#Gulliman/reader

[ahrianee]

[🌌]Inter atramentum et stellas

[My English is so bad, I'm very sorry]

Here I am, entering the Warhammer 40k Fandom simply because I really liked the story, because of my boyfriend who liked it before, here I leave an unfinished sketch.

I feel a little shy posting here, it's my first time on Tumblr, be nice to this dumb girl who got into a fandom for a man with big tits and who knows how to use Excel.

[aggresivemenace]

Around a year ago i took my old ass huge sweatshirt, my ancient sewing machine and embroidered this-

[beckyninja]

Worthy

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warning: things get spicy, though nothing explicit

Description: The reader struggles with insecurity and low self esteem, while Guilliman struggles with... other things.

Oh boy, this is definitely the spiciest thing I've ever written. Be gentle, please!

“Roboute, ah….”

You reached up to him from your place sprawled atop his desk. Data slates and parchment scattered in every direction as you writhed. A sensual dance, just for him.

 He realized he’d never truly appreciated the aesthetic beauty of the female form before now. Starlight and candlelight competed to see which could add the loveliest glow to your skin. Your bare skin, on display for all to see.

No. Not all. Just him. No one else would ever see you this way. He’d slaughter anyone who-

“Roboute?”

Guilliman blinked and the fantasy faded.

You sat in a plush chair he’d recently placed in his office, legs tucked up beneath you, a book in your hands. The very picture of innocence.

Guilt gnawed at him.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve finished this one.” You tapped the book’s cover. “With your permission, I’d like to return to the library- pardon, the librarium, for another.”

He smiled. “You grow more fluent in High Gothic by the day.” 

You glanced away. “I shudder to think how I must have sounded when I first arrived. It’s difficult to master pronunciation when one has only ever read the words.”

He returned to the parchment before him, signing his name for the two-hundred-and-thirty-second time that morning. “Nonsense. Your accent was, and is, utterly charming.” 

Especially when you cry my name as I suck bruises into your delicate- by the Throne! Get a hold of yourself, man!

“You’re kind to say so.”

Something in your tone gave him pause. He straightened, observing you more intently. The muscles around your mouth tightened, turning your smile wooden. Your shoulders hunched and you gazed at the floor. He realized you resembled nothing less than a serf expecting a scolding.

But before he could comment your mood shifted once again, and you looked as relaxed and happy as before. “As I was asking, may I return to the librarium?”

“Of course. And you need not constantly ask my permission. I have given instructions for that particular librarium to be open to your access code at all hours.”

Your delighted gasp made his hearts glow. 

“Thank you, Roboute! I’ve only just finished the first volume of Epatheon’s Chronicles of Macragge and the historitors suggested I read all six before moving on to the history of wider Ultramar….” 

Guilliman’s worries faded as he absorbed your chatter. A passing cloud, nothing more. He braced himself to return to the lonely monotony of Imperial paperwork when a particularly excited gesture sent your book tumbling to the floor.

“Oh, my apologies!”

Then you bent… over….

And he was suddenly profoundly grateful to be safely concealed behind his massive desk.

Throne, damn it.

***

“Thank you, Lord Tarchus.” You smiled up at the Ultramarine assigned to escort you that day, praying you’d gotten his name right.

The helmeted head inclined slightly in response. 

As you started toward one of the only other areas you felt familiar with on this massive ship, he fell into step behind you.

You thought you’d successfully banished the looming sense of dread. But, for the second time that day, tension tightened a leaden fist around your stomach. You kept your gaze focused straight ahead, not daring to meet the eyes of the people you passed. A diplomat’s mask came in useful at times like these.

But it could not shield you from your own thoughts.

“What presumption to think you deserve this kind of attention, girl.” Grandmother’s voice pierced your defenses. “How full of justified resentment this warrior must be for wasting his time on you. Who do you think you are?”

Your heart raced as you walked faster. You needed to get your book, then get out of these halls and back where you belonged. Tucked quietly into a corner of Roboute’s office where you’d be no bother to anyone. 

Where you’d be with him. With his gentle eyes and strong hands. Hands that felt so good when they pressed you to a massive chest rippling with muscle to put the gods of antiquity to shame. You’d felt them through his tunic on the night he kissed you breathless. When his touch sent molten liquid boiling straight between your-

A gauntleted hand landed on your shoulder. “This door… my lady.”

“Oh!” Heat rushed to your face as you realized you’d walked straight past the librarium entrance. “Y-yes. Thank you. I won’t be long.”

Your shoulders sank as you entered your code and stepped into the room. What right had you to think such thoughts? Roboute hadn’t so much as touched you since carrying you to your room after the… incident. He’d been polite, chivalrous, and honorable. He spoke to you like a dear friend. You should be more than satisfied. 

But you remembered hunger in his eyes the night he proposed. Was it selfish of you to want just a glimpse of that again? 

Grandmother’s laugh, half mocking half disgusted, echoed in your ears.

“Pathetic child. The man finally came to his senses and realized the truth: you’re simply not worth the effort.”

***

A million things should have occupied the Lord Regent’s mind. Mountains of paperwork, endless strategies to compile, not to mention the meeting with Calgar and the Ultramarine Captains in an hour’s time. He’d thought having you near would help him focus. 

A foolish assumption.

Your face greeted him as you emerged from your quarters each morning. You took your meals with him, spent most of your waking hours reading in the chair he’d provided for you. And during his few free moments, or when the paperwork in front of him required less than his full attention, the two of you conversed.

He told you much of Ultramar and Macragge, his home. He recounted stories of his childhood and parents that he hadn’t had the heart to dwell upon since his reawakening. Bittersweet memories, but made more sweet by your sympathetic ear.

The sheer relief of talking to an outsider did more to brighten the shadows of despair encompassing him than anything else in the past decade. Your mind was bright and pure, unshackled by superstition or callous cruelty. Your hands unstained by blood. You did not fear asking questions, nor did he fear telling you the truth. Every moment spent in your presence was a gift….

…and a torment.

Guilliman knew he’d been staring at your empty chair for minutes now. Breathing deeply, he tasted your scent upon the air, and he knew if he approached he’d be able to feel your warmth on the fabric. 

