I'm a fan of nearly everything and read every fanfic I like. Sometimes I also like writing, but lack inspiration, so if anyone wants to ask for anything in specific I would gladly write it.
English is not my first language, so there may be some errors. Feel free to reach out and tell me.
My AO3
Request and asks are almost always open!!
This is what I feel confortable writing:
fulff. angst. whump. hurt (with or without confort)
smut. I'm not used to it but I'm confortable writing nearly anything. No incest or anything that involves children. I write only about characters older than 18. I'll write anything about them, just not smut.
xReader and xOC
Fandoms
DC Comics
Marvel
Star Wars
Devil May Cry
Warhammer 40k
I'll probably add more as I remember every fandom I'm a part of. Send request even if the fandom is not on the list and I'll see what I can do
"Luis Dante, you're not going into battle all by yourself! Do you know how much dan-" You continued to scold the chapter master, as you have been for the last ten minutes. Sanguinius and the other blood angels slowly backed from the room after the use of his full Imperial name. Avoiding any eye contact. That wrath could be brought on any of them for their stupid mission decisions.
He stared down at you blankly before sighing. His back was aching. Before you could start another sentence, he turned to grab one of the desk chairs at the other side of the office and set it down carefully.
Dante sat down in relief. He could handle the lectures as long as he was comfortable. This would be better for both of you.
It was a simple conversation. You stood in front of Titus, bringing him up to date on the events of the month since his absence. Your head turned up, so to look your son in the face.
Suddenly he grunted, as if he just had the most brilliant of ideas. Titus knelt before you. Armor thudding against the ground as he lowered himself down. There was a look of humor on his face. Other sons around you both turned to look your way.
"Titus, why did you kneel?"
"So you wouldn't strain your neck, Mother. This evens out your line of sight." He replied. Others around him looked as if he had a stroke of genius.
"Was that a polite way of telling me I'm short?" You amused, raising a brow.
I'm out and about today, but I wanted to share the smallest whisper of something ive been working on (on top of everything else lmao)
You look at him, still facing away from you, his wide shoulders stiff. He's holding some papers from his meetings earlier, but you know well he's not actually reading them. He's listening. Waiting.
"Roboute..." You say slowly. "Do you...want to marry me?"
He doesn't answer immediately, when he does, it's cautiously.
"It makes the most logical sense. I have known you my entire life, and trust you more than myself most days. Who else, if not you?"
Loved the short spouse fanfic but you are bound to be smaller then no matter what (unless your the emperor) BUT what about a tall or taller spouse for the primarchs, just imagine all that can happen 👀
Thanks!
Being a Tall spouse to the primarchs would include:
Those who love their tall spouse no matter what (Vulkan, Roboute, Leman, Jaghatai)
Vulkan especially; there's more of you to hug!
Bending down to give them little smooches.
Some of them discovering that they can be the little spoon and loving it (Sanguinius, Fulgrim, Roboute, and so on)
Manhandle Perturabo. Pick him up. Throw him over your shoulder. Will SEETHE, but loves it.
Horus thinks it's perfect. What a power couple! Do you know what kind of great propaganda attention that is for the Warmaster?
Imagine picking up your primarch when they start arguing with their brothers? Don't attempt this with Angron, please.
...wrestle your primarch?? That's an option. Some (Perturabo and Horus) may enjoy that.
Fulgrim loves being the petit one.
Rogal and Lion find your height to be both beneficial and a pain at the same time. You are easy to spot in a crowd. The downside is that you are an easy target because of your height.
Be able to yoink Konrad down when he decides to perch on the ceiling. It's like grabbing a cat who goes limp. He doesn't know what to do with himself.
Let's be honest, the emperor would just project himself to be taller.
Ferrus finally finds someone tall enough to hold a flashlight while he works on something.
Pings to be had (Lmk, if you'd like to be pinged):
I was wondering how the primarchs would react to swapping bodies with their S/O that is differently abled?
Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz @pippinsquishums @warhorny-on-main
Masterlist
pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3
Lion El'Jonson
The first thing Lion El'Jonson notices is that the body is wrong. It is lighter. Smaller. Fragile in ways his own has never been. The sensation unsettles him before he has even opened his eyes. Every movement lacks the effortless precision he has possessed since birth. His center of gravity has shifted. His heartbeat sounds louder in his ears. Even breathing felt...different. He stands slowly, instinctively testing muscles that don’t belong to him.
"Curious," he murmurs.
His partner has never complained. Not once. Yet now, inhabiting their body, he finds dozens of tiny inconveniences he has never considered. A lingering ache in one shoulder. A faint stiffness in the neck. Muscles that tire sooner than he expected. He commits each observation to memory.
Then the world tilts. Not dramatically. Just enough to make him stop. A peculiar sensation crawls across his skin. His stomach lurches without warning. Somewhere beneath conscious thought, instinct screaming that something was wrong, though he can’t identify an enemy, a toxin, or a psychic assault. His vision blurs around the edges.
"...No."
He reaches for the wall. His fingers miss. The room folds in on itself. Not long later he wakes up on the floor. His jaw hurts. Every muscle in his body burns as though he had fought a company of traitor Astartes bare-handed. For several long moments he simply stares at the ceiling, trying to reconstruct what had happened.
Nothing. There is...nothing. An empty stretch of memory. His breathing becomes slow and deliberate. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t know how. Instead, he assesses. His tongue is sore. His head pounds. His limbs feel impossibly heavy. His thoughts come sluggishly, as though forced through thick mud. Footsteps. The bedroom door opens. His own body, occupied by his partner, crossed the room with unmistakable urgency.
"There you are."
Relief. Not surprise. Relief. They kneel beside him immediately, checking him over with practiced efficiency. Being very careful as to not hurt him, considering the size and strength differences of the two bodies.
"Easy. Don't try to stand yet."
"I am unharmed."
A tiny smile.
"No," they say softly. "You're postictal."
The unfamiliar word settles heavily in his mind.
"...Explain."
"You had a seizure."
Silence. He searches his memory again. Nothing.
"I remember standing."
"You probably won't remember anything after that."
Again that smile. Gentle. Patient. Far too patient.
"I never do."
The Lion looks at them. Not with suspicion. Not with confusion. With dawning understanding.
"How often?"
There is a pause.
"Often enough."
He frowns.
"You have endured this...often enough...without informing me."
"I didn't hide it."
"You minimized it."
Their expression answers before their voice does.
"...Maybe."
He lowers his eyes. His hands still tremble faintly. Not from fear. From exhaustion. He has fought daemons with less fatigue than this. His muscles protest every movement. His thoughts remain sluggish. Even speaking requiresd more effort than it should have. And this... this is simply Tuesday for them.
"They're not always that bad," they offer quietly.
He almost laughs. Almost.
Instead, he asks the question that mattered.
"And after every one..."
"...I'm tired."
"To this extent?"
"...Sometimes worse."
The realization strikes with greater force than any blade. All the evenings they have declined long walks. The afternoons they have canceled plans. The mornings they have slept longer than usual. He has accepted every explanation without truly understanding what recovery demanded. Until now. He sits in silence. Not because he lacks words. Because none seem adequate.
Finally, he speaks. "I believed your greatest burden was the seizure itself."
"It isn't?"
"No."
He looks at hands that still aren’t his.
"It is living afterward."
Their eyes widen slightly.
"You lose command of your own body. Then awaken expected to resume command immediately. You do so repeatedly."
They nods.
"I do."
The Lion bows his head, a gesture so slight most would never recognize it for what it is. Respect. Not for surviving a dramatic event. For surviving the ordinary days that follow. For carrying on despite uncertainty. For building routines around unpredictability. For enduring an invisible battle that offered no glorious victories, only persistence.
When the strange Warp phenomenon finally releases them and each return to their rightful body, nothing outwardly changes. The Lion doesn’t become overprotective. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t treat them as delicate.
Instead, he learns. He memorizes the signs that precede a seizure. He quietly note where medication is kept. He ensures every chamber they share has somewhere safe to sit or lie down.
If they ever mention feeling "off," he simply replies, "Then we remain here."
No argument. No questions. Only certainty. Weeks later, after another seizure has come and gone, they apologize from the bed.
"I'm sorry. I know it ruins the day."
The Lion, sits nearby with a book he hasn’t turned a page of in nearly an hour, looks up.
"You apologize for an enemy you didn’t invite."
"I still feel guilty."
He closes the book.
"You experienced the battle."
He meets their eyes with the same unwavering gaze that has stared down monsters older than empires.
"And yet you believe those who stood beside you carried the greater burden." His voice softens, so subtly that another might have missed it entirely, "I have worn your body. I know what that battle costs."
He reaches out, taking their hand with surprising gentleness.
"You will never need to apologize to me for surviving it."
Forgotten Primarch
The first thing he notices is that nothing is wrong. His heart beats steadily. His lungs draw clean breaths. His hands are steady. He stands. Walks. Speaks. Everything functions.
"...Curious."
Across the room, his partner—now occupying the body of a Primarch—gives him a sympathetic smile.
"What?"
"You'll figure it out."
He spends the morning waiting. For what, he doesn't know. An injury. A flaw. Some obvious explanation. Instead, he pours them both some tea. Halfway through lifting the kettle, his shoulder aches. Not sharply. Not enough to stop him. Just... Enough to notice.He finishes pouring. The ache remains.
By lunchtime, his lower back joins in. His knees complain after climbing stairs. His wrists feel stiff opening a door. Every sensation is minor. Manageable. Ordinary. Yet none of them leave.
"...How peculiar."
His partner looks up from the book they're pretending to read.
"You've started cataloguing them."
"They migrate."
"They don't."
"They accumulate."
"...Yeah."
The afternoon brings no crisis. Only chores. He folds their beds blankets. His fingers become sore. He sits to read. His neck stiffens. He stands to stretch. His hips object. Nothing dramatic. Nothing worthy of an Apothecary. Nothing that would stop another person from saying—
"You seem fine."
By evening, he is exhausted. Not from battle. Not from labor. From existing.
