Warhammer 40k Writings

A side-blog for all of Darthsuki's writing for Warhammer 40k, including headcanons, fics, and other reader-centric content. Quick Navigation Headcanons Readershots / Ficlets Asks/Questions

[wh40kwritings]

FAQ | Rules | Asks | Rambling | Fics | Headcanons

Ask box is always open for requests, questions and general conversation!

Please keep in mind that this blog will contain sexually explicit content, and it will be tagged as #nsfw in conjunction with other appropriate tags.

Triggers will also be tagged as needed and requested, so please send a message if you think something needs a specific tag!

[wh40kwritings]

Space Marine Chapter Dividers

Made these to use for future writing featuring specific chapters and whatnot— I made ones I knew that I’d be using, but if you’d like a specific chapter just let me know and I’d be happy to make more!

These are absolutely free to use with or without attribution btw 👌✨

EDIT: Due to limitations on tumblr mobile and it being hard as heck to add new stuff, I’m putting these all in a google drive folder for anyone to access and download!

[wh40kwritings]

Added a few more items! Also updated the post with a link to a google drive folder since that’s much easier for me to toss things into; go forth and make things my fellow nerds!

[thatnightlamp]

Can I request a NSFW alphabet for Malum Caedo? He's just a silly little guy

Malum Caedo NSFW

A = Aftercare

He’s so proud of you. “You did so good!” he beams while cleaning you up with the wrong towel, kissing your face a thousand times and asking if you want snacks or juice. Picks you up like a ragdoll and tucks you into his chest, purring like a jetbike engine.

B = Body Part

He’s obsessed with your tummy. Loves when it jiggles, clenches, stretches. Kisses it, bites it, presses his hand there when he’s cumming inside.

C = Cum

So much. Like stupid amounts. You’ll be leaking for hours. He’s got no filter either, cums loudly, with a full body shake, and then coos at you like you’re a treat. He loves when you swallow. He praises you like you’re the bravest soldier in Ultramar.

D = Dirty Secret

He once got hard watching you tie your shoes. Not because of the view. Because he thought you looked “so focused and cute and smart.” He’s ashamed. But also… not really. He probably tells you afterward with puppy eyes and no shame.

E = Experience

Shockingly inexperienced but makes up for it in enthusiasm. He’ll try anything once. He reads smutty datascrolls in secret. He’s always eager, always blushing, and always asking, “Was that okay? Can I do it again?”

F = Favorite Position

He loves mating press. Being on top, pinning you down with his full weight, watching you gasp when he sinks deeper than you thought possible. But he also loves when you ride him, watching you bounce while he cries.

G = Goofy

So goofy. Accidentally hits his head on the headboard. Apologizes to your boobs if he squishes them too hard. Says dumb stuff like, “Is it hot in here or is it just your… uh, your chest?” and then immediately turns red and begs you not to laugh. But you do.

H = Hair

He’s shaved clean most places, but lets the happy trail stay because you like it. On his head, it’s short, messy, and soft. He’ll let you rub it when he’s curled in your lap, naked and purring after a long session.

I = Intimacy

He doesn’t know how to be subtle. If he loves you, he’ll say it mid thrust, post orgasm, while you’re sucking him off. He gives you forehead kisses, holds your hand during sex, and tells you how good you smell. He’s earnest in a way that hurts.

J = Jack off

Malum edges himself like it’s a game of discipline. He’ll think of you, fist tight, whispering your name between clenched teeth. He doesn’t finish unless it’s with you or into something of yours. Preferably your underwear. Or pillow.

K = Kink

Praise. Breeding. Body worship. Marking. Also into accidental roughness, not mean, just overzealous. Loves when you whimper “Too big,” and he goes “But I’m not done yet…” with actual concern and lust at the same time.

L = Location

Anywhere private-ish. He respects decorum (barely), so no in chapel fucking, but training rooms? The showers? That storage closet no one checks? All fair game. Especially if he gets to lift you up and fuck you standing.

M = Motivation

You. You being soft. You being bossy. You being sweaty, or angry, or calling him your good boy. He gets turned on fast and doesn’t always realize it. “Why am I hard?” he’ll whisper, and you’ll have to explain it to him. Again.

N = No

He won’t do anything that makes you cry for real. Even when he’s being dominant, it’s playful. You’re the most precious relic in the galaxy to him and he’d never truly hurt you.

O = Oral

He loves giving. Big guy with a very talented tongue. Will go until you beg him to stop, then keep going because you sound so good like that.

P = Pace

Rough and fast by default, but if you ask him to go slow, he’ll try. Gets too excited sometimes and accidentally jackhammers again. He apologizes with round two… which is somehow worse in the best way.

Q = Quickie

He adores them, but suffers from “can’t last just one round” syndrome. You say quickie, and suddenly he’s raw dogging you into the wall for an hour while your legs shake and you’ve cum four times.

R = Risk

He’s dumb brave. Not in a “let’s get caught” way, but more like “I’m horny and I trust you’ll handle the details.” He trusts you to handle the risk part. He’ll just focus on making you scream.

S = Stamina

He can go for hours. Literally. He’s a damn Astartes. But he always asks, “Do you need a break? Do I stop now? No? Are you sure? You’re not just being brave?” You have to beg him to keep going. And he will. Gently. Then ferally. Then gently again.

T = Toys

Not much into toys, he is the toy. But if you bring something to spice it up, he’ll be curious. Vibrators? Restraints? He’ll try anything once. Especially if it makes you fall apart in front of him.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t mean to be. But his teasing is brutal. He'll keep you at the edge by accident, too focused on “doing it right.” Your thighs are shaking, your body begging for release, and he just whispers, “Wait, one more, love, you can give me one more.”

V = Volume

Loud as hell. Moans, gasps, dirty talk, battle cries. “I SHALL KNOW NO RESTRAINT” while you’re pinned to the floor. He loves your sounds too, cups his hand over your mouth just so he can feel you scream

W = Wild card

He accidentally broke your bed the first time. Snapped the headboard clean off. Now he keeps a reinforced one in your quarters and acts innocent about why. He’s also tried fucking you in power armor. It… almost worked.

X = X-ray

Thick. Stupid thick. Maybe not the longest, but he stretches you. Veiny, curved up slightly, and sensitive. He smirks when you sit all the way down on him. Not even a bit sorry about it.

Y = Yearning

He wants to touch you all the time. Hugs. Kisses. Forehead touches. His sex drive is completely tied to emotional connection so if you say you love him, he melts and immediately tries to make love to you.

Z = Zzz

He conks out immediately after he finished cleaning you. Big arm thrown around you, one leg over yours, probably drooling on your shoulder. But it’s sweet. He’ll wake up mid sleep, check if you’re comfy, kiss your cheek, then sleep again.

[sylestine-redacted]

In the Palm of a Titan

f!reader x Dark Angels Terminator

A/n: I spent way too long on this. And I may yet try this scene again... but hope you enjoy! Also now i wanna try to draw this scene...

Cw: NSFW, humiliation-as-worship, fabric play, size diff

His hand is already beneath you.

You don’t remember being lifted—only the moment your feet left the ground and the gravity of your body shifted, thighs parting without your consent to accommodate the sheer breadth of his gauntlet.

You’re not being touched.

You’re being held.

You sit in the cradle of his massive, armored palm, the weight of your body resting along the thick ridge of the glove, one of his fingers bracing your lower back, not pulling you close—just keeping you where he wants you. Where you belong.

The rest of him towers above: ceramite and oaths and old blood. His armor hums faintly with residual machine-spirit tension. You can smell metal, incense, oil, and something beneath it…

You.

The way your heat has started to stain the glove beneath you. The way the seam of your panties is already pressed tight to the damp cleft of your cunt.

He hasn’t spoken yet.

Just watches.

Then—the vox cracks. Low. Measured.

“I didn’t think you’d feel this light.”

He says it like a revelation. Like he’s considering your weight in the same breath a Chaplain considers a verse.

You can feel the tremor of his voice through his fingers.

“You’re soft. That I expected. But the way you yield…”

You shift in his hand—not to escape. Just to move. To adjust. To do something with the tension rippling between your thighs.

His fingers flex.

Just barely.

Just enough to tilt your pelvis forward—grinding the gusset of your underwear down against the warm, ceramite ridges of his palm. Soaked fabric meets unyielding armor.

And you let out a soft, pitiful breath.

He doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t move.

You try to speak. You don’t even know what you're trying to say—deny it? beg? make him stop? But it tumbles out soft and strangled.

“Y-you’re… really big.”

It sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth. But he answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Silence. You hear the hum of the sanctum. Your own slick. Your heartbeat behind your ribs like a war drum.

Then:

He just rumbles:

“...Don’t hurry. I want to see everything.”

You blink up at him, questioning. He hasn’t moved. His helm is still. Those burning red lenses locked on you, unblinking. Predatory.

“Lift the robe.”

You freeze. Your thighs clench instinctively—and you feel the squish of your underwear, soaked and pressed tight to your folds by the curve of his palm.

He shifts you higher—closer to his face, the helm now angled up into the space between your legs.

“I want to see what I’m soaking in.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

You should feel shame. You do. But it's tangled up in this pulsing, humiliating hunger.

Your hands shake. The hem is thick in your grip. You raise it inch by inch, baring your thighs, your outer hips, your trembling groin—and, at last, your underwear: soaked, stretched tight, lips outlined clear and swollen, the fabric almost see-through from how wet you’ve become.

You don’t know if you’re humiliated or proud at this point.

You just know he’s watching.

“...There it is,” he breathes.

One armored finger—not even the one beneath you—rises beside your thigh, not touching, just hovering beside the seam of your panties.

“Do you feel it yet?”

“The tension?”

“How close your softness is to breaking?”

He brings that finger up—still not touching—and makes a small motion, like he's tracing the air around your hips.

“I could fuck you with a knuckle.”

“Just one.”

“And you’d still say it’s too much.”

Your breath stutters. Your thighs twitch involuntarily.

“That’s not a threat, little one.”

“That’s an… invitation.”

Then his thumb comes forward, slowly—settling right at the crease of your thigh, where your leg meets the edge of the damp cloth. Not on your clit. Not between your lips. Just resting on the fabric, watching how it darkens under the weight of your slick.

“I want to feel you soak me.”

“Through the cloth. Through your need.”

“Until you’re so wet I could slide inside without effort.”

He presses down on your hip. Just a little.

And you feel it. Your entire body grinding perfectly into place. The pressure. The promise.

You moan—soft, barely audible—and his other fingers rise, curling up to brace your back as you begin to rock against the pressure.

“Good girl.”

“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”

“I’ve waited long enough to learn how a mortal tastes when she begs.”

...

You're still holding the robe up.

Your fists tremble around the bunched folds, your elbows locked to your sides, heart thrumming in your throat. You can’t stop breathing through your mouth—too shallow, too fast. Because every time your breath hitches, he hears it.

And every time you exhale, it fogs against the cool air between your thighs—where his thumb is still resting.

Still.

Waiting.

The rest of his hand doesn’t move. You're fully seated in the center of his open palm, your thighs forced to part slightly around the curve of his armor. You're not restrained—but there’s nowhere to go.

You feel tiny, surrounded by massive curled fingers and the faint heat of his presence. He doesn't hold you down.

He doesn't need to.

“Your thighs are already shaking,” he says, voice low through the vox.

“But we haven’t even begun.”

You make a sound—something between a whimper and a breathy "fuck"—and his thumb finally starts to move.

