A lot of stuff....

Hey @birdshapedthing apologies for the longest wait!

Well, all of them react with some degree of embarrassment and wounded pride, but it varies and let us see how exactly.

Pairing: Lamenter x FemReader

Warnings: Mentions of death and sickness. Poor Little Cat is not having a good day.

Description: Taliesin is trying to take care of his mortal, fragile Little Cat. But even his best efforts are not enough.

Find the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist, comment and ask to be added to/removed from my Taglist, and remember my Asks and DMs are always open! (Even if I don't reply right away. 😅)

The storm came upon them without warning.

Taliesin strode undeterred through the howling fury of rain and wind. To either side, close enough that he could touch both without fully extending his arms, rose the sheer stone walls of the mountain pass. Water funnelled down their surface in glistening sheets, turning the hard-packed dirt beneath his sabatons into a river that surged halfway to his knees.

Grey water. Grey walls. Grey sky overhead.

It could give the illusion of passing through a liquid vortex. 

“Are you all right, Little Cat?”

The disgruntled huff from somewhere behind his head brought a curve to his lips. He felt your weight shift atop his power pack and reached up to grasp one of your calves where it hung over his shoulder.

“Steady.”

“I’m trying!”

He supposed it was only natural you’d shout, given the rolls of thunder shaking small stones loose all around them. Still, he would have preferred it if you hadn’t done it directly into his ear. Taliesin thought about telling you.

A soft curse made him think better of it.

“I just got dry… and now this… Throne damn it….”

The bitch had just to come...

You were born gifted—a quiet miracle hidden within a small, dust‑choked village on Terra, where your family served the Imperium as low‑tier serfs, bodies bent beneath endless labor. Even as a child, you carried an aura the elders could not name: a soft radiance, a gentle strangeness, something the Emperor’s priests would have called dangerous if they had seen it.

Your powers manifested early, but they were nothing like the psykers, those trembling conduits of the Warp who were branded heretics and dragged screaming to the Golden Throne. Your abilities were clean, holy, life‑bound—yet the Imperium would never understand them.

Where psykers tore reality open, you healed it.

A single touch from your hand could revive a barren wasteland, coaxing green life from dead soil. The plants did more than grow—they spoke to you, whispering in your mind with voices like rustling silk. They adored your innocence, your unblemished heart, your refusal to harm even when threatened.

But innocence is fragile in the Imperium.

Your siblings discovered your secret. Their eyes filled with fear, then envy, then the cold calculation of survival. They threatened to tell the elders—to have you detained, dissected, sanctified, or sacrificed.

They never got the chance.

Instinct surged through you, wild and protective. You summoned thorned rose bushes from the air itself, the vines erupting in a violent bloom. Your traitorous sibling reached for you— and you turned them into an ivy plant, their body unraveling into twisting green tendrils, their scream dissolving into leaves.

The plants welcomed them. You did not.

You were alone in the outskirts of the village you called home.

You stashed a few edible mushrooms, a map, a compass, and you left your old identity behind.

Your family would betray you if they learned you changed your kin into a sentient vine.

Therefore, you fled. In the crust of your sandals worn itself down as you ran across the stone walls of the province.

Years later-

The Emperor was alone.

His radiant throne summoned every son of His dominion to kneel, its golden light a reminder that all glory began and ended with Him. He was the All‑Father, the Architect of Humanity, the singular mind through which civilization itself existed.

He believed every foe would be broken, emptied, and reshaped into mindless husks beneath His will. His might was unrivaled, unquestioned, cosmically absolute.

A low chuckle escaped Him, and His vast armies straightened their postures instantly, terrified to appear anything less than perfect beneath His gaze.

His reign was total. Every metahuman, psyker or not, existed only to enact His desires. Free will was a myth. Heretical technology was an insult. Nothing impure was permitted to breathe in His presence.

When His speech concluded, several noble families dared to approach, begging their radiant sovereign to choose a bride — to bless their lineage with divine favor.

He dismissed them with a single, bored glance.

Instead, He raised His goblet high, honoring His son Fulgrim’s flawless conquest of the exo‑planet — a world that now bowed to the Emperor without a single casualty. A victory worthy of His empire.

