#wh40kcrack

[moodymisty]

Part 1 (some needed context)

Author's Note: Part two, as was requested. I need to stop listening to Halsey when I write, I always end up making things too verbose and hyperbolic.

Also pspspsps @rivalriotrenegade you wanted to be tagged in the sequel? Here you go.

Summary: Angron will be leaving soon, and he comes to take in a moment of you beforehand.

Relationships: Angron/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angron being Angron, Vague descriptions of death violence and gore, General 40kness, The most emotionally stunted man in the galaxy receives an affection, Historitor!Reader is scared but in love horny

Word Count: 1942

Guilliman hadn’t been pleased with the news. 

It had arrived to him via a distressed captain who had been attempting to deal with the issue discretely up until now, but in his attempts to track down their missing historitor, he had found you in Angron’s company. You didn’t seem to be in any sort of severe peril, but the captain expressed his concerns of the World Eater’s Primarch trouncing when he didn’t belong, as well as encroaching on someone who might hold secrets to their legion. 

Guilliman agreed with most of the captain’s concerns, but also hesitated. His hand hovered over half written parchment as ink threatened to drop from the tip of his pen.

Roboute has no desire to pick a fight with another Primarch over one historitor. And if any information ended up in the hands of the World Eaters, he would know exactly where it came from. He would deal with the matter then as swiftly as he would any other traitor.

In the end, he simply instructs the captain to keep watch on the matter. 

The scenario is unique after all; You seem to be no traitor, but now spend almost all of your time in the presence of the World Eaters. Guilliman’s captain had described the scene in a confused manner, wondering as to why the Primarch had taken such a keen, almost obsessive interest in one soul in particular. Roboute thinks he has an inkling why, but his captain simply doesn’t have the experience to understand. Afterall he’s known nothing but battleship halls and bolters, these sorts of thoughts are… Foreign. 

With no solid solution and the threat of a legion wide war with any misstep, The Macragge native elects to largely abandon the matter, and mark any information related to you with a note saying to refer to the relevant paperwork for more information.

—------------------------------

The Conqueror is the first Gloriana class battleship you’ve ever seen in anything but historical documents, and those transcriptions fail to even capture a hint of the overwhelming scale of the massive battleship. The barges you’ve seen are huge, but even they don’t compare to the size of the World Eater’s flagship.

It stays moored in the planet’s upper atmosphere, but it’s impossible not to see it lingering in the sky alongside a myriad of other ships. Servitors and other such are loading heaps of supplies into low orbit cruisers to bring back up to the massive battleship, preparing it for another long journey out into the reaches of Imperium space.

Part of you wonders if Angron expects you to join him. You desperately hope not, but in another odd sort of way, you find it almost saddening to be without him for an extended period of time. You know that there are horrors out there that can rend the mind into pieces, that being behind Terra’s walls is to be afforded a luxury so few in the galaxy will touch that the mere thought of leaving should cast you in an unbearable shame. But it seems so completely ridiculous to say that you’ll miss him. Though the thought still crosses your mind anyhow.

You hear the sounds of his heavy footsteps approaching. You’ve been away from his side most of the day, so you figured it was due time for him to eventually hunt you down. He stands not a step away from you once he finds his hunt for you concluded, looking outward towards the mass of Terran servitors and other workers hauling World Eaters requisitions to where ever they're needed.

“You are staying. If you are wondering.” 

Part of you feels a sense of relief from it. While you might have a fondness for Angron, his World Eaters are significantly less appealing to you. They only tolerate your existence due to the repeated threats of their Primarch. Khârn has also questioned his genefather; The still unfilled crack in his ceramite armor remains as evidence of it. His doubt had hurt, but you can’t help but feel his questioning was justified. 

It’s not as if you can do much for them, beyond what you do for their Primarch. In the eyes of men bred for war, you’re the meaningless byproduct of a planet they protect more because they enjoy the bloodshed of doing so than anything else. Whether you are alive or dead is a meaningless query to them.

You curiously look up at Angron, who is gazing over the massive shipyard.

"You're leaving soon, I suppose." The Primarch lets out an affirmative grunt in response.

