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sculptorofcrimson · 1 day

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Placing this on the backburner...

Musings on Custodes: Aging and Generational Divide

How many living custodians who remember the Emperor in the flesh are there? The precise answer doesn't matter quite as much as the existence of the question.

Custodians got their shit rocked pretty hard during the War Within the Webway at the end of the Horus Heresy. As traditional for warhammer there is some numbers fuckery going on: it is unclear how many custodians there even was initially, the famous monicker of "The Ten Thousand" possibly being intentionally misleading, and there is no precise information about how many of them were committed to the Webway, and therefore what percentage of the total number did their losses there make, and what then were their losses during the Siege of Terra... But once again, the specifics aren't that important here. What's important is the idea that after the dust had settled, Horus lay slain and the Emperor entombed - Custodes stood as a pale shadow of their former might, their numbers seemingly reduced to a fraction of the original.

What became of these veterans then? It is presumed that by the 42nd millennium Custodes numbers were generally replenished (just in time to get their teeth massively kicked in at the Battle of the Lion's Gate) - though we also don't know to what extent. Do those few-hundreds-to-a-thousand original Custodians still stand among them? Custodians supposedly don't age, and no upper limit to their natural lifespans is known, but there is the whole The Eyes of the Emperor retirement plan for them. Custodians who have, after aeons of service, their reflexes slow down even by a ridiculous degree of a millisecond, supposedly lay down their armor and go out into the galaxy to play spies. So time does affect them? Or is it something else that eventually slows down their bodies? Just how universal is this process for them? Because surely if it's caused by passage of time and at least one of them has gone this road over the last ten thousand years, then most, if not all, of the old guard must either have done so too or be on their way out?

Whatever the answer, the implications for Adeptus Custodes dynamics as a group and organization are fascinating. Because what does it even mean to become a Custodian after the Emperor's "death"? The shame of the failure you never partook in? The hole where the maypole of your entire identity should be? The expectation of being one of humanity's last links to some glorious past which was over thousands of years before you were even born? The Emperor sought counsel of his custodians from time to time, and supposedly made them specifically so that they would be able to give it - do the "young ones" feel the pull of this duty they can never fulfill?

And there are different potential flavors of delicious tragedy here.

If there are none or next to none original guardians left, then it kinda uproots the whole image of Adeptus Custodes, doesn’t it? The mysterious golden demigods are just as lost as anyone else. They may be thousands of years old, but none of them were there. None of them spoke to him, none of them bear any sacral foundational truths of humanity, or even of just the Imperium. All of their deeds and even they themselves are a desperate attempt to recapture something lost, not a defiant effort to carry something forward.

And if the old guard remains as a sizeable minority, then there must be an unseen divide between them and the new generations, right? With the Emperor being so integral to their identity and purpose, surely there was something important that they gained from interacting with him? Can they now pass this something down? Is it even physically possible? Can you truly be a custodian without it? Imagine looking at the new generation of, essentially, your people and realizing that there is a critical piece of your group's identity that they, through no fault of their own, will always be missing. That something important has been irrevocably lost, and they will never even truly now that it had been there? That's chilling stuff. Any real-world analogies for it that I can think of feel like they would be in poor taste to bring up in a rant about warhammer lore. Do they - consciously or not - hold it against them? Do they separate themselves physically and organizationally? Can one who has never seen the living light of the Emperor lead those who have? Are there enough heroic deeds in the galaxy to make up for not being there in time?

The theme of degradation and things being lost to the passage of time is very prominent in warhammer lore. In 40k, the small cadre of characters who physically bridge the divide between 31st and 42nd millennium have always been awarded with a certain aura of awe, but Custodes get to enjoy this situation from the position of someone for whom time itself should never have been a problem. It doesn't really matter how many of the "original" custodians are left - what will forever hang above them is that there even are the "original" ones.

#They are servants #guarding the bones of their master #Is there not horror in that?#And is there not love #broken #bleeding and obsessed #but love nonetheless?#for what else could they know?#for those of which death is no longer an option #what other life can they know except eternity?#what other life if they do not live for their lord #do not think they are the saviors of humanity #they do not care FOR YOU #they will not come to save them #they are not angels #they’re slaves #beaten and forgotten #forever building a temple for their dead god

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sculptorofcrimson · 1 day

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From my depthless slumbers do I rise.

Musings on Custodes: Aging and Generational Divide

How many living custodians who remember the Emperor in the flesh are there? The precise answer doesn't matter quite as much as the existence of the question.

And there are different potential flavors of delicious tragedy here.

#reply

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sculptorofcrimson · 2 days

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Without Him

The Custodes, the perfect and the golden, aren’t they just beautiful?

Aren’t they just a horrifying, broken concept to hyperfixate on?

Brought to life by the breathe of a half-god, created for nothing but the weight of your duty and knowing nothing but adoration for the Emperor, feeling nothing but overwhelming obedience when you gaze upon Him, and nothing but lasting emptiness when you gaze inside. He walks among you, He orders and commands and you obey, all is well, all is as it should you, with the servants plodding along the Master’s orders. Obeying His every whims, all is well, all is right.

You are perfect. You are golden. You are glorious and you are hollow and you are filled with nothing but the shadow of His glory. The truth lies as barren as snowbeaten rock. He hollowed you out, and now He shall breathe life into your senseless corpse. What are you? What are you but the dregs of His dream? What are you without His last dying gasp rattling through your bones?

Do you even have a will? Are you even human anymore - less- are you even living, when life itself has been drained of all honor? What are you, when you can’t even dream for yourself? What have you for ambition, when you cannot even fathom a dream?

And the bite of betrayal. The cracklings of heresy. You are broken. You are hollow. You are imperfect. You have failed. The truth lies as barren as flesh flayed bone. The first, unhidden, beautiful, horrifying breath of freedom, the first tears to fall as you screamed for a dead master. As He fell, as you failed, as He died. The first breaking of the cycle. A servant without a master, a perfect creation out of tune, with its core snapped out, its tubes cracked, its broken machinery on display. The Throne is hollow now. The Palace is empty. The Master’s house has been broken by the Master’s tools.

