#40k x reader

They didn’t trust you with weapons.

Didn’t trust you with real tools, either.

But you had hands. A back. Knees that bent when told.

And a mind.

Still sharp, still whole — though you knew better than to show it too often.

Smart people got reassigned.

Or disappeared.

You’d done enough disappearing already.

---

Your bunk was bolted to a wall in a sublevel corridor that never saw real light. You shared it with twelve others. You didn’t speak to them unless necessary. Most of them wouldn’t have known what to do with a full sentence anyway.

They thought you were quiet.

Controlled. Maybe a little cold.

They were half-right.

---

Sometimes you worked the refectories. Sometimes the lower forge levels.

But when they called you to scrub the training halls—

that was when you saw them.

The Deathwatch.

And among them: Demetrian Titus.

---

You didn’t watch him.

Not really.

You didn’t let your eyes linger longer than you had to. You never turned your head. You never stared.

But you saw him.

The size of him.

The silence of him — more pronounced than the others. Where the others were bombast and weight and ritual, he moved like something built to endure.

There was no wasted gesture. No conversation. No indulgence in display.

He moved, and others moved out of his way.

Even the Mechanicus flinched when he looked their way.

---

You never thought about what he looked like.

You’d seen his face once — once — when he removed his helmet mid-calibration. Clean jaw. Short, war-bitten hair. Eyes like scorched iron. Mouth made for delivering judgment.

You didn’t think about it.

Not while you were on your hands and knees, scrubbing weapons grease out of the floor barely five feet from where he stood.

Not when you caught the edge of his scent — machine-oil and salt and skin too clean to be human.

Not when he stepped past you and said nothing, but you felt the weight of his presence press into your spine like a knee against your throat.

You didn’t think about any of it.

But later…

when you were in your bunk

or beneath the sonic sprayers

or pressed up against the back wall of the waste chamber, panting quiet into your elbow, trying to get the tension out of your gut—

you remembered.

---

It wasn’t attraction.

You weren’t some bored barracks-kid from a hive with dreams of being claimed.

It was worse.

It was recognition.

You saw it in the set of his shoulders. In the stillness of his breath.

He was a thing made for war and silence.

You were a thing that survived both.

And sometimes, when he passed you in the hall, and his head turned just slightly —

just enough —

you wondered:

Did he see it in you, too?

---

You learned early that nothing is permanent.

Parents. Shelter. Food. All of it went like smoke through a sieve. You never knew your mother’s face. Never heard your father’s name. When people asked where you came from, you used to lie — until you realized no one cared enough to call you out.

At eight years old you were scavenging off corpses after skirmishes in the lower manufactoria. At ten, you were carrying blades longer than your arm. At twelve, you slit a man’s throat because he tried to sell you for a week’s worth of stim. You didn’t hesitate, let alone think about it. You learned then:

Hesitation gets you buried.

By the time you were fifteen, you’d already survived things others never did:

A winter where the ration lines collapsed and bodies froze in the alleys.

A raid by Arbites where they fired into the crowd and didn’t bother to drag the bodies out after.

The time your gang leader “tested” you by leaving you chained in a sump-pit with a starving sump-beast. You still had the scars on your thigh. It had teeth like industrial cutters. You broke its jaw with a rock until it stopped moving.

That was the way of it: the world tried to eat you, and you bit back harder.

---

When they caught you stealing from the Munitorum, you weren’t surprised. You always knew it would end one of two ways: execution, or exile. The penal legions were just another form of death sentence.

But you didn’t die.

That first drop, when the collar detonated half your squad because they tried to run — you didn’t even flinch. Second drop, when the Orks chewed through your line and the commissar left you for dead, you crawled out of the muck and back to the trench like a rat that refused to drown. Third drop, you saw a woman you’d slept beside for six months burned alive by a flamer unit. You didn’t scream. You just took her boots when it was done, because yours had split at the seams.

Survival had been stripped of its heroics, reduced to the simple, ugly necessity of clutching whatever remained and refusing to stop moving.

---

Erioch was quieter than war. But no less cruel.

The fortress fed on silence. On obedience. On people like you, kept alive just enough to scrub the stone and shovel out the blood. Most of the other convicts were broken already. Half-catatonic, or twitching from stim withdrawals, or whispering half-prayers to a God-Emperor who had never once spared them.

You weren’t broken. You weren’t praying.

You weren’t soft, either.

You worked, because work meant breathing. And if they sent you to clean the corridors after the Deathwatch had passed through, you kept your head low and your hands busy.

But every so often—

every so often, you swore you felt a presence heavier than the silence. A man built like the world itself had bent around him. His boots struck stone like judgment. His gaze cut like a weapon even when it wasn’t pointed at you.

Demetrian Titus.

---

You never let yourself think about him too long. Not in the way some of the others did — whispering about what it would be like to serve one of them more personally. That wasn’t you. You weren’t yearning.

But you were noticing.

The same way you noticed which commissars kept their pistols oiled. The same way you noticed which Arbites twitched before they swung a baton. The same way you noticed when someone meant to kill you before they’d even drawn their blade.

You noticed Titus.

You noticed the way he moved. Or rather, the way he didn’t.

The way he was still. Like a blade in a sheath. Like a man who had no need to prove anything.

And that was what unsettled you most.

Because you’d spent your whole life surviving men who were loud, brutal, desperate, cruel.

But Titus wasn’t any of those things.

He was something worse.

He was inevitable.

---

You’d seen enough killers to know their patterns.

The petty ones twitched. The desperate ones stank of nerves. The cruel ones smiled too much. You could read them before they ever raised a blade.

Titus wasn’t any of those.

He never twitched. Never smiled. He never even cleared his throat. Most men couldn’t help announcing themselves — a cough, a shuffle, a mutter. He gave nothing away.

Except the details.

You noticed he never tracked the whole room. Not like the others. The rest of the Deathwatch swept their gazes like they were hungry, devouring every inch of space. Titus didn’t bother. He looked where he needed to, and if you were in that line, you felt it like a pin through your chest.

You noticed the smell that clung to him after combat. Not just the standard tang of oil and disinfectant — there was always something faintly burned, like scorched metal cooling after the forge. A scent that stuck to the stone long after he’d gone.

You noticed he never rested weight on both feet. Always one planted, one braced, like he was ready to move without warning. You’d seen it in pit-fighters who’d lived longer than they should. Men who never allowed themselves to be caught flat.

And once, when you were on hands and knees cleaning the edge of the hall, you heard him pass. Heavy boots, yes — but not the stomp of the others. His gait was even, paced. Measured. No wasted energy. No rush. You realized, with a tight twist in your gut, that he walked the same way you’d seen scavenger-beasts stalk the sump pits: like nothing in front of him could possibly matter.

---

You weren’t yearning.

You just noticed.

The way he rationed his voice, like ammunition. Never wasted. Never more than required. The way other Astartes barked prayers and war-songs, and he simply said what needed saying.

The way he didn’t fidget when waiting. No tapping gauntlets. No shifting eyes. He could stand in one place for an hour like a machine switched off.

You told yourself these were tactical observations. That it was instinct — survival instinct — to catalogue the things that made him different.

But sometimes, lying awake in your cot, you replayed them anyway. The cadence of his boots. The clipped exactness of his speech. The reek of scorched ceramite.

And you hated yourself a little for it.

Because you knew: once you started remembering a man in fragments, you were already in danger.

And you didn't need any more of that.

---

The chamber was a tomb of stone and stink.

No one remembered the blood once it dried, but the Fortress kept it all the same. The stains clung to the grooves between flagstones, brown and black, layered from years of battles you hadn’t seen. No matter how much you scrubbed, the marks stayed.

That was the work. Endless, pointless. A cycle to grind you down.

Your knees ached on the cold stone, but you kept your back straight. The bucket beside you stank of solvent, its fumes chewing the skin off your fingers. You’d long since stopped counting the raw patches and chemical burns. They weren’t important. Survival was important. You didn’t argue. You didn’t falter. You just kept moving the stiff-bristled brush in short, brutal strokes until someone told you to stop.

That was enough.

The sound reached you first: boots. Too heavy, too even. Not the clatter of serfs or the shuffle of servitors. Precision, mass, inevitability in every step.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t raise your head. You bent harder over the stone, as though scrubbing harder might make you invisible.

The shadow fell across you anyway. The solvent fumes shifted in the air, cut through by the faint metallic tang of scorched ceramite and the cleaner bite of machine oil. Your brush faltered for just an instant before you forced it back into rhythm.

“Legionnaire,” said a voice above you.

Flat. Unmistakable.

“Yes, my lord,” you answered. The words came out clipped, practiced. You didn’t look up.

Silence followed. But it wasn’t empty silence — it was weighted, like the space itself was waiting.

Then: “You’re using the wrong angle.”

Your brush stopped mid-stroke. Your throat felt suddenly dry.

