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nightscythe · 29 days ago

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crimson affliction [two]

→ sanguinius x gn!reader → 3.7k, 18+ mdni, cw: psychological horror/obsession/sacrificial/ suicide mentions. dead dove type thing → pre-heresy, sanguinius’ thirst is different to that of his sons, but it’s far more potent than anything they’d understand

[prev: one] - part 2/5

“You said you wanted all of me.” His words are whispered one more time. Delirium spins within, yet he still seems so composed. “You were never afraid of any part of me.”

I was wrong. I’m afraid. I don’t want this.

He laughs again. It’s unkind, unfamiliar. “You promised me, remember?”

Please, stop…

“I can’t stop,” he hisses, glancing at Magnus, but never resting there. “You know I can’t. I need you. You made me need you.”

Time passed by. He only knew because he often reached into the void to feel your heart beating.

Sometimes fast, when you were running. Sometimes slow, when you weren’t. He’d have believed time had stopped without it. He would have stopped without it.

Others passed by. Nameless. Voiceless. Blurred into one.

He didn’t care to look anymore, or even pretend to, no acknowledgement of their presence granted. Not when his mind preoccupied him, prevented his attention from moving anywhere but that soft beating heart.

So, when the door opened, he didn’t even blink.

He stood alone, staring into the pit of fire at the edge of the room, hands locked together, his wings dragging along the floor as he took small, even steps.

“I hoped to not find you here.”

Sanguinius doesn’t turn. His eyes move upwards, no longer looking directly into the flames.

“There are whispers that you haven’t left this room,” the voice behind continues, slow and practised. A voice he’d found comfort in before. “Are they true, brother?”

The silence is confirmation. Magnus is still for a moment before he steps into the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

His presence is overwhelming. For the first time in days, Sanguinius can look away. The fire burns on whilst his attention finally casts a net on the room. Quiet. Just the two of them. Dark. His gaze shifts across the room until he comes to a stop his brother approaching gently.

“You haven’t had any rest,” Magnus says, steps ending when he stands an equal distance from the fire. “Your mind does not know how to. I can feel it.”

The echoes of a smile curved onto Sanguinius’ lips. “And yours does?”

“I am not the one confined to a room,” Magnus answers. Sanguinius can feel his eyes burning into him. “I hear your mind. How it screams louder than any other around you.”

“That is not unusual.”

“No,” Magnus continues, “but it is louder than usual. Untamed. Not like you.”

Sanguinius’ eyes flick back to the fire. As neither speaks, Magnus follows, watching the roar alongside him.

“I thought it was grief. That usually would cause this.” Magnus sounds as though he understood. Cared. Had seen this before. “But you are not grieving. That is different. This isn’t mourning. This is fragmentation.”

Sanguinius hums. He turns his head towards Magnus but avoids his eyes. Magnus is staring, studying him anyway, watching for any movements.

“Who is it?”

Sanguinius meets his eyes. Flinches. He won’t say.

“Could you give me a name?”

Sanguinius shakes his head. “It belongs to me.”

He can’t bear to share the memory. He’s afraid that someone else would challenge him, try to take you away. Only he was allowed you. No one else, not even a brother trying to help.

“Well, they are buried in the darkest parts of your mind, trapped in every corner.” Magnus’ brows pull together. He takes a small step towards him. “They’re burning you alive, brother.”

Sanguinius shouldn’t feel so relieved that his memory hadn’t leaked past his own delusion. He’d not spare the details of you.

You were his. Even now.

“They were my salvation.”

“They still are.”

“No.” His voice slashed Magnus’ connection to his mind. His eyes returned to the flames. “They’re not here. They’re not with me. They have chosen… They do not love me.”

Magnus pauses for a moment. “They are there.”

“No,” Sanguinius chides, “They don’t love.”

“But I still feel them in you.” Magnus sighs, pulling his hands together, adjusting the golden bangle on his wrist. “In your breath. In your silence. Your heart and soul.”

Magnus pauses. His focus shifts for a moment, as though he could replay every one of Sanguinius’ memories.

“What did you do to them?”

Sanguinius doesn’t answer.

“You lost them, but it is not without cause. What… What could you have done?”

Sanguinius refuses to answer.

“I only see love.” Magnus looks closer at him. Takes another step closer as if that would unblur his memories. “Yet you are hurt. Lost. I see what it is doing to you. I think you are losing control.”

Magnus watches for more. A tactic that may work on a mere human, but not one of them. He doesn’t move yet, and Magnus tries again.

“You’ve already lost control.”

Sanguinius’ hands fall to his side. He looks back to Magnus, this time turning his whole body. He felt the golden aura crack himself.

Another smile. Cold, lifeless. A predator’s natural instinct. “I never lost control.”

“Then what is it?”

“You were always wiser than me, brother.” Sanguinius huffed a laugh from his pale, cracked lips. “I see them when I close my eyes. I hear their voice instead of mine. I remember them in every candle. Feel them beside me when I look in mirrors. What do you think it is?”

His breath quickened. The smile he carried no longer felt hollow. Magnus’ opportunity to interject was lost.

“I know where they are. Where they’re hiding from me. I feel them breathing, their heart beating, the way their body begs for me. Nothing could keep them from me, not the stars, not you… not even fate.”

“Devotion?” Magnus suggests.

“Perhaps.” Sanguinius’ smile blossomed. “Prophecy. Worship. Sacrifice. Ache. Hunger.”

Magnus takes a step back, a frown etched into his features. “You speak of them like they’re the air around you, like you’ll die without them. They’ve left you bleeding.”

“I am not bleeding,” Sanguinius insists, “I am thirsting.”

Magnus doesn’t move, his expression unchanged. His lips part as though he had found some semblance of reassurance, but he never speaks them. Sanguinius was already gone.

He turned away from Magnus. His wings dragged across the ground once more, heavy with dust. His hands rest behind his back as he takes meaningless steps once again. After a few, he stops.

Closes his eyes. Feels their heartbeat.

Then continues his path, his musing. “I always find them in the same places.”

He hums to himself, voice falling to a low tone. He looks over his shoulder, finding Magnus once more. “It’s as if they want me to find them again. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Magnus doesn’t answer this time.

Not until Sanguinius stops completely. He turns back to Magnus, now on the other side of the room, with the same smile still burning. “You wonder why they would run to begin with.”

“Naturally.” Magnus stands uncomfortably still, as though pulling apart the weave holding memory and hallucination together. “You do not run from them. Are they frightened by you?”

Sanguinius is quick to shake his head. “No. Never. They enjoy how I chase them.”

He starts to pace once more, looking ahead as though the memories were on a screen in front of him.

“You would like them,” Sanguinius says softly.

Magnus’ eyes follow him. “Tell me.”

“You dare me?” Sanguinius musters a laugh from somewhere. His eyes fall shut for the briefest of seconds. “I can’t. If I start, I will not be able to bring myself to stop.”

“I want to know more, Sanguinius.” Magnus folds his arms over his chest slowly. “Tell me everything.”

Sanguinius looked away. Felt his brother’s gaze at his side. His head dips ever so slightly.

He lets his eyes fall shut again. Allows every memory to return to him.

“I feel them in every step I take, another prayer for them to answer.”

His chest thumps harder as he speaks.

“But… I met them in a garden.”

Sanguinius looks beyond Magnus. Sees the image in his head – where you stood before him and he was hooked.

“The sun was out, late, even for summer. I remember the way the corners of the frame were turning violet. They had their hands held up towards the sky, blood on their fingers. They smiled when they saw me.”

Magnus’ frown doesn’t quite reach Sanguinius. “They were hurt?”

“Barely,” he laughs, “the roses had fought them. They wanted to trim their stems and keep them from overgrowing. Cut themselves in the process, told me they didn’t mind.”

Sanguinius hums fondly over the memory. He could picture you sitting there, with the same clothes, the same hair, the same memory that always wandered through his mind.

“I sat beside them. The way it dripped down their fingers fascinated me. They wiped it on their apron like it was nothing, said it happened all the time. They fascinated me. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Fascination, yes,” Magnus answers. He watches Sanguinius, studies him, like it would somehow lead to more understanding. “but this isn’t just fascination, brother.”

“Then what is it?” Sanguinius asks once more. “Adoration? Possession?”

Magnus shakes his head. “Worship.”

Sanguinius doesn’t answer.

“You did love them,” Magnus clarifies, “but you worshipped them, too.”

“It’s hard not to worship someone who made you feel whole.”

Sanguinius looks towards the floor once more. His hands shake at his side until he pulls them into fists. When he finally looks back to Magnus, there’s an absence in his gaze that can’t quite be explained.

“They were kind to me. They taught me what sweetness was. They held me, kissed my hands, showed me love without even caring what I was, or who I was. They…”

His voice broke, his chest heaved. Magnus doesn’t move.

“They’d sit behind me and trace over my wings, every feather, as they told me why they wanted me. They called me angel, said they loved me. Magnus, they loved me. Loved all of me.”

“You speak of them like a dream,” Magnus comments.

“Yes,” Sanguinius returns. Too soft. Too reverent. “That’s what they are.”

Magnus’ lips raise in one corner, not quite a smile. “Do you still love them?”

“Always,” Sanguinius returns. “There isn’t a day I haven’t loved them.”

“Then what happened?”

“They said they’d never leave.”

“But they did?”

Sanguinius hums. “But they did.”

“Because of something you did?” Magnus asks, braver with his questions, yet never approaching his brother.

“I thought I was giving them everything they needed,” Sanguinius answers. “They were the only peace I ever had. But… I ruined it.”

He keeps his lips parted, words still coming to him.

“It was too much. That’s what they said. I was taking too much, leaving them with nothing.” Sanguinius pauses again. He swallows, hard, and his voice rasps as he continues. “They were mine. I don’t… They were everything. Mine.”

“But you’re not theirs?”

“All of me belongs to them.” Sanguinius’ knees feel weak. An ache, longing in his chest as he finds the courage to laugh. Once, bitterly, pain seeping through him. “They don’t know. They’ll never know how much of me is theirs.”

Magnus doesn’t speak for a moment. In all his wisdom, he wasn’t sure how to advise his brother. Not on this, not as he saw the light in his eyes beginning to fade, embers burning at his core as the gold simmered to scarlet.

But he saw, knew, the desperation behind his brother’s eyes – and despite knowing better, he continued, his tone softer than before.

“Why don’t you show them?”

Sanguinius laughed once again.

Was it supposed to comfort him?

Mend the bleeding and broken divinity threaded through his very soul?

Or, Sanguinius thinks, it’s the final push he needed.

Confirmation.

Sanguinius doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away from something that Magnus couldn’t see. Not a point in the distance; it was something beyond the realm of his understanding.

The crack of a smile, then slanted brows and downturned lips, all in quick succession.

You should forget me.

Sanguinius’ breath chokes.

Magnus frowns. “What is it?”

Please, let me go.

His lips part, breath unable to form.

Please.

“Sanguinius?”

“They’re here.” Sanguinius tells him. Magnus looks to the empty room, but he never gets the chance to protest. “They’re close. I hear them. Throne, they’re always close.”

Sanguinius steps forward, slow, as if afraid to scare the voices away. Gentle, like a child in awe of something too great for them to understand. Like he was a boy again, like he’d understood love for the first time.

You can’t keep doing this. I was never yours to keep.

“No.” His voice is so quiet, Magnus would have missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely. “No. You don’t mean it. No.”

I’m not yours, Sanguinius.

His eyes narrow at the point across the room. His nostrils are flared, his jaw drawn tight. “You’re lying.”

“You’re speaking with them?” Magnus asks, reaching a hand to his brother. Sanguinius doesn’t react, not even as Magnus squeezes to see what’s still left of him. “They’re not here, but they can hear you?”

“You wanted me to chase you,” Sanguinius murmurs. He brings a hand to his chest as though it would soothe the pain. “You said you enjoyed it. You loved it.”

This isn’t the same.

“How?” he petitions, voice strained, “what’s not the same?”

You.

He hilts his head back slowly.

You’ve changed.

“You said you wanted all of me.” His words are whispered one more time. Delirium spins within, yet he still seems so composed. “You were never afraid of any part of me.”

I was wrong. I’m afraid. I don’t want this.

He laughs again. It’s unkind, unfamiliar. “You promised me, remember?”

Please, stop…

“I can’t stop,” he hisses, glancing at Magnus, but never resting there. “You know I can’t. I need you. You made me need you.”

Magnus steps forward again, now right beside him. He feels pity. He feels worry. This wasn’t something he could easily comprehend, and he hated it as much as seeing Sanguinius broken.

Magnus pulls his attention back to him. “Talk to me, brother.”

Sanguinius looks at him with wide eyes, glassy, lips shaking. “They begged me to stay with them no matter what.”

“When?”

“That night.”

“What night?”

“They laid beside me, ran their fingers across my chest and said they didn’t care. They’d bury themselves in my madness. As long as it meant they could keep me.”

That was before.

“Before what?” he continues, shifting his eyes away from Magnus. No reply. He looks back to Magnus. He places his hand on Magnus’ chest. “They said… they were the sweetest thing I’d ever taste. They were. Nothing is better than them.”

Sanguinius stops.

The first bite of metal. The bitterness of grapefruit. The sharpness of cranberry. Then, the sweetness of the ripest plum.

“I thought about it every day. I resisted for so long. I knew what it could do.” Sanguinius’ eyes aren’t quite focused, but he tries to keep his coherency. He thought Magnus’ approval might save him. “It was the madness they wanted to bury themself in.”

Magnus doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look away.

“They didn’t want to be without me, they loved me.” It takes him less than a second to correct himself. “Loves me.”

It was all he could think about.

The taste.

“They turned their neck to the side and offered themselves to me. Told me to be gentle… I was. I always was. They wanted me to have them.” His eyes continue their crimson descent. “They gave me every part of them. Skin. Voice. Blood.”

Magnus holds his breath.

“Their soul.”

Sanguinius takes his hand away from Magnus, shrugs his hand off his shoulder, too.

“They’d die for me. If they had to.”

Magnus forces his reply. “They never needed to.”

“No.” Sanguinius’ lips part, then begin to curl. “I’d never have let them die.”

“Then what did you do?”

“What they asked,” Sanguinius confirms, indignant. “I only ever did what they asked.”

Because you had kissed him first.

You’d leaned into him, whispered that you were his, promised him anything he wanted, he just had to ask.

So, he did. He asked for a taste, for more of you, and you had said yes. You always said yes.

He remembered how warm your skin was, how you barely flinched as his teeth scratched the surface of your skin, how you nodded for him to continue when he searched for your eyes amongst the fuzziness of the world around him.

You’d laced your fingers into his hair as he took the first sips. It was so easy. You made it easier for him, reassured him each time that it was what you wanted as well.

“They were shaking,” Sanguinius recounts, softly speaking his thoughts aloud. “I was always gentle with them. I barely even pierced their skin the first time. It was just a taste.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth, tips of his fingers just brushing his lips, memory serving him an image of you doing the same motion.

His lips part. His breath, already ruined, stutters. His hand trembles as he feels the touch, as if your blood stained his lips once more.

“I’ve never tasted anything better,” he says, “and I’ll never know anything better.”

Sanguinius watches his brother, but his face never changes. Just a few simple words. “That was only the first time.”

“Resisting temptation isn’t easy.” Sanguinius hums as his head tilts ever so slightly. “You’d understand, brother.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

Magnus doesn’t answer.

Sanguinius continues his musings.

“They’d never truly understood what it meant, but they understood me. They became a part of me. I’d never be without them.”

Sanguinius loses his focus again.

“They told me to take more if I needed it. Every time, every need I had, they satiated it. Drop by drop. I didn’t stop.” His smile falls. “I couldn’t stop. They let me take, let me drink until it hurt them, until they would beg me to stop, and…”

His hands shook, his words left him.

He could see you beneath him, lips pale, skin ghostly, a weak palm on his shoulder to stop him.

He hadn’t meant to love it. Not more than he loved you.

“They were always mine.” Sanguinius’ gaze snaps back to Magnus. “They are mine.”

Quiet builds between them as they stare. Magnus can see it; the delight, the desire, the undoubted possession that Sanguinius held.

It was never grief he felt.

Never sorrow.

“I can still taste them.” Sanguinius sighs. “Like it’s the first time. It was always like the first time.”

“This isn’t…”

“Normal?” Sanguinius laughs, excessively. “I don’t need it to be.”

“This isn’t love,” Magnus corrects him. “This is need. Ruin.”

Sanguinius doesn’t follow. The words don’t register with him. “I can’t go on with just their memory. I need to feel them again. I need them. Here, with me. For me.”

Magnus recoils the hand that had reached for Sanguinius.

It wasn’t his brother anymore.

“I know where they’re going.” Sanguinius exhales gently. “I always know. They always tell me.”

He turns to leave.

Magnus doesn’t follow, just watches. The air is wrought with unspoken words, but Sanguinius can’t notice.

Not like this.

But he does stop, his thoughts needing to be shared.

“They always run to the same places,” he tells Magnus. He smiles, nodding curtly. “They want me to find them.”

Magnus didn’t answer, not until seconds had passed and Sanguinius was on the verge of leaving.

“Brother.” He keeps his tone flat. “You can’t go like this.”

Sanguinius narrows his eyes but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t acknowledge the words, but he doesn’t listen to them either. Like something menial had distracted him.

“They’re hiding from you,” Magnus tells him. “They’re scared.”

“They’re waiting for me,” Sanguinius replies.

“No.” Magnus approaches him again. He holds the door handle to prevent him from leaving. “They’re running from you. You know that.”

Sanguinius doesn’t answer.

“You felt it.”

A hum. “I did.”

“Because they needed to.”

“Because they had to.” Sanguinius sighs, as though it pained him, as though he was reciting a prophecy laid out for both of you. “I’ll find them, and they’ll come back, like always.”

“Not this time.”

Sanguinius’ brows pull together. The air between them shifts, even as his expression becomes less recognisable. Threatened. Hurt. Overwhelmed.

He watches Magnus like the answers would appear before him. Like you’d be brought back to him without him needing to ignore the truth Magnus was bearing.

One crack in his façade wasn’t enough, though. Never would be.

His hands ball into fists.

Just an ounce of restraint stays with him.

“Step aside.”

“You don’t want to harm them,” Magnus says, never leaving his spot. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I am,” Sanguinius snaps, “My mind is clear.”

A pause. Silence. Mourning.

“I just miss them.”

Magnus swallows.

“I can’t be without them. Everything… it hurts. I can’t think, I can’t breathe. I’m burning, Magnus. My bones are scorched. My veins only carry fire. I’m starving.”

“I know.” Magnus’ gaze never leaves his. “Let me help you.”

Sanguinius’ chest heaves.

He places his hand over Mangus’, removing each finger’s grasp on the handle. Magnus doesn’t stop him. He couldn’t. No weapon or spell could avert what happens next.

Any air left between them is gone.

“You can’t help me.”

The crimson in his eyes burns.

“I crave their blood.” Sanguinius’ voice is so quiet, trembling. “I ache for their fear.”

Any rationality left in him begs for an apology. He didn’t mean it. But he did. Deep down. No words to apologise ever come to the surface.

Instead, he remembers. “I dream of one last taste.”

Magnus stills. Realises.

It was love, but much more.

Compulsion. Addition. Withdrawal.

Divinity disguised as despair.

“You’re not going,” Magnus tells him, his voice faltering for the first time, “I won’t let you.”

Sanguinius hums.

Then, he smiles.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. Pity tangled between each syllable. “But I will go.”

And Magnus shouldn’t let him.

He should put the creature that had taken over his brother down and save you from what fate had conjured just for you.

But Sanguinius simply moves past him.

Wings skim the delicate robes, eyes move back to the unseen reality, affliction bending reality right in front of him.

Fate. That was it. All of this was meant to be.

“They always run the same places,” Sanguinius muses one last time, stepping past his powerless brother. “They need me to find them.”

And this time?

He wouldn’t stop until he did.

confirmed: magnus and fulgrim next.

#sanguinius #sanguinius x reader #primarch x reader #blood angels #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 2 months ago

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crimson affliction [one]

→ sanguinius x reader (you, currently gn) → 3.9k, 18+ mdni, cw: psychological horror/obsession/sacrificial/ suicide mentions. dead dove type thing → pre-heresy, sanguinius’ thirst is different to that of his sons, but it’s far more potent than anything they’d understand [prev: prologue] - part 1/5

“I felt how desperate you were for me.”

He leans back on his knees and looks over you. For a second, freedom. Your stomach quivered. He’d never let you leave.

“Is that what you want, little lamb? To be hunted?” He reaches for your hands, cradling them between his own as he raises them to be level with his chin. He stares at the droplets of crimson mixed into the mud, their trails leaving streaks down your palms, all the way to your fingers. His head tilts as he watches carefully. “Or do you want me to beg for taste?”

He brings his lips to your finger. So gently, so carefully, he takes the end of your finger into his warm mouth and receives the smallest of offerings. His eyes fall shut for a moment, but his grip is iron on your hand.

“Whatever you want. I can be gentle. I can make you tremble beneath me. I can be everything. I am your everything.”

You had watched the candle for hours.

It was the last of the bunch you had on you. You’d brought a match to its wick so carefully you could feel your hands shaking with fear, the thought of darkness a looming possibility that you were not quite ready to face. In any grace that the Emperor had left for you, he must have blessed this candle; it should have been burned to its end by now, yet still, it stood strong against the black of the night.

You may have fallen asleep. Memories seemed to blur in this place. You vaguely remembered walking around the room at one point – but you could never be sure what was real anymore.

The ache was real, though.

Your limbs were tired, bones equally so. Your knees had been pulled into your chest since you sat down, hugged tight against your body under your jacket, which now acted as your blanket. Your eyes felt heavy. Your neck was barely able to keep your head upright. Your fingers were wrapped around a knife, a dull and pointless thing, though it began to slip as your eyelids began to drag themselves shut.

You’d been here before, just once. A beautiful landscape filled with trees and ruins from a time before. Overgrown greenery filled every crevice of brick and stone which had once protected its inhabitants; the trees had grown taller than any structure that remained unharmed.

You’d felt safe here, years ago. Stood in the empty rooms and embraced the comfort of knowing how many people had stood in your position and lived to see a better life.

So when you ran, when you crawled away from the pits of despair, this was the first place you’d thought to come.

The creatures would perform their symphonies through the night. The wind would sweep its way through each room to ensure no trespassers lay dormant. The wood, old and battered, would creak under its own weight to remind you that the world still existed outside.

But tonight, all you heard was the crackle of the candle flame and your own pulse.

Your head snapped up, eyes blinking a few times to adjust to the dim light. Your heart seemed to pound louder as you scanned the room around you.

It was too quiet.

Paranoia had become your best friend.

But this was different.

Your fingers curled around the hilt of the knife again, bringing it to your chest. The aches seemed to dull in comparison to the throbbing in your throat and chest. Defending yourself from an intruder, someone who wanted to try and make some quick money, steal something valuable from a wandering soul, would be easy enough.

You pushed yourself to your feet in a tired but swift movement. The jacket was replaced over your shoulders as you lifted each leg at a time and rolled your ankle in a circle. As you let your hands fall to your side, your left hand instinctively touched the pouch that had been tied to your belt.

Two small vials, a sprig of yarrow, and the chain you’d always held so close.

Your fingers twitched as they approached the zip of the pouch. Your heart seemed to calm for just a moment. It was only the caw of a raven outside that stopped you, rustling the trees as it flew away and left you almost on your own.

There was no sign of the sun in the sky yet, the empty windows showing the never-ending void of the night beyond the trees that slowly lost their leaves. As you tuck your knife back into your belt, the flame trembles. Once, then again. You close your eyes, squeezing them as if it would absolve all the tiredness you felt, giving yourself just one moment of peace.

Then you were smothered by it.

Your breath caught in your throat as the smell.

Ash. Honey and oleander.

It was suffocating.

You look to the door across from you, pulled slightly ajar. You inhale one more time, hoping that it was your tired mind playing a joke on you.

It only seems to be stronger.

You reach for the candle, snuffing the flame quickly. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you press yourself against the wall, hands flat against the stone, expecting the very worst.

It was real.

He was here.

The air stood still for long enough for you to feel him again.

You could have only wished for an intruder. Maybe you could defend yourself then. Maybe you had the smallest chance.

Running seemed pointless.

You crept your way through the halls, pitch black in some places, others given some light by the stars that lined the sky. Your feet whisked you in whatever direction seemed like it would keep you harm, but whenever he was with you, your senses never seemed to work as intended.

You passed through a long corridor decorated with vines and roots, twisting their way through your path, forcing you to slow down as you weave your way through. You paced down a stone staircase that led into the forest that surrounded the ruins. Each slab of stone seemed to give way to the dirt beneath when you stepped down, catching your steps just long enough to steal momentum.

You forced yourself to carry on.

You don’t look back.

You knew better than to look back.

Even as branches scratched their way down your arms. Even as thorns bit at the exposed parts of your legs. Even as your legs felt like they’d given up on you.

Even as the delicate scent of him embraced you and tried to hold you back.

You could taste him like the sweetest syrup gracing your lips. You could see his shadow in the corner of your eyes. You could hear his voice calling in each of your steps. You could feel the way his arms would reach around you to keep you safe.

A broken stone had settled your fate.

Face down. Palms scrapped, hidden by grit and dirt, enough to leave you ignorant of anything beneath.

You scrambled your way to your feet. You had to believe that he wasn’t following, that it was your imagination, that you were tired and just needed to catch up on the weeks’ worth of sleep you’d missed.

Then you heard a soft crunch. Loud enough to be heard over your own breaths and heart. Then another.

Don’t stop, you begged yourself, don’t fucking stop. Your lungs burned, the bitterness of the chilled air making things harder. You needed to stop.

Ahead two boulders sat pressed against each other. You threw yourself at them, pressing your body into the alcove that their edges and your legs struggled to keep you standing. You could see through the gap between the boulders, just a tease of what was beyond.

One trembling hand covered your mouth. You held it down to try and suppress anything loud.

Footsteps echoed through the trees. Deliberate, slow, pressed into the dirt like there was no care in the world. The silhouette that you once would have chased, run to with love and excitement, now rooted you in place.

Not from awe.

From fear.

Your blood ran cold.

He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to rush.

At first, he looked the same. His elegance with each step, his perfect posture, his size and stature. Then he came closer, and your perception was shattered.

His wings dragged behind him, dull and blackened. His hair was longer, left untamed as the golden shine had started to fade. His armour was scratched and broken, covered in blood and throne knows what else.

You held your breath as he stopped.

He turned his head slightly, looking first to his right, then back to his left where you stood hidden.

You pressed your body back into the boulder, trying to fit in beside the ivy and layers of vines that had grown. The world stopped turning as he looked over at the boulders.

His stare lasted longer than it should have. But then, he kept walking. Slowly. He scanned his surroundings for any clue or noise. He still knew you were there.

Minutes passed. You could make him out in the distance, walking without any other worry. A sigh, as quiet as you could make it, fell from your lips as you could breathe again. You let your eyes fall shut, squeezing your hands together in disbelief.

The stinging on your palms brings you back to reality. You open them in front of you, looking down to examine them briefly.

The black and brown mud mixed with the gathering droplets of red. The finest little cuts hidden beneath. Only small, but just enough for you to squeeze out drops.

Surely not enough.

You lean forward into the crevice, peeking a glimpse of the world on the other side. It all came to a halt when you could no longer see him.

Not a sound echoed, no movement was known to you.

But you didn’t breathe.

The night did it for you.

Your skin pricks. Your pulse slows.

A breath. Not yours.

Like he never left.

“Lost, little lamb?” he whispers, his cracked yet velvet lips touching the curve of your neck. His hand reaches for your waist. “You always forget – I was made to find you.”

You dare to look over your shoulder. His eyes were already there to meet you. The golden flecks in his irises you knew and loved were gone, replaced by the deep red of the rubies that once adorned his armour.

You couldn’t look away.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him, your gaze finally broken as he buried his head into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t make a noise, he doesn’t seem to be conscious until he pushes his head into you further, drinking in the feel of you, suffocating on your presence.

“You ran again,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the way his lips are pressed against your skin and the bruises that formed on his tongue.

There’s a gentleness that surprised you.

He doesn’t look up. You don’t look away from where his eyes once were, not until you feel his hand grip the edges of your body like you’d disappear if he let go.

“I thought you would be here. You always liked this place.”

You glance down at his arm. It stopped you from reaching for anything on your belt. Not that you stood a chance anyway. He could pick you up and hold you with one arm whilst still battling the most aggressive of demons with the other.

“What lie did you tell yourself?” He asks, raising his head ever so slightly. You look back at him, meeting his illuminated gaze through the crack between his face and your shoulder. “Why did you think it was safe to come here alone?”

You part your lips, even without an answer on them, but they tremble without command. His brows pull together as he leans back from you, head tilting curiously to the side. His breath quickens and you feel the corners of your eyes start to sting.

“Are you afraid?” He asks. Your lack of an answer sends him to his knees behind you. He turns you on the spot, making you face him, and look down to him just a little as he’s almost the same height as you. He doesn’t take his hands from your sides as he pulls you towards him. “No, my little muse. There’s no reason to be afraid. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

You only swallow as your body starts to feel numb.

“You’re shaking.” His statement is obvious. He pulls you closer to him again, his head resting on your chest as his arms wrap around you. For a moment, merely a second, it feels like before. His eyes meet yours, and they seem to have returned to a honeyed gold. “Please, my love. Don’t fear me. You are all I have.”

You shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t give in to him.

Yet your hand finds its way to his hairline, the tips of your fingers brushing his hair back so you can see his face. Sleep deprived, even for what he is. Tired. Hungry. Starved.

He inhales, just a little, and the crimson from before starts to creep back in.

“Why do you run?” His voice barely reaches you. Another noise would have left his question to his imagination – not that he cared for your answer, anyway. “I could feel you in the ruins. I could feel how you called for me.”

He presses a kiss to your chest, just below where your collarbone would be, though it’s shielded by your clothes. “I could feel how you needed me.”

He picks his head up so it’s almost parallel with you. His eyes glance down at your lips, but he doesn’t make any advances. Only watches. Only lets a smirk curl on the edges of his lips.

“I felt how desperate you were for me.”

He leans back on his knees and looks over you. For a second, freedom. Your stomach quivered. He’d never let you leave.

“Whatever you want. I can be gentle. I can make you tremble beneath me. I can be everything. I am your everything.”

He ushers your hands back beside you but stays on his knees, holding them until he hears your answer. A worshipping glance that falls over your body is his plea, his desperation.

But you knew he would consume you if you dared to listen.

“Please let me hear your voice.” His voice is soft once more, but he hasn’t changed. You just look at him, right in those beautiful, broken, blood-tinged eyes. A whimper almost leaves his lips as he leans forward again. “Please. Please.”

You exhale, a shaky breath a placeholder for anything you could think of.

You leave him to watch the fear brew behind your eyes.

You have your own plea to the man who’s still in there, somewhere.

“You don’t smell like him,” you whisper, voice low. The truth of your fear easily disguises your lie. “You… don’t feel like him, either.”

He freezes.

His lips fall completely, parting, though never finding an excuse.

“Sanguinius…” his body jolts as you say his name. “I think he died when I left.”

Silence.

As if the world, the entire galaxy itself, waited for his response along with you.

Something in his expression cracks.

Not anger. Not sadness. Not yearning.

Confusion.

His eyes are empty, his affliction stirring behind them. Gold and crimson, unstable and fractured. He’d not expected it.

And just for a second, his grip on you loosens.

Just enough for you to run.

You didn’t feel how the thorns and branches broke your skin this time. You didn’t stop to think. You just ran.

Listened to his screams, his pleas, his promises, echoed through the edges of the forest like a wounded creature whose soul had been torn in two.

Distance would never be enough.

But it would have to do.

For now.

Because even as you ran, as you escaped him and felt free of his presence, when you were able to breathe again without the suffocation of him being near, you still knew he was there.

Your eyes never left the treeline ahead of you. Though your hands were soaked with rain, with blood and dirt, you pressed them into your own skin, holding yourself tightly with your back against the cliffside. Your knees were pulled up to your chest again, but there was no candle to comfort you now.

Only darkness embraced you now. But it could never protect you. Not from the lull of his voice, not from the depths of his whisper.

You lean back further into the stone, your warmth starting to fade. A bird nearby chirps, another lost soul expecting the impossible, though it fades after a few seconds. Silence weighs you again, reminding you that time was never on your side.

Thick and unnatural, it boasted its presence.

You felt his torment before hearing his words.

You would have wept for me.

Tears begin to well in your eyes. He wasn’t there, but he was so real.

I would have kissed away those tears, one at a time, and showed you that I’d never leave.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you let your head fall onto your knees. A silent sob wracks your body, your jaw trembling as you do everything in your power to not make another sound.

I could never die. I could never leave you.

Your stomach quivered. Your jaw clenched. You crushed your palms against your ears, as if it would stop his voice, stop his madness.

Because you love me, and I love you. Remember?

You didn’t know if he could hear you. Feel you. Understand how he made you feel. You were sure if he stood right before you now, watched as you cried because of him, he’d try to convince you it was because of the love you shared.

He didn’t know how to hate. He didn’t know how someone, how you, couldn’t love him.

You would always tell me. Even when I forgot, when I was too tired to speak, when I couldn’t even remember my own name, you’d tell me. I love you. I love you with all my heart.

His voice, creating a beautiful mockery of your own words to him, curls around you. With each syllable, he holds tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

I thought about you more each day.

He wanted to never leave your mind.

I wondered if I could ever hurt you.

He wanted to devour any part of you that remembered existence was possible without him.

Did you think I would hurt you?

He wanted all of you.

I would have hurt you. I never wanted to. But I knew one day, I would need to.

Tears spill from your eyes as you allow yourself to look up. Still alone. Still subjected to the whispering of a lover.

A fallen god.

A monster.

I would have held you. I would have cried for you. I would have put you in the perfect little cage and never let you out.

Another sob. Your hands fall from your ears to opposite shoulders, your nails digging into your skin with each word.

My salvation. My sin. My everything. I can’t breathe without you. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t be me without you.

He pauses.

In a moment of silence, the world comes rushing back.

He’s not here.

He’s all around you. His hands. His wings. His golden eyes.

He’s not here.

But the craving is. The unbearable heat of his breath against your skin. The possessive tremble underpinning his voice.

I miss you, little lamb.

Your breath catches in your throat as you sit up again. You raise your head again. Your shoulders begin the smallest of shakes.

When I saw you earlier, it reminded me of how much I love to hear your voice tremble.

You slam your palms against your temples, shaking your head, trying to stop his voice.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

I wonder when I’ll next get to hear you break.

The wind that rustles the trees seems to stop. Any wildlife, creatures of the forest that dared to roam, had run as though they knew the answer.

You knew the answer, too. Deep down. Hidden.

Buried beneath all the terror and desperation to survive.

As minutes passed, he didn’t offer any further words. The echo of it still rang through your skull, his bitter, cloying presence running through every single one of your veins.

You were too tired to blame. To wonder how you’d let it get so far, or where the turning point was. He would never truly fade. You wondered, in truth, if he’d have found you in every life, even if you pushed him away. He believed he would.

Because he was made for you. In his eyes, at least.

And you didn’t know how long you sat there. Never letting sleep touch you, afraid that when you woke, freedom would be too far out of your reach.

Maybe hours, maybe days, maybe more.

The only record of time was the darkness that loomed and how often your heart was beating, but you were never counting.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg.

It wasn’t as if your silence would save you.

So you did what he kept asking.

“Sanguinius?”

There’s no answer, but you feel it. Like a sweet little puppy, just learning his name, just understanding what it’s like to be called on.

You could see him raising his head up, eyes wide as he searched for you. A smile on his lips as he felt wanted. Needed. He’d rush to your side, make sure he was at your level, cup your cheeks in his hand and promise you the entire galaxy.

Just to watch you rip his soul free, like wins from bone. Gut him with the truth he never wanted to hear.

“I don’t love you.”

Your words are soft. The truth, in part, because you could never love him like this.

But his silence sends dread fleeting through your bones.

“I…” You shouldn’t speak, but you needed to. You had to. Clarify, make him understand. “I can’t love you. Not like this.”

It doesn’t work.

He never answers, leaving you to bask in your own thoughts as the trees stand so deadly still.

You wonder if he will ever truly understand.

“I’ll never love this. I’ll never love… you.”

The world tightens around you.

A perfectly sized noose, just for you.

His mind would twist it into whatever he made it. He’d never listen. He’d never understand until you satiated his need.

And as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to forget the way he said your name, the way he looked at you with such admiration, you begin to think.

You think of death. Think of life. Think of him; returning to his side, where both were inseparable.

Even in the quiet of the forest, peace would never find you.

His voice is always with you. His touch is always on you. He is always there. Watching. Waiting. This was the first night he’d not said another word to you, not begged you to come home, not promised to make you stay.

It made you feel sick; how much you missed him, wished you were sat in his arms, wanted him to kiss it all better. All you had was the memory of the version of him you loved.

And though his memory seemed crueller than he ever had been, there was something worse. Harder.

You ran again.

a/n: thanks for reading! is it bad i already have a fulgrim version planned...

#sanguinius #sanguinius x reader #primarch x reader #blood angels #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 19 days ago

Text

crimson affliction [three]

→ sanguinius x gn!reader → 3.2k, 18+ mdni, cw: psychological horror/obsession/sacrificial/ suicide mentions. dead dove type thing → pre-heresy, sanguinius’ thirst is different to that of his sons, but it’s far more potent than anything they’d understand

[prev: two] - part 3/5 // series masterpost

“You promised me.”

You nod, but no words.

“You said you were mine.”

Your chest tightens.

He can’t look at you.

“You didn’t think I’d feel the weight of abandonment.”

He can’t think about anything else.

“From the one person who mattered to me?”

Days had passed.

Perhaps longer.

Not a sound that carried his presence could be heard. Not even the faintest of whispers in the void beyond reality you tried so hard not to understand.

He’d helped you track the time as it went by before. Now, you were alone.

Not even his soul within reach.

Never did you think loneliness would sting as much as it did. You’d asked for it all this time, begged on your knees for him to let you go. Now he did, and all you could do was wish to have him back. To feel comfort from a presence where blood was frozen beneath your skin, cracked only by the deep-set desire for him to be nearby.

Your location was unknown. You’d run until your legs gave out, climbed until you had no strength, begged others to pass through their gates against their warnings of a bad omen following behind you the entire way.

You were far away from him. From everything.

You grimaced as you stretched your back against the cold brick behind you. A stable, abandoned by a villager on a world you’d forgotten the name of. Your legs still didn’t want to assist you, your arms were shaking, and your hands were useless, twitching every time you tried to grasp something beneath you.

Your ribs ached enough to hide the pain of slow starvation. Ironic, really, that you’d feel what he claimed you caused him. Food hadn’t been part of the plan, and you’d only been spared a cup of water a few towns back. Your throat was dry, your lips cracked and bleeding.

It was hard to care about it.

Hard to feel anything other than pity. Regret. Solace.

He’d killed so many people. For the greater good, of course. Was this what they felt, as death’s embrace fell upon them? When he looked them in the eyes and promised them salvation?

Body letting go, mind silencing for longer each passing minute.

Your head tipped to the side as your eyes fell shut. Reality seemed to pass in waves, shrouded by the bitter dream you held beneath it all.

You could hear his voice somewhere within. It was always there. Burned into your soul as your pulse became heavier in your ears, your heart starting to trip in its own rhythm.

I will never let you die. It was a promise he’d made without thinking. A fear you’d revealed to him in the grace of love. He’d meant so much more by it. He couldn’t let you die.

Yet here you were.

Death knocking at your door, wondering why you hadn’t gathered the strength to open it yet.

You were too busy watching out into the fog of darkness, Sanguinius’ body traversing the haze, eyes never leaving yours.

He’d fight death for you without any contemplation. Just say the words.

I would spend every moment worshipping you. His voice was warm then, laced with the gentleness you loved him for. Your mind crafted the feeling of his hands on your skin, all over you, embracing you in his holiness as if you would break without him. I would spend every moment making you mine.

You told him he was dramatic. Laughed, even. He never returned it. Only held you tighter, looked at you like the fading light of day.

The smile on your lips started to fade.

Heat washed through you as your lungs burned, forcing you to cough something metallic from within. You could feel it in your chest, the sharp pain that clawed its way through to the surface. The wall was the only support you had, even your neck now giving up.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Wonder why he’d loved you.

Wonder why you’d ever let him.

Your hands, limp in your lap, shake from the very thoughts. You force them to dig into your thighs, grabbing onto anything available just for the moment. You can see his eyes again; those crimson things, staring back at you like a warning you never heeded.

Your body jolts. It knows better. It knows the pain he caused.

He loved you too much.

That was all your mind could manage.

Your heart said so much more.

You can’t open your eyes; your energy is focused on talking. You swallow the thick feeling at the back of your throat, pain seething through you again as your voice found purpose, though barely a breath.

“If you can hear me…”

It wasn’t goodbye. It never was with him.

But whatever this was, it was close.

You whisper carefully. “I’m sorry.��

His name isn’t something you can bear.

“I loved you.” You swallow again, forcing the bile in your throat back down each time it threatens you. “I still do. I… always have.”

Your eyes peek open. Half-lidded, cold, barely there. The ceiling seems further away than before.

“I’ve… never stopped.” Your voice trembled. You pull your fingers into your fists like it would stop them shaking, too. “I didn’t want to leave. I never wanted anything but… you.”

You look down at your hands. Fragile things, still unable to keep still. You stretch one hand out and raise it, slowly, the tips of your fingers just grazing your neck.

“I thought you’d let me go.”

You trace the skin where there’s the tiniest of scars, purposefully placed to minimise their harm. He’d kissed you, bitten you, like it was love.

“I thought we could save each other,” you murmur. The scoff your brain tries to add never actualises. “That we’d both be okay if I was strong enough.”

You shouldn’t cry for him, but maybe your tears knew how much he thirsted, that it was worse than you.

It falls down your cheek, your chin, then drips onto your heaving chest. Breathing is harder, the air seems thicker.

“I know you loved me,” you voice gently, words slurring together, “and… you’re no monster.”

You close your eyes again. The light barricades your senses. Your limbs are dead weights. The room you couldn’t see was spinning.

“Don’t be angry. Please.”

You sigh. Breath catches in your throat.

“Don’t embrace your hatred.”

Your heart stutters.

“I know you won’t find someone else.”

Your body was shutting down.

“But please try to…”

Your chest throbs. You wince in response.

“Try to understand, I always…”

You always thought he’d be there at the end.

The thought of him stops you from saying another word.

The thought of him stops you from existing entirely.

Until you feel a warmth that wasn’t present before.

Nothing like expected from the reality you faced.

The stone wasn’t cold, nor hard. Nothing felt real in the way it did before. Warmth from a new source, softness from a lack of knowing.

Your ribs ached, but not in the mind-numbing way they did before, your mind struggling to consider the truth of reality. You could feel your breath shaking through your entire body, cushioned by softness otherwise unknown.

You were scared to open your eyes.

Then you heard the sweetest voice you could be gifted with.

“I know you’d call for me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You’re slow to look, but when the light hits you, the world bleeds into your focus. Not the same room, but nothing you recognised. Something old. Quiet.

Filled to the brim with his presence, the one you had begged for in death.

Presented to you like the greatest gift man could know.

He kneeled in front of you. Not looking at you, focused on his own hands, palms turned to face the sky like he’d offered something forbidden.

The room was lit well, the dust in the air visible through streaks of golden light. You could see his eyes reflected in his armour, the red hue glowing from his iris, veins beneath the surface visible even in such a state.

