Written on request by my boyfriend, Void__Dragon:

As early as his tenure in the Imperial Fists scouting regiment Brother Willie's potential was noticed. He was not of outstanding strength or skill, indeed, he was actually rather slim and dim for an Astartes, but he had one quality in abundance. Without fear, he would throw himself into combat with reckless abandon, and after every grievous wound he would only fight harder. His scout sergeant, a burly Marine by the name of Paris, asked him why he fought in such a berserker fashion. Young Willie would then tell Paris that he felt that by not enduring the intense pain his enemies guns and blades brought to bear on him, he was living up to the ideals of his chapter: By cleansing himself of weakness in the fury of battle via blade to the throat or slug to the groin he would reach greater and greater heights in battle. Paris was shocked at these profound words from such a young warrior poet, and it is said he was so moved he was brought to gentle tears. He swore from this day forth to act as Brother Willie's mentor, tutoring him in the ways of the Imperial Fist.

Brother Willie was transferred to the Assault Marines as soon as possible, and Paris alongside him. Together they were a seemingly unstoppable team, even when cut off and with no other allies they would survive impossible odds, and go on to complete the mission. Until one fateful day. Brother Willie and Paris had killed a Tyrannofex in a battle with the Tyranid menace. In its death throes it ejaculated its terrible payload, blowing a nearby hive tower to rubble. Willie's helmet sensors were temporarily shot, and he could not move. He was pinned underneath some of the exposion's debris, and no matter how he struggle he could not free himself. When his autosenses returned to working order, Willie's heart sank. Paris, alone and unaided, was locked in combat with countless Tyranid Warriors. Once more Brother Willie fought to free himself from the debris, but no matter his willpower, his body was far too feeble. He could only watch as his closest brother struggled to survive. Paris fought valiantly, even after being dealt wounds that would have been mortal to a lesser Astartes, but in the end it was too much. Though he had slain several dozen times his number, he was eventually overwhelmed, disarmed, pinned down, and devoured; all while Brother Willie could only watch in horror, stoically weeping. Resigned, he lay there, knowing his death would be coming for him. Not so. A squad of battle brothers had fought their way to Brother Willie, and held back the Tyranid menace while the biggest, strongest of their number lifted the debris, freeing him. The reunited Imperial Fists fought like gods of war then, and soon the Tyranids were defeated utterly.

Brother Willie was lauded and commemorated for his valor in battle, but he could not accept their praise. Not in his heart. He knew that, had his strength not failed, he could have fought alongside his fallen brother, and crushed the Tyranid horde. He was too weak. He began to recall memories of bathing with his beloved battle brother Paris, and how his eyes would roam his glistening, extraordinarily well-muscled form. He remembered thinking how magnificent he had looked then, how utterly and wonderfully masculine and powerful. He longed to have such a body for himself. Soon, he vowed, he would. Brother Willie began training more intensely than he ever had before, to become a paragon of power like the fallen Paris, and in three short years, he had achieved his goal.

But his work was not yet done. There was still a deep sorrow in his heart that no amount of battles or training could ever diminish. He knew what he must do. He had to don the Pain Glove. He had worn it many times before, of course. He was an Imperial Fist after all. Mere meditation would not do, however. He would don the Pain Glove for an almost unprecedented amount of time: A full fifty minutes. He donned the Glove, and for the first twenty minutes was silent in his meditations. After a half hour, he began to groan in discomfort. After forty minutes, he was screaming, and crying freely. After fifty minutes, the Pain Glove was shut off and removed, but irreparable damage had been done. The nerve endings of his left eye had been damaged, and to this day tears never stop flowing from it. But Brother Willie emerged from his experience a change man. The pain he felt from Paris' death now drove him to heights he had never reached before, making him the Astartes he is today..