#sevatar/reader

[mothiir]

homecoming

For @remembrancer-of-heresy

Hope this is okay ! I’m not completely pleased with it but if I don’t publish it now I never will.

cw: threats of cannibalism, dubcon.

Sevatar, like all his brothers, is accustomed to a war fought from the shadows: striking into the soft underbelly of the foe, departing like mist at dawn, leaving them to find the strung-up bodies of their children in the rafters, and warnings daubed in blood on the floor. If you do not obey the Emperor, you earn his justice — so goes a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying from Nostramo, for only the most starry-eyed idiots of the legion truly believe that what they do is just. 

To be a Night Lord is to be a killer: a defiler, a flenser of flesh, a bane of the innocent. Sevatar has known this to be true since the moment he took the midnight; indeed, he knew before that, when he was naught but a neophyte, battling for scraps with his brothers, all fresh-grown muscle and sharp teeth. 

He knows who he is, and he feels no shame in it. He knows what sort of war he is bred to fight, and he feels no shame in that either — the term ‘fair fight’ is a tune that means nothing, sung only by fools. 

And yet there are times — like this — when he cannot help but bemoan his lot just a little. This campaign is challenging; they face not an isolated world in rebellion, but a confederation stretching across worlds. A whole system, grown complacent and fat through Imperial protection. They stopped paying their tithe, and the Emperor was merciful, sending a diplomatic envoy to explain the error of their ways. 

The diplomats were executed as the red sun rose, and the message could not have been clearer: we do not want your peace. 

And so the Emperor had sent Konrad, instructing him to keep as much of the infrastructure intact as possible — this is a valuable system, rich with resources, with cities that span entire continents. This is no barbarous benighted rock, which Mortarion can scour clean with his latest pet virus, or the Lion can turn to charred rubble. 

No: this operation requires a scalpel.

All of this to say, that Sevatar has been busy these last few weeks. Skipping from world to world, with barely time to clean his blades between kills. He led his claw from assasination to assasination: flaying some noble in his quarters, leaving his lover to wake up beside a red raw corpse; obliterating an entire barracks worth of elite soldiers, sparing only one to carry the story on. He has not stopped; he has not rested. He has subsisted only on nutrient paste and the occasional bite of one of the rebels.

By the time he’s arrived back in his quarters he’s half-delirious with exhaustion, ravenous, and twitching with the desire to gut something. You’re sprawled out on his bed, snoring softly. It’s unusual to see you splayed about like that; whenever he is around you curl in on yourself, knees to chest, forehead to hands. 

Seeing you sprawled out, legs akimbo, hair sticking a little to your face…it’s decadent. Saliva pools in his mouth. You’re the most appetizing thing he’s seen in weeks, and he focuses on removing his armour to avoid doing something he will probably end up regretting. 

He murmurs the rites to appease the machine spirits of his armour as he disrobes; unlike other legions. Night Lords wear armour designed to be removed without the assistance of a tech-priest. No son of Nostramo worth his salt wants to be dependent on another for help clambering in and out of the suit that will save his life. 

The bodysuit is left in an ignoble pile of fabric by the bed. You’ll pick it up in the morning, tidy it away. He missed that when he was on campaign; those tiny insignificant acts you perform that make his life that much easier. 

Not that he needs you there, of course. It’s just pleasant not to have to think about these things. 

The only light in the room is the faint neon lights from the power-cables running along the walls; but to his eyes, it’s bright enough to see you in intricate detail. The slight downy hair on your cheeks; the movement of your eyes beneath your lids. Your breathing, steady and slow. 

He sniffs along the curve of your neck, your skin goose-pimpling at his exhalations. You smell sweet as cinnamon. He’s careful to suppress his Betcher’s Gland, not wanting to drizzle acid onto your flesh — but he is still drooling. Moisture drips onto your shoulder, runs down towards your clavicle. You twitch at the movement, starting to blink towards wakefulness. He hears your heart-rate change, speeding up; your scent spikes with delicious stress-hormones. This does nothing to assuage his hunger — fear makes every meal that much sweeter.

“Shhhh,” he breathes, his nose buried in your hair. “Do not leap away.”

His blood is up; he has more control than most, but he is still a hunter. Should you bolt like a prey-animal — well. He cannot be responsible for his instincts. 

You’re well-trained. You freeze at once, every limb rigid. “My lord,” you whisper. “Welcome home.”

He hums softly, still sniffing along your throat. The blue of your jugular is a tempting velvet ribbon, begging to be torn open and sucked dry. 

“Welcome me properly,” he coos. He’s teasing, though you would be forgiven for thinking it a threat. The hissing cadence of his voice always sounds like it promises swift violence. ”Like I showed you.”

You’ve been in his keeping for a little over two months, plenty of time to learn precisely how he likes you — and you’re a quick study. Without a moment of hesitation, you roll onto your belly, lifting your hips up in clear invitation. Your spine is one elegant curve. He runs his fingers along it, feeling the knobs of your vertebrae through the thin fabric of your nightgown, reminding himself that you’d make a brief meal —

(—a delicious meal—)

— a brief and unfulfilling meal and then he would have no one to arrange his bodysuit or polish his armour or swallow his cock down at the end of a long day. 

He plants a kiss just behind your ear, before reorientating himself, kneeling behind you, dragging you into the V his thighs make. He flips your nightgown up, revealing soft, plush flesh — and your cunt, hidden away. He never gets tired of the sight of your cunt before he wrecks it: pink and soft and small, and yet capable of taking so much. His thumbs dig into the cleft of your arse as his fingers splay down your thighs. 

“You’re so tiny,” he says, half to himself, pressing your cheeks together and pulling them apart once more, just to see how your cunt twitches and stretches. “You’d barely be a mouthful.”

Your body floods with cortisol; your heart rate spikes. Testament to your self control — and survival instinct — you do not attempt to squirm free. Instead, you go limp: utterly pliant. Fight, flight, freeze: those are the options humans pick from, when all else has been stripped from them. All those ancient chemicals squirting around in your amygdala, keeping your pretty heart beating. 

“My lord,” you say, your voice a little muffled against his bedding. “I don’t think —“

”Hush. I’m not planning to make a meal of you,” he says — but immediately contradicts himself, sinking his fangs into the warm flesh of your upper thigh. You stifle a scream into your palms. Normally, he’d rebuke you for that — he likes the miserable squeaky noises you utter — but he’s too busy sampling fear-ripe blood, swallowing down a drought like he’s one of Sanguinius’s self-righteous self-depriving bastards. 

When he pulls away, his chin is scarlet. 

“Not yet at least,” he says — you peer back at him, wild-eyed, unable to see anything in the gloom but his pale bulk. You cannot see the grin he throws your way, insouciant and knowing. Still, you don’t do anything as embarrassing as beg for mercy — so he assumes you know he is joking. 

He nips at your buttock, then licks a broad stripe across your cunt. This time, your squeal rings sharp and clear. 

Sevetar licks his way into you with very little grace, more concerned with loosening you for his cock than bringing you to climax. One hand holds you open, the other strokes his cock, and by the Throne, he’s as eager as a neophyte about to take his first skin. He’s practically quivering. He wants to cram himself inside you, fuck you until you scream and beg for mercy and that will only make him fuck you harder —

A few more shoves of his tongue, then he’s pulling back, spitting noisily onto your hole to give himself a little more lubrication. You whine protest at the loss of his mouth, lifting your hips, seeking out more sensation — then, too late, you realise that you are demanding something of him, and you begin to gibber an apology — 

“My lord, forgive me —“

”Hush,” he says, smacking your thigh affectionately, a honeyed mess of your slick and your blood dripping down his chin “Nothing to forgive. Missed me, did you?”

“—yes, lord,” you say, hesitating slightly. He imagines your fretsome mind whirling, trying to work out what it is that he wants you to say. He licks across your neck, drinking in the wine of your terror-sweat. “Missed you my lord, I —“

He pushes in, and you gasp, words lost in your sudden exhalation. Your cunt is a panicky clutch around his cock, trying to keep him out, but only succeeding in drawing deeper, inch by inexorable inch.

“My lord,” you manage, propping yourself up on your elbows “I —“

Sevatar adjusts himself minutely, careful not to bring his full body weight down on you, but eager to cram more of himself into your guts. Your breath staggers out in pained bursts, like you can’t heave in air around the girth of him — as if, against all biological probability, he’s fucked your lungs flat into the top of your rib cage.

“Take it,” he growls, like you have any choice in the matter. Halfway in, and he pulls himself out, slowly, slowly, slowly, watching your flesh cling sweetly to his prick — and then in again, just as slowly. Only this time, he fucks in a little deeper. And then he does it again. And again. And again. Your huffing breath soon   turns to squeaks, and then full on cries as he sinks deeper into you. 

“Y-yes, my lord,” you manage. “Th-thank you and —“

Your voice breaks into a cry as Sevatar fucks into you harder, losing himself in the delicious cling of your cunt; the feeling that nothing — not battle, nor torture, nor even the momentary approval of his Primarch’s gaze — can best. Your innards are warm, pliable, perfect, shaped around every thrust — with just the right amount of resistance to add the thrill of conquest. 

“—thank you,” you whimper. And — and —“

To be a Night Lord is to be a flenser of flesh, a bane of the innocent; sadism comes as naturally to Sevatar as shadow-stalking and skin-carving. You never sound sweeter to him than you do when you’re like this: pinioned under him, whimpering and hiccuping. His only response to your aborted attempts to speak is to fuck you harder, grabbing hold of the headboard to steady himself. His balls slap against your thighs with obscene fleshy sounds; his exhalations are more snarl than breath. 

“ — and — my lord — welcome home.”

Pleasure overtakes him in a blinding wave; he cums so hard that for a moment he sees the silvery outline of stars, a flurry of crows taking flight. His cock pulses his release into you, filling you to overflow. 

“Welcome home,” you repeat. He pulls out, and luxuriates in the sight of your puffy fucked-out cunt leaking his spend. It drips down your thighs, snagging on the wounds his teeth left. Briefly, he considers scooping it up, pushing it back inside you — but he decides against it. After all, he has been away for too long — and he has more than one load to cram inside you tonight. 

[yanagikou]

Had to get this scenario out of the system real quick, so it looks a bit rough (one day i will scan my drawings, i promise. But today is not the day lol)

Sharing is caring, right? 👀

Used bluish grey paper to make it feel dark and oppressive, just like onboard of a Night Lords vessel.

[moodymisty]

(really sorry if this is sent more than once, firefox crashed right when I hit Ask so im re-sending it just in case)

Local Konrad apologist here to request a continuation to your 'Sevatar hunting you' oneshot you posted awhile back. sfw or nsfw, either is fine

(if you dont want to continue that plotline, np!! Just literally any Sev content would be hype as fuck, not gonna lie. love that man sm)

and i hope you and your pidges have a wonderful day❤

Soft continuation of this request

Author's note: Hell yeah I’ll continue that one! I love Sevatar <3 I hope this is ok! It didn’t quite flow the way I like but I don’t want to hold it up forever

Relationships: Sevatar/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Lewd kind of, Violence and gore warning, Pet play technically? Sev calls you his little pet, Dubcon, Biting

When Sevatar had captured his prey, he made sure not to let it go. He dragged you back between his teeth to his den aboard the Nightfall, and you haven’t seen a Salamander since.

Sevatar has done much work in making sure your base needs are tended to- such as food and water to keep you healthy and soft - while on the Nightfall.

You are most likely the most well kept baseline aboard the ship, and many others refer to you snidely, jokingly, as Sevatar’s prized little pet.

He does a lot of prowling around to keep other Night Lords away from his catch, predator proofing his quarters.

While most Night Lords would hesitate to disobey him, or tread in quarters not their own or of their stature, Sevatar knows that his little pet is worth the risk.

You’re soft, clean and fragile, and unlike many of the serfs aboard who know how to hide and not be interesting enough to toy with, you whimper and cry and beg enough to make an Astartes mouth wet with drool and his hearts pump faster.

You don’t do as much anymore- With the Salamanders long gone that wound has faded, and you know despite his demeanor, Sevatar doesn’t break his toys. He seems to take quite good care of them actually, and despite the wounds he leaves in your body, the food he gets for you and the quarters you live in is almost comparable to life with the Salamanders.

Sevatar is returning to his quarters, looking downward at his knife when he feels as if something is off. He puts his knife back in its sheath, turning the corner to finish his trip to his quarters.

His body goes rigid when he notices the door is open, locks busted and completely torn apart. Only one glance inside confirms you’re gone. Your scent is fresh still however- this only just happened.

Sevatar runs down the halls, slamming into the shoulders of other marines who quickly try to give way to him, and halfway through the hall a singular Night Lord yells:

“If you’re looking for your pet, the idiot is taking her towards the barracks.”

He also hears the same man mumble about how he warned the thief, and that he wants to see his how Sevatar will display his guts for being a blackhand.

He catches up with the thief in the halls, spotting him carrying you with a hand clamped over your mouth. The other arm is around your waist, legs dangling and kicking uselessly.

Sevatar approaches him from behind and pulls out his knife and closes the distance lightning quick, slicing the wrist around your mouth so he doesn't crush your head. The Night Lord instinctively drops you- Sevatar hears your yelp as you crumble to the metal floor and presumably twist something - trying to defend himself first and foremost. Sevatar had the advantage however both in surprise and sheer strength, and within moments manages to get the slightly smaller Night Lord on the ground.

You can only watch as the two throw punches and tear at each other, eyes wide.

You hear the crunch as Sevatar’s knife drives through ceramite armor, reaching the black armoring suit underneath. The younger Night Lord attempts to clamp onto Sevatar's body but his one wrist is mangled and won't listen, while the other attempts to grab his neck in a desperate last ditch effort.

