the number 1 rule of fanfic is have fun and be yourself. the number 2 rule is the average healthy adult male can lose roughly 2 liters of blood before dying.
my night lord OC Gwynek (and Tiberian, top left, who is an ultramarine apothecary but more importantly the unfortunate recipient of getting imprinted on by a displaced and traumatized chaos marine). this night lord is happy and thriving!
now for the lewdity yum yum eat up @noxassula..... also... COME GET YOUR TAGS PEOPLE!!!!! @yourlocalnautilus @sinistermojo @kit-williams @grimdark-raccoon @primarisly-marooned @ma1dmer @yestheantichrist @yesthe-artblog @pluvio-tea @bispecsual @historitor-bookshelf @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @lemon-russ @blackstarangel @the-raven-lady @thevoidscreams @mothiir @undeaddream @tanknode @beckyninja @justfreakynothingelse if anyone wants on or off the taglist lmk you know the routine!! sorry if i forgot anyone btw <3
When he returns next, it has been another long week.
Pointedly, he finds himself standing under a broken gutter for five minutes to at least attempt to cleanse himself of some of the gore coating him. The water is filthy too, but he has little other options left so last-minute.
His dark hair is plastered to his face, and he is only freshly freed of stinging metal nuisances beneath his skin. It had taken hours to claw each one of the shotgun slug's pellets out of his thigh meat, to say nothing of the broken glass.
He had sustained the wound attending a corrupt political banquetâattending without the knowledge of the patronsâin which he tailed and butchered his way through four different two-faced criminal prosecutors and one scheming attorney general.
To say nothing of the dozens upon dozens of hired thugs they brought with them.
But it is done now.
And he has thoughts he seeks to refine through you.
But when he returns to your boudoir, somewhat clean from his rinse under the stale rainwater, he finds it a ransacked rat-nest.
He abandons his usual entryway, and goes through the front instead. The whole scene stinks of a gang related dereliction. There's signs of it in the sprayed symbols across the faux-velvet walls and the stage. The place has been ransacked with rushed purpose, not frenzy. Tables have been overturned and stripped bare. The bar is gutted, taps torn out, shelves smashed, and every single bottle on the bar's shelving has been drunk, then obliterated across the floor. Someone took everything worth carrying and broke the rest out of spite. There are indications of a fight everywhere: a dropped magazine near the service desk, bullet holes sprayed across the far wallâfresh footprints, all different tread patterns and different weights, overlapping and smeared through dust and spilled drink; pointing in conflicting directions, none of them yet faded. The private booths look worse. Privacy screens have been smashed in and their frames bent outward as if someone was dragged or thrown through them. One booth wall is blown all the way through, leaving a jagged hole that exposes wiring beyond.
He stalks down the long passage lined with dancer's rooms and enters yours. The door is wide open, and there's signs of a struggle here, too. The mirror vanity you usually sit at is cracked but not shattered, fractures radiating from a single, violent impact. The bulbs around the frame are smashed unevenly, leaving a few still glowing beside dark sockets. Powder and pigment are smeared across the countertop in frantic handprints. Your clothes are everywhere, moreso than usual.
The room feels too-hot, suddenly.
His brain swells in it's cavity for a moment. A pinched, shrill ringing resounding in his ears as his mind takes him.
He sees dark, depthless eyes peering into yours and ice cold hands against your skin. He sees your gaudy robe plunged into scarlet, and smells your perfume mixing with bile and blood. A gunshot echoes in the blackness, and a thud. A gurgling scream, the hiss of a death rattle.
The Night Haunter sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying at it with his teeth.
He wants to be there see you die, at the very least.
Around him, everything stinks of dust and fear... but also decay. He finds you have managed once again to take at least one moronic pursuer down. A pair of scissors to the throat seem to've been your weapon of choice this time. His so-called gang mates have left his corpse behind to rot in your ensuite.
So, the Night Haunter drags him out into the corridor and frisks the cadaver.
Wherein he discovers two things at once. The man's affiliation, and an invitation to an event in the outer hive.
It is all he needs to know.
On the outer fringes of the southwest district, he finds where they are trading in flesh and beasts. He has not been out this way, yet. There is too much filth to purge from the main heart of the sprawling hive to manage a venture to it's edges.
He eyes a massive series of derelict buildings, all covered in gang signs and spray-painted vulgarity. The defacement upon both housing and gutted warehouses extends even down to the cracked roads.
And in the background, he sees a yawning stadium.
The structure itself is immense, even by Nostraman standards; and is likely the centrepiece of the greater entertainment quarter. A passtime now long lost to the populous. Yet it still stands, bullet holes and viscera stained and etched into the walls and floor.
The stands of the amphitheater that are exposed to the corrosive rains could likely seat a minor cityâor two. He can imagine it. Tens of thousands packed into the tiered gantries welded onto old support beams. It almost looks like a ribcage, cracked open and splayed.
Each echelon encircled by ruined arcades and broken balustrades framed on the exterior by engaged columns.
It is then that he hears voices.
Yelling and howling to one another, he smells human waste and booze and smoke; and so he stalks deeper into the subterranean layers of the arena, to hunt in the structure's entrails. Dead strip lights flickering and boot prints among the debris show him the way. The walls are pock-markedâlayered with peeling industrial insulation, old warning decals half-buried beneath grime, and streaks of rust that look like dried blood.
Even from the confines of one of the many winding hallways, he can hear echoes reverberate loudly off the corridors. He cannot rightly distinguish screams from laughter. They are both too syncopated by the rattling of old pipes. Filthy, polluted water drips down on his head from them, running down the thick line of his nose; and he has to fight against the urge not to shake his head like a hound at the unwanted dousing.
There must be a busy street or an ordinance factory just above the tunnels, rattling the earth and sending percussive vibrations through the ground. Be they the clamour of the trapped or the merriment of trappers, or the awful rumble and shaking creak; the sounds all in unison nearly dizzy him.
He wants to snarl at the overload of noise to his keen ears, he wants to back himself into a corner and hiss.
But it will not do, and he stalks on.
In one large room, doors line the walls. Each filled with sobbing baselines. And when he looks down, he finds a man's body laying at his feet, in the early stages of rigor mortis, missing an arm.
He has seen him before.
He is one of the hired muscle that attended to the girls who worked alongside you, one of the guards outside that night at the entrance when he first slipped into the boudoir.
He has been visibly tortured.
The Night Haunter steps over him, and follows the long, red drag marks that lead from the body. The blood-path leads further down a causeway to a rust-scabbed blast door that marks the threshold.
The gang has welded layers of scrap plating over the original structure, leaving only a narrow, jagged opening just wide enough for a single person to pass through. A flickering red lumen glows above it, casting a red halo onto the grime-caked floor.
The screams and laughter are coming from there.
He, understandably, struggles for moment to fit his tall frame through the gap.
He is not particularly stocky for all his great height, but he is agileâand yet still the fact remains it is not sized to allow something like him through. His persistence rewards him in the end, even if it shreds the last scraps of his tunic off him.
The Night Haunter stifles the grumble that wants to bubble up his throat at the door's theft.
Instead, he scopes the room.
A half-functional loading crawler sits in one corner of the room. In the other, a welded-together forkliftâpainted in the gang's colorsâresting with its' tines buried in a pallet of stolen munitions. And in the centre, you are being tormented. One brute has your arms pinned behind you and a woman is settled between your thighs with a knife in hand, leaning over you. There's flesh blood on the air, and all over your robe, and they are laughing.
Two men are smoking a few paces away, observing the whole ordeal with only distant interest.
He claws their throats open from behind and yet, he still isn't noticed; the others are too distracted.
It makes it awfully easy to close the distance.
All at once, he begins.
It takes a fraction of a fraction of a second for him to be upon them, and even less than that for him to land a blow. Skin sloughs back around his fist in red, frayed petals from the woman's caved-in chest. He has driven straight through. The force of the blow renders the surrounding meat to paste, with minimal effort on the Night Haunter himself's part.
The sound of communications interference sparking to life only makes him angrier.
The man shrieks: "C-Cargo bay four!" into the receiver.
He yanks his bloody hand out of the woman, and her body falls limp; then he lunges forward to reel the manâwho'd been restraining you, but is now scrambling away, ham-fisting a radioâback in by the ankle like a speared fish.
"The Night Haunter i-is here! He'sâ" the words drown to screams in the man's throat as he's dragged right over the top of you, and all but riven into two halves.
