I have so many warhammer 40k fic ideas i'm almost overwhelmed by it. this is how you know i'm having a really good time and i want to genuinely say thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting and reblogging my silliness it brings joy and whimsy.
anyway, i have a few requests that should be out this weekend if i have time, and a second part to the modern au creature fic in the works as well as something else i'm slowly working out the details of that hopefully you might get to see soon
How do you think the primaries would react to their s/o breaking out the step ladder, mid argument, and pointing a finger at them, and saying something sassy like,. "Listen here, you little shit, " but like in a joking manner.
I interpreted primaries as either primarch or primaris marines so:
Part 1 : Primarch Edition
Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz @pippinsquishums @warhorny-on-main
Masterlist
pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | - Soon to be included link to primaris marines edition -
Lion El'Jonson
Lion stands there with his usual impossible composure, arms folded behind his back, arms folded behind his back, looking every inch the imposing Primarch as he calmly dismantled every one of your points with infuriating logic.
"I am merely stating the facts."
"Oh, I know you are."
Silence. He regards you with that unreadable expression that somehow manages to be both patient and unbearably smug.
"Have you conceded?"
"You know what?" you mutters.
Lion watches as you abruptly turn on your heel and disappears into the next room. A minute passes. You return carrying a step ladder. One brow arches at the sight. Without a word, you unfold it directly in front of him. Click. Click. You climb until you were finally eye level with him. Lion says nothing as you do. Planting both hands on your hips, you lean forward, and jab a finger squarely at the center of his breastplate.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Several Dark Angels nearby freeze. One veteran quietly decides this is an excellent time to patrol somewhere else. Lion simply stares at you.
"...I am fairly certain," he says after an agonizing pause, "that I remain considerably larger than you."
"I know, but now I can properly scold you."
Another pause. The corner of his mouth twitches. Just once.
"So," he says, voice dangerously even, "you fetched a ladder... solely to insult me at eye level."
"I did."
"Premeditated."
"Very."
"And you expected this to help your argument?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because it was funny."
The twitch becomes an unmistakable smile. A rare thing. One almost no one outside the Inner Circle has ever witnessed.
"It was," he admits.
Before you can celebrate your victory, enormous, gauntleted hands settle around your waist.
"Lion—"
With insulting ease, he lifts you—ladder and all—off the ground.
"You are abusing engineering for comedic purposes."
"I absolutely am."
"I can’t permit this."
"You absolutely can."
He sighs the long-suffering sigh of a man who commands a Legion of transhuman super-soldiers, yet somehow finds himself outmaneuvered by one stubborn mortal with access to household equipment.
"...Very well."
He sets the ladder aside. Then, without another word, pulls you into a kiss that ends the argument far more effectively than either of you ever could. The Dark Angels collectively agreed to pretend none of this had happened. Except for one unfortunate Battle-Brother.
He quietly adds "secure all step ladders before domestic disputes" to the fortress-monastery maintenance checklist.
The Lion never comments on it. But every time he passed a ladder after that, he checks to make sure you aren't nearby.
Forgotton Primarch
No one knows what had started the argument anymore. At some point, it had shifted from discussing expedition logistics into an increasingly heated debate over whether it was "reckless optimism" or "reasonable confidence."
"It worked," you insist.
"It worked despite your method," the Second replies calmly.
"It still worked."
"You rolled a transport vehicle down a mountain."
"It got there."
"It caught fire."
"It was a controlled fire."
"There is no such thing as a controlled transport fire."
"There is if you arrive before it goes out."
His officers had long since stopped pretending to organize supply manifests. Every one of them is quietly listening. The Primarch sighs, rubbing his temples.
"I feel as though we define the word 'success' differently."
"Oh, we definitely do."
He opens his mouth to continue. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away.
"...Beloved?"
No answer. One captain frowns.
"...Should we—"
"No," the Primarch says. "They'll come back."
"How can you be sure?"
"They always come back."
Sure enough, two minutes later you return. Carrying a step ladder. The officers exchange confused glances. The Primarch looks at the ladder, then at you. Then back at the ladder.
"...Is there a maintenance task I forgot?"
"No."
"...Do you require assistance reaching something?"
"Nope."
"...Then why—"
Clack. You unfold it directly in front of him. Every conversation throughout the command hall stops. You climb carefully. One step. Two. Three. You are finally close enough to look him directly in the eyes. You plant a finger firmly against the center of his armor.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Absolute silence. Even the ship's engines seem quieter. The Second stares at you for several long seconds. His expression remains perfectly neutral. Then...
"...You disappeared."
"Yep."
"Found a ladder."
"Mhm."
"Carried it across my flagship."
"Correct."
"You interrupted our argument..."
"So I could do this."
"...Entirely for dramatic effect."
"It felt necessary."
One of the captains quietly leans toward another.
"...Should we leave?"
"No."
"I've waited twenty years to see how this ends."
The Primarch looks down at the finger poking his chest. Then back into your eyes. Slowly... Very slowly... A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. Then another. Until, against all expectations, he laughs. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a genuine, warm laugh that seems to ripple through the room.
"You know," he manages between chuckles, "history will never remember this."
"No?"
"No."
"Good."
"Why is that good?"