The first stab managed to crack ceramite armor like the outer shell of a bug, it takes a second blow for him to stab through his black carapace, and reach his organs. The marine lets out a shout as Sevatar's gauntlet gets covered in bright red blood, and you can only watch in a frozen stare as he mangles the younger night lord's body into a crushed, bloody mess.

Sevatar finishes by standing up, and grinding his head into the floor with his boot, splattering blood all over the floor.

A few Night Lords pass by, rolling their eyes at the mess and speaking along the lines that he had it coming, for disobeying Sevatar.

One also mentions that Sevatar wasted a meal by crushing the Astartes like that, and even just the implications of him feasting on the man’s brain matter has bile rising in your throat.

Blood is still on your face from his initial attack, alongside whatever splattered your way as you laid on the floor and watch him crush your kidnapper. Sevatar leans closer, and he laughs when he smears it across your face with his gauntlet.

He’s examining you for any damage, and other than a sprained wrist from when the Night Lord dropped you to the floor, you’re unharmed.

“Messy.”

You say nothing, but instead lean forward and wrap your arms tightly around his neck. Sevatar noticeably stiffens.

He supposes in your mind he is your savior. The Night Lord who had broken into his quarters more than likely wanted to toy with you for a bit until you broke, then throwing you into the garbage.

It’s good to know that you’re attached to him. That you know he is your best option, and that you won’t consider trying to sneak off. While he loves it when you cry, when you beg him to stop, there’s also a part of him that loves that you want him. How lately, some of your begging has turned into cute little whimpers.

Picking you up off the ground to return to his quarters you latch to him like he’s going to drop you as well, arms around his neck.

He likes the feeling.

Perhaps some of the other Night Lords would prefer it if you ran, if you hated him, but Sevatar wants you to want him. He wants to feel that rush.

He hasn't had his armor off in about it a week, but they're safe enough in Imperium space; He can take it off for a bit.

He won't let you out of his sight while he does so however, setting you down right in front of the armoring platform as he has the serfs and mechanical arms take away piece after piece of ceramite. It can sometimes take almost a half hour to armor up a marine, removing the pieces is significantly shorter. He leaves his black armoring suit on to take off in his quarters, and pushes you back there like he’s herding an animal.

He looks briefly and notices how that Night Lord broken open the lock; He'll remember that.

He watches you quickly scurry inside of his quarters, his den, sitting on the bed and trying to pick at the astartes blood coagulating on your face. You look so small on the massive bed, and the way you curl your legs up exaggerates the difference.

"I was asleep when he broke in... I didn't have time to hide or find you."

Sevatar laughs at the idea of you being able to hide or run from an astartes.

"Just shows that I need to keep a closer eye on you. You make a lot of trouble for me."

The way you look at him is concerned. You think he's considering getting rid of you. That you cause too much trouble for him. That couldn't be less of the case. He knew what he was getting into when he stole from the Salamanders.

Walking closer he stands and towers over you, seeing the hesitation and fear in your eyes when his hand comes close to your face. Instead of your neck however, it wraps around your jaw, and he forces your mouth to open with his thumb.

"But you're a good little pet, aren’t you.”

He loves the way your mouth wraps around his thumb- warm, wet, like the inside of a wound. Your hands rise up to wrap around his wrist, while he pushes you down laying on the bed.

“I should get you one of those tattoos.”

Sevatar removes his thumb from your mouth and grips your hair, pulling your neck to the side and exposing you vein. He can see your heartbeat through your skin, along with the myriad of old scars and healing bites he’s left there.

It’s his favorite part of you; Nothing else is like the feeling of your life and soul between his teeth.

He drags his teeth down your neck and feels the way your hands clamber at his shoulders, until he finds a spot he likes and sinks his teeth in.

Your hands slap at his shoulders and you whimper, gasping in pain as his dull teeth pierce your skin. His tongue is coated in that tangy, iron taste, the salt of your skin mixing. You taste delicious- the feeling of your soft flesh underneath his hands and in his mouth makes his cock throb.

A part of him imagines biting down harder, drawing more blood and ripping your skin. The crunch of vein and bone. But he doesn’t want to damage you that much, and risk loosing his catch.

“W-what tattoo?”

You breathlessly speak. Sevatar knows some of the other- usually older - Night Lords have been tattooing their favorite serfs; Staking a claim on them.

He doesn’t need to stake claim on what everyone already knows is his, but the idea of his name, or his variation of the Night Lords symbol adorning your delicate skin rouses a part of him.

He bites again, and you take a sharp inhale- heels digging into the bed. Your thighs are forcibly spread apart to make room for his massive body, weight holding you down. He feels your heartbeat in his mouth, your very life is so close.

“You’ll see.”

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

The Eternal Night (Part 5/Finale)

Summary: After the destruction of Nostramo, Sevatar gets emotional and wants to see you.

Jago Sevatarion/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, power imbalance, violence, predator/prey, stockholm syndrome, noncon

Word count: 2581

Song: She Wants Revenge - Sister

Still he pulled back the sheets And said, "You better lie down, 'cause the angels are watching," She closed her eyes and said, "Quit the talking You can hurt me, do whatever you like,"

Sevatar had long since left the captain's bridge. The legionnaires lowered their heads, trying not to look at the man. The serfs, almost crying and trembling with fear, fled to their holes. Even the most fearless brothers tried not to get in his way, feeling the wrongness and creepiness. It was as if his dark soul had found a way to spill out. The air shook with his Gift, which he could not contain due to strong feelings.

There was little that surprised or awed the First Captain. His mind worked differently. The man still remembered the Zoa Tower, which Shang called beautiful. Sevatar could not understand how one could define something or someone as beautiful. However, now he could fully realize this when he saw the destruction of the world.

Nostramo, a world without sun and law, was destroyed no more than an hour ago. But Sevatar still saw the destruction of the universe before him. What was created by the Galaxy over millions of years disintegrated in a matter of minutes. How the threads of life were cut, tectonic plates shifted, and magma flooded the planet like blood.

It was a wonderful sight.

A sight that haunted him even after the world was left in ash, the ships set off far from their home system. Even when the first captain gave the order to kill every dissenter at Nightfall. Be it mortal or space marine. The primarch's order was law and they had to obey.

His family had long since died, and distant relatives served the Night Lords right here. Besides, he never liked his hometown. Tall mines in which one had to work until exhaustion. The smell of adamantium and black clouds full of toxic rain. The only thing he will miss is the crows.

Sometimes the man regretted that he had not taken them with him on the ship the last time they were on Nostramo. But years of self-control and meditation helped him cope with the consequences of the Gift. And with you, he completely forgot about his curse for a while.

You. Your image immediately appeared in his head when the red glow of the burning world disappeared from his black eyes. Sevatar immediately realized that he wanted to share this moment with you. He wanted you to feel the same way he did. A man wouldn't risk taking you to the porthole. He only liked to see you in his chambers. But maybe you can see it in his eyes?

Sevatar slightly opens the door to his quaters and remains on the threshold, not daring to enter. You sat at the very end of the room, legs crossed and ears covered. Rocked like a child, hoping to calm down. You felt Nightfall being torn apart by the countless number of weapons that were used. Heard the despair of the planet being destroyed.

If you were a psyker, did you hear the screams and tears of the dying?

You feel how the air in the room is changing, how your hair is electrified from a strange sensation. As long as you dare to look at the returning man. Your eyes, filled with fear, light up with a spark of hope.

“Is it over?” - much to the space marine's disappointment, yes. Apparently his face spoke for him because your eyebrows immediately furrowed. - “Sevatar, are you fine?”

The last time anyone showed concern about his condition was his mother. Huh, Sevatar didn’t think about her for many years. It's not that he misses her. But you appeared and images of his mother hugging him in the hope of easing the pain began to emerge in his mind. You did it better.

“Yes, little mouse, I’m fine.” - the man succeeds before going inside, locking the door. - “Now finally help me take off this armor.”

You quickly jump up and rush to the space marine, attentivelly and extremely carefully helping the man remove the second skin. You are too weak for such weight, but your delicate fingers easily cling to the necessary parts, giving the man the opportunity to remove the armor. You both are silent, each thinking about your own.

“That chronicler that we hung at the entrance. What did she do? - the words cut through the silence like water through a stone. Sevatar was about to leave, having discussed all important matters with the primarch, but a question arose by itself. He didn't even understand why he asked it. But worst of all was Konrad Curze's smile.

“Oh, she took part of the report on Piamen joining the Imperium. To make a list of questions and write a book. But without asking my permission and taking away important documents, theft was committed. The criminal deserved her punishment.”

Sevatar raises an eyebrow at the primarch's excuses. Not that he regretted the death of the annoying remembrancer. He didn’t care, besides, an order is an order, it must be carried out. It was just that he was partly amused by Curze's attempts to justify his thirst for violence as a noble act. The Night Lords were justice, but there was no point in denying their dark desires.

“Be that as it may, everything turned out only in your favor.” - pointed teeth stretch to their full length, like a crescent moon. - “No more keeping track of a useless crew member. And you began to sleep more often, didn’t you?”

“Are you scared?” - you nod confusedly and the man chuckles. He shouldn't have asked such an obvious question. Even though you were safe and began to perceive Nightfall more as a home, you were still an ordinary serf girl. For whom Cheraut Incident is akin to the end of the world.

The fact that Konrad Curze almost killed his brother, after which he hastened to hide in his native system, raised trepidation among mortals. The Night Lords were only too happy to mock their cousins, but even they were surprised at such a sharp attack from the primarch.

All the time on the way to Nostramo, the ships languished from human fear and the gloomy anticipation of the space marines. Opportunities to bring justice to their home world. Final and irrevocable judjment at the cost of billions of lives.

“The whole planet was thundering. And people screamed so much. I think I can still hear them crying. Or maybe my imagination is running wild, I-I don't know. I never would have thought that one of the worlds of the Imperium would fall in this way.” - you pull your head into your shoulders, putting the last detail back in place, realizing what you just said. - “Beg your pardon, my lord.”

“Hmm, it’s even a pity that you were hiding here. Seeing the whole world die is an unforgettable feeling. Especially if you came from it. Imagine if Terra was also destroyed.” - Sevatar grins, enjoying your surprised look.

“B-but that won’t happen, the Emperor won’t allow it.” - you were so frightened by the very thought of destroying the heart of the Imperium that you began to contradict your master. But Sevatar was in a good mood and he even liked your hope, flimsy as dirt.

The first captain doesn't answer you. Doesn't know what to say to this. If the Emperor so wishes, Terra can be destroyed in a matter of minutes. Or, on the contrary, the Legions would line up to protect the planet. But first and foremost, Sevatar served Konrad Curze. He was ready to carry out his orders first and foremost. Like now they have already destroyed the world. Their former home.

The man sits down on the bed, not taking his eyes off you. You fiddle with your hands, not daring to approach Sevatar until he gives you an order. Obedient girl. As you promised, you served him well and he appreciated it. Maybe he should have sent you to bed or touched your tattoo again as usual.

But today Sevatar was overwhelmed with feelings and he realized that this was not enough. He needed more. He didn't know what exactly he wanted from you. However, the desire to devour you took hold with incredible force as soon as he remembered the death throes of Nostramo.

The man pats the bed next to him. Sevatar chuckles as your eyes widen. Just like a crow. It's not that you were afraid, but the first captain's behavior was unusual. Even if he cares about you, the unknown is always scary. Especially on the Night Lords' ship.

You purse your lips and hesitantly approach the bed before lowering yourself onto it. The air filled with heat. The man continues to study you, not knowing what to do with you next. Until an idea comes to mind. Spontaneous and foreign, but it’s just right for a space marine. After all, why not satisfy his curiosity.

“Take off the top.” - you shudder, unable to understand the order. But your hands still reach for his shirt, as soon as Sevatar frowns. His voice drops, almost sounding like metal scraping. - “I won’t repeat it. Strip.”

You quickly remove the cloth, trying not to anger your master, looking at him carefully. Waiting like little prey to see what the predator's next move will be. But the snap of man's fingers pull you out of thoughts and you almost whimper, removing the fabric covering your breasts. You want to hide from the examining gaze, hug yourself with my arms. But you don’t do this, unable to move.

And Sevatar looks at you, unable to understand his train of thought. And why did he order you to do this? The body is like a body, ordinary mortal skin, on which it is easy to leave bruises (he can already see a couple) and easy to remove. The flesh is soft in comparison. Two bulges that reveal your femininity. Nothing special, he had seen naked bodies more than once in skinning pits.

But he can't turn his back on you. Something about you touches him. Sevatar clenches his teeth, almost growling. You cower, finally covering yourself, as if in one moment the man will tear you apart. In part, that's what he really wanted to do. Sink his teeth into the flesh, tear out pieces of meat, bury himself in your hair and remain in your scraps for an eternity.

Hearts sound loud and fast, echoing in a man’s head as he moves closer to you. Unwanted thoughts take over the mind, throwing all irrationality to the wind. He must touch you. He must tear you apart. Should kill you. Must be inside.

You can hardly breathe when a heavy hand touches your shoulder, caressing the tattoo. But this time Sevatar doesn’t turn you around with your back to him. Quite the opposite. With his other hand, the Space Marine throws your arms off your breast and presses your waist to him. The little heart is beating fast like a mouse caught in the clutches of a beast. The cheeks warm with the realization that the man is wearing only a loincloth.

The silence is abruptly interrupted by your short scream as Sevatar sinks his teeth into the line connecting the shoulder and neck. He was too cautious and careful so that you wouldn't break. But it still hurt you. The man licks your wound, enjoying your sobs. He fixes his gaze on you, hoping to see your suffering. And freezes.

Your eyes are wet, your mouth is slightly open. You were hurt, but there was something else in your face. Soft and gentle, long forgotten and buried in the depths of the minds of the Night Lords. But even as a mortal boy, Sevatar cannot remember a similar look. Only his mother looked at him like that, but still there was a difference. You didn't see him as a son.