“Sir?”

“Forty-five degrees,” he said. The voice was even like battlefield instruction. “Not straight down. You’re cutting against the grain. You’ll break the bristles before the stain.”

You blinked down at the floor, realizing for the first time how much force you’d been driving into the brush. The bristles were already splayed, bent. Wasting effort.

Slowly, you adjusted your wrist. Drew the strokes at a slant. The motion dragged smoother, covering more stone, pulling the old blood free with less resistance.

He was right.

Your mouth tightened. “Yes, sir.”

He didn’t move. You felt the weight of his shadow still there, towering, silent.

You kept scrubbing, strokes sharp and efficient now, until the patch gleamed wet and clean.

For a moment, you thought he’d left. That same, unbearable silence had returned.

Then: “Better.”

One word. Nothing more.

The boots withdrew. The shadow receded. The air felt thinner without him in it.

You kept working until your arms trembled with the effort, because stopping would have felt like admitting something.

But later, when you dragged yourself back to your cot, the word still rang in your skull.

Better.

Not good. Not skilled. Not efficient.

Just better.

You told yourself it was nothing. An Astartes giving correction the way they always did.

But in the dark, staring at the stone ceiling, you couldn’t stop hearing it in that heavier than judgment voice.

Better.

And you hated that it mattered.

---

You rearranged your schedule twice. Quiet shifts in the med-bays, extra hours hauling slag; anything to put distance between you and the echo of those boots. Avoidance is a kind of armor you learned early — less flashy than ceramite, but it worked. People take up space if you let them. You learned to make yourself less worth the trouble.

Then the quartermaster called you, voice flat and uninterested over the comm: "Legionnaire. Clean Titus' private wing. Now."

You asked for reassignment. They told you the Watch needed the warp seals cleansed. You said nothing more. You went.

The door to his quarter sealed with a precise thud behind you. The place smelled of cold metal and something like rain on hot iron — not the usual sulfur of the engine decks. It was smaller than the public halls, almost impossibly neat. One workbench. One rack. One throne bolted into the floor. Even the dust lay in exact lines where servos had passed through last time.

You should have felt relief. You did not.

Your job was simple: clear the access pits, dust the interfacing banks, scrub the seal channels. Hands-on, no staring. Your gloved fingers found the same motions they always did. You kept your head down. You kept your breath measured.

There were small things that belonged to him and not to the Deathwatch as a unit — a strip of leather, a tiny notch on a gauntlet where a blade had nicked the edge, a burn mark shaped almost like a rune. You catalogued them the way you catalogued everything that might matter: concrete facts filed away so they couldn't sting.

Halfway through a pan of interface ports, you realized the light had shifted. Not the lights themselves; the angle. Someone had recalibrated the bedside lens so the line hit the bench at a lower tilt. Practical.

You shouldered the brush and moved on. Keep busy. Keep yourself from listening.

He came back the way he always did — no clank of heraldry, no flash of banner, just presence. It wasn't sudden. You didn't feel a shadow fall. You simply felt the room tilt, and when you looked up, he was standing there, helmet in hand, boots clean, armor resealed. He had the look of a thing returned from the field.

You hadn't expected him to return. The door had been locked; it was locked for a reason. You had been inside, making the place spotless, while he had left you to work in his absence. That fact should have been small. It was not.

He watched you for a long moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was measured.

“You scrub like you want to erase something.”

You froze with the brush mid-stroke. It was not accusation so much as statement. He could have been talking about the ink-scar in a marine's dossier, or a corrosion pattern on a conduit. But the sentence lodged under your ribs and pushed.

“Sir?” Your voice came out smaller than you planned.

He didn't move. He only tilted his head the smallest fraction, like a mount inspecting a blade. “You erase. Better to wear it clean than keep it hidden. It's easier to measure.”

You wanted to answer — a deflection, a lie. Instead you tightened your grip and resumed working with stricter angles, more deliberate pressure. You scrubbed until the bristles were nearly threadbare, until your forearms burned with the effort, ignoring the fact your pulse had changed beneath the regulation of your breathing loop.

He stayed. But he didn’t impose himself. He maintained that Astartes distance: close enough that you knew he could step forward and fill the entryway, but not so close he forced anything. He simply watched, the quiet of him a constant that your brain kept measuring against the constant that had always kept you alive: distance. Control.

After a while he said, flat as a drill order, “You don't look up around the Watch.”

You kept your eyes on the stone. “No reason to, sir.”

He made no comment about the truth of that. Instead, with the same blunt efficiency he used on the field, he added, “Don't pretend you don't notice.”

The words were not a threat. They were not a groomed softness either. They were a report filed and closed. But they were a thing you couldn't shrug off in the dark later.

They were a piece of information you had to catalogue.

When at last he turned and walked away, he left the door open just enough for the light to line the floor. The space where his shadow had been seemed bigger in its absence. You cleaned the rest of the ports with hands that shook inside the augmetic joints. You finished faster than needed. You sealed the quarter behind you and walked back to the corridors that smelled of old blood, pretending you were the same as before.

You were not.

You told yourself you would not give him the satisfaction of further thought. You told yourself you would avoid the training halls and the dusk shifts and the places he was known to pass. You told yourself a dozen rational things.

But when you lay down in the cramped darkness of your bunk that night, the phrase replayed: You scrub like you want to erase something.

It wasn't a command. It certainly wasn't affection. And despite every part of you screaming that it was weakness to care, your brain kept cataloguing the fact that he spoke to you at all — and what he had seen.

That night, you did not sleep easily, unsurprisingly. You rolled the brush handle in your fingers under the covers, tracing the grooves with your thumb until they fit like teeth. You told yourself you would not be unraveled by a man who was a problem to solve, not a temptation to fail for.

Tomorrow, you would be careful.

Tomorrow, you would look down and only the stone would know what you were thinking.

---

You managed it for nearly a week.

Routine kept you safe.

Keep to the chemical bays. Volunteer for corpse-hauling detail when you had to. Take the worst shifts so you could move unseen. Work until your body trembled, until your bunk became a mercy, until even thought was dulled by exhaustion.

You told yourself that was victory.

That was control.

You didn’t think about his quarters. You didn’t think about the words. You didn’t let yourself.

---

It was on the sixth day that it broke.

The collapse was a quiet, unceremonious thing,

… in the mess hall.

You were carrying a crate of nutrient packs from one end of the hall to the other. Too heavy, the handles biting into your palms. You didn’t complain. Because of course you didn't. You kept your head down, your steps even, your mind on the small victory of reaching the far hatch without spilling half the cargo.

Then you caught yourself glancing.

Just a bit— Just enough to notice the column of black armor crossing the chamber. The weight of him among the serfs and servitors, moving like none of them existed. Helmet under his arm, jaw set, gaze forward.

You hadn’t seen him in days, and still your chest clenched like a trap sprung.

And that was when it happened.

Your grip slipped.

The crate tilted. One corner slammed the floor, and the sharp crack of shattered nutrient packs echoed through the mess. Viscous slurry leaked across the stone, pooling around your boots.

The room went still. Not the whole room — no one else cared — but in your head, it was silent enough to scream.

You bent immediately, fumbling to right the crate, to scoop what you could back into its ruined shell. Fast. Efficient. Control the damage. Pretend nothing had happened.

Then:

“Careless.”

His voice. Right behind you.

Flat and fucking absolute.

You stiffened, slurry dripping from your fingers. The word sank deeper than it should have, because it was true, because you’d let yourself look.

“Yes, my lord,” you managed. Kept your head down. Kneeling in the mess.

Bootsteps came closer. Heavy. The stone trembled under their weight. He stopped just a pace away.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your heart lurched against your ribs. Your mouth stayed shut.

A pause. You felt him there, felt the cold shadow of him falling over your crouched form.

Then, in that same unflinching tone:

“Don’t confuse avoidance with discipline.”

The words hit harder than any blow. Because he was right, again, and you hated him for it.

He didn’t linger. He didn’t need to.

The boots moved on. The air shifted back to normal. He left you kneeling in the mess, hands sticky with spilled ration sludge, chest heaving like you’d run miles.

You stayed there until your pulse stopped racing. Until you could scrape together enough dignity to clean the floor again.

You told yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

That it was just an observation.

Just another correction, like brush angles and worn bristles.

---

After the mess, you don’t go back to the bunk. You don’t eat. You tell the quartermaster you’ll take the overnight scrap detail in the lower hull — the one no one volunteers for because the scaffolds creak and the venting is unpredictable. You say it like an answer, like a choice. It’s cleaner that way, less like penance and more like logistics. Right?

Right.

They hand you the harness without asking questions. They never do. You strap into the lifeline, the collar itching where the tag reads your designation. You taste metal in the back of your mouth and like it. Keep breathing. Keep the rhythm.

