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Freshly emerged from a cold shower, the Night Haunter covers himself with loose black robes, black hair draping over his face. Nakedness suddenly matters in a way like never before. He sits on the edge of his large bed, unnerved by how luxurious and dignified his chambers looks after he grudgingly let serfs clean it during the legion’s last campaign. The Night Haunter needs no such things.
He wants to rise and rip the smooth decorative drapes, stain the carpet with fresh blood, and topple the bed – he never sleeps on it anyway. But he broods in the dark instead, bored and disgusted by what he’s about to do.
It’s not the first time he fulfills his primarch duty for the legion in such a way, nor the first time receiving certain help from a certain Astartes. Evidently, he would prefer doing it alone; the fewer eyes on him, the more he’s at ease.
Except that he physically can’t do it all by himself. He has tried many times before, with his cold wet hands, struggling to find the right angle and friction to please himself. Nothing ever happens, and he is glad to be reassured of it. It was strangely but deeply comforting that he seems to be utterly sexless. Perfect for a monster.
But then there’s Sevatar.
The Night Haunter would rather not have such a weakness, he made it clear to the newly appointed First Captain. But this particular part of his destiny is absurdly set in stone. How is one supposed to change that?
Unconsciously, he hunches even lower in an unspeakable emotion. He has given up long ago to recognize what it is.
He has accepted what the legion needs from him, not just command and his presence, but the raw genetic material too, directly from him. From his body. Ever since a primarch’s return to the Imperium and to his sons, one of the first things to catch up is the legion’s geneseed stock and the standard research for issues occurred during the long years the primarchs have been lost in space. As the name of the organ blatantly suggests, its science is closely related the genetic materials in a primarch’s sperm.
The Night Haunter has no choice but to provide that. And Sevatar helps, as he should.
He hears footsteps a minute ago, and waits for the visitor to pass the long empty corridor outside. He nods lightly when the First Captain appears from the door of his private chambers.
“Sev,” he starts, and falls silent, beckoning his Astartes with a gesture instead. He sees everything in the smooth blackness, and Sevatar’s eyes are quickly adjusting, too. Those narrow, inky Nostraman eyes he expected himself to resent.
“Ave Dominus Nox. My primarch.” Sevatar replies and steps inside, the thumping of his boots turning soft and gentle as his footfalls land on the lush carpet.
The heavy door slides closed behind him, shutting out the dim blue light from the strategic hololith display in the antechamber. Sevatar is unarmed and dressed in a simple robe, as expected, and holding a box with his left arm. The Night Haunter frowns when he smells disinfectants. His vomeronasal organ wanted more of Sevatar.
Standing a few steps from him, for a few seconds Sevatar simply stares. The way the Night Haunter perches has gotten their faces at the same level. He hears his brave son swallow, the sound so loud and unmistakable, it brings a grin to the Night Haunter’s lips. The uncomfortable pressure starts to leave him, like a weight being quietly removed.
Sevatar’s neutral expression remained unchanged, but anticipation fills his dark eyes. “Shall we start, my lord?”
“Yes, yes. Come closer now. You may begin…touching me.” He lets the words flow out, soft Nostraman syllables purring just the slightest.
Sevatar obeys, goes straight up to where Curze sits, by the edge of his large velvet-covered bed. He sinks to one knee smoothly, right before his primarch and sets the box by his right side, close to them both. “We’re lucky your geneseed is notably stable, sire.” He said casually. “We don’t have to do this often, because of that.”
The Night Haunter hums a low sound of approval. Sevatar shifts his weight on the carpeted floor, fully kneeling now, and places himself between his lord’s spread legs.
In the utter darkness his inner sanctum procures, the Night Haunter still sees the face of his only favored son, so clear he could notice every single eyelash and an intrigued light frown caused by focus and dedication instead of dismay.
With a quiet swish of clothes, Sevatar’s hands are on Curze’s knees, and softly prompts him to spread them further, squeezing himself in between the primarch’s legs. Then he lifts the black fabric from those knees and reaches to untie the Night Haunter’s robes at the waist.
Sevatar is getting good at dealing with things. The Night Haunter doesn’t admit, wouldn’t admit, but the way those hands move makes him want to grab them by the wrists and wring those bones until they crack and tendons snap. Sometimes he has to actively suppress that certain urge.
With the loose fabrics pushed aside, revealing his naked form beneath – the Night Haunter didn’t bother finding any underpants for this occasion – Sevatar moves on. He starts tracing the defined lines of the primarch’s muscles, trimmed short nails brushing against alabaster skin. Sevatar keeps dragging his hands up Curze’s inner thigh until touching his crotch, even for only fleeting seconds, the sensation is enough to make him tense. It reminds him of lightning claws, and their buzzing electricity dancing. He shudders, frustrated by how much he’s feeling.