Then, a drip.

A stria of blood from his lips to his chin, some pathing down his neck, the other dropping down to his armour and pooling on the metal. It’s not old, it’s not his. It’s fresh but no longer warm.

He’d not even tried to hide it.

Your next breath was halted.

His too.

His wings curled inwards, his golden hair tangled, his body forced into submission by the powers that controlled every aspect of his being.

He couldn’t touch you. He was restraining his own hand from reaching out to you.

Barely breathing, barely existing without you.

Afraid that he’d never have you back again.

Afraid to find out if he’d caused that.

“I knew,” he begins the same way he spoke before. Quietly, like he’d wake her if the words came louder. You’d have thought it a dream if you didn’t see his lips move, too. “I know you’d want me with you again.”

His voice wasn’t broken, yet his demeanour was.

Humanity seeped through his pores and reminded him of what was real for the first time.

“You never wanted to run,” he continues. He smiles somewhere underneath. “You never wanted me to leave.”

He pauses. Never looks away from his hands.

“You don’t mean it.”

He’s hesitant with his hand, allowing himself to reach for your knee, the closest part of your body to him. He hovers over you, tracing the outline of your body up to your chest, never looking up.

“I forgive you,” he confesses. He smiles, this time with more fervour. Your heart betrays you. He freezes. “I could never hate you or spare an ounce of anger in place of love. What a waste it would be, my little muse, my greatest love.”

He exhales. Finally looks from his hand to his side. He reaches his hand to his mouth, carefully wiping the blood from the curve of his jaw with his middle and ring finger.

“I know you understand.” He watches his fingers, the blood glistening in the light. “I know you trust me. I know I can make everything right. You will see that.”

He brings his two fingers to his lips, delicately tasting what remains. He sighs, closing his eyes as the taste enthrals him.

Silence replaces everything.

Until you dare to speak his name, his memory, back into existence.

“Sanguinius.”

It was a breathless plea; one he caught without knowing it was coming. He inhales, sharp, like his mind had taken him far from her to something worse.

He glances up. Eyes alight with the fire of longing, fingers aching from yearning. He wouldn’t cry, not now, but his eyes were glassy.

Your lips open, but he denies you more words. He collapses forward, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into him, never ceasing the moment of love to exist between you.

“You’re alive,” he whispers. He presses his forehead against your own, hands tangling in your hair as he holds you closer. His wings move to shield you from life itself. “You’re alive. You… are alive.”

You try to nod, try to reach your hand to somewhere near his own. You want to run, but you want to embrace him, have him hold you and take you somewhere safe, somewhere life wouldn’t hurt you any longer.

“You came back to me,” he says.

Your hands still shake. He notices, takes your hand in his, holds it tight and shares all the warmth he ever had. You try to reach your fingers around his palm.

“I knew you would come back to me,” he repeats. He presses his lips to yours, dousing your cracked skin in the blood he carried. Your body shivers, the metallic taste not so prevalent anymore. “I knew you would be okay, my love.”

He kisses you again, softer this time. When he pulls away, your eyes fall to the smudged blood that decorates him. You see the way his tongue darts out, just a little, to savour the taste. It wasn’t his. Too sweet, too easy.

He doesn’t let you reach for your neck. He clasps both hands in his own and makes you ask.

“You found me?”

He smiles fondly. Like you should be grateful. “I saved you.”

“What…” you stop yourself as your gaze shifts away from his eyes momentarily. He never changes. He’s almost proud. “What did you do?”

He takes both your hands between his, leaning back on his knees so he can watch over you. His wings frame his side, like the guardian he thought himself to be. “I could not let anything happen to you. It’s unforgivable. If anything happened to you, I’d…”

He looks at you. Stops. Eyes are glassy once again.

His breath trembles, his lips part. He says nothing.

He falls to you one more time, embracing you against him, cradling your body like it was no longer your own.

“No more of this,” he tells you. His hand supports the back of your head as your head falls into his shoulder. Your arms, depleted and cold, reach around him like it was the natural order, betraying you in the worst way. “No more suffering. No more running.”

The crush of his embrace stops your words. Your lungs are never allowed to replenish.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, so gently as he pulls back, never leaving more than an inch between you both. “You’ve returned to me for good.

His fingers tremble against you, drumming as though they miss the feel of your pulse against them. The divine affliction, the crimson rot within, had eroded past what he could understand as right and wrong.

When you breathe, he falls into a trance. When you swallow, he’s watching you like prey. When you try to pull him back to you, his eyes glow.

“You don’t have to be afraid.” His hold on you tightens, just enough to make sure you can’t run. “Please don’t shake. Please don’t think of another negative. I will make everything better. I’ll change everything. You’ll see.”

Your heart is racing. You try to snap his attention away. “Sanguinius…”

“You’ll be okay,” he interrupts. He smiles, though not an ounce of calm remains. “I know it was a mistake. You didn’t mean to break me.”

He closes his eyes. Exhales, slowly.

“You didn’t know… what it would do to me.”

When he looks at you, the feeling has changed.

He’s been replaced, his fire extinguished, soul dampened.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have everything and it still not be enough.” He whimpers, tries to hide it behind a laugh. Restrained from anything further. “You don’t know how I searched for you. How I need more of you, in every way.”

You can’t meet his eyes when he says it.

He notices. His smile fades.

Your heart still races.

“You still don’t understand.” He never gives you the distance you need in return. Never wonders why. “You think I would bring you harm.”

You can’t answer.

“You said…” he pauses, recounting the scene in his head as his eyes flicker closed. He nods to himself when he remembers. “You told me you’d love through anything. That you still love me.”

“I do,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond. You try again, louder. “I do. I love you.”

He hums. Scoffs, even. Never soothed by what you offer, his voice succumbed to the embers of fury that lay dormant in his soul. “You told me you would never be afraid of what I am.”

“I’m… I’m not afraid.”

“You told me you would stay.” He speaks louder with each passing word. “You told me you would never leave.”

“I…”

“You ran.” His rage sits on the edge of surprise. He’s pained by his own tone, conflicted within. “Why would you run if all of that were true?”

Your mouth is dry. He cups your cheeks with his hands, holding you as complete perfection.

“You promised me.”

You nod, but no words.

“You said you were mine.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yet you ran,” he finishes. He chokes on his breath, shoulders twitching as he pulls his hands from your face. “You didn’t think that it would hurt me.”

He can’t look at you.

“You didn’t think I’d feel the weight of abandonment.”

He can’t think about anything else.

“From the one person who mattered to me?”

Your breath hitches. “I couldn’t…”

He places your hand over your mouth. Calmly, gently. Never pressuring you, only keeping the truth from spilling over.

“Don’t say it.”

You nod.

“I know it isn’t true. You said yes to me. You allowed me in.”

Your lips tremble beneath his touch. He pulls his hand away, scowling at his own hand. He breathes deeply before leaning back to you one more time, grasping your hand in his with no intention to let go.

“No one will ever hurt you, or harm you, or even touch you. I wouldn’t let them,” he promises you. He brings your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles gently, a seal to his oath. “No one will ever take you from me.”

You can’t bear to look away from him, fearful to break him again.

“I found you because I was meant to.”

His smile is hopeful. A shiver runs down your spine.

“I had to save you. I was meant to save you every time. We are not destined to be apart. Look what happens when we aren’t together? Look at what happens when you try to challenge fate?”

He leans closer, slower now. Press his lips to your forehead, then to each of your cheeks and finally to your lips. Leaves the faded, bloodied stain of him behind in his wake.

“Say it again,” he pleads. “Tell me you love me again.”

You shouldn’t hesitate as long as you did. He’s too lost to notice.

“…I love you.”

He huffs cheerfully, smiling wider than before. He rests his forehead against yours once more as he sinks into the feeling, the aftermath of words that could have been said without any meaning.

All that mattered was that he believed.

“I would end every life in the galaxy for one more day of your love.”

“You don’t…” Your words fade. He’s not listening. Not really. Trying felt like a necessity. “You already have it.”

He nods. Your words sink through him. “Let’s go home, my love.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“You’ll be safe,” he continues, pulling away so easily, detaching from your fear. “Nothing will harm you there. Ever.”

“That…”

“You can rest,” he interrupts once again, preventing the words he’s afraid to hear, stopping any protest with aid from your weakness. “You’ll feel better soon. I can promise you that. I won’t leave your side until then.”

It’s not as if you can fight him.

He picks you up, a feather to him, unburdened by anything related to you. Holds you in his arms and lulls you back to rest with your head on his shoulder.

“No more fears.” He holds you so tight. So hot. “Nothing can take you from me again.”

You can hear his footsteps, the heavy door closing behind him, the faded lights of familiarity that made you question whether you had never even been away from home to begin with.

You hear his voice again as slumber consumes you.

A threat, a scare, a promise, a declaration of love.

“I missed you, little lamb.”

whenever i write this i get super distracted by other ideas for magnus and fulgrim, and i try to do their prologues and this drags me back again. i'm hoping to get their prologues done soon anyway, so at least you know the flavour; still glad i wrote this one first of the three though. its somehow not as clinical as the others.

#sanguinius x reader #sanguinius #x reader #warhammer 30k #wh40k fic #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

xxxix. frisson

→ horus x maevela [oc, she/her] → 6.3k, nsfw 18+, tw cheating (to a degree) → pre-heresy, before he's warmaster, big man just stole his brother's wife and it may actually be justified in this case (ft fulgrim stirring everything)

“Then a word of advice?”

Horus hums.

“If you are going to steal something from Magnus, at least have the decency to make it worth the trouble. Do not ask me again how she’s doing. Ask her yourself. Don’t just watch her. She is waiting for you, you know.”

Horus looks up to him, ready to argue, but Fulgrim hushes him with a raised fist. He takes a step away, but turns back one last time.

“You lingered, brother, and if I’m not mistaken, so did she,” Fulgrim states, shrugging his shoulders as though the possibility of futures was endless. He taps two of his fingers against his temple, bowing his head back to his brother before he leaves. “I do hope you will not continue to resist forever. It would be such a waste.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Horus had lost his focus some time ago.

Usually welcoming of talks about war, territory, and military strategy, especially in the presence of his brothers, the situation was quite unusual for him. No less because they were accompanied by their sons, and another figure from Prospero that he had met so many times before.

But this was different.

His focus wasn’t lost. It was somewhere else. As Magnus and Fulgrim spoke, his words were what was lost – he’d started by telling them he had many opinions to share and somehow ended up saying little more than yes or no for the past hour or so. His focus was on something else. Someone, rather.

It’s only something small. Fulgrim had made a comment about something related to the artistical choices of whoever dared stand up to him, something of which sparked some humour at the table. He’d then turned to his side and made a private remark to Maevela. She had leaned in to listen to him, her hand grazing the edge of the table as she moved her attention his way.

He'd looked away, noticing his staring when she first made a soft gasp. He found some interest in the rows of books behind her, white noise filling his ears as he tries his very best to read some of the words on the book covers.

Then, she laughs.

He’s drawn back to her, as much as he tried to resist. It’s quiet at first, just a breath, before she lets herself be unrestrained. Her head had tilted back, exposing the curve of her neck that laid bare without any jewels. The movement caught the candlelight perfectly. The delicate line of her throat, the soft rise and fall of her breath.

Something presses tight against his ribs. He’d looked to Magnus expectantly, but there was no reaction. His brother did not even seem to care that she spoke or made a noise. His attention was in the book on the table detailing a list of artefacts recovered. He hadn’t tried to get her attention the entire time they sat there. He never leaned in to speak with her. He barely even looked at her. Horus’ nails dig into his skin as though the pain might ground him, make reality seem more adjusted.

Horus had noticed it before, but this was different. His brother was so openly uncaring and indifferent. Maevela, she was…

She’s so graceful as she listens to Fulgrim. Her hands, so much smaller than his, were restless on the table as her finger idly traces the golden embellishing of the marble. The sun shone against her skin and highlighted her features that stood out so strikingly. Her skin was smooth, yet the hint of a smile remained on the corners of her lips even as she stopped laughing.

And he shouldn’t be thinking that. Not now. There was no reason to. It was ridiculous for someone such as him to be disturbed by such simple emotions.

He had admired her. Always had. She was dedicated and strong, loyal to an empire that many wished to discard her from. She had stood at Magnus’ side and elevated him with the same, knowing smile on her lips as everyone praised him. No one had looked at her the same way. But Horus did.

His stomach twists. Knowing his thoughts she be let go off, he sits forward in his chair and leans his elbow on the table. He looks down at his lap for a moment, clearing his throat and allowing his back teeth to rest together as his jaw sets. When he looks back up, he thinks to look to Fulgrim, always commanding the attention around him, but instead his eyes fall straight to her.

He can’t bring himself to look away. Her silent attention paid to the conversation around her is met with agreeing nods and hums. Her hair, loose to fall down her back, is as white as the frost on a winter’s morning, decorated with simple ribbon to hold smaller braids in place. Her eyes twinkle in the light around them, colour a mix of every hue it seemed, finally settling on the green of the forest trees. His breathing catches.

She looks at him. She noticed.

He looks away quickly, trying to cover up his actions, but he’s returned her eyes to her too fast. She will still looking at him, inquisitively, as if to confirm her own suspicions.

Though her eyes flicker away, his gaze linger for just a moment longer than needed. She shouldn’t have even noticed him, but she did, and she had shyly looked away thinking that maybe he hadn’t noticed as well.

Seconds pass, then he sees it. Her lips, not once moving from their default position before now, curve into the smallest smile. It doesn’t last, certainly not as Magnus looks around to confirm whatever he had uttered before. But he was not imagining it.

And suddenly, he knows.

His heartbeat pounds too hard. He looks away quickly, shifting in his chair again and trying to focus his attention on the paper in front of him. The words don’t even register to him. So much for pretending he wasn’t staring… It felt like everyone in the room had caught him. Especially with how heavy Fulgrim’s gaze on him is.

He steals a glance up to Magnus, expecting to have been caught somehow. Still, nothing. His brother to the left of Maevela was still oblivious to everything going on around him. His brother to the right, however, seemed to know every single thing that was happening in the room right then.

Horus catches the smirk that Fulgrim wears. So observant, so aware of everyone’s personal lives, but especially of the two that he had tried for years to weave together as it became more and more apparent that Magnus and Maevela had left their relationship years and years ago.

Fulgrim turns back to Maevela, murmuring something that only the pair could hear. Horus tries to read his brother’s lips, but he speaks too quickly, lips already contorted by his amusement. Maevela looks back to Fulgrim, brows pulled together and lips already parted, smile beginning to waver. He then asks her something, sounded out careful, as though he wanted Horus to understand. You do realise he was staring, don’t you?

She looks from Fulgrim, to Horus, then down to the floor. She gave no answer that he could see or hear, but he knew she gave one. Fulgrim looks at him once more with his head tilted to the side, pleased with her response most of all. He had been caught, and his scheming brother was going to have everything to do with it.

“Forgive me,” Horus speaks, commanding the attention from the room. All but Maevela look to him, even Magnus seems pleased to hear his voice. He pushes his chair back, clearing his throat, and bows his head to Magnus in particular. “Thank you for inviting me to discuss our plans, but there’s something I need to urgently attend to. Perhaps we shall continue later?”

No one was going to stop him. Instead, they let him leave, and as he turns, he feels Maevela’s eyes on him once more. Curious. Unsure. He hears her shift in the seat behind him, so much more delicate than both of his brothers, like she wished to ask something. No words every come from her, only the voice of his brother again, words silk-wrapped in venom as he stands as well. Horus stops just before the door.

“Give me five minutes,” Fulgrim says, his hand on Maevela’s shoulder. He doesn’t even look to Magnus as he speaks. Both of them look to Horus directly, and he can see it just out of the corner of his eye. “It seems our brother needs time to think about… well, something he wants but thinks he shouldn’t have. Let me speak the truth to him. I will be back shortly.”

It feels like such a condescending hand on his shoulder, but Horus lets Fulgrim guide him out of the room into the hallway, hearing the silence falling behind them. He wanted a moment to breathe, but it would not be gifted to him. His hands feel like they shake a little, his jaw hurts from how tightly it’s been clenched. When Horus finally stops walking, Fulgrim turns all his attention to him.

“In front of Magnus?” he asks, eyes wide. Horus can’t help but rolls his eyes as Fulgrim continues. “Horus, my dear brother, you may carry the emperor’s favour, but do not doubt for a second that Magnus would turn a blind eye to your advances onto his wife. He is just as possessive as you.”

Horus brings his hand to his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I do not doubt he would.”

“Then a word of advice?”

Horus hums.

Horus looks up to him, ready to argue, but Fulgrim hushes him with a raised fist. He takes a step away, but turns back one last time.

Fulgrim walks away, leaving Horus stood in the middle of the hall. He does not move, only watches, and as the doors to the room are opened once more, he seems Maevela inside, cautiously looking up to see who would return through the doors. Her eyes search for his own, though he does not linger like before.

Fulgrim stops at the door. Magnus must surely have looked up by now. “What will you do about it now, brother?”

His fingers flex at his side. Fulgrim doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to. Horus already knows he is smirking.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Maevela isn’t meant to be thinking about him.

She shouldn’t keep replaying it in her mind. How his eyes lingered on her. How he looked from her, knowing he was caught, but looked back again.

But she was.

Over and over and over. Her hands gripped the stone fence that lined the edge of the balcony. The warm evening never helped the blush that spread over her cheeks, the usual breeze failing to show and save her. She closes her eyes, saving herself from the view of Tizca beneath her, and takes a breath.

He always asks me about you.

Of course, it would be Fulgrim’s voice that disturbs any chance she has of peace. Every time they spoke Horus was mentioned. She wasn’t even sure why Horus had been invited here in the first place, lest it be at Fulgrim’s wish. Now his words ring in her ears, never leaving her to the silence she craved. Why did Horus ask about her?

She squeezes her eyes shut, dipping her head ever so slightly as though it would force the thoughts and feelings to leave her. She scrunches her nose, her whole face, tips of her fingers pressing into the stone. Then the door opens behind her.

She turns, quickly, hiding any trace of her thoughts. Her expectations are correct. Though she sees the outline of her husband inside, disguised by the darkness of candles neither of them bothered to light, he never looks at her. Whatever has his attention, it is not her.

“Ahzek is looking for you,” Magnus says.

She blinks. She approaches the door, thinking there would be more. She even tries to speak as almost reaches the door. “Magnus—”

But he doesn’t let her finish. One nod, dismissive, distracted by whatever he worked on, is all he allows her. Just a nod before he turns away, and Maevela is left to her thoughts one more time. He didn’t want to hear what she said. He may not have even cared.

She watches as he walks away from her, the heavy door of the room inside left to close without another glance her way.

He must have seen it, earlier. Magnus was as observant as Fulgrim, maybe even more so. He could not have ignored everything that was right before him. He must have heard Fulgrim’s words, seen the way Horus had walked away… Unless he did not see, or hear. He may have chosen not to see her any longer. That decision may have been one he made a long time.

As much as she knew, she had been able to ignore it. No one dared to speak out of tone with her. Perhaps Ahzek, or Amon, lifelong friends of them both, but that was only friendlier than others. No one had dared to look at her the way Magnus once did, not before Horus did today.

She should have felt sadness for it. To have someone fall out of love with you? It should have broken her. But she knew. It was not a silent change. It was only confirmed now, any of her suspicions were accurate. She had mourned long before today.

She doesn’t dwell on the fact. Magnus had told her to find Ahzek, and she would. That’s what she should do. She trails the long hallways and stairs with the intention of finding the First Captain who usually asked for her to discuss something which would keep her distracted long enough to process today. A new spell, an uncovered artefact, something he would not burden his primarch with but knew she would enjoy.

But fate would not have it that way.

She had been looking at the floor, noting the frayed edges of a carpet, when she heard the footsteps. The sound resembled Magnus, so used to hearing him around there, but when she looked up it was not her husband that greeted her. No, it was Horus. No armour, no elaborate cape with the wolf around his shoulders. Just Horus. Looking at her already.

She feels a unexpected relief wash over her, completed by a flicker of excitement that lays dormant at the edges of her nerves. He was likely going to Magnus. He had permission to traverse these halls just like she did, but unlikely they would just run into each other. Yet Magnus would not have orchestrated this.

There was no planning. There was nothing deliberate. It was just the weavings of fate. His presence had lingered around her since earlier, he saddled each of her thoughts from the moment she was alone. It was deliberate, even if she didn’t believe it so. Inevitable, even.

It should mean nothing. It does mean nothing. As they approach each other, neither utter a word. Even though he doesn’t speak, he slows down, and she feels herself do the same. As if Fulgrim’s word replay to them both. What will you do about it now, brother? Maevela expects nothing.

She sees him nod, a small smile on her lips, and she should expect nothing. She nods back at him. She should keep walking. He should keep walking. Just as she thinks that he has chosen to do nothing, his voice echoes through the otherwise empty room.

“Come look at the stars with me.”

Maevela stops. He says it so easily. Like he’d rehearsed it or said it hundreds of times to her before. Like it’s nothing. Like he knew what she would do already. It should be so easy for her to reply no. That she’s busy, that she’s going to find Ahzek as he requested, like she was told to do by her husband a few floors above them. She shouldn’t hesitate this much.

But she does.

She turns back to him, reaching his gaze with innocent eyes. Her lips part, words ready to be spoken, but she stops them. She doesn’t want to say no. Her uncertainty, her pause, it would have easily been found by Horus. He would have known.

“I shouldn’t,” she says. She stumbles over a few syllables, holding her hands behind her back as she denies one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy. “Ahzek… Ahriman, he is looking for me. I should…”

Her foot shifts forward, though she stops herself again. Even with her excuse, she doesn’t want to move. She waits, watches, wonders. Hesitation is laced in her every word.

Horus nods once. He steps towards her, stopping about a metre before her. Satisfaction lays zealous in his eyes. He does not react immediately, though patience is lost to him quickly – he holds his hand out to her, as a gesture, not a command. An encouragement. An offer. Her fingers twitch at her side.

And she takes it, knowing she had accepted the fate she was promised.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He had found a quiet spot in the great pyramid the night before. Trying to escape Fulgrim’s incessant words of his future and how he needed to do… something, Horus had walked the halls of the pyramid until he found a balcony, hidden away, likely known to Magnus but not many others.

He’d seen the lines of worry in Maevela’s face. He’d heard Fulgrim’s words repeat in his head. As he stood here now, in the place he had unknowingly found his way to, watching her under the starlight, he realised he had been waiting for this moment all along.

The stars stretch over them, silent witnesses to a moment once forbidden. Though she had not spoken, her mind seemed to have found a peaceful state. Her fingertips moved back and forth on the golden railing, her eyes watching over the horizon as though it had given her the answers she so deeply desired.

He didn’t consider that he may have brought her that comfort. It really hadn’t crossed his mind. Not until he leaned forward, arms crossed as they rested on the railing, shoulders hunched as he brough himself to her level. She looked at him, distracted for a second, and the corners of her lips started to rise.

“I bet you have walked every street in this city,” he says, words absent of any emotion. He focuses on a quiet street, somewhat at the edge of his vision, where a couple walk together, hand in hand. “I have always been envious. Prospero is one of the most beautiful places I have come across.”

Maevela hums. She leans forward too, though looks in the opposite direction to him. He tries to follow her gaze, though where she focuses he cannot be sure. “One day I will see Cthonia, and disagree with you.”

“I highly doubt that,” Horus comments, “it’s nothing like this. Only the streets of Macragge may match this. You should be proud.”

“Magnus should be proud.”

“You had no part in its making at all?” he questions.

“A very limited part,” Maevela tells him. She sighs as she leans back from the railing, avoiding his eyes. “One day I may see Macragge, too.”

Horus holds his answer. He watches her, his hands hesitant to reach out to her as much as his mind tells him to do so. Her arms cross over her chest as she looks back up to the sky above them, the light of the stars catching her eyes as she travels the distance between each one. He sees the sting of a tear form in her eyes, though before she allows herself to be seen in that way, she blinks it away quickly. He doesn’t comment, allowing her to think she was quick enough to conceal it.

“I will take you.” Horus does not expect an answer, he was stating a fact. He’d travel to the ends of the world to make up for the hurt hidden deep within her. He didn’t need her to tell him everything. Just a moment with her and he could see it.

He watches as the starlight catches in her hair, the soft shimmer of the gems on her dress. She belongs to Prospero, to this world of golden light and endless knowledge. Yet there was something else in her, something untouchable. Something no city could ever match.

“Though the beauty of any of those cities, even the splendour of Prospero, pale in comparison to you, Maevela.”

Her breathing stops. She does not look at him, only to the sky, the distant stars, anything but him. He felt his gaze wonder across her. Her hair still the same as before, resting on her shoulders covered by pale blue, chiffon sleeves, the same material that hung dutily over her chest to cover what he dress did not. She has a cuff on her upper arm, a haematite band with a sprinkling of deep sapphire blue gems attached. On her chest lays a small pendant, an obsidian eye motif attached, and another below with a small tablet with an inscription in Prosperine that he could not read. On her fingers, a gold ring with two intertwined serpents, each biting the others tail, one with a ruby eye, one with a sapphire eye.

As she dips her head forward, a loose piece of her hair falls from behind her ear. She does not notice immediately, but as a soft breeze wisped over them, Horus reached to her. He brushed the hair back behind her ear, his fingers lingering by her. She doesn’t stop him, she doesn’t ask him what he’s doing. She shifts her head towards him, exhaling a slow and quiet breath, as if weighing the moment before it breaks.

He doesn’t think. He places his hand on her cheek, fully this time, and turns her towards him. He’s so careful that their skin barely touches. His fingers merely brush over her skin. Neither speak. There’s nothing to say. They just watch each other, eyes boring into one another as though everything made sense. In that very moment, he saw everything.

He leans in, slowly. He stops, maybe a centimetre from her lips, expecting her to pull away. He feels her breath shudder, her fingers trembling as she curls her fingers into fists at her side. When a second passes and she doesn’t move, he presses his lips onto hers, allowing his eyes to close. Her head tilts ever so slightly to the left wanting to feel more of him. His hand moves, floating over her waist until he finally sets it down, tips of his fingers pulling her closer to him, their bodies just touching.

As he starts to pull away, he feels her follow him. She tries, so softly, to keep him there with her, to chase the warmth of her lips on his. Just for a second, but long enough for him to realise. His hand still holds her waist, not letting her move from before him, the hand on her cheek slowly falling down so his thumb rests on her jaw. Her arm starts to move, like she wants to reach for him, but she stops herself.

He knew then. He knew the truth of everything. There was no turning back.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

She had turned to leave. An unbroken silence had left neither wishing to make a move. With whatever courage she had, she turned to leave him. But he would not have just let her walk away.

“Maevela,” he says, his voice low.

She stops but does not turn around. She feels his hand on her, fingertips ghosting her wrist at her side. He does not pull her back. He does not force her. She could easily have walked away, left it at that, never spoke of their kiss again.

She exhales. Shaky. Unsure of what to say.

He breaks the tension for her. His voice barely reaches a whisper. “Stay.”

She looks back to him, turning slowly on the spot. Her heart leads, her body follows. She knows she shouldn’t return to him. She shouldn’t stay. But her once soft green eyes have darkened to the colour of a pine tree, the feeling bubbling within her something she does not want to name. “Horus…”

“Just stay,” he murmurs. He takes a step closer to her, brushing his thumb over the inside of her wrist. He would be able to feel how fast her heart races. The space between them shrinks before she can react. She would not stop him, even if she could. “For a little while. Stay with me.”

She trailed behind him as they endured the slow walk to his temporary quarters. No word was spoken, no shared looks. They did not meet another as they followed the path, the silence crackling around them, air thick with unspoken meanings and feelings. He’d shut the door behind them, the click of the lock bouncing around the four walls.

It was like they had never know what to do with each other. She stands in the middle of the room, glancing around at everything that decorated the area, a room she had walked past a thousand times before yet still looked out of place in. He just watched her. He sat at the edge of the bed, waiting, like he wanted to speak but was unsure of how to say it.

What will you do about it now?

She doesn’t hesitate any longer.

She crosses the space between them and kisses him. Gentle, first, then desperate. His hands cup her face, holding her as though she would vanish if he lets go. Her hand falls into his tunic, fist clenched around parts of the material to hold him closer. She twists her hands, trying to feel more, trying to satiate the desire pooling at the pit of her stomach as she tasted more of him. Her lips, swollen, prickled from the stubble that lined his jaw and upper lip, hungrily reach as much of him as he can.

She pushes him down onto the bed. He watches her, fascinated by her movements, allowing her to crawl back over him so her knees are either side of his body. His hands find her hips to pull her back to him, and she lets herself fall to him, her lips chasing his again like she’s already starved.

He says her name, somewhere among her kisses, only managing a word between breaths as she feverishly looked to feel everything she can. She never answers him, only kisses him harder. Desperate for him. Needing him. The only time she pulls back, takes a good look at his face, he seems dazed. His eyes are wide, his lips a dark pink and gapped.

She kisses his lips once, then presses her lips softly up his jaw, reaching his ear. She doesn’t breathe for a moment, but then she tells him. Any restraint she held, it was broken in a second. “I want you.”

His eyes flash obsidian, her heart thumps. She doesn’t register his movements. Both his hands grasp her, flipping her onto her back, allowing his body to straddle hers now. His hands cover her lower arms, his entire being pressing her down into the mattress like this is where she would forever stay.

His lips ghost along her throat. A stolen kiss on every part of her skin. He’s so agonisingly slow that she wants to whine, cry, but she can’t bring herself to. Her pulse pounds below his mouth. Her name is on her lips.

“Tell me again,” he breathes, almost growls.

And she does.

Over and over.

Like a broken record. Not that he cares, he never tells her to stop. He listens to her. Drinks it in as his hands worship her skin, racing every part of her body as though he would commit it to memory. His lips are softer than she thought they would be on her neck, or her shoulder, on her chest – until they aren’t any longer.

He presses her into the bed, his weight, his heat, every part of him surrounding her. She gasps his name between kisses, breathless as she drowns in him.

“Look at me,” he says against her lip, a subtle vibration between them as his voice reaches a new low, thick sound. He did not request it. He commanded it. She obliged in a heartbeat. “I want to see you as you realise.”

Magnus had never looked at her like that. Like she was the only thing un the universe that mattered. Like he would burn the galaxy is eh asked. Like he would tear apart the very fabric of fate itself just to keep her.

She shudders beneath him at the thought. She could never walk away from the feeling. She could never again see him the way she once did. But she didn’t want to. Not now. Never again.

Her eyes never leave his. Her hands sink into the sheets at her side, gripping the material and twisting it in her fingers like it would tether he back to reason or reality. Her thights turn inward, her body signalling just how badly she needed him. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. His lips curl into a smirk.

His hands roam her body. Slow. Deliberate. He would not be cruel, but he would not give her space to think, to regret, to remember a time before him. He discards the chiffon cover over her. Reveals her dress below, white, innocent, leaving little to the imagination. He would not starve himself any longer. She was his to consume.

His fingers trace the edge of her dress as he the length of her neck. He pulls the straps down her fingers, he lets his teeth nip at her skin gently. She doesn’t move, she lets him undress her, though when she feels his weight fully against her, how badly he wanted this obvious through his loose clothing, she shivers beneath him.

He lifts his head to look at her. His eyes a midnight black, his lips swollen and red. He breath trembles, catches in her throat as he withdraws. To the side of the bed, between her legs, kneeling so graciously. He pulls her thighs, moving her body so she’s just on the edge as well. Her dress is pulled away, tossed to the side like nothing.

Heat floods her face. She turns, wanted to hide the flush that was apparent, but he does not allow it. A simple call, ordered to her. “Don’t look away.”

She nods. Once. She won’t disobey. She doesn’t look away. She just watches, following his eyes as he looks back to her body. A simple pair of shorts. Her final barrier. She does not stop him as she tears it down, leaving her bare, ready.

She swallows, her fingers still clutch the sheets around her, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him. No matter how hard it is to stare him dead in the eyes as he parts her thighs moves his soft kisses up her thigh, then his tongue, and then his fingers.

Her body is so warm. Soft, pliant, trembling. She tries to breath, she closes her eyes for just a second as some kind of reprise. She had never tried to imagine this before. She hadn’t considered that she had already given herself to him, and this was his prize.

He presses two fingers between her folds. A simple hum, followed by a smirk, at how her body had reacted to him. Before he continues, he brings his fingers to his lips and tastes them. Another hum. Her cheeks flush a deep pink. He doesn’t care.

Maevela gasps as his fingers enter her. Just two, but they aren’t small. He turns his hand over, so his thumb can find her bundle of nerves, so he still has access to her. His fingers curl, and she feels her body clench around him. A whine, whimper, she’s not even sure, leaves her lips as she lets her head fall back. His thumb rubs circles to torment her. His other hand rests on her thigh and traces her skin with soft movements.

She tenses, just for a moment, her thighs shifting as she began to feel things that hadn’t been there in years. She turns her legs inwards again, but he stops her. She opens her eyes to him, noticing his movements have stopped almost completely. His grip on her tightens. His look was enough. “Be still, my love.”

She obeys.

Oh, she obeys.

His fingers work at her. Her hands twist into the sheets further as he adds a third, thumb flicking her in the most sensitive way. Just as she thinks it can’t be worse, he can’t take her any further, he replaces his thumb with his tongue, his lips around her in the most beautiful way.

Her head spins. She makes the smallest of sounds, her knees bending involuntarily as she curves her body into his own, wanting more, needing more. The further he goes, the more she comes undone, the closer she comes to the knot in her stomach breaking from being so tight. The louder she gets. The whinier her cry for more.

And then he stops.

“You are not thinking of him,” he says, lips glistening with her slick beneath the lights around them. Her breathing is so heavy she can’t reply, but she knows it is not a question. Her lips part, but she can’t speak. Her fingers digging into her thigh become tighter. “Tell me.”

“No,” she chokes out, feeling his tongue across her.

He pulls his fingers from her promptly. “Say it.”

“I am not thinking of him,” she finally confirms, wishing to feel him again.

A smirk ghosts over his lips. He releases her thigh. He moves back from her. Before she can protest, ask him why, he strips the tunic covering his top from his shoulders, little care for the buttons in his way. Each item of his clothing removed, agonisingly slow, but a final moment for her to turn away.

She doesn’t. She wouldn’t.

And his voice, dark and laced with triumph, whispers a final claim, his whispered promise. “You never have to again.”

He moves with purpose. No hesitation or doubt. He knows and he wants to devour her. His hands trace over he skin, slowly, as he places himself above her. Still afraid to take her eyes away, not wanting to disappoint him, she cannot look anywhere but right at him.

It is like he is the first to ever touch her skin. He maps it all. He wishes to know everything. In that moment, he was the first. Nothing like this has occurred. This was different.

His lips find the curve of her throat, the hollow beneath her collarbones, and the trembling pulse beneath her skin. She burns beneath him. He looks to her with concern, only for a second, then he knows.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, breath hot against her skin. She shakes her head no, but can’t find any words. He stills her shaking body with his grasp, though each touch makes her want to lean into him. It amused him, somehow. “You want me.”

She hums. His hand that cups her chin and makes her look to him causes her to gasp.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

His hand reaches down, guiding his cock so the very tip sits at her entrance. She exhales sharply, her head tilting back, her body aching beneath his touch. She arches her back, expecting more, wanting more, but he was the one in control here. He was the one that would give her what she wanted.

“Who do you belong to?”

She barely whispers her answer. “You.”

He would not need to hear it twice.

A gasp leaves her lips as he pushes his length into her. His head falls to her, pressing into her shoulder and neck as his hips fall flush against her. He doesn’t move. Just for a moment, just until he thinks she’s settled.

He raises his head. His eyes search for hers, seemingly wrecked when he finds her. He lets his forehead rest against hers. It was so plain. So ordinary. Yet it meant everything.

He pulls out from her, slowly as before, a knowing smile on his lips. Her hands find his bicep, nails catching his skin, digging in further as he ruts into her, then again, the again. He had conquered the stars, and now he had conquered her.

She moans his name. He must like it. Every time the sound leaves her lips she speeds up. He well and truly ends up fucking her. Devouring her. And Maevela? She can barely breathe. She forgets anything other than him. His love for her. His body. Him.

He brings his lips to hers, feverishly kissing her as his legs begin to stutter. He would not last long – yet neither was she. Masterful with his hands, equally so with his body. He waited for her, a small sign as her whines, moans, whatever they could be called, become louder, harder to conceal behind a veil. Her body shakes, closer to coming undone.

He does not let her breathe. He does not let her think. His hand, large, wraps around her own, entwining their fingers as he starts to falter. Just one look in the eyes, the rope finally snapping, every part of her coming undone. It gets him, too. He holds her, fills her with his warmth, and stays even longer until he knows he is fully spent.

But his body was not done, she knew that – he knew that.

He pressed another kiss to her lips. Whispered her name as dark as the midnight sky. He had waited so long. This was not ending so soon.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

a/n: thanks for reading! promise I didn’t just main character maevela extremely hard. I had to destroy her and magnus’ relationship for a reason. m41 will be kind to them!!!

#horus x oc #horus x reader #primarch x oc #primarch x reader #horus lupercal #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #primarch #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

let the world burn

→ talos valcoran x inquisitor (unnamed, she/her) → 6.6k, 18+ (no smut), tw character death, mentions of and implied torture/flaying, usual inquisition and night lord antics ig → post-heresy, talos is captured and challenges an inquisitor that ends up trusting him with both her life and her death

“I will take you,” Talos says, dividing the peace between them momentarily. She raises her eyebrows, though lets him continue. “Wherever you want to go. I will show you the stars. I will show you everything.”

“You truly believe we would make it that far?”

“Would you trust me enough to try?”

She should hate herself for answering without question. “I’d trust you with everything.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The air is freezing.

It was usually cold in rooms plagued with heresy and abominations, but this was something different. This was frozen and heartless, the souls of thousands of innocents dragged around to follow their killer. Even with the smoke of the incense, the quiet hymns of the God Emperor dragged through the otherwise silent room, it was undoubtable that this man was evil.

She’d read his file. She’d heard the stories, watched the tapes closely. Heard his words of praise for his long-dead primarch’s dream. Every single note made on him was in her possession, yet she could not have prepared herself for the man before her.

He cannot see her. Not yet. He stands against the wall, gravity chains preventing him from moving, his psychic presence dimmed to a near non-existent level. She had watched the men go in before her. She’d not grimaced as they beat him, used every trick they knew to try and get him to speak, not even as they flayed him. Each time another blow hit him, he laughed, never showing an ounce of regret or pain. She’d ordered it to be worse each time they returned. Revenge, she saw it, for everything his legion had done.

Her jaw tightens as he looks towards the glass she stands behind. To him, it should have appeared black, though she could feel his eyes directly on her. He makes no movements. Blood drips down his body, his skin a mix of its usually pale shade and blue and purple, but he doesn’t even look angry. There is… nothing.

She crosses her hands behind her back, letting her eyes fall to his file once again. She believed she was in his head, though what really was there to think about when he was little more than a rabid dog? Feral, unwanted, evil. To others, he was a prophet of darkness from a time long before. To her, he was another monster to be used, catechised, and discarded.

She hears his laugh as the door opens, another set of servitors returning from receiving nothing. He mocked them, even without words. It was a futile effort. It was her turn.

She closes his file. Her approach to the door is silent, until she curls her fingers around the steel handle of the door, when a quiet voice behind her speaks up. “Will you require us with you, Mistress-Inquisitor?”

“No,” she answers. She pauses for a moment, catching the gaze of the monster through the small viewing port. “It is not effective. You are dismissed.”

They obey her command and leave her in the room, though she knows they reside behind the next locked door. He had been given the most security they could afford. One locked door with the chains and every other precaution was never enough. A silent prayer leaves her lips.

He doesn’t react at first. He watches, silently, as she closes the door behind her. The long dark robes that cover her sway against the floor, her golden jewellery shining against the dim candles that offered just a touch of light. When she stops before him, they watch each other. She feels sick with just the sight of a man like this. Her lips curl downward as she looks down at him.

He laughs.

He’s been forced on his knees, stripped of any armour or protection that remained, laid bare before strangers, and taken further than most others could bear.

Yet he laughs.

She doesn’t speak, expecting him to stop. He tries to double over, but the chains stop him from moving so far. She hears the hiss in his laugh as his wounds pull and snap, but it doesn’t deter him – not until his laugh turns to a cough, which he tries to ignore. He coughs blood to the ground below him. A drop, no bigger than a coin, decorates her right black boot.

She doesn’t take her eyes away from his. She moves her foot forward, using his own tortured flesh to wipe the blood away. His thighs are visibly tense. He smiles, blood covering his teeth.

“Come to play?” he jests, amusement in his tone interrupted by more coughing. She takes a step back to avoid his slaver this time. “What could you possibly have to threaten me with, Mistress-Inquisitor?”

She watches his dark eyes, almost as black as the night sky, look over her. “Everyone has a limit. Everyone has something they want.”

“You’d assume so much of me?”

“Of everyone,” she tells him, “but you would know what it’s like to break people. You have spent far more time than I ever have looking into the eyes of the innocent and watching as they realise you never meant mercy. What is it your father said? No justice without fear, no fear without suffering.”

His laughter falls flat. His movements still. “You believe your beloved Imperial truth does not cause millions to suffer each day?”

“It is the will of the God-Emperor.”

“It is the will of the False Emperor.” He pulls against the chains once more. She does not react. “You see me as a monster. A tyrant seeking death and destruction for every moment of hate we have received. Yet you would turn a blind eye to all the death and destruction your empire makes, shielded by the gold lies you all worship. Do you think we are any different?”

She breathes, her response slow. “I would not kill a child.”

“But if your corpse-god commanded it?” he asks.

“I would not make that decision of my own will. I could not say the same for you.”

He hums. He leans back in his chains and, for a moment, lets his body relax. He breathes a heavy sigh, his head falling back, eyes falling shut. “Should I be ashamed?”

“I would be.”

For a moment, there are no words. He recovers. His scarred and bloody skin is given time to rest. She does not interrupt him. She could, but there is no need. It would be harder later. She would not prevent the servitors from returning to flay him, to beat him, to torture him until she returned.

“We are no different, Inquisitor.” He finds her eyes again. “We both use fear to control others. We both commit hideous acts in the name of the truth we believe. But I can admit my failures, Inquisitor. Can you?”

Her jaw tenses. She lets her hands fall by her sides, burrowing them into the loose pockets of her robes to disguise the tremor in her fingers. Her heart rate increases, more than she would have liked until she can feel her pulse in her entire chest.

“I do not fail,” she tells him.

“No.” He looks to where her hands would be in her pocket as a smirk creeps onto his features. Another slow, denigrating laugh that he drags out for longer than needed. “None of you ever do.”

She does not answer him. She can feel his eyes burning into her as she walks away, her steps vicious and strides long. She clenches her hands into fists in her pockets, her heart still racing. A nod to the servitors has them scurry back into him.

She leaves his file on the desk, she closes the door without looking back at him. She moves on. She leaves him behind for the evening, working on everything else left to her. She doesn’t think of him again. Not until she closes her eyes to try and sleep, and she sees him staring right back at her.

He would not be so easy to forget.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She stands at the edge of the room. She does not look at him, she does not speak.

She waits.

For what? Time will tell. She had been here every day. She had asked questions of the future that he was fated to tell, bearing the gifts of his father given to him by the benevolent God-Emperor. She had queried what he knew, what he understood to be true, what he had seen of the future. He never told her. Every question was answered with a riddle, another question, a test of her faith.

She did not fail.