"Because then no one will know I called a Primarch a little shit."
"Oh, I imagine my sons will make certain they remember."
Behind him, several officers are already trying, and failing, not to laugh. One finally lost the battle. A snort escapes him. Another follows. Within moments, the command hall dissolves into helpless laughter. The Second simply shakes his head.
"I spent decades building an image of quiet dignity."
"And?"
"You have just dismantled it with carpentry."
You grins.
"Worth it?"
He looks at the ladder. At you. At the officers still trying to compose themselves.
"...Completely worth it."
From that day onward, the ladder somehow accompanies every campaign. No one questions why. Everyone knew. If the ladder appeared, someone was about to lose an argument. Usually the Primarch.
Fulgrim
Fulgrim is used to being admired. It is practically a law of nature. Kings and generals bow. Artists fight for the privilege of capturing his likeness. Remembrancers fill endless pages describing his perfection, his grace, his brilliance. No one, absolutely no one, has ever looked him in the eye and decided the appropriate response to an argument was to fetch a step ladder.
And yet here you are. The disagreement had started over something trivial. A critique of your latest work. A comment about his impossible standards. A debate that had somehow escalated because Fulgrim, being Fulgrim, could turn even a simple disagreement into a philosophical discussion on beauty and excellence.
"You are avoiding the point," you tell him.
"I assure you, beloved, I am expanding upon the point."
"You are making the point run away."
Fulgrim places a hand dramatically over his chest.
"How cruel."
You narrow your eyes.
"Oh, no. I know that look."
You walk away. Fulgrim watches with curiosity as you return moments later carrying a small step ladder. There is a pause. A very long pause.
"Darling."
You unfold it.
"Do not."
You climb.
"Absolutely do not."
You reach eye level. Fulgrim stares. You point a finger at him.
"Listen here, you little shit."
For once in his very long life, Fulgrim is speechless. Then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle. Not the elegant, practiced laugh of a Primarch at court. A genuine laugh.
"You climbed a ladder," he manages, "to insult me."
"Yes."
"You planned this."
"Yes."
"You had the opportunity to simply insult me from the ground."
"I lacked the dramatic effect."
Fulgrim looks at you. Then at the ladder. Then back at you.
"My love, I have fought wars. I have conquered worlds. I have stood before beings that would make lesser souls flee in terror."
He smiles.
"And yet somehow, this is the most devastating attack I have endured."
You grin.
"Good."
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"You realize I could simply pick up the ladder."
"You wouldn't."
"I could."
"You won't."
A pause.
"...No."
His smile softens. Because that is the thing about you. Everyone else sees Fulgrim the Phoenician—the perfect warrior, the flawless artist, the embodiment of elegance. You see the man underneath. The one who can be ridiculous. The one who can laugh at himself. The one who, despite all his grandeur, secretly cherishes the fact that someone loved him enough to tell him when he is being an insufferable little shit. Fulgrim gently takes your hand from where you are still pointing at him and kisses your knuckles.
"Very well," he says. "I concede."
You blink.
"That easily?"
"No."
He smiles.
"I simply find myself unwilling to argue with someone who has prepared a tactical elevation strategy."
And somewhere in the Imperial Palace archives, a Remembrancer quietly recordes the event:
The Primarch Fulgrim was defeated not by blade, weapon, or rival.
He was defeated by a step ladder and a spouse with impeccable timing.
Perturabo
The war room has gone silent. Generals, logisticians, and Iron Warriors stand around the hololithic display, enduring what had become an increasingly familiar exchange between the Lord of Iron and his wife.
"The shipment schedules are inefficient," Perturabo states flatly.
"They're delayed because half your fleet ignored my docking protocols."
"They are my ships."
"They are in my orbit."
"They carry Imperial cargo."
"They also require permission to land before they flatten my cities."
Neither of them raises their voices. Somehow, that makes it worse. An Iron Warrior shifts uncomfortably. Another quietly calculates how long it will take to leave the room unnoticed. Perturabo folds his arms.
"You are being unreasonable."
You stare at him. Then, without a word... you walk out. The room remains painfully still. One captain dares to hope the argument has ended. It hasn’t. The doors opens again. You returns carrying a polished step ladder. Every Iron Warrior in the room collectively forgot how to breathe. Perturabo watches as you unfold it. Click. Click.
"...What," he asks with dangerous calm, "are you doing?"
"You'll see."
You climb until you both are nearly eye level. Then you plant a finger squarely against the center of his breastplate.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Absolute silence. Somewhere, a servo-skull made the unfortunate decision to continue recording. Perturabo looks at the finger. Then at the ladder. Then back at his wife.
"...You interrupted a strategic briefing..."
"Mm-hm."
"...Retrieved a ladder..."
"Correct."
"...So you could call a Primarch..."
"Go on."
"...a little shit."
You smile sweetly.
"I did."
Another long pause. Finally—
"...The ladder was an unnecessary expenditure of effort."
A beat.
"It was already in the hallway."
"...Efficient."
"It was."
Several officers blink. Was... Was that approval? Perturabo sighs through his nose, the sound carrying all the weary resignation of a man who had besieged impossible fortresses only to discover the greatest challenge of his life had been waiting at home.
"You have been waiting years to do this."
