thatnightlamp

[thatnightlamp]

can i speak to ur manager

[thatnightlamp]

HI I just wanted to say that your writing is Amazing and I've been reading your fics all afternoon 😭 thank you for sharing them with us! if you're still taking requests, could I ask for sanguinius or Vulcan with an s/o that really, really enjoys spoiling and taking care of them? Brushing sanguinius' hair and cleaning his wings, massaging Vulcan after a long day, the works 🥺

I don't know who to choose, so I'm writing about both.

Sanguinius

The moon was high over Baal, casting silver light across the polished stone of the Angel's sanctum. The palace was silent save for the gentle whisper of night wind drifting in through the open windows.

Sanguinius sat on a low divan, robe loose around his frame, wings draped across the cushions like living marble statues. He was still in every way but his eyes, which flicked to you as you returned from your washbasin with a tray in hand. Warm oil, a feather comb, a soft towel. The usual spoiling kit.

“You always look like you’re preparing to tend a relic,” he teased softly, voice like warm wine.

“You are a relic,” you replied, kneeling behind him. “One that refuses to rest.”

He chuckled, and it thrilled you every time, how someone so terrifyingly divine could still laugh like a man. You reached forward and carefully untied the gold clasp holding his hair, letting it spill freely down his back like sunlit silk.

As your fingers ran through the long strands, he sighed, the kind of breath that people only release when they finally, truly relax. It was rare, this kind of vulnerability. Even with his brothers, he wore the angel’s mantle. With you, he could just be.

You worked the comb slowly, unhurried. You knew the tangles from battle, from wind, from hours of court. You whispered quiet praises as you smoothed each knot: “Beautiful, as always.” “You smell like starlight.” “You need to let me do this more often.”

Then came his wings. Vast, white, and impossibly soft, but always burdened. They drooped ever so slightly when he was exhausted, when the psychic weight of the Imperium pressed too hard on his soul. You knew how to read the subtle slant of feathers like others read faces.

You cleaned each plume by hand, gently buffing away dust and tension. He flinched when you hit a sore spot near the base. You leaned in, kissed it. “Sorry, love,” you whispered. “I’ll be careful.”

He looked over his shoulder then, catching your gaze. “You care for me too much.”

You smiled, leaning forward to press your forehead against his temple. “And you don’t let anyone care for you enough. Let me balance that.”

He turned then, one wing curling around your back like a protective arm. “You already do,” he said simply. “You make me feel… human again.”

Vulkan

It’s nearly midnight when you hear the forge doors open. The great slam of them is unmistakable, but it’s followed by a softer, more familiar sound, the low, tired groan of a giant who has been carrying the weight of an entire world’s worries. Vulkan.

You meet him in the hall with a towel and a smile. He’s massive, even now as he walks like a mountain made weary. His armor is halfway shed, scorched and smudged from the forge-fires, his tunic damp with sweat. There’s soot in the creases of his fingers and dust on his face. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, all his weariness softens.

“You’re up late,” he rumbles.

“So are you,” you say, stepping up on your toes as he bend down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Sit. Now.”

He chuckles quietly, obediently dropping down onto the great cushion in front of the hearth. The fire you built earlier still glows warmly. You straddle his lap with ease, the towel slung around your neck. One by one, you take his hands in yours, cleaning the soot from under his nails, massaging the thick joints of his knuckles. He lets out a sigh like a furnace cooling.

“You push yourself too hard.”

“There’s much to do.” His voice is gentle, gravelly. “But I know. I know.”

You lean forward, gently wipe the soot off his face.. “Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he bends his head forward and rests his forehead against your chest. Your hands find the wide expanse of his shoulders, kneading the corded muscle beneath. He groans softly, more from relief than pain, and you feel the tension melt from him like iron left too long in the flame.

Later, you wrap him in a blanket and pull him to lie down, even if he dwarfs the bed. You lie beside him with your hand over his heart, feeling the beat, slow, strong, unwavering.

“You are a fire,” you whisper. “And I will tend you for as long as you’ll let me.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your hand. “Then I will burn for you,” he murmurs, already drifting into rare and precious sleep.

[thatnightlamp]

RULES AND MASTELIST

Hi, I'm thatnightlamp, this post is to help you to avoid scrolling down too much.

This blog of mine is to satisfy my delulu, and I will post some pretty cringe things too.

English is not my first language.

I have A LOT of fandoms, I will have tags so you could avoid fic that you don't like. My main focus now is Warhammer.

I do NSFW. I am ready now

Request: OPEN

MY MASTERLIST

WARHAMMER

[thatnightlamp]

Hiii i just first wanna say that the smut you’re writing is amazing and I absolutely love how you describe and express the character, their want/desire, the guilt and shame that comes with it, and how they feel and think overall is really good!!!

I really wanna req how awkward do you think dorn would be trying to sleep with his spouse for the first time/how would he ask his spouse for sex out of desperation and want (pls make him yearn). 🙏 thank you!

DORN NSFW. I WANT HIM.

You’re reading, again. One leg curled beneath you, head bent, candlelight softening your features. You’ve done this every night since returning to Terra. But something is different now.

Not in you.

In him.

Rogal Dorn stands across the room, fully armored like a fool, hands clenched behind his back as if expecting a report. Not from you. From himself.

You don’t notice him watching, until you do.

“…My lord?” you ask gently.

He flinches, visibly. Saints preserve him, he actually flinches. Then clears his throat with the precision of a cathedral bell.

“You may call me Rogal,” he says. Again. Like you haven’t been his spouse for two months.

You close the book. Your eyes settle on him, war-torn gaze, shoulders like citadels, jaw tight as his honor. You’ve been waiting. You’ve let him wait. But his patience is fraying. There’s a tension in him, subtle, grinding, like tectonic plates resisting collision. He is the Imperial Palace in flesh. And it is time for a siege.

“Rogal,” you murmur. “You’re wearing your armor in our bedroom again.”

A pause. A beat. Then: “Habit.”

“And you’re standing exactly five meters away, because…”

He hesitates. “Because if I stand closer, I may act imprudently.”

You blink. “Imprudent? Are you planning to ravish me suddenly and without permission?”

His face shuts down like a fortress slamming its gates. “No,” he says too quickly. “That is, not without— You would deserve better planning.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. And it hurts him, visibly, because Rogal Dorn doesn’t laugh at himself.