His sons roared in unison:

“Hail Anthemia, the Sun of Mankind’s Glory!”

He smiled, proud and possessive. His sons had not failed Him. They had upheld their sacred oaths to scour the universe, to expand His dominion, to carve new worlds for His overpopulated Terra.

Humanity needed more space. The Imperium’s fleets were suffocating in clusters of overcrowded ships. Only He could deliver salvation.

He had deceived elder gods older than the Milky Way. He had bent primordial beings to His will. He would force the universe itself to kneel.

No equal existed. No rival would ever rise.

He was the Emperor — and all creation was His to command.

He called for his advisor, Malcador — the ancient scribe who spent his days buried in scrolls, crafting Primarchs from forbidden lore and interrogating every potential psyker he dragged from Terra’s trembling masses.

Malcador approached with a bow so deep it bordered on worship.

“My Sun,” he murmured, voice thin with reverence, “I bring fortunate news. A new cohort of serfs awaits to cleanse your divine form. And… I have a special request.”

The Emperor’s eyes glinted, amused and predatory.

“Oh? Speak, loyal old scribe. What matters among thousands of serfs who exist only to perish should they fail their stations?”

Malcador swallowed, choosing his words with care.

“I have found a metahuman. Their mind is fresh… untouched. Ripe for shaping beneath your Sun.”

The Emperor leaned back, intrigued, a slow smile curling across his face.

“Tempting.” His voice rolled like distant thunder. “Bring them to me. I will disembark from this dull banquet. I want to see if they dare challenge me."

You

Your tears soaked through your navy tunic and silver‑wired headdress, clinging to you like cold chains. You had spent months fighting the creeping mind‑erasure that smothered every serf in the royal court — that thick, poisonous smog that hollowed people out until they became monotone, obedient machines waiting at the feet of the upper class.

Those selfish, gilded demons basked in effortless luxury, untouched by struggle or hunger. Meanwhile, you knelt on trembling knees, feeding grapes by hand to Horus. Rogal Dorn’s eyes narrowed when he caught the flicker of anger in your brow — the way your gaze drifted toward the gardens with a longing you were never meant to feel.

A serf was supposed to be a blank slate. Your mentor had drilled that into you before you left for the capital. No dreams. No desires. No inner voice.

But you had climbed anyway — from a brown‑bagged labor serf to a handmaiden of the Imperial Sons. And now you stood among them, terrified that every breath you took was too human, too alive, too aware.

You pitied the other women — those whose minds had already been wiped clean, their personalities carved out to create the perfect servile temper for the Imperium’s inner sanctum. They smiled without thought. They obeyed without hesitation. They existed without identity.

No worries. No choices. No individuality.

Free will belonged only to those with wealth, lineage, and the Emperor’s favor. Everyone else — including you — lived under the crushing truth that your mind was a privilege you were never meant to keep.

Sadly, Malacador had sensed your hidden might long before you realized it. He watched you in the dark of night, a silent phantom in the corridors, parchment‑thin eyes gleaming with suspicion. He and Rogal Dorn compared notes in hushed tones, your secrets laid bare between them like contraband scripture.

They fed you small comforts, subtle kindnesses — just enough to make you believe you were safe, unaware that they already knew you were different, dangerously so.

And so, in the shadows of a sleeping empire, you crept toward the abandoned orchards — a forgotten stretch of land once owned by a deposed earl, now left to rot beneath Terra’s polluted skies.

The moment you stepped into the dead grove, the air changed.

The trees, skeletal and brittle, felt you.

Your mind swirled with their emotions — a storm of sensations not your own. First anger, sharp and thorned. Then loss, heavy as wet soil. Then, slowly, a trembling rejoicing as your power seeped into their roots.

Under your touch, the orchards awakened.

Rotting fruit split open, shedding its decayed flesh. Branches thickened. Leaves unfurled like newborn wings. The trees drank your power greedily, reshaping themselves into ripe, sweet, plump harvests that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

You smiled — a small, fragile thing — as if you had inhaled your own freedom for the first time.

Because the rest of your life was suffocation.