Just a drag.

Downward. Along the line where your thigh meets your underwear.

Not over your clit. Not between your lips. Not anywhere you need. Just that edge line, where damp skin meets damp cloth.

Your whole body jolts like he shocked you.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, sounding almost amused.

“I shift my hand a single inch… and your cunt flinches like it knows what I am.”

Your cheeks burn. You want to close your legs, but the way you’re seated won’t allow it.

You’re on display, high above the sanctum floor, high in the hand of a killing machine who hasn’t even taken his eyes off you since the moment he lifted you.

He drags his thumb back up, slow and unflinching, catching the edge of the fabric along the join of your thigh. It pulls taut—so tight it presses into you like a second skin, dragging heat where he still refuses to touch.

Your legs twitch. You can feel how soaked you are. The squish. The wet sheen across your folds.

“You’re leaking,” he says flatly.

“It’s soaking down the grooves of my gauntlet.”

Your thighs tighten again. Your breath stutters.

“I—” You can barely get it out. “I c-can’t help it.”

His thumb stills.

You regret speaking.

Until he answers.

“Good.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

Then, with excruciating patience, his thumb lifts and drops lower. Not high, not soft—down to where you’re wettest. Where you want him most. He presses there, through the cloth—right over your entrance. No movement. Just pressure. Measured and merciless.

“You’re trying to hold it in, aren’t you?”

“The pulse. The twitch. The wet.”

“You want to cum already, just from being here.”

You nod before you can stop yourself. It’s humiliating. You feel small. Weak. Soaked. And he knows it.

He presses in.

You gasp. Arch. Your cunt throbs and your eyes flutter as you ride that single spot, the thick, unyielding pressure of his thumb shoving the fabric deep between your lips.

You can feel the edge. It’s right there.

But he pulls back. Just enough to keep you on the brink.

He’s watching you fall apart without even letting you cum.

“You're in the hand of a war titan,” he says, soft and cruel.

“And you want to cum like a slut in your underwear.”

You let out a noise—a sob, maybe—and his fingers curl a little higher around your back, steadying you, keeping you from toppling off him as your body twitches against the pressure.

“You’re not ready for my fingers.”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll ride this fabric first.”

You moan. You can’t help it.

He angles his hand slightly—just enough that your weight shifts forward, pressing your cunt against the palm. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t rub.

He just holds you there.

“Look down,” he commands.

You do.

And what you see breaks something in you.

Your thighs spread. The robe rides high. Your cunt—outlined, soaked, framed in fabric too thin to hide anything. His gauntlet is wet with you, slick smeared across the hard lines of ceramite. Your arousal clings to the armor like a holy anointing.

“That’s what you are now,” he whispers.

“You are the mark I will carry into war.”

“And I’m not done savoring you yet.”

...

You’re still looking down.

You shouldn’t have.

Because the image sears into your brain like heresy:

Your cunt, nearly visible through the soaked fabric of your underwear—every line, every cleft outlined, the slick fabric riding the curve of your folds like it’s been molded to you. His massive palm beneath you, steady as stone, wet with you, the fine lines of the gauntlet’s surface shining in the low sanctum light.

“Beautiful little thing,” he murmurs.

“And so eager to make a mess.”

His thumb rises again—but this time, he hooks it just under the elastic at your hip.

Not pulling it aside.

Not yet.

He pulls it taut.

Not enough to slip it off, just enough that the soaked fabric pulls tight against your cunt, digging in, pressing your lips open beneath it.

You let out a choked sound.

Your body jolts forward slightly, thighs twitching. His other fingers adjust automatically—his ring finger now cradling your lower back, the pinky brushing the top of your ass.

A single twitch, and he could split you open.

“Look at how the fabric parts when I pull.”

“You’re spilling around it.”

He pulls it a little tighter. The tension makes your clit ache.

“Do you know what this feels like in my hand?”

“Like a breathing heat source. Like a relic just shy of burning.”

You don’t know if you moaned or whimpered. You can’t feel your throat anymore. Only the pressure between your legs. The sting of the taut cloth. The way your slick is coating not just his hand now, but your own thighs, dripping down as gravity betrays you.

He lets the elastic snap softly back into place.

You flinch.

And then his index finger joins the game.

He presses it gently—very gently—into the fabric right above your clit, pinning the cloth down into you.

You scream silently.

Not from pain. From sensation. From the perfection of that contact. Just enough pressure to throb. Not enough to satisfy. The wet fabric sinks into your folds like a tongue.

“You’re not just soaked.”

“You’re pliable.”

He strokes the fabric now, slow and circular, never touching your skin—just moving the cloth, dragging it left, then right, then down—smoothing it across your cunt like he’s polishing something sacred.

“This material is holding you better than my hand.”

“But not for much longer.”

The cloth shifts with every motion. You feel it gathering, sticking, pulling away and snapping back with every slick-dragging grind.

Your hips start to move. Instinctive. Hopeless.

He watches you try to fuck against his fingers—against your own panties—while seated in the hand of a war machine.

“You want to cum with it still on?”

“That’s not discipline.”

“That’s begging.”

Your voice is nothing but a whisper now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—let me—just let me—”

He moves the fabric down slightly.

Just enough that it catches on your clit and drags across it.

You squeal. Your legs kick, your thighs flex, your entire body arches in his hand—and you’re still not touching him. Not directly.

“You’ll cum in your underwear like a filthy little recruit?”

“You’ll leave stains on holy armor and beg for more?”

You nod frantically.

“Then not yet.”

And he stops moving.

Just like that. Mid-stroke.

The pressure remains. The fabric is still dug into your slit, stretched taut, but he holds you there.

Suspended. Clenching. Throbbing.

“You will wait.”

“Because I want to feel it when the cloth breaks.”

“I want to feel your slick stain my bare hand next.”

You sob. Quiet, broken, grinding uselessly against the friction of soaked cotton that won’t move anymore.

And somewhere, through the mist of your own desperation, you realize—

he's hard.

Somewhere behind that codpiece. Somewhere beneath all that armor.

You are making a god-sized warrior strain from watching you suffer in his palm.

...

He’s not moving.

You are.

You’re still seated in his palm—thighs spread over the wide slope of his glove, robe bunched under your trembling hands, underwear soaked and clinging like it was designed to humiliate you. The cloth’s riding up, pressed into your cunt by gravity and your own shame, and now his thumb and index finger rest against the edges—not removing, not penetrating, just controlling.

And your body is coming undone inch by fucking inch.

“Feel it?” he says, voice low, grainy in your bones.

“How tight it’s gotten?”

“It’s not shielding you anymore. It’s trapping you.”

He pinches the cloth between finger and thumb, and gives it a tiny pull—not outward.

Inward.

He folds the gusset between your lips, slow and firm, stuffing the fabric into the cleft of your cunt like a cloth tongue.

It sinks in, snug, perfectly fit to every swollen contour.

You wail—quietly. A broken, keening sound, teeth clenched behind your lip.

“There,” he whispers.

“Now I can feel how deep you go… without ever touching flesh.”

He drags the fabric back—slow, like he’s savoring every twitch of your walls around it.

And you feel it catch. On your clit. Between your folds.

It snaps tight again as he pulls forward.

And you sob.

He does it again.

Back. Forward.

Each drag pulling wet cotton across the aching tip of your clit, bunching deeper between your lips, pushing into you without ever breaching.

Your cunt is squishing against his gauntlet now, slick shining across the ridged lines of his gauntlet.

“Look at how it folds into you,” he murmurs.

“You’re helping it. Clenching like your body wants to fuck the cloth.”

You nod. Frantic. Your face burns.

It’s too much.

Not enough.

“I—I need—”

“I know what you need.”

He pinches the cloth again. Not at the center—at the sides.

And he starts to slide it side to side.

Dragging it left, then right, then up, then down—shifting the soaked fabric across your swollen cunt with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.

You shudder. Your hips jolt. Your hands grip the hem of your robe like a lifeline.

Every new direction sends friction across a different nerve.

Every pass presses your clit a little harder into the cloth, grinding your swollen folds deeper into his palm.

You try to close your legs.

You can’t.

His fingers are there, curled lightly around your outer thighs—not restraining, just reminding you.

“Don’t run from it,” he says, like a prayer.

“You asked for this.”

“You wanted to know what it felt like… to be undone without even being touched.”

His thumb presses in—not your clit. The cloth over it.

Enough pressure to send stars up your spine.

And still, no skin-to-skin.

“Not yet. This is the first layer. The first rite.”

“We’ll peel you open slowly.”

You’re panting now. Your entire body is shaking—legs twitching, thighs soaked, the fabric suctioned to your cunt with every shift.

You're going to cum.

You're going to ruin yourself, soaked and spasming without a single finger inside you.

And he knows it.

“You're close, aren’t you?”

“All from this pathetic cloth. This fabric you thought would shield you.”

You nod. Barely a sob. A whisper.

There’s a pause.

He watches you shake.

Listens to the way your breath catches in your throat, how your hips are moving on their own now, shallow little thrusts against nothing but damp, stretched cotton.

“Still trying to hold back,” he says, almost gently.

“Even now. Your thighs clenched, your mouth trembling.”

“It’s beautiful.”

A soft hum from the vox-grille.

“That tight little body... trying so hard to behave. To obey. To be good.”

“But I feel how badly you want it. How close you are to losing the fight.”

He draws the cloth taut again. This time, just a touch rougher.

The seam of it bites into your clit—delicious, unbearable friction—and your body jolts like he shocked you.

“So here’s what you’ll do,” he says.

“You’ll cum in it.”

Your breath catches. Your back arches.

“Stain it. Drench it.”

“Make it break against you.”

“And when it’s soaked through... when I can see your slick running into my palm…”

His thumb presses down—not fast, not cruel, but with finality.

Right over your clit. Right through the soaked fabric.

Direct contact.

Fucking finally.

After Emperor-knows-how-long of being teased, edged, stretched without skin, the pressure bursts.

And so do you.

Your orgasm doesn’t hit—it detonates.

Your body snaps forward, mouth open in a silent, broken scream, thighs clamping down around his finger with such force he has to brace you with his other hand. The slick sound of your cunt grinding into the fabric is filthy, loud, soaking.

You can feel it—your release gushing through the cloth, flooding the ruined panties, dripping down into the grooves of his gauntlet in messy, shining rivers.

You tremble, convulse, collapse, hands scrabbling uselessly at the air. Every nerve is screaming with pleasure.

And still, he holds you steady. Watching.

A war titan with a mortal writhing in orgasm in the center of his palm.

“...There it is.”

“The moment the cloth gave out.”

You collapse forward.

He doesn’t let you fall.

He holds you. Palm steady. Fingers curled to cradle you like a ruined offering. And the scent of your orgasm rises in the sanctum like incense.

“You’ll stay right here,” he murmurs.

“Until it cools. Until it soaks in. Until I feel you start to want again.”

And oh, you will.

Because he hasn’t even taken them off yet.

And you know—when he does?

You’re not leaving that hand for hours.

--------to be continued, ty for reading!!--------

p(^-^)q

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @thisuserislilsilly @kit-williams @nebulaegem

[sylestine-redacted]

YES THANK YOU. that was exactly what I was trying to explore.

the size kink is the mission statement. the entire plot. the thesis. the theme. the emotional climax. if you don’t want to be picked up like a doll and handled by a 10ft walking war crime, what are we even doing here.

