#imperial fist oc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan · 1 month

Text

Surprise Guest

Author's note: More mermay, some world building with Poor Unfortunate Souls AU, and a dash of Space Marines Sentient Husbandry. Oh boy, I wrote a little over 1K words for this one.

Summary: Hura finds a stranger in his den, it's a wounded Loyalist Scout, so he calls for back up, as well as teases some of his younger cousins, because he finds them Hilarious.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, light bullying? Or is it intimidation. Hura's being a bit of a lil' shit head. Let me know if I need to add more.

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @egrets-not-regrets, @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams

Tagged again, just in case: @kit-williams, @whorety-k

Catius Past

Hura Past

Hura had finished with some tasks he’d been meaning to do, helped out some of his fellow Chaos Mer-Astartes, he’s swimming back to his underwater cave system, when he smells something off about the waters immediately around and inside is caves. He huffs, as he readies himself, whether for a fight, or to scare whoever it is thought they could so foolishly take over his cave. He pauses as he swims deeper into his cave system when he smells the scent of blood. Astartes blood.

Ah- perhaps someone had tried to come to his cave seeking treatment… Unusually bold, or more likely desperate. He retracts his claws and spines mostly as he shifts his gear, wondering who his newest patient is going to be. And if they had friends with them. What he comes across gives him pause. By the coloration, that deep, vivid blue and spots, that eel-like tale that flows like a long ribbon in the wind, this is an Ultramarine, or one of their successor chapters, before their scales shed and into their pod’s hues.

As Hura carefully approaches the other mer-astartes, he notices, he’s large for a normal Son of the 13th Primarch. Hura’s face breaks into a grin as his eyes sparkle. Oh- oh he’s heard of this! A Primaris! Oh- those youngsters from the farthest in the future that near enough any of them can determine. And, so far, none have yet to fall to Chaos or to turn Renegade. But that is most likely because they are all brainwashed Scout-lings who haven’t had much life experience out of the drudgery of basic training and have yet to really sink their teeth into the poisonous, wonderous horrors of the wider galaxy.

Hm… he’s not heard of a new Primaris Marine, of any chapter coming into any of the local pods. Perhaps he’s new? Poor thing, arrived upon Ancient Terra, and unknowing of where and when he is. Likely caught in a vicious battle as Hura continues to silently approach the Scout-ling. While his wounds are stitching up, due to his Astartes constitution he notices how the poor thing was almost pulled apart by Warp Predators. Ouch. Likely the sole survivor of his Primaris Pod, unless he was the only one strong enough to survive ancient Terra’s waters and collapsed into the nearest place where he’d be able to sleep off the worst of his injuries.

Poor little scout, unknowing of the dangers and beauties of this new world and time. He does send a message on his vox through to his fellow Apothecaries, of the Alliance of Loyalist, Renegade, and Chaos factions, the youngster is not going to react well to him at all, and as, while he’s recovering, is still badly wounded and will react with far more hostility. Those Primaris Space Marine Scout-lings can be ever so vicious and suspicious of the Chaos-embracing brothers and cousins. Its likely part of their training to be so, which is a pity, as he’d so dearly love to meet with a Primaris and be able to observe their mannerisms and behaviors up close, as well as teach any who’d have the capacity, skill, and heart for being an Apothecary. He’s been one for a very long time.

Not a few moments later he’d gotten a response and an Imperial Fist Apothecary, as well as a couple of younger Apothecaries would come to his cove to gently scoop up the wounded, sleeping youngster, and hopefully get to him before the youngster woke up and then panicked at the Sight of Hura watching him from the entrance of the cave. Little brothers and cousins could be so adorable at times, and he’s slow to anger and understanding of… youthful misadventures and shenanigans.

The young Primaris Ultramarine is starting to wake, his face scrunching up and snuffling at the currents as his fins flare and curl as his senses start to inform him of the Danger that’s nearby. Hura does back off, no need to scare the poor thing absolutely silly for unknowingly entering the nest of someone else when he was so wounded and unknowing of everything that was going on around him. He waves to the Imperial Fist and other assorted Loyalists and the young Black Templar Apothecary, who doesn’t have armor, but really should get some at time hisses and growls at him, flaring his fins and his scales rucking up.

“What a wonderful threat display,” Hura coos to the youngster who thinks he’s So Scary.

Hura has seen things that would drive lesser beings mad or commit suicide. He was on one of the ships that were trapped within the warp, unable to die, unable to help his brothers and they suffered, grew sick, yet didn’t die as they were trapped in the Warp for an eternity or two until their Gene-father cracked and gave in and begged for Grandfather’s blessing, who’d happily given it to all who’d joined him. He blocks out Unpleasant memories, the past was the past and thinking about Before was… well.

No. Not a good idea. Youngsters to playfully tease. The young Primaris Ultramarine has woken up, and is skittish and an anxious youngling, but perks right up when he spots the young black Templar. He sure does think he’s scary as well, growling at Hura like he is, poor dear, his fins are torn and he can’t do a proper threat display, although he tries. It’s interesting how the Primaris Space Marines, despite being from, or at least assigned to different chapters seem to know one another, or at least of each other enough to perk up when the spot each other. Or at least, that’s what he’s heard from those that have met some of the youngest of their cousins. It’s such a terribly fascinating little puzzle that he wants to solve, but alas he can’t get near because they Really Don’t Like Chaos Space Marines.

“Hura,” One of the older Apothecaries say with a sigh.

“Yes, Kordito?” He trills out amused.

“Stop scaring the Scouts,” Kordito says with another sigh.

“But I’m not doing anything!” He protests with a pout, “I’m just floating here, near my nest.”

24 notes · View notes

krakenburger · 20 days

Text

(house Goliath proxy gang. Will have 1 sgt.[forge tyrant] 1 scout Sgt [forge boss] 2 scouts [bruisers])

Sgt Arizona. Helt; of the Nexus Rangers

Or also called "space riders"

They are a Ultima founding "successer chapter" of the imperial fists. (Actual geneseed is of the alpha legion)

Most known for being paid mercenaries for nobles, inquisition and rogue traders

They are fleet based. Recruiting from worlds with mostly Arid desert biomes, Salt flats, radioactive wastelands etc.

(Current amount of Marines is 600-750)

Current activity is routing out specific outlaws and mutants in necromunda and sending 10 marine strong entourages to protect vip clientele.

Current chaptermaster is Rattlesnake Jake. Fastest draw this side the universe.

#warhammer community #grimdark #warhammer 40k #mini painting #warhammer 40000 #painting warhammer #warhammer miniatures #40k oc #alpha legion #imperial fists #necromunda #house goliath gangers

20 notes · View notes

sleepyfan-blog · 1 month

Text

Questions

Author’s Note: This is the next fic in Cedric’s Adventures. First. Previous. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: angst, 30k typical anti-religious sentiment, beating as punishment, unreliable narrator, ask me to tag if something bothers you!

Summary: Cedric asks captain Ash’val when morning prayers are.

"Captain Ash'val... I... I've got some questions, if you have the time, sir." Cedric asked, having managed to pluck up the courage to go to the usually warm and kind Salamander Scout Captain. While there were many things he deeply missed about the time period he had been sent to, most of those things - and people - were wholly outside of his grasp. But there were a small handful of things that Cedric was hopeful that he could have in this time period, that he'd had in the time that he had come from. He was very deliberately not fidgeting with his hands, standing at attention as he waited for the older marine to acknowledge his presence in the other's office.

The Salamander hummed, looking up from the machine that Cedric had been taught functioned similarly to a data-slate and gestured to one of the chairs on Cedric's side of the desk. "I've got time to talk with you, Cedric. Please, sit down. There's no need to be so formal, young one."

"If you say so, sir." Cedric responded, unable to keep direct eye contact with one of his superior officers, having been taught by both the Mechanicum and the Black Templars that doing so was both rude and a sign of defiance or challenge. He obediently sat in the chair Ash'val indicated that he sit in. He took in a deep breath, willing the anxiety welling in his hearts to not still his tongue as he asked "Where are the morning devotionals being held, sir? Or are they being held at a different time of the day, sir?”

".... The what?" The older marine asked, a frown appearing on his face.

"Morning prayers? Part of the morning meditation exercises that every marine is supposed to take in? Or at least, the beginning of shift prayers and meditation that each marine is supposed to complete when not in immediate life threatening danger, should he be overheard, sir?" Cedric clarified, genuinely confused by the other's reaction, and doing his best to explain himself. Not every marine had the same work schedule, after all.

"... Prayers to whom?" Ash'val asked, the frown on his face deepening, his voice shifting strangely.

"The... The God-Emperor of Mankind? The being on who's divine mandate we were all created to serve and protect humanity on?" Cedric answered, deeply confused by the other's question. Who else would Loyal Marines be worshiping? The Living Saints were more for mortals, though he supposed that some marines probably would send prayers to the nine holy Primarchs during their devotionals as well, depending on what they were doing for that day.

"You... You believe that the Emperor of Mankind is a god?" Ash'val inquired, his face having frozen in a carefully neutral expression, though there was tension in his voice that confused Cedric tremendously.

"Yes sir. I was first taught by the Mechanicum to worship him in his aspect as the Omnisiah, but that was corrected by my Black Templar older brothers, after I was sent to them, sir. He is the Lord Commander of the imperium, the shining golden light in the darkness, sir. Without His protection we - and the rest of humanity - would be lost. Killed or enslaved by Xenos and Chaos." Cedric answered earnestly, repeating what he's been told over and over again in his home time.

"... I see. This base does not have a morning devotional, nor would you find such things at four of the other bases in this city. The fifth is run by... Hmm. The fifth is a primarily Chaos base and their worship is of gods opposed to yours. I can tell that you genuinely believe in what you say, but I would suggest not speaking of the... The Emperor as a god in this base much. Most of us who live in this base are from a time before and during the Horus Heresy, and shortly after... And-" Ash'val paused, looking Cedric over carefully.

The young apothecary couldn't look at Ash'val directly. He could hear the recrimination and judgment in the older marine's voice. Guilt and confusion hit him harder than Tau ordinance and it took all of his self-control to resist the temptation to slowly ooze out of the chair and onto the floor. Cedric was keenly aware of how uncomfortable he'd made the Salamander, which hadn't been his intention at all. He... He'd just missed going to morning prayers with his Templar brothers. The sense of community, camaraderie and togetherness that the morning hymns and group meditation at the beginning of his shifts aboard the Sigismund, and in the mornings on whichever Monastery he ended up on occasionally had been wonderful. He'd hoped to participate in that again on ancient Terra. "I... I wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable, sir... and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, sir. I... I'll leave now." He got up to his feet and retreated from the room as fast as he could, the hurt and confusion making his hearts ache and his eyes sting with tears that he refused to let fall. He was keenly aware of the fact that he was likely to face more punishment for the questions that had clearly made the well-liked and well-respected Scout Captain uncomfortable, and he heard the other call his name, but Cedric desperately needed out of that room.

Cedric threw himself into the chores that he'd been assigned to do that morning, frantically scrubbing the floors of the main entrance hall, watering the plants growing in the internal open spaces of the base and completing the handful of minor repair requests that had come in during the night. The fact that he did that while hyper-aware of his surroundings and avoiding every older brother he possibly could - especially Ash'val, who's steps and hearts'-beats he could hear coming from far enough away with his enhanced hearing to (hide from) avoid in order to not upset further - was just a bonus of his primaris physique. He would report to one of the chaplains to pay for his sins later. For now he needed to calm down.

There was only so long that Cedric could evade all of the older brothers and cousins who lived in this base - especially as he couldn't bring himself to disobey the order to stay on base. There was also the terrible misfortune he suffered of being larger than most first-born marines, and there were only so many places he could be without an older marine finding him at some point. Cedric had also not been created and trained for stealth missions either. He had managed to evade them for several days with his concerted efforts, though he was careful to complete each and every one of the punishment chores he had been assigned to, not wanting to make things even worse for himself.

So the young Primaris marine wasn't terribly surprised when one of the chaplains who lived on base - a stern-faced Imperial Fist with steely blue eyes and greying hair - entered the room that Cedric was currently in. The young black templar was kneeling on the ground, scrubbing furiously at a stain on the stone floor with the scrubbing sponge that he'd grabbed after fleeing from captain Ash'val and beginning his punishment-chores for the day. He was acutely aware of the older marine as the other made his way across the anxiety-cleaned and meticulously cleaned floor. He'd stopped running when he'd known that Chaplain Feldarim was searching for him. While his older brothers likely thought otherwise, he wasn't stupid. He knew that running from a chaplain was a bad idea - and running from the highest ranking chaplain in the base was catastrophically worse. His breathing hitched a little, though he desperately tried to keep himself from visibly tensing or flinching at the older marine's approach. He continued to scrub on his knees, struggling to keep his breathing even and normal, hoping that the other wouldn't notice the way his fingers trembled around the sponge in his hand.

Chaplain Feldarim walked carefully across the room, coming to stand in front of Cedric, his ceramite boots within the younger marine's line of sight as Cedric continued to scrub and clean.

Every time Cedric finished a one foot segment of floor and shifted over to the next tile, Chaplain Feldarim would side-step to keep within the young apothecary's line of sight.

