#warhammer fic

[candyswirls]

It would be funny to see the Primarchs react to a deaged Magnus the red. How would they react to their young wisdom seeking brother who loves to learn from them?

"Bo! Bo! Bo! Bo!"

The primarch of the Iron Warriors sighed as the red boy appeared at his side.

"What are you doing? Are you building something? What are you building? What's it for? What's it called? Can I help?"

"This is a highly concentrated cannon laser meant to go on the outside of a space fortress," Perturabo explained. "I do not need help, and it is highly dangerous. You're not allowed in here. Go bother Dorn."

"Okay!"

He ran out, planning on finding Rogal, but as he passed a window, he saw Jaghatai outside with his horses.

He gasped. He DEFINITELY had questions on those.

He raced downstairs and nearly ran into Curze. His brother was dressed in a rubber apron, blood dripped down the front.

"Hi Konrad!" He greeted. "What are you doing?"

"Flaying," Konrad answered.

"Flaying what?"

"Xenos."

"How are you flaying it?"

"Start at the limbs and move into the torso like a five point star. Best way to preserve most of the skin on this one."

"Can I try?"

The Night Haunter thought for a moment, "I only have one body right now, and I'm not allowed to use serfs or servitors. Later."

"Okay!" Magnus beamed.

He ran outside and beelined to the corral. He jumped on the railing and leaned forward.

"Jagh!" He called while waving.

"Hello, Magnus," the Khan greeted.

"Can you tell me about your horses?"

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything!"

Jaghatai smiled and came over to the boy. He lifted him over and brought him to a gelding.

"This is Zim," he told Magnus. "A calm and easy horse to ride."

"He has curly hair!" Magnus clapped.

Jagh set him a top the horse.

"Keep a hold of the saddle horn," the Khan told him.

Magnus did so and began recalling, "I read a book that said on ancient Terra that curly haired horses were the most biodiverse out of all the horse breeds on the planet at that time and..."

As he continued, Jaghatai led the horses in a trotting circle around the corral, listening to his younger brother.

[ahrianee]

[🌌]Inter atramentum et stellas

[My English is so bad, I'm very sorry]

Here I am, entering the Warhammer 40k Fandom simply because I really liked the story, because of my boyfriend who liked it before, here I leave an unfinished sketch.

I feel a little shy posting here, it's my first time on Tumblr, be nice to this dumb girl who got into a fandom for a man with big tits and who knows how to use Excel.

[primarisly-marooned]

to serve pt 1

as promised, the Guilliman fic!

summary: You're an aide to the Avenging Son, the only aide to the Lord Regent. While serving him dinner you both make a discovery about each other.

pairing: Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

warnings: bit of a food kink, feral behavior (Guilliman), threatening (?) behavior, oral fixation (Guilliman again), alluding to masturbation (reader), fic got to long so no smut but it does get a little nsfw, lemme know if i need to tag anything else!

part 2, part 3

tagging @beckyninja , @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond , @springtimeishere , @moodymisty , @vyzz-undercover, and @ailjsenutna bc they requested it! lemme know if you want to be added to the list as well

It was going to end tragically, he knew it would. All things ended this way it seemed, especially for the Avenging Son.

Denied his death, denied a life outside of the rotting corpse of his father’s failed dream, his brothers gone, his mother… Ten thousand years wasted in agony, only to inherit the Imperium. No peace, no happiness, denying himself even the basics of comfort in an effort to keep things from getting worse. All in order to keep his sons people safe.

But he could not deny himself you. A little kindness, a little humanity, is all it took for Roboute Guilliman to fall at your feet. Figuratively of course, not that you were aware of this. He made sure that there were no untoward actions from him, nothing that could be traced back to anything besides him having a favored aide. He was allowed to have preferences, encouraged even. So if he used that as permission to pull you from your normal duties to being essentially glued to his side at all times, well.

He was only doing what everyone seemed to expect, now wasn’t he?

You were a balm to his battered soul, seeming to almost literally light up the dark corridors of his ship wherever you went. The way you would smile at him when you completed the little tasks he asked of you. You treated him as a lord, yes. But as a man.

Not a god.

There was nothing holy about Roboute no matter what anyone thought. And behind his closed office doors with just himself and you, he didn’t have to be. He could be himself, bad jokes and all. He could enjoy your laugh, the way your skin flushed down your neck to your plush-

“My lord?”

Your voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he’s glad of it.

A glance to the side of his desk reveals you peering up at him through your lashes, hood tilted back enough to allow the candle light to illuminate your soft features. There was a soft smile on your face, a common expression when you were alone together. In your hands was his dinner, and a quick look at the time has Roboute grimacing. It had been hours since he last ate and even longer since he had left his office.

Truly, the Administratum had to be the greatest enemy the Imperium of Man faced in this age.

“Ah, yes,” he said abruptly, moving carefully in his armor to nudge stacks of dataslates and paperwork over enough to clear a space large enough for you to sit in. Roboute found his mouth watering already, and not just for the food. “Come, little one, this should be enough room.”

Your shy little blush comes with a rush of hormones he can all but taste in the air and his mouth fills with saliva. It’s truly depraved, for all that it started innocently enough. He is large, even by Astartes standards, what with him being a Primarch. And the Armor of Fate makes him even bigger, at the cost of his dexterity and sensitivity. It was unfortunate that he still needed to wear it most days, it’s life support a horrid fact of his current existence. Add all of this together, and Roboute found that eating was much more of a chore than he ever remembered it being.

And he had a long, long memory.

He has to swallow several times as he helps you onto his desk, one gauntleted hand under your thighs with his tray balanced across your lap. “It looks delicious,” he murmured, and it truly did, but it wasn’t the food that had hunger gnawing at him.

It was your clever, kind, debilitating solution to his food issue that had Roboute acting little more than a common beast.

Food that wasn’t nutrient paste was too difficult for him to bother with on his own truly he just didn’t want to spend hours cleaning smashed everything out of the delicate circuitry of his armor, but was easily handled in your much smaller grasp, and an offer to feed him led to this, the Lord of Ultramar leaned over you so he could catch a taste of your skin.

He felt no small amount of shame at this- this debauchery, but… this is only a small thing. A temporary indulgence.

Quitting you should be easy for one of his self control if this goes too far. You smile at him when you settle on his immense desk, almost dwarfed by the huge stacks of paperwork covering the surface. The sight of it makes his hearts clench in some unnameable emotion.

“Are you hungry, my Lord?”

Always, for you, almost leaves his mouth before he catches himself. “I could eat.” And he could. It takes a lot of calories to feed his frame, so no matter how many meals he gets to eat like this, that damnable nutrient paste is still needed as a supplement.

You were all he could smell now, sweet and warm, almost syrupy as his focus narrowed down to just you. Your delicate fingers, so small compared to him, picked up something he didn’t know the name of. A sizeable portion to one of your stature, but barely a mouthful to Roboute.

It was a game now, a challenge for himself to see how long he could hold out tasting your skin before he couldn’t anymore. The first bite was always the hardest, a mouthful of flavor exploding over his tongue as your fingertips brushed over his lips. A temptation to lick them is ruthlessly shoved aside as he puts his considerable focus onto you.

This was a time that you would tell him about your day, all the little tidbits of information you overheard or the tasks you completed. Rarely was it anything that Roboute needed to know, but he found that he couldn’t help but find every word that graced your lips as some form of sacred.

It was towards the end of his dinner that everything changed and Roboute’s legendary self control finally snapped.

A few pieces of his meal were left, smaller morsels that he shared between himself and you. Smaller bites meant he had to be careful, closing his teeth over your finger accidentally could snap it off without him even realizing. Something both of you are eager to not happen.

So a little overlap was expected at this point, his lips closing over your fingers, tongue curling under them so no crumb was wasted. It was his favorite part usually, something he could do to taste the salt of your skin and overwhelm his brain with your hormones so he can stop thinking for a while. But this time…

This time there was something extra to your scent. He had noticed something in the food, but didn’t think too hard about it. With your fingers in his mouth, it was all he could taste.

