#I don't care if you meant this as a shitpost or not I'm writing Sevatar and you can't stop me

[moodymisty]

Could you please write something with Sevatar? That man needs to get slapped around uwu

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: Wearing a shirt that says 'Number 1 Jago Sevatarion whore' on it: Yeah I'm normal.

Summary: Jago Sevatarion really likes one of the Salamander's humans.

Relationships: Jago "Sevatar" Sevatarion/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Vague references to NSFW, The consent is dubious so tw dubcon, Violence, Stalking, Predator/Prey kinda dynamics, General 40kness, Stockholm syndrome?, Kinda Yandere maybe?, If you don't know what you're getting into reading this then I dunno what to fucking tell you like it's a Night Lord I can only woobify him so much

Word Count: 1140

It has been tense as of late, to say the least. As much as that word fails to illustrate in context, it's the only one you can think of to use.

To have Night Lords present has been nothing but a battle to keep tensions low enough in order to keep things productive, and to avoid fights between the Astartes from breaking out at seemingly every opportunity. These fights can be between the apposing legions, or even just between the Eighth themselves.

It doesn't help that the Night Lords are often times seen baiting them- taunting barking goading a Salamander to throw the first punch. They seem to crave it, most of them.

Every baseline human aboard has done everything within their power to avoid crossing paths with Astartes in deep blue armor, adorned with smatterings of blood red. Particularly when not in sight of a Salamander. There has been more than a few times where a serf or other baseline human has managed to scurry into sanctuary within a Salamander's line of sight, and in the distance a Night Lord prowls; Discontent with his prey, or toy perhaps, finding safety in the light. They will soon after find something else to occupy their time, leaving the human no longer needing to look over their shoulder. But only for the moment.

You don't have that option. Because not only have you already gotten caught, the one that caught you is smart.

He knows where you would try to hide, every single little rat hole you could try and squeeze yourself in, and he knows that even if you did flee to one of your massive protectors, he would put up a far stronger fight than any of the other Night Lords. His persistence alone sets him apart. Why did he pick you? Out of so many, why you?

It's like being hunted. But not the chase; The conclusion, when the predator decides to bat around it's prey like a toy as it squeals, begging for a mercy it won't receive.

If you screamed, would someone come? Would they be able to free you from him, or would he simply kill them and have you all alone again?

But why won't the scream leave your throat? It's like he's choking you with just his presence.

You can hear ceramite plates grind against each other as he shifts in his armor, the hissing of it's mechanics left hand pinning your right arm against the wall. It hurts bad, it'll surely be bruised and aching, radiating pain as a remnant and reminder that this isn't some sort of horrid nightmare.

He finally caught you. After so long of managing to evade the massive Astartes, him stalking the shadows outside of your safety and watching you with those void black eyes like you have something he wants, he finally sank his claws in you. He'd been toying with you for what felt like weeks, swimming around you and trying to reach out and grab only for you to pull away, and he'd laugh. Call you little. Say your name that he'd stolen after overhearing it in a way that had you swallowing a knot deep in your throat. You could only avoid it so long- for every step you took away, took he took two closer.

Many of the Astartes are currently having their five hours of designated rest- there is no one to save you in this particular hall save for the rare guard.

His other hand grips your jaw, making sure your face can't turn away from him. Your free hand paws at his wrist, and each time your fingers slip off the armor despite trying to latch onto the seams you can see the amusement cast on his face.

Is it because he likes the way your hand is too small to grip, unable to fight against someone so much larger, unfathomably stronger, or because you're squirming like sweet prey under his pitch black gaze?

You just wish he'd get on with it. To stop toying with you, making your heart pound against your ribcage. To make your skin so hot that it travels up your neck as if moving to choke you. Fear swallows you in a way that makes you freeze- even if he hadn't been holding you, you doubt you could call on your legs to run and not fall right over to your knees.

He's never gotten this close before.

His lips brush against yours like the touch of a ghost, his breath boiling hot on your skin. You can just feel the rough skin of the scar that rips across the right side of his mouth, warping the skin. It's one of many that decorate what little skin of his is visible. When he shifts, you can hear his helm hit his thigh plate from where it's attached to his belt.

"Well?"

He's so close you can barely see his eyes, and you don't want to. When ever he looks at you if feels like he's piercing you to the wall. His dark eyes and slicked black hair contrast with the paleness of his complexion, as he watches your every move.

"I can smell that fear on you."

His words lay over you like a hot, rough blanket.

"But don't think I'm stupid enough to not smell something else."

He's not gentle- neither with his words or the way his hands grip your arms pressing against the wall. Is this a part of the Madness of the Eighth that seems to hang over their legion? To just want and to take? You know that the Astartes always can with their raw power, but you're so used to the Salamanders and their stoic kindness.

It's your obvious, first thought to try and free yourself, or call for the help of someone not asleep. Though a second thought crosses moments later.

You know you shouldn't do it; He's going to eat you up and spit you out once he's done.

But you're an idiot. One with no options and that finds themselves almost drawn into the black hole that is him.

"W-What is your name?"

He's never said it, and you've never dared ask it to anyone. You feared that once you did, that you'd put yourself deeper into his grip like stepping into a bog- fighting but only sinking farther.

He laughs. Deep, and its gravel hits you in the gut.

"I am Jago Sevatarion."

His exhale smooths over your skin like hot steam; Rough lips once again scraping over yours in an almost kiss. His voice is heavy on your chest, he's not even yelling and it's loud, deep and makes the back of your neck tense. The cold metal of his power armor presses against the skin of your jaw.

"You can call me Sevatar."