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the-raven-lady · 1 month

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Closer

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Cato Sicarius x Reader [Fem]

Song Inspiration: Closer - Nine Inch Nails [Youtube] [Spotify]

“You let me violate you / you let me desecrate you /

You let me penetrate you / you let me complicate you /

I broke apart my insides / I’ve got no soul to tell /

The only thing that works for me / Help me get away from myself.”

Warnings: SMUT. Degradation and praise, possessiveness, partial asphyxiation, hair pulling, breeding kink, right into the rough and nasty.

Word Count: 1.3k

Author’s Note: Raven Lady’s ovulating and it’s bad. I have no excuse. This hit me while I was rocking on the floor like Apollo with the dodgeball and I let the hormones win. Not edited in the slightest.

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

@lemon-russ @moodymisty

The rough prickling of his beard rubs against your shoulder, scratching against it uncomfortably, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Obediently you tilt your head to the side to grant Cato more access, which he greedily takes. The captain tangles one of his massive hands into your hair and yanks your head to the side. His lips attack the side of your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin between rough bites and sucks. You know you’re going to have hickies to cover tomorrow and for the next few weeks, if he’ll allow it.

The day had started off so innocently with you helping the noblewomen tire out their young ones, the little tykes running about the streets without a care in the world. The sight of the young ones brought a simple joy to your primarch, Guilliman having mentioned that it reminded him of the home he used to remember. Cato had passed by with several of his company on their way to training, and you had made an offhand comment about wondering what it would be to guide your own little one about the grand fortress.

Either the thought of putting one in you or the idea of you growing round and full with his child had completely plagued Sicarius’s mind for the rest of the day, as the next moment you two were well and truly alone, you clothes hadn’t lasted more than a few short seconds. They still lie in tatters on the tiled floor, occasionally getting caught under foot.

“You’re no better than a common– fucking– slut,” Cato pants, punctuating each word with the slam of his hips against yours.

He has your sore body roughly pinned down to the covers, not allowing you an inch of breathing room as he fucks into you. The wet squelch of him penetrating your tight cunt echoes off of the metal walls of your room, his balls stimulating your clit with each thrust. Cum drips sloppily from between your thighs and down onto linen sheets. Mind clouded and lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, you mewl underneath him for more, more, more.

You cry out as his teeth sink into your neck, adding to the masterwork he’s so carefully crafted. You were his, and until your belly had swelled enough to display it for all to see, Cato swore he would continue to fuck you to exhaustion each day.

Oh, but could he bring himself to stop then with how gorgeous you sounded caged beneath him? Begging and keening beneath him like the good little whore you were? Or would he fall headfirst into his desires, enraptured by the glow of your gravid body as it grew?

He certainly couldn’t fuck you as he was now, shoving your chest down into the bed and forcing you to present so prettily. Cato leans back, pulling you up by the hair with him to arch your back just the way he likes.

“Good girl,” he growls, using the new angle to draw more sounds out of your aching throat and abused cunt, “Taking it like the vile whore you are.”

The way you clench around his cock has him delirious with pleasure, as if he hadn’t already just flooded your womb twice before. You must be one of Slaanesh’s finest beneath the skin with how your lecherous body always draws him in for more. The sheen of sweat on your skin makes you glitter in the low light like a treasure.

“Can you even hear me in that dumb little head of yours? So stupid, so pretty. Just a hole to be used.” Cato’s free hand snakes around your waist and up to paw at your breasts, tweaking a nipple and pulling a yipe from you. “Would you spread your legs for any common Ultramarine if he promised to put a baby in you?”

You nod your head, cockdrunk and wild, and Cato snarls. He snaps his hips up hard into you, stilling and grinding his cock against your cervix enough to send pleasure and pain alike up your spine. A whimper catches in your throat from the treatment, the pressure almost too much to bear.

“Of course you would. So eager to have your pussy filled.” The hand at your breasts fondles them. “But you won’t. You won’t—” he withdraws almost completely, cockhead nestled just at your pussylips, “—because you’re mine.” The grip in your hair tightens, and Cato yanks you back to meet him as he drives forward, ripping a loud moan from your chest. The brutal pace from before resumes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

You will yourself to speak through hiccuped breaths, voice low and breathy. “Are you going to– ah!– put a baby in me, Sicarius?”

The side of your face ungracefully meets the bed again as Cato pushes you back down. A growl rumbles within him.