He’d felt your warmth before, and regretted it. Because now he knew what you felt like, what you sounded like, what you tasted like.

Throne, I ache for her.

Lust had never been a factor in his life. His accelerated maturity had bypassed the riotous desire of the average adolescent, nor had his brothers ever expressed experiencing such. 

Well, Russ perhaps.

He scowled. He was no slobbering Space Wolf. And yet.

You gasped when he took you in his arms. He heard your single heart beating wildly within your chest and the sound maddened him. It took so little effort to push you to the polished floor. Your clothing came apart like parchment in his hands.

He loomed above you, higher thought lost to his most primal instincts. You submitted eagerly, turning onto your front and presenting yourself to him. Only ever to him. He snarled in satisfaction as he mounted you like a feral-

“No!” Data slates clattered to the floor as he stood, shaking the fantasy from his head.

You were precious and fragile. Such actions would only frighten you, and the idea of you fearing him was unbearable. For you, he would stifle these perverse desires. 

Even if it meant denying himself the slightest touch.

His vox crackled to life. “My Lord? Is all well?”

Guilliman took a moment to regulate his panting breaths. “All is well, Cato.”

“I thought I heard-”

“All is well, Cato.”

A brief pause, then. “The Captains are already assembling in the comm center. Would you like me to escort you to your armoring station?”

At least his armor would hide certain biological functions he found it increasingly difficult to control.

***

“Stupid female.”

For a brief moment you thought you’d somehow manifested your thoughts into reality. Then your eyes adjusted to the soft candleglow, and you saw you were not alone in the librarium.

A Mechanicus techpriest stood next to one of the writing tables, looming over a prostrated serf. You fought an instinctive grimace at the mass of metal augmentations and scar tissue that seemed to make up the majority of the Imperium’s cyborg scientists. 

A necessary evil, Roboute had called them.

But as you watched the techpriest reach down and grasp the serf’s lower jaw in his claw of a hand, you certainly felt this one was more evil than necessary.

An image of Lord O’Rourke threatening to end the lives of thousands of innocents flashed through your mind like lightning. The sudden rage that had prompted you to hurl yourself at him surged in your veins again.

“Unhand her at once!”

The priest looked up with a hiss and clatter, and this time you didn’t bother hiding your scowl of disgust as you marched toward him.

“I said unhand her!”

“Noncompliance.” Its voice screeched. “Additional human female does not equal authority figure.”

You grasped the metal wrist still crushing the serf’s jaw. “I am the Lord Regent’s betrothed. And I command-”

“Irrelevant data. Betrothed does not equal authority-”

“Do not interrupt me.” You felt…fierce. “I may not have authority over you now. But one day I will. And you know what I do have?” 

You stared, unflinching, into its corroded ruin of a face. “A very good memory.”

The techpriest whirred and buzzed for a moment. Then the metal hand unlocked and withdrew. You released its wrist, stepping between it and the serf. 

“Compliance.” It hissed.

“Thank you. Get out.”

“Compliance.”

You didn’t move from your place sheltering the serf until the priest shambled its way through the librarium door. Then you bent double, panting as the adrenaline rush faded. 

“My…my lady?”

You turned to the serf, a young woman, still kneeling on the hard floor. Blood welled from a scratch along one cheekbone. Glancing around at the shelves and tables, you saw nothing with which to clean the wound, not unless you chose to rip a page out of one of the books. Instead, you tore a strip from your sleeve. 

The woman gasped. “Oh no, my lady!”

“It’s only cloth.” Kneeling down, you pressed it to the woman’s cheek. “That brute ought to be punished.”

“It was my fault.” The woman gestured to the bucket of cleaning supplies tipped on its side next to her. “I was clumsy and jostled him. I deserved-”

Another lightning-flash of memory. A younger you, exhausted from studying all night, stumbling into your tutor as you tried to rise from your desk. The blows that followed.

“You did not deserve that.” You recognized the dark circles underneath the woman’s eyes. “How long since you last slept?”

“I don’t know.” The woman lifted her chin. “I am not complaining, my lady. My sister- I mean, the other serf assigned to this librarium, just gave birth. I am more than willing to take her burden on my shoulders.”

The scratch stopped bleeding, and you removed the cloth from her cheek. “That’s very good of you. May I know your name?”

“My name? I- of course, my lady. I am called Hestia.”

“Well, Hestia, this librarium looks fairly sturdy. I doubt it will crumble to dust if you take a day-cycle to rest. And if anyone questions you,” you felt some of that fierceness return, “refer them to me.”

***

“...refer them to me.”

The servo-skull finished its projected recording and returned to hover over the techpriest’s shoulder. Guilliman steepled his fingers in front of his face. 

“Incident equals gross overstep.” The Magus squawked. 

“I see.”

“Chastisement recommended!”

“Hmm.” Guilliman turned to the serf at his elbow. “Request the lady’s presence in my office, Marcus.”

The man bowed and jogged off, but not before Guilliman noticed him shoot a glare toward the techpriest.

Guilliman returned to examining a data slate on his desk, pointedly ignoring the Magus. In his mind, the scene of you defying the techpriest played over and over again. The grainy projection couldn’t mask the imperious lift of your chin, or the fierce look in your eye. Neither did it hide the gentleness with which you tended the serf woman’s wound. 

Judging from Marcus’s reaction, Guilliman had no doubt the story already circulated through the serf quarters.

If they liked you before, they adore you now.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Marcus entered with a flourish. “May I present….”

He gave your name and titles with respect bordering on reverence. Guilliman watched your face redden and felt a surge of empathy as he stood and beckoned you to his side. Your smile froze when you noticed the irate Magus.

You rushed to him. “Roboute, I can explain-”

“No need, my dear.” For the first time in days, he touched you, taking your hand in his.

The softness of your skin, and the way his hand swallowed yours ignited a heat deep in the pit of his stomach. He fought the wild urge to drag you up and onto his lap.