"Since we met again."
"I suspected as much."
"You looked so offended the first time I had to crane my neck to argue with you."
"...So you developed a solution."
"Of course."
"You engineered your insults."
"I engineered accessibility."
One corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. Imperceptibly to almost everyone. You catch it immediately.
"There it is."
"There is nothing."
"You smiled."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I acknowledged satisfactory planning."
"Oh, so that's what we're calling it now?"
Perturabo steps forward. With one hand, he lifts her—ladder and all—as though neither weighed anything.
"You are impossible."
You grin.
"And yet you still married me."
"I was betrothed to you decades before the Emperor found me."
"You still had the option to object."
"I considered it."
"Liar."
"...Perhaps."
The room watches, dumbfounded, as the Lord of Iron carefully set both his wife and the ladder back on the floor. Then he looks toward the assembled officers, all of whom instantly found the hololithic map fascinating.
"The meeting," he says, utterly deadpan, "is adjourned."
The officers don’t need to be told twice. Within seconds, the strategium is empty. Only after the doors seal did Perturabo glance at the ladder leaning against the wall.
"...Keep it."
You blink.
"You don't mind?"
"It is evidently a strategic asset."
You laugh. He won't admit it aloud. But of every gift his wife’s world had ever supplied the Imperium—its rare pigments adorning the armor of the Legiones Astartes and the murals of the Imperial Palace— The most effective piece of engineering it had ever produced... was a simple step ladder.
Jaghatai Khan
The Khan has faced many challenges in his life. He has crossed endless steppes beneath alien skies. He has fought warriors who believed themselves untouchable. He has brought entire systems into compliance with the speed and fury of the White Scars. None of those things prepared him for his wife appearing in the middle of an argument carrying a step ladder.
"You can’t simply decide to disappear into the void for three weeks without informing anyone," you say.
"I informed my captains."
"You informed your captains after you left."
"They knew where I was going."
"They knew where your ship was going."
A pause.
"The distinction seems minor."
"It isn’t."
The Khan smiles faintly. There it is. The fire he has always admired.
"You are angry."
"I am."
"You are also correct."
You narrow your eyes. That is the problem with Jaghatai Khan. He can admit when he is wrong. But he always does it in the most infuriatingly calm way possible.
"You know exactly what you're doing."
"I do."
"And you think being charming will save you."
"It has worked before."
"Not today."
You turn and walk away. The Khan watches you go, amused. Then you return. With a ladder. The amusement fades into curiosity.
"...What is this?"
"A solution."
"I see."
He watches you unfold it. Slowly. Deliberately. The Primarch of the White Scars stands there as his wife climbs a ladder until you can properly look him in the eye. Then you point at him.
"Listen here, you little shit."
There is a moment of perfect silence. Then— The Khan laughs. Not politely. Not quietly. A full, delighted laugh that echoes through the halls of the command deck. The nearby White Scars immediately begin pretending they hadn’t heard anything.
"You brought a ladder," he says between laughs.
"Yes."
"To challenge me."
"Yes."
"You planned this."
"Yes."
Jaghatai wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Magnificent."
You cross your arms.
"You're not supposed to encourage me."
"Why not? It is an excellent strategy."
"It is insulting."
"It is creative."
"It is disrespectful."
"It is also accurate, occasionally."
You stare.
"Did you just agree?"
"I did."
"You are impossible."
He steps closer, resting a hand against the ladder.
"When we first met, you stood before me as a royal of a world I was bringing into compliance."
"And?"
"You could have hated me."
You soften slightly.
"But you did not."
"No."
"You argued with me."
"Frequently."
"You challenged me."
"Frequently."
The Khan smiles.
"And I knew then that I would rather ride beside a storm than rule over a calm sea."
For a moment, the humor fades. The warrior, the conqueror, the Primarch vanishes. And there is simply a man looking at the person who had chosen to stay. Then he ruins the tenderness immediately.
"Although I must say, the ladder is a bold addition to your diplomatic arsenal."
You roll your eyes.
"You're lucky I love you."
"I know."
"And you're lucky I married you."
"I know."
"And you're lucky I don't push you off your own command deck."
The Khan's grin widens.
"Ah. There is the royal I remember."
He lifts you easily from the ladder and carries you away before you can protest.
"The meeting is over," he announces to the stunned White Scars.
"My wife has defeated me."
A captain blinks.
"Khan..."
"With a ladder."
A pause.
"...I see."
"No, you do not."
And perhaps that was for the best. Some victories belonged only to those who witnessed them.
Leman Russ
The Space Wolves have learned many important lessons over the years. Never challenge the Wolf King to a drinking contest. Never insult his Legion within earshot. Never assume that a battle won meant the fighting was over. And, most importantly: Never interrupt when the Wolf King and his wife were arguing. Because unlike most beings in the Imperium, she had known Leman Russ before the Emperor.
Before the title. Before the Great Crusade. Before the galaxy knew him as the Lord of Winter and War. She knew him as a stubborn, reckless young warrior who thought charging headfirst into danger counted as a strategy. Which was why, when he stands before her now—towering, armored, and surrounded by the might of the Rout—she is entirely unimpressed.
"You still do it."
Russ blinks.
"Do what?"
"That."