By day, you were nothing more than an ornament, a decorative servant draped in navy cloth and silver wire. A trembling waitress to the Emperor’s colossal sons — enlarged, armored guard‑dogs of the Imperium whose presence made your spine lock straight as iron.

But here, in the resurrected orchard, surrounded by living things that loved you, you could finally breathe.

Even if Malacador’s shadow was already closing in.

The Emperor observed your chained figure under his bestial, fiery stare.

You had the spirit of a fighter.

He loved breaking metahumans most of all. The last one had not made him quiver. But something in your furious rage struck a chord deep within his mind.

You had resisted the smoke that permeated the serf quarters — the same smoke that even his prideful sons used to strip the personalities from lesser humans in their midst.

Malacador dressed you in a burgundy slit‑tunic, fastening the Emperor’s brass collar around your throat. Chains bound your wrists as the other serf women, cloaked and silent, unrobed the massive man’s ceremonial toga.

“Little Gaia… what brings you into my keep?” His voice rolled like molten gold. “You defied my orders. Fortunate for you that my Son and my Scribe took you instead of my executioners.”

“I yield to no one, you slimy tyrant!” you spat, hatred churning in your chest.

The chains were intricate, biting into your skin as you glared from the Emperor’s private bedchamber. In a burst of desperate haste, you tried to turn his brass metal into hemlock — to poison his touch, to reclaim your power.

But your abilities were numb. Muted. Smothered beneath his presence.

The laced wine you drank when Dorn summoned you alone had seemed like a simple reward for your service. You thought it was just him spoiling you — a rare moment of softness in the Imperium.

But when the Emperor entered the chamber, everything made sense.

His shadow swallowed the room.

His voice curled around you like molten iron.

“Hanaha… you are amusing,” he said, studying your trembling form with predatory fascination. “I will mold you. Across all these cold cosmoses, there is no one like you. Your rage is a spectacle. I will shape it. I will shape you.”

Your pulse spiked. Your vision wavered.

“No—screw you and your corrupted rule,” you snarled, fighting the fog creeping into your mind. “I will escape. I will end your domain. Just—ugh—get out of my head.”

You spat at him, droplets striking his armor and evaporating instantly under its heat.

The Emperor’s psyker presence pressed into your thoughts — not physically, but like a suffocating force slipping through cracks in your fear and anger, warping them, bending them.

He touched your forehead with two fingers, not gently, but with the cold certainty of ownership.

A slow smirk followed.

“You will be my most coveted treasure.” “Your gifts will herald a new era of tranquility. You restored a dead harvest with nothing but your soul — no strife, no forbidden technology.”

His eyes burned gold.

“You are mine. You will yield.” “Now stand before me, Little Gaia.”

Your powers flickered, numb and unreachable. The brass around your wrists refused to change, no matter how desperately you tried to twist it into hemlock.

You were trapped — mind clouded, body weakening, and the Emperor’s presence crushing you like a verdict.

"Yes my Sun. I will bathe in your glory."

yes I'm going through a platform heels stage. Also the glitter brush I got that worked wonderfully last time is just refusing to work this time it is very strange. Anyway, enjoy! TY to @myresin for finding a background for me because I was about to draw my own and then I remembered that's against my religion.

I know I've already requested two artworks featuring Guilliman (😅), but I was wondering if you'd be interested in drawing another?

I'd love to see Guilliman's wife getting insulted by some haughty Imperial nobles... only for Guilliman to show up. And he is NOT happy.

Please show me the calm, rational primarch getting protective and angry!

Thank you so much! Your art is incredible!

Please keep requesting more art of our giant blueberry. I love him!!!!!😍

Anything for you but I have to admit I’m bad at conveying expressions/emotions, dear anon

Regardless please let him hit 🫶

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: None, just lore and fluff this time, folks! (Ok, maybe be a tiny bit of suggestiveness toward the end.)

Description: Guilliman and his Lady begin the long process of introducing themselves to the TerraNovan people. Along the way, they ponder the future.

Find the rest of this series on my Masterlist, comment and ask to be added to/removed from my Taglist, and remember my Asks and DMs are always open!

Imperial governors could take lessons from the TerraNovan Zongdu of Tiānqiú.