[wh40kwritings]

‘if you don’t want to be picked up like a doll and handled by a 10ft walking war crime, what are we even doing here.’

Yes!! Exactly this! That’s like a huge part of the appeal for the space marines and related things for me tbh, especially in how those kinds of characters handle their smaller partner ✨👌😭

Smaller partner worshipping larger partner: 10/10 delicious, beautiful

Larger partner worshipping smaller partner: 100/10 PERFECT, EFFERVESCENT, CLEARS MY PORES WATERS MY CROPS

[sylestine-redacted]

In the Palm of a Titan

f!reader x Dark Angels Terminator

A/n: I spent way too long on this. And I may yet try this scene again... but hope you enjoy! Also now i wanna try to draw this scene...

Cw: NSFW, humiliation-as-worship, fabric play, size diff

His hand is already beneath you.

You don’t remember being lifted—only the moment your feet left the ground and the gravity of your body shifted, thighs parting without your consent to accommodate the sheer breadth of his gauntlet.

You’re not being touched.

You’re being held.

You sit in the cradle of his massive, armored palm, the weight of your body resting along the thick ridge of the glove, one of his fingers bracing your lower back, not pulling you close—just keeping you where he wants you. Where you belong.

The rest of him towers above: ceramite and oaths and old blood. His armor hums faintly with residual machine-spirit tension. You can smell metal, incense, oil, and something beneath it…

You.

The way your heat has started to stain the glove beneath you. The way the seam of your panties is already pressed tight to the damp cleft of your cunt.

He hasn’t spoken yet.

Just watches.

Then—the vox cracks. Low. Measured.

“I didn’t think you’d feel this light.”

He says it like a revelation. Like he’s considering your weight in the same breath a Chaplain considers a verse.

You can feel the tremor of his voice through his fingers.

“You’re soft. That I expected. But the way you yield…”

You shift in his hand—not to escape. Just to move. To adjust. To do something with the tension rippling between your thighs.

His fingers flex.

Just barely.

Just enough to tilt your pelvis forward—grinding the gusset of your underwear down against the warm, ceramite ridges of his palm. Soaked fabric meets unyielding armor.

And you let out a soft, pitiful breath.

He doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t move.

You try to speak. You don’t even know what you're trying to say—deny it? beg? make him stop? But it tumbles out soft and strangled.

“Y-you’re… really big.”

It sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth. But he answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Silence. You hear the hum of the sanctum. Your own slick. Your heartbeat behind your ribs like a war drum.

Then:

He just rumbles:

“...Don’t hurry. I want to see everything.”

You blink up at him, questioning. He hasn’t moved. His helm is still. Those burning red lenses locked on you, unblinking. Predatory.

“Lift the robe.”

You freeze. Your thighs clench instinctively—and you feel the squish of your underwear, soaked and pressed tight to your folds by the curve of his palm.

He shifts you higher—closer to his face, the helm now angled up into the space between your legs.

“I want to see what I’m soaking in.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

You should feel shame. You do. But it's tangled up in this pulsing, humiliating hunger.

Your hands shake. The hem is thick in your grip. You raise it inch by inch, baring your thighs, your outer hips, your trembling groin—and, at last, your underwear: soaked, stretched tight, lips outlined clear and swollen, the fabric almost see-through from how wet you’ve become.

You don’t know if you’re humiliated or proud at this point.

You just know he’s watching.

“...There it is,” he breathes.

One armored finger—not even the one beneath you—rises beside your thigh, not touching, just hovering beside the seam of your panties.

“Do you feel it yet?”

“The tension?”

“How close your softness is to breaking?”

He brings that finger up—still not touching—and makes a small motion, like he's tracing the air around your hips.

“I could fuck you with a knuckle.”

“Just one.”

“And you’d still say it’s too much.”

Your breath stutters. Your thighs twitch involuntarily.

“That’s not a threat, little one.”

“That’s an… invitation.”

Then his thumb comes forward, slowly—settling right at the crease of your thigh, where your leg meets the edge of the damp cloth. Not on your clit. Not between your lips. Just resting on the fabric, watching how it darkens under the weight of your slick.

“I want to feel you soak me.”

“Through the cloth. Through your need.”

“Until you’re so wet I could slide inside without effort.”

He presses down on your hip. Just a little.

And you feel it. Your entire body grinding perfectly into place. The pressure. The promise.

You moan—soft, barely audible—and his other fingers rise, curling up to brace your back as you begin to rock against the pressure.

“Good girl.”

“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”

“I’ve waited long enough to learn how a mortal tastes when she begs.”

...

You're still holding the robe up.

Your fists tremble around the bunched folds, your elbows locked to your sides, heart thrumming in your throat. You can’t stop breathing through your mouth—too shallow, too fast. Because every time your breath hitches, he hears it.

And every time you exhale, it fogs against the cool air between your thighs—where his thumb is still resting.

Still.

Waiting.

The rest of his hand doesn’t move. You're fully seated in the center of his open palm, your thighs forced to part slightly around the curve of his armor. You're not restrained—but there’s nowhere to go.

You feel tiny, surrounded by massive curled fingers and the faint heat of his presence. He doesn't hold you down.

He doesn't need to.

“Your thighs are already shaking,” he says, voice low through the vox.

“But we haven’t even begun.”

You make a sound—something between a whimper and a breathy "fuck"—and his thumb finally starts to move.

Just a drag.

Downward. Along the line where your thigh meets your underwear.

Not over your clit. Not between your lips. Not anywhere you need. Just that edge line, where damp skin meets damp cloth.

Your whole body jolts like he shocked you.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, sounding almost amused.

“I shift my hand a single inch… and your cunt flinches like it knows what I am.”

Your cheeks burn. You want to close your legs, but the way you’re seated won’t allow it.

You’re on display, high above the sanctum floor, high in the hand of a killing machine who hasn’t even taken his eyes off you since the moment he lifted you.

He drags his thumb back up, slow and unflinching, catching the edge of the fabric along the join of your thigh. It pulls taut—so tight it presses into you like a second skin, dragging heat where he still refuses to touch.

Your legs twitch. You can feel how soaked you are. The squish. The wet sheen across your folds.

“You’re leaking,” he says flatly.

“It’s soaking down the grooves of my gauntlet.”

Your thighs tighten again. Your breath stutters.

“I—” You can barely get it out. “I c-can’t help it.”

His thumb stills.

You regret speaking.

Until he answers.

“Good.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

Then, with excruciating patience, his thumb lifts and drops lower. Not high, not soft—down to where you’re wettest. Where you want him most. He presses there, through the cloth—right over your entrance. No movement. Just pressure. Measured and merciless.

“You’re trying to hold it in, aren’t you?”

“The pulse. The twitch. The wet.”

“You want to cum already, just from being here.”

You nod before you can stop yourself. It’s humiliating. You feel small. Weak. Soaked. And he knows it.

He presses in.

You gasp. Arch. Your cunt throbs and your eyes flutter as you ride that single spot, the thick, unyielding pressure of his thumb shoving the fabric deep between your lips.

You can feel the edge. It’s right there.

But he pulls back. Just enough to keep you on the brink.

He’s watching you fall apart without even letting you cum.

“You're in the hand of a war titan,” he says, soft and cruel.

“And you want to cum like a slut in your underwear.”

You let out a noise—a sob, maybe—and his fingers curl a little higher around your back, steadying you, keeping you from toppling off him as your body twitches against the pressure.

“You’re not ready for my fingers.”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll ride this fabric first.”

You moan. You can’t help it.

He angles his hand slightly—just enough that your weight shifts forward, pressing your cunt against the palm. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t rub.

He just holds you there.

“Look down,” he commands.

You do.

And what you see breaks something in you.

Your thighs spread. The robe rides high. Your cunt—outlined, soaked, framed in fabric too thin to hide anything. His gauntlet is wet with you, slick smeared across the hard lines of ceramite. Your arousal clings to the armor like a holy anointing.

“That’s what you are now,” he whispers.

“You are the mark I will carry into war.”

“And I’m not done savoring you yet.”

...

You’re still looking down.

You shouldn’t have.

Because the image sears into your brain like heresy:

Your cunt, nearly visible through the soaked fabric of your underwear—every line, every cleft outlined, the slick fabric riding the curve of your folds like it’s been molded to you. His massive palm beneath you, steady as stone, wet with you, the fine lines of the gauntlet’s surface shining in the low sanctum light.

“Beautiful little thing,” he murmurs.

“And so eager to make a mess.”

His thumb rises again—but this time, he hooks it just under the elastic at your hip.

Not pulling it aside.

Not yet.

He pulls it taut.

Not enough to slip it off, just enough that the soaked fabric pulls tight against your cunt, digging in, pressing your lips open beneath it.

You let out a choked sound.

Your body jolts forward slightly, thighs twitching. His other fingers adjust automatically—his ring finger now cradling your lower back, the pinky brushing the top of your ass.

A single twitch, and he could split you open.

“Look at how the fabric parts when I pull.”

“You’re spilling around it.”

He pulls it a little tighter. The tension makes your clit ache.

“Do you know what this feels like in my hand?”

“Like a breathing heat source. Like a relic just shy of burning.”

You don’t know if you moaned or whimpered. You can’t feel your throat anymore. Only the pressure between your legs. The sting of the taut cloth. The way your slick is coating not just his hand now, but your own thighs, dripping down as gravity betrays you.

He lets the elastic snap softly back into place.

You flinch.

And then his index finger joins the game.

He presses it gently—very gently—into the fabric right above your clit, pinning the cloth down into you.

You scream silently.

Not from pain. From sensation. From the perfection of that contact. Just enough pressure to throb. Not enough to satisfy. The wet fabric sinks into your folds like a tongue.

“You’re not just soaked.”

“You’re pliable.”

He strokes the fabric now, slow and circular, never touching your skin—just moving the cloth, dragging it left, then right, then down—smoothing it across your cunt like he’s polishing something sacred.

“This material is holding you better than my hand.”

“But not for much longer.”

The cloth shifts with every motion. You feel it gathering, sticking, pulling away and snapping back with every slick-dragging grind.

Your hips start to move. Instinctive. Hopeless.

He watches you try to fuck against his fingers—against your own panties—while seated in the hand of a war machine.

“You want to cum with it still on?”

“That’s not discipline.”

“That’s begging.”

Your voice is nothing but a whisper now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—let me—just let me—”

He moves the fabric down slightly.

Just enough that it catches on your clit and drags across it.

You squeal. Your legs kick, your thighs flex, your entire body arches in his hand—and you’re still not touching him. Not directly.

“You’ll cum in your underwear like a filthy little recruit?”

“You’ll leave stains on holy armor and beg for more?”

You nod frantically.

“Then not yet.”

And he stops moving.

Just like that. Mid-stroke.

The pressure remains. The fabric is still dug into your slit, stretched taut, but he holds you there.

Suspended. Clenching. Throbbing.

“You will wait.”

“Because I want to feel it when the cloth breaks.”

“I want to feel your slick stain my bare hand next.”

You sob. Quiet, broken, grinding uselessly against the friction of soaked cotton that won’t move anymore.

And somewhere, through the mist of your own desperation, you realize—

he's hard.

Somewhere behind that codpiece. Somewhere beneath all that armor.

You are making a god-sized warrior strain from watching you suffer in his palm.

...

He’s not moving.

You are.

You’re still seated in his palm—thighs spread over the wide slope of his glove, robe bunched under your trembling hands, underwear soaked and clinging like it was designed to humiliate you. The cloth’s riding up, pressed into your cunt by gravity and your own shame, and now his thumb and index finger rest against the edges—not removing, not penetrating, just controlling.

