#Night Lord oc

[sleepyfan-blog]

Netted

Author’s Note:this is mer-nadesir’s debut! I hope you enjoy the fic :D

Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel 

Warnings: injuries, blood mention, poor fishing practices

Summary: You find an astartes caught up in a hooked fishing net, and help him get free.

You hear a low, warning hiss from the tangled mass of netting and hooks that washed up on your favorite beach. Something large and upset struggled within the taut metal cording and was bleeding red blood, the hissing intensifying as the wickedly sharp hooks bit into midnight blue flesh. Was it smart for you to approach this frantic, injured creature as it struggled? Probably not, but there was something very human sounding in the pained sounds that left the being.

“Woah… Hey… Just stay still and I'll get you out of this.” You call out to the being, hoping that your soothing tone of voice would help convey your intentions, if whatever this is didn't understand English.

A large eye the color of a moonless and starless night glares at you suspiciously from a gap in the netting as dagger-sharp teeth gnawed at of the entangling knots as his large head whipped sharply from one side to the other, desperately trying to get himself free “Why help? Strangers.” the astartes growled out.

“Because you need help and are in pain. Will you let me come closer to help you out of the net? Or is there someone I can contact who you do trust to get you out of this?” You asked, keeping your voice even and calm, making sure not to make any sudden movements, so as to not further distress the trapped astartes.

The large mer struggled in the net as a low and pained growl rumbled in his chest. “... My shiver is far from here. I am… Was scouting when this happened.” He stares hard at you, midnight black eyes trying to pierce through your soul. “... If you deliberately hurt me, I will come for you. There is nowhere in this world, or in any other, that I won't be able to track you down and bring you to swift and bloody vengeance.”

This was far from the first time you’d been threatened by an injured and likely anxious astartes, and it was unlikely to be the last, considering the fact that you worked in emergency medicine. “I will do my best not to hurt you on purpose without warning. If I am moving something that is likely to cause you pain, like removing the hooks imbedded into your skin and muscle, I will warn you beforehand. Deal?” You knew better than to say so that he could brace for pain - nor did you have any pain reliever on hand that would work fast enough that wouldn’t be flushed from the Astartes’ system before it could hope to have any effect on him. You’d intended on going for a moonlit stroll down your favorite beach and hadn’t anticipated meeting an astartes in physical and medical distress.

The large, midnight blue astartes stared at you for several long moments before accepting with a rough “Reasonable. I agree.”

You nod, making careful and deliberate movements toward him, telegraphing what you were doing, so as to reduce the likelihood of accidentally startling the mer. Once you reach his side you look up at him, knife in hand, waiting for his agreement for you to start cutting through the netting.

“... Begin.” He huffed after several seconds, though there was a tiny smile lifting the corners of his lips. He seemed to be grateful that you were being so careful of his potential boundaries.

You nod and carefully begin to cut away at the netting binding him in place. Every so often you give him a moment or two of warning before carefully unhooking and pulling out the metal hooks imbedded into his flesh.Once you have his arms free, you offer the knife to him hilt first, silently offering to let him continue to free himself. 

To your surprise the midnight blue astartes shakes his head and says “Continue. Your hands smaller. Better able to get hooks and knots… Doing well.”

You smile a little at his praise and continue to work on freeing the trapped astartes. All told it took you a couple of hours to ensure that every bit of rope and hook was out. You’re grateful for your medical training, which allows you to switch off the part of your brain that is absolutely delighted at the thought of being able to touch an astartes this much. Many of them large, well-muscled and handsome, and this midnight blue and dark red astartes is strikingly handsome, even bloodied and clearly exhausted. “Do you feel any lingering pain anywhere?” You ask as you resist the temptation to run your hands along his chest and tail - for purely professional reasons - some of the hooks were small. 

“Some, but I am healing… Thank you, for helping me.” The Night lord rumbled, cupping you chin with one of his large hands, pitch black eyes shining with mischief. He tilts your chin up and kisses you, his lips chapped but warm.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Tell Me

Past =-= Next

Author's note: Karlsor's next part in Husbandry

Summary: Since he's Chaos Aligned (he'd like to argue that's grox-shit) and Not Very Chaos Twisted/mutated, he gets the dubious pleasure of being in Public Relations. (Since when do they have/need Public relations?!) Karlsor would like a refund. This is a shitty duty shift and he hates it a lot.

Warnings: Swearing. Let me know if I need to add anything.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k, @ms--lobotomy @bispecsual @thevoidscreams

Tagged continued: @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

After following after the totally-not-scary Death Guard Apothecary Hura, and getting more explanations from his fellow Night Lords about Everything. And how Hura wasn't blowing smoke up his ass, that they really are on Ancient Terra, the information starts to sink in.

Much to his dismay, he has to be checked over by an Apothecary, and isn't it oh so convenient that Hura is right there to assess his health and what he might need. He begrudgingly allows the smug fucker to tend to him. He's given a relatively clean bill of health, which is fan-fucking-tastic.

He's sent off to the training salles to see what he's good at and other sorts of boring as testing to see where he'd fit in with the others on base for duty shifts and what not. New Postings, especially ones where your file isn't there for the Command to read, or has your current Command with you is such a pain in the fucking ass.

Some of these Chaos Fuckers are really fucking ugly to look at. And sometimes staring at some of the truly twisted one's hurts is brain, and he does his best not to look at them too much. To his greatest displeasure, he's supposedly going to be one of the more "front facing" of the Chaos Astartes in this base.

When he demanded why he had to do such an Ultramarine Fucker Job, it was said that since he lacked Chaos Mutations, among other things. He pointed out sourly that he's a fucking Night Lord and he's not an Officer, nor does he particularly care about being nicey-nice. He's not trained for it and he doesn't want to do such a shitty as job.

He Challenges the fuckers and loses. So, he has to do the shitty ass grox-shit ultramarine job of "public relations". Throne above! It makes his skin break out into hives as he scowls and stomps after the other poor bastards that were suckered into this job. He doesn't care to listen to what the Ultramarines, and other uppity fuckers say about some thing or other.