“Brainless harlot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bred so full your abdomen distends?” As if to accentuate his point, the hand at your breast slides down to rest above your abdomen. “Waddling around the Fortress of Hera carrying the child of someone so high above your standing?”

Despite the venom of his degrading words, the breathiness of his voice betrays how much the idea affects him. He clutches at you in a manner that is all too tender. Protective.

Cato’s steady thrusts begin to falter, and he slows his hips to a steady roll to feel out every inch of himself in you. A satisfied breath puffs against your ear as he leans back over you, skilled fingers finding your neglected clit and rolling it in tight circles.

“Come for me,” he pleads, fucking that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. The spring within you draws tighter, tighter, making you feel afloat as every little sensation coils it further.

The gentle press of Cato’s lips against your jawline makes you shudder, the affectionate gesture enough to snap the tension within your belly. With a loud cry, you spasm and clamp down around the Ultramarine’s cock, digging your nails into the sheets of the bed. Your legs shake from the intensity, giving out from under you.

The feeling of your pussy like a vice around him causes Cato to moan, low and desperate as he chases his own orgasm. With a final harsh thrust, he stills, moan breaking into throaty stutters. His balls draw tight against you, cock throbbing inside of you as he pumps your cunt full of his seed for the third and final time. Muscular arms wrap around you firmly, holding you to Cato’s chest as he gently cants his hips against yours to milk the last of his cum into your waiting womb.

The both of you pant as you wind down, barely able to get a full breath as the astartes’ much larger form rests on top of yours. Slick with sweat, you turn your head to the side to look at his handsome face. His eyes crack open to meet yours, and he grants you a rare smile, white teeth peeking out from behind his lips. You reciprocate.

“How do we tell Guilliman if anything does happen?” you ask, resting your head on your arms.

Cato immediately grimaces, looking away with a roll of his eyes. “Can we discuss my genefather when I’m not still inside of you?”

Chuckling, you lean over to press a kiss to his nose. He huffs, but his breath hitches when you clench down around him. Instantly, he freezes, and his eyes are back on yours, darkening and boring into you. The muscles of his jaw tighten.

You meet him with a challenge, purring out, “We might as well make it certain that he’ll have something to worry about.” In invitation, you wiggle your hips.

Fingertips dig harshly into the swell of your ass to hold them steady. “Insatiable woman,” Cato chides, gripping your jaw and pulling you once more into a bruising kiss.

#cato sicarius x reader #cato sicarius #space marines #space marine x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #ultramarines #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #wh 40k #raven lady writings

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whorety-k · 2 months

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Hi everybody!! I'm not dead, I'm just super busy with college! Don't do 8 units of summer courses if you value your social life <3

Please enjoy this random fic drop that I have no explanation for other than I like the pain.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman (40k) and gn perpetual!Reader

Song Inspiration: Never Know (Unplugged) - Bad Omens [YouTube] [Spotify] “When I go out into the world / I just don’t like what I see / You could call this paradise / but it looks just like hell to me / Lying in between the memories choking me / and I don’t know which way to go / But I’m okay to never know.”

Warnings: Angst, mentions of loss, this piece is bitter and angry and emotionally charged because Raven Lady was in their feels, you + Guilliman have a not-so-secret secret relationship but you’re officially known as Advisor to the Lord Regent, oh and you died at Calth once! yippee!

Word Count: 1.4k

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

The Fortress of Hera was always cold at night, and the chill bit into your skin. It did the advisor of the Lord Regent no favors to be wearing such light robes during Macragge’s coldest season, but the sting of the cold was the least of your concerns. Quiet footsteps carry you down the darkened halls to the only place you seemed to find any solace within the temple anymore.

Perhaps solace was too strong a term. It was more the only place to freely vent your frustrations without a prying eye to judge you for it. Ten thousand years had seen little change to the great structure the Primarch of the Ultramarines had created during the Great Crusade, but the finely-crafted halls that you had once called home no longer held any familiarity.

The visage of the Emperor of Mankind carved into fine white marble stares down at you in the dark like a deific sentinel. How grand his chiseled image is: a mountain of a man sat upon an ornate throne of gilded gold, one hand holding a flaming sword, posed like salvation itself. The thought makes you scoff, shaking your aching head at the ridiculous notion. Such blatant disrespect would have you branded a heretic outside of the fortress, but within these silver-steel walls, you had no qualms making your opinions known.