The lower hull is a place the fortress hides. It smells of rust and old coolant. Stale steam fogs the lights; the scaffolds disappear into shadow. Here the work is precise and brutal: you gouge fungal growth from radiator intakes, wrestle pitted conduits free of fused solder, wedge open cooling lanes and scrape gunk that tastes of oil and old blood. It’s the sort of labor meant to dull you — to break attention into routine until the brain stops asking for anything else. That is the point.

That is the medicine you choose.

You work until your palms blister under the glove seams, until the augmetic actuators in your forearms hum from overload. You don’t pause when the servitor lifts its searchlight and finds you crooked on the scaffold; you only straighten, snap the harness slack, and keep going. You pitch your body into the tasks where others leave warnings: the puddles marked “unstable,” the vents with scorched metal braided through the grill. You put your hands where no one else will, and you like the clarity that pain gives you — it’s an honest ledger. Fuck words.

At one point a strip of conduit shreds under the pry-bar and sparks bloom like tiny, angry stars along the gutter. The heat slaps your face; the rebreather hisses. Most officers would’ve called a halt. You don’t. You take the torch, angle the flame, and burn the last of the slag away with a steady, practiced hand. The sonar feed in your HUD climbs. You can feel the adrenaline hitting in controlled bursts: a clean instrument of survival. Just... survival.

Halfway through the night, your shoulders ache in a way that isn’t simple fatigue. It’s the old kind of hurt that remembers the sump-beast’s teeth and another man’s boot. It’s good. You press your palm to the band of tender muscle and count — one, two, three — coaxing the fascia into compliance.

When you finally climb down from the scaffolding, your boots slick with condenser spatter, the hull around you is a different color. Clean enough that someone will mark the job done and move on. You have scratched every inch of the checklist into the nav-slate until it rings green across the board. You feel hollowed out and somehow purer for it.

On your way back, a servitor hands you a small bundle — a ration bar and a paper-thin slab of nutrient. You don’t take it. You slide the bundle past the servitor’s hand and into the gutter. The act is deliberate. Waste, for once, seems apt.

---

You know what punishment looks like: it’s not loud; it’s deliberate. So you make yourself show up again the next cycle. And the next. You push through details that make other convicts a little pale. Reactor scrape. Air intake swabs at negative pressure. A week of nights where your skin smells like coolant and the only warmth you get is the burn of a welding torch.

On the sixth sweep, as you’re clearing away a polymer foam that wants to cling forever to the conduit, you hear the gate lock click behind you. For a heartbeat you think you’re alone, safe in the incantation of industry. Then a shadow stands in the doorway.

Titus. Helmet under his arm per usual. Clean, all the way down to a line of sealant that hasn’t flaked. He’d come down here before; you know that. Still, you hadn’t expected him to bother tonight.

Or maybe you had expected it all along.

Your chest tightens as if someone has set a cuff around it.

He watches you for a long second without speaking. There’s no reproach in his posture. There is only an observation like a datum recorded.

“You choose risks no one else will,” he says finally. The voice is as flat and precise as a surgical incision.

You keep working. Your hands don’t slow; they can’t. “Necessary maintenance, sir.”

“Choice or penance?” he asks.

The question is not meant to be merciful. It’s not meant to be anything but an inventory. Still, it sits heavy when you let it answer itself. For a second the scaffolding creaks and all you hear is your own breath.

“Neither,” you say. Vague, one-word answers are cleaner, you decide. They don’t admit the truth.

He takes a step closer — simply reducing the distance. Even in the low light you see the fine line of a scar across his eyebrow. The air smells of warm metal. He looks at what you’ve cleaned, at the neat band of polished conduit, at the way the foam is shaved to an exact bevel. He looks at your hands, at the way the fingers splay around the pry-bar. His gaze is not indulgent.

​“Don’t bleed yourself out on the floor,” he says finally. The words carry the dry, heavy weight of a ledger entry—a simple statement of fact.

“The Watch loses useful things that way.”

You want to say you know that. You want to say you are not wasting yourself. Instead you roll the torch into its cradle and stand, each muscle protesting.

“I know,” you say.

He nods once and turns to leave. Before he reaches the doorway he pauses, conducting a final, sweeping inventory of the room—noting the clean lines and the total absence of mess.

“Keep a record of your cycles,” he adds. “If you’re going to run yourself down, do it on paper.”

When the door seals behind him, you don’t feel the relief you expect. If anything, the words have more teeth than any reprimand.

Keep a record of your cycles. Make yourself accountable. Make your pain meaningful.

You leave the lower hull that night with your shoulders tighter than they were before and a ledger on your slate, fingers hovering over the interface. You open a new log entry and hesitate.

---

You’d worked yourself to exhaustion before.

You knew the rhythm of it. Muscles trembling. Joints screaming. The blessed numbness after enough hours that thought burned itself out.

But now his words wouldn’t leave you.

Keep a record of your cycles.

If you’re going to run yourself down, do it on paper.

It hadn’t been kindness. Astartes didn’t waste breath on kindness. It had been logistics, nothing more. A reminder not to waste yourself.

So why did it feel like he’d been looking at you? Through you?

Why did it feel like he had meant you, not just your work?

You lay in your bunk with the slate under your hand, staring at the empty line of the next entry. You could write: Worked sixteen hours. Cleared three conduits. Replaced torch valve. Cold, clean, efficient.

Instead your hands shook.

Not your augmetics — they were steady, always steady. Your flesh hand. Your chest. Your thighs.

You squeezed your knees together hard, as though to cut off the thought before it spread. Weakness was death. Indulgence was death. Wanting was death. You had survived because you never let yourself want.

And yet—

your body remembered the way his voice had dropped on the word you. The precise rasp of it. The faint scrape of his armor when he shifted his stance closer.

You turned onto your side, pressing your face into the thin pillow, biting down on fabric as though you could suffocate the heat in your blood. But your free hand betrayed you, sliding down across your stomach, into the band of your trousers.

It wasn’t softness you found there. It was tension. Desperation. The way a body shakes after battle, when you realize you’re alive.

You touched yourself like you were punishing — as if you could beat the image out of your head. But it didn’t go. His voice stayed, deep and blunt: Keep a record. Keep a record.

You imagined him watching, offering nothing but the cold, silent testimony of his presence. Standing at the end of your bunk, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm, watching you break discipline the way he’d watch a line crack under fire.

The thought made your breath come ragged, sharp against the pillow.

When release hit, it wasn’t sweet. It was a collapse, a fracture — and the shame afterward was worse than the act.

You lay there shaking, hand still damp, body still thrumming, and hated yourself for it.

Because for the first time in years, you had compromised.

You had proven yourself immune to the demands of hunger and pain, yet now you found yourself surrendering.

To him.

---

+++ WATCH FORTRESS ERIOCH +++

+++ ORDO XENOS : INTERNAL LOG +++

SUBJECT: [REDACTED]

---

It was after a return from deployment.

The kill-team had shed their armor in silence, the chamber thick with the stench of blood, ozone, and alien ichor. Servitors dragged the worst of it away. Penal legionnaires were sent in after: faceless bodies in grey, bent spines, heads down.

Titus expected nothing from them.

They came, they worked, they died. Another cycle.

Except — one did not falter.

You moved through the chamber without flinching at the gore. Gloves deep in ichor, solvent biting your skin, face blank. The others gagged, looked away, scrubbed without aim. You worked in straight lines. Precise. Efficient.

Titus noticed. Personal interest had nothing to do with it; the detail simply registered as an unavoidable error in the math of his efficiency. He catalogued the arc of your hand as you scraped a hardened lump of xenos tissue from a vent, the way you braced your stance to keep balance where others slipped. Measured. Deliberate.

A penal legionnaire shouldn’t have discipline left in them. Not after the collar, the drops, the attrition. But you did.

He told himself that was all. A record to be filed. Nothing more.

---

He saw you again. And again.

Stripping dried blood from the training halls. Carrying a crate alone that normally took two. Cleaning the armor racks after drills. Always silent. Always moving with the same brutal precision.

Other legionnaires whispered, faltered, begged. You never did.

The anomaly lodged deeper.

He found himself marking your pattern when he shouldn’t. Checking if you had completed tasks before others. Noticing when you altered angles, improved efficiency, saved minutes. He did not praise. He did not intervene.

But he noticed.

---

Tonight Titus had come to the lower hull to confirm efficiency. That was the thought, the order, the excuse he gave himself. A penal legionnaire should have faltered here — air thick with coolant, scaffolds slick, ubiquinated foam clinging to every seam. It was the sort of detail designed to grind humans into paste.

And yet you did not falter.

You climbed into the conduits with your augmetics bared to the elbow, solvent eating fabric away from your thighs, skin flushed raw beneath the grime. You worked with the same brutal, relentless rhythm he had measured in combat drills. Torch. Scraper. Rag. Repeat.

Titus stood in the doorway and watched.