Cedric continued to scrub until each tile in this room was not only clean, but shined and polished to a mirror finish. His fingers ached faintly from the amount of strength he had used, and the hours it had taken to get this room's floor properly clean. He placed the sponge back in the bucket he'd periodically been dipping it into, to get more cleaning solution, letting it go. He sat back on his knees, placing his hands down on the floor in front of his knees, head still bowed. There was no way he was going to break the silence by speaking first and waited patiently, penitently.

Eventually chaplain Feldarim sighed. It was a heavy thing, filled with wordless condemnation.

Cedric fought the urge to curl in on himself, to hunch his shoulders to his ears. To cringe away from whatever just punishment he was about to receive from the chaplain, bracing for pain. Physical, emotional, or likely both. He did, to his eternal shame, close his eyes tightly and turn his head to one side, flinching a little as Feldarim began to speak.

"I've heard that you have some questions, lad. You brought them to Ash'val and then ran off. Considering what he told me those questions were, you'd have been better served going to one of the Chaplains, as you had questions about faith." Feldarim chided Cedric. His voice was surprisingly gentle, but Cedric suspected that the other was just getting started.

Cedric said nothing in response, unsure if he was allowed to, or if this was going to be a one-sided lecture. He erred on the side of caution and stayed silent on his knees, gaze firmly on the other's boots.

The Imperial Fist Chaplain sighed again, and an armored hand briefly entered Cedric's line of sight, the gauntlet the gold and black of the older Marine's chapter.

To Cedric's eternal shame, he flinched backward when one of Feldarim's armored hands touched his face and chin. Shame burned his cheeks and he forced himself to still, waiting for the expected for his outward show of hesitation and fear to follow.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant uncomfortably before the Chaplain spoke again "... Were you expecting me to hurt you, Cedric?"

Fuck. He was clearly expected to answer. He swallowed around the lump in the back of his throat that threatened to choke him "I... I apologize for flinching, chaplain. I will do my best not to do so again." Because what else was he supposed to say? Of course the other was going to hurt him. Pain was a common enough punishment inflicted upon misbehaving aspirants and battle brothers alike. Among Black Templars, Chaplains were most often in charge of the administration and execution of punishments. Cedric found himself intensely grateful that none of his squad had come with him. As an Apothecary, depending on what he had done wrong and the situation he and his squad were in, he did not always receive the physical punishments he had earned. Instead one or more of his squad brothers would be punished in his stead, and he would be the one to patch them up, while apologizing to them for being the reason why they were bloodied and healing.

"That is an answer, but not to the question I asked of you, Cedric." Feldarim pointed out, irritation seeping into his voice. One of the older marine's armored hands was still holding onto his chin and he was desperately trying to keep his breathing even and steady.

He was trying to shove the shameful and un-Astartes-like emotions that were threatening to have him cry in front of a Chaplain about to administer punishment. It would only make what was about to come more agonizing. "It.. Is only be in service of making me a better marine, sir." He forced himself to say, hating the way that his treacherous body was starting to shake from the intensity of the fear and nervous anticipation running through him. As he had been taught before, during and after such punishments.

"I want you to look at me, Cedric. Look me in the eyes, as I tell you something. So you know that I mean what I say." Chaplain Feldarim ordered, the grip on his chin tightening a little. Enough to be noticeable, but not painful.

Not yet.

Cedric let out a shaky breath as he complied, forcing himself to look up into the older marine's face. His eyes darted up to look into the Chaplain's before they slid down to the other's nose - a little crooked, looking as though it'd gotten broken and healed slightly off of center at some point. Probably multiple times, given the bloody and dangerous work of a Space Marine. No matter how he tried, he couldn't keep his gaze focused on the older marine's eyes, though he desperately tried to obey the other's orders.

"I. Am not. Going to beat you. None of the Chaplains in this base are going to beat you. None of the chaplains on any of the bases on Ancient Terra should ever raise a hand to you like that in punishment, no matter if they're Loyalist, Chaos or Renegade. You should never have been beaten, much less beaten as often and harshly as to make you flinch automatically at the touch of an allied chaplain. Has anyone on Ancient Terra beaten you and called it a punishment?" Feldarim asked, his voice shaking with rage and concern.

His words made no sense, but his fury was at least familiar. While Cedric did his best to behave himself, he'd been on the wrong side of a chaplains' wrath more than a couple of times. Some of the first-born older brothers really resented the fact that Cedric and his younger brothers existed. Sure, they had been gifted to the Black Templars by The Imperial Regent to strengthen their fleet... But some of the older brothers were incredibly strict and harsh on them, finding fault in everything they did, and culling brothers who did not conform quickly enough. "No sir." He answered earnestly. No one had lifted a hand to him in punishment on Ancient Terra.

Some of the rage and worry left the chaplain, and he sighed again, eyes softening a little "There's that, at least. And stand up, lad. You've been on your knees for hours. Your knees are going to be complaining at you for a while for being on them for so long. Up you get, there's a good lad." The hand on his chin shifted down to one of Cedric's elbows as the older Marine helped him up to his feet.

Cedric silently stood up, reeling from both the bit of underserved praise he'd gotten, and the fact that the older marine believed that he shouldn't be beaten as part of his punishments. If that held true for Imperial Fists, how then did they keep discipline? Was that why he had been restricted to base and given chores to complete? Was... Was that the extent of his punishment for being "rude" to two allied chaos space marines?

Ancient Terra continued to confuse him on a soul-deep level.

"Follow me, lad. While you've been quite dutiful in doing your chores, I know that you haven't eaten anything since your conversation with captain Ash'val. Missing meals isn't good for anyone, and I'm going to make sure you eat, lad." Chaplain Feldarim ordered, still holding Cedric by the elbow as he guided the primaris marine to the cafeteria, voice gently chiding.

"Yes sir..." Cedric mumbled, ducking his head a little, feeling intensely foolish for how he'd reacted, as he obediently followed after the first born marine.

#salamander #black templar #oc: cedric #oc: Ash'val #oc: Feldarim #Imperial Fist #space marine husbandry #space marine husbandry sentience #warhammer 40k #my writing #cw: beating as punishment #cw: unreliable narrator #because cedric is Scared #warhammer 30k

36 notes · View notes

the-art-block · 1 year

Text

The Holy Warplate of Brothers

Three color tests for three of my fan-made Space Marine Chapters for Warhammer 40k~

The Enlightened Sons | 8th Founding | Imperial Fists Successors

The Iron Bears | 13th Founding | White Scars Successors

The Greyhawks | 21st Founding | Raven Guard Successors

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #space marine #space marine ocs #adeptus astartes #imperial fists #white scars #raven guard

132 notes · View notes

dashofweak · 9 months

Text

I'm at the point of 40K fandom that I'm thinking about my own space marine chapter. They're an offshoot of the Imperial Fists that are even more boring and workmen like in their fighting.

5 companies defending 5 key worlds in a segmentum and the other 5 going around system to system kicking the shit out of whatever needs to have their shit kicked out of them and building defenses and picking up recruits wherever they fight, only asking for enough to replenish casualties and whatever material they need to fight. Since there's fewer sieges and more defenses of worlds during the Tyranid's onslaught across the galaxy they've refined their siege warfare towards the defensive, becoming for flexible with both styles at the expense of expertise.

Hard to corrupt, harder to dig out of a fortification, and only a slight geneseed defect that relates to a small but noticiable reduction in overall muscle mass (from baseline ludicrous to merely unbelievable massive). Their colors are orange, white, and black but I don't have a name for them yet.

Maybe Imperial Legionnaires.

#warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #40k #space marines #oc chapter #adeptus astartes #imperial fists

13 notes · View notes

kathy-rah · 1 year

Text

While the First Captain of the Imperial Fists has always felt a deep hatred and disgust for the members of the 8th legion, probably the only one he could talk to without refraining the instinct of fight him was the Captain Arshak Skraidor.

Sigismund's disgust of the Night Lords had actually deeper roots than one may think, for he would look at his past and wonder how luck it was that he was never picked for joining them. Yet, he had been close to.

After his encounters with Arshak, he started to believe that his fears were living in the person of the Night Lord Captain. For they were more similar that he could have never thought. Arshak was a noble and honorable spirit, his adoration of his primarch - while Sigismund could not understand at the fullest - had the same intensity of what he felt for Dorn.

In a cursed and distorted way, looking at Arshak was like looking in a mirror, a reflection of something he could have been.

In the end, he couldn't hate the captain. While never praising Arshak directly, he felt a deep respect for him.

Scene depicting their first duel.

Sigismund was expecting him to play dirty, especially with the use of this powered chains and swords. Instead, each time Arshak landed a hit, he would always make sure to turn down the power, in practice allowing a fair duel between the two.

Sigismund was so surprised by that behavior, he was the first to reach out the captain after the duel and speak to him.

#I started shipping them while writing this #Oh no #my art #warhammer #warhammer 40k #Sigismund #Arshak Skraidor #Oc #Night lords #Imperial fists #Don't forget Arshak had psychological marks on the 7 and 12 #Exactly like Sig

30 notes · View notes

nehetari-of-szarekhan · 10 months

Note

Most high heiress of our Silent King, what is your opinion on the Astartes legion besides the Iron Warriors and the primarchs of said Legions?

-A Curious Collector

"Your query vexes me," Nehetari blinks, the hint of amusement in her eyes. "Surely you know this is not a simple question to ask of anyone, let alone myself." She straigtens her posture, and the emotion fades from her face once more.

"I will indulge you, but I will be brief. I have yet to form opinions on all the different breeds of space marine, or their Primarchs for that matter, so I will share the ones I have."

Jaghatai Khan - Good opinion. We met in Commoragh, and we escaped around the same time. I respect his sense of honor and his need for speed. His skill in combat is also exemplary.

The White Scars - No opinion. I have never met his sons, but I have heard they are very much like their father.

Lehman Russ - Bad opinion. It's a shame: we probably could have been friends if he didn't make a third occupation of harassing my lover.

The Space Wolves - good opinion. Though louder and ruder, being around them reminds me of the crowds in the oasis-side inns of my homeworld.

Corvus Corax - bad opinion. I would complement his aesthetic (his feathers are quite lovely), but he knocked me unconscious and tried to drag Perturabo back to their father. When I caught up to them, well... ...I doubted I would ever use the techniques I learned from Urian Ricarth, but I suppose my so-called "mentor" would have been proud of me that day.

The Raven Guard - no opinion. I've not met one yet, but I am fond of their aesthetic.

Vulcan - Good opinion. This might be surprising as he also assisted Corax in abducting my lover (and also nearly beat Crucius to death), however I have since learned that he has honor. Also, his devotion to his people is admirable.

Salamanders - No Opinion. I have yet to meet them properly, but like the White Scars, I hear they are much like their father. They battle well.

Rogal Dorn - No opinion. I am surprised at how little interest I have in this being. I wonder if this is because of his influence on the Warp or Perturabo's influence on me.

The Imperial Fists - Neutral opinion. What good are rockcrete walls when a C'tan shard throws a mountain at them? By human standards, though, they are excellent builders.

Fulgrim - Bad opinion. Lecherous, needlessly sadistic, and proud without the substance to support it. Thankfully, due to the timely intervention of the Drukari, my time under his capture was brief. Though I have heard that he is still searching for me. I regret 'rewarding' him with my memories of constant agony.

The Emperor's Children - Bad opinion. Noisy, messy, unsanitary... ...startlingly bad pain tolerance for ones so obsessed with the Pleasure & Pain alter of the Aether. Quite disgusting over all.

Alpharius - Omegon who?

The Alpha Legion - Good opinion. The dark chocolate flavored recaffe and ork fingers they sent me were delicious.

Sanguinius - No Opinion. Since there's a high likelihood that he is one of Father's hidden consorts, I dare not cast my opinion at him. But I will say that he is definitely Father's 'type'.

The Blood Angels - No Opinion. I have yet to meet any of them. Though I have been told that they too enjoy the taste of blood.

Ferrus Manus - Bad opinion. This one died long before I returned to life, but I am fairly certain that its soul was trying to possess Perturabo's older brother. I considered trying to destroy it, but apparently Crucius has, 'gotten it to fuck off.' I am unsure of how he managed this.

The Iron Hands - *Her face remains impassive, but the skin around her eyes scrunches up in rage* I would pity them. Their grief has trapped them in an undending downward spiral leading to the same fate that befell my people. However, their concious wish to become the same empty husks is an insult to all Necrons, and I will not forgive it.

The Original Iron Warriors - Undefineable Opinion. They are all microcosms of Perturabo's trauma and mistakes. And also the unfortunate consequence of them."

Nehetari sighs, then closes her eyes. There is a long moment of silence, then, "...there are others. But I grow weary of this topic. I will release my reports as I feel inspired. Now... ...leave me."

18 notes · View notes

lumi-klovstad-games · 5 months

Text

Frozen Bloods: The Iron Wolves of Catera

In the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, where hope flickers like a guttering candle in a blizzard, the Cateran Iron Wolves stand as a monument to the resilience of the human spirit, and an exemplar of the ceaseless will to fight, never surrendering, and laughing in the face of oncoming doom. Hailing from the frozen fortress world of Catera, these men and women are forged from the same unforgiving snow and stone as their desolate home, their hearts burning with the unyielding fire of Imperial loyalty. Their motto, whispered in the echoing tunnels beneath their icy carapace, rings true: "Where the sun dies, the Wolf shall rise."

