Hello, my native language is not English. I’m currently communicating through a translation tool, so please forgive me if I accidentally cause any misunderstandings. I’m not skilled at drawing, and all the images on my blog are commissioned artwork.
— This is an authorized illustration for a Warhammer 40k character × female reader fanfiction (a commission for the 520 project. Many, many thanks to the author and artist for the authorization and the artwork.)
Dante did not hesitate for even a moment. He took the container from your hand, turned, and left. Just as you had asked, he would drip a single drop of Sanguinius’s blood upon it.
The wait felt somewhat long. Suddenly a gust of wind swept through, and the movement of the air carried a scent you knew well. You stared off into the distance, lost in thought.
Once more, the harsh sun of Baal streamed through the monastery’s stained-glass windows and fell upon you, its rays weaving together.
You reached out your hand, trying to feel its warmth, trying to touch that same sunlight from ten thousand years ago — but the light suddenly took on form and slipped through your fingers.
“Sanguinius,” you lifted your chin slightly, “I know you’re here.”
Dante soon drew a single drop of blood from the sacred chalice. When he pushed open that ancient door once again, he was so stunned that he could barely hold onto the object in his hands.
He saw his father’s soul once more, nearly transparent in the sunlight, revealing a hazy outline. His father’s hand was interlaced with his beloved’s — your body utterly enfolded beneath those great wings.
Just like an oil painting upon the wall — serene and beautiful.
The woman in that painting suddenly turned her head. Right after, an extremely long, slender feather drifted down from the sky.
“You can see him, can’t you?”
Tbc.
— Warhammer 40k otome fanfiction I Am the Currency in the Imperium (Chapter 6)
(I absolutely adore this fanfiction! The author is simply divine — I want to recommend this story to the entire world!)
Idea, it's Abaddon's turn to babysit the Warmaster's baby, everyone else openly wishes him luck and to take care, he could swear he saw someone pray for him. He doesn't understand why, it's just a baby. He's going to babysit, not to war.
Hours later Horus is sipping some recaf while reading documents and outside the door his toddler is seen walking, heading down the hall looking for the kitchen.
...dragging Abaddon along by the top-knot as if he weighted nothing.
You guys don't know how much joy the last panel brings me.
Everyone knows how chaotic horus kids are and unfortunately abaddon never cared to hear abt that, rest in pieces abaddon
Sanguinius does not often celebrate the new year. For a seer, time is so often an irreversible countdown to flames, betrayal, and tattered banners.
When humanity rejoices at the departure of the old year and the arrival of the new, amid all that cheering he can usually hear only the death knell of the end striking one more time.
But because you care, and because this is a mortal rite used to mark hope and renewal, it becomes a moment he must treat with gravity. And so tonight is also spent together.
New Year’s countdown.
“Ten” — Farewell to the old, welcome the new, great fortune in the new year.
“Nine” — We have spent this year together too.
“Eight” — Will we spend the next year together?
“Seven” — Sanguinius is the Great Angel of the Imperium, yet he knows he is not. Even his wings cannot bear all the expectations and gazes.
“Six” — Should he say some auspicious word of blessing? Victory, glory, everlasting Imperium, unyielding humanity?
“Five” — What should he say? Could you stroke his wings?
“Four” — He does not want power to be placed upon your shoulders—it is far too heavy. Nor does he want you to live forever—that is far too lonely.
“Three” — He must say something. At a moment like this, one always says something, as if language itself holds the power to reshape reality.
“Two” — Next year, the year after next, for countless years beyond, he also wants to spend them with you.
“One” — Is it selfish to keep you at his side?
In the fissure between the old and the new, Sanguinius actually dares to seek a promise from the hollow void of fate.
Pop— Pop— Pop— Pop—
A spring breeze brings warmth. The sky is filled with fireworks.
“I wish you happiness. Simply happiness. That you may taste sweet fruits, read intriguing stories, and meet kind people.” Sanguinius gazes at you and says softly.
“That doesn’t sound anything like a New Year’s blessing,” you complain.
He leans closer, and his hair brushes against your neck, a fine, ticklish sensation that almost makes you want to laugh. And so Sanguinius laughs too.
“If that is what you want, I can always switch to an official speech. Remain faithful, may the Emperor’s light continue to shelter your soul in the new year, or something of the sort.” He winks at you. “But I thought you would prefer this.”
Sanguinius’s nimble fingers undo the clasp. The necklace is ice-cool, then painstakingly warmed by his body heat. The pendant comes to rest in the hollow of your collarbone.
Your gaze travels from his face down to your own collarbone. There, an angel with folded wings is tenderly cradling a tiny heart.
“May your moon forever hang high, illuminating your sweet dreams.”
Sanguinius whispers.
Caption provided by Teacher K (Thank you, Teacher K, for the permission!!)
Unblocking/release of the New Year celebration submission
Even if we can't see the future, what does it matter...
Miracles are born from self-love.
(Emperor × You)
Draft for the Christmas celebration plan.
This is an invited illustration. Thank you, artist!
（English is not my native language, and all the text in this post has been translated using a translation tool. This is my first time posting here, so please forgive any mistakes.）
So i read and re read too many mortarion fics, and one of them inspired me to do this, but I CANT FIND THE FIC HOLD ON. WILL UPDATE THE FIC LINK LATER JEKEKEK
I don't know if you have done him already, but could you please do perturabo. Love him. He deserves the world, and I can't give him the world. But I can marry him!
sobs because these have been in here since last year guys im so sorry 😭😭
Perturabo courting headcanons!