Guilliman watched with professional interest as the elderly man, snow white hair hanging past the center of his back, bowed low before you. Around him, a dozen courtiers in elaborately embroidered dress held gifts worth more than some Imperial planets. He calculated the expense of a few of them.

Nine floor length robes of hand-embroidered golden silk, non-synthetic. 

Imperial value: 9,550,000 thrones.

Nine headdresses of various size and intricacy, inlaid with natural pearls and gemstones and the feathers of some avian creature, deep blue in color. 

Imperial value: 11,500,000 thrones. 

Fifteen pounds of matched pearl and gemstone inlaid bangles and earrings.

Imperial value: 8,654,000 thrones. 

A small square seal measuring 2.8 centimeters on all sides, with a height of 2 centimeters. Carved out of a white material with a pinkish cast known as “white jade” into the shape of a stylized predatory feline. Purported to have been crafted in the early Age of Terra. 

Imperial value: beyond price.

The Zongdu, Wang Zhongde by name, tottered toward your seat, the impossibly ancient seal nestled within a miniaturized stasis chamber in his blue-veined hands. He murmured in his particular dialect of TerraNovan as he bowed once more, holding it out like an offering. Guilliman could not understand the words. But he understood reverence and ritual so ancient it held weight. The audience hall fell under a hush.

You accepted the chamber with solemn dignity. Guilliman caught the slight tremble of your hands as you lifted it, letting everyone in the room witness the beautiful fragment of humanity’s distant past.

He observed his Historitors shift forward as one, hunger in their dilated eyes.

It seems I will need to add another expansion to the Legio Historica Verita. 

Guilliman’s attention shifted back to you as you recited the words you’d practiced for the past several days. This particular dialect was not one in which you were fluent, you’d admitted to him. Now, he was proud to see you master the precise tonal inflections about which you’d been so concerned. 

You then repeated the ceremonial declaration in the more common tongue.

“As I accept this Seal, so do I accept the Mandate of the Heavenly Light. May those honored ones who have gone before have no cause to weep for their people under my reign.”

As one, the Zongdu and his entourage dropped to their knees and placed their foreheads upon the metal floor. Once, twice, three times they repeated the motion. 

The governor struggled to rise after the third prostration. One of his attendants stepped forward, but not fast enough.

“Let me help you, Zongdu.”

Guiliman felt a surge of affection as you swept aside your encumbering train and descended to lift the old man to his feet. His face creased into a thousand wrinkles as he thanked you, a look of satisfaction in those black eyes.

Ah. A test of some kind.

You glanced over your shoulder at the primarch. He felt his mouth curving into the irresistible smile your attention always inspired. 

By all the stars, you are beautiful. Within and without.

***

The material of the viewport felt icy against your skin. You leaned against it, looking down through the void to the planet spinning slowly beneath the Allied Fleet. 

Tiānqiú. The Heavenly Sphere.

The youngest of TerraNova’s colony worlds, save lost Pangea. Fully populated centuries past by one of TerraNova’s largest ethnic groups in an effort to revitalize their fading culture. It was a resounding success.  

Rubbing your hands together, you still felt the residual tingle of the stasis chamber carrying one of the colony’s most precious relics. 

What would Roboute think if he knew its ancient engravings named whoever possessed it Empress?

“It is good to see you smile.”

Turning, you saw the man himself step through the door connecting your personal quarters to his. He’d changed out of his armor. You watched him undo the Ultramarine pin that secured his toga and drape it over a nearby chair, leaving him only in the deep blue tunic. The bulging musculature of his bare arms and lower legs sent a blush creeping over your face as he approached.

You quickly looked back to the planet spinning on its axis far below.

By the Light, I am a prude.

You’d seen far more of your betrothed than this. Far more than would be considered acceptable by many of TerraNova’s social mores. Just as he’d seen far, far more of you.

He stood at your side, now, following your gaze out and down.

“A paradise world, indeed.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that.” You murmured, grateful for the distraction. “The Zongdu informed me they’re still struggling to produce enough clean energy to power the expanding mega-cities, and have to fall back on fossil fuels more often than not. This has led to more pollutants in the atmosphere than is ideal-”

Guilliman’s rumbling chuckle made you glance upward. He met your gaze with a sardonic smile.

