#primarch x reader

[concept-of-personality]

Ride A Knight

Кто хотел бы покататься на Льве? /Who would like to ride Lion?

Версия с мои селф инсертным персонажем/ Version with my self-incert character

[pir8kng]

What the Reaper Sows (Mortarion x GN!Reader) NSFW

AN: Okay so... it's definitely been a while since I've written, and actually finished and posted something. This is my first WH40K fic, I've only read the Dark Imperium trilogy and have just started Buried Dagger at the time of posting this, so please forgive any mischaracterization, I tried my best! Also this is my first time writing anything even close to egg laying, so sorry if it's poorly written. Anyway I hope you enjoy!

TW: mentions of body horror, masturbation, aphrodisiacs, egg laying, mentions of oviposition, possessive behavior, descriptions of rot, decay, disease, and sickness, Nurgle's Garden

Not Beta-Read, please forgive any mistakes! Also cross-posted to AO3, which you can read here!

Taglist, since I've been requested to add one! Please let me know if you'd like to be added!

@catabibaz0n @aggressivemenaceowo

Discolored mud and the slimy grass of the shallow bog squelched beneath the weight of ceramite boots the color of tarnished bronze and moldering green of corruption as Mortarion stalked through Nurgle's garden. Above, the sun shone through the sickly green haze of the humid air, the putrid stench of rot and decay filling the primarch's lungs with each wheezing breath he took. The wind was gentle, but hot and sticky, ruffling the torn and moth-eaten cloak on his back as he walked. He was in no hurry, advancing slowly through the wetlands towards the deeper part of the forest. Distantly, he could hear the droning of daemons counting endlessly mixing with the mad giggles of playful nurglings and cacophonous drums of plaguebearers. Mortarion closed his eyes as he walked, tuning out the din; he knew the path by heart at this point, visiting whenever time would allow him to pull away from his duties as the Daemon Primarch of Nurgle. 

He walked for what felt like hours, but he knew it was only a few minutes, given the warp's tendency to skew time between realspace and the immaterium. He continued deep into the forest until the only sounds were the constant buzzing of flies and wind blowing through the rotting leaves of dying branches, high above him in a canopy of perpetual decay and rebirth. Up ahead, a clearing came into view, where he finally came to a stop in front of a massive, lone tree. Mortarion’s rheumy gaze lifted to look up at the only cocoon on the gnarled branches, high up out of the reach of any lesser daemons that may stumble upon it. He shook out his tattered wings and let the warp's energy flow through them, lifting him up to be level with the pod. Like many of the trees in Nurgle's garden, the cocoon hanging from the branch was made up of a thick membrane, rubbery and slick to the touch. But this one specifically was special to him.

Because inside was you, his love, his consort. Unconscious, a half-formed daemon of Nurgle, waiting to be reborn. 

“I have returned, my love,” Mortarion wheezed out as he raised an armored hand to steady himself against the slick membrane and gently pressed his forehead to peer inside, observing your form curled in the fetal position and suspended in a thick slime, “Have you missed me as much as I have you?”

He knew he wasn't going to get an answer, but that wasn't going to stop him from talking to you, his most beloved. 

“You are looking well since my last visit, much more developed, though I admit it has been some time. You must forgive me for my absence, there have been many developments since you began your slumber that have kept me away,” Mortarion continued raspily. 

You couldn't hear him of course, and idly he wondered if you'd even remember him by the time you'd wake from your slumber. Would you know how long you were asleep? Or would you merely think that no time had passed at all since you'd been embraced by Grandfather? Would you remember the slow, agonizing feeling of the acidic mucous disintegrating you, flesh and bone? Would you remember the burn of muscle slowly stitching itself back together as you reformed in Grandfather's image? 

“Oh, pet,” Mortarion murmured, closing his milky white eyes and running his hand over the curve of the sac, pretending he was soothingly stroking your back like he used to all those years ago, “You've been gone for so long. But I am patient and I shall endure, as I always have. And you… you will be beautiful in your ascension, perfected by plague and rot, and dressed in decay. And once you are back by my side, nothing will ever hurt you again, I promise.”

