weaponized-tiddies

[weaponized-tiddies]

Fall

The Night Haunter awakes from a troubling portent of the future and calls on the only son he could ever bring himself to tolerate to help deal with the lingering irritation.

Inspired by the events of The Prince of Crows. These lads are very much not alright. Given the extremely NSFW nature of this fic the majority has been hidden below the cut.

Warnings: Because I forgot these a general content warning for blood and gore, "creative" use of meathooks and other torture devices, all around power imbalance, a lot of corpses, and the fractured psyches of two very broken men. Also an excess of biting and scratching. So much biting and scratching. Not to mention Curze being overly possessive.

“Fall.”

Dorn had ordered of him with such cold regard. His throat had bled. His heart had burst. He had, despite his best efforts, done just that.

To one knee he had been forced in inglorious and false supplication. There, his world had gone black, there his dreams had finally failed him. There, he had finally known a sliver of peace.

Yet in the drifting black he'd found no respite. His Son had visited upon him even there. Of all his ill begotten children, Sevatar had ever been the most persistent. Even after the horrendous failure that had left him to bear the crimson of sin, he'd refused to leave his Primarch's side.

Jago had walked with him in his dreams and now, in the waking harshness of the Apothecarion he found himself staring into that emotionless scarred face. Sevatar had ordered that all other personal, including the mindless Servitors, clear the facility. There were none others to greet nor scold him.

The Night Haunter grunted, a breathy sound that pulled through the ragged recesses of his still healing trachea. He was becoming increasingly aware of his surroundings. Of the machines that forced sterile air into his lungs, of the twitching of ruined muscle beneath his skin, of the cloying scent of his own blood. His lips moved but no words escaped, only an airy and sibilant exhalation of his own failed whispers.

“Fall.” Jago whispered softly to him. It was one word. Such an innocuous thing and yet hearing it again incited him to rage. His hand shot out in his wordless snarl and he gripped his Son's throat, squeezing until no further words could fall from those treacherous lips.

Curze shot upright with a snarl, his pale lips peeling back from his serrated teeth as he jolted out of the nightmare. He shook his head vigorously to clear the remnants of the images that had haunted his already restless dreams. He stared blearily into the dark and at the kaleidoscope of twisting colours that wreathed his ceiling like a false night. It didn't take long for the hanging bodies to come into focus, swaying ever gently as they were in the circulated air. They existed in varying states of decay, a mixture of former serfs as well as his own former sons.

Sevatar, ever the curious creature that he was, had questioned this once too. “Why do you keep them, m'lord?”

“Company.” Had been his nugatory reply. It wasn't as if he could expect the man to understand even if he were to explain it. None of them could. None of them could hear them as he did. They did not suffer the burden of his terrible truth.

The Haunter's brows knit as he slowly became increasingly aware of the silence. Even the whispers of his ever present company were still that night. Had they too seen? He wouldn't linger on it, he couldn't. It would only drive him to fugue. He reached instead for the vox-caster that rested on his bedside table, keying the private intercom without needing to look to know just whom he hailed.

“Sev,” The Night Haunter's voice rasped forth, cold and dead in the equally unforgiving darkness that enveloped him. “My chambers, now.”

“Sire.” Sevatar acknowledged brusquely in return over the vox before silence fell once more.

Curze couldn't even bring himself to find irritation in his Son's laconic manner. He had long since grown used to it. It had once mildly irritated him but other the years he'd come to accept that Sevatar was a reticent and at times, taciturn man.

He arose, silent as the very night in which he hailed. He was part way to the door when it opened of its own accord and Sevatar stepped forth. The man was, as ever, midnight clad with thin streaks of lightning arcing in stark relief across his plates like a storm plagued night. He had always found this apropos, given the storm that forever raged behind those stern black eyes. Like him, Jago Sevatarion was a predator of nocturnal guile.

He extended a hand. His pale, corpse like digits unfurled in open invitation and he watched as Sev curled two wickedly clawed fingers just above his beating hearts in the traditional subservient salute of his people. This is my heart, that gesture said, may it speak truth or be removed from mine very breast. But Curze needed no such frivolities from this man. He knew the truth of Sev's hearts even better than Sevatar himself.

