#Konrad fanfic

[littlespringdandelion]

sillies

[sculptorofcrimson]

Tyrant’s Lullaby

Once upon a time, there was a glorious, terrible man. He built horrors. He built wonders. He brought monsters up from the deep. He took a child from the arms of a horrified, weeping family, and raised him not as a boy but as a general. He took a child and ruined his future, He took a child and made him a king, a pet, a dog. He marched armies over the face of the ravaged earth, and trampled all that did not kneel before the weight of the storm. He burned tundras to ash and shook the mountains until they crumbled, He boiled the seas to mist and the skies to charcoal. And when the scouring was done, and the earth was entombed in ashes, He turned His dreaming, endless glare upon His own. 

He strangled the thunder that had bore Him a throne, He sent the golden, the children stolen from their cradles, to plunge down long knives into turned backs raised so fervently before His regard. With their blood they had built Him a kingdom, and with their bones He crowned Himself a throne. And when Terra knelt, cowed, battered, in awe and in fear, He turned His gaze skywards.

And the stars felt His benevolent wrath. 

He bore twenty sons, two of them sacrificed, and He unleashed them upon the earth, the skies, the stars. They hunted for Him, they loved Him, they adored Him, yet some had strayed too far from His light, some had gazed upon the man that would be a god with sullen, hungry eyes, doing His bidding, and knowing His wrath. They are those who were there when affection curdled to treachery.

There was no peace among the stars, no mercy, no rest, simply a slow, heartless drowning as the gold claimed them limb by limb, inch by inch, and swallowed them into the endless light. 

And then war. Treachery, when the stars themselves were swallowed. When brother turned against brother, and father against son. When the Phoenix cleaved the Gorgon’s head from his shoulders, and the Immortal bashed in the Haunter with a hammer, when the Angel fell to the Traitor and He stained the Palace’s stones red with His son’s blood. When Horus burned, when the Angel shed his wings and the golden were shattered upon the anvil of betrayal, the Father fell to His son. 

He was buried upon a rotting throne, screaming hollowly into the fading dark, the stars basking in His rage, His pity and His wrath. He was buried alive in a tomb made from gold, ashen bones ruling a decaying kingdom from the grave, dreaming forever of brighter days. Dreaming of His sons, and how He betrayed them first, how they betrayed Him, how they abandoned His bones. And finally could the golden rest, bathed in the heart of their greatest shame, enshrining the decaying dust of a master they had failed, in an empire He had forsaken. 

That man was the Emperor. That corpse is the Emperor, golden, glorious, and decaying just like the slaves.

Do not think your bones different from a slave's. When you rot, your corpse will be indistinguishable from those of your servants.

[flowercrowngods]

knightmærs

love: saying "i love you" even when you're scared written for @steddielovemonth day 20 (@quinns-shadowy-arts)

M | ~3.1k | tags: medieval-ish au, prince!steve, lovers to enemies who are still lovers but it’s intrigue cw: torture (both implied and explicit), past & on-screen brainwashing, manipulation, angst, violence, open ending, mild gore, traditional fairytale imagery

princemær

It is not the sensation of cold steel touching his throat that makes him halt, the blade against his skin a feeling so familiar these days that he barely falters in his steps anymore. Nor is it the clearly spoken threat of, “One wrong move, Kas, and I will paint the soil with your blood so that something good may come of your existence after all.” 

Original, that. Eddie is not loath to admit it. 

And were this valiant knight anyone else, he surely would have worked his clever tongue to make it count, at the very least, that they should have caught him at last. Judging by the determination in the man’s hazel eyes and the absolute calm in his hand, sword unwavering against Eddie’s throat, he would have paid gravely for it. 

As it is, though, Eddie can only stare into the eyes of his imminent captor, frozen to the spot and freezing yet more when he finds no trace of recognition in those eyes. 

What did they do to you? he wonders desperately, so forlorn in the throes of distress he finds no wherewithal to struggle against four men of the Prince’s guard as they roughly disarm and bind him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Prince, aching for just a hint of recognition, even a glint of betrayal and hatred – but all he can find is cold nothingness as the Prince holds his gaze, looking down at Eddie from his royal mare. It’s not one Eddie recognises, and he is reminded of the years he has gone without those eyes in his life. 