Mortarion sighed as he gently embraced your cocoon, his breath rattling sickly in his chest as he imagined how Nurgle's gifts would choose to manifest in you. Would you grow horns and tentacles like his sons? Extra eyes? Mouths and teeth? Wings or claws? He shuddered pleasantly at the thought, imagining you with a great pair of wings to match his own. Oh, how he longed to hold you again, to see you smile, hear you call his name. Idly, he began to rock his hips against the sac of your membrane, picturing all the ways you'd turn out. He's pictured this for millenia and each time is a little bit different.

This time, Mortarion toyed with the idea of you growing an extra long, dexterous tongue, and groaned, shifting his hips closer as he imagined how it would feel to have your tongue on him, teasing him, how it would feel to choke on it when you kiss him long and deep. He lowered one of his hands to squeeze at his hardening cock through the stained, worn cloth of his armor, letting out a low growl at the pleasure.

“My love…” Mortarion muttered raspily, desperately grinding into his hand, “Come back to me soon… I need you… you belong to me… with me…”

Phlegm rose in his throat as he grunted, momentarily choking on a hacked cough and inadvertently squeezing his cock harder in his hand. He let out a pained, rattling whimper and withdrew his hand, ignoring the wet stain of pre-cum on the cloth in favor of stroking your cocoon again, coating his hand in the mucous lining the membrane. 

“No… not yet, my dearest,” he stated, milky gaze raking over your half-formed body, “not yet… you're not ready yet… but I will help you, as I always do.”

With a final press of his forehead to your birthing sac, he pulled away and returned to the ground, folding his wings as he walked up to the rotting trunk of the tree you hung from. He placed his hand on the decaying bark, standing for a few moments as he felt the pulse of the warp's power echo through the tree, nourishing your cocoon. The chains of his censers adorning his armor clinked together then, as he kneeled at the base of the trunk, tugged a dirty vial from the confines of his armor with one hand, and dug a hole in the mud at the base of the tree with the other. He removed the cork and held the vial up to his rebreather, where he opened the filters to take a deep huff of the vial's contents. Mortarion's eyes rolled back in his head momentarily at the heady rush of pheromones entering his system. 

He closed his eyes with a choked hum as he let the aphrodisiac do its work. A prickling warmth spread through his body, the muted arousal that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach being stoked to a roaring flame. Mortarion tugged the cloth between his legs aside, then, and took himself in hand, losing himself in visions of you. How magnificent you'll look when you slide from your birthing sac, completing your ascension to daemonhood with Nurgle's blessing. How beautiful you'll look by his side as together you drag corpse-worshippers into the loving arms of Grandfather, and how perfect you'll feel, stretched around his aching cock after millenia spent yearning for your return. 

Oh, how sweet it will be. 

A ragged moan tears past Mortarion's lips as he leaks at the thought, slick coating his armored hand as precum mixed with the mucous from your cocoon quicken his strokes along the length of his cock. He gripped the tree trunk in his free hand, clawing at the rotting bark and leaving deep grooves, but he couldn't care less about that in the moment as he began thrusting his hips into his hand with deep, guttural grunts. His breathing rattled in his chest as he panted, shuddering as another wave of pleasure from the effects of the aphrodisiac wracked his frame. 

Close, he was close, toeing the precipice of ecstasy as he imagined you on your knees beneath him, your heavenly mouth around his cock, tongue teasing his tip so sinfully he'd sacrifice a hundred worlds in a heartbeat just to feel it again. Mortarion's hand tightened just the slightest bit more around his weeping, slicked cock and he let out a raspy growl as another vision flashed in his mind. You, pinned beneath him, stuffed to the brim with his cock as he filled you, first with his cum, then, his eggs. 

Oh, how beautiful you'd look, his cum leaking out of you, fat and round with his eggs, your children…

Our children. Yours and mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

You were his, and you always would be. It was that thought that sent a burning heat through his veins, his hand losing its rhythm as his balls drew tight and stomach clenched. Hot, thick seed spilled from his tip and he let out a long, wheezy moan as he stroked himself through the orgasm, his cum coating his cock and further sullying the armor of his long ruined gauntlet. His great, tattered wings shuddered with pleasure, muscles twitching as his mind blanked momentarily from the sudden rush of dopamine. 

