Archive of Our Own

The battle barge is a leviathan of a vessel—but certainly far, far less busy than the Flagship.

It has fewer mumbling serfs, drooling servitors, and binary-raving Mechanicus Adepts roaming the halls.

You have grown to miss that lack of crowding, given the fact you're back in the hulking innards of a Gloriana-class ship. Truth be told, you liked the small rooms of the battle-barge, and the tiny cots, and how you had to cosy up close to your Lord in them. Because now, everything is too spacious.

Titus' new cot is so big, you can lay down and not even touch him on the same mattress. You can stand in his armoury. Yes, he has an armoury, now—it's huge. It's so tall that even he can't touch the ceiling. He even gets a bathing chamber. You hadn't seen one of those in a very long time. You remember what the Chapter-master's rooms were like, how grand the interlinked apartments were—and somehow Titus' quarters feel about the same.

They're very beautiful.

But... a bit too big.

That sentiment goes for the rest of the vessel, too.

There's too much compared to the little world in and of itself you'd had on the Second Company's barge. You had forgotten just how packed in everyone was here. The Macragge's Honour is a hive city in all but name, listing and rising on the waves of vast, empty space. You could walk a whole cycle and never see anything but humans. You could do the same a kilometre up in the hallowed halls and see nothing but Astartes. Below their echelons, in the mid-depths, there are some nooks and crannies that are less peopled—but it is usually for a reason.

Most of the time, it's simply a matter of differing shift allocation and rostering.

Sometimes, at least.

Other, quieter moments are unexplainable.

Just like they are now.

The nigh endless corridor feels hollow as you stare down it. There's not even a peep of natural sound, aside from the great vessel around you seemingly breathing. The ship knows you're here, the ship knows where everyone is. She is very old. She probably knows you were born within her halls. But that fact doesn't change the disquieting way her dark veins echo around you. Even if you know, on a primitive level, you're not really alone—there are always people on the Flagship. There's always someone. So, really—there's no reason to worry. The creaking of the decking a ways behind you is probably just another serf or two doing their labours nearby. It's nothing. Everything is just fine.

The sheer size of the bundle of sheets in your arms slows you a little, and adding to that is Titus' heavy linen rest clothes, which weigh a pretty decent amount.

It's somewhat improper that you're doing this laundry rather than a lesser menial—or servitor, even.

But it feels right to do it after all your habit on the Battle-barge, and your Lord has voiced no complaints thus far.

You had felt the eyes of others on your back as you descended each echelon, and eventually the gazes thinned out to nothing.

And so you walk in the half-light, through long, dark passages below the high halls of the God-Emperor's Angels.

A deep seated, roiling fear prickles up your spine with the feeling of being watched, worsened yet by a source beyond view.

It's pointless stress to carry on in such a way in a ship full of Astartes, and even more so Primaris, and... the Primarch, he is here too. The Avenging Son, how you would die to even glimpse his face once in your lifetime like your parents have... no, no—enough of that ditziness—point of fact, the chances of danger are low, but it is little harm in being cautious.

There's something to be said about the mind crafting horrors that pale reality in comparison, and whether or not the animal unease plaguing your subconscious is mere baseless anxiety.

The truth remains that it's still there.

It still sets your hair on end; it still quickens your pace.

And yet, you arrive at your destination unharmed and unmolested by whatever monster your brain swore was going to gobble you up.

The washing-room is one of thousands.

It is a tall-ceilinged hall littered with candles and idling red lamps, tiered into a lower chamber and a loft that sits at rim level to the huge, open vats of sloshing water, churning in slow, whirling efficiency. There are dozens upon dozens of them, their transparent panels revealing churning currents of fabric suspended in luminous fluid. Soft blue light pulses up at you from within them, signalling cycles of decontamination, stain dissolution, and readiness. The system wastes nothing, converting residue into energy or base compounds for other ship functions. Every part of the routine is utterly tireless, each attended to by... oh. No, they are... not being attended to. Where are the servitors? Where are the junior Mechanicus agents? Who is monitoring readouts on floating displays?

Ah, probably the shift change you were hypothesising earlier coming into effect. A correct guess, that—for a moment—makes you chuffed at your good intuition.

Then, the notion pointedly curdles in your mind.

You are alone in this dim, unpeopled place.

The air is somehow both cold and humid, with the faint metallic scent of recycled water and sterilising agents.

You look up and shiver nervously.

Overhead, articulated rails that ought to be operated by faceless Adeptus Mechanicus labourers are empty. There should be at least one of them, but where each cart is tagged and tracked and eventually taken to vast dryers—ensuring that an Astartes' robe and an officer's dress uniform are never confused—there is no one.

You wander to the far end of the chamber and find an entirely empty vat. There's nothing to be afraid of. If there's no one here, isn't that a good thing? Better that than just one other person. It's safer to be by yourself than lack the safety of a crowd against an individual.

It calms you just that little bit more as you remind yourself of your duty. which is as easy as a quick drag of your palm across a scanner propped up at the edge of the platform, and a green light flash to commence loading. There's complex machinery surrounding it; along with a broad, flat surface littered with lit-up cogitators. How the system within that huge countertop logs and informs the workers whose clothing is whose is certainly beyond you. All that matters is that the unclean fabric comes back clean.

Which it does, eventually.

You carefully lower Titus' tunic over the ledge into the water, and then one of your own, and you carry on your task until you start to tire and begin to lose all pretence of grace. You toss a towel, fling a fresher-cloth, and punt a pair of pants.

You send one of your dirty linens flying and huff at the splash it makes.

Then comes the bedding, which starts out easy enough.