It hasn’t been long of you knowing him, and you’re still cautiously testing what territory can be tread, and what very much cannot be. There’s not much of the former, and plenty of the ladder.

You have learned that he seems to enjoy whenever how larger and stronger he is than you- when his prowess in brutal combat, is prominent. That isn’t a hard thing to achieve, given his height you stand at roughly his midsection. The Primarch absolutely towers over you and while he knows it sends fear through you, you fight it. 

As you watch over the railing you suddenly feel a heavy weight on your shoulder, and glancing to your left it’s easy to see the bronze colored gauntlet that now rests there.

You know that whenever he does that, a weight on your body, he’s attempting to take solace in the weird ability you somehow possess. You gently lay a hand over his armored one, fingers brushing over the knicks and scratches of his worn, battered plate. He’s worn it for many years, it shows the story of endless battles and it’s still able to hold so many more.

You don’t know how long it’ll be till you see him again. The warp, it’s, power; Time doesn’t work the same way out there that it does on Terra. You want to give him one last before he leaves, but you hope that it doesn’t ruin the little bit of progress you’ve made with him.

“Can you, bend over? So I can reach you?” 

You don’t know what you had expected for when you hesitantly asked, but you hadn’t expected the Primarch to indulge you. 

His massive weight shifts, landing on his right knee with a loud enough thud, that you swear the marble beneath his knee plate is surely cracked. With him at this height, your hands can touch his face, feeling the way it’s decorated with a million different little scars. Some large- thick, deep cuts like one over his brow, or over his lips. Others are smaller, not visible from so far away but you can feel them under your fingertips.

“Can you tell me how you got some of these one day?”

Angron grunts.

“The arena, most of them. I killed anyone who struck me. They are nothing but sand now.”

Your face drops. Sometimes you forget that Angron has never felt anything but pain his entire life. And it’ll continue, as the nails will never be removed. What little you can do to them only serves to prolong what he feels. Your fingers brush over more of his mauled skin.

One might call it cruel. But you want him to have at least a few moments of peace in his life.

Your fingertips brush along the scarred skin around where the nails dig into his skull, glancing at his expression. It’s softened ever so slightly, but you can see anger still etched into his skin. 

You don’t know how you went from the brain hijacking, heart wrenching terror, to feeling this way. Part of you will still always remain frightened of him; Of the sheer strength he can barely keep in check in the best of moments, that is always boiling beneath the surface. But there’s something that over time has gradually fallen over that terror like a thick heavy curtain draped atop a coffin.

You love him.

In a way that makes you sick to your stomach, churning in a way that has you petrified to be near him, but also away from him.

You can’t say that he’s been kind. You’d be stupid to even assume as such; Even with the key you hold, he’s still him. His grip on you is rough- your body has bruises from shoulder to wrist, he speaks to you in short quips. He uses more words now, but he still will never reflect back whatever you give him. You can see the moments where he tries, but he simply isn’t capable of it. You can’t ask a man who’s known nothing but endless pain and suffering to suddenly not rip and tear every hand that reaches for him. But you can maybe numb it- put bandages over gushing wounds and cover scars, trying to give a modicum of kindness before he’s sunken down too deep into his own abyss. 

You can feel him watch you as your hands touch his face, his brow is tight knit and his armor makes soft metal noises as pieces gently knock against each other when he shifts. The hand that had been on your shoulder has long since moved, it now wraps around your elbow instead; As if he’s debating removing you.

You hold a softness in your eyes reserved for the closeness of family, friends, or lovers. He’s so rarely seen it that recognizing it was nearly impossible for him. But you look at him like that, like he’s the only thing in your world that matters. Your hands touch his face so gently he swears he can’t feel them. Like they would fall right through him as if attempting to touch a hologram.

How? 

Angron doesn't understand why. He isn’t something you can love. There’s just, nothing in him capable of receiving or reciprocating it. He’s done nothing but kill, tear, maim, splatter every wall he’s near with the blood of others or his own. 

