#nameless necron lord

[c0gwizard-v2]

Zahndrekh being extra sassy with some noble lord and Obyron just there for his nemesor, waiting patienty

[smaller-comfort]

It is wip Wednesday, my dudes. And I should be baking, but it is way too hot and I am currently way too inebriated, so here we are.

I doubt I'll be able to finish anything by next week for @ghostinthegallery's birthday, but here are some more teasers of the obyron/zahndrekh thing and the oltyx/yenekh thing and also a tiny fragment of Lysikor's No Good Horrible Very Bad Day.

Aaaand some SoS modern AU, because finishing gotta start somewhere has temporarily rewired my brain, and I am having far too much fun with it. Somewhat nsfw.

Scrap file bit from the snecrontyr Obyron/Zahndrekh monstrosity (it's over 7500 words send help), which still has no title. It's gonna be something extraordinarily pretentious, though- I can absolutely see myself going Shakespearean for this one.

--

“How would you serve me, dear friend?”

He couldn't look up. He couldn’t; Obyron squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into the floor a little harder. “However would please you most, my nemesor.”

Zahndrekh sighed, and that faint noise of disappointment felt like a gauss rifle blast to the chest. “Obyron,” he said, very quietly. “Would you look at me?”

It was, perhaps, the hardest thing Zahndrekh had ever asked of him. He would have rather faced down another thousand guerilla separatists in the swamp- but he could not disobey an order. He lifted his head.

“Oh.” Zahndrekh touched his face, gently turning him so he couldn't help but meet his lord's eyes. “No, I see- I’m asking too much of you.”

The idea that he had failed- that he was not enough, that Zahndrekh could ever ask something of him that he could not give- he would rather have taken a gauss rifle to the chest.

“Forgive me, my lord.”

“No‐ no, Obyron. There is nothing to forgive. On your feet.” Zahndrekh was frowning, just the smallest crease between his eyebrows. “I shouldn't- I won't. You're a good man, and a fine soldier, and it is an honor to have you by my side. You're dismissed- go, enjoy the celebration.”

He wanted to protest- dead gods, he wanted- but he would not disobey an order.

------

I really hope no one gets tired of necron weddings in conjunction with these two idiots because I'm writing another one. Not their wedding, at least, but *a* wedding. Snecron Oltyx/Yenekh, also currently without a title.

Oltyx and Yenekh are simultaneously Jock4Goth and Himbo4Himbo, and I think that's beautiful.

--

As Oltyx watched, Mesekhet skinned an ork with quick flashes of her claws. She draped the skin over Qareh's shoulders, affixing it in place over the cresting protrusions of their spine. Qareh, in turn offered her the creature's heart; a choice delicacy, by any measure.

They tumbled to the ground together, Mesekhet's whip-scorpion knife blade of a tail wrapping around Qareh's hips.

Oltyx thought of them as flesh memories, all the things that he had no more context for. He could not remember his own face, or his brothers’ or his father's. He could not remember the taste of ice wine, or any occasions where he might have drunk it. But he did not need to remember eating to know hunger; or to remember drinking to know thirst. There were things that he knew without needing to remember.

So it was with Mesekhet and Qareh: flesh memories, their mouths and hands moving with a hunger that Oltyx knew without remembering, bodies locked together and voices rising in ecstatic harmony.

He looked away, and felt something cold and hollow echo in his flux (his heart; his blood). He should be happy that two of his kin had found a way to assuage their hunger within each other. And he was; he was happy for them. He couldn't name the feeling that left him feeling so cold.

'Took her long enough'. Yenekh stepped out of the void and draped his arms over Oltyx's shoulders from behind, dripping with fresh gore.

He replied with an interrogative.

'Mesekhet. Thought she'd make Qareh wait another fifty years.'

Yenekh's closeness banished some of that nameless cold. 'How could you tell?' He tapped the question on the back of Yenekh's hand, enjoying the way the blood-slick metal felt beneath his fingers.

Yenekh didn't answer for a long moment, and then he let go of Oltyx with a shrug. 'You just know, sometimes.'

----

Lysikor and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (working title). He's actually having a great time here. He absolutely does not at any other point in this story.

--

“Valgûl, Twice-Regicide!" Lysikor laughed. “I should take lessons from you. I've stolen ships, constructs; overthrown a fringe world or two. But you- destroyer of dynasties! The future and past of Ithakas, stolen, vandalized. I could spend an aeon learning from you.”

“What second regicide have I committed?” Oltyx was too amused to be indignant. He'd forgotten- Lysikor had always been strange, but he was at least an entertaining sort of strange.

Lysikor tapped his cracked dynastic cartouche with one gnarled finger. “Unnas’ successor, of course. Didn't you murder Oltyx when he fought the Unclean? Stabbed in the back, I hope.” He leaned forward with that strange, unnerving eagerness. “Perhaps you could share the details with me.”

Oltyx laughed, because Lysikor wasn't wrong, not really. “The dynast of Ithakas fell in battle- I only scavenged his corpse.”

“Ah, Valgûl, King of Vultures! Nevertheless, it is an honor.”

-------

Okay, so the modern AU endgame has always been an ot3 situation, because I am extremely predictable. No title yet (the sequel to Life/Work Balance is called Staycation, because of course it is). Anyway, Aephorul and Resh'an have had sex on every flat surface in their townhouse, and most of the non-flat surfaces, and this is why they never host dinner parties. (They have like. An entire playroom. And yet somehow they still have an alarming amount of sex in the kitchen. This is just one of the many facets of Aephorul's extremely convoluted strategy to keep other people out of their home.)

--

There were times, Aephorul reflected, when he really wasn't entirely sure how his life had turned out the way it had. Now was a good example: here he was, lounging at the kitchen table, drinking the good wine directly from the bottle. Meanwhile, his husband was spread out on the table, bent nearly in half by the extremely large and muscular older man who was fucking him with enough force to make the whole table rattle in alarming ways.

It was impressive; the table was very sturdy. All of their furniture was sturdy, in fact, for this very reason.

Maybe this wasn't a great example, actually. Aephorul knew exactly how he'd ended up here, and it was mostly because whenever Resh'an wanted something, Aephorul would move heaven, earth, and all of their heavier furniture in order to give it to him.

[beril66]

Lol I am %80 certain Zahndrekh is talking the piss on this bastard 😂😂 what did he do insulted Obyron?

Zahndrekh being extra sassy with some noble lord and Obyron just there for his nemesor, waiting patienty