Pillow cases go soaring into the swirling tide, and a bundled fitted sheet briefly unfurls in the air before it's quickly sucked into the vortex.

It's rather fun.

You usually don't get the opportunity to indulge in a bit of ruckus like this, obedient as you are. Not that Titus really minds. He's very forgiving, and you don't ever act out to begin with—but still, out of propriety, you try to keep most of your more... impulsive actions rather subdued.

But with no one around, and the luck of having the Captain of the Second Company as your master likely deterring any menial from raising a complaint, you decide this tiny amount of hooning around is an acceptable minor lapse of judgment.

Clumsily, your heel catches behind a large top-sheet as you try to spin and throw it far with your momentum, effectively snatching your own footing out from under you; falling forwards towards the twister of chemical-laden water.

You don't even get the chance to properly react.

It's suddenly apparent that you're no longer about to enter the slurry.

You're no longer even on the ground, either.

You look over your shoulder, and are met by a familiar face. Grey-blonde-haired and surprisingly close—you find Sergeant Gadriel, in all his bright-eyed glory.

It's hard to get out the next words in your shock, but you try, even if you stutter when you say, "I-I, uh... t-thank you, my Lord."

He's holding you aloft with two big hands around your midsection, and there's an awkward pause between him stepping back with you in his grasp and him putting you down, before he nods stiffly.

Gadriel sets you facing away from him and you turn, and an—agonisingly—real awkwardness deepens as he simply stays rooted to the spot, simply staring at you.

Did he... see you acting a fool?

Is he going to mention it?

Are you in trouble?

"Was..." you start, shifting your weight between your feet. "Was there something I could be of assistance to you with, my Lord?"

The blink he gives you is clearly forced, like he's trying hard to centre himself from some faraway thought.

He swallows and all but blurts out, "No—no, not yet, serf."

What does he mean by that, you idly wonder—still, it is not your place to question—even if he sounds a little terse. So, you simply nod dumbly and stand there. He doesn't seem to have brought any linens to wash, nor does he seem to be looking for something. He's glued to the spot, almost like he's already found what he'd been after. There's a focused attention in his gaze, which is certainly intimidating. Is he scrutinising you? Is he going to discipline you for your lapse in behaviour? You have trouble tearing your eyes away from his then, because he's kept them stuck to yours the whole time; and you've only just realised the impropriety of the act... what he's seen and what you've done.

Impropriety, when there's far worse on your list of deeds. Far worse with him and his squad-mates. Throne of Terra—you're still a little green about the matter. It hasn't been helped by Titus' elevation in status. You imagine the Sergeant is surprised to see you here. Titus doesn't really have need of you to do such tasks when he's suddenly drowning in menial assistants, but he has been more than glad in humouring your continued existence. Much like all the Great Angels, actually. They are all surprisingly kindly in such matters, seeing as they largely ignore you—which is good.

You are seen, but not heard by the others, as you are wont to be. Or perhaps more accurately, another Astartes—other than Titus—sees you, and you only see his boots as you bow.

Well, that is... except for the Sergeant, currently. He's looking right at you, and you're looking right at him. Throne, you haven't even glanced him since your return to the flagship.

Until now, that is.

"How have you been faring, serf?"

It's completely out of the blue, and you react in accord, nervously wringing your hands.

"Well," you reply reflexively, "I've been well, Lord."

"You seem it," he breathes, and takes a step closer to you.

You try to maintain decorum and take a step back, but he follows—and swallows up the step with one large stride that probably accounts for three of your own. You're toe to toe briefly, before you scud on your heels and your back collides with the scanner's countertop.

"Don't be afraid," he rasps. "You know I mean you no harm, serf."

Ah, so he is aware you're terrified, despite the fact you know him. That is, to make the claim that having had someone inside you is a form of knowing them.

"O-Of course," you rush to say, "And... and what of you, Lord? How have you been?"

He moves in closer while you stammer.

Gadriel is now looming over you as the low, residual glow of the machinery and vats casts his face in a truly frightening light for a second. He's very much a Great Angel suddenly, very much a being made for war on a thousand worlds; and very much glaring at you like you're one of the many, many enemies he's no doubt cleaved through with ease.

Then Gadriel blinks again, ever so slowly, and you're reminded of the fact he's not really seeing you as a threat. He's probably not intentionally scaring you either; he's just... a bit strange, like they all are.

"I have been distracted as of late," he says softly.

You frown sincerely as you answer, "I am sorry to hear that, my Lord."

"You ought to be," he grumbles.

You're not sure what to do or say to that.

You haven't done anything to him, or at least, you don't think you have. Still, should you grovel just in case? Somehow you get the impression he's not actually angry... maybe he is making a joke? Astartes jokes are very strange, but they're not as rare as you'd once thought they were.

You look up at him and blink back, just as slow as he did.

It seems to be the correct response, because Gadriel takes a long breath in and appears to be satisfied. It's hard to tell, namely due to the fact that his mouth remains straight. But there's a crease on either side of his bright blue eyes that looks like he is trying not to smile openly.

You're glad it worked, you're glad he is appeased momentarily, you're—

You're not glad when he crouches down and lifts you up under the arms like a child's toy.

A yelp leaves you in surprise, and you flail wildly before you are suddenly back on something solid. He's seated you up on the countertop, and it's just as high up as you thought it'd be. The top of your head is level with his neck, and it's a little too familiar an angle of him. You try not to remember being held up with spread legs by Chairon and seeing the same thing.

He moves in near enough that you jump at the realisation his pelvis is almost at the same height as your hips, if not for your dangling legs being in the way.