And your body is coming undone inch by fucking inch.

“Feel it?” he says, voice low, grainy in your bones.

“How tight it’s gotten?”

“It’s not shielding you anymore. It’s trapping you.”

He pinches the cloth between finger and thumb, and gives it a tiny pull—not outward.

Inward.

He folds the gusset between your lips, slow and firm, stuffing the fabric into the cleft of your cunt like a cloth tongue.

It sinks in, snug, perfectly fit to every swollen contour.

You wail—quietly. A broken, keening sound, teeth clenched behind your lip.

“There,” he whispers.

“Now I can feel how deep you go… without ever touching flesh.”

He drags the fabric back—slow, like he’s savoring every twitch of your walls around it.

And you feel it catch. On your clit. Between your folds.

It snaps tight again as he pulls forward.

And you sob.

He does it again.

Back. Forward.

Each drag pulling wet cotton across the aching tip of your clit, bunching deeper between your lips, pushing into you without ever breaching.

Your cunt is squishing against his gauntlet now, slick shining across the ridged lines of his gauntlet.

“Look at how it folds into you,” he murmurs.

“You’re helping it. Clenching like your body wants to fuck the cloth.”

You nod. Frantic. Your face burns.

It’s too much.

Not enough.

“I—I need—”

“I know what you need.”

He pinches the cloth again. Not at the center—at the sides.

And he starts to slide it side to side.

Dragging it left, then right, then up, then down—shifting the soaked fabric across your swollen cunt with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.

You shudder. Your hips jolt. Your hands grip the hem of your robe like a lifeline.

Every new direction sends friction across a different nerve.

Every pass presses your clit a little harder into the cloth, grinding your swollen folds deeper into his palm.

You try to close your legs.

You can’t.

His fingers are there, curled lightly around your outer thighs—not restraining, just reminding you.

“Don’t run from it,” he says, like a prayer.

“You asked for this.”

“You wanted to know what it felt like… to be undone without even being touched.”

His thumb presses in—not your clit. The cloth over it.

Enough pressure to send stars up your spine.

And still, no skin-to-skin.

“Not yet. This is the first layer. The first rite.”

“We’ll peel you open slowly.”

You’re panting now. Your entire body is shaking—legs twitching, thighs soaked, the fabric suctioned to your cunt with every shift.

You're going to cum.

You're going to ruin yourself, soaked and spasming without a single finger inside you.

And he knows it.

“You're close, aren’t you?”

“All from this pathetic cloth. This fabric you thought would shield you.”

You nod. Barely a sob. A whisper.

There’s a pause.

He watches you shake.

Listens to the way your breath catches in your throat, how your hips are moving on their own now, shallow little thrusts against nothing but damp, stretched cotton.

“Still trying to hold back,” he says, almost gently.

“Even now. Your thighs clenched, your mouth trembling.”

“It’s beautiful.”

A soft hum from the vox-grille.

“That tight little body... trying so hard to behave. To obey. To be good.”

“But I feel how badly you want it. How close you are to losing the fight.”

He draws the cloth taut again. This time, just a touch rougher.

The seam of it bites into your clit—delicious, unbearable friction—and your body jolts like he shocked you.

“So here’s what you’ll do,” he says.

“You’ll cum in it.”

Your breath catches. Your back arches.

“Stain it. Drench it.”

“Make it break against you.”

“And when it’s soaked through... when I can see your slick running into my palm…”

His thumb presses down—not fast, not cruel, but with finality.

Right over your clit. Right through the soaked fabric.

Direct contact.

Fucking finally.

After Emperor-knows-how-long of being teased, edged, stretched without skin, the pressure bursts.

And so do you.

Your orgasm doesn’t hit—it detonates.

Your body snaps forward, mouth open in a silent, broken scream, thighs clamping down around his finger with such force he has to brace you with his other hand. The slick sound of your cunt grinding into the fabric is filthy, loud, soaking.

You can feel it—your release gushing through the cloth, flooding the ruined panties, dripping down into the grooves of his gauntlet in messy, shining rivers.

You tremble, convulse, collapse, hands scrabbling uselessly at the air. Every nerve is screaming with pleasure.

And still, he holds you steady. Watching.

A war titan with a mortal writhing in orgasm in the center of his palm.

“...There it is.”

“The moment the cloth gave out.”

You collapse forward.

He doesn’t let you fall.

He holds you. Palm steady. Fingers curled to cradle you like a ruined offering. And the scent of your orgasm rises in the sanctum like incense.

“You’ll stay right here,” he murmurs.

“Until it cools. Until it soaks in. Until I feel you start to want again.”

And oh, you will.

Because he hasn’t even taken them off yet.

And you know—when he does?

You’re not leaving that hand for hours.

--------to be continued, ty for reading!!--------

p(^-^)q

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @thisuserislilsilly @kit-williams @nebulaegem

[wh40kwritings]

So while my genemother AU has already afforded me a LOT of amazing topics of thought and conversation in how something so indulgent can interact with the current lore—

It also has cursed me with the most chaotic lines of thought that my best friend of almost two decades will get randomly in discord, including this one:

I have little memory of writing this in the dead of the night, but I am once again cursed and will now give this to all of you /silly

[wh40kwritings]

Its 4 am and im sitting here cursed with the question if some space marines have a mommy kink (by the law of nothing ever being 0% that means there WOULD be) and as someone who loves to see Big Stronk men be vulnerable I feel compelled to explore this

[wh40kwritings]

Sleep did in fact find me eventually, but unfortunately so too did the Visions(tm) /silly

[wh40kwritings]

Its 4 am and im sitting here cursed with the question if some space marines have a mommy kink (by the law of nothing ever being 0% that means there WOULD be) and as someone who loves to see Big Stronk men be vulnerable I feel compelled to explore this

[wh40kwritings]

Ave Maria, gratia plena

Part of my Genemother AU

Summary: You are a new genemother to the Blood Angels and learn that helping abate the Red Thirst is just one of your sacred, integral duties to the men of the chapter.

Each of them have scars.

Now, that might have been too strong of a word for the marks that adorn each woman’s skin. Might have been borne from your immediate fear and worry— but what else could you call the necklace of prinpricks covering each genemother’s neck and shoulders?

Scars.

But not of battle—

They are bite marks. Of the most specific sort, ones that they openly show in their choice of fashion and dress. It’s something you had noticed upon first meeting with Mother Maribelle, the senior of the five current genemothers for the Blood Angels. The way she covered most of her body in soft-looking red and black silks, a dress that followed her like a shadow in its trailing fabrics. She even had a veil across her face, obscuring her eyes and expression from view until it had been drawn back enough for you to see her face properly.

Her neck, in contrast, had been entirely exposed. And covered in marks. Scars. Places where she had been bitten before, seemingly dozens of times, seemingly still to allow that bite to mark over permanently than heal.

“It is not a requirement to do so,” she had said, tone as gentle as as a cool night breeze against your cheek. “It is an old tradition, but one some of us yet follow. To show that we care for all the needs to the sons of Sanguinius, and that there is salvation in it.” She must have sensed your apprehension, even if you had been informed of your expectations long before stepping into her room. “…These are not marks of pain or embarrassment, dear child.”

“But you were bitten.”

“Oh yes,” she says, the aging woman being polite in how she holds a hand up to her lips with a soft laugh you’d not describe as anything but graceful. “Many times. Some in ceremony, others in… well, you understand the private company that you will entertain in your duties to the Emperor.”

Cheeks feeling hot, you nevertheless nod in following in her euphemism.

Mother Maribelle had mothered many children in her years as you were informed, at least two dozen that had been brought to term, raised, and in varying states of life and service. Her record of poise and knowledge was unmatched, and is why she still acts as voice and record keeper for the genemothers of the Blood Angels— such experience is incredibly rare.

And you are to replace her.

Well. Not replace. She is yet the Mother of mothers, the one who is still the final say alongside the chapter chaplains as to the care, health and safety of the other genemothers. You are simply taking up the place where she had been while actively conceiving. To take on the mantel of a genemother, to bare children in service to the Imperium.

And yet, it is the idea of being bitten that seems to force the attention of your thoughts, worry, and intrigue alike. The feel of teeth sinking into your skin, of hot blood flowing from the wound, of a warm tongue lapping at your skin in supplicant apology for the pain—

“You will be provided a salve,” Mother Maribelle says, knocking you free from your thoughts.

“Huh?”

“A salve,” she repeats, eyes twinkling in amusement. “To avoid the scars. It will heal and numb, though as long as your partner is aware of himself to some extent then the pain is minimal in the first place. Though, if you’re without child you may find that some of the Angels enjoy partaking in… other sources of blood your body will yet provide openly.”

It takes a few moments for you to register her polite description before a new heat rolls across your cheeks again. Finally you nod, silent, wanting nothing more than to absorb all of the knowledge and experience this worldly woman of the Imperium had to offer you. It would be a few months before you would have your first sire, given time to properly learn the expectations and ceremonies down to the letter by the more senior mothers.

“I promise not to disappoint you,” you finally say, bowing your head as far as your neck would allow. “I promise not to fail.”

Mother Maribelle is silent for a moment. Then, she allows a sigh to leave her— this too is somehow a graceful sound.

“You will fail in some form, child, as we all do.”

Your head snaps up in surprise that you can’t numb or stop, and she continues, “Though I will never truly be disappointed in any of our mothers as long as their hearts are in service to our Angels, none of us is without the sin of failure in some form. To forget ourselves in a moment of ceremony, to misspeak our thoughts, to lose our tempers… yes, it will happen.”

She allows the moment to settle.

“But it is from those failures that you will grow and become better for it.”

She says nothing else on the matter— nor does she need to. The words are in themselves weighted like heavy lead, but ironically freeing in how they lift a different weight of nervousness from your shoulders.

You take your leave from her quarters a few minutes later after some idle conversation, feeling all the better for talking to her for even a short while, especially since everything felt so new.

And when you pass a pair of genemothers and their bare, scar-covered shoulders, you can’t help but think for a moment how those same marks will look on your own skin.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Husband Duty

((My first...SMUT? Help me, my hearts punding so much, i'm feeling actually nervous posting this here. Be kind to me, is thye first time i do something such as this...))

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

TW: smut

His lips on your own were closer to being a desperate move after move. You tried to keep up, feeling the pent-up frustration that you both had for the countless nights spent separated in your own chambers. He almost forgot the taste you had.

His hands caressed your hips, lifting the cotton of your nightgown, touching slightly the inside of your thighs, and already feeling some drops of arousal adorning your undies. He started to lower his head, kissing your chest, closer to your breast, trying to undo the string of your nightgown, when a strange glinch came to you, a displeased sound.

He immediately raised his head, blue baby eyes meeting your own.

"Did I hurt you? You want me to slow down?"

"No, no, my love. No, I want you as you want me, but…" You grimace a little, embarrassed to express this information, but then raise your hand towards your nose and mouth, "Robo, when…when did you wash yourself last time?"

His face took on the color of the deepest red that could remind someone of the Blood Angel armor, suddenly sitting up on his bed.

"I-I did…in a certain way…" remembering that he had leaned on himself in the most essential way in order to get back to work faster than he could. Your sorry look on his face was enough for him to understand that he may have neglected one of the basic needs of his persona, leading him to the worst scenario in his bed. He rose from his bed, fixing his robes as fast as he could, leading to the doors.