A rare, blissful haze blanketed over his mind as he stared down at the seed seeping into the mud, and his eye twitched as he felt a pressure build at the base of his cock. With a low groan, Mortarion stroked the knot further up his dick until it built at the tip. He shuddered pleasantly in overstimulation as the first egg eased out and landed with a pathetic plop into the hole he'd dug in the mud. The breath in his lungs crackled as he grunted, massaging out another egg, and then another, watching as they piled into the hole at the base of the tree. It was a shame they had to be wasted each time he visited, but if he could not lay them in his beloved, then they were better suited to serve as extra sustenance for the soil of the tree that bore your cocoon. 

Despite his dour personality, Mortarion had always strived to provide for you, his beloved, the only thing he had ever truly cared for in the galaxy. And even if you could not thank him for it now, mid-transformation as you were, he knew that when you were by his side again the two of you would have ample opportunity to make up for the lost time; he would make sure of it. With a final stroke of his hand, the last of his spent seed dripped from his tip to the ground below, and he took a deep, steadying breath that rattled in his chest before pushing the disturbed mud back over the eggs, burying them and any evidence of his deeds.

Mortarion stood then, letting the cloth fall back into place, and made his way back over to your birthing sac. You hadn't moved, of course you hadn't; but that didn't stop him from stroking his cum-covered hand over the membrane by your sleeping face to indulge the fleeting feeling of affection he felt in his chest. 

“Shh… don't worry, my love,” he cooed with a wheezy sigh, pressing his forehead against the cocoon again, tracing the outline of your body with his hands, “Not much longer now… soon, you will return to my side. I only ask that you wait for me as I have waited for you, so that I may be here when you open your eyes. Let me be the first to witness your ascension… and to welcome you back to my side as my dearest consort.”

He pulled away then, folding his wings, and with a final glance at your cocoon over his shoulder, withdrew from Nurgle's garden, a final promise muttered so softly, it was barely heard over the droning of the lethargic flies buzzing in the humid air.

“Grow well, my love; until your ascension is complete, I shall wait. I will endure.”

[tomatojellyfish]

It's Friday and Tomato is tired and drained.

Legion mothers treatment after the Heresy

Lion El'Jonson You are expected to be a perfect lady tending to the Lord's estate while he is indisposed. Logistics, provisions, domestic matters, everything is under your supervision and everything must stay exactly as Lion himself would have wanted it.

Fulgrim Join the Father in his eternal debauchery. Be the most alluring, desirable, and wild thing that there is to offer in all the known galaxies. Not necessarily by his side, but always welcoming, always ravenous, always hoping for the next pleasure.

Perturabo Abandon your flesh and become a metal voice by his side, calculating, meticulous, and unfeeling, just as he himself now is.

Jaghatai Khan A wife of a great khan is expected to manage Chogoris to the best of her ability while the Khan himself is away. You will be expected to manage it as a well-oiled machine, manage domestic and dispute matters to the best of your ability, if not his.

Leman Russ Matron Mother of all the wolves, you are the heart of the home, the presiding matron that conducts the feast, punisher of the guilty, and watcher over the next young generation. You are the heart, you are the home, you are the law.

Rogal Dorn You are the structure, unyielding and unbending. Everything he was, you now represent. And you must stay unbroken until his return.

Konrad Curze You are but an echo of his madness. Yet yours is still strong nonetheless. They do not specifically respect you, but they must fear you if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.

Sanguinius Beloved one, you are venerated, you are exalted, you are adored, your tears mixed into their joining chalice. Your poetry is the psalms they learn by heart. Your beauty is the one they dedicate each victory to. Their father might be dead, but you are still here to provide any comfort you can.

Ferrus Manus You are the iron in the forge, the steady hand that keeps the flame alive while the master is gone. You are expected to be practical, unyielding, and impossible to break. You are the reminder that duty does not soften, even when the heart does. You are the anvil upon which their resolve is tested, and you will not crack.

Angron You are the bloodied crown, the living reminder of what he lost and what he might still become. You are the only thing that can quiet the rage, even for a moment. You are the tether, the anchor, the one thing that keeps the storm from swallowing everything in its path. You are not safe. You are necessary.

Roboute Guilliman Most perfect lady of Ultramar, your word is law, your desire is law, everything you say is the law and it will be recorded. You are to stay at the helm until the father can be brought back from his stasis. And you are the only light that shines in their lives.

