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Call me Ouiser (main blog @ykantouiserread). ouiser_boudreaux on AO3. Writer, artist. Grumpy old cuss. Your favorite fic writer’s favorite fic writer. “CEO of ruined pathetic men” - @rowanisawriter
This blog is subject to whatever bullshit has grabbed my attention; currently, Rogue Trader, but also Dragon Age and BG3. I'm only good about tagging my own OCs and everything else is a free for all.
I think what’s most compelling about Heinrix and his romance storyline (and what’s made me Insane even beyond my penchant for dudes I can write commingling their religious guilt with sexual desire) is that, for WH40K, it’s a straight up romance novel! It follows the standard beats of those plot lines, there is an HEA that feels earned.
That’s also why I hesitate to call him a Mr Darcy character. Sure, lots of historicals want to emulate that character blueprint, but ultimately Heinrix is a modern historical romance hero. I call him a Sarah MacLean type hero, because she’s who I’ve read the most of (and that woman does love a stern man built like a brick shithouse but hiding a softer side, and god bless her for it), but not Mr. Darcy. And THAT is why I say yall gotta read more romance novels.
Heinrix so eager to fuck that he rails Enid up against the elevator wall before they can even walk out of it and then carrying her to the bed after so he can have a little cream pie as a snack
Heinrix inside of Enid wondering if this is what the God-Emperor feels like becoming Heinrix on his knees wondering if he’s participating in their own holy sacrament.
Mature content
This is my 1st spicy themed work in a looong millenia while...
for @vitanithepure
I think it probably doesnt apply to ALL short ppl...but then again..if it were Heinrix....what do I know ? xD
This post may contain content not suitable for all audiences.
The thing about discussions over which romance ending is preferred is they’ll always devolve into people talking about which is better, which leads to folks bending over backwards to make themselves acceptable to what they think is the most emotionally mature answer, when in reality… that’s just not what it’s about. It’s a story and stories are about what you get out of them. It’s far more interesting to talk about what your character does with these paths, rather than get into value judgment pissing contests. Fuck what’s better for the pixel man (who isn’t real and won’t fuck you), what does it mean to you, what does it mean to your story that you want to tell that you care about?
I would weigh in on the Lord Inquisitor vs Master Of Whispers Heinrix ending debate but I'm too busy imagining him and Enid fucking raw.
Jk I do have a thought, but it’s just that complexity, nuance, and happy endings are not mutually exclusive concepts, and tumblr at large is too irony-pilled to admit to it. You should all read more romance novels actually.
I missed WIP Wednesday again because I’m Boo Boo the fool, so here, have some Heinrix thirstposting via Enid.
Standing eye-to-shoulder, she’d been able to see up close just what the man is made of beneath all his no-nonsense Imperial finery. Every divot that defined the dips and hard curves of his biceps, the corded muscle running along from his shoulder to collarbone and up to his throat, the slight rise and fall of his firm, broad chest… biomancy or no, a sculptor needs good raw material to work from, and what Heinrix has built of himself over the years looked powerful, and strong, and for the first time in recent memory, it was a sight that made Enid crave to touch.
The only thing that could mar such a breathtaking view was the rosette of the Inquisition hanging on a chain from his neck, but even that feels negligible in her memory. What lingers now is how she heard him slowly exhale, how she felt the tendons in his wrist shift beneath her fingertips as he squeezed the trigger of the autogun, and how that close, she could smell him, the scent of him so pleasantly scrubbed-clean and warm she could nearly taste it. Void take her, does she want to taste. She wants to run her tongue along that collarbone and run her hands up through that warpdamned perfect hair of his to tilt his head back so she can taste his throat, press hot kisses to his skin every time he makes the air go cold, til he forgets to go cold at all.
She hasn’t forgotten the vox she intercepted, how he choked out her name while rutting against his own bedding to the sound of her voice. There is something there, in every heat-laden glance he lets slip her way, and it is something he promptly coats in ice before she can hold her hand out to warm her palm against the flame. The game is as much a comfort as it is bewildering, an itch she can’t scratch and doesn’t know what she’d do without, or what would happen once she might finally soothe it. It’s an unopened pack of lho, a sealed bottle of amasec that beckons from the shelf; would relief be enough, or would she only want more, and more, til she could do nothing else?
Even with a splitting headache and a swimming gut, she thinks she knows the answer.
