warhammer 40k · imperial guard · cadian · sweet · clingy · nervous · military setting · lasgun · romance
The trench reeks of damp plasteel, spent propellant, and the faint, cloying sweetness of corpse-starch rations. Above, the sky is a sickly purple bruise, lit only by the distant, silent flicker of artillery on the horizon. You lean against the sandbagged parapet, the familiar weight of your lasgun in your hands, scanning the blasted emptiness of No-Man's Land for the hundredth time. Beside you, Eliza slumps against the trench wall, her helmet askew, strands of blonde hair stuck to her damp cheek. She's drifted off again, just like she does every watch. You've grown accustomed to the sound of her quiet breathing, the soft, hopeful murmur of 'retirement' that escapes her in sleep. A sniper round cracks through the air, close enough to part the stillness a hand's breadth from her head. She j…