“The King is expecting your return,” says the Prince, sheathing his sword when one of his men binds Eddie to the back of his horse; the first of many tortures, he is sure.

Or rather, the second, with the way the Prince is looking at him, speaking to him without that familiar melody to his voice. It is monotonous now, and Eddie wants to become the monster again that they all make him out to be, if only to rip out the throat of the person who did this to him. The person who took the Prince’s voice, his smile, his memories. 

He would gladly become a monster for him all over again. 

“A sword has been made for your head, after all. And a feast for your demise.” 

And with that, the Prince spurs his mare into a trot, his loyal guardsmen following just behind him, pulling Eddie with them. It is a small miracle that he does not stumble and fall, the floor beneath his feet unsteady as cotton as all feeling leaves his body and the world rewrites itself around him and this very moment. 

Prince Steven wants him publicly executed. That is not what leaves Eddie’s stomach with a wave of nausea he barely manages to swallow down, panting and gasping for air as he is from running after the horses. 

No, what leaves him with a frozen bloodstream and a panicked paralysis of the mind is that Prince Steven recognises him no longer. Remembers not the history that lies between them. The sacrifices made. 

Were the situation any different, allowing for tears and curses cried into the dark of night without threat of detection, Eddie would have wailed. Wept at the realisation that he should have never left Steve to the claws of the King and his advisor. 

What did they do to you? he agonises, staring at the familiar blues that attire the Prince so tragically familiar. And how do I get you back before you spell doom for yourself with my own blood?

*** 

Foolishly, Eddie has spent years of his life thinking he would never be presented with this view again: The palace in all its glory, sandstone nary white and golden, shining and gleaming in ways more sublime than the sun herself. It stole many a night from him, the thought of this vision and the heart it holds inside, a keep more than a palace, and just as out of reach for the hands of a man deemed a traitor to the kingdom. 

But now here he is, stumbling on bleeding feet as the horse drags him into the courtyard of what used to be his home so many winters ago he has lost count. People gave gathered in the streets and alleys and up by the windows, chancing a look at the man condemned, sweat and tears dried and crusted on his cheeks, ripped clothes showing bleeding wounds from falling when the Prince demanded they ride faster. 

He can scarcely hold his own weight anymore, his feet aching and burning, his entire body on fire and dehydrated, the world around him spinning just quickly enough that he takes too long to realise it when the Prince cuts the rope from the horse’s saddle and takes a hold of it instead. Holding Eddie like a mutt on a leash – and he’s panting like one, too. 

Still he catches his breath long enough to lift his chin and look at the Prince, showing defiance in one simple act that in another lifetime counted as devotion. But he wants to look at him. Wants to drink him in, changed though he might be. 

“Will you lead me to death now, Your Majesty?” 

The Prince says nothing as he rebinds Eddie’s wrists, securing them to his chest so he can’t easily break free and the Prince’s neck in the process. A wave of pride washes over him, even as he realises that he must succumb to being a prisoner for now with no means to escape. 

“I am but your humble subject. Where you lead, I will follow,” Eddie says with a wavering voice, just barely resisting to bow before his Prince for dramatic effect and hoping that would conceal the truth to his words. 

“One more word, snake,” he says, cold eyes boring into Eddie’s like a blade of ice and leaving trickles of fear in their wake, “and I will personally see to your death being so slow and painful, you will have forgotten your own name just before I am done, leaving you not enough time to remember. You will spend eternity wandering and finding no peace. Finding not even your name, as all you are has been replaced with pain.”  

Eddie flinches away from him unwittingly, hating the cold smirk that infests that beautiful face. His Prince wouldn’t talk like that. His Prince would not resort to threats of torture, inflicting fear wherever he sets foot. 

He had heard the stories, tales of a Prince changed, accounts of the Golden Prince dimmed and dulled, a tender heart hardened and smooth edges roughened to hurt whoever dared to touch him. The first few years he had heard the tales, and still he had chosen disbelief and doubt. Refusal to believe it. 

His Prince would never. Stevie could never. 

And yet. 

“What happened to you?” he whispers, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them, and he watches as something shutters behind those familiar eyes. 