Instead, he addressed the Magus. “You are correct that my betrothed had no authority to act as she did.” He felt you tense, and gently squeezed your hand. “This is a matter I intend to rectify.”

Pulling a foot-thick stack of parchment from the pile on his desk, he handed it to Marcus. “This is an order giving this lady, my future consort, authority upon The Macragge’s Honor. She may command any person on this ship only excepting the Mechanics ArchMagi and the highest ranking Ultramarines.”

There were other caveats and exceptions of course, not to mention an extensive list of extenuating circumstances. He was nothing if not thorough. 

“See that it is posted and transmitted throughout this vessel.”

The serf’s eyes shone as he clutched the parchment to his chest, bowed lower than before, and fairly sprinted from the room.

The Magus looked as though he was about to start venting steam.

“You are dismissed.” Guilliman fixed the techpriest with a look he’d been told could freeze promethium. “See your underlings take greater care with the serfs, Magus. Any reported abuse will be severely punished.”

“Compliance. My Lord.”

As soon as the door hissed closed behind the Magus, you gripped his hand with both of yours. “Roboute, please don’t do this.”

He stared down at you, at the panic in your eyes. Before he could speak you rambled on.

“I-I can’t command anyone. I didn’t mean to suggest I could, or wanted to. I don’t deserve this kind of power! I’m so, so sorry, but-”

You tried to draw away, but he tightened his grip on your hand. All your interactions up to this point replayed in his mind, and one commonality became blindingly clear. 

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

You twisted in his grip, eyes darting about like a captured prey animal. “I’m sorry, I…I….”

“Stop apologizing.” Against all the stalwart promises he’d made himself, he drew you closer. “What has happened to you that you cannot recognize the greatness I see within you?”

“N-no, I’m not-”

“Have I done or said something to make you think yourself unworthy?”

“No! At least….”

When tears filled your eyes he felt pain worse than Fulgrim’s blade across his throat. He cupped your face in his hands.

“Tell me what I have done that I may rectify it.”

He watched you squeeze your eyes shut and lean into him. “Y-you haven’t touched me in so long. I thought, I thought you didn’t…,” your voice died away.

If the Emperor Himself had suddenly marched into his office and punched him in the jaw Guilliman could not have been more stunned. All the times he fantasized about you, all the nights he stroked himself to completion to thoughts of you, all the moments he barely held himself back…!

“Damn it all to the Warp!”

***

Roboute’s sudden bellow nearly deafened you. You found yourself picked up by your hips and tossed atop his desk. Writing implements and documents of what you were certain was vital importance scattered in all directions. But the look in the eyes of the giant leaning over you said he could care less.

“Do you remember my words the night I came to your chambers?”

By the Light and the Void, that growl….

“Yes.” You whispered.

“Tell me.”

“Y-you, you said….”

His face pressed close to yours, teeth bared. “Tell. Me.”

The sheer force of a Primarch’s lust overwhelmed you. And yet you realized you’d willingly get on your hands and knees to beg for more.

“You said you wanted me.”

His mouth crashed into yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. After a blissful eternity you felt him grasp your thighs and yelped as he flipped you onto your front, your legs dangling off the side of his desk. Then his fingers sank into your hips and he pressed against your rear.

“Ah, Roboute!”

“Do you feel that?” You heard snarling frustration in his voice. “Do you feel how badly I desire you?” A forearm the thickness of your waist slammed into the desk above your head. “I have never felt like this about anyone in my long life. The things I want to do to you, woman.”

You felt his chest expanding and contracting against your back. You heard his heaving pants.

Doubt vanished. 

“I love you, Roboute!”

He groaned. Again, he turned you and you stared up into his eyes. The hunger remained, but tempered now by something far sweeter. You reached for him and he let you pull his head into your neck.

He whispered against your skin. “I swore not to take you until I could do so as your husband. And I stand by that oath. But never again doubt my desire for you, my Hearts.”

Relief. Sheer relief like the removal of a burden you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. 

“Never again.”

He pulled back to look you in the face. “And stop doubting your worth.”

A harder request. “I…I will try, Roboute. For you.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “Do it for your own sake, my love. You are far more than you-”

The door opened and the outraged voice of none other than Cato Sicarius spoke. “Lord Guilliman! I just read your latest proclamation and I felt it my duty to voice severe concerns-”

“GET OUT.”

You heard the hasty retreat of armored boots and burst into giggles. Roboute looked down at you, then his rumbling chuckles joined yours.

You laughed in each other’s arms, and all was perfect.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @jaghatai-khock

[thevoidscreams]

Mating Press March request here!

Can we have some Guilliman desperate to have a normal, loving family with his pretty little wife? He wants kids SO bad and Lady Guilliman looks particularly sexy today....

Thanks!

Giving him something other than some pencils to push. ;3

Warnings: Breeding, descriptions of violence, discussion of child birth (None graphically), free use sexually, biting, rough sex.

Words:2150

Guilliman watched the pict feed as the planet below him burned, the charred and brutalized remains of xenos bodies gave him a quiet measure of satisfaction but he did not voice it allowed. The movement of the crew around him was a reminder of what they were doing this for. This endless conflict. Ripping apart pocket after pocket of the tryanid's fleet. When one went down two more sprang up to take its place.

He'd been down on the ground not even twelve hours before. He could still feel the leathery flesh of his enemy and their solid bony chitin coming apart under his blade, the crack of bolter fire still echoing in his ears as he recalled the bloody splinters of flesh and bone that splattered the earth of this planet from each shot. He wasted not a single round as he fought back the tide. His presence gave his men the renewed vigor to keep fighting.

"My lord. We've taken the city square." The vox came in cut through with bursts of static and the rapid staccato of bolter fire, finishing the final few xenos that still writhed against the oncoming tide of blue armored bodies.

"Excellent work, how are your reserves of ammunition?" "They are low my lord. The tyranids did not go down without a fight. I have one clip left, as do most of my brothers." "Hold the square, I will send down reinforcements and more munitions." "Understood my Lord."

The vox cut as the human crew around him rushed to make ready a drop ship to carry down more bolter rounds and flamer canisters.