You raise your hands and run your fingers over Sevatar's shoulders. Tender, fragile fingers that have never known hard work, have never held a weapon in their hands. Until you finally lock them behind his neck. You press your whole body against him so that he can feel your breasts.

For the first time in a long time, the man's breathing becomes unbearable. But not from pain, as usually happens in battle or because of the Gift. Sevatar would even say that he feels better than ever. His hearts began to beat even faster, and heat rushed through his body. You hissed in pain, feeling the hot skin beneath you. But you still clung to him.

“I can break you.” - he won't kill you. He won't let anyone hurt you. Any man who dares to look at you or speaks to say goodbye to his life. - “I am your master. And you are mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He didn't like to share. Never lived in the slums of the night city. Not now, when he took the place of first captain. If he wanted something (and this rarely happened), he devoured it without leaving a trace. The Terminators were loyal only to him. And you. You should have given yourself to him too.

Sevatar watches with a sigh as your eyes fill with tears, rolling down your cheek. He instinctively licks them, touching your cheeks with his tongue and lips. Your eyes. And your lips. The last part of the body especially touched his nerves, but the man restrains himself so as not to rip out your lower face with his teeth.

“Do whatever you like.” - you pronounce the cherished words with a breath and a groan. Before fearfully and hesitantly rushing towards the pale face of the killer holding you captive. Your lips touch the scar on your chin. - "I'm yours."

You're a good girl. You are very very good. It’s even a pity that you fell into the hands of a beast who can barely control himself. Which knows only how to kill, cut and torture. But he will learn. And may it always hurt you, you will enjoy it just like now.

Sevatar tilts you until your head hits the pillow. The man settles on top of you, squeezing your waist and shoulders. He runs his fingers over the tattoo. He remembers, no, he studies what has eluded him all these years. What he was deprived of as an Astartes.

His hand lands on one of your breasts and squeezes, making you squeak, digging your nails into his shoulders. A bloody grin runs across Sevatar’s face, causing drops of your own blood to fall on your face. His hips move against yours on their own, as if imitating a process erased from his code.

This is only an imitation perverted by chemical treatment. And even so, Sevatar realizes a simple truth. He wants to be inside. He wants to take his sword and plunge it into you up to the hilt. He wants to fill you up so that liters of blood pour out of you.

Sevatar peers into your face before burying his nose in your shoulder with a groan. The whole body and mind are overwhelmed by a contradictory feeling of peace and rage, merging into a strange symbiosis. There is a confession on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what the words are. Only one thing comes to mind.

“Call me Jago.” - the man almost closes his eyes from the coming sleep. Ahead there was only eternal night .

“This means?”

“Yes.”

[pallysuune]

Summery: The Raven takes you to his master - who's your new master too! You're just happy to be alive. But then you accidentally walk in on the two of them having some "private time"

Pairing: Sevatar/fem!Reader/Rushal

Warnings: Dubcon, little bit of blood, Sevatar and Rushal being Sevatar and Rushal. Smut.

A/N: Here's that part 2 for you all! I'm so glad you enjoyed the first one, and I hope you'll enjoy this one, too.

The Raven took you out of the maintinence corridor, pulling you by the hand. You even resorted to trying to grab a pipe to keep him from pulling you out. The Astartes sighed, reaching past your body to gently, but firmly, pull your fingers from around the pipe, one by one. You gave a desperate little sob as you were forced to let go and he began to lead you away once again. It wasn't long until he was pulling you out of the hatch to the maintinence tunnel and into a larger hallway where he could stand up fully. The Raven straightened, looming over you.

"I-" you started, the word halting sharply. You didn't even know what you were going to say, but your voice crumbled in your throat as he looked down at you. His expression was blank, but all the scarring turned it into a gruesome looking frown. You shifted uneasily back away from him, but he still had a hand around your wrist. You couldn't get away.

He paused for a moment, just looking at you. Then, the Raven sighed, bent down, and yanked you over his shoulder. You let out a startled squeal. Any idea of escape was shattered as he curled an arm around your thighs, clamping them in place. You were left hanging over his shoulder, staring down at his ass.

Not a view you ever expected to get, frankly.

The Raven carried you through the halls. You heard a few deep snickers from Night Lords you passed, but any serf kept their heads down, not even daring to look at you or the man carrying you. As you hung over his shoulder, you realized that you didn't actually know his name. A serf wasn't important enough to be told about new recruits, even when that recruit was a defector from another legion. And you'd only ever overheard Night Lords calling him 'the Raven', and sometimes talking about his relationship with the First Captain.

"Um..." you started.

He turned his head slightly toward you. You watched the sway of his long hair.

You figured you were going to die soon anyways, so why not go for it? "What's your name?"

He just looked forward again.

Well, okay then, you thought.

You spent the rest of the trip in silence.

The Raven brought you, unsurprisingly, to the private room of the First Captain, Jago Sevatarion. The one man you were trying to hide from.

Sevatar was out of his armor, sitting in a large chair and looking at a data slate that was immediately put aside when the door closed behind you and the Raven.

"Found a little mouse for me, have you?" Sevatar purred.

The Raven nodded, and then slipped you off his shoulder. You were set on your feet just in front of him. Large hands settled on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Sevatar rose from his seat and stepped close to you. Your heart pounded at being sandwiched between the two of them. You were trapped, ever instinct in your body screamed that you were in danger. Sevatar reached out, taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up to look at him.

"Are you afraid, little mouse?" he drawled, with a smirk that was absolutely wicked.

One you found inappropriately attractive, considering the circumstances.

His thumb pressed against your bottom lip softly. "I know you are. I can smell it," he smirked. His eyes held yours. He drew his thumb down so the nail pressed into your lip. It was uncomfortable, but not painful. But your heart raced all the same.

"Rushal," Sevatar said. You were confused for a second, before your scattered mind realized he was addressing the marine standing behind you, his hands still on your shoulders. Sevatar's gaze was still boring into yours. "What do you think we should do with our little mouse here?"

The hands on your shoulders tightened slightly. Sevatar finally looked away from you, lifting his head to look at the Raven. You were too afraid to look back at him, so you had no idea what Sevatar saw in his face, but Sevatar smirked. He released you, turned, and strode back over to the seat he had been in before.

"You will be my personal serf from now on," he said over his shoulder, casually. "You'll remain here with me, there's no need for you to report to anyone other than me now."

"Wait, what?"

He turned to look at you as he sat down, arching a brow. "Was I unclear?"

You shook your head so quickly and frantically, you probably would have fallen over if Rushal didn't still have his hands on you.

"Good. Now go fetch some armor polish."

You hurried to scramble out of the room.

*~*~*~*

Despite your initial fears, things turned out to be rather uneventful as Sevatar's personal serf. He preferred tending to his weapons himself, as well as the skins that decorated his armor. You were left to clean his armor when it needed it, straighten his room, and fetch things for him. You also tended to Rushal somewhat. He'd never had you clean his armor or anything, but you brought food or drinks for him as well as Sevatar. After several days, you realized you were less likely to be hurt or killed by the Astartes, and more likely to die of boredom when left to your own devices.

There was one thing that was certainly not boring - over the few days you had worked for him, Sevatar had made it quite clear that he wanted you.

You hadn't yet figured out if that meant sexually, or if he wanted to eat you.

Most of the time, you were in his room, working or passing the time, but he did allow you to eat one meal a day with the other serfs, letting you have some social interaction. Theoretically. Except, since you had become Sevatar's personal serf, none of the general serfs wanted to interact with her. It was as if they were afraid that they would draw the attention of other Night Lords. As if your status was somehow contagious.

One night you got tired of sitting and eating by yourself and decided to just finish your meal in Sevatar's room.

You opened his door and shut it behind you before turning - and promptly freezing, dropping the plate of food you'd brought with you from the mess. The clatter of it hitting the floor made both men glance at you.

Rushal was sitting, naked, on Sevatar's lap, his back to you, giving you a surprisingly lovely view of his back and ass, all impossibly pale skin and hard muscles and the glint of metal. He blinked at you, unashamed, but surprised by your presence. His lips - and Sevatar's - were smeared with red from where Sevatar had bitten his lip and drew blood.

Sevatar himself was lounging on the chair like a king in a throne, wearing only a pair of shorts from what you could see. His skin had only slightly more color than Rushal's, and his normally neat hair was a mess. His hands were still resting on Rushal's hips. He watched you intently with a look you could only describe as hungry.

His lips stretched into a grin. You could see blood on his teeth.

The sight snapped you out of your shock and you jumped, spinning around to put your back to them. "I'm sorry, sir! I-" You cut off, not sure what else to say.

You heard a deep chuckle behind you. "Are you? There is a way you can make it up to us, you know," Sevatar purred.

You felt heat rush to your face immediately. Your heart skipped and stumbled over itself.

"I know you want to. I can smell it," he continued.

He was right, you couldn't deny the thought had set off and fluttering tingle of arousal all through you.

You hestiated, and then turned slowly toward them. They were still sitting exactly as they had been before, watching you. You wet your lips.

"How?" you asked softly.

Sevatar smirked wider and held out a hand to you. A silent order to come over. You slowly stepped closer. As you reached them, Rushal slid off his lap, stepping back. It took a great deal of effort not to look over at the Raven, who moved to stand just to your side. Still naked.

You stopped in front of him and Sevatar leaned forward, grabbing your arm, pulling you into his lap. You gasped, your legs forced wide by the size of him beneath you. You could feel the hard press of his cock against you, impossibly large, separated from you only by thin layers of cloth. You squirmed on his lap, trying to get more comfortable, drawing a deep rumbling from his chest. He yanked you forward, his lips slamming into yours. His tongue shoved into your mouth, filling it with the coppery taste of blood.

Rushal's blood, you remembered.

The Raven pressed against you from behind, as silent as he ever was. He was kneeling, his chest pressing against your back as he reached around you to grasp your shirt and unceremoniously rip it open. You gasped, startled, while Sevatar only chuckled against your mouth. Someone's hands, you couldn't be sure who's, cupped your breast, squeezing it gently. A rough thumb rubbed over your nipple. Rushal's scarred, rough lips pressed against the back of your neck.

You knew then that you were done for. These men were going to kill you. Just in a very different way than what you'd expected.

There was nothing to do but lean into it. You kissed Sevatar back, leaning into him. One of them pulled at your pants, ripping them and your panties. You tensed as a finger brushed along your sex. Warm and rough, it traced along your lips, spreading them, and grazing your clit. You gave a shuddering sigh against Sevatar's lips.

A thick finger worked it's way into you. Fucking you slowly. Sevatar's finger, judging from the palm that pressed to your sex and ground against your clit as it did. You moaned, breaking the kiss to tip your head back, panting. Another finger teased your entrance from behind before Rushal slipped his fingers into you, too.

Both of the Astartes fingered you. You could barely comprehend what was happening at the moment. Not that you were doing too much thinking, at the moment. The sensations reeling through your body were just too much, too potent. Teeth nipped at your throat had enough to sting. Fingers pinched your nipple.

You were pushed to the edge. Your body was theirs to play with, and there was nothing you could do about it except grasp on to Sevatar's shoulders and hold on, screaming out your pleasure as you came around both of their fingers.

Hazy, you slumped back against Rushal as both of them slipped their fingers free. Sevatar reached out, snatching up Rushal's wrist and pulled his hand to his mouth, sucking your essence from his finger with heavy lidded eyes. You felt the soft moan that rumbled through Rushal's chest behind you.

Releasing his lover's hand, Sevatar sat up, pulling himself free of his shorts, and reaching for your hips. He lifted you and pulled you over him. You felt the velvet-smooth press of his cock head at your entrance, pressing into you, as he pulled you down onto him. You gasped, stretched around him, filled more than you could ever have thought possible.

Sevatar groaned, biting down a little harder on your neck this time, beginning to fuck you deeper and rougher with each moment. You mewled and moaned, your hips rocking desperately against his, lost in the muddled mix of pleasure and pain.

Sevatar's lips trailed up your neck, nipping at your earlobe. "Don't you think you're forgetting someone?" He purred.

Before you could respond, his fingers curled roughly in your hair and yanked your head around. Your eyes fluttered open to the sight of Rushal standing just beside you. His eyes were hooded, heavy as he looked down on you bouncing in Sevatar's lap, his hand curled around his cock, stroking himself. Your eyes trailed down the tense, trembling muscles of his stomach and abdomen, locking on his manhood. Your breath hitched. Without thinking, you leaned a little closer to him, opening your mouth as wide as you could.

Something sparked in his eyes, and he shifted closer, guiding the head of his cock to your mouth. You wrapped your lips around him, tongue teasing over the tip before you dipped your head, taking more of him. He groaned deeply, remaining still, letting you take him at your own pace.

Sevatar's hands dropped to your hips, gripping right enough they would surely leave bruised. Rushal's hand took their place in your hair instead. Sevetar bucked up into you roughly, where Rushal gave only the slightest flex of his hips. The contrast between the two of them was enough to drive you wild.

The three of you found a kind of rhythm, with Sevatar fucking you, and you bobbing on Rushal's cock. It was heady, intoxicating, the air filled with the scent of sex, and all three of you making the most obscene sounds. You couldn't last like that forever, pleasure pushing you to the limit once again until you felt like you were going to shatter into a million pieces. You whimpered around Rushal, your eyes squeezed shut. Tears beaded on your lashes. You came again, your pussy squeezing tight around Sevatar's cock, your keen of pleasure muffled by the one in your mouth.

Sevatar growled beneath you, and you could feel him throb inside you as he came, pumping you full of his release.

At almost the same time, Rushal pulled himself free of your mouth, taking himself in hand again, closing his fingers around the cockhead, grunting as he came into his hand. Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see, and you watched, mesmerized by the sight.