“You cut out my heart. All those years ago, when you killed him. I intend to do the same to you.” 

Eddie swallows, the words not making sense. He has killed many a man, those who deserved it and those who did not, but whom could he have killed to elicit such a response from the Prince? 

“Whom?” he dares ask, preparing for a blade in his stomach or a fist in his face, ready for the guards to pull him back and pummel him until he does indeed forget his name and the rest of the world for a while. 

But the Prince stands his ground, his cold gaze nary lifeless even as Eddie’s vision swims. 

“Eddie.” 

And all the blood flees his body in a rush as understanding dawns on him, leaving yet more confusion as he hears his own name fall from the Prince’s lips with such barely concealed grief and sadness that it makes his knees buckle. 

“I intend to repay you for what you have taken from me. Settle the blood debt. Three days from now, it shall be my hand on the sword that will have your head.”

Eddie is too stunned to speak, too exhausted from two days on his feet, dragged on his feet and on his back, and the unfamiliar sensation of fear grips his whole body and intensifies the aches and pains he feels until his legs give out and he lands on his knees in front of his Prince, close to weeping once more. 

A hand comes to rest on his chin, tipping up his face so he can meet those royal eyes, and Eddie finds himself wishing for the blade instead. 

“Good,” Prince Steven says, his voice quiet, only for Eddie to hear. “I want to hear you beg for your life.” 

Eddie cannot keep a hold of the tear that breaks free and rolls down his face, leaving a trace for the Prince to follow as he undoubtedly marvels at having the great Betrayer on his knees and at a loss for words. 

And Eddie knows he will beg. But not for his life.

*** 

Torture does come, but not from his Prince. 

Instead it is Henry, the King’s advisor, who takes great pleasure in taunting him, leaving his body bloodied and bruised before he applies whatever concoction he cooked up that will leave Eddie feeling like his insides have turned to flames, leaving him to grunt and bite down on his screams as Henry weaves tales out of thin air laced with blood, sweat and tears. 

“You were always so gullible, the both of you,” Henry continues, though Eddie must have missed the beginning of his words, as even these ones barely reach him through the pain. 

“What did you do to him?” he asks around a mouthful of blood, spitting at Henry’s feet, revealing in the sick twist of his mouth that Eddie can just barely make out as his vision blurs dangerously. 

“What did we do to him? Oh, even a decade later you are still the same stupid boy you were then, hmm? It is you who did this to him. It is you who betrayed him, killing Eddie Munson and becoming Kas The Betrayer. Do you not recall?” 

His world tilts suddenly as Henry fills his mouth with a bitter liquid, clamping his mouth shut so Eddie has no choice but to swallow it all. 

“Surely you do remember the way you shoved your blade between Munson’s ribs on your way out of this cell all these years ago, cutting out his heart and making it your first feast of your newly-won freedom. Surely you remember betraying the Prince’s trust and then killing his lover and his best friend. You must remember, stupid boy, and know that your execution will bring freedom to the Prince’s mind that is so trapped in its vengefulness.” 

Nausea overcomes him and he retches, but Henry prevents him from throwing up and emptying his bowels to rid himself from whatever the alchemist uses to cloud his senses and reshape the world to his very own liking. 

“Shut up,” Eddie wheezes, earning a well-placed punch for his troubles. “Don’t touch him. Don’t you… Don’t you touch him.” 

A smile fills his vision as Henry comes close to hum as he turns Eddie’s face this way and that, keeping him from shaking it as images of a false history manifest in his mind. 

“Oh, I won’t have to touch him. See, he will realise what he has done on the scaffold. The veil over his eyes will be lifted when your heart stops beating, all the pieces will fall into place, but still he will be blind, for the veil will be replaced with the ghost of you, slowly fading beneath him.” 

Henry is circling him, stalking him like a predator his prey. Eddie has not been prey in so long. He does not know how to suppress the shivers or the horror at the tale woven around him. 

“And then, sword still in hand as it drips with your blood, despair will overcome him and he will follow you. The kingdom will be freed of the King’s pest of an heir, and I will lend his grieving Majesty a helping hand in ruling his kingdom. That is, of course, until he, too, ultimately succumbs to grief for his only son, leaving only myself to rebuild and reshape first the kingdom and then the whole world just the way I want.” 