A younger hand found himself within reach of the Primarch and he nodded in deference to the towering transhuman as he went about relaying orders through the proper channels. What was his name again? Riko? Rilo? No, it was Rito. The primarch found his urge to speak to the human to be oddly palpable and so he did. "Rito." The man jumped as he turned his gaze up to the primarch in shock. "Yes, Lord Guilliman?"

Guilliman wasn't sure what to say but he'd recalled the conversation he'd overheard earlier between the man and another, most likely a friend by the sounds of their conversation. "I heard you earlier, you mentioned your wife was in the medicae. Is she well?"

The man suddenly smiled as if he was incapable of stopping the spreading joy. "Oh quite, my Lord, she's just given birth. I'm a father." Roboute found himself quietly happy about the news. "That is good news indeed. Congratulations. Have you named the child?" "Yes, his name is Andre. After my wife's late father. He's only a few hours old and already he has the old man's scowl." The primarch nodded."Is she well after the birth?" "It was a long process, more than a day, but she is recovering." "Good to hear. I wish you and your wife luck with little Andre then." He nodded down to the baseline man and he took his leave, returning to work.

He couldn't shake the feeling the conversation left him with. Hearing the good news and returning his gaze to the feed left him tired in a way. His hands itched to know what that small weight would feel like, a babe of his own. A child not only of his gene stock but of his actual genes. The mental image of you sprang to mind as he pictured it. You, corralling a small army of your children as he worked. It was an enticing mental image.

"Calgar." Roboute spoke, not needing to turn to know that his gene-son had come immediately. "Yes?" "Take this station for me. There is a matter I must see to, in person." Calgar didn't question the order, simply followed it as he took over for his gene-sire. The walk down to his quarters from the bridge was too long for his liking. He stopped into the armory on his way. The tech priests seemed to take their sweet time removing his battle plate and with each minute he grew more impatient. "Could we hurry this along please."

To their credit the augmented humans did, performing their rituals with more haste. It still took almost half an hour.

Roboute had been grateful to the healing and assistance he'd received to finally be able to live without the armor. It allowed him to finally enjoy the regular aspects of living that he'd missed out on after he'd awoken from his coma. Such as having a little wife waiting for him in his quarters, with which he could dine and speak with on personal matters and even, other things.

He felt a regularly suppressed appetite beginning to grow in lower body. He pictured your body pressed beneath him as he gave you the child you'd both eagerly craved since the wedding some months before.

When the door to the unit opened he found you curled up on your bed with a book. You looked so comfortable even as he entered and you set the book aside excitedly. "Roboute! You're back early!" He stopped at the edge of the bed peeling away the skin tight glove that helped him interface with his armor more readily.

You hugged him around his now bare torso, enjoying the heat of his body. "Is everything okay Robu? You're not usually back until much later." He smiled. "Yes, my love, all is well, I just needed to see you." One arm encircled your form and he finished pushing down his body glove down below his thighs where he could finish removing it with just his legs alone.

Freed at last he lifted you up and further onto the bed, his hands tugging at the fabric between the two of you. Your heart raced as he disrobed you, pushing you down onto your back as he loomed above you.

"I see you needed more than just a hug." You sighed happily. "Forgive my impertinence in this matter, my love. I have a terrible need for you." He explained, not at all actually sorry as he slid his cock into your warmth without a moment's hesitation. Not that you cared in the slightest that he'd left his post to come lavish you with attention and sex. "Not at all. If I had known my husband would be coming home early to ravage me I would have worn something less restrictive and left myself bent over the edge of the bed to make it more convenient."

He chuckled and kissed your cheek as he began to thrust, it drew a beep moan from him, and you felt every bit as elated, your . His cock stretched you in the most delicious way, leaving you gasping under him, just how he liked it.

His mouth traversed down from your cheek to your throat. peppering the tender skin there with a myriad of kisses. He loved the way it made you writhe and giggle, which in turn made the muscles in your stomach clench and squeeze his cock oh so delightfully.

If he could spend the rest of his immortal life with you just like that it would be more than he felt he would deserve. His kisses finally landed on your lips, you welcomed them with kisses of your own until your lips melded together in perfect sync your arms wove around his neck, hugging him closer as he fucked you in gentle measured strokes. "You know you can be a bit rougher than that. I can take it." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I do not wish to rush this. I want to ensure that we are both satisfied by the end and that I do this right. I have a desired outcome from this." "Oh, and what would that be?" You panted. He fell back on an old habit as he replied. "Theoretical, if I come inside you there is a chance that you will become pregnant." You moaned at the idea. Enjoying the thought that he'd come all the way down from the bridge just to try and knock you up. "Practical, the more you cum inside me, the higher that likelihood." "True enough." He ground out as he felt you begin to return the kisses he'd given you earlier. Your mouth moved over his neck till you felt the powerful pulse of his double heart beat. In a moment of pure desire you nipped the spot. Roboute's hips jerked forward at the feeling. "Oh, enjoy that did we?" You chuckled. He groaned. "Cease." "Hmmm, theoretical, I keep doing it?"

Roboute growled, his voice a low threat as he returned. "Practical, I will plow you into this bed until you cannot move from it." Well that was your choice made for you, you latched your teeth into the spot again and felt the snarl he let loose as he wrapped an arm under your body, pinning you to his chest as the other grasped the edge of the bed to sturdy himself. He drew out slowly at first and you grumbled against his throat. "I warned you."

It was all the warning you received before he snapped his hips forward, impaling you on his cock with more force than he ever had before. It felt as if he shifted everything in your body. "Robu!" You cried but he didn't respond, only continued his rough pace and forceful thrusting, the bed squeaked under the force. Your teeth had lost their grip on his neck but he hadn't seemed to notice. Neither did you, too caught up in being his personal fleshlight as he hissed and came hard. You felt a bit disappointed but then, he didn't stop. He pressed even more of his weight onto you, forcing your legs up further. Roboute growled something unintelligible as he rutted into you with what felt like reckless abandon. His forehead pressed into the bed next to your ear and you began to gather bits and pieces of his mumbling.

