Kit Williams

You exhale once through your teeth.

Tighten your grip on the long knife.

One clean pulse.

One body at a time.

You spot him halfway through a turn—a tech-ritualist, high rank by the gilding on his mask, blood-slick robes tangled around his feet. His weapon is ceremonial. He doesn’t raise it fast enough.

You silence him before he even registers your face.

The knife slides through his ribs, up, twists.

You press your palm to his mouth while he dies.

It’s not kindness. Just quiet.

---

You don’t linger.

But as you move—

Something moves with you.

Not footsteps.

Not sound.

Just... weight.

Not on the floor.

Not in your hand.

On you.

Like a shadow pressing against the inside of your spine. Not a presence, but a pressure.

A sense that you are no longer the only thing hunting.

You pause in the dark.

And the dark doesn’t feel empty.

---

You’ve felt pursuit before.

You’ve been stalked. Watched. Almost killed.

This isn’t that.

This isn’t a sniper’s crosshairs or a cornered beast.

This is larger. Older. More certain.

Whatever it is, it’s not trying to get closer.

It doesn’t need to.

It’s just there—behind you, or above you, or in you—moving only when you do. But when you stop… it waits.

Like a god watching a single, specific prayer.

Like a predator indulging the long game.

---

You turn your head slowly, eyes scanning the ruins—clean, practiced.

Nothing.

Just steel and soot.

But the skin along your arms feels too tight.

Your pulse isn’t faster. Just... louder.

You crouch.

Kneel by another corpse.

Pretend to search the pockets.

But your fingers tighten around your short blade instead, and you keep your head tilted just enough to catch movement in your periphery.

Nothing comes.

No breath.

No shift in dust.

And yet—

You know.

You’re being followed.

---

Not in the way soldiers follow orders.

Not in the way cowards follow victors.

This is curious.

But not admiring.

Not respectful.

Something is behind your back that doesn’t need to see you to know exactly who you are.

It’s not afraid of you.

But it’s not hunting you either.

It’s waiting.

As if it already knows you’re going to do something... worth claiming.

And for the first time in years—

you don’t know whether you should turn to face it…

…or start performing.

Just in case it’s watching.

---

There’s a stretch of corridor in the lower hive that no one uses anymore.

Too collapsed for heavy transport, too exposed for foot patrols. Smells like machine oil and rot. Perfect.

You found it during recon.

Narrow.

Half-lit.

One entrance.

One vent.

Just enough space to hide a body. Or bait one.

Tonight, that body’s yours.

---

You set it carefully.

Not a trap for a beast.

A trap for something smarter.

You don’t leave pressure sensors.

No explosives.

No alarms.

You leave a gesture.

Your gear laid out wrong—like you were careless. A blade set down in the open, edge turned away. A ration half-eaten. Blood smeared along your collar—not yours.

It says: I’m hurt. I’m tired. I’m unaware.

It’s a lie.

You lie very well.

Then you lower yourself to the floor.

Stretch out.

Face toward the vent, back to the door.

Not sleeping. Just... waiting.

You don’t even blink.

---

The corridor is quiet.

Hour one passes.

Nothing.

Hour two, the wind shifts—ventilation kicking up the smell of scorched carbon and metal.

Not smoke.

Not fire.

Armor.

You don’t move.

But your fingers twitch.

Not fear.

Excitement.

You keep your breathing steady.

You let your shoulders fall.

You look weak.

---

The air thickens.

You don’t hear footsteps. But you feel them—distant pressure through the floor. Like something heavy walking with no rush at all.

It doesn’t pause at the entrance.

It doesn’t scout the edges.

It knows you’re there.

And it’s not afraid.

It stops just beyond your field of view.

Not in front of you.

Behind you.

Close enough that if you breathed too hard, you’d feel the difference in temperature across your back.

You smell salt.

And oil.

And something that shouldn’t have a scent at all—void metal and cold pressure.

Like something that shouldn’t fit in this space but came anyway.

You keep your eyes shut.

But your heart is beating hard now.

Not because you're afraid.

Because for the first time, you realize:

You weren’t being paranoid.

You’re being claimed.

---

Then—

Nothing.

No breath.

No touch.

No sound.

Just—

A low exhale, not from lungs.

From something deeper.

Felt in your spine.

And then… it's gone.

No footsteps retreating.

No wind.

Just absence.

You sit up slowly.

Your blade is untouched.

But the air smells like him.

And the vent grill?

It’s bent—just slightly.

Pressed inward.

As if something much too large decided to get just a little closer than the steel was ready for.

---

You exhale. Once.

Then smile.

“Real,” you whisper.

And your voice sounds wrong in your mouth.

Because it’s the first time you’ve used it in days.

And maybe…

the first time someone was listening.

---His POV---

The corridor stinks of rust and oil.

And something else.

Her.

Not sweat. Not pheromones.

Discipline.

Blood not wasted.