He remained statuesque until his Son finally approached him. A cold gauntlet slipped into his open palm and he curled deceptively powerful digits around the smaller hand. “Strip.” He ordered softly before dropping said hand.

His Son didn't even flinch, the man merely turned from him in silence, carefully weaving through the hanging bodies as he approached his Lord's writing desk. There he removed his helm from its maglock upon his belt, setting that aside. The rest of the armour was soon to follow, every piece set aside with care. Without the Imperium to rely upon, every Night Lord was on their own when it came to arming themselves thus. Most of what he wore had once belong to a Loyalist but now as every bit indistinguishable from that of his kin. He'd taken great care in its modification over the years and it showed. He hadn't bothered with his weaponry, he had no need for it. If his Primarch wished him dead, no bolter nor even his chainspear would stop that man and they both knew it.

Curze watched this all in continued silence. His intense scrutinizing gaze bore into the man's back with every motion. Once Jago stood before him in naught but his bodyglove he approached his Son and ran one claw up the artificial muscles of his beautifully wrought back. He caught the release at the back of Sevatar's neck and tugged down the fibrous cords to reveal the true flesh beneath. Slowly, his Son turned to face him as he stepped free from the previous confines of his own bodyglove and he felt the saliva run dry in his mouth and throat as intense black eyes met his own once more.

Sevatar was a creature wrought of cold beauty, his features chiseled from the purest alabaster and forged from the cast of countless wars. Scars marred the right side of his otherwise perfect face, almost seeming to trace the line of his skull and split his brow. A vicious laceration split down his lip and twisted his expression into a perpetually smug smirk. Further scars bloomed down the man's shoulders and across one broad pectoral. Briefly, his gaze flicked aside to the red gauntlets that now lay discarded across his otherwise disused work space. His Sin Eater had once resided here but age had long since taken the wheezened Psyker from him and thus it now fell to his First Captain to weather that burden in his stead. His hands found the soft curve of muscular hips as he drew Sev close and leaned in to sniff the man's throat. He narrowed his eyes with a quiet exhalation as he found other scents there. It came as little surprise to him. Sevatar was much like him in that he seemed to like very few among the Night Lords. He'd never seen the man so much as spare one of his Brothers a lingering glance.

But Sevatar held the one thing that every Night Lord sought and coveted close to their twisted, traitorous hearts. Power. Despite this, Sevatar had ever been an unflinchingly loyal Son, even in the disappointment of his failure. He lifted a hand and caressed his knuckles down one marred cheek as the smaller man's hands found his broad torso and braced against him. He could hear the racing of Sevatar's hearts and that only further piqued his own interest. A tingle ran down his spine and curled in his gut as he shifted his weight and without warning, he hoisted his loyal Captain against his hip.

He still wore his night silks, having not bothered to arm himself since his awakening. There would be no use in greeting his cruel angel as such. He carried the man to his bed, weaving through the copse of silent company that dangled from above. Once, when the Lords still guised themselves as Loyalists, he'd left their serfs attend that room but that had long since stopped. They knew now to avoid his chambers at all costs for to enter there unbidden were to join his ever growing collection. No longer did they clad his bed in superfluous opulence. He'd long since replaced silk sheets with quilts crudely sewn from the flesh of Man. He lay his favored Son within his bed of Sin, his black eyes narrowing as he watched his Astartes sprawl beneath him in his sinuous grace.

“Sire?” Sevatar cocked a brow as he caught Curze staring. No, not Curze. Curze was long gone. This was the predatory regard of the Night Haunter, the ink draped and terror soaked King of a now dead world. His only reply was the deceptively strong grasp of slender digits wrapped around his wrists. His claws curled against his palms as his hands were pinned above his head and his Sire's teeth dragged against his throat in dark promise. The only response Sevatar received was a sharp bite and it elicited a reedy moan that broke through the unnatural stillness of his Primarch's chamber as his body arched in his shameless need.