Hands slid from your hips to wrap around your waist and Sevatar pulled you down against his chest, still buried deep in you. You sighed, letting yourself relax on him as you felt Rushal step away from the two of you. Drowsy, you barely noticed when he returned a few moments later, and rested lightly on the arm of the chair, leaving back toward Sevatar. One of them was stroking your hair, but you had no idea who.

"Sleep," Sevatar rasped, amusement in his voice. "I'm sure we'll have more for you to do later."

You didn't doubt him in the slightest, and decided to take some time to rest while you had it.

[nightscythe]

no other life but ours

→ sevatar x reader (she/her) → 3.8k, nsfw 18+ → during...pre...heresy? before thramas, remembering his old friend that he definitely didn't love. key word devotion

“Don’t forget me,” he whispers onto your lips, swollen from his erratic movements earlier, dried out from his own touch. It feels pitiful as you squirm beneath him, enthralled by his movements, growing used to the pain and the stretch of his altered body. He almost growls as he feels you rock your body into his. “Don’t… forget this.” 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

He felt nothing.

Or at least, that was the lie he told himself. 

The air inside the Nightfall is stale. Heavy. The scent of old blood and engine oil suffocates every sense. And yet, something else seeps through the cracks of reality. Memory drags him back—back to a time before war, before fate. 

He leans against the bulkhead, arms folded and held discarded at his feet. Through the smallest slit of void glass, he sees the abyss of the universe behind them, any light swallowed by the eventual darkness in its path. The only reason they shone still was that no one had destroyed them—yet. 

He hated looking at them, yet his eyes were fixed on them. They mocked him. Remind him of the home he once had. The life that he lost. The light he had destroyed. 

He thinks of you. For a moment his eyes become unfocused, the hum of the engine taking over as his mind drifts. Time had blessed him with enough of a pause for one memory to come back to him.  

“Another fight?” You had asked him, looking across to him with a frown. He had been too interested in the stars then, wondering what the vast expanse of the universe had to offer. He’d ignored how you were so fervent in your movements, rushing to his side when you realised his cheek was bleeding. He’d only looked down to you when you spoke again. “Do you not care?”

He'd laughed at you then. Asked you candidly, “why would I care?”

You’d traced your fingers over the cut, so soft he could barely feel it. His blood was cleaned up and you’d applied something to the wound that meant it stung a little less. He’d watched you, examined every movement you made, and still at that time he had lost to his own stubbornness and nihilism. 

“Because I care,” you’d answered. It wasn’t something he didn’t already know. Every time you’d say the same thing, and he’d look the other way and pretend to himself that his feelings were weakness. This time, you’d taken it further. “You fight like you have nothing to lose.”

He remembers the smog that covered the streets. How he’d almost choked on the dust and grease that lined the air as he’d fought with a man over something completely irrelevant. The rooftop he usually found you on was the smallest escape from that. No matter what he did, no matter how he felt, he had always found himself walking up the metal grated stairs to the side of the building, knowing you’d be at the top waiting. 

Yet, he had the audacity to tell you what he honestly thought, “maybe I don’t have anything to lose.”

“You do,” you had answered him. He should have known it then. He should have realised. He should have listened. 

Because the truth was, he hadn’t killed a man over something irrelevant. He’d killed a predator out of fear that you’d be a victim. He’d almost ran all the way back here in fear that he wouldn’t find you here. When he’d found you, he felt relief. He felt… weakness. 

Purpose. Peace. Devotion.

A conversation behind him distracts him momentarily. He looks back over his shoulder, but nothing catches his eye. He can’t bring himself away from the pointless memories flooding his mind. He tries, so desperately, to not think about the past. This had been bred out of him. He had been built to not feel. Yet he did, because he remembered everything he had felt before – but he only now understood it. The purpose of protecting you. The peace of knowing you were there. How he had once devoted himself to you. 

Beneath the plates of his armour, in the middle of his forearm, was an old, hidden scar that was barely visible without prior knowledge. He hadn’t seen it, or thought about it even, in years. It wasn’t one from his time in the legion, nor one from a fight on the streets of Nostramo. It was from you. 

He knew he was leaving, ready to begin his training as a scout in the legion. He was older than the others when selected for the process, so he had more time than expected. He wasn’t sure if you understood properly that he was leaving, that you were unlikely to see him again. You’d stayed with him, you’d never wanted to leave. 

He shuts his eyes for a moment. He revels in the brightness that comes back to him. The familiar scent of the smog replaces the blood and fuel. Your laugh, like a church bell in a village. 

He’s back on Nostramo in a second. The air, thick with smoke and burnt metal. The stars ever-present above. 

“I won’t return here to see you have fallen to one of those common street scum,” Jago says, picking a black handled and bladed knife from the canvas roll bag left on the edge of the rooftop. He holds in by the blade, careful in his movements as he passes it to you. “You will need to protect yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow, not yet taking the knife from him. “I already do that.”

“Perhaps.” He hadn’t yet revealed the true reason she was kept safe from the cruel world Nostramo had to offer. “I would… feel better knowing you had learned something from me, though.”

You nod, taking the knife from him and holding it loosely in your hand. The knife felt cool in your palm, the black handle worn smooth from use. The weight of it was foreign, but his eyes—watchful, measuring—urged you to hold it tighter. 

“A good start would be to hold it tight,” he says. You look from him, down to the knife, and back to him with a slight smile, adjusting your grip so it is somewhat tighter in your hand. He tries his best to hide his amusement in return. “That will have to work. Keep that one with you. When you go out at night, when you return from work or whatever keeps you busy, you hold that in your hands in your pocket and you prepare to pull it on anyone who comes within a foot of you. Understood?”

You nod once. 

“Aim for the lower arms, or their thighs, anywhere with a major artery or somewhere they hurts. You know what people are like down there. They care little for you, or even themselves.” He demonstrates the slashing of the knife with an empty hand, gesturing for you to copy. Though your actions seem feeble compared to his, he doesn’t comment. “Try it on me.”

“No,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine. I’m not going to end up harming you because of your irrational fears.”

He hums. “They are not irrational, and you wouldn’t be fine in any situation.”

“I will be fine,” you tell him again, reasserting your position. 

“You will be killed.” His words are the truth he knows. He moves towards you, stopping a couple of feet away, arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t need to harm me. Just try it.”

Though you don’t appear happy to oblige, there really isn’t another option for you. You haphazardly copy some of his actions, little effort behind his movement, making sure to keep your distance from him. Of course, that meant your movements were poorly timed and executed with little precision – something he noticed immediately. 

“At the very least, the birds and the cats will be scared of you,” he remarks, holding his hand up for you to stop. He grasps your wrists with both his hands and moves you to a better position, one much closer to him but appearing far stronger. “Again, but like I’m a human, not a small animal.”

You nod again this time, copying the motions with more precision. Feeling more confidence, you had move ever so closer to him, but as quickly as that feeling came it was gone. He had barely felt the slice of the knife across his forearm, breaking the skin but barely cutting him deeply. He wouldn’t have reacted, if not for you panicking and ushering him apologies over and over. 

He had tried to tell you it was fine, but you didn’t let him get a word out. You ripped the bottom of your top, which was the closest you had to any kind of bandage, rolling it into a ball and holding it against the wound as you told him sorry a few more times for good measure. He didn’t care. He was only glad to see you could protect yourself.

As you hold the ripped piece of your clothing against his arm, trying your best to save him from any unnecessary blood loss, he can’t help the quiet stare aimed down at you. He’d felt your fingers on him a thousand times before, rushing to help him with a wound he’d got on the streets. Yet he could feel something different building behind each movement. 

“I’m…” you look up to him with wide eyes, lips slightly gapped as words fail you. He offers you a small smile as he shakes his head, trying to pull his arm away. You don’t let him though. You never let him. “Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” he tells you, honestly, though doesn’t pull his arm back again this time. He lets you inspect the wound, small as it may be, and press the clothe into it some more. “When someone actually becomes a threat to you, do the same, but actually hurt them.”

“That didn’t hurt?”

He shakes his head. “No. You can’t hurt me.”

You look back to him, slower this time. Your hands stop working around his arm, the slight stinging from the cut ceasing as well. Though he hadn’t thought of it, the implied meaning of his words had caught you off guard. 

“Will you come back?” you ask. 

He pauses for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to come back?”

“To Nostramo?” he asks, recalling the number of times he had told you how badly he wished to leave and explore what the galaxy had to offer. The answer was no – but that wasn’t what you wanted to hear. “Or, to you?”

You pause. Your gaze shifts down to the ground. For years, it had been a silent acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure if you had hidden your feelings because of him, or his future, or whether they only existed for him. The longer you waited to answer him, the more he felt like it was the latter, until you looked back up to him and placed your hand gently over his chest. 

“To me,” you affirm, “would you come back for me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t think. He lets his body, his heart, take over any action there was left in him. He leans down to you, stopping only millimetres away, as the sound of his heartbeat filling his ears. Any last sentiment of restraint disappears in seconds. 

He presses his lips to yours, heart throbbing, thoughts still leaving him. The hand on his chest is pressed a bit harder, the tips of your fingers pulling at the fabric which covers his skin. His hand, so much bigger than your own, reaches up to up your cheek, holding you tightly against him as though to tell you the answer to your question. Forgotten is his arm, the cut, what had happened – all the existed was you. 

He can barely feel you through his calloused fingers, but the warmth is unlike anything the world could otherwise offer him. After a moment, he pulls back from you, your breath hitting his skin as another reminder as to what you meant to him. He still holds you, too tight for someone who claimed not to care, but soft enough to show you his despair.  

There’s no other meaning behind his movements. The recklessness at his fingertips as he pulls you back to him and kisses you once more. This time, he holds you with both his hands. Forgotten is your apology, or the world around you both. He acts on impulse. Desperation. 

“Jago—”

“Don’t,” he tells you, lips ghostin your own. The sensation sends a shiver down his spine. Your hand still grips his top, almost willing it off his body. The other hovers over the waistband of his trousers. “Tell me to stop. Tell me.”

You shake your head. “No. Not now.”

“Good.”

His breath was warm against your skin, each exhale laced with a hesitation he refused to voice. His hands, calloused from years of combat, explored with surprising reverence—an unspoken prayer written in touch. The universe outside ceased to exist, the endless abyss forgotten in the feverish need between you both.

He wasn’t even sure how it had escalated. One moment, a breath shared between you. The next, hands roaming, cloth discarded, the heat of skin against skin branding itself into memory. The smaller moments had been wiped from his mind by time—but not the way you had looked at him, as though he had been something worth holding onto.

He’d run his hands over your body, feeling the curves of your bones beneath the tips of his fingers, watching as you shivered in anticipation from the way he hovered over your nipples. He’d seen women before. But you were different. H wanted to understand every inch of you. As time passed, he only remembered you for the statues held on terra of an old world that worshipped women as the most beautiful pieces of art. 

And then you were on the floor, and he was about to have his way with you. 

It didn’t seem to matter that the floor was covered in stones, ash, and chips of cement. You ignored it for him. 

Somewhere below, the streets of Nostramo carried on in their endless cycle of blood and ruin. The distant shouts, the clang of metal on metal—it all faded into nothing. Up here, on this rooftop, there was only him. Only you. Only the desperate press of bodies and the silent, wordless promise that neither of you could speak.

His fingers curl around the band of your own pants, underwear too, pulling them over your hips and dragged down your thighs with little care for the burn it leaves in its wake. He can feel you watching him, though he never looks up to you. He edges your legs apart, estranged movements catching you off guard. His frantic, primal movements were not typical of the man he had been trained to be. 

He can feel you wither beneath him. A stolen glance as he looks up to you reveals the most innocent eyes; the keenest of lips. He spares any pleasantries. Two fingers part your lips, already slick with need, before stopping on the nub. He flicks it once, twice, exulting in the whimper that leaves your lips. He feels a smirk rising on his lips, though it lasts only a matter of seconds – his hunger, desire, had taken over. 

“Shall I stop?” he says, moving closer to your core. You shake your head, softly telling him no as you practically hand yourself to him. He doesn’t need a second confirmation. 

He lays his rough, cracked lips on the inner of your thigh savouring the taste of flesh that remained untainted. He feels you move beneath him and brings his hand to your thigh to keep you still. Just a taste, he wanted. Just to know what it was like before everything changed. 

“Please,” he hears from above, faltering his concentration momentarily. He looks up once more. “Jago. Plea—.” 

He wouldn’t have made you beg. That wasn’t him. Not with you. 

His tongue feels so hot against you, so big. One lap is all it takes to have your back arching, his tongue flat against you, then pointed directly over your nerves. He wonders, he fucking wonders, why he hadn’t ever done this before. He was controlled, he was patient, but throne it was more than anything he had ever seen before to have you falling apart at his fingers. 

It wasn’t practice. There was nothing that prepared him for this. It was sheer instinct. Need. He wanted to hear you cry for him, whine, moan his name over and over. 

Nothing is skilful about what he does, nothing even makes sense. He treats it like a kiss, though eating you out is nothing more than savouring the taste of someone he… loved. 

He hears you whine as he pulls away, his lips glistening with your wetness. His sinful eyes meet yours, darker than before, and its like he had killed a man for this first time again. But now, it was not death, it was something far more meaningful. 

“I want to come back,” he says as he picks up your thighs. He pulls them over his shoulders, so your sex is right beneath his face. He leans down for another taste and feels his own hips twitch as you cry from the vibrations of his words. “I want to come back to you.”

He feels your hips tighten around his head, impatient to his touch. He felt sloppy. Imprecise. His tongue had lost any direction, he just wanted everything you could give him. He corrects his earlier words without missing a drop. “For you.”