At first, he catalogued like always: stance narrow but balanced, augmetic hand precise, shoulders locked steady against strain. No wasted motion. Breath under control despite the fumes. But as the minutes stretched, his mind shifted. His eyes stayed fixed to your back, to the damp cloth pulling tight across the line of your spine, to the swell of muscle beneath.

The uniform hid nothing from him. In his mind it peeled back with every exhale. The slope of your hip became geometry. The twitch of a thigh as you braced became anatomy. He traced the curve of your waist as though he might map it for dissection. He wanted to strip the fabric away with the violent efficiency of tearing the seal off a weapon case. To see what hardness lay beneath. To test if the flesh matched the machine.

The scent hit him next — solvent, sweat, rust — but under it, unmistakable: salt and heat. Human exertion. He had ignored such things for centuries, filed them as waste products. Now it seemed sharper, more insistent. His mouth filled with the memory of copper and iron. He caught himself pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth like a starving beast.

You bent further into the conduit, rag scrubbing at a line of polymer. Your shirt stretched, fabric thin enough to trace the ridge of each vertebra, the damp cloth clinging to the small of your back until the shape of you was unmistakable. You shifted, and your thighs braced wide, fabric taut across the seam. Titus’ breath slowed.

The demigod predator in him — the one bred for slaughter and dominance — answered with clarity: tear the cloth, lay bare what is hidden, claim the form beneath.

He did not move. His armor kept him rooted, immovable. But inside, his chest felt tight, his gauntleted fingers flexing once before stilling again.

The data was no longer just data. The observation was no longer clean.

Titus wanted.

It was a hunger that displaced all human notions of tenderness, leaving only a raw, feral obscenity in its wake. He wanted to see you stripped of the grey rags that insulted the form beneath. To take apart the uniform the way you took apart conduits, expose the flesh, measure it, test it until there was nothing left hidden.

He knew the urge for what it was: compromise. Breach of doctrine. A predator’s need, unsanctioned and wholly unholy.

And yet he stayed. Watching. Cataloguing. Breathing in the heat of you like it was data he would never be allowed to write.

When you finally shifted back from the conduit, wiping solvent down your arm, he turned away before you could see him. His boots struck the floor hard, too hard, betraying rhythm. He did not look back.

But the image clung to him like the foam clung to your gloves:

your spine bowed under the work, the curve of your waist under damp cloth, the seam of your thighs flexed wide for balance.

Obscene, undeniable.

He carried it with him into silence, knowing he would rip it open again in memory, over and over, until the need became unbearable.

---

He should not have carried the image past the lower hull.

But it followed, clung, rewrote itself with every step back to his chamber.

At first it was only your spine, bent under work. The lines of muscle and vertebrae beneath the damp cloth. Easy to imagine tearing fabric away the way you tore slag from conduits. One tug. One split seam. Flesh exposed to air that had only ever known rags.

Then his mind redrew the rest.

Thighs braced wide, cloth gone, reactor-tanned skin shining with solvent and sweat. Scar-tissue mapped where his eye expected weakness. The sharp bite of bone under your hip, flesh stretched taut over it. Your hands overworked and trembling, gripping uselessly at nothing while he measured every line.

He imagined you on your knees in the conduit bay, augmetic arm locked, flesh arm flinching, chest heaving as the last of the cloth hung in tatters. A mortal form beneath his gaze, obscene in its smallness. His hands could close around your waist like he closed them around a bolter’s grip. He could lift, spread, position — every motion the same mechanical certainty he had applied in war.

His tongue pressed against the seam of his teeth. He tasted salt, iron, phantom copper. He thought of how your sweat would bead and run if he pressed you harder, how quickly your body would betray you.

The predator in him growled silent, demanding proof. It had no use for sterile observation or cold data—it hungered for a truth it could sink its teeth into. To see if your breath would stutter the way it had against solvent, to hear if your voice would break when he pried you open instead of steel.

He imagined you trying not to cry out. Discipline held until it snapped, mouth biting down the way you bit cloth in your bunk. He imagined the muffled sound anyway, the shuddering collapse of control.

The thought pressurized his gut, thrumming like an engine pushed past its redline.

Titus stopped in the empty corridor, servos hissing as he drew a breath too deep. His gauntleted hand flexed once, slow, obscene in its own right — as if his body craved the feel of fabric tearing, the heat of skin beneath.

This was breach.

This was hunger.

This was the thing his kind were not meant to admit.

And yet the image sharpened every time he tried to discard it. Each blink brought it back cleaner, crueler: you bent forward, fabric gone, sweat dripping down your back while his shadow covered you like a claim.

He told himself he would not seek you out again.

And he knew he lied.

---

Titus had endured fire, hunger, and centuries of restraint. He had lived longer than most worlds. His body was meant to be iron: tireless, incorruptible, above the fragilities of men.

And yet — it betrayed him now.

The image of you bent in the hull would not fade. He had stripped the uniform from your back in his mind a dozen ways already — torn, peeled, shredded with the ease of rending rebar. Each time, he swore it would end there. But his body carried the image deeper.

His jaw locked with enough force to crack bone, chasing a phantom salt that coated his palate like a fever. His chest grew tight, too tight, until each exhale rasped like a growl.

Worse were his hands.

His fingers cycled in a restless, metallic rhythm, twitching with the urge to envelop. He was already mapping the geometry of your throat, thumbs twitching with the phantom pressure of finding your breath and holding it captive. He imagined skin under his palms — warm, pliant, bruisable. His grip adjusted, measuring your waist, your thighs, as though his hands had already memorized dimensions they had never touched.

The hunger crept lower. His groin ached, hard and obscene in its denial. For ages he had ignored such stirrings, pressed them into the bedrock of discipline until they were silent. Now they surged like a wound reopened. The armor seemed too tight there, the codpiece pressing against a heat that would not abate. He shifted his stance once, twice, like an animal trying to cage itself.

It did nothing.

He replayed you bent forward, thighs spread for balance, rag clutched in your trembling hand. He imagined your hips jolting when his shadow covered you, when you realized the predator had closed the distance. The thought hardened him further, pain and hunger grinding together until he nearly groaned aloud.

Titus braced his hand against the wall, armor whining faintly. His jaw locked. He told himself this was weakness. Compromise. He told himself to leave it, to purge it with prayer, with war, with silence.

But his boots moved anyway.

Step. Step. Step.

The barracks lay down the corridor, lit thin by lumen-strips, doors lined like coffins in stone. He did not run. He did not prowl. He walked with the same measured cadence as always, but every strike of his heel echoed louder than it should have, each one a confession.

He did not know what he would do when he reached your door. He told himself he would only measure. Only listen. Only confirm what he already knew — that you were compromised, that the anomaly was real.

But the truth lay heavier in his chest, hotter in his groin.

The truth was that his body had already chosen.

---

He paused with his palm on the seam of the door and the whole world narrowed to the thrum of his own blood.

The armor’s servos whispered. The museum-cold metal under his hand was nothing like the heat he’d felt in the lower hull; it steadied him, but it did not soothe. The hunger in him was not a human ache to be comforted; it was a hunter's need to prove, to possess, to map. Every inch of training gave him reasons to leave — protocol, duty, the code. Every inch of bone and gene-seed answered with a single blunt thing: go.

He truly had not meant to come this far. He had told himself he would only log, only note, only record. Data. Nothing personal. That had been the narrative he could accept. Now, with the bulkhead under his palm and the faint life of the barracks beyond it, the narrative split.

A breath passed from the other side — small, uneven. Not a call. Not even a sound that wanted to be heard. It was private, ashamed, the kind of noise that never belonged to a place like this. His jaw clenched. The armor tightened with the motion, metal and sinew mirroring one another.

Titus could have stepped back. He could have marched away and burned the image from his mind with drill and duty. Instead he moved closer. Not silently — nothing about him was silent — but with the practiced economy of a predator’s closing range until the quarry’s scent filled his nostrils.

He put his forehead to the cool steel, feeling the vibration of the room through composite and fiber. Up close, the sound changed: breath as ragged metronome, the soft scrape of cloth, the wet friction of skin. It was obscene in its intimacy. It was a report that had no form he could file.

For a second — a single tilt — the thought of entering the room clarified into a physical plan: hand on the latch, shoulder against the seam, step and shoulder and the doorway filled with him. The uniform he had imagined would not be an abstraction any longer; fabric would give beneath his fingers. He could see the motion in his mind as cleanly as a field maneuver, each move practiced and precise. The animal beneath his armor answered the visualization with a low pressure in his groin, a tightening he had not felt in Emperor knows when, and his gauntlet closed once as if to test the mechanics of a grip.

He nearly did it. He could have. It would take only a tilt, a breach of a rule that had not been broken in his command in decades. He felt the temptation like a tool, like a weapon: effective, correct, terrible.

