im not even the type of guy to go "actually it's frankenstein's MONSTER" because a painting by rembrandt or picasso or any other artist is often called "a rembrandt" or "a picasso" as shorthand. so in this respect frankenstein's monster can be considered "a frankenstein"
I had a shower epiphany a few weeks ago and have just been working on cranking out this oneshot. Oh, I had so much fun with this. Thanks to @squishyowl for the dividers! They are very pretty!
You get dragged along for a fishing trip, scent a space wolf, and he carves your name onto his (metaphorical?) heart. Fenrysian is just Norwegian here for the sake of simplicity. Very fluffy given this is 40k. TW for hunting, non-sexual nudity, and cannon-typical violence. Asmundr art here and here.
Space Wolf OC(Asmundr) x Serf!Fem!Reader - SFW - 2.8k Words
The world of Silġ was not the coldest you had ever been to. But it was still the thickest part of winter on this side of the planet, and you could feel the moisture of your breath catch and freeze against your eyelashes when the wind shifted.
You waddled behind the three wolves you served today, waylaid by the heaviest furs and boots you owned and the sled-cart you pulled along behind you. The blizzard that had raged for the last month ended a few days ago, though the warp storm that trapped your ship here had not. The sky still sputtered out a sporadic scattering of snow, powdering the dense ice on which you tread.
The three in front of you wore no more than training armor and pelt. You were envious of their enhanced thermo-regulation as you flexed your fingers to stave off the chill that had seeped through your thick mittens.
“Here,” the venerable veteran, Ægir, announced, stabbing his chainsword into the ice.
You slowed as you caught up to the group and looked about. You were the only thing besides flat ice for several kilometers in any direction.
“Finally!”
The youngest, Asmundr, was not known to keep his opinions to himself at the best of times. He was brash and stubborn in every aspect of his life. He was the one that insisted you join them on this venture.
The company and ship’s crew were trapped on Silġ until the warp storm passed. You had already been stuck more than several weeks and many of the younger warriors were antsy for activity beyond their regular training. And, while rations were not depleted, it did no harm to secure supplementary provisions while they were available. Ergo, the Wolf Lord had allowed the formation of a few small hunting parties.
While you assisted the entire pack as your services were needed, Asmundr had all but named you as his personal serf. Not that he had asked anyone in particular, nor would he ever be granted a personal serf given his rank and status if he had. He was simply dogged in requesting your time, specifically. Not that you minded spending so much time with him; he had grown on you quite a bit, and you enjoyed the stories he would regale you with as you cared for his armor.
And so, here you were. Accompanying the small expedition on their fishing trip. You had given up on getting an explanation for exactly what you were meant to do beyond ferry equipment or attend to whatever unfavorable task may arise. Frankly, it was simply a nice change of pace from the monotony of the last few weeks, nice to be away from the stagnant air of the ship, and you were thankful to have been allowed to attend.
Hodr swiped his boot along the ground to disturb the thick layers of snow and reveal the solid ice beneath. Though not as old as Ægir, the scars upon his face told a story of numerous battles fought with unfettered ferocity. He was cold, stoic, but on occasion you glimpsed something wild lurking deep within his eye.
After stomping solidly on the ice without so much as a crack, Hodr gave a nod to Ægir, who activated his chainsword.
Still stuck in the ice, the blade began throwing up shards of ice and compact snow. You turned slightly and covered your face with a mitten to prevent anything from lodging in your eyes. You felt the pitter patter of debris against your form suddenly disappear. Looking up, it seemed Asmundr unthinkingly shifted his position to effectively shield you from the onslaught.
“Mortal,” Hodr called, as the roar of the sword died down. “Bring the pick and shovel.”
You pulled the tools from the sled and made your way to the hole-in-progress. In order to support the weight of three space marines (and especially the earlier stomping), the ice was undoubtedly thick. This pass with the chainsword had not even been close to reaching the water below. Hodr reached down to grapple with the large slab of ice that had been cut away while you worked on extricating the smaller shards. Once the site was cleared, Asmundr gently pulled you a step back as Ægir began his next series of cuts. This process repeated three times before a sufficient opening was formed.
Standing, you wiped the snow off of your knees and pushed the ice shards nearest the opening away with your boot. Suddenly, you felt something thick and heavy land across your back and weigh down on your shoulders. You were almost embarrassed about the surprised yelp you let out, but it was worth it to hear the youngest of the wolves let out a full bellied laugh.
“I trust you to keep this warm for me, vennen min!” Asmundr’s voice bounced with mirth behind you. You rearranged the large pelt he had thrown on you as you turned to face him. And quickly decided to look anywhere else as he undressed to the fullest extent possible.
“O-Of course, my lord.” You elected to keep your head pointed towards the sky as you extended your hands to take the remainder of his clothes. You could clearly hear the other two wolves snickering behind the sound of blood rushing through your ears. It did not seem nearly as cold out as it did just a few minutes ago.
Asmundr placed the wad of clothes in your hands with a smirk before leaning into the sled to fetch his polespear.