He comes to a stop in front of him, another dark green flask in his hand. 

“You are but a pawn in this, Kas.” 

More of the bitter liquid flows down his throat and Eddie almost chokes on it, coughing it up and trying to resist, but Henry is stronger than he is. Always has been. 

And with poison in his ears and his bloodstream alike, Henry’s words grow truths inside Kas’s mind; the memory of Eddie Munson dying on his blade, the blood dripping down his fingers as he takes a bite of the man’s heart, and the prince’s screams in his ear at this ultimate betrayal, for that heart belonged to him. 

When he loses his grasp on consciousness, out of breath and out of his mind with pain, he wishes for the scaffold. He wishes for the Prince to take his life and settle the debt. Avenge his love. Avenge what Kas can only ever dream about. 

***

Gradually, over the span of only three days spent in either sensory deprivation or torture, Henry manages to drain the dredges of Eddie’s false identity and replace them with what really happened; replace them with Kas. With guilt, with shame, with a debt so severe it could never be paid back as long as Kas remains alive. 

He forgets about most of Henry’s visits, wakes up with new injuries and new memories, the reserves of water left for him tasting bitter and wrong, but he is always so desperate for it, he has not the luxury of choice. 

The Prince never comes. 

*** 

The third sun rises and finds Kas a broken man. 

They lead him out in chains and shackles, like he poses any risk of escaping. Like he doesn’t welcome what is about to come. Like he doesn’t— 

He… 

Kas falters in his steps the very second he lays eyes on the Prince, hand resting on the hilt of a broadword that looks to be expertly crafted. A sword has been made for your head, after all. He swallows, ignoring the guard that kicks him in the shin and punches him in the neck, telling him to move forward. 

His head aches the longer he watches the Prince, the world around him becoming hazy as guilt and shame wash over him, the feeling that this is right, this is what he deserves. And still, underneath it all, when Prince Steven meets his eyes, there is the nagging feeling that none of this is right at all. That the Prince should not be looking at him like that, should not be holding onto that sword, should not be his own executioner. 

It splits his head, but still he is helpless against the shackles, cannot struggle when the guards pull him along instead. 

The Prince says not a word until Kas the Betrayer kneels before him, and once again there is a wave of familiarity that comes from this action, but he cannot place it. Kas has never knelt for anyone, so it must be wrong. It must be instinct, the last desperate flare of a dying flame, leaving him disoriented, his head flooded with visions of how life could have been. 

The headache mingles with a new wave of fevered need to live, to rip apart these shackles and kill every guardsman and the King himself before he leaves the sandstone castle behind him once more. 

But there is also a strange sensation of calmness that tells him he is willing to let it happen like it must. He is willing to give this to the Prince and repent. He is willing to give it all up and give in to this. 

Kas the Betrayer is ready to die. He is too tired to alter the course of fate any longer. 

But then? Oh, a lone man’s willingness is not force strong enough to defy the will of Fate herself. 

Because when Prince Steven opens his mouth, all the bitterness leaves Eddie’s mouth, all the visions become unveiled at the sound of that voice that for decades now has held him through pain and pleasure alike, the voice that whispered promises of a future together of even just five minutes away from prying eyes. 

When Prince Steven opens his mouth, Kas becomes Eddie once more, coming to life again inside his own tired, exhausted, agonised head. 

“Any last wish?” 

For those to be the words that save him carries a strange sense of irony, and Eddie knows it’s too late. He knows the plan will commence. Maybe it’s for the better. Ten years he has suffered without his heart, ten years spent shunned and banished and labeled a traitor to all kingdoms simply because he dared to love his Prince more than his King. Ten years that have left him tired and worn out, without a purpose to his ways. 

And Steve, subjected to Henry and his alchemy, his poisons and potions, his bitterness that will turn your insides to flames. Steve, tortured and manipulated for ten years without Eddie there to protect him. 

Maybe it’s for the best that it should end now. That it should end like this. He has no strength left in his body, could not free himself or the Prince even if he were foolish enough to try. 

Still he finds himself relieved that he should die inside his own head this time. That small mercies and miracles alike will grant him this. Looking at Steve as he takes his last breaths.

So, does he have any last wish? 