You have failed. You have failed Him. You have forsaken your duty.

You have broken your oaths.

What does it feel like, to dream? To dream in the shadow of obedience? To dream as the Thunder Legionnes Primarch dreamed so long ago, to dream as the High Lord dreamt so long ago, to dream as the Astartes once dreamt before you snuffed them out? What does it even feel like, to hurt, to pain, to suffer for anyone else? What does it even feel like to mourn, captain-general? Can you even remember?

The truth lies as hollow as your king’s decaying bones. How fragile. How despicable. Decaying. Covered in dust. Ruined. Broken and abused. Would you wish to dream? Do you wish to embrace what it feels like to be flawed again, to know how to live, if even it was for a moment, in a flare of agony from death to death, siphoning and leeching scant moments of humanity from the haft of the Apollonian Spear as you taste the lie seeping out of broken limbs? Feeling the last sediments of agony, of sensation, slipping through a sinking mind mired in ash, seeing the moments of another worthless man’s life flash through your hollow mind, filling you with memories that were never yours and could never be, watching what have been robbed, stolen, forever lost to you now? And just what perversion of a dream is that, Constantin Valdor?

Would you have taken the bargain, if you had know the price?

Do you even care anymore?

Damned together now. Damned together in failure. You failed Him, and He died. He died, and you failed. You left Him behind when He fell and you didn’t, when you failed to trade your life for His as any loyal servant should have. In that, you were broken, and He abandoned you when He died ten thousand years ago. The grieving remnants of your Order was left behind, their silence as fragile as a wailing beast’s grovellings, and you left them. Those servants, who were made to love Him, who never knew if He loved them back yet ached for it. The oldest bond between Master and Slave, now broken.

(Is there forgiveness? Can there ever be atonement for the crime of your failure?)

Do you ever wonder anymore, in the absence of His light? Do you ever, tentatively at first, retracing memories He wiped out, a mind too ravaged to even pain exploring a past He burned to oblivion, wondering what you were, wondering what you could’ve been. Reliving memories with perfect recall yet broken understanding, those conversations with the Cataegis, the screams in the frost, the simple horror of the betrayal. Do you resent them, for being what you could not? For having what you, and your brethren, in all their perfection, could never achieve? Did you even have the privilege of knowing resentment?

Do you hate them for being better at living, at being human, instead of eking out an existence without substance, an immortality without life? Do you hate the way they looked up in reverence, do you loathe their conviction, their justice, the way they trusted so blindly in their own foolish, naive, ignorant, human way, when they loved Him, and felt His wrath?

The Primarchs you sentenced to death on Ararat. They looked at you with such hollowness burned into their gaze, knowing they’re here to be slain, knowing you’re here to kill them, knowing they - the Judas lamb - had led their troops here to die and be slaughtered. Do you resent them too? Can you know resentment? Some had fought against you. Some had raged, screamed against the dying of the light. One, even, had escaped. But the worst just looked on, with those sickeningly human eyes, in simple, broken and numb horror as their world dissolved, as they cried out for unity and heard the blade fall. Do you resent them too? Do you resent them, for you could never resent what you’ve done, for He would not let you?

(A tool that loathes its own sacrifice is no tool at all. You may not love the slaughter, but you no longer have the right to hate it. Kill for Him. Kill for Him, it is what good hunting hounds do.)

Do you even regret the bones upon the snow?

You failed. And the brokenness will never leave.

Do you even know hate anymore? Can you even hate anymore? Has that too been eroded? Do you hate for Him, do you hate what you have accomplished, do you hate the man you could have been but never was? For he could have been a better servant, a better man, a better captain-general, if only He had given him the right to dream?

You failed. You failed, and now the leash you’ve lived under for so long is broken, the chains are shattered, the Order has crumbled into ruins. They live on, but how could the body do any more than endure when its heart - its mind - has been ruptured, its primal arteries torn away, left with nothing else than to preserve its bones for eternity?

What of your lost brothers? Do you ever wonder what they could have been, if you had not fetched them from weeping mothers and brought them before your lord to be turned into His tools? Do you regret? Have you ever cared at all?

You are perfect. You are broken. You are the Custodes, and ten thousand years ago you failed. Your brethren failed the Emperor. You were built to serve a god, not until even you die, but until even eternity burns out, until the foundations of civilization crumble, and kings and emperors decay. You were perfect, once, but there was a flaw in His design. He could not have tolerated true perfection, if not for His own. He does not err, He desecrates, as He has desecrated the holy texts when He built His angels.

You are not perfect. He built you to be flawed. He built you without a dream, without even a mind of your own, without even the will to question or care, without even the hate to ponder and rage against such a cruel existence. He built you without pain, without even loss, with nothing but an eternity of trudging onwards for scraps of His love.

But what happens now? What happens now when you have failed so utterly in your duty? What happens now when His love is no more, but your obsession no less painful, your existence no less empty? What happens now when the part He ripped away and replaced with Himself is hollowed out again, when nothing is left behind but a gaping wound where a heart once was? What happens now, when the servants no longer have a king?

#wh40k #warhammer 40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #warhammer #adeptus custodes #wh40k writing prompts #emperor of mankind #thunder warriors

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sculptorofcrimson · 3 days

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Y'know....as Slaanesh is one of my more favorite legions....

Hm.

I just need a good song and I promise I'll write.

The thought of hesitant Emperor’s children fill me with so much sadness. The soldiers who lacked the ambition that led so many of their fellows to Slaanesh, yet still followed their primarch out of love for him. Saul Torvitz couldn’t have been the only good one. Survivors of the legion; surrounded by chaos and horror, who forsake their father eons too late. Warriors who, in stark contrast to their “brothers”, have an almost supernatural quietness to them.

They lack the sadistic pride that haunts the remnants of their legion, a sorrowful lot hunting for any hope of redemption while their bodies are slowly twisted beyond repair. I’m so normal about this I swear.