His cock was getting hard the first moment Sevatar touched him and silently requested him to open up his legs. When the First Captain’s touch reaches his genitals and wraps a hand around the shaft, he’s instantly fully erect. Pathetically fast, compared to all those times he isolated himself deep in the night making an effort to milk a reaction from himself and failed.
He sees Sevatar stare and the hunger in those eyes grows, almost gleaming like the honey-covered desserts served on Fulgrim’s feast table. Decadent. It makes his cock twitch.
Sevatar turns and produces some items from the box he brought. An empty glass vial with a cap. A soft bottle of transparent liquid. A pair of gloves, red, stretchy, medical. Snapping the gloves on, Sevatar looks up at him again. “Last time, the apothecaries reported contamination of the material, so no mouth for you now, my lord. No licking or sucking. Only these,” he explains, and wriggles his gloved fingers in the air. “But I imagine it won’t be a problem at all.”
Last time, he came in Sevatar’s mouth five times, and watched him spit it out into the vessel each time before they start another round. Nasty little bat. The thought alone made him salivate as if he smelled fresh arterial blood.
“Go on, then. That depends on how well you can do.”
Sevatar can do extremely well. Drives the Night Haunter crazier than he already is.
“You haven’t been relieved in a long time, sire, I can feel it,” says Sevatar, circling one hand around the base of his cock, cupping his balls with the other. “They’re so heavy. I’ll help you empty them.” A long, easy stroke, spreading thin lube all over him. The Night Haunter sighed.
Occupied by the campaign in the past months, the regular collecting of genetic materials has been delayed multiple times, pushed to the back of the schedule.
“The first load is going to be so thick…” Sevatar sounds like he’s musing aloud to himself, but the Night Haunter knows the words are for him. They work wondrously every time. Sevatar enjoys them as well, and City’s Edge Nostraman fits his filthy mouth so perfectly. “I wish I could taste it in my mouth. On my tongue. I’d have my mouth wide open for you, lord, taste it and swallow every drop.”
He picks up the pace, rubbing and stroking the shaft the size of a human forearm. The red medical gloves make the wet sounds even more obscene. His right hand goes from the balls to the head of Curze’s cock and twirls a fingertip around it.
The Night Haunter huffs, and grits his pearly bright teeth. How does someone get so talented at this? Or is it just because that’s Sevatar?
“I’ll have your mouth after this,” he rasps, tightening his grip in the soft bedsheets, ripping them with his untrimmed long nails.
“After this,” Sevatar smirks, making a face only his primarch has seen. “You mean after the first round, lord Night Haunter? This is merely for a regular check-up of geneseed purity, I believe the apothecaries won’t need much.”
“Then get on with it…faster…” The Night Haunter breaths, mind wandering to the soft wet heat of Sevatar’s lips sucking around the flushed pink head of his cock with all the eagerness and passion and indulgence. His toes curl in the crimson carpet.
Sevatar obliges, jerking him faster and harder, glossy red gloves covered in fluids, sticky with lube and his leak. His one hand pulls away from the shaft for a moment, and the Night Haunter thrusts into his loosened grip, only to find it pressed back against the head of his cock, palm right over the sensitive tip and grinds with a wet squelch, sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine.
Panting, he finally lets go, chasing the high of orgasm while Sevatar delivers his sweet, sweet torture.
Probably remembering what’s said moments ago, Sevatar looks into his eyes, black eyes wide and so much like his, and opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue in anticipation. That’s what pushed him over the edge, faster than he’s ever been.
The Night Haunter’s eyes snap shut and he came without realizing that Sevatar’s hands are no longer frantically milking him. His dutiful First Captain fetches the little glass bottle to cover the tip of his cock, and collects the thick spurts of fluids inside it. In smug satisfaction, Sevatar watches him finish. He moans, eyes hooded in the heady aftermath of climax.
Sevatar raises a hand to show him the vial he holds between his thumb and index finger. It’s almost full. “I’m flattered, sire,” He says. “Now I have to put this away before I try to lick it.”
The Night Haunter snorts. He closes his eyes and feels the slow movement of his secondary heart. His body enjoys this more than he wants it to.
Before Sevatar is done sealing the tiny bottle of semen inside a vacuum flask to keep it cold, he’s hard again. Both of them are unsurprised by how short a primarch’s refractory period can be. Sevatar blinks and turns back to him before peeling those gloves off himself. Sweat shines on his palms and the Night Haunter can smell arousal everywhere. Both of them are filled with the thrill of things they’ve just done and what’s waiting.
“Open your mouth,” he purrs, tucking strands of wet hair behind his ears to clear his vision, “and I want your hands behind your back. Hold them there for me.” And Sevatar does what he’s told.
It feels like nothing’s wrong, for the time being. The Night Haunter allows himself to enjoy that.