“Your last hope. Your last tool. Is that all we will ever be to you?” you sullenly ask the god before you. No, not a god–, you remind yourself, a fool. A damned fool of a deadbeat father who reaped what he had sewn, at the cost of an entire civilization. A man so obsessed with his secrets and the greater plan that he turned his own sons away from him. Was he even a man anymore? What humanity could possibly be left in something so callous?

Your eyebrow twitches as you fight the way your throat constricts, eyes brimming with bitter tears. The Heresy had been over ten millennia ago according to Imperial records, but the emotions surrounding it were still raw within your chest. For you, it had been one hundred years since your body had been torn apart by bombardment cannons at Calth. It had been one hundred years since you lost contact with those that you had called family. It had been one hundred years since the love of your life had his legion nearly decimated and been forced to rebuild the entirety of the Imperium of Man from scratch.

It had been one hundred years since everything they had ever known was flipped upside down.

“What a grand civilization we’ve become,” you continue tacitly, scornful, “And with no one that fought for it left to see it. How merciful.” Your gaze wanders out towards the open balcony, fixating on the dull sky. The stars of Macragge looked the same as they did all of those years ago, and for a fleeting moment, you could almost convince yourself that nothing had changed. Nausea blooms in your gut. “They would be disgusted with the rotting corpse of an empire we call the Imperium.”

The marble god regards you with steadfast vigil. Its proud expression persists unchanged, silence uninterrupted. It frustrates you to no end.

Your face screws into a disgusted grimace, lip drawn back in an ugly snarl. “I do not miss you. I do not long for you,” you hiss, “Oh, great Emperor, I have to help your son pick up the pieces so gracelessly left behind.” Venomous words settle like lead in the air of the dim sanctuary. You clench your fists. “Why should I mourn you?”

The face of polished white remains stoic. Your eyes bore into the ancient stone, inspecting it for any reaction. It does not give.

You scoff once more, offended by its wordlessness. The gritting of your teeth exacerbates the headache thrumming in your skull. Ridiculous, you chide. So worked up in the presence of an unyielding god, heartbeat deafening in your ears as your blood pressure rises, and it gives you nothing. You sulk in the quietude under the carving’s watchful gaze.

“...I miss the Sigilite,” your pathetic voice eventually concedes in the silence, “Malcador had his issues, and we did not always get along, but at least he made attempts to guide the children you so thoughtlessly abandoned.” The welling tears begin to fall. Your frustrations paint your cheeks, glittery trails turning frigid in the chill of the fortress. “If someone had told me a century ago that I would be in his place, I would have called them a loon.” Grim laughter racks your body, and you turn your head back up to look at the stone likeness of the Emperor, “Advisor to the Lord Regent of the Imperium? Foolish. Preposterous, even.” The linen of your robes bunches as your arms encircle your midsection. It brings shallow comfort.

“Tell me, my lord, who it is that is supposed to advise the advisor?” you inquire of the so-called deity, “Who supports me when I must make decisions?” The Emperor responds with perpetuated silence. Your head falls, voice weak, “...you have taken them all from me.”

The connections you had made in other legions had all been lost to you early in the Heresy. Even if you could have attempted to reach out to them, having been put in stasis after being torn asunder at Calth and being completely separated from anything with the potential of tainted by chaos by Guilliman slaughtered any chances at reconnection. Memories of those you had loved still haunted your dreams, gifting you many sleepless nights.

It had been ten millennia.

Now you stand alone in the dark, before a magnificent depiction of the root cause of all of your problems, howling your frustrations at him as if somehow, some way, he could hear you. It made you no better than Curze, and that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You unwrap an arm from your middle to wipe away the freezing tears. “Perhaps I am the fool, thrust into a realm so far beyond me. Floundering like a fish out of water.” Soft footfalls echo through the chamber as you approach the statue and sit at its feet, leaning your miniscule body against the opulent statue. The cool marble bites at your cheek. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, and a false serenity befalls the chamber.

“I am all Roboute has left of the old Imperium. That’s a dreadful pressure to place on human shoulders, you know.” You speak as if scolding a child, a playful cadence in your voice. Your hand taps against the stony sabaton you rest upon, “But I suppose I am grateful he doesn’t have to do it alone, even if it means that I have to.” You shift to rest your back against the idol, placing your chin on bent knees that have long since gone numb from the cold. Against the visage of someone so beloved and beloathed, you feel the tension you’ve been carrying for weeks begin to melt away. You don’t catch the way your eyes begin to grow heavy, nor do you find yourself able to resist the siren call of sleep when it eventually comes.