Sweet and musky, thick like honey and so overwhelmingly human, Roboute couldn’t help but close his mouth tighter over your fingers and lathe them with his tongue. By the stars, what was this?

Through the vague haze his mind had fallen under he could see that you were blushing deeply, from your chest all the way up into your hair. You were stuttering something as he gazed down at you, still sucking on your little fingers. The angle you were at allowed Roboute to see down the front of your dress and his gaze was drawn down your collarbone to the swell of your breasts pressed tightly together.

It was when his mind started filling with impure thoughts that it finally clicked what he was tasting on your hand, and his own face burned as he abruptly released you and leaned back. He had to put distance between you or he wouldn't be able to control himself anymore.

He was already painfully hard in his armor, and he meant that literally. A design flaw, clearly.

“Ah,” Roboute starts, at a loss to explain what came over him. It still lurked just beneath his skin, clawing at his stomach and howling in his ears. His lungs heaved for air, able to taste your confused arousal on his tongue. Involuntarily, he opened his mouth and breathed you in deeper. He leaned closer, armor scraping against itself as he loomed.

“My Lord…,” your voice is quiet, but he can still hear you. A little voice in the back of his head is growing louder, near purring at the way you lean back to make room for him. He can see the way you stare up at him with huge shining eyes and wet parted lips. Moving even closer causes you to draw a leg up and onto the desk, the other spreading wide to accommodate him this close to you. “Are you…” There’s a hesitation when you start to ask him a question, and Roboute manages to pull himself together enough to make an inquiring noise as he pushes his chair back to lean down enough that he can stick his face near your neck.

Roboute can feel the way your blood rushes through your veins and for a moment his head swims with the sudden need to bite.

“Do you still have a- hunger, Lord Guilliman?”

It’s the way you say his name, breathy and sweet that gives Roboute the push to open his mouth and lick the sweat off your skin. Your gasp is loud in his ears. “Yes,” is his hissed answer against your throat, lips against your fluttering pulse. “One that must wait to be sated.”

Your little hands, those perfect soft little hands, are featherlight against his head, brushing over his laurels and tracing the curl of his hair. “Why?”

Why indeed, he mused to himself, amused by the simple question. There was much you did not know, and the extent of which he needed his armor was one secret few knew outside of his most trusted. As much as he favored you, he couldn’t risk a breach. You were a weak point.

But one he refused to be parted from.

Another lick sent his brain back into the hazy almost-calm from earlier, your pheromones seeming to crawl through the grey matter of his brain and down his spine. Your fingers slowly thread through his hair and he hummed in quiet bliss, mouth opening against your skin as his arms came up to encircle you. Pain from his cock cleared his head a bit and he realized that he had opened his mouth entirely around your neck.

He felt you swallow against his tongue and fought the urge to feel it from the inside. Pulling back from you was a task almost too great for Roboute, but he managed. “Mm. Please, Little One,” he managed to work around the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Don’t come here again like that.”

Your pupils are blown wide and your skin is shiny. The expression on your face is one of confusion, and dare he say it, arousal. “What?”

Roboute was forced to clear his throat, trying to remove your scent from his mouth. “Your hand. I could… hm. I could taste you on your fingers.”

He could see your mind trying to process it, eyes squinting as you worked through his meaning. The moment you understood caused what he could only call complete and utter mortification to cross your face.

“Oh, My Lord- I’m sorry, please forgive me- I didn’t-”

“Peace,” Roboute  didn’t like the way shamed curdled your scent, bitter-sour overtaking the honey-sweet. “You did nothing wrong. I just request that you be mindful in the future.”

He didn’t know what expression was on his face, but he knew you understood from the way your gaze dropped from his and your hands slipped from his laurels into your lap.

Already he missed the touch of you against his skin.

“O-Of course, my Lord,” you give your assent, and Roboute has to fight everything in himself that wants to keep you on his desk and lay you out so he can feast.

Withdrawing from you completely felt impossible but he managed, and Roboute watched silently as you slipped off his desk and scurried to the door. But before it could open you turn and look back at him, a queer light in you eye. “Shall I return for your breakfast tomorrow, Lord Guilliman?”

He understood what you meant immediately and felt a dizzying sense of want rush through him. “Go.”

You flee from his office and Roboute is left alone in his prison made of his armor and a straining cock he can do nothing about for almost another full cycle.

A glance at his once-organized desk has him placing his head in his hands. Damn the Administratum to the Warp.

[deleteddewewted]

Some More Astartes Headcanons

MDNi

W: Angst, Fluff, Just more thoughts i have

Space Wolfs call their younger brother/neophytes pups.

Blood Ravens steal things to make a pile out of their stolen things to share with other battle brothers their "shiny discoveries"

The Raven Guard brothers are all a bunch of knitting lovers and sunscreen addicts. Most of them being very pale and in general, preferring the shadows, most of them will retreat to their chambers to knit. It's to the point that they need to place large orders of knitting materials every so often and the serfs are in charge of distributing the appropriate materials to the right Astartes.

The rumors of the Carcharadons being mean to their serfs or being cruel are not true. It's all propaganda that they started so that they are left alone. Their serfs are all people who are family or old friends. Their truly just a bunch of secret softies.

Onto that serfs play into this too. For all the chapters, serfs also follow the chapter culture, which brings me to the idea that Lamenter serfs are all mainly cuddle buddies to their masters and are there to make sure they don't get hurt when not in battle.

Dark Angels are all super paranoid so they all suspected that their returned Primarch wasn't actually their returned Primarch.

Abaddon misses his father badly. Yes, he's a daddy's boy. He sometimes writes letters to his deceased father knowing that they will be left unread. He sometimes cries in silence as he reminisces the days when he and his Luna Wolves would simply spend time together and play a match of regicide.

Word Bearers hold bingo matches. Yes, they're studied and religious men, but that doesn't mean that they cant have fun. (Even as traitors they still hold these bingo nights. No daemons not serfs want to join them cause they think its boring.)

Dorns sons did eventually develop some emotional development and they are now the ones that people would consider the "funny ones" if they ever had the chance to meet one of them in that way.

Alpha legion Astartes who did not undergo cosmetic procedures to look like their father make fun of the ones who did (this is semi-canon), and often flex that. (I want to pull on Solomon Akurra's hair. It is a must.)

Salamanders are known for their kindness towards people and to each other, so why wouldn't that translate to other things? They respect the tech-priests and their beliefs, the guardsmen, the servitors. The Salamanders are so kind that they will help clean up and will make their favorite baselines/allies weapons. (This is also semi canon)

The Ultramarines have an accent. Yes, they all speak high gothic but i cant get it out of my head that they have either a Latin or a Italian accent. Im only saying this because we know accents are a thing in 40k.

Speaking of accents, Horus isn't faking accent, he really just didn't lose it and likes it. He thinks it keeps him attached to his roots. Makes him happy to have people recognize where his accent it from.

[boneapplet]

Even Space Marines Get Sick pt.2

Relationship: titus x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: minor illness, minor illusions to depression

Word Count: 1151 part one || part two

The sound of steps echo through the vacant hallway as Nessa approaches the door to Titus’ quarters, the heavy metal door giving a low groan as she knocks upon it. She’d heard through the ranks that Lord Titus had received her stew, and she wondered, as always, how he fared behind those cold blue eyes.

With a metallic creak the door slides open, revealing Titus seated at the table, Codex Astartes in hand. His eyes glancing up, narrowing slightly as he looks at her—just enough for Nessa to feel the weight of his gaze, like a challenge to hold her ground.

"Good evening, my lord. I’ve brought your medicine," she said, holding up the small vial.

Her voice is steady, but her heart feels as though it may leap out of her chest from how fast it is beating. It has been a few days since their last interaction, and she could still feel the distant pull of his presence.

Titus takes in her appearance, his voice as rasping as it was before, though his posture remains firm, unwavering.

"Thank you, little one," he said, his eyes not leaving her as he gestured to the small bench across the room.