Perturabo deciding to court you is simultaneously the best thing that he has ever decided to do, and the worst mistake of his life.
It begins with a written, yes, hand-written, invitation to dinner handed to you personally by Perturabo himself, he almost hurts you with how hard he deposits the note in your outstretched hand; folded almost like origami, sealed with a glittering gold wax seal.
That wax seal, you later find out, is an original - Perturabo designed and crafted it himself, a geometric design featuring a sun in the centre.
The dinner is….awkward, at best. Perturabo is incredibly stiff and spends a good amount of time staring at you, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, listening to your every word, and only eating when you stop speaking. His answers are short and he seems very intent on making you do all of the talking.
He walks you to your quarters afterwards - or, really, you walk, and he escorts you like a guard with his hand hovering just far enough from your lower back for you to feel the heat of his palm and nothing else.
His love languages are gift giving and intense grumpy staring.
He’s not actually grumpy, that's just his face.
He has a little statuette that he keeps on him at all times; carefully carved in your image with a sunstone serving as your “heart”. Its back is worn into an arch from him rubbing it with his thumb in moments of stress. There’s a little pocket in almost all of his clothes for it.
His hands tremble when he touches you, especially if he’s touching your face. He likes to cup it like it’s made from the most delicate of crystal and brush his massive thumb over your cheek, or your lips if you’re talking too much.
He gifts you many, many things, all handmade, and even the simplest clay cup is decorated with all manner of lovely patterns.
In the most unlikely of twists; he has a petname for you. It’s rare, but he murmurs it into your head whenever he curls around you in a hug.
He will never admit his love language is physical touch. But every time his hand cups your back, your cheek, or rests heavily on your shoulder like a pauldron, it feels like a confession.
Perturabo is a weapon. Your weapon. He will destroy anything you wish him to.
He sleeps curled around you. The only time he is ever relaxed is when he is physically wrapped around you with as much of his body touching yours as naturally possible. He talks in his sleep; mumbles of dreams, tugs you tighter to his chest like a teddy bear.
He murmurs long love confessions in the early hours of the morning that you feel more than hear as his chest rumbles with his sleep-rasped voice against your ear. Mutters poetry to the dark of the room, tells the rising sun his deepest adorations, watching as the weakest first rays of light barely brush your outline under his bulk and the covers.
The thing about being caught between two Primarchs is that nobody warns you about the logistics.
Not the emotional complexity, oh no, everyone's got opinions about that. The whispers follow you through the corridors of the Iron Blood, speculation about how exactly you've managed to survive this long in the gravitational pull of two black holes disguised as demigods. But the practical stuff? The fact that Perturabo's idea of a romantic gesture is redesigning your quarters to be 'more structurally sound' while Rogal Dorn shows affection by quietly replacing all your furniture with versions that will 'last three millennia minimum'?
Yeah. No one mentions that part.
You're contemplating this as you stare at your brand-new, Dorn-approved desk, a monument to Imperial efficiency that could probably survive a direct hit from a macro cannon, while Perturabo's latest 'gift' hums quietly in the corner. It's some kind of automated tea service that he's been tinkering with for weeks and you're reasonably sure it's achieved sentience at this point.
"The water temperature is optimal" it announces in a voice that sounds suspiciously like its creator's. "Your stress levels appear elevated. Shall I prepare the usual blend?"
Before you can answer the door chimes. Once. Precise, economical, announcing exactly who's on the other side without wasting anyone's time.
"Come in, Rogal."
Dorn enters like he does everything else, purposefully, without dramatics, but somehow managing to fill the entire space just by existing. He's traded his usual armor for simple robes which on anyone else would look casual. On him they look like a uniform for relaxation, each fold precisely arranged.
"You appear tired" he observes and there's something in his voice, a softness that most people never hear because they're too busy being intimidated by the whole 'Praetorian of Terra' thing.
"Long day." You gesture vaguely at the data-slates scattered across your indestructible new desk. "Your brother has some... opinions about the supply chain modifications I suggested."
Dorn's expression doesn't change but something shifts in his posture. "Perturabo is... particular about his methods."
It's probably the closest thing to criticism you'll ever hear him voice about a fellow Primarch which is how you know he's genuinely concerned. Rogal Dorn doesn't do diplomatic euphemisms unless someone he cares about is involved.
The tea service chooses that moment to wheeze dramatically. "Incoming transmission from Lord Perturabo" it announces, because of course Perturabo turned your tea maker into a communications device. "He sounds... agitated."
"Put him through" you sigh.
The hologram that materializes is decidedly grumpy, even by Perturabo's standards.
"The modifications you proposed" he begins without preamble "are structurally inadvisable. The weight distribution alone would compromise the integrity of the lower decks and don't get me started on the thermal dynamics—"
"Hello, Perturabo" Dorn interrupts, his tone carefully neutral.
The hologram pauses and you watch something complicated flicker across Perturabo's face when he notices his brother. It's always like this when they're in the same room, or in this case, when one of them is in the room and the other is a slightly pixelated projection complaining about engineering specifications.
"Rogal." The name comes out like he's testing the weight of it. "I wasn't aware you were... visiting."
There's a question buried in there somewhere, wrapped up in layers of sibling rivalry and the kind of emotional constipation that seems to be a family trait among the sons of the Emperor. You've learned to navigate these conversations carefully because one wrong word can turn your quarters into a philosophical battlefield about the nature of fortification versus siege warfare.