You're well aware of the fact you're cornered—and that you're being fondled—for lack of a better word, as he leans in close enough that his head looms beside yours.

Big, calloused palms start to knead at your hips; taking an entire, single-handed grope of your outer thigh through your pant fabric and squeezing. It's going to bruise, it's going to be so tender later—and Titus is going to ask what happened—you won't even know how to begin to tell him. Something along the lines of 'Oh, Gadriel found me' and then he–he... he's reaching up under your tunic.

The hall's air is bitingly cold, but the big palm sliding up your flesh is so warm you can't help but sigh as they start to knead your breasts.

Afore you, the Sergeant's breathing is growing laboured.

He's huffing and puffing next to your ear, and you're stunned by the sheer volume of air that he can take in and expel. You'd been practically insensible the last time he'd been this close, so the realisation is a new, wry thing.

Something wet and scalding drags across the side of your gullet, and you abruptly figure out that he's—he's just licked you.

"You are still sweet," Gadriel heaves, and lathes his tongue on you again—but this time, up under your jaw. "Yes, this will suffice as an apology for distracting me."

You go rigid, unsure of how to answer once again and also quite frankly unseated by his sudden fixation. Perhaps him currently lapping at your skin like a starved animal should be a greater cause for concern. A wild, unbidden surge of fear seizes your mind. Do... the God Emperor's Angels eat people? No. No. They probably could, but surely they do not. You've never seen them eat anything other than their nutritional rations—sure, when you were young, you had seen the Chapter Master indulge beyond that. Sometimes in a glass or two—or ten—of amasec poured out by your father's hands, but the most far-fetched thing you've seen an Astartes put their mouth to in any sort of hunger is, well... you.

You shudder.

He brings his face close to yours, sharing the hot air of his breath.

Then, he moves even closer to you, smothering your cheek with his—before he decides to start tilting his head so your chin drags across his parted lips. You're extremely confused when Gadriel pulls away, only to repeat the gesture, except this time it's closer to him banging his forehead on you. His big nose jars against yours, and it stirs the distant urge to sneeze, although you manage to keep it together.

You're a little sore in the two places where his huge snout and reinforced skull made contact, and he reels back, seemingly as lost as you are.

"Is that not correct?" He asks, brows furrowing.

You blink a few times, "I-I'm not sure I understand?"

"Is that not a kiss?"

It's hard to believe the Sergeant even asked that, but it doesn't undo the fact that he just did.

"It's not... exactly," you flounder, "...m-my Lord."

You've noticed they've all got quirks. For example, when Titus is deep in thought or annoyed, he scrunches his nose and flares his nostrils; with Chairon, it's an absentminded biting at the inside of his cheeks—and now, you find that Gadriel chews his bottom lip. It's one of a panoply of little behaviours that make them seem less like angelic war-machines, and more like coltish men simply blown out to hulking proportion. It's so endearing it makes you a little giddy to linger on.

"Show me, then," he demands rather sharply, pouting at you.

You swallow and look away for a second before placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

Leaning up, you shut your eyes and press your lips against his. They're soft, and warm, and gentle despite the advances he makes forward.

It's a bit like kissing a slowly falling statue, at first. One that's breathing hard through its nose and trying to nuzzle into each peck. Your hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and you deliberately remember to card your fingers up, up, up through his hair to the crown.

Reliably, it gets the reaction you knew it would.

He moans as he leans in further, and your back slides down to meet the counter beneath you—then, his tongue peeks out. It's a surprisingly steady, natural escalation from Gadriel, all things considered. Namely because you're baffled he hasn't accidentally smothered you in his haste, yet. Still, you open your mouth and let him in, swallowing down the content rumble that leaves his throat.

As if by the whims of some cosmic, ironic pacing, he doubles down abruptly.

He's lapping at your tongue like a man dying of thirst, and you try to tug on his hair to get him to steady up.

It achieves the exact opposite, as you should've known.

Gadriel's rumbling becomes a long, cluttered mess of him alternating between panting into your open mouth and licking into it.

In his frenzy, you manage to turn your head away—but all it does it drive him to groan and tuck his face against your throat; lapping there, instead, and covering you in greedy bruises and saliva.

You keen loudly and wriggle, inundated with the full attention of the Sergeant trying to do as much as he can all at once.

That is, before he ducks down to your chest.

Your tunic is suddenly rucked up and bunched to your nose, blocking your sight. It's deeply unsettling having him fussing around where you can't fully see him.

Still, there's some comfort in the fact you can assume, largely, what Gadriel's doing by the groping of his huge hands and the drag of his tongue.

He's face-down against your chest, pressing your breasts together either side of his cheeks.

"How I've missed this," he moans, and the sound is scandalous.

He's been distracted by... lust? You thought Astartes disciplined nigh to death, not capable of pining. Titus certainly practises restraint when it comes to... these urges, but looking back—you're not too shocked the Sergeant is more gun-ho.

In your own distraction, you realise a little late you're half-off the counter. He's got your hips lifted in one huge hand.

"My Lord, p-please be careful—" you yelp loudly, and curl, not exactly fighting. It wouldn't do you much good. Gadriel is nothing if not persistent.

He's spreading and then releasing the underside flesh of your rear repeatedly. Only for him to decide thumbing one of your labia aside—and sighing to himself like he's misty-eyed with the delight of the view—is a good idea.

Unsettling, or more so jarring, really.

There's a very, very visceral memory of Lieutenant Titus' head between your thighs—and Gadriel's himself.

Bracing your elbows on the hard steel counter, you arch up slightly.

Truthfully, you can do little but watch as he then raises your hips even higher to pull your pants to your ankles.