God, he hates briefing meetings. They drone on, and on, and on. Or they got interesting when Father went bug-fuck nuts and started killing people. Or one of the High Raptor Lords got stabby and then everyone was every man for themselves and trying Not To Die from The Command going bug-fuck nuts.

He rubs his face and groans a little. He's got the Curse of the Eighth quite strongly. Psyker... and trained at that. With wretched Future Sight which only ever showed him the most miserable and fucked up shit that made sleeping so hard. The Ultramarines are droning on and on and fucking on. He didn't mean to close his eyes, but he had, he's listening, but the power point presentation with the bright fucking lights is hurting his dark-adapted eyes something fierce.

He's got a fucking migraine that makes light feel like poisons and acid that drip into his eyes and across his skin. Sinking in like fire burning a corpse. He punches the asshole that jabs his side as he hisses at his fellow 'chaos' astartes that he's not asleep, he's listening to the fucker talk about some-random-grox shit that he doesn't particularly care about.

If it was truly important his Sight would be screeching at him about the danger levels. He does like that his Sight has gone mostly quiet and still. He's been able to sleep a lot better... sort of. He doesn't trust any of the fuckers in the base worth a damn, but even with how limited sleep an Astartes need, they do still need sleep.

He'd never thought he'd have to do public relations because 1) He's a fucking Night Lord. 2) He's 'pretty'. Which makes him cackle. No, he's no Blood Angel or Emperor's child. He's a survivor of Nostramo, and he's got the looks to prove it. Sickly pale skin, night dark eyes, and greasy-looking black hair that he keeps short. Also, he's got scars from previous battles that go all over his body. A few on his face, scratching up his features to make him even scarier to most base lines.

And yet, despite all that and the fact that he's a trained Psyker of the Eighth legion (which means, he knows that they think he's bug-fuck nuts) he's to be one of the front facing dip shits because he needs less warp fuckery to make it so he's more Normal and Shinier compared to others in the base... Given what he's seen of them, he can't argue as much after he sees just how twisted or 'blessed' some of those nightmare-inducing shit heads are. He still tries to argue and bitch his way out of the shit duty shift. Not that the fuckers listen to him.

He remembers hearing of one of his fellow fuckers in the Eighth legion being tortured by getting stuck in a room with bright lights constantly. For days. Throne, that sounds like a really shitty way to torture someone, especially since it didn’t cause any, or much suffering for anyone else. His hands clench into fists and then he relaxes them a bit. He wishes he could put his helmet back on as that would help filter out the light. But nooo he had to show ‘trust’ or whatever fucking grox shit the others had said… Also because he was one of the few ass holes in the Chaos Base that could take of his helmet… and all of his armor.

He wonders what sort of fucked up shit happened that being fused to ones armor did. Sounded… Horrifying, yet also comforting? Armor is a part of you. It protects the squishy bits and is almost like a second skin. He cracks open one of his eyes a sliver and notices when some base line humans show up and start chittering at them and he mentally groans about how this meeting keeps continuing on until fucking eternity. The human pauses as the Ultramarine translate what they says. Fucking perfect, until the little human stops their speech, which is going to make this at least twice as long because translation makes things so much fucking slower.

One of the other humans approaches him, which has him turn and squint down at them, and give a razor sharp grin filled with teeth as he flexes his hands. The talk at him in that same language the other human was speaking and had slowly pulled out something in a box. Which has him growling a little at them. They freeze in their movements and the eyes of all of his cousins are on him as the human unfreezes with an insulting swiftness as they open the box and he sees astartes sized strange looking google things. They were tinted, they gestured at them and then up at him.

He scowls at the room and back down at the human, slowly grabbing the goggles he puts them on and tries not to collapse into a pile of relief. Almost wanting to cry at how much better he feels now that the dreaded, hateful, cruel light is now mostly blocked because of these tinted goggles. Humans calls it “Sun Goggles.”

“Thank you,” He says to them, he means it to. He is not going to give these back and will kill someone to keep them. Multiple even.

[obvsdisturbed]

get to know my night lord contekar, iskaronte!

i really liked how it turned out, so i decided to share.

credit for template to cparrisart on twitter! thank you for such a great template to play with

[kit-williams]

RANDOM POLL

tagging people because this effects yer boy Ghosk

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

[mischiefmanagers]

Rhysand Fic Rec Library 🦇💜

"Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord. Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord."

here's a list of one hundred Rhysand x Reader and Rhysand x OC fics to celebrate the most handsome High Lord ✨