"...Impossible."
He sinks carefully into a chair. His partner watches quietly.
"Tired?"
"I accomplished almost nothing."
"I know."
"I shouldn’t be fatigued."
"I know."
He looks at them. His expression isn't confused. It's analytical.
"The expenditure exceeds the work performed."
"Exactly."
Later, they ask him to accompany them to the market. Halfway there, he notices himself calculating. How far is it? Will there be somewhere to sit? Can this wait until tomorrow? Questions he has never asked in his life. He stops walking.
"...You plan every outing."
"Pretty much."
"You know where every bench is."
"...Yeah."
"You aren't being overly cautious."
"No."
"I'm budgeting."
He looks at them.
"...Budgeting?"
"My energy."
Silence.
"If I do this today..." They gesture toward the road ahead. "...I probably won't do much tomorrow."
The realization settles slowly. Every decision has a cost. Not measured in currency. Measured in pain. When the Warp finally ends, he returns to his own body. Strength floods back. The aches disappear instantly. He flexes his hands once. Twice.
Then finds his partner quietly apologizing, "I'm sorry today wasn't very exciting."
He blinks.
"...Exciting? I spent most of it sitting."
He looks at them for a long moment.
"I once believed courage was charging into unwinnable battles."
They smile faintly.
"And now?"
"I think courage is making breakfast..." His voice is almost thoughtful, “...when you already know it will hurt."
Afterward, he never says,
"You don't look sick."
Instead, on difficult mornings—
He simply asks,
"What does today allow?"
Never,
"What can't you do?"
Only,
"What can we build from what today gives us?"
Because after wearing their body, he understands that some victories are measured not by what is accomplished... But by what is endured.
Fulgrim
Fulgrim has admired their arm a hundred times before. Not despite it. Because of it. He has traced the polished lines of the prosthetic with elegant fingers, complimented the craftsmanship, even commissioned artisans to improve its balance and finish whenever technology allowed. To him, beauty is never the absence of scars—it is the mastery of what came after them.
Still... Admiration from the outside is one thing. Living with it is another. The body swap happens in a flash of impossible Warp-light. One moment he’s standing in his own flawless form. The next— The world lurches. His balance vanishes. He stumbles gracelessly to one knee.
"...How curious."
He looks down. Their hands. Their clothes. Their body. Then his eyes drift to the prosthetic. It responds when he wills it to move, fingers curling with quiet mechanical precision. Remarkable. He stands again, only to sway unexpectedly. His center of gravity is subtly different. Every instinct he's cultivated over two centuries suddenly betrays him.
Reaching for a nearby table, he overcompensates. The prosthetic obeys a fraction of a second differently than flesh would have. The table nearly topples. Fulgrim catches it with his remaining hand, blinking in disbelief.
"...Again."
He tries once more. This time slower. He watches the artificial fingers close around the edge. Strong. Reliable. But not quite the same. There is resistance he hadn't anticipated. Weight distributed differently through the shoulder. Tiny adjustments his own body performed unconsciously had to be made deliberately here. His partner watches from across the room, occupying his body now, with poorly concealed amusement.
"You've been awake for three minutes."
"I am aware."
"You've almost fallen over twice."
"I haven’t."
"You absolutely have."
"I merely recalibrated."
A smile spreads across their face.
"That's what we're calling it?"
Fulgrim narrows his eyes with theatrical offense.
"...Perhaps."
By midday, his fascination has eclipsed his frustration. He disassembles the prosthetic's outer plating, not enough to damage it, only enough to study the engineering beneath.
"Whoever designed this possessed admirable skill."
"They'd be thrilled to hear that."
"The articulation is elegant."
"They'll also tell you it's due for maintenance next month."
He pauses.
"...Maintenance."
"Yeah."
"I confess that possibility hadn’t occurred to me."
They laugh.
"Of course it didn't."
For the first time, Fulgrim understands. This isn't simply an arm. It’s equipment. It requires adjustments. Cleaning. Calibration. Repairs. There are mornings it’s perfect. Others when the socket rubs painfully against skin. Days when phantom sensations make him instinctively try to scratch fingers that no longer exist. He freezes.
"...What was that?"
"What?"
"I..." He frowns. "My hand itches."
They nod knowingly.
"Doesn't exist, does it?"
"No."
"Welcome to phantom limb pain."
He stares at the empty air for several long seconds.
"...That is profoundly irritating."
"I've been saying that for years."
The greatest lesson came later. He reaches automatically to lift a heavy decorative statue. His shoulder protests. Not because the prosthetic lacks strength. Because the strain travels differently through the body. He sets it down immediately.
"...You avoid lifting these."
"Most of the time."
"I thought you simply disliked asking for assistance."
"I do dislike asking."
"But?"
"But sometimes my shoulder tells me I don't get a vote."
Fulgrim is silent. How many times had he watched them decline carrying something without understanding? How many subtle calculations fill every ordinary day? Can I grip this? Can I reach that shelf? Will this doorway catch the elbow? How long before the socket starts rubbing? None of it dramatic. None of it worthy of sympathy. Just... Constant. Invisible. Adaptation after adaptation after adaptation. It exhausts him. Not physically. Mentally.
By evening, he finds himself planning movements before making them, thinking several steps ahead in ways he'd never needed before. His own body has always answered every command with effortless perfection. This one requires partnership. Communication. Patience.
When the Warp finally relents and they return to themselves, Fulgrim flexes his own hand experimentally. Perfect responsiveness. Perfect sensation. Perfect symmetry. For the first time in centuries... It feels strange. His partner is quietly reattaching the prosthetic after the transfer. Without a word, Fulgrim crosses the room and kneels before them. They look up, puzzled.
"You've gone quiet."
"I owe you an apology."
Their eyebrows rise.
"For what?"
"I have praised your resilience."
"I mean..."
"I believed I understood it." His voice is softer than usual, stripped of its theatrical flourish, "I didn’t."
He reaches out, hesitating only briefly before resting his fingertips against the polished metal forearm.
"I admired this because it was beautifully made."
His thumb traces one of the engraved seams.
"I failed to appreciate that every graceful movement I witnessed was the product of thousands upon thousands of conscious adjustments."
He looks up to meet their eyes.
"I saw the performance."
A faint smile tugs at his lips.
"I never considered the rehearsal."
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Then they chuckle.
"So..."
"So?"
"You finally admit it's harder than it looks?"
Fulgrim gives an exaggerated sigh worthy of a stage actor.
"...I shall concede."
Only then does the familiar sparkle return to his violet eyes.
"Though I must also insist that your sense of fashion leaves much to be desired."
They laugh.
"My fashion?"
"Naturally."
He gently takes the prosthetic hand, turning it beneath the light like a jeweler inspecting a precious work.
"The engineering is magnificent."
He smiles, a warm, genuine smile untouched by vanity.
"But with your permission..."
His grin widens.
"I believe we can make it magnificent and beautiful."
Perturabo
The Warp's tricks rarely impress Perturabo. This one irritates him immediately. The body is smaller. Lighter. Less powerful. He expected that. What he did not expect is the noise. Not external noise. Internal. He picks up a data-slate from the desk.
You almost dropped it.
"I did not."
Your grip slipped.
"It did not."
Check.
His hand freezes. He looks at the slate. It sits perfectly still in his palm. Nothing is wrong. He sets it back down. Turns to leave.
...
Did you set it down straight?
He stops.
"...Ridiculous."
He turns back. The slate is aligned perfectly with the edge of the desk. Exactly as he intended. He leaves again.
You barely looked.
His jaw tightens. By the third hour, he has begun arguing aloud.
"No."
Check the lock.
"It is locked."
How do you know?
"I secured it."
Did you?
"I remember doing so."
Memory is imperfect.
He reaches the door. Tests the handle. Locked. Satisfied, he walks away. Seven steps. His pulse jumps. A cold knot forms beneath his ribs. Not fear. Urgency. Wrongness. Like discovering a hairline fracture in a bridge you designed. He stops.
"I verified it."
Not well enough.
"...Enough."
Go back.
He stands motionless. The feeling worsens. It doesn't persuade him. It simply... refuses to leave. Finally he returns. Checks the handle again. The pressure eases instantly. He closes his eyes.
"...I accomplished nothing."
His own voice answers from across the room.
"No."
He opens them. His partner, currently occupying the body of a Primarch, leans against the doorway.
"But your brain thinks you did."
Later, he attempts something simple. Approving a shipment. Pigments bound for Terra. Routine. He has reviewed the inventory. Every figure balances. Every seal is intact. He goes to submit the approval code. His hand stops.
Read it again.
"I already have."
Not carefully enough.
He sighs. Reads it again. Nothing changes. He goes to submit the code.
What if you skipped a line?
Again.
Again.
Again.
His partner quietly sits opposite him.
"You've been on that manifest for forty minutes."
"It contains an error."
"It doesn't."
"I have not found it."
"Because there isn't one."
"I may simply have overlooked it."
"You've read it six times."
"I know."
"You still can't sign it."
"...No."
The realization unsettles him more than any battlefield ever has. He isn’t searching for certainty. He already possesses certainty. He is searching for relief. Those aren’t the same thing.
The next morning he visits the manufactorums. The governor's staff greet him respectfully. Every production line is immaculate. Every vat catalogued. Every shipment tracked. One overseer smiles.
"The Governor inspects everything personally."
"I've noticed."
"They've always had high standards."
Perturabo watches workers seal crates destined for the Imperial Palace.
"How many inspections?"
The overseer shrugs.
"Officially?"
"No."
The overseer laughs.
"...Depends on the week."
When he returns to the palace, he finds his partner surrounded by reports. They don't notice him immediately. They're reading the same paragraph. Again. Their lips move silently. Checking. Rechecking. One finger follows each line. Not because they don't understand it. Because they can’t convince themselves they already do. He has seen siege calculations consume lesser men. This looks more exhausting.
