fyxestroll

[fyxestroll]

pure evil. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Primarchs Soulmate AU (with you)

I’ve been writing too much happy stuff, so errrr, some of these are a little diabolical… you guys will forgive me, right, right??!!?!

(will you forgive me if I make a part two of this in a happy version in recompense??? TwT) 

TW: grimdark/cannon typical content, death, self-harm, violence, physiological manipulation, maiming, slavery, child abuse - look its bad in here okay there is only angst and warhammer typical horror to be found

Taglist: @druidwolf21 , @incrediblethirst , @bookandyarndragonwritesdark , @meervalv0

Lion El’Jonson - I

Crawling under his skin filled his every waking moment. Skin that was warm to the touch of every serf, apothecary and otherwise but felt freezing cold beneath his fingers.

Once upon a time it had felt warm, and he’d felt the kiss of sunlight against him even in the cold depths of space, and he’d felt the soft slip of silk against his own - all sensations he’d shared with them.

He would apologise to them over and over, for feeling what he felt, for the pain he endured in battles, for the cruelty of being bound to him.

You would always wave him off with a smile, swat at him for being silly, reassure him that loving him was worth every moment of agony, of the grip of steel in your fingers and rivers of another’s blood that graced your skin.

Never in those days had he expected to pay tenfold for every lingering gentle moment you’d given him with the constant chilling pressure of your stone coffin on his back.

Fulgrim - III

At least of all the possible soul markings he could have had, they were beautiful, worthy of display on his skin.

Flowers blossom in the most predictable and oddest of places. A rose bush on the back of his arm, forget-me-nots blooming where his lover skinned their knees. They all fade, but he admired their beauty as they last, often sketching them to reminisce on their strange charm and allure at later dates. 

What did you think of the flowers he gave you for mere moments in comparison to your slowly healing wounds? Sometimes he healed so quickly you might not have even noticed delphinium weaving up your torso before it disappeared, and he could imagine your panic at seeing lilies blossoming around your head as he was shot.

Still, he loved the idea that the two of you had gifted flowers to each other long before ever meeting, like the romantic lovers of old, and it was only right he should have such a perfect way to identify you.

He doesn’t find you before the heresy, he doesn’t find you before Rylanor finds him, but when he recovers? He’s determined.

You were the one pleasure he had not yet found, the one ecstasy he was yet to enjoy. Yes, he would find you and teach you the meaning of bliss, of the excess he deserved from you.

It would not be an easy task, scouring the galaxy for you, but he would not leave his search empty handed. He would simply have to make the task easier, make you easier to identify.

The blade doesn’t even register as painful as he carves marks for him to match onto himself.

He just can’t wait, and when he finds you, he can even decorate himself better too - he’s already begun designing how he wants trails of flowers coming down from around his horns, creating designs on his scales, oh he will look so perfect.

Perturabo - IV

Dreams were a waste of time, sleeping was a waste of time. 

There was always work to be done.

He had no use for the weakness that came from sleeping, from the exposure, the vulnerability it presented - if it were not for the biological requirement he would have done away with it all together. He could only be grudgingly thankful that his superior genes meant he needed very little sleep, and when he did, he was rarely cursed with such frivolity as dreams.

Until recently. 

Now, wherever he slept, he dreamt, but these dreams weren’t his own, they were not the past, the present or the future certainty of iron. They were another’s dreams, infecting his own, weakening him with laugher, and sunlight and- 

He slept less. 

Already he slept little, but now he pushed his primarch biology to the maximum, using every advantage, every stimulant, pushing himself beyond the maximum of exhaustion and ignoring what came when he closed his eyes.

It worsened. 

Butterflies haunted him, a swarm of great yellow swallowtails fluttering in the corner of his eye, disappearing when looked at.

The phantom touch of a hand caressing his chin.

A whisper asking him why, begging him to come to bed.

Another cup of recaff is brought to his workshop, he ignores the ribbon swaying in an invisible breeze on the handle.

Jaghatai Khan - V

The fields of Chogoris were perfect as always for riding, the thundering of hooves carrying him far over the barren grasslands. He had no destination in mind, just a simple ride where his hair could flow freely through the winds, but like always he found himself wandering in the direction it pointed. 

The compass had been a constant companion on his wrist, a marking that the tribal leaders told him would bring him a fortune greater than any lands he conquered.

It did not sit idly on his wrist, luckily not pointing so some distant planet across the galaxy, but only across the mountains and great blue seas. He took great pleasure in seeing it move, pointing across the horizon as he wondered where you were exploring today, hoping you had the same wanderlust and need to run as he did.

When he found you, he found perfection, a person made wholly for him. You matched him at every turn, supported and uplifted him, and better yet like him you did not age. His compass stopped spinning, morphing into a stunning tattoo that captured the very essence of the two of you combined.

It pained him greatly, when he had to leave you behind in charge of ruling Chogoris in his absence, but coming back to you with the galaxy a safer place and the knowledge that one day he’d be able to take you to see the stars by his side, once these crusades were over.

You didn’t age, they had all the time in the galaxy once his work was done, and he could not think of anyone better to take care of his beloved home planet.

The heresy was a mess, he worried for you constantly, but you were safe, Chogoris was safe, and he was to return to reinforce the Yasan sector where his homeworld resided now that it was all over.

You were not safe, you were GONE! 

The Great Khan raged, he knew what those foul eldar did to those they took.

The Drukhari would know no peace, they would know nothing but pain, and he swore unto every power that he would find you once more - what he wouldn’t give to have his compass back, what he wouldn’t give to have you by his side once more.

Leman Russ - VI

He has no idea how he’s ever meant to find his mate. Not that it stops him from trying, just that it’s a stupid idea trying to find a soulmate among quintillions of humans by tasting what the other eats. 

Another downside being that their diet is decidedly shit.

Wet slop, wet slop, wet slop.

It’s always the same, no native fruit, fauna, meat - just wet slop, once a day, every other day. Which of course, narrowed it down to just over half of the human population’s factory workers or something similar.

While the slop wasn’t tasteless per say, at the very least he was providing interesting flavours for them, fresh meat, ale - everything you need in life.

More wet slop. 

Though he supposes it's a lie to say that’s all he ever tastes, on occasion the taste of harsh copper tinged blood fills his mouth, and he knows for certain it’s not his.

Wet slop, wet slop, slightly drier (but still pretty wet) slop.

He never thinks to complain about wet slop again when he starts tasting the dry, ashy mix of militarum rations, he can only hold on to some dying hope that his mate will preserve. 

Even knowing what fate it is that awaits them, he can’t wait to take care of them properly, he’ll make sure they never eat slop again.

Rogal Dorn - VII

Tick, tick, tick. 

It makes no sound but he can mentally hear it ticking down constantly, like a metronome. The inevitability of his demise marching towards him, one tick at a time.