Sometimes the sheer disparity of strength he wields disgusts him. It feels all too simple to take life. All too quick. The lessons in order and law that he wants to teach take timeâtime and effort, moreoverâbut baselines are fragile, and their thin forms break so very easily before his reckoning is complete.
You scramble out from under the two corpses, shaking and stinking of adrenaline. You are also covered in gore, which, considering the circumstances is rather fair enough.
But the maddest part of the whole situation occurs: you spring towards himâclambering to himâtouching him, jarringly. The Night Haunter has never had hands that weren't clawing to get away against him. Your palm skates across his oblique, finding purchase on his filthy bicep and tugging.
"G-Get me the fuck out of here!" You sob, wracked by tremors like a wind blown bag, and all but latched on him.
He stands, and your hold on him coincidentally aids you to your feet.
When you detach, you sway, woozy, and he notices under the bloody crusting across your face that something is missing.
Your other eye, to be exact.
He has no time to dwell on it, and immediately sets about leaving. He wants to exit the way he came in, but a loud, thunderous crash echoes. The entire subterranean system shakes. Controlled, sequential detonations ravage through the hallways he'd stalked through not two minutes earlier. They have planned for him to come for them eventually, then. He knows the earth will start falling well before it actually doesâand snatches you by the back of your tattered robe.
He doesn't know why he does. Only that it happens, and that you do not fight it.
A maintenance tunnel behind the loader remains unscathed by the rigged explosions, and he's halfway down it by the time the former room's ceiling collapses.
You are curled up on yourself in the air like a battered pup held by the scruff, and for a moment he is unsure what exactly to do to remove himself from the situation he put himself into.
He lowers you slowly, and stares.
You manage to stay standing as his grip leaves you, and look up at him. Your dressing robe is blotched brown with blood. He sees now the full extent of your wound. It spoils careful hours of applying make-up, far more than the tear-smudging of your mascara and the grime of the arena's innards.
Even in the dark, your blood is a shocking burst of colour to his enhanced eyes. It's smeared across half your face, dripping from your nose, and the same vivid cochineal as your painted lips. The Night Haunter triesârather vainlyânot to look too closely at the gouged site, lest some ghastly vision of him sticking his tongue in it steals him into fits. Some vision of warm, wet flesh, stringing membranes against his gums, rich and the colour of dried ochre.
Oh, what it would be to gleam the life you have had in that burst of taste.
It almost happens.
He leans down slightly, bidden by an urge twitching in him on a molecular level. He can smell the particles of blood in the damp air. It taunts him. His mind flickers at the edges with the after-image of the possibility. He sees you, thenâin a different reality, in a new future. He sees that in the hazy alternative place you are in a dark robeâarranging yourself into a pile of skins and dark, plumate throws on a raised block of hewn rock.
The perspective shifts, and he cranes his neck; only to see you are suddenly below him, not quite awake. The facial wound you wear now, in the present, is a scar that's healed over into a deep cicatrix.
Your hand reaches out and touches the top of his.
The him that-is-not-him rolls his wrist to hold your hand softly, but the illusion of gentleness quickly shatters.
He's on you then, three times your size and inconsolable with the want for violence. He hears an echo of a shriek. Then his sharp nails find purchase enough to breach, drawing bloodâand the screaming turns to mad laughter.
The Night Haunter takes a step back from you in the now, and bites down on his tongue so hard with his molars he can taste his own ichor.
It is enough to de-rail himself the trance.
It would do no good to fall to convulsions.
So he turns, keeps his head straight, and allows his vision to tunnel down the long, filthy hallway.
He starts to walk, and you follow.
You stride a pace behind him, cycloptic and half-feral from the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your pain has taken precedent over your fear, and makes you obedient. But if you knew what horrors beckoned in his mind like viral electricity, would you be so willing to trail behind?
Nonetheless, you do.
You follow him into the warren of collapsed transit shafts and forgotten service corridors sealed off centuries ago. He suspects there is a culvert ahead somewhere, and seeks it out. That is, if the sound of water is any indication of an exit.
Naturally, nothing is ever easily said and done for the Night Haunter.
He notices you are both not the only ones in the tunnels. He can hear two foreign heartbeats well before they can even begin to conceive they, too, are not alone. He hunts the sound of their bodies through the dark passages.
Coming to a halt at the threshold of a small, breaker-filled enclave.
In less than a heartbeat, he has taken note of the man, clad in waterlogged gang-colours and trying to shoulder open the safety barricade on a fire-escape for a woman in a short, filthy dress.
He prepares to lunge, but your footfall behind him scrapes a few pebbles of debris across the ground.
The sound gives him away, and the pair spin about-face.
A scream tears from the woman's throat, and a sharp, thin-lipped grimace of horror spreads across the man's face; a look of panic glazing his eyes.
Displeased, the Night Haunter shoots a scathing glance at your mistake.
You stare up at him dumbly, only half-aware of yourself, but fearfully shrink back into the dark regardless.
The instant the Night Haunter looks back at the pair, the man has his weapon drawn and is aiming it at him. It always irks the Night Haunter that the filth of man think yelling curses and waving guns at him will fend him back. As if the bullets are not just temporary inconveniences. As if he's not going to just pick them out of himself later, as usual. As if there's a chance he's going to throw his hands up and yield to them. If he's completely honest, sometimes, the sheer audacity is almost amusing. But not in situations like the current one, when the only viable exit is within sightâand he's just about had enough mortal stupidity for one night.
"Back the fuck up!" The man screams, shaking so heavily with terror he looks almost spasmodic. "Back up, asshole! Darla, stay beside me, dollâ"
Despite the man's efforts, the Night Haunter takes a heedless step forward.
In answer, the thug tightens his hold on the weeping young woman, who cries out. He tilts his head to the side, his gaze never leaving her. He thinks... he thinks he recognises her as one of the entertainers in the windows. Yes. Yes, that's it... her boudoir room is two doors down from yours. She is the one of short, lithe figureâall big hair, red lips and batted lashes. Her Nostraman is sharp slang, a series of words that betrays her ageâshe isâshe is begging the man to run with her.
It is then that the Night Haunter notices she is not battered.
She is not in your state, she is not abused and covered with the marks of a struggle.
She is not ravaged, like her coworkers.
Moreover, why is she gallivanting about with a gang marked fool? Is she a willing captive? A turncoat? A trap?
It does not matter.
He does not really care.
"Noâno, no! No! Stay back!" The thug screams when the Night Haunter takes another step forward, focus shifting back to him.
The woman, Darla, tugs the man's arm, trying to get him to flee again. But he is too busy flailing his firearm around at the Night Haunter to even consider anything remotely close to a good idea.
Abruptly, the partially compromised ceiling above creaks, displacing a few shards of rubbleâspooked, the man flinches sidelong, looking up atop the woman; his stray fingers pressing down on the trigger.
A shot rings out.
Blackened crimson splatters against the wall to his side.
Then, a body falls away beside him, and slackens to the floor with a thunk.
The thug's gun clatters to the concrete beside the girl not a second laterâand, as he wavered on his feet in a daze, he lets out a wheezing, dry sob as his knees drop out from under him.
The Night Haunter watches the man realise what he's done.
Naturally, the reality of his actions dawns upon him far slower than it does the Night Haunter. Still, it gives him the rare opportunity of seeing it crystallise in the man's eyes, alight with clear mortification despite that planet-typical voided out sclera.
It's then that he lunges at last, when the gravity sets in, already fully across the room in fractional seconds and lifting the man by the collar of his filthy fatigues.
Panting through his nose wildly, the man's hands scrape uselessly at a grip three times his own. Almost insensible with panic, he clouts the Night Haunter across the chin; all to no effect. And, even more foolishly, his legs kick out regardless of the inescapable hold, snarling and crying; but struggle just irritates the Night Haunter more.
The thug screams bloody-murder when he collides with the back wallâthe sound less a thunk like his woman, and more a crackâlikely having had his shoulders shattered on impact.
Then, the Night Haunter's huge hand grabs for his chin, violently seizing it and coincidentally wrenching his jaw open past the point of dislocation with the ease of a door torn off it's hinges. All that, just to lay a punch into the cavity of the forced open maw with such force his fist caves his skull in instantly. But, the Night Haunter doesn't stop thereâno, an example must be madeâhe continues delivering blows in quick, excessive succession until nothing but a smear of viscera remains above the thug's neck in a matter of seconds. Brain matter, sundered flesh and bone shards coating all the way up his sallow forearm in clotting chunks, red and pink and white froth mixing thickly into a mucilaginous slurry.