Mortarion You are the silence in the poisoned air, the stillness in a world that rots. You are expected to endure, to withstand, to outlast. You are the cold wind that keeps the weak from growing complacent. You are the shadow that reminds them death is always watching.

Magnus the Red You are the flame in the library, the whisper in the forbidden halls. You are the one who holds the knowledge he left behind, the one who speaks his name when the stars go dark. They do not just obey you, they seek you, because you are the closest thing to his voice that remains.

Horus Lupercal You are both relic and the future, no longer needed and yet a must to have in daily life. You are not requred, but you are a symbol nonetheless.

Lorgar Aurelian Join the exalted Father by His side in His cathedral. Sing His praises. Be His voice. Be His oracle. And they will follow you like no tomorrow.

Vulkan You are the heat of the anvil, the heart of home, the sureness of tomorrow, the Lady Drake presiding above all of them, protecting them as Vulkan himself would have protected his heart. You are relentless, you are fire, and you will always be on guard.

Corvus Corax You are the shadow that walks beside the light, the silent guardian of those who cannot protect themselves. You are not seen, but you are felt. You are the whisper in the dark that keeps the nightmares at bay. You are the watchful eye, the unseen hand, the one who ensures the flock survives even when the shepherd is gone.

Alpharius Omegon You are the question without an answer, the riddle wrapped in silence. You are both seen and unseen, known and unknown. They do not know whether to follow you or fear you, and that is exactly how it should be. You are not a ruler. You are a variable. And variables change everything.

-----------

Hey! I now have more here! (and here)

-----------

+Taglist (if you want to be added - let me know, I suck at not-direct communications): @beckyninja, @the-mysterious-detective, @randomlyappearingartist, @nereidof40k, @bookandyarndragonwritesdark, @renegadesyx, @incrediblethirst, @omg1wanttidd1es-sb, @stpdeletacc, @baldieboi , @acgames, @veryspecificreason, @jackalwolfsoul, @hopefully-grimderp, @acexsmhking, @trackerkitsune, @catabibaz0n , @subtlepoisonknowledge, @yyourmotherr, @riokunova, @marcela2000, @f1shz , @rogalist-of-dorns, @aggresivemenace, @passionofthesith, @t-boneless, @tea-ring, @nightlordlover, @lithiummoonfox, @warhorny-on-main, @candorarchives, @mehiwilldoitlater, @boxguy2bear, @pippinsquishums, @loverofbumblebees, @aprofessionaln00b

[pir8kng]

mortarion brainrot so bad rn im thinking about him getting freaky in Nurgle's Garden waiting for his beloved to be reborn blessed by Grandfather's gifts and imagining how they'll turn out is what gets him hot and bothered

[sippedtiredness1058]

Maomao Reader shenanigans

Angron with Maomao trying poisoned meat at a campaign dinner

Maomao with Anthema trying space fungus to be free from Emps psychic 🔮 influence

Fulgrim asks for special chocolates from Maomao while they bored in a meeting

Vulkan gets afraid of Maomaos gremlin desire to get a virus off their fallen troops

Robute prays for Maomao to stop slapping the serfs for their ignorance of having a make-up that literally makes the nobles agitated skin

Corvus or Konrad spying on Maomao safety after Maomao makes a living garden in a place where nightfall is the norm

[casperpetual]

Parricidalis Adfectio In Diem Bonum "Murderous Intent on a good day"

Fulgrim x Reader

A nice day on the Pride Of The Emperor is suddenly interrupted.

last short one before the poll closes and I can get to writing my actual ideas

⊹ ࣪ ˖

It was supposed to be a nice day.

The Emperor’s Children had secured an agricultural world under threat of a local xeno variant, and afterwards Fulgrim had allowed his sons a brief period of rest before they’d move on with the expedition. There was no perfect fight without proper preparation and maintenance, both of the body and soul, after all.

You had visited the world once it was secure again, even if Fulgrim had protested. He claimed it was too dirty, too simple, too boring for such a wonderful person as you, but you knew him too well: Despite having great trust in his legion, he was simply worried. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. But not even the great primarch could resist you begging asking very nicely, so he had allowed a quick trip to the surface— One he would have accompanied personally, would he not have had a duty. Of course you weren’t unguarded, regardless.