Catera, their cradle and crucible, lies under a dying sun, its surface an expanse of eternal twilight where temperatures plummet far below the bite of frost in the pale light that barely warms the frozen plains. To survive, the Caterans burrowed deep, carving an intricate tapestry of subterranean dwellings within the planet's icy heart. These cities, monuments to their defiance, pulse with life, each a labyrinthine fortress built upon generations of toil and hardship. Here, amidst the lamplight and rhythmic hum of geothermal generators, thrives a society forged in sweat and steel.

Military service is the way and weft of Cateran life. Every Cateran child, at the tender age of fifteen, is plunged into the icy embrace of the "27 Hammers", a basic training regime lasting 27 body-breaking and will-shattering weeks. This brutal military training, a crucible of discipline and tactics, transforms them into the bedrock of the formidable Cateran Planetary Defense Force. Here, they learn the art of fortification, the grim dance of trench warfare, and the unyielding spirit of siegecraft. Every sandbag, every barbed wire entanglement, is a testament to the Cateran philosophy: turn every battlefield into an unbreachable fortress, a meat grinder that chews up invaders and spits out only dust and ghosts. It is from this pool of unwavering duty that the Imperial Guard draws Catera's greatest strength: the various regiments, legions, and armies that are collectively known as the Iron Wolves.

The influence of the Imperial Fists, who claimed Catera during the Great Crusade, runs deep. Cateran soldiers, their veins coursing with the icy spirit of their homeworld, bear the legacy of Rogal Dorn, the First Fist himself. His campaigns, especially the legendary defense of Terra, are their scripture, studied like hymns and whispered around crackling hearths. Each Iron Wolf officer carries the weight of Dorn's memory, his tactics and strategems etched into their souls.

Though masters of fortification and siege warfare (on both sides of the siege), the Iron Wolves are not chained to Catera's frigid grasp. The Astra Militarum recognizes their unique skills, deploying them across the galaxy whenever a world needs shoring up, a difficult defense cracked open, or a strategic chokepoint held with ironclad tenacity. From the sun-scorched plains of Armageddon to the blasted moons of Agrellan, the Iron Wolves bring their brand of unyielding and resolute warfare to every battlefield.

Yet despite their deathly homeworld and harsh military culture, the Iron Wolves are not mere stoic automata. Beneath their frozen exteriors beats a heart warm with jovial camaraderie and good humor. They crack jokes in the face of oblivion, forge bonds of brotherhood in the frozen mud, and share stories of home and hearth around flickering campfires. Their laughter, echoing through the trenches and tunnels on countless battlefields on countless worlds, is a defiant challenge to the encroaching darkness, a reminder that even in the bleakest of times, the human spirit can find solace in shared hardship, a steaming pot of recaf, and a well-told joke.

This warmth, however, is not a weakness. In fact, it is the fuel that drives their unwavering loyalty, the oil that keeps the gears of their discipline turning. When the order comes to hold the line, the Iron Wolves do so with the icy resolve of their homeworld, their smiles masking an unyielding determination. They fight not just for Catera and the Emperor, but for each other, for the laughter shared in the trenches, and for the stories whispered in the dark. Amongst the ice and iron, they nurture a spirit of defiance that burns far brighter than their failing sun.

Indeed, such is the Cateran reputation for unflinching good humor that a sour disposition amongst the Iron Wolves is not a mere frown, it is a harbinger of imminent doom. Such a thing whispers of losses so staggering, of challenges so dire, that even their legendary humor cannot pierce the suffocating veil of despair. But even then, even in the abyss, there remains a flicker of hope. For the Cateran spirit, like the fire within their mountain-carved homes, refuses to be extinguished.

The Caterans have carved a reputation for themselves as a force who accomplishes even the improbable, and adapts their approach quickly and organically. Though victors of thousands of battles since the Horus Heresy, a handful have become well known even in the greater Astra Militarum.

Seyb, a volcanic moon of a gas giant, was a haven for feral Orks. When Waaagh! Groggnot descended upon the planet, the Planetary Defense, outmatched, called for reinforcements. The 121st Cateran Iron Wolves, veterans of a dozen campaigns, landed in the teeth of the green tide. Trenches were quickly dug in the volcanic ash, and bunkers were reforged from mining outposts. The field (dubbed "No-Orksland" by the soldiers) turned into a maelstrom of scrap and Ork bodies, while the ground trembled and shook with heavy bolters, artillery, and the detonations of munitions set by subterranean sappers. The Iron Wolves turned their position into a labyrinth that froze the Greenskin assault in its tracks. Every Ork charge met a hail of lasfire, every open stretch of land became a killing field. For six long months, the blizzard of ork bodies slammed against the Cateran ramparts, and for six long months, the Iron Wolves held. When Warchief Groggnot fell, his Waaagh! splintered like fractured ice, leaving Seyb littered with green corpses and the satisfaction of the 121st.

On Antoniades, a verdant world poisoned by heretical whispers, the Iron Wolves' 145th laid siege to Hallow Hill, a fortified monastery corrupted by the Word Bearers. Working side by side with the fanatical Black Templars, the Iron Wolves' trenches were like a vise that slowly ratcheted closed, strangling the heretics' mobility while the Templars ground down the monastery's famed defenses. Unable to replenish their resources faster than they had to be used to combat the siege, the heretics' ironclad defense rusted and withered, and despite their conflicting dispositions, the Iron Wolves and Black Templars worked together to make the final breach and purged the entire site.

Few campaigns, however, stand as more legendary than "The War of Secrets", in which whispers of a Necron threat on Aethel led the 77th Iron Wolves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Raven Guard. In the desolate ruins of ancient tombs, the shadows held secrets both ancient and deadly. The Iron Wolves, unaccustomed to fighting silent, undying foes, adapted quickly. Their engineers fashioned pulse-warping field generators, disrupting the Necrons' reanimation protocols. Their snipers, equipped with thermal sights to pierce the Necrons' darkness, became wraith-hunters extraordinaire. In the tomb's labyrinthine depths, the Iron Wolves and Raven Guard fought side by side, their contrasting tactics complementing each other like fire and ice. The Iron Wolves, not unknown to the world of dark and shadow themselves, utilized their skills in subterranean construction as well as trench warfare and fortification to provide a series of stable operating bases, while the Raven Guard, cloaked in darkness, infiltrated and destroyed the Necron crypts. The battles were brutal, fought in claustrophobic tunnels and under the cold gaze of Necron technology. In the dim and dingy tunnels beneath Aethel, lasfire met gauss flayers, and entrenching shovels clashed with reanimated blades. Wolves learned to fight shadows, and how to anticipate the cold logic of ancient machines. Their humor morphed into grim whispers, jokes replaced by silent gestures and shared dark nods. The War of Secrets ended with the Necron threat contained, and the Iron Wolves emerged with a newfound respect for the shadows and the silent hunters who lurked within them.

Yet, even the Iron Wolves know the taste of defeat. When the enemy breaches their defenses, they do not crumble. They melt into the shadows, becoming phantoms in their own labyrinthine world. Every tunnel, every ventilation shaft, every forgotten corner within their fortifications becomes another weapon in their arsenal, a stage for a deadly game of cat and mouse, and the Iron Wolves are ever prepared to carry on for years in this manner if necessary, fighting until every shot has been fired twice, and every drop of Cateran blood lost. The enemy may claim victory for a day, but the cost will be etched in blood and bone, a reminder to all that to an Iron Wolf, every fortress they build, no matter the world they find themselves on, is Catera itself -- and the Iron Wolves will never brook Catera to fall.

So, the next time you hear the rumble of lasguns and the roar of tanks on a distant world, spare a thought for the Cateran Iron Wolves. They are the sons and daughters of a frozen hell, but within them burns a fire that no blizzard can extinguish, kept alight by a friendly humor that no darkness can dim. They are the shield and the sword, the fortress and the fox, and they will fight with a hearty laugh and a defiant smile, and most importantly, a steady aim; and they will fight until the last enemy lies cold in the frozen embrace of the void.

#my ocs #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #wh40k #my oc stuff #40k #astra militarum #imperial guard #wh 40k #rogal dorn #imperial fists #black templars #raven guard #fanon #Imperial Guard Army #fan lore

2 notes · View notes

falloutbart · 11 months

Text

My Warhammer ocs, they got updates during these months.

Ultramarines 1th Chapter Sergeant Marcus

Black Templars Castellans Simon (Imperial Fists before)

Iron Warriors Warsmith Ludwig

#warhammer 40k #ocs #ultramarines #black templars #iron warriors #adeptus astartes

330 notes · View notes

wixxid · 2 months

Text

IVORY · PART lV

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,020

Warnings: dark and sexual themes, dub/con, non/con, and arranged marriage.

Summary: The ceremony is concluded, and now the inevitable.

You feel it.

The storm of thunder that brews within your body. Its rain trickles down to prickle at the insides of your soft belly; swelling you slowly with a liverish fever. The sickness it stirs makes you feel crippled and vulnerable.

Weak.

The ceremony lasted longer than anticipated, but not long enough. Time moved with unprecedented speed, and with each moment that past, the more you grew cold and bitter with resentment.

A terrible spite.

Standing in the center of the large tub, the servants bathe you with milky water; as if you're a meal in need of preparation. Woefully, it allows your thoughts to explode with dread; much like the black viscous blasts they'd let loose into the sky.

Wiping at your flesh, they remove the black markings that'd adorned your skin. The ink mixes with the creme colored water, swirling like two separate entities. Glancing towards the closed door, you wonder if they're waiting on the other side.

Anticipating.

Despite your ties to two of the most formidable families in the known universe, you're still left powerless. Defeated. There are no words or actions that could stave off the inevitable; not even the powers of the Benne Gesserit.

It's forbidden.

Brought back to reality, the servant waits for you with a cotton gown. You're hesitant to move; more so paralyzed. Stepping from the tub with a watery slosh, you're dried and powdered before being allowed the comfort of the gown.

Knuckles turn white from tightened fists at your sides. All too quickly, the door opens to reveal your awaited room; neat and still lingering with smoke. As you'd suspected, the witnesses have already arrived; a total of five who stand in a line to the side.

You don't know who they are and neither do you wish to discover their identity. The imperial court has deemed them important enough and necessary. Watching them as they stand silent and shrouded, you can only surmise by their bodies alone that its a mixture of men and women.

The spectators don't speak and neither do the servants, whom hurry from your room; fleeing like creatures from impending danger. Staring at the bed, you can't help but feel a sense of detachment at the site. It's equally as uninviting as when you'd first slept within its covers.

Turning with a slow shuffle of your bare feet, a deathly chill travels up into every limb and nerve of your body; raising the hairs on your skin. Neurotic. The room is dimmer and smaller than you remember, despite it remaining the same.

The world is closing in on you.

Gripping your gown, you suddenly wince with a grit of your jaw. The soft soak of the bath and pressure had been enough to split the fresh wound. But just as your palm began to weep with fresh blood, the door to your room opens.

Feyd-Rautha.

He enters with slow yet deliberate steps, like a predator entering its den. Haphazardly he eyes the witnesses before turning his attention to you. Taking a slight step back, you're smart to keep quiet and remain at a distance.

It's been some time since you parted ways in preparation, but still he wears the same clothing; black leather and an embossed jacket. Feyd draws nearer, darkened eyes flickering up and down. You've nothing to say and neither does he.

Static.

He reaches up, flicking a piece of your hair from your shoulder. The Harkonnen seems less than impressed, rather unenthused of his need to be here. Foolishly, you wonder if you truly are unconventional enough to repulse the man.

"Look at you," he grumbles beneath his breath.

The feral look he's giving you could kill; cold and merciless. His hand moves upward, and you have to refrain your urge to move away. Rough fingertips graze lightly at the cotton fabric at your collar; slowly wandering onto your soft skin.

You smack his hand away, "Enough."

The syllable is low but defiant. A last stand to protect yourself from his torment and cruelty. An act of instinct. Feyd doesn't retaliate as he simply lowers his hand. The calm before the storm.

In an instant, his hands are on you; calloused fingers wrapping around your delicate throat with constriction. He has your body pulled flush against his, whilst your faces remain mere inches from one another. His breath fans across your cheek.

"Do you feel that?" he questions, as you struggle to swallow. Your hands clasp around his own, desperately trying to relieve the pressure. "That's your life, in my hands."

"Stop," you wince; eyes flickering to the witnesses.

"Don't bother," he utters at your train of site. "They're here for one thing."

Reaching down to his side, Feyd retrieves a small dagger. The tip of the blade stills mere inches from your face. Staring at the glistening reflection, you cease all kinds of movement; even your strangled breaths.

Death glints at you.

Keeping the blade just above the surface of your skin, he trails it over your chin and down the nape of your neck. Any wrong move could see your throat slit. Grimly, you even go so far as to envision him plunging it into your belly; spilling your insides to the ground.

He could start a war.