"I was reviewing the structural improvements you made to her quarters" Dorn continues, apparently oblivious to the tension. "The reinforcement of the eastern wall was... adequate."
You nearly choke on air. In Dorn-speak 'adequate' is practically a love letter. Perturabo's hologram straightens slightly, caught between pleasure and suspicion.
"Adequate?"
"The load-bearing calculations were correct" Dorn clarifies which somehow makes it both better and worse.
This is your life now. Watching two demigods have feelings at each other through architectural critique while your tea service provides commentary like some sort of caffeinated Greek chorus.
"If you're both finished discussing my structural integrity" you interrupt before this can evolve into a full-scale debate about construction methodology "I'd like to address the actual supply chain issue that started this conversation."
Perturabo's attention snaps back to you with laser focus. "The issue is that your proposal doesn't account for the cascade effects of rerouting supply lines through sectors seven through twelve. The additional strain on the transport network would—"
"Would be offset by the reduction in transit time through the Mandeville point" you finish. "I know. I ran the calculations."
"Your calculations assume optimal conditions—"
"My calculations assume you'll find a way to make it work because that's what you do." You lean back in your chair, one of the few pieces of furniture that predates Dorn's efficiency improvements and watch Perturabo's expression shift from irritation to something more complicated. "You're the Lord of Iron, Perturabo. If anyone can make an impossible supply chain work, it's you."
It's a cheap shot, appealing to his pride like that but you've learned that sometimes the direct approach works best with Primarchs. They're not used to people believing in them for reasons that don't involve their ability to kill things efficiently.
The hologram flickers, whether from technical difficulties or because Perturabo is having emotions, you're not sure. "The engineering challenges would be... significant."
"But not impossible?" you press.
"Nothing is impossible" he mutters which is as close to agreement as you're going to get. "I'll need to recalculate the stress tolerances for the secondary junctions and the power distribution will require a complete overhaul of the relay systems..."
He's already lost in the problem, you can see it happening. Perturabo's mind works like a siege engine, slow to aim but devastating once it finds its target. You've just given him something worthy of his attention, a puzzle complex enough to satisfy that brilliant, restless intellect.
"I could assist with the structural assessments" Dorn offers quietly.
The hologram freezes. For a moment you think the transmission has failed but then Perturabo blinks, focuses, looks at his brother like he's seeing him for the first time.
"You... want to help?"
"Your expertise in siege craft combined with my knowledge of fortification could... optimize the solution."
It's such a carefully diplomatic way of saying 'I want to spend time working on something with you' and you can see the exact moment Perturabo realizes it. Something vulnerable flickers across his face before he can stop it, quickly buried under his usual scowl.
"I suppose... if you have nothing better to do than review supply manifests..."
"I don't" Dorn says simply and the honesty in it makes your chest tight.
This is the thing about being caught between them, it's not just about you. They orbit each other like binary stars, locked in gravitational dance that's lasted for a while by now. Sometimes you think you're not so much caught between them as you are the excuse they use to be in the same room together without having to admit that's what they want.
"Right" you say, standing up before this can get any more emotionally complicated than it already is. "In that case I'll leave you two to work out the details. I have some reports to file.
"Unless you need me to referee while you argue about load-bearing specifications?"
"We don't argue" Dorn says with absolutely no trace of irony. "We discuss engineering principles."
"You threw a data-slate at my head last week."
"That was not thrown. It was... propelled with purpose."
Perturabo snorts, actually snorts, and for a moment he looks younger, less bitter. More like the brilliant architect who used to build wonders instead of weapons. "At least I aim when I'm 'propelling with purpose.'"
"Your aim has always been adequate" Dorn replies and there's something almost fond in his voice.
You leave them to it, slipping out of your quarters while they're distracted by what passes for affection in their family. The corridors of the Iron Blood are quieter at this hour, most of the crew busy with their duties or catching what sleep they can between shifts. It gives you time to think, to process the strange domesticity of your situation.
Because that's what it is, isn't it? Domestic. Two Primarchs arguing about engineering specifications while your tea service provides commentary and your furniture gets steadily more indestructible. It's not what you expected when you first caught their attention, either of their attention.
You'd been a logistical specialist, assigned to coordinate between the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists during the joint operation on Krathos VII. Nothing special, just good at your job and stubborn enough to keep pushing when the numbers didn't add up. Most people learned to stay out of Perturabo's way when he was in one of his moods. You'd walked into his command center during a tactical briefing and corrected his calculations.
To his face.
In front of his officers.
Everyone in the room had gone dead silent, waiting for the Lord of Iron to reduce you to component atoms but instead he'd stared at you for a long moment and said "Show me."
Dorn's attention had come later, drawn by your work optimizing the supply chains for the extended siege. He'd found you in the data-archives at 0300, cross-referencing manifest logs and calculating transport efficiency and instead of asking why you weren't asleep like a normal person, he'd sat down across from you and started reviewing your work.
"This could be improved" he'd said, pointing to a routing algorithm you'd spent weeks perfecting.
"How?"
And he'd shown you. Patient, methodical, explaining not just what to change but why, how each modification would cascade through the system to improve overall efficiency. You'd worked until dawn, trading ideas and solutions and somewhere in those quiet hours you'd realized that Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, Master of the Imperial Fists was lonely.
They both were in different ways. Perturabo with his bitter pride and endless need to prove himself, Dorn with his duty-bound isolation and inability to connect with anyone who couldn't match his intellectual rigor. Maybe that's why this works, this strange arrangement you've fallen into. You're not trying to compete with them or worship them or use them for political advantage. You're just... there. Present and stubborn and willing to argue with demigods about supply chain optimization.