Then a dozen other small, disciplined things rose up in him. Names of dead brothers. Harsh lessons taught in blood. The ledger of deeds that had made him something other than a man. He tasted iron and remembered the cost. He knew, visceral and immediate, that to cross that threshold would change him in a way prayers and penance could not reverse.

That knowledge cut through the animal. It was a slow, agonizing drag toward discipline, but the ghost-weight was enough.

He backed his palm a fraction off the seam, holding the distance like a siege line. This was no retreat, merely a recalibration of the pressure.

He did not turn his boots away. He did not walk off. He stayed, pressed to the door, breathing slow to steal down the heat in his chest. The hunger thudded like a pulse against composite, persistent, not soothed.

He listened by biological compulsion, his heightened senses treating the bulkhead like a sheet of vox-paper. The metal was structurally insufficient, failing to mask even a heartbeat.

At first there was only breath. Uneven. A pause held too long here, quiet hitching there, and then— then, the final traitorous rush of air. A raw, stifled exhale that no amount of discipline could fully mask.

Titus stilled. Every nerve trained for battlefield silence turned toward that sound. His forehead pressed back to cold steel, picking up the faint vibration of motion within.

There — fabric shifting. A low, caught sound in a throat. The shift of flesh against bedding, quick and irregular. Another breath, this one sharper, stuttered, almost a choke.

The air in his chest went hot. He did not know what he was hearing, not precisely. He did not need to. It was private. It was degradation. And it was lodged now in his skull.

He imagined your face buried in cloth, your teeth sunk deep, your body curled tight against itself. He imagined you tearing yourself down in the dark, unravelling the same way he had seen you grind through conduits and slag. Hard, brutal, utterly merciless.

The thought left him aching inside his armor, obscene in its weight.

He drew a slow breath, but it did not steady him. His hand curled tighter against the seam, gauntlet biting into the steel. The demon in him wanted the door open, wanted to see, to know. His discipline chained him in place.

He stayed until the sounds dwindled to silence. Until only the fortress hum remained. Until he could almost believe he had imagined it.

​At last he straightened, disciplined steel grafting itself back over the animal. He had seized the initiative from his own instincts; that door would remain unbreached. He would not be the first to break the order in that way.

Instead he would catalog. He would mark. He would watch the pattern and wait for a different kind of opening — one that would not be a breach but a permission. He would not pretend it was not hunger; he would not pretend he had not been near to acting on it.

He stepped away with the slow march of a man who feels a wound and keeps walking. His footsteps reverberated like a drum in a tomb, telegraphing his every movement to the dark.

He left the corridor and the barracks sealed behind him, but the seam of that door remained a place he would return to, again and again, because the record he had made of that night had weight and teeth and, for the first time in centuries, a place he could not file away easily.

18+ continuation I wrote to hold myself over -

◇ what if Titus walked through that door ◇

Sigh just dreams though...

Tysm for reading!! Ik it was long and single braincelled at the end. Something about an obsessive astartes who is structurally incapable of resolving desire... is just delicious to think about.

(*｀▽´*)

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @thisuserislilsilly @iluminatka16 @nebulaegem @kit-williams @bispecsual @beckyninja @bookandyarndragon @jackalwolfsoul

Fulgrim

Pre Slaanesh, 10/10: I mean... it should be obvious, right? Granted, with new romantic partners there is a learning grace period to learn likes, dislikes, preferences, and maybe he'll get a bit too caught up in himself worrying just how to make sure everything's perfect but once past that barrier he is very experienced. He molds into whatever is fit for you, he has a talent of that even if you don't know what exactly that fit is. Loves, loves, loves worshiping your balls - you have probably come countless of times from him playing with them alone. Presses tiny kitten like licks to the head, always keeping confident eye contact. Whenever you are close depending on his mood and if he feels like teasing (or torturing) you a bit he can always deny you, pull away entirely and leave you a sobbing mess singing for sweet release, he always enjoys that... going right back into it before repeating the cycle all over again until you can't take any more - then he allows you, pushes you there so overwhelmingly and intense it nearly breaks you into a shivering little mess. But of course he'll be there to put back all of your pieces, cooing and praising you, you did so good for him you deserve a reward.

Post Slaanesh, 1000/10: Your dick is going through things unimaginable if not dangerous and life threatening. But it'll definitely be worth it even if your body is pushed beyond the human limit.

Perturabo

7/10: It might take a little convincing at first but oh does it click for him. You are small, he holds your shaft in the palm of his hand, watching how the tiniest bit of dribble leaks from the tip. You were seemingly pleased with him, one way or another and he hasn't even done a thing. That pleasure only increases going off the sound of his name once he takes you in his mouth... the noise wasn't that unpleasant. He should hear it again to be sure. Your hands reach for his head, clawing at his cables encouraging him to move more, which he does, slowly with his head. He multitasks. Working you with his mouth and studying your reactions - determining his next motions and actions. It was like an experiment in a way. And not just your vocal stimulations - he studies your body too; reading every twitch, every spasm, every clench. It all came down to a simple equations really. You couldn't hide a thing from him and that ignites something in him. He made you feel good. He did. It's his name that you utter. His actions that you praise. And he can't get enough of it. And you will give him more until he sees fit.

Jaghatai Khan

6/10: He is fast, shocking, and that can be a good thing or bad thing depending on your preference. No gag reflex, only speed, he gives the most intense ball throbbing skull fuck you have ever or will ever have in your entire life. And he will never give you it if you ask for it - only when he deems you deserving of it he will surprise you with it. You could be out on a ride together when suddenly he pulls over to stop, no explanation or anything, leaving you and making you sit on the bike while he gets off and - oh your pants are already off - oh you've already come - oh you're coming again - oh - oh - oh-

Leman Russ

5/10: He is drunk like... 60% of the time so you're usually getting the most sloppiest head imaginable. But! He doesn't lack enthusiasm! He will absolutely go to town on you while making the most wet, animalistic, crazed noises imaginable. Also does not care where you are and has no shame pulling you out right in front of all of his sons and having a go - even loudly boasts about it in between bobs to them. Or hell even engage in conversation with them, pulling off of you leaving you to buck and cry, just to add input to an argument the wolves might be having or to add his own joke so causally. But don't be fooled, you are the complete center of his attention, practically his whole world as he licks up and down your rod, mischievous fingers teasing your hole. Will have his teasing fun until he sobers up a bit and more carnal lust begins to fuel him - then it's no more games and he picks you up and away from prying eyes to carry to to his tent to have you proper.

Rogal Dorn

8/10: Yes, while he is willing to engage he won't deny there is a hint of... hesitancy. However, it should be the simple act, it's not as if he is completely clueless to what he is supposed to do. Though when it comes to to actually... *ahem* perform, is a slightly different story. It is small, which makes logical sense as you are Baseline and he Primarch, but yet it... it... it slightly intimidates him. But no matter! He will do it. It's still small in his mouth but he takes it with ease - peering up at you with a curious glance to assess his action; only to find you looking down at him with such this... relaxed expression, one that draws him away with a hint of heat on his cheeks. But the mental image doesn't leave him. Up and down. Breath through nose. Simple procedure. Up and down. Breathe through nose.

But yet... it didn't feel as good. He could be better, couldn't he? He keeps eye contact, trying to see if that could gauge what he's doing. Do you like it when he does this? Or that? Is his tongue working fast enough? Or would you like it slow? What if he goes further down? Do you like your testicles rubbed? Or Pulled - he usually likes his done that way. He overthinks so much that it takes him by surprise when you roughly grab him by the tuft of his hair and pull him off entirely with a wet pop. He's not enjoying himself, you point out, it was clear by just looking at him that he was trapped in his own head and that he needed to stop and for once; stop thinking. Stop thinking... stop thinking, that was litterally impossible to do - but you clarify you mean figuratively, sighing to yourself and bringing your gentle touch to him.

"What do you want?" it's a simple question, one he hadn't thought up entirely for himself. What did he want?

It's hard to slow an always active mind but yet... he really did like how your hand is in his hair, how tight it was... maybe... maybe just once... maybe just once he can slip control.

His eyes practically roll into the back of his head with how you take his throat. Roughly. Quickly. Demanding your own desperate pace and even holding him down for long periods. It lights a fuel in his blood he had not expected as he gags and moans around your prick like an empty headed whore, even drooling around it to make such a mess on your leg that some strange part of him wishes that you'll make him lap up along with the rest of your mess once you're done. Treat him rough. Fuck him stupid that he not have a coherent thought left. And he's so hard, grinding against you until you demand him to stop; and he obeys even if his own prick jolts and leaks for attention. Reticule him. Call him a dumb slut. Praetorian of Terra riddled down to this... pushed off of you so that you may pump yourself to completion and stain his face with his tongue held out - and oh and how he's thriving off of every second of it.