Once you had returned to the Pride Of The Emperor, you had returned straight to him, the two of you spending pleasant time together. Before you had left his side again, saying you wanted to prepare a surprise for him - jumping to the next phase of your little plan.

One part of him had wanted to refuse you. You had just returned to his side; he wanted to keep you close for the few moments of peace they were certainly granted. Another part of him knew: whatever your surprise was, it would be well-worth the wait.

You knew him inside out, knew every strength and saw even through the flaws he tried to hide. It was impossible to be perfect; he knew his and his legion’s strive for it was ultimately useless, though that wouldn’t stop him from trying to recreate perfection as much as he could, for anything else would be a failure to the Emperor.

And then there was you.

You, perfect in your imperfection, and he loved you above all else for that.

And he loved that he got to be the one this close to you; anything else would have been unbearable.

Before he could get lost in his thoughts, he decides to busy himself hoping to pass the time faster; Maybe prepare something for you too— perhaps for later quality time.

That is when he hears your scream.

Every bit of elegance and perfection went out the window as he raced down the corridor. He knew your voice, knew every sound it could make. And this- It was a scream of pain and rage. Worries about dangerous or horrible accidents flew through his head faster than his legs carried him, thoughts of traitors and assasins multiplying manifold as he noticed an absence of guards. He heard clattering and curses in all the languages you knew to speak, and his hearts felt like they were going to beat out of his chest.

Oh, please be alright, he wished. He’d not forgive himself if you got hurt because he let you leave his side. It would have been his greatest failure of them all.

“I will skin every last one of you bastards! I’ll cut you up and make your family watch, I will see to it that you soulless assholes will never see the light of day again! And when I’m done with you, your mother will have nothing left to mourn!—“ It was your voice, shouting vile threats and insults that would make even sailors pale at whoever had dared to assail you. For once, he could not blame you for a foul mouth, any thought of propriety becoming secondary to your well-being.

He burst through the door, leading to a kitchen. There you were, tears flowing down your beautiful face, radiating pure, unrestrained murderous intent, and a knife in your shaking hand, pointing at—

A vegetable.

A single, seemingly harmless, round vegetable; unmoving on the cutting board.

Fugrim paused. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins and he was ready to hurt, destroy, kill. But there was nothing in this kitchen, beside this…onion?

You weren’t hurt. Not externally, not bleeding, at least. Good. He refused to admit something stirred within him upon seeing you this threatening. This was really not the time.

You stop shouting swears and threats at it and turn to him; Eyes red and tears streaming down your cheeks as you catch your breath.

“Oh.“

All the ferociousness in your expression left as you notice him, uncertain just how long he’s been here, yet taking note how alarmed he looks.

“‘Oh’ indeed, my love. Are you alright?!“

He hurries to your side, cradling your face and wiping away the tears.

“I’m fine.”you sniffle, swallowing your own agitation as you calm down.

He just raises an eyebrow, looking around, assesing the kitchen for any more threats that could've gone unnoticed.

“Then why are you crying, and shouting such vile insults at…this?“

He gestures at the lonely, singular onion sitting on the cutting board. Beside one half-finished cut made around the head, it was entirely untouched. A few more, as well as other ingredients and various utensils, lay scattered across the working area, clearly intended to be used soon.

“I wanted to cook something for you. As a surprise.“, you admitted, feeling rather sheepish now at your outburst over such a relatively small thing. “But when I was trying to cut that —“ you bite back another insult on your tongue, no, you were better than that, “— onion, it shot its juice right up my face, and of course I was stupid enough to get it right into my eyes trying to wipe it off. “I might’ve gotten a little…frustrated.”

Ah. Fulgrim had heard humans dislike cutting onions due to the vapor they release causing excessive tearing. Magnus or Mortarion could probably even explain why. He didn’t care much. Though he did find your outburst rather…adorable, now that it was apparent there was no immediate threat for your life. Bested by a vegetable. How silly humans are.

A small chuckle escapes his lips as he takes the knife from your hand and puts it down. Without speaking, he grabs a clean towel, wets it slightly, and carefully wipes your face with it, taking special care around your eyes. He takes your hands in his, first one, then the other, cleaning them too, with tenderness and diligence. You would almost protest, but you could feel it in the tiny tremble in his fingers, only noticeable because of their size; It was best to let him make sure you truly were alright.