Ticking down to the moment he meets his soulmate, his other half, the one who will ‘complete him’. 

He’s heard the stories of people never having a care in the world about soulmates who meet them and fall in love. Worse yet, he’s seen it happen in even the most stoic of his brothers and sons. 

It was the ultimate distraction, and he had to ban the practice for the sake of the legion.

Tick, tick, tick.

Dread looms over him as he tries to shove the feeling down and finish the blueprint in front of him.

He must not lose focus, he must complete his mission, he must stand strong.

He can’t afford to love somebody, not with his duty. 

There is a plan in place, at least. Once he meets them, he will inform his most loyal sons, who will dutifully escort them away, off planet if necessary - relocate them somewhere remote and far away, never to inform him of their location. 

He will remain steadfast.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

Konrad Curze - VIII

Inky blackness spills across his hands out across the deep grey cobbles, accompanied by the flooding taste of iron on his tongue.

Another worthless piece of criminal scum brought to justice. His rancid little accomplices would meet their swift ends soon also. 

The night is silent except for their screams, the snapping of their bones, the squelch of their organs. And the slowly fading gurgling of their victim in the alleyway behind. A shame he had been late to kill them before they inflicted their crimes upon the world, but at least they could die knowing justice had been served.

He organises the drab grey corpses to be skinned before deciding to drag the victim over to see his work, a rare act of kindness, showing at least someone his great deeds and handiwork. They might have lived if he sought medical attention for them first, but then one might have gotten away…

More pitch black liquid was leaking from their mouth, interspersed with little white bubbles now fading. He could hear their heart stuttering as he reached down to pick them up, they had only moments now - and red exploded across his hands. 

Sanguinius - IX

He spends his youth chasing it down across the sky, flying up as far as the atmosphere will allow him before diving down and letting it snap back. 

It was a guide to him, across the barren landscape - that single, unbreakable red thread that ribboned through the air with him wherever he went. He never felt alone with you tethered to him, no matter how far you were.

He grows older and sees more of the universe, and of the future, and the happiness wavers, but meeting you is still the single best day of his life. You’ll be happy together for as long as you both live. 

Time seems to pass in a dreamlike state, living together, loving together freely - he understands the word ‘soulmate’ now.

Even with his inevitable doom on the horizon he takes great joy in living life with you, knowing at least he can make arrangements to keep you safe and cared for in his absence. 

It’s late 003.M31 when he sees it, and feels it will be soon.

How could he ever bear to tell you?

No, no, it would break you. Instead, he’ll ask his closest brother to take care of you for a short while, Horus would keep you well in his absence, he would make sure you were alright for him.

He’s alone, the thread snapped and tattered not meters out in front of him, leading to the cold void of space, like the void where he should feel you.

Blood fills the room, blood fills his lungs, he can just barely distinguish the thread from the red around it. He closes his eyes and hopes he’ll see you when he opens them.

Ferrus Manus - X

His fingertips are a dull black, bleeding the way up his hands and fading towards his wrist. Everyone who looks at him knows what it means - soulmate. He’ll touch them somewhere and mark them forever, and his own stains will bloom to light with colour.

Stoic as he is, even he can’t help but feel an undercurrent of excitement, there is someone out there for him, someone who will match him pace for pace, who will understand and balance him. 

He’s observed soulmates from afar on Medusa as he became a folk-tale, seen how they improve upon each other. The idea of someone existing who he could improve and would in turn improve him was thrilling.

They were gone now, after the fight.

It was a gruelling one, the great silver wyrm Asirnoth was not an easy beast, and though victory was ultimately his, as he examined his newly coated necrodermis he couldn’t help but wonder if the price was far too steep.

In their absence, he would simply have to pick up the slack in improving himself, there was no place for such weakness.

Angron - XII

Words plastered across his skin in angry red, the red of his own fresh blood, “My deepest apologies, my Lord, I didn’t mean-”

The words confused him as a child. Would he overhear them spoken from the mouth of another tortured soul to a cruel master, only to never see them again as they were torn apart? There were no happy endings for soulmates among slaves, there were no happy endings among slaves full stop.

Nothing removed the words, no cut or injury - it would just scab right over and words reform over scarred skin.

He spent every day waiting in agony for the words to start burning, for they day he’d hear them uttered, but that day never came.

He eventually understood what the context would inevitably be once his genefather retrieved him. 

He also understood something else, he did not need some silly little soulmate just waiting for him to wrap a hand around their neck when the nail bit. 

Roboute Guilliman - XIII

The 41st Millennium was exhausting.

A crumbling Imperium, dead brothers, fanatical worshippers, constant pain and exhaustion, the armour of fate-

Quite frankly, when he caught whichever son, serf or other decided pranking him was a good idea theoretically or practically he was going to wring them by the next.

It started with a child’s pacifier on his desk. Is that what they thought of him now? In secret? A petulant child? Perhaps they were instead mocking his father.

Following that, the occasional child’s toys or items would appear in his quarters, on his desk, in his bed, on one occasion in his bath. 

The investigations turned up nothing, and the entire Macragge’s Honour was on tense high alert. His sons were furious, running everyone ragged with increased patrols and interrogations.

Worse yet, someone had begun stealing from him. 

Just little things he thought he’d misplaced in his exhaustion at first, but then they couldn’t be found. A report here, a cup of recaff put down and never picked up again there…

Finally, after several long years, the rumours escape from the tight circle of sons when a colourful toddler’s sock is seen on his armour while he gives a speech. 

However, what follows is not what he had expected, the serfs watching were celebrating for him - a rare soulmate bond, receiving your other half’s lost items. He feels a little foolish for not having put it together in hindsight, but still such a bond was a rarity compared to a red string or first words, he had never assumed he would…

Still, the relief is palpable, and he feels himself growing excited over the thought of a soulmate, someone to be his other half in a lonely galaxy. Soon enough you’d be old enough to communicate through lost items - those missing reports might very well be a boon if they led you to him.

It sets him at ease to know you’re well cared for, the quality of items found indicates you’re from a good, moderately wealthy family and will likely have a good quality of life.

You must be seven or eight when he finds a piece of parchment in the armoury. He sees colourful scribbles and his heart soars, a drawing for him to treasure till he meets you. He mentally calculates the space he’ll need to make to display it on his office wall, should he have it framed perhaps-

It stays in his quarters, buried at the bottom of a hidden lock box, never to be seen again.

A drawing of a happy family, he supposes. A perfect family, if the ears weren’t quite so long.

Mortarion - XIV

Everybody knew that on midnight of the Terran new year all soulmates switched bodies for 24h until you met them in person. It was always utter pandemonium, from active warzones to school teachers, once both partners were of age, no one was safe.

Mortarion had thought he was safe, and had thought incorrectly. Even being a daemon prince of Nurgle could not save him from the machinations of fate.