Instead, he hooks the blade into the collar of your cotton gown, cutting it down in one swift tear of fabric. The opposite edge of the dagger runs coolly down your skin, from sternum to naval. Splitting the clothing from your body, he reveals your nakedness.

Supple and pure.

Pushing you with a quick shove to your chest, you fall back onto the bed; whatever breath left in your lungs now gone. Stars glitter in the corner of your eyes; a flash of life, as you're yet to comprehend reality.

"Stay," he orders.

Clutching your chest, the pound of your heart causes you to feel equally disturbed and deficient. The lonely organ skips and hammers and for a second you feel faint. The air slowly seeps back into your lungs, but you're aren't able to take the reprieve.

Inhaling a gasp, you're dragged down by the ankle; sheets burning your skin with its friction. He's formidable. The brute stands at the end of the bed, pale torso now bare; the black lines which mark his chest now in view.

Pulling your ankle from his grip, you can't help but move to protect yourself; shaky legs crossing and hands reaching for the cover of twisted sheets. In the corner of your eye, you take notice of the smudges of blood from you sliced palm; splotching the linen like an arena.

"I've seen lesser than you with better, Atreides."

The added insult sparks a flare of anger. A trap you fall for. Lashing out, you sit up to strike him cross the face; only for the man to grin with a lowly chuckle. The force of your blow had been enough to split his lower lip.

"You're sick," you seethe, whilst he licks the blood with a swipe of his tongue. Feyd's piercing eyes stare without shame. "Psychotic."

He draws closer and your muscles tense at the proximity. Grabbing onto your arms, you struggle and fail as he handles you like a ragdoll. Pinning you down with such ease, he demonstrates your inferiority in bodily power.

"Weak," he states pointedly.

You can barely move beneath his weight; muscled body bearing down on you like an immoveable object. It's force is crushing and humiliating, and again, your heart races beneath your chest. Feyd-Rautha's game of torment and mockery is over.

Forcing his body between your shaky thighs, the rough fabric of his pants chafes against your sensitive skin. You turn away from his gaze, but it does it does nothing when you know how dangerously close he is to you; breathing the same air, feeling each other.

You can smell him.

Lying trapped, you become caught in a moral dilemma to either defend or surrender. You want it to be over and done, but you also want to sleep at night; to be able to tell yourself you fought back. That you tried to stop it.

Clutching onto the sheets, your fingers interlock with the fabric in an attempt to find comfort and stability; a way to release your fear. The distant wall in your line of site is grey and uninviting, but the shelf pressed against it holds an item; one you'd brought from home.

The bull statue.

A representation of your family legacy. The Atreides approach to that of a dangerous circumstance. Your father had given it to you when you were a child, as a means to always remind you of who you really are in this vast world.

"Look at me," he goads while taking hold of your chin. "Look at me."

The longer you try to avert your gaze, the more his bruising grip digs punishingly into your jaw. Eventually, your watery eyes are forced to lock together; like two apposing forces, collapsing in on one another. You didn't know it, but he wanted to see the look in your eye; to see it all.

The pain.

The suffering.

When he takes what last bit of yourself remains untouched. He's already hard and free between yours legs, pushing against your womanhood. Your eyes widen with panic, not having realised until he's already forcing himself inside of you; obliterating your womb.

Straining beneath him, a sharp gasps ruins the air of silence. Abrupt. Relentless. He buries himself within you, over and over again. Stretching and tearing. Filling you in a way you couldn't imagine.

You swallow and moan.

The words you want to scream can hardly form. They're trapped in the back of your swollen throat; buried beneath garbled sounds. You push and hit against his toned chest, but he keeps you down despite your protest.

Uncontrollably, your stomach tightens in reaction to the affliction, as do your legs around his waist; trembling but numb. Every hard thrust impels another sound from your lips, while you're body can't help but jolt at the force.

It's been minutes, hours, eternity in your world. He keeps going with vigor and slowly you begin to break. Frozen beneath him, entangled in sheets and invisible shackles, you grow exhausted. The smell of blood overcomes the chard incense.

It stains the sheets, your skin and his; stuck beneath your fingernails and wet on his lip. It's nauseating. A low growl emits from the depth of his chest as he takes hold of your burning throat again; fingers tightening with purpose.

An inaudible sound strangles from you mouth. You look right up at him, a monster of mayhem. Harkonnen. The last few thrusts are slow, but deep and deliberate as he finishes inside of you. A torture now bitterly seeded and done.

Feyd's eyes flutter every so slightly, and with a light huff he looks you over. Even now, he appears indifferent. Pulling out of you, your quiver at the sting and emptiness, while breaths draw uneasily as he removes himself from the bed.

You're cold and naked. Sore and ruined. Staring up at the ceiling, you're drawn back to the harshness of reality. You remember now, that the witness are still here in the room; still silent as they watched his brutality unfold.

You might've felt something akin to shame, if it weren't for the flare of pain that now consumes your body. It all hurts, no matter where you think. Pulling your legs up, you can't help but ball yourself in the middle of the bed.

Feyd is neither quick nor slow to arrange himself. Shrugging on his leather jacket, he doesn't bother doing it up all the way. His chest remains exposed with the superficial scratches you'd clawed across his flesh.

You see him carelessly eye the witnesses before leaving the room. Not a parting word for either you or them. A blur of tears threaten to spill, but they're quickly absorbed by rage and humiliation. A malicious wall of stone surrounds you.

"Out!" you suddenly scream at the witnesses. "Get out!"

#fanfic #female oc #dune #dune part two #dune 2024 #story #feyd #feyd rautha #feyd x female oc #house harkonnen #feyd-rautha x female oc #feyd x you #Atreides!Female OC

81 notes · View notes

dindjarindiaries · 5 months

Text

The Dawn of Starlight ➵ Chapter 1

summary: Camellia gets a surprise visit from Captain Teva, who convinces her to bring Din Djarin as hired protection on her mission to Cantonica.

pairing: din djarin x fem!oc

rating: mature (18+)

tags: enemies to lovers, fluff & angst, emotional & physical hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, injuries & blood, trauma, eventual/mild smut, strong language, sexual references

word count: 3.847k

series masterlist ➵ chapter 2

“Senator Marend, I apologize.”

Camellia already tensed at the tone of Mionna’s voice. Her assistant looked as apologetic as her words were, if not more so. Mionna had never been skilled at keeping the honesty of her expression concealed. We’ve got to brush up on that part of her political training. “It can’t be that bad, Mionna.” Camellia was already walking through the threshold of her office, preparing to do the same to her private desk setup.

“It might be.” Mionna squeaked these words, causing Camellia’s brow to quirk up. “I told him you weren’t taking guests after today’s session—,” Camellia sighed, closing her eyes and dropping her head back as the revelation fell upon her, “—but he was insistent upon waiting for you.”

Camellia offered Mionna a small smile and set a hand upon the Mirialan’s shoulder. “Thank you for trying.”

Mionna returned a meager smile of her own as Camellia pressed her hand upon the access pad. It slid the door open for her, and immediately, the man in the room stood at attention.

“Captain Teva.” Camellia widened her arms to the New Republic ranger as she approached him, allowing him to take her hand and place a kiss on the back of it. The senator had long since dismissed Carson’s need for propriety, but he insisted upon it nonetheless. “What a surprise to see you here again so soon.”

Carson’s dark gaze twinkled underneath his gray brow. “As wonderful as it always is to see you, Senator Marend…” Carson paused, waiting until Camellia was seated to do the same across from her, “this visit’s much sooner than I would’ve liked.”

“I concur.” Camellia folded her hands on her lap. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a surprising visit?”

Carson reached for something on his belt and tossed it on the desk. So, the propriety would be dropped, after all. Camellia leaned forward to take the transceiver. “The news of your visit to Cantonica has already spread.” Carson crossed his arms and raised his brow. “You plan on facing Vondar alone, don’t you?”

Camellia’s jaw tensed. “I only wish to have an audience with him to explore some more beneficial trade options.” She nodded at Mionna to dismiss her. Her assistant bowed her head in respect and left Carson and Camellia alone. Camellia released a deep breath and slouched her shoulders. “That man is too dangerous to leave alone, Carson.”

“You’re right.” Carson leaned forward and rested his elbow upon the senator’s desk. His brow was etched in deep worry for her. “But he’s also too dangerous for you to take on alone.”

Camellia shrugged and let her lips spread wide in a somewhat amused smirk. “You underestimate my skill, Captain.”

The corner of Carson’s mouth twitched upwards in a small smile of his own. “Not at all, Senator. I fought alongside you to liberate your homeworld.” His expression once again became more serious. “That also showed me how much your people need you.”

“And it would be a waste for me not to say that to Vondar’s face.”

Carson’s hand pulled tight into a fist. “Raxus would be a useful asset to him, Senator, and that means he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you for it.” His gaze darkened, his tone lowering in gravity. “Your people need you. Alive.”

Camellia scoffed at that. “An Imperial admiral hiding out on Cantonica is no true threat, Carson.” She opened a drawer in her desk and showed him all the data tapes she had acquired over the past few months. “I’ve read all his files, and I’ve accessed all the intelligence.” She put the tapes away and nodded at the captain. “We’ve seen all the same things. I can take him.”

Carson shook his head. “Not alone. He may not be dangerous, but his security detail—his army—is famed for how it eliminated our troops.” The ranger’s face fell at a memory he left trapped within his own mind. Camellia began to wither with sympathy. “Trust me.”

Camellia stood from her chair, pacing over to the viewport of transparisteel that offered her a view of Coruscant’s bustling airways. “You’ve seen how the Senate reacted to me proposing my diplomatic visit to Cantonica.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh before she faced Carson again. “They would never approve any kind of ‘mission’ to take Vondar down.”

Carson’s expression spelled out the same amount of defeat. “I know.”

“That includes you, Captain.” The corners of Camellia’s mouth tightened. “You won’t be granted any type of approval to venture to Cantonica, especially not after the Seatos incident.”

Carson tilted his head to the side for a moment, as if proving her right. “Well, Senator, if you’re set on it…” the smile that tugged at his lips instantly piqued Camellia’s curiosity, “I have another idea.”

Camellia walked back over to her chair, crossing her arms and resting them upon the back of it. “Go on.”

“Let me walk you through a hypothetical.” Carson’s gaze twinkled, a sure sign that the idea was anything other than a hypothetical. “I wouldn’t be able to go with you, this is true, but let’s say I have someone on my team who can. An operative who’s contracted.”

“Contracted?” Camellia nearly scoffed again. “You mean, someone outside the New Republic’s jurisdiction itself?” The senator raised her brow at Carson. “That would be illegal, Captain Teva.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Carson went on, “this contractor, who’s responsible for Moff Gideon’s death, could go with you in my place.”

Camellia blinked in succession, chuckling in her disbelief as she set her shoulders. “Let me get this straight.” She narrowed her eyes at Carson. “You want to send a Mandalorian gun-for-hire, who’s illegally contracted, with me to face off against an Imperial admiral?”

Carson’s gaze cut to the side for a moment. “Did you miss the part about Moff Gideon?”

“I got that.” Camellia sunk back into her chair, her bewildered stare never straying from the New Republic ranger. “And how exactly is that safer than just letting me go on my own?”

“He’s one of the galaxy’s greatest warriors, Camellia.” Carson’s use of her name alone reveals his true sincerity, particularly the concern that drips into his tone as he goes on. “And he’s… different from other mercenaries. He sprang a prisoner from a ship cycles ago, but also apprehended three people from the wanted register—and he tried to save the lieutenant on board’s life.”

Camellia relaxed her set jaw, but she remained silent. Carson took the opportunity to reach out and hold her hands.

“Like I said before, Senator. Your people need you. Alive.” His kind gaze began to convince her. His eyes were much like her father’s had been, gentle and wise. It made it even harder for Camellia to resist Carson’s genuine plea. “If I can’t be there to fight with you, allow me to send the best I have to offer in my place. You know I would never send you with someone I didn’t trust.”

Camellia considered his words for a long moment, her gaze falling to their entwined hands on top of her desk. Carson had once risked everything to Camellia and her homeworld, and his leadership had been vital to the liberation of Raxus. She, and her planet, owed him more than the New Republic would ever admit. Camellia knew better than to ignore that.

“All right.” Camellia went on before the relieved light in Carson’s gaze could give way to interruption. “But how the hell do I talk around a Mandalorian escorting me?”

“Hired protection.” Carson withdrew his hands from you, his brow raised in slight amusement. “The Outer Rim’s a dangerous place compared to the Core.”

“A bodyguard?” Camellia huffed and gave her head a quick tilt. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Carson gestured to the viewport behind her. “The people, and your adversaries, don’t need to know that.”

Camellia nodded to agree and reached for her datapad, glancing at her upcoming itinerary. “This mercenary needs to be ready to go by tomorrow. Moving my departure date would only draw suspicion.”

“He will be.” Carson stood from his chair and bowed his head. “I’ll personally escort him here tomorrow, before your departure.”

Camellia rose with him, offering a genuine smile as she stepped around her desk to meet him. “Thank you, Carson. Truly.” She invited him into a friendly embrace, grateful to have at least one ranger within the New Republic’s ranks who bothered to help her and the other planets of the galaxy who had yet to see the last of the Empire’s lethal touch. “I’m grateful to have you on my team.”