Once he was done, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“My love. My beautiful, perfect love. Please just ask me for assistance next time.“

“But it was supposed to be a surprise!”

“I appreciate it, but I do prefer my surprises without half a heart attack.“

“You have two hearts, I’m sure you’ll survive“, you pouted, and he laughed as he pulled you into a hug.

“I know. And I’m sure whatever you want to make will be perfect in every way. Just like you.“

He always knew what to say to make you blush redder than the tomatoes laying over there on the counter, didn’t he? You huffed, but obviously hugged him back, glad your face was clean and won’t leave tear stains. He wouldn’t mind them, but you’d still feel bad for staining his pretty clothes.

“What were you planning to make?“

“Just a few delicacies. Although…”

You glanced over to the bag of onions, and your eyes gleamed; radiating pure malice, more than a single human should be capable of. Angorn would have been impressed, and Fulgrim thought it was very, very amusing. And slightly intimitating.

“Maybe we’ll be having Onion Soup instead.“

⊹ ࣪ ˖

[boneapplet]

Veil of Sand pt 19

Relationship: Sanguinius x blind!afab!reader

Warnings: minor mention of weapons and wild game cleaning.

Word Count: 1537

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18 | pt 19

The moment passes as naturally as it had begun. Mira disappears into the maze of wagons, already retelling the encounter with increasingly enthusiastic gestures. By the time she reaches her parents, the wings have undoubtedly doubled in size in her recounting. Laughter follows her in little bursts, carrying easily over the creak of wheels and the low complaints of burden beasts. Life, having paused only briefly, resumes its familiar rhythm. Jarek claps his hands together once.

"Right!" he calls, his voice carrying the practiced authority of a man accustomed to organizing chaos. "If you've finished gawking, those crates won't unload themselves."

A chorus of good-natured grumbling answers him.

"They weren't unloading themselves before, either."

"I was supervising."

"You were sleeping."

"I supervise best with my eyes closed."

The caravan master points an accusing finger toward the speaker without even turning.

"I heard that."

"I meant you to."

Another ripple of laughter spreads through the camp. Sanguinius watches the easy exchange, something almost wistful settling behind his expression. There is no hierarchy here beyond necessity. No ceremony. No expectation beyond the day's work. Men and women drift naturally back to their tasks, arguments forgotten as quickly as they began.

"Come," the healer says quietly beside him. "Before someone decides to pay me in stories instead of supplies."

He follows as she makes her way through the loosely arranged wagons. Unlike the hurried bustle surrounding them, her progress is unhurried. People greet her as she passes, some with words, others with nothing more than a raised hand or an inclined head. A young mother catches her sleeve.

"I used the salve you left."

"It helped?"

"The swelling was gone by the third morning."

"Good."

"And my son's cough."

She smiles faintly.

"Gone?"

The woman nods.

"He finally sleeps through the night."

"I'm glad."

Nothing more is said. None is needed. Further along, an elderly man beckons her over from where he sat repairing a harness.

"My knee's predicting rain again."

She crouches beside him without hesitation.

"It always predicts rain."

"It was right once."

"Twenty years ago."

"And?"

She rests gentle fingers against the swollen joint, pressing lightly around the scar tissue.

"It still isn't raining."

He sighs dramatically.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

She reaches into one of her satchels and places a small, wrapped bundle into his weathered hand.

"A fresh poultice."

He turns it over between his fingers.

"You always know what I need before I ask."

"You always ask for the same thing."

"Hm."

He grunts approvingly.

"Fair point."

Sanguinius stands a respectful distance away, watching each encounter unfold. No one crowds her. No one demands miracles. They simply... trust her. The realization settles deeper than he expects. Respect here hasn’t been won through fear. Nor through strength. Nor through titles. Only through years of returning. Years of remembering names. Years of helping because help was needed. He finds himself wondering how many journeys it had taken to build something so quiet.

His thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable scent of fresh bread. A pair of brothers stand behind a folding table balanced atop old supply crates. Their makeshift stall overflows with rough loaves, dried fruits, smoked strips of meat, and hard cheeses wrapped in cloth. One of them catches sight of the healer.

"There you are."

"I said I'd come."

"You also said before midday."

She tilts her head slightly.