Movement held so tightly it hums through the walls.

He watches from the broken vent shaft. Doesn't crouch. Doesn’t hide.

He simply stands—shoulders hunched into the crawlspace, helm under one arm, eyes burning low behind the slats.

She lies still.

She’s trying to bait him.

It makes no difference.

He doesn’t hunt prey.

He observes pattern.

He waits for failure.

He listens for breakage.

But she’s… different.

She’s baiting him not out of weakness.

Out of curiosity.

She wants to know what’s watching her.

Not stop it.

She’s laid herself out like a sacrifice.

A weapon without sheath.

Throat exposed, legs loose, blade close—but not in hand.

He watches the curve of her back rise in a false breath.

Sees the shiver pass down her flank as she stills her nerves.

Smells her discipline like static off a bloodied altar.

She is not afraid.

And that is why he hasn’t left.

---

He has seen other killers.

Thousands.

Most scream. Most spit.

Some pray.

She doesn't.

She performs.

And never once looks at the audience.

Even now, lying “vulnerable,” she is not inviting.

She is taunting.

And Tyberos feels his jaw tighten.

He knows the look of meat waiting to be devoured.

This is not it.

This is a blade offering itself to be dulled—or blooded.

And he... doesn't yet know which he wants more.

---

He steps forward in the vent, just enough for the metal to groan beneath his weight.

She doesn’t flinch.

But he sees the rhythm of her breath shift.

Slight. Measured. Deliberate.

She knows.

Good.

---

He does not need her to fear him.

He does not need her to break.

But he wants—

no—

He intends

to see what she sounds like

when she finally speaks his name.

---

And if she never does?

Then he’ll carve it out of her throat.

Not as punishment.

But as pattern made flesh.

Because the silence she wields so perfectly?

He wants to be the one to shatter it.

And rebuild it around his name.

---

The shaft is too narrow for a man his size.

But he isn't just a man.

And she isn't prey.

So he stays.

Cramped. Crouched. Knees twisted against ancient steel.

Unmoving.

Watching.

She lies in the trap she’s made—

not for him.

Not really.

For herself.

To prove she’s being watched.

To prove that something has noticed her.

He has.

He did three nights ago.

---

She’d killed a corrupted psyker with a single stab—through the lower back, into the gut, out through the mouth.

No hesitation.

No posturing.

No glory.

Then she walked away before the corpse finished falling.

She kills like silence.

Not like rage.

Not like vengeance.

Like gravity.

Unstoppable not because it’s violent—but because it simply doesn’t stop.

That was when he began following.

Not to feed.

Not to fight.

To see if she’d notice.

And when she did—

He stayed.

---

He watches her now, muscles blood-heavy with stillness, helm cradled beneath one arm.

She breathes in controlled increments.

She’s pretending to sleep.

Why?

Because she knows he’s here.

And instead of fleeing—she dares him to move closer.

He doesn’t.

Yet.

---

Tyberos has killed thousands.

On land.

In vacuum.

In his dreams.

He remembers the ones who broke too fast.

The ones who screamed before the blade.

The ones who lied.

The ones who begged.

He forgets their names.

But he remembers their smell.

Their heartbeat.

The precise moment the eyes changed from fight to flight.

She hasn’t done that.

Not even once.

And that’s why he hasn’t taken her.

---

He wonders—

Does she know what she’s doing?

This isn’t mating.

This isn’t courtship.

She doesn’t dress to entice.

She doesn’t bleed where he can see it.

And still, she peels off her armor like it’s a ritual, not a routine.

She walks slower when she’s alone.

She moves her shoulders when she stretches.

She cleans her blades too carefully, like someone is being taught.

He is.

She knows.

---

She thinks she’s watching him now.

She’s not.

She’s feeding him.

Each movement another cut of flesh offered.

Another coil of blood scent left behind.

He’s not stalking her.

He’s circling.

Waiting for the moment she breaks her own rules.

When she drops her weapon.

When she turns her back.

When she speaks.

He will be there.

And not before.

---

Because he doesn’t want to kill her.

Not yet.

He wants to find out what her silence sounds like when it bleeds.

He wants to know if she whispers like a blade sliding from a sheath—

or like a throat opening for its last breath.

And if she says his name—

He’ll never leave again.

---

:: Memory tick: Contact -214.08 hrs ::

---

Smoke-dense ruin.

Blade flash.

She slid from a shattered column like wind given form.

Throat-strike. Liver. Drop.

No scream. No kill cry. No glance to witnesses.

She cleaned her blade against her own skin.

Ritualized.

No waste.

No glory.

She was not observed.

Except by him.

---

:: Memory tick: Contact -157.37 hrs ::

---

Night.

Barracks silent.

She sat with legs folded, sharpening tools.

Not knives.

Claws.

Ceramite too thin to be standard.

Refitted. Carved for hand tension.

Purpose: bypass armor seals.

Technique: illegal.