To be the object of another’s affection is a laughable concept. He’s a creature, a creation of war; Lorgar likes to call the Primarchs the product of the Emperor’s Mastery, his sons, as much as the phrase makes bile rise in his throat- but Angron knows he’s nothing but a pieced together amalgamation of DNA made to fulfill a purpose. He was not made to feel any of this. 

You kiss him. 

You feel his hot breath on your face, his hands clenching into fists and threatening to dent the ceramite of his armor. He tries to funnel his anger there; His anger at the galaxy, at the Emperor, at the thought that you actually are stupid enough to think there’s something in him worthy of paying this level of gentleness to. He’s never felt things like this before. He’d never wanted to; Because he knows that the pain of it being taken away hurts far worse than the pain of never feeling it to begin with.

His face is rough as he pushes back into you, and you feel pleased to know that you didn’t overstep. He hears your soft sigh as you lean into him, hands still on his face.

But Angron knows there will be a point where you can numb it no longer. The nails are a part of him, an ever growing sea pulling him deeper and deeper into a blood red abyss. It drags him down no matter how hard he fights it, with no hope of safety or even temporary sanctuary. 

When he’s fully under, when he can no longer see ally from foe and your face and touch and voice becomes no more soothing to him than the likes of any incomprehensible field of demons yearning for his blade to slice their hide, as his nails scream and bite and beg for him to taste blood;

He dares to hope only then will someone fulfill his role of taking anger unto themself, and put him out of his torment.

[aerkame]

Warhammer 40k Fic ideas

I think we can all agree that Warhammer 40k has an insane amount of lore and it's hard to pick just one topic. So, I decided to just make a poll and ask from a list of topics that you guys would want to see written in as a fanfiction.

Now, there is a full fanfiction I plan on writing already based on a one shot fic I already wrote, but aside form that, I am not sure what other topics to get into.

For my usual readers, yes, I am still writing that finfolk fanfiction and Alive AU

Some of these are reader inserts for a reason (or at least, I just don't know how I could write an x reader for it) for the sake of staying in character or maintaining their image. The Emperor *cough cough*-

I love the custodes in case you could not tell. :]

[mydazepirate]

If you say got in a relationship with guiliman in the 41 melinia would it make him a

Sugar daddy?

I need answers!

[moodymisty]

I cannot stop thinking about what you wrote about Lorgar having a corruption kink. It’s infecting my mind. Lorgar x fem!reader please. I would love to see you write this. You have such a delectable way of writing.

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Yesssss!! I have been so eager to write something for this so I'ma 'bout to go ham. Lorgar is my type of pathetic man and I am obsessed with him. Also I decided to combine a few requests together just to lessen my workload a bit. I so deeply apologize for how overly dramatic and verbose this is.

TL:DR, In my opinion Lorgar's corruption kink goes two ways; One is he himself wants to be corrupted, to be forced into listening to his baser desires without the guilt of doing so himself. It's all that religious trauma. The other way is the more traditional route where he has a sweet little beloved who he knows he's gonna fuck up once he touches them.

Summary: Lorgar is burning up, and you don't even know you're doing it.

Relationships: Lorgar/Gn!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions of NSFW acts, Mentions of Kor Phaeron abusing young Lorgar, Lorgar being mercurial as usual and extremely emotionally conflicted, Slight manipulation, The consent could maybe be considered dubious, Religious trauma and religious undertones

Word Count: 1901

"My Lord, are you well?"

The Astartes warrior looks towards his genefather with the slightest hint of concern hidden behind his helmet, hand tightened around the hilt of his polearm. Lorgar lets out a gentle laugh, and looks towards his sons with a gentle smile before giving a gentle platitude.

"I am well, worry not about me."

He looks down from them, back to the papers that scatter across the massive and ornate desk he calls his own. Ink stains mar the wood, along with the scratches of his tools and his own fingertips. His sons are not entirely convinced, and in their worry for their genefather as his quill struggles to put words to paper, look to each other before the one slightly elder speaks up.

"Father, are you s-" Lorgar looks up, and the look in his golden eyes alone makes the two Astartes close their mouths behind their decorated helms.

"Drop this topic of conversation."