Dropping the man's brutalised corpse to the floor, he watches as it spasms once then stills.
It is almost blissful that hadn't even needed to think about doling out that judgment.
Abruptly, he hears a gagging behind him in the now-quiet room, and he hones his gaze silently on the lifeless woman across the room.
For a brief moment, he thinks it's hers.
He thinks, impossibly, that the collateral is not so.
But she is long gone.
In a few slow footfalls, you have moved out of the corridor to stand over her; and remain lingering upon the cusp of the puddle of dark blood pooling slowly around her head and neck.
Your breathing has picked up, and then comes that sickly gagging sound again. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thudâgoes the deafening, prey-quick beat of your heart as ever.
You settle into a squat, hesitantly reaching for the woman's body. Your hand pulls away once, twice, thrice; before at last you tentatively rest a palm upon her, patting the girl's hair mournfully.
"She is dead," the Night Haunter says.
You stop hyperventilating and stand, wherein a short interim of quiet resounds before your voice rises, thin in your throat; "I-I know."
"I did not kill her," he says too quickly, almost prematurely.
"I know," you sigh, gathering together the scraps of your mind; but he knows all too well the sound of distress by now to recognise it behind your ploy.
Silence stays thick on the stagnant air for a long while.
Until, at last, he offers; "I had foreseen a courtesan dying tonight."
A sharp inhale, and then you ask shakily, "Y-You see things?"
"You will die in the dark," he notes flatly, "I wrongly assumed it would be today," only to digress; "It seems instead... a later time, then."
"I-Is that supposed to be good or bad news?" You cringe at him, still stammering with shock despite your heartbeat slowing. He stares at you through the curtain of his dark hairâin some black humoured wayâhe finds the expression almost comically lob-sided.
"Neither," he rasps, and easily opens the door the now-dead man had been struggling to.
You, thankfully, do not continue speaking after that.
The exit leads to a small rampart up to street level, and upon forcing open that door, too; it is raining again. The precipitation falls in heavy sheets, warm and oily, streaked with chemical tang that douses the gore off his his skin and hisses where it hits exposed, dead lampposts along the street. Rather unsurpisingly, the rain turns the walk back to your ransacked club into a long, soggy, miserable corridor. It leaks from places it should not, it seeps through cracked buildings, and runs in thin black streams along the ground. He notices that for once there are no passersby, no sense of lifeâthere is only the steady hiss of water and the distant groan of machinery buried deep in the hive's spineâthe explosions have likely spooked the populace of this rung into cowardice, for the time being.
The path he has chosen is simply for the fact the lights are worse. It hides him better. He does not like moving at street level if he can help it, typically. He does not like the fact there is a chance of being seen to begin with, but he cannot take you the ways he normally traverses. You cannot make the jumps, nor manage the climbs.
Streetpost-lumens flicker or stay dark entirely overhead, leaving long stretches of shadow where the rain disappears before it meets the ground. When a light does work, it is jaundiced and weak; revealing peeling paint, rust blooms, and old warning sigils half-scraped away.
Your footsteps echo dully behind him, swallowed almost as soon you make them.
When he finally reaches the ransacked club with you in tow, he is not surprised to enter and see a vagrant already taking up the space under one of the tables.
The human is slumped, wrapped in a stained coat, face hidden, breathing slow enough to make the Night Haunter linger. But the reek of freshly smoked lho-sticks makes him turn his nose up in disgust. Lung-blight has the mortal in it's clutches much like a vast majority of Nostramo. He can hear alveoli strain, clotted by tar and chemical taint; and knows death is on it's way. It is because of this the Night Haunter is acutely aware he does not need to intervene. The human is already on the proverbial way out.
You walk ahead abruptly, not even noticing the vagrant with your blunt baseline senses. For a moment, it is not the fact you are blind to the company that confuses him, but the fact you decide it is your place to lead.
In the end, he is not entirely too dedicated to caring about it.
So he tails you, following behind. The rain has soaked your dressing robe nearly translucent. Blood blotches in thick bands atop the outline of flesh stuck to the fabric. It clings so close he can see the dimples of flesh above the back of your hips.
He watches and says nothing in warning as you nearly trip over the cold corpse you made of one attacker he'd dragged into the dark corridor earlier.
A gurgle of disgust leaves you as you kick it a little, and then step over it.
Your boudoir is still a mess, and you disappear into the bathroom.
Without prompting, the Night Haunter easily moves your tall wardrobe across the room to block the doorway.
He does not entirely trust the barricade, but he does not entirely care. If something, or someone tries to break through it; he is irritable enough to savage them without a second thought. He also doesn't trust you, but you are small and weak and wounded, and he knows you won't try to make an enemy of him anytime soon.
You leave the bathroom stinking of alcohol, with a half-empty bottle in your hand. It seems to a recurring solution for you to cope with the innate fear he inspires.
Rather absurdly, you are smiling to yourself as you stare at the swill; only to hold out the container to him. It seems you are trying, impossibly and despite better judgment, to fashion an ally from him with generosity.
It will not work.
"I do not want your poison," he hisses, and drops to a crouchâonly to organise himself to sit cross legged. He is unusually tired this night. It has been a long, long week. Full of trivialities that have all but sucked him dry. He has not even dared a moment's rest in a ten-day, and he is beginning to feel the burn of it behind his eyes.
"So..." you start meekly, manoeuvring to mirror; sitting yourself in-front of him with the bottle between your thighs. "Why did you save me? ...again?"
"I did not do it for you," he answers flatly. "Your life has no bearing on the fact law had to be dealt."
"It seemed pretty intentional," you huff, looking down at the lip of the bottle longingly.
Hypothetically, if it was an intentional, grand rescue: in the moment, he surely would have spared even half a thought for the other fools still in their cages when the ceiling collapsed. Which he hadn't in the slightest. He would also tell you that your own coworker likely sold you out for the sake of credits and an easy get-away with her paramour. He would tell you about all of that, but his mind cannot fashion a way to use the fact as leverage for why he hadn't saved you on purpose. Because it both contradicts his argument and benefits it in equal parts, aggrivatingly. As far as you are aware, he may very well have just been in the area hunting the thugs already. Not that he searched a corpse, tracked after your attackers; killed them and the one who betrayed you, and led you home.
So, he settles on merely staring down at you and hissing, "It was not."
You abruptly look up at him.
"Then... what? All this is fate?" You breathe, still letting words leave you despite the very clear irritation he's trying to telegraph. At last, you end your yapping by snarking; "Or some weird divine, angelic intervention?"
The sentiment disgusts him on an atomic level. He is no angel, he is not here at the behest of some god's pithy will. And if he is an angel, then he is surely the blackest, most dreadful one anything living or dead could surely bring into being.
"It was predetermined," he rumbles, "Your end has already happened, as far as the future is concerned."
"So why bother?" The question is almost a sigh as you lift the bottle up to your lips to take another heavy gulp, finishing it, "Why bother with anything?"
He does not know how to respond to that, at first. He frowns, thinking. Another thing he has not been spurred to ponder upon yet, brought to his attention by your mouth.
"Because you must," he rumbles, with no great sum of words to offer in inspiration.
Just like him, you have to carry on, carry on until you die.Â
You scoff, "That's not true."
The touch that follows catches him by surprise; but there is a familiar urgency to it. You are not scrambling for a hold like before this time, and he does not entirely know how to shake it off. It is trembling, and small against his knee. The rest of you is shaking, too. The adrenaline has clearly not worn off, and neither has the horror of his continued presence on your baser mind. It's the act of a kicked animal seeking comfort, and he is not capable of comprehendingânor fulfillingâsuch a task.
Or perhaps it is an attempt at securing another inevitable rescue.
He is not interested either way.
"You cannot even conceive what is to come," he says, instead. "I have seen it."
"I want to know," you offer, and he can tell you still don't fully comprehend.
He grumbles, "No."
"You're full of shit," you scoff, "You're lying to me."
"Lying?" He snarls, lurching forward into your space with a snarl suddenly rising on his maw. "You are only so bold to imply that because you think our repeated conversations grants you immunity from prosecution, but don't think it will for long."
You spook at his words, aware you have over-stepped as you pull your hand back. The traces of mirth vanish from your bloodied face and your eye widens a fraction. The hammering of your heart redoubles. His acute perception catches a flinchâthe shadow of an impulse to get up and run, but there is nowhere to go that he wont find you.