🌼 personal favorite 🥀 angst 💞 fluff 🔥 smut

by @sarawritestories

The Most Beautiful High Lady 🥀💞

You Looked Like You Could Use a Partner 💞

by @lalacliffthorne

starshine (series) 🥀💞

by @marvelsmylife

Not As It Seems 🥀💞

Protecting his high lady 🥀💞

I think I wanna marry you 💞

by @swansworth

The Handsome Stranger 🥀💞

My High Lady 🔥

by @writingsbychlo

how we survive 🥀 platonic Rhysand x Reader but it's AMAZING

Home To Us 💞🌼

How to Save a Life 💞

by @azrielsdove

The High Lords 🥀🔥

Til Death Do Us Part 🥀🔥

Money, Power, Glory 🥀

Beautiful Girl 🥀💞

by @historiaxvanserra

What Our Souls Are Made Of 🥀💞

by @honeybeefae

Pretty Little Tears 🔥

by @wishfulwithwine

The Great War 🥀

by @leafsandstarlight

Against Your Brother's Wishes 🥀💞

Easy Like Sunday Morning 💞🔥

Welcome Distraction 🔥

Little Reminders 💞

by @cherhys

Anything, Always 🥀💞

Colliding Visions 💞

by @k-daydreams

Touch in the Dark 🥀

by @azsazz

Dioxazine 💞

Lavender Haze

Hung Up 🔥

by @jeannineee

Pining 🥀

Daddy Kink 🔥

by @ughthatimagineblog

love and loathing 💞🔥

forever and a day 💞

by @fieldofdaisiies

I Never Mean to Hurt You 🥀

by @daydreaming-nerd

The Bonds That Break Us 💞🥀🔥

by @hellcat8908

Returning Home 🥀💞

by @thehighladywrites

This Isn't Goodbye, This Is Simply See You Later 💞🥀🔥

Just One More, I Know You Can Do It 💞🔥

by @lure-of-writing

Where my soul can rest 🥀

by @saphirered

The Ice Queen and the High Lord 🔥

May We Meet Again

by @bookish-whore

'Til Death 💞

Never Made A Difference 🥀

by @tadpolesonalgae

mine 🔥

Knocked up 🔥

by @itsphoenix0724

Promises 🥀

by @fanttasttica

I hate you more.. 🥀

Shy priestess 💞

Finding you 🔥

Your love healed me 🥀💞

Just love me 🥀

One plus one makes three 💞

by @illyrian-dreamer

Dance with the devil

Make a bargain with me 💞🥀

by @azrielbrainrot

My Body Keeps Saying it's Yours 🔥

by @b00kdiary

Dreamer

by @solbaby7

Lose Control 💞

Put On A Show 🔥

Testing the Waters 💞🔥🌼

by @luxsky

Kicking out 💞

by @themusingsofacurlyhairednerd

Warm Me Up 💞🔥

Datura

by @starstruckunknown-princess

Black Rose 🥀

by @acourtofwhatthefuck

Needs Must 🔥

With Me, Always 🥀💞

Shrinking Violet 🔥

Forget Me Not 💞

by @lanitalay

At sea 💞🥀

by @redheadspark

Truth 💞🥀

Carry 💞🥀

My Pleasure 💞

Title 💞

by @azrielslightintheshadows

Game night disaster 🥀

Between you and danger 🥀

by @danikamariewrites

Take Them All Down 🥀🌼

Only For You 💞

Pointless Meetings 💞

Pranks 💞

by @bloodycassian

winter court runaway

by @thevanserrras

The Stolen Night 🥀💞

by @thelov3lybookworm

Winter Without You 🥀

Love Needs No Voice

by @prythianpages

Wanna Be Yours 💞

by @milswrites

Out of the Mountain 🥀

by @readychilledwine

Requiem for a Dream (series) 🥀💞

Broken 🥀

Flight Patterns 🥀💞🌼

Subtle 💞

Scream 🔥

Plot Measure 🥀

Drumming Song 🔥

Family Matters 🔥

Pieces of You 🥀🌼

by @clairebear08

Questioning Motives 🔥

by @serpentandlily

Falling Apart for You 🥀

by @shadowdaddies

Heavy is the Head 🥀💞🔥

Crawl to Me 🥀🔥

by @throneofsapphics

if you insist 💞

surprise reunions 🔥

by @azriels-shadowsinger

Reunited 💞🥀

by batboylover

secretly mated 🥀💞

[absin-whore-of-fictional-men]

For real 😔

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Here’s both fake screenshots

[purple-writer8]

I Know Places - ACOTAR

Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader

“They are the hunters, we are the foxes. And we run.”

warnings: abused eris, autumn court shenanigans, mentioned abuse (verbal and physical), talks of violence, forbidden love, beron being beron, beron being abusive, physical abuse, angst, sexism, the autumn court brothers, angst, beron slander (as he deserves)

1.1k words

Part Two to But Daddy I Love Him

Masterlist :)

Your father had struck you across your face. He killed you. Killed you and killed your happiness. You thought he would understand, that he would let you marry Rhysand and you would be happy. What a fool you were to think Beron would ever allow you free will. “I’m sorry, darling,” your mother had been comforting you for hours now. 

 Your head rested on her lap as she weaved her fingers through your dirty blonde hair. “How can he be like this? Why doesn’t he want me to be happy?” You cried softly, your hands gripping your mother’s skirts with a white-knuckle grip. 

 “He… well, he loves you… he means well…” she trembled as she spoke, and you knew that she did not mean that. “How can you say that, mother? Means well? He struck me three times…” you sobbed unto her lap, your heart aching for one person— your lover. 

“Darling, I know he is… unorthodox in his ways, but he cares about your future.” You sat up from your stance when she spoke those words, rage flaring inside your body at her claims. "Cares about my future?! How can you say that after what he did?" You spat angrily, your hands burning with your fire that was just begging to be let out. 

"Rhysand is a bad man... his court... it's a nightmare. There are no morals there. He is a cruel, wicked man, just like his father," your mother contested. You could tell that she was distressed, just like you could tell how abused she was by your father, how she feared him even when he was not around. 

"Do you think I am daft, mother?" You asked quietly. 

"No, honey. You are just youn-" You cut her off. 

"Do you think I don't know, mother? You think I haven't seen how beaten he leaves Eris after he makes a small mistake? You think I haven't seen how he eggs Fenix on to compete with Eris constantly? How he beats each of my brothers into oblivion? You think I don't know what happened to Jesminda and Lucien?" You were erratic, trying to get her to understand that you were no longer a child. 

Your eyes drifted to her arms, covered by her long sleeved dress, "you think I don't know what he does to you?" 

The Lady of Autumn stilled, her face falling as she stared at you solemnly. "I have tried to protect you... Eris has tried. Even Beron has tried. Our reality is not perfect, but your father loves you, and he wants to protect you." 

"I don't need protection, mother. I am not a child anymore... I am a female grown... and I want Rhys, and he wants me." You stated in an unwavering manner. 

"You must understand that Rhysand is not a good man, honey. The Night Court is the worst place to be, the fae there are deranged and depraved," your mother countered. 

You knew there was darkness in the Night Court, but you also knew there was light. So much light. You saw it, Rhys had shown you. But you could never say that, you had promised to keep Velaris a secret, and you would. "There must be good there, mother. I know there must," you stated softly. 

When she did not answer, you said, "he loves me and he would never hurt me. I deserve him, and he deserves me. I wish to be happy." 