“You believe yourself to be the smartest person in this room.” His voice echoes over the silent music. It was not the first time he spoke, but it was the first time she decided to listen. Silently, not giving him the justification of a stare, but she was intrigued. “I don’t need you to answer me. You have to listen to me. Because I may give you what you need, hidden between words to hatred to your corpse-god. You have to hear everything I say.”

He rattles his chains. She pulls a book from her pocket, a small black journal with a golden trim. She reads her own words, forcing herself to not truly listen.

“Your empire believes it must be cruel to survive, doesn’t it? You must sacrifice those who do not listen, who do not blindly trust the leaders, who lie to you each day about your god emperor that protects you all. You would have all burned in his eyes.”

She doesn’t look up. She rereads the last sentence she wrote over, and over, and over again.

“Do you even know what your emperor wanted?” he asks. She stops reading. Her eyes just flicker above the page. “He never wanted to be a god. He despised it. Yet you all listen to it. The words you use each day, the teachings of his holiness? It was given to you by a traitor you would wish to burn. He never was a god. He used us all, and you use everyone in the exact same way.”

“It is as easy for you to lie to me as it is for me to have you killed,” she reminds him, keeping her focus on the book.

“You believe that so?”

She hums.

“I suppose I would also feel the same if I had killed millions claiming to protect them. I would be able to sleep soundly in my bed thinking my god emperor loved me for my dedication because I was the perfect specimen in his eyes, protecting the world from the powers each and every one of my seniors use behind closed doors.”

“Millions have not died.”

“No?” He laughs, amusement clear. “You have not heard how many planets have had their final order given by your very own Inquisition? To protect the life of others, who would never have even known that the planet existed?”

She looks up to him, nostrils flared.

“Are you dense?” he questions, voice falling flat, “or are you just ignorant?”

“I have faith.”

“In a broken system that destroys itself?”

“In…” Her words are not finished. She looks up at him, placing her journal back in her pocket. She takes a silent, deep breath. “In the God-Emperor. In what my family and I have fought for our entire lives. You tell me this to make me doubt my faith, to turn me to a blackened faith like all traitors, in the name of your false gods. You spin tales and mock me as though I would have ever believed a word that left the mouth of a monster.”

He does not answer. Not immediately. Their gaze is locked, neither wanting to back away. She feels intimidated, so small before him, but knows she is protected. She would have him wish he had never spoken to her, she’d make him wish that he was never even born.

“In the name of false gods?” he asks, as though curious.

Her thoughts pause. The temptation to have the servitor’s return is high but stopped momentarily. Her hand grips the journal in her pocket.

“I do not care for the gods,” he tells her, “I do not fight for any god or any being. Nothing I know is worth fighting for.”

“You lie.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.” His words send a chill down her spine. “I only have reason to make you see the truth you so easily ignore.”

She couldn’t even bring herself to deny it one last time.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She had locked the servitors behind the third door. She had ordered them to leave him, days ago now. She had seen him slowly regain strength, rebuild his own body as she stayed chained to the imperial prison around him.

“You know more of the Emperor than I ever will.”

Her thoughts are open. She does not look at him as she speaks, instead, her eyes are focused on the hem of her robes, curled against the floor where she sits. Her back is against the wall. Her jewellery was left behind. She no longer hid behind the Aquila of her faith.

“I only knew that he hated us,” Talos tells her. He breathes deeply, not looking at her either. “Our father hated us. Our Emperor hated us. Who else could have been so lucky?”

She looks at him, lingering over his body for longer than she meant to. His eyes flickered in the candlelight, more brightly now she allowed more to be brought in, yet still darker than any others. “Why?”

“Did he hate us?” he finishes, finally meeting her gaze. He laughs, though it is not like before. It only mocks the life he had and what he knew. “We were not what he wanted.”

“Why did you continue to follow him?”

Talos pauses. His gaze falters, and he looks to the floor for a moment. By the time he returned to look at her, she had sat up taller, finding herself interested in the answer. Not out of spite. Not because she wished to punish him. It was because she felt pity.

“I did not want to be like the others,” he answers. He pulls on the chains once more, sighing when he cannot sit how he wished. “They would slaughter for fun. For thrill. For their own pleasure. But that was not the aim. Our Primarch did not want us to kill without meaning. I did not want to kill without meaning.”

“What meaning does your killing have now?”

He pauses one more time. “Vengeance. Vindication. So my brothers did not die in vain.”

“They did not.” She pushes herself to her feet swiftly. He watches her, though his interest piques when she nears him. She stops before him, merely inches away from him, and sinks to her knees. She is still smaller than him, she still looks up to him. “You and I are different.”

He doesn’t answer her.

She gently runs the tip of her finger across the scar that runs the length of his right thigh. She brushes over the new scars formed by the people around her. Her lashes flutter as she looks back at him.

“You are stronger than I could ever be,” she admits to him. Her hands tremble ever so slightly. She feels him pull at his chains again. Instinctively, she reaches into her pocket. He follows her movements like a hawk. “You were not deceived by those around you, not led to believe every lie spoon-fed by those who wish for power.”

She stops moving her hand. His breathing catches, she only just hears it. “You will kill me?”

From her pocket, she pulls a chain of keys. Each is comically embezzled and extravagant in its purpose. She knows which one controls his chains, she had memorised it before he was placed with her. She pulls the key out, fingers running over the cold metal. After a moment, she reaches behind him, placing the key in its lock, turning it ever so slightly.

Then, a click.

She stops breathing.

He doesn’t move.

She reaches behind him to where his hands were chained to the wall. Her hands seem so small compared to his, yet she doesn’t hesitate. She knew that one movement and he could kill her with those hands. She unlocked their chains with one, swift movement.

“Why should I decide who is to live and die?” she says, voice softer than a whisper. She sits back on her knees, looking down to the floor. He still doesn’t move, even with his hands freed. “The only person in my life that has not lied to me is you. How can I say who is right and who is wrong?”

She stands without looking at him. Her thoughts ran from her, any logic or sanity fleeing what remained. Had she intended to let him go? No. Did he deserve it? Perhaps not. But to live in a world that lied, to uphold the values she did without question… Not anymore.

As she turns to leave, she feels his hand. It wraps around hers, and though he does not hurt her, he holds her tight enough she cannot walk away. “We haven’t finished.”

“What is there to say?” she asks. She turns back to him, eyes stopping on every scar she had caused on the way. When she reaches his eyes, she struggles to keep her lips still. “I will die at the hands of this empire, be it today or in the years to come. Take your freedom whilst you can.”

“Your death is no more deserving than mine.”

He releases her hand. She feels it shaking and hides it in her pocket once more. She takes a deep breath and turns from him. Her steps are smaller, she feels the watchful eyes of sin around her, degrading her, but she cannot turn around again.

There’s no sound of pulling on chains, there’s no vengeance for his torture. She grasps the handle of the door and expects to feel him behind her, but there’s nothing. She reaches for the keys once more and throws them to the ground below. As the door is pulled open, he tries again.

“I will not be the one that signs your execution order.”

She nods once. Her head turns ever so slightly to the side, and she can see him still in the same position, still kneeling, still holding his arms at his side despite his freedom. She doesn’t reach for the keys. She doesn’t even bother to shut the door properly – no one would come here without her order.

She leaves him with only a few words. “Then we shall see each other tomorrow, Talos.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Neither speaks.

It is not an uncomfortable silence, nor one brought on by the lack of conversation. It was a natural pause. A moment of reflection.

It felt like he always had a question for her, always prepared with another truth to teach her. She did not idolise him, she wasn’t even sure how she felt, but she had found herself seeking answers as though the world was entirely new. She would sit beside him. She would have her fingers tracing the marks on his skin. She would not leave at night so she could sit beside him and hear the voice that haunted her dreams and lingering thoughts.

And this was a night like the others before had been.

“You truly believe we would make it that far?”

“Would you trust me enough to try?”

She should hate herself for answering without question. “I’d trust you with everything.”

It had been 47 days. She’d spent every single one of those in his company, for hours on end at the very least, and now… she’d been with him for almost 84 hours straight. She only left the room to refill the jug of water afforded to him and share her rations. It wasn’t a lot, it wasn’t enough, but it would do. Just for now.

“Then you would trust me to leave this place with you?” he asks. She looks at him with slightly widened eyes. His tone is flat, he did not laugh or smile. He doesn’t allow her to answer him yet. “I have seen my death, and it’s not in this room or by the hands of anyone here. I will leave this place and live for years to come.”

Her heart sinks just a touch. She stops tracing his scars just above a connection point. “Why haven’t you left?”

“I wouldn’t live with my decision to leave you behind.”

“You would not be responsible for my death if you did. I let you escape. That is my choice.”

“It is not for that reason, Inquisitor.”

“Do not call me that.” She turns her body from his, just enough for him to notice, but his hand on her knee, lingering just up her thigh ever so slightly, prevents her from moving. She sighs. “Your power armour is kept in—”

“I will not leave without you.”

His words create another silence. This one is not natural, though not uncomfortable either. She doesn’t know how to answer him. She turns back to him, their bodies just touch, and she notices how his skin burns. He leans to her ever so slightly. His fingertips dig into her skin so she won’t move again.

“I will not leave without you,” he repeats, momentarily glancing away. The keys that she dropped before were never touched. He hadn’t moved more than a few feet since she unchained him. “You trust me. Then let me take you from here. You will not have to work under the name of the false emperor again. I do not care what you believe in. But you will be free.”

Her heart thumps in her chest harder than ever before. She trusted him. She believed that he would give her the freedom she desired after learning the truth those around her hid from.

Her breath is shaky, her voice quiet. “You could kill me.”

“I could have from the moment you met me,” he tells her. His admission does not surprise her. Not now she fully understood. Her life was meaningless to the system that held her. He places his hand over hers and holds it tight. To him though? She was significant. She mattered. “Though I don’t think I could ever harm you. Not now.”

The silence continues once more. She watches him, her eyes grazing each of his features, though her hand still sits beneath his. He must feel the way it trembles; she could barely control it – lest she control the way her heart hammers against her ribs.

He wouldn’t leave without her.

It was not doubt in him. It was not doubt in herself. It was doubt in the world around them. She felt her chest growing tighter, his stare, his presence, all of it becoming so suffocating. Her entire life had been her belief. Her parents told her stories of the evil that men like him committed. Her seniors told her stories of the evil that his legion brought with them. She followed every order, so blindly, so stupidly, and now given the choice…

“You are afraid.”

Her jaw tightens. She feels embarrassed for him to say it so easily. She can’t look him in the eyes, not without a denial.

He takes his hand away from hers, though replaces it on her cheek. He’s so gentle. Not the monster everyone made him out to be. His fingers follow the curves of her cheek, softly lifting her face to his once more. “I trust you, too.”

“Why?” she asks, “I ordered your torture. I ordered all of this.”

“And you listened when I spoke. You stopped when you realised that it was wrong. You have slept on my shoulder, knowing at any time I could squeeze that pretty neck of yours and kill you in a matter of seconds. You branded me a monster and now you let me hold you.”

He exhales slowly. His hand feels so rough against her, the calloused and scarred skin leaving its trace on her, no matter how careful she is. Words fail her, just for a moment, but he does not care. He lowers his forehead until it rests against her own. He’s tense, he’s a natural-born killer, never meant to have an ounce of emotion leave him. Yet, for the smallest moment, she feels it all.

“I’ve never known a life outside of this,” she admits to him. She tries to pull back from him, one final defence, but it’s futile. He moves with her. “This… it’s all I know.”

“You will learn.” His promise is met with lips that ghost over her own. “Just let me show you.”

His breath tickles her skin. Her hand moves to his cheek, mirroring his own actions. She believes him. She feels her eyes burn, relief washing over her, but she refuses to let herself cry. Not yet. Everything feels still. Everything outside of the room seems to disappear, just for a moment.

But there’s a subtle click.

They both hear it. A soft that would have been missed if either had spoken, but as fate would have it, the barest scrape of the metal door had threatened them. Her heart stops, neither of them breathes. Her fear is matched by his calculation.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls back from her, standing to his feet as his gaze snaps towards the door. Without armour, without any weapons, he was limited, yet he was ready to kill. She stands behind him, her hands balled into fists. She knows. She has to choose.

“Talos?”

He doesn’t look at her again. “Stay behind me.”

She silently accepts. His choice. His command. His promise to her.

He would never leave without her.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He taught her survival.

She had listened intently as he showed her how life worked outside of the protection her status once brought her. Her parents, devout and respected, never showed her the life that dwelled beneath them. They did not show her the hive city underbelly that crawled with crime, desperation, and hatred. But he did.

He was obvious, stuck out like a raven among doves. No human looked like him, acted like him, or was built like him. A tool of war, an angel of the emperor – now nothing more than a fugitive hidden between spaces in a world of others wishing to remain invisible.

“Trust no one,” he had told her one evening, using his own body to keep her warm. She’d had to ditch the gold-laden robes of expensive fabrics, hidden away with the power armour that made him all the more obvious. “Assume everyone lies. Assume everyone only cares for themselves. Assume you and I are alone for the rest of our lives.”

And would it have been so bad?

Would she have found it so troubling to be within the arms of a man she didn’t even know a year prior?

No. It wasn’t because she needed him – which she did, in many ways – but because she would have been lost without him, and he would have been worse without her. She remembers his bitter laugh the day they met. The mocking tone he used as he called out her beliefs. The sneer of disgust at what she was.

Now he looked at her as though his entire world would burn if she had disappeared. He stood in front of her at the slightest threat. He told her stories of a past she could have only dreamed to understand. He let the littlest snippets of his heart shine through, between the pain, the suffering, and the monster that resided below.

She had taught him hope.

“Perhaps one day there will be peace,” she told him. Her head rested on his arm, and though his eyes were closed, he was not resting. Merely enjoying the small moment of reprise that the midnight hours brought. She leaves him to define where the peace would lay. “It wouldn’t matter to me, though.”

One of his eyes opened. “It wouldn’t?”

“I am already at peace,” she replies, “there are times when things could be easier of course, but I have made peace with the future I chose.”

He had not answered. His arm, slung loosely over her waist, tightens ever so slightly. He pulls her body into his, the concrete they sleep on forgotten for a moment. He mumbles something, incoherent on purpose.

“I know they will find us one day.” She had guessed his words, but the way he stiffened beneath her meant she was somewhat on par with him. “I know they will kill me for what I have done.”

“I would not allow it.”

She hums, turning to him. She’s so close to him that their noses brush. “You cannot protect me from everything. I will die one day, as will you.”

“You will not die at the hands of the Imperium you once served,” he tells her, a quiet promise. He looks behind her, as though he can see her future as well. “And if they try, they will all burn.”

They hadn’t spoken of it again.

The days passed, weeks, then months, and life moved on around them as though they had nothing to fear. She was never sure how he spent his days, manual labour she supposed, quiet work to ensure silence and somewhere to stay. She had done the same, working for rations and clothes or anything else essential. Nothing special. Nothing she would remember days later.

She had felt her hope growing stronger. The longer her presence was kept a secret, the more likely it was that he would do everything he promised. He’d show her the stars. He’d take her to places he spoke of. He’d return to his warband, he’d keep her with them – with him.

He must have felt it, too. He spoke often of his brothers. The ones he respected, more so. The quiet tales of comradery and triumph they had once felt. He had shown her a memory for every one of the scars on his body. He’d explained every chink in his armour, every stained bit of paint.

Talos had sworn to her when he kissed her softly, that there would never be a life without them together.

Everything she thought she knew was challenged. He trusted her. He helped her. He may have even loved her, in his way. Astartes were not meant to do this, let alone from a traitor legion. He should never have wanted to kiss her, hold her, feel her in every way, but he initiated it each and every time.

Everything she knew was a lie.

And everything she was beginning to believe was short-lived.

She should have paid attention to the eyes that followed her. She should have thought to say more to him when a figure followed her through the streets. She should have taken them somewhere else instead of revealing everything. But she was worried. She thought it was someone waiting to harm her. She thought, if anything happened, she would rather be with him.

She led the end straight to them, and neither had realised.

The rain poured outside. The midnight sky left only the candlelight available to them. She recorded her thoughts, those which related to the day and some of her more private thoughts, in her journal beside a candle. He sat behind her, meditating, away from the world for just a few moments.

She’d looked back at him more than once. Admired him, silently with a smile, wondered how she had even managed all of this. She thought about what may have happened if they had stayed, if she’d been more careful when he was in his cell so could have just an ounce of extra freedom than they did now. She was lost in her thoughts of possibilities, daydreaming as she watched over him.

He had reacted before she did. His eyes opened; she frowned.

“What?” she asked, noticing him looking around. His eyes tried to locate the source of whatever he had heard. He stopped on a crack in the wall that resembled a door, though it was not because someone was outside. “Talos, what is wrong?”

He doesn’t look at her. “They have come.”

“They?”

“For you,” he tells her. He finally looks at her, rising to his feet in one swift movement. He takes a step towards her, reaching his hand to cradle her cheek. “You must go.”

“Not without you.”

“You do not have a choice.”

“I do,” she insists, standing as well. He shakes his head, but she protests still. “We go together. I won’t leave here without you.”

He swallows, a momentary pause as he looks back to where he had heard whatever noise. “You won’t leave here at all unless you go.”

She reaches for his hand, dragging her attention back to him. Her lips are parted, though no indication of sound leaves them. She silently protests, wanting to tell him no, but knowing he is far better at this than her.

“I will find you,” he tells her. He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She nods, though hesitant. “Do not look back. Do not trust anyone. Go.”

And she does.

She runs, she never stops.

She hears the screams from where she was before. She clutches the journal in her pocket as her tattered shoes wear against the stones and concrete of the streets. She feels her eyes burn, and she lets herself cry this time.

But just when she finally stops to catch her breath, never to look behind, never to speak to another soul, she feels them all right behind her.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Her eyes burned.

Not like the first time she trusted him. Not like when she ran. This was something else entirely.

She had cried a thousand times, each tear shed for another lie told to her. They called her a sinner, a heretic, a traitor to their beliefs. They kept her in a room, maybe the one she had once sat in with him, but they did not ever send someone to beat her, to burn her, to flay her. They left her in darkness, in silence, on her own.

She knew what it meant. She knew exactly what her fate was to be.

They’d dragged her from her cell. They’d stripped her of all her clothes and dignity, paraded around her as they dowsed her body in sacred oils that she once held as well. They’d prayed, never for her, but for their beloved emperor, then draped her with symbols of what it meant to betray them in such a way.

She was a display. She was a message.

They’d strung her body to the pyre. She never had the will to fight it, allowing them to hold her in place as the ropes wrapped tighter and tighter around her skin and sunk into her flesh, causing an array of cuts and bruises. She’d let her head hang, the sky too bright for her to look up to, and wondered if maybe she’d see him again when her soul was freed.

And the last thing on her lips as the priests started singing their chants, as the public was invited in to see in real-time what would happen to a traitor, as they held her lips to a drink meant to guarantee her death, was his name.

Talos.

She had missed it all.

Her eyes barely opened as the screams started, as the shots were fired. They had misjudged him, they had expected him to run. In some way, she had thought he did too. She had forgotten that maybe, just maybe, he had been following along this whole time. One step behind them, until they stopped moving.

No one had started the fire beneath her. Maybe their mistake. He’d have stopped if he saw her burning, knew that he had no chance to save her. He’d have hesitated for just long enough for them to kill him as well. She’d have known, if she saw him, standing in a room filled with bodies of those who would have watched her burn in the name of their corpse-god.

It was his hands she felt first. She didn’t care for the blood that soaked her skin, it was no different to the oils she had been covered in already. She didn’t care how desperate he was as he pulled the ropes from around her, how he accidentally caught her in his swift and untamed movements.

He held her in his arms, carried her like she still had a chance, not knowing her fate had been sealed. Like they knew. Like someone had seen him come here for her, and they knew it would be his ruin. Like they would allow everyone in this room to be killed just to prove a point.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gently she almost misses it.

Her eyes flutter open, slowly, still heavy and burning. She feels the smile that lines her lips when she’s able to make out his features, his body knelt beside her. She silently says his name, but her throat is full, her mouth tasting metallic.

“I can help,” he tells her. He rests her body on the floor, away from the slaughter, careful to support her. As he lays her down, her body feels limp already. She wasn’t sure how long it had been. He must have realised that she was not spared. “I will find something and I… I’ll—"

She reaches for his hand. Though it takes some time to find it, she’s able to just curl her fingers around his own. It stops him, just long enough for her to croak out words in a low voice. “…you can’t.”

“I can.”

She grips his hand tighter, not allowing him to leave. “Don’t… leave me… to die for them.”

“You will not die.” There is hesitation in his voice. He’s unsure. He knows she is correct. “Not for them. Not now.”

“Don’t let it be them.”

Her eyes fall to his bolter. He follows her gaze but immediately shakes his head. “No.”

“Please,” she tells him. She chokes, turning to her side to cough some of the blood lining her teeth and mouth to the ground. She winces as her lungs are hard to fill, blood drenching their every fibre. “Please, Talos.”

He neglects her an answer. She struggles to keep her eyes open, instead leaning into the cold press of his armour as he carefully picks her up once more. She can feel the gravity around her as he sits on something, not the ground, resting her in his arms. Her head falls to his shoulder, just tilted enough so she can see his face.

“My last breath,” she whispers, hand drifting over his armour, trying to find something she remembered, “it’s yours.”

She doesn’t cry. No more tears are lost, there wouldn’t have been many left anyway.

She was certain of her fate and held no other wish. Her thoughts stilled, her body becoming numb as the seconds moved on. She saw the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes lost any hope that remained in them. She felt his breath on her face as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

He whispers, knowing she may understand. “You were the only thing worth fighting for.”

She remembered the way he once held her like this as they watched the stars. She’d feigned an injury in the hopes he would carry her – in truth she wanted to watch the way the stars twinkled in his dark eyes, feel his warmth on her skin, and know that maybe he did care about her the way she did for him. He’d hesitated then, but picked her up without complaint. He’d never wanted her to leave his arms after that.

She never heard the shot. She never felt the pain. It was over too quick.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

a/n: I wrote most of this between the hours of 2am - 5am so I am so sorry about all the mistakes. I will eventually go back to correct them. I hope this captures talos well enough as I dont know much about him bar common knowledge. anyway, thank you for reading!!

#astartes x reader #night lords #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #Talos Valcoran x reader #talos valcoran #night lord x reader #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

phantasmagoria

→ ahzek ahriman x summoned being (unnamed, they/them) → 7.1k, 18+ (but sfw), not sure its a tw but warp stuff, slight psychological horror type thing → post-heresy, ahriman summons what he believes is a thrall to answer his questions but can't seem to get rid of them

“No.” His voice is unexpectedly commanding. He’d expected the apparition, thrall, to disappear as soon as his mind disposed of them. Yet he couldn’t deny their existence right there. His fingers clench ever so slightly on the table. “You should not exist.”

“And yet, I do.” Their smile is too bright for him. He can barely look their way as they lean forward, seemingly interested. “You must have recalled me.”

Ahriman nearly chokes on his own words before he can reply. He certainly would not have recalled them, not with their little use to his cause. All he can manage is one word. “No.”

“Yes,” they reiterate, sitting higher on the chair.

He looks down to the parchment once more, seeking solace in its plain words. His eyes flicker to the faintly drawn glyphs in the corner of the page, scribbled in a way that he recognised yet refused. “No.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Ahriman watches the room around him, the runes around him calculated with meticulous precision. His thoughts were frayed with worry that he would fail again, he’d waste his precious time on another disappointment that he couldn’t afford. In his search for answers, for more depth to his understanding, he had tried everything.

Now, he turned to ancient intelligence, desperate for a chance to grasp something beyond his mastery. A carefully constructed web of sigils, ancient glyphs that he had constructed from his knowledge, sat frozen in the air, shimmering in the light of the candles lining the walls. He waits, anticipating a response, an answer to his call through the echoes of darkness.

He can feel the shift in the air as someone answers. He had not been specific. He felt desperate in his efforts to find a solution to his impossible problem. He had summoned so many beings to try and answer his questions that he wasn’t even sure if there was anyone who could help him.

So he’d summoned whatever he could, and this was the first thing that showed up.

A fragile-looking thing. Something he can’t quite describe. Their face looked like something he had seen a thousand times before, yet they were entirely new at the same time. He feels something strange in his chest as he peers over them, observing closely to see if he can recall just why he recognised them.

“Ahzek Ahriman?” They ask, catching him mid-thought.

His gaze averts back to their eyes, his mind settling on a thought that he must have known them because he had seen so many in his time. He chose to ignore the way the shadows around them flickered as if reality itself couldn’t understand. He stands up straighter, looking away before he can get too lost in his thoughts.

“Yes,” he replies, feigning his interest in something to his side. He ponders over his next words for a moment, then turns back to them with an expressionless face. “I am who you serve.”

“Of course, Ahzek,” they reply. His fingers tense at the sound of his name. It was different when spoken alone. Personal. He didn’t like it from the moment the word left their lips. The same lips which curl into a smile at his obvious disgust, and for a moment, it seems the glow of the candles dims. “I already do.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Ahzek?”

“Call me master.” He turns back to his table and rests his palms flat on top. He doubts their use, given their swift response was unusual, to say the least. He watches them only from the corner of his eye, somewhat distracted by the way the pages in his book rustle in an absent wind. “I will dismiss you by morning.”

He expected them to argue, but they only smiled again, hands held together in front of them. “Of course.”

They stand idly waiting for instruction. Ahriman hesitates, just for a moment, as he tries to avert his gaze. They are… different. Not a monstrous creature from the warp, deformed by chaos and corruption seeping through their veins. They have an essence he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Something ethereal. It reminded him of the Angel, beautiful in a way he couldn’t fully comprehend.

But what did Ahriman know of a person’s beauty outside their knowledge?

Each time he looked back, each time he dared to blink, their appearance seemed to change so slightly. The slop of their nose, the pink hue of their lips, the height of their cheekbones. The universe had not yet decided what they should look like, or what they were supposed to be.

“What will master have me do?” They ask, still not approaching him.

He gestures to the chair across from him, focusing on the book laid out in front of him. “Sit.”

“Yes, master.” Their reply is followed by their appearance across from him. Again, Ahriman doesn’t look up. He traces his finger over the passage he is reading, but their voice distracts him. “And… now what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. “Tell me what you know of the Ynnari.”

“Nothing,” they answer, the echoes of a giggle at the tip of their tongue as they shuffle in the chair.

Ahriman did not share their amusement. Another deep breath, not quite a sigh, as both his palms are laid flat on the table. He closes his eyes for a moment, as though managing the feelings they brought him so unexpectedly. “Do not lie to me, thrall.”

“Thrall?” Their amusement only increases. A smile, wide and full of life, is shot back at him. “Are you sure of that, master?”

“Talk.” His command is delivered with an air of ice colder than the depths of Fenris. He wasn’t requesting it, nor demanding it. Their answer was inevitable to him. Another breath, another hopeful moment to deal with them. “Now.”

“The Ynnari are very interesting, aren’t they? Awakening a god, saving an entire race.”

Ahriman hums. He had expected something else, maybe a hint of lost knowledge. He tries to sneak a glance to see if they have the traditional characteristics of an Eldar but he’s unable to even look near them without a suffocating look.

They must have noticed his disinterest as his head started to hang a little, focus shifted to his books again. Their words creep out, like a secret that should never have been shared as if they were standing right beside him. “They can reverse the rubric.”

His head snaps up. “Tell me more.”

“I was merely stating known facts.”

“You find this amusing?” He accuses, more than questions. “I will dismiss you, and you will not see reality again.”

“I’m not lying,” they protest. Ahriman can’t ignore the smirk resting on the corners of their lips. Even as they hold their hands together, almost begging him silently to keep them, they don’t bother offering anything else. “I do sincerely apologise, master. Do banish me, if you must.”

Ahriman doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t even react. It merely takes the thought in his mind to have their presence beside him revoked, and they disappear with little trace. He’d try again tomorrow.

.⋆༺☾༻⋆.

Ahriman’s eyes are focused on a parchment, ripped and covered with dirt that seemed as old as him. He can’t help the sigh that leaves his lip as another question is left unanswered, another riddle hidden within the ancient works that he so desperately tried to understand.

He brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply as he pinches the skin. There must be another way. There must be something he can do to fully understand…

The sound of humming across from him stops his thoughts. He looks up, glancing through his lashes expecting something far too mundane for his day, but the familiar face of the being across from him, their chin resting on their hands, elbows on the table, is not what he expected to see. They’d somehow made their way to his chambers, were sitting at his table, in his chair. His fury burned within.

Their smile, wide and untamed, jabs him in a way he can’t explain. He places his hands down on the table with a less than impressed expression. “You?”

They hum, nodding swiftly in response. “Hello, master.”

“And yet, I do.” Their smile is too bright for him. He can barely look their way as they lean forward, seemingly interested. “You must have recalled me.”

Ahriman nearly chokes on his own words before he can reply. He certainly would not have recalled them, not with their little use to his cause. All he can manage is one word. “No.”

“Yes,” they reiterate, sitting higher on the chair.

“Yes!” They exclaim. He blinks as his body jumps from their outburst. As he raises his gaze to meet them one more time, he wonders how someone could have so much joy in a time like this. They lean forward in the chair, as though decreasing the distance between the pair would somehow make it more comfortable. “As my master, you must have summoned me for me to be here.”

Ahriman hums. Their games were not of interest to him if they would not return the favour and answer his questions. “Then I will banish you again.”

“If you must.” They say. Ahriman watches them disappear with his very eyes. A puff of purple and blue dust, almost teasing him, and he thought he could finally return to his work. Just as he starts to roll the parchment back to its original state, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns, eyes widened, a spell on the very tip of his tongue when he sees their smiling, enthusiastic face again. “But are you sure it would work?”

He stares at them for a moment. He isn’t even sure what emotion he feels. Anger? Annoyance? Something so human he can’t even comprehend it?

He shrugs their hand off his shoulder and turns from them completely, walking around the table to escape their presence. “Leave me, daemon.”

“I am no daemon,” they answer, a scoff accompanying their obvious disdain for his words. They follow him, though keep a few steps in his trail. Ahriman thinks about summoning a blade to slit their throat. He stops himself at the last second, though moments later wishes he would have gone through with it. “The Arch-Sorcerer summoned a thrall. How would a daemon have appeared?”

Ahriman seethed. He turned back to them, eyes a burning red like that of his father, and near banished them to the plains of oblivion for testing him. But, again, as they get closer to him, he can’t bring himself to see them end. Perhaps a last mortal inkling of sympathy and kindness remained. Perhaps, something worse.

Their hands are held behind their back as they stop again, not getting too close to him, and tilt their head to the side playfully. “Unless… The Arch-Sorcerer was wrong?”

“Begone,” he tells them. He waves his hand dismissively and walks to his bookshelf against the far wall. He begins picking books out, ones which he thinks may help distract him, but hearing the small patter of their feet makes him sigh once more. “I am busy.”

“You do not wish to know my secrets?” they ask, innocence dripping in each syllable.

Ahriman doesn’t look away from a book on ancient runes. “You have none that entertain me.”

They hum. Ahriman thinks that maybe, with just a few moments of peace, they may have left. He turns to check, and is unsurprised to see them still standing, their silken robes gently flowing in the breeze from his open windows, admiring a shelf containing several different artefacts. They raise their hand to touch one, fingertips flowing over the bright blue glow of a cracked and energetic stone. Though they never touch it, the static line that’s created at their fingertip intrigues Ahriman just long enough for him to hear their words without any doubt.

“Not even one of your brother?”

The book is immediately closed, falling to his side in his hand as he narrows his eyes. They are still more interested in the artefact to spare him a glance.

“Is that a no?” they ask, finally turning to him. They are either oblivious to his obvious irritation or choosing to ignore it for their gain. Either way, Ahriman’s fists ball at his side. They offer another smile before they continue. “Or are you just worried?”

He refuses to answer.

They take a slow, warming step forward to him. “I could tell you many secrets, master.”

Ahriman doesn’t react. His hand reaches for the inferno bolter at his hip, keeping his hand over the hilt. He meets their gaze with blazing eyes. How dare they speak of his brother. How dare they come here and try to encourage him to play their games.

But then again, they dare one more time. “You just have to ask.”

He spares no further chances.

It’s not the bolter he reaches for, but the sheer will of his mind. A curse, words in his mind vanishing them back to wherever they came from. He turns before he has the chance to check it worked. He believes himself stronger than whatever they are, more powerful, not challenged by such a chaotic and pointless shade.

As he finally gets peace, their voice no longer ringing in his ears, he finds himself alone. He replaces the book, he walks to the door, he looms around to see if there is anything to keep his amusement.

For the first time in a very long time, Ahriman did not want to find himself alone.

.⋆༺☾༻⋆.

Ahriman’s finger taps against the table. He’d thought about his work for a while, he had troubled himself with countless hours of questions he wouldn’t find the answers to for some time, and then foolishly let his mind wander for just a moment.

At first, it went back to his brother, the time they had spent together, trained together, and then when his brother had died. He’d thought of his father, the betrayal of the Emperor, his faith in Tzeentch and whatever prevented them from achieving what they wanted.

Then he remembered the thrall he had summoned. Shade. Daemon��by many accounts.

He’d not wanted to give into his curiosity, but their words played on his mind. I could tell you many secrets. You just have to ask. He had thought over it a thousand times. They likely had nothing to give him, pointless speckles of information he already knew. Yet, the chance, the small probability that they could know something drew him in.

He never said the words out loud. He didn’t need to. His thoughts lingered on them for far too long. They were not his thrall, no longer a puppet controlled by their master. They were his equal, and his thoughts were enough.

He feels them before he sees them. The faint shimmer in the air as they appear before him, body bending into existence as time itself is fractured for a moment.

Ahriman holds his breath. Their expression is full of anticipation.

“This is a surprise,” they murmur, voice tainted with something unknown. “Did you miss me?”

“Do not talk,” Ahriman replies. His monotonous voice stops their movements, halting them on the tips of their toes. They lower themselves down slowly, allowing him to finish without interruption. “Do… Do not speak for a moment.”

Ahriman watches as they still. Only a nod is given back to him, a silent obey of his command. For once, he is thankful. He looks away momentarily, almost ashamed of his thoughts. His somewhat trembling hand is placed into his lap as he invites them to sit across from him - which they happily oblige to.

“Why did you bring up my brother?” He asks.

“He was a good man who cared for you very much so,” they answer. Their eyes carry a look he cannot distinguish, one of knowing and understanding. Ahriman brushes it aside as another trick of the shade before him, believing himself senseless for bringing them back. Nevertheless, they continue their answer, “such a talented warrior, a gifted leader, taken too early from you to revel in your victories. If your gene-father would have met him, he would have loved him too.”

His heart beats faster in his chest. He had not spoken with many about his brother, he had barely uttered a word in then thousand years about his brother. This is not something anyone would know, not unless they knew him.

“Of course, your father loved you far more than you think. And, I am naturally jealous that your brother spent every day with you,” they continue. Ahriman only pays half attention to the true value of her words. All he understands is that the daemon knew his brother somehow, and the reason for that he did not know. He listens more intently as their voice carries on lingering in the air. “When he spoke with you, you laughed or maybe smiled. But when I spoke to you…”

“You knew him?” Ahriman interrupts, thoughts overwhelming him.

“I knew you both,” they confirm.

“How?”

“From a distance.” They offer sympathy with a solemn smile. Ahriman’s thoughts cloud his judgement, memories of his brother that he had not recalled for some time returning. They lean forward as they speak now. “So often you look to the great ocean for answers. But so little have you ever seen who looks back.”

Ahriman pulls his thoughts from his brother. This was not what he had expected. “And your secret?”

“Oh.” Their brows pull together as they lean on the table. Their hair is tossed back, eyes wandering the room as though they obviously wanted him to be further intrigued. Ahriman saw through it. “I thought you did not care for it.”

“Tell me it.”

His demand falls short of expectations. They smile in response. “It will not entertain.”

“Speak daemon,” he snaps, hands slamming down to the table, breath heavy and nostrils flared, “or so help me, your soulwill be destroyed.”

They don’t answer immediately. Ahriman observes them closely, looking for any signs of lies or treachery, but he can’t find it. They have nothing in terms of emotion for him to read. Even their aura doesn’t shine. He’s close to banishing them again, only until they speak softly, one last time.

“He still calls for you,” they say. Ahriman believes his ears deceive him. They don’t need to lie to him, though. “He walks the plains of oblivion wondering where you may be.”

Ahriman doesn’t answer.

He simply stares at the table ahead of him, noting each mark and stain in the grains of the wood that he can find. Not a thought enters or leaves his mind. His brother. Him. Them. Whatever they are. Whoever they are.

Then, at some point, his eyes drift back to them. Unintentionally, of course, but their eyes were so inviting it was near impossible to resist. Like a moth to a flame, he was dragged right back to them, their shining eyes and enchanting smile.

He begins tapping his finger against the desk, something they picked up on immediately. Reaching over the table, they try to steady his hand by placing their own over the top, but Ahriman is quick to pull it away the moment he feels their… skinon his.

“You should not be here,” Ahriman finally speaks, holding the hand they had touched in his lap.

He momentarily glances at his hand, the same blue and purple shimmer lingering around him. If his mind wasn’t numb, he’d have studied it more, tried to understand.

“Then tell me to leave,” they reply, standing from the chair. They cross their arm over their chest, lips pressed into a line. He could finally see the flittering of a deep red aura around them, almost turning to black closest to their body. They huff without his reply. “Tell me I must go.”

Ahriman should answer.

He really should.

He should tell them to leave and never return so he can begone of these thoughts, feelings, and wonder.

He should feel them rip away from him with the smallest of thoughts from him; their banishment final and absolute. He feels nothing. He hears no answer from the chaos he pulled them from.

His voice betrays him, his thoughts betray him, and his body then follows suit. No words are answered, only the sharing a gaze that he shyly looks away from, his cheeks prickling with heat. He felt his heart pounding a little heavier, his chest tightening and breathing quicker. Another day spent experiencing emotions he hadn’t felt since a long time ago, all because of them.

All of this… worry, anxiety even, over someone who he couldn’t distinguish from a normal thrall.

He almost hates himself for it, more than he already did.

They step around the table carefully. Not a movement was misplaced or a sound made that wasn’t necessary. They looked at him like he was a mouse, small and fragile, so prone to running away.

Even as they speak, their voice is so soft it feels like a fine cashmere. “Should I really go, Ahzek?”

His breath catches in his throat, finger stopping mid-tap. Their use of his name, so simple yet so… different. Ahriman had been called it thousands of times before, much less so now, but it felt different. It felt natural. Like he had heard it said before, like it was wrapped in the comfort of familiarity.

Their hand reaches over to his once more, fingers ghosting over him until they wrap around the edges of his hands. This time he doesn’t panic, he doesn’t pull his hand away. He lets them hold him, even if it is only in a small way, and when he looks into their eyes he feels something more.

“Should I leave once more and spend an eternity searching for you again?” they ask, “should I join your brother in his search for you?”

He sees their truth. He saw the anonymous spectator who stood to the sides when he would train with his brother on Terra before they had ever met their new father. He saw the citizen of Prospero who would wait every time to see his face when he returned from war. He saw the soul in the great ocean that he longed for when he felt truly lonely and desperate.

He saw every version of them.

And he realised that they did not lie.

They had always been connected to him. Always watching, always at a distance to observe him - shadow him, even. He should feel fear, like he did only moments ago, he should feel anger at his privacy being violated by such a being that he should have the power to control.

But he felt none of it.

He felt a bed of roses that he was laid down gently on. He felt a warming hand that meant him no ill. He felt a love that a man like him should never experience.

“Ahzek,” they say again, still so softly he barely catches it. He hesitantly looks up to them, their eyes offering an invitation to so much more. They don’t smile, they don’t do anything, but just the sound of his name is enough. In that moment, he is everything; their entire world, their entire purpose for being. “I do not need to leave.”

He would agree, but his tongue is tied and his mind is empty.

Instead, his silence partially suffices.

They do not move away, nor approach him any further. They do not speak again, nor do they try to hide. They wait for him, to see what he would do, to see how he perceived it all.

Ahriman takes a step towards them. They seem surprised, pleasantly so, intrigued again by his changing attitude. He was surprised himself - though who would ever truly understand his mind? He swallows, hard, breaths deep as he takes a step forward. The hand that rested under theirs is gently taken away, instead following Ahriman’s gaze, reaching gently for the curve of their jaw.

He presses the tips of his fingers to their skin, almost testing to see if they are real. He fully expected his fingers to disappear through them, providing him right about them being an apparition. However, as his fingers graze them, he only feels what seems human, yet looks like a creation even his patron would struggle to comprehend. Purple and blue, flecks of silver and pink, he would think he was going crazy if he couldn’t feel the warmth of human blood beneath his touch.

Ahriman’s touch falters, though their hand on his regenerates some of his confidence. They place their hand on his, fingers laced between his own, just to hold him there a little longer.

Then they step forward. Ahriman doesn’t step back.

He watches. Waits. Anticipates.

They draw so close, their skin radiating against his, their hand entwining with his and taking it from their cheek and down to the side of them. He sees the universe in their eyes, just for a moment, and then feels the explosion of a star as their lips press against his.

He’s frozen, not sure how to move.

They don’t push further.

Just one, simple, soft kiss.

And though they lingered, pulling back with reluctance and hope that maybe he would return the favour, he just can’t.

Ahriman didn’t know this feeling, nor what to do about it.

After a few moments, he finally finds the words. A life dedicated to knowledge and understanding, millennia dedicated to undoing his mistakes and strengthening his brothers, yet he struggled with the very concept of a kiss.

“You should…” Ahriman’s words trail off as he finds himself lost in their eyes once more. He pulls himself away, forcing his gaze towards the floor so he can get his words out. “You should go.”

They don’t argue. They don’t even retaliate with witty words and a sharp tongue. He knows they dither, their presence consuming all his energy the longer they remain.

But then they go, and he’s left to face the reality of his feelings.

.⋆༺☾༻⋆.

The room was icy cold. He’d spent evenings wondering whether he could ever dispel the heat that came from them, his daemon, whatever they were. He’d left every door and window around him open in the hopes it would prove that it was in his head. However, as they stood beside him and watched him with eyes of gold, he had started to doubt that - especially given the burning behind his ribs and flush brought to his cheeks.

“Ahzek,” they whisper, arms wrapping around him. He can feel their head resting on his back as they squeeze him gently. “You look tired.”

They were useful. That’s what he told himself every time he thought of them. A source of knowledge, a means to an end, part of his cause for fixing his problems.

He resists the sigh, still trying to push aside his feelings to assess the truth. It wasn’t working. “I am.”

“Then stop,” they tell him. He feels their hands move to his arms, snaking their way down until their fingers intercepted the book in his hands. He doesn’t fight them, letting them push the book from his hands to the table below. He breathes in deeply as the book hits the table with an audible smack, though their chuckle from behind him brings the slightest hint of a smile to his lips. “Let yourself unwind for just a moment.”

“I must finish my work,” Ahriman replies. He looks over his shoulder, just catching a glimpse of their face.

They make themselves more present by creeping around him, loosely tugging his body so he starts to move away from the table. He can see the look in their eyes again, one of curiosity, intrigue, and exhilaration. He finds his joy, though it’s much harder to express, especially as they take his hand in their own and force him away from his work.

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

He doesn’t argue. He gladly accepts to follow their path as they tug at his hand, offering something different, though inducing the lie he kept telling himself that this was only because they were useful to his quest for knowledge.

He had buried himself in work, but only because he didn’t see another way out.

