back in to make you squeal, bouncing on his knot. Your womb has opened for him and when Mephiston pulls you back down on his knot, nearly half of his cock is pushed inside of your womb. His hands pull your thighs apart so he can watch you bounce on his knot.

“What a blessed sight,” Mephiston groans, running on hand over the bulge he makes in your stomach. “Would you like to see yourself through my eyes?”

You barely manage a wibbly, whimpery “yes!” before Mephiston’s eyes are overcome with their blue glow. He holds you still on his cock, knot throbbing just inside your pussy lips. He needs to take a few deep breaths to focus, and instead of the usual touch on your mind, you feel as though someone has taken your head in two hands.

The sight of Mephiston beneath you, white hair fanned around his head like a halo, begins to blur. You try blinking multiple times to clear the image, desperate to watch his face shift with ecstasy and pleasure, but the next time you blink—

You’re looking at yourself, astride Mephiston’s lap with your stomach bulged from his cock. From this angle, you have a perfect view of your pussy stuffed with his knot, the lips forced apart and swollen from being plugged over and over again. It’s also the perfect view to watch Mephiston’s cock throbbing in your womb, as your stomach twitches slightly each time he throbs.

In a truly commendable display of his psyker powers, Mephiston maintains the mental link with you as he lifts you from his cock, just enough that the bulge in your stomach disappears. “Please, Lord, please, please, please,” you beg, watching through Mephiston’s eyes as you uselessly gyrate on his cock. “I’m so close, I just need it!”

“Are you sure, pet? If you’re close, then you should be able to finish without me.”  Mephiston’s fingers dig into the soft meat of your thighs, holding you just at the tip of his cock. His powers are beginning to slip and you briefly return to your own mind to watch sweat beading on his forehead, glowing slightly from his eyes.  

“No, I need it! I need your cock!” Your fingers scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in their wake that quickly fade. As if your bright red face wasn’t pathetic enough, tears start rolling down your cheeks. “Please let me cum on your knot!”

Maybe it’s your tears, your begging, or his own need for release, but Mephiston smiles with all his fangs. “I want to hear my name when you cum,” he rumbles, at last slamming you on his knot and returning you to your own mind.

You have at least the presence of mind to answer his request, “Mephiston!” before your thoughts are scrambled by your second orgasm, cumming and convulsing on his knot. A wetness pools under your thighs, and the viscosity indicates that it’s not just your juices.

“I will give you what you want,” Mephiston growls, beginning to pound you up and down his cock like a plastic sleeve for his own pleasure. “I will give you every single drop!” His knot is lodged in your pussy, too swollen to be removed as his cock prepares your womb for his seed. You can do little more than let your mouth hang open and your eyes roll back.

“I will—” Mephiston’s voice cuts off on a throaty grunt as his swollen knot forces him to stop thrusting, holding his cock deep into your womb. His cock throbs twice before his balls heave and begin unloading his cum inside of you. The first splash of Mephiston’s cum hits your womb, filling you with warmth.

With his knot keeping everything plugged, the second and third blasts are quickly filling your womb. “How much…?” You whisper, putting one hand on your belly to feel it swelling.

“Did I not say?” Mephiston pants, “I haven’t fit in a baseline before. I am eager to see how you are filled with my seed.” He grins again, watching your belly bloating with his cock and cum.

“I feel heavy,” you moan. Your womb is stuffed, and it sloshes with cum when you try to move—not that you can go anywhere, with Mephiston keeping your thighs in a viselike grip. Your belly continues to distend with the emptying of Mephiston’s balls, and you lower yourself on Mephiston’s chest to rest again.

His knot softens enough to pull out, and he does—slowly, moving you so your back is resting against his chest. Once Mephiston’s cock withdraws from you, fully, he tilts your head towards his face.

“Are you still with me?” You make a “mmmphhh” sound in response. Mephiston chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Perhaps we should next test the emotional support of a Space Marine towards their baseline."