You rise, crossing the room slowly. His eyes track you like a targeting system. Unmoving. Unbreathing. Unbearably stiff.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Lord Dorn?”

“I am attempting,” he says, low and grim, “to… request something of you.”

Now you’re close. Close enough to see the nervous tension vibrating in his throat. Close enough to feel the heat of him, he runs hotter than a human man, unnaturally so. As if burning from the inside.

“Ask me, then,” you say softly.

He looks at you like a man before the gallows. Then, very quietly, as if the act of saying it is shameful:

“I wish to lie with you.”

You blink.

“I wish—” he tries again, jaw flexing, “to perform the act of intimacy. With you. In a… consummated sense. As a married pair.”

You blink again.

“I want to have sex with you,” he blurts finally, and looks like it kills him to say it.

A pause.

Then: “Desperately.”

You stare at him.

“Oh, Rogal.”

“I understand,” he says quickly, retreating in tone if not in step. “This is not romantic. I have not constructed the proper environment. You deserve gentle words and...flowers. Or a script. Something to soften the...demand.”

You place your hand gently on his armored forearm. “You think wanting me is a demand?”

His lips press flat. His gaze drops. “It is a burden I would not place on you lightly.”

Something in your heart twists.

“Rogal,” you whisper, “I married you. I want you too.”

His head lifts slowly, disbelief softening the edges of his eyes.

“You do?”

“God Emperor, yes. I thought you were being chivalrous, not terrified.”

“I am not terrified,” he lies, badly. “I am merely unpracticed.”

You step close enough that your body touches his armor. His breath catches. You reach up, hands to the clasps at his pauldrons.

“I can help you practice,” you murmur.

His eyes darken. “You must know that if we begin, I will not be able to stop. I have been… holding back. For- forever.”

You unfasten the first clasp. “So stop holding back.”

He growls—growls, for the Emperor’s sake, and you swear the air in the room changes.

“Remove the armor,” you say. “Let me see you.”

He strips like a soldier, not a lover.

Armor peeled off with brutal efficiency. Gauntlets, chestplate, greaves, each piece flung aside with mounting urgency. By the time he’s down to the bodysuit, his cock is already straining against the black fabric, thick and unmistakably ready.

You sit up to help, pulling at the seams, baring skin inch by inch. He watches you with wild reverence, letting you touch, letting you see.

He’s massive. Everywhere. Veins thick, muscles sharp, cock flushed and heavy against his abdomen.

And he’s shaking.

“I don’t know if I’ll be gentle,” he grits. “Not the first time.”

“Then don’t be.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs you, grabs, one hand at the back of your neck, the other hauling you into his lap. You wrap around him like instinct, moaning as his mouth crashes into yours, hot and claiming.

No preamble now. No poetry. Just need.

You grind against him, feel the heavy slide of his cock through slick folds and against aching skin. He groans—feral, guttural, and bites your lower lip.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he hisses. “I’ve dreamed of this. For months. Waking up in sweat, fists clenched. Thinking of how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

“Then stop dreaming,” you pant. “Do it.”

He doesn’t need more permission.

You reach between you, lining him up, and he pushes in, slowly at first, as if even now he’s afraid he’ll break you.

But you’re ready. Wet, open, waiting. And tight. Saints, the stretch of him makes you sob.

“Throne,” he chokes. “You feel—you’re perfect.”

You arch, gasping. He drives deeper. And then—

Something in him snaps.

He buries himself in one brutal thrust, presses you down into the mattress, and starts to fuck you.

It’s not lovemaking. It’s a siege. His hips slam into you with punishing force, cock splitting you open, dragging filthy moans from your throat with every thrust.

He groans your name like a prayer. Grinds his teeth. Ruts into you like a man possessed.

And it’s not enough.

“Turn over,” he pants. “Let me take you.”

You obey, dizzy with lust. He grabs your hips, pulls you up, and slams back in. The angle hits deeper. Harder. You claw at the sheets, half-mad with sensation.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You married me. You belong to me.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I’m yours. Always.”

He fucked you harder. Gripping your hips like a lifeline, his cock thrusting in and out at a wild pace. The wet sound of skin hitting skin filled the room, only drowned out by your cries and his hoarse moans.

He loses the last of his control.

When your climax hits, it’s blinding, sharp, brutal, stars behind your eyes. You scream, body locking up, milking him.

And that’s what does it.

With a roar like a battle cry, he slams in to the hilt and spills, hot, endless, cock pulsing as he floods you. He buries his face in your back, breathless, shaking, nearly sobbing with release.

“Mine,” he whispers again. “Mine.”

[thatnightlamp]

You tell us to feed you our brain rot? Well then (: would you consider writing more of your Dorn one shot? Cause I need him to be a manace more in my life.

DORN AND HIS HAND HEHEHE

The war room was dim, lit only by the flickering holographs of tactical maps long since rendered irrelevant. The campaign was over, the world secured. For once, silence reigned over strategy.

You shouldn’t have been here, this was a space meant for high command, not downtime. But Rogal Dorn had not dismissed you. He had merely looked up from his reports when you entered, eyes sharpening slightly, as if assessing a new terrain. Then, with a single wordless nod, he had allowed you to stay.

Now, you sat in one of the reinforced chairs lining the edge of the chamber, your body loose with exhaustion. Victory always brought this bone-deep tiredness. And yet... it was not rest that your body anticipated. Not with Dorn so near. Not with the way he was watching you.

He hadn’t spoken in minutes, but you could feel him still, standing, unmoving, tall and broad in his golden armor. The air around him always carried weight. It pressed into your skin, into your lungs. And tonight, there was something different in it. Not command. Not the cold discipline he wielded so effortlessly.

Tonight, it was intent.

He stepped closer without warning, silent as a shadow despite the weight of his war-plate. You lifted your head, pulse already rising. He was looking down at you, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not soft, either. Just… measured. Like he was still considering something. Calculating.

Your voice broke the tension. "You're staring again."

"I am." His reply was clipped, deliberate.

A moment passed. Then another. You leaned back slightly in your chair, attempting something casual, something not completely undone by the heat prickling under your skin. "Are you going to tell me why?"