Guilliman can no longer bring himself to be surprised when two of his sons report his advisor missing from their quarters the following morning. He dismisses the frantic marines idly and steps away from his holotable, closing the current simulation with a flash of green light. As expected, your unconscious form lies curled up at the foot of his father’s statue in one of the former worship halls of the evicted Ecclesiarchy. The primarch gives a weary sigh and kneels down, scooping your exhausted form off of the floor and carefully cradling you in the crux of his ceramite-covered arm.

Upon standing, Roboute’s eyes meet his fathers, and he regards the marble silhouette with conflicted emotions. It troubled him greatly to find you here as often as he did, but Guilliman can seldom think on it when a line of vox chatter drags him out of his trance. Instead, he shakes his head and swiftly starts towards the command hall to return to his post.

He’ll question your odd behavior when there are less pressing matters to attend to.

#guilliman x reader #roboute guilliman x reader #roboute guilliman #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #primarch #primarch x reader #warhammer fanfic #raven lady writings

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the-raven-lady · 1 month

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

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

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

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

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

Word Count: 3.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

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

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

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

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

One you refused to give in to.

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

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

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

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

”Finish.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Contekar Elite.

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

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

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

At least, it would have.

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

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

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strip.”

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

[Part 3]

#i fucking hate medical needles so that one scene was hard to write for me #the things I do for night lord tattoos #night lord #night lords #night lord x reader #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #horus heresy #warhammer 40k x reader #wh 40k #oc: elias rushorik #raven lady writings

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whorety-k · 4 months

Note

Hello! If you get the inspiration to do so, would you write something with Roboute Guilliman + Gát from Azahriah. I think the song would fit him.

Also on another note, I love Ebony Coasts💜💜 Looking forward to the next part!

Nothing shows my absolutely awful schedule like Ebony Coasts having finished before I even got to your ask my love

I am SO SORRY

I had never listened to anything in Hungarian before this point so this was actually really pleasant for me. This song got me in a mood to destroy that blueberry though, so please forgive me.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman (40K) x gn!Reader

Song Inspiration: Gát - Azahriah [Youtube] [Spotify]

[Original Hungarian]

“Ezért nincsen bennem már szimpátia /

Elmegyek én bárhova, ha hívnak / Mert érezni akarom, amit régen /

Mert régen tönkrement valami bent / Valami bent, valaki bennem.”

[English Translation]

“That's why there's no sympathy in me /

I go anywhere if they call me / because I want to feel what I felt before /

Because in the past something broke inside / something inside, something in me.”

Warnings: Angst, Guilliman’s struggle to adapt to a new Imperium, relationship falling apart, heated argument, hurt / no comfort

Word Count: 2.5k (THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 1000 OOPS)

The office light was dim, drained of warmth. Roboute could barely keep his eyes focused on his papers anymore, with how each stack continued to mesh and meld together in his mind. A request for aid in the Yannsi system. Reports of ork activity along an Imperial supplyway. Another noble house asking for his audience for a vaguely stupid reason in their horse-and-pony show. With a sigh, he pushed the expensive looking envelope off of the table and into the waste bin.

Guilliman grew tired of it all.

But, in the name of the Imperium, he pushed onwards. Sheet after sheet, datapad after datapad, vox after vox.

He nearly missed the knock that rapped against the frame of the office doorway, timid and gentle. How he hadn’t seen them enter was either a show of focus or a token to his weariness, usually laser-focused senses dulled as day after day of piling issues droned by. Guilliman picks his head up out of his hands, rolling loose circles into his temples with his index and middle fingers. “Come in,” he beckons.

Your quiet footsteps echo in the chamber built to the size of a primarch. The scents of exhaustion and old sweat permeate the air, for even a being handcrafted by the Emperor himself is subject to the soil of exertion.

Guilliman’s eyes soften substantially from their stress-induced glower as you draw near, but it’s not enough to fully smooth the deep-set furrow in his brow, or the everlasting scowl on his face. “My love, has something happened that needs my attention?” he inquires, leaning forward to get a better look at you. You stand before him in your favorite robe: a simple yet practical garment that he had gifted you for a holiday celebration, ultramarine blue silks embroidered with golden laurels along the neckline. He would give you so much more if you didn’t feel so guilty at receiving his affections, always so concerned with any excess spending given the state of the Imperium. He was too— more than you ever could be— but you were supposed to be his space away from the mess. It frustrated him to no end to be reminded of his family’s failings when he was actively trying to find an escape from it, and especially because he shouldn’t have you.