He folds you up to your middle, and you lose sight of him briefly behind the pants stuck around your legs; the bunched-up fabric of your hooded robe around your chest only makes the whole endeavour even harder to see. You're being restrained and half-blinded by your own garb, and that's apparently working exactly in Gadriel's favour.

You hear him sigh contentedly again, and you just barely catch a glimpse of his big, trans-human tongue peeking out between your clothes as he licks his bottom lip.

The view is gone quickly, though, and hot air puffs against the tender skin between your legs.

"You are already wet," he rumbles slowly, focused.

You're genuinely stunned by the enormity of panic suddenly rattling about in your chest. So, you struggle to wolf down the saliva in your mouth around the lump in your throat and say, "I'm... uhm... sorry, L-Lord."

You don't know what else to offer him.

"Why?" Gadriel cuts in sharply as he promptly pulls your ass higher up, in a deep curve.

You don't know the correct answer to that, either.

With your cunt bared, the discomfort of open air on fresh, cooling saliva mixing with slick sits at the forefront of your focus. But Gadriel only makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

"W-Well, it's just that I... I..." you stammer, and immediately forget whatever excuse you had; replaced instead by the feeling of the flat of his tongue lathing a fat stripe over your entrance in one smooth motion, only to pull away, seemingly briefly appeased.

"You shouldn't be sorry," Gadriel offers at last, "I like tasting how much you enjoy this."

His words dumbfound you, but you don't get much time to think about that, considering you're not only being lifted higher; but also stunned by a boiling mouth latched squarely to your cunt.

He licks over your clit again, and again, and again, holding you fast by a single hand on your hip. God-Emperor have mercy, it is—it is utter torment. Each slow roll of that oversized, wet tongue against the bead of your clit makes your legs jolt. There's no possibility of canting yourself away, no repose, no chance of stemming the hot, thudding flush of sensations cloistering up—or is it down in this position—from your belly to your head. All you can do is let him gorge himself on your struggling as you moan frantically through the robes half-obscuring your face now; all thanks to the sharper incline of him bending your body.

Just barely, out of the corner of your eye, you can see how hard he's leaning against the counter-edge; craning down while his hand holds you up. And—oh, he's—he's got himself in his free hand. The Sergeant is touching himself to this. Throne, you can see the motion of him ruthlessly fucking into his own fist under the folds of his linens.

You moan, and he does too. It's always jarring how low an Astartes register is. You can feel the vibrations travel through your flesh like rolling thunder.

It's more than enough to make you squeal and buck against his mouth; more sucking you rather than licking, now, giving your poor clit not even a moment's reprieve.

He pulls away suddenly.

He's breathing hard as he lowers you down from his mouth, and pins your legs back against your front again. He's got you around the ankles, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Hard enough that not even the distraction of your dripping cunt can dampen the ache.

A fat, blunt tip prods at your entrance, and you freeze. The angle makes seeing it past your own shucked-up, baggy pants impossible. You can see him, you can see the lust blowing his blue eyes almost black, you can see the furrow on his brow, but you can't see when he's going to fill you. Your hands flail across the smooth surface around you, desperately trying to find a hold. He's going to jam himself in just like he had the first time, and start rutting into you like a very, very excited beast—and it's going to hurt—you're trying in vain to brace for the pain of a battering ram striking point blank. He's still palming himself, too worked up to stop. You can feel the head of him testing your warmth, circling your cunt, pressing in a little, edging closer—

You can't help the keening whine of both want and horror that rises up and finds freedom from your mouth.

For a second, you think it's an echo that a similar sound comes from in front of you. Some trick of resonance off the steel-plated walls and high ceilings, but that can't be right—your voice isn't that low, isn't that rough and rumbling—abruptly, something paints across your sex. It's hot and coming in thick, pent-up ropes.

Gadriel slumps forward, the hold on your ankles swapped for being pinned back by his chest. He catches himself on the hand he was holding them with, and you see just how beaded with sweat Gadriel's face is pink—a bright, rosy pink—as he opens his eyes and meets yours almost shyly.

That is to say, if a Great Angel could ever look shy.

"I did not mean to..." he starts to bumble out, but swallows midway through, apparently cotton-mouthed as he looks down at you. "Waste myself i-in such a manner."

You realise then that he's finished all over you.

There's no time to ruminate on that, though—because you're suddenly back to having something riling you up.

It's fingers—he's—oh, Throne. He's pressing into you with his fingers. A thumb rolls against your clit, and you buck, and then you're full of something—there's too much happening all at once. One hand's holding you steady, the other's got digits jamming into you like a machine.

"Do it," he grumbles as he somehow increases the speed of his fingers.

What? Do—Do what? What does he want now? You don't know what he's talking about. He's pressing his own spend into you, and it's—it's slimey, and slippery, and so, so satisfying knowing he's that desperate to fill you—and you're trying not to start crying at the rising crest that's hot on your heels.

"Mnnh–m-my Lord," you strain and try valiantly to get your words out over the distractingly sloppy sound of fingers fucking his cum into your cunt, "I don't understa—ah—and?"

"That wet gush you made when I had you for the first time," Gadriel rushes to say in a whiny, impatient tone rather unbecoming of his kind, but then again... nothing is really becoming of one of his kind in this situation, "Do it again, I want to see it properly."

"I d-don't—" you blubber, suffering through a heady throb of bliss that somehow almost hurts with how sharply it scorches your nerves. "I don't k-know how I... I d-did it, I don't—"

You're trying to give him what he wants, you really are; but you don't know how, and he's not going to stop unless you do. The pace of his scissoring at your walls is a brutal, stinging rush of pleasure. Your abdomen aches, instinctively trying to clench on the huge fingers playing you like some daft, mewling instrument.