"It is before midday."

"Barely."

"It still counts."

He snorts.

"I suppose it does."

Without another word, he begins assembling a small bundle.

"No charge."

She immediately shakes her head.

"No."

"You've patched up half this caravan over the years."

"And you've fed me for almost as many."

"So?"

"So we barter."

"You always make this difficult."

"I make it fair."

He relents with theatrical resignation.

"You drive a terrible bargain."

"I've been told."

She lays several bundles of dried medicinal herbs upon the table, followed by two small jars sealed carefully with wax.

"For burns," she explains.

"And the other?"

"Deep cuts."

The baker's expression sobers.

"I was hoping I wouldn't need more."

"You probably won't."

"But if I do..."

"You'll have it."

He nods quietly before sliding the bundle of bread toward her.

"This and a little flour."

"You've added too much."

"I know."

She opens her mouth to object. He raises a flour-covered hand.

"Call it interest."

For the first time since entering the caravan, she laughs—a soft, genuine sound that draws more than one curious glance.

"I'll never convince you."

"No."

"I'm still going to try."

"I'd be disappointed if you stopped."

Sanguinius accepts the bundle she hands him, surprised by its weight. The baker finally turns his full attention toward him.

"So," He folds his arms across his apron. "you're the fellow with the wings."

"So I've been told."

"You eat much?"

Sanguinius blinks.

"I... beg your pardon?"

"I've got to know how much bread to bake if she starts bringing you every season."

A beat of silence hangs in the air. Then, before Sanguinius can think of an answer, the healer speaks with complete seriousness.

"An unreasonable amount."

The baker lets out a booming laugh.

"I knew it!"

Sanguinius looks between them, vaguely betrayed.

"I've only eaten what was offered."

"So far," she replies.

"So far," the baker agrees cheerfully.

For a brief moment, surrounded by flour dust, warm bread, easy laughter, and the simple commerce of ordinary people, Sanguinius forgets entirely that he had once fallen from a burning sky. He is simply another traveler standing at a market stall, carrying provisions beside the woman who had saved his life. And somehow, that feels no less extraordinary.

As the baker disappear into the back of his wagon in search of another sack of flour, Sanguinius shifts the bundle beneath one arm, his gaze wandering over the caravan with idle curiosity. Now that the first novelty of his arrival has faded, smaller details begin to emerge. Not everything the traders carry has come from scavenged ruins.

Near one wagon hangs a length of crimson cloth, faded by years beneath the desert sun but carefully mended wherever it had frayed. It is embroidered with a pattern of interlocking circles that stirs something just beyond reach in his memory.

Further along, several spear shafts leaned against a crate, fashioned from pale, resilient wood he hasn’t seen growing anywhere near the clinic. The shafts had been polished smooth and wrapped beneath the heads with braided strips of crimson leather. His attention lingers. The binding. He knows that weave. Not because he had studied it. Because his own hands had once learned it. His fingers unconsciously touch the banner fragment tucked safely beneath his belt.

"...Where did you get those?"

The spear-maker glances up from sharpening a blade.

"These?"

He lifts one casually.

"Good work, aren't they?"

Sanguinius steps closer.

"They're unfamiliar."

The older craftsman smiles.

"Not around these parts."

He runs an appreciative hand along the smooth haft.

"People of the Pure Blood."

The words land with quiet force.

"It’s said that they've got forests hidden somewhere out beyond the eastern mesas." He shrugs. "Never found them myself."

"They come to you?"

"Every season or so."

He nods toward the spear.

"Trade timber, leather, woven cloth."

"And these?"

"The bindings?" The man chuckles. "Wouldn't dare change them."

He rubs a thumb across the crimson braid.

"They say every knot has meaning."

Sanguinius stares at it. He remembers. Children sitting in circles around evening fires. Older hands correcting younger ones. Patient voices guiding them. The memory vanishes before he can grasp it fully.

"They're good people," the trader continues, unaware of the storm quietly unfolding before him.

"Proud. Quiet. Keep to themselves mostly. But if they promise something..." He taps the spear, "they keep it."

Another voice joins in from a nearby wagon.

"They saved us once."

A woman looks up from repairing harness straps.

"Three summers back." She nods toward the western horizon, "Storm caught us in the flats. We would've been buried. The Blood found us and led us through canyons nobody else knew existed."