He hadn’t kept track of the date, so it was even more jarring when he woke up on a small, battered palette, back aching and joints popping, wondering what had happened in the warp to bring him to such a place.

A mundane room, on a mundane hive world, in a mundane body. A weak, fragile human body, not a weapon to hand. Panic begins to seize him, weak, weak, weak- he was weak all over again, and nothing he could possibly do would give him strength.

It’s an effort that leaves fingers bleeding and lungs heaving to rip out meagre furniture, piling it against the single door, barricading him in for the duration. He could endure a single day, he could- 

It would be every year now. He was bound to this fragile little mortal shell. By the Grandfather- they, they were in his body. So preoccupied by his own predicament he’d failed to even consider that another was in his body right now.

He could only imagine what they were feeling, the confusion, the horror, the revulsion. Being trapped in his rotting, decaying body, the sick scent of putrefaction, being stuck in the garden - without the mental blessings or fortitude to endure his fate.

He could endure a single day trapped in the horror of your failing mortal body, but could you withstand his corruption, what had he made of you? 

Magnus the Red - XV

Which one, which one. 

If he got this wrong - if he got this wrong he lost them forever, the potential of ever meeting them was gone.  

But it was his fault, he had to save his legion, his sons, and he was fairly sure he was right… No, he was sure he was right.

The ceremonial knife hovers over his right eye, a trade, a price he must pay to save his sons from the flesh-change. 

An eye was a heavy price for anybody to pay, but for someone who shared a pair of eyes with their soulmate? If he cut the wrong one out he would never be able to find them, that was the true price he paid here today, losing the chance to meet his other half.

He was always confident, thus far he had always known best, but deep down, in his gut, he had a sinking feeling he couldn’t shake that no matter what he did he would get today wrong in one way or another.

He switches, the blade lingering over his left socket, hands shaking.

There just wasn’t enough time, he had to choose now… 

Horus Lupercal - XVI

It’s saddening, understandable, but saddening. He looks down at his wrist to see his mortal soulmate’s time ticking away, second by second. He knows precisely when they’ll die, which is in 6 years, 2 months, 11 days, 4 hours, 32 minutes, and 12, 11, 10... 

He’s come to terms with it, he’ll enjoy the time he gets with them, after all - they’ll be meeting for the first time shortly, and he’ll give them a better life than any human could ever dream of having for what’s left of it.

It’s bittersweet meeting them, but there’s something wrong, the look of vague horror on their face, he doesn’t quite-

He looks down at their arm, at his timer, the countdown to his own demise. He promised himself he wouldn’t but he can’t stop himself.

He- he’s a primarch. He- 

Why does he only have 15 years left.

Lorgar Aurelian - XVII

The last thing he was expecting to wake up to was neat calligraphy on the inside of his wrist, ‘Are you in a cult or something? Do you know how weird it is to walk about with crazy symbols all over your face?’

He stares in shock for a long time before falling to his knees before the altar in his room, praises for The One falling from his lips in prayers and hymns and thanks.

The One had seen fit to bless him with a soulmate, the greatest gift, a second half to his soul. After so long without he had thought…

No matter, he could write with them, speak with them. They clearly did not understand, but that did not matter, they would come to learn through him. 

Kor Phaeron would be so pleased, he had always admonished his lack of soulmate bond as a flaw within him to be punished, one strike for every day he went unblessed. A mark that he was not devout enough to be honoured with such a boon from The One.

He begins to write, paragraphs forming over every free inch of skin, ‘My dearest beloved, we have so much to speak on. These markings are of no mere false cult, you should bear them with the utmost pride as they-’

Vulkan - XVIII

Feeling his soulmate’s strong emotions and the occasional smatterings of thoughts to go along with them often happened at inopportune times, but never failed to make him smile - after all, he had a beloved little treasure waiting for him somewhere in the galaxy.

He was even managing to narrow down planets based on thoughts you’d had about the weather, terrain and such…

It pulled him through the hardest of times, your happiness, kindness, those little thoughts you unwittingly shared pushed him forward through the worst of the campaign, even your sadness, or anger reminded him of what he was fighting for, and it made him happy still to help you through it.

He’d found a correlation, the stronger your emotions, the more he felt them, with little wisps of thoughts to match.

Long nights are spent wondering what you feel from him, whether his joy at experiencing the bond bleeds through, whether feeling his strength makes you feel safe. When you finally meet you’ll be able to talk to each other from across the galaxy. He could speak with you while fighting campaigns, not having to truly leave you - he was so lucky to have such a bond.

Fear. Fear, fear, fear, fear. 

You were deathly afraid, so afraid it had his own hearts pumping as if he were in the midst of death throes in a fierce battle and not relaxing in the forge. Your thoughts are no help, an indecipherable jumble of utter terror.

In his mind’s eye he sees the snapping of jaws, wild and demonic in nature, and then he doesn’t feel fear ever again in his long, long life.

Corvus Corax - XIX

Long, dark tendrils, stretching all the way down his right arm and half his back in a dizzying pattern of feathers, swirls and concentric shapes. A soulmate tattoo, or so he’d been taught by the slaves of Lyceaus that raised him. His soulmate would have the other matching half.

Many long nights were spent envisioning the type of person you’d be: a painter, who would be the soft lover to his harsh edges, in another fantasy you’re a fearsome warrior, battling alongside him.

He always imagined in every scenario that they represented freedom, the freedom he’d achieve for everyone.

He never imagines he’d meet you like this.

You’re everything he ever wanted, a freedom fighter, a radical, rising up against the unjust, and you’re here with him, on Lyceaus. By some cruel twist of fate you’d split through his fingers, having never been found despite being on the same desolate mining moon.

You were also dead. Slaughtered. A casualty. You’d died for freedom and you’d died a slave.

Face down and unmoving on the cold metal floor, blood pooling beneath you and hair splayed out wildly around you from the odd angle of your fall. Your half of the tattoo is deliberately exposed on your back.

He wonders if you looked at it and dreamt of freedom too.

Alpharius/Omegon - XX

It was rare, but not unheard of, to have two names on your wrists.

Alpharius & Omegon.

They weren’t on opposite wrists like two names traditionally were, but instead together on your left with matching handwriting and flourishes. 

You don’t find them, however, they find you. 

Life is a whirlwind those first few weeks, folded into cargo boxes, moved through ships, passed hands at least a dozen times before finally arriving in your new ‘home’. 

It was easy at first, understanding the need for secrecy when they tentatively explained the situation to you. 

It got harder very fast. No more family, no more friends, this room was your life now, and they were your only point of contact with the world at large. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you, or you them, it was just difficult. 

Long hours away, severe isolation, all the secrets weighing heavy on your heart and head.

You wish you could remember what sunlight felt like.