"It is my honor to serve you, my lord," she replies, stepping inside, her eyes briefly taking in the cramp, scarcely decorated room.

It was eerily quiet, and the faint smell of incense and herbs filled the air, masking the usual scent of metal and machinery.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though concern slips into her tone.

Titus doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he stares at the Codex in front of him, and for a long moment, Nessa wonders if he had even heard her. Then, his lips twitches slightly, his gaze flicking back up to meet hers.

"The same as before. The illness has not claimed my resolve" his words rang with the strength of his pride, but his voice was hoarse, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he reaches for the vial she has brought.

It was subtle enough that she might have missed it, but not quite.

“I’m glad to hear that, my lord,” she says quietly, offering a soft smile.

“I’m sure you’ll overcome this” Nessa reassures.

Giving an almost imperceptible nod, his expression unreadable “We all must endure. Duty does not wait for our health to return.”

His gaze shifts toward the small cot where he has been confined to, the only sign of his true condition, the stillness in his posture, the slight hunch of his shoulders "I am... unaccustomed to being unable to serve."

Noticing the flicker of frustration in his eyes, something beyond his usual composed demeanor. The faintest crack, but it is enough to show the burden of a warrior’s mind, even when his body was failing him.

"Sometimes, taking a step back is part of serving the greater cause, my lord," she comfortingly says, walking toward the table.

Gently placing the vial in his hand, her fingers brushing his for just a moment longer than necessary "The Emperor requires us to rest as well, though it may feel... unnatural."

This causes him to take a pause, his eyes lingering on the vial in his hand before meeting her gaze again. There is something in his look—an understanding, perhaps, or a silent acknowledgment of the truth in her words. But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he simply gives her a short, respectful nod.

"You are wise, Nessa," he says, his voice quieter than before "I thank you for your care."

The days seem to blend in this place—long, silent, and full of work. But something about today feels different. Perhaps it is the memory of Lord Titus’ quiet words that night. Nessa is carrying a cart of fresh provisions for the quarantined marines, the sound of the wheels scraping across the metal floor filling the hall.

Approaching the familiar door again, knocking lightly. It slides open, revealing Titus sitting by the small window this time. The only movement was the slight rise and fall of his chest, wearing the plain uniform he’s chosen to wear while recovering.

He doesn’t turn as she enters, but she can see that his posture remains perfect, almost rigid, despite his illness.

"My lord, I brought some fresh bread and fruit. I thought you might appreciate a change from the usual fare," setting the cart near his table.

Turning his head slightly, though he doesn’t rise. His gaze is distant, as if he is lost in thought—perhaps too lost to even acknowledge her presence at first. But then, his lips curve ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, a glimmer of warmth returns to his eyes.

"Change is... welcomed," he mutters "But only if it serves the cause."

Nessa raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It might serve the cause of keeping you in better health, my lord," her tone light but tinged with genuine concern.

"And if it can lift your spirits even a little, that is a victory in itself."

Titus gives a quiet chuckle—more of a dry rasp, but it is a sound that surprises her.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, finally looking up at her.

“Perhaps. I have not forgotten my duty, little one. But you remind me that there is more to a warrior than a weapon and a battle.”

For a moment, she thinks she sees something in his expression—a flicker of appreciation, or even gratitude. It was fleeting, but real.

“I will take your advice, Nessa,” he says, his voice steady once again, but softer than usual "Thank you."

As she turns to leave, her heart beats a little faster. He hasn’t let his guard down entirely, but the connection was clear. She is not just a cook or a serf; in this brief, subtle exchange, she has begun to matter more to him than he perhaps realizes.

Days pass, and their exchanges grow more frequently. Though the rules emplaced regarding quarantine keep them apart, they find moments to talk—brief conversations in his quarters, or quick exchanges at his door as she passes by. In these moments, Nessa sees more of the man behind the soldier.

Titus might never admit it, but she can see the struggle in his eyes when he watches his brothers, weakened and bedridden. He is fighting an inner battle: his body feels frail, but his pride stays intact. It is as if his illness has become a test—not just of his physical resilience, but of his emotional fortitude.

And yet, as he silently endures, Nessa became a quiet source of strength for him. Not because of her words or actions, but because she allows him to be seen—not as a warrior, but as a person. It is in these small moments that their connection deepens.

[stargazing-sapphire2]

What Hurts The Most

A/N: A small rewrite of a small one shot I wrote some time back, but did a wee bit of editing and gave it a title, so do enjoy some good ol Lion El'Jonson angst

*Title taken from What Hurts The Most from Rascal Flatts*

TAGGING: @beckyninja @candyswirls @staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty @nereidof40k @meervalv0 @jaghatai-khock

*~*

"Lion..."

He could not move, nor open his eyes. The inky blackness had been his constant companion for as long he was able to remember.

"Lion..."

A woman's voice called out to him, faint as he strained his ears to listen. He knew that voice, of which he had not heard for over millennia, but within the fog of his mind, he could not reach out to her.

Hands were on him. Stroking his hair, his face, and his chest. Even as he lay dormant, imprisoned within his own body, he felt himself relax under her touch.

"Oh, Lion..." He heard her sigh, her delicate fingers gently combing through his disheveled hair, as if it would bring a little semblance of neatness back into it.

He fought as hard as he could, to speak. He wanted to speak, to scream, to shout. But his very body seemed to work against him, and he continued to lay prone.

"What happened to you, my Lion?" Aelia's voice was soft. Her fingers continued to stroke his face and hair, much like the many times she did whenever he was injured, despite his reluctance to seek treatment. Her voice and touch had always been a balm to his weary soul, and his first instinct was to seek her out in those times.

He could not react, much less twitch, as he felt her gentle hands touch him. She cooed softly at him, and how he wished to open his eyes, to look upon her face one last time.

To hold her in his arms, if only to hold her close to him one final time.

He wanted to scream, to call out to his wife.

Forgive me, he wanted to say.

He had not been there when she died.

She had died alone. A bed of blood, a walk of death, and a fall onto those cold stones, never to open her eyes again or to draw breath.

And he was not there.

Not there when it had mattered most.

"I'm sorry, Lion..." Her touch has begun to fade away, as did her presence. Lion wanted to beg for her to stay, to not leave him alone again, but she was gone.

He could not move, no matter how he wished to, but a single tear slid down his cheek.

And he was alone. This was not the Crusade, and he was not on Macragge, holding her in his arms.

She was not there.

[druidwolf21]

Ambush

A silent sister struggles when her vows to the sisterhood comes into conflict with her own morality.

When push comes to shove, will she uphold her promises, or will she turn her back on her order ?

I hope you enjoy this short story introducing my OC Cala!

(if it's not clear, everything in italics is sign language)

TW: canon typical violence.

Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst @lemon-russ

Cala crouched low, her shoulder pressed against the frosted stone of the cliff side as she peered into the cave, drawing the golden power blade from her back. Gauntleted fist wrap tightly around the hilt, she waved across the entrance to the other side of the cliff, gesturing to her sister in thoughtmark as she signed.

Cultists located. Reports suggest at least 5 hostages, multiple signs of chaos incursions, high possibility of ritual preparation.

She paused, cocking her head as she listened, before brushing her tawny braid back over the obsidian black of her pauldron.

Your orders, Hestia?

Her battle sister drew an axe and hefted the weight in her hand, Red hair streaming behind her as she raised her hand.

Purge the area, burn the taint from the earth, leave none alive.

Cala froze, ice wind whipping her hair and biting her skin as a frown creasing across her chilled face.

The civilians?

She could feel Hestia's scowl, despite the gorget that concealed her face.

Grant them the emperor's mercy.

Without a second glance, Hestia barreled forward, snow exploding around her as she charged, axe arcing through the air as it cleaved into a cultist. Blood sprayed across the snowy floor in a scarlet bloom as his body hit the floor, detached head following suit soon after.

Hissing, cala sprung up. The metal sung as her blade carved through flesh and bone, electricity dancing across the honed edge as she turned and twisted.