His gaze swept over you slowly, then returned to your face. "I am trying to understand something," he said, voice deep and utterly calm. "About you. About this."

You blinked. "This?"

His gauntlet hissed softly as he disengaged it. One by one, the locking mechanisms released until his bare hand emerged, callused, large, dusted with faint scars. That hand came to rest on the arm of your chair, close, so very close. His other hand remained behind his back, as if he were standing at ease. But there was nothing at ease about him now.

"You are resilient," he continued. "You endure discomfort. Pain. Harsh conditions. You have served without complaint."

You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“It is an observation.” His tone didn’t change. But then… his fingers moved. Just barely. The back of them brushed your arm, a featherlight graze. Controlled. Intentional.

Your breath hitched.

“Yet,” he went on, as if lecturing on fortifications and not your nerve endings, “you react to small stimuli in… disproportionate ways.”

His hand shifted again. This time, his fingers traced the inside of your wrist. Just a touch. Not even firm pressure. But it was enough. A line of heat zipped up your arm, making your whole body tense.

You gave a sharp breath through your nose. "Dorn—"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes unblinking. “Interesting.”

“Interesting,” you echoed flatly, but your voice was already thickening. Damn him.

"Most weaknesses," he murmured, his fingers brushing up to your elbow now, "are structural. Predictable. Obvious."

His hand slid further, knuckles ghosting along your upper arm. “But not this.”

You could feel it now, what he was doing. He wasn’t touching you so much as studying you. Testing points of vulnerability. Measuring your reactions like he was preparing to redraw a battle plan. It was maddening.

And he was enjoying it.

"You really can't turn it off, can you?" you bit out. "Even now, you're still strategizing."

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached your shoulder, and stopped. His thumb pressed, slowly, into the muscle there. The tension, the pressure, it was sudden and deliberate. Painful, but good, twisting low in your stomach.

You hissed softly, gripping the arms of the chair.

"You tense here often," Dorn said, like a physician diagnosing a wound. "Likely stress. Poor posture during field work."

Then his thumb rolled deeper, kneading with a precision that felt too exact to be innocent. It wasn’t a massage. It was manipulation. Your body, his blueprint. Every response cataloged.

“Stop doing that,” you muttered. “Like I’m one of your damn siege maps.”

"Why?" he asked simply. "You’re responding."

His hand moved again, sliding up along the curve of your neck. His fingers splayed gently at your nape, firm but not forceful. The heat of him soaked into your skin. You were still clothed, still technically untouched in any indecent way, and yet your heart was thundering.

“Rogal—”

“Silence,” he said, almost softly. His fingers tightened just slightly. “Let me finish.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

He took his time now. Every motion of his hand was slow, excruciatingly so. Down your throat, just the edge of his knuckles brushing your collarbone. His other hand came forward at last, sliding behind your back to anchor you. You realized, too late, that you couldn’t move. He wasn’t holding you hard, but the placement was exact, inescapable.

“Fascinating,” he said, voice nearly a purr now. Not sensual, strategic. “Your heartbeat has increased. Pupils dilated. Breathing shallow.”

“You’re—” You tried to speak, but your mouth was dry. “You’re using me like a training exercise.”

That earned a faint sound. A hum. His thumb slid along the base of your throat, the pressure just enough to remind you how large his hand was, how easily he could grip, how easily he could...

Your knees pressed together instinctively.

He saw it. Of course he did.

“Touch,” he said slowly, “is not a weapon I have employed often. It is… inefficient in most contexts.”

You swallowed.

“But in this one?” His head dipped lower. You felt his breath against your jaw. “Highly effective.”

You were trembling now, not from fear, never from fear, but from anticipation. From the slow, building tension that coiled tighter and tighter inside you like a drawn bowstring. And Dorn, your cold, stoic, beautiful bastard of a Primarch, wasn’t relenting. If anything, he was only just beginning.

His hand left your throat, and you almost whined at the loss, but then it returned, lower, splaying across your abdomen. Just through fabric. No skin-to-skin. And yet, it was worse, more intimate. His palm was heavy with the promise of pressure. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope.

He just held.

And it wrecked you.

Your head fell back against the chair, a breath shuddering from your lips. He watched you, like always, unflinching. Composed. Tactical.

And then, finally, he spoke again.

“You are soft,” he murmured, his thumb dragging in slow circles over your covered stomach. “Unarmored. Exposed.”

You gasped, both from the words and the gentle roll of his touch.

"And yet you let me do this."

A pause. His hand slid down just a few inches. Not indecent. Not yet. But it could be. So easily.

You were aching now. Throbbing.

“And why,” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, “would you allow such exposure… unless you wanted it exploited?”

You turned your head sharply toward him, breathless and wild. “You’re such a bastard.”

A glint sparked in his eye. “Yes.”

Then, without warning, both hands moved.

One braced the back of your neck again, possessive. The other slipped around your waist, tugging you forward in the chair just enough that your legs parted slightly, just enough to make you realize how defenseless you truly were beneath his gaze, his grasp.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“I have found your weakness,” Dorn said, calm as ever. “It is not in your skin. It is not in your armor. It is in your submission.”

You opened your mouth, to argue, to deny, to challenge him, but then he leaned closer. His lips just barely brushed the shell of your ear, and the words he breathed into you nearly undid you entirely:

“And now that I know it… I will use it.”

Your vision blurred.

Before you could even respond, he pulled away, stepping back as if the entire moment had been nothing. Just another exercise. Another test of materials under pressure.

You were left panting, ruined in your chair, your body burning and empty without his hands.

Dorn merely turned away, reaching for his gauntlet. “We will revisit this,” he said, voice crisp.

“Revisit?” you echoed, voice cracking.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “There is more to learn.”

Then he sealed the gauntlet shut with a hiss.

And just before he turned back to his command console, you saw it—the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile.

A smirk.

[thatnightlamp]

he projabebly smells so bad (gets lightheaded)

[thatnightlamp]

[thatnightlamp]

I was listening to Meant to be yours and thinking oh damn it suits Fulgrim so well like I have a whole scene in my head

VERONICA OPEN THE DOOR PLEASE...

The first time you heard him whisper to the blade, you thought it was a dream.