She blinked and wiped her hands on her skirts, shaking her head, "your father has made up his mind, it is time you come to terms with that. We are Vanserras, it is the hand we were dealt." With that, the Lady of Autumn left your chambers, sending you further into despair. So, just because you were a Vanserra you had to deal with abuse and unhappiness? 

You would let your family say what they wanted, but you wouldn't hear it. Loose lips sunk ships all the time, but not this time. Left to your own devices, you decided you wouldn't put up with your father's abuse. You rushed to your vanity and rummaged through the cabinet that held all of your trinkets until you found it. 

A mirror.  A beautiful sapphire encrusted mirror given to you by Rhys a few months back. You reached for your red tube of lipstick and wrote on the glass, Come and get me. It was an enchanted mirror, made for the two of you to communicate through it, since he could not reach you in Autumn. You set the mirror down and waited, hoping that your lover hadn't shoved his own mirror in a drawer and forgotten about it. 

You spent the day pacing back and forth in your chambers, hands trembling as you constantly checked the mirror for a reply back. Rhys, please, you pleaded in your mind. 

"I love it when you beg," you let out a happy shriek when your lover appeared in the middle of your room, having winnowed in suddenly. You jumped into Rhys's arms, snaking your own over his neck and pulling him in. His arms slithered around your waist, holding you steady as you held on to him for dear life. 

"Thank the Cauldron," you cried happy tears, ready for him to take you away from this cage. Rhys pulled away and inspected your figure, his violet eyes turning dark, his thumb grazing over the bruising on your cheek as he growled, "Beron." 

A tear slipped down your cheek, a tear he collected with his thumb, "you won't ever suffer under your father again." 

"I just want to go with you," you sniffed, leaning your head against his hand as he cupped your cheek. The door to your chambers opened swiftly, "sister, I've brought you suppe-" 

Eris dropped the plate when he saw the High Lord of Night holding you close, his expression turning into steel. You yelped and clung to Rhys for dear life as your older brother sent fire bolts his way-- bolts that bounced off the shield Rhysand had put up around the two of you. "It doesn't have to be like this," Rhysand told your brother in a sing-song voice. 

"Let her go! This is a breach! This means war, Rhysand." Eris growled and you could only shake your head. "I'm sorry," was what you said before Rhys winnowed the two of you away. 

As you were winnowed into a manor-- in the Night Court, you assumed-- you fell to your knees, loud sobs leaving your body. Rhys was quick to kneel with you, taking your trembling hands in his. "This is what you want?" He asked in a soft tone. 

You nodded, "for me it's always you. It's only you, but... I'll miss Eris."

"I know, lovely. But this is the only way." 

"I know." You said, standing up with his help. 

A feline smile spread on his face as he motioned to the starry and gorgeous view outside the balcony he had winnowed into, "Welcome to the Night Court." 

-

Author’s note:

Part three of her meeting th IC and fluff? ALSO THANK YOU SM FOR THE COMMENTS ON PART ONEEEEE i am bursting with love

General Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @sheblogs @x-reader-x @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @circe143

Series Taglist: @minaethrym @cherry-cin @acourtofimagines @slytherintaco @mp-littlebit @misskennygirl @umgatochamadopercyval @nayaniasworld @tenaciousperfectionunknown

[sorormaior]

assorted cary doodles

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[tanknode]

Night Lord Dinner is served ✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️Elias Rushorik belongs to @the-raven-lady

Bloody version under the cut

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Full Speed Ahead

Prologue =-= Next

Author's note: More of Karlsor per poll request! This is his Husbandry Debut.

Summary: Karlsor arrives on Ancient Terra and decides to cause Problems on Purpose.

Warnings: Swearing, let me know if I need to add anything more. Okay?

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Karlsor was stalking after some Loyalists that he's spotted on this random ass planet that he's landed on. He doesn't remember being flown to this planet. The last thing he remembered was getting in a drop pod, ready to fight Ultramarines on McCragge, per the orders of his nearly fucking insane Primarch.

He noticed the large fuckers, one in Raven Guard colors, one in a strange heraldry and colors he doesn't recognize, but equally, unfairly massive as fuck. A third Scout-ling of the line of Dorn- from his silver hair, fair skin and blue eyes, with a medkit- and the fussy-clucking of an Apothecary.

They were being led by another Larger than normal Scout-ling, this one covered in mud from head to toe, and he doesn't see any obvious indicators of which legion the big shit belongs to. They head to, yet another giant fucking Scout- this one in the colors and heraldry of those uppity Blood Angels, he rears back silently- spotting the Wings, but as he shifts his weight, the Blood Angel with wings is too small to be Primarch Sanguinius.

He narrows his eyes as he tries to recall if any of the Blood Angels have ever had wings, or if he's heard of such rumors. Then again, such rumors and knowledge is kept from the 'insane murderous butchers' of his Legion. Still a whole bunch of Loyalist Scoutlings, unaware of him, his grin is sharp and vicious, and his eyes gleam with a dark joy.

Oh- he's going to enjoy hearing them scream as he gets answers of where they fuck they are and how he got here from where he'd been. Then- one of the little shits- the one in Raven Guard colors suddenly turns and looks in his direction- having spotted him. Karlsor gives him an unhinged, sharp grin and waved at the little Raven.

Who looks gratifyingly spooked as he hisses at the others. The other little birdy with wings, will be fun to pluck the feathers out of. Sons of Sanguinius have such a pretty-shiny reputation, after their Primarch showed up, before they'd had a reputation and style of fucking shit up worse than his Legion had before.

The bastards had been lucky to get the shiny-pretty Holy Great Angel, while he and his legion were stuck with the mad-bastard who barely understood who friend or foe was and hated all of them. He closes his eyes briefly before opening them. Now is not the time to brood about the past as he stalks closer to the strange too-large Scouts- and the bundle of them, after patching up the Blood Angel were trying to skitter out of the forest and evade him. Cute.

Not for nothing is he a Raptor Lord of the Night Lords as he chases after the scout-lings. Allowing them to run, to see where they would go. The Apothecary in no armor- which is fucking stupid has a conflicted expression on his face, before he murmurs something, turning his face so that Karlsor can't read his lips.