He pulls away a moment later. He can hear the disappointment in the breath you take, eyes searching for his to discover why he had stopped. Why had he left this so long. Why had he waited until now.

“I need more,” he tells you, honestly. You rush to nod, allowing him to set you down on the ground with your legs still parted for him. He hastily unbuttons his trousers, not caring to remove them, only pushing them down far enough to not interfere. His yearning couldn’t be hidden. He kneels between your legs like its his god-given right. “More. I need…”

The words never come to him. You’d opened your legs just a bit wider, flashed him the eyes that had brought him here, and he had forgotten everything else he wanted to say. He doesn’t even think to prepare you. He forgets how much bigger he is now. He just wants. 

A choked whine leaves your lips with as he enters you. His cock pulses, begging for sensation, but he stops at just the tip. He cared, he didn’t want to hurt you. Yet he could only wait a second before the rest of him is shared.

He can feel your body seize beneath him, unable to move; not wanting to move. Your eyes are shut, embracing how all of him feels. Goosebumps travel down your skin, and though you suppress the shiver across your body, he feels you clench around him, and it makes him fall to his arms above you. 

He holds himself on one hand as the other finds your own. He almost pins you down, entwining his fingers with your own as he pulls his hips back and drives his cock into you again, quicker this time, more forceful. 

“Don’t forget me,” he whispers onto your lips, swollen from his erratic movements earlier, dried out from his own touch. It feels pitiful as you squirm beneath him, enthralled by his movements, growing used to the pain and the stretch of his altered body. He almost growls as he feels you rock your body into his. “Don’t… forget this.” 

It was never meant to be kind. Throne, he wishes he’d have taken the time to tell you just how much he loved you, but he never knew himself. In that moment, he just wanted to feel you, to not forget you, to hold onto a memory for the rest of his life. 

And he did. 

He felt the throbbing in the pit of his stomach. The way your breaths barely made it to the surface before another game. Just the galaxy surrounded you both. Just you, Jago, and the stars. 

He had felt your body clench onto him, hold onto him as you released every second of tension and feeling gathered over the years together. But it was the way you moaned. His name, or possibly just a sound – he had always told himself it was the final time he had heard you utter his name.  

A pathetic whimper leaves his lips as he feels his own cock twitch, spilling his own warmth into you. He didn’t move, keeping himself buried in your deepest parts, staring down at you with absent and longing eyes. 

Not another word was said. 

He’d considered it. Thought about telling you, revealing to you that this was more than just friendship. Protection. He didn’t just want to do this because it happened. It wasn’t natural course of events. 

But he had hesitated, and he’d thought about it for too long. There was no more talking. No more feelings. 

You both laid there, the stones, ash and chips of concrete grating both of your backs as you laid on the rooftop, looking at the stars above. The wide expansive universe that he wanted to explore so desperately. The light of the stars yet to be destroyed. The abyss of the darkness behind. 

He was meant to forget. You. The moment. He was never meant to think of it again. The morning had come and taken him to his new life. 

Yet, as he stared through the slit of void glass into the abyss, he remembered it all. 

“Daydreaming, First Captain?” a voice interrupts. It brings Sevatar back to reality, the cold edges of the voice ringing in his ears. He looks around at his brother, though pays little attention. “You’ve been requested at the bridge.”

He only nods in response. 

The thoughts are shaken from his head. He didn’t need to remember. He didn’t even need to care. Not about the moment, or about you. So many years had passed, death would have come for you by now, if not another citizen of the home you once shared. He’d asked you to not forget, him, the moment you had shared, but he did not doubt you had moved on. Found a new person to clean up, to cherish, to love. 

But he did not forget. 

He never moved on. Never found another. The Legion was his life, his father was his ruler, the Emperor his distant god. And as he stood there, staring into the abyss, he knew—he would never stop looking for you in the spaces between the stars.

He did not feel for them. He did not need to be mocked by the stars as a reminder of what could have been. A reminder of his hesitation, of his failure to acknowledge just what it meant. 

He felt everything. 

✧.✧

a/n: oh yes baby I wrote it!! i have been thinking about this man for days. i offered to buy my boyfriend night lords armour. think i'm a bit unhinged but ITS DONE BABY. hope you liked it!! I will post more x you instead of OCs as sometimes I get a bit lost in my dreams (promise) 🖤💙

[echo-of-damnation]

Sugar So Sweet p.2

Part 1

Tags: Jago Sevatarion/Fem!Reader, boot humping, choking, squirting, HELLA smut, public sex, violence (Sev kills some guys), pet reader, degradation, mentions of breeding

Echo's echo: I couldn't stop. It was like I was under a spell. I didnt think I would add to this but I thought about boot worship and it was over. Sev is very protective and i think its hot. I hope yall understand

Words: 2,301

The beating heart of the ship was a place you rarely got to visit. The constant flow of serfs and Night Lords had overwhelmed you at first, sending your heart racing as panic slowly dripped into your veins. Sev had noticed it on your second visit there, smelling the fear seep out of your skin, something he enjoyed from time to time in the privacy and protection of your shared room, but here it sent his protectiveness into overdrive. Catching glimpses of his brothers hungry eyes as they too began to notice the fear roll off you for the first time, he had taken you right then and there, pushing you into a mating press so deep you thought you would surely break. It was quick and dirty, biting and bruising any skin within his reach. His animalistic side had him baring his teeth and growling at the offending brothers. He made it clear that day that none would ever look at you again.

Sitting on a soft pillow in the same midnight blue of the legion, you leaned against his leg, basking in the feeling of Sev distractedly running one his hand through your hair as he listened to one of the personnel in charge of navigating the ship. The guests he had spoken about were late, but you didn’t mind. It was a rare treat to leave the room that had become your whole world. You closed your eyes as your heart fluttered thinking of how good your Master treated you.

You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep until you heard the door to the helm hiss open, heavy footsteps echoing in to the room. Sev made no attempt to move to greet them after they had wasted his time by making him wait. You sat up straighter knowing you were to look and be on your best behavior, tucking your legs under you and straightening your shoulders. You held your head high to ensure the tag with Jago’s name was the focal point of your chest.

As the fellow Night Lords filed in and took their designated places, their Captain stepped forward. He was slightly taller than his subordinates, his black eyes stark against his scarred skin. A burn mark that covered his lower jaw and down his neck making him look closer to a warp born monstrosity than the powerful Night Lords that Sev commanded. He dipped his head down towards Sev as a greeting grunting his thanks for the short notice meeting. Jago just stared into the man, shifting back in his captain’s chair to lean against one of the arms.

You could feel your Master’s patience thinning as his guests droned on about the reasons for their meeting. It was rare you got to see him at work and seeing him now with these men fighting for his time and respect filled you with pride. Your master was important and strong in the legion. As you continued to daydream about the command Sev demanded in any room, your pride slowly shifted into something different, something deeper.

Shifting slightly from this new feeling in your lower region, you could feel some of his seed from earlier drip out of you, sending a shiver up your spine and a barely audible breathy moan escape your lips. The small noise breaking the concentration of the visiting marine, his eyes moved to look at you as if noticing you for the first time. Your skin prickled as you saw him slowly drag his eyes over you, it made you feel sick. Jago, ever aware of the situation, slammed one of his fists into the arm of his chair. “If you stop speaking again, I will make sure you return to your ship as new cloaks for you men,” the venom in his words almost palpable.

The visiting captain wasn’t fazed by the threat, taking his time in returning his attention to Jago, “Apologize brother, I was unaware you kept whores amongst your serfs. Perhaps later we may- “

“Finish that sentence and I will rip your hearts our through your mouth. Now speak of leave,” Jago’s voice was deafening in the closed room.

You could see the captain seethe at this new threat, looking over at one of his retinues. “I meant no offence brother,” the man said through clenched teeth but not wanting to cause any trouble, he continued with his speech.

Seeing your Master defend you against his own was almost too much for you. The blatant threat to one of his own’s life went straight to your aching pussy. You wanted to show your gratitude to your Master for protecting you, you needed to feel him inside you so he could understand how grateful you were. You knew if you were to act out, the punishment would be swift and severe so as to not bring shame to you or your Master, you stayed as still as you could. Which was easier said than done as Jago had decided to place a protective hand back on your head.

Absent mindedly he began to play with your hair again as his guest continued. It was a different sensation when he did this in armor, the cold hard metal biting into your scalp as his hand kneaded your hair, slightly tugging on it. The feeling was borderline euphoric, the relaxing pace and pressure paired with the slight pain of the scratches from the metal. You closed your eyes trying to keep yourself together. Shifting slightly to try to ease the desperate need between your legs only seemed to make the coil in your belly tighten. The smell of your arousal slowly filling the room.

Jago seemingly unaware of the torment he was putting you through, moved his hand away and back to the arm rest. A needy whine escaped you at the loss of attention, sending your eyes wide. You didn’t mean to make any sounds and your body betrayed you. The room stilled once more as now all the eyes of the visiting party were on you drinking in your flushed skin. Those who were under the command of Jago had known better to look your way, but these guests were showing that they were men with no regard for another man’s property.

Jago Sevatarion was not a man to have his patience tested twice. Sensing his brothers growing arousal, he needed to show them to whom you belonged. Pushing out his leg closest to you, all he said was a simple command of “on” and you knew what you needed to do.

Crawling slowly over to be facing him, you sat yourself on his boot. The cold metal sending a shock through your desperate cunt. You placed your arms around just under his knee to keep yourself balanced. You sighed as you situated yourself, so you felt the hard metal press sinfully against your clit, cooling the heat that had been building in you. Jago looked down at you, his nostrils flared as he took in the pink flush that was spreading across your chest and the drunken look in your eyes. The obvious possessive anger in his eyes doing little to help your growing need.

“Ride.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You began to rock your hips against his boot, mouth falling open from the delicious pressure on your aching clit. “Harder.” You put more of your weight into it, humping his boot with the need to cum. You leaned yourself back slightly so that your pussy humped the junction of his leg and foot, the drag of your clit across the metal growing easier as you coated his leg in the last of the cum he put in you and with the new slick that gushed out of your hole. Throwing your head back you bit your lip to try to keep quiet.

Jago quickly leaned forward and wrapped a large, armored hand around your delicate throat. “Let them hear you my sweet pet. Let them know how good it feels to fuck your pathetic cunt against my boot,” Jago growled into your ear before forcing his tongue down your throat. A moan ripping out of your chest and into his mouth.

“What the fuck is this!” one of the guests had said what their group was thinking before Jago leaned back from you, grabbing the bolt pistol as his side and put a bullet between the mans eyes.

You stuttered with the moment of violence before Jago took one of your nipples between his fingers and pulled, “You will not stop and you will not cum, am I clear?”

You went back to your desperate humping and nodded. Not cumming was going to be hard but you were more than excited to build your orgasm for him. Jago let you go and sat back in the chair, setting the gun on the arm of the chair pointing at the group. “My pet has grown needy. This meeting will continue and if anyone so much as breathes out of line, well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.” The only sound that could be heard before the visiting captain continued was the wet squelching of your pussy humping Jago’s leg and your desperate moans.

“…Very well.” The other man said before clearing his throat to tell Jago the difficulties in finding more armor.

You slowed your pace as you felt yourself nearing the edge but keeping the pressure hard on your clit. This was a rare treat to fuck yourself on a part of him but now with the knowledge that you had an audience only made it sweeter. Leaning forward you began to lick his armored knee, needing to feel something in your mouth, to taste some part of him. Jago wasn’t paying attention to the offending visitors, watching you fuck yourself stupid against him.

He reached a hand down toward your mouth, offering you one of his fingers to suck on. You took it greedily, moaning around the digit as you took it all the way to the base. Running your tongue around the cold metal, letting the metallic tang bite into your tastebuds. You were a drooling, sweaty mess as he pushed a second finger in your mouth, your lips stretching around them. With his other hand he took a fist full of your hair, a pained whine leaving you as he stilled your bobbling head. Slowly began to trust his fingers into your mouth, going deeper and deeper with each push until he was all but curling them down your throat. Gagging on them, tears began to stream down your face. Darkness forming around your vision with the loss of oxygen and all you could do was look into his eyes. You could see a primal need in them that only pushed you further. He wanted you here and now. He wanted to stake his claim on you in front of these poor excuses of brothers and you wanted him just as much. Wanted to feel his cock push into you, feel it push against your womb. You wanted to feel him cum in you over and over again till your belly bulged from his seed.

Jago took his fingers from your mouth and replaced them with his tongue once again. The slapping of your cunt against his leg growing louder. You couldn’t even tell if the man was still speaking. You felt your juices pooling around your knees as you continued to leak your arousal on his boot. Pulling away until his forehead rested against your he began to praise you, “Such a good girl. You are doing so well. Does your cunt ache for me? Do you long to feel me fuck into you?” All you could do was attempt to answer but you were too drunk on pleasure to form words. “That’s it, fuck your self on my boot. I can hear how desperate you are. Would you like to cum? To show these men who makes you feel this good?”

It was too much, the mix of the cold hard metal against your clit, the feeling of your Master pulling your hair and his hot breath against you. Tears were falling freely now and you desperately fucked yourself against him. “That’s it. Good girl. My sweet pet. Cum for me and make it loud.”

You needed no further instructions. Slamming your cunt against his leg, your orgasm ripped through you. A scream tearing through your throat as you felt yourself squirt against his leg. Stars filled your vision as your climax rocked through your body. You hips stuttered as the stimulation became overwhelming. Your body giving up in the glow of your orgasm, your hands slipped from their grip on Jago’s leg. Before your body could hit the floor, he caught you, cradling your exhausted form against his chest.