The Anathame. No, it was something far worse now – sat heavy in his hand, gleaming in the low light of his private chamber aboard the Pride of the Emperor. You'd seen it before, of course. At first it was merely a weapon, a trophy of his endless victories. But now... now it spoke to him. And he spoke back.

You stood outside his door, your heart hammering so loudly you feared he would hear it.

"No," you whispered to yourself, clutching the silk of your nightgown in trembling hands.

"He would never– he would never..."

But inside, you could hear the low, coaxing words. Fulgrim’s voice – your Fulgrim, warm, regal, and devastatingly beautiful... turned sickly sweet, like poisoned honey.

"They don't understand you. They never did. Only I understand."

There was a pause. A wet, ugly laugh that made your stomach churn. Then Fulgrim murmured back:

"I know. I know. But soon... soon they will."

Something inside you shattered.

Without thinking, you stumbled back, bumping into the wall, your vision blurring with tears. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, running, slipping down the cold marble corridors of the flagship you once called home. You reached your shared chambers, slammed the door behind you, and threw the lock home with a sharp, metallic click.

Your breath sawed in and out of your chest. Your fingers clawed the edge of a dresser for support. You knew now. You had denied it for so long, clinging to the perfect memories of the man you loved, the radiant, perfect being who had once lifted you into his arms like you were the only star in the galaxy. But he was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece, and you could not stop it.

The tears came hot and fast, blinding you. You backed away from the door, as though even through inches of reinforced steel, he might somehow sense your fear.

You had barely made it to the far end of the room, when the knock came.

"My darling..."

His voice, so soft, so tender it almost broke you. Almost.

"Open the door, please."

You pressed yourself against the far wall, shaking your head though he couldn’t see it. Your voice stuck in your throat.

"Darling, open the door, please. I need to see you."

His tone cracked, pleading, desperate, almost boyish.

You squeezed your eyes shut. No. No no no. Don’t listen. Don’t open it. It’s not him anymore.

"You know I love you. I love you so much," Fulgrim whispered against the door, the sound of him resting his forehead against it echoing into the room. "I don't want to hurt you. Please—" his voice broke, "please, just open the door."

You bit into your lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting the iron sharpness on your tongue. Your knees buckled, and you slid down to the floor, burying your face in your hands.

Stay quiet. Stay hidden.

A beat of silence.

Then—

BAM BAM BAM

His fists crashed against the door with a ferocity that shook the frame.

"I CAN'T CONTROL IT MUCH LONGER!" he roared. "OPEN THE DOOR, DARLING!"

You gasped, a tiny noise you couldn’t smother in time.

Fulgrim stilled.

You heard him breathing on the other side, heavy and ragged.

"I heard you..." he said, voice thick with something twisted. "I heard you, my sweet little star."

Something scraped along the door, nails? No, metal.

The sword.

"You don't understand. This pain... it's unbearable."

A low chuckle, unhinged, vibrated through the wall.

"But you can fix it. You can fix me, darling. Just let me in."

You pressed yourself tighter against the wall, feeling like if you could just merge into it, you could vanish. Fulgrim was never denied anything he wanted, and now, what he wanted most was you.

You tried to steady your breath, tried to think of anything else. Of the way he once cradled you under the stars. Of the sound of his laughter, pure and joyful, before the rot of Chaos wormed its way into his soul.

But even those memories seemed tainted now.

A long silence.

Then, soft, almost too soft to hear, he whispered:

"You make me feel... human again."

You wanted to believe him. Emperor help you, you wanted to. You crawled a few desperate inches closer to the door before you caught yourself.

No. No.

That was not Fulgrim speaking.

It was the thing inside him.

You buried your face in your arms and sobbed soundlessly.

Outside, Fulgrim leaned heavily against the door, listening. His hair brushed the frame as he rested there, trembling.

Inside his mind, the daemon laughed and whispered foul promises.

"Break her. Take her. She will love you as you truly are."

Fulgrim’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword until blood welled around his fingers.

"I don't want to hurt her," he whispered.

"Then don't," the voice crooned. "She will come willingly. She always did."

He closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had laid eyes on you. A fragile mortal, yet filled with such breathtaking fire, such loyalty. A spark in the endless cold of the universe.

He could not lose you.

He would not.

"Darling," he said again, so brokenly that your heart cracked all over again. "Please. If you love me..."

You slammed your palms over your ears. Don't listen. Don't listen!

"If you love me, open the door."

For one horrifying moment, you almost did.

Your hand hovered over the lock, fingers trembling.

And then you remembered:

The sword.

The whispers.

The way his eyes had looked the last time he held you, too bright, too wide, wrong.

You drew your hand back as if burned.

"No," you croaked. "No, Fulgrim. I love you. I love you too much to open that door."

Silence fell like a hammer blow.

Then Fulgrim laughed, a soft, broken sound, filled with something ancient and terrible.

"You think a door can keep me from you?" he murmured.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

You scrambled back as the doorframe creaked, metal groaning under some unseen force.

"You are MINE," Fulgrim growled.

You turned and fled toward the private escape hatch at the back of the room, a small maintenance corridor, rarely used. Your hands fumbled at the latch. Behind you, the door shuddered again under a titanic blow.

"DARLING—" No, no, please. "DARLING, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

The hatch hissed open. You dove inside, pulling it shut just as the main door cracked, a thin fissure spiderwebbing across its surface.

You ran blindly through the narrow maintenance corridors, the ship groaning around you as if echoing Fulgrim’s rage.

You didn't look back.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did... you knew you would see him.

And this time, you wouldn't have the strength to run.

[thatnightlamp]

Hii! I see that your request open so can I ask for:

The little goddess was born at the same time as the chaos gods. But she was so weak that they didn't even consider her an equal. From the beginning she tried to please and flatter them to survive but many times she almost killed and was laughed at by the chaos gods made her realize. So she always hid in a corner deep in the warp, afraid that one day the chaos gods would finally bored and killed her.

Until one day she felt a beam of light shining into her hiding place, she realized it was the Emperor of Mankind. He did not despise or hurt her, He did not laugh at her for her weakness, so she ran after that light towards humanity, towards The Emperor. Meanwhile the chaos gods: ??? Where my goddess? We may not like her but she is still ours, now give her back. And big E belike: hehehe she mine now.