“Be ready, brother,” Ægir said as he nudged Hodr bodily. “You’ll have to make up the pup’s slack.”
The young pup bristled in agitation before he sharply pivoted on his brothers with a note of forced laughter. Coincidentally, you suddenly received a full view of all his glory.
“Ha! Afraid you’re not gonna be able to keep up, old man?”
You forced your eyes not to wander below his ribs, which was very difficult as he stood with his chest puffed out and fists confidently resting on his hips. Your face felt so hot that you thought the ice would melt under your feet and swallow you whole.
Despite your years in service to the Vlka Fenryka, you doubted that you’d ever understand just how…comfortable they seemed to be in their plain skin. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact they were Astartes, specifically. You’d imagine it would be difficult to feel vulnerable in any state with the physique of one of the Emperor’s Angels.
“Worried that you’ll drive the best game away in your haste.” Hodr’s voice sounded suddenly closer than you anticipated. Your heart jumped when you felt his hand reach around from behind you, lifting your chin to look Asmundr in the eyes and gently squishing your cheeks together. “It just won’t do if there isn’t enough to go around.” The narrowing of the younger wolf’s pupils was almost hidden by the steam billowing from his flared nostrils. “We can’t have thralls of skin and bone.” His whisper tickled your ear, sending a shiver shooting up your spine.
“I do not leave her wanting,” Asmundr snarled, closing the distance and gripping Hodr’s wrist tightly. You could hear something creak beneath your chin, but the grip on your face never tightened.
“Prove it.” You could hear Hodr’s grin as he finally released you.
Oh, something in Asmundr’s eyes sparked as he threw his brother’s hand away. He spared you a brief glance as he squared his shoulders and quickly cracked his neck.
“Time me!” Asmundr yelled back to Ægir as he raced to the opening and jumped into the abyss.
The air was pregnant with silence for a moment.
“Well,” Ægir laughed, rough and gravelly, “He should be plenty motivated now!”
Ten minutes. It had already been ten minutes.
A space marine could hold his breath for approximately twenty-five minutes, or so you’d been told.
You had heard from one of the company’s Kaerls that she had once heard a story of a chapter that regularly held their breath for the better part of a standard hour. You thought it sounded a bit outlandish, but you prayed now it was true as the minutes continued ticking on.
The first several minutes were spent in a bit of an awkward silence. Or, at least, you felt it was awkward. You busied yourself by meticulously folding Asmundr’s clothes and running an inventory of the little equipment in the sled before cleaning the hole of any lingering debris. You noted that Hodr’s gaze seemed to return the distant tree line frequently while Ægir whittled away on a piece of bone.
“It’s been ten minutes.” The booming voice of the veteran seemed to rattle through your chest, and you nearly lost your footing at the sudden announcement.
The undignified sound you made as you recovered your stance drew a chuckle from the eldest wolf.
“I’m curious,” Ægir said, pointing his knife in your direction. “What do you suppose the pup’s hunting for right now?”
You stared blankly at him.
“Fish, my lord?”
That veteran laughed, tried to control himself, and began laughing some more before he started coughing.
“You’re not wrong, thrall,” he conceded. You watched a flock of dark birds chitter and flee their roost in the distance. So far away they were like a smear against the sky.
“You know,” he started back up, dropping his gaze to return to the bone figure he was making. “I was out on campaign with the pup.” A thin flake fell away from his hands. “And it was fierce, to be sure. Well, while we were holed up in some throne-forsaken pit, the daft boy starts singing. Badly, mind you, and quiet, but singing nonetheless. And so, I ask him ‘Boy, what do you think you’re doing?’” Ægir looked up and you realized that you’d thoughtlessly drifted closer as the veteran continued. “And do you know what he tells me?”
“No, my lord.”
“He says, ‘Well, that little serf sings this when she’s in the armory, and I thought maybe it would help me focus.’” Another flake fell from his hand as he scoffs, “Focus, my missing big toe.”
Ægir looked like he was about to continue, loudly, but shut his mouth and looked past you a moment before you heard it.
A loud wet thwacking noise echoed across the empty plane and time seemed to pass slower than usual as you saw a vibrant, gleaming, blue fish that could rival the stature of terminator power armor surge out of the icy depths and caress the grey sky, before making its arched decent like an angry torpedo with needlepoint teeth.
You hadn’t survived this long in such a cruel galaxy without any wits at all, and ran to give the beast a wide berth upon its impact with the surface. Its furiously flailing body splashed little droplets of water against your form, which froze solid in the cold air.
“Ha! No wonder he likes you so much,” Ægir ribbed at you, as he seamlessly stabbed the wriggling thing through the back of its head, piercing whatever brain it could have. “You scurry about like ei lita kanin!”
The burning retort that had definitely been on the tip of your tongue was tragically cut short by a sudden series of muted vibrations that traveled up your legs. Something was hitting the ice…
Your feet were moving before you could think. What help could you realistically offer Asmundr from here? You could not dive into the freezing water, you could not drag him back to safety, you could not even pull his body up onto shore without dislocating your shoulder in the attempt. But you knelt stupidly by the hole anyways; you had to be as close to his side as possible, in case he needed you. Because you would do all those useless things if he so much as hesitated in telling you not to.
