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KINKTOBER DAY 4.

Loyalist on Traitor | White Scars | Quickie

SYNOPSIS: White Scar Yiang Shen gets existential crisis while having hate sex with his rival Night Lord Iskaronte (because there is no better moment for clarity). WARNINGS: NSFW, DARK CONTENT, VIOLENCE, BLOOD/GORE/INJURY (acid on skin), SCARRING, CANNIBALISM (hinted), MANIPULATION, SIZE DIFFERENCE, SEX, HATE SEX, HAIR PULLING, MANHANDLING. Word Count: 1.4k A/N: First time publishing my writing on tumblr, so I wrote something somewhat tamed. Used my own OCs to make it easier for me to jump into the pool. Hope you guys like it!

Another kiss, a river of bile gnawing at his lips.

Yiang Shen already had scars there, originally self-imposed by virtue of joining the Ordu. A symbol of pride and belonging, the evidence of his ascension as one of the venerated demi-gods. He was part of something greater now, Yiang Shen thought at the time, something equally as grandiose as he felt. He wore his scars as the irrefutable evidence of his exalted nature, carrying himself with the justificated hubris of detached divinity. He always knew. Yiang Shen had that nagging intuition since he was a child that he was born in the wrong place. He did not behave according to human expectations; nor expressed himself following some unspoken, convoluted decorum.

He did not react properly. Yes, that was the word.

Properness.

He was found, therefore, improper. Ludicrous. Abnormal. On the worst days, they called out his wrongness: something was amiss with this one, they said. He lost his spirit, perhaps snatched from the womb. A curse, proposed by the tribe’s szu. Maybe his parents committed a crime against the Heavens, punishment burdened by birthing a demon made of clay. Soulless, without substance within. Yiang Shen did not understand then, this inadequacy everyone else seemed to recognize. The discordance between their natures was clear, but his tender brain could not comprehend why. So, he pondered the myths and tales. He listened to the various szu he met, sages bearers of the old wisdom. Yiang Shen came to the same conclusion the adults did. He must not be entirely human; or, conceivably, something above humanity. 

Becoming one of the chosen Astartes came naturally to him. He passed the trials at Quan Zhou with cold determination. The implants, the many surgeries, confronted with an aloofness unbefitting of a mortal. There was pain, of course. Remote vestiges of fear. Yiang Shen, however, recalled, most of all, the eagerness. The changes in his body were fitting. He was blooming into the person he always had been: not human. His wrongness was finally proper, he thought, for he lived among the exalted. 

His sense of belonging was soon challenged. While his brothers chuckled, joked and giggled, even outside the passionate dance of the hunt, Yiang Shen was found distant. Removed from joy, incapable of connecting with his companions. He thought the realm of Heaven would be different from the one sitting on earth, but he discovered that they were complementaries. Reflections of one another. 

Among laughing killers, he alone was the quiet one. 

Improper. Ludicrous. Abnormal.

The corrosive saliva on his skin, deforming the twin viperine cuts, eating at the flesh, deforming their precise beauty, felt — right. Proper. The acrid smell of sinful degradation, the pungent pain of the kiss; the tearing of the symbols of conflicted brotherhood was Iskaronte’s favorite defilement. Yiang Shen always corrected them afterwards, reinforcing his allegiance despite his actions. This exchange they shared held no deeper meaning. They were not in love, they were not friends; they were not even on the same side. Yiang Shen saw it as purely transactional. He did not even want to know what the Night Lord got out of it. Iskaronte’s passionate, suffocated grunts suggested the pleasure was the means, not the end; he was digging for something else. Something Yiang Shen had that he aimed to unearth, somehow, with those gross, big lips of his. 

The thought ended there. If he dwelled any deeper, he would end up killing the man. Now that would be proper, wouldn’t it? 

“You are awfully quiet.” Iskaronte said, the words tethering his incongruous smile. This fiend lacked the basis to articulate any expression without making it outlandish. Yiang Shen noted this beast tendency to speak the obvious. He knew it was to provoke him into a response. Of course he was quiet, he always was. Even during intercourse, his breath barely curved outside its original impassivity. It did not mean Yiang Shen was not feeling anything. His enhanced body naturally gravitated towards unerring stoicism. 