He leaves no room for rebuttal. They cease, and Lorgar waits for the quiet sound of a vox crackling in their helmets, but finds none. Even if they don't communicate with each other however, the Primarch decides they don't need to witness him in this state any longer. He has no desire for an audience, nor to unsettle any of his sons further with an issue plaguing only himself.

"Take your leave. I need a moment to myself."

The Astartes listen without question, footsteps almost in sync as they leave the room. the cloth draped over their armor like robes swishes gently as the ladder out closes the door behind him.

Once gone Lorgar lets out a sigh, his chest relaxing. The sun is still bright, light distorted by panels of stained glass tucked between pillars with openings to a grand balcony. He wasn't making much progress of anything anyhow, and so he sees no harm in having a moment of respite to let his mind calm.

Though, it seem his mind had decided take it upon itself to wander when he wanted it least, golden eyes glancing to a book teetering on the edge of his desk with a delicate filigree across the binding.

He had thought this sickness, at first.

The way that his thoughts seemed unable to stay their path and seemed to be led astray. Lorgar was normally not one with trouble focusing, so when he'd found himself rereading pages and rewriting notes, he'd quickly begun to grow irritated at himself.

But soon, after days and nights of a foggy mind and a hunger he couldn't place, he found the source of his torment in a moment of clarity.

You.

The way you listen to his words with not just the awe of a scholar, but of someone wishing to know more of him. Of what he knows. Quickly he'd gone from you only be cast the basest of glances from across massive libraries, to the Primarch looking for the unique shape of your robes.

How you of all managed to capture him like this, he's yet to discover. But no matter how you had, you'd taken over his heart and soul none the less. He has what could be called an obsession for your eyes, that eagerness in them, grasping for a guiding hand. His guiding hand. You're a peaceful company, gentle and kind to him. He wishes to have seen such kindness in his youth.

But it wasn't just that. He quickly realizes over the scrolls he's meant to write, but only finds himself only glossing over already written words and nonsensical scribbles his hand forms from habit. He's forced to scrap the parchment and start over, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes iron on his tongue.

He doesn't just want your company. Not just your gentle voice or the feeling of your soul close to his.

He wants your touch. To feel your hand brush over his skin, to feel your lips on his own. In private- where he can unravel you to your soul and only he can see it all. To see your body draped in only the silks that lay over his massive bed, asleep.

It infuriates him.

He should be stronger than this. Love is an emotion he understands, he feels it; Towards his adoptive father, towards the Emperor, towards his sons.

But lust; He never thought himself weaker than it. He refuses to be weaker than it. To feel it's grip on him enticing him closer. You dance on the edge of a cliff beckoning him to fall as well. To think you don't even know you're doing it to him.

He had thought Kor Phaeron had beaten these feelings out of him in his youngest years; The few where he didn't tower over his human pater. He's been diligent in keeping this a secret from him, as there would be no consoling him if he found the Primarch lusting after you.

Oh, if only you knew of the thoughts he has of you when you are near- drenched in sin until they drip like a cloth soaked with blood.

He wants to feel your skin, hear the way your voice cracks as you cry, cry for him, the way your body writhes underneath his own as he ruins you for anyone but him. He wants to write on your neck, in places that your clothes fail to hide the blossoming bruises.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

But he can't just want anymore. He wants to have. To be the only one your eyes look towards.

He calls one of his sons to return, and speaks to them from across the room as he rises from his chair. He leaves his parchments scattered across the desk, unfinished and ink drying. He issues them to fetch you from where ever you may be, as he adjusts the shoulder of his robe.

"And do emphasize haste."

He doesn't know how much longer he can wait, with the way a fire overtakes his blood and his robes feel far too tight. Things like his hand can no longer suffice. He wants you.

The sanctuary of his personal quarters have never felt so relieving, when he arrives to it. Books are evenly stored on shelves all throughout, tomes of his own collection and many he had written himself. Or that his pater had, before and after his expulsion from the Covenant.

He looks away from them before he gets lost in thought on matters unbefitting of the now evening. You should be here at any moment, and Lorgar wishes to provide you a respite, not drown you in bitterness.