'Going to fill you.' 'So full you can't walk.' 'Going to empty my balls in you.' 'Keep you nice and pregnant.' He'd let himself dive head first into his need to impregnate you, his need to breed overwhelming him.

His hips didn't slow as he came again, and with the force of his cock rutting into you and the things he was mumbling, you fell right over the edge with him.

"Roboute!" You cried out, your body tightening around him. He continued through his orgasm, painting your insides white with his seed and he went on. 'Perfect, so beautiful, my love.' He nuzzled the side of your head. Whatever switch had flipped in his brain, he's clearly needed this for a while. Your hug around his neck tightened as you replied to his ramblings. "I love you Roboute." He groaned and let go of the bed, wrapping both arms around you. "I love you too." He panted as he came back to himself bit by bit as his lips found yours once more. His body pressed you into bed further all the while kissing you as he dragged another orgasm from your tired body.

He came two more times, filling you as he promised. He rolled off of you after gathering himself. He felt thoroughly drained.

"Think that did it?" You laughed as you ran a hand through your hair to try and put it back to some semblance of order. Roboute grabbed a brush and set to helping you. "I hope so." You rested your back against his chest, and lay there basking in the moment. "I did not hurt you did I?" He inquired, setting aside the brush in favor of a lotion which he intended to use on you.

"I might have a bruise where your balls kept hitting my ass." You smiled impishly. He grunted. "Be serious here." You let him take your arm in his hand as he began massaging the lotion into your skin.

"I'm okay Roboute. I promise." You let him tend to the rest of you. Massaging and kissing his way over your body.

"I assume you have to go back to the bridge to oversee things?" "I do, yes." "Can I come with you?" You asked, and he hummed. "Why? There isn't much for you to do." "Sure there is. I'm going to need to start practicing aren't I?" "Practicing? Practicing what?" "Bossing around a bunch of your kids. I figure Calgar would be the perfect place to start." His laugh was warm as he nodded. "Very well, my love. You may join me on the bridge." "Yes! Thank you Robu." You gave him a quick kiss, and hopped off the bed, to gather your clothes.

Roboute stood to join you in the activity. Replacing his body glove as he prepared a list of explanations for his poor unsuspecting chapter master.

[diabolicalevil]

I want to feed roboute guilliman dry cereal from the palm of my hand like it's dog food

[primarisly-marooned]

to serve pt 1

as promised, the Guilliman fic!

summary: You're an aide to the Avenging Son, the only aide to the Lord Regent. While serving him dinner you both make a discovery about each other.

pairing: Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

warnings: bit of a food kink, feral behavior (Guilliman), threatening (?) behavior, oral fixation (Guilliman again), alluding to masturbation (reader), fic got to long so no smut but it does get a little nsfw, lemme know if i need to tag anything else!

part 2, part 3

tagging @beckyninja , @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond , @springtimeishere , @moodymisty , @vyzz-undercover, and @ailjsenutna bc they requested it! lemme know if you want to be added to the list as well

It was going to end tragically, he knew it would. All things ended this way it seemed, especially for the Avenging Son.

Denied his death, denied a life outside of the rotting corpse of his father’s failed dream, his brothers gone, his mother… Ten thousand years wasted in agony, only to inherit the Imperium. No peace, no happiness, denying himself even the basics of comfort in an effort to keep things from getting worse. All in order to keep his sons people safe.

But he could not deny himself you. A little kindness, a little humanity, is all it took for Roboute Guilliman to fall at your feet. Figuratively of course, not that you were aware of this. He made sure that there were no untoward actions from him, nothing that could be traced back to anything besides him having a favored aide. He was allowed to have preferences, encouraged even. So if he used that as permission to pull you from your normal duties to being essentially glued to his side at all times, well.

He was only doing what everyone seemed to expect, now wasn’t he?

You were a balm to his battered soul, seeming to almost literally light up the dark corridors of his ship wherever you went. The way you would smile at him when you completed the little tasks he asked of you. You treated him as a lord, yes. But as a man.

Not a god.

There was nothing holy about Roboute no matter what anyone thought. And behind his closed office doors with just himself and you, he didn’t have to be. He could be himself, bad jokes and all. He could enjoy your laugh, the way your skin flushed down your neck to your plush-

“My lord?”

Your voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he’s glad of it.

A glance to the side of his desk reveals you peering up at him through your lashes, hood tilted back enough to allow the candle light to illuminate your soft features. There was a soft smile on your face, a common expression when you were alone together. In your hands was his dinner, and a quick look at the time has Roboute grimacing. It had been hours since he last ate and even longer since he had left his office.

Truly, the Administratum had to be the greatest enemy the Imperium of Man faced in this age.

“Ah, yes,” he said abruptly, moving carefully in his armor to nudge stacks of dataslates and paperwork over enough to clear a space large enough for you to sit in. Roboute found his mouth watering already, and not just for the food. “Come, little one, this should be enough room.”

Your shy little blush comes with a rush of hormones he can all but taste in the air and his mouth fills with saliva. It’s truly depraved, for all that it started innocently enough. He is large, even by Astartes standards, what with him being a Primarch. And the Armor of Fate makes him even bigger, at the cost of his dexterity and sensitivity. It was unfortunate that he still needed to wear it most days, it’s life support a horrid fact of his current existence. Add all of this together, and Roboute found that eating was much more of a chore than he ever remembered it being.

And he had a long, long memory.

He has to swallow several times as he helps you onto his desk, one gauntleted hand under your thighs with his tray balanced across your lap. “It looks delicious,” he murmured, and it truly did, but it wasn’t the food that had hunger gnawing at him.

It was your clever, kind, debilitating solution to his food issue that had Roboute acting little more than a common beast.

Food that wasn’t nutrient paste was too difficult for him to bother with on his own truly he just didn’t want to spend hours cleaning smashed everything out of the delicate circuitry of his armor, but was easily handled in your much smaller grasp, and an offer to feed him led to this, the Lord of Ultramar leaned over you so he could catch a taste of your skin.

He felt no small amount of shame at this- this debauchery, but… this is only a small thing. A temporary indulgence.