Yiang Shen said nothing. He scrutinized his unlikely partner with golden eyes, drowning in the abyssal black. Yiang Shen found this particular feature fascinating. Those two unfathomable dots in a sea of unhealthy white spoke to him. Barely able to separate sclera from iris from pupil, they conjoined in a perfect depiction of unified calmness. Depths that promised silence, coldness. Unending serenity. Those eyes were closer to his own than those of his brothers. Even though Yiang Shen’s own shone with the bright mysticism of the morning sun, he lacked the warmth. Soulless, lacking substance. A black hole posing for a star. 

Those should have been his eyes.

“Take my example.” Yiang Shen spoke imposingly, his eyes fixating on the nostraman black almost obsessively. “Do what you must do quickly, so we may return to our duties.”

Iskaronte grunted, amused. His voice rumbled and bounced in his belly inconsistently. His breathing was animalistic and cacophonous, like a broken engine. That defect prevented the Night Lord from being in complete silence, even with his lips sealed. Fitting. Only death could keep Iskaronte quiet.

“Go back to killing one another?” Iskaronte murmured. He was bigger than Yiang Shen. A truly hulking monstrosity, brewed and spit from the guts of uncaring Nostramo. Iskaronte made their differences even clearer when he straightened his back, unbent his knees and loomed over him. Yiang Shen did not feel any smaller. Even caged, the prideful son of Chogoris gazed upon nostraman nobility as if he were a lowly curious specimen. Nothing more.

“Not so soon.” Iskaronte spreaded his fingers between Yiang Shen’s legs, getting two in between. “Not so soon.” Like a threat, from the bowels of his stomach. Iskaronte crouched once more, his face getting close to Yiang Shen’s. His nose brushing his cheek, his decrypted smell stinging Yiang Shen’s enhanced senses. If it weren’t for those eyes, Yiang Shen would have found it unbearable. 

Well placed intuition brough Yiang Shen’s hand to cover Iskaronte’s mouth, pushing the Night Lord’s wounded cheek to lay on his shoulder.

“No.” Yiang Shen said, his nose brushing the tender spot between jaw and ear. He trailed upwards, tracing Iskaronte’s temple. “You’ll bite me when I’m dead.”

Aggression contained in fraudulent tenderness, intimacy that had teeth. Iskaronte shuddered. 

He never was the bigger man, nor the most vicious. Yiang Shen just wore ruthlessness with a prettier dressing.

“Not even then.” Yiang Shen added, scarred lips against sickening, pale skin. “You may have whoever comes next, but not me.”

Yiang Shen took over. The Night Lord’s power over him via his physicality was an illusion. He shattered it whenever it pleased him, like all malevolent gods do. Yiang Shen’s satisfaction came from this. He knew. With such a depraved creature there was no reason to hide it: Iskaronte was the enemy. The traitor. The heretic.

It was proper to be cruel. It was proper to be himself.

Inhumane.

Yiang Shen released Iskaronte’s mouth, and the Night Lord kissed his shoulder with controlled exasperation. His hands extended over the bigger man’s nape, fingertips massaging flesh like it was made of clay. Soulless clay, like his own. His fingers wrapped on Iskaronte’s shoulders with mechanical precision, pushing him down, forcing the titan on his knees. Even then, Iskaronte’s face ended up pressed against his stomach. 

Yiang Shen felt the perverted devotion in Iskaronte’s kisses, in his tongue, in the trembling strength of his grip under his ribs. The carnality of the noises were indifferent to him. The stimulation of his flesh less so. The warmth was there, its roots crawling upwards and extending through his body. However, Yiang Shen needed one thing to make it work. His fingers curled in black, greasy hair, yanking his head, reminding the Night Lord to look at him. His eyes were his only beauty. 

They were the reason he was interested at all.

“Look at me.” An order, not a suggestion.

“Romanticism, Yiang Shen?” Iskaronte had latched upon under his navel, persistent in following the hair trail underneath. 

“I do not like you, beast.” Yiang Shen released his hair, and caressed Iskaronte’s forehead with his knuckles. Paternalizing. 

“There is no need.” Iskaronte had pressed his lips against the hardened flesh at his inner thigh. His body was far from virgin; the Great Crusade and its exploits had been Yiang Shen’s first lover. Its embrace had left part of his flesh hardened, blemished and lacking in aesthetical charm. Not like the latter mattered. Iskaronte seemed to ignore any flaw, replacing its original perpetrator with his acrid touch.

 “We could be killing each other tomorrow.” The Night Lord added, intent shining in his sharp teeth, its pointing ends gracing skin like a feather.

Yiang Shen, despite himself, smiled.

He smiled wide enough to push his cheeks upwards and thin his impervious, golden eyes.

“I would like that.”