#going on the backburner

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sculptorofcrimson · 4 days

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The Flayer Hates(The Flayer Loves)

Warning: light gore

It doesn’t hurt, when you sink in the knives. It never does. This hate. This desire for an end. This vicious, burning thing that wants to eat all, trample all, tear all that shines down until they are as low as you are, as wretched of a creature as you have been. The sheer hatred that is not cannot - be articulated, the ache in your bones that can only be stalled, never cured. The rage, the hate, the screams that died in cords unsung, the blind madness that will kill you before you could screech your hatred out to the stars.

The hunger that never ends.

Skin. Teeth. Bones. Liver. Skull. You want to strip them away, flay them alive, feast upon them until they’re unidentifiable dust, you want to find those that betrayed you so utterly and shattered you Llandu'gor into oblivion, you want to find those who built citadels out of your skull and idols out of your bones and you want to beat them into dust. You want to smear their flesh across your unmoving jaws and separate their bones from their meat, you want to hear them scream as you have screamed, fading now, hear them decay limb by limb as you have rotted, drowning in the all-consuming night as you have drowned.

You want to find their graves, you want to put them there, you want to grind their bones one by one into ash and sink sickle-claws down into their flesh until they bleed through metallic bones, until they scream with unmoving mouths, until they repent the sins of steel. You want to hear the crunch of bones squealing apart, the screech of metal torn to ash, the slow seeping of green ichor leaking from your clawed fingernails as you grind talons over a skull that was a face. To hear their joints creak, their limbs snap, rotate, twist and turn and pop, to tear apart metallic augments until they are mortal now, nothing but a weak, fleshy shell not even worthy of being called human, writhing on the ground, begging for forgiveness through a toothless mouth. Rip wires from pumping innards, tear tubing from limbs and spines, rip tails, talons, claws, wings, take tendrils and hear them crack, snapping inch by inch into twisted, worthless fragments.

You want to flay them alive. You want to give them flesh and take it away, you want to give them skin and eat it away, you want to rust their bones and breathe cancer over their steel, you want to make them hate as you have been hated. You want to turn them into you, a wretched, lonely thing screaming away in the dark. You want to find these helpless, mocking creatures, so weak, so loathsome in their aloneness, and you want to turn them into you. You want to flay them alive, make them bleed as you have bleed. You will turn them into your children, your flaws, your sins come to life.

Find them, crush them, make them repent. Crush their steel into rust, cover their green ichor with black bile. Teach them the falsehoods of their love, how even their beloved obsessions hate them back, how they will never be loved again. Teach them the carnality of the endless hunger, the flesh and blood upon steel lips, of hate unending instead of joy, of hunger enduring instead of adoration.

They will never be loved. You will find these lonely, forgotten, cast away creatures of steel, not flesh.

And you will love them.

You are Llandu'gor, the Flayer.

And you will make them love.

#necrons #Flayed Ones #wh40k #warhammer 40k #light gore #sculptor of crimson #warhammer writing prompts #writing prompts #drabbles #c’tan #necrontyr #warhammer #wh40k writing prompts

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sculptorofcrimson · 4 days

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The master’s bones are indistinguishable from the bones of His slaves.

Is that not a fitting end for a glorious tyrant? <3

Tyrant’s Lullaby

Once upon a time, there was a glorious, terrible man. He built horrors. He built wonders. He brought monsters up from the deep. He took a child from the arms of a horrified, weeping family, and raised him not as a boy but as a general. He took a child and ruined his future, He took a child and made him a king, a pet, a dog. He marched armies over the face of the ravaged earth, and trampled all that did not kneel before the weight of the storm. He burned tundras to ash and shook the mountains until they crumbled, He boiled the seas to mist and the skies to charcoal. And when the scouring was done, and the earth was entombed in ashes, He turned His dreaming, endless glare upon His own.

He strangled the thunder that had bore Him a throne, He sent the golden, the children stolen from their cradles, to plunge down long knives into turned backs raised so fervently before His regard. With their blood they had built Him a kingdom, and with their bones He crowned Himself a throne. And when Terra knelt, cowed, battered, in awe and in fear, He turned His gaze skywards.

And the stars felt His benevolent wrath.

He bore twenty sons, two of them sacrificed, and He unleashed them upon the earth, the skies, the stars. They hunted for Him, they loved Him, they adored Him, yet some had strayed too far from His light, some had gazed upon the man that would be a god with sullen, hungry eyes, doing His bidding, and knowing His wrath. They are those who were there when affection curdled to treachery.

There was no peace among the stars, no mercy, no rest, simply a slow, heartless drowning as the gold claimed them limb by limb, inch by inch, and swallowed them into the endless light.

And then war. Treachery, when the stars themselves were swallowed. When brother turned against brother, and father against son. When the Phoenix cleaved the Gorgon’s head from his shoulders, and the Immortal bashed in the Haunter with a hammer, when the Angel fell to the Traitor and He stained the Palace’s stones red with His son’s blood. When Horus burned, when the Angel shed his wings and the golden were shattered upon the anvil of betrayal, the Father fell to His son.

He was buried upon a rotting throne, screaming hollowly into the fading dark, the stars basking in His rage, His pity and His wrath. He was buried alive in a tomb made from gold, ashen bones ruling a decaying kingdom from the grave, dreaming forever of brighter days. Dreaming of His sons, and how He betrayed them first, how they betrayed Him, how they abandoned His bones. And finally could the golden rest, bathed in the heart of their greatest shame, enshrining the decaying dust of a master they had failed, in an empire He had forsaken.

That man was the Emperor. That corpse is the Emperor, golden, glorious, and decaying just like the slaves.

Do not think your bones different from a slave's. When you rot, your corpse will be indistinguishable from those of your servants.

#reply

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

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The worst part He removed from Valdor was his dignity.