Which is a rude thing, clever, but rude of him. One of the others rumbles something in return and they seem to send a vox to… someone. It's cute how they think that they can call for help, they are stuck in this forest with him little Scouts- he ensures to croon that out, pitching his voice so that they can hear him.

Oh- that spooks the bundle of them. The Little Angel's wings flaring in alarm, trying to block the view of the rest of the Scouts. Like that would do much, more fuck all then stop Karlsor. Which has him chortling and taunting the Scout-lings.

As he approaches, he stops for a moment, as a truly Horrendous scent suddenly hits him like a punch to the gut and his eyes almost water. He's smelled death, and dead things rotten- but that overripe scent is by far one of the worst things he's ever smelled in his life as he tries not to gag or throw up as he hears a strange voice warble out.

"Now, Night Lord," A voice croons at him, his head snapping in the direction of the… Thing- it looks like a Death Guard. Sort of.

"What the fuck are you?" Karlsor asks bluntly.

"My, you are a rude one," Hura says, "I am a Death Guard Apothecary."

"The Fuck you are!" Karlsor says bluntly, "I know hygiene isn't Death Guard Astartes best trait, but fuck you are a nasty, gaint fucker ain't ya?"

Hura's smile behind his helmet has him frowning. "Do you know about Chaos, little cousin?"

"… The way you say Chaos, sounds like it should mean something," Karlsor says eyes narrowing at the strange, stinking Thing.

He's got both eyes on this new threat- the little Scoutlings are scampering out of his sight. Clever bastards- avoiding two Larger Threats. He's still going to hunt after them later. He has to deal with… whatever the fuck this is.

"It does mean sommething," Hura replies, still patient, just less amused. "When are you from? What was happening before you got here?"

"I was in a drop pod headed to fight on McCragge," Karlsor replies.

"Ah, you are from during the failed Rebellion of Horus." Hura muses.

"The fuck? So it doesn't end well. Fucking perfect," Karlsor groans, "Wait… what do you mean failed?"

Hura chuckles and explains when and where they are. As well as about how there is an… Alliance between the Chaos, Renegade, and Loyalist factions.

"So I'm not allowed to go after those Scouts then?" Karlsor asks unhappily, "And just why should I listen to you? Or to this so called grox-shit alliance?"

"Because you will be hunted down, punished and likely tortorously killed for breaking the alliance," Hura replies, his voice still sounding so amused and patient.

There was a darker turn to his words, and his giant fucking frame seems a bit more… ominous.

"… You make a good point. Death Guard," Karlsor replies reluctantly eyeing the … other 'Astartes' with careful caution.

[obvsdisturbed]

I drew @eldritch-power-bottom's bat boy Sorion, best raptor boss, girlboss, gatekeep, my beloved.

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐕

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: An intruder seems to have woven themselves into your bed, and the lil' marines are not happy about it.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

TW // None.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°| • {Chapter III} • {Chapter V}

Nuzzling into your bed sheets. You breathe them in, liking the light musk of wisteria they have to them. Your hands trying to grip at them and bring them closer to your body, but you furrow your eyebrows when they tighten and don’t move. Confused on why they wouldn’t. No one else lays in bed with you, and you don’t have any laundry on your bed, or did you? You forget sometimes.

Slowly opening up your eyes, and shuffling up a little bit on your bed. You narrowly look at what may be obstructing you to have your own blankets. A little grumble coming from you before your eyes widen in shocked surprise, your breath catching in your throat. Not expecting to have a whole ass suit of armor in your bed, taking up most of your bed with its arm laid to the side where your head would have been if you were to have cuddled the block of armor. (Which you may or may not have done in your sleep.)

Quickly looking around your room for any more random armor just laying about in your room, you don’t find anything except the one that threatens to break your bed frame and the whole entire foundation of the apartment. Its tropical turquoise and gold armor giving a shimmer as the sun rises and glows upon it. Its breast plate moving slowly up and down, telling you something or someone was breathing inside of it.

…Just how did you suddenly get a whole suit of armor in your bed? Not to mention with someone inside of it? You know you didn’t just go out after work and picked up yourself knight and bedded him last night, especially a Space Marine. You know your own mini marines wouldn’t be too happy about bringing another Space Marine into the home, much less somehow bed one, but you do try and recall what you did last night just in case that is what you actually did. It wouldn’t be below you to do such a thing when you're incredibly sleepy.

Wait… just where were your little Marines? They usually clung to you in their sleep like some baby sloths. Did you accidentally fling them off in your sleep? Did you roll over on them? Did this suit of armor take them? Squish them even?

Oh, that thought gets you to shuffle through your sheets quickly. Your hands carefully patting down the more bumpy spot’s just in case before shuffling through them again like you were looking for a hidden remote or a pen. How could you not feel the big thing of armor in your bed? How could you not feel it getting into your bed? How couldn’t you feel the obvious dip in the mattress? Did you need to call the police of this? You know you really should.

Your hand bumps up against something small, and you are quick to wrangle it out of your blankets. Unfolding the blanket like a burrito and revealing the little curled up marine inside. A great, mental sigh coming out of you as you hold your little Night Lord close in the palms of your hands. His form actually looking like a cute, lil’ baby bat as he moves in your hold, looking up at you with a quiet coo, questioning you sleepily, but where were your other three Marines?

Searching through your blankets again. You go at a gentle pace, not wanting to disturb the much larger Space Marine sleeping on your bed while you hold Saveth close to your chest. Your hands running over another solid bump in your blankets and immediately start to unwrap another small marine inside of it. Their maroon armor popping out of the blankets with a tiny grumble leaving them when you gently scoop them in your hands as well. The Night Lord and World Eater gently brushing up against each other and sleepily cooing before they snuggle up to each other in an adorable, protective ball.

You would have fawned over them, and taken several blackmailing pictures of it, if you weren’t looking for your other two marines bundled up somewhere in your blankets. Hoping they weren’t squashed like a pancake by possibly you or this suit of armor in your bed. You wouldn’t know what to tell the apothecary’s or yourself if that happened.