When the Warp finally restores them to their rightful bodies, neither speaks for some time. Perturabo flexes his own hands. They feel blessedly quiet. Across the room, his partner rubs tired eyes before reaching automatically for another report. He watches them stop. Read the first line. Start again. Without thinking. As naturally as breathing.
Several weeks pass. He never tells them to "ignore it." Never asks, "Are you sure?" If they say they're having a difficult day, meetings are quietly shortened. Reports requiring immediate signatures mysteriously arrive already organized. Servitors begin using standardized checklists that eliminate unnecessary ambiguity. No announcements. No explanations. The systems simply improve. No one notices except them.
One evening they remain seated at their desk long after sunset. A single export authorization lies before them. Pigments destined for the Imperial Fists. Everything has been checked. Twice by inspectors. Once by the chief administrator. Once by them. Still, they hesitate.
"I know it's correct."
Perturabo looks up from his own work.
"I know."
"But I can't stop thinking that I missed something."
"You have not."
"I know."
"You believe you have."
"...Yes."
He stands. Walks around the desk. Looks over the report himself. Not theatrically. Not to rescue them. Simply to verify. He closes the folder.
"It is correct."
They don't reach for it. He notices the way their hand trembles slightly above the page. Not from doubt. From the weight of needing certainty. He places the folder back in front of them.
"The manufactorums under your authority supply every Legion with armor pigments."
Silence.
"The Imperial Palace itself accepts your world's work without hesitation."
Another silence.
"They trust your systems."
He meets their eyes.
"I suggest you begin doing the same."
"...It's not that easy."
"I know."
The words are immediate. Without judgment. Without impatience.
"I spent one day inside your mind."
A pause.
"I wouldn’t choose a second."
They let out a weak laugh.
"...That bad?"
"Worse."
Another pause.
"I mistook your repetitions for perfectionism." His expression remains as unreadable as carved granite, "They are attrition."
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Then, quietly, they enter the code for authorization. The sound echoes through the office. Perturabo gives a single nod. Not because the document is finished. But because, for today, the battle is.
Jaghatai Khan
The Warp doesn’t ask permission. One moment he is reviewing campaign reports aboard the Swordstorm. The next— The stylus slips from unfamiliar fingers. His hand. No. Not his. Smaller. Heavier in strange places. He straightens instinctively, then notices the papers before him. Several documents. An unfinished letter. A blank page. Across the chamber, his own towering body looks down in surprise before meeting his eyes.
"...Interesting," his partner says through his voice.
The Khan rises smoothly enough, taking stock of this unfamiliar form with the calm efficiency that has carried him across countless battlefields. Nothing seems wrong. He flexes his fingers. Perfectly healthy. Curious. His gaze falls back to the letter. He picks up the stylus.
His first word is awful. Not untidy. Wrong. The letters stretch unevenly across the page. Some crowd together while others drift apart. Lines refuse to stay straight despite his certainty that his hand is moving correctly. He stops. Frowns. Tries again. Slower. More carefully. The second attempt is somehow worse. Ink pools where it shouldn't. A curve becomes an angle. Halfway through his own name the final letters shrink until they're barely legible.
"...Hm."
He has drawn battle maps while riding at full gallop. He has written reports in the middle of storms. He possesses finer motor control than almost any living being. Yet this— This feels like asking a horse to swim. His intentions and the result refuse to meet.
His partner watches for another minute before speaking gently. "You can stop forcing it."
"I am not forcing anything."
"You've snapped three pen nibs."
The Khan looks down. He has.
"...I see."
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I merely wished to understand."
A small smile.
"You're understanding."
He changes tactics. If precision fails, then rhythm. He loosens his grip. Breathes. Writes as though guiding a blade instead of commanding one. The improvement is...minimal. His hand tires absurdly quickly. The muscles in his wrist ache.
More frustrating still is the constant need to think. Every single letter. Where to start. How much pressure. How far to move. Nothing flows. Writing, something he has never consciously considered, has become an obstacle course. He sets the stylus down.
"...This body obeys."
"It does."
"But not completely."
"It wants to." She folds her arms, "It just doesn't always communicate with the page the way I want it to."
Later that afternoon a senior remembrancer arrives carrying diplomatic correspondence.
"Your Highness, if I may trouble you for your signature—"
The Khan accepts the document automatically. Simple enough. Just a signature. He has signed countless declarations. He begins. The first letter comes out crooked. The second is malformed. By the fourth, the signature bears only passing resemblance to the elegant example printed beneath it. He blinks. Attempts another. Different. Still wrong. A third. Worse. Silence fills the room. The remembrancer says nothing. His partner clears her throat from inside the Khan's body.
"...I'll handle that."
The official nods with entirely too much practiced discretion. When they're alone again, the Khan studies the ruined practice sheet.
"There is no consistency."
"No."
"I know what shape each letter should be."
"I know."
"I know precisely how to move."
"I know."
"...Yet the result changes every time."
She smiles sadly.
"Every time."
That evening they walk through the palace gardens. No attendants. No court. Just wind through alien trees. The Khan speaks first.
"You dictate many of your letters."
"Mm."
"I believed it was preference."
"It started as necessity."
"You avoid signing documents until the very end."
"So I only have to do it once."
"I've seen you rehearse speeches aloud."
She laughs quietly.
"You thought I was dramatic."
"I thought you enjoyed hearing yourself."
"I do." She gently nudges his shoulder, "But mostly I'm memorizing them."
He looks over.
"You rarely read from prepared notes."
"They're harder."
"...Harder than memorizing an entire speech?"
"Easier to remember than to read under pressure."
He considers that. He has crossed deserts where every landmark looked identical. He knows what it is to navigate by instinct rather than obvious paths. She has been doing the same thing. Not with terrain. With language itself.
The revelation comes somewhere entirely unexpected. He notices her desk. It is immaculate. Not because she is orderly. Because everything has a place. Wax seals. Ink. Reference books. Ribbons marking important pages. Small carved symbols identifying different drawers. Colored tabs. Bookmarks. A system. An elaborate one.
"You built this."
"I had to."
"So you don't lose your place."
"So I don't have to start over."
He runs a finger across the carefully arranged markers.
"You navigate around the difficulty."
She nods.
"Most people only see that I'm organized."
"And they mistake adaptation for talent."
She smiles.
"Usually."
When the Warp finally releases them, the Khan finds himself back in his own body. His own hands. His own effortless control. He picks up a stylus. Writes one sentence. Perfect. Fluid. Thoughtless. For the first time in his life, that ease feels undeserved. The next diplomatic council begins as usual. Stacks of reports. Petitions. Formal correspondence. Halfway through, one of the planetary governors apologizes.
"I regret the amount of paperwork, my lord."
The Khan glances toward his wife. Then back.
"Paperwork is a poor measure of leadership."
The governor hesitates.
"My lord?"
"A ruler's duty is understanding."
He signs the document with practiced ease.
"Not penmanship."
Weeks later she finds something unexpected in her study. A beautifully crafted writing set. Not extravagant. Practical. The styluses vary in thickness. Several have specially shaped grips wrapped in soft leather. The ink flows more smoothly than ordinary formulations. The paper itself is slightly textured to give more resistance beneath the pen. A note rests on top. Only six words.
"Tools should serve the rider."
No signature. None is needed. Months afterward, she grows visibly frustrated over a treaty amendment. She has rewritten the same paragraph four times. Each attempt looks different. She exhales sharply.
"I hate this."
The Khan, reading nearby, closes his book.
"What do you hate?"
"I know exactly what I want to say."
"I know."
"My hand just..." She gestures helplessly, "Won’t cooperate."
He rises and walks over. Without looking at the page, he turns it over. Blank side up.
"There."
She blinks.
"...There?"
"The treaty is already understood."
He slides the dictation recorder toward her.
"The page needn’t win."
A tiny laugh escapes her.
"You make that sound simple."
"It is not simple."
He remembers the impossible effort of writing a single sentence. The exhaustion. The concentration. The humiliation of failing at something everyone else assumed was effortless.
"It is simply unnecessary."
She studies him.
"You remember."
"I remember."
He rests a hand lightly over hers.
"I refuse to let anyone convince you that the manner in which words reach a page is more important than the wisdom that put them there."
Leman Russ
They were on Fenris when the body swap occurs. One heartbeat he is laughing around a fire with his warriors. The next— The warmth disappears. Not from the room. From his bones. He inhales sharply.
"...Cold."
The hall is roaring with laughter. The fires blaze. Yet his fingers already ache. His knees protest as he stands. His shoulders feel strangely tight, as though someone has wrapped invisible cords around the joints. Across the room, his own enormous body blinks in surprise. His partner freezes.
"Oh."
Russ flexes unfamiliar hands. They don't quite close. Not without complaint. He opens them again. Closes them. The stiffness isn't unbearable. It is simply...there. Constant. Persistent. Like wearing boots a size too small. He grins.
"So this is what bothers you?"
His partner's expression says everything.
"...For now."
The first hour is merely irritating. The second becomes educational. A mug that should be effortless feels awkward to grip. Turning a heavy iron latch sends a sharp protest through his wrist. Fastening the clasp on a cloak suddenly requires concentration. Not impossible. Just... Slower. He dislikes slower. Then someone suggests going outside. The cold air hits. Instantly. His fingers throb. His knees tighten. His jaw clenches before he realizes he's doing it.
"...By the Allfather."
His partner, inhabiting his body, watches with poorly concealed sympathy.
"Yeah."
"You've walked through this?"
"Every winter since my return."
"You never said."
"You were usually busy wrestling bears."
"They deserved it."
"They probably did."
Russ keeps walking. Naturally. Giving in to discomfort has never been his way. Halfway across the courtyard he realizes he's compensating without thinking. Favoring one hip. Changing how he climbs stairs. Avoiding twisting his wrist too sharply. Tiny adjustments. Hundreds of them. No single movement matters. All of them together do.
By evening his hands feel exhausted. Not from swinging an axe. From opening doors. Buttoning clothing. Holding utensils. He stares at his fingers.
"...Ridiculous."
His partner smiles gently.
"It feels silly, doesn't it?"
"It feels insulting."