"I'll take a bath."

"Robo, no, I can hold it!"

"Absolutely not, personal hygiene is the basis for a healthy life. I will not make you suffer because I neglect my hygiene for my carnal needs. I'll be back immediately."

And he disappeared from the room, leaving you alone with your own needs again.

///

When he woke up, the light outside was already high and touched his face like a slap.

He rose from the covers, feeling himself fresher, cleaner…and extremely confused. He looked around, your side of the bed already done and your humming voice coming from the vanity on the other side.

"Oh, you woke up!" You looked at him, finishing brushing your hair and starting to fix the golden leaves tiara.

"Today you can start a little later; you don't have important meetings, right?"

He looked at you confused, not remembering anything from last night… No, wait...he did remember... He entered the bath, prepared himself, and immersed himself in the hot, steamy water, and…and then what? What happened after that?

"…My… My love… Forgive me, but… I… I don't recall…our last night together…"

"Oh, after an hour I started to get worried, so I searched for you." You got closer, finishing fixing your earring. "And when I found you, you were sleeping in the water of the baths!"

You giggled, remembering how exhausted he looked while immersed to his neck, while he felt a bolt of shock for this revelation.

"I need help from a few of your sons on the night shift to get you out and prepare you for the night! Don't worry, they won't tell!"

You smiled, finding the event quite amusing, while he could only think about the fact that he was so tired that he had, once again, forced you to spend a night alone, without the warmth of your husband and the chance to relieve your own stress from the fatigue of your position.

"Y/n… I'm so sorry, please, I didn't—"

"Roboute, you don't have to apologize! You are always so tired, and besides, you look more rested now! Even if we can wait a little longer, I'm fine since you can take a proper rest."

He had always loved your patience, your understanding, and your way of finding the better side of every situation, but now it seemed more like a blade to his chest. You finished fixing your veil, approaching the door.

"I'll go now; I have an important meeting. We'll see each other later, all right'"

And, without a single possibility for him to explain or properly apologize, you left the room, leaving poor Roboute alone with a huge feeling of guilt on his chest.

///

"We should move the third company to the fourth sector; this way, we'll cover the intrusion from the outsider areas."

"The third company is occupied by scouting the area of the second sector; moving it would cause only a further opening to attacks."

He was listening, of course, but everyone noticed that gloomy aura around him but decided with a collective consent to not speak up about it. Roboute moved a few holographic ships on the map, pointing to a few areas and sections.

"The second company can take care of the matters. Send it and order the fifth and the sixth to take their position in case of a new attack. If someone has something to say, speak now."

Silence followed, the holographic globe disappeared, and Roboute took a seat at his desk.

"In this case, you're dismissed. We'll see each other in a few hours for a new matter." After their salute, the captains started to exit the office; his eyes darted around, especially towards two of his men. He cleared his voice, calling back their attention.

"Calgar! Uriel!" The two space marines stopped in their tracks, the first one with more of an annoyed look, the second with a hint of worry. "I wish to speak with you about a…private matter."

The door closed, leaving the three alone. The two captains looked at their primarch with tension, which he tried to soothe with his hands.

"Do not worry, as I say, it is a private matter…" His fingers gestured nervously, he shifted on his chair like it was made of stone, and his face was the same one he held before a mission…well, for him, this was one.

"…Is it about something that we had done or said that had displeased you, Father?" spoke Urile, still worried about the matter.

"No, no, not at all…" He cleared his throat again. "… Calgar, you've been married for quite some time now, am I correct?"

"…Yes, my wife and I are now closer to our tenth year," he said proudly.

"Good… Uriel, I heard you've been married for two years, right?"

"Of course, my lord," he said, now curious about the matters. "But I and my companion are closer in heart for more than that."

"So, we can confirm that you've been more familiar with your role as husband than me, right?"

"My lord," spoke Uriel, "is something happening between you and the Legion Mother?"

"No! Of course not, our bond is stronger now than it was before, and I'll always make sure it stays that way. It is about…" He stopped; he couldn't clearly speak his worries, not in a more gentle or educated way.

"… I am afraid that I am not taking care of my own duty as a husband. I am providing for the emotional ones, but… I fear that I am not taking good care of my wife in the…how should I put it, the more intimate ones."

"As you know," he continued, "my duty as Regent takes most of my time, as does my role as your Primarch and protector of the Imperium." My wife and I were aware of the strings that our marriage would come with, and still we decided to take our risks. My beloved consort, bless her heart, has the patience and the kindness that I know sometimes I do not deserve, and I'm fearing that she'll be aware of it soon if I don't take matters into my own hands…"

Calgar looked to his fellow space marine, then to his primarch, his voice steady.

"Father, may I speak clearly?"

"You may."

"You have trouble with your wife in sexual activities?"

Uriel almost choked a laugh, while all the blood in Roboute's body started to march on his face and ears, giving the impression that he was ready to explode. Normally, he would reprimand his son's bluntness, but he had given his permission, and he could do nothing other than slowly nod.

"My body is overwhelmed with work," he continued, "and at every chance my body prefers to rest than allow me to care for her."

Uriel, despite his wish to be helpful, had not many related options to the matter. His partner and he were clear that their relationship wasn't like a normal one; that's why they decided to make arrangements to help each other, with the promise of never holding secrets from each other and putting above everything their trust.

Calgar, on the other side, seemed less impressed.

"I can understand, my lord." The captain spoke, crossing his arms. "It's a matter that I fear can strike many of us that decide to take the decision of getting wed."

Roboute looked at his son with an inch of hope. If he was married for so long, that means that there was a solution!

"To be fair, my own beloved life came with the idea! A woman of action, must I say!" He spoke proudly. "We just agreed to make her take actions in her own hands!"

"…Forgive me, captain, what do you mean?"

"Well, I was in a situation such as yourself, my lord, so one day she asked me if I cared if she helped herself in the matter. I told her no, and that night I woke up with her on me…"

The two looked at him shocked… and he continued,

"Balls deep if you need a—"

"NO! We did understand, Captain Calgar! Quite specific!" Poor Roboute seemed to have a stroke, while Uriel had to stop the older Astartes to speak more about the matters.

"This…this is," Roboute coughed a little, "it seems...drastic?"

"But allowed me to rest and her to release her urges. And I woke up far more relaxed than I could anticipate. As I heard from a few serfs, it was a win-win."

It was…quite the idea. Roboute knew that it was quite on the line of consent, especially knowing how his wife was… And yet the curiosity started to bloom.

///

It was only when the same words came out of his mouth that Roboute felt a weight on his chest that seemed to grow for every second of silence from you. Well, not completely the same as what the Chapter Master had spoken, too crude and direct, but he did try to sugar them up, or at least try to make them more appealing to your taste. Even after the actual struggle to even build the courage to bring the matter to you, which seemed more complicated than expressing it to his own men.

You stood there, sitting on that chair that you used during those small sharing moments of pause between one work and another, with your husband's cup of tea in your hand and the quite confused gaze on your face.

"…By…By my own hands."

"Y-yes," how stupid it sounded now that he remembered words for words, "I…" I guessed it seemed an appropriate approach to fix our current situation."

You looked around, more confused than embarrassed now, still wondering if there was anything to fix at this point. But he brought the argument… Maybe it was something of some weight for him? You were always aware of the stress of his position, of how much work he brought on his shoulder for the Imperium, for his sons, but you were starting to wonder if even your marriage was becoming a worry for him. Yert, you have always been nothing but patience! Did something make his mind wander too much?

"It's…well… Quite the shock hearing you bring out the matter…. I just have some issues about the…consent?"

"Well, I suppose that, since I am proposing it to you, hoping you would feel comfortable enough to do it, it makes the act consensual enough."

You posed your hand on your lips, looking to the other side of the room. A small blush appeared on your cheeks, and your fingers were tapping the cup. You were nervous, embarrassed… Were you against it?

Roboute started to fear that he had indeed crossed that fearful line.

"I…suppose we can…try. Given the opportunity, when will it rise…?"

A wave of relief came to him, maybe something else.

"I'm…happy to know that you agree with this."

///

Even after your mutual consent, days pass without any actions between the two of you, and no other words are spoken about the matter. It wasn't like you had decided to avoid the subject or just refused; it was more like being in waiting, not knowing a result where the wait was more painful than the actual answer.

To Roboute, the fear to have touched a matter that was too over the line, knowing your past and your attitude. But you had done it already, so the wondering still lingered.

On you, it was more like an itch that you can't locate; you wish to take care of it but still lack the nerve to actually put an end to the situation.

Only after the situation started to become a background noise did the event arise on its own.

Your eyes slowly opened up; the only light was the dim one of the stars and the slice of moon facing the window on your side of the bed. The silence fell in cadence with the heavy breath of your spouse at the other side of the bed, which gave you the bothersome information that it was far too early to rise and absolutely far too late to be in bed for him.

A check on the lock at your side of the bed made you sigh in defeat; you wouldn't find your sleep back in hours, which meant just a few before your rise. You decided to stare at the ceiling, but a soft grumble beside you caught your attention.

Rolling to your side, you started to admire your husband, deep in his sleep, his usually stoic and serious expression relaxed. His robes were sitting on the chair next to the window. Even if exhausted, he still gave himself some kind of regime, and his nightrobes consisted mostly of a white vest.

He once told you that he used to be a light sleeper, ready to take every possible external change to jump into action. But since his duties have changed, every chance of sleep for him has become a complete pass-out session. This gave you the chance to raise your hand and, gently, start to caress his facial features with your fingers.

You felt yourself like the keeper of a secret that no one else was allowed to receive, that you wished to hold dear to yourself as long as you could.

During his waking hours, a few wrinkles tend to appear on his marble face, long and sculpted by the trying times and the events that had surrounded him. But now, with his muscles relaxed, the only trace was soft lines. perceivable only with the shadow.

Your smaller finger caressed his temple, closer to his ear, and slowly traced the line of his jaw. A small sound, a roll of his head, almost like he knew in his dream that you were there, allowing you and emitting sounds of contentment in the process.

He was beautiful, a statue of pure beauty, an epitome of everything that a man could find attractive. You felt almost unworthy to be his wife, but he had always reminded you of everything that he found stunning about you, making you feel less inadequate for him. Your hand still kept on going down, reaching his neck. You avoided that part, not because you hate to see it, but out of respect.

A secret promise between the two of you to respect your own wounds, and even now, you decided to not take advantage of it.

Caressing his shoulder, the line of the muscle felt so steady and rocky even now, alongside his entire arm, like he could just kill by simply squishing someone in it. Even so, he had shown you nothing but gentleness, like you could break at every wrong move. He was, indeed, a gentle giant.

Only during your private moments were you able to feel on your skin his strength, controlled and calculated enough to send you to new levels of ecstasy but never to lead you astray. The memory made your face blush; it had passed quite some time…

You dared, cautiously, to wander a little more, your hand slowly approaching down to his pelvis. Under the robe, only one cover was behind your hand and his member, and, for a second, you felt like you were going too far. You talked about it; he did give you his permission, but…how bold you were!

You sighed, a raspy and tremulous sigh. Just a little wouldn't hurt, just something to make your imagination wander a little…

You removed the cover from him enough to expose the interested part, allowing part of the vest to go up, exposing the subligar and his content. You felt like a thief or a sinner for committing something such as this one, but you would have had to lie to not admit that you needed that.