You should have been long dead. After the failed Siege of Terra and the end of the Heresy, Guilliman had found you, a noble agent, desperately working far beyond your capacities within the Imperial Palace to keep things running. A tense friendship blossomed into an awkward, complicated relationship with private moments stolen whenever fate would allow. Neither of you were able or willing to put a label to it, given your pre-existing devotion to fixing the weakened state of the Imperium. Your knowledge of the parties both behind and beyond the Imperial walls proved invaluable to helping the Ultramarines hold it together, and Guilliman could not have been more grateful for your help. Roboute planned to express his gratitude and formally request your hand after your return from a diplomatic mission to help secure support from some of the world less affected by the heresy.

He never got the opportunity to do so. On the return voyage to Terra, your ship had been ambushed and knocked loose of its path in the warp. Your anticipated arrival date had come and passed, and no one heard any word from your vessel. Within an instant, any hope of creating a better future with you had been indirectly or directly ripped from him by his traitorous brothers, just as it had been before.

Roboute thought he had all but moved on by the time he was struck down by Fulgrim, thought had finally shaken the silent longing when he finally awoke from his ten millenia stasis into the disaster the Imperium of Man had become. The hellscape he has been thrust into gave him no time to dwell on any of the things he had lost ten-thousand years ago. It did not matter how hollow or angry he felt when everyone galaxy-wide was demanding something of him, and who better than the Avenging Son to fill the role?

The day the vox came in that a ship with a downright ancient signature had entered Terra’s orbit is one he would never forget. Guilliman was prepared to have it destroyed, certain that the vessel had been overrun with chaos, but the sound of your voice asking for him over the vox channels stopped him. His hearts seized in his chest when you recognized him.

Roboute, is that you?

It’s been years. We just found a way out.

Roboute, can you hear me?

“Roboute.”

His head snaps up from his daze, not noticing how he had begun to nod off, lost in his ruminations. He hadn’t made the mistake of not asking for your hand soon enough a second time. The stern tone of voice alerts him that he’s missed whatever you had said before, and he sits forward again to reengage.. “I’m sorry, love. I am listening,” Roboute says, letting out the breath he had been holding.

You shake your head, gaze falling to the floor for a brief instant before your eyes find his again. “I asked you to come to bed, Roboute. You haven’t left the office for days, and I know you’re tired.” You call attention to his lapse with a gesture of the hand.

Guilliman’s scowl deepens, looking down at the paper before him on his desk. As tempting as that offer was... “I cannot, love. I am sorry.”

“Will there be a day I don’t hear that?” you rebut, stepping closer to his desk. Your head only barely hovers above it as you come near, resting a hand on the varnished wood. “Or shall I keep hoping?”

The primarch scoffs, taken aback at the rhetoric. He didn’t dismiss you that often… did he? His blue eyes burn into yours, expression hardening. “My work is important. It isn’t something I can just stop and abscond from. You know this.”

You fold your arms in response, doubling down. “Are these the conditions in which you can do your best work? Barely able to keep your head up?”

For once, Guilliman can’t argue. His shoulders are tight, his neck tired and sore from staring down at a desk for longer than a baseline human could even stay awake without death. His eyes stopped burning after a certain point, now nearly numb. He tries to blink the feeling away, only to struggle with opening his eyes again.

It doesn’t go unnoticed under your gaze. “Come to bed, Roboute,” you plead, resting your chin upon his desk. Sapphires of the softest cobalt land on you, and you reach a hand out toward him. Your drowsy voice continues, “I hardly ever see you outside of this dreaded space. I don’t remember the last time we shared a bed together.”

His massive hand dwarfs your own when he takes it, stroking the delicate skin of the back of your hand. “I would like to join you– truly, I would– but I cannot afford to step away from this,” Guilliman asserts, voice gentle yet firm in his decision.

Your expression falls, as it always does. Guilliman expects you to nod your head and concede as you normally did, letting go of your hand to pick up a pencil once more. He finds the starting line of the report and begins to peruse the document. The Lord Governor of the—

“When will it be enough?”