"They're small things."
"They should be."
"They aren't."
"No."
The next morning is worse. He wakes before dawn. Upon attempting to sit up, every joint objects at once. He actually stops moving.
"...Hnh."
Across the room, his partner looks over.
"Mornings?"
"Mornings."
"They're always like this?"
"They're usually the worst."
"How long?"
"Depends."
"For what?"
"The joints to decide they're willing to cooperate."
Russ laughs once. Not because it's funny. Because if he doesn't laugh he'll swear loudly enough to wake the fortress. Later that day something else happens. Something he wasn't expecting. A servant accidentally startles him from behind.
For one flashing instant— He whirls. Heart racing. Breathing faster. The room seems...wrong. Too bright. Too loud. His pulse pounds in his ears. The servant immediately bows.
"My apologies—"
Russ blinks. The feeling passes almost as quickly as it came. Across the room his partner is already watching him carefully.
"...That wasn't mine."
They shake their head.
"No."
Silence.
"The other soul."
Russ has known this truth since he found them again. When they were recovered from that impossible cryopod beneath the ice, everyone believed it a miracle. Their soul had endured. Another had endured with it. An Aeldari soul. Not possessing. Not controlling. Simply... There. Two voices where there should have been one.
Most days the boundaries are clear. Occasionally— Emotions arrive too quickly. Instincts that aren’t entirely theirs. Dreams of forests they've never walked. Grief for stars they've never seen. The two of them have spent years searching for a way to separate the souls safely. Now, inside their body...Russ finally feels it. Not hears. Feels.
It is difficult to describe. Like standing beside someone just outside your vision. A faint awareness. Another perspective. Not intrusive. Merely... Present. When he reaches toward a brightly colored tapestry, an inexplicable flicker of recognition passes through him. Gone before he can grasp it. He lowers his hand.
"...I thought you exaggerated."
"I was hoping I had."
That evening they're alone. Russ sits unusually quietly. His partner notices.
"You've been thinking."
"I have."
"Dangerous."
He snorts.
"A little."
Silence stretches comfortably. Then—
"Does it ever stop?"
"What?"
"The awareness."
They don't answer immediately.
"No."
"Ever?"
"No."
He looks down.
"You've lived like this."
"I have."
"You never know which feeling begins with you."
"Usually."
"You never know which memory belongs to whom."
"Sometimes."
"You've carried another life inside your own."
They nod once.
"For years."
He thinks back. Moments that seemed strange. Days when they'd become uncharacteristically quiet after encountering ancient ruins. Odd flashes of melancholy with no obvious cause. He had assumed they were simply...complicated. Now he understands. Complicated wasn't the word. Shared.
When the Warp finally restores them to their own bodies, Russ rolls his shoulders. His joints answer instantly. Strong. Responsive. Effortless. He flexes his fingers once. Then looks toward his partner. They are quietly rubbing warmth back into their own hands. Automatically. Without thinking. A habit so old they no longer notice they're doing it. He walks over.
Without a word, he takes both of their hands between his own. Warm. Calloused. He simply holds them until the stiffness eases. Nothing dramatic changes afterward. He doesn't forbid them from going into the cold. That would earn him a glare. He knows that.
Instead, the hearth is always lit before they arrive. Their favorite gloves somehow appear wherever they're needed. When winter campaigns are planned, tents with better insulation mysteriously end up assigned to them. Nobody ever admits who rearranged the logistics. Everyone knows. Nobody comments.
One evening, months later, frustration finally wins. They're sitting before a half-finished report. Their hand aches. Their thoughts feel crowded. An emotion rises—sharp, alien, ancient—and vanishes before they can identify it. The quill slips from aching fingers.
"I am so tired of sharing my own head."
The words come out smaller than intended.
"I know it's not their fault."
A long pause.
"But I want to know where I end."
Silence fills the room. Russ kneels beside them. Not because they need comforting. Because he wants to meet their eyes.
"I can’t tell you when that search ends."
"No."
"I can’t promise the soul will be separated."
Another quiet shake of the head.
"No."
He reaches over, carefully massaging one stiff hand with surprising gentleness for someone who has broken monsters apart with those same hands.
"But I can tell you something I learned."
They look up.
"I wore your body." His voice has lost every trace of its usual boisterous confidence, "I felt the cold that never truly leaves."
His thumbs work slowly over sore joints.
"I felt the constant ache that steals a little from every movement."
His gaze doesn't waver.
"And I felt another presence." He considers his next words carefully, "I could always tell when it wasn't me."
A flicker of surprise crosses their face.
"What?"
"The fear wasn't mine."
He nods.
"The grief wasn't mine."
Another nod.
"But the courage was."
They blink.
"The kindness was."
He smiles, small and genuine.
"The stubbornness was certainly yours."
That earns a reluctant laugh. He squeezes their hand.
"Whatever soul shares your body..." His blue eyes remain steady. "...it has never made me wonder who my partner is. I have always known."
He leans forward until their foreheads touch.
"And if we must spend another hundred years searching for a way to free you both..." His grin returns, fierce and unmistakably Fenrisian. "...then we'd better pack enough ale and mjod for the journey."
Rogal Dorn
Rogal Dorn notices the breathing first. Not because it is loud, but because it’s work. The Warp twists reality without warning, and suddenly the lungs filling his chest aren’t his own. He inhales automatically. Halfway through, something catches. His chest tightens with an invisible resistance, as though the air itself has become thicker. The breath reaches his lungs, but never quite satisfies them. He pauses. Draws another. Slower. Deeper. Again, it feels...insufficient. Across the room, his own massive frame—occupied by his partner—has already gone still.
"...Rogal."
He raises one hand before they can say more.
"I require a moment."
Not because he is panicking, but because he is calculating. His heartbeat is slightly elevated. Respiration increased. Muscles between the ribs working harder than necessary. He has marched for weeks through vacuum-starved void stations with less effort than this takes.
Walking toward the window, a simple ten paces. Nothing strenuous. Yet by the time he reaches it, his breathing has subtly quickened. His chest feels...heavy. Not painful. Occupied. Like a fortress whose halls are slowly filling with smoke. He frowns.
"...This is your baseline."
His partner hesitates.
"...A decent day."
Silence.
"A decent day."
Dorn refuses to sit. Naturally. He has endured broken bones without complaint. Surely ordinary breathing can’t inconvenience him. He continues about the chamber, reviewing reports, inspecting equipment, organizing plans.
After an hour he notices something infuriating. He has unconsciously begun pacing himself. Walking slightly slower. Turning more deliberately. Pausing between tasks. Not because he wishes to, simply it’s that his body quietly insists. He stops.
"...Interesting."
"What?"
"I have begun budgeting effort."
His partner smiles faintly.
"Yeah."
"I dislike it."
"I know."
Later, one of the attendants arrives carrying several boxes.
"My lord, these should be moved before evening."
Dorn nods.
"I will assist."
Moving to aid with the boxes. Lifting one of the boxes. It isn't particularly heavy. Normally it would be insignificant. Instead, his lungs seize. Not dramatically. Simply...less efficiently. The extra exertion demands air that refuses to arrive quickly enough. He sets the box down almost immediately. Not due to his muscles failing, but because his breathing does. Dorn remains perfectly still until it steadies. His partner watches from across the room.
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I was assessing capability."
"You were being stubborn."
"...Those aren’t mutually exclusive."
They laugh.
"...Fair."
The lesson comes that evening. A single flight of stairs. Nothing remarkable. Halfway up, his chest burns. A dry cough escapes before he can suppress it. Then another. Then another. Each one scrapes through his lungs like coarse sandpaper. He braces one hand against the wall. The coughing fit becomes unexpectedly difficult. When it finally passes, his throat aches. His partner is beside him almost immediately after finding him.
"Easy."
"I am."
"No, you're pretending."
"I dislike coughing."
"I know."
"It’s profoundly bothering."
"It really is."
He begins noticing the accommodations. The lift they almost always choose over the stairs. The chair positioned near long hallways. How every room they spend time in somehow has water within reach. The way conversations naturally pause whenever they cough. Not because people pity them, but because everyone who loves them has learned the rhythm. Even their medicine.
He finds it tucked neatly inside a small case. Not prominently displayed. Not hidden. Simply... Available. Ready. Waiting. He opens it. Several doses remain. Far fewer than he expected. His partner notices.
"You can leave those."
"Your prescription is nearly depleted."
"I still have enough."
"You require more."
"They're for bad days."
He looks at them.
"...Today qualifies."
They shake their head.
"No."
"You struggled climbing stairs."
"I've had worse."
"You were unable to lift a supply box."
"I've definitely had worse."
"You coughed until breathing became difficult."
"I wasn't turning blue."
Dorn says nothing. His expression remains perfectly composed.
Only after several long moments does he ask, "...How poor does a day have to be before you allow yourself relief?"
Their answer is almost apologetic, "...Bad enough that I can't ignore it."
"And today?"
"I could still function."
The words strike him harder than artillery. Still function. Not feel well. Not breathe comfortably. Function. The following morning teaches him something even worse. He wakes already tired. He has done nothing. Nothing except breathe. Yet his ribs ache faintly. His shoulders feel tight. His body behaves as though it has labored through the night. He sits upright.
"...No."
His partner looks over from Dorn's body.
"Mornings?"
"...You become fatigued while sleeping."
They nod.
"Sometimes."
He stares.
"...Sleeping."
"It takes effort."
He lowers his eyes. He has built fortresses capable of surviving planetary bombardment. He has never considered what it might mean to inhabit walls that must constantly struggle simply to remain standing. That afternoon, they decide to walk outside.
The weather is pleasant. A cool breeze. Fresh air. Halfway through the gardens, another coughing fit. Longer this time. He instinctively tries drawing a deeper breath. His lungs refuse. The sensation lasts only seconds. It feels much longer. When it passes, he remains motionless. Not from fear. From concentration. Each breath is deliberate. Measured. Rebuilt. His partner quietly rubs his back.
"You okay?"
"...Yes."
"No heroics."