Konrad Curze

1/10: It's not that you're in danger, if you're even in this position to begin with means you've earned a lot of trust with him. He's just... very inexperienced and a part of him doesn't trust himself to handle you like that anyway so there's a good possibility that the act won't even occur to begin with. But, however, if he does changes his mind and wants to try there will be a hesitant ineptness to everything he does. It's due to both the lack of experience and the conscious effort not to harm you, it makes his movements ridged and not the most enjoyable. You're going to have to stop him, relax him, and teach him specifics of what to do. And even still there will be a streak of stubbornness there to deal with. You're going to need patience, but eventually it'll click and he'll start listening to your guidance. Maybe then he'll start to get better.

Sanguinius

7/10: Another one that will need some convincing at first due to being wrapped up in his own plagued thoughts, however, it is easier than with others of the sort as he is swayed over with just how gorgeous you look, how magnificent you are, how dearly he loves you and wants to devote service to you... he will worship you rightly as he deems you deserve. He is so tender with his kisses, he makes sure to kiss every bit of flesh he can reach - always mindful of his teeth - he gives you wide licks, drinking in each gracious melody you give him in return. He speaks praises to you, lips soft against the delicate flesh of your cock, and when he comes to the tip he presses the lightest of kisses before lapping your pre while making eye contact from hooded eyes. His wings will excitedly shutter and flap with just your taste alone. And when he sinks his throat lower onto you it's with a deep hum in relief. This is what heaven feels like to him - and he never wants to leave.

Ferrus Manus

4/10: Not that much enthused with the idea, but... it is what you want so, if he must he will deliver. For you. You should consider yourself a very lucky man. Will pump you in his fist for as long as he can; changing the temperature in his palms from varying degrees of hot to get you stimulated. Then he'll take the plunge by dipping down and introducing his tongue to the mix, licking the head. Granted, you do make the most pleasant of sounds to hear, which keeps up his actions. He'll only actually throat you a couple of times, letting his tongue wrap around you whole before he deems disinterest and retreats; going back to licking your tip. When you come he does make extra effort to clean you all up - mostly. The slick coating on his hands however, while, still hot he makes you suck clean. The experience wasn't unpleasant - just not his preferred. But maybe you could talk him into it again, possibly. He does have a bit of a difficult time saying no to you after all.

Angron

0/10: I'm sorry, he will not do it. What the Nails scream at him to do... he refuses to harm you and the teeth are a mighty weapon.

Roboute Guilliman

8/10: You would not expect it but the Lord of Ultramar has a mighty oral fixation and it comes out like daemon when he is stressed. Therefore you find your cock served quite often. Likes you sitting on his desk, right where he can sit and work - that's right, he's doing busy work even now but he needs it! If he doesn't have something else to also focus on he will go mad and burst through the wall of his office and not come back (Hyperbole: he would absolutely come back) He'll sit there, slouched over taking his time to lick and suck you all the while he continues writing and planning down on the papers laid out beside you on the large hardwood surface - even moving your leg back if you get to lost in the pleasure and spreading you legs out further, getting in the way of his paperwork. He is efficient. Skilled. Practiced. He can do it without even thinking about it and still he can make you a sobbing mess, so much so that eventually it becomes hard to ignore... you've come so many times and are practically trembling. From his paperwork he eyes you up and down occasionally before making himself go back to work, he had so much to do... but with how sweetly you cry out his name damns all of it to be shoved off to the floor and you buying his sole attention. Now, he should give you some actual effort, shouldn't he?

Mortarion

7/10: He's still reeling over the fact you actually want him in the first place to be honest. Doesn't believe he deserves such privilege but... he's going to cherish it all the same. Very slow to start, needs time to build confidence, but if you plat at his head and cup at his face he'll melt. Once he's going he'll get so lost in it, he's completely hard and leaking in his trousers but he's too drunk to even notice it. He's so focused on you. He'd give you everything if you asked. His eyes never leave you either, committing every face, sound, intake of breath through your chest, everything. He's too lost that you take him by surprise when you come that he finally has to pull away to choke, your seed spilling out from his mouth in a delicious looking mess. But when he looks back at you... it's so sweet, yet tired, but even still he'll reach out to you and ask if you're alright. You are so very precious to him.

Magnus the Red

100/10: With the powers of the Warp there is pretty much nothing he can't do and he uses it completely to his advantage on you. And one of his favorites is he loves to duplicate himself to spoil you. Several of him, manhandling and passing you around, many mouths on you, swallowing you whole, and not only that but having the real him fucking you the entire time. Anything you can possibly imagine, no matter how dirty, is yours. He will make it happen. He encourages you to get creative. However there is a special air of intimacy when it's just him, no magic, no anything but flesh. He gets softer during these times, more tender and loving, wild sex is good and all but when it's just the two of you... it's more special that way. He knows you completely, inside and out, every part of you is so soaked in his memory as is he yours. It's like you're one in a way - he cherishes that. He absolutely loves the size difference between the two of you; will even say so out loud as you twitch and pulse in his palm. Every time he sucks your cock it's as if it's the first time all over again, it's so easy to fall in love with it. He doesn't need his powers, with his powers he could also make your prick feel all sorts of humanly impossible things and has done so many times before, but he doesn't need that to bring you there for him. He knows you too well, and he'll keep proving it over and over to you until you forget your own name.

Horus Lupercal

Dear God/10: You know what they say about a man with good lip service? You know, it doesn't just mean socially - and he is beyond talented. But! That privilege is saved only for you, Darling Husband. To a point where he is actually obsessed. You're tiny, did you know that? Well he's going to remind you, over and over. You're quite something else - to bring such a large man, such a man of grand status as Primarch, so easily down to his knees like this. Naughty, naughty, boy. It doesn't matter where you are, you can be at a diplomat party which he was invited to, talking to all the stuck up nobles with his arm around your waist and sometimes he'll just look at you - how pretty and handsome you are - and his eyes will wonder, damn whose looking to notice. You can be all dressed up in nice fancy clothes fitting of your Consort status and he'll be looking directly at your crotch, mouth watering. Needless to say it isn't exactly a surprise to suddenly get dragged off to somewhere more private and secluded. Just the two of you.

He actually very much adores seeing you dressed up like this, such the nice looking suit, all pretty and wrapped up... shame about the growing stain in your trousers as he rubs you through them. So many husky whispers of; "Good boy," right directly into your ear as he does it too - which you were, and you sound so sweet trying your best to stay quiet. But finally when he deems it fit he lowers himself to you, letting you steady yourself as your legs practically shake with your hands on his shoulders. His hands are so big they swallow your hips whole yet they delicately trend down and around so that he may pull you out of your fancy pants. He gifts your prick a soft kiss in the crook of it; from your hip to your shaft. Slow. Sweet. It's torture but of the most delectable kind, and you'll endure because you are his good boy, right? Yeah, he knows you are. He gives you some mercy by starting off not to fast when he does latch his mouth around your length.

He looks up at you with loving eyes though, making sure you're alright. And you're doing such the amazing job. Picks up the pace a bit as he begins to play around with your balls; giving firm massages and brief tugs that make you gasp out and curse his name that never fail to bring a smile to his face. He goes faster. Faster. Fast that gets your hips bucking and you sobbing for him. Fuck his face, give him everything that you have. Lets you come down his throat with no struggle, just watching the contortions and molding of pleasure across your face until your gasping and desperate for air. The he wastes no time, slipping off and back up onto his feet so he can grab the back of your head so that he may kiss you; sharing all the leftovers of your seed and even shoveling them over to your mouth. Then, without fail as you pull away for air and look up with him with heavy eyes, he smiles.

"What a good boy you've been..."

Fuck Erebus/10: Too busy. The loving relationship you had is gone. He is down this road and has dragged you down with him. Your current existence is hell and constant war. But even still he still loves you, in his own twisted way, he's extremely more possessive than he's ever been in the past. If a man, even one of his own sons, and he doesn't care who it is even glances at you in a way longer than he deems appropriate they are dead in a matter of seconds. Either from fueled jealousy or the urge to just get some damn stress out he commands you to strip and lay out on your back. And in a way that makes you sick to your stomach, he is still gentle. It's just more... twistedly so. His large hands on your hips are tight, holding you still, holding you close. He's on his knees on the side of the bed, breath hot against the span of your stomach. There's this... crazed look on his face, one that pains to see so you make sure your head is tilted back to avoid it. Depending on his mood he'll be entirely silent throughout or sickeningly rant to you. It's never good. It's not from the man you married. The stimulations from his mouth are rough, ragged. There is no actual passion behind it other trying to get you to come as quick as possible to prove to you that you still belong to him. And when you do come it's in tears; what will it take to bring the man you love back?