The spear-maker snorts.

"And refused extra payment. Said guiding lost travelers wasn't something you sold."

Sanguinius lowers his eyes. A warmth spreading quietly through his chest. Not pride. Not exactly. Recognition. Fragments continue surfacing. Campfires beneath stars. Children carrying water before elders asked. Voices reminding one another— No guest leaves hungry. No traveler walks alone. He had known those words. He had lived them.

"They barter honestly," the woman continues. "Never seen one cheat. Never seen one steal."

She smiles to herself.

"Wish every tribe were like that."

Without realizing it, Sanguinius began smiling. Small. Almost imperceptibly.

The healer, standing a short distance away while examining jars of preserved herbs.

"You've remembered something."

It wasn't a question. He looks toward her.

"I think those are my people..." His voice is softer than before.

The conversations nearby continue uninterrupted. No one realizes what those simple observations have given him. The healer's expression softens.

"I'm not surprised."

He looks once more at the crimson bindings wraps around the spear. Neither is he. For the first time since awakening in the desert, the memories returning to him don’t carry only pain or confusion. Some carry home.

[tomatojellyfish]

The primarchs gift you a valentine day gift?

Ooooh, anon. Let us see

Lion El'Jonson The Lion is above such frivolities. He is also about to be banished from your shared bedroom for a month.

Fulgrim Do you even need to ask? There is a mountain of presents at the foot of your bed, a romantic breakfast, a romantic lunch, a romantic candlelit dinner, and a romantic stroll under the stars.

Perturabo No. Do not pout, it will not work. Okay, it does. Here, you can sit with him at his workshop for a day. Happy?

Jaghatai Khan Does a wild ride count as a present? To him, it does. And he has also prepared a picnic.

Leman Russ A feast in your honor. He will also present you with a hand-carved horn of the last beast he killed. Also in your honor.

Rogal Dorn You will have to sit down with him to explain the concept. Once he gets it, he builds you a palace. Just a little something.

Konrad Curze Do you want to receive a human heart? Because this is how you receive a human heart.

Sanguinius He writes you the most beautiful poem there is and takes you to the sky. It is all very tender. Until the night comes.

Ferrus Manus You will have to sit down with him to explain the concept, part 2. Except you will have to do it a couple of times. In the end, he presents you with a dagger, one of his finest creations.

Angron He is not above understanding the concept, but he does not care much for gestures of sentimentality these days. You are by his side, you are safe, protected. What more is required? He secretly prefers you to give him a token he can affix to his armor.

Roboute Guilliman He has a reminder in his calendar, and so he prepares an appropriate gift. He also hopes for a kiss in return.

Mortarion No. Unless you want poison. He can do poison.

Magnus the Red His preferred gift to you is an insight into his mind, a melding of souls. But it can go either way. Perhaps you can convince him to settle for dinner?

Horus Lupercal A parade in your honor. Need more be said?

Lorgar Aurelian You are getting a prayer session. He stays true to who he is.

Vulkan He forges you the most delicate yet durable jewelry chain. It is adorned with gems of your choice, of course. He also lets you watch the process.

Corvus Corax The gift simply appears on your nightstand, even if Corvus is light-years away at the moment.

Alpharius Omegon You get two gifts. One of them is a trap. Good luck.

-----------

Hey! I now have more here! (and here)

-----------

+Taglist (if you want to be added - let me know, I suck at not-direct communications): @beckyninja, @the-mysterious-detective, @randomlyappearingartist, @nereidof40k, @bookandyarndragonwritesdark, @renegadesyx, @incrediblethirst, @omg1wanttidd1es-sb, @stpdeletacc, @baldieboi , @acgames, @veryspecificreason, @jackalwolfsoul, @hopefully-grimderp, @acexsmhking, @trackerkitsune, @catabibaz0n , @subtlepoisonknowledge, @yyourmotherr, @riokunova, @marcela2000, @f1shz , @rogalist-of-dorns, @aggresivemenace, @passionofthesith, @t-boneless, @tea-ring, @nightlordlover, @lithiummoonfox, @warhorny-on-main, @candorarchives, @mehiwilldoitlater, @boxguy2bear, @pippinsquishums, @loverofbumblebees, @aprofessionaln00b