It's too much. He's always too much too fast, and you can't help but whine and try to buck your hips away from the incessant bliss coiling in your core.

He stops, suddenly and you hear a heavy thud before you. You try to arch up, but any hope of getting to your haunches evaporates when a mouth latches at your clit.

You're so stunned you can't even manage a moan as he starts moving his fingers again.

The pressure builds and builds, hot and bloating in your loins and you feel like you're about to burst, drawn closer and closer to a damning end.

"Yes, that's it—" he groans, "That—that's exactly it, almost there," and quickly presses his face back in.

One long, luxuriant lick across your nub while he's knuckle deep undoes any restraint you have in a fraction of a second.

You squeal, scrambling at the counter anew—thighs shaking and trying to figure out how to do anything but squirt on his hand and chin.

It's no use, in the end.

You're a trembling, dripping wreck, and far too wrung-out to protest about the feeling of a big tongue lapping at your soaked inner thighs.

"So sweet," Gadriel mutters to himself, and stands.

You finally can see the entirety of him, though your vision is swimming. He's sucking at his own fingers, smiling that weird Astartes-smile all the while; and, for his part, he does look extremely happy about the matter.

You're boneless to the point he has to lift you clear off the counter for a moment to turn you over.

The steel is nice and cool on your overheated flesh, and you melt into it, panting.

"You did well, serf," he chuffs, as his large hands slide up the plane of your body, tug your tunic off you; and then trace back down the curves of either side. "Very, very well."

"Th-thank you, m'lord," you moan, only distantly aware of his palms coming to rest on the pant-covered meat just above your hip.

Then, his thumbs press into the dimples of your middle back, into some tender nerve centre deep under the muscle, immediately bringing a lulling ache to the light of day.

You take in a sharp breath and grit your teeth; wriggling as you bleat, "My Lord—?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he says, and the hands shift lower, pressing down on yet another unseen tension-point just above your pelvis.

He's being unbelievably gentle, for an Astartes; but what's even more unsettling is that the tenderness is also unbelievably uncharacteristic for Gadriel.

"I-I did not think you were, b-but it is—" you begin with a meek glance over your shoulder, "Titu—I mean... uh, the Captain doesn't really allow me to do much h-hard labour, so... there's no—ngh..." yet just as you did, the sudden drag of his fingers up the muscles astride the seam of your spine had you stifle a groan loudly. "No point t-t-to you debasing yourself doing this... truly."

The scalding pressure shifts into a dull warmth, roiling through your nerves sweetly; convincing you to arch your back. Your legs flex, and you feel your shucked-down pants falling all the way off one foot.

"You think my effort is pointless?" He supplies, a slight offence lacing his tone.

"N-No, Lord... I j-just..." you backpedal, and let out a short groan, lifting your hips a little. There goes the other pant leg, you suppose, as the fabric slides away. "Don't uh—understand."

"It feels pleasant, doesn't it?" He mumbles, one of his palms splaying out between your shoulders.

"Y-Yes," you whine.

"Then it is not without purpose," Gadriel began in a flat tone, looming close to your ear and letting his exhale taper off into a long, curious hum. "I am simply... rewarding you, for your work."

"You are, y-you certainly are," his fingers rolled over a pressure point and dug in, causing you to jerk, a shallow moan ripped out of you when your rear arches higher and bumps up against his groin.

You hear the Sergeant inhale sharply, his huge hands steadily sliding down, kneading your ass. He's surprisingly mindful to maintain a safe pressure as he digs into the tissue of your glutes.

He stops suddenly, and you're a bit upset about that because it actually felt really nice—but you're quickly reminded there's much lewder things he's more than happy to do.

A set of hips bumps against your rear, and you look over your shoulder to see him holding his tunic up. His cock's just as pretty as you remember it, and topped with the same colour grey-blonde hair as his head. It's flushed and leaking as he drags it back and forth against you.

"Why were you delivering used linens, serf?" Gadriel asks completely from left of the field, his erection sliding between the rounded cheeks of your rear, "There are other lesser menials that ought to do such tasks."

"Uh," you harrumph, a little taken a back by the sudden change of pace. Why is he asking this, now? Why is it suddenly important? Which all surmise into the thought of: why are Astartes like this?

"He shouldn't leave you to wander," he continues roughly while you dither, "You are too sweet, it is an invitation."

Try as you might to refute it in your head, the Sergeant's right about the notion it's probably a bad idea letting you freeroam. You hadn't even considered that you're probably a dangling treat to the Great Angels onboard. If Gadriel's like this, maybe—maybe the others are, too. If Titus, and Chairon, and Gadriel are all liable to desire, then how many others, too? Is it possible there's other serfs just like you, being... companionable? You can't even begin to imagine which ones would be, though. You wouldn't be able to tell. Maybe you've bumped shoulders with another in your exact situation, and had been none the wiser. Perhaps one of the young servant men and women, or one of the older serfs? There are pretty people on board everywhere you look, if you really think about it. Who knows who is closer to an Angel than they rightly ought to be? You pass by so many people day-to-day, it could be anyone. They could be a lord and a lady, one of the officers—even an ambassador. You should try watching closer. Maybe there's a tell? Surely, it can't be hidden entirely. You would like to see them, even if they probably won't really see you. You're invisible in your status. They wouldn't know if you stayed inside Titus' chambers or not.