Every moment they weren’t here he thought of them. Every moment they were here, he wanted them. He called them back each time he didn’t see them around, he whispered to himself the incantation that brought them here in the softest tones to see if they wouldn’t hear his call. They always did. They always came back.

He had stopped summoning them days ago. Or possibly weeks. He had lost track. He expected to see them each morning, he expected to have them around him as he read through books and scrolls, making conversations he knew little of but cared so much about.

They led him to the chaise he had at the corner of the room, far away from the books and important documents, a corner he had not touched in a very long time. He doesn’t protest, though, interested himself to see why they may have brought him over here.

They sit him down at the side where he can rest his arm, though never take a seat with him. Instead, they kneel on the floor in front of him, chest almost touching his knees. He watches, unsure of their intentions and position, but still stays silent.

They lean forward ever so slightly so their chest does touch him, obscured by their fine robes and his thick attire, yet still enough for his body to jolt ever so slightly at the touch. He notices their smirk, the one they try to hide. He shouldn’t care. He should know it was a distraction, a way to manipulate his emotions further, yet he did not pull away. His cheeks feel hot, as does his chest.

They don’t mention it though. Instead, they ask a question he had been asking himself recently. “Why do you keep me?”

Ahriman’s cheeks burn. He surely blushes now, even behind the tan of his skin. His lie is thwarted by his hesitation. “I do not.”

“Your spells are much more convincing than your lies.” Their words are somewhat teasing, but still feel serious. Ahriman knew he was lying, but admitting it to himself meant accepting feelings he didn’t believe could exist for him. He keeps up the lie just a bit longer, even as they catch him directly in the act. “You could ask for me to leave for good, but you never do. You always call me back.”

“You are useful,” Ahriman returns.

“So is a grimoire. Yet you touch us very differently.”

His fingers twitch at their response. Oh, they were very right.

Because he didn’t often touch them.

Rarely, even.

But on the times he did, he would treat them like the most delicate crystal, something he was so afraid to break and never have again.

He thought it was subtle.

He sighs as he replies, trying to find amusement in the hemline of his garments. “You are not even real.”

“Some would say your sorcery is not real.” They reach for his hand, diverting his gaze back to them. He could see the edges of blue sitting in their aura, as though his words truly hurt. He didn’t believe that they would. His chest feels heavy, for longer than he expected. They let it go just as quickly. “It is all in perspective, Ahzek.”

He hums. They are not wrong. “What would you say?”

“That you believe yourself to be a master,” they tell him, “that you will not dismiss me.”

Ahriman’s gaze is stuck on them for a moment. Their effortless posture as they kneel before him, as though made to serve him directly. Well, he did summon them and made them the way he wanted. Though it felt like more.

Sometimes he doesn’t think they breathe. Or blink. Or do anything remotely human. He had dismissed it before but now they kneeled before him, so perfect, it didn’t even feel real.

But then they did breathe, and they did blink, and he’s stuck in his own thoughts again that don’t make sense.

Why didn’t he want to accept that someone may just want him?

Why was it so hard to believe that this being was not a daemon, was not a shade, but someone he was destined to meet who came to him at the right time?

He leans forward, hands on the edge of the chaise. He grips the surface harder than he needs to, controlling his breathing as much as possible as the burning behind his ribs returned.

“Do you want to be dismissed?” He asks, voice barely breaking a murmur.

They tilt their head slightly to the side, eyebrows raised yet pulled together. They lean forward too, bridging the gap between them, as they lean their forearms across his knees. His thighs tense beneath their touch, something even more fascinating to them. The tips of their fingers brush his covered thighs, but never taking it too far.

They make him wait an agonising few moments for their answer, even if it wasn’t surprising.

“Never.”

.⋆༺☾༻⋆.

Ahriman holds the page of a book between his fingers. He’d read the same passage a few times now, the words never quite reaching him, its meaning never being quite clear enough.

He steals glances where they sit across from him as he reaches the final paragraph. He thinks he’s subtle, but when their eyes meet his he realises that maybe he needs to work on his abilities. He had cleared his throat the first time, shuffling in his chair until the moment had passed squarely enough. The second time, he was not so lucky to escape.

“Ahzek.” Their voice breaks the silence as if thousands of voices called for him at once. “There is a question you desire to ask me, but you keep it to yourself.”

He did keep his question.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want them to know his thoughts. He would have shared if they asked - of course, only if they asked exactly what they needed to in order for him to divulge his deepest and darkest secrets. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the thought of them knowing, it was simply that he didn’t like not understanding it for himself.

It made him more angry than when he didn’t understand how they even came to be.

“Just because I do not speak does not mean I am keeping things from you,” Ahriman replies. He gestures down at the book in his hands and tries with the passage again. “I have much to read.”

They hum. “Much to distract yourself with.”

Ahriman takes a moment. He looks up at them again, their smile so off-putting yet enticing, eyes filled with every colour imaginable, ethereal presence hanging in the air around them. He closes the book, knowing it’s impossible, and sighs deeply.

He silently agrees.

They spare no moment in pouncing on him the moment they can. No book in his hands meant they could hold them, no distractions in his mind meant they could fill it. Perfectly executed. Perfectly played.

They dance around the table, figuratively, tiny steps like that of a ballet dancer, precise and accurate, nothing unplanned. They’d walked that path a thousand times before it felt like, and it was no different this time.

Except for Ahriman and his dastardly feelings.

“Say it,” they murmur, words lingering in the air. Their eyes are intense, falling on a burning red, aura clear of anything he could read. They step closer, resting a hand on his arm as they try to convince him. “Say what you will not allow yourself to think.”

Ahriman can’t do it.

He cannot tell them the words he thought because they made him feel less than what he was. They made him feel worried. They made him feel scared. They made him feel like everything in his life was meaningless until the moment he summoned them. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, let alone himself. He just couldn’t.

So he looks away, ashamed, but their fingers grace his chin to have him look back at them.

“Are you worried?” They ask.

Ahriman doesn’t react.

“Are you scared?”

Ahriman wonders if they read his mind.

“Do you love me, Ahzek?”

Ahriman heart skips a beat.

They must know his mind.

He did not consider just what it would mean to hear that said out loud.

“You do not wish to say?” They ask, letting go of his chin. Their fingers trace so gently over his neck, then his shoulder, before they fully pull away. “Then I will not tell you something in return.”

“Tell me.” Ahriman’s voice sounded desperate. It almost cracked with his quickly when he made the request. Love and knowledge, they were the same to him nonetheless. “Tell me, and I will tell you.”

They show little reaction. “I asked first.”

“Fine.”

Ahriman turns away from them, just for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He had led men to war, he had faced daemons with power beyond his own, and this somehow felt like he was approaching a god in their own realm.

He closes his eyes, taking two deep breaths before he turns back. Their eyes search for his before he can say anything. It almost intimidates him out of speaking.

But the idea of not knowing something was too much.

Especially if it was whether they loved him, too.

His voice is quiet as he stutters over his words. “I… I do.”

“Do what?” They question, a smirk twisting onto the ends of their lips.

Ahriman pauses again.

He could mean it. He could show it.

But to speak something’s name is to bring something far worse into existence.

Every logical part of him said to not admit anything. He cursed himself for acting like he was guilty due to having feelings. He hated what this did to him so easily, when simple words were an honest struggle to him.

He finally says the words when he feels their hands wrap around his. “I do love you.”

“Oh.”

Oh?

He had not anticipated that reaction.

He did not want that reaction.

His hands tense, body stiffening as he feels his own personal defeat. “Tell me something in return, then.”

He couldn’t explain his feelings. He wanted to hear the words back to him, he wanted them to share something he so desperately wanted to hear, and they didn’t give it to him. The anxiety that rippled through him was indescribable.

How was Ahzek Ahriman, the Arch Sorcerer of Tzeentch, worried about whether someone cared for him?

He felt small. Worthless. Like his life depended on their affection.

He felt judged in the eyes of god, just until the blue and purple shimmer of the air returned, their eyes changed to a baby pink hue, and the smile returned to their lips.

His heart is practically beating out his chest as he waits for those words he was so desperate for.

“I have loved you for an eternity,” they tell him. Spoken like a god to their servants. An honour, devotion even. Ahriman’s heart swells, though his mind screams, even as they whisper more sweet words to him, “And now you love me too.”

His world, just for a moment, feels complete.

The rubric is forgotten. How he wished to return to Prospero, his hatred of his cousins, even the doubts at the back of his mind when he saw his legion - all gone in an instant.

A momentary respite that he would chase for the rest of his time breathing.

Sealed, quietly, without any hesitation, as his hands find their waist and pull them to him, his lips pressed to theirs as the room falls silent. All of his mistakes, all of his worries, any moments of insecurity all melt away with just one more kiss. It was not like before, even if he felt magic fluttering between their every touch. He felt… more.

Their hand moves to the back of his neck to stop him from pulling away. He’s not sure where his own hands roam, somewhere they had not been before, but not somewhere new. But the moment air replaces their touch, the moment falling to an end, the silence no longer exists, and he remembers everything.

But throne he would do anything to feel that again.

“You wish for us to exist together?” they ask, quiet voice reaching him with specs of curiosity. Their hand is still at the back of his neck, gently rolling the tip of their finger in small circles. They step closer, and Ahriman holds on tighter. “You wish… to be mine?”

An answer is at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t wish to say it. The moment he spoke it, it became the truth, a fact he could no longer deny. “I do.”

“Then say it.”

“I…” He pauses. An unexpected hesitation. A moment where it feels like, somewhere within the depths of his mind, someone pulls him back. A god he devoted himself to already, one that had started to fade and had only just found out. He signs his life away so easily. He itches to feel love one more time.

He knew, deep within his mind, that this was not the love he wanted. It was submission. It was accession. He knew not to speak the words they wanted, yet he could not remember ever saying them, only hearing out loud the irreversible confession. “I am yours.”

He blinks, the air feeling heavy. His admission, irrevocable beyond all reason, was made. Where he had felt uneasiness twisting through his veins, he was surrounded by truth. The invisible vines tighten around his wrists, his chest, even his throat. They had always been there, waiting. It was never a choice he was making, never a surrender to forces he could not control.

He had always belonged to them.

Hadn’t he?

They smile. Not happiness. Not joy. It was not something a mortal could form. He sees the darkness of their aura and plays it off as their aura. Their hand falls from his neck, down to his chest, but pull away so easily.

It wasn’t a smile; it was something older than language, even older than time. His thought tells him to resist but vanishes before he can do anything more, leaving him alone with the maniacal sneer of a dying god that finally found a follower.

“Ahzek,” they mouth, so sweetly, “you were always mine.”

He felt the weight of the tether beginning to form, a quiet, unspoken vow that he did not want to fight. His fingers twitched, instinct wanting him to break free, but he did not move. He did not want to move. He no longer felt alone. He no longer felt free.

He felt like he had heard it before. The same voice, the same words, the same confession. A half-formed memory in the depths of his memory. They offer nothing more. “You were simply waiting to remember.”

.⋆༺☾༻⋆.

a/n: thanks for reading!! sat on this one for a while as I wasn't sure i got ahriman's character right. hopefully this can still be treated as a somewhat reader insert lmao

#ahzek ahriman #ahzek ahriman x reader #thousand sons #astartes x reader #does he even count as an astartes anymore #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

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masterlist // fics

[alphabetical by first name]

ahzek ahriman

phantasmagoria // 7.1k

alpharius

parallax // 4.7k // nsfw

fulgrim

reverie // 4k // nsfw

horus lupercal

frisson // 6.3k // nsfw

jago sevatarion

no our life but ours // 3.8k // nsfw

konrad curze

viridity // 10.3k // nsfw paramnesia // 12.1k // nsfw kalopsia // 4k // nsfw

leandros

orison // 1k // nsfw purgation // 2.9k // nsfw

leman russ

ineffable // 3.2k // nsfw

lion el'jonson

akrasia // 4.6k // nsfw

lorgar aurelian

appetence // 5.5k // nsfw mágoa // 4.6k // nsfw

sanguinius

crimson affliction // series

talos valcoran

let the world burn // 6.6k

#masterlist #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

xxxvii. kalopsia

→ konrad curze x aletheia [oc, she/her] → 4k, tw; 'illness', major character death, pregnancy, unborn baby death, all the bits after someone dies → pre-heresy, curze refuses to believe that aletheia's fate can change, especially at his own hands

He looks across her body with flared nostrils. His breaths are shallow and quick. His hands tremble, his jaw clenched. “You didn’t tell me you were dying. You never said it was this bad. You… You should have told me.”

A cry wrecks through his body. He falls forward, hunched in the chair as he squeezes his eyes shut. His hands are clenched into fists. Not a sound around him.

“You should have tried harder,” he cries, begs, wishing this was untrue. He looks up to her again, vision blurred by his own tears. “You… You should have fought.”

He just wanted her, his little bird, the only thing that mattered, to say she loved him too.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The room around him was dark, save for the two lights close to him. A single candle, burning on the side of the bed, most of its wax melted into a puddle at its base. The flame barely stayed alive, almost consumed by the darkness of the room, but it still flickered. Once, then again. It held a stubborn fight against its fate, just like the other light before him.

Aletheia slept, or at least, he told himself she did. Her chest rose, shallow and unsteady, her skin pale even when illuminated by the orange of the candle. Her hands were frail, fingers twitching involuntarily in unconscious distress. A frown marred her features even in rest, her skin waxen, lips barely holding the softest of pinks.

But she was still there – and that was all that mattered to him.

He traced each of her breaths, eyes heavy yet urging, willing in their hope that the next would be stronger. He pulls the blanket around her, delicately over her shoulders, careful with his movements as though she would break beneath his touch. He was used to brutality. His hands were capable of destroying worlds. Yet, he found whatever softness was left in him for her. He would not let anything harm her. Not him, not Nostramo, not the galaxy.

He grips her hand, pressing it against his chest, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart. But even with her warmth beneath his fingers, his own skin feels too cold. He tells himself it’s nothing. He tightens his grip and does not let go.

Under his touch she stirred, barely, lashes fluttering before her gaze landed on him. A smile was optimistic. She only looked at him, weary and distant, nothing like she had been before. He felt his stomach twist, muscles twinge in some kind of anger, but he ignored it this time.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, optimism laced in his voice. Each time she rose, each time she looked at him, he felt hope that had once left him. The hand he has wrapped around hers tightens a little more as he brings it to him, pressing his lips to her knuckles. His smile is so close to shattering.

“You don’t…” Her voice had broken before she could speak truly. Her lips parted, urging more words, but it took time. When she could finally speak, her voice sounded hoarse, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to stay here all night.”

He doesn’t reply.

He did have to stay. These moments, they were more important than anything he had done. More important than Nostramo, the people, even himself. He would give up everything for her. He already had started.

From the corner of his eye he sees the maid, her name lost to him, watching quietly. He dismisses her with the shake of his head, only wishing for them to be alone. That was all Aletheia could have – him, the maid, and their child she grew within her. He did not want to be cruel, but any others he could not trust. It was for her safety, to keep her alive.

“Your heart is stronger,” he tells her, holding her hand tighter. She looks at him with narrowed eyes, though doesn’t argue with him like she once did. “You are getting stronger, my little bird. You will be strong again.”

The edges of her lips creep into the smallest of smiles. She speaks softly once again, though her tone has shifted to something he had not heard before. “I… I don’t think I will…”

“No.” He doesn’t let her finish, hushing her with his own words. He would not hear it. He would not let her speak it into existence. He refuses the possibility. “You are safe. I have kept you safe.”

The thought of her death plagued him daily – hourly, even. Each time he felt that he had moved past it, he was reminded of that image. Her body laid dead in the streets. Two men that stabbed her to death. Another two criminals from this forsaken planet he tried to rule. That was her fate.

And the Night Haunter had conquered fate. He knew how to save her.

“You will survive this, Aletheia,” he tells her, almost a command. He moves closer to her now, leaning across the bed as his eyes search his. He feels it, the squeeze of his hand, and relief washes over his whole body.

“I love you.” Her words are quiet, though her smile is brighter than before. Despite how her hand shakes in his, how her body hasn’t moved in days, he believes his own mind. She reaches for his face, tips of her fingers, pushing the strands of his obsidian hair from his eyes. Her nail catches his skin, unsteady movements filled with little grace, but he does not care. “You saved me.”

He grasps her other hand by his face, so he holds them both tight. Nodding to himself, convincing himself of the false truth, he finds faith in his own work. “You are still fighting. You will be better. We…”

His words fall, thoughts fleeting as he looks down her body. Warmth spreads through his body, anger crushed by the familiar feeling of joy. To see her with his child… This world would no longer matter to him. He would need nothing more.

“We would be–”

“Happy,” she answers for him. She pulls his hand, however weakly, to her stomach, resting his palm on the curve. She rests her hand on top of his, though her eyes fall shut before she can look him in the eyes again. “Safe.”

He feels the heartbeat under his fingertips. The rhythm, much steadier than hers, gives him more security. He had kept them both safe.

── .✦

He stands by the window, looking out to his people. So blissfully unaware of what he faces. Uncaring. Ungrateful. Their days pass by without knowing where their Night Haunter is, their King, why he has been so slow to serve the justice he was known for.

The truth? He didn’t care.

He looks down to his fingers, clean to the naked eye yet soaked with generations of misery and murder. He flips the hand over, looks to his palm, and then he sees why it is all necessary.

Her laboured breathing catches his thoughts. He turns to her, expectant but cautious, only to see she has not moved. Her chest heaves, breath caught in her throat as she softly coughs away something in her throat. Her eyes stay shut, mouth slightly parted.

He watches her for a moment. She lays so still, so perfectly still. Beneath the blankets her hands lay, a hand he wished to hold each moment of the day, just to feel her near. Yet the room felt heavy, and its entire weight pressed down against him, making it so much harder to move, to breathe.

“My lord.” He looks over to the corner of the room. The maid, Irina, holds a tray in her hand with foods that Aletheia once loved. Though she once avoided his eyes, she now shared in his sadness. “Will my lady have breakfast?”

He looks down to the ground, then to her lifeless body. “Leave it by her side. I will give it to her when she is ready.”

Irina nods, following his instruction. It was no different to last night, or the night before. He would try to help her, but Aletheia refused it. He had felt anger at her for not trying, not even considering that it may help her. But he saw how she could barely muster the strength to bite down. It was not in spite to him.

When the door is shut again, leaving the two of them alone, he approaches the bed and gently sits beside her on the mattress. He reaches under the cover to find her hand, taking it in his. Before, she would have woken to his touch. Now, she doesn’t move. He grasps her hand a little tighter.

She sighs, shifting just slightly beneath the covers. It is the smallest sound, but his chest tightens, as though her ribs were pressing against his own. He releases a breath too sharp, too fast. His lungs feel constricted, though the room is silent.

“Aletheia?”

She hums, so softly. She doesn’t look at him, but turns her face towards him, as though she hadn’t actually been sleeping.

“How do you feel?” he asks, as though the answer was not clear to him. She did not look to be in any pain, though that was not needed. He could see her cheekbones, the hollow paths of her knuckles, even her collar bone stood out. “What can I get for you, my love?”

Aletheia seems to force her eyes to open. A soft heave of her breath, exhaling slowly as she adjusts to the light in the room. She looks past him, then to him, smile reaching her lips as she recognises his hand over hers.

“Our child?” he asks.

She shakes her head in response. “You… We just need you.”

“You must drink something.” When he tries to move she stops him with a weak grasp. For anyone else, he wouldn’t have even noticed it. “Aletheia, you must–”

“Tell me what you will name them.”

He frowns. His heart beats faster than before. “We will name them. Abel or Sorine, for your parents, you told me this before.”

His words seem lost to her.

“You are tired,” he tells her. The thought echoes in the air as though it must prove itself. Whether he believed it or not, a smile slips onto his lips to comfort her. He moves her hand to her stomach, again resting it on the edge, being sure to feel for himself. “Our child tests you my love, makes you weak as they grow. Soon, you will recover. You are strong enough.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, eyes glazing over him, down his body then to his face. He feels scrutinised, only for a second. She may not have noticed that his clothes did not change, or that he had left her side only once in the past two weeks.

“Something is wrong,” she tells him. Her voice is quiet, scared, and so very small. It barely reaches a volume above the ambience of the room. She coughs once more, her hand slipping from his. “I think… something is wrong.”

He shakes his head once more. He cannot hear it. “You are tired, and imagining things.”

“Please…”

He refuses to listen. He turns from her, ready to stand and return to the window, but before he can move she grabs his wrist, the last of her remaining strength with her. He can feel her trembling beneath him.

Was he making this worse? Had he pushed this so far? It was stupid to consider that his mere presence was causing her to suffer, but he could not see anything else. He knew her death. He knew what would happen. This was not it.

He did not need to worry.

He brushes the hair from her forehead. Her skin, once warm, is cool beneath his touch. He shudders, resisting the urge to pull away. The fire had not been on. The night air had made her cold. It’s nothing.

He pulls his hand away from her. “Aletheia, you will be better. I have seen it, I have shown you. You saw it.”

She would never ask him again.

── .✦

He crouches at the side of the bed beside her. The room had not changed, she had not moved, and he was still yet to venture anywhere further than the hall on the other side of the door.

Yet something was different. The air felt different.

The floor beneath him was wet. He wasn’t sure when it happened. The weight of the cup was nothing to him, yet his fingers slipped for just a second. His skin itched. He needed to do something. His mind was restless. Tiredness was eating him.

He runs his fingers through her hair, the once golden and shining strands feeling dull and empty in his fingers. Her lips have lost their rose tint, replaced with the hue similar to that of the blue shining steel. Her skin was cold, clammy, paler than his own.

She did not acknowledge him beside her, not his movements. He had pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she didn’t even notice. He felt a shiver run down his spine and desperately checked in case he was wrong. She looked the same. She was the same. He ran his hands down her arms, trying to chase away the chill that clung to his own skin. He was almost jealous of the times she would be so fearful of him, so worried to speak near to him.

And he wonders then whether he would have preferred to never have known her.

Watched her from afar. Have her grow on the streets of the planet like he did. He could have protected her from the darkness of the shadows, made sure the cruel world never affected her. He would never have sealed her fate, and they could have lived a long life – not together, but at least alive.

Another breath leaves her lips, weak and fragile, granting him the smallest bit of relief. He had not doubted himself, his visions, not until now. He was so convinced he knew the truth that he believed nothing could change that. He would be vindicated. He would be right.

He runs his fingers from her hair, down her cheek and to her lips. He had found himself fixated on them at one time, wishing to feel them all over his body, understand how they kissed him. Now, he just wished to see them move. One more time. One more word.

His hands tremble as he adjusts her blanket, though he tells himself it is the light of the candles flickering across his skin. His throat tightens as he whispers to himself that she is getting stronger, though the words burn like those very candles.

Her eyes lids, blue and heavy, seem to twitch beneath his touch. He gets his wish, though different to what he wanted. Her lashes flutter as she forces her eyes open, adjusting to the candlelight and the midnight moon that shone in.

She looks to him, but no smile this time. They just watch each other, neither speaking, neither moving.

“You have always protected me,” she tells him. He feels her fingers weakly grasp at his hand by her side. “You must let me go.”

He grits his teeth. He jaw tightens. His nostrils flare as he inhales quickly. Her hand is in his one last time.

“No.”

Her fingers twitch in his grasp, barely enough to squeeze his hand. Her lips part, though words are lost before spoken. She just watches him. He can barely look at her, he knows that she has lost any hope. Her eyes… they are knowing.

She will wake in the morning. Tomorrow she will be better. The storm will be weathered, he struggle is at its climax and tomorrow… it ends. He is sure of it. He can save her when tomorrow comes, from the fate she was promised by him.

He stays beside her all night. He does not move. He does not sleep. Her breathing is so soft that he can barely hear it, barely register any signs of life left within her.

He is tracing the curve of her knuckles when she shifts, murmuring something too soft for him to hear. The sound is so fragile, so wrong, that something in his body reacts before his mind does.

A single step back. A single moment of distance.

He hears her words pass by in the breeze. I’m not afraid.

He steps forward again, closer than before, swallowing against the burn in his chest. He finally thinks that she believes him, that she knows he can save her.

Midnight passes. An hour goes by, then another. Each hour that passes feels like an eternity, yet also like grains of sand slipping too quickly through his fingers. He checks the time—only a few minutes since he last looked. It’s too fast. Too slow.

She does not change. She does not grow silent. In the morning, she would take a first breath in her new life, she would regain all her strength and be his queen, his little bird, his Aletheia once more.

He is sure of it.

── .✦

Dawn had arrived before him. Colder than others.

He pulled himself from the bed where he had fallen asleep. His legs still knelt on the floor but his chest on the bed with her.

He does not feel her warmth beside him.

He calls her name, but there is no answer.

He stares at her. Not for a second, or a minute. Longer. Much longer. He listens, waits to hear her croaked and chesty breaths. He didn’t breathe, just in case, listening so hard that his body burned.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Her skin is cold, her lips slightly parted. His hand on her shoulder pushes her so gently. Then harder. Then harder.

“Aletheia,” he says, words to an empty audience. His stomach churns. His thoughts leave him. “Aletheia.”

She does not move. She does not answer him. She is still. Her stomach, swollen with life, is still. He pushes her again, shakes her as his own fingers tremble.

He saw her murdered. He saw her future. This is wrong.

This is wrong.

This is not what he saw.

He had not felt fear like this before.

No.

He holds her hand to feel for anything; nothing returns to him. For a second, he’s betrayed by his own heartbeat. Loud. Violent. He hates himself for it. He almost wills it to stop.

No pulse, no sign of life. He holds his hand to her stomach. No heartbeat. He shakes her again, hands on her shoulders. He holds his hand over her heart. He kisses her forehead, her lips, he hands, whispers her name over and over.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying, not until he feels the ice-cold tears drip onto his fingers.

He killed her.

He sits back in the chair beside the bed. His lips are parted, arms and legs at his side with no control, body numbed at every nerve. In his hand, his knife, blood dripping down its metal and onto his fingers, his thigh, and the floor. She was gone. He had checked. Their child was gone too.

The entire room is silent.

His vision was a lie. He could not save her.

He did this to her. She was dead before their child was even born. She was never meant to carry his child. He did this to her. He killed her.

“You were the only good thing that ever happened to me,” he tells her. He drops the knife to the floor as a sob ripples through his chest. He almost laughs. His words are hard to force out. “How am I… How…”

He was going to take them away from here. Nostramo wasn’t his home, they were. He wanted them safe. Somewhere free of murderers and thieves and criminals. He would make sure she never felt fear again. And their child? The word wouldn’t have even existed.

He wanted to die first. He knew what happened. He didn’t want to be alone. How was he supposed to live without her?

A cry wrecks through his body. He falls forward, hunched in the chair as he squeezes his eyes shut. His hands are clenched into fists. Not a sound around him.

“You should have tried harder,” he cries, begs, wishing this was untrue. He looks up to her again, vision blurred by his own tears. “You… You should have fought.”

He just wanted her, his little bird, the only thing that mattered, to say she loved him too.

── .✦

Days passed.

No one entered.

He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat.

Candles had burned out. Darkness never left. Incense laid in ash.

Irina had been too scared to enter. He recalls her opening the door and finding him sobbing, but she did not ask if he was okay. She knew. He had heard her gasp, the soft cry that left her lips, but she knew he was not ready to hear it. She left him and never returned. They all waited for him. For something.

He would have stayed with her. He thought of it. The knife on the floor before him sung lullabies of a death so sweet.

But that was not his fate.

The smell had forced him to accept the reality of what happened. Aletheia was gone.

He stood, limbs still feeling nothing. The cloak over his shoulders is torn away, grasped between his fingers as he stares over her body. One last look. One last stand.

He covers her with his cloak, her tiny frame enveloped by the dark material and plucked feathers. As he covers her face, he memorises her features, knowing he will not see them again. He whispers, though her ghost stood behind him. “They will not touch you.”

The people of Nostramo were terrified of him – his promise was not hard to keep. He carried her, through the halls of the palace they shared, haunted by the memories of her soft voice and her sweet laugh, when he had treated her so cruelly, when he finally showed her love. He doesn’t hurt her. Almost as though he carries her to rest after a long day. Yet, his fingers grasp her like she would disappear the moment he left go.

Then outside into the cold. The people nearby stop, but they do not cross him. His figure tormented them already. That did not mean they did not pay respects to another of their own.

How far he walks is a mystery. Snow lined the streets, though his footsteps were replaced by fresh flakes as he moved on. He did not want to know where he left her. He did not want to return. He did not want to give her a grave.

He places her body in the snow. Grass, a rarity on this planet, is beneath her, though he still cannot see her.

People gather around him. The daughter of a man and woman so dedicated to the people around them had died, and they blamed him. The love of his life, the mother of his child had died, and he blamed them. He did not care. He did not speak. He did not look.

On the edges of the wind he hears her. First her call of his name, dragging his attention to the left, then her final I love you, which pulls him to the right. Then, a laugh. Not hers.

Choking, ugly, mocking laughter.

His nails dig so deeply into his palms that they bleed. The dark red seeps into the snow where he stands.

The gods laugh at him.

Their amusement deepens with each step he takes. Away from her, away from his happiness. He does not turn back to her. He does not wish to see. The people watch him as he disappears into the shadows of the night, plagued by the laughter running through his mind.

He knew then his end.

When Nostramo falls, he would not think of her. He would not say her name. He would not mourn her again. She was already gone, and she would not suffer the same fate as her people. Their child would not see the work of the gods.

But when the assassin stood over him, he would smile.

Death had finally arrived.

He would see her again.

He would see them both again.

── .✦

a/n: big sad for Mr. Curze. I had to exclude a scene from this I originally wrote, as I thought it was too much, but it is referenced, so maybe your imagination added it in too. I really wanted to capture a reason why he was how he is, and I hope it hit the mark. I will go back and add more bits to their story! thank you for reading!

#primarch x oc #primarch x reader #konrad curze x reader #Konrad Curze x oc #konrad curze #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

xxxiii. mágoa

→ lorgar aurelian x astreya [oc, she/her] → 4.6k, nsfw 18+, tw major character death, implied murder, religious themes, usual lorgar activities → pre-heresy, maybe the thing that finally cracks lorgar - a night with his goddess who is taken away from him not even a day later

“What do you want?” she asks him, leaning in closer. Her head tilts to the side as she speaks. “More lessons?”

His voice is barely above a whisper as he answers. “No.”

She hums. Her nose just touches his, her breath falls over his lips. “More teachings?”

Again, he declines, his fists clenched into balls as he feels his thighs quiver. “No.”

“Then I wonder?” She pauses, their eyes meeting. His breathing only fills the room. She knew. She always knew. Though she was having fun – and Lorgar didn’t care to be at her expense. Their lips are so close to touching when she finally says softly, “More me?”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

He had followed every one of her teachings.

He had stood beside her, listening to each of her words, hearing true the gospel Astreya would sing to him each day. He knelt to her, he held her hands and whispered his love and devotion, and for the longest of times, he felt that it would not pay off.

She had denied him, not once, not even twice, but every single day. At first it was a desire, his wandering thoughts pulling him back to how they had held each other so perfectly. Then it became an obsession. A need for his reward she always promised him.

He yearned for her beyond anything before, so much worse than before he had ever had a taste of her.

He had watched her from afar, jealous of the touches she gave to the others around her, anger boiling through his blood when she told him no one more time. He would come back to her each night, the second dawn had reached them, praying to her as she watched with curious eyes. Each night, another denial. Each night, more pain. But he would still go back to ask, beg, wonder.

Then, it was different.

“O Aurelian,” she sung as his hands clasped together. His lips curled into an involuntary smile as he looked up to her. She pushed herself off the table used as her throne though did not approach him. “You have been so devoted, haven’t you?”

Her eyes carry the galaxy inside them. The points of each flame from the candles in the room resemble every star he wished to reconquer for her. For that reason, he does not answer. He only bows his head and closes his eyes.

Her gentle footsteps fill the room as she approaches now. As she drew closer, the incense that filled the air seemed to draw heavier, forcing him to breathe harder. His heart thumped in his chest as he finally felt just the tip of her fingers on his shoulder.

“You do not expect to receive,” she states, crouching down to his level. Lorgar’s eyes fall open as her other hand reaches the other shoulder. He does not look up. He only sees her thighs before him, bare apart from the words of scripture he had dedicated to her. “Yet you return to me every day. You have understood.”

He looks up to her now. Her lips are stained red, drips of blood falling down her chin. It drips onto the floor between them, until he reaches his hand out for it to fall to his skin instead. Her eyes glance down, amused, and he takes his chance to move closer.

His hand rests on her cheek, and though he does not dare to move it, she twists under his touch to press her lips to the part of his palm under his thumb. Lorgar’s breath hitches in his throat. The corner of her lip twitches.

She plants another kiss on his skin, and a few more, working her way to the tip of his thumb. She never pulls back from him, his thumb resting on her bottom lip, until she takes his thumb into her mouth. Her tongue rolls around his skin, she takes as much in as she can before moving back, only slowly at the end, making sure he felt every moment of her warmth. He almost loses the ability to hold up his own hand. Almost.

“What do you want?” she asks him, leaning in closer. Her head tilts to the side as she speaks. “More lessons?”

His voice is barely above a whisper as he answers. “No.”

She hums. Her nose just touches his, her breath falls over his lips. “More teachings?”

Again, he declines, his fists clenched into balls as he feels his thighs quiver. “No.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, nor care for her response. He presses his lips to hers, hungrily opting for her taste. Its metallic, the blood still fresh, but oh so addicting. His hands move to her waist to stop her from moving away, but she does not stop him. She falls into him. She lets him take her.

Only for breath does he stop. He pulls back, lips swollen, and watches his goddess before him. The corner of his eyes sting. He feels the beginning of tears reach his eyes.

“That was all you wanted?” she asks, brows furrowed.

He shakes his knees as he falls backwards, allowing himself to sit against the stone floor instead of kneeling. He leans back, resting his arms behind him. His body has a familiar ache. He feels his thighs clench. “I want all of you.”

“All of me?” she repeats, questioning his tone.

He corrects himself, though he doesn’t move. “Anything you believe I am worthy of.”

She nods. A sly smile spreads over her face as she crawls towards him, straddling his legs until she reaches the top of his thighs. He looks up to her in awe of her beauty. She grazes her body against his and he knows she felt him throbbing beneath his robes. “O Aurelian, the most devout, the most humiliated, the one who has suffered every day. You are worthy of all of me.”

“All?” he asks, as though it was an impossible feat.

“All,” she confirms. Her fingers move to the cusp of his robe, delicately pulling the top layer away. As his chest becomes exposed, the chill of the air runs across his skin, each pore sensitive under her touch. He feels like his heart stops each time her hand grazes his skin. “Undress me.”

He nods, following her command. He seems hesitant at first, pulling the lace which holds the sides of dress together, what was usually hidden by her robes. It seemed so unorthodox, like he would be punished, but with a swift motion he revealed her body to her. One he had seen before, yet spent days wishing to see again.

He pulls her dress from her body, revealing her bare form underneath. All that remained was the remnants of tattoos and a golden necklace, one that he had seen before. It’s black crystal onyx sat perfectly between her collar bones. His hand lingers on her skin for too long, yet she does not punish him. She lets his touch fade naturally, until she invites him back to her once more, reaching for his hand to bring to her.

“It’s yours,” she tells him, placing his hand on her waist, “admire it.”

Admire it he would. His hand felt so big on her waist, like one move would end her. Yet, he kept it there, moving when he felt the confidence to do so. His hands creeped up her body, reaching her chest, his thumbs running over the curve of her body. His body shudders. He’d spend a day memorising each part of her, he’d come to know how every part felt, tasted, if she gave him the time.

But lust overcame him, and his hands moved back down her body. He reached her hips, urging her to move forward. She followed, leaning into him, moving so slightly forward until their bodies met at their core. He does not need to ask her to move down. She does that on her own.

Only a layer of clothing separates them. She must feel him. How hard his cock is, all for her. She doesn’t acknowledge it though, only letting the weight of her body sit on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, her heat so close.

She leans forward to kiss him. His lips this time. His eyes roll back as he finally has a taste, and is rewarded with her hips rocking back, the forth. Only once. A whimper leaves him, a silent beg to do it again, but she doesn’t. Not yet.

Her hand creeps up his neck, nails drifting across his skin. He feels her close her hand around his throat, not too hard, but enough for him to feel pressure. Vulnerability. Something he would let her have. His eyes fall open as he looks to her, lips parted as though he wished to speak. He does not say a word, he just… endures.

She grinds against him again. The burn of the material somehow makes it better. His breathless moans fill the air like a bitter symphony, only until she finally sits back on his thighs. His head snaps towards her, frantically searching for a reason as to why she stopped. Then he feels the relief.

Her hand wraps around his cock. She frees it from its confines, letting the cool air rush against him. He bites down on his lip, almost tasting blood again as she runs her finger up the dry base. Then her thumb stops. Right on his leaking tip.

“Did you think of this?” she asks, looking up to him as her thumb spreads the liquid over his dark purple skin. He doesn’t give her an answer, much to her displeasure. “Tell me what I do to you, in your dreams?”

He can barely get his words out. Each time he tries to speak, little more than a squeak echoes around the room, urged by her pressing down with her thumb. She finally lets him start to speak. “You let me—”

“Let you?” she questions.

“Rewarded me with your—”

She doesn’t let him finish. Before the words to reference her body even reach fruition, she leans down to wrap her lips around him. His immediate response, a moan, the shaking of his hands as his head falls backwards and he pushes his hips towards her face.

Her tongue wraps around him, giving him the warmth he was so desperate for. He doesn’t even realise his hand is reaching for her, his fingers wrapping into her silken, obsidian hair, not to move her, but just to feel her. Only when she stops, just after he felt his cock reach the back of her throat, and lets him feel the cold air again him does he realise. He shouldn’t have done that.

“Did I say you could touch me?” she asks, taking his hand from her hair. She holds him gently, setting his hand down on his own chest. Her fingers drag across his skin far longer than needed, so close to where he wanted her to touch. “No?”

He confirms with a low voice. “No.”

“You will learn for next time, then.”

Her hand remains on the bottom of his stomach, and with the very tips of her fingers she pushes him back. Of course he never lays back entirely. He would not bare to miss a second of her. He keeps himself slightly propped up, just so he can see what she does.

Still straddling him, she rises on her knees so her body is no longer on his. Her movements seem so slow. The incense in the room becomes thick as she moves forward. He feels her hand on his cock once more, this time holding him, keeping him still so he gets the smallest reprise.

She strokes his leaking tip up and down against her clit. He hadn’t expected it. His heart does skip a beat when he feels it. Her want for him too is evident. He can’t feel it all, but her bud, swollen, in need, yearns for him now. No more than his head, that’s all she’ll allow. That’s all he can have for now.

A moan leaves her lips, like the sound of an angel calling his name, and he stutters his hips somewhat towards her. Her hand ends up between his hip and waist, holding herself up, her nails slowly drawing into his skin as they both become a desperate pit of moaning and desperation.

His back arches so slightly, wanting, needing more. His stomach clenches, his hands balled into fists at his side knowing she had not gave him permission to touch. She’s so slow at first, but the second she catches his eyes, she speeds up. Just enough. Just so his cock runs through her folds and almost, very nearly, ends up inside her.

“Please,” he whimpers, voice barely breaking the sound of their breathing. She doesn’t stop, only slows, and looks up questioningly. He won’t say it. He won’t tell her exactly the words. It feels wrong. “Please.”

“Please what?” she asks, own words disturbed by desire.

He doesn’t answer her. His head falls back, eyes rolling back as she does the same thing again. He’s so close. He could cum, right there, without a second thought. But he holds it, he lets out a choked cry as his stomach twists even further. So close.

He almost misses the soft smile that crosses her lips. It was not pity. It was delight. She rubs her clit one last time with his tip, then gives into him. He hadn’t expected it. As he felt her walls close around his throbbing cock, he feels tears fall from his eyes.

With his tears comes his climax. Unexpected, but needed. He had barely been felt her, she had only just taken his whole length, but he couldn’t hold on any longer.

And what was worse?

She rode him through it. She was just getting started. As he moaned her name, emptied every part of him into her that he could, let his chest heave and breath fall flat, she only smirked. She knew.

It hurt him as she carried out, but he did not ask her to stop. His eyes flew open, his nerves overstimulated and crying for a break, but she did not give it to him. His hands grasped at her thighs, but she only held her own hands over them.

“Did you think that was everything?” she asks, voice faltering once again. She steadies herself on him as she lifts her body, then rolls back so slowly. He gasps, digging his fingers into her thighs. She laughs in response. “We are just starting, my beloved.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He wakes the next morning, expecting to be alone. Every day he was alone, every night the bed beside him was cold.

But his bed was warm that night, and likewise he was not alone that morning.

He only had to turn his head to find her. Her arm laced over his chest, fingers holding onto him like she did not want to leave either. Her leg is over his own, bodies barely moved from they had finished last night. He could barely keep his eyes open before she finally told him to rest, holding his hand in her own.

He allowed his eyes to drift shut once more, listening to her soft breathing, embracing her weight draped over him. He had dreamt that night of her, as he did every night, but it was different. He saw her dressed in white, no longer in black, a child in her arms as she waited for him. His body shuddered.

He would have walked away from everything if it meant their future was together.

But the next time he woke, he was alone.

It was not like him to sleep past dawn, though he had no reason to be up that day. The sun’s rays shone on him and warmed parts of his body, which ultimately reminded him that he had to wake. Though he did not feel that he needed to run to her or try to find her. Not this morning.

For just a few moments, he allowed himself to be less than the Urizen everyone around him needed. He felt the remnants of her around him, the scent that still swam through the air. The bed beside him was not cold, she had not left that long ago. Perhaps she had only left because she needed to.

He dresses himself slowly, thoughts lingering on the night before. It was not like the first time. It was much more. They were so much more. He could feel her in each of his movements, hear her voice whenever someone spoke outside in the passageway, yet it was not because she haunted him. It was because he remembered.

And when he saw her, not too long after he had left his chamber, he did not yearn for her.

She was alone in the chapel that he usually used. Her hair, messy and unkempt with the little tools he had, was covered by a black veil with a golden hem. Her robes carried the gold and black stitching – she looked no different to a priestess of Colchis that he saw as a child.

He rarely saw her alone, though it felt deliberate. No others would dare to come here without speaking with him. No others would have known he would not react to their presence. She did.

He silently moves towards her, trying not to disturb her as he kneels two spaces down from her. He looks at her, though seeing her eyes closed and hearing the soft murmur of a prayer, he looks away and joins her. For the first time, he does not need to think of her. She’s here. He is with her. That was enough.

He can feel her watching him, though he does not look up. Not immediately. He finishes his prayers then he looks to her, the inklings of a smile on his lips, though she does not match him.

“Astreya?” he asks, her name creeping from his tongue as though it would disturb the very nature around them. “Are…”

She stops him with the shake of her head, urging him not to continue.

They look at each other for a few more moments. He cannot describe her emotion. Pity? Knowing? He would never know. She did not want him to ask, and he would respect that of her. For now, for this moment.

She reaches her hand over to where his lay on the bench. She squeezes it once, though not too tight, eyes falling closed as she does so. Her fingers linger on him for a second longer. Her lips part, though words never come. Her thought remains unsaid.

Before he can try to grab her, stop her from walking away, ask her what was wrong, she leaves. For a moment he thinks to chase her as he would usually do, but he stops himself. They have changed. He will see her that evening, and he will tease the answers out. Like anyone who loves another would do.

The day takes him to his council, the usual spot he would stand as the day passed by. He thought more clearly, understanding what the men around him commented on, knowing their looks and fleeting words with clarity not often rewarded to him.