With you securely in his arms he stood from the chair and began to take you back to your shared room. Struggling to open your eyes, you caught a glimpse of Jago’s subordinates dragging away the bodies of the visiting brothers. You could see some of them cleaning their claws of the blood from the visitors. You tried to speak but Jago shushed you. “Nothing to concern yourself with my sweet. The had stepped out of line and rather than disturb your enjoyment, my men took care of them,” the words barely taking hold in your fuzzy brain, “Now let us continue this in our bed. You deserve a treat for your good behavior today.” Your heart sang with his words. Closing your eyes and resting your head against his chest, you let yourself drift off for the trip back to the room. The sound of your Master’s twin hearts filling you with warmth.

[mothiir]

So how would a non-con totally casual affair between Sevatar x reader workout?

Fair warning, this turned into a bit of an essay :’)

In the books, it’s pretty strongly implied that there is something ‘not quite right’ about Sevatar — maybe he’s a sociopath, or maybe it’s just the general uncanniness of being a psyker. However, its enough for me to think that he probably isn’t the sort to muck in with his brothers every time they take a world and find some pretty women — I’m not saying that he disapproves, more that he just considers it all a little dull. Rape is just one of many crimes that his brothers commit, and most of his sexual appetites have probably been sublimated either into bearing the colossal weight of holding the majority of the Night Lords’ common sense, or into fighting back his latent psyker ability.

So, in a pre-heresy world — just because I like writing about things before everything crashes and burns (and because I don’t want to learn the heresy lore, there’s so much of it) — Sevatar is focused largely on torture-kill-flay. He also suffers from crippling migraines from said repressed psychic ability. The only thing that soothes the pain is the sound of crow wings flapping; back on his home planet he fed the crows bits of corpse, and although I’m not sure if he brought them with him when he travelled off with Konrad I’m going to say yes, because crows are great.

The reader is probably fairly new to Night Lord service — a conscript from one of the more compliant worlds, rather than a trophy of conquest, because Night Lord trophies don’t tend to last long. You’re doing your best to adapt to your new reality, keeping your head down, avoiding notice. The other serfs warn you that there are really only a few ways to deal with the inevitable attentions of bored Night Lords: get really good at hiding, deliberately make yourself look as unappealing as possible, or find one of the more tolerable Astartes and hope that he can be convinced to protect you in exchange for your body. That last one comes with considerable risk — Astartes are fickle, cruel things, and stories abound of poor women being bedded one day and flayed the next.

You have chosen to hide. That is why you find yourself in a corner of the Night Fall, eating the scraps of your breakfast, when you see a crow. For a moment, you think you’re hallucinating — then you realise that no, that is really a crow. They’re found all over the galaxy, spread by long-forgotten human colonisers, though this one is a little larger than the ones you are used to. Still, you give it a crust of bread, because it looks skinny, because you want to, because even now in the belly of hell you want to try and hold tight to the last lingering shreds of your decency. You are human, no matter how the creatures around you act.

It becomes a habit. You sneak off to feed the crows, and they come to recognise you, cawing in excitement when you arrive. You can never feed them more than a little bit of bread or some scraps of meat, but they don’t seem to care. They perch in your hair, peck at your ears, yell at you and at each other like fishwives announcing their catch. You imagine that they are treating you to all the latest gossip, and find yourself talking back to them. You tell them that you are lonely. That you are frightened. That even the other humans here are warped and bitter, and you pray that you will die before you become like them. And then you admit that isn’t true: that you don’t want to die. You want wings, you say, wings and keen black eyes. The freedom of a bird.

It’s all nonsense, of course, and you know in your heart that it cannot last — you’re certain that soon one of the other serfs will see you sneaking off and move to eliminate the birds, seeing them as pests. But, selfishly, you cannot bring yourself to stay away from them. Once or twice they bring you gifts in return for food: a veterbrae you’re almost certain is human in origin. A bit of skin, complete with tattoos. You graciously accept both, discarding the skin at the first opportunity, but keeping the bone. At least the bone doesn’t smell of death, and you can pretend it is something else. You keep it in your pocket, where it is swiftly worn smooth by your grasp.

And one day, it all changes. You sit in your usual place, with one crow in your hair, another in your lap, when the cawing starts up once more. Not a warning, but a welcome. An unseen door opens; the flock descends, and you’re left with two birds and the rabbit-pulse of your heart on your tongue. You don’t know who the First Captain is — your new masters haven’t really informed you of more than what is needed to do your duty — but you know that he is a Night Lord, and that you are dead. You wonder if he will spare the crows — you hope he will. Or maybe they will escape, with black wings and swift talons, and —

He’s feeding them. You freeze, once again thinking that this isn’t real, you must be hallucinating, and one of the crows takes advantage of your sudden lack of movement. She pulls a strip of flesh from the hunk of dripping red meat Sevatar holds, and flutters over to you, taking up position on your shoulder.

She then tries to ram the meat into your mouth. Crows, after all, are clever birds, and this one has been a mother thrice over, and she knows what starvation looks like. To her, you are a frail flock member, a chick in need of fattening up — and crows share with those who share with them. When you recoil, hand coming up to block her insistent jabs, she chatters impatiently, and pecks you smartly on the cheek in reprimand.

Sevatar laughs at the display. You’ve never heard a Night Lord laugh, because you’ve never been in a situation they find entertaining — which is much to your benefit, because those situations normally leave serfs dead or wishing they were. The sound distracts you, and the crow mother finally succeeds in jabbing the meat past your teeth. Horrified, you swallow, praying it isn’t human, and wondering if that’s it — if you are already dead, and this is some absurd afterlife hallucination.

For his part, Sevatar is interested. It takes a lot to ignite any curiosity in his jaded mind, but here you are, like a flash of iridescence on a magpie’s wing; something bright amongst the monochrome.

He has you feed the crows with him, noting how gentle you are with them, even when they leave your hands bloody with acquisitive little pecks — nothing malicious about it, only that they are scavengers, and sometimes you do not magic the food up fast enough. You tell him your name and your position in a trembling voice, and he informs you that you have been reassigned. You do not question this. You do not question much — it’s how you have survived so long.

He takes you to his quarters, and of course you fear the worst at once, doing some mental arithmetic — he seems to be almost eight feet tall, and preportionately large everywhere — but he directs you to a (slightly stained) sofa and throws a blanket at you. He doesn’t trust the other serfs, he says, not to have a go on you. You flush, assure him that none of them have even hinted at it, and he looks surprised. Normally the older servants go straight for the pretty new girls.

Congratulations, you’re now Sevatar’s personal serf. It’s a fairly easy job, all things considered. No heavy lifting (he can take his own armour off) and no caring for human hides (he can tan his own cloak, thank you very much). On your first day polish his armour obsessively, because you don’t have much else to do. He asks you why you have repainted his pauldrons and you have to — gently — say that no, that’s just the colour they go when they are clean. He has you prepare food for his crows, and you learn that they are his, and in no danger from anyone. No one will touch them, because they know better than to incur Sevatar’s wrath.

On the second night, he comes back late from a meeting with his father, with a face like a thunderhead. Blood drips from his eyes, and his face is twisted in bestial agony. You want nothing more than to cringe and sob, but you think of the crows — of how merciless they are to their prey, and how mewling only proves that you are something to be devoured. Instead you greet him, and ask if you can help. He shows his teeth, but lets you stroke his hair, and rub his temples, and although he doesn’t go so far as to fall asleep in your lap he visibly relaxes, his breathing evening out. You ask if that is all he needs of you, and he says no, and bids you remove your clothes.

It’s not unexpected, and not completely unpleasant — though it is painful. Sevatar is large, and although he does try to open you up on his fingers — using his own armour oil as lubricant — he soon loses patience and pushes himself inside. You grit your teeth against a wail of pain as his cock bullies past tight walls, his breath humid in your ear. He takes you from behind, mantling you like a great bird of prey. He tells you how good you feel, how tight and sweet, and you feel him smirk into your nape when you start to cry. You do cum before he does, driven there almost out of self defence, your whole body one taut nerve. He follows you over the edge, spilling inside and remaining there as his hearts thunder against your back.

The next day, he tattoos you with a mix of his blood and ink, across your abdomen and down your leg. The tattoo takes far longer to heal than it should, because he can’t seem to stop licking at it — but it is the closest you can get to safe here, and for that you are thankful.

[yanagikou]

Ups, I did it again 🫣🐼 I simply can't resist that badass mfer 🦇🖤

@justanothermemestrider I definitely blame you and your writing *shakes fist lovingly*

There is a FULL, uncut version on my bluesky (and it shows EVERYTHING so be careful)... Tumblr flagged it the first time around so you will find the link in the comments. I feel like a criminal now.

After this, I'm going to work on the requests, I promise!

[moodymisty]

Author's Note: Inspired by this post. You can blame all of the unhinged horniness there for this unhinged horniness. Someone there put the idea down as space wolves or Luna wolves and I chose Luna wolves because @bispecsual gave me the brain rot. And since I'm a massive masochist, I write.

Relationships: Like five unnamed Luna Wolves/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Vaguely NSFW, Very hornily charged bullying, Astartes are very curious and grabby, Demeaning speech, Just imagine you're that one girl on the couch in the meme surrounded by massive dudes but those dudes are 8 foot tall genetic abominations, Gangbang implications(?) my warning tags are getting weird as fuck

To the Luna Wolves, serfs are a new idea- a curiosity.

But after their good deeds upon a planet of little known renown and placement in the galaxy, a few of their population offered to serve them.

Before them, most serfs were primarily stationed on Terra, and on Luna Wolves ships instead those roles were given to low ranking tech priests, or penal labor. Even then however the Astartes saw them rarely, until now.

Some of the newly conquered planet offered sons as aspirants, of which they eagerly accepted. The Luna Wolves have been eager to grow their numbers now under Horus’ leadership.

Others, older and ablebodied, offered themselves to serve as serfs.

Many Luna Wolves can't remember the last time they've seen a normal human for more than a few moments, ushering them to safely into a Stormbird or pushing them from a firefight. Or seeing their corpse flung on the far reaches of a battlefield, out of sight and mind.

In their brief periods of reprieve from battle, it's now been a struggle for their captains and lieutenants to keep their men on task, now that serfs scurry around them completing various tasks. Particularly for the youngest marines among them, it's been a constant to stop them from reaching towards the serfs, interrupting their sanctioned duties.

They will get to you once finished with your brothers, is what the current quartermaster on duty or Astartes captain says. Though haste to have their armor cleaned or bolter clips loaded isn't the thing on their mind, but instead an almost dog-like curiosity.

But after their superiors leave, they always end up crowding around you again. These astartes have barely seen baseline humans in decades, let alone a woman.

It's suffocating.

You were nothing on your home planet. Insignificant. You’d hoped joining them would bring you purpose, something to be proud of. And to get off the planet that had you feeling so trapped. And while you got your wish, in a way the thing trapping you had merely changed form.

They have you cornered in the armoring room now; Like Wolves. You went from trapped on that no name planet to trapped by five different astartes. Your palms feel hot and sweaty, but not as hot as your face.

“You’re so small, you’re going to get lost on the ship,” One says.

He grabs for your chin and holds it for a moment, forcing you to look into his grey eyes. they're stoic, but you can see he's enjoying something about this. Though he allows you to shrink away and out of his grip, looking downward at their chest armor. Or anywhere else that isn't their faces.

“Or trampled,” Says another. The one who spoke previous gives him a sour look before passively aggressively replying.

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

One who hasn't spoken yet has his top armor removed, his lower half unpowered. He was training, using it as dead weight. Training concluded blood now drips down from his nose and lips but is mostly dried, partly covered healing bruises. If he looks like this, you can't help but wonder how his opponent looks.

It’s distracting.

You don’t know if it’s some sort of illness or insanity from being locked in this ship for so long; It makes him look more attractive. You hope to whatever deity or god or whatever exists out in the stars that he doesn't notice you’re staring. That he doesn't notice the way your heart is pounding in your chest and what feels like your cunt as well.

He does. As do the others. You can't kid yourself and think that with their hearing and smell that they haven't noticed that you're boiling alive, and that your body is screaming fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me-

“He won. Out of one hundred men.”

Your gut twists and the marine behind you laughs quietly. It's deep, enough so that you swear you can feel it in your chest. You would squeeze your thighs together for some relief, but you don’t think you can without stumbling over.

“She likes the winners. Looks like you’re out.” He gestures to a fellow marine that gives him another sour look. You briefly wonder what he lost at to deserve such a jab.

“I should return to my duties,”

You meekly say, hoping to remove yourself from the embarrassment and scurry away to another quarter of the ship.

One of them blocks your path and traps you from leaving, picking you up by the armpits and holding you before putting you back down between them all. It's like you weigh nothing to them, and that they can simply jostle and swing you around like a toy.

“I’ll tell your quartermaster you were helping us.” He jerks his head in the direction of a marine clad in only the casual clothing they wear out of their ceramite. Now the focus of your attention he rolls his shoulder, and you can see the muscles of his neck and around his collarbone flex.

You swallow a knot in your throat that felt like it was going to choke you. Your hands clench tight, nails sharp against your palms. You're going to have a heart attack, you swear it. Tears well in your eyes but they don't break your waterline just yet, from sheer will alone. If any of them say another word, call you cute, small, soft, that you smell so sweet, you swear they’ll roll down your cheeks like a waterfall.

“He wants you to put on his armor. The others are always so rough, you’re so gentle with those little hands.”

The marine reaches for you, and in your back step you stumble and accidentally bump into the one who hasn't spoken at all; Just watching and sitting. You stumble over his massive armored boot and end up falling into a sit on his thigh, legs parted over it. His massive armored hand comes to grip your waist, to keep you from falling over. It covers a good portion of your stomach in the process.

You’re so tightly wound just the simple pressure alone is enough to have you clamp a hand your mouth to avoid letting out a moan that would kill you right then and there, if you weren’t already dead. Your knees quiver, toes just barely touching the ground. His massive height makes it impossible to fully stand with his thigh between your legs.