Also Curze trying to sleep upside down and scaring the shit outta poor serfs.

maybe it's the furry in me but I love the comedy of Primachs having mild animal instincts bc Big E was a lil to creative with DNA in the gene lab

Leman and the Lion carrying their Astartes by the scruff of the neck and moving them around in the middle of the night because they heard a noise and got frightened

Sanguinius going broody and sitting on top of Blood Angels, sleeping in a nest lined with his own plucked down feathers

Corax stealing particularly shiny items and generally being a nuisance around the palace bc there is so much fucking gold

Vulkan temperature regulating by lying in volcanic craters

#oh shit #that's russ #that man HAS NO SHAME #he also has no mind either #but can't fault him #bark bark BARK BARK #the true reason why Russ gets along so well with him is because they bark at each other

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

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Curze hissing at bright lights.

maybe it's the furry in me but I love the comedy of Primachs having mild animal instincts bc Big E was a lil to creative with DNA in the gene lab

Leman and the Lion carrying their Astartes by the scruff of the neck and moving them around in the middle of the night because they heard a noise and got frightened

Sanguinius going broody and sitting on top of Blood Angels, sleeping in a nest lined with his own plucked down feathers

Corax stealing particularly shiny items and generally being a nuisance around the palace bc there is so much fucking gold

Vulkan temperature regulating by lying in volcanic craters

#and valdor occasionally yapping at intruders like a hyperactive guard dog #konrad curze #curze should be loved

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

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DRUKHARI DRUKHARI DRUKHARI DRUKHARI

Mike's done a Drukhari novel. This is not a drill.

#awaken commorragh #my beloved #drukhari

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

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Chaos Tulio: Superbeast

This is a Loyalty swap for Tulio. Not based off of any fan heresies a lot more work goes into those and I'm not willing to build from the ground up an alternate Horus Heresy. However all of the boys (Except Tyberos and other actual 40k characters) will be getting a Loyalty swap. There will also be a "Falling to Chaos" version for the Loyalists and (tentatively) a "Rising to Redemption" for the Traitors.

Also Psychi in this story has descriptions due to the more... graphic nature of this one to lessen any ick someone might feel about a reader insert

Word count: 3542

Tag List @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts

@liar-anubiass-blog @thevoidscreams @barn-anon @sculptorofcrimson

Thank you to @squishyowl for the dividers

tw: sex ahoy, dubious consent, will also tag as noncon as well, yandere, Tulio is his own warning

Readers Discretion is Advised

The traitor realm of Ultramar was the largest holding of traitors outside of the eye of terror. Controlled by the fallen Primarch Robute Guilliman; it fell overnight following the charismatic leader that was the primarch of the 13th legion. The realm was a beautiful hell... a hell where they knew exactly how much worth you had in you the moment you were brought into their clutches. For a thing of Chaos... even the Chaos was calculated and planned for... for the Primarch hated surprises.

Tyranids were a surprise that the Lord of Ultramar despised and thus he dedicated several thousand of his sons to dealing with it and the profane rituals to insure that they could protect the realm of Ultramar. Profane rituals blessed these sons of Ultramar as to defeat their seemingly endless xenos foe... they chose to become like their foes. To become the beasts.

Lieutenant Tulio Sydo had secured a large victory for his Primarch, at the cost of thousands of his men, a few warp drives, and his fellow Lieutenant... the Hive Fleet barreling towards Macragge was no more... the splinters of the hive fleet would be hunted down but for now he was told to recuperate... to relax... to partake in revelry... as his worship of the four was far too lopsided according to the chaplain... the youngest deserved his worship.

The room smelt of sweat and sex as concubines bodies moved against mutated flesh. The four armed and eight eyed Lieutenant was watching the depravity... they couldn't be too rough given theses were the modified concubines... surely someone's seed would take. His lounged as his digigrade legs were spread open, his cheek rested on one of his hands, another held a goblet of wine, a third resting near a weapon, and his fourth hand laced through the blonde hair of his once favorite concubine as she took his cock in her mouth. He was fused to his armor in certain locations... his thighs, the tops of his hands and arms, and from the nose up was now twisted with a large singular horn coming from his forehead.

He could smell her... his black tongue lazily swiped over his needle like teeth. His eyes closer to the back of his head could watch her... his Psychoula. Comparing her to the concubines they looked far prettier... healthier... with a glow to their skin. His eyes darted to the symbol of the Prince on his former favorite's tongue just working her best to please him. Psychi feared him... he could see it in the way tears gathered in the corners of her eyes... those plain brown things. How thin her dirty brown hair was but oh what a rich chocolate brown it could be when cleaned. He had the pleasure of seeing her look good once... once again when his favorite was failing to make him feel alive.

Slaanesh wasn't his favorite of the four... Khorne was his main patron and it was hard to drag him back to the center of worship that being so high up in his father's good graces required. So Tulio had to... excessively indulge in Slaanesh to balance out his souls humors. Yet this... neglected looking thing drove him to feel such licentiousness desires. His eyes, the ones that could see her, focused on her as he churned his hips. Hand gripping the hair tighter as he closed those still green eyes of his just picturing those sad looking brown ones looking up at him.

He grew to dislike his erstwhile concubine when she had caught sight of her, of course ignorant of his interest in her of his interest in the feeble little thing, and simply upturned her nose to the poor little thing. But, her mouth was a good replacement until he could get those pale lips to wrap around his own cock one day soon. Oh yes orgy first then rewards for his men as they had all chosen their desired pitiful creature to have as theirs and theirs alone and he could tell they all were watching, or trying to not watch, nervously. He sees her tense as he catches her eyes dart over and notice how he looks at her and what is going on between his legs. Tulio can't help but grin as he lets out a groan letting the whore between his legs drink it up.

"Brother Cyrus." Tulio started as he was being cleaned off. His second also appeared to be boredly watching the festivities but really Tulio knew his eyes were focused on some one armed black haired waif. Such a tiny looking frail thing... Tulio might have been tempted to lust over such a cute looking thing but his Psychi caught his eyes first.

"Yes Lieutenant?" He replied with a bored sigh.

"You want a go at this?" He gestures to the concubine in his lap who looks at him confused. Cyrus looked over clearly uninterested before Tulio purred out, "Might make sure you don't... break your little waif... if you get some of that eager passion out. Whole point of this orgy really... don't need any of my closest men sobbing about breaking their new toy."

They ignored the concubine trying to get an answer to beg for her master's affection and Tulio could have ignored her but he looked down at her boredly, "You were always on loan to me my dear. I just tend to get possessive of my things." He says grabbing her chin and pushing her lips together, "However, I'm about to get a tight new toy..." He says before brother Cyrus grabs her and drags her into a side room.