Jago Sevatarion was not a man prone to such indulgences. He wasn't the kind of man that touched himself in some futile effort to stave off the cold loneliness of the uncaring void. Nor was he one to utilize such efforts as a means to induce sleep. If anything he still largely avoided sleep, even now, with his powers having been awoken and better understood. He was no Talos, no great Prophet. His own visions were often just as fleeting as Talos' had been in the days before the geneseed degradation had become too much for him. He, however, didn't suffer the affliction of passing out for days or even weeks at a stretch. The dreams came when he slept and then fled as soon as he awoke, like criminals fleeing the consequences of their Sins. Not all his dreams came as nightmares, however. There were nights when he dreamt of his Primarch and those strong hands, stained as they forever were in the wages of terror, having their lurid way with him just as they did now.

On those nights he would awake drenched in sweat and he would touch himself just as he wished for Curze to touch him now. But no such touch came. His Sire continued to drink his fill until the pull of it became pain within his very veins. He grunted and shifted beneath the larger man but made no move to shirk him free as he fought his own instincts telling him to deal with the threat above him. It wasn't fear, he'd long ago lost all ties to that useless fetter. It was more a sense of restless need.

A wet gasp escaped him as Curze lifted him from the very bed by his throat, clasping him by the power of those sharpened teeth alone. His eyes rolled back in his head as his back was forced into a painful arch and his Lord finally deigned to touch him. His hands were free now and yet he still made no move to struggle or grasp as sharp claws scored up his torso, as cold and unyielding as the metal hooks that hung from the ceiling above. Had he been mortal, he'd have been in trouble for the amount of blood he'd already lost but he was no such weak creature and he would not plead like some delicate thing. Dagger like claws continued to rend shallow cuts that healed nearly as swiftly as they were laid. Every cut was the excision of a perceived failure, the very weight of his sins carved in a delicious agony that made his cock twitch with increasing need. His Primarch likewise took notice and without warning he was being dropped onto the bed again. The Haunter coiled before him like a great serpent ready to strike, his black eyes narrowed to dangerous slits in the all encompassing dark.

“Just look at you, Sev. You weep like a Nostramo whore.” His Primarch murmured in a voice like the wind whispering across a grave.

“Sire?” Sevatar merely quirked a brow at that. He finally moved his hands. His fingers touched one cheek but he found only dry flesh and his confusion only grew.. That was until he felt a sharp claw caressing up the underside of his shaft and catching the precum leaking from the darkening head. Sevatar flicked his gaze down and then cocked a brow with a smarmy smirk that prompted the Haunter to withdraw his hand with a disquieted grunt.

“You aren't like this. Stop.” The Haunter warbled and it was a moment of unexpected introspection that gave Sevatar pause.

They had helped relieve each other of their stresses once before but it never seemed to surprise and on occasion, even unsettle his Sire. Konrad had grown up in a place where sex was a weapon, a tool, another means of exerting power or robbing others of it entirely.

Sevatar slowly sat himself upright, one leg tucking over to hide his lingering excitement as he caressed his claws along his Sire's jaw. “Nostramo is gone, Sire. Come back to me.” He whispered in soft knowing before pressing a hand to his Primarch's chest. The Night Haunter bared his rows of shark like teeth with a snarl of warning even as he allowed himself to be laid low for the time being. Sevatar played a dangerous game… But it was a game that he alone could engage in and hope to survive in any measure.

Survival, however, didn't necessarily warrant success. He had begun to kiss his way down his Primarch's chest when a spindly hand caught him by his shortly cropped locks and pulled him back forcefully. His breath caught as his throat worked and he froze in place atop his lord. Before he could even so much as bark in protest he was being grabbed by his throat and slammed into the wall behind the bed. His breath left him in an involuntary exhalation and his twin hearts hammered in his ears as his world momentarily became a haze of motion. He barely even heard the wet thump of the corpse hitting the floor. It was the sudden flare of delicious pain that drew his attentions as he was suddenly lifted onto a now empty meat hook and dropped down. It pierced up just beneath his clavicle, cutting sharp through the meat of his shoulder. He reached and caught the chain with a shuddered moan as his knees found his Sire's hips and squeezed against them to better support his now hanging weight.

Any mortal man, right of senses and sane of mind would have begun to scream and thrash at that juncture. But not Sevatar. He moaned hotly in his shameless need as he arched himself against his Sire. Curze was still holding him by the throat and he licked his lips in anticipation as he writhed within the man's grasp. His Lord squeezed his throat and he reveled in the burning of his lungs and the pinpricks of light that flashed across his vision. His eyes rolled back as he was released and suddenly his full weight hung from the chain as the Primarch release him. He swayed gently when the other pulled free entirely, not even granting him the succor of being able to counterbalance his own weight.