Guilliman tenses up, tearing his gaze away from the words he was reading. Your voice completely blindsides him, and he isn’t even sure if he’s certain he heard what you said. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

“When will you have done enough, Roboute?” you repeat, stepping away from the wooden desk. As your full body comes into view, he can see how your limbs tremble with emotion. “When will you have reached a point that you are truly satisfied with what you’ve done?” Your voice comes as a challenge, crossing your arms over your chest once again. Your knuckles blanch with the force you grip yourself with.

It’s the second time you manage to render Guilliman completely speechless. When is enough, enough? He gawks as he looks you over, eyes jumping between your upset form and the page before him. It’s a question he didn’t allow himself to dwell on, unable to find a satisfactory answer. It has been, is, and always will be his responsibility to convert the raw data of a problem into something with a detailed solution; it was his strongest skill as a leader. He can stop when there are solutions.

You interrupt his train of thought with another siren call, holding eye contact as you tempt him away once more with your sweet voice. “Your standards you hold yourself to are honorable, but even the great Roboute Guilliman, son of the Emperor of Mankind, requires his rest.”

And by the throne, he does. He well and truly does. Guilliman could use another ten thousand years in stasis if it wouldn’t make his problems any worse. Instead, though, he’s content to finish one more paper and go to bed. Finally, he nods, pushing aside a stack of documents to start tomorrow. It seems that Roboute would be the one conceding today, muttering, “I will join you shortly.”

Unfortunately for him, you aren’t having any of it. “No, you will come now,” you demand, putting your foot down. You continue, stern tone softening, “Please, if not for you, take care of yourself for me.”

The words make Guilliman’s head throb, irritation threatens to flare within him as the words cause an uncomfortable roiling within his chest. He buries his head into his hands with a grunt– it’s all he can do to prevent an annoyed growl of, “everything I do is for you,” from leaving him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries to cool his temper. “This final document is just a report from another world. It won’t take me long,” he promises.

“Then it can wait until tomorrow,” you argue, fed up with the barrage of excuses to continue. “I am serious, Roboute. One world’s ‘report’ is not the end-all, be-all of the Imperium. I know that you are under a lot of strain to fix the mess we’re in–”

Guilliman abruptly sits up, chair flying back as he stands to full height. You can barely perceive the flash movement before the clash of the chair hitting the wall makes you jump. “And you could possibly hope to understand?” Guilliman spits, slamming his hands onto the table. The shout of the primarch instinctually drowns you in dread, and you’re unable to stop the reflexive trembling that kicks in as you stare up at him. Guilliman is furious, all of the signs of exhaustion he had exhibited so plainly before replaced with vitriol. He continues, voice laced with venom, “You could hope to understand what it is to be left with the bloated corpse of my father’s legacy, forced to pick up the pieces as nothing but a tool in his stead as everything he fought for has been so thoroughly perverted? When the mere thought of how things were before is now heresy, despite those fanatics worshiping a book written by a traitor?” His breathing labors, desk creaking precariously with the force he’s exerting upon it. At your lack of response, Guilliman scoffs again. “No,” he growls, turning away, “your mind couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of the pressure placed upon me.”

Your eyes burn with tears, cheeks warm and wet. The outburst leaves you completely shaken, clutching at your sides like a cornered animal. The sight alone fills Roboute with remorse, but you don’t give him the chance to apologize. “I was there,” you utter through shaky breaths. Roboute’s mouth clamps shut. “I lived the old Imperium, picked up the pieces of it beside you. Do you think this has been easy for me?” you press, unable to look the primarch in the eye. “I spent five years in the warp, unsure of whether or not I would ever leave it. Would I die there? Would I find a fate worse? What if one of your brothers was to find me?” Each word punches him in his chest, hearts heavy with the weight of instant regret. He can see how you tremble as you relive what you went through, all at the cost of his loud mouth. “I never gave up, even when so many others had, driven to insanity or the depths of depression. I continued to fight when even the Astartes had one-by-one resigned themselves to fate.” Hot tears roll down your cheeks, and you begin to find confidence in your words as your fear turns into rage, jabbing an accusatory finger in Guilliman’s direction. “I survived to find you again, and I have done nothing but stand by your side and help you try to make heads or tails of the absolute fucking mess we’re in. Does that mean nothing?”

Guilliman doesn’t look away from you as you verbally lash into him. Despite his pride, he knows you’re right. You haven’t truly been wrong once this evening, and in his stubbornness, he has only managed to make everything worse for the both of you. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Of course you didn’t, because you’ve only been thinking about yourself and what will become of you. Will your torment ever end?” you spit back, cutting him off. He bows his head, lips drawn tight. Tense silence fills the room as your words hang heavy in his mind. You shake your head, letting out a muffled sob. “I will be in the bedroom when you remember yourself, Roboute Guilliman.”