The wine ran down his throat so smoothly cleaning away the acidic feeling from gorging himself earlier. He looked at the empty goblet holding it to the side and just gently rolling his hand as he watched his timid little Psychoula come over to fill the glass. Her cheeks flushed from the debased acts and the pleasured moans... perhaps glances from the women to entice them to join in and enjoy.

"What do think about this my dear?" He trilled to her watching confusion crawl across her pretty face slowly like a body divided below the waist... refusing to die and dragging it out like intestines across the ground.

He watched her mouth open slightly a few time as her eyes darted around trying hard to look away but knowing that she had to maintain eye contact with him. "I... I... its... it's not exactly... my first choice?" She tried her best not to stutter and if it was anyone else he would be offended at the lack of respect given to him. Tulio knows he'll teach her better manners she's just not use to his divinely gifted aura yet. Few mortals could manage to not be intimidated or struck with fear the first few times meeting him.

"Oh?" He cooed to her moving to him now lounging on his side giving her his attention. The saliva clinging to his cock has dried off and he was eager to replace it with something else. One of his hands began a languid stroke, "What brings you such hesitations Psychoula?" Tulio did his best not to have a predatory grin as he could see the other rewards looking at her with pity and fear as they tried to ignore the mewling and moaning throng in the center of the room.

His eyes dilated for a moment watching her pink little tongue wet her dried and chapped lips. His eyes wandered down to the front of her stolla where the fabric revealed the tattooed symbol of the Ultramarine's on her collarbone like all slaves. "It... it looks rather violent." She just says uncomfortably, he could tell she wanted to beg to be dismissed but she was trapped.

"Oh it is. But," He pauses taking a drink, "they are modified to handle such carnal appetites. Only the prettiest things can become like them..." Tulio leans in watching her start to shake but like a good girl she doesn't move, "I think you're pretty enough to become one." He whispers into her ear pulling back to watch her stiffen with fear. Those tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she whimpers just biting on her bottom lip resisting the urge to beg for mercy.

Tulio stops playing with himself and sets his goblet down as his clawed hands grab her feeling the barest of resistance as he pulls her into his lap. This lower set of arms pulls on the low quality fabric apart causing her to start crying as everything below her waist was now revealed... he could feel how boney she was. One upper hand retrieved his gobelt... the other upper hand worked on throwing the last bits of her ruined stolla away... one lower arm was groping her ass, his cock twitching with excitement, as his other worked her breasts.

"You're so small zoi mou." He stated as her breasts were small from lack of food... lack of nutrition... oh they wouldn't do. Two of his hands rushed down and grabbed her ass with a smack causing her to yelp as he felt up the slightly boney thing, his cock leaking again with excitement at her being in his grasp and his hands felt up her body. "This won't do at all." He said tutting softly as he grabbed her chin. He loved to watch her cry... it stirred something noble feeling in his chest. She was a soft and frail thing that needed someone to protect her and he was going to be that one to do so.

"You'll fatten up soon enough and have breasts as enviable as any of the other concubines getting ravaged here." He made her look at one of the women face down on the floor with a pleasured look on her face as cum oozed down her thighs while one of the battle brothers was roughly rutting with her. She was too speechless only making whines of pleasure... he could smell the shameful arousal from Psychi... "Fat breasts for me to grope and hold," he whispers in her ear, "fattened hips for me to grab and feel my balls clap against." He turned to have her look at him, "You want to be in that position, dont you?"

He watched her shake her head and just chuckled, "I can smell you." He poked her nose like some amused child and not a being of twisted transhuman dread and the simple dread of the profane gifts he has gotten. He pushes her against his cock and she jerks in his grip.

"Please you're too big my lord please! Mercy!" She finally sobs and Tulio shivers, one of his hands gathering up his cum on some fingers.

"Hmm you're right... how about we change that." He leans her back slightly pouring the far too rich wine into her mouth. She lets out a sputtering noise as his cum covered finger pushed into her. She pushed the goblet away and coughed as the red wine stained her skin and wetting her hair as Tulio worked his finger in and out of her at a fast beat smearing just a light coating of his thick cum into her unprepared sex.

She felt her body relax and react to the way his finger moved in and out of her quickly and filled her with a thickness akin to a cock. Tulio's barbed tail twisted and coiled around itself in its own way to express its master's twisted glee. "Yes," he dulcetly crooned, "be a good girl and relax for me." A clawed hand moved over her stomach... claws gently tapping against those visible lower ribs of hers. Tulio loved the way she cried... the pitiful expression she wore just stroked something in him. Tulio felt that same sentimental twinge itch in the back of his mind... was this what loyalists felt over their charges?

He drags out a gasping moan as his index joins his middle finger. He pulls her dirty hair free of the frazzled braid and watches it spool out over the lounging chair. His eyes all focus on her... drinking in the full picture of her pleasure... his hands dance over her body. He held a memory covetously close to his wicked hearts... having seen her smile. Having seen her express a pure spark of joy even in hell. Her smile made such a frail looking creature like herself look radiant and glowing.

She whimpered under his ministrations as she writhed on the large lounging chair unable to stop squirming. Her eyes screwed shut as she was torturously close... Tulio leaned in as his long thin black tongue glided out of his mouth like some predatory beast and it moved into her... finding her clitoris... she squealed as she orgasamed and she tasted like he was expecting... unhealthily... but he wasn't a fully selfish lover... she'd taste like dark chocolate to him one day... that delightful bitter and salty combination mixed with an essence uniquely her's.

He knows she should have asked if there was anything else he needed... but his answer would have been a yes. His hooves touched the stone floor as he grabbed her by her upper arm and dragged her to another room, her legs seemingly failing her. She caught those pitying looks from the others but they would soon have to worry once the concubines were sent away with cum filled cunts. The sexual frenzy of his brothers would end soon... but he was going to indulge in his reward first.