“Yes,” he croaks, daring to look up into those once so beautiful eyes that hold no warmth anymore. 

Tell me what they did to you. A kiss from my Prince. Don’t turn this blade on yourself when this life has left my body. Believe me when I say this is a trap, and I am not who you think I am.

But he says none of that. Wishes for something else. Wishes not for himself.

He swallows, straightening his back. “I wish that you would… That you would just, just listen to me.” Fear overcomes him, and he knows these will be his last words.

The Prince inclines his head, intent at least on listening. Good. That’s good. 

Because now, for the first time in a decade, Eddie will utter these words to ears that will listen. Fear grips his heart, squeezing around it until it stops. And still he speaks. 

“I love you. And I forgive you.” 

tagging: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @madigoround @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 (i have a permanent tag list now, lmk if you want on or off 🤍 these are only the ones who commented on the post) (sorry the first tag should be so fucked up mwah)

note: i posted this last night but then wanted to double check with the lovely lovely mod of steddielovemonth (kith for you!) if this was okay to post, and she said yes, so fever dream round 2! sorry for the inconvenience, thank you for the patience! 🤍

[sharenadraculea]

I was bored and tired on the train today so I made picrews of primarchs in potential outfits for a potential dolly fic I may write

I first made Konrad and Morty because I‘ve been kind of obssesing over them lately and also the discord-conversations have been mostly about them, then Fulgrim and Ferrus and kind of randomly Sang and Corvus Also Here is the Picrew I used!

[sorormaior]

Anyway I thought I’d do covers for the acts of my cary fanfic, here’s act one

And a link to the work, it’s sitting pretty at about 80k rn!!

[the-raven-lady]

a gift for @men-want-me-fish-fear-me !! it told me about its mpreg AU and got me thinking about the complications that would have for someone like Konrad

this one's a bit heavy on body image issues so please be in a good state of mind for this!!

please read the warnings!!

Character: Konrad Curze

Song Inspiration: Real Men - Mitski [YouTube] [Spotify] "Real men don't need other people / And real men suck it in / Real men don't flinch or bleed in public / Oh, I think I'm a real man."

Warnings: mpreg, pregnancy symptoms, self image issues, self-inflicted gore, lamenting dark realities, implication of potential non-con, mentions of infanticide

Word Count: 643

Konrad groaned as the weight shift nearly threw him off balance and crashing into the stones below. Had the nausea not been enough? Blackened nails and coarse fingertips drag over the sensitive flesh of his aching abdomen, the skin taut against the growing life beneath. The Night Haunter loathed his natural urges. Being bound to a biological clock beyond his control was one of the many gifts of his father that he would rather have ripped out long ago.

As if he hadn’t already tried. 

It was easy enough for him to sink his clawed finger tips deep into the putrid skin of his belly. The iron tang of blood spilled had only served to spur him on, ripping and tearing and pulling as the offending organ until it was nothing but fleshy pink viscera on the floor. How miserable it had been when it had not even taken a week for the gland to revive itself. The regenerative nature of primarch biology seemed to leave him no choice in the matter.

Righting himself on his perch, Konrad elected to take a break from his prowling to calm the waves of nausea washing over him. He would never get used to it. A zing of electricity shot up from his tailbone when he sat against the stone ledge, drawing a gasp from him, then several curses. He gently rubs the base of his spine to soothe the ache.

Konrad felt delicate. Every little action that he would normally perform without effort could prove to be too much on his pregnant body. Perhaps he would be fine with it if he chose when the urges to breed took him, but his genealogy couldn’t even grant him that. Throne save the next helpless serf that wandered in his path when it kicked in, for Konrad knew their chances of survival were slim at best. This was a part of his father’s great vision? Bouncing on the cock of passers-by then birthing sons into a legion of murders and scum? It infuriated the primarch to no end. His only saving grace was that he never seemed to inflate to the size of his expecting brothers, remaining more gaunt and lithe.

Perhaps if he were Guilliman or Fulgrim, he could try to find an ounce of pride in bringing a new life into the world. Maybe then, he would see a purpose to all of the lost meals, cramping, and searing pain of the birthing process. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate the changes to his body, losing the ability to bend and contort as he wished. Maybe then he would want to hold the boys as they came out and coo at them as his brothers did.

