#valdor x reader

[absynthe-mind]

Kinktober 2025 - Day 10, Shower Sex (Valdor x gn!reader)

Kinktober Masterlist Here

TW: nsfw, size kink, power dynamics, oral sex

Taglist: @druidwolf21 , @incrediblethirst , @bookandyarndragonwritesdark , @mehiwilldoitlater , @shellfangz , @thedaedricmaiden , @saintsylestine , @thisuserislilsilly , @iluminatka16 , @beckyninja , @marcela2000 , @lux-lina

Being Captain-General of the custodes had many, many responsibilities - all of which Constantin Valdor took well within stride as his duty and honour. 

Of course, it also had many perks, one of which was you. His own personal serf, not just assigned to the custodes in general, but to him personally.

He rarely interacted with the general populace, so you seemed like  a small little thing, just as all baselines were in comparison, but he supposed the difference was more pronounced when he saw you more often, pottering about his giant furniture.

Polishing his armour, sweeping the floors, making his bed, there was always work for you, work that you seemed just as happy to do as he was to serve. That was what caught his eye, how much you loved to serve.

There were very, very, few who could hope to be so devoted, and yet here you were. And not only that, but you were devoted to him. It was him who made your eyes light up, who made you bow with shaking hands as you trembled in his presence.

And then there was the matter of your favourite duty.

He could hear your heart rate picking up now as you prepared for it, selecting soaps and oils, picking out cloths and towels. Washing him down always got you excited, to say the least. 

It had gotten to the point where he made an effort to train harder, actually work up a proper sweat just so that there would be a reason for you to wash him down.

Pinpointing exactly why he’d made this change was a little more difficult. Perhaps seeing your eager service had made him more lenient, giving you the more of the work that seemed to please you so.

That may have been part of it, that he could admit, a reward for his dutiful serf - but even he had to also reckon with the fact that there was something far more pleasing about the way their hands took such care washing him.

Gently scrubbing each and every nook and cranny with the same care you’d expect from someone handling the most precious relinquiry.

You took great care absolutely everywhere, from the expanse of rippling muscle that made up his chest and abdomen, his strip of hair, absolutely everywhere was practically worshipped.

And now here you came, box in hand with the soaps and oils you’d chosen for him, along with wash cloths and fresh towels - everything you needed to serve him.

“Are you ready, my Lord?” you always asked, voice even but ill betraying your excitement.

He nods, and steps under the flow of water, waiting for you to join him.

It was a well maintained routine now, starting from the top down, letting the soaps flow downwards, rinsing him, drying him, and finally oiling him.

You needed a stool, carefully positioned in the shower tray so that you could reach him, and you were naked of course, it only made practical sense to not get your clothes wet or waste precious water. 

He had you stand closer now too, after an incident where you’ve almost fallen on the wet, slippery surface. Not that it had been any effort at all to catch you, but it kept him at ease that he had you so close… just in case.

Your hands slip over his scalp, fingers massaging gently as you go, murmuring praises of how strong he is while you froth up the suds.

It feels simultaneously absurd that you would take such care to ensure no soap or water runs down his face and into his eyes. He is an elite warrior, not a toddler, but he can appreciate the care and dedication you put into every aspect of the ritual.

Now you hum as you go, directing the water as he stands perfectly still to rinse him of the suds.

You turn your attention lower, and lower, and lower - fingers tracing over the hard lines of his abs as you step down from the stool.

Then he feels the same tingling he usually feels as you take his balls into your hands rolling them as you attentively clean them. His teeth grit a fraction by instinct, and his body tenses oh so slightly. 

It’s a natural bodily response, to get half-hard while your fingers wrap around his cock and work smoothly up and down under the warm flow of water, squeezing and rubbing as you go. 

There’s something about the way you get when you service him like this, the way your eyes switch between fixated and averted, the way your pupils dilate and your breathing quickens. 

His cock twitches a little and you twitch with it, as if it had spooked you slightly, and the resulting squeeze from your shock only serves to make it throb and harden a touch more.

Then you unexpectedly break your routine. 

“W-would,” you take a dizzyingly deep breath, tentatively looking up at him, “would you like me to take care of that, my Lord?”

With every word the quiet conviction in your voice grows.

For a long moment, the shower is overwhelmingly quiet, even with the continual downpour of water splattering against the walls, floor and two of you and you wait for his answer, grip on his cock getting tighter with each passing second.

“Very well. If you are willing to serve in such a manner, I am willing to receive,” clear, simple, effective communication - not an order, but he will not deny his biological urges towards you.

He is the Emperor’s will made flesh, if this is the choice of his flesh, then who was he to deny the Emperor’s will?

The effect is immediate, whatever confidence had filled you has fled you, and you all but tremble and sink down to your knees, having to use the stool to become level due to the height difference.