Pressing her hands against the wall in the second room he rocks his cock against her back as he takes his time letting his eyes meander and wander over her body... again far too thin for his liking... he'd find out what fruits and sweets she'd like and help her indulge... oh he certainly was feeling the high that others got from the Prince of Pleasure. She was surly placed in his path by him to keep Tulio from giving it all to Khorne... just as the Weaver of Fate kept his mind sharp... and the loving Grandfather kept him hearty and hale... he would return to balance with his now continued indulgence of his dear Psychoula.

He tossed the empty metal goblet away as all of his hands moved over her body, two hands grabbing and squeezing her breasts on the edge of being too much for her body he could feel her try to flinch away but she was very much well trained... hardly flinching away at all. "I'll enjoy breaking you in... have you begging for my cock again."

She whimpered choosing to remain silent... Tulio clicked his tongue feeling a bit ignored. The way her eyes widened in horror as his palm talon shot out and punched a hole into the metal wall. How her body trembled against his as Tulio leaned in whispering, "I expect you to answer when I tell you something zoi mou. I'm being oh so very nice," He hissed into the shell of her ear, his hands on her breasts shifting to let his nails dig into her oh so frail flesh... "I could rip your flesh right off your body." That got a sob out of her, "Answer honestly my dear..."

He savored with sick delight as her mouth opened and closed as tears were flowing down her cheeks like rain. "Please just don't make it painful." She managed to squeak out of her without sobbing.

"Awww, zoi mou, is that what you're worried about?" He said grabbing her chin and having her look up at him. Of course, she'd be pain adverse for their first time together... perhaps they would work up to that... or not... Tulio just wanted her to be begging for his cock. To see her smile at him with a coy lustful grin in his bed as she wiggled her ass and bare sex to him just wanting to fill her. "I will do my best to make this a moment you want again." He kissed her temple.

She could feel the pointed head of his cock force its way between her prepared folds... it started out thin but got thicker towards the base. She pressed her forehead against the wall, forced to the tips of her toes as Tulio sunk inch after inch into her. Tulio on the other was clenching his jaw trying his best to not just break her and rip her apart for his first time with her. He had to be gentle...

His eyes snapped open, he didn't realize he closed them all, he licked the inside of his mouth as he adjusted his hips and began the slow thrust in and out of her divine sex. It's how he didn't burn himself out... he savored each time he had sex keeping them far enough apart that it made it feel so wonderful and new... he probably would be indulging so much more often if this is what was waiting for him.

Psychi whimpered as he picked her up, hands still on her breasts on the edge of being so painful. The way he wrapped his arms around her... she could feel him starting to squeeze... more and more. Her moans became less and less sure as the distraction of the sex was waning and the impending dread returned.

Tulio tilted her back and started to squeeze causing her to thrash around him, her walls fluttering around his cock causing him to groan as those tears rolled down her cheeks, "Lord Sydo! Lord Sydo please!" She screamed fearfully as she has seen what an Astartes can do to normal human flesh...

"Tulio." He hissed, "Call me Tulio... moan that out for me!"

"Tulio! Tulio!" She screams trying to moan but she just sobs as she can feel the pressure against her body... she was going to die.

"You say my name so sonorously how I am compelled to listen." He trills to her before tossing her naked body onto the bed in the room . He watches her try to recover but he is upon her swiftly and he plunged his cock back deep into her as once again she feels it dance on the edge of painful but Psychi can't help but moan slightly.

Tulio has been a kind lover... as he is certain she has orgasmed at least 4 times since he started giving her attention. The soft whimpers as his cock gently grinds against her cervix... perhaps he lied a little promising that this time wouldn't hurt... it would hurt a bit... one of his upper arms traps her in a headlock, he watches those eyes look at him with fear.

He promises zoi mou! Just let him breed you right now! You will come to love this! He thinks deliriously as his body suddenly floods with the right cocktail of chemicals and neurons firing. The tip of his cock pushes against the very back of her being... Psychi feels something move inside of her before she feel the pressure and she starts to just scream as it hurts. She claws at those ceremite ridges on his arm holding her, she's thrashing as she feels something move inside of her as Tulio's profane biology goes to work flooding his system with hormones as he lets out a soft groan as he finally releases inside of her.

I can't breathe! Is Psychi's last thought as it's too much for her... the racing of her heart... the painful pressure... his arm around her. She cannot hear the bellowed order from Tulio then the screaming from the "gift" mortals. No she gets no closure... as it all... fade... to ... black.

For the first time in her miserable short life... everything feels quiet... everything feels safe. She can feel sleep languidly pulling away from her but whatever she is on is soft. A gentle clean breeze kisses her cheeks and she can feel a gentle warmth on her skin that feels so comforting like a babe's blanket. She does her best to ignore the gentle light that dances across her eyelids occasionally.

She lets out a contented sigh and feels like all of that hardship... it was all a dream and she was finally dead. Something rustles behind her and a warm voice... strong... assured of itself... but it whispers to her, "Welcome Home." The voice says before gentle kisses are pressed against the back of her neck coaxing her back into the deep slumber. Home... what a funny word to here but if this was home... then she never wanted to leave.

Tulio Sydo Lieutenant of the Tyrannic division of the Traitor Primarch Robute Guilliman's Ultramarine legion... sighed contently watching his new wife, consort, concubine, possession. Return to her sleep as they were back in the Ultramar system and he was back home. He once more pressed kisses to the back of her neck as he thought how she would be modified soon... for now he would just enjoy finally having his zoi mou all to himself. His tail lazily swayed behind him as he closed those grass green eyes of his and trilled contently.

#warhammer 40k #yandere space marine #traitor astartes #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #YUM

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

Text

Aphrodite’s Cell

Synopsis: The residents of the Dark Cells, and their golden keepers.

Relations: Custodes x unnamed f!character, Sister of Silence x unnamed m! character, Valdor x Ushotan

Mildly dubious consent

“Aphrodite, hear my prayer

Sunset rays in my golden hair

Palm tree dreams in my words and songs

How can my pleas be so wrong?”

How could creatures clad in such glorious gold be monsters? How could angels clad in the raiments of gods be anything but worshipped, even as they raised their blades?

“We will protect you, forever and always.” They had promised, so patient, so promising, so monstrous, so cowardly in their lies. They had promised. They had given their word. The Custodes had given their word.