"I hadn’t planned to."
"You always have intentions."
"...A fair observation."
When the Warp finally restores them to their rightful bodies, Dorn inhales. His own lungs expand effortlessly. Deep. Clean. Complete. The difference is so immediate he almost stops breathing simply to appreciate the absence of resistance.
Across the room, his partner reaches automatically for a glass of water before suppressing another cough. Automatically. Without thought. Habit. A lifetime of habit. Nothing changes publicly. Dorn doesn’t begin hovering, doesn’t forbid expeditions, doesn’t insist they remain indoors.
Instead... Tiny things begin changing. Meetings migrate to rooms with cleaner air circulation. Journeys are planned with more frequent rest stops. Their chambers are relocated farther from manufactorum exhaust. Medical supplies never seem close to expiration. No shortages ever reach them. No explanation is given. The logistics simply become...perfect. Only they realize why.
Months later, another expedition returns from a neighboring world. The physicians recommend several days of rest. His partner objects immediately.
"I've already missed enough work."
"No."
"I'm fine."
"No."
"It was only a flare."
"No."
"I can still—"
"No."
They blink.
"...You're unusually repetitive today."
"I have evaluated the available evidence."
"And?"
"You are exhausted."
"I can work through exhaustion."
"I know."
"I've done it before."
"I know."
"It's only a few reports."
"I know."
Silence.
Then, quietly, "...I don’t like feeling useless."
The words barely leave their mouth. Dorn sets aside the architectural plans he'd been studying and crosses the room. Sits beside them. Not opposite. Beside.
"You believe your value depends upon uninterrupted productivity."
They don't answer.
"You survived a world that attempted to kill you every day."
Their eyes lower.
"You led us out of it. You taught me how to survive. You saved me. You knew which creatures hunted by scent."
"And which didn't," they murmur.
"Yes." He folds his hands, "We escaped that world because you understood how to live there."
Silence.
"When your lungs fail you..." His voice remains as steady as stone. "...they don’t erase what you have already built."
Their fingers tighten slightly around the untouched cup of tea.
"I still hate slowing everyone down."
"I know."
"I hate needing help."
"I know."
"I hate that some days breathing decides my schedule."
He nods once.
"So do I."
They look up. Not because he shares the illness. Because he now understands the frustration.
"I wore your body." His gaze never wavers, "I discovered that every conversation, every staircase, every journey begins with a calculation invisible to everyone else. I mistook your endurance for health. It is discipline."
The room falls quiet. After several moments, he reaches for the medicine case. Places it gently in their hands.
"When a fortress suffers damage..."
They glance down at it.
"...its defenders don’t refuse reinforcement because the walls remained standing yesterday."
A faint smile finally appears.
"...You compared me to a fortress."
"I compared your lungs to one."
"And me?"
For the first time that day, the smallest hint of warmth reaches his expression.
"You." He gently closes their fingers around the medicine. "...Are the architect who has kept it standing far longer than anyone believed possible."
Konrad Curze
Konrad Curze knows something is wrong before he opens his eyes, because of the silence. Not true silence. Incomplete silence. One ear catches the distant hum of the ship perfectly. The other...doesn't. Sounds arrive muted, as though someone has draped heavy cloth over half the world. Instinctively, he turns his head toward the weaker side. The sound sharpens. He freezes.
"...Interesting."
Across the chamber, his own body straightens with immediate understanding. His partner's expression falls.
"Oh."
Curze says nothing. He simply keeps listening. The ventilation. Boots in the corridor. He can still hear them. Just...not equally. It is subtle enough that another man might ignore it. Curze can’t. He has hunted men through cities by the sound of their heartbeat. This asymmetry is impossible to overlook. He tests it. Someone speaks from behind him. He turns the wrong way. Only once. But once is enough.
"...My hearing."
His partner nods.
"Left side."
"...Permanent."
Another nod.
"Mostly."
Curze is quiet.
"...How long?"
"A Basilisk shell."
"You never mentioned it."
"You never asked."
That answer lingers. Not as an accusation. As a fact. The body itself is leaner than his own. Scarred. Tired in familiar military ways. Old fractures. A shoulder that complains when lifted too quickly. Boot-callused feet. Nothing extraordinary for a Guardsman. Nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times.
He catalogs it automatically. Then—Someone drops a metal tray. The clang explodes through the room. For one impossible instant, everything disappears. The walls aren't the walls. The ship isn't the ship. His pulse spikes violently. His vision narrows. His muscles lock. His breathing stops. Not from fear. From certainty. Incoming. One hand searches for a weapon that isn't there. Silence. Nothing follows. No attack. No explosion. No screaming. Just... Embarrassing quiet. Across the room, his partner—still wearing the Night Haunter's body—slowly kneels beside him.
"...Konrad."
He doesn't answer. His breathing refuses to slow. Every nerve screams that danger is imminent.
"...Konrad."
"I know."
"You don't have to—"
"I KNOW."
The words leave sharper than intended. Instantly... Guilt. Not because he shouted. Because their expression changes. Not offended. Concerned. Real concern. They wait. Patiently. Eventually his breathing settles enough that he can speak.
"...Explain."
They don't joke. Don't soften it.
"That's what a trigger feels like."
He stares at the floor.
"...From a tray."
"Sometimes."
"That can’t be all."
"It wasn't."
"What, then?"
They hesitate.
"It wasn't the tray. It was the sound reminding my brain of something else."
His brow furrows.
"It decided I was back there."
"...Yes."
He understands memory. He understands visions. He understands being haunted. This... This is different. Because they didn't choose to remember. Their body remembered for them.
Later, he walks the corridors alone. Or tries to. Every passing crewman makes him instinctively check exits. Every loud noise draws his attention. He notices reflective surfaces before anything else. Doorways. Corners. Blind angles. Always. Always. Always. It never stops. He finally reaches an observation deck. Empty. Quiet. He exhales. Only then realizing he'd been holding his breath for several corridors. His partner finds him there.
"You found the quiet room."
"...Is that why you come here?"
"Sometimes."
Silence.
"It isn't because I like the stars."
Curze nods once.
"I wondered."
The next lesson comes unexpectedly. Someone approaches from his left. Speaks casually. Curze doesn't respond. He isn’t purposefully ignoring them, he genuinely doesn't hear. The crewman repeats themselves. Louder. Curze startles slightly before turning. The conversation continues normally. The crewman leaves. Curze remains standing.
"...How often?"
"What?"
"People assume you ignored them."
His partner sighs.
"...More than I'd like."
"You simply didn't hear."
"Sometimes."
"You ask them to repeat themselves."
"Yeah."
"They become irritated."
"...Sometimes."
He looks away.
"...Unreasonable."
His partner gives a tiny laugh.
"People don't usually realize."
That evening proves worse. Curze sleeps. Or rather, attempts to. The nightmare comes without warning. Gunfire. Smoke. Someone screaming his name. The smell of promethium. He wakes with enough force to nearly strike the wall. His claws— No. Not claws. Hands. Someone is speaking. His own voice. Their voice. He can’t separate them. His partner keeps several careful steps away.
"I'm here."
Silence.
"It's just me."
He scans every shadow. Every doorway. Every ceiling corner. Looking for an ambush that ended years ago. Gradually... Reality returns.
"...You experience this frequently?"
They look away.
"...Enough."
"How often?"
"I stopped counting."
His jaw tightens.
"You sleep knowing this may occur."
"I sleep because eventually exhaustion wins."
"..."
"They're not always nightmares."
"No?"
"Sometimes they're memories."
The distinction horrifies him more than he expects. Curze has seen terrible visions all his life. His precognition offers futures soaked in murder. He knows what horrifying memories feel like. But this is different. His visions are inflicted upon him. These memories...were lived.
When the impossible Warp phenomenon finally ends, both return to their rightful forms. Curze flexes his own hands. His hearing returns in full. Every heartbeat aboard the vessel becomes distinct. Every whisper. Every footstep. The sensory flood is almost overwhelming after days of absence.
Across the room, his partner quietly adjusts the hearing aid they'd removed before the swap. The familiar click echoes. Curze watches. For once... He doesn’t fill the silence.
Finally, "You never complained."
They shrug.
"Didn't seem useful."
"No." His voice is unusually calm, "It would have been."
They look up.
"I mistook your caution for habit." He steps closer. "I mistook your vigilance for paranoia."
Another step.
"I mistook your exhaustion for ordinary fatigue." His dark eyes meet theirs, “I was wrong."
Silence stretches between them. Not uncomfortable. Simply... Honest.
"You survive battles," he says.
"They're over."
They nod.
"Yours..." His gaze drifts briefly downward before returning. "...continues after the shooting stops."
For someone else, those words might sound like pity. From Konrad Curze, they’re recognition.
Weeks later, a transport returns unexpectedly. One of the unloading cranes drops a cargo container. The impact echoes across the dock. His partner flinches. Violently. A hand has already gone toward a sidearm before they consciously realize where they are. Several nearby soldiers stare. One snorts.
"Jumpier than a grox."
His partner forces an awkward laugh.
"Guess so."
Before anyone else speaks, Curze does.
"No."
Silence settles instantly. The Night Haunter's gaze fixes upon the soldier.
"You witnessed a reflex."
The soldier pales.
"My lord, I only—"
"You interpreted survival as weakness."
"No, my lord."
"You are incorrect."
Nobody moves. Curze continues.
"A man who has never needed such reflexes should be grateful."
The dockyard remains utterly still.
"Return to your duties."
Everyone obeys immediately. They depart to walk together through the corridors of the ship. A bulkhead door slams somewhere ahead. His partner freezes. Just for a second. Most people would never notice. Curze does.
Without a word, he changes course. Choosing a quieter corridor. No explanation. No comment. Just... Another path. They glance sideways.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
"You changed the route."
"Yes."
"...Why?"
His answer comes immediately, "Because I preferred this one."
They both know it isn't true. Neither acknowledges the lie. It’s kinder that way. When they instinctively reach for his hand, he lets them. Without hesitation. Without shame. Without letting go.