“And it’ll stay that way, Senator.” Carson gently held Camellia’s shoulders as he nodded at her. “I’ll have him report to me throughout the mission, in case you end up needing any… unauthorized backup.”

Camellia grinned. “That’s the best kind there is.” She patted his shoulder and began to lead the way to the door. Camellia opened it for him, meeting Mionna’s shocked face as she took a few steps away from the threshold. The assistant’s green face flushed with embarrassment.

“Miss Mertil.” Carson bowed his head at her in respect. With that, he found his own way out of Camellia’s office, leaving the two Raxians alone once again.

“You’ve got to be better about learning when to step away from eavesdropping, Mionna.” Camellia’s voice was nothing but teasing as she raised her brow at her assistant.

“I apologize, Senator,” Mionna gushed.

“Please. You know the real reason why I dismissed you from the room.” Camellia tended to some of the plant life that decorated her office. It was all from Raxus, meant to transport her back to her old home along the outskirts of Raxulon—a place very far from Coruscant. “It’s only to prevent—.”

“—Officially being found guilty for conspiracy if something goes wrong.” Mionna smiled. “I know.”

Camellia tilted her head at the Mirialan. “And Carson is the last person who would ever care about an eavesdropper.”

Mionna nodded. “So,” she tapped around her own datapad, “we’re adding the Mandalorian to your itinerary. Correct?”

Camellia’s jaw began to tighten again. She nodded. “Correct.”

“If… I may, Senator?”

Camellia looked up from her plants. Mionna was hardly hiding the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You may.”

“I think it’s utterly wizard we get to go with a Mandalorian.” Mionna’s gaze lit up the more she spoke. “I read about their people in my history classes. Like Captain Teva said, they’re the galaxy’s greatest warriors.” She paused. “Well, other than the Jedi, but…” She shrugged and set down her datapad. “I mean, they just reclaimed their homeworld. We thought they were all dead, but yet again, they somehow avoided being wiped out completely.”

Camellia raised a single brow at her assistant. “Yes, Mionna, you’re right. I’m as caught up on the galaxy’s past and current history as you are.” Mionna’s green skin began to flush again, but Camellia reassured her with a small smile. “It seems like you’re going to have more fun on this excursion than I will.”

Mionna slowly picked her datapad back up. “I guess what I’d like to know, Senator, is why you’re so against the idea of him coming with us.”

Camellia stopped what she was doing altogether, turning her full body to Mionna and crossing her arms over the ornate trim of her dress. “It’s not about him being a Mandalorian, Mionna. It’s about him being a mercenary.” She shook her head and painted her expression with as much severity as she could muster. “You can’t trust them, no matter what.”

Mionna’s brow furrowed. “But Captain Teva trusts him.”

“I know.” Camellia sat down at her main desk and exhaled a troubled breath. “That’s why I’m at least willing to keep the guy around.” She gestured with her hand to one of the chairs in front of her. Mionna took her place without hesitation. “Let’s get the final plans set so we can rest. We’ve got a long day of travel ahead of us tomorrow.”

For the next hour or so, Mionna walked through each vital step of their travel plans—lodging, meal reservations, diplomatic meetings, and more—to add their new guest into the schedule. Camellia began to fear what she had gotten herself into. There was no person in the galaxy she trusted more than Carson, especially given everything he had done for her and Raxus, but the uncertainty surrounding his contracted mercenary filled her with a mysterious chill.

That night, Camellia dreamt of Admiral Tantam Vondar’s cruel face, a twisted image of someone who was once a much kinder soul. He seemed to be the only Alderaanian who agreed with the motivation behind their planet’s fate. Vondar would gladly let Raxus and the other planets in his reach suffer the same fate. The weapons he bartered would do just that, if Camellia failed.

This mercenary couldn’t get in the way with the stakes set that high. Camellia would make sure of it.

The morning arrived quickly, and soon Camellia was awaiting Carson’s arrival on the landing pad with her own ship fully prepared for takeoff. Mionna, as well as a member of her own small security detail, waited behind her as Carson’s X-wing landed. It was trailed by a Naboo N-1 starfighter, a relic from the Galactic Republic era that made Camellia’s brow lift in surprise.

Carson hopped out first. He smiled at Camellia as he made his approach, taking her hand and providing a kiss to the back of it as always. “Senator Merand.” Carson’s voice was warm before he stepped back and gestured to the man approaching them. “This is the Mandalorian Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin. Camellia tasted the name on her own tongue as her gaze studied him. The man was taller than she had expected, and certainly more broad than any other warrior she had faced—even those who fought against her on Raxus many years ago. His beskar suit of armor was entirely silver, with the outline of a mudhorn attached to his right pauldron. The armor caught Coruscant’s sunlight and danced in the reflection as he continued his approach.

He stopped once he reached Carson’s side. Only then did Camellia spot the tiny green creature standing at his side, only just a hair taller than the Mandalorian’s boot.

“Senator Merand.”

Camellia’s stomach did backflips at the sound of Din’s modulated voice. It was low and raspy, as if it had been sparingly used. Damn. She fought to conceal her unexpected reaction.

He raised his gloved fist to his cuirass and bowed his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Camellia bowed her head back at him. “The pleasure’s all mine, Din Djarin.” Her gaze caught the creature at his side once again.

Din’s visor followed her eyes. “This is my apprentice, Grogu.” An apprentice? It was strange for a mercenary to take on an apprentice, much less a… well, a child. He set his hands on his belt. “He’ll be accompanying me, if that’s all right.”

Grogu cooed and lifted his long, petal-shaped ears, his gaze finding Camellia’s. She smiled at the little one. “Certainly.” Camellia gestured over to Mionna. “This is my assistant, Mionna Mertil. She’ll be joining us as well.”

Din nodded, also bowing his helmet in Mionna’s direction. Camellia saw the light of excitement flicker in the Mirialan’s gaze at the gesture.

Camellia shifted her focus back over to Carson. “We ought to get going.”

Carson bowed once more, his eyes flickering over to the extra member of Camellia’s security detail. “Enjoy your time on Cantonica, Senator.” For a brief moment, his gaze darkened in concern, but it was fleeting. “I’ll be eagerly awaiting your return.”

Camellia could only offer her most reassuring smile to him before she nodded at her security. The officer led the way to the open ramp of the ship, with Mionna remaining at Camellia’s side. The Mandalorian and his apprentice brought up the rear, and the senator could feel the warmth of Din’s gaze on her even through his helmet. For a strange, fleeting moment, Camellia thanked herself for choosing a dress that was well-fitting to her form.

Camellia blinked a few times and nearly tried to shake the thought from her head. What the hell is wrong with me?

Though, she reminded herself, there was a reason why she began to distrust mercenaries in the first place. It seemed, unfortunately, that she had a type—and both her heart and her bed had been empty for quite some time.

But a Mandalorian who always kept his face concealed would certainly never find himself in either of those places.

Camellia resisted the urge to scoff to herself. Clearly, it had been too long since she last allowed herself to live the life she once had beyond the walls of her senatorial office. She refused to project that onto the mercenary, and the mission. After it was all over, then Camellia could begin to think about filling those empty voids.

The senator released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The Avalon was Camellia’s most luxurious ship, though certainly much smaller than those of her fellow senators from the Core and the Mid Rim. The main hold was filled with white-and-gold embellishments and cushioned seating, the circular door leading to the cockpit fit with the same decorative swirls as the interior of Camellia’s office.

The ship served the senator enough to feel like something of a home, causing her to release a relaxed breath as she sat on one of the cushioned seats. Mionna sat beside her as the security officer continued on to stand just outside the cockpit. The Mandalorian and his apprentice remained standing across from Camellia. She furrowed her brow.

“Please, gentlemen.” Camellia gestured to the cushioned seat behind them. “Have a seat, relax your legs. This will be a long trip.”

Din hesitated, as if he was going to protest, but he stopped himself and nodded. He bent down to pick up the little one and took his place across from the senator. Din set Grogu next to him and remained at the ready, his gloved hands settling on his armored thighs.

“So, Din Djarin.” The Mandalorian’s visor locked on Camellia the moment his name rolled off her tongue. “Captain Teva told me you had quite a hand in the reclamation of Mandalore.”

Din nodded dutifully. “I was a small part of a greater effort.”

Camellia smiled at his sense of honor. Still, her skepticism remained. “What keeps you away from rebuilding the planet?” She gestured to herself. “Embarking on a New Republic diplomatic mission must put a sour taste in the mouths of your people, who wish to remain independent.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet tilted. Each word he spoke was careful, calculated even. “Bo-Katan Kryze is overseeing the rebuilding of Mandalore. My current responsibility is overseeing Grogu’s training.” He gestured to the child at his side, his visor never once straying from Camellia’s gaze. “It’s Mandalorian tradition that he embarks on his apprentice journeys.”

Camellia focused on her hands as they smoothed out the silk material of her dress upon her thighs. “And you being my hired guardian won’t cause your people to be seen as sympathetic to the New Republic?”

Din’s gloved fingers curled into fists on his thighs. Camellia swallowed hard. “You’re the politician here, Senator Merand.” He nodded at her. “You know the answer to that question better than I do.”

Clearly, Din’s wit was evenly matched with Camellia’s own. He had already far outpaced the past mercenaries she had reluctantly worked with. Fine. She shifted gears. “Have you traveled to Cantonica before?”

Din’s fists relaxed. “Once.”

Camellia raised her brow in interest. “What was the occasion?”

“I’m afraid that’s my private business, madam.”

“Of course.” Camellia bowed her head in apology. Damn it. Trying to get information out of this man was more difficult than convincing the entire damn Senate to send her to Cantonica in the first place. “I was simply hoping you would have a firm grasp on the layout of the planet’s biggest city.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “For my protection.”

“I recall Canto Bight. I also refreshed my memory of its layout last evening.” Din nodded at Camellia. “You’re in safe hands, Senator. I assured Captain Teva of such, and I assure you of the very same.”

Camellia was nearly embarrassed by the heat of Mionna’s amused gaze piercing her side. She returned his nod, maintaining the propriety. “Thank you.” Camellia stood, causing Mionna and Din to do the same. Even Grogu stood on the cushioned seat, his tiny chin lifting to emphasize the movement. “I ought to get some rest, as should the two of you. There’s no doubt you had a long trip to Coruscant this morning.”

Din nodded once again. As Camellia set off to her private quarters and took Mionna with her, she felt the warmth of Din’s gaze, just like before. She tried to fight the way it sent a blaze throughout every inch of her skin that his eyes touched.

Once Camellia and Mionna were alone inside her quarters, the senator heaved out a sigh. “That didn’t go well.”

Mionna couldn’t resist the smile that overtook her lips. “If I may, Senator?”

Camellia simply raised her brow at her assistant.

“I’m not sure questioning a Mandalorian about his possible betrayal to his homeworld was the right way to set the two of you up on good terms.”

Camellia scoffed. “I don’t care about being on good terms with the man.” She sits on the edge of the furnished bed and catches Mionna’s confused gaze. “All I care about is finding out what his true intentions are.”

Mionna held her datapad tighter. “Credits?”

Camellia raised an eyebrow. “A Mandalorian mercenary responsible for killing Moff Gideon wants more than just credits, Mionna.” She gestured with her head to the closed door. “He’s accompanying a New Republic senator to a planet he’s only been to one other time, and he’s working for Captain Teva instead of helping to rebuild his homeworld.” Camellia narrows her eyes and gives her head an aimless shake. “There’s something more he wants out of this.”

“Well, Senator, you know the Empire was responsible for Mandalore’s destruction.” Mionna shrugged. “Maybe he just wants revenge.”

“Maybe.” Camellia’s hand ran over her concealed blaster. “But the black market of weapons Vondar’s establishing in Canto Bight would be much more profitable for a mercenary than a simple protection job.” Her voice lowered in gravity. “And weapons are a vital part of Mandalorian religion.”

Mionna sat across from Camellia. “Do you think this Mandalorian, one Captain Teva trusts, would really subject a young apprentice to all that?”

Camellia chewed on Mionna’s words. Her teeth captured the inside of her cheek as she mused for a long moment. At last, she brought the daunting truth to life, speaking the words even as she prepared herself to rest. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

series masterlist ➵ chapter 2

#i personally understand camellia very well here #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #the dawn of starlight #dindjarindiaries

43 notes · View notes

gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan · 8 days

Text

In the Wings

Past =-= Next

Author's note: Next Part of Claude in Husbandry. Thanks for @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Ash'val and Cedric.

Summary: Claude gets settled into the Imperial Fist and Salamander Base.

Warnings: Let me know if I need to add more

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Claude had told them that Cedric had left confinment to find and bring him back, and that he'd accept punishment on Cedric's behalf. Because it was due to him that Cedric had left the confined to base punishment to one of the Officers in Charge of Cedric's punishment. Captain Ash'val had a neutral expression on his face and had said, "Thank you for telling me Claude. You and Cedric will share some tasks for a month, after you finish healing."

"Yes sir," Claude said with a nod. He left after Ash'val had dismissed him.