He frowns.
"A useful description."
"You run into danger, assume everyone else will keep up, and then act surprised when everyone worries."
The Wolf King grins.
"Ah. You mean being heroic."
"I mean being an idiot."
Several Fenrisian warriors nearby immediately became very interested in the walls. Russ laughes.
"You wound me."
"I have wounded you."
"Many times."
"And you deserved it."
The grin on his face only grows. There it is. That is what he loves. Not fear. Not worship. Not the careful respect everyone else gave a Primarch. You treat him like the boy who used to come home covered in bruises and insist he had won every fight.
"You are impossible," you say.
"You married me."
"I was young and foolish."
"You fought beside me for years before that."
"I was young, foolish, and had poor judgment."
The wolves around them try very hard not to laugh. Russ opens his mouth to respond. Then stops. Because you had disappeared. A moment later, you return carrying a step ladder. The entire hall goes silent. Russ stares. Then looks at the ladder. Then back at you.
"No."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
You unfold it. The wolves immediately back away.
"This isn’t a battle tactic I have seen before."
"It is a height advantage."
"You are cheating."
"You are twelve feet tall."
"An advantage granted by birth."
"An advantage you abuse."
Russ looks deeply offended.
"I have never abused my height."
You climb. Slowly. Purposefully. Until you are finally at eye level. Then you point at him.
"Listen here, you little shit."
There is a pause. A terrible, wonderful pause. Then— The Wolf King howls. Not metaphorically. Actually howls. He laughs so hard that several nearby Astartes had to turn away.
"You did not!"
"I did."
"You brought a ladder!"
"I did."
"Just to say that?"
"Yes."
Russ wipes at his eyes.
"I have fought monsters."
"Uh-huh."
"Demons."
"Yes."
"Armies."
"Yes."
"And yet this is the greatest challenge I have faced."
"Correct."
He leans down slightly.
"You know most people are afraid to speak to me that way."
"Most people met you after you became a Primarch."
That stops him. Only for a moment. But you saw it. Because you were one of the few people alive who remembers Leman before the legend. Before the armor. Before the fangs and the titles. Before everyone decided what he was supposed to be. You remember the man. Russ reaches out and gently taps the top of the ladder.
"You realize I could simply pick this up."
"You won't."
"No?"
"No."
A grin spreads across his face.
"...No."
He lifts her effortlessly from the ladder, earning an indignant protest.
"Put me down."
"Never."
"You are proving my point."
"Which point?"
"That you are an enormous, overgrown puppy."
The entire room freezes.
A Fenrisian warrior quietly whispered, "She called him a puppy."
Another whispered back, "And lived."
Russ just laughs. A great booming laugh that shakes the hall.
"Perhaps." He sets you down carefully, "But I am your enormous, overgrown puppy."
You roll your eyes.
"Unfortunately."
"Fortunately."
"Unfortunately."
"Fortunately."
And just like that, the argument is forgotten. The Wolf King has conquered worlds. He has broken armies. He has carried the Emperor's will across the stars. But none of those victories matter quite as much as the fact that one stubborn warrior from Fenris could still look him in the eye, sometimes with the assistance of a ladder, and remind him who he really was.
Rogal Dorn
The Imperium thought Rogal Dorn had returned. They saw the Praetorian of Terra. They saw the Primarch of the VII Legion. They saw the warrior who had survived the Heresy, the fall of brothers, and the loss of an age. They didn’t see the man who had been found broken on a death world. They didn’t see the blood, the exhaustion, the missing hand. They didn’t see the man who had been forced to survive with nothing but his own will.
You had and you hadn’t been impressed. When you found him, he was still fighting. Of course he was. Even half-dead, missing a hand, and stranded on a world that existed solely to kill anything unfortunate enough to live there, Rogal Dorn was still trying to complete the mission.
When Dorn returned to the Imperium, when the galaxy once again bowed before the great Primarch thought lost, she remained the one person who remembered that beneath the armor was a man who occasionally needed someone to tell him when he was being impossible. Which was why the argument surprised absolutely no one who knew them.
"You cannot reinforce the entire eastern district because you dislike the original design."
"The original design contained flaws."
"It contained windows."
"Windows are vulnerabilities."
"They are also how people see outside."
"Unnecessary."
You stare at him.
Dorn stares back. A room full of Imperial Fists quietly decides they had urgent business elsewhere.
"You know," You say, "for someone who claims to value practicality, you make being reasonable very difficult."
"My reasoning is sound."
"Your reasoning is a fortress with no doors."
"Doors are weaknesses."
You close your eyes. A familiar expression. A dangerous expression. Dorn recognizes it immediately.
"No."
You walks away.
"No."
You return. With a step ladder. The Primarch of the Imperial Fists stare at it.
"...Why do you possess that?"
"Because I know you."
"I do not understand."
"That's the problem."
You unfold it. Dorn watches with the same focus he would give an enemy battlefield maneuver.
"You have planned this."
"Yes."
"You considered the height difference."
"Yes."
"You acquired equipment."
"Yes."
"For the purpose of arguing."
"Yes."
A pause.
"...I respect the preparation."
You climb. When you reach eye level, you point at him.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. The Imperial Fists stop pretending they weren’t listening. Dorn looks down. Then at the ladder. Then back at you.