Slowly, slowly, you stop responding to much stimulus at all. You don’t greet them at the door with zeal, you don’t respond when they ask questions, eyes blank.

Later, you wake up alone in a hospital. Spotty memory, no recollection of the planet you’re on, a mysteriously full bank account, house deed in your name, the feeling you should be remembering something important, and a missing left hand.

Bonus: The Emperor

The sheer panic in the throne room the day that the first injury appeared on him from absolutely nowhere was completely unparalleled. Custodes were shouting orders, apothecaries were being summoned, the whole palace was on high alert for an invisible intruder of some sort.

Meanwhile, the Emperor himself was staring down at his freshly skinned knee with a sort of strange excitement not seen before in many a millenia. 

The hunt to find you is immediate, not only since you inadvertently pose a great threat to the Emperor and thus Imperium with your ability to inflict your own injuries onto him but because he wanted you - he’d only waited tens of thousands of years to meet the one destined to be his other half, the one worthy to the the soulmate of the Emperor of Mankind.

He never gets to meet you, but sometime in the 35,000 you are brought to him, alike in corpse-like nature. Despite this, you’ve been dressed up in exquisite finery, fit for your role.

The custodes climb the golden throne, gently nestling you onto his lap, carefully pulling a skeletal arm around to support you.

Thousands of years go by. 

[fyxestroll]

Facets

[fyxestroll]

commission from tww

[fyxestroll]

@solspina this your man?

i love mephiston

[fyxestroll]

Can we see the interaction between Clonegrim (from Ember Phoenix comics) and the High Consort during their first meeting?

When the clone enters the chamber, the High Consort almost feel like they have been thrown back in time. He looks like the Fulgrim they remember when they close their eyes. Not the warped being he's since become but the person he was before he fell to Chaos. It's nostalgic.

The clone does not take a single step further into the chamber, standing with his back merely a foot against the door that shuts and locks behind him. The custodes watch him like a hawk, waiting for any excuse to cut him down where he stands. His genetic template would not be granted the same patience.

He opens his mouth to say something but then he meets their gaze and his mouth slams shut as he looks down, staring at the floor with such intensity that it might just catch ablaze.

The High Consort finds that they don't mind the impoliteness of the gesture as even the brief glimpse of his eyes makes them reminiscence once more upon what once was. Because even the look in his eyes are the same as the one the third son had, all those years ago when they first met. He was so young back then. Stronger and wiser than most but still a just a boy in their eyes. He had approached them, eyes, filled with a mixture of hope, pride, joy... and a deeprooted anxiety. The fear of being rejected.

Back then, Fulgrim had been so worried about not being enough, even if he had done his best to hide it behind a veil of confidence and bravado. He never managed to quite let go of this insecurity of his, no matter how hard the High Consort tried.

This one, however, fears being rejected for a completely different reason. He has the same face, voice, even memories of the original. Physically, they are identical, to the last blood cell. A perfect copy.

And that's the problem, isn't it? This isn't Fulgrim, not really. That child is still dancing to Slaanesh's tune, growing more and more depraved with each day that passes.

(And yet, the High Consort can't help but wonder if they would not forgive him in a heartbeat, if he made an attempt to turn his life around. The thought is maddening.)

Finally, the High Consort grows tired of the silence and issues a single command. "Come closer."

The clone of Fulgrim flinches like he's been shot but despite his obvious fear, he treads closer and closer still when the High Consort does not tell him to stop. It's only when he stands right in front of them, an arm's length away, that he comes to a halt. Still, he dares not to look them in the eyes.

Again, the High Consort finds that they do not mind his lack of manners. Instead, they take the opportunity to study him up close.

Visually, he looks identical to Fulgrim, not a mole out of line. But looking at him like this, there are signs that they can not ignore.

Fulgrim favored his hair kept loose and down to his upper back. The clone, however, appears to have chosen to have his hair tucked behind his ears and cut so that it ends just above his shoulders. Then there's the way they carry themselves. Both stand tall, backs straight and dignified but the clone appears more withdrawn, like he would rather stand at the back of the room rather than in the center. Fulgrim never hesitated to take up as much space as he could, to be the center of attention.

And as similar as their eyes are, there's something unfamiliar about the one that stands in front of the High Consort. A light. Not necessarily wrong, just... different.

Clinically, they slide their fingers underneath the clone's chin and tilt it up, forcing him to finally meet their gaze. Like this, the worry and fear he feels is even more evident and the High Consort forces themself to ignore the way their heart aches with sympathy to focus on the truth in front of them.

Ah. So that's it. This is not Fulgrim but nonetheless, it is their son.

The hand they used to raise his chin moves to gently cup his face instead and their face changes from cold and analytical into a smile that they only reserve for a select few.

"You must be weary from your travels. Why don't we sit down and have a talk?"

The clone- they really need to think of a name for him- blinks once, twice in confusion before realization and recognition dawns on them, for those were the exact words the High Consort said to his template when he first arrived on Terra. And just like that, all the fear melts away and is replaced with an expression of heart-aching relief. With shaking legs, they take a step forward before all but collapsing at their feet, burying his face against them.

The High Consort raises a hand to stop the custodes from reaching for their weapons before lowering it to tuck the clone's hair back behind his ear, the way he prefers it. He shudders, a shaky inhale as he tries to keep himself from weeping. Despite this, the High Consort can still feel a few tears dampening their clothes. But that's alright. A child should always feel free to weep in the arms of their parent.

[fyxestroll]

TIGHT SHIRT SANGUINIUS

Switching clothes

Primarch on primarch slander 2: electric boogaloo

[fyxestroll]

Ao3 does not need an algorithm, you're just lazy

Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE

Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted

Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative

Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying

[fyxestroll]

The Angel by jaxkydra

[fyxestroll]

My brother, my phoenix, my hope, wing your way through the darkness and defy fortune’s spite. Revive from the ashes and rise! (c)

[fyxestroll]

haunted

[fyxestroll]

Angels fear to tread

Summary: when you witness the brutal truth of the blood angels and their primarch, will you stay by his side?

Tw: canon typical violence, sexual content.

A/N: as always not proofread

Tags:Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @lemon-russ @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst @kit-williams @iluminatka16 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @bookandyarndragon @thisuserislilsilly

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Blood dripped from Sanguinius’ hair as he looked back at you. The twitching corpse of a marine, his own son, still spasming in his grip. Time froze as, eyes darted from the bloodied carcass to his face, you clutched your hand to your chest and took a step backwards.

Your personal guard.

Dead.

The loading bay was silent, save for the steady drip drip drip of scarlet staining the tarnished floor. A single light of flickering golden prometheum cast a weak light across the room, unable to chase away the shadows cast in its wake from the ruby embossed tanks and galvanised weapon racks that littered the munitions room.

You weren't supposed to see this.