You know they can smell the way you’re leaking and staining your underwear, hear the way your heart is racing like it's going to explode. You’re half afraid you might make his ceramite thigh plate slick.

You can feel their eyes on you. They look at you like you’re food thrown to a pack of starving wolves.

One suddenly steps forward, and pushes his battle brother out of his way with a harsh slam of ceramite on ceramite before undoing the latch his belt.

“I go first.”

[nereidof40k]

Woow, impossibly hot. *fans self*

"That's My Girl" - Jago Sevetarion x F! Reader

Ask thee and ye shall receive. Here's a fic based on the sparring headcanon from my Sevetar Assorted Headcanons. The sypnosis: Sev takes you down to the training mat to help you train some sword craft, and things get... spicy

Hope yall ready for some heresy.

CW: NSFW, MDNI

Apologies for grammar and spelling mistakes. Please enjoy!

"I really don't see why this is necessary."

"Really?" Jago asks. "Sweetheart, have you seen what the people on this ship are like?"

"Well yeah, sure," you say. "But I've got you. And if you're not around, Talos and Cyrion always look out for me."

Jago clicks his tongue, twirling the wooden swords he's currently holding in both hands as he considers your words. "That is true," he admits. "But even then, there is always the chance- no matter how small- that you may be caught out alone on this ship." He offers you one of the swords with a smile. "As such, you need to prepared."

You give him a long, unamused look, eyes shifting between his proferred wooden sword and wry, lopsided smile. The skin of his face is a mess of scars and callouses, but underneath all of that is a strong, almost handsome visage with broad cheek bones and a square jaw. His hair is slicked back save for a handful of thin bangs that tumble over his forehead to frame his eyes and nose. Jago's smile broadens into a grin. "Come on, little bird," he says. "If not for you, then for me?"

You let out a sigh. Without a word, you take the sword from his hand.

"Atta girl," Jago chuckles. He steps away from you, then surprises you by sheathing his sword. His grin suddenly turns feral. Before you can ask, he unclasps the front of his tunic and lets it drop to the floor. His torso, like his face, is ravished by scars, though these are far larger and more vicious looking. Bolter holes, chain blade slashes, stab wounds and burn marks; Jago wears the marks of all of these and even more. Black neural ports run down his shoulders and chest, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. But, just like his face, his scars and cybernetics do little to detract from the beauty of the body beneath them. You can't help but take a moment to drink in the sight of him; the twistedly gorgeous demi-god you call lover and protector. At your staring, Jago chuckles. "You may remain robed if you wish," he says. "But among Astartes, it is tradition to spar as... unencumbered as possible."

"Oh really?" you ask, clearly unconvinced.

Jago laughs again. "Eyes up, little bird," he orders. "Raise your blade. We begin now."

Unable to keep the grin off your face, you does as he commands.

"You remember what I've taught you?" he asks.

You give your sword a cursory twirl. "Of course I do." As if to emphasise the point, you hold it out in front of you in a defensive stance.

Jago gives you a satisfied smirk. "Guess we'll find out soon enough, won't we?" With that, the Night Lord lunges.

You slip to the side, parrying with your sword. The wooden blades crack against each other like bone, and the force of the impact sends painful vibrations rocketing up your arms. Grunting, you take several, darting steps back, but Jago refuses to give you any such breathing room. Several more time, your training blades clash. You know Jago is holding back; he has to, for if he didn't, his first strike would've likely snapped your arms in half. But even with his abilities actively reduced from demi-god levels, he's still faster and stronger than any baseline human could dream of being. Already, your breathing hard. Sweat pouring down your brow as your heart pounds relentlessly. Jago, on the other hand, has barely broken a sweat.

"Don't be shy, little bird," he says the next time the pair of you disengage. "You can't defend forever."

Between heavy breathes, you scowl at him. "Easy for you to say, Son of The Night Haunter, you."

Jago flashes that wry, crooked smile of his from the other side of the training mat. "No warrior is perfect," he says. "Even Astartes have certain aspects that can be exploited."

"Such as?"

"Just look at me, sweetheart. Two metres tall and half a tonne in weight, all of that being bloated muscle and reinforced bone." Jago holds his arms out wide. "What does that make me?"

"I don't know," you huff. "Strong?"

"Nope," says Jago

"Unbeatable?"

"Hah! I wish."

"Sexy?"

Jago laughs. "You flatter me, little bird. But no. Not the answer I am looking for."

"What then?"

The night lord sighs in mock exasperation. "It make me big," he says. "It makes me heavy. And no matter how fast or strong I am, it makes me very much at the mercy of physics and biomechanics. But you-" he points at you with his sword. "-my love, you are not so much. You are lighter. Your body, more flexible and maneuverable. Therefore, such natural laws are far more lenient on you than I. You understand?"

After taking a moment to think, you believe that you do. You tell Jago as much.

"I knew you would." Lowering his sword, Jago bares his teeth in a grin. "Now. Prove it to me."

Raising your sword, you approach him at a slink. Stepping on the balls of your feet, wooden blade out and pointed at his chest. Jago flurries his own weapon. Ripples of tension feather through the muscles of his chest and abdomen. He holds his sword low, clearly trusting himself to be fast enough to raise it should you choose to attack. But it is that very reflex that you intend to exploit.

With the technique of a fencer, you thrust at Jago's throat. Just as you'd guessed, he brings his sword up and around to block. But the moment you see his arm move, your strike turns into a feint. Ducking underneath his arm, you lock your blade around his shoulder and launch a savage kick into his knee. In the same moment, you wrench hard with your arms, turning your wooden sword into a lever over which you toss Jago to the ground. Of course, such a throw would never work in a true one-on-one fight with an Astartes. But against another baseline? Absolutely, it would. And, since he is currently moonlighting as such, Jago lets you take him down. The mat shakes as his body hits the ground. Before he can move to get up, you leap on top of him. Straddling his waist and bracing the edge of your mock sword against his throat. Your arms tremble from exertion, lungs burning as you breath hard and fast through your mouth. But as exhausted as you are there's a smile on your face. When Jago locks eyes with you, it only grows broader.

"That's my girl," he says, his adam's apple bobbing against your blade as he speaks.

In spite of yourself, his praise makes you giggle. "Does that mean I win?" you ask.

"Almost," Jago says. "But you've forgotten one very important thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "That being?"

Between your legs, you feel the rise and fall of his belly as he breathes in and out. You also feel him bending his knees and planting his feet on the floor. "When your opponent is so much larger than you..." Jago trails off. Then, quick as a snake, he grabs your sword with one hand and seizes your arm in the other. Bridging his hips, he throws you off him, sending you sprawling onto the mat. You yelp in surprise as Jago reverses your mount and straddles your hips. His weight is immense; your pelvis feels like it's being crushed beneath an anvil, while your legs and hips are completely and utterly pinned. Jago leans over you, grabbing your sword hand by the wrist while bracing his own sword hand on the floor right beside your ear. Lips peeling back into a predatory smile, he finishes his earlier warning. "...You must never take them to the ground."

Any outward observer would expect you be terrified, but in truth, you only feel flustered. Even after all this time, being this close to him- face millimetres from yours, naked, muscular body pressing against your own- still has your stomach winding itself into knots. And from the bulging hardness you can feel pressing against your lower belly, Jago is feeling the same way.

"This had nothing to do with training me, did it?" you whisper.

"Of course it did," Jago replies. "Your safety is the single most important thing to me. You know that."

"Fine. But it wasn't the only reason you brought me here, was it?"

For the briefiest of moments, Jago's smile turns sheepish. "Alright. You may have me there." Leaning closer still, he touches his forehead to yours. "You know how much I love a woman who can kick my ass."

You reply by kissing him. Tilting your head back so as to give you access to his lips, then locking them within yours with rough and enboldened hunger. Jago immediately returns it in kind. He drops his sword and releases your wrist, scooping one hand up underneath your waist while gripping you jaw with the other. Like pieces of a puzzle, your bodies fall into place around each other. Your legs wrapping tight around Jago's waist as he pulls you closer still. The heat between your legs presses the hardness between his, and even through the fabric of your clothes, the friction is enough to make you whine. The sound elicits a growl from Jago. You feel the hand at your jaw release, then slide down your front until it reaches the waistband of your trousers. He drags them off you, followed by your underwear. You gasp when the cold air kisses your exposed sex. But quickly, the sound devolves into a moan as Jago presses his fingers into your clit. Electricity bolts through your body. The heat in your core swells into an aching throb. You feel yourself growing wetter, hotter, more desperate and breathless. You claw your fingernails into Jago's back and let out another pleading moan.

"Jago..."

"I know, sweetheart," he rumbles. "But I've gotta slick you up first; don't want to hurt you."

You reply by bringing your hands up to his shoulder blades and digging your fingers into the neural ports embedded in the muscles there.

An involuntary shudder rips through Jago's entire body. His limbs buckle, sending him sprawling flat against your front. The sound that falls from his lips can only be described as a whimper.

"Oh, I see," he growls once he recovers. "And here I was thinking you liked me best when I was nice."

"Most of the time," you answer. "But not today."

Jago bares his teeth in a smile that's both affectionate and utterly lusting. "As you wish, little bird. But don't say I didn't warn you."

You open your mouth to reply, but before the words can reach your voice, Jago locks his hand around your throat. He unclasps his breeches, finally freeing his hard, aching cock. He lines his hips with up with yours, and with a single, savage thrust, drives himself all the way inside of you.

A cry bursts from your lips. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate his length, but even then, the fit is impossibly tight. Jago moans into your ear. The hand around your throat tightens. Without skipping a beat, he starts moving. Thrusting his hips hard, filling you up, pinning your clit against his public bone and rubbing it to the point of pain. Sparks and black spots burst within your vision. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Every one of your exhales is a whimper or a moan. Ecstasy doesn't come close to describing this feeling. This raw and primal pleasure that's got your every nerve in a chokehold. Meanwhile, Jago growls and snarls like a beast in rut. His breathing is loud and laboured, his every muscle bulging against his sweat-slick skin. The hand he hasn't got around your neck is pressed hard into your lower belly, forcing his cock deeper and deeper still.

The coil in your belly reaches critical mass. You can feel your orgasm coming, just on the horizon, but not quite there yet. There's no way in hell you could string together a sentence, so instead, you say his name. Once again finding Jago's shoulderblades with your fingers and clawing them into his neural ports.

"Jago... Jago..."

Jago's body shudders again, and a long, almost pained whine interrupts his snarling growls. On his next thrust, he rears up onto his knees, scooping up your leg with one hand and throwing it over his shoulder. The sparks in your eyes become stars. The coil in your belly becomes agonisingly tight. Your spine arches until it's not longer touching the ground and you let out another, desperate cry.

It's then that Jago decides to say something. The words are whispered in your ear, barely comprehensible amidst his growls and moans. But they're there. And they are what finally send you over the edge.

"That's my girl."

Orgasm grips you like a lightning strike. You throw your head back as a scream of ecstasy erupts from your throat. Every muscle in your body clenches and your walls squeeze Jago so tight it makes his voice crack. His rhythm suddenly falters. He releases your throat to claw his hand into the floor. With a throat-tearing roar, Jago finally hits his release, burying his face into your shoulder and pumping you full of his hot, thick seed. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you entangle your fingers in his hair, holding him close as you both ride out your orgasms.

When yours finally fades, you collapse against the floor. You still have the energy to gasp at the feel of Jago pulling out, but aside from that, you're completely and utterly spent. Means when Jago rolls you onto your side and drags you into his body, you simply let him. Both of his hearts are beating hard; you can feel their twin pulses pounding against your ear. He doesn't simply hold you, either, but rather he's actively pulling you close. Pressing you hard against his chest and wrapping his arms around you tight as if he were trying to shelter you or keep you from being dragged away. His grip is crushing. His skin and hair both slick with sweat. Gently, you reach a hand up to his face and brush your fingers against his cheek. "Careful," you says softly. "Squeeze me any tighter and you might just break something."

You hear his breath hitch. Slowly, the pressure around your waist and shoulders diminishes. "Sorry," Jago mutters. The extra gravel in his voice confirms what you'd suspected from his pulse, that he's still coming down from his high.

Tilting your head up a little, you press your lips to his collarbone, then nuzzle your face into his chest. "It's okay. I forgive you. This time, at least."

Jago smirks, but says nothing. After a handful of quiet moments, you hear his heart rates finally begin to settle. His breathing deepens, then levels out and the residual tension in his body releases.

You choose that moment to caress his scarred cheek again. "I love you," you whisper.

His chest vibrates against your ear as he chuckles softly. "By the Warp. I don't think I'll ever get used to hearing that."

"Do you doubt me?" you ask playfully.

"What? No! Of course not."

"You do not feel the same, then?"

That actually makes him growl. "Of course I do." The grip around your waist and shoulders tightens. "You know that."

You reassure him with another kiss to his collar bone. "So, why, then?"

"Why?" Another rumbling laugh. "Sweetheart. Look at me. Recall who I am and what I've done."

Retracting your hand, you start tracing one of the dozens of scars running down his chest with your finger. "I see Jago Sevetarion," you say. "The man who cares for me and protects me." You let your head fall against him, eyes slipping shut. "I see the man I love."

Your earnestness seems to take him by surprise, for he does not reply nor react right away. He doesn't seem to know how to. All he can think to do is pull you closer still and bury his face into the crook of your neck.

Sorry if I've missed you. If I have or you wanna be added, please let me know :)

Taglist: @yanagikou @nereidof40k @yurihasurunbara @beckyninja @moodymisty @wolf-feathers12 @justfreakynothingelse @egrets-not-regrets

[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.

[yanagikou]

Request for dear @nereidof40k is done and cropped into oblivion (damn you tumblr and your censoring ways).

Her OC Alyena doing the naughties with Sevatar.