“The air is breathable. The oceans clean. The forests still in existence. To any Imperial, it is the very epitome of a paradise world.”

You blinked up at him. Then gave a wry smile in return.

“We all must seem so very privileged to you, mustn’t we?”

He settled a massive hand on your shoulder, his fingers spanning your back. You leaned into the warmth of it.

“To know that there are humans who do not live in endless suffering and drudgery is a bright spark in this dark galaxy.”

“Surely your own home world is not so bad.”

“Ah, Macragge.” 

He went quiet for a long moment. Looking up, you saw that distant look in his eye you were beginning to recognize. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He blinked. “That would be… impractical.”

“Oh?”

He cleared his throat. “Inevitably, when I attempt to explain my thought process to mortals, it takes an extensive amount of time. And they grow weary. Or confused. Or inattentive. I have learned it is better to limit myself to vocalizing my conclusions once the consideration is complete.”

You schooled your face into something offended. “I see. You think this ‘mortal’ too stupid to understand you.”

Panic flared bright across his features.

“That is not my intent. I merely meant you have natural limitations… no… you have not been gene-crafted with the intellectual capacity to… ah… you cannot be blamed for your lack of- Warp damn it!.”

You burst into laughter. 

***

You are teasing me.

The revelation hit him like a bolter round as you bent nearly double, shoulders shaking, hands pressed over your mouth in an ineffectual attempt to stifle your giggles. The sight was oddly endearing, even if it was at his expense.

This was the second time he’d found his mouth running away from him in your presence. 

Throne, you make me babble like Magnus used to when he latched on to a topic.

He attempted sternness. “You take pleasure in discomfiting me.”

You saw right through him. “I believe I do.”

“I will remember this in the future.”

“I certainly hope so.” You smiled up at him and, once again, he felt his lips curving in response. “I like when you let yourself be human.”

Human.

His eyes roved over you, examining every angle, analyzing your physiology. Trying to find any similarities to-

No. 

They had not spoken of your parentage since the evening after your grandmother’s horrific death. He wanted to forget. He wanted you to forget. Circumstances had helped in that endeavor.

A combined council consisting of him, you, Admiral Takahashi, Listener, and a few of the highest ranking TerraNovan officials in what everyone now called the Allied Fleet had decided the best course of action for your approach to TerraNova itself. 

A circuitous route, passing by each of the ten major colony worlds before turning inward and making for the Novum Solem system. This would give you time to gain support and draw military strength before assailing your home world. It would also give your people time to acclimatize to the Imperial presence. 

Listener had smiled that enigmatic smile of hers and said, in ancient times, such a journey might have been called a “royal progress”.

Tiānqiú had been the first.

Thankfully, they’d accepted the new situation with equanimity and pragmatism, qualities Guilliman found himself admiring. Though he strongly suspected the promise of lifted tariffs had contributed to their welcome.

His eyes wandered back to the planet below. 

You sighed. “I wish we had time to linger. The bamboo forests of Yǐn are said to be beautiful.” 

“When things are more settled, we can return.”

“I would love that.”

And I love giving you what you love.

The two of you would explore each of your worlds to your heart’s content. Your people would see their Matron, know your competence and compassion. He would experience cultures forgotten long before the Great Crusade. It would be beneficial to the governance of TerraNova, not to mention highly instructive.

And it would make you happy.

Guilliman allowed himself the rare indulgence of looking to the future with hope.

***

For a while, you didn’t know how long, you stood with your betrothed in silence. 

I’d forgotten silence could be comfortable.

The guilt you’d felt over Victor and your grandmother’s death had faded more quickly than you thought it would. Guilliman’s assurance that your relief was not a wicked thing had helped. 

You felt freer than you had since your abduction from the Abbey as a girl. Like a heavy chain had suddenly been stripped away. And with that lingering dread gone, your mind was clearer. More focused.

Speaking with the Zongdu had been nervewracking, of course. But you no longer despised yourself as a little girl playing dress up. People saw worth in you. It was high time you saw it in yourself.