The angels scarlet robes did little to hide the growing dark stain that splattered across the satin sheen of the hem as, with a final hiss, the Astartes stilled.

"Sanguinius" your voice was a harsh in the silence as you glanced between him and the exit.

"It's not what you think" he whispered, dropping the corpse and raising both hands towards you. "I promise it's not what you think" his chest tightened as he stepped towards you and you recoiled away.

"Please don't be afraid" the primarch's voice cracked as he spoke, wincing as you shook your head. "Just let me explain"

"why....I don't....I..."

Even from 8 feet away, he could hear your heart hammering in your chest, your breath wheezing through your lungs. You stared at him like you didn't know him, all recognition gone and replaced with a primitive fear that raced through your body.

He hated it.

Sanguinius clenched his jaw as he refused to look at you, instead reaching for the flask at his hip. Popping the cap, he poured the contents over his hands, grimacing as the smell of sterile alcohol mingled with iron.

"you killed him. You killed Astos"

Your voice froze him. A wracking sob catching in your throat as he finally looked back at you, wiping the last of the bloody stain from his porcelain skin.

"I did, but I-"

"Are you going to kill me too?"

"No!" His voice came out harsher than he intended. A echoing bark that had you shuddering under the shadow of his wings, flared and puffed in anger. Indignation dying as quickly as it rose as he watched you shake and stagger backwards.

"No. No. I would never hurt you, please don't ever think that"

Jaw clenched he took another step towards you, biting back a growl as you, once again stepped away from him.

"Don't do this. Don't look at me like that"

It made his hearts hurt, an ache like a bolter round crept through his chest as you blinked up at him with wide, tearful eyes.

"He was kind. And you..."

"just listen to me"

You ran, spinning on your heels as you tore towards the door. Sanguinius bristled and lunged, hating the small whine that erupted from you as you heard him make chase. He reached for you, fingers brushing the warm sweat damp cotton of your shirt.

"Stop my love, I don't want to-"

A frustrated snarl slipped from him as you skidded round the pockmarked chassis of the baal predator tank, slipping from his grasp as you squeezed between the wall and the muddied tread.

"Sanguinius please"

"He was lost!"

The angel's voice was bitter and forced as he shouted. He listened as the sound of your footsteps slowed and halted.

Sanguinius clenched his fists, pacing the side of the tank, eyes locked to the small shadow cast by you against the stained wall.

"His mind was gone, lost to blood lust and rage. He wasn't himself anymore." He slowed and stopped, inhaling deeply. Your scent lay thick in his nose, sweet but undertoned with bitter fear and panic.

"It is a risk all my son's bare. A flaw in the geneseed. In MY geneseed. As their primarch, it is only right that I..."

He petered off listening as your feet scuffed along the cold floor. You were fast.

But not fast enough.

You charged towards the door, your cry muffled by the large hand that clamped over your mouth as Sanguinius grabbed you and hauled you close against his chest. Taking a knee he hunched over you, pulling you close to him as hung wings swept around to shield you both.

Your breath was hot against his palm and he felt wet tears dripping through his fingers. He felt sick as he held you struggling against him, your screams and wails muffled by his hand.

"It wasn't him any more. It wasnt Astos"

Sanguinius brushed his lips over the top of your head, feeling your body slowly slacken beneath him as you cried.

"I know. I know my love, I'm sorry"

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

You woke in your bed, crimson satin tumbled around you as you sat up rubbing your eyes. You frowned, finding yourself naked beneath the sheets save for an oversized shirt.

The room was dark, the feint umber light of a dull fire slowly crackled to cinders in the fire place, shining softly across the red and gold banners littering the cast iron walls.

"Sanguinius?" You mumbled, blinking through the darkness.

A large shadow separated from the black corner of the room, golden eyes reflecting brightly as the primarch stepped forward.

"I'm here, my love" he soothed, seating himself at the edge of the massive poster bed. He reached for you, hesitating for a moment before pulling away with a muted sigh.

You sat in silence for a moment, and unspoken tension hovering over you like a storm waiting to break. He was shirtless and you watched the muscles ripple along his back, spasming upwards as he rolled a broad shoulder. The muscle continued to twitch, an uncomfortable cramp in the joint of his wing causing his pinion to bristle.

You crept forwards, perching on your knees as you slid your hand along the expanse of scared tissue, feeling him tense under the touch for a split second.

Wordlessly you rubbed the muscle, using your small fingers to work the knots in his back loose. You ran your fingers along the radius of his wing, satin soft feathers shivering under your touch as you massaged and stretched the appendage.

"You only get this tense when you're worried" you mumbled, pressing your forehead against his spine. You felt yourself rising and falling with each deep lungful of air as he sat silent for a moment.

"I am worried" he finally replied, his voice flat as he continued to stare straight ahead.

The silence ebbed and flowed, broken only by heavy breaths and the gentle snap of burning tinder. Your fingers making deft work of the twitches and spasms that wracked the angels torso.

"I'm sorry"

Sanguinius turned to look over his shoulder as you spoke.

"I'm sorry. I should've listened to you. I should've trusted you and instead I panicked"

You felt his eyes burning into you as you continued to focus on his spine, kneeding the taught skin under your palm.

"I saw you standing over him and the blood and I just-"

Sanguinius turned, pushing you flat to the mattress as he hovered over you with a hand either side of your body. His wings spread wide over the bed as he lifted a finger, running it along your cheek.

"Do I really scare you so much" he rasped, tracing his thumb along your lip.

You shook your head, leaning softly against him palm.

"No, I wasn't afraid of you. I was afraid of thinking I might not know all of you"

The angel inhaled a shuddering breath as you spoke, watching keenly as you lifted up your own hands to cup his face.

"But I know you, Sanguinius. And I love you"

His lips found yours in a desperate kiss as you tangled your hands through his golden hair. It was desperate and sweet, electric hot as he ran his palm along your thigh. Sanguinius clung to you like he was drowning and you were air.

His hands crowded you as he stole the breath from your body, only pulling his lips away to press kisses along your jaw and throat. A low grumble vibrated through his chest as he twisted your shirt over your head, trailing featherlight caresses along your chest.

"say it again" he hummed, running his tongue along a pebbled nipple. "Tell me you love me"

You back arched, pushing your chest towards him as he nipped the sensitive skin.

"I love you, my angel"

A gasp escaped you as his fingers dipped between your thighs, sliding inside you as they ran along your walls and curled until stars blinked in your vision and your body was on fire.

"Sanguinius please"

Smiling lazily, his eyes trawled down your body, watching you writhe as you came.

"Say it again"

"I love you" you gasped, biting his lips as he bent low for another kiss.

"I love you" you moaned as he slid himself between your legs, sheathing himself inside you as his teeth found your pulse point.

He moved slowly against you as his lifted your thigh again his hip, grinding himself against your heat. He was slow, dragging his length slowly out, until the tip rested against your twitching hole, before fully seating himself flush against you.

