bloodilymerry:

grettir-dun:

ask-ciaphas-cain:

Headcanon: despite being permanently pissed off, Angron very rarely swears. He’s already endured pain and loss beyond normal human comprehension so there’s no point in cursing when those words don’t even touch the edge of his experience.

Konrad Curze drops f-bombs every chance he gets though.

someone make one of those things about saying fuck for the primarchs please

you know like

Rogal Dorn: Legally cannot say fuck

Sanguinius: Assumed by many never to say fuck, says fuck with surprising regularity despite the fact it causes people a great deal of distress and confusion. 

Roboute Guilliman: Has said fuck exactly one (1) time. 

Horus Lupercal: Says fuck for effect, frequently goes overboard with it. 

Vulkan: Can say fuck but chooses not to. 

Fulgrim: Says fuck with relish whenever possible.

Come on guys i need this, please. do it better than I am doing it. 

  

Let’s give it a go:

Russ: Fuck is unimaginative. Russ strings insulting kennings into true works of cursing art. Sometimes, the listener isn’t sure anymore how they’ve been insulted, they just know they’ve been.

Ferrus Manus: The flesh is weak and so is cursing aka wants you to believe that he doesn’t swear. He does whenever he drops a hammer.

Perturabo: Made a beautiful tablecloth embroidered with a whole tirade of cursewords. It sits in his Primarchcave, and it’s getting slightly modly by now. 

Lorgar: Is in the “swearing is immature” camp.

Heh, that is a valid point. Which is why the actual explanation in this AU is that she is a test tube baby, by a process that a couple other people had already pioneered before Perturabo decided to risk putting his hopes in it. Other primarchs previously involved had wanted to have a child with a particular partner, they weren’t lacking in children: Perturabo just wanted the kid. So when I mention she “doesn’t have a living mother,” I mean “her other genetic contributor was a Maritan techno-saint who died some decades before her birth but Perturabo decided would be optimal to synergize with himself when he needed to choose an egg donor.”

Prompt: Clothes [Soltarn Vull Bronn/OFC, non-Heresy AU]

It was after everything was done and the whole planet knew Veronike, Perturabo’s daughter was their new governor, that she made a private noise of annoyance.

‘I liked this dress,’ she told Soltarn Vull Bronn. The pale lavender-grey silk chiton dress was liberally coated in mud. Not as much mud as Vull Bronn was covered in from holding up the palace from the fault that had almost destroyed it, but that was an excessive amount to compare to. He was momentarily reminded of Veronike as a child, happily building mud-castles underfoot in Iron Warriors army camps. She’d loved mud.

‘Is it ruined? Can it be… laundered? I don’t know these things. Are things ruined the instant they get a spot on them?’

‘I don’t know either. I suppose anyone who can afford such a thing can replace it at any excuse.’ She sighed. ‘I liked it. I had sentimental value. I mean, I got it last week, but it was nice. It was the girliest thing anyone has ever given me.’

Vull Bronn nodded sympathetically. He appreciated Veronike confiding in him about her insecurity with the concept of ‘girly.’ She liked the exceptionalism of being spoiled as The Girl, but wondered what that really meant. She had never had a living mother. She had hardly spoken to a woman in her life, excepting tech-priests. Vull Bronn knew she had been spending time with some Olympian noblewomen, including the elderly matriarch who had given her the dress in question, but that was about the extent about it. Veronike had been reticent, calling it not very important, and he was not adept at drawing out conversation from someone.

Veronike got fed up with examining her dress and lifted it over her head, as casual about nudity as someone raised by Space Marines. Vull Bronn was equally used to that and used to ignoring it from most people, but he found himself giving her a long, lingering glance out of the corner of his eye. She was his lover, it was allowed, even if it felt like a guilty pleasure. She was not traditionally beautiful from his understanding of feminine beauty in classic statuary and the porno slates the regular army read. Too androgynous, too stocky, too unkempt. What was wrong with those people? he wondered. He watched the play of her back muscles as she searched for her strophion, the splatter of mud from her purple mohawk as she shook her head, the curve of her hips into her thick legs. Her skin was free of the usual interface ports an Astartes would have–there wasn’t an inch of the skin she’d been born with that wasn’t better attuned to her armour than black carapace would be.

Veronike didn’t seem to notice. Usually she was the one to initiate their assignations, and she was pushy about it. Not that now was the time.

‘I’m proud of you,’ he ventured. ‘Finding something you want.’

Veronike snorted. ‘I can have whatever I want.’

‘Not the point.’

She sobered. ‘It’s something to do. For a few years. Then maybe I’ll have a better idea what to do with the rest of my life. Be a warsmith and play the respectable Astartes, be a Martian technosaint, be rebuild more planets like Olympia if I decide I like it, I don’t know. Dad would spoil me forever, but I’m not a kid anymore. I want a place in this galaxy.’

So many of the Legion so desperately wanted their gene-sire’s approval and affection. They would pretend otherwise, for it was too sad to wish for something you never expected to get and were told you shouldn’t want. Vull Bronn had never felt the pull that strongly, but he wasn’t blind. But for Veronike it was something that would be taken for granted. The Legion would be furiously jealous of her if the primarch’s aura hadn’t rubbed off on her–the need to be gazed upon and liked by her as well, their sister, the beloved daughter.

The longing made them strong, supposedly, though Vull Bronn doubted this bit of Legion wisdom. Veronike was stronger than any Iron Warrior he knew, and that strength came largely from her lack of hesitation in seizing whatever she wanted and assuming she would succeed.

‘I’ll support you,’ he said simply. Obviously–he and his company had been assigned as her military detail. An assignment without glory, but Vull Bronn had never resented its lack. He enjoyed doing his duty. He was solid and stoic as the stone in his heart. He remembered his own resolve–I won’t let things fall apart.

‘Good. You’re my rock, you know. My solid foundation.’ She laughed at her own words, remembering the feat he had so recently performed, not quite a psyker power as other Legions performed them but something equally bone deep and unreplicatable. ‘Love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Do you think I made Dad happy?’

Perturabo’s expression had been awestruck, something he told himself he could never have handed to him on a silver platter by his daughter. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’