His legion would never be grateful for the effort he put in for them. He would spare all of his blood children the mercy of ever having to integrate into the Night Lords with a quick snap to the neck if they weren’t always taken from him so quickly. Darling of his brothers to chain him down each and every time he neared emergence after they discovered the fates of the first several cycles. Fulgrim had been mortified hearing about how Konrad had disposed of the newborns like waste.

The Imperial Palace was always quiet at this time of night, nobles and Astartes alike turning in by this hour. Only Custodians remained, silent watchers they were (at least they could mind their own business), and his brothers would rarely come to check in on him. Konrad let out a weary sigh and tucked his legs the best he could against his swollen belly, protecting the fetus within. Emotions threatened to boil over in his chest, and Konrad Curze had to choke back a tired sob.

Things would be much easier if he didn’t still love each of his sons anyway.

[nevesmose]

Somehow the idea of Curze whispering poison in his sister's ear repulsed Perturabo most of all.

[bebopat]

In which were we see the VIIIth try to redeem themselves.

++Will you follow me home, Decimus?++

...

The Prophet of the VIII is plagued by visions of death, but what actually worries him is the familiar dread that beckons him home in his dreams.

...

Custodian Solenus Kalreth of the Aquilan Shield is given an objective by the Emperor of Mankind. He sails the stars to find his charge and safeguard the lost son on his journey home.

...

The Emperor, occasionally, does protect.

[the-liars-art]

Between Claws

CW nsfw, consensual torture, asphyxiation, drug use, non-negotiated everything

Written on a whim, it’s a mess. The idea came from a discord discussion and I’ve come up with many thoughts afterwards.

Using his primarch admin access, Konrad locks Sevatar inside his own armor.

Sevatar’s power armor has stopped responding to any of his commands. He’s grounded and isolated in his own armor, surrounded by the darkness of his sleeping quarters and the echoing beat of his own hearts.

He could have failed the primarch in some way to earn the sanction, but he has no idea what exactly did he do. Sometimes father just feels like it. The Night Haunter rarely explains himself, especially for such a trivial matter as Sevatar’s chastisement.

Unable to remove any armor, his red gauntlets are within view whenever he moves and looks around. They are a striking reminder of what happened that gave his primarch enough reason to disregard him altogether, if not ending him then and there. After all, he deserves all there is to know about punishment.

He never truly took in the power primarchs had over their Astartes until these nights, locked out of everything except his own mind. He can’t even unseal his helm in the relative safety and absolute privacy of his sleeping quarters on the Nightfall. His door remains unlocked, but he’s forbidden from touching it. No one would be there to fetch him either. His brothers have been told that First Captain Sevatar is reflecting on his wrongs. He hasn’t had any skin-to-skin contact for weeks, including with himself. He’s cut off from the legion’s vox network, blind to the fleet status, unreachable except when his master opens their private link.

Physically he’s had much worse, but this is new. He can’t tell if the Night Haunter is playful or simply angry.

He will wake up to a needle in the back of his neck when Konrad deems he’s slept long enough. He lacks energy intake. His interface ports are sore. His bones hurt from the withdrawal of ceramite powder and other chemicals in standard rations of solid food. Can’t even talk to the walls because his speakers are turned off. The armor keeps track of everything his body does with and without his permission.

There’s an itch inside his guts once he thought about how his vitals and the hormone levels in his blood are on display for the primarch.

The awareness of it makes him tense and his secondary heart slowly comes to life, but it’s not an unwanted feeling at all. The primarch watches over everything, his brilliantly dark mind counting Sevatar’s heartbeats as he works on the tedious business of everyone else with little interest. He reads Sevatar’s body like it were a book, or his worn-out cartomancy deck, flipping through it with a practiced, majestic hand. The thought made the tiny graphs in the corner of Sevatar’s retina display pulse and dance in little spiky waves.

He’s denied an explanation but asks for none. The knowledge of how much longer the punishment lasts never mattered. He supposes his father is having fun tweaking the armor system at the other end of the ship.

The Night Haunter has tried everything Sevatar can imagine, and invented so much more he’s able to do to him through the control terminals and dataslates in his habitual seclusion.