"I have been called many things."
"Good."
"Traitor."
"Yes."
"Failure."
"Yes."
"Stubborn."
"Frequently."
"But little."
"Especially today."
A long pause. Dorn's expression remains completely unchanged. Then:
"I see."
You narrow your eyes.
"Are you about to analyze the insult?"
"Yes."
"Of course you are."
"The statement is factually inaccurate."
"Oh?"
"I am not little."
You smile.
"That is the part you object to?"
"Naturally."
For a moment, you thought you saw it. A tiny flicker. Not quite amusement. Not quite a smile. But something.
"You almost laughed."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I acknowledged the creativity of your approach."
"You liked it."
"It was efficient."
"You liked it."
A pause.
"...Perhaps."
And there it was. The closest thing to surrender Rogal Dorn ever gave. Not on a battlefield. Not before an enemy. But standing in front of the one person who had met him when he wasn’t a symbol. The one person who had seen him broken. The one person who knew he was more than a fortress. Dorn reaches out with his prosthetic hand and gently lifts you from the ladder.
"You know," he says, "most people would not speak to me in such a manner."
"Most people met the Praetorian of Terra."
"And you?"
You smile.
"I met the man stuck on a death world who needed help getting home."
A silence. Then Dorn looks away. Because even Rogal Dorn has limits to how much emotion he could process at once.
"...Keep the ladder."
You blink.
"What?"
"It has proven useful."
"You like the ladder."
"I respect its tactical application."
"You like the ladder."
"I did not say that."
"You absolutely like the ladder."
Dorn says nothing. Which, from him, was almost an admission. And somewhere in the Imperial Palace, a very confused quartermaster later received a request:
One step ladder.
Reason: strategic necessity.
No further explanation was provided.
Konrad Curze
Konrad Curze has always been surrounded by fear. People fear his shadow. They fear his voice. They fear the judgment in his eyes. He has become so accustomed to people trembling before him that he had almost forgotten what it is like for someone to simply... not care. Then he met him.
A soldier of the Astra Militarum. Not a noble. Not a warrior from some legendary bloodline. Not someone who believed a Primarch is something to worship. Just a man who has survived. A man who has fought for every piece of himself. Curze has seen countless people hide behind masks. False courage. False loyalty. False virtue. But this soldier had looked him in the eye and told him exactly who he was.
No apologies. No hesitation. No request for permission. And that had caught Curze's attention. Because the Night Haunter knew something about living in a world that insists on telling you what you are supposed to be. He knew something about becoming yourself despite the universe. Which was why their arguments are... unusual.
"You cannot simply threaten a planetary governor because he annoyed you."
Curze stares.
"He was corrupt."
"That doesn’t mean you get to throw him through a window."
"He survived."
"That isn’t the standard for acceptable behavior."
"He was irritating."
"You are impossible."
Curze tilts his head.
"You knew that before you stayed."
"Unfortunately."
A pause.
"That was almost affectionate."
"Don’t ruin it."
A faint, unsettling smile crosses his face. Then his partner walks away. Curze watches. He knows that walk. The same one he has seen before every stubborn decision. The one that meant something was coming.
Moments later, he returns. With a step ladder. Curze stares. The Night Haunter. The terror of Nostramo. The Primarch whose presence could silence a room. Looks at a small step ladder.
"...Explain."
"No."
"That isn’t an explanation."
"It is a warning."
Curze watches as the ladder unfolded.
"You have brought a climbing device into an argument."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you are ridiculously tall and I need to make a point."
Curze is silent.
Then:
"You prepared for this."
"Yes."
"You planned an intimidation tactic."
"Yes."
"With a ladder."
"Yes."
A pause.
"...I respect the commitment."
His partner climbs. The surrounding guards and soldiers immediately found reasons to look elsewhere. No one wanted to be responsible for witnessing a Commissar's report that read:
Primarch verbally defeated by household equipment.
Once he is eye level, he points a finger at him.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Curze stares. For once... He has no prophecy. No grim observation. No terrifying remark. Nothing.
Then, slowly:
"You called me little."
"Yes."
"I am a Primarch."
"Yes."
"I am taller than you."
"Yes."
"And yet you chose that word."
"Because you are being annoying."
A long silence. Then Curze laughs. It isn’t the cruel laughter of the Night Haunter. Not the sound that made criminals fear for their lives. It is something rarer Something almost normal.
"You are absurd."
"You love me."
"I do."
The answer came so quickly that it surprised even him. His partner blinks. Curze looks away.
"...Do not make that expression."
"What expression?"
"The one where you realize I said something sincere."
"You said you love me."
"I am aware."
"Out loud."
"I am also aware of that."
A pause. Then his partner smiles. Curze sighs.
"This was a mistake."
"The ladder?"
"No."
He looks at him.
"The honesty."
Because that is the thing his partner has always done. He never treated Curze like a monster that needed to be feared. He treated him like a person who needed to be held accountable. Someone who could be wrong. Someone who could be loved. Someone who could choose. Curze reaches out and taps the ladder.
"You are keeping that."
"The ladder?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It is useful."
"For arguments?"
"For reminding me that someone in this galaxy is willing to stand above their fear and insult me."