Their enemies dropped one by one as the sisters worked, spinning through the cave in a grim, silent dance. Cultists submitting to blade and bolter, climbing over their own dead in a frenzied rage to claim the glory of felling a silent sister, only to join their fallen brethren in a crumpled heap of shredded sinew. Over and over and over.

Until silence fell.

With a sickening crunch, Cala ripped her sword free from its gory prize and slowly turned. Ruby rivulets collected in small pools and dripped from the walls as she surveyed the aftermath.

Hestia stood a few feet from her, golden armour now flecked with splashes of ichor as it glinted in the dying Torchlight.

Ritual site.

She signed before gesturing to the ground beneath her feet. Arcane sigils, gouged deep into the stone, pulsed faintly with a deep violet light before sputtering and fading.

Demons?

Hestia nodded, kicking at the twitching corpse before her before kneeling.

Filthy heretics.

Reaching out, she wrestled a data slate from the cultists hand. Cold blue eyes trailing across the screen before she tossed it across to Cala.

Another ritual site, sweep this area before moving out.

Cala flicked her blade, discharging the current as she motioned to sheath it before she stilled. Glancing at her sister she followed her gaze to the back of the cave as a muted whimper echoed softly across the chamber.

Nodding to Hestia, she reached out, grasping a torch and wretching it from its bracket before tossing it into the shadows.

The baselines flinched at the flames as the shadows writhed and retreated, their eyes wide as they beheld the gore soaked women before them.

"sisters?"

A man shielded his eyes as he rose groggily to his feet, eyeing the pair cautiously before a smile cracked across his face.

"The emperor has blessed us this day! The sisters have come to rescue us!"

He reached down and began pulling others to their feet, shaking their shoulders and laughing as they stood. An elderly couple clutched each other, tears pricking their eyes and a woman clambered to her feet, hugging a child to her as she smiled.

"The sisters are here to-"

The man paused, mouth moving silently before collapsing forward as a bullet shattered through his skull.

Hestia stood behind him, smoke still twisting from the barrel of her bolt pistol before turning its muzzle on the others. The old woman screamed as her husband fell, her hands clutching the wound on his chest as blood pumped between her fingers.

"WHY? WHY WOULD YO-"

Bang

Her cries falling silent as a round found it's mark between her eyes.

Hestia finally stood before the young mother. Her knuckles white as she clutched her offspring desperately.

"please stop, please, she's just a child"

Cala stepped forward, her fingers catching the glowing muzzle of the bolter and tilting it upwards. Furious eyes met her own as she stood between her officer and the wailing woman.

No more.

She glanced down, the wide eyes of the girl meeting her own, pupils wide and tears streaming down her face.

I cannot watch you kill an innocent.

Hestia scowled, her mouth down turned behind her cage gorget as she wretched the gun upwards and grasped Cala's shoulder.

Then don't look.

Shoving Cala aside, the commander realigned her gun and fired.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Cala sucked the cold air between her teeth as she stepped in line with her sister, brown eyes downcast as they left the cave behind them.

You will learn, sister.

She looked up, stopping as Hestia stood before her placed a hand against the golden aquilla emblazoned across her chest.

Those touched by chaos can be returned to the emperor's grace in death.

Releasing her, the woman turned and carried on, her bolter bouncing at her hip with each step.

Do not spare them your thoughts, we execute his will, nothing more.

Staring at the golden back of her officer, Cala sighed, casting a last glance back towards the cave before following.

The snow was piling high, muting their steps to a soft crunch as they approached the overpass. The ravine below them eerily silent as they crouched and surveyed. At the end of the deep passage, a purple hue flickered off the crystalline ice, dancing along the walls before dissipating into the frigid air.

Guards, Acolytes and tzaangors.

Cala tossed her binoculars across the Hestia, pointing to a crevice in the opposing wall, hidden well behind a curtain of icicles. Shifting behind the ice, huddled with weapons in hand, was the faint distorted shape of the falcon headed demons, skin pale and pearlescent, even against the white sheen of the walls.

They must be expecting an attack, we should remain cautious. Immunity to demonic possession and the warp is NOT immunity to claw and bolt.

Cala nodded, eyes fixed on the gorge as a flash caught her eye. Taking back her binoculars, she trained her sights to the mouth of the valley, twisting a small bronze dial until they came into focus.

It's not us they are expecting, sister.

Passing the lenses back, she watched as surprise flickered across Hestia's face.

Astartes? And Space wolves no less.

She rose to her feet, brushing snow from her greaves.

It makes no difference, our mission is clear, if they join us at the ritual site, we can accept their help, otherwise, allow them to deal with any stragglers.

Cala rose to join her, gesturing furiously.

There is an ambush, sister! We need to warn them.

They are the emperor's angels, if they fall to the demons, they are not deserving of that title.

Cala blaunched, blinking dumbly as Hestia strode towards the encampment, preparing to drop in from above. Stepping after her, she grabbed her shoulder guard, spinning the older woman to face her again.

Sister! We need to tell them! If they survive, they can help us prevent a summoning, we need to-

Hestia grabbed Cala's hands, metal grinding under her tight grapes.

Enough! How would you even warn them? They will not notice you up here. We have our duty, cease this at once!

Icy eyes stared into Cala's as they stood in tense silence. Fat lazy flakes drifting down and settling into the creases of black and gold vratine armour.

I will not sit idly by.

Wretching her hands from the iron grasp, Cala spun and sprinted, diving from the edge and skidding down the rocky slope. Behind her, she could hear the pounding steps of her brethren following her rapid descent.

Waving her hands furiously in the air as she stumbled and skidded before hitting the bottom, she sprinted towards the approaching pack. The Marines stature growing larger as they walked to meet her.

AMBUSH, CHAOS DEMONS, ARM YOURSELVES

The leader raised a fist, hailing their approach. Thick fur rippled around his shoulders as the yellow of his sigil glinted with the motion as the unit halted behind him.

"Well met sister, we did not expect to see imperial agents out here"

DANGER, HERETIC, TRAITORS.

The captain's visor flashed as he cocked his head, amused as Cala flailed her hands.

"does anyone understand this?" He queries, turning to his men. He was met with a resounding grumble and nonchalant shrugs as they looked amongst each other.

Throwing her hands up in frustration, Cala turned, hopeless as she watched Hestia slow to a stop, having finally caught up.

They don't understand!

Hestia shrugged, eying up the space wolf before answering.

I told you it was a waste of time, next time, listen to me before wasting everyone's time.

The space wolves began to shift, uncomfortable with the silence that sat heavy around them. The captain hefted his bolter and stepped forward, the Ceremite boot sinking into the churned slurry as he stepped around the women.

"sisters, we will be taking our leave, join us, or do not, emperor protects"

The wolves began to step around the silent warriors, emotionless helms turning to stare at them as they passed. Cala jumped forward, pressing her fists into the captains chest, her feet sliding beneath her from the exertion as she gestured up at the cliffs.

STOP, STOP.

Hestia reached out, grasping her wrist and pulling her to side, nodding to the captain as he grunted and passed, heading towards the ritual encampment.

Towards the ambush.

Panic rose in her throat as a gun barrel snuck between the ice, it's sight trained on the shimmering grey of the captain's head, each step taking them closer to a dishonorable demise.

The grip on her wrist became excruciating, Hestia's eyes boring into her as her body trembled.

Motion at the end of the gorge, the camp was alerted as Acolytes and horned demons emerged from the shelter of their base. At their head, a bald man, garbed only in a stained loin cloth and the twisting glyphs carved into his skin, a staff raised high over his head as he shrieked.

Rifles and chain swords raised as the wolves howled, baying for heretic blood.

Unaware.

"AMBUSH"

The words ripped from Cala's throat, hoarse from misuse as she broke free from the iron grasp and charged forward. Pistol raised high she fired as she ran, felling the wrenched creature from its vantage point, it's body twisting and snapping as it fell at the feet of the Marines before dissolving into lilac ash.