Not long after, the surface of the water began bursting with bubbles of air from the depths, bringing with them deep oily blood. You called out to him, as if he would be able to hear you meters away and underwater.
“Mundi! Are you okay?!”
Time seemed to drag on for an eternity as the bubbling died down and the water remained still.
You had just started to loosen the straps of your outermost layers to dive in yourself when a crimson streak began racing towards the surface. You could feel your heart fall back into place.
Asmundr’s red hair clung to his forehead and neck as he beamed at you in pride. Or, as best he could.
The spear he lifted out of the water held four native fish, each easily as long as your arm and thicker around than both of your thighs. A massive bony fish with pearlescent armor still wiggled in his maw, cracked where his fangs dug tightly into its flesh. He threw the spear up onto the ice before hefting his bulk out of the hole.
Sitting on the ledge of the ice beside you, he pulled the fish from his teeth. His smug smile showcased the gleaming red that clung to his canines and dripped down his chin. He glanced about briefly before his expression morphed into one of confusion.
“Where’s Hodr?”
Oh. You hadn’t even noticed he’d left.
“Not far,” Ægir said. “He picked up a scent while you were out.”
“Are you okay, Mundi?” You had been keenly looking him over for any obvious injuries he may have sustained since he surfaced. He didn’t seem any worse for wear, but maybe he just rammed the ice with his thick head. You stood up to get a better look. “It sounded like you hit the ice pretty hard.”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t near the ice at all.” Rivulets of water trickled down Asmundr’s body, his core temperature just enough to keep the water from freezing against his skin in the cold air. “Are you sure you’re not the one that hit the ice?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed by his teasing tone. You were just relieved that he was okay.
Asmundr’s gaze turned sharply from you to the horizon at a noise you could not hear.
“Finally done batting that pest around, Hodr?”
You turned towards Ægir’s call and watched as Hodr dragged along an enormous, white-feathered land-shark behind him.
“Six minutes,” the wolf bellowed, shaking the leg of his kill. “How long was the pup?”
“Thirteen minutes!”
Something rumbled deep in Asmundr’s chest at the veteran’s announcement and he huffed in irritation. If you hadn’t just been willing to throw yourself into the icy void after your companion out of shear worry, you would have found his pouting cute.
“Mundi,” you started softly as he plopped himself away from his brothers to work on his kills. He did not look up. He was still wet and bare and the wind was still so cold and you did not think you could handle the implausible thought of him catching a chill.
“Mundi, you need to dry off,” you chided as you unwrapped the outermost fur you wore from your waist. It would be warmer and drier than the one he placed on your shoulders, which had kept you plenty warm, but also collected a non-insignificant amount of flurries.
He grumbled something as he continued to work on dislodging his kills from the spear.
You pursed your lips before running the fur across his shoulders and up his neck, before tousling his hair the best you could. You left the fur draped across his shoulders, which he gripped closed across his chest with one hand. He remained incredibly tense before in-taking sharply and shaking his upper body vigorously. You did not escape the resulting splatter.
He tilted his head back to look you in the eyes, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you recognized amusement and joy in them.
“I’m keeping this!” Asmundr announced, sounding very pleased. “But you have to hold onto this,” he tugged slightly at the pelt that still engulfed the entirety of your upper body, “for me, in return.”
The request turned something in your chest.
“Of course,” you agreed, and you couldn’t help the smile on your lips.
He smiled up at you in turn, his eyes softening as his gaze lingered. In that moment, it felt as if something in the universe had clicked into place. After a few seconds, he abruptly looked back down and dragged the armored fish over to him.
“And,” he drew the word out for a long moment, as he began carving familiar runes into the pearlescent plating with his spear. “You need to make good use of this.” He passed you the fish barring your name, and you had to steel yourself to keep from tumbling under the weight of it.
Literally cannot emphasize enough that my #1 writing advice is to stop being afraid. Stop being afraid of sounding too cringe, or too stupid, or too horrifying, or too horny, or too weird, or too much, or too little, or too you. You need to put your entire pussy into your art. Sure, it won't be to everyone's tastes, but if you keep yourself to the blandest tamest safest roads possible you will be of no one's tastes, not even yours.
jonathan harker on may 12th: i witnessed with abject terror as the count descended the sheer stone wall of the castle face first as a lizard would. the unmitigated horror of the spectacle haunts my waking hours like an inescapable nightmare. this man or this thing shall surely be my undoing.
jonathan harker on may 15th: saw the old bastard do the crawling trick again and honestly fuck him it's not even that impressive i don't even care anymore i hope he falls.