Lorgar Aurelian

11/10: This isn't just an act of love. This is a ritual and you will be as worshipped as you properly and rightly deserve. He will devote himself as much as you desire - his own wants are irrelevant, his only want is for you to be satisfied and he's willing to do anything to achieve that. He treats your sacred rod with such care, prays to it, kisses it, rubs his cheek against it. There is nothing else in the world like it and you're telling him he gets to taste it? Oh he feels faint. Will treat you very carefully and slow at the start, making sure to look up at you every chance that he can to make sure he's doing enough of an acceptable job - and his eyes will roll up in his head if you actually tell him that. He'll do anything and everything you command of him, takes it as gospel and does it without question, all while his cock is so hard and leaking through his robes it's prodding out. So you command him to take care of it. He pumps himself so hard and fast while in tandem with his head bobs it nearly makes him go mad - and he's so loud. If anyone happens to be near your chambers it'll be undeniable what you're doing. Can and will come on command, as many times as you want/need him to, he will make himself do it. When it's your turn he savors in every moment of it - committing to the taste. It's so good... more... he wants more - demands for more! But will you give it to him?

Vulkan

6/10: Well of course he wants to take care of you! Is very excited to! There has been many a time your presence has... distracted him at the Forge. He's so big and you're so small that he can hoist you up and wrap your legs around his neck and hold you with one hand - carrying you up and down with you just sat in the palm of his hand. His mouth is so warm, but then again his whole body is, but his mouth... is something else. It can be all intense, having your cock swallowed whole like this so he is definitely willing to pull away and give you breaks when you need it, always cooing soft praises to you in the downtime that just get you sweeter and squirming for more. You are go good for him, doing such the amazing job, your cries sound so cute as they crescendo into sobs as you hold tighter around him, chasing release. And he'll always smile after you come, fingers cradling around you, telling you how good you did... would you like to go again?

Corvus Corax

5/10: He is a busy man but when he is free he likes to loom in the shadows, to make sure you're safe. But sometimes... he feels bold. You can be in bed asleep peacefully, slowly, he'll make way to your bed and to your side. His kisses to you are soft, light, but enough to stir you the least little bit to make you aware of his arrival. The kisses then will tread lower, and lower, his hands skirting you and pulling up and down your clothing so that he may see you - already growing hard for him. He isn't the most practiced in the world but he's just really missed you... shows you that the best he can by eloping his mouth onto you. His tongue is so soft, velvet soft, he sucks and licks you in small bobs of his head. He'll look so pretty up at you though once you're awake enough to pet at his head, brushing a bit of hair from his eyes, smiling at him. Now that you're watching... he gets a bit clumsy but nothing a bit of help and encouragement can't fix. Coughs a bit when you do finally arrive down his throat, by him being more surprised by it than anything. Nothing has to be said afterwards, he'll crawl up and lay next to you for the night, a small comfort for the time being... he'll be gone by morning.

Alpharius Omegon

Which one was actually him?/10: It starts out as one, you're pretty sure it's him... then comes another one. And then another. And another. And another. And another. And soon the whole legion is there, passing you around. Your poor penis... you come so many times... but by the time your body gives out you have many lovers to tend to your aftercare.

Roboute Guilliman

He is a man of structure. Of routine.

Preparation is always necessary for everything, that way there is no room for error if everything is fit to the dotted line. It's a mentality that's won him many battles, it is a mindset that got him Ultramar as it is - ...was.

Uncounted for variables can be quite the annoyance if not out right problematic.

He is a very busy man, especially in this new age and having to serve both as Imperial Regent and still oversee Ultramar. He spends time with you as much as he can, helped by as your position as his Consort and your willingness to engage politically as well - usually seeing to Ultramarian tasks and assisting Calgar on Macragge while he deals with Imperium matters - and convening on business. But that is what that all entailed: business. Not that much causally free spent as spouses, that's why such engagements for romance have to be planned.

Today wasn't planned.

He had requested your presence to discuss something over a new education facility being built here on Macragge but... something about what you were wearing made it not last very long.

His hands gripped and kneaded your hips as you grinded down onto him. Your hands felt do nice in his hair, raking desperately through them as if you were trying to find a good anchor as you both kissed. You taste sweet, always have, like the finest Macragge wine he could become quite the drunk if he had his selfish ways and keeping you with him at all times.

His length strained against against the finery of his causal robes, throbbing and seeking out for you through your own, blue rich fabric staining with need. He pulls back from your kiss, redirecting it down your neck in growling movements. You sigh out a moan of his name, still grappling onto his hair but you hold him closer, encouraging his stimulation further.

His hands begin to explore lower, slipping from your hips down to your ass, squeezing and gripping you firm.

"Roboute," You softly sigh against him as his kisses molds into bites around your neck, large hands still on your ass and grinding you against him.

It doesn't take much to go further beyond - with a few skillfull movements and shuffling and bundling of soft silk material to expose your lower half to him. How he takes a moment to lean you back so that he can look down at your arousal, how your sex leaks for him, how he moves to catch droplets onto his fingers.

You don't leave him without attention either - recapturing his lips while you go to pull his cock out, he slightly hisses once your hand touches it. In the spear of the moment you both start to stimulate the other all while he begins to growl curses into between your kisses and pulls your forward so that he may kiss you harder.

Your hand is so small on him, so small you struggle to fit your palm over his length, but yet you still try your best - using the slick spilling from his head as lubricant so you can stroke him faster.

It's so good.

So good.

So good he doesn't realize that his hands barely move on you in turn, from your kiss his eyes rolling back, his hips roughly buck and rut against your hand, how loud even in the smothering of your lips he's getting.

So good.

So good.

So-

"FUCK!"

His spillage nearly drowns your fist whole. His arrival sends shockwaves through him that tingle out through his whole body he's nearly blinded by it. He can barely hold his breath in.

But when it settles, when the realization hits him, he's mortified.

"My Lord! We heard you shout! Are you alr-" Then it's even worse with Sicarius in the doorway, Bolter already raised at the defensive.

...wait.

...we...?

"My Lord, as soon as we h-" The Chapter Master is soon to follow in, Gauntlets of Ultramar ready at his sides. Though it doesn't take long for the elder Astartes to take in the scene laid out before him and the Captain.

Sicarius looks shamefully away while relief and then ease molds onto Calgar's face as he nods in parting.

"Apologies for the disruption." And he proceeds to grab Cato by the back of the armor collar and drag him out of the office. Door slamming shut with just the amount of embarrassment and shame Roboute felt at that very moment.

You're red too - not once did you gather the courage to look back at the door. He felt so horrible about it.

"I-I'm sorry, we should've - shouldn't have - we - we-" It wasn't so often he gets tangled up with words. He scolds himself; schedules! Schedules! This is why schedules are set in place! So that risks of situations occurring like these and... oh how awful he feels about letting it get this far. In the throws of his inner scolding of himself suddenly he registers your touch to his face, making him look at you.

"Are you alright?" So calmy, you ask.

He licks at his lips, swallows the knot in his throat. "Yes, I'm just... shameful my sons got to see you like that, so vulnerable, so exposed."

"Well, we're still mostly clothed. And behind the desk I'm sure they didn't really see anything." You try and comfort. But still. It was the principle of it, though... if you provided such alternatives to keep yourself comfortable, then he wasn't going to disturb it.

He still looks down at the mess he made both on your hand and his lap, the other aspect...

"I wasn't... I wasn't planning on or expecting-"

"It's fine, Roboute. It's not that big of a deal." He looks at you and the state of your sex.

"You didn't come." You look slightly surprised at him before it turns to one of hesitation.

"...no." He watches as subtly your thighs squeeze together, looking away from him. This won't do.

He does what he should've done from the start if you were going to depart from schedules, so that no uncounted variables could disturb you; he up and carries you to his private quarters. Lay you down on the vast bed and tangles himself between you legs, picking them up and over his shoulders.

"We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

Horus Lupercal

He hadn't seen you in weeks.

He's been plenty busy, many planets Father wants in line and he is the right son to always get the job done. But even still - even in the hours of war-council, hours strategizing, hours debating, hours of training to put his sons through the ringer to the test to always make sure of the right outcome, to the moment his Legion is unleashed to glory; you are always somewhere on his mind.

Not to where it's distracting - no! He knows his priorities and knows how to maintain balance. But you're there; dancing in between ideas and battle. And you know? Sometimes he really needs it, hearing these diplomats go on and on through peace-talks. Horus Lupercal is a very charismatic man, he can talk to just about anyone about anything - even if it's a subject in the vast intelligence of his brain he doesn't know about - but... for hours though? A man has limits before he starts dazing off.

"Consort Lupercal-" Then your name gets brought up, as if somewhere someone was reading his thoughts.

"My Beloved Consort is elsewhere; back on Terra." He boasts, not sure where the conversation was to lead him here but - fake it until you make it.

"To celebrate Imperial victory and the Heretical tyrants overthrown, out of good faith of the new ruling class - Emperor of Mankind be praised - we would like to invite your Lordship and the Consort here for dinner."