Anything to soothe your worries, he will do; He knows to look upon and be in the presence of a Primarch can unsettle mortals, for reasons both spiritual and physical. Lorgar turns away to look towards the quickly setting sun, just as he hears footsteps. Lorgar swears he can feel his heart begin to beat faster.

You enter slowly, head peeking around the edge of the massive door as you slip inside with the permission of the guards posted just outside.

You see him standing and staring out through an open window, over a vast stretch of palace ground. He can hear your footsteps, and turns to greet you with a warm smile and gentle look in his eyes. Lorgar has moments of fury, but so many of the times you see him, you're charmed by the surprising softness that he can show. Not many others say the same, much to your surprise.

"There you are. I've been waiting for you." You mistakenly take his sentence as a slight for being tardy.

"Apologies, I came as soon as I had gotten word." Lorgar is barely even listening to your carefully chosen words, he's too distracted by the way your hands are wringing themselves in front of you. He steps away from the window, and you speak again.

"What do you require of me, Lord Primarch?" His eyes are gentle as he brushes you off. He can see when you swallow, the way your throat bobs.

He could just order you into his bed. He knows you would do it, you're diligent and dutiful but Lorgar doesn't want to. He wants to unravel you underneath him, piece by piece, until you're just as drenched in his sin as he is. Until your body is crying and weeping for him, begging to be filled by him and only him.

"No formalities. We are past that sort of nonsense. You are more than welcome to call me by my name. As I do you." You hesitate. Your lips shift and he catches each little motion.

"Then, Lorgar, do you need something from me?"

He can hear the way his name tastes odd on your lips, but falls so smoothly from them.

Lorgar moves closer to you, up until it would take only one step for you to step on the bottoms of his robes. And then does he take a knee, lowering slowly until his right knee touches the floor. You hear the moment it does as his body weight rests with a dull thud. You're waiting for something of importance, but what he says instead is so far removed from the possible options you had in your mind, that you can only stare.

"I need you."

Your eyes widen, and he can hear you utter in your confusion,

"What?"

Lorgar recoils for a moment as you both look at each other.

You can feel your skin becoming heated at the decleration, but never had you thought this sort of thing becoming a reality. You'd thought the idea absurd, meanwhile Lorgar had been consumed by it. How you can bring a Primarch to his knee by the way his name falls from your lips. To cast aside the pleasant language he's written in for many years:

He wants to fuck you. He aches for you.

His hand moves of it's own accord, drifting closer.

"Let me touch you. Let me show you how you've overtaken my mind."

You feel his massive hand on your waist, shifting your clothing and almost revealing your skin. His fingers almost seem to shake, the same as his voice when he hisses out the words through his teeth.

"You've taken over it like a sickness, like a curse,"

He's been leaning closer to you this entire time, and now you can feel his breath on your face. His golden eyes flicker over your expression as he abruptly goes from anger, to an expression filled with adoration and something else.

"I, I'm s-" Lorgar shushes you.

"Don't be."

Your lips unconsciously part as he drifts closer, his hand still on your waist. the other joins it on the opposite side, and you can feel how much more skin they cover than a normal human's would. Lorgar might not be the largest of the Primarchs, but he still towers over you.

He crosses the distance and presses his lips to yours, feeling the warmth of his lips and his tanned skin against your own. You feel so much emotion in it that it's almost overwhelming, hands moving to rest ever so gently on his collarbone.

You could never reject his affections. And you don't want to. His lips glide across yours as he speaks.

"Let me show you it all, my beloved."

[moodymisty]

Author's note: Huge thankies to @commodoreprocrastinator (if you don't want to be tagged just say) for trading Russ ideas with me to help me finish this. A bit of an 'experiment' just setting a scene with him. Enjoy a drabble with the space viking king. I can't wait till I'm done writing warm-up fluff and I can inflict intense psychic damage on people.

Summary: You worry about meeting any of the other Primarchs, which Russ finds amusing.

Relationships: Leman Russ/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None other than typical 40kness, References to traditional courting style stuff like gift giving I guess

The bed is massive; It's fit for a Primarch, and thus it swallows you accordingly. Almost everything around you does, the massive pelt that drapes over the bed as a blanket covers almost most your entire body, though not the entire bed.