Quitting you should be easy for one of his self control if this goes too far. You smile at him when you settle on his immense desk, almost dwarfed by the huge stacks of paperwork covering the surface. The sight of it makes his hearts clench in some unnameable emotion.

“Are you hungry, my Lord?”

Always, for you, almost leaves his mouth before he catches himself. “I could eat.” And he could. It takes a lot of calories to feed his frame, so no matter how many meals he gets to eat like this, that damnable nutrient paste is still needed as a supplement.

You were all he could smell now, sweet and warm, almost syrupy as his focus narrowed down to just you. Your delicate fingers, so small compared to him, picked up something he didn’t know the name of. A sizeable portion to one of your stature, but barely a mouthful to Roboute.

It was a game now, a challenge for himself to see how long he could hold out tasting your skin before he couldn’t anymore. The first bite was always the hardest, a mouthful of flavor exploding over his tongue as your fingertips brushed over his lips. A temptation to lick them is ruthlessly shoved aside as he puts his considerable focus onto you.

This was a time that you would tell him about your day, all the little tidbits of information you overheard or the tasks you completed. Rarely was it anything that Roboute needed to know, but he found that he couldn’t help but find every word that graced your lips as some form of sacred.

It was towards the end of his dinner that everything changed and Roboute’s legendary self control finally snapped.

A few pieces of his meal were left, smaller morsels that he shared between himself and you. Smaller bites meant he had to be careful, closing his teeth over your finger accidentally could snap it off without him even realizing. Something both of you are eager to not happen.

So a little overlap was expected at this point, his lips closing over your fingers, tongue curling under them so no crumb was wasted. It was his favorite part usually, something he could do to taste the salt of your skin and overwhelm his brain with your hormones so he can stop thinking for a while. But this time…

This time there was something extra to your scent. He had noticed something in the food, but didn’t think too hard about it. With your fingers in his mouth, it was all he could taste.

Sweet and musky, thick like honey and so overwhelmingly human, Roboute couldn’t help but close his mouth tighter over your fingers and lathe them with his tongue. By the stars, what was this?

Through the vague haze his mind had fallen under he could see that you were blushing deeply, from your chest all the way up into your hair. You were stuttering something as he gazed down at you, still sucking on your little fingers. The angle you were at allowed Roboute to see down the front of your dress and his gaze was drawn down your collarbone to the swell of your breasts pressed tightly together.

It was when his mind started filling with impure thoughts that it finally clicked what he was tasting on your hand, and his own face burned as he abruptly released you and leaned back. He had to put distance between you or he wouldn't be able to control himself anymore.

He was already painfully hard in his armor, and he meant that literally. A design flaw, clearly.

“Ah,” Roboute starts, at a loss to explain what came over him. It still lurked just beneath his skin, clawing at his stomach and howling in his ears. His lungs heaved for air, able to taste your confused arousal on his tongue. Involuntarily, he opened his mouth and breathed you in deeper. He leaned closer, armor scraping against itself as he loomed.

“My Lord…,” your voice is quiet, but he can still hear you. A little voice in the back of his head is growing louder, near purring at the way you lean back to make room for him. He can see the way you stare up at him with huge shining eyes and wet parted lips. Moving even closer causes you to draw a leg up and onto the desk, the other spreading wide to accommodate him this close to you. “Are you…” There’s a hesitation when you start to ask him a question, and Roboute manages to pull himself together enough to make an inquiring noise as he pushes his chair back to lean down enough that he can stick his face near your neck.

Roboute can feel the way your blood rushes through your veins and for a moment his head swims with the sudden need to bite.

“Do you still have a- hunger, Lord Guilliman?”

It’s the way you say his name, breathy and sweet that gives Roboute the push to open his mouth and lick the sweat off your skin. Your gasp is loud in his ears. “Yes,” is his hissed answer against your throat, lips against your fluttering pulse. “One that must wait to be sated.”

Your little hands, those perfect soft little hands, are featherlight against his head, brushing over his laurels and tracing the curl of his hair. “Why?”

Why indeed, he mused to himself, amused by the simple question. There was much you did not know, and the extent of which he needed his armor was one secret few knew outside of his most trusted. As much as he favored you, he couldn’t risk a breach. You were a weak point.

But one he refused to be parted from.

Another lick sent his brain back into the hazy almost-calm from earlier, your pheromones seeming to crawl through the grey matter of his brain and down his spine. Your fingers slowly thread through his hair and he hummed in quiet bliss, mouth opening against your skin as his arms came up to encircle you. Pain from his cock cleared his head a bit and he realized that he had opened his mouth entirely around your neck.

He felt you swallow against his tongue and fought the urge to feel it from the inside. Pulling back from you was a task almost too great for Roboute, but he managed. “Mm. Please, Little One,” he managed to work around the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Don’t come here again like that.”

Your pupils are blown wide and your skin is shiny. The expression on your face is one of confusion, and dare he say it, arousal. “What?”

Roboute was forced to clear his throat, trying to remove your scent from his mouth. “Your hand. I could… hm. I could taste you on your fingers.”

He could see your mind trying to process it, eyes squinting as you worked through his meaning. The moment you understood caused what he could only call complete and utter mortification to cross your face.

“Oh, My Lord- I’m sorry, please forgive me- I didn’t-”

“Peace,” Roboute  didn’t like the way shamed curdled your scent, bitter-sour overtaking the honey-sweet. “You did nothing wrong. I just request that you be mindful in the future.”

He didn’t know what expression was on his face, but he knew you understood from the way your gaze dropped from his and your hands slipped from his laurels into your lap.

Already he missed the touch of you against his skin.

“O-Of course, my Lord,” you give your assent, and Roboute has to fight everything in himself that wants to keep you on his desk and lay you out so he can feast.

Withdrawing from you completely felt impossible but he managed, and Roboute watched silently as you slipped off his desk and scurried to the door. But before it could open you turn and look back at him, a queer light in you eye. “Shall I return for your breakfast tomorrow, Lord Guilliman?”

He understood what you meant immediately and felt a dizzying sense of want rush through him. “Go.”