He had truly been rewarded.

He had not seen her in the halls, though that was not uncommon. He had not felt her presence warming him throughout the day, but he told himself that was due to the change, a product of their night.

She had not been beside Erebus in the chapel that evening, listening to the sermons as she did each day. He had watched his First Chaplain, eyes dark and pondering, though Erebus seemed as unaware of her whereabouts as he did. His eyes even flickered to his First Captain, the one who wore a smirk like a piece of fine armour, but he did not flinch.

He had found his way to her chamber straight after. Not a moment was spared. He’d entered the room without a knock, and inside he only found darkness. Not a candle had been lit since he was there with her yesterday. No one had entered since they left.

He called her name.

He rushed down the halls, calling her name to the shadows in the hope that someone would understand. No one stopped, though they all paid attention, and before he could think he was asking others where she was.

Not asking, demanding. He had to know where she was. Pleading. He would do anything to know where she last was.

But no one knew a thing.

He had checked every room, every person, confirming she was missing. Each room without her left another thought with him. Did he do something wrong? Did she leave because of him? Was he no longer worthy? The questions span and span through his mind, weaving him into more uncertainty than he had ever felt. More than he had even when confronted by his Father.

He thought Erebus would know. He found his way to the Chaplain’s room, tears forming in his eyes as he pushed the door open and ran to his son.

“Where is she?” he asks, hands gripping Erebus’ shoulders. His words were spat pathetically, cheeks wet with his own tears.

Erebus doesn’t answer.

“Tell me where she is,” he begs, shaking him beneath his words, “I need to find her.”

Erebus doesn’t know.

Lorgar does not ask why, or how. He doesn’t question his son. He knows of one person that always knew. His smirk wasn’t without conviction. He had seen her more times than Lorgar ever would.

Kor Phaeron, his father, does know.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He had not been blind to the nights Astreya had been in this very room. He hoped he would open the door and see her here. Waiting for him. Or just here.

He had opened his mouth to ask the same question he had asked Erebus, but he stopped himself. This was not the same. The look he received was different, and it was not kind.

His father had not spared him the heartache with his words. It was only a fact to him. The words had been sounded out, slowly, so Lorgar could be certain. “She is gone, my son.”

Lorgar shakes his head. He takes a step closer to his father, his hands clenched into fists. “No, she wouldn’t leave. You are mistaken. She was just with me. She was… She wouldn’t leave me.”

“I warned you. I told you she was not as devoted as you are,” Kor Phaeron tells him, walking to his desk and returning to his seat. He picks up his pen and resumes writing on the papers set before him. “It is you who did not want to see it.”

“She was always devoted,” Lorgar argues for her, “She is devoted.”

His father hums. “She has turned her back on you. On us. On the gods themselves.”

Lorgar does not answer. The silence that fills the room has his father look up to him one last time. His annoyance is clear, the pen discarded to the side as he sighs. “I am sorry, Lorgar. I know your feelings towards her. But she was never worthy of you. Or of your devotion.”

“She is gone?”

Kor Phaeron hums again. “She abandoned you. She abandoned the faith. She abandoned the gods. And she will suffer for it.”

“She abandoned the gods?” Lorgar whispers, turning away from his father. He only looks at his hands, still seeing her all over them. “She abandoned me?”

“Do not mourn her. She has chosen her fate.”

Lorgar turns back around. He drops his hands at his side, chest heaving.

She would not touch him again. She would not lay in his arms. She would never say goodbye.

She was gone.

His voice turns cold. Kor Phaeron smirk never falters. “She is dead to me.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

She was dead to him for years.

It took months for him to truly feel the pain, to understand that she had left. He felt abandoned, lied to. His devotion had been mocked. He had tried to hate her. He did, eventually, force himself to hate her. Anyone who spoke her name was reminded that she was a traitor, a faithless woman, a heretic.

He prayed in the same spot each day to forget her. He spoke words to the gods, reminded himself that she had told him she was a test, and branded her as nothing more than a tragic, unfortunate memory which no longer served him.

Except, his mind had broken without her.

His dreams were filled with her. Whether she loved him, kissed him, told him he was not ready, she was always there. He heard her whispers when he prayed. The words she had asked him to read spoke over every line, every verse that left his lips.

And though the years had passed, he could not focus, he could not breathe, he could not live without her.

He had destroyed cities in her name. His sons did not question him, they merely acknowledged his need for answers. Every stone on his home planet upturned, every person questioned. He demanded answers, he demanded blood.

Death after death was made in her name. If the gods were not satisfised with her once, they would be now. Families, soldiers, even men and women within his own halls – all were killed for answers. Yet no one knew.

Until he had found at the bottom of his own stronghold. Beneath the stairs, where one may turn a blind eye. Buried, though slowly resurfacing thanks to time. A golden stringed necklace, with a black crystal opal attached. The gem was small, but glittered in the light. He had almost missed it. Erebus had stood behind him and told him to check.

As he dug it from the sand, he touched a leather-bound book beneath. From her room, one she kept around her and wrote in each day. His heart sank.

At first, he stares at the book in wonder. Did he fail her? Had she thought that he abandoned her? He had to know. He had to understand. He flicked through the pages, whole body pounding as he sees her handwriting on each page. He thoughts. Her feelings. Her words.

He stops as he reaches the final page with writing. He hears her call his name, like she is right there beside him. He falls to his knees, the book almost tearing apart at his fingers. He read each word over and over, from that day they spent together. Her feelings for him.

And suddenly, he knows.

She did not abandon him. She did abandon the gods.

She had never left.

She was taken from him.

No amount of killing would ever bring him the vengeance he sought.

A scream leaves his body as he throws the book back to the ground. He does not leave it, he does not move. His body doubles over as he cries, screams, curses the gods for everything they had given him. He can feel the pity from his son behind him, the laughter of his father above him.

It was all that remained – and he had destroyed it. A single book of her being. Her thoughts. Her words. Her prayers. He would treat her thoughts like his own holy text. Her words would be his gospel. He would recite her prayers. He would build his faith around her and never forget her name.

He had thrown it into the fire the moment he knew each word. He could recite it from memory. He did not need a book from her hands.

He still hates her. He still loves her.

Astreya, I will never turn my back on you.

And she would never answer his prayers.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

a/n: thanks for reading! this isn't their end, fortunately(?). I have something else planned with lorgar and possible a p2 to his other thing. probably my favourite pairing to write about alongside the lion and catieve.

#lorgar x oc #primarch x oc #primarch x reader #lorgar x reader #lorgar aurelian #word bearers #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

Text

xxvi. paramnesia

→ konrad curze x aletheia [oc, she/her] → 12.1k, nsfw 18+, tw; mentions of parent death, murder → pre-heresy, oh he loves his princess aletheia he does!! but a chaos god doesn't like her!!! continued from viridity

“This path is not yours to take lightly.” Though his words cut through the air like a blade, his voice has somehow softened. “You think you can walk beside me, Aletheia? That you can bear the weight of the choices I make? That you can look into the eyes of the guilty and cast judgment without flinching?"

“Your hands will be stained with the blood of those you assume innocent. Would you survive that?” He steps closer, looming over her now. As he leans to her, his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Would I?”

“For you, yes.” Her words are cursed with assimilation. She can be part of his world. One day she may not accept it, but one day she’d be past this life entirely. “Or shall I walk another path, one not prophesied? Is that what you would prefer?”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

He had never been given time to learn.

No soul had graced him with the knowledge he wished so desperately to hold, no teacher had ever made his way to him. Everything he knew, he understood, was a making of his own mind that had developed on the streets of a planet that tortured him. The animals that killed over a scrap of food left in the streets were the closest thing he had to academics. The men and women who left a child on the streets were his teaching that isolation and abandonment were inevitable.

The sweet face of a woman, in all her elegance and allure, did little to show him more than he already knew.

The day had been longer than most others. Since the moment the doors opened, his attention was used on pleasing the noble households and counts who wished to ask him for whatever they considered useful. From the very first request he had realised that none of them understood him, how he wished to rule or how he aimed to support the people of Nostramo, instead opting to burden him with selfish and meaningless asks. After he had declined seven prepositions in a row, they must have understood that he was not in a forgiving mood, nor was he here to help them.

As the day passed, as more people he did not care for approached him, he found himself back in the thoughts that usually plagued him around this time. The plans he had made, those he knew needed terrorising, his hatred for the world around him. Cutting through each thought, though, was the face of that sweet woman, in all her charm and reticent reserved for him directly.

The voices in the room are drowned out, only thoughts of her captivating him for the time. They spoke very little unless he asked for it, he saw her sneaking down the halls to avoid anyone, he felt her curious gaze when they were together. He’d cherished the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes creased when she felt joy, how gentle she was with everyone.

They were not thoughts he could easily push aside. Hours, it felt like, had passed before he was given the opportunity to excuse himself from the hideous room and find peace somewhere he truly wished to be. Ignoring the calls of his advisors, or anyone who wished to tell him something other than her whereabouts, he went to the one place he usually found her.

He opens the door expecting to see her on the bed, ready to jump and apologise for not being ready for him – like that could have been anticipated. However, he’s greeted with only an empty room, the bed untouched since the maid had pressed the sheets, the chairs empty, and not a trace of activity left within the room.

“Aletheia?” he calls, searching the supposedly empty room for her presence.

He could feel her, somewhere, but she somehow hid herself from him. He takes a step into the room, looking around the back of the door just in case. Everything was still. That was until a door on the opposite side of the room started to creak open, as though something had moved inside.

“Aletheia,” he repeats, patience falling thin. He moves towards the door, clasping the handle and opening it with one swift tug. Expecting to see her wide eyes staring back at him, he’s unpredictably met bounds of books and records, old relics, and between it all, a pile of sheets and old clothes that seem to be… breathing. “Are you in there?”

Without a response, he hesitantly grasps a handful of the material, pulling it from the pile. Beneath sits the wide eyes he already expected to see, caught off-guard by his motion, a old looking headset covering her ears and some kind of device between her fingers.

She slowly reaches for the headset, pulling it down from her ears and letting it hang around her neck. He can hear what resembles to be a woman talking, though the faint words can’t be made out. “I… I’m very sorry, your majesty.”

“Why are you in a cupboard?” he asks, ignoring her apology.

“I’m not sure,” she answers. His frown tells her clearly enough that her answer was as stupid as all the others he had heard today. Luckily, she had found a voice that was often lost around him. “To tell the truth, I was… bored?”

“Bored?”

“I have read every book,” she tells him. He looks to the numerous bookshelves that were once in order, now untidy with paper sticking from them. “I wondered if there may have been more in here.”

He doesn’t reply. Truthfully, it was somewhat amusing. Of all the people he saw every day, none of them had ever gone past his expectations; Aletheia managed to break all of them.

“I found this,” she says, holding out the device in her hand, “it’s… clearly not a book.”

He takes the device from her, carefully inspecting it for any ideas to what it may be, as Aletheia removes the connected headset from her neck. There’s no indication, she he assumes it must be a recording of a someone historic who lived in here at a time. He takes the headset from her and places both on the table to the side of the door.

He looks down at her for a moment, or two. She shifts the clothes and sheets from around her, clearing a path for her to stand. When she’s free from it all, she looks back up to him, finding him with his hand held out to help her up.

Though cautious, she takes his hand and allows him to pull her up effortlessly. He skin feels so warm on his, it sends a silent shiver down his spine, though the feeling is gone when she stands and takes her hand back. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Do not call me that,” he tells her, “we are married.”

She looks like she’s about to protest but stops herself before anything leaves her mouth. Instead, she nods once and asks a simple question. “What should I call you?”

Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead, in truth.

“I don’t know,” he answers. Night Haunter was a name to be feared, and he did not want that from her. He was more than just Dark King to her. “Do not call me anything.”

She doesn’t answer straight away, but eventually nods in agreement. She still struggles to look him in the eyes, to answer him with conviction or fumbling over her own words, but it didn’t particularly matter to him. He no longer felt like he was needed to protect her. No, it was more than that.

The quiet between them seems unable to be broken. He had come here with specific intentions, but not finding her where he expected, the plan in his mind was no longer as easy to execute. Words outside of commands were never his strong point, just as patience was a long forgotten ideal that he thought, one day, he may understand.

“I…” He doesn’t finish his thought, caught by her vigilant eyes that didn’t expect his words. She stands with her hands behind her back, her shorter figure elongated by the thin dress she wore without the usual layers beneath. His eyes, drawn down to the curve of her breast and slope of her waist, raise back to the rose-pink lips he had been drawn to the first time he saw her.

He doesn’t speak, only approaches her with clear intent. He wastes no time in positioning her how he wanted her, only pressing his lips to her own to kiss her deeply. For a moment, the world outside of her doesn’t exist. Knowing he won’t harm her, that he could tame himself for her, drove his passion beyond just wanting to kiss her.

Her eyes are closed when he pulls back from her. Her fear had not dissipated, but she may have started to realise that he was not all bad. He had to be like that for people to listen to him, to bring justice to those who deserved it. She was starting to understand.

“I want you,” he tells her. His words are laced with anything sweet he can muster. She’d never truly understand. He wanted her to cure the lasting effects of abandonment, isolation, and torture. He knew she would bring him more. “I want to share myself, with you.”

Aletheia neglects him an answer. He didn’t know what to say. He barely knew the words to navigate anything outside of ally and enemy, punishment and justice. He was trying so hard to replicate what he had heard from others.

He takes her hand in his once more to lead her towards the bed. They’d laid here before together; he vividly remembers the feelings he had that night in this exact spot. The first time he had been vulnerable with her in any way, the first time he wanted to trust another. He sits on the side of the bed, leading her to stand directly in front of him, their height somewhat equal now.

“Take it off,” he tells her, “the dress, and anything else.”

He watches as she follows his ask. The dress is dropped down to the floor after some time spent messing with the strings at the front, the thin layer underneath pulled over her head and the matching shorts equally pushed to the ground. She stands, timid as she avoids his eyes, thighs pressed together and arms by her side with her hands balled into fists.

Not a blemish marked her skin. He didn’t mean to look like he was critiquing her, but he was obsessed with looking at more. The traces of freckles from the summer on her shoulders, the dusting of hair over her body, the faint outline of veins that run where her skin is particularly thin. So fragile, so easily to spoil.

“Knees,” he says, avoiding her gaze. He widens his legs, making room for her between his clothed thighs. She indulges his request, sinking so gracefully so she was once again beneath him. He evades her still as he removes his pants, the long-sleeved shirt also removed and tossed somewhere to the side. He finds her looking at him, though at his eyes, at the scars and marks which tarnished his paler skin. “Come here, Aletheia.”

“Sorry,” she whispers, shuffling forward on her knees. She kneels exactly where he wanted her without the guidance, her hands on her thighs as she waits for further instruction.

He feels her eyes again on his body, something which unintentionally makes him conscious to her thoughts. He had been proud of bearing evidence of his prowess until now. He had never considered what another had thought of them, or how they made him look.

He places a hand on the side of her head, tips of his fingers sinking into the strands of her silken hair. He wished to be gentler. She knew what he wanted. Without any need to speak, she leans forward to start what he had originally thought of. That need, want. He takes a deep breath as he feels those supple lips on the end of his cock. No need to move her, she was doing it all herself.

As she takes his whole length into her mouth, he can’t help but twist his fingers into her hair, his thighs tensing under her touch. She uses one to keep her balance, the very edges of her nails touching his skin. He was susceptible to anything at that time, senses lost in a haze of unfamiliar gratification.

He can feel her warmth subsiding as she moves her mouth back down his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut, teeth pressed into his bottom lip with such force he can feel the metallic taste on the tip of his tongue. As she repeats the motion, he opens his eyes again and looks down to her. He’s met with her gazing up at him, the doe eyes she usually sported accompanied by the slight prickle of tears, her dark lashes such a contrast to her skin. He swallows, hard, closing his eyes once more and using his hand to guide up and down on as much of his cock as she could take – though really, it was more so he had something to do with his hand.

But he grew tired of just this. As enjoyable as it was, and how the image of her staring up at him would be forever burned into his mind, he wished for more than just a mouth, or a hand.

He pulls her from him with the fingers still firmly in her hair. Worry washes over her face for a moment, but when he puts his hand under her upper arm to get her to rise, she just seems confused.

“Stand,” he tells her, ushering her up. He numbs himself to the pulsating of his cock, begging to feel her, as he supports her to climb onto his thighs. Unconventional, perhaps, but he wanted to feel her close. He didn’t wish to have her lay beneath him, subject to his movements and actions – he wanted to give the opportunity back to her.

A doubt of her innocence runs through his mind for a second. She needed such little help, this couldn’t be as new to her. No, she would not have lied. They were made for each other. He was meant to find her, this was natural to them, intuition. He can feel her womanhood, just above his cock, and his legs trembled with need to feel her around him. How pathetic he must look to be like his over a woman. How love is such a weakness for men.

He tries and he tries to shake the niggling feeling at the back of his head but as he slips his cock into her, feeling her fingers claw at his shoulder and the sound of her heavenly cry, its all that can overcome him. Jealousy. Rage. Virtue.

“You,” he mutters, teeth gritted, fingers grasping into her skin. One hand rests on her chest, delicate bones of her ribcage just beneath his grasp, the other is on the curve of her rear engorged in her velvet of her skin. He rolls her back on his cock to hear another of her cries. “You are the reason this is happening to me.”

She didn’t seem to concern herself with the meaning of his words. She looks up to him, lips parted as she pushes her body back down onto his. Did she crave a release, too? There’s merely millimetres between their faces, his lips ghosting her cheeks as he uses his hands to move her where he needed her. “How do I love you?”

Her eyes widen at his words, but he stops her thoughts with a kiss. Rough, no care for her fragility now. He needed to feel it, to feel her want him the way he needed her. He pulls back from her, eyes locked as she whimpers for more. She brings her hand to his face now, holding his cheek and jaw to kiss him once more, but he stops her to finish his though. “I… I do think that I…”

A groan leaves his lips before he can finish his words. Perhaps the thought of it alone was enough for him. Regardless, his fingers grip onto her harder than before as he pushes for what he wanted.

The desperation must have been obvious. Aletheia’s holds him tighter, stealing another kiss to create a gut-deep groan of desire. She listened for a moment, silent as his sounds elicited almost a purr from her, her hips rolling down onto his with more drive, more ache. As he felt the knot in his stomach tighten, he gave her more, audibly acknowledging her.

He cradles her, solace found in the burning of her skin as she pulls back from him. His hips stutter, though he does what he can to drive himself forward and ignore his own feelings, wanting to see to see her like this for longer. Her nails rake across his skin, wordless begging from the pleasure she derived from him. Their breaths were heavy, almost synchronised somehow, and he yearned to have every part of her at that moment.

He was only a man.

Love does make men weak.

****

Aletheia had grown used to waking with another beside her. She’d roll onto her side, expecting to see the dark hair and pale skin of her husband, usually hiding behind the guise of sleep until she rose and started to get ready for the day with whichever maid was on duty for her today. She enjoyed it, actually. She found comfort in knowing that the nights were never spent alone, she was safe from the horrors that swam in the darkness in the presence of another. Sleepless nights felt like something of the past.

Except this morning, she was alone, and it felt like she’d been taken back to the start all over again.

The bed was cold. He’d left some time ago, if he even had stayed past their nightly activity. She blushed at the thought of it, though sent the thoughts to the back of her head as she sat up to examine the room.

Clothes gone; scent gone. Not even the memory of his presence lingered with her.

It was bittersweet to not have the feeling of him watching her as she was dressed. She did little to resist the maid tugging at her hair or pulling the corset too tight around her waist. It was mentioned somewhere along the line that she was required in the throne room and that was the reason for extra formalities today. Her hair was braided and held in place with pins, her subtle make-up was drawn with the expertise of an old-time painter, and by the end of it, her maid was completely satisfied with her efforts.

Yet Aletheia couldn’t explain the emptiness inside her. She walked the corridors like a child on the midnight streets, afraid of the inevitable. It was as though she knew, the side of him that had been so gentle with her, had held and cherished her through every word and movement, was no longer there.

She entered the room with the valour of a recruit. His throne was empty, as were all other places he could be. The chill that ran through the room led her to the balcony, despite the apprehension in each of her steps. She could see him stood there, admiring the streets of his own creation, the silence eerie as it always came to be. She watched him for a moment. The black feathers of his cloak were blowing in the residual wind, but otherwise he remained still. She could hear her own heartbeat, but nothing more.

“Aletheia,” he calls, snapping her from her disassociation.

She drops her head as she walks towards him, hoping to not meet his gaze until she understood why he wished to not be around her. Her place is by his side, which she unenthusiastically takes this day – and it didn’t take long for him to notice. He looks down at her from the side, dark eyes bearing little emotion today, only burning holes into her side. She only looks down at the street.

“Many criticise me,” he says, looking away from her. She wonders why he has asked her to come here when he has little to say. A test, perhaps? After all this time preparing her with kind words and empty promises? It would seem fair. His hands are placed onto the rail, skin covered with leather gloves. “But you are honest. Will you tell me the truth?”

She nods twice.

“No words?” His voice touches her with an essence of irritation. She looks forward still. “Fine, no words are needed. Do you think I am cruel?”

Cruel?

The word runs over in her head more times than she could count. She looks up to him, brows pulled together as she wonders whether he had actually asked her what he intended to mean. “Towards your people, do you mean?”

“What else would I mean,” he answers her, brow slightly raised, “that I am cruel towards you?”

“Of course not.”

Her lie was disguised well, she thinks, give that for the past weeks she had not seen him as anything but kind. Before that, he was cruel, and this was no different. She could not explain it, he had done nothing to antagonise the feeling apart. From leave her this morning, but she knew well enough that if he had chosen to leave her, it was not the same man who wished to tenderly trace the outline of her features. Two personalities, with little indication of which she’d see that day.

“Then you think I’m cruel to the people?” he asks again, words almost hissed.

“Of course you’re not cruel to them,” she answers, words leaving her mouth without much thought. She looks up to him with the beginnings of a smile and bows her head ever so slightly. “You create a world for them that is safe and just. You… do not harm without reason.”

He doesn’t spare her his full attention, only a look from the corner of his eye. He hums softly, though doesn’t seem to believe her. “Many would say that I am cruel for harming just one person, regardless of fault.”

“Many are wrong, then,” she answers.

“Maybe you are wrong.” His words are snapped at her, again without a single glance. She feels her heart skip a beat. Before she can try to retract or reform her sentence, he interrupts her. “You tell me what you think I wish to hear, Aletheia. I am not unwise to the opinions whispered on the streets, or within these walls. I know you are not impartial to those opinions. You thought I would kill you for, well, nothing.”

Aletheia thinks her silence is the best option. She looks down to the ground and takes a step back from the rail of the balcony. She knows he watches her like a panther stalks its prey. She knows it would be pointless to argue back against the truth.

He takes a step back so he’s parallel to her. To her surprise, he reaches for her hand – grasping it gently in his own and finally pulling her towards him with little force. Though she waits a few seconds, she does eventually look up to him, wide eyes glassy with the fright she felt coursing through her body. He draws his thumb back and forth over her hand, beginning to soothe the heightened emotions she felt.

“I always wondered why there was a need to take a wife,” he says. He’s interrupted by a gust of the wind, the chill running over them both. Aletheia ignores it, though he reaches across to her to place the loose strands of hair which had been displaced back over her shoulders. He sighs before he continues. “I always wondered why it was a necessity. I thought, they must be able to help with something. They must be able to reassure you, or pleasure you, or offer you an invaluable insight into something you just don’t understand.”

He takes her chin between his thumb and index finger, holding her head up towards him. He must have felt the quiver of her lip in response. He only scoffs at her, pushing her away a few seconds later.

“You do pleasure me, but you do not reassure me.” His words are meant to hurt her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the ground as he steps towards her, refusing her any touch this time. “You do not offer me any insight, either. You tell me the same nonsense each of those advisors tell me, you wish to satiate my need to be right when the truth is that I am cruel. Cruelty, brutality, whatever you may call it. It is the only thing necessary to bring an end to the chaos and corruption of humanity. You know I am cruel.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, corners of her eyes met with a sting, “I’m…”

“Sorry. You have already said it. That is all you offer me, apologies and a reminder that you do not see me as anything but a murderer. You will never see me as anything but. You will never see me like I see you. You torment me.”

He paces back from her, creating a few feet of distance between them. She dares not look him in the eyes, first focused on the floor, then on a small throwing knife he pulls from the scabbard sitting on his hip. She feels the heat drain from her face, fingers shaking as she curls them into loose fists.

“Even now you think I would hurt you!” She hears his laugh, filled with bitterness, occupy every space around her. It only stops as he barks more words at her. “Look at me!”

She does as she’s told. His eyes have lost any sheen, it doesn’t feel like he is even looking at her anymore. His disjointed stare never leaves her as his hand, jittery yet mechanical in movement, raises with the knife between his fingers. Before she even has time to process, his arm snaps forward, the blade slipping free from his grasp and spinning towards her.

The breath she drew in was stopped. She truly thinks for a moment that he had hit her with it and adrenaline had kept her from feeling anything. On hearing the thump on the floor next to her, she finally lets out the breath, eyes darting to her side. He had not hit her, rather what appeared to be a scavenger bird. Its beak was deformed and patches of its oily feathers were missing. A single stream of its blood pools from it, though the colour is a pale red, and it seeps from the wound like tar.

“You still think I would kill you,” he says. His voice is lifeless. As she looks up to him, lips still parted, his shoulders seem slumped, weighed down by sadness. “You think me no better than one of the killers on the street, or than the man who killed your parents. I am the Night Haunter to you as well. It is pointless, Aletheia, this is all pointless. You are pointless.”

She still can’t bring herself to speak.

“You hide behind silence,” he told her, his voice low and biting. “You think it shields you, but it doesn’t. I hate everything you do to me.”

His closing words are said in defeat. His hands are dropped to his side as he approaches the door to return to the throne room, though he stops by the door to look back at her. His eyes wander down to the bird at her feet – she can feel its blood pooling at the edge of her shoes, the substance unnaturally hot. He doesn’t look back at her.

“I will never hurt you,” he states, repeating his words from a time in the past, “but I do not want to love you.”

****

There had been an aura of dread that loomed since the lightless dawn had started the day. Though there was nothing apparent, every movement around him was questioned as an emanation of the disquietude which sat with him each day.

He'd sent for Aletheia about twenty minutes ago, and the lack of speed with her retrieval had antagonised him in an unexplainable way. As his fingers tapped against the table before him, he revisited an idea that had first come about when he laid his hands on her the first time. Perhaps they should share a bedchamber going forward, and he would have her spend more time around him so that he would not need to wait for her in moments like this.

Perhaps the trepidation that he had become so accustomed to was down to her. Every time he pictured her, the lustre of her eyes when something amused her, the tenderness of her touch whenever she was there, he was reminded that he could not change her fate. No amount of protection or salvation would have her stay for as long as he needed.

It had been divination that led him to her, to save a soul that was destined for him. It had been divination that told him the truth he wished not to hear. Two knives, two men, two wounds. He had stared at the cards before him as an unwanted vision bestowed itself upon him – and he was ultimately the cause.

Before he can dwell further on his thoughts, the door across the room from his is opened. Behind the houseman he could see her, and despite the elation that struck him, it was pushed aside to make way for the feeling of ennui that had grown ever-present.

“I expected you to be quicker,” he says, though undirected at either the Aletheia or the houseman. The latter offers him a bow in apology, opting to remain silence as they all did. Aletheia returns nothing to him, only thanking the houseman as she enters the room with the door shut behind her. “Did you not wish to see me?”

Aletheia frowns slightly. “No, I… I’m sorry. I will be quicker next time.”

“No apologies,” he tells her. He pulls the chair beside him from under the table and gestures for her to sit. “I wish to teach you divination.”

She rushes to the chair obediently, sitting down in the chair with the skirt of her dressed bunched in her hands. He notices the tremor that plagues her fingers, along with the bruise that lines the hems of her dress. “Thank you.”

“No thank you, either,” he answers sternly. He looks up to her eyes and, seeing the fright behind her expression, does his best to ease her. He unclenches his jaw and tries to relax his brows – though its effectiveness was not obvious to him. “It is for your own benefit. Fate has weaved a path for us since the moment we were first thought of. To recognise this is to begin to understand what is intended for you.”

His gaze lingers on her for a moment. She looks up to him, though little can be known to her feelings. A single nod from her is all he receives.

He reaches for the cards on the table. Though treasured by him so dearly, a tool he never thought he would have trusted another with, he hesitantly holds them in her direction. She seems surprised, looking to the cards then back to him with wide eyes. He moves his hand closer to her so she will take them.

“You must be at ease, Aletheia,” he tells her, feeling the tension as she takes the cards from him. She nods again at him, taking a deep breath and allowing her shoulders to relax. He can still feel how her heart races. “What are you afraid of?”

Any peace she had manifested was immediately displaced. “I…”

“Me?” he asks, bluntly.

“It’s… No.” Her answer is given without looking directly at him. He can’t help the snicker in return, but the panic in her eyes stops anything further. “You told me that I shouldn’t fear you. But…”

“But you still do,” he answers for her. “I was a child once. Hungry. Forgotten. Alone. I know fear far better than you ever will.”

She doesn’t answer him, but it was an obvious statement. He watches her again for a few moments, unsure of how he was supposed to convince her otherwise. He wasn’t foolish, the fear he instilled in everyone was meant to save those deserving, to serve justice to the few. An unintended consequence was that the many did not see him as the judicator he promised to be.

“Make sure the reverse of the card faces you,” he tells her. She acknowledges, looking down to the cards to confirm the geometric pattern faces her. She looks back to him with a touch more ease. “Flick through the cards, but do not view them. There is a card in there which will tell you how I truly feel about you. Use your intuition, it will tell you when you have reached the right one.”

Though uncertain, Aletheia follows his instructions. He observes closely as she makes her way through the cards, though when she reaches the end without picking one, she looks back to him with her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. “I didn’t feel… anything?”

“Try again.” He expects her to just repeat her actions, but her swither was evident. Her thumb brushes over the back of the first card as she replaces them all back into a single stack. Her subtle glance in his direction compels him to give her a little more. “Take your time. Let go of your other thoughts, focus only on the cards. Do not ignore your feelings, when you think you have the right one, stop. That will be the right one, fate is telling you that is the correct one to pick.”

She nods, understanding more this time. She’s much slower this time as she flickers through, pausing a few times on different cards but ultimately moving on, until she makes a final, cautious stop on a card towards the end. She pulls it out from the rest of the card, though doesn’t reveal it to either of them until the rest of the desk is back in a pile on the table.

“Turn it over,” he says. She obliges, turning the card to see the illustrations on the other side. “What do you see?”

The question unintentionally puzzles her. She refrains from answering for a few seconds, before settling on the obvious. “A heart, with three swords through it.”

“Literally, yes. But what does that mean? What does it make you feel?”

“Well… Love,” she replies.

He nods, urging her to continue, so she looks back at the card inquisitively as though staring would give her the answer. Without a true answer, he tries to encourage her again. “Remember what I said. Take your time, follow your thoughts, it’s what fate wishes for you to see and understand. It’s what is true to you.”

“It feels painful,” she tells him this time. She briefly glances at him, which is the only time he can hide the melancholy that fills him when he realises that she can see the truth. “It hurts, but it doesn’t change the love that’s felt. You… You know what the future holds, you know that eventually you will experience loss, but your feelings remain unchanged. And…”

“And?” he questions, no end to her sentence following.

“The affection you feel is real, but it confuses you,” she answers. Before he can give his own opinions, she finds the words to finish her thoughts, placing the card on the table with the others. “The three swords. One is your feelings, one is mine, and the other is the future.”

He can’t bring himself to answer straight away, despite her looking to him for reassurance that she was indeed correct. Even with her fear, and how he treated her so poorly to negate the affection swelling within him, she was still the only person who had taken time to consider how he had felt. Now she was beginning to understand.

“It does not confuse me.” His words bring some dissatisfaction to her, though everything else was correct. “I do not want to love you, because I know it would not last. You would not live as long as me, even if it was age that came for you. You would not ever love a man you feared so much. But when it was clear to me what your future held, I wondered if perhaps my interference had changed your path. But it had not, I did not save you that day, I just delayed your fate.”

He did not expect a reply. Sympathy wouldn’t change anything, and empathy wouldn’t reassure him. An empty promise that he was wrong was even more foolish. But she doesn’t offer him words, only a silent acceptance.

Aletheia reaches for his hand on the table and squeezes it gently. Her hands are small compared to his, but equally as cold. They share a look of grieving, though he believes that hers is not because she will be without him – she knows she will die, and for any human that would be hard to accept.

They sit in silence for minutes. He didn’t wish to address her, and she seemed content in being in his presence. It wasn’t often many would be with him longer than necessary, and to be truthful, the loneliness that crept on him each day felt like it had started to fade. Eventually he looks back to her, noticing her watching him already, the smallest of smiles resting on her lips.

“I won’t be afraid of you,” she tells him. She still holds his hand in a moderate grip, though it tightens as she laughs at her own thoughts. “If I’m honest, I thought you pitied me.”

Her words are amusing, though he can only find a frown. “Why would I pity you?”

“My parents were murdered in front of me,” she answers, “would that not provoke pity of some kind, even to just understand the situation?”

He hums. “It was tragic and something you did not deserve, but bringing you here was not out of pity. I told you I saw you. You terrorised my every thought for days. The most tragic thing to happen to you was an offering to my own clarity. It was prophesied, Aletheia, even if you are the most tragic thing to happen to me is you.”

Silence looms once again. It did not need to be broken; it only offered a chance for Aletheia to reflect on her feelings. He was no mind reader, but he truly believed she understood more of him now. One day he would share everything, but today he was content with sharing a small part of his feelings.

“I won’t be afraid of you,” she repeats, this time with more integrity. She offers a larger smile this time, nodding to herself as she offers something no one else would be able to. “I cannot promise that I will love you today, or tomorrow, or a month from now. But I can promise to try.”

He seems to have dropped the coldness that belonged to his tone. “Do not try to pity me now.”

“It is not pity,” she tells him.

The warmth that he had craved for his entire life, the feeling of someone who wished to know he was well, it was starting to burn right in front of him. This was not fuelled by depravity and the feral desire to meet his physical needs. This was worse.

She takes one of his hands in both of her own and holds in over her lap. The innocence in her movements, her thoughts, its indistinguishable from the truth. Yet his heart can only feel heavy as she uses his own words. “This is tragic, and something you do not deserve. This is prophesied.”

****

Aletheia watches out the window, the building surfaces freezing to the touch as the morning mist had started to settle. The darkness that loomed seemed worse now, with the weather colder and season stuck in the middle of winter. This windowsill had been converted into her personal favourite seat, being larger than all the others and closer to the ground. Her breath fogs the glass from where she sits, and for a moment, she finds freedom in the small patterns she can draw.

“Good morning, Aletheia,” one of the ladies greets. Aletheia turns to the lady, her frail and tired figure an echo to how everyone felt, though her cheeriness wasn’t forced. Anyone would be happy to spend their day with the quiet, timid wife than her husband.

“Morning, Melle,” Aletheia greets, returning somewhat of a smile. She notices the concern paid over the bruises that had emerged on her shoulder and neck, not that they would ask her about it. Her face was untouched, and none would have stood up to him anyway. Aletheia tries her best to hide what she can. “I came to forget how much I hated winter.”

Melle nods in agreement, though her focus doesn’t remain on the small talk. Instead, she places a teapot on the table to Aletheia’s side, carefully pouring a mix of herbs, flowers, and another milky liquid into the hot water. She takes a step back, offering a kind smile. “We had some tea prepared for you, my lady.”

“Thank you, but I don’t…”

“I insist, my lady,” Melle tells her, gesturing to the teapot with a little cup placed beside it. They’d never prepared tea for her as Aletheia had never enjoyed it. Their fear of repercussion was too great to have just forgotten. “Please drink it.”

Aletheia swings her legs round on the seat to reposition. She cautiously removes the lid of the teapot, observing the inside whilst catching the pungent smell inside. It wasn’t something she had seen before. “Why?”

“We gave this to all the ladies of the old court, to prevent any problems,” Melle advises.

“Forgive me if I am being silly here.” Aletheia replaces the lid. She stands, moving away from the tea and to the stack of books that sit on a table in the middle of the room. “What problems?”

Melle rushes to collect the tea, replacing it on the tray at the back of the room. “No, please forgive me, my lady. I will take this away and return with something you enjoy.”

Aletheia watches her with curiosity, though chooses not to press further, thanking Melle before she scurries away and almost slams the door behind her. Just as close as she was to conversation with another, it leaves. She’d have thought to try and seek out another but ultimately it was of no use.

She’d realised some time ago that the maids and housemen didn’t talk with her. They said nothing of substance, they let her worries and concerns fall in deaf ears so they could avoid a punishment from their King. The bruises, for example – was it not common decency to ask if she was okay? Just for their own sanity? It didn’t matter that they were indeed a mark of the intimacy she’d enjoyed the past days, but to an innocent observer it looked much more cynical.

She was only talking to them. No exchange, no care, likely no listening either. There was only one person here who actively conversed with her.

Aletheia looks around the room, a sigh leaving her lips as she finds no book still left upright. She’d truly gone read everything she could. Even the stack on the table, a collection she had set aside from already reading them when she was younger, offers little enjoyment to her.

Her fingers lightly brush the stack of books, pushing them aside until she came across a light-coloured spine. She pulls the book out and places it at the top. She leans on the side of the window frame as she traces over the illustration, the artwork an original piece compared to the copy her parents had owned.

The woman, dressed in a pure white cloak and hood to disguise her, carries a single lantern with a dim light. She’s at the bottom of a long path, one which has stops across a great landscape of hills. At the end of the path is a manor bordering on a castle with pitch black peaks. She doesn’t look frightened, but she doesn’t look comfortable either.

As Aletheia stares down at the book, still tracing the cover but never reaching to open the book, the cold of the room starts to feel more distant. Her breathing reaches a slow pace, and the frost on the window becomes less of a bother to her. She feels her eyes close as she yawns silently.

She opens her eyes to an unexpected scene. She’s seated at an impossibly long dining table, carved from black stone with such intricate details. The surface gleams like polished marble, and as she looks down at the table all that is reflected is her pale face in the flickering light of a single chandelier above.

Across the table is a spread of plates and goblets, filled with food that seems both vibrant and decayed. A bowl of oranges, their waxen skin a tiger orange, oozing with rot. A plate of golden bread, crumbling at the edges to a viridian green mould. The smell of fresh roses dances through the air, accompanied with rotten notes, like an oil painting still waiting to dry.

Across from her sits the Dark King. He’s silent, though his obsidian black eyes are locked onto hers. She’s sure she can see a hint of crimson in their glow. He does not eat, he does not move, he only watches with an impassive expression. It feels like he could choose to stop everything, the whole world, if he truly wished it.

She reaches a hand out to the goblet set before her. As her hand hovers above it, she can’t bring herself to take it. Her body does not want to drink, it does not wish to follow her command. She feels small. Trapped. Fading.

The chandelier above them dims, causing the room to fall into a murky haze. The chill that had started to wrap around her bones begins to diminish. A soft glow begins to spread from the other end of the table, bathing the room in an unusual warmth. Her heart pounds, only until silence is bestowed upon her by a second figure stepping into view.

Aletheia blinks.

It is her. Another version of herself. A radiant version of herself. Her hair flows freely, unbound and caramel with a honied sheen under the soft light. Her skin glows with health, her posture confident and proud. Her robes are simple yet elegant, a pure white with golden accents, the kind of clothes she had dreamed of wearing as a young girl.

The radiant Aletheia smiles. She seems gentle, knowing. There is no malice behind her eyes. She pulls a chair out from beside the Dark King, taking her seat gracefully with fluid movements. Her strength and power are quiet yet effortless, like sunlight after the rain.

She holds her hand out to Aletheia, reaching across the table and ignoring the decay beneath. “There is another life waiting, Aletheia. But you must choose to take the first step.”

Aletheia glances from the hand to the Dark King. His expression does not change. He remains still, as though the radiance is beneath his notice, or beyond his comprehension. The crimson haze appears to dim briefly, like the embers of a dying fire, though he offers her nothing else.

Until she sees a flicker of vulnerability. He does not reach for her, or speak to her, but his silence carries a weight of unspoken words. He sees that she might leave, she may escape. Is it because she would prove him wrong? Or because he would be without her?

Aletheia shifts her gaze between the two. Her radiant self does not press her, waiting patiently with an extended hand. Her fingers twitch with hesitation. As she moves towards the light, her chest begins to tighten. She could lose everything she knew, again. First her parents, and now him. For so long she wished to be rid of him, even recently she had felt he would kill her with no regret. But now he offered her security, and that strange but intoxicating love.

As her mind races, her radiant self speaks to her once more. “Only you can choose, Aletheia. Only you.”

Her heart pounds. She glances at him one last time, silently begging him for a sign. Anything, a look, and feeling, something. He gives her none. Emptiness. Despair. But that was the sign she needed. Her hand moves toward her radiant self’s own, their fingers just about to touch.

Before she ever feels the warmth the room dissolves around her.

She wakes with a sharp gasp, her fingers clutching the edge of the windowsill as though she might fall. The frost leaves an ache in her spine, the edge of her face cold where it had laid on the plastered brick. The room around her is quiet. As she lets out a shaky breath that’s visible in the cold air, she wonders if it was all a dream.

But something lingers.

Despite the cold that bites her skin, she can feel the warmth in her chest. So faint she would have missed it at any other time, yet still fresh as though the radiant being from her dream had touched her right then. She looks down to the books, the window, and then to the replaced tray of drink that Melle must have brought. The scent of the strange brew lingers around the room, and she wonders if something inside it had caused her dream.

Imposed or not, there was a truth she could no longer ignore.

****

The coldest day of the last five years seemed like a perfect time to leave her secluded palace. Aletheia had wanted to leave most days, but her fear of the end that had been prophesised, as well as the one who told her of it, had kept her within its walls.

But she was learning to take the steps she wanted, towards a goal she needed.

He was nowhere to be found and it was her father’s birthday. She had counted down the days in a notebook kept hidden in a bathroom on the ground floor. She memorised the day, counted down from last year, and prepared to create a bunch of flowers to remember them by. Moonflowers, black lilies, ghost orchids and bloodroot. Some had been stolen from vases left in rooms, the orchids had come from a planter on the balcony, and the bloodroot specifically she picked up from patches of fauna that grew in the cracks of the concrete.

She’d laid the bunch down on the headstone to commemorate her parents. It was a small patch of abandoned land, with commemorative stones laid around as a way to remember the dead. The silence felt heavy around her, paired with the weight of grief that felt so strong on days connected to her parents. She had passed many people on her way here, not that any stopped or recognised her. She felt alone.

She crouches down to her knees, brushing her hand against the stone belonging to her father. Happy birthday dad, she whispers, before sharing a small prayer. Not many of the other graves had any acknowledgement on them, bare past the stones originally put here. She doubts many even come here.

Her parents always encouraged others to honour the departed. She takes the bunch of flowers with her as she stands back on her feet. The ribbon and paper she’d recycled to gather the flowers are crumpled into a ball in her pocket, and without any consideration, she begins to spread the flowers across the concrete, hoping to share respect with each of them.

Once each of her flowers hit the ground, she takes a step back to admire her work. The light of the afternoon was fading, yet it looked so serene. The mix of the white and black of petals, seeped with the faintest of red dew, was so striking against the tattered floor.

“It’s strange how time seems to stand still here,” a voice suddenly says, pulling Aletheia from her thoughts.