A strange disappointment that pricks at his thoughts makes him scowl, and he rears back far enough to lie down.
It is quiet for a time, and he can hear your heart dying down to a more reasonable pace. Fast, but steady. And, foolishly, you decide to scud closer on your haunches to his side, then you ask:
"Do you kill me?"
The Night Haunter groans, bringing a huge clawed hand up to his face and smearing it across his cheek in dismay. He did not want you to pursue this line of questioning. He is already sick to death of your obsession with the topic.
"It is not clear," he snaps.
You make a thoughtful hum in the back of your throat, "Is... is there lots of blood?"
"About the same as there is now," he grumbles.
A similar grumble also leaves you at that, and your hand comes up to touch your faceâdainty fingertips skirting around the haggard wound that had been one of your eyes.
"I don't even want to know how bad it is," you whisper, clearly biting back tears.
The injury is not exceptionally deep, and yet still it has taken the eye. Your eyebrow is intact, but the upper eyelid is cut wide and clotted.
"You will not have to endure any more performances," he offers.
You look at him, lopsided, and start laughing wildly.
He is completely bemused.
Your madness dies off eventually, leaving you panting shallowly, "I'm disfigured beyond belief, then?"
"It will heal," he notes flatly.
You harrumph, "See that in one of your visions, did you?"
He hesitates, then answers anyway; "Yes."
That seems to earn your curiosity.
You make a strange sound, and ask softly; "...am I still beautiful, at least?"
It is so beyond banal a notion to be questioned, he feels the urge to slap a palm to his face again in dissapointment, but does not.
Instead, he glares at you and answers, "I do not know."
You give him an odd frown, "What?"
"I said, I do not know," he rumbles.
"I heard that," you cut in with a drunken scoffâfussing, "What I mean is why?"
"I do not feel what humans feel," he digresses, mindlessly gesticulating with a clawed hand from his prone spot on the floor beside you. "I do not... lust, like them. I do not see a beautiful face and fall to fits of hunger."
The last part is perhaps an omission of the truth by some standards. He has seen beautiful faces and hungered. He has hungered to tear them off the people wearing them. He remembers doing just that to a senator's trophy-wife trading in false bonds. And the woman he killed before she could do the job herself. To say nothing of the young men and women he has dragged into the dark to flay for their gang affiliations.
"I would've wagered it to be a thing for blood," you breathe out with a sly side glance.
He is absolutely beyond disgusted at your line of thinking. All his hard work, all his hours upon hours trying to heel and curb the massesâand you think he is a pervert seeking violence? "You think I bring law to this abhorrent place for the sake of... sexual gratification?"
"I've seen and heard of some strange fetishes," you offer, cringing.
He does not doubt that.
Abruptly, his irritation abatesâthinking it over, with your experience, it is not a so far fetched conclusion.
"Have you ever..." you mumble softly, clearly hesitating, "...tried?"
He blanches, abhorred at the idea.
"No."
"Why?"
"I have told you why, I do notâ" then he realises himself, realises who he is, and who you are, and abandons the whole topic in favour of seething. "Your poison has made you stupid and reckless," he snarls, resting up on his elbows and scowling at you. "I will be the one to kill you this night if you insist on this depraved chatter."
"There's no crime in having a drink," you bite, much to his surprise. The swill has made you bold, indeed.
"Public intoxication," he sneers.
"Well..." you drawl, batting the lashes of your only good eye. "When you find the public in my boudoir, do let them know I've had a few, will you?"
You are taunting him, trying himâtesting the line, to see how far you can overstep. You must surely be mad. Mad or daftâor simply drunken, and in pain, and trying to distract yourself from such.
He bares his teeth as he warns, "Solicitation is a crime, too."
"I don't think I could manage to solicit you if I tried," you rush to say, and you look at him in that odd way again. Your cycloptic gaze tears from his and glazes down his front, openly ogling. It drags from his throat to his chest to his biceps and then down, lower.
You make a sound alike a purr, and pull back; only to start to shrug off your robe. He holds himself completely still when one heavy breast falls free, followed by the other.
Then the sopping wet, bloodstained robe all but sloughs to the shag carpet behind you.
"You are insane," he hisses high in his gullet, "You cannot possibly thinkâ"
"Think less me propositioning you," you cut him off with a rasp, using the honeyed tone certainly saved for clientele as you lean forward far enough that the heft of your cleavage cushions against his abdomen, "And more... me thanking you."
He is deeply, deeply unnerved as you reach for the ragged drawstrings of his pants and use your nail to tease the knot open. He does not stop you. He wants to, partiallyâbut he is curious.
Mortified, but curious.
Then, with barely veiled urgency you shuck down the hem all the way down to the middle of his large thighs.
Over your own shoulder, he sees your eye widen, then half-lid.
Your head ducks down, and your mouth glazes over the rounded top of his soft length; the organ unsurprisingly disinterested.
It's a distant warmth, but easily disregarded.
Small hands brace against his wide adonis belt, and another slow lick sends an uneasy chill up his spine. Still, he lies there, doing nothing to impede you draping yourself further against his front. You lean on his abdomen on your side, the back of your thighs pressed together forming a neat, uniform line. With the exception of the fork in the road your plump cunt makes further up.
He tries not to look at it, but the entirety of your rear is bared to him. He can see the divot between both holes, and the glossy sheen of slimy degeneracy smeared across the skin.
It's nothing like what his visions supplied.
His visions of your form were far more complex.
This, in comparison, seems rather trite.
You're not covered in bleeding claw marks, nor livid bruisesâyour flesh is smooth and unmarred and flushed.
You deign another slow drag of your tongue, and your spine curves with the movement, mouth tipping to allow the tip of him in.
It's a new, uncomfortable, tingling kind of heat. It's making him blindly impatient, almost itchy under his skinâlike there's a dryness to his hide that needs wettingâand he's well aware the closeness in feeling it shares with having one's hands covered in parched, flaking blood and wishing for a rinse.
The Night Haunter immediately decides he won't stand for the feeling.
You're quickly pulled from where you're mouthing his still-soft endowment, and up to the wide span of his upper torso. In the process, your legs move to try to steady yourself, first with a knee on his ribs; then sprawled utterly across him.
One of his huge clawed hands holds you still about the hip, while the other remains limp at his side. Warm thighs press either side of his sharp cheeks. Musing his long dark hair enough to spill over the tops in dark, filthy ropes. It is the longest he has been this close to a living body, let alone one not howling and screeching in terror. It is also, similarly, one of the strangest positions the Night Haunter has ever found himself in. That is, despite his many, many strange situations. Doling out due process on the criminals of this wretched planet has it's absurd moments, in almost obscene contrast to the morose nature of the circumstances in which the doling happens.
In his earlier time, he had corpses he'd strung up fall on him. He's been stunned to scrambling back when an obscura addict lept at him on all fours like a rabid dog. Once, a woman he'd gutted managedâwith her insides very much out, mind youâto stumble close enough to bite his hand midway through him ridiculing her life choices.
But in the end, nothing like the situation he is in now has happened to him before.
At least not in his waking reality.
In his momentary absences of mind, this scene would be part in parcel with the average, debauched blight of his visions.
This is real, however.
That much is certain.
You are prone, belly down on his front, nowânigh glued to him with the damp heat between.
A pithy little groan escapes you where your face is angled against his navel, "I can't reach you like this, y-you know?"
But he can reach you.
He has your sex merely a hand from his face, and nothing else in the way. At the back of his throat, the smell of sweat, old perfume and soaps linger on your skin despite the night's torments. He picks through them with conscious mental effort until just estrogen and progesterone cloud against his vomeronasal passage.
It's not entirely unpleasant, just mortal.
He has never had an appetite for such things.
Truthfully, he had never thought to test himself for the urges he has seen mortal men succumb to. The very urges that you capitalise upon for survival as a courtesan. This is but another dilemma brought to his attention by your actions.
Still, the instinct that this is far, far beneath him lingers in his mind; but the curiosity remains. There is weight to your part in this endeavour. Namely in this long, long play yet to truly begin. His fits of delusion spare no detail when it suits them. Vivid, torturous detail of every aspect. In your presence the glimmering pieces of your fate multiply. Albeit fish-eyed and seemingly impossible. Every time, they show heâwillâcan'tâmightâbe in this position one day, and that heâmustn'tâdoesâshouldâallow it to happen.