A blood claw snarled as she reached their group, following her aim as he raised his heavy bolter and rained down iron and gunpowder, churning through the sniper's nest with bloodthirsty glee.

Following their lead, Cala charged forward, flitting amongst the clashing giants as she wove through their shadows. Hestia's axe crackled amongst the frey and the smell of iron and burning keratin filled her nose as the battle consumed the area. Blood thundered in her ears as she searched, hacking through human and demon flesh.

"captain!"

The soldier turned, crushing a cultists head in his fist before tossing the carcass aside, his stormy armour slick with gore.

"found your voice at last, sister?" He bellowed, firing a bolt through a tzaangor as it screeched towards him.

"we need to find the offering and kill him before he completes the ritual" she yelled back, ducking as a spear sailed past her head, bouncing harmlessly off the skull helmet of a wolf priest. "If he opens a gate, he could -"

A pulse rippled through the air, slamming the cultists to the ground and flinging the avian beasts aside. The marine held firm, their servos groaning under stress as they braced against the force, buffeted as they strained to stay upright. Cala clung to the captain as he forearm shielded her from the worst. Peering behind her, she spotted Hestia shielding herself behind the width of the wolf priest, her axe embedded in the frothed soil. Their eyes met for a brief second as her companion raised her hand.

Oathbreaker

Unable to hold her gaze, Cala turned back, fighting to peer over the massive vambrace that supported her.

The body lay contorted and twisted in broken curves, the pulse of the runes etched into his skin reaching a crescendo as a rip tore open. Thin at first, it hung in the air, leaking hazy fog and the thick stench of ozone. A ripple passed through it, before it began to fracture, cracks emanating outwards as a hole tore open in the center, spewing indigo smoke and sparks.

A clawed hand erupted from the portal, talons long as sabres and just as sharp as they carved deep into stone, reaching for purchase as a head followed through the tear. Six glowing blue eyes stared back at Cala as a beaked maw opened and screamed, reverberating through her skull. The beast heaved and scraped at the snow, trying to squeeze its massive feathered form through the rip, its body too large as it fruitlessly swiped its arm for grip.

"GREATER DEMON"

The warning came too late as a marine was cast aside in a fell swoop, body cleaved apart and discarded as the lord of change battled to escape the immaterium. Toothed beak snapping and claws dismembering any who came to close as it heaved and squealed.

"get me close"

The captain did a double take, staring wordlessly down as he ejected his spent magazine, sliding a full one back in its place.

"I'm a Null, a blank. Ican send it back, but you need to get me close"

Around then, the wolves yelled and hollered as they rolled and fired, diving from blasts of warp magic before retaliating with the biting sting of bolts and lasguns. Hestia stood back to back with an apothecary as swarms of lesser demons began to swarm from the warp rift, the ride of battle was turning fast as overwhelming numbers fought to escape the realm of tzeench.

Grunting, the wolf threw down his emptied gun and hefted his chain sword.

"together then, sister"

"Cala. My name is Cala"

"...jarl Sturvek."

Cala smiles grimly, testing the weight of her blade as she braced.

"A good day to die, Jarl Sturvek"

The man hummed, a chuckle reverberating in his chest.

"Hiljah kah uhtganjen mev tarvahettan. Greet the end with courage, sister"

Together they ran, charging headfirst through the throng, the honed edges of their swords sliding through skin and bone effortlessly, feathers and iridescent blood flying into the air with each swing. The demons recoiled from the null field of the blank as she ran, only to be felled by bloodied soldier as he cleared her path.

The demon lord shied from her as she approached, screaming as it's connection the warp weakened with each step. With Sturvek at her back, Cala expanding her null field, watched as the rift undulated, phasing through unimaginable colours as it began to recoil and dissolve.

"How long, sister? We cannot hold here"

The demon wailed as it began to retreat into the warp, its head lashing from side to side in fury as it finally lost its battle and fell back into the void.

"just one more ah-"

"CALA"

A single swipe of flailing talons caught the blackened armour near her throat, casting her down and dragging Cala into the warp.

Order/chaos,

Decay/Rebirth Endings/Endless, Destiny/fate

Lies

Falling

Falling

Falling

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Cala woke with a start, whispers fading to silence as she jolted upright. Her chest heaved with exertion and her head pounded like a wardrum as she swing her legs off the bed.

Wait, a bed?

Blinking, she looked around. The snow and cold mountains were gone, replaced by metal walls and an oversized bunk. A large fur spread across the floor beneath her feet, coarse but warm between her bare toes. Gone was the armour, replaced by a soft metal grey robe, a snarling wolf embroidered on the breast. The blood has been washed from her, leaving only bruises and a dull humming behind her eyes.

Standing, she swayed for a moment, before shaking her head and stepping towards the weight iron door. Swinging it open, she peered out suspiciously.

The walls were slate grey and peppered with wooden etchings, furs and tapestries, many displaying endless snowbound forest, patrolled by wolves with eyes of ember fire and fur black as soot. Fires sputtered in brackets, dimly lighting the passage as she stalked towards a massive door at the end. The smell of salted meats, drying herbs and fur perforated every inch as she hugged the wall, head swivelling as she watched for motion. Underneath it all, the ever present groan and sighs of a Gloriana engine.

Voices became louder as she approached the end of the hall, arguing loudly. Pressing an ear to the cold metal, she listened.

"she said that the girl is a traitor so she should be punished"

"Groxshite is she"

"she said, the girl broke her oath"

"To warn us!"

"she is a sister of silence, not a space wolf, it is not up to you to decide"

"well you're a-"

A deep voice over the squabble. Heavy fenrisian tone, thick and warm like spices mjord it commanded attention, undivided and rapt.

"Enough. Why not let her speak for herself."

Cala froze as the silence became overwhelming.

"I can hear your breath, your heart is running faster than a hunted doe, come in and speak"

Steeling herself with a steady breath, Cala pushes the door open, stepping into the room swinging it shut behind her with a creaking groan.

The room was warm, flames from a well fed fire heating the spacious area as it burned in an intricate hearth. Above it hung a spear, huge and golden it glinted as sparks twisted into the air. A huge fur sprawled across the metal paneled floor and large desk sat at the center, data slates and paperwork scattered across its oaken surface.

Hestia stood at one end of the wooden table, arms crossed and eyes furious as she stared, a small seed standing beside her with downcast eyes. On the other end stood a marine, red hair wore long with several braids, A long scar across his face, closing a yellow eye. A familiar helmet tucked under his arm.

"jarl Sturvek?"

A toothy grin appeared, as he nodded.

Movement caught her attention, darting her eyes after the shifting figure sat behind the desk.

In a large ornate chair, sat Leman Russ.

He lounged in the chair, slouched with his chin propped in a large hand. Blonde hair braided and swept back from eyes as clear as ice. A lazy smile crept along his face as he watched the woman.

"I have heard a lot of opinions today, now I will hear it truthfully from you"

Cala held his gaze, tilting her chin up definitely as she stepped forward towards the desk. The primarch's eyebrow twitched as his smile grew larger, sharp canines appearing as he grinned.

"I am no traitor, lord Russ. I may have broken my silence, but had I not, your pack would be short a few good men"

Cala sucked in a breath, feeling dizzy under the intensity of the primarch's presence.

"everything I have done, I have done for the imperium. I have walked the sanctum imperialism and I have laid low it's enemies across the galaxy, my voice has not changed that"

She stood tall, turning to her sister as she spoke.

"I am sorry, sister, but I will not regret my actions"

Hestia paused, glancing between cala and leman before signing. The serf stepped forward, nodding at the motions.

"she said; you have dishonored you vow and dishonored yourself, tainted with chaos. Will you not at least repent?"

The wolf king leaned forward in his seat, interrupting before Cala could respond.

"I heard you were dragged into the warp, yet you don't seem particularly cursed to me."

He sat back again, running a hand along his jaw.

"tell me, what did you see?"

The beginning, the end, fire and water, space and time spread before you

"I am.. unsure, my lord"

He nodded, seemingly lost in thought.