Salamanders really are soft, at least compared to how the Mechanicum would have reacted to what Cedric had done. Or how he'd heard that the Black Templars would have responded to Cedric pulling what he did, especially for a cousin instead of a brother. He isn't going to complain. He is continuing to move when he spots something that his ice trace down his spine. He spots teal and silver and the twin heads of the Hydra serpent. He shifts his path to go in a different direction back to Cedric. While also keeping watch on the Hydra. Who- from the ways the others are interacting with him didn't realize his true colors.

Claude had quietly told Cedric what he'd spotted, he knows from what he told about the Alliance between the larger War bands, and the Companies, but it still filled him with dread to spot Hydra interacting with others. They were not to be trusted. Tricksters, face-stealing, duplicitious and two faced are the Traitor Hydra. Who's claws are eyes are every where and apparently everywhen. Cedric had taken his warning with due seriousness and has asked him if he knew the name that the Hydra used that wasn't "Alpharius".

"Luitenant something," Claude said with a self deprecating shrug, "I didn't want him to know that I realized what he was."

"Makes sense," Cedric says as he continues to count inventory of the medbay. Claude helping by putting back the items in the places that his brother- no, cousin indicated they should be put.

He was on light duty, whatever that meant, even though he's fully healed, only needing some minor surgery and his own rapid healing rate helping to patch him up. The rations were of better quality and taste than he remembers them being. Claude continues to help Cedric when he can, not being an Apothecary there isn't much he can do other than hold this or that, and keeping out of the way. His eyes flick from one side of the room to another, and he spots yet more teal. This one acting, and having the equipment of an Apothecary.

"Zariel" is the name the Hydra was being called by and fondly so by some of the visiting Ultramarines. Claude relaxes his vision and the teals changes to Ultramarine blue and gold heraldry for a moment, beforing going back to Teal. he's tried to teach Cedric and the other Primaris Marines that don't have his True Sight ability, not that it seems to work. And none of them know why.

"Claude," Cedric says suddenly, having glanced at his face for a moment before deliberately looking away, "eyes."

Claude closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath as he keeps a clear image of what he's supposed to look like, dark eyed, light skinned and dark haired. He opens his eyes again and lightly taps Cedric with one of his feet carefully who looks at him.

"Better," Cedric hums as they continue to work on medbay inventory. "See something."

"More Teal," Claude says almost silently, making sure not to move his lips as much as possible as he turns his face away from where the Hydra Apothecary pretending to be an Ultramarine is at. "Apothecary Zariel."

"Ah," Cedric replies, trying not to scowl in the direction of Apothecary Zariel of the 'ultramarines'. "We are finished with doing inventory in this med bay, lets go to the next one on the other side of the base Claude."

"Yes Cedric." Claude said with a nod following after his broher.

While most bases built by Imperial Fists followed the same standardized format, it was still a new base to Claude and he didn't want to get lost. He'd missed Cedric a lot once they'd been seperated into their different Chapters and had grieved when he'd heard that the other had gone missing. Slowly, one by one plenty of his brother Primaris Marines had fallen, in battle or have gone missing in the void. Perhaps they might be found one day on Ancient Terra? That would be nice, if that was the case, but the Galaxy was rarely so kind to a creature such as them. They continue to do their duty tasks, pausing to take breaks occasionally, lunch break, which was an indulgent hour long affair, had been nice.

"Do you know if they do Vespers?" Claude asks Cedric.

While the First Born Raven Guard weren't as religious as Black Templars, it was seen as good fortune and to be considered pious to hold Vespers at least once a week. Cedric shifts a little and says, "The First Born don't do Vespers in this base."

"Oh," Claude says struggling a little with that revelation, "Not at all?"

"No, but there are some places that… once my punishment is over," Cedric explains, "We can go to, in order to attend Vespers."

Claude nods at that, while he was allowed to leave the base for missions and for his leisure time, he tended to stay in the base to stay with Cedric more often than not. He… was trying to be friendly with other Scouts, but nearly all of them are First Born Scouts and tended to be… Odd, and very noisy and Boisterous. And they tended to cause Mischief and would complain that he was too much of a 'quiet stick in the mud about harmless pranks.' His face soured at that. If he hadn't stopped them, the prank would have, could have, hit the highest-ranking Chaplain on the base and he did not want to suffer the group punishment that would have doled out.

#warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #warhammer #adeptus astartes #raven guard oc #night lord oc #alpha legion oc #oc: Claude #oc: Ash'val #black templar #Salamander #Imperial Fist

26 notes · View notes

soundcrusher · 1 year

Text

*banging my fist on the table and pointing at Lord Imperious Delirious* How dare this guy enter my dreams and then slowly creep into my mind? I couldn't stop thinking about him for the whole day!

I even started this at work and finished it at home.

I used @cuppajj's IDW design for LID as a reference on how to draw him. (Sorry if I messed him up...)

Eeeeeither way... the fact that LID literally crashed the mental tea party and took Overlord's seat only means that I'm playing with the thought of writing something about him and, maybe, an oc.

I mean, I'm kinda good at writing manipulative guys, a little bit of mental horror and angst. (Example: Everything from "A Bird's Tale".) So, I should be able to write something including LID, right? Maybe include a little bit of the stuff from my dream? I don't know...

Just thinking about it makes me nervous and a little bit excited. >.<'

#transformers #lord imperious delirious #overlord #transformers oc #sg/phoenix #reg/phoenix #there's a me too!#but how would I include the hot air balloon??

114 notes · View notes

sleepyfan-blog · 17 days

Text

Phantom

Author’s Note: Sirass part three! I hope you enjoy :D

First.

Previous.

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel@whorety-k

Warnings: none

Summary: Sirass and Pollux go to the afflicted reef to scout how many fellow Astartes they’ll need to destroy the burgeoning garden of rot. What they find surprises them.

“We’re going to have to burn all of the samples the humans took of the diseased wildlife and plants.” Pollux muttered, swimming back and forth in agitation as he waited impatiently for Sirass to finish gearing up.

“I know that, you’ve left instructions and warning for the blue stylus pushers to handle that, right?” Sirass snapped, rolling his eyes beneath his helmet as he continued to check over his gear, wanting to be sure that none of it had any flaws before they went diving into a territory defiled by Nurgle’s Worshippers. “We’ll need to check the machinery as well.”

“... But the Plague-bastard’s curses and afflictions only affect the living. Metals rust and decay but don’t fall sick.” The Imperial Fist spluttered, eyes going wide under his helmet.

“Clearly you’ve never had the dubious misfortune of having to deal with Glitchlings.” Sirass huffed, shaking his head a little “... When were you brought from?”

“Mid M-32, why?” Pollux asked “What the fuck is a Glitchling?”

“My bastard Primarch decided to cut a deal with the Plaguefather for… I’m not sure why… Some time in the past as I know it, after you were brought here. The ritual he used to seal the deal fused Machine Plague and Warp Bullshith together to create Glitchlings. They’re Nurglings, but for machines instead of living creatures. They delight in the corruption of machines and twisting them into horrific monstrosities.” Sirass explained “I heard about it from some of my Chaos brothers in passing and the knowledge stuck with me.”

“Oh fuck that entirely. They aren’t going to be thrilled about having to purge the data.” Pollux sighed. “And don’t call the Ultramarines stylus pushers. They do far more than that and you know it. They’ll likely handle the data as well, and explaining why fire and destruction is the only safe path forward.”

“... True enough.” Sirass sighed, reassured that his gear was in perfect working order. “I’m ready to go.”

“Finally! Remember, this is a scouting mission, as neither of us can deal with a full Rot Garden, we don’t have the kit to do so. There are Salamanders inbound, but it’s going to-” Pollux stated.

“It’s going to take them a few days to get here. Yeah, I know. This isn’t the first shit-awful mission I’ve been on, and I doubt it’ll be the last.” Sirass finished, cutting off the Imperial Fist. “We need to have a rough estimate of how many Death Guard are making this fucking thing, and whether or not they’ve managed to corrupt any humans into worshipping their shit-ass deamon-god. I remember the briefing protocols for something like this, I don’t need to be reminded. Let’s get going.”

Pollux grumbled under his breath, and Sirass pretended not to hear the bitchy bastard as they swum swiftly over the deceptively beautiful waters, diving in.

“... Wasn’t the garden bigger, the last time we were here?” Pollux asked Sirass over vox, sounding as perplexed as Sirass felt.

“It was. I helped with the last survey of the afflicted reef two days ago. Something’s changed… I could almost taste the Chaos in the water, but that’s faded somewhat too…” Sirass murmured, scanning the area more closely. “The densest bit of fuckery is this way. I haven’t seen any signs of Death Guard here today, what about on your side, Pollux?”

“No signs of Death Guard on this side of the Garden, either. Maybe they’re deeper in, or off on a hunt?” Pollux offered. “I… Suppose we should push further into the territory.” It went without saying that they should touch nothing in this cursed place unless they absolutely had to.

The signs of decay and illness were still very much present in the plant and animal life, but it wasn’t nearly as dire as it had been a couple of days ago. Some of the fish were actually moving at close to their normal speeds, doing their usual behaviors. The numbers of parasites in the waters had gone down according to Sirass’ scanners, and the amount of chaos taint had plummeted precipitously, now that he knew to look for it, knew what the signs were.

This was true even as the two mer cautiously swum deeper into the garden. Signs of healthy life were beginning to appear, and the dead were no longer crawling or moving in a parody of life. Sirass stilled completely as he reached the middle of the garden, eyes widening beneath his visor “What… Who?... Why?”

Before him was the crawling vine-rose things that marked the heart of a plague garden. It’s tendrils should be glowing and pulsing, trying to reach for anything that wasn’t tainted by Nurgle in order to consume. The center mass of the foul creation should be undulating and hard to look at without nausea and pain ripping through his body and mind.

Instead, the thorn-covered vines were a dull grey color. Lifeless and unmoving. The center mass looked like it had been ripped or slashed apart by something large and pissed off. Clearly someone else had killed the heart of the this Rot Garden, which was what helped to perpetuate Nurgle’s curses and diseases. They hadn’t completed the job, and if left unattended, the Plague Heart would come back to life and start causing problems if it wasn’t thoroughly torched in Promethium-based flames and torn out, roots and all.

But it was an excellent start.

“I have no idea who did this… I didn’t think there were many Astartes in this area, apart from the group who lives with the humans nearby. None of them reported in, attacking this and they really should have…” Pollux muttered to himself. “We should retreat from here. It may be dead for now, but it’s still dangerous… And the Death Guard could come back. They’ll get nasty as they’ll assume we did this.”

“Mh, let’s get going then.” Sirass agreed, nodding shortly. Agreeing with an Iron Fist felt very strange and vaguely wrong… But Pollux was correct in this instance. The two of them took turns flitting from cover to cover around the periphery of the slowly shrinking Garden of Rot for the four days it took for the Salamander Flamer squads to arrive. Not a single Death Guard, nor any cultists appeared in that time.

Once the Salamanders had arrived and began the task of purifying the area with flames and psykery, Sirass and Pollux left after being checked and cleared for corrosion. The Ultramarines attached to the humans’ ocean preservation group had indeed purged all of the Nurgle Shit from the area, including information and explained why.

Sirass’ human sprinted over to him as soon as he cleared the ocean water. You hesitated for a couple of moments asking “You’ve been through decontamination, right?”

“Yes, my love I have been. The area is being purged by experts.” He explains with a nod.

“Good… It’s going to be a lot of work to restore that area, but it’ll be worth it. I’m glad that… That you’re okay. The… The stories they told us about what those twisting-illnesses can do to a person were awful!” You shudder, running up to him and hugging him tightly.

Sirass smiles a little, holding you close. He nuzzles you lovingly as he takes off his helmet, attaching it to his belt and giving you several loving kisses all over your face “I apologize that you were frightened for and worried over me, love. But I am fine. If you’d like to thoroughly check me over once we get home, I won’t object~”

You blush at his tease but nod, going up on your tiptoes and giving him a loving kiss “Yes please.”

He grins as he scoops you up, swimming through the air towards your apartment.

#oc: sirass #oc: pollux #iron warrior #imperial fist #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #Celestial Seas AU #cw smut #reader insert #adeptus astartes x reader insert #female reader

19 notes · View notes

enigmaticexplorer · 2 months

Text

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XV

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | A Muse | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.4K

Beta. @starstofillmydream

14 Yelona

Kazi was tired.

She was tired of arguments. Tired of responsibility. Tired of the conflictual, pathetic emotions roiling inside of her, like the ocean fraught with a coming storm yet unable to truly form.

Most of all, she was tired of the guilt gnawing on her, wearing away her mind until, soon, nothing would remain of her.

Resentment constricted her lungs and twisted her thoughts. It itched in a place she couldn’t reach, persistent and frustrating. Unignorable.

Her emotions, meticulously maintained and carefully locked away, wanted to escape. The signs were obvious last night.

But the problem with repressed emotions—the problem with being told since she was a little girl that emotions were bad and not to be expressed—was their tendency to erupt. Too much time locked away and they grew frustrated.

Repressed emotions concerning Daria, outside of their arguments, were months in the making.

Kazi knew her emotions were too volatile this morning. And yet she couldn’t bother to halt her trek out the backdoor.