She turns to the figure, greeted with the outline of a tall individual with indistinct features. The figure removes the hood of their cloak, revealing a woman beneath – an older woman, with lines of wisdom and understanding on her cheeks and eyes. She smiles warmly at Aletheia, as if they had been here together a dozen times before.

“You must have great strength,” the woman tells her, smile widening. It’s kind, comforting even. Aletheia feels at ease, until she notices that her eyes shine with more vibrance than anything else on Nostramo. “It is a rare thing, to see someone so burdened, yet still walking forward. Both your parents gone. I would not have wished it on anyone.”

Aletheia’s usual distrust of strangers leaves her with unease prickling at the back of her neck. “Death is unkind to us all.”

“To you, more than most.” The woman takes a small step towards Aletheia, now not too far behind her. She places her wrinkled hand on Aletheia’s lower arm, patting it gently. “You have been through the pain of loss, the pain of love, and the pain of choice.”

The woman bends down slowly, mumbling incoherent words as she places a small toy next to a stone a few down from her parents. It’s very small, a soft bear holding a heart. Aletheia tries to read the stone, figure out who this woman had lost, but is dragged to conversation before she has the chance.

“He needs you,” she says, words stated as though it was a mere fact, “this man we all fear, the Night Haunter, he has a vulnerability in his eyes. You see what others cannot. That is why you must stay. You’re his only light in the dark.”

Aletheia feels her blood run colder, hand twitching so slightly. She assumed herself unrecognisable, or at least requiring true study for one to understand who she was, but that was evidently not the case. She pulls her hood tighter around her features.

“Life never ends up as we wish for it, but a life like yours… You had dreams, didn’t you? A life of peace, a life of love. We fall in line for him and our reward is safety. But we don’t always get to choose the steps laid out ahead of us.” The woman smiles again. “He’s not beyond saving. The hardest choices are the most important ones. Sometimes, the most dangerous path is the safest.”

The words feel like an invitation, as though the woman is offering her something just out of her reach, something she could grasp if only she dares. Aletheia looks away from the woman and back to the sky. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“He needs you,” the woman repeats. She laughs to herself, though it is soft, not mocking – it is understanding. “You can stand beside him, then you are not alone. You can choose that path. Do you not feel the power that binds you to him? It is no chain. It is your choice, your will.”

“I don’t think he needs anyone.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile widening in a way that made Aletheia’s chest tighten. “Oh, but he does. Even gods crave light in the dark, child. Don’t you see? You are the lantern that guides him.”

The woman’s eyes gleam for just a second, disappearing when Aletheia blinks. The chill returns, sending a shiver down Aletheia’s back.

“Perhaps, it’s already happening. Perhaps you’ve already chosen, without realizing it. Perhaps, you just need to accept that your future is not one of your making.” The woman takes a step back again, towards the path that exited the space. Her hood is replaced over her head, the shadows covering any remaining gaps. Before she leaves, she has a final message. “He is the flame that will burn away the shadows.”

She is left standing alone once more. The woman disappears back to the streets of the hive city, leaving thoughts swirling with doubt. In a time to mourn, she had been offered words of encouragement for a future that she felt was out of reach. A sense of purpose, foreign to her now, which won’t leave.

The words linger in her mind. The lantern that guides him.

She thinks it over in her head once, twice, then over and over again. She traces the outline of her shadow on the ground beneath her, wondering how it had come to look so small. She’s reminded of his empty stare at the end of the table. The inability to change anything with her. That he did not try to stop her from choosing a fate other than him.

It was almost autopilot, the way she weaved through the streets of a city she loved for the sake of her family. Ignorant to the people around her, those who matched her in silence as required by their ruler, she finds herself on the paths that many would have encouraged others not to take.

She had felt trapped. Like choice was not a burden to her.

But she could choose. That choice could include more than just her.

She looks up across the to the fading lights of the day. She doesn’t stop her pace, but the lack of others around her would have been obvious even to a child. A quick look over her shoulder reveals nothing new – the street she had chosen is empty, lost of humanity alongside noise.

At the end of her path is a sharp right turn. She slows her pace as she approaches, debating going back on herself to return to a path with others. Her feet shuffle along the floor, the hairs on her neck standing on end as the turn gets closer. Something tells her to stop, but she can’t.

As she turns, there’s another to greet her. Mid-way down the path.

His imposing figure is drenched in blood. The air is cold, but the intensity radiating from him chills her more than anything natural. She stops, her instinct telling her to flee – but she doesn’t. She only stops.

She had time to run, she had time to pretend she was never here. Instead, Aletheia takes a step forward, still too far for anything to happen, but closer than anyone else would have been. The thoughts flood her mind. What had he done? What had happened? She had feared him for so long that she had never questioned him.

“Are you hurt?” she questions, holding a steadiness she didn’t yet know she could muster.

He looks up at her. There’s surprise in his features, though anything more is masked by the blood and his typical stoicism. He answers her with blunt words. “Not my blood.”

“Then whose?” she asks after a short pause of hesitation.

She was curious. She had not seen him like this other than when he stood above her parents’ cold bodies. The dripping of blood red down his armour falls down the ground creating the pool around him. There was no one here with him, no body or pieces, meaning he had ended up here by his own accord.

“A man,” he replies, the corners of his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “A sinner who preyed on the innocent.”

Aletheia swallows, his words truly sinking in. Though she had hundreds of questions popping into her minds, laced with doubt, with fear, she takes another step towards him. She keeps her eyes on his, searching for signs of truth. “Who decides which is the sinner, and which is innocent?”

“I do,” he answers. The authority raking through his voice is primal. He lets his arm drop to his side, more blood spilling to the ground below. “Will you run from me, lest I judge you?”

She said she would not fear him. “No.”

“Then are you afraid?”

“I’m terrified,” she admits to him. Her voice does not bow or crack. As she studies his tone, his expression, the way he stands defeated, she realises that he is not proud. He may be certain of his actions, but he truly believed there was justice at the heart of it all. “But not of you.”

His eyes never leave hers. This time he takes a step closer to her, leaving tracks of blood beneath his boots. He holds out his hand, bloodied and steady, asking for her acceptance. She hesitates, only for a moment, before reaching out and clasping his hand. As she touches his hand she see the corpse of a man, one who exploited those around him for control and money, tormenting those that once trusted him, trafficking innocents that couldn’t speak for themselves.

Her thoughts flicker easily back to the present. Her hand is stained with his blood now, and the actions are forever tied to her. There was unexpected anger rising in her chest, but not directed at him. “Did you have to kill him?”

“I did. Justice, Aletheia, is not clean. It is not merciful. It is necessary.” He watches her carefully, gaze sharpening as he searches for any doubt or vacillation. “This is what I do, Aletheia. I root out the corruption that festers in this world. I act where others will not. It’s not a path for the faint-hearted.”

“And if I joined that path with you?”

She notices the way his other fist clenches. For just a moment, it was his turn to hesitate. “Do you even know what you are asking?”

Aletheia thinks she does. Her opinion is not voiced. The pause stretches between them, thick with unspoken beliefs. She thought that this was he had wanted the whole time.

His silence is his confirmation. He did need her.

****

Aletheia’s concentration had begun to falter what felt like hours ago. She stood, still as she could, observing from the corner he’d left her in with a heavy feeling in her heart as to what comes next. She hoped for peace, but equally hoped for company; yet now she had both she wished that this morning had just passed by.

On the other side of the room stood a woman, elderly and not accompanying them by choice, clutching a jug in her hands that contained something at request. She dare not look away from the man who stood between them, even after all these hours. Aletheia understood her worry, but she did not truthfully care at this point.

He wouldn’t have killed her. He may have spiralled into another of his fits, obsessed with the idea that he could know each and every aspect of the future that he hated so much. He would not harm either of them.

Both the women are caught by the slam of the Dark King’s fist on the table, words lost in anger as cards and pushed away. Anger, annoyance; she wasn’t sure which was the bigger burden, but whatever he had seen in his deck of cards had displeased him in some way.

Quietness surrounds them again for a few moments. Aletheia’s eyes widen as she sees his figure turn towards her, eventually catching his dark eyes. He looks over her for a few seconds, nostrils flared and jaw clenched. Months ago, she’d have been scared of him. Now, she wonders if he looks to her for support, or a reminder that he has her with him.

“Aletheia,” he says, voice unexpectedly gentle. She nods once in response, though he still waits a few moments to answer. “What does this mean to you?”

His question is in reference to the cards before him. She’d done what she could to learn more, mostly to try and communicate with the man who held her, but she was merely human. He knew more than she ever would, and their limited sessions to learn and his awful handwriting would never tell her everything she needed to know.

She still peers over his shoulder, his expectant gaze moving from her eyes to somewhere below. Her confidence is limited in her answer. “Change?”

“Change,” he repeats, his sneer resonant in his tone, “that’s all?”

“A change, of some kind?” She looks down to the cards before the two of them again, adjusting the furthest left card so it sat straight beside the others. She looks back from the cards to meet his gaze, intimidating her even further. They barely hold eye contact before she looks over to the woman stood at the other side of the table with a tray in her hands. There was no way out of it. The woman didn’t even look up from the floor. Aletheia takes a single, deep breath before looking back at the 3 cards. “Change, independence, and a journey.”

He doesn’t acknowledge this time, but she no longer feels him watching her. The cards stare back at her instead, calling out to her to not stop there. The world destroyed with never-ending fire, the king that stands by himself shrouded in darkness with the cups around him tipped over, and the general riding into a battle he can’t win. It was more than she wanted to see.

“Destruction, loneliness, and war,” she says, looking down to her fingers. She places one of her hands over the other as her fingers grow colder, though both are soon covered by his own larger hand. At first she’s grateful for the warmth, but his true intentions become clear when her vision starts to fade to black.

The streets of Nostramo covered in ash and blood, fire engulfing everything around it as the last few men and women try fight for whatever was left of their lives. The Dark King, stood in his throne room with no one left around him, the only memory of Aletheia being her wedding band and a picture of her mixed in with his cards. The Night Haunter, stood over his allies and enemies, waiting for fate to catch up to him and take him to her. The world around him was turned upside down. The buildings burned. The people dead.

She’s returned to the present within seconds. He does not allow the vision to sit with her. As her head swirls, she’s struck with the overwhelming smell of incense and enchanted candles that line the room.

She feels his hand on hers still, though he clutches onto her with apparent desperation. She looks down to him, but it is too late. A surge of magic, one she has not felt before, floods the room around her and envelops her senses in a iron-wrought cage. The world around her warps again. She is not seeing his vision. This is not his doing.

A different time is upon her. A different place altogether. She sees herself next to him, stood in a field with little more than grass and thorns on the ground, the dark sky above them as though midnight had never left. Despite the darkness, they are surrounded by a strange, radiant flow. She can feel her heart beat, replicated in the vision’s version of her, until it stops suddenly.

Another presence appears with them. Playful and innocent. Her breath catches in her throat as she sees a brief outline of a child, running towards them from the ethereal landscapes. The warmth between them is strong, yet a flicker of uncertainty dims the glow around them.

The intensity of the vision rips away from her with unease. Brought back to her own life, she’s met with the concerned eyes of her lover, husband, as though he has seen it too.

Her chest tightens as she clutches the edge of the chair, her heartbeat echoing in her ears as world comes back to her. She hears the laughter of the child in the very depths of her mind, but as she tries to listen closely, its fragile memories slip away from her. She feels her lips tremble as she tries to speak, words never forming.

She feels his fingers dig into her skin, forcing a stop to the remaining tremors. His dark eyes narrow, as though reading her mind, but never seeing more than the vision he showed her. “What did you see?”

Aletheia’s mouth is dry. She didn’t know how to answer. His uncertainty is unsettling.

“You saw something different,” he states. Behind him, she sees the fading image of the child. Like the laughter, it fades before she can reach it. He notices how she looks past him and tries to follow her gaze – seeing nothing behind him, he drops to his knees before her and cradles her hands in his. “Show me, Aletheia. What did you see?”

Her heart thuds harder in her chest, the questioning hanging between them. Their child? Impossible. Yet the child’s warmth was real.

She tries to draw her hand back from him, but he doesn’t release her. His knuckles are white as he curls his fingers tighter around her own. She doesn’t understand how, but she feels him tapping into the corners of her mind. Deeper and deeper. When he finds her vision, he’s frozen.

The silence is broken by the faint crackle of a candle in the room, burning to its end. The maid makes some effort to clean the dripping wax. Aletheia had forgotten the others who stood with them – and it would appear he did as well.

“Leave,” he commands to the room. No responses are made, just the shuffling of feet as they make their exit with as little attention as possible. Though dazed, she made somewhat of an attempt to move from his grasp. He finds some humour in her actions, delicately scolding her. “Not you.”

She whispers a quiet apology to him, though words never leave her. Still piecing together reality, she allows him to sit her down in the chair beside him.

His usual stoic demeanour is softened by understanding. He does not speak. She wonders if he is processing her vision, a glimpse of the future she had seen, as his hands trace the length of her arms, down to her hands, then to her stomach. He still does not speak, instead offering the glimmer of something vulnerable in his gaze.

Then, stillness.

He doesn’t move. Not even a finger.

The air feels thick, a mix of the incense around them becoming unbearable suddenly. She rarely ever noticed it, but now it could have stopped her from even thinking.

Her mind floods with fears that she had done something wrong or harmed him by accident. She can barely breathe as she searches his empty eyes for just an ounce of emotion. Just as her thoughts turn to the worst, as she starts to wonder whether her life was finally at its end, something changes in his expression.

“I can save you,” he tells her, words barely above a whisper. Though her brows fall together as she silently questions him, his usually pursed lips begin to lift at the ends. His hand moves, only a little, as he holds her in his graces and stares down at her body. He does eventually lift his gaze, meeting her eyes with a flood of elation and reprieve. “Aletheia, I can save you.”

A resigned smile is forced in return. She places her hand over his own, still unsure of the circumstances. “You can?”

His nod is fuelled by the rush of emotions that had neglected him for such a long time. She wished to share in it, she wished that she didn’t need to force herself to match how he felt after so long desiring more than the doleful disposition he usually gave her. It would be untruthful to deny the longing in her heart to join her parents in the hereafter, away from the world she had grown ambivalent towards.

“You will not die,” he tells her, “not by the hands of another, you will not die.”

No, she would not die by the hands of another. She had known that since the moment she set her eyes on those two cards that her death would not be at the hands of another.

She would die, and it would be by his hands.

✧.✧

a/n: as I mentioned on ao3, please let me know if there is a better way to describe nostraman tarot because I read different things and thought it would be better to just stick to the tarot I know. regardless, thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed!

#konrad curze x reader #Konrad Curze x oc #primarch x reader #primarch x oc #Konrad Curze #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

Text

i. ineffable

→ leman x oc [she/her, name not mentioned] → 3.4k+, nsfw 18+ → post-heresy, pre him leaving to surf the great ocean, sorry what was that leman just wants to be loved and cherished??

The thoughts had been driving him crazy, being the only thing that could fill his mind for days now. Over and over again he would see her, as soon as he’d try to sleep she’d haunt him, when he tried to talk her voice was all he heard. He’d remember the way her hand brushed over his, the wide eyes she’d stared at him with, and then he’d see her in every other way he wanted. Riding him with her perfect body all there for him to see. Beside him as they slaughtered their way through anyone who dared question them. Safe in his arms as they looked over fond memories.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

He would have stopped watching her, if she gave him a reason to. Yet every time he tried to look away, there was another sorrowful glance in his direction; she’d push her hair behind her eyes and pretend she’d never meant to catch his gaze, but a second later her eyes were drawn back to him. They’d meet eyes for only a second, never any longer, but it was more than enough for him.

The conversations around him were fruitful, brothers reaching to laugh with him and recount memories of their times, enjoy the festivities he had put on for them. They were all happy, in some way, and he should have been celebrating with them. He should have a number of drinks in, jeering with those closest to him, reminding them all why they would fight another day.

But instead, he’s just watching.

Anyone could have known he was distracted, given how unusually quiet he was today, but would they have known the cause for his distraction, they may have been quite disapproving. The silent accusations of him being under a witch’s spell would fly, even if they were never mentioned directly to his face - no one had trusted her, even after all she did for them; even as much as he trusted her.

Perhaps that was the day it started. When she stood for his people and helped them when she had no reason to. Or when she saved him from a would be assassin, not a care for her own life given. Although maybe it was just fate, and he’d been drawn to her because they were meant to be together, and this was the universe’s way of telling him.

He cared little for the time, it only becoming apparent to him as he notices her begin to give her excuses to leave. Those she’s sat with, the ones he trusted to her, the ones who had come to appreciate her as much as he had, beg for her to stay - but there’s something else she wishes to do. With that, he’s also ready to leave without a care for those who wanted him there either.

When she leaves, like a predator watching its prey slowly start to walk away, sensing the danger it poses, he’s immediately up on his feet and ready to walk with her. He pushes an arm off of him, ignoring the calls for him to stay, and instead makes his way to the exit especially for him to leave from. Instead, it gives a perfect shot of her walking away under the shining stars.

He follows her as stealthily as he can, though with everyone paying him their respects, it was hard to avoid any noise in his direction. They’d pay little attention to the fact he pushes past them with no acknowledgement - they all knew him to be like that, and it seemed today was no different. Except maybe that they thought there was an imminent threat, rather than him chasing a fantasy through his fortress.

He’s surprised when she leaves out a side door, into the outside grounds that few would voluntarily venture onto. It only intrigues him more, especially as she approaches one of the ice baths that were carved into the surface. Few used them, other than for some kind of treatment that was suggested, but Leman had become somewhat fond of them in his years.

She stops just before one of the baths, looking forward. He treads as carefully as he can to make as little movement as possible, on the off chance she hadn’t noticed his presence - but who was he kidding, she’d known from the beginning he would follow. He stops when she turns her head slightly to the left, possibly catching his figure in the very corners of her vision. If she did see him, there was no way for him to realise, as she looks ahead again like she was completely undisturbed.

The white and blue dress she wears is shrugged from her narrow shoulders, dropping to the ground gently. The white strands of hair that fall cover most of her body, reaching all the way down to her thighs, but even from where he stands, he can make out the curve of her hips, the soft flesh he’d dreamed of touching, and the embroidery of scars that covered her skin.

She steps forward slowly, feet barely skimming the snow covered surface. Without hesitation she lowers one foot into the ice pool, and where he expects a reaction, none exists. One after the other she steps down into the freezing water until it reaches above her waist, the ends of her hair becoming saturated and finding their own way on the surface of water.

His breathing, unbeknownst to him, was loud enough for any to have heard. He could have been so tamed, but in this moment, the only thing he could think about was her. Not just that she was every representation of beauty to him, but that she stood tall in a home that was so foreign to her with no fears, and that she’d settled into the pool without flinching. A mix of emotions run through him, though his blood runs boiling, fingers filled with the need to feel what he saw.

And who was there to stop him, other than her?

As quickly as she’d slipped from her robes, Leman’s are gone too. Thrown to the side, discarded without a care for where they may end up. His focus was elsewhere. The sound of the water gently lapping as her hands floated across the surface was a symphony of desire, and as she created small ripples under the shining stars, he approached without a second thought, matching her path until he was merely a few inches behind her.

He did not touch her, not yet. Restraint was something he practised, and it felt like it was all for this moment. She was within fingertips reach, yet he only wished to feel the warmth of her body radiating against his own. She must have felt it too, though without acknowledgement, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew is that if ever he wanted a moment to last forever, this may have been the one. So close, still able to savour the moment, ready to feel everything he had wanted.

Had it have been wrong to wish to see her beneath him, marked as his prey? The thoughts of it flooded in. He’d hold her where he knew she needed to be, he’d sink his teeth into her pale skin, he’d have her waiting on his every touch. This was different to others. It wasn’t about the brief enjoyment he had from company. This was about pleasing her. Making her want more; want him.

He’d have her begging for more and then have her wishing that she’d spent all her years with him so she could feel it so many more times. He’d make her come undone in his hands, answering only to him, wanting only him for now until the rest of eternity. He could feel it now, just one touch and he could have it all - just one touch and he could have her body so close to his that it was like they’d become one.

The ends of her hair brush loosely against his skin, pulling him from his stare. The interruption, though unwelcome, was well timed. He’d have stayed there for the rest of the night with all his thoughts, even though the real thing was right there. Though as he tries to reach forward, a wave of anxiety hits him, worry pooling in the pit of his stomach as he realises something key.

This was it. Whatever happened here decided whether all of those thoughts he had of her would come true.

But Leman Russ is not one to overcomplicate. It was either meant by the gods to be his path, or he’d find another to replace the thoughts of her with one day.

He lets the tips of his fingers brush against the back of her hip, water hiding part of the feeling, though there was no denying that the water felt electric. Her breathing catches as he does so, inviting him forward, confidence growing as the curve of her ass presses against his thighs - not something entirely of his doing, she’d moved back into his touch before he could even register it.

He continues, pressing his chest against her back, adjusting until he peers over her shoulder ever so slightly. He watches, eyes almost as dark as the night sky, waiting for her to look back to him. Too long and he would have gotten impatient, but luck seems to be on his side tonight. She looks to her left slowly, the amber hues meeting his and sending another wave through his body. This time, it wasn’t worry, it was need.

Neither speaks, words lost between then, but his skin that steamed against the freezing water matched hers in a way he couldn’t understand. His intentions may have seemed clear with their bodies so close, but he wished he could tell her how much more there was to it, how he craved every ounce of her being beyond just her body. This wasn’t a desire to have her body, it was a need to have every part of her belong to him.

And he’d usually have given in by now, pushed her against the edge and showed her why he was here. But he can’t look away, he can’t do anything without her guidance, and he so desperately wanted to tell her to just kiss him already, that he may just have done so.

She spares no hesitation in leaning forward, pressing her lips to his. So soft they were, compared to his especially, yet the way they moulded together was as though they had been created as a pair and a miner had split them directly down the middle. He reaches his hand up to her cheek, fingers grasping at what skin they could find, pulling her as close to him as physically possible. The flame which ran across him burned bright, and it wasn’t until he tasted something metallic that he realised he’d not been thinking and had rushed his actions too much.

He pulls away from her, pausing for merely a second, then using both his hands to turn her towards him. He’s quick to notice the small slice on her bottom lip, a few drops of blood falling from the end closest to the bottom. He uses his thumb to wipe the blood from her, holding it in place for a moment to stop the bleeding, then washing his hand off in the water. He curses himself, knowing that this was exactly his worst fear.

“I…”

“Don’t stop,” she interrupts him, the words playing on repeat in his head a few times. It was then that he had the chance to look down, no longer worried he had caused her harm. Perfection, if he had ever seen it, her round breasts that sat a few inches above the water, their stiffened rose buds, her collar bones that poked through her skin which was flawless in his eyes. He longed to touch, to taste, but once again he looks back to her eyes, asking her silently. “Please.”

He’d wished he had more hands to touch it all, but his curse was only having two. As he turns to her, bodies flush against one another again, his right hand falls under the water and moves to cup the underside of her ass, fingers pressed into her skin firmly. The left begins to explore above the water, starting by her neck, tracing the outline of her bones, but then falls to her breast. His rough fingers run over her nipple before he uses his whole hand to squeeze, earning a soft moan in response, right onto his lips.

Their kiss, paused again, lingers as their lips ghost each others. The small gesture was enough to have something awaken inside him, something primal, which ignites the flame even more. He guides her backwards in the pool until they reach the edge where the side is raised, allowing her to rest gently against it. It only allows Leman to reach her better, now having his other hand free as he uses his body to hold her in place. She’d have felt it by now, how desperate he was already, but he’d spend all the time he needed making sure this went exactly as he needed.

His lips leave hers as he turns his attention to the rest of her body. His hot breath dances over her skin, wet lips pressed anywhere he felt he had to pay attention to across her neck and shoulders, slowly working their way down. He’d have little clue to how much she was enjoying, only until he feels her fingers threading through his light hair, tangled within the strands and loose braids. She tugs gently, willing him to continue; and the second she feels him over her nipple, her grip becomes even stronger. She pushes this time, arching her back into his touch, and he thinks he even hears her moan again as the warmth of his tongue reaches her senses.

His attention is paid to the left, then the right, before he moves back up to her face. She’d never shown any colour on that pale face of hers before, but he could have sworn there was a hint of pink to her cheeks and ears. He feels his lips curl into a smirk as he kisses her once again, passion emitting from his every touch, be it the tongue that danced with hers, or the hands that made their way down to her waist, under the water again to now reach her hips, then her thighs. He spreads his hand across the back of her right thigh, fingers digging into her again, willing for her to follow his movements.

It doesn’t even require any encouragement, she follows like a well trained cub, allowing him to pull her thighs up. She trusts his every move, allowing him to guide her around him, the rest of her body still supported by the icy edge behind them and him. They were so close, somehow, as truthfully Leman wasn’t sure how they’d even got here, but he still felt that something was missing. Pulling back from her, he watches her closely as their breathing falls in sync, willing her to give him a sign of what she needed.

Him. It may not have been obvious immediately, but he could feel how she arched her back, desperate to feel his touch, feel how much he needed her. Her eyes begged him to show her how he’d seen her each night. Her hands were curled around his upper arms, urging him to get to it already. But it’s the small drip of blood on her lip that seals it for him in the end.

He reaches back to her, drawing to her neck his time. His kisses start soft on the delicate skin, but his resilience is lost within a few moments. He sucks at the skin, forming the most beautiful patterns on her, decorating her with his own colours. As he found himself more daring, his teeth sink into her as well, the sharp teeth at the corners of his mouth drawing more blood from her. As he does so, he uses his left hand to guide his cock, harder than he’d ever felt it before, the tip throbbing with desperation to feel something, towards her entrance. He’d have been concerned for how much she wanted him, if he wouldn’t have been able to slip into her with ease.

She’d taken all of him, right to the hilt, with only a whimper to show for it. Shamelessly Leman’s hips stutter at the feeling, something that wasn’t new, yet at the same time was entirely unknown to him, as his head falls to her shoulder and his eyes fall shut. He’d have cum for her there and then, should he not have wished to hear more of her cries.

A moment passes before he looks up to her, wanting to see her face fill with pleasure. He draws his hips back, feeling her clench around him as he does so, before thrusting himself back in at a quicker pace than before. He finds himself almost shaking, seeing her arch her back, moan softly again, before looking straight into his eyes with a silent plea.

He knows how long he has, and right now, time is running out. Forgotten is his plan to be slow and savour the moment; instead he begins drilling into her, using one of his hands to hold her hip and pull her back down each time he removed himself. She must have felt it, how much he yearned to fill her with his seed and claim her as his own. He was dripping already, and each time she let another whimper prance around his ears, he came so much closer.

But he wanted to hear one thing, and she must have realised. He’s holding on as much as he can, concentrating only on her. Their faces are merely centimetres apart, bodies still as close as they can be, and as he pushes his cock into a different spot this time, her nails dig into his skin, leaving crescent moons branded into him for a short period. He knows then he’s found it, where he would feel him best, and he knows that he’ll get what he wants soon.

He’d have counted how many turns it took, had she not started being more vocal. Her soft voice formed harmonies around him, but it wasn’t until she final cried out his name that he found his perfect euphony. He heard it once, then again, and a final time. Not only their breathing was in sync; just as he feels the seed spill from his tip, he feels her walls clench around him as her body begins to shake. He falls against her, though still holding them up, heaving against her as he tries to regain the strength he lost.

And really, he would have stayed their forever to feel her in such a way, but he knows that it won’t be long before someone comes looking for him. He’d had burned the eyes of anyone who saw her like this. It was only for him; likewise, this was only for her.

He’d gotten what he wanted. Weeks of mindless thoughts and touches and stares, all leading to this. Happiness, for the first time in years, is the feeling that rushes through him as he looks down at her. She’s already watching him, already waiting for him, obedient like he wanted her to be at this moment - only because he’d ask for her to come with him to somewhere warmer where they would not be disturbed. He’d do this all again, but this time lay his lips on the rest of her body, he’d taste her like he’d dreamed of, and he’d have her sit on his cock like her personal throne.

So he moves her, so gently in his fear she’d break under his strength, continuing to support her as she finds her own feet once again. As he turns to her, he’s surprised to feel her reach for him like before, pressing their lips together with an unknown hunger for more. It only lasts a few seconds, but to Leman, it may have solidified the rest of eternity to him. With many of his feelings ineffable, it feels like the only way this could end. “You are mine,” he says, voice hoarse. His hands grip her body tighter than before, eyes turning to the midnight blue they were before. He’d found it funny when his men told him that wolves mate for life, seeing it only as a joke they’d spread to attach their tales to. But now he felt it, like another part of his life that flowed through his bloodstream. Never again would he turn to another, for now or for the rest of eternity. “You will always be mine.”

✧.✧

a/n: thanks for reading! I am posting everything over from my ao3 as I want to use Tumblr as my main posting place and ao3 for my old works from 2021 and earlier.

#leman russ x reader #Leman Russ x oc #primarch x oc #primarch x reader #leman russ #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 3 months ago

Text

xlvii. parallax

→ alpharius x saphis [oc, she/her] → 4.7k, 18+ but no sexual scenes, tw; yandere, kidnap, mental torture, pregnancy, obsession. you know. alpha legion things → unknown point in time (wink), alpharius is obsessed with a woman and his brother hates her for it basically

“I love you,” he tells her. She hears it again, and again, whispered into her like a spell that would stop her from leaving him. She knows they have an audience, yet she doesn’t care. “Please, Saphis.”

“She is a weakness,” the other says from behind. He still doesn’t move. She refuses to look at him. Alpharius’ fingers dig into her skin with every word. “Let her go.”

He looks up to her, eyes glassy, skin red. As she places her hand over his cheek, brushing away a tear, he leans into her touch. “I didn’t want this.”

“What is your plan, brother?” the other asks. Brother. Saphis’ heart beats faster than ever.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise you,” Alpharius tells her.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Midnight had passed. 1am. 2am. It must have been close to the next hour now.

Saphis hadn’t found sleep. She’d watched the rain on the glass since he’d said goodnight, turned to his side, and slept peacefully without another word or touch. Another drop slides down the window, another crack of thunder that’s quieter than anticipated.

She was thinking.

A silent hum buzzes around the room, the faint glow of the strip lights that lined the ceiling dimming as though it followed his heartbeat. No other noise.

She her head away from the glass, attention turning to the man beside her. The warm pillow beneath her head agitated her to no end, but she’d easily overlooked it as her eyes looked over him, scanning his entire being for something, anything, that was wrong.

Last night he faced her, mumbling to himself as he drifted to sleep. He’d reached for her whilst he still has some semblance of consciousness in his system, holding her colder and far less tired body against his. He’d kissed her softly on her cheek, then lingered on her lips. But tonight?

He’d faced the other way. He’d said goodnight and spared her the briefest peck to the corner of his lips. He’d not reached for her or wanted to feel her beside him at all.

She knew it long before this night, but she’d only realised it now.

Her hands push her up gently. She can’t move too quickly, he’d feel it. Any training she had left from her days holding a weapon and hiding her identity come into place there and then. The smoothest of movements. The quietest of actions. Just so she can peer over him, get a good sight of his arm.

She wasn’t sure when she started counting. Months, maybe a year ago. Her endless nights of insomnia drove her to try something which may just make her tired – and at some point she stopped counting the groves in the ceiling and started counting his scars instead.

Never touching him, she begins her search. Details every scar she can see on his body. Labels them against what she knew in her head. She felt crazy. Like one of those girls obsessed with their lovers, like she felt he had something to hide. She did. Every night it felt worse, and now the bubble was about to burst.

She stops by his elbow. His arm is bent, but it usually was. A centimetre below the curve, on his lower left arm, there should be a scar exactly an inch long. Beneath, two centimetres down, there was a tiny, pale-brown freckle. She studied it. She had the image burned into her head.

She’d mapped it a hundred times in her mind.

On him? A scar below the curve of his elbow on his lower left arm with a tiny pale-brown freckle beneath it. 0.9 inches long. 1.8cm below.

It wasn’t him.

She’s crazy, right?

No. She knows. She had seared everything into her head exactly. She can’t be wrong. She wouldn’t let herself be wrong. Not about this.

She wants to scream. She lays back down against the pillow, facing the ceiling, deafened by the sound of someone walking past in the hallway outside. She doesn’t look to the door, she doesn’t dare move. Her heart races. Her mind races.

Everything meant more now. The way he touched her. The way he spoke with her. The way he watched her. Things were missing. He was missing. His love wasn’t there.

He was playful, teasing even, smirking at her with a promise of his love. A hand that lingers on her lower back, a whisper in her ear that made her heart race with possibilities. It was that which started all this. He always, always touched her neck when he walked past. It was instinct. A hand on her shoulder, his fingertips brushing the curve of his neck with a silent reminder of his feelings. A slight possessiveness. A claim.

Then he didn’t. Just one time, when he would always do it. She overanalysed. The touches were wrong. Too impersonal. Too stiff. Like a role being played without any care for the meaning.

And she was afraid.

The next time she saw him, he did it like usual. It wouldn’t matter. The seeds of doubt were sown.

But now she was angry.

Livid.

She knew his duty. She knew what it meant when he confessed to her how he truly felt and instead of running she leant into him and allowed him to pursue her further. She knew what a primarch was, what it meant to her, how it would work going forward. She knew her friends thought she was crazy when she said I’m not sure, I think Alpharius is the most attractive, in the mysterious, strange kind of way.

She turns back to him, eyes narrowed. He would send one of his sons to play his part?

To send some nameless astartes to touch her, to pretend to love her?

It was insulting. It was cold and cruel.

She moves silently across the bed, careful not to disturb whoever laid beside her. She creeps on the floor, feet barely touching the cold metal to avoid unnecessary noise. She knows how to stay invisible. He trained her to be once before. The only trace of her ever leaving is the click of the door latch.

She stills, expecting a reaction. There’s no movement behind her. She leaves without confirming.

Her quiet is lost in the halls though. Her breathing is heavy, vision tunnelling, fury setting fire to each step behind her. She knew where he would be. Where he always was. She could trace his very steps to his command room. Though where she once felt safe, she felt foreign. Nothing more than a pawn in his game.

She enters the code on the keypad without a second thought. She’d learnt it the first time she’d seen him here – by accident then, but now she was happy she did. The quiet buzz to let her in echoes through the bare halls, then the door opens just slightly, no noise this time.

He’s sat on the other side of the room. She almost laughs. Almost. He’s reading a stack of reports. He’s completely unbothered. He’s relaxed. This is Alpharius. She knows it. He’s always relaxed behind closed doors, he felt as though he didn’t have a standard to uphold. He told her that himself.

“Alpharius?”

He looks up to her immediately. He hadn’t expected her voice. His lips drop, his eyes widen. He stands before thinking to speak, talking a step towards her, though he stops without warning.

His gaze moves behind her. She feels it – a presence behind her. Too close. Too familiar. A shiver crawls up her spine as she turns.

Alpharius.

The heat drains from her face as she realises. It was not an astartes. He did not share her with an astartes. She shared her with… himself. Another him. Another primarch. Their energy, it was unmistakable. They were two halves of a whole. Yet to her, he was everything.

“Alpharius,” the man behind her says. Her breathing hitches as he looks to her with the slightest smirk. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t bother trying to explain. He doesn’t even seem to care. His voice mocks her. “You told her.”

His words aren’t answered right away. The cold, flat voice was not wrapped in the silk of his love. But the other? His voice is low. Calm. Possessive. “She worked it out herself.”

Neither look at her. Not really. They speak over her, beside her, around her – like she isn’t even there. Like she isn’t standing in the middle of something far bigger than she should ever be part of.

“She will ruin everything,” the other says, closing the door behind them. He was logical. He didn’t accuse, it was a fact. She should be deathly afraid of the man behind her yet she knew in her heart that the man who truly loved her would not let a thing happen to her. “You know this.”

Alpharius takes a step forward. There is no hesitation in his voice. “She won’t.”

The other scoffs, exhaling sharply through his nose. Maybe he laughs. She’s not sure. She’s suffocated by the feeling of Alpharius behind her. He does not touch her, but he would not let the other get to her first.

She looks up to him, though still ignored. She forces herself to speak. “I… I don’t care.”

Both of their eyes lock onto her at once. She should have said more, explained what she meant. She wouldn’t. She would tell anyone, wouldn’t speak of it, wouldn’t destroy anything they had built right under her nose. But she doesn’t.

She turns to Alpharius, moving into his space, their hands just touching, and she looks him right in the eyes. “I want you.”

His hand brushes against hers, only slightly. Behind, she feels the eyes of terror itself staring her down. She cannot look away from Alpharius though, the mix of worry, heartache, fear that runs through him. He won’t look away from her either.

“Saphis, I—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. She watches as Alpharius, primarch, a god in his own right, falls to his knees before her. Her lips fall apart as she watches. His hands reach for her hips, gripping them tight as he lets his forehead rest against her lower chest. He holds her against him, refusing an inch of space, as if she was air itself.

“She is a weakness,” the other says from behind. He still doesn’t move. She refuses to look at him. Alpharius’ fingers dig into her skin with every word. “Let her go.”

He looks up to her, eyes glassy, skin red. As she places her hand over his cheek, brushing away a tear, he leans into her touch. “I didn’t want this.”

“What is your plan, brother?” the other asks. Brother. Saphis’ heart beats faster than ever.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise you,” Alpharius tells her.

She hears the breath of his brother behind her. No more words, no more facts. She hears the door behind them close. Not a slam. Nothing to draw attention. A calm and collected close shut. Alpharius only tightens his grip on her, never once breaking eye contact.

He curls his fingers around the hand on his face, taking it away so he can hold her hand. He doesn’t rise to whatever challenge is behind. “You will never leave me.”

She’d wouldn’t have known how truthful he was being.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A light switches on above her.

She doesn’t even look at it.

Her eyes are fixed on the wall before her. This was the longest she’d been left. She’d counted all the cracks, the imperfections. She’d run through in her head just how long she had sat on the corner of insanity and madness by the ache in her bones and sound of her own breathing. It was her only constant.

Her right hand is shaking. It doesn’t move, it sits on the tiled floor, somewhat damp, moving left to right so quickly. Her left hand is still, bar her index finger that tapped over and over again meaninglessly. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Her gaze moves down to the next concrete brick to count. The light switches off again. She could restart when it came back.

Darkness was her closest friend. Stayed with her through the night. Reminded her of a time before. How long had it been? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t remember the last time she heard her own voice. She wasn’t sure if her throat could make a noise, let alone her lips remember how to make the sound. It was all just memories. Broken, shattered, left too far for her to pick and piece back together.

She hears the click of the door. Three slabs late tonight. He was usually perfect. He was always on time.

She doesn’t look to him, there’s no need. Her only other friend, the only other person in her tiny world. She hated him, deep down. Why? She wasn’t sure. She felt it when he entered the room each day, she felt a desire to kill whenever he approached her. She never moved though. Not anymore.

His steps echo as he moves towards her. His boots pick up the drabs of water on the floor and sprinkle them around her. He stops before he touches her. He waits a second to see if she speaks. Then, he places a bag over her head.

Not tight. He wasn’t cruel. It was only to stop her seeing. When he’s satisfied, he lifts her to her feet and guides her. To where, she was never sure. There was always darkness. A small guiding light at their feet. He walks her for precisely 387 seconds. He takes a step a second. Straight. Left. Right. Straight. Right.

He sits her on the ground. He takes the bag from her head. She looks up to him and expects something. She may not know whether she even existed, but him? She knew him. Brother. The other one. Cold. Without care. He never reacts. He never removed his helmet. He left her there. Another cell, another room, another nightmare.

And she lets herself sleep.

A light switches on above her.

She doesn’t even look at it.

Her eyes are fixed on the wall before her. She counts the cracks, the imperfections. She started in the top corner of the wall across from her. Did each concrete brick at a time, slowly, carefully, recounting the number in her head until she was sure that was correct.

Her right hand is shaking. It doesn’t move, it sits on the tiled floor, somewhat damp, moving left to right so quickly. Her left hand is still, bar her index finger that drifted over the floor. Her nail scrapped along the concrete over and over. She could feel her skin becoming sore as she meticulously drew the same thing over and over. A cross with a line through the bottom two lines. A sign. Please help me. He told her it meant please help me. A cross with a line through the bottom two lines. That’s all it was.

She hears the click of the door. She had only completed three slabs. He was usually perfect. He was always on time.

She doesn’t look at him, there’s no need. His steps don’t make any noise as he moves towards her. The floor hasn’t even had a chance gather enough water for his boots to sprinkle anything. He stops before he touches her. He waits a second to see if she speaks. Then, he places a bag over her head.

When he’s satisfied, he lifts her to her feet. His hands are different. His indifferent disposition is challenged. He’s careful with her. He’s gentle. He doesn’t want to hurt her. There was less darkness. The path was lit completely at her feet. He walks her for precisely 613 seconds. He takes a step a second. Straight. Left. Left. Straight. Right. Left.

He sits her down. Not on the ground. It’s soft. It’s dry. He takes the bag from her head. Familiarity sinks in. No concrete slabs, no damn floor and metal pipes. She looks up to him and expects nothing. She knew him. Alpharius. Her lover. Warmth. A new room. A new cell. An entirely different nightmare.

He doesn’t talk. She studies the metal floor, she listens to the rain against the glass behind her. She hears the lock of the door at the end of the room. He removes his helmet. Her fingers fall into the soft comfort of the sheet she sits on. A bed? Her legs tremble. She feels the prickle of tears in her eyes.

And, even if she wanted to enjoy the feeling for just a little longer, she let herself sleep.

She wakes beneath a blanket, its edge pulled all the way up to her chin. She methodically looks to the wall, expecting to count, but its impossible to. She was too far from it, it had been covered with something to make it look perfect, and it was lit so perfectly that she thought it was impossible for there to be imperfections.

Her body is trained not to move. A cold, hard floor had become her bed for however long. The feeling of a mattress, of something so soft beneath her, it was unreal. She embraced the feeling, wanting a little more, just in case this fantasy of hers ended before she could enjoy it all.

Her eyes trace along the rooms edge. A window, to the left, showing the grey clouded skies that poured down rain and the occasional strike of lightning in the distance. To the right? A furnished room, dimly lit by lights that lined the corners and pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

A couch, or something similar, tucked away in the corner. A desk across from the bed with machinery on it she didn’t recognise immediately. A pot of pens, but only two pens inside. A chair that looked unused for untold time. A cork board on the wall that had one thing tacked on. Alpharius, and a woman, a dark haired woman that seemed so happy with him.

“Saphis?” his voice says softly. She freezes, her breathing catching in her throat. His hand, so gently, reaches for her leg under the cover. He’s sat at the edge of the bed, the armour she always remembered him for discarded, only a loose tunic and laced leather bracers. When he meets his eyes, he smiles. “You’re okay.”

Her lips part. Was that her name? Saphis. She doesn’t remember it. She wants to say it, but as she tries to speak, nothing leaves her mouth. Her eyes darken as she tries again, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

“Do you remember?” he asks. He almost crawls towards her on the bed. She lets him approach, but she flinches when he tries to touch her. He… laughs to himself. “It’s okay, little one. I promise you. You don’t have to be afraid. He won’t take you from me again.”

She wants to ask. Who. Who is he. The brother, the other him. She can’t bring herself to say any words. All she can manage is a pitiful squeak, another that his lips curl ever so slightly for. She feels her eyes start to burn.

“I know it’s hard. I know.” He lets himself lay beside her, reaching for her right hand under the cover as he holds it gently in his. It starts to shake, but he holds it tight enough that it won’t move. Her left hand, her index finger starts to tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. “I thought I had lost you. Do you know what it was like, thinking you were gone forever?”