His expression softens.
"That is rare."
His partner climbs down.
"Was that almost a compliment?"
"No."
"It was."
"It was an observation."
"It was a compliment."
Curze looks away.
"...Perhaps."
And for Konrad Curze, that is as close to admitting defeat as anyone was ever going to get.
Sanguinius
There are very few people in the Imperium who addressed Sanguinius without awe. His sons revere him. The people adore him. To billions, he is an angel descended from myth. His partner sighs whenever anyone says that.
"They're doing it again."
Sanguinius smiles.
"They mean well."
"I know."
"They see the wings."
"I don't."
He looks at you. Even after all these years, those words carry a quiet comfort. When they had first met on Baal, there had been no reverence. No gasping at the sight of wings. No fear. Only a calm voice asking,
"Can you sit down, or are you going to bleed on my clinic floor?"
He had laughed. Then promptly collapsed. You had stitched his wounds without ever seeing the face the galaxy would one day worship. You had learned the cadence of his footsteps. The warmth of his hands. The gentleness in his voice.
By the time the Emperor arrived on Baal, you already knew exactly who Sanguinius was. Not because you had seen him but because you had listened. Which was why, decades later, you remain blissfully immune to his impossible charm.
"You promised me you wouldn't fly into anti-air fire."
"I promised I would avoid unnecessary risks."
"You caught a falling Thunderhawk."
"It seemed necessary."
"It was on fire."
"It is no longer on fire."
"Because you caught it!"
Sanguinius offers his most innocent smile. It never works. Not on you.
"You are impossible."
"I have been told."
"By me."
"Frequently."
A pause.
"You know I'm right."
"I do."
"...That is unfair."
"It is truthful."
You fold your arms. He can hear it in the silence. The kind that meant you are thinking. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"...One moment."
You walk away. Sanguinius blinks.
"What are you doing?"
No answer. Instead, you return carrying a small step ladder. A nearby Blood Angel quietly elbows another.
"...Should we leave?"
"Immediately."
The ladder unfolds with two loud clicks. Sanguinius tilts his head.
"My love..."
"You are too tall."
"I can’t help that."
"I know."
"So the ladder..."
"...helps me scold you properly."
He laughs softly.
"You planned this."
"For weeks."
"I suspected as much."
You carefully climb until you are at the right height. Then reach out, find the center of his breastplate with practiced familiarity, and poke him firmly.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Then Sanguinius laughs. Bright. Warm. The kind of laugh that makes everyone nearby smile without meaning to.
"You brought a ladder."
"I did."
"So you could call me a little shit."
"I did."
"You've been waiting to do this."
"Since you started pretending you were invincible again."
His smile softens.
"...Ah."
"You keep forgetting."
"Forgetting what?"
"That I knew you before everyone decided you were an angel."
A quiet settles over them.
"I knew the young man who insisted his injuries could wait because someone else needed help first."
Another poke to his armor.
"I knew the patient who apologized every time I changed his bandages."
Another.
"I knew the fool who nearly died because he thought everyone else's life mattered more than his own."
Sanguinius reaches up and gently takes the hand still resting against his chest.
"And now?"
You smile.
"Now I know the exact same fool."
He chuckles, lowering his forehead until it rests gently against yours.
"I suppose I deserved that."
"You absolutely deserved it."
"I was hoping my smile might save me."
"It won't."
"My wings?"
"No."
"My tragic eyes?"
"No."
He sighs dramatically.
"I appear to have exhausted my defenses."
"You never had any."
Another soft laugh escapes him. Then, before you can climb down, he carefully wraps an arm around your waist.
"May I?"
"You were going to pick me up anyway."
"I was."
He lifts you effortlessly from the ladder, holding them close.
"You know," he murmurs, "everyone else looks up at me."
"I know."
"You never have."
You reach up, gently cupping his cheek.
"I've never needed to."
For perhaps the first time that day, the Angel of Baal has no words. Only a smile. The Blood Angels who had witnessed the exchange unanimously agreed on two things:
First, their father had been thoroughly defeated.
Second, no one was ever to touch that step ladder. It was evidently a sacred relic.
Ferrus Manus
Their love language is fixing things. His armor comes back with improvements he never asked for. Your tools mysteriously sharpen themselves because he tuned them. Neither of you are especially good with words. But you're both excellent at saying "I love you" with a wrench.
The Medusan forge had fallen silent. Not because anything is wrong. Quite the opposite. It is because Ferrus Manus and his partner are arguing. Which meant both of them are thinking. Very hard.
"...The alloy ratio is incorrect."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"It has a four percent increase in tensile strength."
"A three-point-eight percent increase."
"Rounded."
"It shouldn’t be."
You sigh. There it is. The impossible standard. The relentless pursuit of perfection.
One of the Iron Hands quietly whispers to another, "How long has this been going?"
"Three hours."
"They've only said six sentences."
"Yes."
Ferrus folds his arms.
"The prototype is unfinished."
"It works."
"It could work better."
"So could you."
Silence. An Iron Father looks up.
"...Bold."
Ferrus simply stares. You pinch the bridge of your nose.
"You've been in this forge for thirty-six hours."
"I have."
"You've forgotten to eat."
"I was occupied."