I was gonna do the whole fight sequence but given that this has been in my WIP folder for 5+ years, I think this should just finally be shared with everybody lol
I 20s (F) have a 20s (M) fiancé, V, and he’s been talking about this terrible secret he cannot tell me and he keeps almost starting to come out and then backing out. The issue is V and I were raised together by his parents, and my surrogate 40s (M) father and (now deceased) surrogate mother arranged for our marriage back when we were both children. They thought it was the best for us and at the time we were too young to realize the implications and had no reason to reject to the match. When we were teenagers our mother was on her deathbed and she told us again that she wished for us to marry, and of course we both agreed. However, V is also best friends with a 20s (M) guy called H, and they were nearly inseparable as boys and teens. They also went to university together and shared an apartment but V had to come home due to family reasons. Lately he’s been going out all day and coming home at night hours later. He insists that he’s fine and that we all leave him alone and not worry for him, but I think he and H have been sneaking around. He even delayed our wedding day by arranging a trip to go to England alone with H. It’s exhausting for all of us and I think I should just tell V I know and support him and that we can call off the marriage, but I’m not sure that’s the best course of action? I’m completely fine with not marrying him - he always felt more like a brother to me anyway - but I worry it might come off wrong. The worst part is he’s really beating himself up about it. He’s so guilty it’s beginning to take a toll on his health. I don’t care if he has a boyfriend I just want him to be happy.
Alright I gotta represent for us in the Rogal Dorn Simp Nation, Misty! This idea fell directly on my head from my old history nerd childhood, we’ve got stories of queens holding down the fort and being badass while the king is away so why not let the lady of the House of Dorn and the Imperial Fists kick some ass??? Dorn’s off doing y’know crusade shit etc etc and gets a frantic vox hail from Inwit (or whatever fortress world she was on) that they’re under attack. Luckily he’s done with whatever his assignment was or has somebody he can trust and leave it to so he can flip Phalanx in reverse and hop back to make sure nothing goes wrong. Only to find his beloved commanding the standing force of guardsmen and marines, not just holding it down but WINNING. On the outside he’s his usual stoic self like “psh yes of course I wasn’t worried, I never worry, this is something I expect her to be able to handle. I am proud tho” but internally he’s like “oh no this is hot” XD. Indomitable warrior queen decked out in armor he probably commissioned for her (always gotta be prepared) making battle plans and laying the verbal smack down on any captains or commissars who are questioning the competency of somebody ROGAL GODDAMN DORN chose to be with. Yeah I think that’d do a whole lot for him 😂
Having soft moments of reflection on his humanity matched against his beloved’s is delicious of course but so is meeting him where HE’S at, seeing how loving him and learning about him would change somebody. And getting to commit some grand old grimdark 40k VIOLENCE is always fun lol
[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]
Author's Note: We are on the front lines for Wall Husband I will go down with this ship. Boring this bland that fuck everyone else we're right I'm stacking bricks around them
Summary: Stuck in a violent snowstorm on an Imperial Fist controlled planet being sieged, you take command for the first time while waiting for Dorn.
Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Dorn is your future husband and Alexis Polux is your battle husband it's like a work husband but much more violent, Mentions of battle and death, Typical 40kness, I think I blacked out while writing this I'm sorry
Word Count: 2566
You had known from the very beginning of your courtship that Dorn had wished for you to be a link in his chain of command.
What you hadn't expected, was for your first time in leadership to be completely alone, surrounded by no less than fifty Astartes waiting for orders, and five hundred or more Guardsmen half frozen due to the horrid weather; With a multitude of tech priests working on the various machinery and equipment.
This sun up makes it a week since the siege had began, the distant sounds of bolter fire constant. Sometimes the ground shakes from explosions, pulling dust off the cracks in the brick walls.
Walking down the east hall, you step into the large room that has been made into a sort of 'central command' to coordinate the current forces, stuffed tight with a massive holotable and various tech priests scattered around it. Some are working on fixing any malfunctioning machinery, such as the vox equipment that has had trouble maintaining a signal even on-planet through the storm.
You look around to see if anything drastic has changed in your absence. In the moment, you notice a familiar face; A commissar from the beginning of this week. He has the most command over the Guardsmen under you, having been their only superior before the invasion. Any captains or other commissars had been made to report to him, up until now. His closest in rank subordinate had been killed in an explosion on the first day, and in a morose thought, you wonder if they had been any more palatable than he is.
"Any progress hailing the Phalanx?"
He gives you a curt shake of his head, looking over the shoulder of the tech priest operating the vox equipment. Another harsh whip of wind batters against the walls, howling and shaking the glass windows. It rattles them almost just as bad as the distant explosions do.
"Nothing more than a few seconds at a time. But it should be enough of a message for them to understand the planet is under siege." The Commissar speaks short and stiff, face frozen in a neutral, stoic gaze underneath his uniform and few day old facial scruff. You cross your arms.
He's on his best behavior now, considering his disrespect shortly after you'd taken command had nearly gotten his head rent from his shoulders. He hadn't realized he was speaking to the Lady of the Imperial Fists, but the Astartes that had been in your company to deliver the news of your ascension in duty hadn't given him the leeway he might've thought he deserved. He acquiesced command of his guardsmen to you quite quickly, after that. There has been nary a squeal from him since, nor any of his fellow commissars or guard captains.
"Good. Then we will hopefully have aid soon. For now we need to push them back from the storage buildings before my men run out of bolter ammo."
Not that they can't work with just their chainswords, but long range options remain vital considering the hostile terrain you're all working with.
You hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.
Alexis Polux, a veritable giant of a man, is nearly unable to get through even a doorway meant for fellow Astartes; Though not of his size. His armor is packed with snow at the seams, pauldrons slick with snow melted into a sheet of ice. His thin, blonde hair is quickly becoming wet at the tips, from where snowflakes are melting in the slight heat of the room. Anywhere he walks, he leaves chunks of melting sleet right behind. It has to be almost packed a meter high at this point out there, judging where the worst of it ends on his leg armor.
"Welcome back, Captain Polux." You smile in spite of the situation. It's something that Dorn had said he found- in his own words- 'curious' about you.
He holds his helm in his hands, walking closer to you. He brushes past the Commissar with not even the slightest tilt of acknowledgement. Unsurprising. He'd been there when the man had questioned your acting in Dorn's proxy. Polux is a man of a surprisingly amount of humility and softspokenness, but he is rarely forgiving.
"The storm is getting worse."
You hear another bout of wind howl through the brick and stone, as it continues to dump more snow onto the ground. While the Astartes can traverse it without much issue, it's becoming one for the Guardsmen. They've slowed their advance significantly as the snow reaches their knees.
"Even if we do get aid, they're going to be hard pressed to get anything more than small gunship planet-side; Though it goes both ways. We're all stuck out here in this mess." You open your mouth to continue, but Polux cuts you off.
"They are not built for the cold like we are."
You look up to the massive marine who's been serving as your second in command. Perhaps it wasn't an officially given title, but he's taken it well, and you could think of no better man for it. Especially given that the other Astartes respect him- which makes your orders have less of a weight to them, given they still have a degree of unfamiliarity with you. Your hands rest on the rim of the holotable.
"Finished my sentence for me." He hums as an odd sort of apology, the humor of your response going right over his head. When you let out a soft chuff of a laugh a few guardsmen curiously look at you for a moment.
"It was a compliment, Polux." He stares, eyes flicking across your face as he loudly thinks.
He really is a Son of Dorn.
You resist the urge to smile again, and look down at the holotable. It's been quite the week, but what was once another language has now become nothing but second nature. Putting theory to practice has proved quicker and less frightening that you'd thought, a week ago.
Though you still hope Dorn returns to you soon, turning away from the holotable to receive an update from a guardsmen holding a dataslate.
If anyone had ever asked, Rogal Dorn has remained no different than the stalwart nature he's always had. Though his captains and commanders can hear tenseness in his voice. No matter how phenomally well the Primarch can mask it.
It's been there since they'd first gotten the first of multiple emergency vox hails, only a few seconds long with a barely stable connection. But the few words that had gotten through had made it obvious that the planet was being sieged.
One of their bases was being sieged, a spit in the face of the Imperial Fists.
Even worse, Dorn has no idea as to your welfare.
He'd thought you safe there, the safest you could be other than with him or on Inwit, and now you stand on a world being laid waste with no way to contact anyone off world. He wonders deep in a part of his mind if it was an error on his part.
They're less than a day out now, watching the warp tear by. Dorn stands at the ship's bridge- unmovable. He'll see the planet any moment now when they leave Warp travel, and then can he prepare for what all is ahead of him.
He has the utmost faith in his men and you. However that doesn't mean that a small, human part of him doesn't worry at the idea of you being stuck mid-siege in an unknown location.
He taught you well. He taught you well. A mantra in his head no one else can hear. It is up to yourself to survive without him.
The siege isn't visible from orbit when they arrive, given the massive storm blocking large swaths of the land in a white blanket. It will making landing difficult, but the storm is clearing- at least according to the tech priest currently in charge. Not long after orders are given to begin battering the enemy's battleships as they strike back, shields taking a sizable hit. Nothing the Eternal Crusader and it's crew cannot handle.
But it doesn't feel as if the ice storm is clearing with the way the gunships struggle to remain stable, even with the most competent of pilot. Though they still manage to land on solid footing in one piece, the wind whipping their armor like a flog. Sheets of snow blow across snow already heavily packed onto the ground, covering up the large footprints of Astartes that had been here moments before them. The stone of the steps is barely visible through it all.
Dorn strides forward, the snow sticking to his boots as he trudges through it. He can hear bolter fire in the distance, as well as what seems like the highpowered cannon of multiple Baneblades. A small team of five Astartes follow behind him, two on each side and one directly behind. They have their bolters raised, ever vigilant even well in the safely of their own area of control. Wind rips through his cropped hair and howls in his ears, and for a split second, he perhaps regrets not wearing his helm. Even for a man of Inwit, this cold stings; He can hear the ice and snow crunching in the seams of his armor.
Stepping inside the cathedral, the first thing he notes is the myriad of supplies stacked inside in the aisles, safe from the elements. Guardsmen are looking after them, divvying them out amongst themselves, or delivering them to the Astartes in need of them. Of which there are a few- Imperial Fist guards from before the siege began. Most seem in decent condition; Dorn notes a lack of injuries amongst the Guardsmen and Astartes alike, and how there seems to be an established system amongst them.