He wipes her ears for her. She flinches again, but he chuckles. He shushes her, strokes her hair, holds her a little tighter as she shakes her head.

“My constant, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I promise you. Everything he took, I will return it. Your name, your voice, your place with me. I will find it. You’re here, you’re safe. You don’t need to remember it. You don’t even have to try. You’re with me.”

She nods. She tries, even as her fingers burn, to hold his hand back.

“You remember me though, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.” He moves closer to her. He doesn’t force his touch, no more than already done, but he makes sure she can feel him everywhere. He doesn’t even seem disappointed with her lack of reply. “You’re tired. That’s okay. Don’t think. Let me think for you. Let me take care of you.”

She closes her eyes. A silent thank you. She lets his arms wrap around her, embrace her, make her feel the warmth missing for years.

“We were everything, Saphis,” he whispers to her, holding her tighter, not letting her go. “You’ll understand soon. I promise.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

She didn’t even know when she started crying.

Her hands are wrapped around a single piece of paper. An declaration of how much he loved her from when they first started to know each other. When she realised the man who trained her was not just a son of the Alpha Legion, it was Alpharius himself. The words had started to blur, hidden behind a veil of tears that protected the little amount of sanity she had left. Her hands, shaking, bony and fragile, clutch onto the paper like the very strings of the reality she knew.

She had left him.

She’d slipped away in the dead of night. She saw past his curtain of lie, his whispered falsehoods disguised by a truth she never understood. She’d told herself she couldn’t do it any longer. She couldn’t trust their life, she didn’t know what was real, what he’d fabricated, what he’d wanted her to believe.

The people he had taken from her. Friends, family, ex-lovers. Anyone who dared know her name. Gone. Never existed. Died on the frontlines. MIA. Nothing in her life made her real. Her own records, the years of training she did to become as cold as he was, every record of her service to the Emperor, to the Alpha Legion, gone.

She was nothing but his.

And she had left him.

She had to leave.

Didn’t she?

A tear falls onto the paper, smudging part of his writing and furthering the crack that splintered down her heart. She leans back against the wooden wall, letting her legs slide down against the floor, her hands resting on her thighs. She looks up at the ceiling, but lets her eyes fall closed.

She sees him sitting across from her, soft smile on his lips, waiting for her to crack. He’d tell her to come back to him, he’d watch her crawl across the floor and fall into his arms so he could hold her tightly and never let her go. Good girl, he’d whisper, knowing she’d always come back.

Until he left the door unlocked. He’d started doing it more and more, but she was never tempted. Not until one night, she remembers him falling asleep early, holding her hand against the mattress, telling her to stay with him. She’d waited until he was breathing softly, unconsciousness finding him, then she crept to the door and poked her head out just to see what there was.

He was there in the corridor, watching. He was in bed, sleeping. She’d closed the door and locked it so quickly that it had woken him. He told her, she never needed anyone else, that he kept her here for her protection. His brother was waiting. His brother would try anything to lock her up again.

So she listened. She didn’t try again. Not until she felt herself slipping.

She spent years absorbing his presence; his control. She did everything he said. She’d wait to hear him whisper praises in her ear, calling her good girl and mine as he slowly condition her to become his perfect presentation of perfection right in front of her. She hated it. She hated him.

The why did she miss him?

Why did she want to go back?

Why did she need him?

And why, why, why…

“Saphis.”

Her eyes open. She stares at the ceiling, thinking her mind is playing tricks on her. She processes the voice once, then again, then another time. She crumples the paper between her fingers as she lets herself look forward.

Why is he standing right in front of her?

She doesn’t make a noise. She doesn’t even breathe. The rain falls down on him, soaking his clothes, yet he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t even flinch as each drop hits his face. He just watches her. He doesn’t move. He waits. He stares.

He didn’t need to chase her. She’d always return to him.

“Alpharius,” she returns, a silent invitation back to her. The warm feeling behind her ribs starts to bloom. She sits up straighter, crossing her legs, allowing her hand to instinctively rest against her stomach. “How did you—”

“If you want me to leave, I will leave,” he tells her.

He moves towards her, slowly, carefully. He takes a deep breath as he stops, just before her, then kneels before her. His fingers twitch as they near her, but he doesn’t touch her. He speaks like he’s really giving her a choice.

She doesn’t answer him.

“You look tired, little one,” he says softly, his silken voice wrapping around her like ties to stop her. She looks down from him, just briefly, a silent confirmation of the truth.

He hums to himself, smile weaved onto his lips as he leans forward. Hesitant at first, he reaches for her. He breathing catches in her throat, her eyes locked on his as she sees him reach for her own hand on her stomach. His fingertips brush against the back of her hand, so gently, then he places his hand just above hers.

She feels it before he does. A small kick. Then another. She sees the way his face softens, his body stills. It was the first moment she had ever seen a vulnerability in his eyes, a smile that wasn’t knowing, or curious – it was real. The choice was never hers.

“Did it help?” he asks, not moving. He wanted to feel more. “Did leaving make it easier?”

She doesn’t answer again.

“You never stopped thinking about me, did you?”

He already knew the answers to his questions. They both did. He wasn’t being cruel. In his own way, he sounded pitiful, concerned. Happy. Every step she took away from him was only returning her to the shadow he left behind.

“I won’t make you beg,” he tells her. He takes his hand away, just briefly, to wipe the last tear that fell to her cheek. Her eyes close as her lashes flutter, falling into his touch. “You’re the one who left, little one. You tell me. What do you want?”

She stays quiet again. She lets the feeling of his touch embrace her just a little longer. He waits, and she tries to whisper. Her voice breaks, more tears spill, and he’s there to clean her up.

“I forgive you,” he tells her, gently. She opens her eyes, slowly, meeting his gaze once more. Her heart pounds. “I missed you. I would follow you to the ends of the galaxy and still take you back. But this time… if you stay, you stay forever. For me. For our child.”

He leans closer to her. His lips ghost hers, never touching her still. His hand finds her own, entwining his fingers with hers, but not tight enough that she would not pull away.

“Just say the words,” he whispers, “tell me you won’t run again.”

He sits back. He watches her for a moment, then places his hand back to feel his child once more. He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, then offers her a genuine smile of happiness.

“You know it now. You know you were never meant to be without me.” He reaches for her hair, pushing the loose strands behind her ear. “I know you tried hard. All those nights alone, all those days waiting, thinking one day you’d forget me, hoping to forget the way I loved you. But you never could.”

His expression falls. His voice drops to something quieter, final.

“Because you belong to me.”

He stands, tall figure so imposing over her. He extends his hand out to her, palm open and upwards, ready to answer her every wish. One final illusion of choice, as if she was ever making this decision.

“Tell me, Saphis. What do you want?”

She takes his hand.

She lets him embrace her, whisper her promises of their future, together, never apart, just them, lets his words coil around her like silk and steel.

But she sees the shadow in the doorway. Unmoving. Watching. Empty.

Waiting.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

a/n: thanks very much for reading! I thought there was no better candidate for the yandere position than this guy right here. hope its not too confusing!! although maybe its meant to be.

#alpharius x reader #alpharius x oc #Alpharius #alpharius omegon #alpha legion #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #lua.wrt #primarch x oc #primarch x reader

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

Text

iii. viridity

→ konrad curze x aletheia [oc, she/her] → 10.3k, nsfw 18+, tw; dubious consent, choking, knife play, mentions of parent death, murder, etc → pre-heresy, curze doesn't really know what love is but he thinks he loves aletheia but he did kill a man in front of her.. yeah

“Do I scare you?” he asks, words given directly into her ear.

She shakes her head a little, swallowing hard before she answers him. Careful words must have been chosen “Not now.”

“But other times I do?” he asks further, pressing her for an answer. “Would you want me to stop if this was another time?”

She shakes her head again. “No.”

“Good.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

At one point in her life, silence backed with the dead of the night would have scared her to no end.

She’d have begged her parents to stay with them, pouted and pleaded with them until they finally caved and allowed her to sleep between them. The protection of her parents was something that, as a child, was impenetrable. Her father’s strong arms could stop anyone from getting to her, and her mother’s love warded off any trouble that may have liked to have come in.

She’d have hated to have ever left their side, even though her father’s snoring kept her up and her mother fidgeted to no end. Luckily, she had no siblings to share them with, so it wasn’t often that they’d send her away and she’d have to face the darkness of the night on her own.

Though now, she wonders whether practising more as a child would have helped her more as the darkness creeped in further.

She had a room, albeit nothing like a normal bedroom that one would consider. She’d been given it when she was first brought here and spent her evenings and nights in the room. It was bland, boring even, with any life taken away from it at some point; though it had been styled in an older fashion by likely someone who was here some time ago.

He had given her this room without an explanation, and though she had come to be used to the four walls, it wasn’t welcoming at all to her. There was no window to show the outside, there was one door that was locked each night, and all she ever had for company were the books left on the shelves from another time. The darkness seemed worse in here than anywhere else she had been before, and no matter what she did, the air would always be still.

She stares into the darkness, not knowing what time it was now. Past midnight, she was sure of it, but sometimes she would lay awake here for hours before the next morning arrived. Other times, she was able to think fondly over her memories and fall asleep with ease; the dreams she had were usually better than silence around her.

It was silent then, perhaps more so than usual, only the sound of her breathing able to be heard.

Until she heard the heavy door that guarded her solitude, its weight being pushed open slowly. Her blood felt like it turned icy cold, every nerve in her body suddenly pulled from the lull of slumper, to the reminder that she wasn’t alone.

She’d have feared a ghost, or some kind of entity that wanted her, if she knew no better. This was somehow a worst fate, and the silence that stood around her as she felt the bed dip behind her made her wonder, did she do something wrong?

The absence of her father’s arms, mother’s loving embrace, sting even more as she feels an arm rest gently on her own. Feeling the presence, she forces her eyes shut, squeezing them as though it would help her. She would have known the presence even with all of her senses drowned away. He carried something with him that meant his presence was known, even if you could do little more than exist in his world.

The Night Haunter, her parents had called him, like some kind of monster from a fairytale when she was younger. He’d also been coined the Dark King, the first ruler of Nostramo. Oh, he was dark - he was worse than a midnight sky with no stars. From his soot eyes that never changed hue, to the jet black hair that fell down the sides of his head to his shoulders, there was no part of him that could be considered light.

He may have been a monster. She knew the stories, as everyone else did. She had heard what he did to people who broke any of his laws, even just stepped out of line for a moment. An iron fist was nothing to him; he ruled with obsidian.

She feels his hair dusting her skin, softly moving over different areas that were exposed from the covers. It’s as though he’s hovering over her, trying to lay beside her maybe, place himself as close to her as he can as if he were going to… embrace her?

No, that’s wrong - he hated touching. He’d speak down at her, flash her the most evil of eyes, but he’d never go near her.

Yet she feels him, clear as anything, lay down behind her and form some kind of embrace with her, hand on her shoulder, arm resting partially over hers. There must be a few inches between them, she can’t feel him directly but he’s warm enough for her to notice the difference.

She feels like her heart is going to explode.

“My little bird.” His voice echoes through the room. She’d be lying to say it didn’t burn holes through her ears, but she’s more concerned he’s going to kill her without a second thought. Why otherwise would he be here? She holds her breath as she feels his hand move. “I have a promise to make to you.”

As quietly as she can, she lets out her breath. She’s expecting a claim from him, to kill her where she laid, but this was far more unexpected.

Many thought he had killed her parents. The rumours she heard were that he killed them for selling something illegal, or being involved in underground trade. She knew neither of them would do that, especially not to risk their only daughter.

Rather, he killed their killer. She’d been there and witnessed it all. She was next on the line to be killed, and through some miracle or coincidence, the Night Haunter was there to stop anything from happening to her. Their killer was a madman, someone psychotic she assumed, he had no reason to harm her family yet chose to anyway. So, without him, she probably would have been alive to this day.

For some reason, she had always felt like he held that over her, like she was beholden to him as a reason for her life. Maybe she was, she never thanked him for what he did, she just cried into bodies of her parents and begged for them to wake up, that it couldn’t have happened.

He hadn’t left her side as she did so. He watched over her, curiously it seemed, as she held their cold bodies. When she finally stopped crying, he told her that she would come with him.

She remembers distinctly that she’d looked back at him, eyes wide and tearful, caught completely by the words she told him. He had no emotion, no feeling to give to her, but in his words she found some kind of sympathy, and in his eyes she saw a tragedy that he never wanted to be replicated again.

She was an adult though. She should have just moved on to take care of herself.

But he wouldn’t take that as an excuse.

“Nothing will ever harm you,” he says. The monotone of his voice is hard for her to understand. As a promise, that was large - but if anyone could stop her from being harmed, she supposed it was him.

The rough tips of his fingers fall over the skin of her cheek, running down the curve until he brushed the top of her lip.

He pulls his hand away, and for a moment there is no movement. Almost like he is scared, or isn’t sure how to proceed. So unusual for him to not know what to do next, the Night Haunter was meant to know everything. An omniscient being that would know what you were doing before even you did.

She lets her eyes open slowly. It's still pitch black, not a light in sight, but she knows his hand is still in front of her.

“I promise you,” he continues, his touch still missing, “that there will never be a day where you fear for your life because of this world.”

His promise reads no different to what he offered the others he relied other, but it was different with her.

She’d lived in fear of him.

Before the day her parents were killed, her biggest fear was doing something wrong and facing the wrath of Night Haunter who hunted people down. Her parents warned her from a child of someone who stalked the night, that someone becoming their ruler. They all lived in fear of him.

How could she fear this, though?

Part of her thinks this is someone else. She has mistake his presence for another. It was near impossible though. She knew in her head and her heart is was him.

And she still feared him, her heart was still racing, her mind was filled to the brim with anxiety.

At least there was one less thought to worry about, though.

His fingers are replaced on her arm again. He’s no closer than before, but eventually his fingers are replaced by a whole hand. Almost like a comforting rub of the shoulder, or a way to show he was there.

She’d seen others do it on the streets. A silent show of support, a way to know that someone was there for you, they felt for you, without them actually saying it. Whether or not she felt comfort from him, she wasn’t sure.

All she knew was that it was far easier to feel tiredness when you weren’t sleeping alone. He didn’t show any signs of moving. He didn’t speak again, the man of few words he was, but he was there. It was strange. It was new.

It had been two years since Aletheia watched her parents die in front of her, two years since the Night Haunter took her with him back to his home. Two years it took for him to show her any sort of emotion, feeling or comfort. He’d never touched her before. He’d spoke, told her bitter words of nothingness, but this was different.

The thoughts that were running through her mind before have changed. Rather than thinking what is he doing, she’s wondering why. What changed? Why today? Why her?

It keeps her up for a while. Even the comfort of not being alone can’t beat it, she felt like she had to find an answer or she’d never sleep again. She hadn’t seen him in days, and here he was. She treated him no differently, yet he almost seemed like a human to her.

The hours must have passed. She lays there, in somewhat of an awkward embrace with him. Inches still between them, little else touching but his hand on her arm, but feeling her skin against his was enough for her. He didn’t move. He just watched. She just thought.

She replayed the last interaction over and over in her head. He told her what he did that day. What crimes he had punished. She nodded like she always did. She walked away from him the second he told her to go. She treated their interaction no differently and neither did he. She’s sure there must be something. She must have done something.

Without an answer to her questions she only finds herself digging deeper. She wonders at one point whether he is a mind reader and now he think she is absolutely insane. Still without an answer to her question, she lays awake. Dead still, holding her breath to be as quiet as possible.

It’s somewhere deep into the early hours of the morning that Aletheia thinks she will only get an answer by asking him. She goes over the questions in her head, how to approach how, what to say to him, how to not make him turn on her, endlessly. She’s worried sleep will never come, along with her answer.

But sleep does find her, eventually, and by the time she wakes in the morning he’s gone.

-x-

It was a particularly cold day, and perhaps that was why he had remembered her so well during it.

First it was when he sat in his own golden throne, eyes stared down the hallway that approached him. Quietness hit him in a different way than usual, and dare he say he felt alone for the first time in… his life. Loneliness was not new to him, or unwelcome, yet as a bitter wind brushed over his skin, he was reminded of the warmth that she brought to him.

Then his thoughts would wander, to the times she had looked at him with fear, to other times when she’d submit so easily to his words.

He found it somewhat comparable to others he had seen. Though all his people were silent, fearful of his presence or doing something that he considered wrong, he had seen how others looked at each other. Those who had love to show, saving it for behind closed doors where they thought it was all a secret. Oh, no, he saw everything he wanted to see.

He’d imagined it was her, his little bird, smiling from the kind gestures, laughing along with joy, writhing in excitement for him.

But he wasn’t actually sure she’d ever shown him anything other than fear.

The second time his thoughts moved to her was when he stalked the darkened alleys. It wasn’t so easy for him to understand this time. Protect, maybe, that was what he wanted to do for her. He wanted to protect everyone in some form, but for her it was different. Tolerance was not a consideration.

That was why he took her to his palace in the first place. What better way to protect such an innocent girl in a place as dark and grim as Nostramo? Within his walls, she was safe. Nothing could happen to her there. The streets were never safe enough, anyway.

Punishment would never cease to exist. Someone always wanted to cross a line. What if she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? He couldn't bear to think of it. He couldn’t dare to imagine what life would be like without her. He’d had no one to go to, no one to remind him that there is good in the world.

He’d failed put an end to the stream of memories he had of her, albeit just short moments frozen in time where she was looking up at him from across a darkened room, wide eyes like a doe found by its hunter. The closer he’d found himself to her, the safer he felt. Strangely, he couldn’t explain the phenomenon; which of them provided protection to the other, he couldn’t actually be sure.

The third time, although possibly just an extension of the second, was when he finally saw her. Her hair loose over her shoulders, the subtle specks of auburn and blonde contrasting the olive green of her dress. He’d never been a fan of the colour, yet it suited her so well. She was admiring the work of a maid, the pair sharing a joke over whatever had happened before he was there.

Her laugh. It was soft, yet bounced across all the walls so he heard every detail. Silence was common around him, yet when he was unnoticed, he finally got to hear what others so desperately craved.

He was reminded then that just like everyone else, she was almost silent around him too.

When they first met, or moreover when he found himself with her, there was not a word from her. She looked at him like he had a blade drawn high, ready to strike with even a slight movement. That never seemed to fade. She watched him carefully and moved around him like a mouse, careful not to disturb, hoping not to be caught.

He tried not to take her silence personally. Her parents would have taught her such. Hard to unlearn such a behaviour without fear. Fortunately for him, that was exactly what he had - he stopped watching her with dark eyes and instead made somewhat of an effort to talk.

“Your name,” he says, looking down at her. Expressionless, though still a face of dread, he wonders whether she’d expected him to be nicer. His words are met with a blank gaze. “What is it?”

She doesn’t hesitate with her answer, sounding each syllable. “Aletheia.”

“When I speak to you, you reply. Is that clear, Aletheia?”

She nods. After a moment, a light ticks on in her mind. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He did find the silence of his planet serene, except for when it came to her. That was something he couldn’t explain.

So he watched, minutes passing by without a care to him, as Aletheia and the maid discussed whatever was on their mind. He’d tuned out of the other voice, opting to only hear that which he wanted, though he felt an emotion stir inside of him the longer the conversation went on.

Annoyance, he thinks, at the other woman. Not because she did anything wrong. Not because he found reason to punish her like the others who caused him a similar emotion. He could care less what happened with this woman and her high pitched tone.

Once again, he was left with a feeling he didn’t understand.

It was the reason he left where he stood in the end, opting to end the strange feeling in his stomach and instead return to what he knew; what he understood well enough to explain. Back to a throne of gold, back to the silence he relished.

Though her words strung through his mind like the pianos he heard playing when he was younger. He’d enjoyed the way the notes played together.

He couldn’t bring himself to think of anything else. A dark king that was obsessing over a woman that barely looked him in the eyes. Oh, it was ironic really. Many may have thought his obsession was a warning. The whispers had already spread of what her family must have done to earn such a fate for her. They saw it as a curse for her.

His possession of her was seen as an example to others of what the worst fate someone could be punished with. He was considered worse than death? He laughed at the thought.

None of them would ever have been good enough to be in her position.

He’d killed anyone who spoke such rumours shortly after they started.

He was a worse fate than death, after all.

Hours must have passed before he finally drew himself from his thoughts. Unusual for him, in some ways. One thought led to another, he was led from Aletheia, what he’d do to anyone who tried to hurt her, what he’d do to anyone who did hurt her, what he would do to her.

The last one had sat on his mind for the least amount of time. He didn’t need to think about it. She was right there, and she wouldn’t have said no.

He makes his way down the halls with ease, passing every door that on another day may have caught his attention, only stopping before the one he knew she was behind. Not a sound came from inside the room, not even the deep breaths from her sleep.

He first reaches for the handle, ready to enter without warning. As his fingers touch the cold of the metal, he hesitates. He hadn’t thought of what he wanted to do, just what he needed. Her. Any part of her he could get to was his, and now he wanted it.

He pushes the door open in a swift motion. The room is relatively large, given where anyone else was permitted to rest, though in the middle is a large bed decorated with the scarlet red canopies from the nobles who had been here in the past. Behind the sheer fabric which draped from the bed frame, Aletheia was sat in the middle.

Her eyes meet his, wide as usual. He makes his way towards her, not bothering to ensure the door behind him was closed. She holds a book in her hand, held on the silk of her usual green dress, opened on a page with writing that seemed endless. She slams the book closed and tosses it to the side as she rushes to stand at the side of the bed and meet him.

“Your majesty,” she says, voice somewhat shaky. So different to how she was earlier. He’d have broken her if he pushed too hard. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t answer her for a moment. By the time he’s in front of her, barely centimetres between them, he places his thumb on her neck, just below her chin. He pulls her delicate face up to look at him directly, using his grip to turn her face and see both porcelain cheeks.

He can feel her heart racing. They say that when a woman’s heart races for you, she loves you.

It almost stops when he presses his lips to her own.

He lets go of her chin as he forces their touch, his hands moving to both of her arms. He holds them, keeping her in place as he feels her body trembling ever so slightly. Her lips are soft, like the petals fallen from a freshly picked rose. He can’t resist trying to get more, feel everything he can. Until her, he only ever knew the thorns.

He lets her go after a second or so, pulling back to watching her. Her lips are slightly gapped, eyes glassy as she meets his gaze. He checks her for any injuries and fortunately finds none. The shade of her lips has only turned to a more red shade of pink. She was so delicate.

There’s the feeling again, one he can’t explain. He hates himself for not understanding what it means, how he has no way to explain how he feels. He still stares at her as his tongue darts over his lips, soothing the cracked skin, the remnants of her taste still left on him. He wanted more, yet he wondered whether his lips tasted of self destruction, and she’d not want him back.

Little did it matter to him, though.

He kisses her again, this time with force as he pulls their bodies together roughly. This was an act for him, a replication of other behaviours he had seen and heard of. He brings his hand to the back of her hair, partially to hold her in place, but also to feel the soft strands between his fingers.

It must have been human instinct to know what to do, because even with so little experience, it felt like their lips moulded together as if it was fate. His thoughts pester him, he couldn’t be sure it was fate.

He uses his fingers to pull her back from him. Her eyes, wide as they usually are, are accompanied by slightly furrowed brows as her neck becomes stiff.

“Have you done this with another?” he asks, curiously - though his stern voice would present it more as an interrogation.

She shakes her head, though is limited in her movements due to his grasp. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he warns. The threat is empty; she’d not have lied to him anyway. The fear she holds is almost poetic to him, he enjoys it almost as much as how innocent this truly made her. He reaches for her chin again and holds her in place looking up to him. “Nothing good will happen if you lie to me.”

Denial was always fun to watch, but with her, it was more of a relief. “I’m not… I… I haven’t.”

Though part of him still didn’t believe her, he had no reason to doubt but his own feelings. So much uncertainty sat with him when it came to Aletheia. She had no reason to lie, and she knew what would happen if he found out she was lying, therefore believing her was a simplicity.

“Good,” he answers her, “I would see it as a sin, to be with more than one.”

He loosens his grip on her hair, freeing her ever so slightly. Though her muscles start to relax, she was still holding herself as still as she could. Almost like prey, hoping that the predator wouldn’t find it, would just see it as part of the background. His hand is instead moved down to her neck, the other now on her waist. This time, it wasn’t to stop her from running from him.

He finds humour in the words that come to his mind, suppressing a laugh to himself. “That would mean that I have put my claim on you, then.”

Again she responds with only silence. She couldn’t say no; she wouldn’t have tried to say no. She nods quickly, such a small action in comparison to what he offered her, before looking down to the floor.

He frowns, tightening his grip on her. She doesn’t look up to him still. His frown deepens as he considers his words. Perhaps it was not how she wanted to hear it, or he was supposed to say it in a different manner. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

“No, it is! It…” she responds quickly. She looks back up to him with glassy eyes. He notices the tear that drops from her eye, and stares curiously for a moment. Shed for him, maybe, or for whatever he makes her do. She must have noticed his stare that lingered - the back of her hand clears the tear from her cheek, an apology whispered from her rosy lips as she looked down at the floor briefly. When she returns her gaze to him, her eyes and cheeks are almost completely dry. “I am yours to claim, your majesty.”

“Why do you cry?”

She raises her brows at his question, even though it was a simple one to answer. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” he says in a quieter voice, “I want to know why you are crying?”

She neglects him an answer once again.

Truthfully he is not annoyed by her lack of response, nor the fact she was crying. He was concerned. She had the look in her eyes he’d seen many possess before and it wasn’t one he had assumed he’d see today.

He reaches a hand to her cheek, cupping the soft skin gently. His thumb caresses her back and forth, and for a moment, it feels like she falls into his touch. “Is it me, Aletheia?”

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

Her honest answer is… unsurprising.

“For what reason?” he asks her, “what crime or sin have you committed?”

She stares at him with wide, blank eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure that you have committed a crime?”

“I’m not sure what reason you’d have for killing me.”

“I see,” he answers. He takes his hand away from her cheek, replacing it on her upper arm. “Then why would I have killed you?”

He waits for her answer, though seconds go by without one again. He’s unsure of her fears and doesn’t want to assume, but deep down in the pit of his stomach, her words sting. To assume he would just… kill her? There had to be a reason for him to act, and she would never come near to it.

Oh, she was his little bird, an innocent cry amongst the faces of sinners, and she could never do a thing wrong. He’d have her framed, show her face off to everyone in Nostramo, and make sure that they all knew how she was what everyone needed to be. Innocent. Good.

His patience runs out with waiting for her answer. “Just because I can?”

Her nod is slow, but apparent.

“I do not kill without a reason, Aletheia,” he states. His fingers squeeze her gently as thought it would help her take in his words better. “I would not harm you. I brought you here under my protection and I have no intention to change that.”

But there’s something else in his mind that he can’t exactly process.

He had promised to protect her, stop her from fearing like those on the streets of Nostramo used to, but now it was more than that.

He showed her affection like he had showed no other, and he wanted… more. Something that laid dormant, until he had laid his eyes on hers today and felt her lips against his perhaps.

To have those doe-like eyes, filled to the brim with righteousness, stare back at him as he ruined her with his own corruption… that may just break her.

And if he broke her, put her back together and filled all those cracks with the darkest of sins he could find, would he still think of her like this?

“My parents told me that the only thing I should fear was…” she pauses as he focuses back on to her words. His brows are furrowed once again awaiting the end of her sentence. If he was supposed to be guessing, he already knew the answer. “I was only supposed to fear you.”

Surprise was supposed to hit him harder than it did. Still, he’d heard it so many times. He’s expected to hear the truth for her eventually and ultimately it was what he expected.

Yet his chest tightens from her words, her voice replaying over and over in his head until he realises he still hasn’t answered her.

He considers neglecting her an answer, though he only sees that leading to her shutting off from him. He’d prefer to speak with her again, albeit he’d rather do less talking. He hopes she can tell him better stories of her life, than he could ever have done for his.

She still waits patiently for him, and he finally delivers, “Many are supposed to fear me. But you… you don’t have to fear me.”

He makes an effort with his movements this time, nothing quick or sharp, no force. He presses his lips to hers once more, holding both his hands on her cheeks. When he pulls away, their foreheads press together, noses almost coming to clash. The quick puffs of her breath reach his skin and send a shiver down his spine.

He knew what he wanted, his deepest desire, right there in the moment.

“I will never hurt you,” he tells her. A promise unjustly made, he would have thought on a rational day. Nothing about his thoughts was considered now though. He couldn’t think about much other than her right now. He pulls away from her, taking a step back. Being without her felt so cold. “Lay on the bed.”

She nods once, turning to face the bed. He watches as she stands still for a moment to observe, before sitting on the bed and facing him. She avoids his eyes as she shuffles back so her ankles are now at the edge of the bed, then she lays down completely.

He approaches the bed slowly. She appears like a painting the nobles used to keep, her hair fanned around her and arms delicately crossed at her midsection. All she needed was a bouquet of flowers and a white veil, she’d look like the hundreds of marriage portraits he’d seen.

His hands are placed on her thighs to pull her down the bed a little. She lays horizontally, so there’s not as much room. With the olive green and white layers of her dress already hiked up to her knees, he has no problem gathering the lengths of material between his fingers. He keeps it in his grasp as he places his knees down either side of her legs, straddling her body as she watches him.

The material is cast to the side as soon as he’s exposed the flesh of her thighs. Never touched before, still pure in every way. His eyes move up her body as though he’s considering her worth right there in front of him. He’s seen many things in his life, but this was a first to him.

He leans down to her, holding his body above hers with hands placed either side of her shoulders. He tightens his jaw as her scent fills the room once more and clouds his judgement for more than a second. The thoughts that had been running through his mind, all of the times he thought of her, it was because of this.

He reaches down to press a single kiss to the curve of her jaw, just right of her chin. As though testing the waters, he waits to see her reaction. It’s still those big doe eyes and heart rate faster than anything. He leans back down again afterwards, lips ghosting her skin across the right side of her face.

“Do I scare you?” he asks, words given directly into her ear.

She shakes her head a little, swallowing hard before she answers him. Careful words must have been chosen “Not now.”

“But other times I do?” he asks further, pressing her for an answer. “Would you want me to stop if this was another time?”

She shakes her head again. “No.”

“Good.”

He sits back on his knees and looks over her. She barely breaks his eye contact, the other bones in her body barely moving either. She waits for him, so obediently too, yet all he finds the will to do is watch for the moment. Not just into the eyes that tantalised him so - he lets his eyes skim over all of her body, but when he gets to her thighs he stops himself.

He reaches behind him to a black-hilted dagger that he carried in his waistband. Only small, yet the blades were deathly sharp. With his other hand he leans forward to pull up the material of the dress that covered her chest so that it was away from her skin. One quick swipe of his dagger and he’d sliced a material right down the middle, exposing the pale skin of her chest and curve of her breast.

He continues dragging the blade through her dress, cutting through each layer to reveal more of her body underneath. When he finally gets the the skirt, he easily rips the material apart, leaving the garment torn and eagerly tossed to the side. Another smirk falls on his lips as he admires what he’s claimed. She really was so sweet, so innocent.

The final piece of clothing is her undergarments. White like the under layers of her dress. He uses the dagger once again to cut through both of the strips of material that cover where her thigh meets her hip. With a single tug, she’s completely naked below him, and she doesn’t make any attempt to cover herself.

He’d be lying if he said he knew what was expected for him to do next. Driven by his own wants and needs, he reaches for the lacing of the pants which fell below the loose shirt he wore. He’d not considered that she wouldn’t be used to him in such attire. He wonders if she’d ever seen him out of the armour he usually wore. It was likely she’d never even noticed him if he didn’t plan for her to.

His hands reach greedily for the parts of her body he needed to adjust. Her legs are spread further apart so she’s open and ready for him. Her arms are sprawled to the side of her body and exposing every part of her he would have wished to see. He notices the rise and fall of her abdomen getting faster in pace with each passing breath.

He places a hand on the middle-right of her stomach, so his fingers are curved along her waist. He then draws with two of his fingers up her body once more, almost mimicking the line his blade had drawn across her dress, only stopping once he reaches his neck. This is a natural human need, he tells himself. Everyone needed to do this. Everyone wanted to do this.

As though he’s testing the waters, he continues moving the two fingers over her breastbone and to her neck. He stops for a moment, noticing her eyes dart down to see what he was doing. She holds her breath as the two fingers in the middle of her neck turn into a hand spread across the entire area. He can feel her muscles shaking beneath him.

He can see the fear in her eyes as he presses down, so so gently at first, then begins to add more pressure until it causes noticeable strain for her.

One of her hands reaches for his, fingers clasping around his larger hand. When he doesn’t stop, she uses the other to do the same - though she doesn’t try to pull him away. He finds it curious. It was almost a safety net for her. She doesn’t try to stop him at all.

He squeezes harder. Her eyes widen as she stares at him, but noticeably her grip on his hands loosen.

A shaky breath leaves her mouth with an audible wheeze. He knew it wasn’t enough to harm her, yet it still had his desires running wild and his cock twitching. He had never wanted something so badly. She was dependent on him. He could end her life without thinking about it, and all she had to rely on was… trust.

Or, perhaps, fear.

She was the one that said that before.

No words are said between them as he reaches for his cock. Hurriedly, he moves his body so he can bury it deep inside her without thinking what it truly meant. She keeps her legs parted for him. Somewhere along the lines, his hand is taken from her neck and instead moved to her thigh to angle her hips in the direction he needed her.

A thousand times he had seen it before, and he still couldn’t replicate it.

It must have been different with each person, yet he feels he knows exactly what to do. As he fucks her, her body responds more to him, accepting of his presence the longer he stays. The more he goes on, the closer he finds himself to her, their bodies pressed together albeit separated by the shirt he had kept on.

He could have been going on for seconds, minutes, even hours - he’d lost himself to time as imagines flickered into his mind amidst the thoughts and feelings he experienced in the moment.

Then that one scene from before he even knew her. He had someone by his side, someone he could trust. Someone he could share his days with. Someone he could share him with.

That was why she was here with him, and she didn’t even know.

“I saw us,” he tells her, forehead pressed against her own. His breaths are deep, heavy, but controlled in every way. His hand his runs from her hip up to her breast, his fingers drawn over the perked nipple. “Together. We were happy together.”

He almost laughs through his laboured breaths, eyes closing as he experiences as much of the sensation as he can. His hand, now on her shoulder, holds her down as he finds himself coming to an end. To never feel the touch of anyone in such an intimate way, it was all new to him. He didn’t need this. He wouldn’t have wanted it, if it wasn’t for his dreams.

He thrusts his hips forward into her and almost hears a cry from her lips. He’d been listening for one expectantly, and the sound delights him enough to finish his story. “I saw you in my future… and the next day you were there in front of me. It was… it was perfect.”

He lets out a groan as pleasure hits him harder. He brought their bodies together, a hot mess between them, finding himself stuttering as he tries to keep up his own pace. He opens his eyes again, finding her amongst the stars he saw around him. Another groan falls from his lips as he finds it hard controlling himself for the first time in his entire life.

“I had to…” his words trail to an end as he feels himself reaching his peak. He lets out sharp breaths as the hairs on the back of his neck almost stand on end. It comes so quickly, all his feelings magnified to one simple second, everything he felt there ending as he feels his seed release.

Emotional exhaustion hits him first of all. One moment he’s looking down at her, the next he’s falling to her side to lay beside her. His breathing quickly becomes normal as he rests, his eyes closed as his mind feels truly numb for a moment.

Another image in his mind, the one he had before, the day he had found her. She’d care for him. She’d be a confidant when there was no one else for him. She’d be the one to check he was okay and she’d be the one who made sure he wasn’t injured, no matter how many times he told her he was fine.

By the time the image goes away, he’s again not sure how much time has passed. He opens his eyes to peer around the room, finding her laying next to him still. She’d moved at some point as the dress he’d cut from her is discarded to the side of the bed, but she lays still beside him now, softly breathing with her head tilted slightly to the side.

He watches over her for a moment, which turns into minutes. Maybe 20, if he was counting correctly.

The air wasn’t cold, nor was there a breeze, but he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed to cover over her body. The mornings here were usually cold, and that was where this all started. The cold that rattled his body and reminded him that he needed warmth in his world, reminded him that all he could think about was her.

But the next day wasn’t so cold.

When he woke beside her, there was no bitter chill that ran over his skin, and there was little left for him to think about.

-x-

Aletheia wakes to the sound of her heart thumping, a ringing persisting in her ears, and the bitter end of a nightmare lingering in the edges of her mind.

As her breathing begins to slow, she glances around the room to ensure she was alone. Well, she’d expected to be alone, but she was never too sure now. Sometimes she’d have a guest in her bed, sometimes she would be alone for days. Today seemed to be another day with herself as company.

She’d dreamt of the future, her future to be specific, and found that it seemingly got better for her each day. Lonely as she was, she didn’t fear the world around her, and she didn’t worry for her safety or wellbeing anymore. It was all left in the hands of her… King? Lover? Person who seemed to care and not care for her all at once?

Whatever he was to her, he kept every promise to her he had made to her that night.

In the months that had passed since then, he’d delivered too. They spoke. He’d find her and ask her how she was, he’d sometimes tell her what he had done that day - a rarity when it came to the Night Haunter who kept most things a personal secret. He’d shown her how he’d made Nostramo his own paradise. Not that he’d called it that, but he’d implied some form of utopia.

“I always wondered what the streets would look like when they finally found peace,” he told her, gesturing to the city in front of them. They observed from a balcony high in his palace, looking down over the people who cowered in fear from him. “No crime. No sin. Is it not serene?”

Yes, it was. There was no doubt about it from where she stood; though when stood in the heavens, anything could appear as one wanted it to.

And it was when she would finally step down from the heavens that she’d see what it was truly like.

She’d never stepped foot out of his palace. He wouldn’t have let her, but would she truly have wanted to? To go back with the people who must have hated and feared him, as his consort no less, was an invitation for someone to hurt him in a way that no one else could.

That was her nightmare. She’d step down onto the streets of her childhood and face the same fate as her parents. Some part of her would be happy. She wasn’t sure what happened after death, nor did she try to contemplate it, but she hoped she would see her parents again. They would protect her in the next life as they did in this one.

So it wasn’t as if the thought of death scared her. She could deal with that - it wasn’t as if she could change her fate.

Instead, it was the Night Haunter who stirred her in her sleep. Sometimes it was how he barely even reacted to her death, treating her the same as any other who died on the streets of Nostramo. Her killer would be hung in the streets and left for the crows, but he barely reacted to it being her who died.

Other times it would devastate him, so much so that she wished herself back into reality away from the parents she wished to see.

He would hold her in his arms and swear to bring destruction down on anyone involved. He would cry over her body as the life drained from her and beg her to not leave him. He would tell her he was sorry for breaking a promise he knew he couldn’t keep.

Every time she had the nightmare, it was a different ending. Today, he’d walked away from her as she died without another word, leaving her for the people on the streets of Nostramo to deal with her.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of something smashing. It sounded like glass, though she couldn’t be sure, as not a few moments later another smash can be heard echoing through the walls of the palace. Initially Aletheia worries for her safety, a revolt from the streets was unlikely but she never knew what was brewing with the people.

Though there is no more noise, nothing else is broken, and instead the sound of deafening silence fills the halls once more.

She’d wished she’d heard more - at least then she knew what was happening.

Deciding that her fate was better known, Aletheia moves from the bed to gather her clothes that were left on the floor last night. She dresses herself, quickly so nothing is as tidy as she wished for it to be. She catches a glance of herself in the mirror and realises it very much looks like she just woke up. A few gentle slaps to her cheeks and a rub of her temples brings some colour back into her face.

She leaves her room carefully, though as expected, the corridor is empty. No shadows, no noise, no people. Some relief washes over her, though it means that the likely source of the noise was perhaps the one person she really hoped it wasn’t.

She walks on the balls of her feet to avoid any unnecessary noise on the marble floor. Every open door she has a quick peek within just to make sure, but every time she finds nothing. She feels her heart start to beat quicker with each step she gets closer to where she’d likely find the source of the noise, and where she’d find him.

After minutes of mindful steps and careful movements, she reaches the throne room. Redesigned in its purpose, all that made it such was the gold and red throne he’d made for being the first monarch, and the presence of the Night Haunter himself. Aletheia peers around the frame where a door once would have stood, observing from a distance until she had an idea for what might have happened.

He stands at the end of the large room, presumably staring down at the red and gold throne he was usually found on. There’s smashed glass to his left, something else on the right, with some black material that he holds onto tightly in his left fist. As she watches him she sees his fist grow tighter around the material until his knuckles are white.

He doesn’t move for some time, opting to stare down his throne - or whatever else was down there that she may not have seen - until he looks away from whatever had captivated him and instead slightly to his right. The shift in gaze must have changed something for him, as not a second later the black material in his hand is thrown down to the ground with frustration, a defiant huff leaving him as he does so.

There’s some incoherent mumbling from him, nothing that she can make out. She assumes something has frustrated him, though her understanding was that little (if anything) could affect him in that regard. He appeared to shrug everything off. He was calm even when faced with death. But something, clearly, could get to him.

She debates her next steps. Within her own right she could walk away from here, go back to her room, find some old book to read and get back to her own thoughts. She could also walk away from this room and leave him to his own devices, act like she never saw this happen.

Why did her parents bring her up to be nice and courteous? It was an obligation to at least check he was okay - the shattered glass had splintered everything, and she saw blood on the floor which presumably came from him.

She curses herself as she approaches him. Slowly, as quietly as a mouse that saw a path to freedom, she steps around the shattered glass and what appeared to be some kind of stoneware, stopping just behind him. As she moves, she goes over her words in her head. Are you okay, your majesty? No. Are you hurt? He may take offence to her being informal. What happened? He didn’t have to tell her anyway.

Perhaps an omission was the easier way out.

His mumblings are still incoherent as she stops a couple of foot from him. The words don’t sound like her native tongue, and eventually she does hear some words that sound to be Gothic, but she couldn’t have been sure. Regardless, half of it wasn’t audible and rather sounded much like that of the mad-men in the lower parts of the hive.

She reaches a hand out to his shoulder, gently resting the ends of her fingers onto the metal. He’d not have felt it immediately, but as she presses down to try and make her presence known behind him, he turns to her immediately though keeps his gaze trailing off somewhere behind her. His eyes are midnight black, the light seemingly drawn into them, his brows are pulled together. There’s an open wound across the side of his face, running from the lower of his cheek to an inch or so down his neck. Though blood no longer drips from it, the area is already growing red. That wasn’t what he was concerned about.

“Are you…” her words fall to an end as he looks up to her. She’d expected him to ignore her, let her speak as she tried to help in whatever what she could, but this time he looks directly into her eyes. Fear strikes her for a moment, then all at once when she realises he’s expecting her to continue. “I… Let me help you.”

He doesn’t react. He just watches her, not a muscle in his body moving as his eyes follow her. She moves his head with the tips of her fingers again, just so she can see the wound better with the dim light around them. It was just another deep cut that would scar like all the other he had. She’d seen them all now, they littered his body like he went out looking for them. Maybe even his most prized collection.

“You need to disinfect this,” she states.

He shakes his head.

“At least let me clean it.”

His reluctance is ignored. To the left side of the room is a table with a jug of water on top. To the side are some squares of cloth used as some form of napkins by the old nobles. Those were the closest she would find to a disinfectant or method of cleaning around here. Carefully she treads over the pieces of stone and glass, avoiding any injuries to herself. After a few of the squares of material are dipped in the water, she makes her way back.