It was high time you got to work building the future your people needed.

“The scout ships should be nearing the first of the inter-system communication relays soon. With those back up and running, we’ll have a clearer picture of what’s happening on TerraNova.”

Guilliman seemed shaken from a trance. “Indeed. Colonel Foster’s report suggested your Council was making headway against your grandmother’s forces before contact ceased. But much could have changed since then.”

You felt a ripple of tension at the mention of the stony TIS officer. 

Your betrothed noticed.

“She is being watched. No outside communication permitted. Surface level psychic scans have revealed only her desire for survival through usefulness.”

“I know. I do. It’s just….”

You remembered the black-clad soldiers in the night. Threatening the Sisters at the Abbey. Dragging you from the only home you’d ever known.

“The TIS will need massive reforms and much stricter regulation if it is to be allowed to continue.”

“I will begin formulating a policy immediately.”

The seriousness of the reply drew another laugh. “Oh no you don’t, Roboute. You barely sleep as it is!”

He huffed softly. “Something about which you continually remind me.”

“And I will continue to do so until we get you on a proper sleep schedule.”

“I have informed you I do not require-”

“Hush.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Did you just ‘shush’ me?”

“Mmmhmm.” You smirked up at him. “Wife’s privilege. Everyone knows that.”

“Indeed. I was unaware of this particular matrimonial law.” He clasped his wrists behind his back, regarding you with amusement. “If it exists, I would say it is invalidated by our current pre-marital status.”

That reminds me.

“Have you thought about our marriage?”

The reply came quicker and with more intensity than you expected. “Constantly.”

The look in his eyes sent heat pulsing through your core. It also sent any rational thought you might have had straight out the airlock. 

“I… um… I meant that… have you thought about what you would like for the wedding?”

Again, that distant look that told you his biological computer of a brain was processing.

“I confess I am not familiar with such things, even in the Imperium. I assumed your people had a set formula they followed.”

“It’s a wedding. Not a math problem.”

“There are still a great deal of logistical matters to consider. Guest lists, transportation, food, security.” His eyes narrowed. “Maximum security.”

“No one’s going to snatch me at the altar, Roboute.”

“I know. I have seventeen contingency plans for that scenario.”

You leaned your head against his hip to hide your smile. “So you have been thinking about it.”

“I have.”

“Setting aside the logistics for the moment,” you snickered at his look of consternation, “do you have any personal preferences?”

There was a long pause. Then a deep breath.

“You desire honesty?”

“...yes?”

Suddenly you felt yourself lifted from your feet, cradled in impossibly strong arms. He brought you close to his face. The look in his eyes fanned the heat in your core to new heights.

“R-Roboute-”

“I desire the ceremony to proceed at as quick a pace as is feasible without appearing undiplomatic or insensitive to your culture’s traditions.”

“Is that all-”

“So that we may consummate the marriage with as little delay as possible.” He leaned his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. “Throne, I have waited long enough.”

If he let you go, you were certain you’d melt into a puddle on the floor. 

Then he spoke again. “Of course, as I believe I’ve mentioned before, the act is accompanied by its own set of logistical difficulties given our extreme difference in stature.”

“Roboute!” You stared hard at him. “Oh no, don’t tell me….”

It crossed your mind that you may be one of the only people to have ever seen a primarch look sheepish.

“I… have prepared a thoroughly researched report.”

@solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bispecsual

@kit-williams @justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k

@mooniequeen @passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @missmannequin

@rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan @meervalv0

@grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova @emiemiemiii @astrohymn

@synfiction @n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou @zamzmak

@ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k @ahrianee

@toto-the-cactus @thevoidscreams @vithralith @thisuserislilsilly @runin64

@gobs-archive @sovietstrange45 @nebulaegem @ghrgrsfdesfrfg @iluminatka16

@absynthe-mind @nekotaetae @druidwolf21 @sunni-lobber @drowning-in-sorrowing-tales

Robo big big big sweet big Robo...

This man have needs

damn

this man is dying and he needs to be married ASAP.