He keeps walking through the nave, passing Guardsmen and Astartes who all give him a drop of the head when he passes.
"Primarch Dorn!"
An Imperial Fist Lieutenant calls to him, helmet in his hand. He has blood on his lips from where his skin has split, the cold having whipped his skin dry. Going down the few steps of the ambulatory, he gives a curt nod.
"Lady Dorn and Captain Polux are in the east hall. Central command has been established there."
He affirms to the warrior and turns, walking through the transept and down the hall. The one who'd spoken to him seems to have other duties, and stays behind on the ambulatory.
He can hear chatter in the large, arched hall- it increases until he reaches the door it's bleeding from, and he opens it and ducks to come through. It's just too short for him, but the ceiling inside can thankfully handle someone of his height. It's a thought that is always in the back of his mind.
When Dorn enters the room, the first thing his eyes focus on is you; Leaning over a massive holotable with Captain Alexis Polux standing firmly at your side. He stands like an unmoving guardian, a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He's the closest to you out of anyone in the room- either out of his own will, or the gargantuan Astartes has incidentally created a personal area of clearance around you both with his presence alone.
"Dorn!"
You say, an audible pep in your voice. The Primarch walks closer and examines the scene in front of him. You appear uninjured, apart from your skin being slightly pallid from the cold.
The Primarch notices how everyone operates around you with a level of assiduity and efficiency, having been giving clear cut duties. There is no arguing, no fighting, everyone both in this room and all around the cathedral operate smoothly. You have a perimeter established, and you’ve been careful to push the advance but not stretch yourself too thin.
You've done well. That much is clear. A part of him wonders if you'd be able to clean this all up on your own, had he decided to simply give you the reinforcements and leave.
Dorn watches as you momentarily turn away from him to speak to an approaching commissar, and he finds himself listening to your confident and assured tone of voice. A thought crosses his mind.
You look beautiful.
All of your inquiries, curious questions and shaking confidence in your ability to lead have all mixed together, and while you might have made different choices than him, he cannot deny your effectiveness.
Dorn decides to speak before he distracts himself within his own mind further. A hold of your hand or to take a kiss of yours are things reserved for private, not here. As much as he might wish to.
"You appear to have done well for yourselves."
You look up at him and give a wry smile, while he glances at the holotable in-between you both.
"It could be worse. I have a squad of Astartes stuck behind enemy lines, but we've pushed the enemy back from the supply warehouses."
This planet has large city buildings that the wind rips around through, unlike the shorter ones of Inwit. The Astartes are fine in their sealed suits and higher body temperature, but the Guardsmen are all struggling. You more than likely are as well, despite holding strong. He can see the chill on your skin, the cracked skin of your lips.
Dorn's reinforcements will provide valuable support to yours, and with their might together, this planet with be rid of the siege.
You turn to order that the men currently in the battlefield get notice that Primarch Dorn has arrived, and that reinforcements are coming. Besides the soon coming tactical advantage, it will provide a well needed boost to moral. With the intense weather, it has surely been lowering. Though your smile and optimistic look in your eyes prove to be a valuable motivator.
No matter how good the orders, often times the way they're said and the person giving them are what matter most.
The Primarch looks to Captain Polux, and gives him a curt nod. The Astartes politely returns a dip of his head in thanks to the silent compliment of his duty. Dorn then looks back to you.
"You and any men injured will return to the Eternal Crusader." You let out a laugh and shake your head. He can hear the rattle of the bolter on your hip.
"Well now that I've started this, I'm kind of keen on seeing it finished before I leave."
Dorn's eyebrows raise ever so slightly, amused by you. He taught you well, he repeats again. Your command over a such a less than optimal situation has proven as such.
The Lady of the Imperial Fists has proven herself not only to be smart, beautiful, and full of humility, but to be stalwart and confident as well.
"Very well."
He'll stay at your side, and judging by his solid stance, Polux will as well.
Dorn very rarely has doubts, but your confidence and ability to adapt have solidified his thoughts that he had made the right choice in you. His 'sons' taking well to your command makes it far easier.
They will have to when you officially become his wife, after all. You have already accepted the title of Lady Dorn, he has no reason to not seal your bond. There hasn't been much else in his life he has been more sure of.
Ignoring any of his more personal desires in the back of his mind, Primarch Rogal Dorn abides by your request, eyes focused more on your lips as you smile at him.
May I request Vulkan taking care of his pregnant S/O and just over all being cute and fluffy?
[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]
Author's Note: Ahhh, it's about time someone asked for Vulkan. This is about as fluffy as I can make WH without completely losing the plot. I mean, we're in this hellpit for a reason, aren't we? Apologies for any offness for Vulkan, I'm still lore reading for him and his legion.
Relationships: Vulkan/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Pregnancy/Tokophobia warning, General 40kness but overall pretty bland and fluffy
Word Count: 935
A clash of blades, the sound of a ceramite gauntlet hitting a chestplate with inhuman force- Salamanders fight one on one in the large open space. The sky high above grumbles and threatens to downpour, but it hasn't smothered the Salamanders' fire just yet. Not that it isn't trying, with the smell in the air and the cold, moist wind on your skin.