Once freed of his phallus, it was still flaccid, the veins still calm during this calm moment. Even so, there was no way to not feel overwhelmed by the size of it, especially since it was still down. By seeing it, you felt your throat contract, and swallowing your saliva felt harder.

With some uncertainty, your right hand started to caress it, with slow movement, from the base, where a sprout of golden hair still showed, to its head, where the skin had been meticulously moved behind. You didn't pull anything but just your hand weight, fearing your spouse would wake if you tried a bolder approach.

Your eyes glued on his face, trying to search for every kind of sign of discomfort or if he was ready to wake up. Despite your own desire, you wished him to not rise before his time, fearing he could not proper rest…or stop you.

You kept on with your ministration, and, after some more attentive approach, your hand started to put some kind of grip on it, starting to feel some movement on its part. He must have been pent up too, since your attention had awoken the phallus but not his master, slowly rising, putting aside his flaccidity with some more strength and hardeness.

You started to concentrate some time on the head, where the skin was retracted, and sometimes just on the tip, where precum started to form and slowly cover just the tip of your finger. A movement from him again, a small groan—maybe everything was just a dream for him, but you were glad it wasn't.

Your legs rubbed with each other, searching for some friction. Your free hand reached under your nightgown, searching your panties, and you were shocked to find that you did in fact need it more than you anticipated. You were already drenched in your arousal, the only view of his erected member, your small act, and the fact that you were allowing yourself to do something such as this one was already doing something to your body. Your heart pounded so hard that you could hear it in your head, your breaths deep but broken.

With one hand, you allowed yourself to take care of your beloved, allowing him to get free of some tension, while with your left one, you were trying to imagine him doing it to you, concentrating your finger over your poor knot of nerves that desperately begged him to just take you, to allow you to feel good as he could use you as he pleased.

A side of your head wanted to slap you out of those thoughts, so uncivil, so far away from what you wished to be, and at the same time you did crave this image in your head. You slowly inserted one finger, while the right hand kept on massaging him, feeling it going harder, bigger, and stronger. You bit a part of your nightgown, muffling a moan, trying to just imagine that your small finger was his big one, that your smaller and softer hand was his bigger and rougher one.

You kept on going, faster, faster, faster, until—

A sprout, your convulsing muscle.

Somehow, you come together, and, more incredibly, the only thing that comes from Roboute is a slow groan, between a moan and a strangled sound of pleasure.

You were gasping for air, sperm covered your hand, while the one that pleased you was drenched in your juices. It was enough; you didn't need anything else from him; that was enough.

No, it wasn't enough.

You were debating with your head when you noticedthat it wasn't getting softer. His member was still harder; it was trembling, like telling you that it would had need more than just a hand job to satisfiy him. Such the warrior…

And, maybe, you did too. You had already gone too far; there was no need to hold back now, right? He did tell you to do it. Just for this time, you told yourself, just this one night, and you would then go along like nothing happened. It would be your secret. You would still be his precious, kind wife, the one that doesn't fuck his husband while he sleeps because he's too tired to care for her needs.

You rose, straddling him, trying to take a good position. If he were awake, he would have guided you, using his hands to move your hips to the right angle, but he wasn't awake, and you had to get along with that. With one hand, you allowed yourself to use his biceps as a stand, while with the other, you slowly guided his head towards your entrance. Your legs were spread, his massive size enough to make your cunt open enough to give you space to move, and once you found your hole it was justa matter of gravity to help you.

You wished you could have prepared yourself a little more; only the head was enough to make you gasp in pleasure.

"O-oh..t…th…"

…"

You tried to hold your voice, now using his thighs to help you not fall down completely on his length. The more he stretched you, the more you needed to control yourself, to not let the pleasure control you and move too fast or too forcefully, and to throw if you needed to.

You kept on going, down, down, the bulge slowly forming on your womb, moving with each inch inside your body. You still loved it, feeling every part of you getting stretched to its limit, his phallus slowly caressing every crevice of your womb, even that little part of you that had made you shiver in ecstasy. You still went down, and it was when it reached your limit, when the head kissed your cervix, that you came undone a second time.

"MMMH!"

Your muscle squeezed again, your womb rejoiced by spasming on Roboute's penis like trying to milk him from his previous ejaculation to get more.

You come, you come by only inserting it in you.

You tried to breathe; that could be enough. That was enough… No, not again, not now.

You needed a minute to reclaim some strength in order to move. And, even after that, you found yourself struggling in this task.

His size, far more impressive even for one of his Astartes, made it quite hard to move freely and get the proper friction you desired. Not to mention that, after two painful orgasms, your legs started to get wobbly, and trying to move on top of him was harder than he usually allowed you while he was awake. Usually, he would have guided you, allowing you to use his hands to move, or even moved you himself on him, forcing your cunt to take all of the pleasure he could give you. Now, you were practically on your own on this.

You needed a few attentive attempts before you could find the right angle, the one that forced you to stay as low as possible, feeling his chest vibrating over your forehead, forcing you to hold your breath as much as you could, fearing he could wake up from your heavy pants on him. You feared even that your sweat, slowly forming on your body, could risk your position. But as soon as you started to move, all this fear started to dissipate.

You moved slowly, allowing the head of his member to touch the end of your uterus in a regular rhythm, to the length to straddle your small bottom, giving you all those small electric bolts of pleasure that you craved. You preferred to avoid trying to reach that sweet spot inside of you; the first time was more than enough, and you didn't want to try your luck another time.

It wasn't like with him, awake of course. Your little head wnadered in how he would do it, his hands holding your hips gently, pushing you slowly on him, allowing your womb to feel him completely without hurting you. He would caress you, making you feel completely surrounded by him, his mouth on your chest, sucking you, tasting you like you were a delicacy that only he could have. Would he lose his control? You would allow him because, deep down, you did want him to lose himself in you like you were already in him, merging like you were one thing.

He would whisper small praises in your ears, making you feel like melting; he would tell you everything you wanted to hear while punding himself in you, with the true force you were craving.

You're taking me so well, my love…

This is the spot you're craving?

You're perfect…

"R…Ro…rob…."

"Y/n?"

When your eyes met his blue one, open in surprise and shock, you stopped your movement.

He was there, still on his pillow, wide awake with the image of you, impaled on him, in front of him. His mouth slightly open, his forehead covered in sweat just like yours, while a puddle of your blood formed like a stain on his vest. His hands touched lightly your thigh, and for a moment you saw yourself in his own mind. Disheveled, covered in sweat, your hair messy, and your lower parts covered in fluids, mostly your butt glistening even in his own sperm, what remained of your attention was on him.

Your voice stuck in your throat; you wanted just to hide somewhere and never come out. You felt ashamed; under his eyes, you felt like you had done something terrible, no matter how many excuses you could musterto save your pathetic situation. Suddenly you felt enough strength to try to get off from him. Your hands left his chest, and you tried to hide your face from the embarrassment you felt.

"T-Throne I… I-I'm sorry! Forgive me, my love, I didn't… This is…. Forgive me, I'm sorry I don't know what—"

Then, his hands met your hips, forcing you down on him again. He reached that sweet spot, and a long and agonizing moan echoed in hsi ears like a melody.

Suddenly, everything you were craving was happening, and it was too much and far too good to resist it.

He rose, your smaller hand grasping his shoulder like an anchor while he used you to relieve himself. Now the small gasp from him became full grunts of pleasure, his lips covered every inch of skin he could reach. Your face was contorted in an expression of pure ecstasy, your eyes half open from the tears of joy for the so agonizing pleasure you were hoping to receive from him.

"My poor wife," he whispered, still literally using you as a flesh toy for his own urge, "forcing you to go act in this way…"

He kept on rutting into you; your steady movements could not hold a candle to his penis bullying your uterus in that way. Your nails scratching his skin, sometimes catching the small porthole in his body, feeling how his senses reacted to the small intrusions. You couldn't control your voice any more, allowing a long and sinful mew to leave your mouth, and this only drove him further into you.

"I'm a despicable husband… Don't worry, I'll take good care of you now…"

You pressed so much on him that he could even feel the bulge in your womb, feeling how deeply he was going and how good you were around him.

He thanked the Emperor; it wasn't a dream. He hadn't just imagined finally having you like he wanted, to make love to you like you deserved!

How he missed that sensation of heat, that pressure around him, like you were trying to become one with him. How he missed those sounds you make, for him, only for him.

His pressure became stronger, harder, like he was trying to get over your cervix, to completely claim you. He was getting bigger, and you were so close, so fucking close.

"I'll make you so full that you won't need to do it again!"

You kept on repeating his name like a prayer, begging him to come inside, to use you, until everything became white. Your vulva came with such force that he lost his breath, holding you down to the point that it was painful.

His seed came not long after, so much and so hot that you felt fire inside of you. It was so much, even after the first time, that it started to leak from you, covering your and his part.

You collapsed together on the mattress, both of you panting like you had been running for hours, clothes completely ruined from sweat and fluids, without talking about the shits that needed a redo. But you couldn't care at all, especially when he held you like the most precious gift he could have.

Minutes passed, trying to catch your breath and recalling everything that has happened and has been said.

"Ro…Roboute…" you finally spoke, "You're…" not despicable… because we can't...do this every time we wish for… You know that, right?"

His eyes fixed on the ceiling, then a hand caressed his face, realizing that he had talked too much and you did catch something in it.

"I felt… like I couldn't provide for these basic things…you deserve the world…"

"And you deserve to rest, my love…"

His gentle eyes looked into yours, full of love and adoration not for the demigod, but for the man that you had married.

"I wish nothing but your well-being and love, Roboute… everything else can wait…"

He smiled, kissing the crown of your hair, caressing your shoulder with his thumb in small motions. You raised your face, kissing him, feeling every inch of his body finally relaxing under your touch. He allowed himself to become your own mattress, his double heart a lullaby for your ears.

"Now…" you whispered, "who gave you this idea?"

"…Calgar did…."

"…Let's thank him properly tomorrow."

"Sure, I will…"

[wh40kwritings]

what kinda traditions and customs do chapters have with their genemothers?? And if I could humbly request perhaps… Ultramarines 🥺

While I might be a Salamander girlie (/silly) I’m always down to explore other chapters and their cultures/traditions, especially when it comes to my stilly little AU/s <3

Also I apologize this turned into 50% general information for this AU

General Information

Directly described from the Codex Astartes, a genemother is: ‘an individual who is genetically compatible with the geneseed of an Astartes chapter and is, by extension, capable of bearing [or siring] children of Astartes-compatible blood’. While the definition is meant to be vague, the public and Imperium-held belief is that genemothers (who can be of any sex or gender) are those who have been ‘chosen’ or otherwise blessed by the will of the Emperor in order to combat the forces of chaos, mutation and deterioration against a chapter’s geneseed reserve.

Children sired by an Astartes of a compatible chapter with their genemother have been documented to have a vastly higher strength, endurance, fortitude and compatibility with the implants required to create a full-fledged Astartes than children who were not. It is important to note that such children are not born with the organs and implants they would receive upon joining the chapter proper (not yet at least, as some have hypothesized) but still have a much larger success rate in initiation— this may also carry over into the creation of Primaris Marines, but this is mere conjecture at the present time.

Even children who are not initiated into the chapter are still capable of donating material that would normally be produced by the Astartes Progenoid Gland— this material can bolster and support a chapters geneseed supply and has on several occasions in written record saved chapters from outright decimation. Genemothers themselves are also capable of donating geneseed compatible material, but little testing has been done on if this can be utilized in the same way.