Still, being cooped up and a layabout feels wrong. There is so much to do besides cuddle up, you should be helping Titus with more things—not just enjoying yourself, constantly; and you try, albeit rather poorly, to tell the Sergeant just that, "The C-Captain has many duties, now, and I still want to be useful, so—"

"If usefulness is your wish, you should always be like this," Gadriel hums, his free hand squeezing your ass while he rolls his hips again.

"Like w-what?"

"Wanting," he breathes.

"My Lord, t-that would not be... proper," you breathe, baffled at yourself that you're talking back to an Astartes.

"Why not? You like the attention well enough," Gadriel says tersely, and you turn away, trying not to tremble too obviously.

"I-I—" you stammer.

"We should breed you," he announces suddenly, and stops rolling his hips in favour of squeezing your ass with both hands, "How do I breed you?"

"I'm n-not sure that's a good i-idea—" you attempt to contend softly, surely shaking again, now.

"I want to try," he grumbles.

And it's readily apparent he's going to.

He's manhandling you onto your back, next; and your legs kick out in surprise.

You watch him fight his tunic over his head with a hurried grace, and pause momentarily to ogle the broad plane of muscle and scars bared to you.

He is still strikingly beautiful, battle-wounds and all. His ports catch the light like silver jewellery, almost. He's looking at you, too—pupils blown wide and pouting slightly. Throne, he's so pretty, you almost want to stare at him for hours.

You don't get much longer to simply bask in the view, though; because he leans back in and tries to bend you up under him like he had when his mouth'd been between your legs—you're worried if he folds you underneath himself too harshly, he'll snap you in two. And just as you think that, a muscle in your lower back smarts in pain seemingly proving your point.

A soft yelp leaves you, and it makes him hesitate.

Gadriel eyes you, clearly expecting you to speak.

"Mm... m'lord, please... wait—" you blubber, uneasy at the looming problem and your own attempt to address it under his gaze. "It'll be difficult like t-this."

He blinks slowly, "How can I make it better?"

"I-I," your mouth feels dry, "I really shouldn't be telling y-you to do things, my Lord—"

"Would you, if I order you to?"

You guess when he puts it like that, you don't really have an option.

"Maybe, p-perhaps... the former position would be less... daunting?"

"On your front?" He asks, sounding a tad disbelieving. "You'd prefer that?"

"Maybe on one of the sheets, t-too?"

"I can't see why not," he hums, and promptly leans back down to lift you clear off the counter.

You're lowered to the ground on shaking legs, but miraculously keep your footing when his support falls away and he reaches for what's left of your pile of unwashed bedding.

He pulls a large blanket out, sniffs, and makes a face with his top lip curled up.

"Lord?" You ask, unsettled by his reaction.

He doesn't answer immediately, and sniffs at it again, only to roll his tongue around his mouth and shallow snort.

"Smells like Titus," he notes flatly, "...and you."

There's probably more than a few stains of lascivious fluid on it. You're not exactly sure how many. Could be one, could be ten. Most of them are probably yours. Titus really does have a fixation on finishing you off as many times as he can, and definitely goes a fair number of rounds with you in tow—not that you're really complaining.

"Ah," you breathe, trying not to start stammering again under the Sergeant's scrutiny. "I-I suppose it would, my Lord..."

"He takes you this way as well?" Gadriel raises a grey-blonde brow and snorts again, turning to lay the fabric out across the counter with a quick flourish. Then, he lifts you back on to the sheet-covered counter with not even a hint of issue.

"S-Sometimes—He... knows I-I enjoy the heat," you force out, and settle against the familiar feeling of the blanket with a practised ease. Talking like this is much easier when you can't see him. Your nerves get too high when you're plainly aware he's looking. "You all run very hot, it's... nice, being close to."

"Is it not the size disparity that makes being mounted your favourite?" He asks sternly, but it's not really a question. It's the cutting remark of observation that only an Astartes could make so plainly. It's filth that sounds more like he's making a simple, casual comment about the time; and all it does is send your brain into spirals.

It is, it is, it is—you like it, you really, really like it because of that. You can't admit it, but you also can't even deny it for a fraction of a second. Throne, just the thought of feeling huge legs and cold ports against your ass and thighs makes you whine high in your throat. It makes you force your spine to arch hard despite the dangle; clenching your abdomen to try to lift yourself just that little bit to aptly present. Trying to give him a clear invitation to fill you.

Let him use you however long he wants, let him drain himself of all the hot spend he's got.

Titus always makes you wait, like this. Likes to lick, or stuff his fingers in. He makes a game of being sure you're so wound up you finish just as he slides in. You're hoping you can get a nice, streamlined version out of that out of the Sergeant.

Retrospectively, you note Titus' made a monster out of you, truly. A greedy monster. You're only a little serf, compared to all of them; and your tastes have been adjusted to the obscene. Now, you're all too keen to let anything twice your size in blue ceramite spill in your womb if only to please. You're not going to lie and say you're shameless, because by the God-Emperor, that you enjoy being used is mortifying—and you're no more confident around them because of it—yet it still doesn't change the fact.

Gadriel's response to your attempts to harry him is a choked, appreciative thing, followed by a laboured swallow.

He nudges your entrance without any preamble, and just that touch is so warm you shiver at the heat—but then it gets so, so much better.

He wraps a hand around your hip to keep you still, and presses forward.

It's depraved how easily he slides in, because you know it's solely due to how wet you are.

It doesn't negate how big he is, though. You're still much smaller. There's just no way to truly consolidate the Baseline-to-Astartes dimorphism, let alone with a Primaris like Gadriel.

You squeal when he jars himself against your cervix, and whine sourly when there's no familiar, divine press of hips flush to your ass.

Gadriel groans out a long, trying sigh, "I needed this so badly."

Any thought you have to respond to that disappears as he starts fucking into you with purpose.