His eye flashed as he drew another ragged cry from you, feeling your walls clench around him as you came. His wings flared above you as he drew back, pulling both of your legs up towards your chest as he thrust.

"Throne, Sanguinius I can't"

"Hush my sweet, my love. look how good youre doing"

He pulled your legs apart, pressing his thumb down against your stomach and tracing a circle as his hips jerked.

You threw your head back, whining as his thrusts became more erratic. You clawed at the sheets, nails snagging against loose thread as you felt his stomach tense and a low growl ripple through him as he came. His cock twitching inside you as he filled you with hot spend.

You lay stunned for a moment, feeling his hot breath against your skin as he hovered over you. As he pulled away he lifted your leg, pressing a soft kiss to your ankle as he rose to his feet. You listened to him move around, before seating himself next to you and jumping slightly when he pressed a warm, damp cloth to your aching heat. You stared at the canopy above you, lost in the feeling of warm water and his fingers on your skin.

"We should still talk about what happened"

Sanguinius hummed, running the cloth along your thighs.

"We do. But maybe not tonight."

You turned your head, your heart screaming as he smiled at you with a soft devotion that treated to claw tears to the surface.

"Maybe not tonight"

[fyxestroll]

Do you have a general guide line for requests?

Hi!

My guidelines are simple tbh

Please don't request any non-con or rape.

If you have a specific scenario in mind be as descriptive as you can. Otherwise i just let my creativity run.

Lastly, please be patient <33

[fyxestroll]

aaaaa its so cuteee!!

Adorable Teeth

Summary: You notice something new about Sanguinius Sanguinius/gn!Reader

Author‘s Note: Many thanks to @fyxestroll for inspiring me!

You stretch out your limbs, looking over at Sanguinius laying on the couch, massive wings fluffed up from all the humidity in the air. It turns out that temperatures can be hot enough that even a primarch won‘t move more than absolutly necessary. You take your glass again, only to realize that it‘s still empty and after a moment of consideration stand with a grumble. „How come that the Imperium still hasn’t invented self-refilling water glasses?“

Sanguinius shrugs with both his wings, feather rusteling, eyes still closed. „I don‘t know… maybe I could ask Perturabo to invent one, he is good with this kind of stuff.“

„Please do so quickly, I can feel my skin melt as I‘m forced to stand here.“ You complain as you refill your cup and take a sip of somehow still cool water. 

Sanguinius cracks open one eye, watching you. „That doesn‘t sound very healthy.“ He flaps one wing, sending a gust of wind through the room. 

„I‘m also not feeling very healthy… how are you still looking so good?“ You sigh dramatically as you ruffle his hair. 

Another shrug accompanied by a small lopsided grin revealing bright white teeth. You aren‘t sure if you‘ve seen him smile with his mouth open before. „If it makes you feel better, I‘m not feeling very pretty right now. More like a rotisserie chicken to be honest.“

You set down your glass, stomping over to the couch and grabbing Sanguinius head with both of your hands. „I am so jealous of you right now.“

„I… I‘m sorry?“ Sanguinius mumbles, sounding a little confused. Might just be the weather. 

„You don‘t have to be, it‘s not your fault.“ You shrug and brush a golden curl out of his face. „Oh, I‘ve never really noticed your fangs before!“

The small smile vanishes from Sanguinius face and he goes limp in your hands. 

„They are adorable, you know! Very cute.“ You press a small kiss onto Sanguinius nose. 

„Are… are you really sure?“ The angel asks, sounding unusually insecure.

You nod enthusiastically, pressing more kisses onto his nose and cheeks. „Yes absolutly! Absolutly adorable, very cute!“ You grin and press your forehead against the primarch‘s. „No need to be worried.“

Sanguinius smiles again, leaning into your touch. „Thank you my love…“

[fyxestroll]

Since you said it's okay to send requests, may I request Mortarion yearning?

pairing: mortarion x reader (gn.)

warnings: none

notes: this turned out a tad bit angstier than i intended tbh

Sickening.

Absolutely sickening

This spell. This curse you’ve put on him is worse than any disease he’s come across. It clouds his mind, makes his body weak and worst of all, it makes him happy to see you.

You.

A witch.

A vile, evil, disgusting witch.

He yearns, he looks forward to when he must cross paths with the Fifteenth. Oh, the idea makes him want to hurl! But your curse! Your little curse!

It makes him giddy! Relaxed!

It makes the presence of Magnus tolerable!

Magnus!

Of all brothers!

He watches. He longs. He yearns.

You stand across the hall from him, surrounded by a small crowd. Your clothing is made from fine Prosperian fabric cut and fashioned in a way that blends your home planet's and Imperial fashion. Your jewellery is in a similar style.

Masterfully, you entertain the crowd, reciting poems and excerpts with flourish. Occasionally, you would include your witchcraft and create moving figures from water to visualise whatever you were talking about.

You shone in their attention, their amazement becoming an element to be woven in your performance.

The mere title of Remembrances did not fit your talent.

Mortarion seethes at his realisation.

You are vile.

You are cruel.

A wicked witch.

He reminds himself that you are all three. You are no better than your master. In fact, you are worse.

But still, in his eyes, you shine. You become his focus. And the rest of the party becomes irrelevant.

Mortarion retreats further into the little corner he’s sequestered for himself this evening. Near the food table, against the wall and away from his brothers (mainly Magnus) it was perfect. He could eat and brood all he wanted until he could excuse himself as usual.

But here’s the kicker.

It was perfect.

Until Magnus decided Mortarion needed some of his attention.

The large red bastard saunters into his little corner glass of wine in hand. Smuggly, he grins and pops a hors d'oeuvre into his mouth and washes it down with a swig from his cup.

Mortarion internally cringes.

The witch king looks him up and down and comments unwantedly, “You clean up well, brother. If I had not known better, I would have thought dirt and smog were as part of you as Sanguinius’ wings to his.”

Mortarion scowls, clenching his own glass. His group is so tight that it would not surprise him if he broke it.

He does not give Magnus the reaction he was expecting as Mortarion keeps his eyes on you. For once, your curse has a positive effect. It has prevented another very public incident of a brotherly quarrel.

But Magnus is Magnus, and soon he hears a knowing tut beside him, “Ah…I see,” The sorcerer king follows his locked gaze and shakes his head, “my student has caught your eye. Quite talented, are they not?” he puts a hand on his chin and fakes being deep in thought.

Then he gives Mortarion that look, “Though I believe it is not their skill in warpcraft that has caught your attention .”

He clenches his jaw.

That was enough for Magnus to know. A shit eating grin takes over Magnus’ expression.

No doubt this was prime entertainment for him.

He turns.

He calls out your name.

Mortarion holds himself back from taking out his remaining eye.

Time slows.