Full pic as always on my bluesky ♥️🖤

[moodymisty]

Knife play with sevatarion? Love me some problematic Nightlords.

Love your work!

Author’s Note: tehe i just love him <3

Relationships: Jago “Sevatar” Sevatarion/Fem!Reader

Warnings: A bit lewd but not nsfw, The consent is dubious so tw dubcon, Violence, Knife play (no cutting in this one), Stalking, Predator/Prey kinda dynamics, General 40kness, Sort've vaguely implied relationship of somesort with Sevatar

You’re always hypnotized by the way Sevatar flips around his blade.

Handle, tip, handle, tip,

He flips it around between his fingers like a coin trick, armored fingers more dexterous than you would ever have imagined them.

He wields it with a surprising gentleness, despite his nature. He does the mindless gesture quite often, and you find yourself distracted by it whenever he's near you. More than once you've had to snap yourself out of it, fix your gaze and try to remember the last words whoever had been speaking to you said.

Even Sevatar has caught you once. Though you hope he just thought you were zoning out, bored out of your mind from whatever you were supposed to be doing.

"Your legion doesn't bring you out here quite often, does it?"

You quickly pull your eyes away from the knife, and you swear, you swear, you hear Sevatar chuckle. But when you look, his face is the same deadpan it always is, watching you and everyone who comes close like a sentinel.

"Oh um, yes; The Night Lords tend to travel in systems quite far away from Terra, so I don't get many chances to step foot in the palace."

The man you were speaking to nods, and you’re thankful the conversation ends on a somewhat normal note not long later. You don't know how much more you would've been able to maintain interest, and not let your eyes wander. Though they do, not moments after the man turns his back on you.

Handle, tip, handle, tip

This whole evening has been a mess, you’re not sure how much longer you can entertain nosy lords, and commissars with far more free time than yourself.

"...Finally..."

The moment you return to your quarters it’s like a weight was lifted off your chest, and you debate what you want to do first. Do you want to take your dress off and get ready to sleep? Or go and-

The sound of heavy ceramite boots suddenly rings in your ear, and a primal sense of flight triggers in your body. Your head hammers and you go to scream, but a hand slaps over your mouth. You swear your heart stops; Like you're dead but still seeing and thinking.

“It’s me.”

Sevatar laughs at your fear, and the sound rumbles your chest. You know he can hear the racing of your heart from the fright better than you can even hear it in your own ears. “The others know you’re off limits.”

That doesn't mean the other Night Lords haven't tried to take a bite of you. The younger, Nostroman-born ones are eager to rip you to pieces, while older Night Lords like Sevatar attempt to maintain some form of obedience and structure.

Sevatar raises his other hand in front of you, knife held between his fingers.

“You want this, don’t you.”

Handle, tip, handle, tip,

“You don’t think I can’t smell how fucking wet you get whenever I toy around with it?”

He grips the handle to stop flipping it, pulling it closer to your jawline. The tip tickles your skin, sending shivers through your body. His hand slides off of your face, letting you breathe better.

“I’m going to cut that dress right off of you.”

With rough and seemingly careless handling Sevatar throws you onto your own bed, caging you to it with his own body. The tip of his knife presses against the underside of your chin and you're forced to tilt your head up and expose your neck lest he pierce your skin, and he slowly drags it downward- watching your skin ripple like the surface of broken water with bumps from the cold metal. It passes the dip of your collarbone, and he adjusts the tip to be a bit more parallel to your body as he cuts through the fabric of your dress.

It was a beautiful dark blue, but its little more than tatters in seconds as he cuts it clean in half and pushes the parts away to reveal your body. He laughs at the sound of the threads ripping and snapping, you don’t know if it’s at the flimsiness of your dress or the way you look up at him.

“You know how much I have to fight to keep the others away from you?”

His knife trails up the center of your stomach, slipping between your breasts underneath your bra. He pulls upwards and you whimper as the fabric digs into your back, but eventually the material looses out to the sharp blade and snaps in two. He takes the tip of the knife and brushes it against the side of one of your breasts and laughs as you writhe underneath him.

You don't know why you trust him as much as you do. Why screaming was never even a thought in your mind. Then again, would anyone come if you did?

“Too bad for them you’re off limits. I don’t share.”

Your legs are curled up between his, shaking from the cold of the ship and his blade.

“You’re too much of a good girl for me to let them break you like everyone else. They don't know how good of a catch are.”

With one yank he straightens your legs out, slipping his knife beneath the fabric and slicing your underwear. He tugs them away after, throwing the broken fabric aside. You're thankful you have spares, given he's reduced everything you've worn to ribbons.

Satisfied with your exposed body he puts the hand holding his knife close to your head to support himself- a subtle reminder that he still has it. He watches you glance towards it before looking back up at him.

You want him. You hate that you want him, terrified that you want him and how much he's obsessed with you; But you still want him. He's overtaken your entire vision and your entire world.

“I smell how wet you are. Tell me girl, what else is in that head of yours?”

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

The Eternal Night (Part 4)

Summary: On one of many nights, Sevatar reflects on his feelings for you.

Jago Sevatarion/fem!Reader

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

Word count: 1538

Author's note: there's nothing sexier than when a space marine who doesn't know what love is wants to kill you~

Song: She Wants Revenge - Red Flags and Long Nights

You can occupy my every sigh You can rent the space inside my mind At least until the price becomes too high

You are small and fragile as a mouse. You could easily be squeezed and crushed. Until your eyes become bloodshot and the air disappears from your lungs. The human body is viscous and fleshy. How many people lived their lives, dreamed, suffered, were living souls until they found themselves in the skinning pits?

Sevatar could do the same to you. Squeeze the life out of you and hang your skin around the ship like curtains. But then he will lose the peace that he has not felt in recent decades. He will lose you.

The last thought sits unpleasantly on the tongue. Sevatar has already allowed himself to become sentimental towards his distant relatives. Of course, if they were them. That's what he didn't expect, that he would worry about his little toy.

Nice and gentle. Small and fragile. Yes. That's what you were. Your whole image and the way you behaved, moved, took him far away. Far away in the rainy rain as black feathers swirled around him. But at the same time you brought a completely new feeling. To which he could not find a word.

It's a distraction. No, the first captain could lie to himself as much as he wanted, but this was not so. He still performed his duties properly. Even better. Now he could fully concentrate on them without thinking about his Gift. After all, you were always on hand to relieve stress.

And that's not to mention the sweet smell of fear. Eyes full of tears and unspoken pleas from soft lips. Quiet sobs in the depths of the night, when Sevatar had the idea of ​​playing with you. Complete dependence and submission to him and only him. The tattoo adorning your shoulder beckoned and tormented his thoughts. How could he resist licking the cocktail of ink, his blood and your sweat?

The primarch should not have waged a joint campaign with Fulgrim. The Nostroman language was already considered beautiful and sophisticated by the inhabitants of the Imperium. Now the Night Lords have picked up words from their fragrant cousins. Why so many words when everything is simple?

You are his servant, and he is your master.

Yes, it's simple. You are afraid of him, but he enjoys fear. Then why does he see in your eyes a plea not to stop, but to continue? Why do your moans of pain sound different at some moments? Why do you look at him as if he were your Emperor? The man only grinned at this funny comparison, which would give many mortals and Word Bearers a heart attack.

But that’s how it was. You depended on him because it was necessary. Because you wanted it. You liked it, he could feel it. He still remembers your eyes full of gratitude when he took revenge for you.

"Thank you"

Sevatar still sees this picture in front of him. You, trembling and tired, sit in a dark corner. Waiting for him. You cry from the pain that the mortal bastard (and Sevatar's hands squeezing your shoulders) caused you. Your pleading look. Your whole body, face, covered with someone else's blood that you shed. He would like to see you like this more often.

Never before had Sevatar enjoyed tormenting mortals so much. He did not deign to have the warden and the rapist disemboweled by his hand. But he was watching. Watching at the judgment. Punishment. Retribution. Sevatar did justice in the most perverted form.

"Thank you"

A spontaneous desire to tear out someone else's heart came to mind completely unexpectedly. As a child, the boy had to eat all parts of corpses. It was rare that he could take anything for himself, because all the homeless children he came across were weak and had nothing. Now he did not need trophies except for the skin on his armor.

So why don't you get the trophy you deserve? He will laugh at your reaction. Besides, you served the Night Lord. And at least the first captain liked your kind face and didn’t want to spoil you. You still needed to understand at least a little about the values ​​of your Legion. So that you could serve him better, understand, obey, open up -

"Thank you"

Your gratitude sounds like a parasite in his brain. This is how maggots usually find dead flesh and cannot stop eating it until there is not a piece left. Here's the same one. You are slowly eating away at Sevatar’s brains, forcing him to think about you.

Maybe Sevatar should get rid of you? Cut out the tattoo with the skin and send you to free floating. Until other Night Lords find you to have fun with you if you don't do a good job. Or one of them will realize how pretty you are and take you into his service.

No. He won't let this happen. You are his. You belong to him.

Your tears, your fear, your doom, your prayers and hope. It all belongs to him. Sevatar promised to take care of you. He was supposed to protect you. The tattoo was supposed to scare away your tormentor. But you had to defend yourself.

You didn’t say a word about this to Sevatar. And could you even blame your master for anything? But what the first captain didn't expect was gratitude. How something in you breaks and you, intoxicated by the feeling, put yourself in the hands of a man, trusting him in everything.

"Thank you"

Sevatar looks away from the ceiling and looks at the mattress at the far end of the room. You're having such a good dream. Surely you are now dreaming of the warm sun and the spiers of Terra which you will never see again. Not noticing the gaze of the Night Lord.

You are tender and fragile compared to him. Too kind and naive for this Legion. Too strange for the Imperium. The man did not know and did not want to know whether you were a hidden psyker. But even if that were the case, you would become even more dependent on the first captain. Only he can hide you from his brothers and the Black Ship. After all, you are so defenseless.

He wants crush you.

No, Sevatar did not want to kill you. And yet, lately he had a strange desire to squeeze you. A hot feeling, similar to anger, settled in his body and mind. He became even more fierce in training. His brothers were already openly avoiding him so as not to end up broken on the floor.

His obedient Terminators, his brotherhood say nothing, blindly carrying out the will of the first captain. But they noticed a change in him. They noticed that he was haunted by an obsessive thought, which Sevatar still could not throw into action. For now. He just didn't know what to do yet.

But the primarch clearly laughed at him. He knew what an unusual situation Sevatar found himself in. Konrad Curze sometimes looked at the Space Marine with such anticipation that any mortal would feel uncomfortable. Sevatar was only annoyed by this. He was devoted to his gene father, but sometimes it was difficult to be with him. He feels not like the first captain, but like a mother hen.

Sevatar will not ask Konrad Curze what is happening to him. Will not ask for advice. This type of relationship between Primarch and Space Marines is common to other Legions. Moreover, Sevatar, unlike his brothers, did not hang on every word of the primarch with anticipation. He was devoted to him, but he did not love him. If this feeling was even in his blood.

The man looks at your figure again, peering into your calm sleeping face. An entertaining spectacle. Calming. And yet the thought of your tears and moans seeps into Sevatar's mind again. Filling all the brain cells, leaving not a single space.

He would crush you under himself. Grab you in his arms. Lick his mark on you. Eat you. Subdue. Dominate.

These feelings, not inherent to space marines, no longer let the man out of his tenacious clutches. He should go to the Apothecary and get rid of them. Heal and start seeing you as a piece of meat. But he won't do it. Because he couldn’t and didn’t want to.

The white teeth of a predator sparkle in the darkness. A smile typical of a corpse appears on his face. But still sincere. There were few moments when something could amuse Sevatar, captivate him, or simply make him happy. But you did it.

The words of a mother from the distant past envelop the man like a blanket. A small clue that sheds light on his new feelings. Good girls always love bad boys. And vice versa.

And Sevatar was bad, right? There were no good people among the Night Lords. Only monsters, murderers and sadists who fulfill the Imperial Truth and bring peace to the worlds of people. Facade, nothing more. But you were good. And you will remain like this forever. He'll take care of it. He will shed as much blood as necessary. If only you were nearby.

[kit-williams]

Perpetual!Reader wakes up in the Night Haunter's arms.

Only issue is that she died some time ago, and dear(?) sweet(?) Konrad has been cuddling her corpse ever since.

The standard hose is NOT gonna make a dent in this.

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

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

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog @remembrancer-of-heresy @felinisnoctis

You finally wake back up. You don't know what happened... did you fall? Did another Night Lord get you? You don't remember as suddenly the world went dark for you. You can smell the fading odor of a decomposing body which wouldn't be off... but you're in your room. You forbade Konrad of leaving you gifts in this sanctuary away from death.

Your skin feels sticky as what you're laying in feels wet still whatever you're wearing clings to your body and you feel lingering moisture. Your eyes finally adjust to the dark and you can see the black remains of putrefaction on the soft red of your bedsheets. You feel the acidity of bile rush up your throat as you you realize the outfit you are in is ruined from your rotting body... you fail to realize it was an outfit he loved to see you wear.

A hand hovers to the top of your head but you rather not touch what is on your head. Your heart is beating hard and fast as you are laying where a corpse has been. Something in the dark shifts and you try to throw yourself off the bed but his hands painfully grab your arms.

He's laughing softly like a madman. Darkness practically clings to Konrad as you can feel he's lost weight... you can smell death on him... smell it on his breath. His hands cup your face as he pulls you into his lap, "You're back... you're back... I knew I heard your heart beating again! Hahahaha! I've barely left your side since you died."

"How... How long have I been dead?" You ask slowly.

"Couple of months." He coos and kisses your face as you wrinkle your nose, "Come let us go show Sevatar that you've returned!" He says scooping you up as he doesn't let you wash the remnants of your formally rotting self off.