It's so good you can't help but squirm, trying to fight for purchase on the surface. Your toes don't even skim the floor, even stretched as you are. To your brain, it feels like a great height, like dangling off a balcony, or a cliff with a sheer drop. And all the while, he's driving himself as deep as he can into you. Throne, the sounds you're only distantly aware you're making must be debauched.

"Keep making those noises, serf," Gadriel rasps, his voice heavy.

A big mitt smoothers down your back and the touch is so sudden you jerk, only for him to drive into you again, and again; and then that same huge, overwhelming hand is at your scruff, holding you down to the surface like a scared animal.

Panic immediately seizes you, even though you arch a little higher to let him rut deeper.

It would take a flex of those fingers to snap your neck—honestly, it'd take less than a mere twitch, at that.

A cry is all the response you can articulate, and you try, mindlessly, to lift yourself on two palms and fuck yourself back against him.

It's apparently not the reaction the Sergeant was after.

Seeing as, a moment later, his unoccupied hand is wrangling your arms behind yourself—holding them in place with a vice-like bracket about your wrist like some living pair of cuffs. The sheer strength in every aspect is dizzying, but you suppose it's an admirable consideration seeing as he's not yet accidentally broken anything of you.

Everything surely aches, but that is far exceeded by the blessed thud of sensation plaguing every nerve and synapse you have. You're melting, and he's so, so far in you. You're certain he's bullied your insides into allowing another inch to fit with his oversized cock. There's no other logical explanation as to the fact you can suddenly feel strong hips plastered flush to your rear; and a pair of balls snug against your clit.

Or the fact that your cervix feels like it's in your throat, of all places.

You'd never properly fitted him to the base, even with the extra stretching from Titus and Chairon before him.

He's seemingly well aware of the fact he has stuffed in all he can. Because the groan that echoes from above you all of a sudden when he rolls himself into you again is obscene. It's a wet, open-mouthed sounding thing, luxuriant and lazy.

"There, just... just like this is perfect," he pants.

His hips grind forward in slow, steady motions, rocking upward. The once rabid, almost hydraulic-press pace of his hips hammering into yours has completely dilapidated into sloppy humping, for lack of a better word.

Rather unsurprisingly, it's exactly enough of a change of pace to send you finishing on his cock.

"You're just so tight and warm... a-and..." he starts to say but your hearing rings out, and you lose the rest of his words to it. You can't help how your insides thud, and a surge of bliss chokes a garbled cry from your gullet. It's so quick but intense you grind your teeth, clenching hard but stilling fast.

And through it all, Gadriel rocks into you. More than happily letting you know he's enjoying your end with a long, self-satisfied groan. You can feel him filling you, too; a nice, hot load inside—it's gratifying knowing you feel this good, that he's enjoying it, even if you're so sensitive you're shaking.

But it's only a prelude—a short glimpse at a steeper, harder crest that'll come, which makes everything far worse; because there's pleasure still building just from having his cum heating your insides, let alone being ploughed into. The bliss doesn't blow away like dust; it stacks and stacks, and you know the next one will not be as easy to ride off.

You can hear him above you, panting, and a whine rises in your chest as he rasps, "You'll take another, won't y-you?"

Your hamstrings burn with the effort of your orgasm, core cinching and head pounding in unison with each rabid squeeze you make around him.

You're sobbing openly, vision half-blurred by tears you try blink away, "Y-uh-yes, m... m'lord."

Every part of you is so sensitive, it's almost dazzling feeling him shudder in delight atop you.

The hand scruffing the back of your neck moves to brace his own bulk, now flat and palm-down beside your head.

At that reprieve, your face turns until your cheek's nicely cooled by the steel. The sheet's been moved and jostled enough that it's slowly slipping back. The cold is pleasant, even if your insides still feel like superheated slag.

The shift allows you a skewed, tear-blurred glance upward, and you're graced by the sight of a drooling Sergeant.

Gadriel's face is banded across with a flush just like before, except he's keening, brows knitted almost as if in agony—salivating like a beast.

But your short time to watch him is quickly ripped away. Because, abruptly, Gadriel's entire weight presses against your back. For a brief instant, you feel every ounce of air drive out of you, but it's somehow remedied by him tugging you up against him.

Swooning, you let out a little mewl; over-full and over-hot with the sudden embracing. The Sergeant's like a furnace to the touch, you can't even wriggle enough to gain a millisecond of reprieve from being stuck in the iron-hard clutches of his huge arms. Stuck between him and the surface, he's more or less mounting you now, just like you asked, and you're stunned he hasn't shattered your spine. You can still feel your toes, and legs, and rear—but God Emperor help you, does your ass hurt. And so does your cunt, for that matter—even if every sloppy roll of his hips against you is absolutely sublime.

He's back to pounding the living daylights out of you, with not even a hint of thought towards the fact that he's only recently cum in you.

You gasp, half-stunned by the heady return of fresh pleasure to your senses.

But then his hold changes, and you're suddenly in a headlock.

It stifles you nigh instantly, and any loud, depraved noise he'd been fucking out of you tapers off to a hoarse keening.

Gadriel tips his chin down and rubs his cheek against the top of your head, nuzzling up while he's apparently completely oblivious to the fact he is starting to choke you.

He also doesn't seem to notice you scrambling at the forearm braced under your throat. And when he starts moving again, your head swims at the warm slide of him.

An agonising, weightless burst of lightning tramples through your nervous system and you cry out a noise closer to a hissed wheeze—desperately trying to figure out how to make the rush stop, or how to make it never stop—something, anything.

But you can't disengage him; he's too much.