Sturvek stepped forward, clapping a scarred hand on the young woman's shoulder as he scowled at the sororitas.

"My lord, the girl has more bite than her sister, she -"

Leman waved him off as he rose to his feet, stepping round the desk he towered over Cala, staring her down for a moment before leaning down.

"perhaps we should kill you, to save the headache of trouble later"

"Hiljah kah uhtganjen mev tarvahettan, lord Russ" she replied simply, repeating the same chant the jarl had said to her earlier.

"HA! well said, little maiden"

He rose back to his full height, laughing as he slapped a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the way her knees buckled slightly under the impact.

"I have heard enough! Sister, you may take your leave off my ship. This one is mine now"

He returned to his seat, elbows on the desk as he propped himself upright.

Hestia's face contorted, before she bowed and spun, casting one last unreadable look at her battle sister before exiting the room.

"Sturvek"

The marine shot to attention, back stiff as he fought to smother the smirk etched on his lips.

"yes, my lord?"

"make sure the witch hunter is off my ship within the hour"

"yes, lord Russ" helm hissing sealed, he turned on his heels and strode after the silent sister, nodding one last time at Cala, and slamming a salute to his chest as he left.

"now, little doe"

Cala turned, her breath catching in her throat as she came face to face with the wolf king crouched in front of her. The smell of spice, pine and winter berries was heady and strong as he stared, eyes predatory and reflective in the guttering fire.

"let's have a chat, shall we?"

[echo-of-damnation]

Is It Really You

The only moment of true pain Konrad had ever felt.

Tags: death, loss of child, mentions of self harm, blood, gore, hurt no comfort

Word Count: 1640

Song: Is It Really You by Loath & Sleep Token

Konrad sat at the edge of the hospital bed, staring at your face, cataloging each freckle, each scar, each wrinkle. He followed the curve of your nose down to the faded pink of your lips and imagined every moment he was graced to see you smile. You were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in all of his years. No gods in this universe could have had the power to create something so lovely. In his arms he held the child you and him made. A gift he never thought himself worthy of. A creature so small and so perfect in his hideously scarred hands. He could remember the months leading up to this moment with vivid clarity. How he had held you in his arms as you wept tears of fear and joy at the thought of growing your child in her body. He remembered how he soothed you and whispered sweet words of adoration all while trying to hide the tears he silently let fall at the thought of being granted this gift.

Konrad never thought he would ever feel anything but the deep emptiness that swallowed him whole. Never did he ever imagine that anything could offer him the smallest respite in life that seemed to have been made just to bury him in unimaginable pain. Never did he think in his wildest dreams that someone would look at him, SEE him. To understand that he wasn’t just some dog set out to kill. Konrad was content to live his unnaturally long life rotting away in a hell he was made for, until he had met you. 

You had showed him compassion and understanding, a luxury forever kept from him. You were these when he was his absolute worst. When he would return from wars planets away, beaten and broken from the atrocities he not only witnessed but took part in, took sick pleasure in. It was what he was built for after all, in a lab by a father that would never see him as anything other than a tool in his pointless crusade. He hated himself once the high wore off and he came back down, covered in blood and gore. Unknown vicera hanging from his hands as bodies of the worlds he graced lay torn. Men and women alike, parts of them scattered across the streets. Their screams and cries ringing in his ears. Nothing could compare to the children he took though. The innocents he ripped from the worlds. He took so much pride in watching the light fade from their eyes, their weak cries for their long dead mothers forever ingrained in him.

Looking down at the babe in his arms he only felt it just that he wouldn’t be given the miracle of her. He thought it a blessing for her own sake. It was better that she never grow to know who or what her father truly was. No child deserved to be sired by a bloodthirsty monster. He felt it a mercy she was taken from him. Never even uttering a sound as she came into the world. Why should she bless her father with her voice when he tore other babes from their mother wombs. 

Her body was so cold in his arms. So small. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had vowed to the universe that never again would he be that beast his father made. He promised he would be better, do better. Throne did he try. You were there every step of the way to wipe the tears from his face when he had one of his painful visions of the future. You would hold his head to your round belly and tell him to listen to his childs tiny heart. To focus on that sound and follow it out of his nightmare. You were always there to temper his anger and soothe his anxieties.

Konrad could remember a time when he had lost himself. He didn’t know where or when but he wasn’t on the ship with you anymore. He was on some far off planet surrounded by the bodies of his brothers and sons, covered in their blood. He didn’t understand but he knew he had killed them all. When he looked down to his hands he held your lifeless body, still round with child. You stared blankly into the skies, the bruises from his own hands covering your delicate neck. A pained cry ripped him into pieces. It broke him down to nothing. The bottomless pit that grew in his heart seeing you there in his arms pulled him ever deeper into this nightmare. He still had the scars on his chest from when his body in reality had tried to rip his own heart out. You were there, pleading for him to wake up, to listen to your voice and to come back to you. He had almost destroyed his vocal cords from his screaming. All you could do was watch helplessly as he crumbled before you and you thought that surely this was it, that this was when you would lose him to the dark that lurked just below the surface. 

You pulled his head to your chest as a last ditch effort to at least ease some of the pain and in his hell, Konrad heard your heartbeat. It was so strong that he couldn’t help but follow it out. Your heartbeat accompanied by the child you had made together brought him closer to the surface. He gasped in air when he was back with you and all the two of you could do was hold each other and weep. Neither of you left the bed the day after that. Both of you afraid what the world would throw in Konrads moment of weakness. He should have known what the nightmare meant that day. Deep down he knew but he never entertained the idea.

Now there you were, laying lifeless in the hospital bed. When your labor started, the both of you were scared but you held his hand and promised it would all be okay soon. When the bleeding started, the apothocarians promised him that it was normal in the birthing process. He held onto your hand as you cried out in pain, your heart rate dropping ever so slightly. Konrad knew death, he was intimate with it. He was laid with it his entire life and in that moment he knew it was there in the room with you. 

When your heart stopped the apothocarians worked faster to try and save the child still in your womb. Konrad couldn't believe what was happening. All he could do was stare down into your eyes. He knew you were gone but he pleaded for you to wake up, to come back to him. He needed you, he couldn’t raise your child alone. The two of you hadn’t even thought of names yet. You were waiting to see her for the first time to decide. You had told Konrad that when you saw her face for the first time her name would come then. 

His sons had to come in and pull him away from your lifeless body, he had started to shake you in an attempt to get you to come back to him and it was complicating the process of trying to save your baby. The silence in the room was deafening as he watched them pull her out of you.

One of the female medicae frantically rubbed her, trying to get her to clear her little lungs and breath. Konrad could hear her quietly pleading with the baby to wake up and cry out, to say hello to all of them. Konrads heart broke that moment as each of the medical staff slowly removed their masks. Someone in the room read out the time and date as they moved her little over to where you lay. They placed her on your chest and wrapped your arms around her. From where he was in the room, he could trick himself into thinking that the both of you were merely asleep.

He couldn’t cry anymore after that. His sons led him out of the room, bracing him on each side. Half way down the hall he stepped out of their grasp and he silently walked away. No one knew where he went. He didn’t even know where he went. All he knew is that he walked and walked for hours until he came back here. They had cleaned you and the baby up. Putting you in one of your favorite white dresses. Someone had brushed your hair and carefully placed it under you. Your daughter lay in a crib next to you wrapped in a white blanket, a small pink cover sat on her head. One of her tiny hands was visible and Konrad tried to get her to hold his finger if only for a moment. After that is when he finally picked her up. Bringing her small face up to his, rubbing his nose against hers. She still smelt so new, like a powdery little doll.

That's how he had been for the last few hours. Sitting in the chair beside you, cradling the beautiful daughter you had grown in your body. No one came, the news had surely made its rounds by now. He didn’t know what else to do. He slowly moved your body on the bed so that you could rest against his chest as he sat behind you. Carefully placing your daughter back in your hands with his supporting them underneath.