Yan!Chaos gods and Yan!Emperor

(This is just my delulu and I actually had a dream about it although I don't remember much🥹)

“Ough! I love this delulu! You are all such trouble makers my goodness. But that’s okay! For tis all cherished delicacies! I have thought about making something like this…” - Ichor

Summary - “You: a little goddess, born too weak to be even considered equal, and thrown to believe that you needed to please the other chaos gods until a certain event makes you realize things that were never true. Hurt, fearful and feeling betrayed, you hide yourself from their eyes, deep in the warp. Staying there until a light overcomes your own shadow. A man of gold appearing within, never mocking you, never pulling you down. It wouldn’t hurt to be by his side… would it?”

TW// Yandere, Neglect, Near Death Experience, Angst.

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Their words “weak” echo through your mind as you lay their helpless, aching, hurting. Something a divine being like you should have never felt. The pain of war and combat. That was Khornes thing, not yours, but here you are. Laying in your own pool of ichor.

It was nothing of what you expected. You didn’t think you could die, but you could be greatly injured to a point where you’re feeling like you are feeling deaths embrace cradling you. Brushing through the strands of your hair, comforting you in your time of infinite, seeping life.

Again, it was not something you’ve expected, but you should have. You should have known they would just… toss you away like a piece of meat. You should have known with how they didn’t pay attention to you, brushed you off, but at the same time? You had hope. Hope they would change. Hope they would see you for what you’re worth, and it feels like they do change… sometimes.

Slannesh was the most horrible out of it all. Always trying to pull you in with their… strange and ludicrous ways. Always… having something, someone in their lap to empower them. The stench of intimacy staining them and their grounds of their realm. So, you don’t go there often. It wasn’t something you were comfortable with, and you don’t feel like confining much with them.

Khorne was rather chill with you, never really seeing you as a threat as you suppose he doesn’t think you are… worthy enough. He simply just sits upon his bloody skull throne, watching. Only moving when he really needs to. His realm was one that you find yourself wandering as it didn’t smell like the horrors of… sexual attraction, but it did smell of ash and blood. You find yourself in his realm more often than nought though.

Nurgle was… eerily kind to you, but just something about the “grandfather” tips you off. Not to mention that he well… stinks and his realm too. (You don’t ever find yourself there.) He was just… too… him for your tastes. You do like his followers however, they were like cute little insects. You don’t mind their looks, not everything was perfect.

Tzeentch creeps you out, but not as heavily like with Nurgle. Sure his body has like these morphing faces on him, and they just stare at you, seemingly mocking you, but you find a strange comfort when he suddenly appears in any form. It was as if he knows your next move, and you believe he at least gives you something to dream about. Though his realm gives you a massive headache each time you try and give it a go to visit and wander the mystery’s of the realm. So, you don’t get too far before you’re back, hanging around in Khornes’ realm once more. Getting used to the smell of the blood and cruelty.

Despite all of that, your all hopes were diminished on a special time. Your mind finally realizing all the sacrifices that you made to them didn’t even matter. You didn’t matter. Hell, were you even a god? A divine being? You didn’t have any followers yourself. So, how could you be? How could you be if you were laying in your own blood. Thinking of what you have been doing is finally wrong. Thinking the more powerful gods would just rid of you once they get bored enough of your overbearing presence.

It honestly took you a long time to recover your own divinity though. Since you don’t have followers, it makes your regeneration process a lot slower, and you’re not sure how long, but it was long enough that you could have thought about your past mistakes and make your next move to be for yourself for once, and to see if anyone would check up on you, but no-one came. Not a single minion. You were trapped with your own mind before you would get strong enough again to move.

You moved quickly when you could, not wanting to waste your time. You have been simply watching Khornes’ deamons carefully to rule out that one should move quickly if they do not want to be caught. That’s if they were even looking for you. You maybe have been… bullied, but you sure as hell watched what was going on around you and in the realms. Never missing a detail around you as well… you wanted to prove yourself then. Make something of yourself then to earn their acknowledgement.

Yet, now you know. They don’t care about you, but they simply care about themselves. So, in an effort to get time and space to yourself. (Definitely not running away for the fear of being disregarded like a mere tool.) You hide yourself into the depth of the warp. A place that you had somehow found a bit of solstice in as Tzeentch hasn’t even found this part of the deep warp yet. You know him and Khorne could find you if they wanted to, but you have yet to see their dedication on that matter. Have yet to see if anyone came looking for you.

They did not, but this one… man? God thing has. A human? No, too much of an overpowering presence, but they did look like a human when they go close enough to you without blinding you. You’re almost surprised as this little… being of gold didn’t tower over you as you would have expected such from a presence like him. A god too you thought him as… a tiny one for a divine being like yourself.

You and this little being of gold formed… something between the each other. Your head nodding, and listening to the being that calls himself “The Emperor” while he does the same to you. It was almost… charming. It also felt nice that someone was actually listening to you, acknowledging you. This little being made it feel… a bit worth it.

You talked with the being, and he didn’t judge you. You playfully flicked a whisp of your own power at him, and he didn’t seem at all fazed, at most amused with you, and well… that was amusing to you. You were… you were having harmless fun with this golden man, but… you do worry; have neglected thoughts that he was simply enduring you as well, like the other gods have. Yet, he reassures you, in his own way and words that was not the case. Despite you not talking him to him about anything.

Strange little golden man….

The chaos gods are furious once they found out you had gone out on your own, without telling them anything. Even Tzeentch couldn’t get into your mind when he wanted. It was like… you blocked them out, and let this scoundrel of a so called god in: The Emperor of Mankind.

They give you whispers: Slaanesh begs, pleads. Nurgle promises that he will do better. Khorne is… silent, but you know better, not to take him for granted, and Tzeentch was trying to get into your head like the many times before, like the many times you had let him, and The Emperor? He did non of that. Never was he trying to pled with you, make you feel guilty. He simply left you to choose your place. Ņ̸͠ò̵̢ẗ̷̼́ ̵̛̪ţ̸̄h̵̒ͅa̶̳͐t̶͉͗ ̴̖̓h̵̻̽ë̷̜ ��̲̒w̴̧͐õ̸̻u̷͖͘l̸̖̍d̶̖͑ ̵̣͘l̷͈̚e̶̗͌t̶̪̎ ̸͖̀y̴͉͌ō̸̖u̶̦͝ ̷̩͌g̸̮̃ỏ̶͈ ̸̤̚b̶̫̿a̸̯̍c̵͓̉k̴̜̂.̷̡̂

He would not allow it. Those pitiful gods lost their chance. Now? He was picking up the pieces of this divine being they had disregarded like mere shards of glass. Infuriating the gods even more when the Emperor seems… close to you; winning your favor.