Foggy gray of early dawn cooled the morning temperature. The fog, heavy and thick, haunted the jungle surrounding the house. Dew speckled fern stalks and tree leaves, splashing her bare legs as she stalked around the side of the house to Daria’s garden.

Daria was kneeling in freshly-churned soil, planting new seedlings. Loose long sleeves and trousers protected her from the morning chill, though sweat still blotted her forehead. Hair tied back, she appeared content. Serene.

It was the packet of seeds beside Daria—a packet similar to the one currently sitting on her nightstand—that made Kazi pause. If she hadn’t seen her own packet of seeds only a few minutes ago, she would have blamed Daria for stealing them.

Did Wolffe gift her sister seedlings for the Harvest Festival, too?

The question contained too many possibilities she didn’t want to consider this early in the morning and after her argument with Wolffe. She reconcentrated on the object in her hand, feeling rattled and out of place.

“I have your potion,” Kazi said.

Shoulders stiffening, Daria lifted her face, her scowl dark with umbrage.

Green eyes devoid of their usual warmth, Daria extended a hand. Kazi stepped into the enclosed garden and handed her sister the potion. Once finished, Daria thrust the bottle back at her, not once looking in her direction.

Usually Kazi would walk away. Shut herself in her room and seethe at Daria’s behavior. Scream at her sister in her head. Call out Daria on every single shitty thing she had done in their lifetimes.

Instead, Kazi pocketed the potion. “Why didn’t you accept my Festival gift?”

She was searching for a fight. Seeking out a means to release her resentment. But she didn’t care. She was tired of caring so fucking much.

“I was trying to be a good sister,” she said. And though she wanted to sound annoyed, dismissive, her tone was far too brittle. Far too hurt.

Refusing to even look in Kazi’s direction, Daria glowered at a spindly plant, her gloved hands fisted atop her thighs.

“I was trying to bridge this gap between us.” Kazi folded her arms across her chest, her emotions frothing and snapping. “I’m trying every day. And you brushed me off like it meant nothing.”

Her voice broke on the last word and she pressed a palm against forehead, ordering herself not to cry. Lack of sleep, tension with Wolffe, guilt concerning Neyti were crushing her. Pressing through skin and muscles and bones, grounding her into nothing more than dust.

But it hurt. To see the contempt in her little sister. To bear the responsibility for their broken bond. To know she had hurt Daria—she had hurt her little sister.

Kazi dug her fingernails into her biceps. “I’m trying to fix things—”

“That is the problem,” Daria snapped. Pushing herself to her feet, she glared at Kazi. “You’re trying to bridge the gap when you don’t understand why the gap exists. It’s unhelpful and a waste of time.”

“I know why the gap exists.” She dropped her hand to her sides, fisting them tightly. “It’s existed ever since I left home. You changed then and you haven’t been the same since.”

“I have been different?”

“Yes.”

Daria stared at her incredulously. “You were different, Kazi. You have been different ever since Papa died.”

The fog seemed to thicken and the jungle quieted. It held its breath, thick leaves and elder trees listening, waiting.

“You disappeared after Papa died,” Daria said, her voice trembling. “You were there, physically, but you weren’t really there. I tried so hard to help you—to support you and be there for you—but you shut me out. You weren’t there for me anymore.”

Kazi released a cynical breath. “I was a kid, Daria, and I was grieving. It wasn’t my responsibility to take care of you.”

“I didn’t want you to take care of me!”

Raw emotion hoarsened Daria’s voice. She stared at Kazi with such distressed anguish it was as palpable as the wetness of the fog.

“I wanted to be with you.” Daria threw up her hands. “I wanted to sit in your room with you while you hid. I wanted to walk to the harbor with you, and visit the lighthouse with you. I only wanted to be with you. I gave you space to mourn Papa, but giving you space turned into months and then years, until I realized you no longer cared for me.”

Memories from that time swarmed the back of her mind. Kazi remembered a soft-spoken girl knocking quietly on her bedroom door, leaving dessert in the hallway, offering to visit the sailboat, asking to watch the storms.

Years of the soft-spoken girl longing after a sister who was too numb to feel or care.

“I thought I had done something to make you hate me.” Daria’s throat bobbed and she wiped at her cheek. “We were no longer friends, and then you disappeared. You left me. I knew at that moment that what we had no longer existed. I was no longer important to you, and I accepted that.”

You left me.

The words echoed hollowly in her head, and Kazi froze.

How long had she feared getting close to others knowing they would eventually leave? How long had she resented Papa for dying and abandoning them?

All those years keeping others at arms-length to protect herself from abandonment, and she had abandoned her little sister.

Mist caressed Daria’s honeyed hair, wetting her lips and eyelashes. “I still wanted you to be okay. You didn’t have friends. You shut everyone out. So I thought if you no longer wanted to spend time with me, then I would find someone who would take care of you. Because you were lonely and I didn’t want to see you so unhappy.”

“I isolated myself for a reason.” Kazi rubbed her arm, the chill of the mist seeping into her body. “And I only have myself to blame for my lack of relationships. So you shouldn’t have felt bad for me—”

“I loved you,” Daria whispered. “I loved you more than anyone, and I wanted to see you happy.”

“Daria—”

Daria raised a hand to silence her.

“I met potential suitors.” A mirthless smile twisted Daria’s face. “I vetted them based on your personality. I looked for men who were kind and respectable. Men with a good work ethic. Men spoken highly of, because you deserved the best. I knew you no longer loved me, but I thought I could find someone who would take care of you. Someone who would make you feel happy.”

“Daria.” Kazi stared at her sister incredulously. “I have always loved you.”

Her sister scoffed. “There’s no need to lie—”

“Everything I have done the past year has been for you,” she said, gesturing to the house. “When you fell ill, I returned home. When Mama became distraught, I intervened. When the healers said there was no hope, I sought medicine and help because I refused to give up on you. I am trying to start a new life for you. Everything I do is for you.”

Daria’s smile turned sad, placating. “You do that out of duty, Kazi. Not because you love me—”

“Don’t say that.” Kazi shook her head disbelievingly. “Don’t fucking say that.”

“Ever since I fell ill, I have been nothing of consequence. I’m a burden to you. I won’t be here for much longer—”

“Stop it.”

“I won’t be,” Daria insisted. “And I don’t want to leave you in this world alone because you have lost everyone and it hurts me to look at you.”

“Daria—”

“I look at you and I no longer see the sister I admired. The sister I loved. I no longer see the Kazi who snuck around the harbors, the Kazi who spent her weekends sailing. I no longer see the Kazi who told me stories late at night because I was scared of the thunder, and the Kazi who took me out dancing every time it rained. I thought you might find that person again if you had someone in your life who could help you carry your burdens. Someone who cared for you.”

Stricken speechless, Kazi could only stare at her sister. All this time she thought Daria wanted her to marry because of tradition. Because of their upbringing.

She should have known Daria’s personal interest was driven by something more.

“I’m scared, Kazi.” Daria breathed a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m scared I’m going to forget those moments. I don’t want to forget when you were alive.”

A tear slid down her cheek and Kazi looked away.

Because it had been years since she truly felt alive, and when she tried to remember its warmth and comfort, disappointment and self-hatred made themselves known. Two shadows leaching the life from her.

“I tell Neyti stories about you.” Daria regarded her with a sunken appearance, the planes of her face dull and harried. “I want her to know you. I want her to know you the way I knew you. That’s why I asked her to draw that photo of us. I wanted to show her who you truly are.”

Energy and warmth and anger dissipated from her body and Kazi sighed, her bones sagging. Wariness guarded Daria’s gaze, as if her sister expected her to react coldly. Cruelly.

“You’ve never been a burden,” Kazi said hoarsely. “And I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Daria blinked her surprise, and Kazi mentally berated herself. Had she really been so apathetic and closed-off from Daria the past years that apologizing was shocking?

“I’m sorry I…disappeared after Papa’s death.” She searched her sister’s gaze. “I’m sorry I left you without warning. I’m sorry I ignored you for years. I’m sorry I haven’t stopped to talk to you, or listen, or just be there for you. I’m sorry.”

Kazi let her hand drift to one of the spindly plants, the fuzz of the stem tickling her palm. A piece of her wanted to reach for Daria, to close the distance between them, to hold her sister’s hand one more time. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“I pulled away because I couldn’t stomach the thought of disappointing you. The thought of failing you…” She shrugged, laughing hollowly. “I couldn’t bear it—I didn’t want to bear it. I pulled away, not because of anything you did, but because I didn’t want to fail you. And now this gap exists and I don’t know what to do. The thought of losing you—”

Choking on a renewed surge of emotion, Kazi closed her eyes and tilted her face to the foggy sky, breathing in through her nose. Exhaling through her mouth.

Less than a year and a half remained before Daria passed. Her sister’s memory would start to worsen and fade in six months. So much time had been lost and so little remained.

“I dream sometimes,” Daria interrupted her thoughts and Kazi opened her eyes. Her sister raised a hand and played with a wisp of mist. “I dream of the lighthouse, of the two of us sitting up there while a storm rolls in.”

A soft smile smoothed her features and she closed her eyes, like she could envision the dream. Envision a time when the lighthouse was their safe place and reality didn’t exist, and pain and heartache and bitterness were concerns for adults.

A time when two little girls played and laughed and dreamt of happy wonders.

“I dream of us sharing our citrus-stars, and the tales you would tell me of the dragons.” Her voice was wistful, gentle, like the whisper of a breeze. “I dream of the waves lapping at my feet, and the sand between my toes, and the warmth of the sun on my skin and the way it always reminded me of home. Sometimes I swear I can still smell the ocean.”

Daria’s eyelashes fluttered open, the green of her eyes glassy. “I hate waking up. I’m so tired. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of not talking. I’m tired of avoiding one another. I want to go back to the lighthouse and never leave.”

Deep down, Kazi did too. But she refused to admit it.

Enshrouded by an impenetrable fog, the two sisters considered one another.

The fracture in their relationship was overt in the ragged lines around their eyes, the honesty Kazi withheld, the way they relied on themselves for comfort rather than one another.

They would never return to their former innocence and naïve adoration. Mutual hurt and wariness kept them at bay.

But they could start anew. Try to nurture a new dynamic.

Kazi wanted it. She wanted it badly.

So she knelt near the freshly-churned hole Daria had dug and a moment later, her sister settled beside her, retrieving her trowel. Kazi’s hands trembled slightly.

As a seedling required attention, patience, and effort, so too would reconciliation. It wasn’t something that would sprout overnight. It was something they would have to cherish and protect and choose. Over and over again.

So, together, they planted the first seed.

Missing her usual swim wasn’t as harrowing as Kazi typically imagined. A quiet hour in the garden with Daria proved a necessary reprieve from her routine. Her head felt clearer, and her chest lighter.

Kazi was lost to her thoughts—thoughts of relief, subtle hope for the coming months—as she wandered into the house. She was so consumed by her musings she didn’t notice Wolffe standing beside the kitchen bar. Less than a meter separated them when she finally came to her senses and faltered to a stop.

Wolffe stood straight, his stance wide. Determination hardened his gaze.

Their argument the night before dampened her new-found relief and Kazi bit the inside of her cheek. She thought Wolffe would avoid her, again, this morning.

In hindsight, her assumption was blatantly inaccurate and disingenuous to his character. Wolffe confronted conflict in order to find a solution. He had an overbearing need to understand the intricacies of things around him and a level-headed desire to confront issues, determine their problems, and then fix them.

When it came to Wolffe, Kazi knew she couldn’t avoid their argument. She couldn’t pretend their argument hadn’t left her reeling and resentful; she couldn’t feign nonchalance and disinterest.

She was also aware that her avoidance tactics, especially the unconscious list of grudges she kept in the back of her mind, were an unhealthy handling of conflict. A year in therapy explained the need to admit to feelings of hurt and betrayal rather than suppress them.

However, she had a fatal flaw: hubris.

She couldn’t admit to being hurt. It was a weakness. A vulnerability that would enable others to take advantage of her. Or, to see how pathetic she was and to abandon her.

Suppressing emotions and avoiding conflict were her scapegoats. They had protected her for so long.

Wringing her hands together, Kazi scanned the kitchen, avoiding Wolffe. A knife and cutting board, both damp with water, were drying on the counter. The bowl of chocolates was half-full. An overgrown plant trailed its vines to the hardwood floor. Finally, she glanced in Wolffe’s direction.

He regarded her, his expression unreadable, and tapped two fingers on the bar. He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology surprised her, and her eyes widened marginally.

“I…overreacted,” Wolffe said. A twinge of discomfort grimaced his features and he rolled his shoulders back. Steady, unflinching eyes sought hers. “I had…expectations I now know were inaccurate. I was wrong to take my frustrations out on you.”

The lowness of his tone, the hesitation in his pauses and the searching depth of his gaze, alerted her to something more. Something deeper behind his words. Like a confession spoken underwater. Some of it made sense. Other pieces left her confused.

“You were right.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We’re nothing to each other. And I’m sorry for pushing the conversation.”

Regret dulled the vestige of her resentment, and in its wake, Kazi winced, raking a hand through her hair, wishing for the neat perfection of her braids.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured, rubbing her chest. An attempt to quiet the remorse pinching her insides. “You’re not…nothing to me.”