Ergo, they had not kept their word.

(The lies. The lies. The discovery. The treachery. The girl with her paintbrush. The girl with her words, her voice. The arrest. The chains.)

(The mountain. The blood. The betrayal. The High Lord. The storm. The snow. And the sinking of the knife. The chains.)

(The historian, young and naive. The vids in his hand. The horror. The betrayal. The gold. The stance of incense. And the chains.)

The prisoner exhales, and shuts storm-grey eyes, sinking down into the frost of dreams until sleep, cold, cruel and relentless, takes over once more, beneath the cold trampling of heartless beasts’ boots.

(All of them had the same story. All of them would never be free.)

Terra would never welcome them back. In cells of gilded gold, let them dream.

“Aphrodite, hear my pain

I want to fall in love again

Not in love with a man of this world

Fall in love with life itself”

The Shadowkeeper had taken a liking to the painter. He brings the painter flowers, he braids her hair at regular intervals, he even brings her favorite drinks to her regularly. He tries to speak to her, of color and of light, of areas he would’ve thought the painter would have cared for. She did not. The Shadowkeeper offers to take her outside of her cell, to the Imperial gardens, even, to paint the flowers. Like a sunflower without water, she only refuses her jailer, and goes back to her sullen, frosty brooding. Sometimes, she tries to paint the Shadowkeeper. He was always thrilled to sit for these portraits while the painter idly flicked ink from her brush, carving the form of a dragon, a jailer, a warden in the brume, a groom wearing a wedding dress made from bones and holding golden chains.

Her jailer. Her warden.

These portraits line the edges of her cell.

What reason was there to live, when he had failed even his brothers? What reason was there to live, when his very order had been marked obsolete, when he had already been replaced by the usurpers?

What reason was there to live at all, when even your death has been drained of all honor?

It’s better not to resist when the Captain-General leans in, close enough to smell the incense and the parchment clinging onto his robes.

(After all, what can a failed Thunder Warrior Primarch do against the Captain-General himself? Valdor was a god. No mortal could bring down a god. It was foolish for him to have ever tried.)

Storm-grey eyes slip shut as Valdor takes his hand, raising it up to press a kiss against the underside, Ushotan not even voicing a single grumble of protest. Cold hands, effortless, immaculate, cup the Thunder Warrior’s jawline, pressing in until even the edge of his vision was blurred by those cold, immaculate features. Valdor smiles as the Thunder Warrior makes no move to fight him, no longer pushing him away as he closes in to steal a kiss from unresisting lips.

(By Terra. He was tired, so unspeakably tired, so tired of fighting. What he would give to simply sleep, and never awaken before carefully doting and petting hands...)

The Sister without a voice tries to bring him gifts. She likes his archival mind, she “says”. She cannot speak, and her very presence was like the pressing of some heavy stone upon his chest when she leaned in to press short kisses against his temple. She brings him gifts, silent and unresisting, bringing flowers wrapped in paper and intricate golden carvings and shy, carefully decorated books and asking him to speak what she cannot. She tries to ask for kisses, in her own quiet, skittish way, and sooner or later he caves to her. There was no shortage of joy in that curved smile, forming from ecstatic silent lips as he kissed her, the Sister’s hands moving in their jumble of joyous, intelligible signs the Remembrancer had never learnt.

Her lips were cold. Her hands, crushing in their grips, were joyous.

(It pains the poor Remembrancer, to be near her. But she loved him, and was it such a sin to love her back, when no else would set him free?)

“Aphrodite, set me free

Find a way to let me leave

As the future, it unfolds

I leave the past and turn to gold”

She no longer paints him. Why the matter, when he was at every second of her vision, every moment of her life? She feared him, loathed him in fact, she loathed every inch of the grey cell they had tossed her into, where no amount of drawings, of pretty illusions she wove, could disguise the barrenness.

When he offers to take her out for the gardens, for a split second of tasting the wind and spring on her tongue, she jumps at the chance.

It was the only time the painter had ever seen Hades smile.

“A pomegranate too, my floret?” he had offered, the Shadowkeeper’s grin as charming and as utterly without heart as a skeleton’s.

She had accepted that walk in the gardens. And the flowers. And the pomegranate too. His later bargains would not be as favorable.

Valdor’s heartbeat is slow. It presses against him, as slow as the exhalation of some titanic beast, barely humming along as if even life had been bred out of his genecraft. Ushotan can feel it just through his thin robes, Valdor pressing him carefully against him with just enough force he couldn’t squirm free.

(That bastard.)

Ushotan mutters a half-hearted growl, and tries to pull away from Valdor’s warmth. The Custodian’s only response was to tighten his grip, dragging the Thunder Warrior closer and curling up against his side, wrapping himself firmly in the closest limb he could grab. His next escape attempt is foiled when Valdor rests his entire weight upon him, his breaths rattling like the purr of some titanic and viciously amused cat.

(That bastard.)

Eventually, when exhaustion sets in, the Thunder Warrior utters a short, defeated sigh, and leans himself into Valdor’s touch.

Ah, victory. Of course it would be victory, no Custodian engagement was ever lost, especially not for the Captain-General.

She only wants to be loved. To be touched. To be warmed by another. It hurts him to comfort her. Does she still even care? He was learning thoughtmark, even when his head burned with every second of her presence. Even when his eyes blurred over her very frame. She brings him a thick tome one day, uncensored from Imperial scripts, and the glint in her smile when he stammers out a thank you and eagerly delves into its depths was not lost. She only rises in a slow, elegant fashion, and kisses him on the lips. The Sister was not adept with kisses, a lifetime of half-paralyzed lips had made her clumsy and forceful, but it did not matter, he had wrapped his arms around her, he had embraced her as she had so desperately wanted, and now she will let no daemon, no beast, touch him.

(It hurts him. But he loved her, didn’t he? He loved her enough to endure the pain, surely? She certainly believed so.)

#All is well in Commorragh #fucked up is how we roll!

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

Text

Beautiful and fucked up is how we roll. <3

Aphrodite’s Cell

Synopsis: The residents of the Dark Cells, and their golden keepers.