"You've replaced the cooling system three times."
"It required improvement."
"It was already excellent."
"It is now better."
"You rebuilt a perfectly functional hammer."
"It balances more efficiently."
"You redesigned your redesign."
"It was necessary."
"No."
"It was."
"No."
Ferrus looks genuinely confused.
"It was objectively beneficial."
You stare at him for a long moment. Then quietly set your calipers on the workbench.
"...One moment."
Ferrus watches you leave.
"...Where are you going?"
No answer. You return a minute later carrying a sturdy workshop step ladder. Every Iron Hand in the forge freezes.
One Techmarine whispers, "...They wouldn't."
"They absolutely would."
The ladder unfolds with two metallic clicks. Ferrus frowns.
"...Explain."
"I need proper working height."
"You are already standing."
"For maintenance."
"I do not require maintenance."
You give him a look.
"That's exactly what something requiring maintenance would say."
Several servitors continue working. The Iron Hands don’t. No one wants to miss whatever is happening. You climb until you are level with Ferrus. You reach out and tap the center of his chestplate with one grease-smudged finger.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Ferrus looks at the finger. Then the ladder. Then back at you.
"...Little."
"Yes."
"I am significantly larger than you."
"I noticed."
"The statement lacks technical accuracy."
"It has emotional accuracy."
A pause.
"I am uncertain that is a measurable property."
"It is today."
Another pause. Ferrus considers this with complete sincerity.
"...Acceptable."
You blink.
"That's all you've got?"
"You transported equipment into the forge."
"Yes."
"You completed accounting for the height differential."
"Yes."
"You selected an appropriately stable platform."
"Yes."
"You completed the operation safely."
"Obviously."
Ferrus nods once.
"...Good planning."
The Iron Hands collectively sighs. Of course. Of course their Primarch has reviewed the joke like an engineering proposal. You laugh.
"That's your response?"
"It was competently executed."
"It was delivered with structural just called you a little shit."
"You did."
"And?"
"It was delivered with structural integrity."
You burst into laughter. Ferrus tilts his head.
"...Was that not the intended outcome?"
"No."
"What was?"
"You were supposed to be offended."
"I fail to see the advantage."
"There isn't one."
"Then laughter is the superior option."
You smile.
"You know..."
"What?"
"When we met, everyone warned me you were impossible to work with."
"They were incorrect."
"They were."
Ferrus frowns.
"...I was?"
"You don't care about perfection."
"I do."
"You care about improvement."
He pauses.
"...Yes."
"And that's why we work."
A quiet settles over the forge, because that is true. You never worshipped his genius. You challenge it. He never dismissed your ideas. He refined them. Every invention became theirs. Every breakthrough began as one saying,
"What if..."
Ferrus reaches up, placing a large hand against the side of the ladder to steady it.
"...Your latest modification to my forge hammer."
You look up.
"Yes?"
"It increased efficiency by twelve-point-three percent."
"I know."
"...Thank you."
It is simple. Direct. Without flourish. Coming from Ferrus Manus, it might as well have been poetry. You smile warmly.
"You're welcome."
You start to climb down. Instead, Ferrus simply lifts you off the ladder and sets you gently on the floor.
"...One recommendation."
"Oh?"
He looks at the ladder thoughtfully.
"The feet would benefit from rubberized pads."
You laughed so hard you nearly drop a wrench.
"I insult you..."
"Yes."
"And your first instinct is to improve the ladder."
"It can be improved."
"You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
Later that evening, you’ve returned to the workshop. There, sitting neatly beside the ladder, was a small handwritten note.
Added anti-slip feet. Reinforced hinge pins. Increased load capacity.
It should last several centuries.
No signature. None is necessary. Because that is how Ferrus Manus says,
"I love you."
Forgotten Primarch
The Eleventh knew something was wrong the moment you left in the middle of an argument. You never walked away. Not unless you were planning something. He watches the doorway for several moments.
"..."
His equerry shifts awkwardly.
"My lord?"
"They're plotting."
"...Against whom?"
"Me."
"..."
"..."
"...Should we be concerned?"
"Probably."
Sure enough, several minutes later you return. Dragging a folding step ladder behind you. The scraping echoes through the corridor. The Eleventh closes his eyes.
"...No."
You keep walking.
"No."
You smile innocently.
"What?"
"I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you've made a terrible decision and intend to involve me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You brought furniture."
"It isn't furniture."
"It unfolds."
"It elevates."
"It is absolutely furniture."
Without another word, you stop directly in front of him. Clack. The ladder unfolds. Every warrior nearby immediately finds an excuse to remain exactly where they are. None of them wants to miss whatever this is. The Primarch folds his arms.
"I refuse."
"You don't even know what I'm doing."
"I know enough."
You climb. One step. Two. Three. You are finally close enough to wag a finger under his nose. He sighs the sigh of a man who has foreseen his own defeat.
"Listen here, you little shit."
The corridor becomes perfectly still. His captains look as though they have forgotten how breathing works. The Eleventh stares at you. At the finger. At the ladder. Back at you.
"...You carried this across half the palace."
"Yes."
"So you could call me..."
"A little shit."
"...While standing on a ladder."
"I wanted eye contact."
"..."
"..."