On a planet like Fenris you would've needed it and then some to even attempt at staying warm, but here, you find yourself only laying it over the middle of your body.

"Out of all the things I've gifted you, this is the one you like most?"

Russ finds something perhaps akin to amusement in the fact that you behave so differently than the woman who call Fenris their home planet, as you lay on your side watching him enter the room.

"'Out of all of them, this was the most useful one."

You'd brought it all this way to Terra, rubbing your ankle against the back of your other calf underneath the pelt Russ had hunted and skinned himself. The beast must've been massive, if this was only it's midsection.

Your snide comment makes Russ laugh, a loud rumble in his bare chest as he dresses in more casual garb befitting of Terra and the Holy Palace.

"You best keep that attitude in check today. I don't think they'll be fond of your bite."

Russ' reminder serves little more than to strike a bolt of fear and nervousness in you that you'd hoped forgotten for the time being; Pursing your lips as you lean on your elbow.

Right; You're overdue to meet the fellow Primarchs that Russ calls brothers, now that he's taken you on as, what you supposed would be referred to as consort. Not hailing from Fenris, you aren't aware if they have any sort of specific title for what you are to Russ. And as far as you know, he is the only of the Primarchs to do this; Which makes you completely and utterly alone. Being on Terra in the palace also means speaking with one of them is an inevitability, more so than a possibility.

And to think- many of them don't harbor the same, what you wouldn't call easygoing, but wild nature Russ possesses. You remember the fear that had struck you like a bullet upon realizing his eyes were on you for the first time. Before the gifts, the courting, when you were only a speck on a map in comparison. You doubt whichever Primarch you'd be unfortunate enough to face would have the same neutral nature about baseline humans that Russ somewhat has. To think, many humans in the Imperium would never live to even see an astartes, let alone a primarch; And here you are.

A soft bark however thankfully gives you a jolt from your thoughts, looking over to see a massive hound standing at side of the bed. The Fenrisian wolf is still technically a puppy, but he's growing at a rate that's going to have him competing with you in height, if it keeps up. You rub the top of his snout and the complaints turn into a soft rumble in his throat.

Russ, having been raised beside packs of the massive beasts since childhood, had no issue with you keeping the wolf pup that had been your latest gift right beside the both of you.

Some others in the palace were, noticeably less so. Glorious golden halls were quite quickly filled with roaring deep voices and barks; A sign that the Space Wolves had arrived. You're used to the ruckus, the drunkenness and the smell of wet fur, but many are not.

"You don't suppose I could forgo crossing paths with any of them?" Russ crosses his arms and lets out a loud laugh, as the wolf puts one of his paws onto the bed.

"And you don't think I'd take that opportunity myself, if given the chance?" You roll your eyes, despite knowing that he's more than right. The pelt that drapes over his one shoulder shows off most of his arms, biceps flexing as he crosses his arms and jerks his head in the direction of the wolf staring at you both.

"Bring the wolf; It'll keep half of them away. They hate the stench." You were planning on doing so anyways, but it's good to know it might keep unwanted eyes off of you. At least a few.

Fully awake you decide to leave the bed, only to find yourself unable to simply throw your legs off to the side and stand. You throw the gifted pelt off of you and to the side, looking over to your primarch.

"Help me out of this massive bed; I'm swimming in it."

Russ smiles just enough to show teeth as he leans forward to grasp your right thigh. Your nightclothes bunch under his tight grip as he roughly pulls you closer to him and onto the edge of the bed. Just as he lets you you realize his face is close enough for you to quickly lean forward, giving him a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. You can still feel his rough beard against your skin and the wild strands of unbraided hair flowing over his shoulders.

"Little thief," He growls.

He watches you with raised brow as you ignore his teasing accusation and slide the rest of the way off the bed, until your bare feet finally touch the floor. Shortly thereafter he elects instead of give you a kiss proper; Large hand cupping your jaw as his lips fully meet yours. His left knee has to nearly meet the ground for him to do so, with the sheer difference in your heights.