You approach, gracefully exiting from your little stage.

Mortarion’s hands clam up.

You are even more beautiful up close.

“Master,” you bow to Magnus, “Primarch Mortarion,” then to him. It is elegant, graceful.

Your curse acts up, making his heart begin to beat faster, more erratically. Magnus’ introductions fall on deaf ears. The one nice thing his ugly witch brother does for him is wasted as he gets lost in you.

This is the first time he’s seen you up close, the first time you’ve ever looked at him.

He’s only ever seen you from a distance, admiring observing you in your natural habitat. He had only done so in a failed attempt to find out more about your curse.

Your eyes are kind.

It’s the first thing he realises.

You look at him softly, gently. It makes him feel all too bare, and he finds himself seeking his usual clothing. This ill-fitting dress uniform showed too much, but it showed the best. He cleaned up nicely, in Magnus’ words.

What would you think of him outside the forced glamour of tonight?

You reach out, fingertips touching his wine glass. Instantly, it cools to a pleasant temperature, perfect for the beverage.

On instinct, he moves when he registers the temperature change. The sudden jerk of his arm causes the liquid to slosh. Wine spills from his glass and splashes you.

It splashed you

IT SPLASHED YOU.

SHITSHITSHITHSIT

Crimson stains your clothing, ruining it. You look at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

His heart squeezes.

He opens his mouth, attempting to sputter out an apology, any apology.

Magnus interrupts him before he can, protectively putting himself between Mortarion and you. He sends you away with a psychic message telling you to go to one of the hidden lounge areas. His brother gives him a disappointed look. There was no anger in it. Just disappointment.

“I had hoped you would see past your biases, brother.”

With that, the Crimson King leaves to follow after his protege.

Your curse tightens its grip on him, rearing its ugly head and reflecting all that he is lacking. His collar feels too tight, mask suddenly dysfunctional, hands clammy. Why had he even attended this damned ball?

He watches you and Magnus, backs turned and moving away.

A lump forms in his throat.

His chest aches.

And once again, alone in his sequestered corner, he curses you for cursing him.

[fyxestroll]

Shaking them a little harder than usual to show how much we like them

bonding with friends over your favourite fictional little guys

[fyxestroll]

murderous, doomed

alternate version under the cut

[fyxestroll]

Sweet Old Hereafter (2)

<<prev

pairing: sanguinius x reader (fem.)

description: why does the embrace of a stranger, a god feel so familliar?

warnings: mentions of blood

notes: ill post some requests soon-ish. haven't been feeling well and busy with school </3

To an extent, they had prepared for this, they had prepared for worse. Chapter Masters of the past had ensured so. Wards were placed, maintained for millennia and in Dante’s reign, improved but such precautions only delayed the inevitable.

The signs began within the death companies. Brothers lost to the Rage gained moments of twisted clarity, recognising brothers and acting as they were before they fell. Then the next night, without either care or awareness, they’d stalk the halls as if on an infiltration operation, slaughtering whoever stood in their way.

And this phenomenon was not limited to the Blood Angels. Three months ago, the Golden Sons had caught two battle brothers and a dreadnought of their death company attempting to hijack a transport ship headed for Baal. Other successor chapters have reported similar incidents.

Soon.

All the signs pointed to it.

Whatever it was, it would emerge soon from their gene-sire’s corpse.

But when it did. When the Chief Librarian had walked into his quarters and announced. “It has come.” Dante felt a primal sense of fear spark within him.

Foolishly, he had thought there would be more time, that it would stay dormant long enough to allow the chapter to rebuild.

Foolish indeed…

Promethium-induced flames burn in the evening sky. Embers cackle as the building burned, mocking him. Brothers in and out of armor run into the chapel with reckless abandon, attempting to purge the fire.

He hears his Sanguinary Guard wizz pass, giving chase on their jump packs. His vox bead comes to life with chatter, faceplate cogitators pinging information rune after information rune. All said the same.

An unknown flying object had flown past, attacking whoever it saw.

Firing up his jump pack, he leapt, his weary soul feeling the non-existent creak in his bones. He pulls himself up into the sky, a familiar weightlessness coming over him. The cogitators inside his helm perform a brief auspex scan, highlighting it a bright red.

Silently, he prays that his chapter will weather this storm as well.

By now, He has thoroughly wet your shirt, soaking it with His tears. The thin fabric sticks onto your sweaty skin creating an uncomfortable feeling. 

You could feel eyes on you—well, Him but His firm embrace ensured the two of you were entwined. He is still muttering apologies in a foreign tongue, voice becoming hoarse. The frequency has lessened but the sincerity remained.

Pity. 

You feel pity.

What an odd thing to feel for the Great Angel. 

A Primarch, a son of the Emperor, was the furthest thing you should pity. But as he cried, you couldn’t help it. Immodestly, He and His distress reminded you of yourself. Of you and the nights you spent curled up in a cot, reliving horrors you faced like a coward; nights where you cried for your sister and wept for a young boy you should have been proud of.

Compassion was inherent in humanity, it is it’s greatest gift and its greatest weapon. Compassion was what led the tribes of the Blood to spare the Great Angel and in turn rid Baalfora of its mutants. Pity does not have that sort of effect. Pity was not compassion.

But for a wretch like you, it was close enough.

Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around His neck. Sanguinius does not react negatively to your touch. He holds you tighter, in an almost bone-crushing manner and lets out a warbled sob. You half expect to be struck down by a bolt of light as a punishment for daring to hold Him. Divine punishment never came. Or maybe it was delayed. 

The most you felt was the overwhelming sense that this is right.

Becoming even more daring, you begin carding a hand through His hair. It was neither soft nor silky as you expected, instead, it was oily and covered in soot and grime. When was the last time He washed His hair?

You do not ask. You do not dare.

Sanguinius croons in approval, wordlessly telling you to continue. His wings sag as He lets out a breath, body relaxing. Your body strains to stand as He settles His weight on you, his armor doubling the mass.

Wings cover you, shielding you from the outside world and blocking the sight of anything but Him. It’s warm, to an almost uncomfortable extent, but safe. Against your better judgement, you let yourself relax into His hold, forgetting any and all decorum—not like this situation held precedent for such.

The spell of the moment is only broken by the sound of jet engines and the firm thunk of ceremite onto the wall’s reinforced surface.

Sanguinius was the first to react by unceremoniously lifting you off your feet and pulling you close to His chest. You fuss, of course, prey instincts taking over, and also no one appreciates being treated like a stuffed animal. His hold is tight, bone-crushing.

 It hurts.

Feathers cover your sight, making it so that you can only see slivers of what is happening. 

You see the lower half of an Angel clad in golden armour. He speaks. It’s Lord Commander Dante. You recognise it from his broadcast speeches. He speaks to the Primarch in a booming voice, exuding authority. Sanguinius talks back full of malice and with a rasp.