Shuffling all around the bed, you don’t find any other little bumps to gently press down. Your heart jumping in your chest as you think of the worst that might have happened to your other two Marines before you catch a glimpse of a dull green near the pauldrons of the massive armor in your bed. Another mental sigh escaping you as you realize that another of your marines were safe, but how exactly were you to get your marine off of this much larger space marine? Climb on top of the larger Space Marine? Poke the lil’ Death Guard off his pauldron with the end of a broom? Pspsps’ at him quietly in hopes to not wake up the larger marine? How do you approach this?

The large marine suddenly huffs out and groans, spooking the Marines in the palms of your hands awake. Their bodies rising up in immediate alert as they scramble away from each other, giving each other a tiny hiss before scanning their surroundings, looking at the situation. Not expecting a Thousand Son to be in your bed either. They don’t remember you bringing in another Space Marine, but that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was this Thousand Son smelled exactly like Scarab. Was this Scarab?

Saveth can’t help but call out to the large, blue Space Marine against his better judgment, gaining a heavy smack to the back of his helmet by Sarvak who growls at him for his stupidity. Feeling how their human tenses up and holds her breath as all three of them watch the Thousand Son suddenly rise up from the bed like a mummy. The bed creaking underneath his weight as he gets far too close for your comfort. The Thousand Son nearly brushing up against you as you lean back to look up at the glowing, icy visor of the Marine.

Everything went quiet for a moment. Nobody moving while the you and the little Marines stared right back up at the larger Marines visor, awaiting movement from him. Watching them on what they might do as they simply stare back down at you. Almost like nothing had accrued to the Space Marine, like they were staring straight through you.

The movement on the blue Space Marines pauldron catches your attention, and Sarvak growls immediately, demanding answers from the Space Marine. Saveth slowly joining in next, not liking this intruder that smells and looks exactly like their band-mate Scarab. Could this be an Alpha Legionnaire? No way, they were never far from your gaze or you were never far from theirs, so who was this? They know you didn’t come in with a Space Marine last night, they were so sure of it. They would have smelled it; heard it too.

The big Marine cocks his helmet to the side making you freeze in your spot. The Thousand Son confused by their actions as he rumbles back down at them, confusing the little Marines in the palms of your hands more. The two looking at each other, confused as he sounded just like Scarab too. This had to be an Alpha Legionnaire, right?

“I…uhh.” You try to speak, flicking your gaze from his icy visor and the little Death Guard, worried for the little guy that made himself comfortable on the pauldron of the bigger Marine. Snoozing there without noticing anything different that happened within the last 10 to 20 minutes. “Who… exactly are you?”

That question seems to make the Marine lean back a little, a deep, confused coo coming out of him before he stiffens and looks at his gauntlets, observing himself, making the bed creak. Moving each one of his fingers individually, seemingly confused at himself, and then you blink.

Nothing, there was not a Thousand Son in front of you anymore. Just the background of your room staring right back at you while your brows furrowed up again in confusion as you no longer see the big Marine in front of you anymore. Were you imagining things? You know Thousands Sons like to do tricks with their… magic. Liked being wizards or something. Was it called Psyker? You’re going to have to reread your books.

Two squeaks of alarm get your attention below you. Your eyes quickly looking down to see what they were calling you for, briefly seeing how the Death Guard was bounced awake. His tiny form of armor face planting into the bed with another squeak while the other two quickly climb out of your hands and rush the now tiny Thousand Son.

Saveth was the fastest to get to the Thousand Son first, and throws himself at him. Small cry’s escaping the two as Saveth tries to pin down the Thousand son with his weight, both of them flaying about. Sarvak gives a snarl when he comes up to the two and grabs the Thousand Son by the gorget; throwing him into the sheets with Saveth still on top of him, a confused whine coming out of the Thousand Son. Both the Night Lord and World Eater demanding very growly answers while they keep the Thousand Son pinned down.

Wait a minute… Your brain finally sparks some logical sense. Slowly figuring out how there was a sudden Thousand Son in your bed. Your brain piecing together the familiarness of this Thousand Sons markings and rather passive and confused behavior.

This was in fact your Thousand Son: Scarab. He was just… grown up for a second there. How do you know? You really don’t, and don’t really have any other logical reasoning for it except that you just know that it’s Scarab, and Atheloca knows it too by squeaking up at you and his band-mates, confused and a bit late to the party. His gauntlets brushing himself off once he stood himself on his two feet.

“Woah, woah, woah, no need to be hostile.” You try to dislodge this situation at hand, moving forward a little bit to gently shoo Saveth and Sarvak off of very much confused Scarab. “This is Scarab, he was just somehow bigger for a moment.”

The two huff up at you, looking between you and Scarab before releasing him from their hold. Their helmets tilting in questioning at the rising Thousand Son before more curious chirps leave them, not even giving him an apologetic one. Immediately throwing out questions while Atheloca is still trying to figure out what went wrong without much evidence.

“Hold on you two, let the little blue breathe. Perhaps he doesn’t know what exactly happened to make him bigger?” You try to help out Scarab even if you or they didn’t understand you. You didn’t want him to feel too overwhelmed with everything that has gone on in the last hour now.

The two huff up at you again, bunglingly agreeing with you, loosening up their defensive stances just a bit. Knowing they will get their answers sooner or later. They want to become bigger themselves once more at a fast rate rather than having to wait on some untrustworthy apothecaries for a cure.

“Now, how was your day yesterday? I know for a fact that… last night wasn’t good, but how about you go back more into your day?” You ask the little marines and they all seem to tense in their armor and shiver at the reminder of last night. Ultimately grimacing at the sounds of pure vileness that had gone down in that nest. Yeah… they really don’t want to go through that again.

Saveth then suddenly speaks up with a squeak, all eyes going to him as he continuously chirps up at you, and not in his cute way. More like you're getting tattle-tailed on, and it certainly feels like it when the rest of them perk up and surround you on your own bed. Pointing up at you and giving wild body expressions in order to talk to you.