Wrapping the wet cloth around two of her fingers, she begins to dab at the end of the wound. His immediate reaction is to grab her wrist and stop her from doing it again. She frowns at his actions but doesn’t try to stop him as he pushes her hand back.

“It could fester,” she tells him, vividly remembering a cut she’d received when she was younger after falling over something sharp and cutting herself on a metal piece. Worried her parents would tell her off, she hid it from them - only to realise what happens when a wound is left untreated a few days later. “It would be worse to leave it.”

After a few seconds he lets go of her hand and allows her to continue. Mindful that it may have caused him pain, she tries to be more vigilant with her actions and lessen the sting of her touch. As she clears off the dried blood and other debris caught in the broken skin, her gaze wanders ever so slightly, as does her train of thoughts.

He’s too distracted to notice, anyway. He looks at her, though he’s not truly focused on her. There’s blood all over him, actually. It’s splattered over the blue of his armour, partially covering the scratches and dents he’d received over the years. How he’d received it, she wasn’t sure, though it would have seemed like he’d fought with someone who had almost been a match for him. Which was… impossible, physically.

Aletheia glances down at the floor before she takes a step back. None of the glass appears to have injured him, but she’s not wearing shoes and it seems likely she’d hurt herself eventually. “I can clear this up for you.”

As she tries to turn, he grabs her wrist again. He stops her from moving, but doesn’t pull her towards him. He just holds her still so he can look at her again. This time, his attention is on her, and it feels as if he’s studying her for any imperfections he can see.

She nods once and looks down at the ground, words still absent from him. When he tightens his grasp on her, she wonders what she’s done wrong to him, whether she was too forward in her words.

“I saw death…” He states, not so much at her but to anyone who may have heard. He takes a step towards her, using his other hand to reach for her chin and tilt her face up towards him. Now he does look at her, directly into her eyes, his teeth clenched together and nostrils flared. She’d have thought she’d caused this, if it wasn’t for the pain she felt from him. His hand is dropped back to his side before he hisses out words. “Your death.”

Oh.

She wasn’t really sure what to respond to that.

Other than, well, she saw it as well.

But his concern is overwhelming. Unlike how he walked away from her in her dreams, or left without a care for her demise, he seemed truly taken by this. She was not a reader of any kind, she could only assume how he felt from what little he showed from her. He barely resembled a fraction of himself in front of her.

Panic falls on her as she tries to recollect her thoughts. He’d reached out to her in some way, more than he had ever done before, and this was her chance to respond. Every other time she’d tried to reach him with the same emotions and closeness he did with her, he’d build a wall between them. This time, it felt like he was waiting for her.

She places her palm against his cheek, the opposite to where his injury is, as she remembers him doing to her before. Her thumb moves back and forth in small motions, hoping it would calm him in some way. “It could have been a mistake. I’m… I’m fine.”

“No.” He ignores her presence lingering on his skin. “I saw you. I wasn’t able to stop it from happening. You were there and I… I told you that you no longer had to fear for your life.”

“I don’t fear for my life anymore,” she tells him, hoping he’d find her voice.

He looks past her again, as though recalling the exact details in his head. “I know what will happen to you, but there is nothing I can do.”

She stays quiet this time. Her hand becomes loose, even though she keeps it covering his cheek, as she shuffles her body back ever so carefully.

“Two knives, two men, two wounds. There’s a pool of your blood that covers the floor. They leave without a trace… no one saw them. No one would admit to it. They knew who you were. They knew what they were doing. They no longer cared for what may happen to them. There was no desperation to survive, no terror that sat in their hearts any longer.”

He looks back at her. The hand at his side is reclaimed across her neck, this time with the force he usually lacked. She lets go of him to reach for his hand, but it’s little use to try and over power him. He still doesn’t hurt her. He just holds her where she is.

She’s sure she sees his eyes becoming glassy. So sure, that she feels sympathy for him. Whether he cared for her, she would never know, but at this very moment she knew that whatever he saw happen to her, whichever fate he thought she had coming, it had hurt him.

“I cannot do it,” he says, voice barely reaching a whisper. No tears fall from his eyes. Her words did nothing to console him, and even though she stood right there, she feared that in his eyes, she was already gone. “I cannot save you.”

He pushes her away from him. As she falls to the ground, she watches him walk away. He doesn’t turn to find her, or check whether she is injured. She can hear his muffled ramblings like before, she can see him bring his hands to his head and run his fingers through messy hair and scratch at his own head.

She falls on the shards of the glass and stone, her hands and legs taking the impact. His force was too much for her to withstand; in a momentary lapse he had overlooked his best judgement and he shattered everything he held dear. She feels the sting as sharp, broken edges cut at her skin, even through her clothes, leaving her with an assortment of cuts to leave scars like his own.

She raises one shaky hand to her face. Fragmented pieces are stuck within her skin, blood beginning to trickle down her palms and onto her arms. She can hear a voice behind her, one of the maids that she had someone befriended in her time, who was urging her to do something. Aletheia couldn’t hear her. She just looked on to where the Night Haunter stood across from her.

No, she would never know if he truly cared for her, or about her.

She thought things had changed, since that night he was in her room. She thought his claim on her meant that the promises he made meant so much more than just words to say that the world he seemed to hate so much would not do to her what it did to her parents. She thought he felt differently.

She looks down from him and to the line of blood that rolls down her arm. She watches as it reaches her inner elbow, dripping from her body down onto the marble floor. It creates a pool, the red so deeply contrasting grey beneath it. As it grows bigger, she hears him call her name.

He just stands there, looking at her from across the room. Whether realisation hit him, or the commotion behind him brought him to reality as the maid rushed to sweep away the broken glass and stone do they could both move away, it was unclear. He still didn’t look fully there. He only seemed to notice the blood that had started to gather around her.

The maid calls for her as well, taking her attention away momentarily. Aletheia looks back, nodding at whatever she’s being asked to do. As the adrenaline in her body starts to fade, the back of her legs begin to throb with pain, her hands feeling the effects of her injuries too. She glances at her hands, both covered with blood now, then back to where she last saw him.

But he’s already gone.

✧.✧

a/n: thanks for reading!! for reference this is before the emperor finds him. hence the name 'dark king' used as well

#konrad curze x reader #Konrad Curze x oc #primarch x reader #primarch x oc #Konrad Curze #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

Text

ii. reverie

→ fulgrim x ysevena [oc, she/her] → 4k, nsfw 18+, tw; knife play & choking → pre-heresy, oh my fulgrim loves ysevena so much he would literally hold a knife to her..good thing she likes it

The blade’s very tip touched her skin, causing her to body to freeze under his touch. Curious, Fulgrim was, as he tilted his head to the side and stopped his actions. “Are you afraid, darling?”

She shakes her head, though he doesn’t appear satisfied without words. Noticing her hasn’t continued, Ysevena speaks softly, “I have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Good,” he answers. The joining of the line in her dress is split open swiftly, the sharp edge of the blade not needing much effort to break it. As her dress is ripped, he lets it fall down naturally, exposing her body for all it has to offer. “Tell me what else you’ve thought about me.”

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Somewhere along the line, Ysevena had fucked up wonderfully.

So wonderfully, in fact, that she’d ended up in the same bed as a man she’d admired for years. Though, perhaps admired is too strong of a word; she’d found everything about him fascinating, and since the first time she laid eyes on him, she’d been tantalised by the prospect of him belonging to her.

Though truthfully again, belonging to her was also too strong. He was a god to his people, he was the son of a god to the galaxy, and to her… Well, he could give her the powers of a god, too.

“Sometimes, it’s best to just not think,” she says softly, watching over the white haired prince with lustful eyes. He dare not look away from her, be it her eyes or the curves of her silhouette. “Other times, thinking is the best part about it.”

“How so?” Fulgrim asks in return.

“When I’m with you, for example. Would I really wish to be so deep in thought that I missed a moment spent with the one I adore the most?”

He only hums in agreement.

“But when I’m without you, I find my thoughts wandering to you more often than perhaps they should.”

“In what way?” he questions, interest piqued ever so slightly more.

Ysevena had expected a question like such; he always wanted to know everything she had to think, feel, and say about him. He’d not leave a thought open to chance. Yet still, her prepared answer somehow feels inadequate. She’d tell him of how good a leader he was, how he was the most faithful of his brothers, the strongest, the smartest, the most beautiful. It was always the same.

Perhaps it was the fact that no matter what Ysevena did, she only seemed to grow closer to the primarch, that spurred her to admit something she wasn’t sure he would appreciate fully.

“What we could do together,” she answers, “what you do… to me.”

His silent stare does cause her worry at first. She notices how still he is, not a word to say, and she wonders why he’d not reacted. Though her thoughts are spared when he leans closer to her, drawing his fingers across her exposed arm, to her collar bones, then up neck and pulling away finally at her chin.

“Are you going to tell me more?”

“How much would you like to hear?”

“All of it,” he tells her, “don’t leave out any details.”

It wasn’t as though this was new. He’d seen her naked body hundreds of times, he’s ravaged her in ways she had only dreamed of before, yet somehow she feels as shy as the first time she’d seen a man. Yet still curious, wondering what may have been in store for her.

Some of her thoughts were simple. She found comfort in his presence, so when she felt lonely, she’d think of him there with her. She saw him as a protector, and when she felt danger, he was what guided her through.

She saw him as the only one who could pleasure her, too. So in the dead of night when she was lost in her own thoughts, it was always him there with her.

Those are what she’d never shared; today was different, though.

“My thoughts end up drifting back to the times we’re together. When you would have me here with you and fuck me senseless. When I can’t even talk anymore and all I know is you. Or, when you bury your beautiful face between my legs and make me beg. It’s hard to not think about that, and when it will happen again.”

Fulgrim hums. He runs his fingers through her hair, pushing it back over her shoulders. “That’s so mundane, though, don’t you think?”

“Mundane?” she repeats, questioning his words.

He raises his brows, shrugging casually. “Have you not considered what else I could do?”

A yes would not be a substantial answer. She had, many times, though Ysevena’s thoughts again were her own as she was unsure of how far he wanted to delve.

She’d test the waters, so to speak.

“You could have me at your mercy.” Ysevena had never failed to interest Fulgrim with her words. It seemed that this was no different. His stare is so intense, concentration fully on her words, so much that his breathing was all that filled the room. “You could hold that blade of yours to me and tell me what to do.”

“Yes. I could.”

She watches as he pulls himself away from her, off the bed and hurriedly to the other side of the room. She sits up, watching his actions, though remaining still now. He’s looking for something, and as the she notices the purple and gold hilt that he holds in his hand when he turns back to her, she realises that he’d understood everything she wanted, even with so little information.

“I can do that,” he states, his earlier words changed to watch his actions. He stands at the end of the bed, wicked smile inviting her to both her dreams and torment. “Stand here. Those clothes are distracting.”

She nods once, moving herself quickly from the bed, to her feet, then to the spot he’d reserved for her. She stands opposite to him, hands down at her side, hair falling across her body without any care. She reaches to push it back over her shoulders but he stops her, instead doing it himself. Each little strand is moved, creating a completely blank canvas for him to do his work on.

And so delicately, he starts to paint his picture.

Just one tiny stroke across the split in her dress at the thigh. The blade, sharper than anything she’d owned, first is held on its side and run down her skin, then is turned so the razored edge meets her skin. At first she flinches, not expecting the sensation. Cold at first, then a burn, then nothing. It was as if he’d never touched her, but as she feels a small trickle roll down her thigh, she’s reminded that he very much was going to have her at his mercy.

Ysevena’s eyes fall down to where his hands hold her dress, and though her body doesn’t move, she feels pulled to him like he was the very gravity which held her down. The silver blade he holds glitters in the lights from all the candles around them, though before she can fully appreciate what he was holding to her, one of his hands moves to her chin and holds her head up towards his.

“Don’t look away from me,” he tells her, a flame burning ever so deep in his eyes. She dares not struggle against his force, instead obeying his command and staring right into his burning fire.

After a few seconds, he’s satisfied that she’s not going to move against his wishes. The hand on her chin is replaced back with the other, tightly pulling the white of her dress so the fabric is taut. He doesn’t look away from her for even a moment, trusting his movements wouldn’t affect her. Even if they did, Ysevena would be the first to thank her, for he’d blessed her in some way that only they could understand. To have her blood drawn by him was an offering, a show of how much faith she had for him.

The sound of her dress being ripped open by the blade echoes through the otherwise silent room, and for a moment, her blood runs cold in her body. This was different. It wasn’t another of their cherished times where she would spend as long as she could worshipping him in every way, revering his whole being.

No, this was for him.

He could do anything he wanted to her. She felt so little compared to him, not just with size, but his aura, his entire being; she was inadequate next to him, powerless to everything he wanted. So it was only natural for her to let him continue, still not breaking their eye contact. It was only as the blade reached further up her chest, coming to the point where the fabric met in a sharp ‘v’ shape, that her body betrayed her.

The blade’s very tip touched her skin, causing her to body to freeze under his touch. Curious, Fulgrim was, as he tilted his head to the side and stopped his actions. “Are you afraid, darling?”

She shakes her head, though he doesn’t appear satisfied without words. Noticing her hasn’t continued, Ysevena speaks softly, “I have nothing to be afraid of.”

Ysevena swallows her immediate thoughts. It would be too needy to tell him exactly what she thought of, and though Fulgrim may have revelled in how much she truly thought about him, this time she speaks carefully. Still trained to his eyes, she tries to regain any confidence that lay dormant. “When I’m alone, I start to think about where I’d like your hands on me.”

“Only my hands?”

“No,” she tells him, truthfully. He narrows his gaze on her, brows pulled together ever so slightly. As the confidence she wished for starts to appear, she places one of her hands around her own neck. His amusement is apparent from the chuckle he eludes during her actions, though as Ysevena begins to tighten her grasp, he’s brought to silence once more, only wishing to step closer. “I think about you wrapping your hand around my throat and tightening your fingers until I’m barely able to breathe.”

“And what else would I do?” he asks, so close that she can feel his breath on her face now.

Ysevena waits a moment to find the right words. To have him so close has her mind spiralling, as it always did for her, but he’d never asked before what she fantasised about. She worried that how she viewed him would be wrong in his eyes, but all she’d realised is that every one of her darkest desires was music to his ears.

So she ignores what little humility she had left, and uses her other hand to show him exactly what she meant. She gives him a commentary too, though her words are broken by her own touch. “You’d be fucking me with your fingers and… and using your thumb to rub my clit until I cum all over your hand, and you’d… tell me when I need to cum… if I don’t, you’d squeeze my neck and tell me to cum for you like you wanted me to.”

And she would do exactly that.

She’d barely even considered blinking, not wanting to miss a second of his blissful face, though as she’s rubbing her own clit in the way she imagined he would, she finds her eyes falling shut to the thought. He must have noticed, she tried so little to hide her enjoyment, though he left her there to pleasure herself in his company for far longer than she wanted.

Though that was exactly what he would do, and she knew it.

And by god, it had her almost whimpering then and there, knowing he was watching her get off just to the thought of him.

Eventually, he does step in though, choosing not to stop her fingers circling her overstimulated nerves, and instead peeling the fingers from her neck so he can replace them with her own. His hands are so soft, almost the exact same as hers, yet he covers her entire neck with ease. Though his grip at first isn’t as tight as hers was, with each second that passes he presses the tips of his fingers into her delicate skin even more.

“More,” he whispers, so close to her now that their bodies almost touch. She’s sure he would be able to feel from where he is how wet she was, ready and waiting for his touch. Just a word has her legs shaking. “That surely isn’t all you thinking about, is it?”

His grip pauses, still tight around her neck, though not too much that she’s unable to breath. She can feel her heartbeat around his touch though, and she’s sure there’s a wheeze behind her words. “Then you’d put me on the bed and… hold me down as you fuck me, until I’m… I’m begging you to… to…”

Her words aren’t formulating. Her knees are becoming weak as she feels the heat in her stomach begin to overflow. She wanted, so badly, for him to be doing this to her that she’d forgotten what he even asked. He wouldn’t forget, though.

“To what, darling?”

“To let me see you,” she says, words falling from her lips between heavy breaths.

She knows that if she continues any longer she will be making herself cum, though she wouldn’t dare stop without him telling her to do so. So instead, she pleads silently, wide eyes meeting his own as her soft moans fall from open lips. Always so obedient to him, ready to serve his every need and want, yet today all she could think about was him giving her what she wanted.

He was merciful, afterall. Though he’d never tell her directly, he was grateful for the honesty, and he was thankful for her, for finally admitting her desires to him. He couldn’t punish her for that. It would be wrong, to not give her exactly what she wanted, when Fulgrim wanted the exact same thing.

“Stop,” he tells her, hand still gripped around her neck.

She does as she says, on the very edge of coming undone right before him, breaths heavy and skin blushed. This time she notices his glance down over her body, as he always seemed to do, admiring her for her perfection too. He looks back to her seconds later and, much to her surprise, presses his lips to her own. Though she’s still at first, Ysevena finds herself sinking into his touch as he holds her in a display of the softer side of his affection.

He pulls away, scent lingering on her as he does so. Still she watches his every move, waiting on his command. He takes his hand away from her neck, leaving her to be free for a second, though replaces it on her shoulder to turn her around. She lets him do so easily, following his guide, so she now is facing away from him and at his mercy once again.

He pushes the silver straps of her dress off her shoulders, allowing the broken fabric to fall to the floor. The soft breeze from outside brushes over her skin, her nerves going into a flurry as she anticipated his next move. She’s not sure what to expect, but certain a hand moving across her back to collect all her loose strands of white hair is not it. Though she stands still, allowing him to gather her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. He holds it together with what she assumes to be a pin, perhaps one he used for his own hair.

When he’s satisfied with his doings, she feels another of his hands directly on the small of her back, pushing her forward. Again, she follows his command, stepping forward as he moves her; though she knows where she’s to go, their approach to the bed was little of a clue to that. At first she considers falling straight onto the bed, but wanting to present herself better for him, she places her knees on the bed first, kneeling on the edge and then lowering herself afterwards. She knew it would give him what he wanted.

She’s left at the mercy of the silk sheets she rests upon until she feels his touch again, the sounds the filled the air seeming as though he was getting rid of his clothes too. From where she lays, head turned to the left, she can just about see the outline of his figure approaching the bed, confirmed as she feels his fingers on the back of her thighs. He spreads her legs as he desires, and just as she thinks that she’d finally feel his cock buried within her, its his fingers that are back on her clit as a distraction once again.

All of her muscles in her lower half tense at his touch. Hearing him titter, she knows it was his way of teasing her, playing with her desires to make him want her more. Oh, if only he could read her thoughts. Nothing could make Ysevena desire him any more than she already did. Luckily he doesn’t wait any longer, and before she has time to think of him again, the head of his cock is at her entrance, easily slipping in her like every time before.

She tries to hide her moan as he pushes himself in, though really, her attempt was very limited. She wanted him to hear everything, know all of her feelings, understand that every fibre of her being lived for him in this moment. He reaches for her hips, fingers splayed over each of her curves, though before he makes another move, he moves his hands up her body, to her waist and to her shoulder. Given his strength, he easily moves her, holding her up so her back pressed against his chest.

Now, he really was fully in control of her. She’s truly powerless in his arms; he had control of her movement, he had her exactly in the position he needed her to be in still still fuck her from behind like he always chose to do. But this time there was more to it. He used his strength in both his hips and his arms to bounce her on his cock, pleasuring himself as he needed with her. At some point, his hand ended up on one of her breasts, fingers squeezing into the soft flesh, tips leaving imprints and possibly bruises.

This wasn’t all that he wanted, though, and just as she was getting used to how he held her, she was back on the bed with an emptiness inside her, waiting for him to return. This time she was less obedient, peeking over her own shoulder to see where he had gone. As she looked back, she finds him stand over her, watching her with the darkest eyes, ready to continue. She notices the smirk he gets from having her look back, and though she doesn’t fully understand his thoughts, she hopes that he realises how badly her body was aching for him.

“Do you love me, Ysevena?” he asks her, approaching again. He’s kneeling as well now behind her, ready to take her again. He pulls her hips back against his so she can feel his throbbing cock against her, though his movements cease as he awaits an answer.

No doubt his question confuses her. For all the time they had done this, it had been a mutual understanding between each other. Admiration between the pair; their desire for perfection, their desire for each other. It had never been about feelings. “You don’t believe in love.”

“But you do,” he states. She feels his fingers running across the skin of her back, sending a shiver down her spine, her heat still burning for more. “So be truthful, darling. Do you love me?”

It was not an answer she had prepared, nor expected to ever give.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t react for a few seconds, leaving Ysevena to worry her answer was wrong. It’s not long enough for her to have any fear, not that she had any around him anyway. It's long enough for him to realise the consequences of her answer though. Just as she thinks she should look back to him again, his fingers are back on her hips, and he’s guiding himself into her once more.

She hears, through whatever echoes of reality are left, his words slip through. “Good.”

Somehow this was different to every other time he fucked her. There was a new feeling, a connection she couldn’t explain. This was more than pleasure, whether she meant it to be or not; she wanted this because it was him.

And as her eyes fall shut, cheek buried into the silk of the sheets he holds her on, she starts to feel everything again.

She was close before, but now it’s even harder to hold on. Fulgrim always had a way of hitting everything he needed to, every part of him made to pleasure those around him, and each time he thrusts into her she feels all of her nerves being set on fire. Long gone are the whimpers, she’s moaning each time their bodies touch, and it doesn’t take too long for him to follow suit. He’d never been quiet, but usually reserved, though as time went on he wasn’t afraid to show all sides of himself too. He matches her, though his are more of a groan now, breathing matched as each of them chases their high.

Somehow, Ysevena had sparked something in Fulgrim that he couldn’t explain, nor fully comprehend, but nothing had made him feel like this before; no one could match what she did for him.

And for that, she wouldn’t need to do any begging today.

He stops again, much to her dismay, earning a whine as she came so close again. In a way it does serve him some gratification, though he hopes he can make it up to her. He uses his hands to guide he once again, and as she always does, she follows his instruction without fail, turning onto her front. He’d have taken more of an opportunity to appreciate her beauty, had he not been so close already.

His desperation is known, too, as he barely moves her body, instead focusing on driving his cock into her to get to where he needed to be. She’s still at his mercy, though she’d never been so grateful as she was to finally see her beloved in this state, sweat brushed over his skin, loose hair stuck to forehead and his neck, his muscles tensed as he used all his force. He really was magnificent, even so vulnerable, his excellence shone through like the sun at midday.

“Cum for me,” he says between his breaths, barely able to get the words out. He looks to her, eyes pleading with her to give her what he finally needed to have his own climax. It needed little more than that, all she was waiting for was him. Not even a second after she feels her release, he falls above her, arms planted beside her to hold himself up, his breathing caught in his throat as his hips stutter and he feels his warmth inside of her.

Whether it was that final look, Ysevena would never know, but feeling the heat of Fulgrim all around her, their noses touching as their faces were merely centimetres apart, brings a feeling that was previously unknown.

Their shaken bodies, tired and needing rest, still manage to stay where they are as the two look into each other’s eyes once more. Though she knew from the moment they met that she’d have done anything he wanted her to do, that she’d follow him through everything and support him as he needed, she didn’t know that it would be as anything other than bedfellows, perhaps sympathisers, but most definitely allies.

Yet she had just admitted she loved him, and perhaps there was a chance that he could learn to love her, too.

✧.✧

a/n: thank you very much for reading! again, this is another from my ao3.

#fulgrim x reader #fulgrim x oc #primarch x reader #primarch x oc #Fulgrim #lua.wrt

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nightscythe · 4 months ago

Text

xxiii. akrasia

→ lion el'jonson x catieve [oc, she/her] → 4.6k, nsfw 18+, tw; dubious consent, misogyny, humiliation, degradation → pre-heresy, lion doesn't have feelings, he feels..thinks... whatever he spits on his darling Catieve.. how dare he..he

“Is that all you are, a whore?”

She dare not touch him, only look at him for guidance, yet for the first time in a while she feels the confidence to use her shattered voice. "I… am.”

Amused, he places his hand on her hair again. He smoothes over it until he reaches the level of her chin, then moves his hand to the back of her head completely. “My cock whore?”

“Yes,” she says, pitch raised. He doesn’t move her, but if she’d been paying attention he had his hands poised like he was ready to force her anywhere. She even lets the smallest smile grace her lips. “Yours.”

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Hard days were frequent for the Lion.

He was steadfast, refusing to show anyone that he felt struggles or strife. Many may have thought he had a will stronger than anyone, all of his brothers even, and never faltered despite everything that went on around him.

Others knew better. Everyone has their moments, exhibiting akrasia in their actions without even noticing, causing a problem for themselves that could easily have been avoided.

The Lion did not.

He had his ways of coping. Caliban offered him enough to keep him busy. Thing to kill, people to see, and room at the bottom of a staircase that little knew about, holding a gift for him from one of the noble families.

They had told him, quite simply, they were disappointed that they could not have a son to fight with him, and instead wished to dedicate a daughter to his honour to do with as he pleased. He’d declined, finding more honour than to take a woman who would be of more use elsewhere, but finding the girl of twenty-three stood there allowed him an opportunity he may not have otherwise had.

Catieve, she’d told him, to be married to a man who was killed by a beast a few years ago, and she’d had little motivation to find someone else. She’d expressed to him her desire to fight with the likes of the Order, to which he’d laughed; you’re so small, he was being serious, you’d struggle to make it even a day.

He found a use for her, those small and delicate hands could help him in other ways.

Hence his room at the bottom of a staircase, dedicated to housing a woman pledged to serve him - and serve him she did.

Her voice fills the room with such a tender advance, her frame presented in front of him as he sits on a chair in the middle of the candle-lit room. “What can I do to help you?”

He’s not even sure why he’s here. A tough day, challenges presented to him, it was something along those lines. Years ago he’d have thrusted his sword through something he hated. Now, he’s not even sure.

“Can I do something?” she asks again, her hands on his knees. Her touch is soft, almost angelic, she’d have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t known she was there. But, he did - and that was ultimately why he was here. “I can help, if you just tell me. I… I want to help. I care about you.”

He barely registers a glance towards her as the scoff leaves his lips. Something else was on his mind, something far important than she would ever be, but he’s still brought back to her nonetheless.

“Do you think I care about you?” He says, meeting her gaze. She looks down from him, but he’s quick to bring his fingers to her jaw and force her to look back at him. “Look at me when I talk to you.”

“I-I’m sorry,” she replies, voice shaking.

“Sorry for what?”

Her wide eyes stare up at him. She was begging herself to give him an answer, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t sorry, and she wouldn’t lie to him. She can only keep her eyes on his for a few seconds before she’s forced to look down, even with his tight grasp on her. She takes a deep breath, but still gives him no words.

“Nothing?” He asks, finding jest at her mockery. He pushes her away, sending her body towards the cold floor around them. He still watches her though, amused by how weak she was. “You’re pathetic. You can’t even answer me?”

Her lack of a reply is something that he rarely experiences. He’s treated like a god by those around him and yet she showed such little regard for him? He can barely comprehend how he feels.

He leans forward in the chair so his elbows rest just above his knees. His frame completely towers over her, even as she lifts her head slowly to look up at him. As he finds her eyes again, he finds himself lost for words for just a second.

“You want me to care about you?”

She shakes her head softly, the ends of her hair falling from her shoulders.

“Do you want me to act like you mean something to me?”

Again, she shakes her head.

“Then I suppose I know what you want from me,” he states, leaning forward a little further. He reaches his left hand down to her hair, tips of his fingers running over the soft strands that hand loosely towards the floor. She feels his touch ever so slightly touch her skin too, grazing the sides of her face. “You want me to fuck that cunt of yours until you’re begging me to stop?”

This time, she declines him the privilege of an answer.

Even if he knew he was right, he’d not accept her silence. He winds his fingers through her hair, gripping as tight as he can to her scalp, and forcibly nods her head for her. “I thought it may be the case. It’s always the same thing with you, isn’t it my darling? Always wanting more from me.”

He disregards her just a quickly, pushing her back down as he stands. He looks over her for a few moments before turning back to the door. He feels her eyes on him, burning for more of his words and his touch. Yet, it was the unlocked door to the room that had captured his attention for the moment. As soon as the lock clicked shut, he was right back to her.

He turns back to face her, movements slow yet precise. Almost robotically he tilts his head down to her, prying the remaining glove from his hand. It’s discarded in a pocket, somewhere, not that he could care whether he saw it again at the moment.

“Move then,” he tells her, words tainted with a hint of distaste for how she didn’t think forward. He feels a smirk tug on his lips as he watches her scramble towards the bed, like a deer caught out by a bear that was starved. He takes a step forward to catch up with her, their distance still wide. “Why do you always make me do the work? Don’t want to put the effort in, sweetheart?”

She shakes her head, still silent.

“Then why do I always need to tell you what to do?” He asks. She moves slower now, the bed she’d found her way effortlessly to a safe space for her. She sits on the bed, facing him, legs just drifting a part for him and her knees bent over the edge. Such an invitation she offers, followed by a sweetness that made his cock twitch. He would have been more mesmerised by this whole ordeal, if it wasn’t for the images flowing through his mind. “Can you not think for yourself? Can you not think around me?”

Silence, still. Just her fingers curling around the hem of the purest white dress. Her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth as she avoids his gaze. He doesn’t need her to confirm to him, he knew.

“That’s it, isn’t it sweetheart? You can’t think properly when I’m here.”

His smugness is replaced by desire relatively quickly. He steps towards her again, until he’s stood with his legs touching the bed. He places on of his knees on the mattress between her legs, sliding it across the sheet until it reaches the point where her thighs are still touching. He forces them apart until he can feel her warmth through the material of his pants.

“What are you thinking about instead?” He questions, pausing his movements. She looks up to him with wide eyes, silently begging him for something, though it falls on blind eyes. He hums at her lack of response and instead pushes his knee further so it touches her core. He hears her whimper loud and clear. “Are you thinking about me fucking you, my darling?”

Her eager nod breaks his demeanour for a fraction of a second. Part of him, the side that wants her to be happy and give into her demand so he can watch her writhe in pleasure, would have pushed her down there and made her cum five times over her. Though he’s controlled, and he knows that there’s a far far better reward if he makes her wait and endure.

And endure, she shall.

He takes his hand up to her jaw again, thumb pressed into one check and fingers on the other. He squeezes her, not caring that he may have been using more strength than usual, and keeps her facing him. Too scared to look away, she stares those big doe eyes directly into his feelings.

He uses his knee to push against her again, moving slowly up and down. He can feel how wet she is, and in another universe, he may have wondered why. She whimpers again at his touch, and he notices how her arms shake ever so slightly as she tries to angle her body to feel more of him.

“You couldn’t even wait a few seconds?” he asks, not expecting an answer. He pulls his knee back and leaves her exposed to the cold air. A shiver visibly runs down her spine as moves back onto his feet. “Is that all you are, a whore?”

She moves forward, staring up at him as she approaches. Still sat on the bed, her smaller figure just reaches below his hips, the perfect size to be modelled to him. She dare not touch him, only look at him for guidance, yet for the first time in a while she feels the confidence to use her shattered voice. “I… am.”

Amused, he places his hand on her hair again. He smoothes over it until he reaches the level of her chin, then moves his hand to the back of her head completely. “My cock whore?”

Oh, how amusing it was to endure. He waits for a moment, hands held behind his back as he contemplates his actions. Her devotion was admirable, albeit delphic to him, and after a few seconds of careful deliberation, he gives into what he assumes she wants.

His hands are replaced by his side, then they move to her. A hand on her hair again, another on the join between her neck and shoulder. Her skin is so soft beneath his touch, a reminder that not everything is death and war, that purity still exists in some.

“Such a pretty girl,” he mumbles, mostly for his own ears, admiring her. His expression isn’t unnoticed, but she barely reacts. Just wide eyes still looking up at him as though she had one expression. “I know a way to make you look better, though.”

He pulls her hair to drag her closer to him. He looks down at her for a moment, admiring the big eyes she directs back at him until his patience runs out. One quick movement and he has her cheek pressed into the crotch of his pants, visibly tented and - now that she had her face pressed into it - noticeably hard.

Anyone who looked at him would have thought not a feeling crossed his mind. His eyes are only for her, his hands devoted to her, and the groan that leaves his lips, much to his displeasure, is equally because of her.

“Beg,” he spits, words filled with annoyance. He moves her head in such a way that instead of her cheek being pressed into him, its now her mouth and nose. It takes her by surprise, and her hands are quick to grasp at his thighs instinctively to push away. He doesn’t let her, though. “Do you not hear me? Beg.”

He hears her muffled voice alongside a gasp to breathe when he releases his grip a little. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Let me taste you,” she says, voice still muffled, still deprived of air. He pushes her head back towards him for a second before offering her a small reprieve once more. “Please…”

“My little whore wants to taste my cock?” He asks. She nods, stimulating him through his pants still. Oh, if he wasn’t so fascinated by the way it made him feel when she was hanging off his every word and move, he’d have just fucked her right then and get his release. This was more. “You’ll do more than taste it, sweetheart.

He lets her go forcefully, pushing her to the side so he can reach for pants. The button is practically ripped from its hole, lacing that hides his body loosened with rushed movements. It takes longer because he was rushing, even though he was trying to focus.

She’d done this many times before, taken him in her mouth and allowed him to do whatever he wanted. This was different though. She wasn’t doing anything, she was actively trying to hold back or resist him. Yet, he could feel how fast her heart was, he could feel how much she wanted him. She liked how rough he was being, and truthfully, so did he.

He spares her no mercy, hand still gripped in her hair to force her to take his whole cock down her throat. She wouldn’t be able to breath, yet alone go a second without the burning pain of his tip hitting the back of her throat. No words, only the muffled noises of her trying to cope with his size fill the air.

His silence, for the first time, lasts longer.

Because he enjoyed using her mouth as nothing more than a fuck toy, more than most other things.

He pulls her back and forth, up and down his length at the pace which he liked the most. His eyes fall shut, the vibrations of her noises sending a sensation right down the centre of his spine.

And the thought of her enduring the pain and discomfort, it got him so close.

Then when he opens his eyes and he’s greeted with the sight of her looking up to him, eyes and cheeks covered in tears that have made her perfectly applied eye make up start to run, it takes all his determination to not fill her dirty mouth with his seed and be done with her.

He pulls her away, lines of her drool still connecting his cock and her mouth, some even dripping from her lips as she whimpers gently. He laughs at the sight of her, amused by how he so easily wrecked her. “Look how pretty you are when you’ve been used as you should be. Good for nothing but pleasing me, aren’t you sweetheart?”

She nods feverishly.

“Such a mess, though,” he states, using his free hand to wipe the smudged make up and tears from her cheek. She bends into his touch. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today and want to taste what’s mine.”

Again, she’s discarded back over the bed, left to lay exposed to him with her shoulders and head resting against the wall. This way, she can still see him; likewise, he can look up to her when he needed a reminder of how innocent she looked. She opens her legs like it’s the routine she knows, the dulled white material of her dress hitched up around her hips and away from her thighs.

He doesn’t let his eyes leave hers as he moves forward. Mechanically, perhaps, but at the very least like it’s his routine too. He sees how she clenches the muscles in her thighs, her lower soft pink lip pulled between her teeth. Anticipation, fear; they were all the same to him.

He says little as he moves a finger along her wet slit, smirking as he sees her fingers sink into her dress. He have not guessed she was this ready, but he does think she may have drawn blood from how hard her teeth grasped her lips.

“All this from having having my cock in your mouth?” he questions, shuffling just a little closer. He puts this thumb straight to the bud of her pleasure, the pad moving in the slowest circles he could possibly make. “Or do you like it when I remind you what you’re good for?”

She nods, releasing her lip from where it’s held between her lip. No blood, but there’s a harsh mark that turns from white to a wine red.

She practically withers beneath him, like a flower starved of what it needs.

He would have stayed to watch her like his, but he had an intention he didn’t exactly want to miss. He moves down to her level, leaning on his elbows as he attaches his lips to her, his tongue running flat across her folds and to the sensitive, needing bud for a moment. The soft skin of her thighs brush against the sides of his face and he knows he’s right.

So he would make her enjoy it, ensuring his movements are agonisingly slow to force her closer to her edge and not any further. He can feel her squirm, and his response is a commanding hand on her hips to hold her still, which must have made it harder for her. He feels a small, cold hand reach for his on her hip. He’d allow it this time.

Right when he starts to feel her thigh muscles tighten, he moves back just a little so his touch is no longer. “You love that?”

She says something in response, though he can’t hear her. His voice vibrating against her had done more than anticipated.

“Of course you do,” he answers for himself, before moving back to her, “you’d love anything I did to you.”

He returns as he did before, mouth wrapped around her clit. Feeling somewhat generous, two of his fingers are used as a stand-by means to fuck her, and he knew exactly where to go to make her writhe from all the times before. Everytime he hears her soft little whimpers, he feels his cock twitch.

He’d not deprive himself of what he really wanted.

She whines as he pulls away, desperate eyes staring down at him as he moves to eye level. His brows are pulled together, nostrils slightly flared, and though he didn’t want to be annoyed with her, he did somewhat wish she’d fight back against him so he had the opportunity to hold her down and show her what he really could do.

But she’s happy to let him use her in anyway he wants, and he’s equally grateful for that.

“On your knees,” he commands, retreating back to stand over her. Still basically fully clothed, he pulls his loose shirt off, tossing it to the side. The pants, undone and covered in her drolls and sweat, are also removed. All the while she sits on her knees and watches.

He liked it better when she was clothed, really. It wasn’t her. She had a body free of scars and imperfections, like a doll constructed of the finest china. It was that if she remained clothed, it was a reminder that they were not the same. She was simply there for him.

The material of her dress is very thin, and he can see everything through it. No one else saw her, not that he would care if everyone here knew what she was. His personal cocksleeve that did nothing else.

He brings his hands to her breasts, proudly standing from her chest with peaked nipples, running his thumbs over both of them. He keeps his hand there for a moment, cupping their roundness as his draws his thumbs in small circles. Curiously, she still waits, practically dripping onto the bed. He’d spend his time on these another day, she knew it all belonged to him anyway.

As he brings his hands away, he spits on her cheek to add another decoration alongside the tears and smudged make up. She doesn’t even flinch. He shakes his head. “Stupid bitch who only knows how to be fucked. Turn over, I’m losing patience.”

She does as he says, movements concise but not as fast as he may have liked. She knew what he liked, head down ass up, with her head turned slightly to the side so he could watch her. It’s an automatic response now, she knows where she needs to be without further instruction.

He couldn’t give her the satisfaction of being perfect though. He takes his place behind her, heavy handed as he holds her body right where he needs it to be. She’s so thoroughly soaked that he doesn’t need to wait any long. Just his hand to guide his cock into her hole, and just as he starts she’s moaning in anticipation.

“I could break every bone in that little body of yours,” he sneers, pushing her down further. Just the tip, and she’s already arching her back into him. He pulls her hair so her head snaps back, just in ear shot to hear him clearly. “I bet you’d like that, though, knowing I’d used you as thoroughly as I possibly could.”

He can feel her shaking beneath him, she was used to his size, yet it always seemed to have such an effect. He doesn’t move, as much as his body wills him to, and instead he brings his free hand back to her centre, his finger directly on her soaked clit.

Not even a single counterclockwise turn and she cries out, incomprehensible words falling from her demure lips as she cums straight away for him.

He’s impressed, but equally unhappy.

“Did you really just cum from that?” he questions, disgust laced between his words. He silently laughs. “Well, I don’t care, as long as you do it again. Because unless you do it again, I won’t be do anything - and it's your job to get me off.”

Somewhere along the lines, she nodded. He remembered seeing it, but by the time his cock was in her to the hilt it was a blur of motion to him. She made this different, more than just a feeling or a need that needed tending.

He puts both his hands on her hips, grasping all the way until he felt bone. It gives him the luxury of controlling her, moving her body up and down like a doll. She does little more than clench around him, the overstimulation causing the small whimpers he hears, yet also causing her to push back into him.

“I bet you couldn’t go a day without me,” he states, to no one in particular. When this started, it was monthly or less, but now he found himself wandering down her elooking for the company of his helpless Catieve, the darling whore of the Primarch.

But he’d never admit that he needed it too.

He’d keep the narrative that he was down here for her, that she needed him so badly that he had to tend to her. There was no mention of how he craved those innocent eyes and sweet smile, or desiderated her company.

Particularly now, as he bounced her around on his body, he needed her to give into him and do as he asked.

“You don’t need to think about it, darling,” he says, vision darkening as he holds himself back, “ignore everything else, be a slave to how I’ve made you feel”.

He hears her moans, her cries. Once upon a time she’d have told him to slow down, that he was too big, but now she enjoyed it. Harder, she’d told him once. Now she just revelled in it; he knew what he was doing for her.

There were likely bruises on the skin of her hips for how tightly he held her. No reprieve was given, he’d admire the colours it produced on her skin anyway. Maybe he would give her a dark coloured dress too, just to balance it 0ut.

His left hand moves from her hip to her waist, a better grip for him really, and he continues to pound her from behind. He knew she was close, her arms had given up and she was solely relying on him to do this.

He can’t just allow her to not do as he says. She’s little more than a break for him. A way to see clarity. His voice sounds rough as he spits his final words to her. “This is all you’re here for, anyway.

He watches her features from where she lay, one side of her face pressed into the mattress, the other on display for him. As she tightens around him, luring a groan in response, her lips are parted and her eyes screwed shut. His jaw, tense from the scene, quivers slight as his hips stutter, barely any time between them lost.

“What a good little whore you are,” he mumbles, eyes closed as the words escaped her. He didn’t even mean to speak, he was trying to savour the moment. He holds her as close to him as he can, ensuring that every part of him is kept within her. As his eyes open, he’s drawn straight back to her, remarking the absent look in her eyes from coming undone twice so quickly, “...such a good fuck plaything, ready to be filled to the brim any time I’m down here asking.”

He withdraws with a lewd pop, a mix of them both dripping out of her. Without his support, she falls to the bed with little energy, ignoring the mess around her. She lays still, breathing heavy, mind filled with only him.

Though he watches her, only for a few seconds, she still does not move. Half of him wants to stay, do it all again and see how far he can push her. The other half wants to check she’s okay. He does recall that his presence was needed elsewhere, and his trip down here was not meant to take so long.

So he retreats, using whatever he could find on the floor around her to clean himself, before he picks up his clothes to replace them. As he pulls his shirt over his head, he can only watch her again. He should do something. The rag he used to clean himself is tossed in her direction so she could at least have some comfort.

He even feels the chill in the air and pulls the blank over her still body, just in case she felt too tired. As he pulls his boots back on, lacing them tightly, he observes her for anything, a word, a question, but she gives nothing. Maybe if she’d said something, asked him to stay, he’d have gone against his better judgement.

“I’ll be using you again, very soon,” he tells her, ready to leave. His words catch her, taking her from whatever world she had wandered into. Under the blanket she moves slowly, just so she can see him again.

A single nod of acknowledge is returned.

Part of him wanted to stay. He looks at her from where he stands at the door for a few moments, their eyes connected yet so absent from one another. He considers it. He really thinks about actually having a conversation outside of reminding her what she was to him; to everyone around here.

Maybe one day she’d be seen as more than a plaything for him, he’d have the regal looking woman at his arm and she’d be held in just as much respect.

One day, the Lion would act against his better judgement, and it would be because of his darling Catieve.

✧.✧

a/n: thanks for reading! I present my interpretation of the lion, which I hold very close to my heart, from my ao3 :)

#lion el'jonson x reader #Lion El'Jonson x oc #primarch x reader #primarch x oc #lion el'jonson #lua.wrt

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