"Why aren't you moaning?" Gadriel rasps between heaving breaths, still rutting forward, "Is... is this not good? I'm t-trying to be good."

Something in you twists into a knot and unwinds with a snap, mere seconds later. You can't help but whinny in confusion, shaking beneath him. Your orgasm feels like a death throw. It may as well be, as speckles of black and static edge your vision. Phantom lights of colour burr across your sight, and—

The vice under your gullet abruptly lifts away and you cough harshly, barely managing to wolf down air despite the mercy.

Your feather-light nerves feel a pulse-pulse-pulse between your thighs; the shudder of huge hips and an all too-familiar heat being spilt in your twitching cunt.

You look up through your tears and see Gadriel's face pinched up, he's gritting his teeth hard—and a sound like a broken piston leaves him. It's a shrill, keened whine up from his huge chest that vents out through his nose, tapering off to wild panting; he's straining through his own end while filling you up. It's so over-much that you can feel the warm-wet spill of what can't manage to stay in you dripping down your sex and thighs, in fat, milky ropes.

You can feel his thighs twitching against your own, and the errant, impulsive half-thrusts that he can't help.

Gadriel's... satisfied enough to calm for the moment, it seems.

You don't know how long you're simply gasping for air under him. The heat of him against your back is so nice you almost doze off, to say nothing of the bliss of having him still hard inside you. You're warm and content, and aching—and most of all, filled. It's sloppy and leaking where he's still buried inside you. He's done a thorough job of keeping it in, despite that. You're tempted to lazily rub yourself, even raw as your clit probably is, and let him bask in one more orgasm. Throne, you'd even let him have another round, if he wanted—you can think of how to explain taking so long to Titus, later.

But when you do regain higher thought, you realise you're drooling against the steel beneath you, and only really rouse when he says, "...serf?" in a very, very small voice for an Angel.

It's hard to talk when your body prefers hyperventilating, but you push through the urge to slump.

So, you groan instead.

"Are you alright?" He asks quietly.

You groan again, a little higher in pitch this time.

"Well... that's a good sign," he answers quickly.

A whine is all you can offer, as he rears up to his palm and looms over you.

"Gadriel," comes a gruff, familiar voice out of nowhere.

Belatedly, you flinch and try to rise—only to keen at the feeling of a cock still hilted in you.

"Titus?" Gadriel mumbles, confused, and you swear there's the smallest tremor to his voice as he adds, "I... I did not expect you here."

"Her access logs in the ship's system," Titus rumbles sternly, "As does yours."

Gadriel's pulling out of you, suddenly, and you whine—it's uncomfortable, losing the warmth and the fullness so quickly. But Titus' here, and that's good. You can't turn to see him, stuck on your belly as you are, but you're glad to see him. He's always so much softer. It'd be a nice change of pace. Maybe it'll be like the battle-barge, and you'll get spoiled with more.

You almost start drooling again.

You try to rise again, wanting to greet Titus as you ought, but your limbs are like wet rations. You can't even muster up the strength to even start to lift yourself off your front, especially not with your legs dangling.

Gadriel rolls you onto your back and carefully strokes your side. It's nice, and you blink up at Titus standing next to him. He's in his tunic, with his soft blue robe pulled over the top. You're very happy to see him, even if there's a harshness to the lines on his forehead that entails a very poor mood.

Somehow, you drag yourself up to a sitting position, and the room spins for a moment with a queasy tilt.

"Careful, careful," Titus' hand comes to rest against your bicep, steadying you while you regain your bearings. "Not so fast."

When you're finally settled, you peek up at him and huff softly, which earns his palm coming up to your cheek—or more accurately—against the side of your head.

You reach up to place your hand over the top of his, content and deeply, deeply exhausted but still wanting to at least try to cheer him up. He's probably just been concerned. But you're alright, and you know exactly how to prove it.

"M'okay," you slur, and paw at Titus' large forearm with your other hand until you find the port on the interior. You circle it softly, and he sighs again.

He likes it when you do this, so it's no harm to try to at least show you still have some sense.

Titus' face creases as he looks down at you, "You've made a mess."

You frown sadly, and turn your face into his hand more as the disapproval stings, "Mm... m'sorry, Titus."

"You don't have to apologise," he tuts, and his thumb starts making slow circles against your temple, "I am talking to him."

You look from your Lord to the Sergeant as he says it, and Gadriel winces.

"She enjoyed it," he offers in his defence, and his hand joins Titus' efforts, though not on your face. Instead, he's stroking your back; rubbing a little like he'd done earlier, "Didn't you, serf?"

You moan softly, basking in the warmth of hands on you.

"She's not to be trusted with metrics of enjoyment," Titus cuts in as he raises a dark brow and sets his mouth into a thin line, "She'd gladly let you break something. Look at her, she's covered in bruises, Gadriel."

"I-I'm a-alright," you affirm again, despite the mumbled hoarseness in your voice while looking up at them both. You're so tired that any reservation against the act doesn't even occur to you, because what's that supposed to mean?

Titus regards you with long, trying exhale before he abruptly says, "Yes, you're very tough—but I think you've had enough for a cycle," and pets you again; then he turns to Gadriel and flares his nostrils, "Not to mention, there are staff outside who are rather displeased about having their entry-clearance rescinded."

Gadriel pointedly looks at the floor, pulls his hand away from your back and clears his throat, "We were finished, anyway."

"Good," Titus harrumphs, "Then you won't mind if I clean up, will you?"

Gadriel doesn't have anything to say about the fact that it's his tunic that Titus then uses to wipe the cum dripping and smeared between your thighs.

But he certainly pouts about it.