You flee from his office and Roboute is left alone in his prison made of his armor and a straining cock he can do nothing about for almost another full cycle.

A glance at his once-organized desk has him placing his head in his hands. Damn the Administratum to the Warp.

[saintsylestine]

Guilliman x Reader

Part 2 here! Tysm for reading

Authors note: your work gets you noticed by the Avenging Son. He'll assess you before he ever lays hands on you. Wanna read some creepy observant Guilliman? Is it creepy or just accurate? Take this draft from me!

Cw: slightly nsfw (alludes to maturbating but no anatomical details), being watched/surveillanced

A Model of Order pt. 1

You’re summoned to Strategium Annex Theta. No rank seal. No preamble.

Just a location, a time, and a clearance string so high you nearly hesitate to open it.

22:00. Sharp.

The chamber is colder than you expect. Wide. Quiet. High-vaulted like a monastery, but stripped of any reverence—just stone, light, and silence. At the center, a single obsidian table. Empty.

He stands at the far end.

Not armored.

No entourage. No ceremony.

Just him.

Roboute Guilliman.

The Lord of Ultramar. The Primarch.

The reason the stars still burn blue.

He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. His back is to you, arms folded, robes draped in precise symmetry. Even still, his presence chokes the room.

You keep your posture perfect. You do not speak.

Let him speak first.

He does.

“You recommended withdrawal from the Neride Cluster.”

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

“I did, my lord.”

“You advised the sacrifice of six billion civilians.”

“To save twenty-seven billion more.”

“And the infrastructure.”

"Yes.”

He turns.

The first time you meet his eyes, it feels like falling toward something ancient.

“You were correct.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Cold praise. Hollow. Like he’s repeating a fact he already filed away.

He steps toward you, each footfall deliberate. Measured. Like a surgeon approaching an incision.

“You were not summoned for your correctness."

You say nothing.

“You were summoned because I want to understand what you are.”

He circles you once. Not like a man. Like a force of nature pacing the edges of a controlled burn.

“You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t flinch. I’ve seen generals cry over less than what you signed away without blinking.”

He stops at your back.

“I want to know if that was discipline.”

“Or vacancy.”

You keep your eyes forward. Your breath even.

"It was logic, my lord.”

"Then you mistake me for someone who respects logic.”

A pause. You feel him closer now. Not touching. Just there.

“I’ve commanded empires with less blood on their hands than you carry in that one recommendation.”

He leans in.

“And I want to know… if it excites you.”

Your pulse stutters.

“No, my lord.”

“Pity. That would have made you easier to classify.”

He steps in front of you now. Hands behind his back. Eyes sharp enough to cut.

"You stand well. You answer well. You wear obedience like a second skin."

He lowers his voice—not soft, but close. Intimate the way pressure is intimate.

“But I don’t want obedience.”

“I want to know what happens when it breaks.”

The silence between you is thick. Alive.

"I do not need you,” he says, calm as ice.

“I choose to examine you.”

And then—he lifts one hand. Not armored. Gloved.

And simply gestures.

“Kneel.”

You hesitate—but only for a heartbeat. Then sink to one knee, not out of submission—but precision. Graceful. Controlled.

He steps closer. One hand lifts your chin.

The leather of his glove is cool against your jaw.

Your eyes meet.

And he studies you—not like a man studies a woman. Like a tactician studies a weapon he might someday use… or destroy.

“You think you intrigue me,” he says, almost bored.

“You think that earns you safety.”

A beat—

“No. I think it earns me scrutiny.”

That got a reaction. The faintest twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. A threat dressed as amusement.

He lets go.

“You’ll report to me daily. You’ll follow every instruction exactly. You’ll remain silent until spoken to.”

He turns away, already done with you.

“And if I find rot beneath all that beautiful structure—”

He pauses at the door. Doesn’t look back.

“I’ll have you dismantled. Properly. Efficiently. Beautifully.”

The door seals behind him like a coffin lid.

And for the first time in years, your composure hurts to hold.

----

You don’t remember walking back to your quarters. You remember the door sealing behind you. You remember the light being too bright. You remember your hands shaking as you peeled off your gloves—why are they shaking?

You’re not weak. You’re not like this.

You pace the floor three times. Open your data-slate. Close it. Strip out of your uniform with exacting movements, folding every piece like it matters. You don’t look in the mirror.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

You sit too straight.

You breathe too evenly.

And it’s worse than chaos.

Because you still feel it—the ghost of his glove at your chin. The memory of his voice.

“Kneel.”

One word. No inflection. But it cleaved something inside you wide open.

You press your thighs together.

No.

You stand. Shake it off. Walk to the sink. Splash cold water on your face. Again. Again. Again.

You stare into your reflection, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t see the sharp, clean lines of discipline and dignity. You see hunger. Controlled. Concealed. But there.

You whisper to yourself:

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

But it does.

Because he saw you. Touched you. Tested you.

And then he walked away.

And now you can’t stop thinking.

What does he see when he looks at you?

A weapon? A subject?

A problem he wants to solve?

Or a body he wants to crack open like a data-core and read until there’s nothing left?

Your breath hitches. You hate it.

You press your palm between your legs.

Not in pleasure. In control.

But your skin is already warm.

And you can’t lie to yourself anymore.

You’re wet. You’ve been wet.

You slide down onto the floor, back against the cold steel wall. One hand between your thighs, the other covering your mouth.

Not fast.

Not desperate.

Precise.

Like someone proving a theory.

Like someone collecting evidence of their own degradation.

...

And when you cum—it’s quiet. Controlled. Your mouth doesn’t open. Your body doesn’t shake.

But your eyes sting.

Because you hate that it’s him.

Not his face. Not his strength.

His restraint.

The way he makes you want permission.

You lie on the floor after. Eyes open. Cold now. Empty.

And you know—you’ll still show up tomorrow like nothing happened.

Because this isn’t about him.

This is about you.

Failing beautifully.

Exactly as he planned.

---

The Strategium is colder today. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You walk in exactly on time. 06:00. Uniform crisp. Boots polished. Hair bound tightly at the crown of your head. Every detail perfect.