"Now get ready; Before I lose my patience for this and throw you to the wolves while I get some ale."

[moodymisty]

Hello🌻I hope you are doing well✨ Do you write in Warhammer? I saw this in the list of fandoms, but if not, I apologize a thousand😅 So, Sanguinius/reader-eternal. A moment of rest. Suppose there was some kind of difficult battle, and returning to his chambers after a victorious battle, Sanguinius feels tired and empty, he is dirty from blood and dirt, his hair is tangled, his wings have also lost their whiteness. And so he enters his chambers and smells a pleasant, but unfamiliar smell. The reader, anticipating in what state he would return, prepared a bath and took out her personal bathroom things (gels, shampoos, salts, candles, perfumes - with such smells that no one in the Imperium had seen since the Dark Era) and even more valuable to her (let it be a gift from parents or something) some kind of music player. Well, the reader comforts Angel, turns on music from his youth (maybe Beethoven, Wagner, Tchaikovsky or whatever you like best)), bathes him, takes care of his hair, nails and all that. How you can make his wings comfortable, I can’t imagine🤔 but in general, the reader was able to wash them somehow) Tells stories of plants, fruits, and animals that no primarch could ever see. About your favorite music, some kind of warm memory. Well, something like that😅 sorry if this is too long. In general, you can change the conditions to suit your comfort❤

Author's Note: So I was actually thinking of something somewhat similar to write in my own time because I'm a lonely primarch/astartes fucker for Guilliman (or pre-heresy Lorgar but that's just my 'I can fix him' mental illness talking) So when you sent this in I just about ascended. Emperor save my heretical ass for making this way too fluffy for Warhammer.

Relationships: Sanguinius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: It's 40k lol so references to war and all sorts of violence but other than that, just fluff. Also the slightest hint at the BA astartes being a bit platonic yandere for their Primarch's beloved because it's my headcanon. Enjoy petting the pigeon primarch y'all

For someone as primped and perfect as Sanguinius- A beautiful angel with not a hair out of place or word said without the most careful of consideration, his personal quarters are an absolute mess.

Feathers of all sizes lay scattered across the floor and the giant bed that adorns the massive room, its blankets strewn about and slept in multiple times without being made up in-between. In all of it’s disheveled look, it looks comfortable to say the least.

It's not as if you actually mind the mess, it's not bad enough to even really call it one, but it's simply amusing to think of someone as borderline ethereal as Sanguinius sleeping in a messy, wrinkled bed adorned with his own down.

The Blood Angel guards posted in the hall had allowed you to pass into his quarters without fuss, one of many privileges that you're still getting used to. They nodded towards you and spoke with that Astartes specific rigid but technically polite prose; Seeped in a level of respect you don't feel entirely deserving of.

Sanguinius' angelic sons are, intense. Any other word you think of is too negative in it's definition, or doesn't accurately describe this feeling of heavy downward pressure on your body you get whenever you are close to them. They have a protective quality that has only seemed to intensify the closer you've gotten to their genefather, as you can feel eyes on your back until the door closes behind you and the guards only then return to their vigilant watch of the palace halls.

Sometimes, you swear they're following you.

A pondering for another time perhaps, as you look around the messy quarters holding your things in your hands.

Sanguinius is due to return to Terra at any moment now, and after so long with only vox messages and handwritten letters, you've decided to attempt to surprise him. You probably won't be able to do so, but you can at least prepare him something that will hopefully brighten up his spirits. You can tell from his slip ups in tone that some things have been grating on him like waves on a cliffside.

You'll do anything to make sure that the Angel, your Angel, never looses that glow that seems to follow him; And perhaps steal some of those rare snippets of time to have him just to yourself. Even if only for a moment.

In the separate room that serves as his private bath you begin to run hot water, billows of steam quickly rising to the ceiling and covering the metal adornments around the room with dew. It pours out the open door, as you sit your bag on the edge and pull out various different things. Some sourced from other planets, one from your father who all but fainted upon your asking of it for a Primarch, all being hard to obtain; Little bundles of rare luxury. You fully intend to make use of them all. They smell like flowers and sea salt, far better than the scent of the iron and filth-covered armor aboard the Red Tear.