With that, you turn on your heel and march out of the room, leaving Guilliman alone in the office with his thoughts. He can only stare at the doorway before the rush of the moment leeches out of him, causing him to slump down into his chair. Guilt claws in his chest, up his throat like an angry badger. His head spins as it fills with everything he should have said, should have done, instead of making a damned fool of himself. The rift between the two of you grew evermore.

Guilliman picks up his pencil from the floor, drawing the planetary report in front of him so he can focus again on the only thing he’s actually sure he’s worthy of anymore: fixing logistics.

#roboute guilliman #roboute guilliman x reader #guilliman x reader #ultramarines #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #primarch #primarch x reader #warhammer fanfic #raven lady writings

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whorety-k · 3 months

Text

you know who you are >:) this is for u <3

Pairing: Vulkan x male!Reader

Song Inspiration: Teardrops - Joe Satriani [YouTube] [Spotify]

Warnings: fluff, soft Vulkan is soft, nothing major

Word Count: 420 (nice)

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

It’s difficult not to feel the hulking mass of him as he places his knee upon the bed, rousing you from the uncomfortable slumber you had been in moments before. This world was unjustifiably freezing, but even the warm forces of the Salamanders had a hard time cracking the icy exterior of its leaders in peaceful negotiation. Vulkan had been away for days, leaving you safely sequestered in a private location to avoid any sort of political ploy that might involve your kidnapping. Not that the Salamanders would have allowed such a thing to occur; the vast majority approved heartily of their gene-father’s handsome little prince and would fight tooth-and-nail to assure your safety.

The sudden sensation of indescribable warmth has you reaching up towards Vulkan’s shadowed form, red eyes aglow in the low light.

“Well, good evening to you too, little flame,” he remarks, voice broken in a sweet chuckle. A massive hand envelops yours oh so delicately, your primarch leaning down to place a kiss to your knuckles with a tenderness you would have never guessed him capable of if you hadn’t been by his side for so long.

You rumble out a contented hum at the sensation, trying to tug him down to join you. “No more words, please. I’m cold,” you grumble, scooching to make room for your lover’s massive frame.

The gentle giant concedes to your demands, cheeks clicking with a smile as he carefully adjusts to lie beside you. Vulkan can’t help but feel that, despite the heat of a forge burning from within him, he’s the one that melts whenever you snuggle in close. His angel, whether wrapped in fine textiles and bearing the colors of his legion or in your muted bedclothes as you are now. Not even half of his size, yet able to command him so freely if you just chose to do so. He loves it. He craves the domesticity whenever he’s away for long.

A pleased sigh escapes your lips as the chill of the room thaws against your beloved’s natural heat. You feel a pair of lips press to the crown of your head, nestled in your cropped locks, before Vulkan draws you chest to chest. It may have been safest away from the tense negotiating table at the time, but you felt you were truly safest in your lover’s arms.

The gentle puffs of breath are a siren call to an at-last comfortable sleep, the cold room drifting into oblivion at the sync of your heartbeats.

#vulkan x reader #vulkan #salamanders x reader #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #primarch #primarch x reader #warhammer fanfic #raven lady writings

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whorety-k · 4 months

Note

Hi hi! This is for the primarch + song thing! Konrad Curze and 'The Haunting' by Avantasia is a really good match, it fits both his and his legion's downfall really well. ye have full freedom with writing it

This was actually a really enjoyable listen and fit really well!! Very easy to write some twisted shit to, so I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Konrad Curze and gn!Imperial Agent!Reader, could be either platonic or romantic

Song Inspiration: The Haunting - Avantasia [Youtube] [Spotify] “A thousand nights / We've been calling your name / Close your eyes but I won't go away / We're there for you / The cold embrace / that you don't wanna feel / Must not be, but you know it is real / We're there for you.”

Warnings: Graphic blood and gore, descriptions of innards, terror, bestie you aren’t here for a good time, Konrad being a creep that doesn’t know how to express emotions like a normal person, yandere? I think?

Word Count: ~1k

Clink. Clink-clink.

The ice in the cup of water collides with the side of your glass as you raise it to your lips with a shaky hand. You try to focus on it to avoid retching from the overpowering scent of iron around you, condensation dripping through your fingers and onto the floor.