“Woah, hey, I have some duty’s too you know.” You definitely yourself after recognizing some of their body language of squeaking you off. Seeing how exhausted you were when you came back from work these past few weeks. “Someone’s got to pay the bills.”

Yet, they completely ignore that subject and go onto different matters that you quite can’t understand yet, but you can definitely see just how upset they were with you. With what? You have no idea, but you know you're getting a combined earful of it that may or may not have gone out your other ear. They were small, looking like angry little bunnies! How could you not ignore that!

You simply sigh down at them when they feel like they have gotten the upper hand, and swipe them up into your arms. Scarab and Saveth giving out a surprised squeak while Sarvak grumbled and Atheloca accepted it. All eventually nuzzling up against you with maybe another huff or two, maybe three.

You were lucky they like you just enough to be swayed by your tactics to get them to quiet down, but once they returned to full size? The roles are definitely going to change on you. Maybe, depending if they feel in a grateful mood or not.

“Let’s get you guys something to eat, yeah?” You mostly talk to yourself, finally shuffling off your bed, nearly taking your sheets with you while you hold the little Marines to your chest. A few tiny whirrs responding to you as you wonder if you should report this to the Apothecary or not. You honestly should, you know nothing if this sudden… transformation affected your Thousand son or not. Don’t know anything in the medical or science field of Astartes either.

You sigh again; more tiredly this time. You’re going have to think of some ways to provide more for these little marines, and a way on how to get them to the Apothecary without them catching onto you and running for the hills to test their stealth skills on you.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

The Eternal Night (Part 2)

Summary: The first captain and the serf become more and more attached to each other every day in a dark and obsessive way.

Jago Sevatarion/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, power imbalance, violence, torture, predator/prey

Word count: 2169

Song: She Wants Revenge - I Don't Want To Fall In Love

I know that you're the right girl But do you think that I am the right man?

You really hoped that by joining Sevatar’s service you would quickly learn everything. After all, all your life you have been the servant of an aristocrat, not a space marine. Especially the Night Lord.

But you're lucky. Your only duties were mopping the floors and taking care of the bedding and workout clothes. It was pointless to clean the armor of blood and human skin. The more terrible and intimidating they looked, than better.

It seemed that the First Captain did not need a personal serf. He got along just fine without it. But you weren’t going to complain about such a gift of fate. There are even fewer responsibilities than when your mistress was alive.

You bend over to the floor, wiping away the dirty stains with a rag. A relieved sigh escapes your lips on its own. The pain, which lasted several weeks, finally went away.

Sevatar ordered that you get a tattoo right on your back, near your left shoulder. The ink was mixed with the blood of the first captain. This way mortals will understand that they cannot touch you. And other Space Marines will feel where you belong. It was very painful. You didn’t scream, but the tears flowed naturally as the sign of the Night Lords appeared on your skin.

When you arrived at Sevatar’s quarters, he only chuckled with satisfaction when he looked at the final result. And you were almost certainly sure that he liked your eyes, red from tears. That night, lying in the corner on your mattress, you couldn’t sleep. It was also painful to perform simple duties. But you were finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Where were you born?” - a male voice comes from behind you while you are scrubbing the floor. You didn't need to look to know that Sevatar was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. As always.

“On Terra. On the lower levels.” - you try not to remember the corpse of your mistress, plunging into memories. - “I was very lucky. One of the aristocrats decided to organize charity and sent many poor children to a special school. After that, we all had to go to serve the rich.”

You sigh in guilt.

“I became his granddaughter’s maid.”

There is silence in the room and you think that the first captain has become uninterested in this conversation. But he only grunts in response.

“There wasn't much of a choice, right? Either poverty or service to others.” - the man speaks in a relaxed voice. You only blush because the Astartes compared your destinies. He didn't look mocking. - “Did you even like it?”

"Yes." - you remember how the sunlight fell on the stained glass windows. And you little one looked at this spectacle with admiration. Until the teacher scolded you for the amusement of the other girls. A moment of innocence. - “I loved performing in the choir.”

You return to your duties, wiping away the dried dirt, trying not to look behind you. Sevatar was silent, but you knew that he was thinking about his life, over your words. Perhaps if you were different people and in another place, he would admit that you have a beautiful voice. You couldn’t say how, but you knew for sure that this thought flashed through his head.

You were mostly silent. But in rare moments, Sevatar began to talk. Mostly when he was relaxing in bed. You asked each other about life, giving in to a completely spontaneous desire to get into each other’s soul. It was strange and possibly wrong. But you both couldn't resist.

“When did you kill the first person?” - you didn’t know why you decided to ask your master about this. The question arose naturally. Sevatar remained silent and you dared to continue. - “They recruit young boys into the Astartes. Did you kill a man when you joined the Legion?”

The man looks at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his back. Finally he speaks.

“No, little one. I killed a boy of my age when I was nine.” - the man looks at your discouraged face and laughs an unpleasant laugh. Only dead people laugh like that. - “You won’t survive on Nostramo any other way. I had to defend myself as best I could. Capture and take what I want. Even eat.”

Sevatar looks at you carefully. Either joy or pain splashes in his eyes.

“If you ever have to eat human flesh, little mouse. Don’t try the eyes, you won’t like it.” - the first captain closes his eyes and turns to the wall, as soon as you nod. Good advice. You will remember it. The main thing is that it is not useful in life.

You wring out the rag, pleased with the result. The floors almost shone with cleanliness. Although it was difficult to notice given how little light there was in the Space Marine's quarters. Immediately thinking of your savior, you can’t help but glance at him briefly.

He was still lying on the bed. Sevatar forbade you to do anything in his absence. Quite the opposite. It was when the man should have gone to bed or simply rested that you should have started cleaning the primarch's room.

The more you moved, while trying not to make noise, the better. The top was supposed to consist of just a tank top. So that your tattoo is always visible. Hair was strictly forbidden to be tied.

Serving Sevatar was easy, but his requests were awkward.

The Space Marine suddenly awakens and you flinch at the sight. The man sits down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. Sevatar looks around the room, noting with obvious displeasure that you performed your duties extremely well.