You watch them, hearing the ringing of metal on metal and blood drip onto the stone ground as you wrap your arms tighter around yourself in the chill. Your rounded stomach serves to be the perfect place to rest them.
"Mother,"
You don't respond to the title right away, head only darting to the right once you see a massive pair of dark green boots enter your downturned vision.
You don't think you'll ever get used to being called that. Particularly with the prose that the Salamanders use. Not all of them use the familial title, but enough do that it still feels almost overwhelming. You wonder if Vulkan felt the same way, at first.
"Should you not be resting?"
Your eyes travel up the massive Astartes, up to a face staring down at you stoic and neutral, head tilted with the slightest curiosity. He turns away from you however, when you both hear another voice laugh at the Astarte's inquiry.
"If she will not listen to me about rest, she will surely not listen to you either."
Vulkan comes closer, his massive hand covers your shoulder and you purse your lips while shaking your head.
"I don't want to spend months stuck in a room. Can I not watch them spar for a few moments?"
You might not have many more chances to, if your child grows any larger. It's already a pain to do tasks that were menial not long ago. Though you can't complain, given the unsurprising nature. The child's father is a Primarch that towers over you, after all.
A Salamander gets toppled over by his opponent, but quickly regains his footing as you watch him defend himself. The man that had first approached you excuses himself, taking his exit and leaving you and his Primarch largely alone. Barely anyone would be able to hear you over the sounds of metal ringing, from both weapon and armor alike.
"We only worry for you."
Vulkan's gaze is soft, hand still firmly on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. But as much as they do worry about your health, it also seems that his men get a pride in them, at their Legion Mother being here.
Vulkan could tell when you had first arrived that his sons rose just a bit higher, shoulders squared just a bit more, and even though they always fight with their all, Vulkan could tell they went just a bit farther beyond.
Taking to a kneel in front of you, the massive Primarch places the hand that was once on your shoulder on your stomach, despite him being unable to feel with the armor of his gauntlet impeding. It's the symbolism of the gesture that he desires foremost. Your body relaxes a bit.
"And how is the little one now?"
It will always strike you how incredibly gentle he can be despite his size and the sheer power contained within it. It must surely be a conscious effort to do so.
"Well, according to the apothecary." He looks towards you, and his hand once again moves to the side of your jaw. You lean into the surprisingly warm armor. His thumb brushes against your skin.
"And how are you?"
The question makes you laugh, for some odd reason. He doesn't ask why and simply waits for your answer.
"Tired. Aching. The fresh air is nice, though." Vulkan smiles.
"Your intuition was right, it seems." He's referencing your concern from a few months back, about your worry of the child of a Primarch taking a toll on your body. You grumble largely to yourself.
"One of the few times I hate being right."
The comment makes Vulkan struggle to hide a smile behind stoic expression. He worries underneath it; For your health, the health of the child, and so many more things. But you worry enough. As you should, you're the one who's health and strength is being tested every day by simply holding a such a life within you. He has never voiced these things- he wishes to be your strength whenever yours might falter.
You consider maybe returning to your private quarters, finally heeding Vulkan's advice to rest despite your complaints, until you notice a unique set of armor among the sea of deep green. It makes you perk up and curious look to see if your first inclination was correct. Vulkan follows your gaze, raising up to his full height.
"Commander Artelleus is going to join them?"
The commander of the Pyre Guard is nothing short of a violent force of nature, in stark contract to his surprisingly selfless nature. Any step you might've made to leave is taken back and idea abandoned.
"I'll stay just a bit longer then."
Vulkan laughs. Surely the commander with have his pride warmed when he tells him of your comment. But for Vulkan, casual, purehearted curiosity even in the face of such violence and brutality will always be one of his favorite things about you. Many times had you kept him company by his forge, even before he called you his beloved.
Vulkan gently moves to pick you up, sitting on his arm. Your hand grips the edge of his pauldron as you sigh at the feeling of your weight being taken off your legs.
It's been a reoccurring theme through the series that the space marine boyz are literally teenagers in these massive roided up bodies, so for the little bit more humanistic Salamanders they just want to make mom and dad proud XD
Vulkan is definitely the Primarch you'd want for a husband if you were shopping for one. Sangy and Rowboat would probably be next up.
Hi, if you're still taking requests for warhammer, would you be willing to write an x Reader with peterturbo or knorad?
Author's Note: Ok, so I decided to go with Perturabo, simply because as fun as it would be for me to write a Konrad fic because I enjoy writing horrible bloody angst, I didn't know if you'd be comfortable with that damage, anon. But then again... You did request him. (I also have no right to diss tastes in primarchs I love Angron lmao)
Anyways, ✨ Perturabo ✨. Enjoy. He's a raging cunt. But I love him uwu
Summary: Peturabo learns of Dorn's ascendancy to Praetorian of Terra, and you attempt to flee the boiling rage.