“Sire, could you at least..?” Sevatar motioned to his still free hanging shoulder. But the Haunter ignored him, only turning to face him again once he'd retrieved whatever had held his focus so.

The Haunter pulled more chains down and he finally got his much sought relief as a second hook shot up through his uninjured shoulder. He curled his fingers around the chains that now supported his full weight, his gaze heavily hooded as his Sire bent forward before him. One leg draped over the larger male's muscled thigh and he shifted his weight with an inviting rumble as he felt something cold and metallic prodding his tight hole. His toes curled and he cried out shamelessly into the acoustically amplified chamber as the bulbous object was shoved forcefully up inside him. It opened up like a flower of pain and he heard the distinct metallic click of a lock. He knew that object and it typically went in different orifice entirely, a jaw breaking device that he'd once heard aptly referred to as the Pear of Anguish.

“Who touched you?” The Haunter growled in harsh demand as he pressed his thumb against the underside of Sev's throbbing length and rubbed him roughly.

“Si-ah!” Sev arched into that much needed touch, his focus momentarily sundered under his Lord's sudden attentions. “… Sire?”

“I smell them in your skin.”

His Lord snarled in his open disgust and the sight of it sent a pleasant shiver down Sevatar's spine. He loved it when Curze acted so possessive over him, even if he tried his best not to openly show it. It flared something in his heart akin to pride. What they had couldn't be quantified as love, there was no warmth between them, no sense of gentleness. He was little more than a possession, a weapon. Curze's weapon. His Night Haunter's weapon.

He rolled his head back momentarily and licked his teeth. “Krail, Vorfan,” A brief, deliberate pause. “Lucoryphus.” That last name in particular was one of the few among them that he himself had remotely tolerated. He had, on some level been curious. The Bleeding Eyes Commander was so very far from Astartes. He still spoke like a man but he walked as a beast and Sevatar had found his mutations both revolting and fascinating. The memory of it was still fresh. The way that inhuman, prehensile cock had slipped up inside him and-

He was drawn out of his recollection by a rough hand squeezing his jaw and he quirked his lip into a smarmy, deathly rictus of a smile as he met his Lord's burning glare.

“You let that lerra sully you, like a shrilla.” Curze whispered dangerously.

“Shrilla are paid, Sire.” Sevatar snapped back.. And so did his head as he was promptly slapped. The pain bloomed exquisitely as he felt several teeth come lose. He worked his jaw even as his Primarch's fingers curled around it once more, holding him so painfully tight that he couldn't even turn his head.

“They are not to touch you again,” Curze hissed. “If they try. Kill them.”

It was a concise order that sent a pleasant shiver down Sevatar's spine. He'd never shown any qualms with fratricide and he wasn't about to start now.

“Understood, Sire.” Sevatar tilted his head as best he could into that vice grip.

Before he had time to even think his Lord was on him. He could taste the blood and decay clinging to Curze's teeth as he was drawn into a deep and claiming kiss and he freely invited his Sire in with a shameless moan, so very, as Curze liked to continually remind him, whorish.

He felt the Haunter's massive cock rubbing against his own and he pressed himself shamelessly forward, his knees squeezing against powerful hips once more. He wanted nothing more than to feel that cock up inside of him, to be split open on his Primarch's generous girth but Curze would not give that to him. That was his punishment for the Sins of his flesh. The price he was to pay for smelling like other men. He could smell it in the Haunter's very skin. That mingling of rage and disgust.

It was a realization that curled strangely in his gut, almost like fear… But he had not known fear for many long years now. This was something else entirely, something neither of them would dare ever openly admit. Sevatar would bury his face against his Sire's collarbone and accept his just punishment as claws and teeth raked his skin and harsh words of rebuke whispered into the shell of his ear.