Theory and practice, theory and practice; always dancing in tandem. His visions appear absolute, at times; and in others they are fragments of many futures strung into one with no real purpose. They blur together like drunken nights he will never have. And, much like you, with your destroyed boudoir and your pithy little stage, and it's red-as-blood spotlighting; his theatrics are a set schedule, woven by destiny.
Beset by his trance, you take the opportunity to try to squirm down him again; and chance a quick lick against his cock.
At the exact moment you do, he breaks from it and slides you back up himself; dragging you higher, closer to his face.
"Stop moving me," you groan.
He is not sure why he does it, only that he does. He gives a single, long lick across delicate skin, warm under his tongue, and over a tiny blood-swollen nub; making you squeal like a stuck pig. The sound is not quite pain. It's shock, yes, but not the agonies he's familiar with drawing from others.
Another lick, and you freeze stiff, heavingâhe feels nails pointlessly digging into his impenetrable hide, and the pillow of breasts against his lower sternum as you tense. He can smell fear, but heâhe can taste... excitement. Liquid glee, smothering over his tastebuds and sending his brain into a flurry of mad spirals.
It's intoxicating, like the memory borne sparks wrought by a fresh spray of spinal fluid, or cerebral tissueâexcept this boon is not carved out of criminal carcasses. It's not a violent vindication, no act of justice, merely... passive. He does not need to think to do this, does not need to weigh his punishment, it's simple, blindâmotion and reward. Killing may come to him with much the same primary ease, but this is a foreign act. A service in and of itself, and perhaps that is half the delight. Letting a hangman's rope slip free enough to slack. Grant enough mercy to give, rather than take. Or maybe, much like the side effects of gorging himself on the memories of the guilty, it's an after-effect of your own thoughts seeping through your fluids.
He wonders if a taste of your blood, or your sinew, or your bone, would bestow the same blissfully emptiness in his head.
Open mouthed against your cunt, he groans, and stuffs his tongue in next.
The small thighs either side of his large head jolt, then squeeze; juddering with exertion as he rocks his head closerâforcing as much in as your frame allows.
Your heartbeat is prey-fast against his flesh, and he can feel it echoing on his tongue through the ridged membranes inside you. They're soft, and delicate and warm. They shiver when he drags across the sidewall of your insides, and he fights the urge to dig his claws into your skin when you squirm.
Your entire body jumps a little, and he drags his mouth away for a moment. He doesn't expect your hips to tip up the very instant his maw is off you, but he's not going to let a better angle pass him by.
Leering back in, he slides his mouth back against your sex with little preamble. It's a closer fit, he can stuff a few centimetres extra in and you are squeezing around his tongue more. You squirm again, yet it's far closer to wild bucking than any struggle. Your cunt twitches, too, but at least it's predictable, now. In time with every slow curl he laps inside, every feedback loop within his own hindbrain he fulfils, every hoarse sob he all but torments out of you.
Time loses its bearing, and he's only cognisant to the changes in the pattern of your sensitivity by way of your jerking increasing.
It happens a few times, he notes.
You try to cant your pelvis away, crying, and are quickly corrected by the warning scrape of his talons across your flesh.
A viscous, wet smear spreads anew across his lips every time his tongue arcs against your insides. Mixing with drool, and the heady claustrophobic breath filling the space where his head remains wedged between your legs. Dragging his slick, sloppy lips and teeth across the skin at the inner apex of your inner thighs. He yearns to bite, he yearns to scratch and score you. The temptation is real, and true. He has seen it thus beforeâit will happen, it may happen now, or later in his rapport. Whether or not the caution of sharp, sharp canines show for a moment, or they swiftly close down on the meat, you will be marked.
With filed teeth at your hot inner thigh, he lets the points dig in enough to hint at wounds, enough to bruise; enough to stain you with a promise of a scar shaped like a yawning smile.
But for a blinding, blessedly horrible moment there is nothing but the now; the soft give of warm flesh, and him sucking a vivid blotch of broken capillaries to the surface.
He's daft, and weak, and willingly letting himself be led by urges far more than reason. No past to illuminate a future, no harrowing end; just touch, and taste, and time. So very much time to idle in bliss. The concept should be anathema to him. As satisfying as the feedback isâas satisfying as squeals born of want rather than fear could ever be to a debased vessel like himâhe can only shoulder the firmament so high.
Honestly, he isn't entirely sure how long he keeps the cycle going.
Long enough that there's far too much of both his saliva inside you, and your slick painted across the entire lower half of his face.
Long enough that you don't even peep a word when he's finally had what he assumes is his fill.
Yes, while there's no wordsâyou still make a sound. A groan that borders on a sob, and your hand blindly scuds down his hip. The hollow in his head is an unbearable stuffiness all of a sudden, thudding through his synapses. It courses through his veins like lightning, keen and sharp and matching the pace of his thundering twin hearts.
The source of that strange intensity, rather unbelievably, is a mouth straining to taste himâmore precisely, a little tongue lapping against his glans. It hadn't felt like this earlier. His senses weren't so boxed into him before. The Night Haunter licks his chops and rumbles out a sigh, letting his head fall backâletting you free from his hold, and subsequently letting you suck.
But despite himself, he raises his head again at the feeling of hot suction, and is utterly aghast at the sight he finds. He's engorged. He's never seen himself do that before. He was not aware his biology allowed such a thing. It's obscene. It's a thick, angry purple-red gradient'd slab, with a fat vein sprawled on the side. He's disgusted and rapt all at once watching the tip of himself weep clear, sticky fluid against your cheek.
Like the prey animal you are, it seems you're suddenly innately aware you're being watched; and you glance back at him with your one good eye.
The reaction apparently amuses you enough to dare a snort, and then worse yet, a remark: "Finished eating, h-have you?"
He bares his teeth, threateningâbut before he can speak, you lick.
Your tongue drags from base to flared head, and he cringes at the jagged rush that arcs up his spine because of it.
"Never seen a cock so pretty," you all but drool out, tone so sugared it's nearly abhorrent. Only to wrap your hand around the thick base of him and slap the rounded end of him against your lips, grinning as you rasp; "Maybe you are an angel, afterall."
A long, wet line of slime thins out like a web from the contact, and you lap it down.
He cringes again, unsure of what exactly to say to the information and the sight beyond baring his teeth once more.
You huff, "Oh, don't be a baby."
The provocation makes anger rise in his hearts, and he opens his mouth to cut you downâonly for yours to take his cock back in.
Promptly, he abandons the pursuit in favour of rumbling out a groan.
It's too pleasant, hauntingly so.
And then, as fate is wont to damn him for any ease he experiences; you spite him and decide to move.
You sit up, manoeuvring on shaking arms to carefully slide down his front, and then re-orient to face him; hands flat on his lower sternum. Your hair is a mess, and spit strings off your chin; there's also a layer of sweat on you thatâin the low, sleazy lightâgives you a damp sheen. He would say you looked like a half-drowned, half-maimed rat, if not for the almost lust-drunken smirk smeared across your face alongside the dried blood.
"What do you want now?" He growls, apprehensive but not entirely dissuaded enough to commit to throwing you off him yet.
"Pretty as your cock is, I doubt you'll fitâso..." Your smirk degenerates into a grin, faintly reminiscent of a mad cadaver's cheshire scars; "I have to find a work around."
Canting your hips up, you reach behind yourself; he feels a small hand on his cock again, angling it to slant prone against his navelâthen, the hand is gone, and in tandem you abruptly decide to seat yourself atop.
Heat settles over the underside of him, velvet-soft and sloppy with slick.
Grinding forward, your motion sends another electric rush chasing through his nervous system, making him bare his teeth in unison with the content shiver that wracks your body.
"Feels good, huh?" You whine, only to drag yourself backward, and as you do, his blood-rigid cock tries to flex up. The Night Haunter watchesânigh mortifiedâwhen it twitches expectantly at the loss of contact. You notice, too, and the sound that leaves you at the realisation is nothing short of a purr, "Can't lust... m-my bloody arse."
Abruptly, your cunt is against him again, pressing his length down as it had before; rocking against the shaft until the sound of wet friction is deafening. He almost chokes on his own saliva when you're suddenly fixated on jerkily grinding your clit against his glans.
A stuffy, high pitched whine creaks out of your gulletâand the unbidden urge to leer up and bite it douses his mind like acid.