Your wandering has brought you to the observation deck where the void stretches out in all directions, stars scattered like dust across black silk. It's peaceful here, quiet enough to hear your own thoughts without the constant hum of ship systems and the weight of two Primarchs' attention.
You're not alone for long.
"You left." Perturabo's voice comes from behind you, real this time instead of projected. He moves quietly for someone in power armor, but then again, siege warfare requires a certain degree of stealth.
"You and Rogal seemed to have things well in hand" you reply without turning around. "Did you work out the transport calculations?"
"We... made progress." There's something odd in his voice, a note you can't quite identify. "He has some interesting ideas about redundant pathway systems."
"High praise, coming from you."
"Don't mock me."
The snap in his voice makes you turn and you're surprised by what you see. There's something raw in his expression that makes your chest tighten. He's beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful, all sharp angles and barely contained energy, like a weapon that's been forged into the shape of a man.
"I wasn't mocking you" you say quietly. "I know how hard it is for you to admit when someone else has good ideas."
"It's not—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
For a moment you think he won't answer, that he'll retreat behind that wall of bitter pride that keeps everyone at a safe distance. But something in your expression must convince him because his shoulders drop slightly and he looks out at the stars instead of at you.
"He's everything I'm not" he says finally. "Patient. Steady. Beloved by his sons, respected by his brothers. The Emperor's loyal hound, who never questions and never fails and never..." He trails off, hands clenching into fists.
"Never gets angry about being taken for granted?"
Perturabo's head snaps toward you, eyes wide with something like shock.
"What?"
"You think you're the only one who sees it?" You turn to face him fully, noting the way he tenses like he's preparing for an attack. "The way everyone expects him to be the responsible one, the reliable one, the one who'll hold the line no matter what it costs him? He carries the weight of the entire Imperium on his shoulders and nobody ever asks if he's tired."
"He chose that burden."
"Did he? Or was it chosen for him, same as you?"
The silence that follows is heavy with implications, with all the things that neither of them can say about their father and their purpose and the roles they've been cast in since before they had any choice in the matter.
"You see too much" Perturabo says finally.
"Occupational hazard. I'm good at finding inefficiencies in systems and the two of you are..." You gesture vaguely. "Well. You're not exactly running at optimal capacity."
Despite everything that gets a laugh out of him, short and bitter but genuine. "Optimal capacity. You make us sound like machinery."
"Aren't you, in a way? Built for specific purposes, designed to fulfill particular functions?" You step closer, close enough to see the way his breath catches when you reach up to touch his cheek. "That doesn't mean you can't be more than what you were made for."
His hand comes up to catch your wrist, not pulling you away but not quite letting you retreat either. His skin is warm despite the armor and you can feel the barely contained strength in his grip.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe the problem isn't that you and Rogal are too different. Maybe the problem is that you're too similar and neither of you knows how to deal with that."
"Similar?" The word comes out strangled. "We're nothing alike."
"You're both brilliant. You're both loyal to the point of self-destruction. You both care more than you want to admit about what people think of you and you're both so focused on your duties that you forget to be human sometimes." Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone. "And you're both terrible at asking for what you want."
"And what do I want?" The question is barely above a whisper.
You could give him the easy answer, the safe one. Talk about recognition or respect or all the things he's been denied by a galaxy that values his brother's steady competence over his brilliant innovations. But you're tired of safe answers, tired of dancing around the truth that's been sitting in the middle of your quarters like an unexploded ordnance.
"The same thing he wants," you say. "To matter to someone who isn't afraid of you. To be chosen instead of assigned. To know that you're valued for who you are, not just what you can build or break."
Perturabo stares at you like you've just revealed some fundamental secret of the universe, and maybe you have. Maybe that's what this has always been about, not rivalry or competition but two brothers who've spent so long being weapons that they've forgotten how to be men.
"And you?" His voice is rough now, intimate in the way that only comes when someone's defenses have been completely stripped away. "What do you want?"
The honest answer should terrify you. You're standing on the observation deck of a ship full of Astartes, having a conversation that could reshape the balance of power in the galaxy and all you can think about is the way Rogal's eyes soften when he thinks no one is looking and the careful precision with which Perturabo rebuilt your tea service from memory after the original was damaged in a transit accident.
"I want you both to stop pretending that caring about each other is a weakness" you admit. "I want Rogal to let himself want things that aren't duty or obligation. I want you to believe that you deserve to be happy. And I want..." You take a breath, commit to the words that will change everything. "I want to keep being the excuse you use to be in the same room together until you don't need an excuse anymore."
The kiss, when it comes, tastes like promethium and starlight and all the words he's never learned how to say. Perturabo kisses like he does everything else, with complete focus and barely restrained intensity like he's trying to solve you through application of overwhelming force. His hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer and you can feel the tremor in his grip that says he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
"This is inadvisable" he murmurs but doesn't pull away.
"Probably."
"Rogal will have... opinions."
"He'll have feelings" you correct. "Whether he admits it or not."
"And if he doesn't approve?"
You think about that for a moment, consider the careful way Dorn watches both of you when he thinks you're not looking, the way he always finds excuses to work late when Perturabo is in your quarters as if being nearby is enough.
"I think" you say carefully "that Rogal has been waiting for someone to give him permission to want things. Both of you have."