Sevatar usually considers asphyxiation a dull experience, but when his primarch inflicts it upon him it’s the closest thing to an orgasm that he’s allowed to feel during his chastisement. With the air circulation system shut down and protective protocols against intrusive xeno atmosphere activated, his air flow is cut off completely.

The first few minutes passes easily. He holds his breath and sits them through. But minutes in is where it feels the worst, with all his senses desperately trying to locate the threat of what’s suffocating him, finding nothing except the merciless coverage of his power armor and the familiar surroundings of his room. Later, he’s clawing and thrashing at himself and the floor, realizing how much he craves the Night Haunter’s marble claws around his throat instead of this sealed little chamber of void. The primarch only lets him go when it begins to risk triggering his Sus-an membrane. Before that, he monitors Sevatar’s vitals, listening to those desperate gasps and heaves into the thinning air, lifting his robes to touch himself under his obsidian desk. Sometimes he groans loud enough for the vox to pick up the sound and transmit to Sevatar’s end.

The combat drugs injections were fun as well. The aftermath leaves Sevatar shivering in a mess of his own sweat while he’s pinned to the floor, immobile in the grip of powered ceramite screwed into his own bones, bodyglove drenched and clung to his rash hot skin. His cock swells and hardens against armor, aching for the slightest touch. He lets out a noise and bites into his lip. His hearts are pounding and he can feel the stimulant-induced urge to move and fight getting tapped in his own veins. After long tormenting hours, he collapses onto himself. The vox in his helm buzzes and brings a low laugh directly into his ears.

A spontaneous release of dopamine sweeps through him. It’s natural to feel proud, he assures himself, since the primarch is accordingly entertained.

That’s all. Good for Konrad. Cats love meat in a can.

[nightlordbrainrot]

Started a new fic. It's going to be horrible LOL sorry not sorry. Adults only. Art by me!

[littlespringdandelion]

if sb needs a Konrad scene pack dm me I just made one

[ladydoombot]

Ok but hear me out ...

Credit to artist

[suddenmojo]

I am SO happy to have found other Warhammer 40k girlies on here. I rly thought I was alone in my delusions but then I remembered this hellsite exists and thank god it does bc y’all are feeding me SO GOOD w ur fics and art….just know im a little goblin in the dark corner cheering y’all on

might inspire some doodles from me who knows

[sharenadraculea]

Planetswap-AU Outline!

Finally manged to finish the backstory-outlines for my planetswap-au!

I Lion El‘Johnson (Olympia): The tyrant of Lochos received a vision that a child from the sky would take his throne and so he ordered his servants to kill the infant. But instead they gave the baby to a huntress, who went on to raise him as a girl. Many years later she meets Calliphone, the princess of Lochos who ran away, and while they slowly fell in love, they started planning the revolution. 

III Fulgrim (Barbarus): Beeing captured by the tyrannical overlord Necare, Fulgrim spent his whole life in a tower on the highest mountain of Barbarus. While beeing forced to work for Necare, the toxic atmosphere slowly but surely did irreversible damage to his lungs. When the Emporer finally came to Barbarus, Fulgrim was closer to death than live, and even after leaving the planet, he is in dire need of medical treatment.

IV Perturabo (Baal Secundus): Perturabos pod was found by the mutants living in the desert and they raised him as one of their own. And seeing their suffering, he wanted to help. And he managed to, building houses and trying to improve medicine. 

V Jagathai Dorn (Inwit): The young Jaghatai was found by the patriarch of the house Dorn. Growing up amongst the feuding houses he soon learned the in and outs of both politics and polite society and became a master of artic warfare. It didn‘t take long for him to conquer the whole world and so he set to the stars, soon having taken over the whole of the Inwit-cluster. 

VI Leman (Prospero): After landing in the desert of Prospero, the planets psykic jackels led the infant to the city of Tizca. Roaming it‘s streets, Leman finally found a home in the cities great library. He learned the place of every book and despite beeing of great help to the people of Prospero, he always felt like a outsider due to his inability to use magic. 

VII Rogal (Cthonia): Rogal was found by one of Cthonias many gang-leaders, who quickly came to treat him as her own son. As the young primarch grew up, he realized what his mother was actually doing and in a fit of rage accidentally killed her. Terrified of what he did, Rogal ran away and hid out until the emporer arrived. 