 Slowly, you pull his steadily hardening cock towards your lips, softly parting them and taking just the tip into your mouth. The head alone makes your mouth stretch almost obscenely wide, and you’re already breathing through your nose with the sheer size of him. 

Still, he lets out a thrumming rumble from his chest in satisfaction as you cautiously take more and more, lapping and sucking as you go. Every time you take a bit more you look up to him for reassurance, and with each noise he makes it emboldens you further again.

Your cheeks are hollowed, eyes wide as you relax and try to take as much as you can into your mouth, having to bring your hands up to handle the rest of him.

It’s good, that much he can admit. 

It feels good, a rush, a warmth - entirely different to the rush of battle, or the warmth of feeling the Emperor’s praise for a job well done, but good none the less. Perhaps this is how his master feels to be served well?

You are most certainly serving him well, tongue becoming more active, licking up the underside of his shaft and mouth swallowing around him. Even as he sees tears begin to prick at the corner of your eyes, you still lap at him, hands and throat working together to ensure your Lord is properly taken care of.

Still, he is nothing if not a leader of his men, if not capable of spotting weaknesses and improving upon them.

He firmly, but not painfully, takes the back of your head into his hand, dwarfing it completely. 

You practically melt into his touch, moaning around him, sending vibrations running right through him.

And then he starts moving you.

First pushing you further down onto him, much to your initial panic as your eyes blow wide and throat struggles to accommodate swallowing around him, and then to your relief as he pulls you almost completely off him and allows you to gasp around the head of his cock.

He doesn’t let you fully off it, and only gives you a moment’s reprieve before starting to push you back down, but you’re such a good serf, his good serf, that you learn quickly what he wants from you and start moving with him.

Not that he takes his hand from your head, no, it feels right to be there, guiding you.

The change is immediate, where before was good, this was great, the feeling of wet and warmth of your mouth taking him in and out has his hips bucking slightly into as you take him in.

Your eyes flutter shut as you continue, the water pouring down your face in rivets starting to flow into your eyes as you move backwards and forwards on him. 

It sends a rumble of disapproval through him. He wants to see you looking up at him, and he wants you to see him too.

He takes the logical step of moving you, pulling you back and using the broad of his back to shield you from the shower, his other arm braced on the wall above you.

You’re boxed in beneath him now, eyes opening again, still attempting to valiantly take as much of him as you can, but it’s clear you’re getting more and more overwhelmed with the breathlessness, pace and drool leaking out down onto your chest as his cock begins to twitch harder and harder.

It’s not difficult for either of you to tell what’s coming as he struggles to retain his ironclad composure. 

His cock throbs, veins pulsing against your lips. 

The arm braced against the wall strains, fingers crumbling the tile as he strains not to smash his pelvis into your face. He’s close, he’s close - he is a custodes with endless patience- 

“Hnng-“ is the final warning you get, a half choked, gritted moan as he shoots straight down your throat. 

He must be flooding you with warmth, the way he’s filling you right up to the point of choking on the sheer amount of cum he’s producing. The tactical decision to pull out and splatter the rest across you is made, and it’s not as though you’re not in the perfect position to clean off.

White almost coats your lower face, dripping down onto your neck and torso as he splutters to a stop, his cock slowly softening, and he finally releases the damaged tile, letting it crumble to the floor.

You look slightly dazed still, lips parted, swaying slightly, but with an air of contentment about you.

After a moment, you collect yourself, swallowing a few times and clearing your throat.

“T-thank you, Lord Valdor, I’ll finish washing you,” you eventually manage to stutter out, going to grab the wash cloth before his hand rests upon your shoulder.

He takes you in, how you’ve tired, but how excited you still seem. 

There’s a glisten of fluid, slightly different to the sheen of water that coats the inner top of your thighs.

“Hmmm.” he slowly helps you stand, making you disregard picking up the washcloth, “did you not vow that you would take care of this for me?”

A flicker of confusion flashes across your face, until you look down again to see his cock hardening once more.

“Once you have undertaken a duty, there is no surrender, there is no return, there is only duty.”

He knows he’s made the right decision the way you eagerly part your legs as he picks you up and holds your body flush against the shower wall. 

Hours later, he carries you back into his quarters, well satisfied. You dozed with a contented smile in his arms as he carried you to your bed, having had to finish cleaning the both of you off after your body had given out to him.

He tucks you into the sheets, opting to let you off the remainder of your daily duties as a reward.

Since you had proven yourself an exemplary serf, perhaps he ought to schedule it into your regular routine.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love. 

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again. 

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half? 

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood. 

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die. 

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished. 

He loved the Emperor. 

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh. 

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest. 

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones. 

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago. 

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession. 

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall. 

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him. 

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again. 

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior. 

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields. 

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor. 

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

He will protect you. 

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor. 

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.