Perturabo pulls back enough to study your face, searching for something. "You're certain about this? About... us?"
The 'us' encompasses more than just the two of you and you both know it. It's an acknowledgment of the gravitational pull that's been building for months, the way three separate orbits have slowly aligned into something that might be stable if you're all brave enough to commit to it.
"I'm certain that I'd rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been."
Something shifts in his expression, hope and terror warring for dominance. "The others will talk."
"Let them. I've been having an inappropriate relationship with your furniture for months now, the gossip can't get much worse."
That startles another laugh out of him and this one is warm instead of bitter. "My furniture?"
"Do you know what Rogal's idea of romantic improvement is? He replaced my shower with something that has twelve different pressure settings and a water recycling system that could service a small city. I'm pretty sure it's more advanced than some planetary defense networks."
"He does tend toward... over-engineering." Perturabo's tone is fond despite himself. "Though I notice you didn't complain about the heated floors I installed."
"The heated floors are perfect. It's the automated voice alerts that are getting concerning. Yesterday it told me my posture needed improvement."
"I may have... over-calibrated the health monitoring systems."
"It offered to adjust my diet for optimal nutritional efficiency."
"That's... possibly a feature I should disable."
You're both laughing now, the kind of helpless laughter that comes when the universe reveals itself to be more absurd than you could have possibly imagined. Here you are, discussing home improvement with a Primarch like you're some sort of domestic partnership instead of a logistical specialist and a demigod who could level cities with his bare hands.
"We should go back" Perturabo says eventually, though he makes no move to leave. "Rogal will be wondering where we've gone."
"Will he?"
"He always knows where we are." The admission comes out quietly, like a secret. "I used to think it was tactical awareness, but..."
"But?"
"But tactical awareness doesn't explain why he always finds excuses to route his patrols past your quarters when I'm visiting."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest because of course Rogal has been watching, keeping track, making sure you're both safe in the only way he knows how. Duty and protection and care all wrapped up in the kind of stoic vigilance that most people mistake for indifference.
"We should go back" you agree. "Before he starts worrying that we've been vented into space or something equally catastrophic."
"He doesn't worry—"
"He absolutely worries. He just shows it by running structural integrity checks on everything you might have touched and calculating the statistical probability of various disaster scenarios."
Perturabo considers this for a moment then nods slowly. "That... would explain the additional security sweeps."
The walk back to your quarters is different now, charged with new possibility and the weight of admissions that can't be taken back. Perturabo walks closer than he used to, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his armor and when your fingers brush against his he doesn't pull away.
Your quarters are exactly as you left them except for the fact that Dorn is no longer alone. He's been joined by your tea service which appears to be briefing him on optimal brewing temperatures with the kind of mechanical enthusiasm that suggests Perturabo has been making modifications again.
"—and the addition of the secondary heating element ensures consistent thermal regulation even during power fluctuations" the machine is explaining. "Lord Perturabo calculated the specifications himself to account for the reader's particular preferences."
"Impressive attention to detail" Dorn replies gravely as if receiving engineering briefings from kitchen appliances is a normal part of his day.
"You're back" he observes when he notices you both in the doorway and there's something in his voice that might be relief.
"We were discussing the supply chain modifications" Perturabo says which is technically true if you ignore everything that happened after the technical discussion ended.
Dorn's gaze moves between you and his brother, cataloging details with the kind of precision that makes him such an effective strategist. You know he sees the slight flush on your cheeks, the careful distance that means you're both trying very hard not to touch each other in front of him.
"I see" he says finally. "And did you reach any conclusions?"
The question is layered with meaning and you realize that this is the moment, the point where everything either moves forward or fractures beyond repair. Dorn is giving you both the chance to retreat, to pretend that nothing has changed, to maintain the careful status quo that's kept all three of you dancing around each other for months.
You look at Perturabo, see him tense like he's preparing for rejection, and make your choice.
"We did, actually." You step closer to Rogal, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you reach up to touch his face the way you touched his brother's. "We concluded that some things are worth the risk."
For a moment Dorn is perfectly still. Then his hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm against his cheek and the careful control he maintains every waking moment cracks just enough to let something vulnerable show through.
"Risk" he repeats quietly.
"Of failure. Of complication. Of people talking." Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone, mirroring the gesture you made with Perturabo. "Of admitting that what we all want isn't exactly standard protocol."
"Standard protocol" Dorn says slowly "does not account for all variables."
It's the closest thing to 'I want this too' that you're likely to get from him without a direct assault on his emotional fortifications but it's enough. You can see the want in his eyes, carefully contained but unmistakably present.
"No" you agree. "It doesn't."
The kiss is different from Perturabo's, gentler but no less intense, like a siege conducted with infinite patience instead of overwhelming force. Dorn kisses like he builds with careful attention to structure and foundation, making sure every angle is properly supported before moving to the next. His hands are steady on your waist, anchoring you and when he finally pulls back you can see something that might be wonder in his expression.
"This is... unprecedented" he says.
"Most good things are."
From across the room Perturabo makes a sound that might be amusement. "Unprecedented. That's one way to describe it."
Dorn's attention shifts to his brother and you watch something pass between them, recognition perhaps or acknowledgment of the change in their gravitational balance. They've been orbiting each other for so long that they've forgotten how to be anything else but maybe that's about to change too.
"Your calculations were correct" Dorn tells him. "About the supply routes. The redundant pathways will reduce transport time by twelve percent while maintaining structural integrity."