That's how they found you all the next morning. No one dared wake him. After everything that had happened, he deserved a moment of peace.

[soka-starxi]

Savagery

Part 2

Titus x afab! medic serf, Gadriel x afab! medic serf Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Mention of minor injury

A/N: Gadriel being an ass for 3 minuets straight because why not. I hope yous enjoy yippie!!!

Part 1 here

* 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　　 ✦ .

His grip on your arm was unwavering and you braced for whatever was about to come your way

“You should know better than to keep your lord Titus waiting”

The smirk was evident in his voice, dripping in irony

Paralysed under his gaze you realised he was challenging you

So you challenged him

Your orders were to serve your lord Titus no matter what, your devotion is not something to be taken lightly

You had no idea how long you had been standing there for

It could’ve been seconds it could’ve been hours

The sudden weight lifting of your shoulders awoke you from the trance like state

“Sergeant…is it”

“Gadriel”

You were all too aware of how much time you’ve lost and you needed to reach your lord asap

A shiver ran down your spine at the thought of what waited behind you behind those doors

“I must get back to my lord”

A casual roll of his shoulders he uttered

“Why of corse, keeping lord Titus happy is the only thing you’re good for, little serf”

You bit back the anger simmering in your chest and instead promptly turned on your heals and made your way to the lords chambers

A shaky exhale later, you reached your head up to the vox system

A part of you prayed he wasn’t there

Unfortunately, luck was not in your side today and the sudden opening of his chamber doors jolted you to attention

“My lord I-”

“In. Now.”

Your lord cut off your sentence, his irritation slicing the air

How were you going to explain this…

Using your data slate to cover the bruise forming on your arm due to the rough treatment from the sergeant, you tried to make it look causal

“You were supposed to show up almost a mark ago”

You could tell the lieutenant made himself busy in your absence by the pile of papers on his desk you adverted your gaze to

“My lord, I am deeply sorry. I was stopped on my way here”

The slight rattle of his armour clinking could be heard as he whipped his head around to face you

Your efforts were pointless as your lord grabbed the data slate out form your arm, causing you to briefly loose balance

A helmeted gaze scanned over the purple bruise

Pause.

“Did they do this?”

You’ve never heard your lord so quiet, the question merely but a whisper

“I-I think it was a sergeant..his name was Gadriel”

His grip stiffened as his gaze ripped away from you seemingly not being present anymore

“My lord?”

He seemingly didn’t realised that his grip still wrapped around your arm, causing him to promptly let go

“My lord please forgive me, I tried to get away but they insisted, please”

Your anxious ramblings slowly became a whisper as he stepped forward

“This will not happen again. And if it does you report to me stright away. But do not be late next time do you understand?”

As he thrusted the data slate into your hands as you stammered a quiet “yes my lord, my apologies this won’t happen again”

Impatience seemed to make the great astarte restless as a balled fist waved you off

“You are dismissed”

Dismissed? I’ve only just got here??

“But my lord your-”

Referencing the bedsheets that were due for a replacement scattered across his vast bed

“Go.”

And so you did, scuttling back to your more modest chambers once again stuck at your desk with the data slate in hand

[sepulcher666]

A writing exercise bc the wheels of my brain won’t stop fucking spinning

Thousand sons probably. (I dont know if this is in character but eh.)

What lies beyond the stars, beyond the reach of the mightiest of auspexes and cogitators?

Something beyond your imagination.

I ask myself that question every night I get to myself. Away from the planning of the Great Crusade and the countless officers, soldiers and crewman that roam my ships. I spend many hours with my fellow scholars, thinkers and teachers of the arcane.

You were a fool to offer your disciples to the changer of ways.

I contemplate the unfathomable. I think on the question; what stares back from that fathomless, uncaring void? My sight offers me nothing - my astrologers can offer me little more than conjecture.

Come closer and stare deeper into the abyss!

For every inch I gain on that unknown ground, every scrap of information my hunger for the unknown only increases. There is no limit I will surpass, no dangerous ground I will not tread to get that knowledge.

Come closer and I will indulge you.

[candyswirls]

Konrad Curze is turned into a kid.

An angry and woeful screaming from down the hall sounded out as soon as the door opened.

"We have a problem," Lion grumbled, scratch marks across his face.

Roboute squirmed in Horus' arms upon hearing the wailing. The warmaster quickly rocked him and ran fingers through his hair, soothing the boy.

"Is that another child?" Magnus questioned.

Lion grumbled, "I went into Konrad's room and found him now like these two. He panicked and hid under his bed. When I tried to get close, he scratched me and began screaming and crying."

Fulgrim's eyes went wide. He handed Dorn to Magnus and ran out.

"Let me go help," Horus said.

Sanguinius took Roboute from him. Ferrus followed.

The wailing had died down a bit as Horus hurried out. He found Fulgrim lying on the ground of Konrad's room, trying to coax something out from under the bed.

As soon as Horus entered, a scared little cry sounded from under there.

"Come on, Konrad," Fulgrim said gently. "Come on out. It's okay. It's me, your older brother, Fulgrim. Come out, little night haunter."

Konrad let out a hiss.

Horus got down on the ground.

A shivering pale little figure was crouched up against the wall. He stared back with wide and fearful eyes.

"Hey there, buddy," Horus greeted gently. "Do you want to come on out?"

Konrad didn't move or reply.

"We won't hurt you, you're safe."

The boy just stared back.

Fulgrim spoke, "Okay, you can stay under here as long as you want. Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

The lights went out, and they looked to see Sanguinius.

"I have an idea," he said.

He laid down on the floor and stuck a wing under the bed, shaking it.

There was a snarl, and the angel flinched.

He quickly pulled back to reveal Konrad bit onto his wing. The boy realized he was out from under the bed and tried to escape.

Horus grabbed him, and the little being let out a horrifying shriek as he flailed, bit, and scratched.

"Easy! Easy!" Horus tried to soothe.

Ferrus moved in to grab him, the scratching not affecting his metal arms. Konrad went limp and bawled. Mournful and scared.

Fulgrim pulled a thick blanket from the bed and wrapped his little brother in it.

"Hold him close to your chest," the Phoenician told Ferrus.

His brother did so, and Konrad's cries were muffled against his chest. Fulgrim smoothed back Konrad's hair.

"It's okay," he assured. "It's alright. Let's get something to eat."

The cries died away, and Horus turned to Sanguinius, "Is your wing alright?"

Sanguinius nodded.

"Where's Roboute?"

"Getting loved on by Lorgar," the angel answered. "He was dying to hold one of them. You'd think I'd given him some great honor when I handed him Guilliman."

***

Lights in the kitchen were out to account for Konrad's eyes. He was still wrapped in the blanket and sat in Ferrus' arms. He sniffled but slowly munched at a cracker. Fulgrim ran fingers through his little brother's hair, smoothing it back and offering comfort.

"Here," He offered. "Drink."

He helped Konrad sip from a cup before he went back to the cracker.

The third Primarch smiled, "There we go. All better."

[voices-of-favor]

I heard this is the hip and cool thing to do, so I am doing it too Introducing a new addi(c)tion:

Voices of Favor lore in story format, right on AO3

Here's the account, and for now (or rather for a while) the main work will be the so-called VoF saga

A short-ish story featuring most of the more important characters that are in (or are connected to) my homebrew chapter

Arguments! Aliens! Drama! Exposition! Action (soon)!

I will update it somewhat regularly (because I am still a very vanilla person with other responsibilities that leave little room for hobby writing), so stay tuned (and patient pls)

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

A Daughter's Rage

The rage she felt was potent. How dare he cast her aside like common trash? She was his eldest, his first, the one that had stood by his side when all else fell. Yet...he dared to disown her, to cast her from his name and strike it out. For what? Because she dared to speak up? That she dared to voice that she thought such perfection was unattainable, that there was imperfection within perfection. It was just what was natural.

But he had flown into such a rage then. Such rage, and she had said some unfortunate things back but she stood by them. If he were to disown her, to treat her as if she were dead, then she shall use the name Opal. For Opal was her mother, who gave her life in order for Zelda to live. A fitting name for her.