It had started off innocently enough, considering who Konrad Curze was as a person. Being an agent in the Imperial Palace tasked with correspondence, you were the political voice of your charge– a mediator to avoid conflicts, listening and translating the oft harsher voices of the Primarchs into something more easily digestible for the Highborn of Terra. Curze wasn’t even the Primarch you had been assigned to, but with the XIVth Legion on their homeworld of Barbarus with little in terms of updates, your open availability had allowed for repeated encounters with the King of Terrors.

You could not have caught the attention of someone worse, and truly, you hadn’t intended to catch it at all.

You smelled him before you saw him. It was hard not to, with how rot and decay hung to his frame and soiled the atmosphere around. Konrad Curze’s presence had filled you with a level of dread previously unknown to your cushioned existence. Haunting black eyes that seemed to pierce into your soul despite not being fully present. Grime and dried blood embellishing his unkempt locks. Before that moment, you had only heard tales of the Night Haunter’s grim visage and lackluster decorum, but no words known to you could describe the true extremes of it. You had done your best to be amicable with the Primarch of the Night Lords, fearful of his easily-excitable penchant for violence but understanding enough that it caught his attention. Something lingered in those abyssal eyes.

Curze wasn’t used to someone looking at him with anything short of disgust and terror, yet you had given a genuine attempt at conversation. It fascinated him, and it compelled him to keep an eye over you. He was a guardian of justice and an embodiment of the Emperor’s will, after all.

You did not need to know he was watching.

A weight places itself at your upper back, the chill of clammy skin nipping at your neck. It’s cold, the room around you, and a chill runs down your spine for the umpteenth time. You long stopped counting the amount of times goosebumps raised on your skin, or how bile would rise in your throat if your gaze strayed any farther from your cup than necessary. Trying not to cry out was enough effort.

It was supposed to be a regular meeting amongst agents. Even with your Lord Primarch absent, you were still required to show and take notes to discuss with him later. The agent to the Night Lords sat directly beside you as a constant source of annoyance throughout the entire evening, the epitome of a pig. Unwelcome hands on your shoulder or comments about the cut of your uniform came as a plague to your mood, and you left in a hurry as soon as the allotted time was up. You had nearly run head-first into Curze’s leg in your haste to exit the room.

Thankfully, the Night Haunter was more sickly entertained with your clumsiness than irritated with the transgression. He seemed even less enthused to see his agent than you had been, and Konrad’s gaze had not missed the way you swatted said agent off of you when his hand gripped your waist to steady you. You may have withheld your biting comment, but you couldn’t hope to hide the spike of dismay in your scent. Konrad was disappointed you left quickly enough to miss the interrogation that followed, but he figured the aftermath would be enough of a gift.

“Do you like it?” Curze asks, thumb caressing the trembling flesh of your upper arm. You allow traitorous eyes to look up once again at the puppet of meat that once was Konrad’s agent. To call it a corpse would be a gross misjudgement of the scene.

The expression of terror on his face still lingered in his glassy eyes. His chest had been flayed open, ribcage split at the sternum and spread open to reveal the underlying organs beneath. Ropes of intestines piled into his lap like pulled rubber. Arms and legs alike had been shredded into ribbons, tangling within each other. His heart had been carefully carved out and placed on the table beside him.

Frozen to the ground below, you take another shaky sip of water from your glass, unable to look away this time from the grotesque details. You don’t answer.

“He shall no longer be a bother to you,” Konrad says, removing his hand from your back and circling around the scene like a shark called to blood, “Fools have no place in this universe.” He plucks the dead heart from the table, raising it to examine the muscle closer. It pops with a revolting wet squish as he closes his fist around it. Curze sighs, “A pity I’ll have to hassle with finding a new agent, but I’m certain a qualified candidate will come my way...”

Your entire body runs cold when he turns to face you with a knowing grin and stalks closer, wiping his soiled hand on one of the leathery rags of skin adorning his armor and kneeling to be at your level. A bloody hand rests on your shoulder, and an amused breath puffs through his bared teeth when you recoil. You nod your head and force a smile despite the ice in your veins. Black eyes crinkle in macabre joy.

“It’s a great time for change, don’t you think?”

#konrad curze #konrad curze x reader #the night haunter #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #primarch #primarch x reader #warhammer fanfic #raven lady writings #this man is so fucked up and I love it

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