Whether a genemother is considered an asset or a religious figure is largely dependent on how an individual chapter interprets it. This also includes how genemothers are inducted into the chapter and how many one chapter can have at any given time; the only requirement according to the codex is that they must pass a lengthy, intensive medical exam to ensure they are compatible with each chapter’s geneseed.

The maximum number of genemothers a chapter can have is 10 (one per company), though the rarity of these individuals means that no chapter has ever found more than a few at any given time. The limit, while apparently unneeded, is meant to ensure that a chapter’s overall genetic variety is kept healthy, since they still require initiation of neophytes that are not biologically related to members of the chapter itself for long-term viability, especially since many genemothers have been noted to have a much longer lifespan than a normal human.

Ultramarine Genemothers

To the surprise of nobody, the Ultramarines are the chapter who first introduced and incorporated genemothers into Astartes culture at large— this is partially due to the fact that Roboute Guilliman amended the Codex Astartes in recent years to include their role and how they fit within a codex-compliant chapter.

He did not amend the codex until he absolutely needed to however, as many people (including the primarch himself) cannot explain how genemothers function. Even to the present day there are great debates on whether these individuals should be considered heretical mutations or blessed by the will of the Emperor himself— and if Guilliman has been offered a greater awareness in visions from his father, then he has yet to speak of it. It speaks volumes, however, that they are still to be considered a protected role within any codex-compliant Astartes chapter.

The Ultramarines, for example, see genemothers as extensions of the chapter’s strength, and will ideally have one active genemother per company within the chapter (aligning with the codex). These individuals are expected to pass basic aptitude tests and carry a minimal level of self-defense skills, but their role is otherwise intensely outlined to the letter— they are expected to bare a child once a year provided that they do not have health complications that require a longer resting period between births.

Upon the age of two that child is then given to a foster family or institution living within the Realm of Ultramar to be raised within the general population. This is both to ensure there is no favoritism or bias for that child’s initiation into the chapter down the line, and also to minimize mental stress upon the genemother upon the separation of the infant. A genemother is able to put in a special request for a child to remain with them for longer, but these requests are rarely approved due to the concerns listed above— it is something that genemothers are expected to understand and prepare themselves for.

How Astartes are chosen to sire each child varies wildly in each chapter, but for the Ultramarines it is treated quite formally. Chapter members who have shown incredible loyalty, bravery, and strength of will are elected for the event (they cannot elect themselves to avoid bias or possessiveness), but they are allowed to decline the offer if they so choose for any reason. Genemothers likewise have a surprising amount of autonomy in the decision, and can reject any elected Astartes outright. They do need to provide a report upon rejection to ensure any underlying concerns or issues are corrected as quickly as possible.

If accepted, the Astartes and genemother are given a full day of privacy within the genemother’s birthing or personal chambers and are given various tools, materials, and information needed to ensure a successful conception. (Yes, this does mean that there are outlined steps to provide an Ultramarine with sex education as needed.)

The Codex is sparse on the details, but it is stated that a chapter can enforce whatever traditions or rituals are deemed fit for conception as long as the genemother ‘consents to the copulation and is not harmed physically, mentally or spiritually by the Astartes directly or indirectly involved’.

The Ultramarines in turn interpret this expectation very professionally and separate the sexual and non-sexual roles that a genemother plays outside of the proverbial bedroom. They largely consider genemothers to be religious or spiritual figures, often working alongside the chapter’s chaplain to ensure healthy morale and loyalty to both the Codex Astartes and the Emperor’s will. To this, many believe that a healthy connection and relationship with one’s chapter genemother is a way to bolster any battle-brother’s soul against the corruption of chaos.

[incrediblethirst]

YOINK. SAVING THIS.

Fuck it aligns perfectly with some of my primarch wife OCs and gives them a job (either being a gene mother or being the ultimate authority on their wellbeing)

[wh40kwritings]

Holy crap yes! I never even considered how this AU could absolutely compliment characters who are in a relationship with the primarchs— I’ve only recently started learning about them in general with other WH40k writers here and I adore the concept.

I think they would be EXCELLENT leaders for this kind of program, and I’m super curious at how different chapters would self-organize if there was a leader figure to represent the genemothers properly and the sorts of traditions, expectations and ceremonies that might evolve with a primarch wife’s influence :O

[incrediblethirst]

Primarch spouses are gene mothers version of CPS. welfare checks, resource allotment, "corrective services" (having chaplains beat the shit out of any battle brothers that harm the gene mothers).

What would also be interesting is figuring out who does this job if there is no primarch spouse/primarch spouse doesnt wanna do that shit.

Does another primarchs spouse take on that role for multiple legions, inquisitor style?

[wh40kwritings]

I’d like to think that primarch spouses *could* take on multiple legions depending on how close those legions/primarchs are to one another, but that would be an EXHAUSTING task and I imagine very few of them would volunteer— in cases like that, I could see the most senior genemother/the one assigned to the most senior company would be the de facto leadership

Honestly I see them as a very self-sufficient group within a legion or chapter in their own rights (especially depending on if it’s 30k/40k), but if there is no forthcoming primarch’s spouse or senior genemother, perhaps the chaplain takes on that role for the most necessary tasks or responsibilities?

[wh40kwritings]

what kinda traditions and customs do chapters have with their genemothers?? And if I could humbly request perhaps… Ultramarines 🥺

While I might be a Salamander girlie (/silly) I’m always down to explore other chapters and their cultures/traditions, especially when it comes to my stilly little AU/s <3

Also I apologize this turned into 50% general information for this AU

General Information

Directly described from the Codex Astartes, a genemother is: ‘an individual who is genetically compatible with the geneseed of an Astartes chapter and is, by extension, capable of bearing [or siring] children of Astartes-compatible blood’. While the definition is meant to be vague, the public and Imperium-held belief is that genemothers (who can be of any sex or gender) are those who have been ‘chosen’ or otherwise blessed by the will of the Emperor in order to combat the forces of chaos, mutation and deterioration against a chapter’s geneseed reserve.

Children sired by an Astartes of a compatible chapter with their genemother have been documented to have a vastly higher strength, endurance, fortitude and compatibility with the implants required to create a full-fledged Astartes than children who were not. It is important to note that such children are not born with the organs and implants they would receive upon joining the chapter proper (not yet at least, as some have hypothesized) but still have a much larger success rate in initiation— this may also carry over into the creation of Primaris Marines, but this is mere conjecture at the present time.

Even children who are not initiated into the chapter are still capable of donating material that would normally be produced by the Astartes Progenoid Gland— this material can bolster and support a chapters geneseed supply and has on several occasions in written record saved chapters from outright decimation. Genemothers themselves are also capable of donating geneseed compatible material, but little testing has been done on if this can be utilized in the same way.

Whether a genemother is considered an asset or a religious figure is largely dependent on how an individual chapter interprets it. This also includes how genemothers are inducted into the chapter and how many one chapter can have at any given time; the only requirement according to the codex is that they must pass a lengthy, intensive medical exam to ensure they are compatible with each chapter’s geneseed.

The maximum number of genemothers a chapter can have is 10 (one per company), though the rarity of these individuals means that no chapter has ever found more than a few at any given time. The limit, while apparently unneeded, is meant to ensure that a chapter’s overall genetic variety is kept healthy, since they still require initiation of neophytes that are not biologically related to members of the chapter itself for long-term viability, especially since many genemothers have been noted to have a much longer lifespan than a normal human.

Ultramarine Genemothers

To the surprise of nobody, the Ultramarines are the chapter who first introduced and incorporated genemothers into Astartes culture at large— this is partially due to the fact that Roboute Guilliman amended the Codex Astartes in recent years to include their role and how they fit within a codex-compliant chapter.

He did not amend the codex until he absolutely needed to however, as many people (including the primarch himself) cannot explain how genemothers function. Even to the present day there are great debates on whether these individuals should be considered heretical mutations or blessed by the will of the Emperor himself— and if Guilliman has been offered a greater awareness in visions from his father, then he has yet to speak of it. It speaks volumes, however, that they are still to be considered a protected role within any codex-compliant Astartes chapter.

The Ultramarines, for example, see genemothers as extensions of the chapter’s strength, and will ideally have one active genemother per company within the chapter (aligning with the codex). These individuals are expected to pass basic aptitude tests and carry a minimal level of self-defense skills, but their role is otherwise intensely outlined to the letter— they are expected to bare a child once a year provided that they do not have health complications that require a longer resting period between births.

Upon the age of two that child is then given to a foster family or institution living within the Realm of Ultramar to be raised within the general population. This is both to ensure there is no favoritism or bias for that child’s initiation into the chapter down the line, and also to minimize mental stress upon the genemother upon the separation of the infant. A genemother is able to put in a special request for a child to remain with them for longer, but these requests are rarely approved due to the concerns listed above— it is something that genemothers are expected to understand and prepare themselves for.

How Astartes are chosen to sire each child varies wildly in each chapter, but for the Ultramarines it is treated quite formally. Chapter members who have shown incredible loyalty, bravery, and strength of will are elected for the event (they cannot elect themselves to avoid bias or possessiveness), but they are allowed to decline the offer if they so choose for any reason. Genemothers likewise have a surprising amount of autonomy in the decision, and can reject any elected Astartes outright. They do need to provide a report upon rejection to ensure any underlying concerns or issues are corrected as quickly as possible.

If accepted, the Astartes and genemother are given a full day of privacy within the genemother’s birthing or personal chambers and are given various tools, materials, and information needed to ensure a successful conception. (Yes, this does mean that there are outlined steps to provide an Ultramarine with sex education as needed.)

The Codex is sparse on the details, but it is stated that a chapter can enforce whatever traditions or rituals are deemed fit for conception as long as the genemother ‘consents to the copulation and is not harmed physically, mentally or spiritually by the Astartes directly or indirectly involved’.

The Ultramarines in turn interpret this expectation very professionally and separate the sexual and non-sexual roles that a genemother plays outside of the proverbial bedroom. They largely consider genemothers to be religious or spiritual figures, often working alongside the chapter’s chaplain to ensure healthy morale and loyalty to both the Codex Astartes and the Emperor’s will. To this, many believe that a healthy connection and relationship with one’s chapter genemother is a way to bolster any battle-brother’s soul against the corruption of chaos.

[incrediblethirst]

YOINK. SAVING THIS.

Fuck it aligns perfectly with some of my primarch wife OCs and gives them a job (either being a gene mother or being the ultimate authority on their wellbeing)

[wh40kwritings]

Holy crap yes! I never even considered how this AU could absolutely compliment characters who are in a relationship with the primarchs— I’ve only recently started learning about them in general with other WH40k writers here and I adore the concept.

I think they would be EXCELLENT leaders for this kind of program, and I’m super curious at how different chapters would self-organize if there was a leader figure to represent the genemothers properly and the sorts of traditions, expectations and ceremonies that might evolve with a primarch wife’s influence :O

[wh40kwritings]

Space Marine Chapter Dividers

Made these to use for future writing featuring specific chapters and whatnot— I made ones I knew that I’d be using, but if you’d like a specific chapter just let me know and I’d be happy to make more!

These are absolutely free to use with or without attribution btw 👌✨

EDIT: Due to limitations on tumblr mobile and it being hard as heck to add new stuff, I’m putting these all in a google drive folder for anyone to access and download!