Sanguinius
Sanguinius has always admired the way his partner moves. The way there wasn’t hesitation in their movements, they always move with intention. A hand trailing lightly along a familiar wall. A slight tilt of the head to catch the direction of a voice. The quiet confidence of someone who has learned that the world can be understood in more ways than sight alone. He has watched it countless times. He thought he understood. Then the Warp intervenes.
The first thing he notices is darkness. Not the darkness of a room without light. The darkness of a world that simply...doesn’t appear. He opens his eyes. Nothing changes. His first instinct is impossible. His wings flare— Except they aren't there. His balance falters. For perhaps the first time in centuries, Sanguinius feels genuinely disoriented.
"...Beloved?"
His own voice answers from nearby. "I'm here."
Their tone is calm. Steady. Close enough that he doesn't feel alone, but not so close that he startles.
"You've opened your eyes, haven't you?"
"...Yes."
"It doesn't help."
"No."
A small chuckle.
"I know."
He reaches instinctively toward where he believes they are. His hand meets empty air. Then, gently, warm fingers take his own.
"There."
"I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"I misjudged."
"You'll do that a lot today."
There isn't a trace of mockery. Only experience. Standing proves...interesting. His body has always been impossibly graceful. Every movement perfectly measured. Now, without visual reference, his sense of balance feels strangely incomplete.
He hesitates before taking a step. Another. His foot catches the edge of a rug. He stumbles. His partner catches him. They are, at present, occupying the body of the Angel of Baal. It is an absurd reversal.
"You've caught me."
"I've had practice."
"I see."
A beat.
"...Poor choice of words."
They laugh.
"So I've been told."
The morning is filled with discoveries. Every object has a place. Not because they are neat. Because consistency matters. Someone has moved a chair. Only a few inches. Sanguinius bumps into it immediately.
"...This wasn't here."
"It was."
"No."
"It wasn't."
"My apologies."
They smile.
"I moved it while cleaning yesterday."
"...Why?"
"I forgot to put it back."
He nods slowly.
"It matters."
"It really does."
For him, a misplaced chair is a minor inconvenience. For them, it changes the map of an entire room. Breakfast becomes another lesson. He reaches confidently for a cup. Misses entirely. The porcelain rattles against the table. His partner quietly guides his hand.
"A little left."
"There?"
"Little more."
"There."
His fingers close around it.
"...Thank you."
He pauses.
"Do you always have to think this much?"
They blink.
"...About what?"
"Everything."
They smile sadly.
"I don't really notice anymore."
He does. Every reach. Every step. Every doorway. Every unfamiliar room. Every staircase. Every conversation that begins with—
"It's over there."
By afternoon, they take a walk through the gardens. Normally, Sanguinius would admire every flower. Every tree. Every ray of sunlight. Now, he hears bees. Feels warmth across his face. Smells blooming roses. Listens to leaves moving in the breeze. The world is still beautiful. Just... Differently. His partner stops.
"Can you hear the fountain?"
He listens.
"...Yes."
"Walk toward it."
Without sight, the sound becomes his guide. He reaches it without incident.
"...You've always done this?"
"Pretty much."
"You navigate by sound."
"And smell. And memory. And counting steps."
He turns toward them.
"You count?"
"Sometimes."
"Constantly?"
"Depends where I am."
The realization settles quietly inside him. Navigation isn't instinct. It's mathematics. Pattern. Memory. Attention. Later, someone enters the room.
"Lord Sanguinius."
The man bows. Then, forgetting himself, nods toward a document.
"It's right here."
Silence. The servant pales.
"...Oh."
Sanguinius smiles gently.
"I cannot see where 'here' is."
The servant stammers an apology.
His partner quietly says, "Happens all the time."
After the servant leaves, Sanguinius asks, "Does it trouble you?"
"They don't mean anything by it."
"No, they just forget." He lowers his head, "...I did as well."
The hardest moment comes unexpectedly. They're descending a staircase.
His partner says, "There's one more step."
He nods. Takes it. There isn't one. He catches himself before falling.
"...You lied."
"I did."
"Why?"
"I wanted to see if you'd trust me."
"...I did."
"I know."
He isn't angry. Only thoughtful.
"You have to."
They nod.
"When someone says 'step up' or 'door to your left,' I usually believe them."
"And if they're wrong?"
"They usually apologize."
The simplicity of the answer saddens him more than he expects. Trust, for them, isn't abstract. Sometimes it is literally how they move safely through the world. When the Warp finally releases them, sight returns in a flood. Colors. Faces. Light. His wings. The sky outside the windows. He has never appreciated blue quite so much. Across the room, his partner blinks once before their familiar darkness returns. They smile anyway.
"You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm having a life-changing realization' look."
He laughs softly.
"I don’t."
"You absolutely do."
Something changes afterward. Not dramatically. He doesn't begin treating them as fragile. If anything, he trusts them more. When they tell him they know a route, he believes them. When entering unfamiliar places, he quietly describes the room as they walk.
"There are three chairs. A window on your right. The floor changes to stone in a few steps."
He never makes it sound like instruction. Only information. Information they can choose to use. He also develops a habit. Whenever they enter a room together, he announces himself. Not loudly.
Simply, "It's me."
No assumptions that they'll recognize his footsteps. No expectation that they should identify everyone by voice alone. Just certainty.
"I'm here."
One evening, while the two of them watch—or rather, he watches and they listen to—a sunset over Baal, they ask quietly,
"...Is it beautiful?"
He looks across the crimson horizon. Golden clouds drift through scarlet light. His wings glow like burnished bronze. For a moment, words fail even him. Then he smiles.
"Yes."
A pause.
"But not because of the colors."
They turn toward him.
"It is beautiful because the air is warm." He takes their hand. "The wind is gentle."
His thumb brushes across their knuckles.
"The birds have become quiet."
Another pause.
"And because I am sharing it with you."
They smile.
"I can't see it."
"I know." His voice is soft enough to disappear into the evening breeze. "So I will describe it."
He begins slowly, never rushing, painting the sunset with words instead of light. Not because he believes they are missing something. But because he has learned that beauty can be offered in many forms. After spending even a single day seeing the world through their experience, he understands that sometimes the greatest act of love isn’t helping someone see. It is taking the time to speak in a way they can truly share.
So to piggyback of being short around your primarch spouse, picture being short around your step gene-sons.
Some are going to be real respectful. Others? They'll think it's the funniest thing.
The mournival got real sassy one week and started to squat to talk to you. They even had Horus doing it for a while. Torgaddon laid down one day so you'd have the high ground for once. No one got dessert that week.
The space wolves will pick you up physically to remove you from a situation they don't like you in.
Titus will kneel on one knee to discuss things with you if the conversation goes on for too long. The other ultramarines started to do it as well. Roboute thinks it's a reasonable action.
Dante once pulled a chair to sit in while you chatted. Just to be at eye level with his gene-mother. Seth got you a step stool. Sanguinius had to hold back a snort.
The salamanders will get you things from shelves you can clearly reach. They also made you one of those grabby claw things.
Hello, it is I, with news on a fanfic I started writing about Big E's perpetual pain in the ass, buddy! This is my first truly long fanfic; let me know how it goes. If anyone has any good fanfic resources, that would be snazzy.
We're also pretending the Horus Heresy didn't happen. Loosey Goosey with the lore.
words: 1349
Rest gently,
In our embrace,
Forgotten dream.
The air over Caecillia’s capital Caia chilled as the moon began to wake. Early spring had gifted warm afternoons, but dreadful, bitter evenings. The kind of cold that lingered deep in your bones, exacerbated by lingering misting rains.
This, however, did nothing to stop the thriving night markets that bustled below. Crowds formed around food and drink stalls before rebundling to brace the cold. Many had goods to trade, especially during these times, which seemed to grow since the Imperium brought Caecillia into compliance. Holy days were approaching. Credits were needed to prepare for the feasts and other venerations.
The mighty days of the Emperor ascending to the Golden Throne, using his remaining strength to defend humanity from the forces of chaos, as his loyal sons and angels defended the mighty Imperium. Never waking since that unfortunate day. So he slept, in beautiful slumber. It was left to the great Imperium to celebrate these sacrifices.
The Emperor protects all.
The Evlar home bustled with activity, attempting to get a semblance of order amongst several children as they prepared for the festivities. Each attempted to pull on articles of clothing. Hats and gloves. Scarves and boots. Helen wasn’t certain they all matched, but at this point she didn’t quite care as long as no one got sick.
Helen was a tall woman, well muscled from years of agri-work and a level tiredness that only a mother of five could have.
“Ma, do you think any of the angels will be there tonight?” Her eldest, Jevar, spoke up while attempting to help tug boots on a squirming toddler. Silence hung in the air before she let out a deep sigh and ran a hand through his dark hair.
He was approaching ten this fall. The local boys had begun talks about recruitment. Becoming an angel to the Emperor. To protect and serve humanity. To be ripped from their mothers' arms and sent guns blazing into an almost certain death.
“Hopefully not, love.” She said, covering his head while she opened a cabinet above. “Blessed as they are, nothing good ever happens when they start to show.”
“You know, that’s how your great uncle lost his leg.” Amused, a hardy, well-bundled and well-built man, walking into the home, pulling a hat down onto a small head as he passed.. “Fighting alongside an angel while in the guard. Got bit by something that yanked it clean off.”
“Really?” Success as the last remaining boot was slipped on.
“Oh yeah. Big mean green thing.”
“Please,” Helena scoffed in amusement at her husband's retellings, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Adam was a drunk. Probably lost it doing something stupid.”
“Who's to say he wasn’t doing something stupid before he got bit?”
The air is cold.
Rest.
Is the air cold?
Rest.
Huh, weird.
It was more than an hour's walk to the markets. Empty fields lined the path, broken by the occasional bundle of trees. Five children bundled and resting in the cart. Helen and Adrian walked alongside as the family mare pulled it forward. The rain had pulled back, allowing the moon to peer down on them.