It's such a Dorn way of saying 'I enjoyed working with you' and from the way Perturabo's expression softens you can tell he understands the translation.
"Your fortification expertise was... valuable," Perturabo replies carefully. "Perhaps we could collaborate on future projects."
"I would find that... acceptable."
You're watching two Primarchs attempt emotional intimacy through the medium of engineering compliments and somehow it's the most romantic thing you've ever witnessed. They're trying so hard to connect without admitting that's what they're doing like acknowledging the want directly would somehow diminish it.
"Right" you say because someone needs to move this conversation forward before they disappear entirely into technical specifications. "So we're doing this. All of us. Together."
"Together" Dorn repeats, testing the word.
"It will be... complex" Perturabo adds.
"Everything worthwhile is complex." You look between them, these two brilliant, damaged demigods who've somehow decided you're worth the risk. "But I think we're all smart enough to figure it out."
"The logistical challenges alone—" Perturabo begins.
"Will be manageable" you interrupt. "We'll schedule everything. Create systems. Make it work because that's what we do."
"And the others?" Dorn asks. "The talk will be... significant."
"Let them talk. What are they going to do, court-martial all three of us? You're Primarchs. I'm very good at my job. We'll handle whatever comes."
The tea service chooses that moment to chime cheerfully. "Shall I prepare refreshments? The stress indicators suggest this would be an optimal time for nutrition intake."
All three of you turn to stare at the machine which continues humming contentedly as it begins the precise ritual of beverage preparation. There's something absurd about having your relationship status analyzed by kitchen equipment but somehow it fits the strange domesticity that's developed between you.
"I really need to recalibrate those sensors" Perturabo mutters.
"The readings appear accurate" Dorn observes. "We have been... emotionally active."
"Emotionally active" you repeat. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer a different terminology?"
The question is serious because of course it is. Rogal Dorn approaches everything with the same methodical precision, including apparently the classification of feelings. You could give him a technical answer, something clean and efficient that reduces the complexity of what's happening between you to manageable categories.
Instead you step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from both of them and let yourself be honest.
"I'd prefer to call it what it is" you say. "Complicated and unprecedented and probably inadvisable but ours."
The word hangs in the air between you, ours, carrying weight that goes far beyond simple possession. It's acknowledgment and commitment and promise all wrapped up in four letters and you can see the moment both of them understand what you're offering.
"Ours" Perturabo echoes, and there's something almost reverent in his voice.
"Yes" Dorn agrees simply because for all his complexity, some things really are that straightforward for him.
The tea service announces that refreshments are ready with mechanical pride and you realize that this is your life now. Shared quarters and collaborative engineering projects and two Primarchs who show affection through structural improvements and precision beverage preparation. It's not what you expected when you first caught their attention but it's yours.
EEE YOUR WRITING IS SOO GOOD,,, is there any chance I could request some cute headcanons with Dorn or Angron 🥺🙏
i did both because im a SUCKER for angron specifically
Angron
You’re never going hungry under his care
Due to the Butcher’s Nails, Angron can’t express intimacy through physical contact as often as he’d like
But Angron loves LOVES you okay. You’re his pookie bear, his one and only and he tries SO HARD to express that.
He expresses his love through action and indirect acts of service
The most common act is getting you food.
Hungry? There’s snack caches in all the areas you frequent aboard the Conqueror
He’ll peel fruit for you. Have candies on him to give to you.
He’ll shovel food from his plate onto yours with a gruff comment that you should eat more
He’d do it with his usual angry face but you can tell he Cares with the unusual softness in his eyes
There’s an angstier layer of giving you food being such an important act of service to Angron because of food insecurity he possiblhy faced in Nuceria but he’ll never bring it up.
The banquet is in full swing. Nobles, officials and Astartes mingled among themselves in the grand hall, cough in a sea of silk and intrigue. The Primarchs in attendance keep to themselves, remaining seated at a grand long table. It was a silent agreement among them to stay out of tonight’s masquerade of agendas.
Even amongst themselves.
Though, that is likely due to who is in attendance more than anything. Roboute Guilliman, Magnus the Red and Jagathai Khan—not necessarily a set you’d see together share confused (and concerned) glances between themselves and then at your husband, Angron. Occasionally, their eyes would fall on you.
“Eat.” Your husband whispers, shovelling food from his own plate onto yours and taking ingredients you’ve separated onto his own. He has been doing this for every course this evening.
Your heart warms at the act. Reaching for his hand underneath the table, you say, “Thank you,” softly and move to trace soothing circles on his hand. It was a subtle message that soon, it would not be deemed improper for the two of you to leave.
Many have their own presumptions regarding your relationship but-
You give Angron's hand a squeeze.
-What do they know?
Dorn
Yearnatron 3000
A wife guy incognito. A man absolutely smitten with his spouse.
Dorn hates being away from you. He’s fortifying a planet and doing this and that and you didn’t come with him? He’s doing it as efficiently as possible so he can come back to you as soon as possible.
When he misses you and you aren’t easily contactable he writes letters.
He pours his heart out into them, talking about the mundane and the important, letting you know his deepest and innermost thoughts about whatever topic he’s talking about
He’s quite an eloquent writer.
He’d even send his letters with a dry flower or a piece of memorabilia from wherever he is.
It comes with a little note that he thought of you when he saw it.
He sends those letters when its possible but sometimes delays cause it to arrive in batches—think an entire bag of mail’s worth.