She does not think as she moves down the twisting passage ways. She does not think until she comes before a painting of her father.

"Why!? Why did you cast me aside!? When did I stop being enough for you? Your standards were always high, but attainable for the most part. Ambition. It's what allowed us to revolt on chemos. Yet...why am I suddenly nothing to you? Haven't I always been your loving daughter? Haven't I always given sound advice before? You never reacted like that before, so why now?"

The portrait does not answer and she wants to shred it to pieces as she bawls her hands into fists. Yet...she glances towards it again and the anger leaves her to be to be replaced by confusion. The Fulgrim in the portrait looks like...he's sobbing? Yes he's sobbing. Whereas before he'd looked proud as he did in all his portrait. But this...he suddenly looked like a man racked with agony.

What..? What could've- The figure moved and she stared in shock as the Fulgrim within the portrait mouthed the words "I'm sorry" before it forcibly returned to the position she found it in. She was certain it was her father, it had felt like him in the way it hadn't for a long time. Which meant...wait if his soul was here...

Then what was the thing that just disowned her..?

[literaly-pure-addict]

My "Rogal dorn in commoragh" little snippet

Maybe after I complete my main fic (or at least do the 2nd chapter) I'll start writing more about this one

[boneapplet]

Even Space Marines Get Sick pt.1

Relationships: minor titus x oc/afab!reader Warnings: minor talk of illness, food description Word count: 1342 part one || part two

               A tense, and eerily quiet atmosphere has consumed the commandeered outpost ever since the Ultramarines arrival earlier this month. The 2nd company’s captain, upon his arrival, having ordered not a word is to be uttered of what occurs here to prevent panic from consuming the nearby inhabitants. Majority of the outpost has been repurposed to serve as a quarantine zone, with only a few allowed to aid in the care of the afflicted marines.

               Gently pushing open the grand doors to the repurposed hall, Nessa scans around the room. Seeing the hall now filled with various tools and machines the Apothecary had brought along, spotting the faded blue robes dawning the medicae’s form. Hurriedly, she makes her way to them.

               “Good afternoon, Medicae Rhosyn. I’ve been sent to aid you” Nessa greets the older woman.

               The middle-aged woman gives her a kind smile “Good afternoon, I’m glad to see that the Refectorium was able to send you this way. The task is simple, you will disperse these vials to the lords. Due to current circumstances, you will need to wear this to aid in preventing spread of the illness” gesturing to a filtration mask on the table.

               Nodding as she listens to what is to be expected of her, strapping the filtration pack to her side and properly sealing in place the filtration mask.

               “Lastly, only one vial is to be distributed per angel” Rhosyn informs her as she finishes placing the vials from the rack into the various slots within the carrier bag.

               Nessa “I understand” she carefully slips the carrier bag across her shoulders, bidding Rhosyn goodbye before heading toward the quarantine zone.

Weaving through the halls, keeping a brisk pace but being mindful of the precious cargo she carries. Bowing her head in respect to the towering space marines who stand guard at the entrance to the zone, squeezing by them and through the metal doors. Glancing at the list of names and their corresponding barracks number before beginning with the first name, lord Demetrian Titus in barrack 56.

Clipping the list back onto the carrier bag, she heads along the hall counting the barracks number till she reaches 56. Rapping her knuckles against the metallic door, just barely making out the sound of a gruff ‘Enter’ being said behind it. As the door slides open, she’s greeted by the sight of the scantly decorated room and the rather amusing sight of the barely big enough cot which the Astartes lieutenant is sitting on.

“Pardon my interruption of your rest my lord, I’ve brought medicine from the Apothecary” bowing as she explains why she’s intruded into his quarters.

“It is alright, little one. You may arise” Titus rasps out, throat having gone hoarse from coughing.

“Thank you, my lord,” Nessa says as she rises back up.

Looking through her carrier bag, she carefully pulls out the vial designated for him. Titus seems to be wearing thick clothing even though the room was on the warmer side. Even in this seemingly weakened state, his gaze still sent shivers down her spine. Placing the vial at the nightstand beside the cot for him to consume when he pleases.

“Is there anything else I may do for you my lord or request to be supplied?” questioning as she closes her bag.

“No, you may take your leave and go attend to my brothers” Titus says, returning to reading the codex after dismissing her.

“May the Emperor bless you with a speedy recovery my lord” bowing once more before departing his quarters.

As she goes about completing the list, she notices the rather gloomy feeling they all had. Likely unuse to feeling ill and being kept on bed rest, one of them seemed close to tearing at the blanket he’d wrapped around himself like a cloak. Nessa contemplates this as she is restricted to her own quarters for the mandated quarantine week, trying to think of a way to at least make their time in isolation bearable.

Upon being released, she begins her own campaign of trying to persuade the Master of the Refectorium to change the menu for at least one meal. Days spent arguing and reasoning her case, till he finally relented that it may be served as a one-time appetizer.

The kitchen is bustling as usual, ticking of the clock counts down the fleeting hours till supper is to be served to the space marines. Light from the grand hearths, illuminating the beads of sweat on Nessa’s brow. Her knife gleaming as she diced carrots, turnips, and parsnips, the blade slicing cleanly through. Setting aside the sliced vegetables, she swaps her cutting board for a clean one.

With the help of 2 others, they were able to bring over from the storage the humongous slab of Tyrgothus meat from yesterday’s hunt. Sharpening her knife before slicing into the dense muscle and fat, being methodical as she ensures each piece is uniform in size. As she worked, she moved around the cramped kitchen, collecting various herbs from the numerous jars and fresh bunches on the shelves. Gently crushing the herbs, releasing their fragrance into the medley of scents in the air before tossing them into a clay bowl.

Pulling mechanisms to lower a grand heavy pot onto flames, the iron groaning as it heats. Dropping sticks of butter into the bottom and begin to brown the meat in batches. The meat sizzled in the hot butter, the scent mingling with the bread that’s baking nearby in the oven. The kitchen alive with it all- the warmth, the smells, the bustle brought forth with the preparations.

Setting aside the meat, after dicing an onion she tosses it into the pot with the root vegetables. Stirring them with a wooden spoon as they begin to soften and absorb the juices released by the meat.

Nessa turned towards the large bones; the bones are precious. The marrow and connective tissue invaluable for creating the rich base the stew needed. She drops them into the pot first, the sound of them crackling in the hot butter filling the room. As they brown, she adds water, watching the marrow begin to seep out of the bones, thickening the liquid and turning it into a deep, rich color. Nessa washes dishes as she patiently waits, knowing it would be a while till the marrow enriches the broth with a velvety texture.

Once the bones have released their flavors into the broth, she adds the browned Tyrgothus and the herbs, stirring them together. The broth darkened with time, thickening, and she kept a watchful eye over the pot. Preparing the dishes to be brought to the ailing marines, giving a light brushing of melted butter over the thick, golden brown crusted loaves of bread. Passing the plates so that they may get a serving of rice before she distributes a hearty portion of the stew. Carefully placing the plates on the cart and double checking that there was the correct number of plates before it was wheeled out.

Only on the next day, as she’s cleaning up after breakfast is she approached by a fellow cook.

“So, as you know my quarters are next to Lanto, who was designated for yesterday’s round of servicing the quarantined lords. He said that they truly enjoyed and appreciated the stew you made” Molly leans in and whispers as she joins in washing the pots.

Glancing to see that the Master of the Refectorium wasn’t looking their way, she giddily asks “Truly?”

“Yes, Lord Titus even sent his compliments to the chef” softly nudging her.

“Stop, I merely wanted- “Nessa was cut off by a sharp clearing of the throat from behind them.

Now standing behind them was the Master of the Refectorium, a disapproving look plastered across his face.

“If you have enough time to gossip, then you clearly have time to aid in preparations. Finish these dishes and go aid in the butter” he sharply ordered before heading away.

The two share an amused smile before returning to their task.