You do not understand what is being said as they speak in High Gothic.

Tensions rise, the air becomes electric, and silence becomes more pronounced. No one in the vicinity dared to move as the Primarch and Lord Commander conversed. It is not a friendly conversation. They do not talk to each other like father and son

This is not a reunion but a hostage negotiation. 

And unfortunately for you, you are the hostage.

Two figures, legends—a hero and a god to the mortals of Baal, stand off against each other. Sanguinius is hunched, ready to pounce and while you cannot see, the Lord Commander has likely assumed a similar position. A fight was brewing.

Your stomach twists.

Why are they fighting?

You cannot understand why.

Unless…

The Lord Commander recognises something foul with the Primarch.

You look up, taking a peek at His face. There, you see them: fangs. They are long and sharp, protruding from his upper jaw as he hissed at Commander Dante. You freeze at the sight of them, mind providing two words.

Monster.

Inhuman.

Panicked, you wiggle against his hold, hoping he’d drop you and you could somehow run to safety. Your actions result in the opposite, his hold becoming firmer. He (it?) looks down at you with puffy, blood red eyes, then—

Click!

The sound of a bolter being removed from its maglock. It echoes.

—he tosses both of you over the wall.

The feeling of free-falling is not unlike those dreamless dreams of the same manner. Though, instead of an agonising pull from the gut, it felt like you left your stomach, alongside your soul, behind entirely.

Heart pounding, you shriek, curses and more spewing from your lips as your hair whipped around. You keep your eyes on the yellow-green sky, hoping this was a bad dream. Sadly, dust gets caught in your eye, and the pain reminds you that this was sadly not a dream.

White feathers come into view as Sanguinius (the monster?) spreads his wings, slowing down your fall. The action lacked any of the finesse you’d expect from someone known for his flight. It was like seeing a runner be challenged by the act of putting one foot over the other. 

He heaves his breath and, with great effort, he flaps his wings, pushing up and forward. Increasing his speed, he leaves no time for your heart to steady. He flies against the wind, and soon the Arx Angelicum, the largest structure you’ve ever seen, is nothing more than a distant outline.

Your stomach itches. Dying felt too real of a possibility now.

Sanguinius flies throughout the night and only stops when exhaustion comes over him. By then, it was already morning. Clumsily, he lands on a craggy cliffside perch, sending you toppling while hitting the rocks, inertia sending him forward.

The cuts on your face sting mutedly, adrenaline numbing the pain. 

This time, you get onto your feet almost immediately and shakily. A quick view at the horizon tells you were far, far away from the Arx Angelicum. (You couldn’t even see the same mountains!)

You turn to the cloud of dust a couple of meters from you.

And you were stuck with what was likely a monster wearing the skin of the Great Angel.

Great! Great! You feel like crying a lot! 

Your hand grips your arm, fingernails digging into your skin. It hurts. It’s an old habit you could never get rid of. Not even your father’s and sister’s incessant nagging did anything to help.

Thone!

Your sister!

What would she think? What would she feel? What would happen to her? First, mother, then father and uncle and Hanif is as good as dead. Sure, she had her husband, but what if she gets divorced or widowed? You’re her only blood family left, and here you were on some random rock in Baal with its most dangerous predator playing with its food. If you didn’t by him, you’d die from the radiation.

And just your luck! You didn’t even have a ticker with you!

So this is what I get for not taking Sanguinala seriously, you joke, a sardonic smile on the edge of your lips. A lone tear slides down your cheek, followed by another and another until you realise you were full-on crying. 

The ground looked nice so you sat down on it, contamination be damned. If you were gonna die, you’d die doing whatever you want, and what you wanted right now was to wallow in your terrible circumstance.

Shortly, a shadow covers your view of the yellow-tinted blue sky. You could only groan as you come face to face with…whatever he is nearly chocking your own snot in the process. 

To say that he was unnaturally beautiful. His face was a work of fine art crafted by the Emperor Himself, sharp and soft in all the right places. It invoked something in you, an abnormal urge to be at his beck and call. The only thing that stops you from doing so is the odd queasiness the idea invokes.

He bleeds.

He bleeds from the side of his head, staining his golden blonde hair the same shade of crimson as the Angels’ armor.

Whatever he was—the real deal or impostor, he was at the very lead some form of human. Deep down, you already knew that. Somehow.

He pays his wound little mind, not even acknowledging its presence as blood covers his left eye.

Gaze trained on you, he observes, head tilted slightly to the right. You don’t dare to blink.

He kneels. An armored hand, gentle and curious, reaches out. Fingers graze your cheek before briskly moving to stroke your hair. He pulls you to his lap, letting you lie on it. Too exhausted, you can’t find it in yourself to be surprised or feel blessed by his actions.

Again. Again, he speaks that foreign tongue. It sounded unlike any language you’ve heard from pilgrims and tourists. The tone, sound and structure were entirely foreign—a rare instance. The countless tongues of humanity always had a similarity or two to one another.

His brows furrow. He repeats himself. This time, you hang onto each and every syllable. You piece together that he is asking you a question. You have not, however, figured out what he was asking.

At your lack of response, his voice becomes filled with worry. He repeats his question, this time adding something that shakes you to your core.

“What?!” you shout in your native Baalite.

He draws back, surprised at your outburst. Or more so, at the language you spoke.

Hesitantly, he says it again.

He says your name.

You never told him your name.

How does he know?

The pronunciation was a little different, foreign wrong but it was still the same.

You try to escape from his grasp, but it’s futile. His hold on your is tight, firm. You weren’t going anywhere soon. His eyes narrow into a predatory expression.

‘…, when did you learn how to speak Baalite?’

You—he??? SPOKE into your mind. It felt like a giant hand was squeezing your head as he did.

“I…” you choke, afraid and out of breath, but something compels you to speak, to speak the truth. “It is my… mother tongue.” In an instant, he releases his hold on you and you roll onto the ground unceremoniously.

Rising to his full height, his wings tensed and drooped. One was bent at an odd angle. Even then, even with his injuries, you immediately knew that standing before you is the Great Angel, the Brightest One, the noblest son of the Emperor, Sanguinius in the flesh.

The realisation is followed by an overwhelming urge to defer, to submit.

He looks down at His hands covered in your blood and then at you.

Anger. Grief. Rage. Overwhelming. All-consuming. He exudes all three. The air boils.

He changes.

He changes from an angel to a monster. Fangs grow from His upper jaw, feathers sharpen into blades, and slaughter clouds His vision.

You don’t dare breathe.

You can’t.

You can’t breathe. A heaviness settles into your chest like someone has sat on it.

You remain still, a feeble attempt at survival. You’re forced to look at Him, to watch as He pieces together the elements of your slaughter in His mind.

He hisses.

He charges.

You face divine punishment.