Immediately hated the idea.

"This site was a battlefield not even three days ago," Abbadon seems to share his opinion. "-heretic presence might yet not all be purged yet you're planning dinners."

"Well, it'll take time for the Consort to arrive, won't it? Plenty of time for remaining clean up." The nobleman responds. Horus glances as his Captain returns him a look, he holds it, thinks about it...

And maybe a selfish part of him wins.

Garviel Loken is the one to help and escort you from out of the Thunderhawk, polite greetings in tow.

It's a drab little planet you find yourself on, one still healing from the fresh wounds of battle that only ended mere weeks beforehand, a rebellion from the ruling class that spoke ill of the Emperor's name. Not everyone stood with them however, many of the noble houses that littered the world not supporting such claims and even sent their own personal armies to support both the Imperium Militarum stationed here and then later your husband and his sons who came as heavy support against the heavy firepower the rulers possessed on world. It seems settled now; in the midst of ruined cities and factories. With your arm wrapped around his, Garviel leads you to the rest of his Legion and father - rest of your armed escort of his brothers in tow behind.

Horus is so delighted to see you, wrapping his arms around you in a nearly rib-crushing embrace as he spins you around, only setting you down and clearing his throat as he turns to introduce you to the loyalist nobles... arm still snaked around your waist to keep you close. An arm that doesn't leave you all evening.

Dinner is great, much better than you would've expected coming from times only weeks out from war. Though then again, you are in the company of the finest class of the population - priorities are sort for those on the top still, you feel anguish for the Commonfolk still having to recover from all this. The dinner is held at a Rogue Trader's local residence, a large towering manor that even dwarfed the grandest of city hives. With the Ruling Lord dead, he, his families, comrades all close to him slain and labeled as heretics - the Lady Captain Eris Mayam was deemed by Imperial Decree to inherit the position, fitting as this was her Homeworld.

"I thought they were good people," She laments. "-I even had their company on my vessel. You think you know people! Foul creatures, claiming themselves higher than the Emperor."

Much diplomatic discussion was had, many nobles sat amongst this grand table alongside you and Horus. Majority of the Luna Wolves stationed to eat with the human soldiers down below - many grumbling in disfavor having to share a meal with Baselines, but one scolding look from you in passing shut them right up and apologize. The Mournival however was ordered to stay put to guard by Horus, in front of nobles his speech appears nothing but causality, even throwing in how he just likes their company, but you knew better in his tone how he told his Best to keep watch.

The dinner, however, doesn't come to that. It ends with finally all the political talk ceased and instead with your husband sharing grand stories of Campaigns across the stars, alcohol shared all round, and a large hand squeezing your thigh - tempting to crawl it's way higher where very quickly you are warm for him in longing heat that's been starved for weeks, if not months.

You count down the seconds for the dinner to be over, to properly excuse yourself for the night and give your proper partings to the Lady Captain and the noble entourage, steadily making your way to your private guest quarters knowing full well how you were being prowled and stalked not far behind, you even have to hide your smile until suddenly you are completely lifted up in the air in a fit of laughter and carried off the ground, being packed off to your destination that couldn't come fast enough down the hallway corner.

It was a small bed - compared to Horus at least. To you it was a perfect fit to squirm into as you frantically tried to fight back your Beloved's kisses with your own, arms wrapped tight around him and all your nice fancy clothes bunched up and wrinkled as you further and further melted into him. He parts your kiss, low groan leaving his throat right in your ear as he adjusts - shoving you down deeper onto the soft furs of his wolf pelt he stripped from his shoulders so you may lie down on it instead.

He's missed you, just as much as you've missed him and probably more, his kisses are in flaming desperation of that; peppering you on every bit of skin he can possibly reach. You whine and buck yourself against him, through breathy calls pleading for more, which he in turn returns your rocks so that even through strained rich cloth you both rub against one another.

It's hot. Scorching. You hold onto him even tighter as you pick up the pace, which gladly he encourages by slipping down and getting a good handfuls of your ass to keep you grinding. His breath is hot in your ear as he shares every single filthy detail of the things he's been imaging since the day you part, not letting a single syllable falter or with stutter.

And he's not the only one with tales to share; you tell him just how much you missed him, how cold your martial bed has been without him, how you've kept yourself occupied for hours pleading for him around your own fingers - but nothing was ever enough, nothing could ever fill the gaping hole in your heart he's left you with.

He hears it. Feels it. Your words grab a hold of him at his very core. He can't but to wrap his arms around you, tighter, tighter and-

He lets out a guttural shiver as his vision blurs.

His breath is heavy and bones alight, like every single one of his nerves on end that he has to force himself to pull out of your neck to look down at you; all flushed in the face and lips parted looking back up at him. Sweat drips of his face onto your own before melding back down against your lips. Loosing himself for a couple minutes more.

He actually laughs when he looks down at it: the large wet spot on his pants, even soaking yours.

"That hasn't happened in awhile," He jests before his eyes flicker back over to you. "-guess it just proof how much I've missed you. Or well, how much me and Horus Junior have missed you."

You lightly swat at him for his tease which the Primarch can only laugh, bringing you up to kiss him once more. It was fine, every was, after all the two of you had the rest of the night t-

BLAM.

With a sudden jolt, rolling out of the way, it misses you and soars over your head and creates a blemish on the bedframe. Enraged, keeping you held down and blocking you with his weight his eyes quickly wip around to find the source of the gunshot.

There is a sniper perched on one of the balconies outside the window - as soon as he notices there is another shot, this time hitting and bouncing off his arm due to his superior flesh. These were human bullets. The traitors were still around.

He looks at you, how you shook but still tried your best to appear strong. He had to get you out of here. Quickly he rearms himself with his armor and his sword, you never any farther than two steps away, he had to get to his sons and you off planet - his ultimate priority. The heretics can burn afterwards or during, he did not care.

Actual fighting has broken out throughout the manor, commotion too happening both on the streets and he doesn't doubt the Hive. Windows are broken, furniture used as crash cover. Carefully Horus leads you down the halls and out of any danger throwing itself your way.

Then suddenly, out of room barely dressed in her uniform giving the late status of the night but armed to the teeth is Lady Captain Mayam - first she looks defensive then relieved as she sees the Primarch.

"My Lord, the heretics resurfaced! They-"

"Silence." He grits, the mask of the charismatic Warmaster gone. "I was told traitor presence has been cleansed from this world yet the moment I let my guard down, my spouse invited and let onto this planet in 'good faith', this is just so happen the moment we are attacked? So help me, Rouge Trader, tell me why shouldn't I have your Warrant purged and your planet Exterminatus?"

"Then do that. We'll all long be dead by the time you make it off planet - if these heretics have anything to say about it." She spits, grieving frustration in her voice, but slowly her face molds into one more desperate yet stern merit. "By the Emperor, I am no heretic. Believe me or not, I WILL get you and Consort Lupercal off this planet. What you choose to do after... is up to you, My Lord."

It takes him a long moment, staring down at the woman. "Fine, lead the way, Trader."

"Very well, my Lord. This wa-"

BLAM.

Her body quickly fell on the ground before she could finish, Horus steps and moves you around so you can't see and faces her killer at the bottom of the steps.

It was a traitor heretic and around him laid the body of the late Captain's personal guard. She was clearly not involved in such plot. More traitor soldiers appear from the shadows, soldiers baring crests he recognized as the men of nobles he had sat and ate with tonight. So his suspicions weren't unfounded, the treachery was in deeper than he thought. Some fought some remnants of still loyal bands and others had their fire carefully trained at you. He wouldn't let that happen.

Quickly, shielding you from harm and cutting down any threat with ease, does it thankfully doesn't take long to find his sons and does he lead you over to them.

"Get them off planet now. I don't care how you do it, just do it." He demands, you look over to him and Abbadon who now holds onto your wrist to maneuver you to the center of his Squadron's circle as almost like a protective barrier, but through it you look and does your husband beat you to sharing any of your concerns.

"Look, everything will be alright. Get on a ship and wait. You'll be fine." You trust him, you really do, it just the twisting knot in your stomach. How'd it escalate so quickly? You had dinner not even an hour ago! But... it was fine. He was right. You were fine. Everything would be fine, the heretics would pay what they did to this place.

"Gunned Thunderhawk isn't that far away and is just active, we'll get on it and still be able to defend ourselves to escape orbit." Garviel assures, stealing a glance over towards his father before looking back to begin ushering you away, you escorting you to the world he would be escorting you off it as well.

Meanwhile, Horus looks at the flaming city around. A real damn shame, everything. But he supposed he knew that from the start, he should've known better, and worse of all he got you dragged into it too. But... you would be fine, you are left with some of his most trusted sons. He needs to properly take care of this mess.

Damn traitors ruining his night. Well, he'll just have to hurry and make it up with you.

He thinks he can do so by morning.