His cock twitches again, dribbling clear fluid across his abdomen.
"I t-think you're... enjoying this," you say, tongue lolling out for a second before you grin.
"This is depraved," he snarls, because he can't bare to watch the scene any longerâand finally lets his head drop back against the floor.
He hears you laugh breathlessly before rasping, "Is t-that why..." your words abate for a moment as you inhale shakily, "You're behaving so well?"
Irate, he tips his chin to glare down his snout at you.
And instead of managing that, he is held rapt again at the vista of you straining like a hound on a choke chain, panting viciously to offset your wounded nose. Your exertion has reopened the damage you had sustained earlier in the night, and the shredded capillaries high up your nose drip blood onto his sternum.
It paints his sallow skin vermillion, in dappled dots.
It is a disgusting display.
To say nothing of the metallic stink of your own bleeding mixing with your hormones in the damp room. You brace a palm flat in the patch of red, smearing it in a small outline of your splayed hand. Not enough to stain him, only enough to be skin deepâjust enough to huff it on the air, enough to taste it in his headâbut if he opened his mouth to get a proper breath through anything but his vomeronasal passage, he would be fighting to avoid drooling openly at the debauchery. He is able to show restraint. Despite how asinine the notion felt when you, the battered courtesan atop him, simply stares down at him. One now-cycloptian pupil sunk in a sea of blacked out sclera locked on another whole matching pair. Perhaps there is some solidarity to be found in the situation being from one Nostraman to the other, despite the glaringly real physiological differences. If there were any other similarities beyond mere home-world adaptation, they matter very little.
The consequences of this would bear a heavy toll regardless of likeness; and would worsen with each rung of the downward spiral.
Similarly mattering little was that train of thought, which vanished almost immediately into vapours when you suddenly ground yourself faster on his length.
That, at least, manages to draw another grating, keening sound from the Night Haunter; the corded muscles in his neck straining as he clenches his jaw.
You roll your hips hard, again.
Wet, vile heat drags across his cockâand you moan through a maw set stiff, apparently trying to focus while continuing the motions.
His hands tirelessly begin clenching and unclenching, only to dig his nails in so harshly into his palms they puncture the meat. It is of no real concern that the wound he gives himself smears streaks across the filthy carpet as he fidgets irritably, they close up as quickly as he eases his grip.
He risks a deep inhale, and his brain reels at the degenerate boon.
You are enjoying this, thoroughly.
He tastes it in the thin, wafting particles of blood.
In the faint, atomised afterimage he gleans not your fate but your own thoughts overlaid with his; a hazy retinal burn of his shape from above scarring ever-so-slightly over his from below. But most of all he is aware of the delirious, rising tideâa feeling layered over his like a two-fold stitching. The thudding pain of a hollow where an eye should be. The high of achievement after an achingly long waiting period, a litany of 'finally, finally, finally,' and the hot, brilliant drag of his cock against your cunt; all divined from the blood in the air sticking to his nasal passage.
He manages to hold fast on his rational mind, and instead opts to bite hard on his scarred bottom lip, gnawing impatiently.
He refuses another sniff, and the blood fades from his hindbrainâand he's free of the tethering for a moment, free of the addiction that is a baseline's desperate impulses.
"You are pathetic," he hisses wetly, saliva thick in his mouth; narrowing his eyes at you before flickering his gaze down to where you're sat and back again. "This? This is what you wanted of me?"
Youâsurprisinglyâmake no immediate effort to respond with a cutting remark.
Instead, you moan and shimmy yourself languidly, adjusting your straddling before choosing to reply; "Can't... ngh, expect me not to want it," before settling back into your rhythm of roughly grinding against him, with little care for decorum. "I'veâI've always... liked the tall, dark a-ah-nd handsome ones."
He cannot believe what he's hearing. You must truly be insane. He's the Night Haunter and you are compartmentalising him into a box to be lusted over. He is a force of law, he is death upon this hive, upon this world, even; and you are swooning over his looks that are, more often than not, covered in blood. And he is about to openly call you psychotic, if not for the rush that races through his nerves when your renewed motions nudge the rounded tip of him inside for a second.
It's all strangling, twitching heatâtoo small for such a warm, inviting space begging to be filledâbut flesh is known to stretch, if nothing else. He may not know much of this way of manipulating sinew, but the broader topic of skin is one he knows very well. Flesh can be rendered and shaped and moulded, strung and twisted and reworked to accommodate.
"Keep being g-good," you breathe, voice wracked by lust. "And... I-I'll let you finish inside."
The Night haunter growls, insulted, filed-sharp teeth bared, "You debase meâ"
"You w-were doing so well," you scowl, practically hoarse as you outstretch a hand to his face.
It is the one soaked in your half-dried blood that falls on his mouth.
Your blood smears, partially coagulating on his lipsâunbidden and thoughtlessly, he opens his jaws wide. Small fingers tangle against his tongue, and the taste of copper dissolves in his saliva. It would be so easy to maim you further, make a half-blind lunatic one handedâsteal more of that rich red from your veinsâbut for now, the tasting platter playing in his dagger-filled mouth is satisfactory enough.
A vision of you, in the same way, in the same scenario; in midnight robes with scarlet stitching. Drenched in gore, and grinning down at him in the innards of some hulking transportâhe can hear a wet, slap-slap-slap, andâ
The scene dispels almost as quickly as it comes on.
Despite himself, and despite the blaring implications the sight his cursed mind has offered, he cannot hold back a moan while he drags his tongue between your pointer and thumb; lapping at the webbing like a starved dog.
"Just hungry, h-hm?" You heave, thighs racketing. "Needed something... ngh, to suck on?"
Molten bliss assails his thoughts from your own, as another jolt surges through your form. The pleasure is sublime, and he is slave to the sensation as it is in your body. He sees himself as you see him, pitch gaze glassy, maw almost a rictus around the fingers stuffed in it; his hard brows furrowed, entranced. His hair is a long, messy black puddle; and his sallow, almost grey skin is flushed a fey mauve by the discoloured nature of his flesh.
This is perverse, this is feralâhe is acting like a circus animal. He is relishing the whims of a mortal, and he is not fighting back. His dual hearts thud in his ears. He is disgusted, he is delighted, he isâhe isâhe is suddenly blissfully unable to weigh the consequences.
The Night Haunter's practically foaming at the mouth around your fingers when he feels himself tease in again, your pelvis angling him to dip inside.
Your cunt lets him stretch it, lets him sample the clutching heatâit is taunting him, and he cannot imagine allowing it to lift away without letting him in.
He is helpless to the upward jackknife of his own hips.
It's the only real thrust he has offered during the whole ordeal, and it renders you completely limp; hand yanked back from his mouth as you practically deflate against him.
Before he can realise himself, the sensation greets him. Soft, ribbed muscles shiver around him, then squeeze hard enough to practically wring him out. He comprehends abruptly he's halfway inside your cuntâand there's a waterfall of sobs being garbled into the valley between his pectorals.
Several things occur simultaneously.
Firstly, there's a white-hot shiver down his spine, then he's rigid for an instant, brain emptied out and vision tunnelledâa wave crests, then another, and another; each more intense than the last. The fit is too tight. It's suffocating, he's strainingâhe's only very, very distantly aware he's thrown his head back and is grinding his teeth hard enough to crack a molar, snarling insensibly.
When he's done seizing, he's all but dazed.
Sense returns to him in quick successionâthough it's a lazy, smeared awareness of himself; as choppy and stuttering as the heat still pulsing around his cock.
Still, he manages to wrangle his mind into glaring down his nose at your trembling form.
He cannot see just how far in he isâbut he is still stunned, truly stunned to have managed the fit to begin with. He wonders how much you have been made to stretch, and if the fat tip of himself has rammed into your diaphragm. No, he's still in your cunt, he knows that muchâhe can still feel the twitch, twitch, twitch of your warm insides greedily delighting in him reshaping them.
On shaky arms, you regain your head at last and rake trembling hands to a flat stop on his chest.
"O-Oh, f-f-fuck..." you wheeze, "You're..."
He ogles the glaze of drunken pain plastered over your visage, as you clearly try to un-do what his thrust has earned him.
"You're in... you'reâ" it seems your wider vocabulary is long gone for the moment, "You're h-huge."
With your uprighting, he discovers you are more than halfway down him; and he can see the remaining few inches of his length swollen and angry at not being fully swallowed inside you.