To my dearest, ____
Are you faring well? Logically I know you are but selifshly I cannot put my mind at ease unless I see you for myself. It is likely that you are reading this, worried sick. My return from this expedition has been delayed due to a warp storm and as of writing I have no knowledge of anyone informing you of that.
Summer is beginning on Inwit as of this moment. Though, the frost never melts on the planet the weather is slightly warmer and allows for many social events and festivals. I remember that you were interested in attending such and I had sought to take you there. My delay has hampered my plans. I hope that despite this you get to attend a festival, albeit on your own. If it is still summer upon my return I will join you.
Yours always, Rogal
You fold the letter and gently place it with the rest of the stack. The sender lies on his side of the bed getting much needed sleep. As his luck would have it he did return in the summer but the time for festivals had long been over.
Rogal was disappointed at the missed opportunity. He hid it well but you could tell.
The unsent letters have cemented that as fact though his face said otherwise.
You make your way onto your side of the bed, slipping into the covers comforted that you would not be alone in it after months. You place a soft kiss on his shoulder and whisper, “good night,” in his ear.
As already said, Mortarion is naturally sensitive - painfully so. Every touch is ecstasy to him, every brush of skin a storm in his quiet, restrained world. What makes it all the more intense is the fact that you are his first. Before you, he had never known the pleasures of the flesh.
In your arms, the grim and fearsome Primarch unravels - becoming something else entirely. A trembling, gasping youth with snow-white hair and a voice that quivers with need. He moans softly into your neck, utterly undone by your warmth, your kindness, your hands.
"Look at you…so tender in my arms," you murmur, brushing his damp hair from his face. "You can barely breathe, my love…"
He whimpers at your words, overwhelmed, helpless beneath your gentle touch - a beautiful, breathless mess clinging to you as if you were the only real thing left in a world long choked with poison and sorrow.
2. Leman Russ
At first, he is like a wild beast - a wolf claiming the she who belongs to him by right. His movements are rough, primal, driven by instinct and flame. You feel his hunger in every kiss, every grip of his powerful hands.
But then… something shifts. As he nears the peak of pleasure, the fierce wolf gives way to something softer - something startlingly vulnerable. A whining, whimpering pup emerges in his place.
Overwhelmed by the scents, the sounds, the sensations pouring from you, Leman loses himself completely. The growls are replaced by gasps and deep, open moans; his hands tighten around your body, not with dominance, but with desperate, breathless adoration. He clings to you like a drowning man to warmth - like a creature who has finally found home.
"Oh, Leman… my love, my beautiful wolf," you whisper, your voice trembling with affection.
He breathes heavily against the back of your neck, sometimes instinctively nipping at your nape, like a creature too full of need to hold back.
3. Perturabo
Intimacy never came easy to him. Beneath his cold precision and stoic command lies a fragile self-worth, worn thin by decades of being overlooked, underestimated, used. He strives for perfection in all things - and that includes you, and everything he does with you behind closed doors.
There is uncertainty in him, masterfully masked by iron pride and a sharp tongue. But when he stands naked before you - not as the Lord of Iron, but as a man - the cracks begin to show, if only faintly. He tries to hide them. Tries to stay composed.
But once your bodies join, the mask shatters. Sit astride his hips, ride him slowly, then faster — let your hands cradle his face as you move. Look into his eyes. Tell him how good he is. How much you love him. How his body, his cock, the way he touches you - it all drives you wild.
The moment is too much for him. That unbearable tenderness, the praise, the eye contact - it breaks him. Perturabo, who never bends, starts to whimper from a mix of pleasure and sweet, unbearable shame.
By morning, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors can barely tear himself away from you. He clings like a man starved for softness and finally allowed to taste it.
4. Lorgar Aurelian
There’s one thing Lorgar can scarcely admit even to himself: he absolutely adores sex. The Emperor gave him a burning, insatiable libido, and faith became one of the ways he tried to smother such “sinful” desire.
So when he’s with you, when you lie together in the quiet dark, every shared touch becomes something sacred - a reward, a holy rite, a private absolution.
"Light of my life," you whisper, straddling him, moving slowly as he lies beneath you - barely coherent, undone by sheer pleasure.
"My Lo…"
And at that, his eyes roll back in bliss - body shivering, soul unspooling - as he reaches his peak with a gasp that sounds like prayer.
5. Sanguinius
Sanguinius is a deeply tender creature - though over time, he learned to bury that tenderness, to lock it away beneath poise and grace. But with his beloved wife, he hides nothing.
Your intimacy is always preceded by long games of touch and tease, flirtation and whispered affections. Sanguinius becomes like a courting bird - full of beauty and pride, desperate to be pleasing. He wants to delight you, to earn every sigh and moan, to make you feel worshipped.
But it never takes long before that careful composure begins to slip. His eyes flutter shut, soft moans fall from his lips, and his thrusts grow desperate and erratic. The Great Angel gives himself to you completely - lost in the rhythm of your bodies, undone by the power you hold as a beautiful, sensual woman.
"Oh, Sanguinius! My little bird," you gasp, holding his neck close, your breath trembling against his skin.
6. Fulgrim
Fulgrim was made for beauty - he has known this since childhood. He strives for perfection in all things: in word, in gesture, in the way he kisses you. But this obsession with excellence also makes him fragile. To be perfect is to fear failure. Especially in bed. Especially before you.
Every act of love with him is a performance. He enters it with grace and intensity, like stepping onto a stage, hoping for applause. He wants to dazzle you, to conquer you, to be the one who steals your breath. He flirts, he touches, he acts out passion - but what he truly craves is not praise, but love.