Though your ears prick to the sound of heavy footsteps before you can fully finish setting up, and you lean up and away from the massive bath and leave the room only just as Sanguinius himself enters. In saying any moment, you seem to have been perfectly accurate.

The first thing you notice of him, besides your joy of seeing him, is he has primary feathers that are bent and sticking out away from the natural pattern of his wings, a few even cracked and torn. He's already gone though the necessary process to remove his armor, and now he's clad in the usual and more comfortable garb he would wear when originally on Baal.

While Sanguinius himself is unharmed, not a single wound and the blood dried on himself not his own, he still is disheveled and messy; Hair tangled from being blown in the wind and getting caught in the raised collar of his armor. You can see mud staining the tips of his wings where it splattered upward, unable to fully protect them from whatever muck he came in contact with.

"I know,"

He sees the look on your face, and his gentle stoicism parts ever so slightly as his lips part. His eyes show the glint of irritation through his long lashes as he looks slightly downward and to the side with a furrowed brow.

"I look a mess. there is no need to point it out. Believe me when I tell you someone else has already done so." He normally wouldn't be fond of something laughing at his current condition, but he supposes he can find the entertainment in it. It's an easier thing to swallow when it's his little beloved doing so. The sound of your quiet, breathily laugh is soothing more than aggravating, and he enjoys the look of sweet mirth plastered on your face. While it may be somewhat at his expense, he doesn't mind all too much considering.

"Well, then you might like the surprise I made up for you even more." His lips crook upward in the most gentle of smirks; Though he was more than likely instantly cued into your gift by the feeling of steam wafting from the other room into this one.

"If not just to get all the dirt from your wings."

At the mere mention of it you watch his wings stretch, shaking slightly as he attempts to right feathers stuck out of alignment. He reaches for the front of his robes as he walks towards the bath.

"I hope you didn't prepare all of this only for me to enjoy it alone. I'd find myself dreadfully bored without any company." You shake your head, following the angel into the bath while he quickly begins to slip into the hot water. You move in not long after, the water almost too hot on your skin, but the feeling of the steam on your face is pleasant.

He attempts to stretch his wings; Though not many rooms can handle his wings fully unfurled. The main room of his quarters when his bed resides can, but in here he finds the tips of his primary flight feathers brushing against the wall. When you attempt to move closer, he furls his wings back up to avoid you bumping them. It lets you reach close enough to his hair, where you wet it with the hot water and watch his eyes gently close. You watch as his hair slowly becomes clean even after so long, golden sheen returning as the soot washes away.

"I have been so besieged by the smell of crude oils and sweat as of late, I swear I'd forgotten what flowers smelled like..."

He smiles when the sound of your quiet, breathy laugh hits his ears, though you still continue treating him. He might have normally apposed to such obnoxious pampering, but you seem to enjoy it, and he’ll partake in a moment of selfishness.

“Let me enjoy this moment without your mockery, will you?” Your fingers weave into his golden hair, just a bit wavy even with the water weighing it down.

"Terribly sorry, Lord Primarch." How he hates that stuffy title; His nose wrinkles. When you notice his doing so, you laugh again.

"It's the title my father used when I told him I needed some of these things." His eyes open to watch you for a moment.

"They're made of flowers from my home planet; When I said they were for The Angel Sanguinius, I swear he choked on his own spit then and there. Thought I had finally killed him."

He listens to you mumble about their origin for a short while, if for nothing more than to fill the silence. The water is no longer running, so other than the occasional splash of water the room is near silent.

You feel the brush of his feathers against your bare skin as they adjust, the water turning color as the grime slips from them and they return to their pristine white color. After all this time he finally feels clean, such a luxury he's been unable to indulge in for quite some time. Perhaps he’s odd in that regard, hating it far more than some of his fellow Primarchs.

He feels you ever so gently brush along a feather to align it with the others, fingers gentle like touching the thinnest glass. His eyes are still closed while you do so. Your gentleness of it isn’t lost on him, as he feels lips against the corner of his mouth.

A rare moment of peace; He'll indulge in it while he has the chance.