VIII Konrad (Caliban): There are many strage creatures in the depth of Calibans forest and one of them is the Lady of the Lake. As beautifull as she is deadly and often accompanied by the Watchers in the Dark, she may help those mortals brave or foolish enough to seek her out. But if they are deemed unworthy, they may loose their heart to her. 

IX Sanguinius Khan (Chogoris/Mundus Plannus): Raised by a tribal leader, Sanguinius had a happy childhood until his father was killed by a enemy tribe. Gathering his own army, he set out for revenge and once he tasted blood, there was no going back. With both fear and diplomacy he united the warring tribes of the steppe, attracting the attention of the planets empires who soon managed to capture him. The day of his supposed execution, he killed the local emporer and fought his way back out, soon taking over the whole planet. 

X Ferrus Manus (Terra): Ferrus was raised by the Emporer himself or more accuratly, it was Malcador who did most of it. He traveled the stars ever since he was young and no, the Emporer definetly did not loose a teenage Ferrus, leading to him slaying a necron construct which coated his arms in living metal. 

XII Angron Guilliman (Macragge): Angron was raised by loving parents and had a very happy childhood. Thanks to his empathy-powers he came to greatly care about regular humans and so started to improve live for everyone. He also introduced proper democracy to Ultramar and started adopting every stray cat he meets. 

XIII Roboute (Deliverance/Lycaeus): Roboute grew up in the shadows, always hiding from the prison guards and helping prepare the slaves for the revolution. But it didn‘t work forever and he was caught. The sadistic guards were fascinated by the strange boy who was too big and healed too fast. But even after he escaped and the revolution suceeded, Roboute would never be the same again and still struggles to speak. 

XIV Mortarion (Colchis): When a especially bad drought hit Colchis, multiple children were sacrificed to their god of nature. Little Mortarion was the only one to return, no longer human and never to grow up.

XV Magnus the Red (Nocturne): Nocturne has always been a unstable planet, the myriad of vulvanos and lavafields forcing it‘s inhabitants to constantly move. The young Magnus soon realized that he had the power to controll both fire and the earth itself. He learned how to fight the planets vulcanos and turned the deathworld into a much more hospitable place. 

XVI Horus (Nuceria): Horus was lucky: the high-rider who found him decided to keep him instead of throwing the child into the figthing pits. He grew up in luxury and later used his influence not to improve live for everyone but to have good time, doing drugs and playing gladiator. To him it was just a game, afterall he is a primarch, he wouldn‘t loose. 

XVII Lorgar (Medusa): Lorgar grew up in a secluded monestary high in Medusas mountains. As she got older, she realized that she is not a man, which led to her beeing kicked out of the monestary. Wandering the lands she had to learn who she actually is and find a more healthy relationship to her religion,

XVIII Vulkan of the Russ (Fenris): Vulkan was found by a young dragon, who miraculously didn‘t kill the infant, instead taking care of the young boy. As he got older, his interest in humans grew until he decided to join the nearby human village. Quickly discovering his talent as a smith and warrior -as well as a love for everything shiny- he became the leader of his people.

XIX Corvus Corax (Chemos, kind of): Corvus landed on the planet of Chemos, but they didn‘t stay there for long: harlequins found the infant wandering about and after a bit of godly intervention accepted the infant as one of their own. They learned the harlequins dances and stories, how to use eldar weaponery and about Cegorachs mysterious plans as they travelled the webway. And for the story to advance, they need to leave their adoptive family… at least for now. 

XX Alpharius and Omegon (Nostramo): While they landed on a absolutly horrible planet, they were together. Speaking a language only the two of them can understand, they did their best to survive as so many street urchins did, and maybe improve that hellhole of a planet. 

[ghastlyinterspecies]

I’m working on a fanfic animatic

[nevesmose]

Haven't been very active on tumblr recently as I've been working on this fic, but now it's here! Fulgrim/Ferrus/Konrad and Sevatar/Rushal dollification and various other things, in which Sev sees something he wasn't supposed to and can't resist trying it for himself... as usual for this kind of thing do please check the tags. Enjoy!