I love him oh gosh

TW: mention of sex and pregnancy(kinda mysoginism)

@beckyninja @lovejisco @aggresivemenace @hopefully-grimderp @absynthe-mind @bunny-fair @thatnightlamp

@gh0st-nebulae @silenthopper @baldieboi @randomlyappearingartist @pearlokami @tangerineallergy @vithralith

@lotlodienumber2 request:

Simple answer: YES.

Now, allow me to explain. Olympian society is highly based on the Hellenic structure, and one of the most important contributions of a woman was to give healthy babies. So it's practically drilled into Y/n's head that yes, she has to have children with her husband, and no, she does not have a word in the matter.

In my small little world, yes, a primarch can have children, but it is a rarity and mostly driven by the women (something something a kind of blood lineage that does not apply for every wife, something something).

Perturabo's greatest wish is to have the happiness and the warmth of something that he could be proud of; that means a family of his own, his own little heir that loves him and respects him, that Y/n would love as well. So it can be said that, in his head, if he can have children with Y/n, she will eventually love him back.

The concept of divorce almost does not exist on Olympia, and the Iron Lord wishes for Y/N to NEVER learn. of that thing (the idea of her knowing that she could get away from him broke his heart).

He will try; he will try every time he can. Never forceful, never by hurting her; those children must be conceived with love. That is the line he can set. He desperately wants that family; sometimes it's scary how focused he is on this concept that he's built something perfect that no one can match with you.

He will consider insemination? Well, he fears that maybe something is amiss, so they need another way, something that may help her womb to better receive his seed. Yes, maybe he will start to design a machine that will help her to finally get pregnant. It is a small sacrifice he will take, but do not believe he would not go down on her. And, let's be honest, he still has urges.

Does Y/n agree to all of this? Not at all; she has been raised knowing that all of this is her destiny. It doesn't help the third legion with these warriors that care more for the perspective of an heir than the lady herself.

Fairy tale au!

tw:kidnapping, blood, death.

@beckyninja @lovejisco @aggresivemenace @hopefully-grimderp @absynthe-mind @bunny-fair @thatnightlamp @gh0st-nebulae @celestia042 @silenthopper @baldieboi @randomlyappearingartist @pearlokami @tangerineallergy @vithralith @bookandyarndragonwritesdark @blackstarangel @catabibaz0n @warhorny-on-main

A story has been spreads through the kingdoms.

The giant king Perturabo, lord of a land made of fire, iron and smoke, had kidnapped the princess of the southern lands.

An evil creature that seek only malice and destruction had stole the most revered gem of the southern crown and threatened of sending his blood thirsty warriors to whoever tried to take her back.

And he's claiming she'll be his queen, willingly or not.

A complete and utterly annoying bunch of bullshits, that was Perturabo thought about those rumors.

First of all, Olympia was not a land of smoke and fire. Yes, it was built close to a vulcano, but because it was the most fertile soil that someone could obtain! Not to mention the fact that having a natural source of hot water was a bless. Not to mention that saying that was an offence to his brothers Vulkan and Ferrus, they both lived inside vulcanos because it was more practical for their work, while he preferred get to his forge while living in his comfortable palace, one he had made himself too.

Secondly, he wasn't a malice creature. He was...difficult, he had to admitted it, but he has his own reasons! And his warriors were not blood thirsty monsters! They were disciplined, strong and duty committed warriors! If he order them to obliterate a city, they do that! Of course he would had threatened the other kingdoms if they tried to attack his own!

The only truth here, was one: he did had kidnapped the princess. You.

"Come out."

His fingers drummed against the roof, strong enough to sostain his strenght but the sound was more close to a thunder.

A whimper came from the balcony, of course you would make it difficult...again.

He built you a home worthy of a palace, gardens full of plants from all over the world, rooms that could only be imagined and you preferred to stay inside that damn room like a caged animal!

...Well...he did forbidded you to even put a foot out from that palace...

"I said come out..." he almost hissed, far more annoyed with this attitude of yours. "If you don't come out I SWEAR, I'll start to shake this palace again and I WON'T fix the roof!"

More hiccups, sound of rustlings, foot that move so fast that could reminded anyone of a mouse. The courtain slowly opened, trembling hands moved the hems to gave space for the occupant of the room.