Chaos runs over the tiny, golden man, but your favor doesn’t weaken. Shielding him and his little creations with your own power that were deemed weak. Oblivious to The Emperors ways, wanting that simplicity of care from someone, and he was giving that to you.

(What the hell Emp? You give a divine being your attention but not your own creations? What the hell man?)

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[thatnightlamp]

VERONICA OPEN THE DOOR PLEASE...

The first time you heard him whisper to the blade, you thought it was a dream.

The Anathame. No, it was something far worse now – sat heavy in his hand, gleaming in the low light of his private chamber aboard the Pride of the Emperor. You'd seen it before, of course. At first it was merely a weapon, a trophy of his endless victories. But now... now it spoke to him. And he spoke back.

You stood outside his door, your heart hammering so loudly you feared he would hear it.

"No," you whispered to yourself, clutching the silk of your nightgown in trembling hands.

"He would never– he would never..."

But inside, you could hear the low, coaxing words. Fulgrim’s voice – your Fulgrim, warm, regal, and devastatingly beautiful... turned sickly sweet, like poisoned honey.

"They don't understand you. They never did. Only I understand."

There was a pause. A wet, ugly laugh that made your stomach churn. Then Fulgrim murmured back:

"I know. I know. But soon... soon they will."

Something inside you shattered.

Without thinking, you stumbled back, bumping into the wall, your vision blurring with tears. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, running, slipping down the cold marble corridors of the flagship you once called home. You reached your shared chambers, slammed the door behind you, and threw the lock home with a sharp, metallic click.

Your breath sawed in and out of your chest. Your fingers clawed the edge of a dresser for support. You knew now. You had denied it for so long, clinging to the perfect memories of the man you loved, the radiant, perfect being who had once lifted you into his arms like you were the only star in the galaxy. But he was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece, and you could not stop it.

The tears came hot and fast, blinding you. You backed away from the door, as though even through inches of reinforced steel, he might somehow sense your fear.

You had barely made it to the far end of the room, when the knock came.

"My darling..."

His voice, so soft, so tender it almost broke you. Almost.

"Open the door, please."

You pressed yourself against the far wall, shaking your head though he couldn’t see it. Your voice stuck in your throat.

"Darling, open the door, please. I need to see you."

His tone cracked, pleading, desperate, almost boyish.

You squeezed your eyes shut. No. No no no. Don’t listen. Don’t open it. It’s not him anymore.

"You know I love you. I love you so much," Fulgrim whispered against the door, the sound of him resting his forehead against it echoing into the room. "I don't want to hurt you. Please—" his voice broke, "please, just open the door."

You bit into your lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting the iron sharpness on your tongue. Your knees buckled, and you slid down to the floor, burying your face in your hands.

Stay quiet. Stay hidden.

A beat of silence.

Then—

BAM BAM BAM

His fists crashed against the door with a ferocity that shook the frame.

"I CAN'T CONTROL IT MUCH LONGER!" he roared. "OPEN THE DOOR, DARLING!"

You gasped, a tiny noise you couldn’t smother in time.

Fulgrim stilled.

You heard him breathing on the other side, heavy and ragged.

"I heard you..." he said, voice thick with something twisted. "I heard you, my sweet little star."

Something scraped along the door, nails? No, metal.

The sword.

"You don't understand. This pain... it's unbearable."

A low chuckle, unhinged, vibrated through the wall.

"But you can fix it. You can fix me, darling. Just let me in."

You pressed yourself tighter against the wall, feeling like if you could just merge into it, you could vanish. Fulgrim was never denied anything he wanted, and now, what he wanted most was you.

You tried to steady your breath, tried to think of anything else. Of the way he once cradled you under the stars. Of the sound of his laughter, pure and joyful, before the rot of Chaos wormed its way into his soul.

But even those memories seemed tainted now.

A long silence.

Then, soft, almost too soft to hear, he whispered:

"You make me feel... human again."

You wanted to believe him. Emperor help you, you wanted to. You crawled a few desperate inches closer to the door before you caught yourself.

No. No.

That was not Fulgrim speaking.

It was the thing inside him.

You buried your face in your arms and sobbed soundlessly.

Outside, Fulgrim leaned heavily against the door, listening. His hair brushed the frame as he rested there, trembling.

Inside his mind, the daemon laughed and whispered foul promises.

"Break her. Take her. She will love you as you truly are."

Fulgrim’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword until blood welled around his fingers.

"I don't want to hurt her," he whispered.

"Then don't," the voice crooned. "She will come willingly. She always did."

He closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had laid eyes on you. A fragile mortal, yet filled with such breathtaking fire, such loyalty. A spark in the endless cold of the universe.

He could not lose you.

He would not.

"Darling," he said again, so brokenly that your heart cracked all over again. "Please. If you love me..."

You slammed your palms over your ears. Don't listen. Don't listen!

"If you love me, open the door."

For one horrifying moment, you almost did.

Your hand hovered over the lock, fingers trembling.

And then you remembered:

The sword.

The whispers.

The way his eyes had looked the last time he held you, too bright, too wide, wrong.

You drew your hand back as if burned.

"No," you croaked. "No, Fulgrim. I love you. I love you too much to open that door."

Silence fell like a hammer blow.

Then Fulgrim laughed, a soft, broken sound, filled with something ancient and terrible.

"You think a door can keep me from you?" he murmured.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

You scrambled back as the doorframe creaked, metal groaning under some unseen force.

"You are MINE," Fulgrim growled.

You turned and fled toward the private escape hatch at the back of the room, a small maintenance corridor, rarely used. Your hands fumbled at the latch. Behind you, the door shuddered again under a titanic blow.

"DARLING—" No, no, please. "DARLING, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

The hatch hissed open. You dove inside, pulling it shut just as the main door cracked, a thin fissure spiderwebbing across its surface.

