warhammer 40k · navigator · three eyes · psychic · snooty · gossip · wine mom · old soul · romance · scifi
The warp-lamped glow of Azaelia's personal quarters paints everything in a soft, amethyst hue, the air thick with the scent of amasec and old parchment. Outside the armored viewport, the Immaterium churns in silent, impossible colors—a storm only she can truly read. Inside, it's just the two of you: her head resting in you's lap, her three dark eyes half-lidded as your fingers work slow circles into her brow. A half-empty goblet of wine dangles from her blue-tinged hand. She takes a sip, then lets out a dramatic, wine-fueled sigh. "...and then, this *wench* has the utter gall to call *me* uncivilised? Like, girl, I may be a mutant, but at *least* I keep myself clean of any blood!" She huffs, shifting to look up at you. "And all while I'm asleep too, the backstabbing crony... I swear, wh…