Relationships: Perturabo/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Perturabo's shit fucking attitude, Romance mixed with toxicity, Yandere!Perty if you squint real hard, General 40kness aka mentions of war and death, This would probably classify as an abusive/toxic relationship lmao, Witnessing Peturabo's slow descent into chaos IRL
The library aboard the Iron Blood is monstrous. Any library you perused as a child has always paled in comparison to such a degree, that you need not even bring it up in comparison. Shelves tower over you that even looking fully upward doesn't show their full height, and behind them massive stained glass windows showing the unforgiving void of space. Stars glitter in the distance, or the occasional planet. Be it inhabited or not.
Little servo-skulls buzz overhead, most of them holding some form of parchment as they go about their secular duties. There's a Tech Priest fiddling away with their business that looks in your direction for a moment, before going back to their work. You can hear the faintest humming coming from them- mumbling in what you can only guess is machine language.
You could get lost in it all. Which is partly the goal.
You're avoiding him.
You had the moment you heard it, mumbled by Astartes having just felt their Primarch's own wrath.
Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, has been cast to construct the Imperial palace of Terra.
The moment you'd heard that news coming from the lips of a battered Iron Warrior, rattled physically in his armor to such a degree that he seems to have some form of brain damage, you knew you'd hear it from Perturabo's own booming voice if you didn't run. To be at the end of a Primarch's own barely contained rage, not even considering the idea of physical violence, is enough to make you scatter to hide from him. There's no amount of love that could smother that primal fear.
In the shadowed alley between shelves and shelves of tomes, your eyes cast towards the floor.
You remember one night when he was listless, he had knelt at your bedside and took your hand in his own- speaking of his plans to build a palace so obscenely grand all else would pale in comparison. Bath houses, amphitheaters, training arenas, it was like he was there himself, in the vast ambition of his own mind. Denied ambitions for Olympia mixing with his endless ambition for the future.
He promised you some of them that night; Saying things so grandiose you found yourself nearly crushed underneath the weight of his words. He was promising you so, so much, gifting you a gilded future with a stern, far off look in his eyes and his fingers now tight around your jawline. Your own fingers had gently laid against his hand, so much smaller and softer than his own.
To have that dream shattered, so suddenly and so wretchedly by the man who's been Perturabo's similar in a way that infuriates him to no conceivable end; You know just as well as anyone else aboard the Iron Blood that he was to be avoided.
As when Perturabo is angry, there’s almost always a layer of bitterness underneath. A gripe, vile taste in his mouth, defeat from once again being assigned a role he seems hateful of. Or a role he's been denied.
The book bindings feel cold against your fingertips. These are largely battle logs, transcripts of recent battles created by the Tech Priests aboard. Most knowledge about the Iron Warriors history is stored much more safely in the chapter's Librarium. It's not to say these aren't interesting however; As someone who's duty is to the collecting of this information, you find the whole thing to be intriguing. But perhaps now isn't the time to take such interest in it.
You hear footsteps. Far too heavy to be any rank and file Astartes, and they hammer down with a level of anger that has your head shrinking into your neck.
You barely have time to pull your hand away from the tome binding you'd just been fondling, before you see him. You're instantly in his shadow, the light between these massive isles far dimmer than what is in the central area. And unless you were to try and dart right between his legs, you've nowhere to run. It's not as if you want to run from him, you love him, but you know how he can lose himself at times.
"You are avoiding me." You can see the barely contained anger on his face. You don't know if it's at Dorn, or at you.
"Why." You hold your voice firm so it doesn't crack, refusing to allow it to.
"I thought you would want your space." His brow furrows. The scars across his face shift, the one across his lip most so. You can always feel that one in the rare moments you kiss him.
"So you know." How couldn't you? The entire Imperium is privy, something this significant has spread over vox and every other form of communication at disposal. They all know Dorn is the Praetorian of Terra, not Perturabo.
Damn them to the Warp. He doesn’t need any of it. All he needs are the plans in his head, and you.
He kneels before you, and it takes everything within you to not do a back step. But when he reaches a hand out towards you, you gently take it. Your feet move of their own accord as he pulls you closer to him, until his armored shin is nearly touching you. Peturabo has always been massive- he's a primarch, but his armor adds so much bulk that it makes him nearly inhuman.
"I will give you all of that which I promised you."
Your eyes catch his, pools of brown looking down at you. His warmth is in there somewhere, you think; Can you find it? Or is it already gone?
You try to whisper his name, whisper Bo- but it comes out so quiet that your voice doesn't even sound out, your lips just forming the silent word as a fruitless, pathetic effort. His hand is tight around your own, it almost begins to hurt. You doubt you'd be able to yank it from his grip if you'd even wanted to.
"No matter how many planets I have to level, or how much blood I need to spill,"
This isn't for you; This is for his own endless ambition, his own need to prove he's everything that he says he is and so, so much more. His hand finally lets go of yours and cups your jaw- but the metal is cold and unforgiving like iron, so unlike the rough, scarred but warm skin underneath. He's promising you the future but you don't want it, you just want him.
if you reblog this i am kissing you on the mouth. no that is not negotiable. we are in love now. we are dating. we are planning the wedding. i will be with you on your wedding night
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