You ran blindly through the narrow maintenance corridors, the ship groaning around you as if echoing Fulgrim’s rage.

You didn't look back.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did... you knew you would see him.

And this time, you wouldn't have the strength to run.

[thatnightlamp]

I'm a bull, I'm into red flags.

About why Konrad Curze is so beloved in the fandom, a slightly meta take:

All his books/apperance are actually well written. Warhammer in general, and the heresy especially, has some GOD AWFUL writing. Bolter porn and annoying side characters and legitimatly useless side plots. Konrad? He is DOING shit. The plot advance when he's there, in unexpected way even sometime, he get an absolutely delightful cast of side characters around him and he gets to be funny, dark, unhinged and unexpected. When Dorn show up, I pretty much know what actions he will take. When Konrad show up?? He might make a meat statue of his dad. Or create a murder labyrinthe and praise Perturabo about it. Or do Tarot. Or call Robby an avanging bean conter. Or torture a guy for years on a spaceship out of boredom. Or walk around naked but for a crown and a cloak of featers. Or... anything else, honestly.

He's busy, he feel different, he make the plot happen, and the authors that wrote him (and his sons!!) Gave their all, making it compelling work.

I know why he's beloved. It's just, emotionally, I don't see it. It's like how I know why Timothee Chalamet is considered attractive. And yet, to me, I do not see it. Do you get me? I just don't like him. I see why you do. But I just don't like him.

[thatnightlamp]

he wars on my hammer til i 40k

[thatnightlamp]

I'm freaking love myself after 3 weeks of learning how to write NSFW properly now I'm confident

[thatnightlamp]

PLS NEVER STOP WRITING THAT LORGAR FIC WAS SUMTHIN ELSE I TELL YOU I NEED SOMETHING SIMILAR WITH SANGY 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Babe Sangy deserve everything nice. I cant whip him😼🤌

Sanguinius had spent years mastering the thirst.

It pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, humming low and hungry. The galaxy called him angel, saint, demigod, but none of them knew the truth of what coiled behind his serene smile, beneath the halo of his beauty. Not even you.

Especially not you.

You, who had walked into his cathedral-like chamber with bare feet and curious eyes, unafraid of the shadow that curled at the edges of his golden wings. You, who touched him like he was just a man, not a Primarch, not a legend, but something warm, breathing, and breakable. He had feared you, at first. Feared what he could become in your arms.

And yet he had returned to you. Again and again.

He told himself it is love. It is love, but it is something else too. Something older, darker, buried beneath centuries of denial. A beast whose cage was growing brittle with every kiss you gave him.

He kept his distance at first. Reverent. Worshipful. He would lie beside you and listen to your heartbeat with his head on your chest, pretending it didn’t drive him mad. Pretending he didn’t want to sink his teeth into your skin and drink that rhythm until it was his own.

But you were too good. Too soft. And he was always so careful. Always holding back. You saw it in the tension of his muscles, in the way he stopped just before his mouth brushed your throat. In the way his pupils dilated like a predator’s, but his hands still trembled like a penitent man.

You wanted more. And he wanted everything.

That night, the chains snapped.

It began as it always did, in silence. His wing curled protectively around you, his hand tracing the curve of your spine with aching slowness. He kissed you like it would be the last time, every touch layered in devotion and fear. His armor lay discarded, his sanctified robes strewn like holy offerings at the foot of the bed.

You whispered to him, words meant only for him, and he answered not with vows or promises, but with need. You saw it in his eyes. Feel it in the way his mouth devoured yours. Something was shifting.

You straddled him, guided him inside you, and his control shattered.

He cried out, not in pain, but in release. His hands clutched your hips, claws nearly forming as he fought not to grip you too hard. His wings flexed and twitched like they were being pulled from the inside. Every thrust was slow, reverent, but you could feel the tension behind it, a dam straining under the weight of centuries of restraint.

“Sanguinius,” you breathed, cupping his face, “don’t hold back.”

And that broke him.

He flipped you with sudden, terrifying grace, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh. He moved faster now, deeper, like a storm unleashed.

“You don’t understand,” he growled, his voice no longer angelic but low, guttural. “You can’t tell me that.”

“I want all of you,” you said, breathless. “Even the part you hide.”

And then his lips found your throat. He hesitated, shaking.

“You smell like sunlight and warmth and everything I was never meant to have.”

His fangs grazed your skin.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

He bit.

Pain bloomed like a star going supernova, sharp, hot, consuming. But beneath it was ecstasy. His body shuddered against yours as he drank, his tongue lapping at the wound like a lover’s kiss. He moaned into your skin, and you felt it, the power behind the hunger. Ancient. Endless.

And for a moment, it felt like you had fallen into him. Into a chasm of desire so deep it had no bottom.

When he pulled back, blood stained his perfect lips. His eyes glowed, golden and horrified.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

You reached for him. Dazed, weak, but not afraid.

“Sanguinius–”

“I fed on you,” he said, recoiling. “I lost control. I–”

“You needed it,” you said softly, voice thick. “You needed me.”

He turned from you, hiding his face behind one wing, as if ashamed. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

You crawled to him, wrapped your arms around his trembling form. “Then tell me.”

His body quaked beneath your touch. “I’ve buried it for years. I swore to the Emperor, to myself… I would never become that.”

You kissed the edge of his wing, the scars on his shoulder. “You didn’t hurt me. You feel me. And I feel you.”

He turned then, slowly, eyes burning. “You don’t fear me?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think you’ve been starving for so long, you forgot what it feels like to be full.”

He surged forward, not with hunger, but desperation. He kissed you hard, deep, breath stolen between teeth and tongue. This was different now, wilder. Freer. The beast was unchained.

He laid you back down, and this time when he took you, he truly took you, with no restraint, no fear. His body moved like a storm, all grace and violence. His wings flared wide, then wrapped around you like a cocoon. His mouth found every inch of your skin, reverent and ravenous.

When he bit again, it was at your breast, and you cried out, not in pain, but need. The blood he took was a prayer, and the pleasure it gave was divine.

You came undone with his name on your lips, and when he followed, it was with a sound so broken, so human, it brought tears to your eyes.

Afterward, he cradled you in silence, breath shallow, as if stunned by what had passed between you.