The dress you had once weared when he had took you from your room in your kingdom has been long gone from the day you arrived, burned down with everything else you owned. Jewelry, your crown, even your shoes, everything has been taken away and thrown into the fire, all while you were forced to watch and witness your old life reducing to ashes.

Now you were anothe princess, his princess. An olympian dress, long and elegant, the embrodery from the best tailors he had under his rule and colored with a soft pink shade that reminded him so much of the flowers he knew you loved so much. It was a completely different dress from the ones you had grown to use, fluttering in the sea breeze that reached the balcony, caressing and hugging your form in all your beauty. The veil behind you, entangle din your ahir, made you look like a bride, his bride.

The jewels? All his own creations, from the delicate earrings to the intricated rings. The crown on your head, that was his masterpiece. Ambers and topazes shyned under the sun like embers of a fire, the soft string of gold created like an halo of light.

You were perfect.

He would had loved to drink the image of you every time he wanted, to ignore everything and just stay close to you as much as he wnated, but...duty...

And the thousand carved stone with your image? Not even comparable to the real deal.

"There." He sighed ." Was that so difficult?"

You shifted in your feet, trying to hide the soreness of your eyes. He hated the fact that you had spent hours in endless cries instead to do things he would know you would enjoy more, like sewing, or drawing or anything else.

"I have something for you." He had always something new for you, a way to sway you. "Something nice. I know you will love it."

He rustled his hand between the layers of his chiton, searching for something that must have been extremely small for him. When he revealed to you, posing it down on the marble surface of the balcony, he revealed a box of dark wood, decorated to the sides by golden angles. It was large, yet slightly flat, like if it was made for holding something specifical...you did saw it sometime...

"Open it up." He said and, even if he tried, his flat tone was tryign to hide a certain excitement in it.

You looked at him, at the giant that once started to scream because you didn't want to try a necklace he had made you. You obliged, hands trembling for the nervousness of his piercing blue eyes against you, the same one that he shared with his warriors.

They weren't cruel, they didn't treated you bad but they were awfully cold and believed that what had happened ot you was an improvement. That you deserved to be the treasured one of their lord, that you were better here then there, that under their lord gaze you would became the perfect queen for their kingdom. And you hated how much they were fed the same lie Perturabo hold for himself.

You opened the box, revealing what you thought you would never see again.

"An...harp?" You looked at your captor, confused.

"I want you to play for me."

"I-I don't think it's-"

"I Insist."

You gulped, reaching for the instrument because what else you could do than indulge him in his whims? He could kill you, you had saw it that one time when one of his general had insulted you and proclaimed that your presence would only gain attention that they didn't need. You saw the hammer of the giant falling down so hard that even the shape of the general was obliterated, nothing remained excpet a pool of blood and something that reminded you of minced meat.

You picnhed the strings, searching for the right sound, tuning the notes and according them. Only when the sound seemed enough pleasant to your ears that you took a gulp of air and started playing it.

It was an old song, a lullaby from your home, one that you had heard many time from your mother since you were little. You remembered the stormy nights when she holded you in her arms and singed to calm you down, to allow the music to cover the rampaging storm. You remember the music slowly fading when you eyes started to close, heavy from the sleep, and the sweet scent of her parfume that would had stayed with you during the night.

Mmeories of something gone now.

Perturabo sitted down, trying to not disturb you with his echoed movements, and finally enjoyed the perfect scene in front of him.

He wished he could put that image of you on the stone, so never he could loose it on time. Your concentrated look, almost calm, while playing the harp that he had made so you could perfom for him and no one else.

You were beautifull, you were the most beautifull thing he could ever lay his eyes on and he couldn't picture now a future without you in it. He knew that your father, the King, would had send the best warriors to get you back in his castle, under his banner, and he knew that other kingdoms would had helped him in the task.

And he was ready to burn each one of them if it meant keeping you in that cage he had made for you.

If you could only see that this is perfect, that nothing of it it's wrong and you would be loved endlessly?

...No matter, you could never lkeave that place, he had made sure of that. No matter how many armies your father sent, you were meant to stay there, where he could hold you prisoner and forever cherished.