Helen remembered when that little cart could carry them all in one trip. Poor Gid would quit if they all decided to climb in. She didn’t even like the load now, spoiled thing. Jevar had been a small thing then. Gid was still a filly. He didn’t sleep a wink on the way. Neither had Harold. Elisa slept; she’d always been an easy sleeper. Maxim and Jasmine were just like Jevar. Now they could all walk. Jasmine would be four come spring.
Oh, for the love of the emperor.
Why does everything hurt?
Shh, dream.
Cold and hurts?
She ran a gloved hand over her face, clearing away tears that had begun to form.
Adrian let out a puff of amusement, grabbing her hand warmly, knowing very well what his wife was reminiscing on. It was the same every year. She’d crawl into bed, lamenting that they were growing too fast. Cry about how Jasime outgrew her boots again.
Propose a sixth one to him in her honeyed voice. Oh, how could he deny that-
A crack of thunder rolled overhead. Lightning flashing… Adrian went to calm Gid before she startled. They both looked at each other in confusion. Lightning? This time of the year? With no clouds? Static seemed to fill the atmosphere.
I don’t want to dream.
Rest.
I don’t want to-
Rest!
Winds whipped up in a roar as Gid began to stir and puff. Jevar reached over to grab Jasime as the others woke. Helena rushed over, loading the littles off, and wrapped her cloak over them to calm and protect, snatching Jevar’s wrist before he could help his father.
“Stay there, boy…Shh, girl. It’ll be alright. Just a storm.”
Gid began to thrash, breaking away from the cart and running back the path. Adrian backed away from the mare to avoid any kicks. Could it be a rogue storm somehow? They had seen lightning in heavy winter storms before, but not like this.
“Adrian!” Crying filled the air as the younger of the three panicked. Adrian ushered them to the side of the path and shielded them from pelting gravel.
“What in the name of the emp-” watching the storm unfold above them. Bare trees danced in the winds. Bending and groaning, threatening to break. Lights of all colors began to flash in the sky. They were iridescent, reminiscent of spilled oil in water. Thunder growing louder! The noise rattling deep into the ears.
Rest!
I-
Rest!
Then… Then the heavens seemed to tear open. Ripped apart like rotten fabric.
Rest!
Followed by the brightest light Adrian had ever seen, momentarily blinding him.
Rest, little dream!
The air grew quiet, and the sky dulled. Helen looked up from her husband's cloak and watched as something began to fall from the tear as the sky mended itself. Her mouth opened in awe at the abomination of reality.
No!
Seconds felt like hours as she watched it fall, unable to move, heart pounding. A realization had dawned on Helen. The figure was falling fast and close. There was nowhere to shelter behind. She pulled her children and her husband’s head closer to her and prayed to the emperor for protection.
Wake.
A last moment of thunder hit when the object landed, sending dirt and small rocks crashing. And as suddenly as the storm started, it stopped. It was just quiet, baffling quietness.
Helen and Adrian slowly peered up and looked around. He unraveled his cloak from them before slowly standing up. Helen had all the children firmly pressed to her still. The littles were too terrified to move away, clutching to her. Snot coated her chest.
“The sky,” Adrian mumbled.
“Split open.”
“Uh huh.”
“Then something fell out.”
“Uh huh.”
His eyes slowly traveled from the sky to the small smoking crater, roughly twenty yards out. Helen reached out for his hand, but he moved it back. Something… something told him to look. To see what fell. Hesitant steps brought him closer.
“Adrian Evlar, don’t you dare!” She hissed, swatting at him and cursing. “You don’t know what it is!”
It wasn’t a large crater. Not like the ones he’s seen from ship crashes. Couldn’t be more than five feet deep. He took a few more steps; dirt crunched beneath his boots. It was hard enough to break frozen earth. He waved away smoke, trying to get a better look.
Helen watched closely as her husband stopped in front of the crater before he paused.
“What is it?” She called out. Jevar took his chance and broke free from his mother. The boy managed to dodge her hand as well and raced to his father. Adrian managed to intercept him with a firm hand against his chest.
“Jevar, get back here this instant-”
“It’s a woman, ma!”
“A woman… fell from the sky?”
Wake, little one.
Meanwhile, deep in Terra, in his rest, the Emperor stirred.
May we have some headcanons on the primarchs and their favourite things, be it physical or personality wise about their beloved?
Can be nsfw or sfw, (or both if I can be so bold lol) which ever you feel comfortable doing :)
Many thanks :)
Sure!
CW: Mentions of NSFW topics
Lion El'Jonson
Loves how you're able to stand up for yourself to anyone, including him. He has been made aware of how stubborn he can be.
Also loves when you randomly take control and ride him. Tell him to do whatever you want to do, please.
Fulgrim
Adores your creativity and care. It brings Fulgrim great joy to see you when you're in your hobby zone.
Fulgrim loves having you on your stomach, pulled flush to him.
Perturabo
For as much as Perturabo complains, he would be aimless without you in his life. He loves the security and comfort you bring. Would burn worlds to keep you.
Bully him in bed. Tease him. Make him flustered.
Jaghatai Khan
Jaghatai finds your passion for life to be admirable. Everything has value to you, no matter how small.
Jaghatai is a body worshipper. Loves every inch of you and will worship it for hours.
Leman Russ
Leman appreciates how smart you are. He might not be the brightest, but you sure are!
Leman also loves how bold you can be in bed! Pull his hair! Yank him down to you.
Rogal Dorn
Rogal admires how you can provide a calm opposite to him. Someone who doesn't always need to plan things out.
He loves to see you pinned beneath him, unable to move. He just wants you to take what he gives you.
Konrad Curze
Konrad loves that you're not scared of him. You speak your mind against him all the time. It's very attractive.
Konrad loves when you ride him gently and hold his face, telling him you love him softly.
Sanquinius
Sanguinius has many things he loves about you. You're selfless. Kind. Brave. He just loves his spouse. Will cry if he thinks about it too much.
Sanguinius loves when he can take complete control of you. You're on top, but he's controlling the pace. It's angelic to him when you look down at him.
Ferrus Manus
Ferrus loves how you catch fine details of things. Noticing small details that even he missed. There's always something beautiful to notice when it comes to you.
Ferrus is a simple man. He loves when you're face down, ass up. Open and available to grab.
Angron
Angron knows he is not an easy man to love. He respects you more than anyone in the universe for all that you do. The gentle kisses when the nails are biting. He also likes how you're able to stand up for others.
He also loves when you hold him close when he's on top. How you wrap around him, taking it so well.
Roboute Guilliman
Roboute cannot pinpoint one thing he loves about you. You have many traits he deems irresistible and good in a responsible partner.
You gave Roboute head once, and he's been addicted ever since. He will beg for it if you want.
Mortarion
He loves how tender you are. Also, how you feel more grounded in reality than other baselines he met. You don't treat him like a god. You just treat him like him.
You being spread, waiting for him in bed, when he gets home. Makes him go wild.
Magnus
Magnus loves how smart you are! You might not realize it, but you pick up things faster than he ever did.
Love how you ride him when he's leaning back, reading. Taking what you want. Use him however you need to.
Horus Lupercal
Loves how friendly you are! It's what caught his eye. How you managed to know and remember things that people offhand mention.
Loves when you praise him and pull him close, begging him for anything? Harder? Faster? Inside of you? The warmaster will do it for you.
Lorgar Aurelian
Lorgar is a (not really) simple man. He loves his spouse. Loves your strong personality. The way you can switch from being quiet and collected to loud and taking control.
You lectured him once and made him finish in his pants accidentally. Loved it. Has to try his hardest to not get hard when he hears you talking in a firm tone. Unless you want him to. He can do that. Please.
Vulkan
Vulkan loves how good you are with his sons and their families. You know all their names and how they're doing! It's adorable. Vulkan has sort of a cute aggression thing going on with you.
Vulkan just loves being between your legs. He can stay there for hours if you let him.
Corvus Corax
Corvus appreciates how flexible you are with things. Something came up? Handled. This happened? Already got it.
Corvus loves how you beg for him every night. How you scratch his back and pull his hair.
Alpharius Omegon
They love how you can (mostly) see through their deceptions. You're the only one who can tell the difference between them. They aren't sure how you figured it out.
You took them both at once, and they had a moment of awe.
Pings to be had (Lmk, if you'd like to be pinged):
You and your fave WH character but you both are stuck in a never ending cicle where they see you dying without being able to do anything to stop it, everyday they wake up in the same day with the universe finding ways to ending your life despite anything they try to prevent it
How long would they take to try and change it ? offering their life for yours and now you are the one watching them die and the day repeat over and over until the cicle restarts all over again
Or would they? Maybe they don't try to change it and settle for accept there's nothing to be done and they're forever faded to watch you die everyday endlessly
I've been going back and forth with writing a fic about emp's perpetual buddy obsessed with the early 2000's.
Like they were stuck in limbo due to warp shenanigans and missed a BUNCH of stuff, then spit back out. The only reason Emps found out is that he felt it and sent someone to get them so they don't cause issues. They have abilities similar to Neoth and Erda.
Then having to sit through several long history lessons, CONSTANTLY side-eyeing Neoth.
"What the fuck do you mean you had TWENTY SONS IN TEST TUBES?"
"What the fuck is that *points to a custode*"
"Erda would let me have my own ship." "No, she wouldn't." "Nah, you're right."
This is, in fact, a real thing that has happened to me more than once. This may be me venting a tiny bit.
Mention of being on your period. Everyone pray for Perturabo, he's not equipped for this.
Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't-
The tears come anyway. There was no stopping them, you knew that when you started your mental chanting, but who would you be if you didn't try anyway?
The astartes in front of you goes very stiff, entirely unsure of how to react to your sudden burst of emotion.
Stars above, this was so embarrassing. You'd always been better about holding yourself together, especially in front of your lover's sons. None of them were really equipped to deal with you while like this, and on any other day they wouldn't have to. But today wasn't any other day.