He looks up at your face again, and sees tears tracking from both your good eye and the ruined one; a harsh wince painted across your wounded features.
Pulling out is too difficult for you, it seems.
A keening sound of hurt leaves you again, and you backpedal, moving back down on him as you try to return to the false comfort of where he'd initially reached. The reversal strangles his cock even more. He wants to stay in, but also wants outâthe throttling fit is agony. The throttling fit is delicious. It's an irritating duality of feeling, wholly overpowering. His vision is tilting on a mad axis, and he cares not that he's growling again.
It's all too much for you, too, it seems; and you start to tremble again, hyperventilating.
After a moment, you begin rocking slightly.
Seemingly mindless, until some excessive spill of fluid trails all the way down to his balls. It's wet and over-hot, and he realises abruptly that it's everywhereâand thick like coagulating blood.
He inhales sharply, honestly expecting more gore-stink to fill his nose. Already displeased to think he's torn flesh he hoped rather to stretch, he hisses thinly. But the room has a new reek to it, over your lust and pain, there is the smell of ejaculate; but not just yours.
The thick fluid is his.
He did not know he could do such a thing, nor why he can. Yet neither line of question negates the fact you're full to overflowing with it. He looks down your body, and sees it dribble between you both; dense strings of semi-translucent white thinning down from where he's still stuffed deep in you to the broad plane of his pelvis. He is aware of the way mortals reproduce. He is aware he has, technically, fulfilled the task.
Dumbfounded, he stares.
Fresh blood streams from your nose, and drips onto his flesh once moreâalongside tears.
"W-WuhâWhy... why're y-you still..." you blubber, "H-Hard...?"
"I'm not a man," he grits out.
Your brow furrows harshly.
Then, a mad burst of laughter leaves you; it's closer to a death rattle until it's suddenly anything butâbooming and too-loud in the claustrophobic boudoir.
"A-Again, thenâ" you abruptly squeal, slurring hard. "Ngh... f-fuhâfucking fill me, aâahâagain."
The Night Haunter balks, but makes no move to stop you as your hips shift down, and your cunt swallows another inch. A fat bead of cum bubbles at your entrance, forced out by the deepening slide of him and you whine, delirious.
He's strung too thin, panting, blindly reaching for your thighsâas if by some miracleâthey're going to help him cope in the slightest. His nails dig in when another sliver of him disappears inside. So lost in the cloistering pleasure, he doesn't even realise he's raking bloody stripes in the shape of his broad hand-spans across your skin.
It's good, it's all so abhorrently good. He can smell your agony on the air, carried in your blood, but over the top of it is primitive glee. You're roiling in itâin the pain, in the bliss, in the fact he's beneath you and that you can manage such a thing. The same tide from earlier is rising again, too-soon and too-much. He's about to yelp at the sudden intensity, but wrangles back the urge by biting down on his tongue.
Iron fills his mouth and you warble out a sob.
Then, it all reaches a wall.
He gasps, and realises that finallyâimpossiblyâhe's all in.
You have him hilted.
Your small pelvis and his far, far larger one press flush at last. It's warm, so very warm around his cock. Every bit he has is sweetly embraced in slick, fluttering meat; and he swears he ought to see the hard line of himself through your fragile flesh.
Your face is slack with shock, and pleasure, and agony.
He snorts a harsh breath through his nose like an animal held back by it's bit, thighs shaking. His skin is on fire, alight with the urgency barely held back. It is a blessed damnation that you chose then to start to move, smothering him in shaky, rounding rolls of your hips; your hands leaving his chest to grab over his on your legs.
"T-That'sâthat's it," you sob, drooling. "Fill m-me, fill me, f-f-fill meâ"
He's unable to even reason otherwise.
A punched-out shriek leaves you when he uses the fulcrum of his hold on your thighs to buck up.
Your bite hard on your lower lip, and your unharmed eye rolls back.
His vision whites out for a moment, and he feels his head slam back into the ground. This end is far more all consuming. It makes a sputtered hiss shear out of his throat as his hips jerkâbouncing you on his lapâdraining himself as satisfaction thud-thud-thud's up from his belly and through his synapses.
He's wrung dry by the time he's able to even think again, let alone open his eyes.
You're shaking like a leaf, slumped back against knees he hadn't realised he'd tented and breathing hard. And looking lower, he finds a vile slurry of seminal fluids and translucent slick where you meet.
Your head wobbles for a moment as you mentally crawl back to yourselfâlike a drunkard trying to find their bearings in the darkâuntil you at last manage to meet his gaze.
He manhandles you about the middle, slowly lifting you off of each inch you'd managed to wolf down. He's still... hard, which is surely strange, but he has had well enough after all that mental defenestration.
You don't even react beyond groaning, wrung-out as you are. The evidence of his lapse of judgment shows in the bleeding gouges on your thighs, and leaks out of your puffyâand surely soreâentrance in thick, milky rivulets.
The Night Haunter seats you on his wide abdomen, and despite the fey urge to retain a hold, he completely disengages. Even if he still feels your residual twitching against his flesh, complete exhaustion is well on the menu for you now.
"Th...thanks f-fuhâfor savin' m-me, b'fore," You slur out, cough and then slump forward. Barely managing to catch yourself on two hands on the floor either side of his head.
Almost nose to nose, you look right at himâalbeit through a half-lidded, almost animal-stupid, single eye.
Then your mouth crashes over his, and he doesn't know what to do with the drool soaked lips on his ownâbut it doesn't matter, in the endâbecause all the residual strength you had that kept you holding yourself up dissolves and you slide off him, unconscious.
He is not surprised by the outcome of your fainting in the slightest.
NH in his imperium secundus murdershow era doing the tangled wanted poster bit except it's "they just can't get my name right!" (inspired by the time i saw Konrad Curze spelled *three different ways in the same reddit thread*)
I have been sent by a friend to give you thirsty asks. So we start with the basics.
What do you think are the primarchs wierd kinks? Im not talking, "Leman is into primal play" thats obvious. Im talking the ones you dont expect from them
Note: It took a bit longer to make than expected, mainly because there was significantly less time than I wanted to have (you can probably literally see when I had more or less time by the quality and thought put into each of them). Anyway, I hope it's to your liking! ^^
Lion ElâJonson
He has got a massive kink for somnophilia. He loves creeping into your chambers at night, watching you sleep all vulnerable and unaware, then slowly, methodically stripping you down and sliding his massive, throbbing cock into your slick, sleeping pussy. The thrill is in the control, the risk of you waking up mid thrust, gasping as he pins you down and pounds away until you're a drooling mess, begging for more even as he whispers threats of secrecy. He gets off on the post coital cleanup too, licking every drop of his cum from your thighs like it's a sacred ritual.
IInd Primarch
So many kinks he phased out of existence
Fulgrim
He is fixated on chem-sex enhancements, dosing you both with custom pheromones and aphrodisiacs that turn your bodies into hypersensitive fuck machines. He loves watching your eyes roll back as the drugs make your clit swell and throb uncontrollably, then he buries his face between your legs, tongue fucking your dripping cunt until you're squirting all over his perfect features. He collects the fluids, your cum, his, mixed in ornate vials, using them as... art supplies to paint erotic murals on his palace walls while he rails you from behind.
Perturabo
Massive dick, bigger inferiority complex. Secretly wants you to peg him with the biggest strap you can find while calling him a pathetic siege slut but heâll die before admitting it. Instead he just hate fucks you against blueprints until youâre dripping on siege calculations. Loves choking you with one hand while muttering how your cervix is the only breach he actually enjoys storming. He also builds custom mechanical sex devices calibrated to your exact anatomy. He straps you in, watches as the machine hammers you and hits your G-spot just right until you're screaming in ecstasy. The thing is... he gets rock hard from the data logs. Analyzing thrust velocity and orgasm metrics then using it to improve the next session by adding electro stims that zap your nipples while he fucks you.
Jaghatai Khan
Will fuck you on the back of a moving jetbike at 300 km/h. Loves outdoor sex on the Chogorian steppe, the risk of getting caught by his White Scars just makes him rail you harder. He loves incorporating scars, tracing your battle wounds with his tongue, then biting new ones during climax, marking you as his eternal ride while cum drips down your thighs onto the exhaust. Cums in massive pulses and laughs when it leaks down your thighs while youâre still trying to ride with the horde. Calls you 'my little mare' and slaps your ass to make you gallop on his cock.