Relations: Custodes x unnamed f!character, Sister of Silence x unnamed m! character, Valdor x Ushotan

Mildly dubious consent

“Aphrodite, hear my prayer

Sunset rays in my golden hair

Palm tree dreams in my words and songs

How can my pleas be so wrong?”

How could creatures clad in such glorious gold be monsters? How could angels clad in the raiments of gods be anything but worshipped, even as they raised their blades?

Ergo, they had not kept their word.

(The lies. The lies. The discovery. The treachery. The girl with her paintbrush. The girl with her words, her voice. The arrest. The chains.)

(The mountain. The blood. The betrayal. The High Lord. The storm. The snow. And the sinking of the knife. The chains.)

(The historian, young and naive. The vids in his hand. The horror. The betrayal. The gold. The stance of incense. And the chains.)

(All of them had the same story. All of them would never be free.)

Terra would never welcome them back. In cells of gilded gold, let them dream.

“Aphrodite, hear my pain

I want to fall in love again

Not in love with a man of this world

Fall in love with life itself”

Her jailer. Her warden.

These portraits line the edges of her cell.

What reason was there to live, when he had failed even his brothers? What reason was there to live, when his very order had been marked obsolete, when he had already been replaced by the usurpers?

What reason was there to live at all, when even your death has been drained of all honor?

It’s better not to resist when the Captain-General leans in, close enough to smell the incense and the parchment clinging onto his robes.

(After all, what can a failed Thunder Warrior Primarch do against the Captain-General himself? Valdor was a god. No mortal could bring down a god. It was foolish for him to have ever tried.)

(By Terra. He was tired, so unspeakably tired, so tired of fighting. What he would give to simply sleep, and never awaken before carefully doting and petting hands...)

Her lips were cold. Her hands, crushing in their grips, were joyous.

(It pains the poor Remembrancer, to be near her. But she loved him, and was it such a sin to love her back, when no else would set him free?)

“Aphrodite, set me free

Find a way to let me leave

As the future, it unfolds

I leave the past and turn to gold”

When he offers to take her out for the gardens, for a split second of tasting the wind and spring on her tongue, she jumps at the chance.

It was the only time the painter had ever seen Hades smile.

“A pomegranate too, my floret?” he had offered, the Shadowkeeper’s grin as charming and as utterly without heart as a skeleton’s.

She had accepted that walk in the gardens. And the flowers. And the pomegranate too. His later bargains would not be as favorable.

(That bastard.)

Eventually, when exhaustion sets in, the Thunder Warrior utters a short, defeated sigh, and leans himself into Valdor’s touch.

Ah, victory. Of course it would be victory, no Custodian engagement was ever lost, especially not for the Captain-General.

(It hurts him. But he loved her, didn’t he? He loved her enough to endure the pain, surely? She certainly believed so.)

#reply

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 days

Text

Aphrodite’s Cell

Synopsis: The residents of the Dark Cells, and their golden keepers.

Relations: Custodes x unnamed f!character, Sister of Silence x unnamed m! character, Valdor x Ushotan

Mildly dubious consent

“Aphrodite, hear my prayer

Sunset rays in my golden hair

Palm tree dreams in my words and songs

How can my pleas be so wrong?”

How could creatures clad in such glorious gold be monsters? How could angels clad in the raiments of gods be anything but worshipped, even as they raised their blades?

Ergo, they had not kept their word.

(The lies. The lies. The discovery. The treachery. The girl with her paintbrush. The girl with her words, her voice. The arrest. The chains.)

(The mountain. The blood. The betrayal. The High Lord. The storm. The snow. And the sinking of the knife. The chains.)

(The historian, young and naive. The vids in his hand. The horror. The betrayal. The gold. The stance of incense. And the chains.)

(All of them had the same story. All of them would never be free.)

Terra would never welcome them back. In cells of gilded gold, let them dream.

~~~~~~

“Aphrodite, hear my pain

I want to fall in love again

Not in love with a man of this world

Fall in love with life itself”

~~~

Her jailer. Her warden.

These portraits line the edges of her cell.

~~~

What reason was there to live, when he had failed even his brothers? What reason was there to live, when his very order had been marked obsolete, when he had already been replaced by the usurpers?

What reason was there to live at all, when even your death has been drained of all honor?

It’s better not to resist when the Captain-General leans in, close enough to smell the incense and the parchment clinging onto his robes.

(After all, what can a failed Thunder Warrior Primarch do against the Captain-General himself? Valdor was a god. No mortal could bring down a god. It was foolish for him to have ever tried.)

(By Terra. He was tired, so unspeakably tired, so tired of fighting. What he would give to simply sleep, and never awaken before carefully doting and petting hands...)

~~~

Her lips were cold. Her hands, crushing in their grips, were joyous.

(It pains the poor Remembrancer, to be near her. But she loved him, and was it such a sin to love her back, when no else would set him free?)

~~~~~

“Aphrodite, set me free

Find a way to let me leave

As the future, it unfolds

I leave the past and turn to gold”

~~~

When he offers to take her out for the gardens, for a split second of tasting the wind and spring on her tongue, she jumps at the chance.

It was the only time the painter had ever seen Hades smile.

“A pomegranate too, my floret?” he had offered, the Shadowkeeper’s grin as charming and as utterly without heart as a skeleton’s.

She had accepted that walk in the gardens. And the flowers. And the pomegranate too. His later bargains would not be as favorable.

~~~

(That bastard.)

Eventually, when exhaustion sets in, the Thunder Warrior utters a short, defeated sigh, and leans himself into Valdor’s touch.

Ah, victory. Of course it would be victory, no Custodian engagement was ever lost, especially not for the Captain-General.

~~~

(It hurts him. But he loved her, didn’t he? He loved her enough to endure the pain, surely? She certainly believed so.)

#wh40k #warhammer 40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #warhammer #adeptus custodes #wh40k writing prompts #ushotan x valdor #adeptus custodes x original characters #warhammer oc #adeptus custodes x reader #sisters of silence #sisters of silence x original characters #sisters of silence x reader

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