And then you're together. His movements are precise, beautiful - for a time. But the longer you stay with him, the more the rhythm breaks down. His breath quickens, sweat beads on his brow, and his silken hair sticks to his neck. You whisper how beautiful he is. How you love him. How good he feels inside you.
"Oh, my star, my muse…please…more," he whispers, nearly sobbing from pleasure and unbearable bliss. His hips tremble, hands clutching at the sheets. He is no longer a lord, no longer a Primarch, but a man, shivering under your gaze.
With you, in your bed, Fulgrim forgets about perfection. He simply gives himself over - body and soul - trusting them into the hands of the woman he loves.
By morning, he buries his face in your chest, unable to pull away. Even Fulgrim, the epitome of beauty, is helpless before the power of your touch.
You prank the Primarchs (wholesome pranks). How do you prank them and what's their reaction? Part 1
Note: I tried. Keyword is tried. I decided to make it into several parts because for some Primarchs I still have no idea. For those whom I already had... here they are.
@ghrgrsfdesfrfg
Perturabo
Perturabo scowled at the hololithic display in his workshop, fingers twitching over the controls. The schematics for his latest siege engine flickered then dissolved into a looping animation of tiny, cartoonish Titans dancing in a conga line.
A note fluttered to the floor.
'Even the mightiest walls need a break. Enjoy the show, Lord of Iron.'
His jaw tightened. His first instinct was to crush the projector in his fist but then against his will a snort escaped him. The absurdity of it, the sheer audacity of someone slipping past his defenses to do this…
He exhaled sharply. "Clever," he muttered. Then after a pause he added "But next time I will find you."
(He kept the animation saved in his archives. Just in case.)
Roboute Guilliman
Guilliman’s stylus paused mid-signature. The document before him was wrong.
'Request for Immediate Deployment of Ultramarines: Operation Tea Party Diplomacy. Objective: Convince Ork Warboss to switch to chamomile.'
He flipped the page.
'Estimated casualties: One (1) teacup, shattered in the inevitable scuffle.'
His brow furrowed. Then slowly he pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is not how standardized forms are formatted," he muttered. But when he spotted the tiny doodle of an Ork in a frilly hat in the margin the corner of his mouth twitched.
By the end of the da the falsified document was pinned to his office door with a single red stamp: 'Denied. But amusing.'
Rogal Dorn
Dorn entered his chambers to find a small, intricate structure on his desk. A fortress. Made entirely of brightly colored plastic bricks.
A note rested beside it. 'Your move, Praetorian.'
He stared. Then with deliberate care he knelt to examine it. The walls were sturdy, the gatehouse functional, the towers… slightly uneven.
"Hmph." He adjusted a block. Then another.
Two hours later when his equerry found him, Dorn was still there surrounded by scattered bricks, his expression one of deep focus. "The foundation needed reinforcement," he said as if that explained everything.
(The fortress remained on his desk for weeks. No one dared touch it.)
Horus Lupercal
Horus unrolled the battle plan with a frown.
'Phase One: Deploy all forces in the shape of a smiley face.'
'Phase Two: Hope the enemy is too confused to fight back.'
'Phase Three: ???'
'Phase Four: Victory (probably).'
He blinked. Then slowly a grin spread across his face. "Oh, this is good," he chuckled, tossing the scroll to Maloghurst. "Find out who did this. Then promote them."
Maloghurst sighed. "My lord, this is a security breach—"
"And the first laugh I’ve had in weeks," Horus said, still grinning. "Worth it."
Lorgar Aurelian
Lorgar’s quill froze over the parchment. The sacred text he’d been transcribing now read:
'And lo, the Emperor did say unto His sons: 'Stop being so dramatic. Have a cookie.''
He stared. Then with a slow bemused smile he set the quill down. "A jest at the expense of divinity," he mused. "Bold."
He almost crossed it out.
Instead, he left it and added a tiny footnote: 'Editor’s note: The cookie was, in fact, delicious.'
Konrad Curze
Konrad’s claws flexed as he stepped into his quarters. The room was wrong.
A chalk outline on the floor. A fake bloodstain (paint, he noted instantly). And a note pinned to the wall with a knife:
'The Night Haunter’s greatest fear: A world without crime. (Also, you left your window unlocked.)'
Silence. Then a low, rasping chuckle left his mouth.
"Clever little thing," he murmured, plucking the knife free. "But next time… I’ll be the one leaving you a message."
(The next morning you found your bunk suspiciously filled with rubber bats. Progress.)
Alpharius – Omegon
You slipped into the dimly lit strategium of the Alpha, heart pounding. This was either the best idea you’d ever had or the last mistake of your very short life.
You left a single data-slate on the hololith table. The message was simple:
'We know you’re not Alpharius.'
Then you waited.
Hours passed. Nothing.
Then as you turned a corner in the ship’s labyrinthine halls a hand clamped over your mouth and yanked you into the shadows. A voice, low, amused, and impossible to place, whispered in your ear:
"Are you sure you’re not Alpharius?"
You twisted but the grip didn’t loosen. A second voice, identical, spoke from the darkness ahead:
"Or perhaps I am."
A third, from behind: "Or me."
You swallowed hard. This had not gone as planned.
Then as suddenly as they appeared the hands released you. A single, mocking laugh echoed down the corridor.
When you checked your pocket, you found a new note:
'Good try. But next time, leave a better trail. –A'
(You spent the next week triple-checking your own identity. Just in case.)