Leman Russ
His kink? Hmm, temperature extremes, ice play mixed with fire. He freezes toys in Fenrisian ice then shoves a chilled dildo deep into your ass while he warms your clit with his hot mouth, alternating until you're shivering and burning. But the weird part? Pack integration: he invites his wolf companions to watch (or lightly participate with nuzzles), growling possessively as he mounts you doggy style, his massive balls slapping against you, filling your cunt with hot cum that he then laps up himself, sharing the taste in messy kisses. Howls when he cums. Loves scent marking. He rubs his cum into your skin and beard braids it into your hair. Will piss on you if you beg nicely and call you his good little bitch.
Dorn
The kink you don't see coming is architectural voyeurism, he designs hidden peepholes and mirrors in his fortresses specifically for spying on you masturbating. He watches silently, stroking his rigid cock then bursts in to... fortify you: piling on restraints like living architecture, fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts while reciting siege tactics. Unexpectedly, he has a cum inflation fetish, pumping load after load into your belly until it bulges like a breached wall, then plugging you to 'hold the line' overnight. Secretly loves when you safeword just so he can switch to aftercare daddy mode and cradle you like youâre fragile porcelain. Has a praise kink that makes him cum instantly if you call him 'my perfect fortress'.
Konrad Curze
Fear play, blood play, knife play, breath play, these are obvious. What isn't that obvious is prophetic sadism. He uses his visions to predict your orgasms, edging you for hours with flaying knives tracing your skin, just shy of cutting. Then at the foreseen moment he impales you on his veiny cock, tearing screams from your throat as he alternates pain and pleasure. There's also something else. Corpse aesthetics: he adorns the bed with flayed skins (it shouldn't be that suprising, given his whole tendency to flay people) fucking you atop them, whispering futures of your beautiful death while cumming deep in you, leaving you leaking and marked with bites.
Sanguinius
Breeding kink. He wants to knock you up so bad it hurts him. Drinks your blood from the thigh while eating you out, loves carrying you mid-flight and fucking you 10,000 feet/3000 km up, wings wrapped around you like a feathery cocoon while he fills you with what his seed. But there's something else you probably wouldn't expect/think of. That's wing worship with a humiliation twist. He makes you polish and preen his massive wings with your tongue then uses the feathers to tickle your oversensitive holes until you're begging.
Ferrus Manus
The obvious is metal bondage. I am not saying he doesn't have it, he does but the more interesting kink is something else. Cybernetic upgrades. He grafts temporary implants onto your erogenous zones like vibrating clit piercings linked to his own systems. He syncs them to his heartbeat, fucking you while his iron hands grip your throat, the implants pulsing in rhythm until you both overload. But that's not all. He has a melting fetish: heating metal toys to near molten, cooling them just enough to slide into your pussy, the residual heat making you clench around his cock as he forges... new alloys with your mixed fluids.
XIth Primarch
Fucked you so good the Emperor hit delete button
Angron
Okay, so rough hate-sex is obvious and present but there's more. Pain-sharing empathy. He uses the Butcher's Nails to link your sensations, so every thrust into your tight cunt sends jolts of agony-ecstasy through both of you. He chains you in the arena, fucking you publicly amid cheers, his nails buzzing as he chokes you to the brink. And there's nail worship, where he makes you suck the blood from his implants post fight, then uses the slick to lube up and double penetrate you with a weapon hilt.
Roboute Guilliman
He's ultimate control freak service dom. Will schedule your orgasms in five year plans. Excel spreadsheet of your kinks. Eats pussy like heâs writing a codex entry. Methodical, perfect tongue technique, logs your moans for 'data'. He drafts, um, treaties of your submission, making you sign consent forms mid-foreplay then enforces them by scheduling orgasms with timers. He bends you over his desk, sliding his cock into your ass while dictating reports, pausing to spank you for infractions. He also loves covering you in cum like sealing wax then stamping Ultramarine symbols into the mess with his signet ring.
But the second you call him daddy in Gothic? He snaps and fucks you over the desk until the aquila stamp is imprinted on your ass.
Mortarion
He is a bit harder to me, idk why, but here's what I thought of. Fitting or not, you tell me.
He has fermentation fetish. He brews custom elixirs from bodily fluids, aging them like wine then force feeds you sips while eating your pussy sloppily. He also loves holding his scythe to your throat while he fucks you, telling you how beautiful you look. He makes (or asks?) you inhale the chemical fumes from his armor vents until youâre too high to walk.
Magnus the Red
Psychic tentacle orgy king. Can and will manifest a dozen shimmering red tendrils to stuff every hole and warp around your clit at once while he reads your mind to find the exact fantasy that makes you squirt hardest. Likes narrating your own thoughts back to you in the most obscene Old Prosperine poetry while you come apart. He can and will shrink or grow his dick on command. He loves library sex where he bends you over ancient tomes and fucks you senseless.
Can astrally project a thousand psychic copies of his cock into your nervous system so you feel yourself getting fucked by him in every major organ simultaneously. Once made you cum so hard your soul briefly left your body and he railed your ghost mid-astral plane while your physical body convulsed on the library floor.
Horus
Horus definitely have breeding kink but there's nothing unusual or unexpected in that one. He will have you cockwarming him during Warmaster briefings, smirking while you try not to moan in front of the Mournival. He will later order Abaddon, Little Horus, Torgaddon and Loken to stand there and watch while he ruins you on the Vengeful Spiritâs strategium table. Makes you thank each of them by name when you come. (Yes, this is the warmasterâs version of foreplay.)
In private, he loves fucking you while youâre wearing his cloak pinned around your naked body. Has 100% bent you over the Luna Wolvesâ victory table and taken you from behind while the cloak drags on the floor and your tits are pressed against the hololith of the planet you just conquered. And if you praise him while he fucks you? Be prepared to be fucked senseless and flooded by his cum.
Lorgar
With him the religious kink and worship play are obvious. But what if that's more of a blasphemous religious kink mixed with body writing? He covers you in scripture quotes written in his own blood then fucks you on an altar while reciting the Lectitio Divinitatus. Wants you to scream 'there is only the Emperor' right as you squirt all over his cock so he can whisper 'wrong' and come inside you. I also love to imagine that he loves eating you out while murmuring praying into your cunt. But there's something you wouldn't expect him to do (probably). He edges you to the brink of climax and then stops. Every. Single. Time. He brings you right to the edge of orgasm, feels you start to flutter and clench, and pulls away, torturing you in the most... pleasant way? He can and will do this for hours.
Vulkan
Vulkan is molten sin wrapped in kindness. You physically cannot take all of him unless he spends an hour stretching you first before you can even take the head. He loves watching his hands spread your flushed lips apart, murmuring how beautiful the contrast looks. When he finally sinks get in, it's like being filled by living lava: scorching, perfect pressure that makes your eyes roll back and your legs shake. He comes in long, burning hot waves that flood you so hot it feels like your womb is glowing. He never pulls out after, just wraps his hands around you, presses your back against his chest and keeps you plugged full while his seed steams between your thighs. He calls you 'my little ember'.
Corvus Corax
There are a few that probably more expected with him but these are the only ones I could suddenly think of. Invisibility play: he stays unseen while he touches you, kisses you, slides inside. Only the heat of his breath and the tremble in his hands prove heâs there. Voyeurism with guilt: watching you from the dark for hours, flushed scarlet, cock leaking, too shy to interrupt until you beg.
Feather tease: one raven feather dragged over nipples, clit, the sole of your foot until youâre sobbing; then with his voice cracking he asks if he may gag you with a mouthful of them while he finally takes you.
Whispered commands: barely audible praise and filth in your ear like 'come for me, love⊠quietly now' that make you climax the instant he finishes the sentence.. Aftercare hiding: when he finishes he buries his burning face in your neck and lets the shadows keep stroking you both, too overwhelmed to speak. Everything is gentle, reverent, almost apologetic⊠until the darkness proves how thoroughly it owns you.
Alpharius and Omegon
Alpharius Omegon blindfold you, bind you and begin. Two identical cocks, two identical mouths whispering the same lies 'Iâm Alpharius' 'No, I am' while they swap holes mid-thrust. One fucks your mouth, the other rails you then they switch again without warning. They come in perfect sync, flooding both ends, still arguing softly about which twin is which. You never find out. You leave dripping, marked with the hydra and deliciously unsure if you were fucked by one primarch in two bodies⊠or two in one. 'We are Alpharius' they murmur together.
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