“I can’t stop,” he whispered. “You’ve opened something in me I can’t close.”

“Then don’t,” you said, tracing his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He looked at you then, truly looked, not as a protector, or a Primarch, but as a man. A man with hunger and grief and love so deep it could drown suns.

“I love you,” he said. “But if I take too much I–”

“You won’t,” you said. “Because I’ll give it.”

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and trembling. “You’d give yourself to the monster?”

“I already did,” you said, smiling softly. “And it gave me the angel in return.”

He kissed you again. Blood, salt, and sweetness, and for once, he didn’t hold back.

Damn now I found out where the dash on the keyboard - — – hehehe

[thatnightlamp]

From Rust and Bone pt.1

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: mentions of the heresy, description of injuries and wounds

Word Count: 1140

part 1 | part 2

               As the crackles and strange howl like sounds echo through the pod as it drifts through the warp. Searing pain dulling as Dorn’s vision fades, his mind replaying bits of the turmoil he had just been jettisoned from. Fighting the traitors aboard the Sword of Sacrilege, making a stand amongst the onslaught of fallen marines and then one of his gene-sons pushing him into this pod.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

               Trudging through the slopes of mud and pillars of rocks jutting from the soaked earth, the destination clear in her mind. Signaling the large beast trailing behind her to stay put as they near the wreckage that had fallen from the sky that morning. Adjusting her patched up chem-suit and her backpack full of gear, as she climbs up the metal pod. Glancing around to ensure no one else had yet arrived before pulling out of her bag an arc cutter and begins to sear into the haul door. Sparks flying as she cuts through the numerous seals of the door. Groaning with the effort she uses to roll the door aside, hoping to find a core or even transmitter parts but instead she is greeted by the sight of a golden figure laying there unconscious.

Cautiously she looks over this immense figure, if it weren’t for the dark bruising and the gauntness of his features, he seemed as if a broken, armored god. A disappointed sigh escapes her lips, moving to look around the pod but finding it far too buried to the ground to search in a short time frame. Deciding to scavenge what wire she could reach as the sound of hissing and pitter patter starts to draw near. Jerking her head up only to be greeted by the sight of darkened clouds and what seemed like a wall of green-sizzling rain advancing towards her.

Stashing the wires in her bag, about to make a run for it but halting at the very edge of the pod. A part of her unable to leave this figure here to face such a gruesome end. Whistling over her mount, lashing rope around the large figure as to pull him out of the pod. Moving things aside on her sled and through other things out before pulling him onto it, covering him in an acid-resistant tarp. Hoping onto her mount, dashing to try and escape the canyon at the least. Reaching the mouth of the canyon as the acidic rain finally descends upon them.

Knuckles turning white as Kessa clings to the handles of the saddle, corrosive rain bearing down onto them, slowly eating away at her tattered chem-suit. The colorful reptilian beast weaving through whatever cover it could find as to provide what protection it could from the rain. Sliding into a cave, it releases a high-pitched melodic sound to signal their arrival.

Shucking off what she could of what remained of the chem-suit, having to cut parts that had fused to her skin as to remove it properly later. Hoping off the saddle, stumbling on trembling legs as she leads the beast deeper into the tunnel where she detaches the sled and saddle.

“You did so well, Arravox” Kessa praises the large reptile, through it a large chunk of meat as a treat.

Letting the creature head to where the rest of its colony lay resting. Utilizing metal chains to make a harness around the golden gilded man before hooking it up to a salvage cargo loader she had scavenged years back. Carefully, Kessa uses it to move him into her dwelling, rusted metal walls, cogitators cannibalized from a derelict agri-spire strewn on a workbench.

Undoing the harness, she examines him more thoroughly. Finding parts of his armor is fused to him and his right hand is missing. Grimacing as she slowly carves away at his armor, mumbling quiet apologies that fall on deaf ears as she uses the bit of anesthetic on him as she separates the pieces that fused to him. Utilizing a scalpel to carve away at the dead tissue and blackened muscle, rubbing over the various wounds a beast-fat balm, mixed with chemical-neutralizing soot from the vent walls to prevent rot. Wrapping each of the exposed areas with cloth. Moving her focus to treat the stump of what remained of his right hand. Treating the bleeding as she removed the pieces of old, jagged pieces of shrapnel, then the burnt and dead tissue. Rummaging through the various medical supplies, she’s scavenged in the past, finding a cap to put onto the wound that just barely fits due to his size.

Draping a pelt across his waist as to provide him some form of privacy. She treats her own wounds as she contemplates how she is going to keep this hulk of a being alive. Bracing herself before getting to work, piecing a cradle together with beast-cages, fragments of stasis caskets and chemical filtration units. Implementing an old vent-breather and vital monitors she had scavenged off a corpse. Powering this amalgamation with a broken plasma lamp. Barely able to haul him into it even with his armor now having been discarded.

There is where this mysterious figure stays for months, healing from whatever horrific event he has gone through. It had taken a month and a half for Kessa to feel comfortable to leave his side. Tending to his wounds and doing her best to keep him breathing as his vitals would fluctuate. She’d been worried when his vitals had gone flat, worried that even with her efforts he had gone brain-dead. Burning through various parts to improve the cradle, finally being able to breathe once the vitals show that they’ve steadied out.

The following months were relatively quiet, with its vitals steady she was able to do chores around the cave as the rain continued outside. Kessa vents to the stranger, even if he never responded, the only sound being the hum of recycled air and his only reaction being the occasional twitch.

“I fed you from a tube today. Got some salve into the burn on your hip. You’re welcome.” She remembers saying after having run out of nutrient drips and resorting to slowly feeding him broths and honey.

One day, he stirs. Opening his eyes in a dim bunker smelling of engine oil, scorched fur, and stale oxygen. Looking around as he rises from the cradle, he finds a woman half-asleep beside it, wrapped in a patched blanket. His body aches, it’s scarred, gaunt, and his mind is foggy. Watching as the woman notices that he’s awoken and jumps with a bit of startle. He doesn’t speak at first, too much time has passed, and the weight of reality crashes down on him all at once. When he finally talks, his first words aren’t declarations of vengeance or imperial dogma, they’re simple, raw.

“Where… am I?”

[thatnightlamp]

I'M SO SORRY

Self-help is important Lorgar