She oiled them slowly.

Bare-chested. Unhurried. Covered in dried kill.

Not cleansing.

Marking.

She didn’t know he was watching then.

Heart rate: steady.

No reaction.

No shame.

A killer preparing for sleep.

He crouched in the crawlspace above her for forty-seven minutes.

Did not blink.

---

:: Memory tick: Contact -89.13 hrs ::

---

She fought a brute in the arena trench.

Mutation. Heavy. Void-touched.

It roared.

She did not.

It bit her.

She let it.

Used the moment it closed on her arm to disembowel it.

Did not scream.

Did not cry.

Afterward, she didn’t check the wound.

She whispered a rite under her breath.

“Third blood offered. No yield given.”

He’d heard it.

He hadn’t meant to.

He listened again.

---

Pattern compiled:

Silence. Ritual. Efficiency. No audience. No chaos. No bluff.

Breakpoint: unknown.

Interest: escalating.

---

Now.

Her fake breath curls from her lips like heat off a blade.

She lies still.

Loose. Bait.

No tension in limbs. None visible.

But he smells it.

The sweat between her shoulders.

The tremor in her thigh when she thinks he’s moved.

She wants proof.

Not reassurance.

Not safety.

Truth.

So he shifts.

One boot, one degree.

Letting the floor groan.

Letting her imagine mass. Volume. Size.

She doesn’t rise.

But her heartbeat climbs half a step.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Acknowledgment.

---

And that is when he knows:

She is not waiting to strike.

She is not testing his hunger.

She is wondering how long she can hold out.

And if he’s patient enough—

He will find out what sound her silence makes when it ends.

Not under pain.

Not under threat.

Under pressure.

His pressure.

-------tysm for reading i love carcharodons------

Kinda wanna do a nsfw continuation of this.... what's new...

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @thisuserislilsilly @iluminatka16 @nebulaegem @kit-williams @bispecsual @beckyninja @bookandyarndragon @jackalwolfsoul

Fun but figured the grayscale was better

Lion El'Jonson He will stand tall, voice steady, offering you quiet counsel and a hand to hold. He will not speak of his relief, but his eyes will soften when you mention the future, and his presence will be a shield around you.

Fulgrim He will kiss your tears away, voice soft, calling your past a necessary step to this perfection. He will exalt you, and his joy will be woven into every word.

Perturabo In your crisis Perturabo will offer you structure, plans, a future laid out in clean lines. He will not say he is glad you are now single, but his calculations will now include you as central, and his relief will show in the precision of his care.

Jaghatai Khan He will ride close, silent, and let his presence speak. When you mention what comes next, his laugh will be lighter, and his pace will slow to match yours.

Leman Russ He will sit beside you, beer in hand, and say little. But when you speak of the future, his grin will widen, and his hand will find yours, claiming you without words.

Rogal Dorn He will offer you strength, a fortress, a future built on stone. He will not gloat, but his steady gaze will tell you that you are now his, and he is glad.

Konrad Curze He will watch you from the dark, voice low, saying that the past was a curse broken. He will not claim you, but his satisfaction will show in the way he stays.

Sanguinius He will defer to you, letting you lead, yet his wings will curl around you, and his quiet smile will betray the joy he feels at your freedom and ability to chose him.

Ferrus Manus He will press his metal hand to your shoulder, voice rough but warm. He will offer you solidity, and his joy will be in the certainty that you are now his.

Angron He will grip your hand, red eyes burning, and say nothing of the past. But his rage will quiet when you speak of the future, and his relief will show in the way he holds you.

Roboute Guilliman He will be respectful, but a few days later Roboute begins to speak of legacy, of what you will build together. He will not say he is rejoiced, but his efficiency will shift to center you, and his relief will show in his care.

Mortarion He will be cold aloud, yet his grip will not loosen. He will not speak of joy, but he will keep you close, and his silence will carry the weight of a secret thankfulness.

Magnus the Red He will see the threads of fate snap and reform, and his voice will soar with the knowledge that you are now bound to him. He will call it prophecy, and his joy will be undeniable.

Horus Lupercal He will smile, bright and radiant, and pull you into his embrace. He will speak of destiny fulfilled, of stars aligning, and of you finally being free to be his.

Lorgar Aurelian He will kneel, voice trembling, calling your loss a divine sign. You are blessed with new beginning, pressed to his chest. All while he is weeping with the beauty of what is now possible.

Vulkan He will hold you gently, tears in his eyes, and speak of healing and new life. He will not hide his relief, and his warmth will wrap around you like a promise.

Corvus Corax He will linger in the shadows beside you, silent but ever-present. Corvus will not claim your grief, but he will let you know, without words, that you are no longer alone, and that the past is gone.

Alpharius Omegon They will speak as one, voice single: "You are free. And now, you are with us." No more. No less. Their joy will be absolute, and their claim on you unshakable.

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Hey! I now have more here! (and here)

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