It's even kind of offensive.

“Already cleaned up. Apparently you will have to go around the second circle.” - Sevatar grins when he sees your disappointed face. - “Looks like I spoiled you, huh. Next time you’ll help with sewing.”

If the Night Lords sew, it is only cloaks made of human skin. You immediately go back to work. Again you pass the rag over the now clean floor.

Only this time the man was in no hurry to fall asleep again. Instead, he looked at you. For a long time. Appreciatively. Even too much.

“I changed my mind.” - the man snaps his neck. - “Come here.”

Where is here, you wanted to ask a stupid question. But could anyone blame you? No matter how kind the first captain was to you, he still caused fear. Not to mention, you were completely alone. No one would help you anyway. And yet the absence of even the slightest chance made you sad.

The man beckoned you with his finger and you obediently approached him. Sevatar, without saying anything, took your hands in his. He examined the palms and touched the delicate fingertips. You pursed your lips in embarrassment. A moment later, black eyes peered intently into your face. You thought you would drown in this darkness, until strong hands suddenly turn you around.

Sevatar lays your back on his lap and you freeze. You can’t help but tremble, breathing heavily through your nose. The man had scared you before, but now his behavior was perplexing. Not to mention the size difference. You didn't even reach the floor.

Rough fingers touched your tattoo, slowly rubbing the flesh. Touching the lines of the skull and wings of the gargoyle. Squeezing a little, leaving bruises on the body. You swallow as Sevatar takes in the scent of your hair. You could even hear the beating of his two hearts, he held you so close to him. The man seemed lost in his thoughts.

***

“P-please, I didn’t d-do anything. I would never betray the Imperium. H-have mercy. Don't torture mee."

Sevatar, unlike some brothers, did not catch unfortunate serfs or captives to pull off his skin out of boredom. He did it just like now. By order of the primarch or as necessary. But this does not mean that it was not unpleasant for him to do it. Just boring.

The brothers standing next to first captain loudly argued about who would torture the traitor next after the first captain. But as soon as the man looked at them angrily, they immediately fell silent. Now they decided to settle the dispute by playing rock-paper-scissors. Although it makes no difference who will be next. They're here for a long time.

“This is punishment for betrayal.” - the space marine smiles unpleasantly at the crying girl before gently running his knife across her stomach. The victim screams in pain. There is a characteristic smell of urination in the room. - “No more than that.”

Well, of course he's exaggerating here. No matter how Konrad Curze tried to hide behind nobility and justice, he liked it. Fear and horror, complete submission, screams and pain. Sevatar would be a hypocrite if he said that he is not the same.

The annoying scribe lost all her arrogance and turned into a carcass. It’s good that she decided to go against the primarch. She was annoying. And how could such a brat have such a good maid like you?

The first captain sighs, cutting off a strip of skin, just remembrering your vision. You were good. Quiet. And funny. Your bump on your forehead amused him for a long time. But most of all, you calmed him down. There was something unusual about you. And familiar.

How did you move. Sneaked among the shadows, flying from one place to another. Either to your nest or ran to friends. You played with food, although like any scavenger, you should to eat rats. How quietly you spoke to the other serfs, and your trembling changed the tone of your voice. How quickly you moved, causing your hair to make pleasant noise. Reminiscent of the rustle of feathers. Even your eyes were big and attentive. 

But the birds are free. And you are not.

The victim chokes on tears and snot, and Sevatar only smiles at this picture. You're especially vulnerable right now, right? Without a mistress, alone, in a terrible eerie Legion, which will gladly offend someone as small as you. You probably need a protector.

The first captain grimaces from strange thoughts. The man moves away from the prisoner, waving his hand. Let these impatient bastards replace him.

No, he didn't need personal servants. He didn't need them. And yet, for some irrational reason, he was considering taking you in with him. Although he already had to look after four mortals. It was also not enough to add you to this list.

On the other hand, you won't be a hindrance. And lately his... Gift has become more acutely felt. The crows are far away, but you are close. Not a bad replacement. So why doesn’t Sevatar make an exception and take you to his place? You will help him relax, and he will protect you from his Legion. At least once in his life he will do a good deed.

The first captain just chuckles at this while the sound of tearing skin is heard from behind. The room is filled with a metallic smell and the inhuman scream of a half-dead woman. But Sevatar hears only the rustle of wet black feathers.

The man breaks away from your hair, inhaling its scent. He grins at the back of your head as he continues to stroke the tattoo.

He didn't have to offer it or take it by force. You came to him yourself. Begged him to save you. At first, Sevatar even thought that you were a crazy suicide. But you were an ordinary girl with oddities. And it's not to say that he didn't like it.

You turn to face him, making your hair slide across your skin. Sevatar can't help but look at your face. Parted lips, flared nostrils, big eyes. Yes, your skin looked good on your skull. There's no need to rip it off.

And the smell. He felt your fear. Uncertainty. Fright. But at the same time there is a bit of hope. Trust. You wanted to believe him. Your kindness was not an act. Or trying to survive. You're strange.

His head is empty. No bad thoughts about the Crusade or the Legion. The dull pain no longer numbs the brain. It was as if he was back in the night city. Again felt the touch of feathers. After ascension to the Astartes, he was finally able to sleep properly.

His tongue automatically begins to move over your tattoo. You squeak sweetly in fear before falling silent. You try to behave as still as a mousekin in the clutches of a scavenger. Only the predator will not let go of its prey even if it is already dead.

The hair rustles pleasantly near the man's nose. Rare uncontrolled sobs only provoke more. And the intermittent breathing and pounding of the heart echoes loudly in the ears like a croak. The eyes close on their own.

[drmikhailov]

Creechur alert! Special thanks to AlterFlyin (I have to make him get tumblr 👁️👁️) for helping with silly beast anatomy :D After he suggested thin ass toothpick legs to contrast with his hands I was like - you know what? Lets fuck up his legs even more for ✨the plot ✨lets give him some external fixators for his sticks broken from the sheer weight of his upper body. It ain't an oc if u didn't torture it or something idk.