"...You practiced that, didn't you?"
"Twice."
"I thought so."
He looks away for a moment, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose.
"You realize you've made it impossible for me to remain annoyed."
"I was counting on it."
A tiny smile escapes despite himself.
"So this entire performance..."
"..."
"...was your apology?"
You blink.
"What?"
"You only become this ridiculous when you think we've argued too long."
"...Maybe."
"And instead of saying 'I'm sorry'—"
"I brought a ladder."
"You brought a ladder."
"It seemed more memorable."
He laughs then. Softly. Warmly. The tension vanishes as though it had never existed. Stepping forward, he places both hands on either side of the ladder to steady it.
"You know," he says, "you could simply ask me to kneel."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"I suppose there isn't any."
He waits until you climb down. Folded the ladder with practiced ease. Then, to everyone's astonishment, slung it over his own shoulder.
"You know where we're going?"
"No."
"Tea."
"...We're still arguing."
"We can continue arguing."
"You don't seem very upset anymore."
"I'm not."
"What changed?"
He glances sideways at you.
"You cared enough to interrupt an argument, leave the room, find a ladder, carry it back, and risk making a complete fool of yourself just to make me laugh."
He smiles.
"I'd be an idiot to stay angry after that."
The ladder remains outside his private chambers for years afterward. Whenever visitors asked why a Primarch kept an ordinary step ladder in such a place, he would simply answer,
"It's a diplomatic instrument."
Only you knew he wasn't entirely joking.
Angron
There are only a handful of people left alive who remember Angron before the Butcher's Nails stole pieces of him. You are one of them. Before he was the Red Angel... Before he was the Lord of the World Eaters... Before entire worlds learned to fear the sound of his name... He had simply been another slave on Nuceria. A gladiator.
You had been kept in the nobles' pleasure halls. Different cages. Same chains. You would sneak him scraps of food when the overseers weren't looking. He would make sure no one laid a hand on you when the slaves were herded together between spectacles. Freedom had seemed impossible. Until he dared to believe it wasn't. Which was why, even now, you never looked at him with fear. Only sadness... And love.
"You are bleeding."
"It is not important."
"You have half a spear in your shoulder."
"I've had worse."
"Angron."
"It will heal."
"It would heal faster if you stopped pretending you were made of stone."
The Primarch grunts.
"I am."
"You are not."
"I am."
"You cried when Oenomaus died."
Silence. His jaw tightens.
"You remember."
"I remember everything."
The anger fades from his face. Just for a heartbeat. Then he looks away.
"...Don't."
"I will."
He sighs, a rough, tired sound that only you ever heard.
"You always do this."
"And you always make me."
You shake your head.
"You know what?"
Angron frowns.
"What?"
"I'll be right back."
He watches you disappear. A World Eater glances at his Primarch.
"...Should I—"
"No."
"But—"
"I know that look."
A moment later, you return. Carrying a step ladder. The entire command chamber falls silent. Angron stares.
"...What."
"You'll see."
"You've brought furniture."
"I've brought a solution."
You unfold it. Click. Click.
One of the World Eaters quietly muttered, "...Emperor preserve us."
You climb until you are nearly eye level. Angron crosses his arms.
"This had better be good."
You point a finger squarely at his chest.
"Listen here, you little shit."
Silence. Absolute silence. Then— A deep snort escapes him. He tries to stop it. Failed. Another follows. Then a laugh. A real one. Low and rough from disuse, but unmistakably genuine.
"You..." he manages between breaths, "...you carried a ladder..."
"So I could reach your face."
"...Just to insult me."
"Correct."
He shakes his head, still laughing.
"You are completely mad."
"I survived Nuceria."
"So did I."
You smile sadly.
"No."
Another silence. This one different.
"You survived the arenas."
Your hand, still pointing at his chest, softens into a gentle touch.
"I know the man who wanted every slave to walk free."
You rest your palm over his hearts.
"I know the one who carried injured gladiators back to the caves."
Another pause.
"I know the one who used to give me his blanket because the nights were cold."
Angron closes his eyes. The Nails are always there. Always screaming. But somehow... Your voice reaches him anyway.
"You are still in there," you whisper.
When he opens his eyes again, the anger is quieter. Not gone. Never gone. Just... quieter.
"...You always could silence the noise."
"Only for a little while."
"A little while is enough."
You smile.
"Good."
Then you poke him squarely in the breastplate again.
"Now quit acting like a little shit."
He barks another laugh.
"You ruin every serious moment."
"I improve them."
"You do."
Without another word, he reaches up and effortlessly lifts you off the ladder. You give an indignant squeak.
"Put me down."
"No."
"You've lost the argument."
"I know."
"Then why are you smiling?"
He looks at you for a long moment, because no one else in the galaxy remembers. No one else knew the slave named Angron. Only the Primarch. Only the monster. You are the last living reminder that, once... He had simply been a man who dreamed of freedom.
"...Because," he says quietly, "for a moment..."
His voice catches.
"...I remembered who I used to be."
You wrap your arms around his neck.
"I remember enough for both of us."
The ladder remains where it stands. No one touches it. Not because they feared it. But because every World Eater in the room had witnessed something they thought impossible. For one brief, precious moment... Their father had laughed.
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