---------------------

Sevatar had awoken to find that he was right where his Lord had left him, still suspended from the ceiling, pressed in now between two new and familiar bodies. He recognized them immediately even without their skin. Krail and Vorfan. Krail.. He hadn't much cared for. The man had wanted something from him and he'd toyed with him just to see the pain in his eyes once he'd realized he was chasing a cruel ghost. He'd been one of their younger Astartes, still just barely ascended to full status from a Scout, still so very… Human and that flaw had proved his undoing. Vorfan… He had remotely tolerated as a Battle Brother at best. But no Lucoryphus. The Haunter either hadn't caught or had for some reason or another decided to spare that one.

He licked his teeth, his throat was dry and his insides ached from the continued presence of Konrad's little toy. His shoulders also ached, supported as he still was by both hooks. He could have reached down and dealt with that insufferable little toy. The punishment certainly would've been worth it.. But Jago Sevatarion was nothing if not a patient man.

He was drawn out of his examination of his flayed Brothers by movement, his juthai’lah suddenly locking onto the skulking figure of-

“Moroehthe.” He greeted in Nostramo as he made out those familiar pale features in the dark.

“Sev,” Curze greeted curtly. “I disciplined them for you.”

His Sire was in a mood, he could already tell by the way the man approached him. He dropped his hands and danced his claws across his Sire's broad shoulders as the Haunter stepped in close. Curze had no Black Carapace to speak of, the Primarchs were above such menial things. His Lord bit his jaw and he tilted his head back invitingly as he felt one hand slipping up beneath his leg. He rolled his hip to grant Curze greater access. A loud groan of protest escaped him as Curze suddenly grasped the base of the Pear and ripped it free without even bothering to close it first. He curled his scarred lip at the squelching pop and subsequent sensation of aching emptiness. His protestations died on his tongue as the toy hit the ground with a clanking of metal and two thick, clawed digits took its place inside him.

“Still?” Curze furrowed a brow as if surprised by how swiftly Sevatar rose to attention.

“With all due respect, Sire, you did just leave me hanging here…” Sevatar couldn't quite resist and it was clear from the Haunter's expression that he may just have pushed his luck. To the man's credit, he didn't pull free and just leave him there at least. Curze wrapped an arm around him and lifted him. He took the indication and slid the hooks free as best he could. It was sloppy and painful work and at some point Curze's fingers slid free from his depths to help him. He grunted absently as the hooks finally slid free from flesh and bone and he allowed himself to momentarily slouch against the other's broad chest.

The Night Haunter lay him once more upon the bed of human skins, those of his Brothers now among them. But he cared not for that particular detail. He cared only that his Sire was climbing atop him and pressing down with his full weight. He reveled in the shortness of breath, in the way his bones ached, in the sensations of fire in his gut when his beauteous Primarch finally claimed him. There was nothing gentle in their coupling, no approximation of the flurry of biting, clawing, and clashing of flesh could even be remotely considered making love but to Sevatar, it was the closest and purest bond he had ever shared with any other living being in all of his years.

If he could feel love, it would be the raw, dedicated passion he held for the Night Haunter.

---------------------

Notes: Lerra = dog Shrilla = Whore, female derogatory Juthai’lah = Preysight Moroehthe = Leader, primary/Primarch

[weaponized-tiddies]

My relationship with Curze in a nutshell.

“He did all that shit BUT we still love him!” Wrong. We love him for doing all that shit. Doing that shit is central to what is interesting and convincing and beautiful. “That shit” is a part of him and you can’t un-love it after you fall in love with him

[weaponized-tiddies]

Getting absolutely shitfaced and accidentally decimating a small town.

For what these two were arrested, decide for yourself.

[weaponized-tiddies]

Someone in a discord I frequent once said "Astartes should be ugly like their Primarchs." I think of that often. Which Primarchs? 'cause all the ones I've seen just look fantastic. Even this monster of a man.

The Avenging Son // The Great Angel

By Golden Peach Chen

[weaponized-tiddies]

Blåhaj

meme comm <3

[weaponized-tiddies]

I remember reading somewhere that in the 40k universe there is a phenomenon known as "transhuman panic" wherein normal mortals regard Astartes as being uncannily perfect and now I understand why. These guys are absolutely huge, 8-9ft average seems to be the general consensus when it comes to modern art/videogame depictions and on top of that they've gone and made them ungodly gorgeous. I believe the appropriate term for this phenomenon is "Scaroused."