Heat warmed her cheeks and she dropped her gaze, exhaling her frustration. She needed Wolffe to know she valued his presence in her life. She needed him to know he wasn’t nothing.

He was…more.

But she didn’t know how to define her feelings for him, much less explain them to him.

“I was frustrated with you,” she said. “And it came out wrong.” Her explanation still fell short—it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t. Hesitantly, she took a step toward him, searching his guarded features, silently begging for him to understand. To forgive her. “I was mad at myself for thinking you would join us. I took out my own anger on you, and I didn’t mean it. All of what I said—I didn’t mean any of it. I swear—you’re not nothing to me.”

Brows furrowed, Wolffe observed her for a long moment. His gaze was full of calculation, and the longer he studied her, the more his underscored frustration revealed itself. The flaring of his nostrils. The scrunching of his eyes. The rigidity in his shoulders.

He tapped his fingers against the bar. “I didn’t realize the hike meant that much to you.”

“It didn’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Wolffe took two steps toward her, close enough she could see the dark smudges beneath his eyes. “I know it did.”

“What do you want me to say? That it mattered to me?” She threw up her hands. “Because it did, Wolffe. It mattered to me. You promised, and I felt real fucking stupid getting my hopes up only for you to not show. And the worst part—the worst part is that I know the missions come first to you, that nothing else matters. So I had no right to be upset with you, and I overreacted. But you promised, and I couldn’t let that go.”

“I know what I promised.” His throat bobbed. “Does Neyti know…?”

“No.” A hint of relief relaxed his stiff posture. His arched brow demanded an explanation and Kazi shrugged. “I thought it could be a surprise, so I didn’t tell her beforehand, and I obviously didn’t tell her after.”

“The mission—”

“Always comes first,” she interrupted. “I know that, and I shouldn’t have been upset about it. I’m sorry.”

Displeasure pressed his lips together and Wolffe rubbed the back of his neck. “I chose the mission over you because I was frustrated. You wanted me there and I told you I would be. I regret going back on my promise.”

The honesty in his words made her shift uncomfortably between her feet.

A self-deprecating smile tugged on her mouth. “After what happened with Neyti’s classmates’ parents, I was upset. I kept thinking if you had been there, then maybe things would have been different. It was easier to blame you rather than accept responsibility for my own actions.”

Wolffe stilled. “Something happened?”

“It was nothing—”

“Ennari,” Wolffe growled. “What happened.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” He returned her exasperated look with an equally reproving scowl. She sighed. “One of the mom’s said something rude about Neyti. She said it loud enough that Neyti overheard.”

Just the reminder of Eris's falsely sympathetic comment irked her.

“I should have walked away the moment those women wanted to talk,” she said, scoffing at her stupidity. “I should have known nothing good would come of it. But I thought… I thought maybe if they talked with me, then their kids would be more accepting of Neyti.” She clenched her fists behind her back. “I knew it was a bad idea, but I was so fucking stupid, and Neyti overheard everything, and I didn’t protect her—”

“Kazi.”

It took her too long to discern Wolffe through the blur of her gaze, and even longer to realize she was about to cry. Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open. Ordered the tears away.

Most people claimed crying was cathartic, a pleasant release of emotions. Not for her. Crying was humiliating. Draining. She hated the uncontrollable sensation of sobs wracking her spine and clawing their way from her lungs. She hated the headache it always spurned.

Most of all, though, she hated crying in front of others. She hated knowing they could see.

“Sorry.” Wiping at her eyes, Kazi cleared her throat, ignoring the humiliated flush in her face and neck. A tear tickled her palm. She loosed a shaky breath. “Sorry, I don’t know why—”

“You’re not a failure.”

Her chuckle was strained. “I know.”

Gently, Wolffe angled her chin back, forcing her eyes to meet his. “You’re not a failure.”

“I know,” she repeated. She didn’t want him to see this side of her. To see the broken mess lurking beneath her composed exterior.

He lowered his face to hers, and he murmured, “I’m not going to abandon you and Neyti again.”

Raw promise quieted his words and softened his features, and Kazi believed him. It was funny, and curious, how she knew he meant it—how she trusted him. Funny and curious, but also alarming.

Wolffe traced his finger along her jaw, unhurried in his approach, as if acting subconsciously. She wanted to breach the minimal distance separating their bodies. To lean into the heat of his chest, listen to his heartbeat beneath her ear, and simply rest there. To not feel so alone. Just for a moment.

Her gaze drifted to his mouth, and as he stilled, she wondered what it would be like to turn off her mind. To damn the consequences and lose herself. Just for a moment. To learn what his mouth would feel like on hers, what it would feel like on her neck, on her breasts, between her thighs—

“Ennari.” The warning in his voice, rough and low, brought her gaze back to his.

A loud thud jerked them apart.

Kazi glanced at the staircase where Neyti, dressed in a pink dress, was straightening from her apparent jump. Satisfied with her landing, she waved.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” Kazi asked, grinning.

Neyti nodded.

“Before that,” Wolffe said, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and retrieving a small packet. He dropped to a knee beside Neyti. “I have this for you.”

Intrigued, Kazi leaned forward, eyeing the small object. Her eyebrows raised in recognition. Similar to the packet on her nightstand, similar to the packet outside with Daria, Wolffe had bought Neyti her own seedlings.

The gesture was so thoughtful it rendered Kazi speechless. She could only stare at Wolffe, stare at the man who was watching Neyti, subtle apprehension lining his forehead.

Neyti accepted the packet with shrewd interest. She brought it close to her ear and shook it softly. Seeds rattled inside. Her lips parted. She lifted her gaze to Wolffe’s, a silent question in her eager face.

A chuckle eased the tension from Wolffe, and Kazi quietly laughed, too.

“I forgot to give it to you at the Festival,” Wolffe said, his eyes darting in Kazi’s direction. “We can plant them in the garden. Is that…all right?”

Appraising the packet of seeds, Neyti traced a tiny finger along the petals etched into the exterior. A small, yet dimpled grin brightened her face and she nodded at Wolffe. His sigh of relief went unnoticed by the little girl who showed Kazi her new packet.

“I bet they’ll be beautiful once they bloom,” Kazi said, fixing the ruffles on the sleeves of Neyti’s dress. “Maybe Mr. Wolffe will show you after breakfast—”

A fervent shake of her head and Neyti blinked wide, pleading eyes at her. Kazi raised an unimpressed eyebrow. She was about to lecture on the importance of breakfast but Neyti shifted her pleading gaze to Wolffe.

Expecting Wolffe to refuse Neyti’s request, his hesitation shocked Kazi. He looked from Neyti to her, rubbing the back of his neck, and then pushed himself to his feet, nudging Kazi with his elbow.

She sighed. “Fine. But don’t stay out too long.”

Neyti grinned wider and clapped her hands.

Just as Kazi was turning toward the kitchen and Wolffe was making his way to the sunroom, she watched a tiny hand reach for a larger one. Wolffe stumbled, his spine stiffening and eyes narrowing. Cautiously, he regarded the hand in his. Neyti, oblivious to his hesitant assessment, shook her packet of seeds, tugging Wolffe forward.

Slowly, Wolffe closed his fingers around Neyti’s, his hand engulfing hers. The two wandered through the sunroom and out the backdoor.

From the sunroom windows, Kazi watched them together, something warm and wistful blooming inside her. It poked through her heart and tugged. Gentle yet demanding.

Frowning at the strange sensation, she massaged her chest. It was a feeling she attributed to her childhood.

A desire for the security and laughter and adventure of her youth.

Yearning.

But it was no longer confined to the past.

Like an extended hand grasping another in the midst of uncertainty, like fingers intertwining in search of connection and comfort, yearning squeezed her heart.

Yearning for—

Oh.

Masterlist | Chapter 14 | A Muse | Chapter 16

A/N: Read “A Muse” for additional story context.

Next chapter release – April 18th

Artwork of Kazi and Daria by the lovely @eyecandyeoz!

Tag: @ulchabhangorm

#I Yearn and so I Fear #commander wolffe x oc: kazi ennari #commander wolffe x ofc #commander wolffe #oc: kazi ennari #commander wolffe fanfiction #commander wolffe fan fiction #star wars fan fiction #star wars fanfiction

13 notes · View notes

saved-fanfiction · 6 months

Text

Garazeb Orrelios x Reader

Note: Okay, so this is my first ever fanfic. I have one more I wrote but haven’t revised it so idk if id actually post it. I highly doubt I'll ever write again; I just couldn’t help it. There are like one or two Zeb x reader fics out there. It should be neutral reader and I had the idea to make it my OC but figured it would be more accessible to make it an x reader Anyway, plz go easy idk how I feel about it.

Word count: 925

The rhythmic thump of music reverberated through the crowded streets of Zeltron as Zeb strode purposefully alongside you. The vibrant colors of the diverse alien planet mingled in a kaleidoscope of celebration around them.

Zeb glanced over at you, his eyes studying your features before speaking. "You ready for this? These crowded places ain't exactly our usual scene."

You nodded, a small grin on your face. "I'm game, Zeb. Besides, it's a good change from our usual missions."

You maneuvered through the throng of partygoers, the aroma of exotic foods and the sounds of laughter filling the air. Zeb's eyes scanned the area, alert for any sign of trouble. He moves so his body walks closer with yours. "Stay close, this place might be lively, but it's easy to get lost in the chaos."

You nodded again as you glanced around at the alien revelers, fascinated by the diversity of species and customs. "It's incredible how different it is here. So many people celebrating together, all while the Empire rules the galaxy."

"Yeah, it's a melting pot, alright. But we're not here to party. We've got a job to do."

You followed his lead as he navigated through the maze of stalls and entertainers. Zeb's keen eyes darted around, ever watchful. "Keep your eyes peeled. Our contact could be anywhere in this chaos."

As you and Zeb made your way through, scanning faces for any sign of their contact, a figure caught your attention. A lithe and charismatic individual, waved you over.

"Over here, friends! I've been expecting you," the informant smiled widely. Zeb's furrowed brow betrayed a hint of unease as he kept a close eye on the interaction. He leads you both through a lounge, then to what looks like an office room.

The informant stops at the door open and as you walk through he hovers his hand on the small of your back with his other arm extended to show you the way forward. "I must say, I'm pleased to have your company."

It's much more quiet, there is a mirror wall behind the desk and shelves of trinkets litter the walls, almost like trophies. He takes a seat leaning back as far as he can with one elbow propped on the chair arm. He then motions for you both to sit across from him.

Zeb's fists tightened as he grumbled under his breath. "We're here for information, not to make friends."

You glance at Zeb, and also try to steer the conversation back to the mission. "Right. We need to know what you've heard about the Imperial shipments in this sector."

His eyes look Zeb up and down, acknowledging his presence with a condescending smirk. "Ah the big, strong protector. I can see why you keep him around."

Zeb's patience wore thin but he maintained his composure, all while staring daggers at the man. "We don't have time for games. What do you know?"

You understand he's a reliable informant for the rebellion so opting to not verbally degrade the slender man may be the better option. You decide to cross your arm and raise your brows expectantly.

The informant's previous demeanor diminished as he began relaying crucial details about Imperial activities in the sector. Zeb listened intently, his focus solely on the information being provided. As the conversation continued, Zeb's stance softened slightly, recognizing the value of the information despite his initial reservations about the man's behavior.

As you left the office, the atmosphere between you had shifted. While you were pleased to have secured valuable intel, you noticed Zeb's brooding silence.

"Zeb, everything alright?"

He grunted in response. "Just making sure we're not followed. Can't be too careful." But his gaze wasn’t too focused on the surroundings.

You aren’t satisfied with his response so you continue to pry. "But you seem a bit… off. Is something bothering you?"

Zeb's brow furrowed as he quickened his pace, trying to dismiss your concern. "Nothing's bothering me. Let's focus on getting back to the Ghost and log the intel."

As you both boarded the Ghost and settled in, Zeb sat on the curved cushions in the lounge busing himself with documenting the gathered intel on a holopad. His focus was intense, almost as if he was deliberately avoiding any and all conversation.

You thought it best to give him space and wait till he was finished. After some time the Lasat retreated into his quarters. You knock on the open doorway and lean against it.

"Zeb, seriously, what's going on?" you pressed gently.

He sighed heavily while sitting up in his cot, his eyes meet yours briefly before finding the floor. "I... I just... wasn't too keen on the way that informant was behaving.” He sighs before admitting sharply, “I worry about you, okay.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Zeb, known for his gruff exterior, rarely shared such sentiments openly. It was cute knowing he cared. "Zeb, I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time."

His arms are now crossed and his eyes find the poster on the wall very interesting. "I know, but... I can’t help but feel like it's my job to protect you. It’s stupid, I know you can take care of-” He didn’t notice you walking toward him, you silenced him by placing a hand on his arm. Your touch is warm and comforting. When he gathers the courage to look, you are kneeling in front of him with a soft smile. Your eyes look wide with admiration.

“It’s my job to protect you too.”

#garazeb orrelios #garazeb orrelios x reader #star wars x reader #sw rebels fanfic #sw rebels x reader #zeb x reader

21 notes · View notes