You wave the poor man away, shaking your head back and forth, lips pressed tight together to avoid letting out a sob when he asks, very hesitantly, if you were well. Then you promptly shut the door in his face. It makes you feel worse to leave him like that, but you can apologize later- when your emotions weren't running significantly higher than normal and everything stopped hurting.
Looking down at the food in your hands, another wave of emotion rushes through you. Anger mixing with disappointment and sadness in the ugliest of ways because it was all wrong. Not what you asked for.
It had been so fucking simple, and yet someone had ruined it. You'd been so excited for the past hour to eat something good only for it not to arrive as it was meant to. It was all you'd wanted, all you'd been craving since yesterday when your period decided to come a week early. It had been promised to you, but it wasn't what you'd been given, and your brain didn't know how to process the situation.
So now here you stood, unwanted food in hand, sobbing like a child in the middle of your room, frozen with indecision as to what to do.
Throwing it away would be such a waste. You couldn't do that, it was wrong. But you weren't going to eat it- the very idea made you want to vomit- and your love was on the other side of the ship handling his far more important work. By the time he got here, it would be ice cold and no longer any good.
You could request a replacement, but that would involve becoming an annoyance. A burden. A silly, overly emotional woman who can't just accept what she's given and move on. An embarrassment to the man you loved, who brought you along with him for the first time instead of leaving you at your home because you'd promised you wouldn't be in the way.
What a spectacular failure that was. You'd barely been here a handful of days and you were already causing problems. That marine was probably already en route to his father to inform him of what just transpired. He was going to come, only to find out your tears were over something as menial as a meal, and all because mother nature made her visit- something you should have been well prepared for. Then he was probably going to yell at you for wasting his time.
You can't breathe properly now thanks to all the tears. Your nose is completely useless, and all you can manage are short gasps as you sob pathetically, still holding the food you didn't want.
You needed to calm yourself down before he got here, needed to figure out how to explain that this just happened sometimes when your period came. About your emotions and hormones and pain and that there was no need for him to worry. You had to assure him you were okay, that you would be okay, and accept his frustration at your silliness. Then you probably needed to apologize to him as well for getting him worked up over nothing.
How much time had passed? How long did you have to prepare before he came kicking the door down? Probably not much, if you were honest with yourself. Astartes were fast when they wanted to be, and you had no doubt that Iron Warrior went running for his father the second that door slammed in his face.
And if astartes were fast, they had nothing on a primarch. At best, he was likely to be held up because Perturabo wouldn't want to listen to him at first. You could use that to your advantage.
Okay. Plan. Give your brain something else to focus on.
First was the food. You still weren't going to eat it, but you also still didn't want to throw it out. Just set it aside for now, Perturabo could take it, or you could give it to a serf. Maybe even have it put away and reheated when you finally decided to stop being a baby over it. Either way, it needed to be out of your hands- literally.
You jerk forward, dropping it onto the desk Perturabo would sit at and do menial administrative tasks during resting hours. He always grumbled about it, but never let you help, claiming it was his duty. You think he kind of liked the peace of just sitting there in the evenings, and you also knew he occasionally used the time to draw.
The plate clatters to the surface, food spilling off of it and onto the smooth surface of the desk. How you manage not to get it all over his papers, you have no idea, but you consider it a win. He'd be angrier if you ruined his work.
Your next step was getting the tears and sobbing to stop. You needed to breathe. Long breaths, slow. They were allowed to be shaky, that would pass as you calmed down more and more. You wipe your face and rub your eyes so that there would be as few remnants of your tantrum as possible.
You take a moment to listen for any kind of commotion in the hall. For your love's voice or heavy footfalls as he came for you. He could be quiet when he wanted, but you doubted that would be the case for this. You would hear him coming, you didn't doubt that in the slightest.
Calmer and finally empty handed, you take another long breath, swallowing the last of your outburst and burying it somewhere deep. Now you just had to wait, and you would do it patiently and bravely…while hiding under the blankets.
You climb into the massive bed and burrow into it as far as you can. It's warm, and soft, and comfortable, and it smells like him.
-
Entering the room, he finds it quiet. He'd almost call it peaceful if he didn't already know something was wrong. You were nowhere to be seen, but he spots abandoned food all over his desk, and he can still hear the words of his useless son telling him of your very sudden change in mood. Of tears he hadn't known the cause of.
Perturabo listens, his heightened senses catching the sound of you and following it deeper in, finding you tucked into the bed. Though, tucked was an understatement. You'd barricaded yourself in, buried under blankets and barely visible. The only real sign you were there was the sound of your heartbeat, and your hand sticking out over the edge.
He hesitates now.
You were sleeping, which means whatever had happened, you'd already solved it. You didn't need him poking, and you definitely didn't need him waking you. It was time to be a little more cautious than when he entered.
He has to pull pillows from off of you, tossing them to the other side of the bed so they were no longer blocking your face. Your very red and puffy face. He very lightly presses the back of his hand to your cheek, frowning at how warm he finds it. Warmer than usual, but not fully feverish. He'd noticed it last night as well. You'd shifted away from him at some point, mumbling about being too hot, which was unusual for you. You were always cold. You usually liked how warm he was.
You make a soft noise, eyebrows coming together, and though he's quick to pull away, he's too late to avoid your eyes fluttering open.
You look at him for a handful of seconds, processing his presence standing over you. You don't show fear, you never have, always his stupidly brave woman.
"Oh," You mumble, rubbing your face and pushing yourself to sit up. "I fell asleep."
"You did," He says. You sniffle, still recovering from tears.
"I didn't mean to."
"It's fine. It's not as if you have any duties here."
You hum, nodding, gaze lowered to look at your hands. You're picking at your nail polish- a nervous habit that left shavings of color scattered everywhere. It used to drive him crazy, but he'd learned it was a sign that he needed to pay closer attention to you.
He sits on the edge of the bed, forcing you to shuffle over a bit so he didn't crush you, and covers both your hands with one of his, forcing you to stop.
"Explain." He doesn't have to elaborate. He knows you know what he's talking about.
You shrink into yourself a bit, making a soft, unsure grumbling noise in the back of your throat. Your eyes flick up to his face, then dart away. He wonders, for a moment, if you're going to try to argue with him, tell him nothing happened and try to wave it off. It wouldn't be the first time, but the way your shoulders fall ever so slightly is his sign that you knew better than to try that this time.
"I wanted something specific to eat…and they didn't bring it to me. They gave me something else. And I just…I don't know."
"You cried over food?" You flinch at his words, looking horribly embarrassed. But then your face does something he really doesn't like.
It scrunches up, your lips press together tightly, and you take a breath that's too shaky to be normal. Your shoulders start to shake, your eyes well up, and he can see how hard you're fighting it. But your battle is lost far too quickly.
He freezes, entirely unsure what to do. You didn't cry over anything. It was why he'd been so concerned when he heard about your meltdown earlier. But now it was happening a second time, about the same thing as before, right in front of him, and he was completely, totally, helplessly lost as to what to do.
"Stop," He knows the second he says it that it was the wrong thing. It makes you curl into yourself more.
What did he do? What was the best course of action? He was siege master, he was supposed to be good at getting through walls. But this- this was like nothing he'd ever fought against. You were a fortress of sudden, unexplained emotion, and there were no weak points.
Comfort was best left to one of his brothers, he had no patience for this kind of behavior, no tools to help fix it. This was a problem for Sanguinius or Fulgrim or literally anyone else. Stars, Angron would probably handle this better than he can.
But he was who was here, so it was he who had to solve it.
He calls your name, trying to keep his voice even in order to combat your stress, and takes your face in both of his hands, forcing you to look directly at him. He's as gentle as he can be, but you still end up with squished cheeks.
Damn it, you looked stupidly kissable even covered in tears and snot.
"Stop," He repeats himself. "I cannot understand you when you're babbling. Breathe."
You try, taking long, slow, shaky breaths. He slides his hands from your face to rest on your shoulders, breathing with you until you were just as steady as he was.
"My period came early," You blurt. "And I- I just really really wanted something specific to eat, and they promised me they could make it for me, so when they showed up with something completely different I just completely melted down. I know it's silly, and I feel really bad for making you worry over something this stupid-"
He says your name again, silencing you. You've never really talked about this with him before, though he supposed he also never cared to ask. It was your business, and he kept himself out of it. But perhaps it was time that changed.
"What do you want me to do about it?" One day, he swears to himself, he'll learn to speak softer to you. He tries, but his continued failure to do so in the last several moments is proof enough of just how bad he is at it.
"You don't have to do anything," You say quietly. "I'll be okay, it just…has to pass."
He didn't like that answer. There had to be more to it, something he could make for you. He couldn't just leave it to pass while you sat here and suffered because of it.
His mind drifts back to the abandoned food slowly getting colder by the second.
"You didn't eat," He says, and his words startle you a bit, confusion filling your eyes.
"No, I…it wasn't what I wanted, and it made me sick just thinking about eating it."
Right. He can start there. He can solve the mishap or miscommunication or misbehavior of his people. Get you what you actually wanted and have you fed, which would certainly help a little.
He stands.
"Tell me what you wanted. I will get it for you myself."
"What- no, you don't have to do that. I'm- I'm not even hungry anymore-"
He silences you with a look. You avert your eyes and mumble the request, which has him scoffing. But not at you, at how genuinely simple it was. It really shouldn't have been hard to get for you, which pointed him perhaps towards the idea that this may have been on purpose rather than an accident.
"Stay in bed. I will return."
"Perturabo, it's really okay, you don't have to go out of your way-"
"Nothing is 'going out of my way' if it means you're comfortable here," His expression softens, ever so slightly in the way only you ever get to see. "You will be my wife one day, I plan to have you with me on this trips more often."
"Oh…" Your face flushes for a whole new reason. "Okay. Thank you."
He just grunts and turns to walk away, only to be stopped by you calling his name.
"Can you give me a kiss?"
If you notice how red he turns, you're smart enough not to mention it. He returns to you quickly, and bends down, pressing his lips to yours as requested. You're soft, and taste like tears, but you make a happy noise, and that's good enough for him.