[wh40kwritings]

Me trying to figure out how I can make erotic dreadnought content with the genemother au because i am nothing if not stubborn and eternally horny on main:

[wh40kwritings]

Update, thanks to my most beloved friend who is absolutely asexual but puts up with my shenanigans i now have several new horny ideas and that IS a threat /silly

[wh40kwritings]

Me trying to figure out how I can make erotic dreadnought content with the genemother au because i am nothing if not stubborn and eternally horny on main:

[deleteddewewted]

Astartes Sex Ideas: P1

Ok, so random thought. The Astartes ports...... What if you fingered them, and because they're connected to their muscles and nervous system they just felt everything you do in a more intense manner. You play around with their ports as their already fucking into you and it only makes the act of sex more euphoric for them. They finally grasp why its so good to have sex and they want you to do it again.

Your Astartes has you on your back as he's fucking into you hard and rough and the moment you push your fingers into their port by their chest it sends chills down his body as the sensation feels good. It's so good that he stops moving and he starts panting like a dog in heat.

[wh40kwritings]

Unyielding

Part of my Genemother AU

Relationship: Reader/Astartes OC (Ultramarine)

Reader’s gender is undefined, but they are capable of giving birth.

Summary: You are visited by Tiberius Cordos, who has been chosen to sire your next child after almost two years since complications with the previous one. He does not offer the best first impressions, and you do not indulge him in those impressions.

Warnings for previous miscarriage, pregnancy mentions, and general Ultramarine Attitude(tm)

“You will submit.”

The words seem cold on the surface, but there is something else beneath them that takes a little longer to bleed through: anger. Frustration. Annoyance. It had been simmering since the moment that Tiberius walked into the room— perhaps even the moment that he was informed of his election. Most in his company knew the man’s negative opinion of the genemothers, but for some reason he was yet offered sireship for your next child.

“By the word of the Codex Astartes, you will yield to me.”

You could have outright rejected his name when one of the chapter serfs delivered it, a formal letter as you had grown used to receiving when you were without child for too long. The letter itself had not been a surprise, since you’d gone a full year due to the complications of your last pregnancy—

You would have sooner expected a full demonic incursion upon holy Terra than for Tiberius Cordos, Ultramarine of the 4th Company, to willingly accept the companionship of a genemother.

“If that is how you are to greet me,” you say, surprisingly calm beneath the Astartes’ lead-heavy gaze from where you sit at your writing desk, “then I will do no such thing. I will not submit, and I will not yield.”

You gently close the book that had lain open, making sure to keep a mark at where you had been before the interruption. The desk itself is a blessing, the mere chance to absorb the tales of old and the knowledge therein. It is the one thing you requested upon your stationing here. It is one you never would have gotten on your homeworld.

So you turn, facing the Ultramarine fully, expression firm. Tiberius is clad in his armor, a stark blue against the soft metals of the room he stands in. He hasn’t even removed his helm; the unmoving expression of red ocular lenses simply lay upon your comparatively smaller figure, as if expecting you to prostrate yourself upon the ground at any moment.

“Why are you here?” your words are soft, but they are not gentle.

“Of course you would ask that,” the marine scoffs. His voice is thick through the vox of his armor, crackling and emotionally distant. “Were you too preoccupied with your frivolities that you didn’t notice the letter delivered by your serf?”

“I received the information,” you say simply, hands carefully folded over your lap.

Tiberius’ tone tightens in a way you’re too familiar with. “Then you should know exactly why I am here.” He waits a moment, and your grip turns white-knuckle before the second word is out of his mouth. “Perhaps you had been given too long of a reprieve from your duties. You’ve forgotten your place, genemother.”

You’re standing up far too quickly to stop yourself, palms aching from the pressure of nails digging into the soft flesh. This isn’t the first time you had heard this, but it is the first time someone had spoken so brazenly— such whispers were kept in private, away from your ears either due to misplaced pity or Codex-abiding anger.

But Tiberius’ words makes your vision turn red-hot.

“I have already birthed several children for your brothers,” you take a step forward. “For the same Imperium that you protect. The same chapter in which you serve.” In his armor, Tiberius stands several feet taller than you with ease. He does not yield, but neither do you. “—births that have lasted days, pregnancies that have caused me pain and suffering each and every time, and yet I remain here to serve.”

You stop in front of him, staring up at those impassive, emotionless red lenses. The only respect you can offer the man is that he at least doesn’t interrupt you, though you can imagine that it’s simply that he doesn’t care enough to bother.

“Perhaps you had been too preoccupied with your own sense of righteousness to notice that my last child died, my lord.“ You let the words settle in the cold air for a few moments— you feel him about to speak, to say something, but your rage is too hot to choke out. ”Died within my own womb, which required months to recover physically and months more emotionally. Months that, while I could not actively conceive despite actively trying, I still served in any other way I could.”

A moment. Several moments. It is silent between you and the man save for the sound of your heavy, anger-labored breaths.

Finally, Tiberius speaks.

“… I was not informed of that.”

It’s the closest you would get of sympathy from a man like him. He stares down at you for a few moments longer. You can practically feel his thoughts rolling around inside of that thick, annoying, frustrating skull of his. You have to wonder if he was forced into this somehow, if by creed than by law. Astartes are allowed to decline the offer of sireship, but you’ve heard how some of the men talk— caught between the word of the Codex and their own comforts, their own thoughts and assumptions.

Sometimes you think you’re surrounded by mere boys than men, boys who couldn’t be bothered to think outside of the strict regiment forced upon them from the day of their initiation.

But you can’t blame them. Each had a place and a role to play, somewhere to serve. Still, whatever curiosities you held upon learning Tiberius’ calling upon you has been thoroughly sated.

“You reference the Codex Astartes,” you clear your throat and pull your shoulders back, mind reaching back into your memories; while it was not required to memorize the Codex, you have learned it beneficial to know exactly when one was choosing to interpret things loosely or not at all, whether they realize it or not. “It states that a genemother, verbatim, ’consents to the copulation and is not harmed physically, mentally or spiritually by the Astartes directly or indirectly involved.’.”

You let the words settle for a moment.

“I have not put a hand on you,” Tiberius says, voice unreadable through the heavy filters of the helmet— which he has yet to remove despite having been in your chambers for several minutes. At first it felt like a notion of disrespect. Now, it almost feels like he’s hiding behind it. “Nor have I threatened harm. You twist my words.”

He shifts, weight moving as one of his feet shift back behind him. The motion is slight, possibly unnoticed by the Astartes, but you take it as an opportunity to press forward another step.

“You questioned my ability to serve as a genemother,” the words feel all too easy to speak. There was a time shortly after being tested and found compatible with the Ultramarines that you would have folded beneath their hardened words, but that time had long since past. “You act callously and without awareness, to mock my grief and question why I am here. I would very much consider that mental and spiritual anguish, especially since you had not offered the slightest apology.”

You stare up at him. He stares back. You have to wonder if he expected this kind of response— if he simply assumed that by virtue of being a genemother and a barer of children that you would cow to his presence alone.

No.

While you love and stand beside the Astartes of the Ultramarines and would give your life and service to protecting the Imperium, you will not entertain or embolden the bravado of a man who assumes he will get something simply because he thinks he deserves it.

“Thank you for your time, my lord,” the title is a mere formality at this point, “but I do not consent to any sexual activity with you at this time. I revoke my approval, Tiberius Cordos, please inform your lieutenant I will be sending my report within the hour.”

Despite the cold and unyielding exterior that the marine had exuded, this information finally seems to make him visibly flinch. His helm shifts, feeling his gaze boring over you in some manner of confusion and befuddlement, if his tone was anything to go by.

“If you had meant to turn me away, then why did you not send that report earlier?”

Is he… disappointed? It’s hard to tell, especially since you’d have such minimal contact compared to the others in his company.

You simply raise your brows up at him, an exasperated expression that feels a bit laughable to direct at an Astartes— it feels more like you’re dealing with an uppity nobleborn. It was admittedly just a tad much, especially since you try to keep your interactions polite and professional until you’d built a personal rapport with a new sire— but your patience had been run thin and ragged as frayed twine.

“I do not make assumptions based upon heresay or names alone,” there’s a gentleness to the explanation that Tiberius admittedly doesn’t deserve, but you give it regardless for a reason you can’t place. “I try to put aside my reservations and like to think each man in the Ultramarines should be judged solely by their actions and words towards me. I did not reject you outright because I wanted to know you, Tiberius.”

There is a pause. The air feels… slightly less cold than it had a moment or two ago. Your palms still ache, marks imprinted upon your skin from where nails had dug deep.

“I would still like to know you, as a genemother should know all of their chapter.” A breath. Careful, composed. “…But you nevertheless have done wrong against me today. You are welcome to visit me in the future— but not as a sire, until I decide otherwise.”

There is silence. At first you wonder if the marine is going to argue and fight you with words, attempt to pry apart your logic and feelings. Some have tried before, moreso when you were new to the chapter— it took the gentle, firm guidance of the few other genemothers to help you understand that you did have a voice and it could be used, especially when many of your previous children had sires who were genuinely kind and gentle to you.

The father of your last child in fact, the one did not make it to term, continues to visit your chambers just to know that you are alright. He hasn’t yet broached the topic of trying again for conception, but his is an example of the compassion and love you wish to share with the men of the Ultramarines. Tiberius Cordos included, despite his lack of social tact and his bullheaded bravado.

The marine seems to think over your words for a few moments. Impossible to read his expression, there’s nevertheless an air of something that fills the room around you alongside the scent of incense and linen (a luxury in itself).

“…I would like to visit you,” he finally says, tone low but not aggressive. A whisper compared to the rage he held just a short while before.

“You may,” you say gently, finally reaching a hand out and laying one of your palms against the center of his armored chest. It’s warm, the texture of the golden details oddly calming against your skin. “I just ask your first impressions be slightly less… aggressive.”

“I wasn’t aggressive,” Tiberius says, defensively. The noise of amusement leaves you before you have the chance to stop it.

“To a genemother, demanding me to submit is most certainly aggressive.”

“But—“

Amusement fills you as you quip in quick reply, “I am not the genemother of the 3rd company, nor do I share in some of her… preferences.” And before you can filter the thought, you add, “I actually much prefer being the aggressive one with my bedmates. And I’ve heard they quite enjoy it.”

The fact that he simply stares at you is answer and entertainment in itself. After all, while you have a good relationship with the few other genemothers of the Ultramarines, it doesn’t mean that each of you are above a gentle teasing at one another’s expense. If anything, that relationship is one of the reasons you were so staunchly loyal and appreciative of your place within the Ultramarines proper.

“Go on then,” you finally say, gently pressing your hand against Tiberius’ chestplate. “If you want to visit me, I will be free tomorrow morning.”

He yields just slightly, a shift to his body that you know is not from your physical pressing— you couldn’t move an Astartes if you tried. Your power is purely on paper, situated between the law of their Primarch and their own sense of obedience for it.

But before he moves, you feel his hand cover yours. It’s massive in comparison, covered in layers of fine weave cloth and metal armor, but there’s a gentleness in the touch that does slightly surprise you.

“I would hear more of your… preferences,” Tiberius finally says. “Sleep well then, genemother. I… apologize for the pain my words may have caused you.”

The apology feels sincere and not at the same time— jarring, halting, like someone trying to speak in a language they’re not quite used to, but that in itself is a sincerity all the same. The Astartes finally takes his leave, stepping out of the room to the sliding door closing behind him, and leaving you to return to your book and your stories, your mind lingering upon Tiberius for just a while longer.