You do not flinch.

Guilliman is already present, standing at the hololith with a minor planetary governor who doesn’t deserve the oxygen he’s using. They speak in clipped tones. Guilliman doesn’t turn to look at you.

He doesn’t have to.

You feel his awareness land on you like pressure.

Not gaze. Not even presence.

Weight.

“Dismissed,” he says to the governor, not waiting for protest.

The man leaves. Fast.

Then it's just you.

And him.

And the echo of your own pulse behind your ears.

“Step forward,” he says.

You do.

“Your analysis of the Harrow Corridor?”

“Uploaded to your slate. Contingency plans B and F would lead to immediate collapse. I suggest D, with minor alterations.”

He doesn’t respond. Not immediately.

He just looks at you.

Not down at your mouth. Not at your hands.

At your eyes.

Like he’s scanning for microfractures in the glass.

You do not break.

“You’re composed,” he says.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Efficient.”

“Always.”

“Disciplined.”

“To the core.”

Another silence.

Then—

“Interesting.”

He turns back to the hololith.

You exhale slowly. Controlled. Not relief. Just airflow.

“You’ll join me tonight,” he says. “22:00. Sublevel Red. Don’t speak when you enter. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Yes, my lord.”

You turn to leave. He doesn’t stop you.

But just before the door seals behind you, you hear it.

Soft.

Flat.

But intentional.

“Next time,” he says, without looking,

“Try not to finish so quickly.”

...

The door seals behind you.

You don’t breathe.

You walk.

Not fast. Not slow. Measured.

Down the corridor. Past rows of lumens and data-inset stone. Past the Adeptus quarters and intake offices. Past the place where your old self might have stopped to catch her breath.

But you don’t stop.

Because if you do, you might not recover.

“Try not to finish so quickly.”

You hear it over and over. Not replayed. Reissued.

The tone. The timing. That awful, flat calm—like he hadn’t even decided to ruin you with it. Like it had already been decided for him. Like the data had come back and the analysis was done:

You broke. He saw. And now he owns that knowledge.

You make it to your quarters.

The second the door seals, your legs go soft.

You brace yourself on the desk. Not from weakness.

From impact.

The words won’t leave you.

“Try not to finish…”

Did he mean it cruelly?

Was it mocking? A warning? A rule?

You can’t tell.

And that’s what ruins you.

You peel off your gloves like they’re dirty. Like they’re too tight. Your breath comes shallow now, not with fear, not with heat, but with restraint.

You sit. You try to work.

You open the slate.

His initials are still there.

RG.

No signature.

No apology.

Just presence.

And you are full of it.

He saw you.

He watched you climax.

You keep thinking that.

And then you think worse things.

He didn’t just see you fall apart.

He timed it.

He measured it.

You can’t stop wondering if he watched all of it.

If he leaned forward.

If he catalogued the way you touched yourself. The part where your breath caught. The subtle tremble in your hips when you came and tried not to make a sound.

He saw.

He knows exactly how long you held your control.

He knows what your shoulders did, how your thighs shifted.

He knows you were trying to be quiet.

And he said nothing until you’d proven you could walk back into that room like nothing happened.

You passed.

That’s the worst part.

You passed, and now you’re in deeper than you were the day before.

You stand again. Pacing now.

Short bursts. Five steps. Turn. Four steps. Turn.

Your whole body buzzes with tension. Shame. Hunger.

But you don’t touch yourself.

Not now.

Because it’s not lust anymore. It’s obedience.

And you are waiting for permission.

Even if it never comes.

Even if he’s already decided not to give it.

You want to be angry.

You are angry.

You’re not weak. You’re not deviant. You’re not here for this.

And yet—

Your thighs ache.

Your pulse won’t slow.

And you can’t stop hearing it.

“Try not to finish so quickly.”

You stare at the wall. Cold and silent.

And whisper to no one:

“Fuck you.”

But your voice shakes.

Because you don’t mean it.

------------------------ to be continued------------

Thanks for reading (〃ω〃) hope I did our boy justice.

Can I label this gn!reader? Or is it more fem reader coded

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ Little Secret✧₊⁺

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x Reader(f)

part 2

Arthur's Note: Guilliman has a new serf and she isn't taking his bullshit. The Imperium held on with less for 10k years. Man will stop and take care of himself. I am also finishing higher than hel.

Warnings: General Grimdarkness.

+18 Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

He could smell the food and hear you humming a little diddy down the hall; his gaze looked over at the clock, was it that time already? His stomach growled, which surprised him. That was not something his body did, ever.

Roboute smiled as he put the documents aside, you have gone and spoiled him is what happened. Not that he minded, your cooking was one of the few things he looked forward to in this new millennium. It was hardy and rustic, but bursting with flavor.

It was a home-cooked meal. It was real food.

When you open the door and greet him with your warm smile, the room feels a bit brighter. And now that the scent of his lunch filled the air around him, his mouth watered. Roboute wondered how you did it. He knew full well how much food it took to nourish him, which was why he was content to eat, or swallow the paste and other types of gruel. It was efficient and practical. But you didn't care about those things. At least not in this sense. Complained it lacked heart and care. That no man or woman could function eating such boring tasteless things.

"Good afternoon Mister Guilliman!" you say with that bright smile, "Time to let the Imperium wait so you can eat."

Guilliman chuckles gesturing to the cleared spot on his desk, "I have learned my lesson." he teased.

The first time he refused to eat properly you did something that triggered a long-buried fear. You slipped off your sandal and threatened to beat him with it should he not eat his meals. When tried to argue about what he wrote in his codex, his own logic was turned against him in righteous fury. That the codex should be a guideline, and more importantly you argued he was simply wrong.

Roboute realized you were not a woman to fight with. He knew what a woman could do with a sandal. Even thinking about it now gave him a chill down his spine.

He takes the platter from you and eyes the food. Large cuts of meat mixed with apples and peaches, clearly slowly cooked together to make the harmonious scent that he had been enthralled by. Heaping side of potatoes smashed, but hand by the looks and some of the freshest bread he'd seen in a while.

How lonely and depressed was he that looking at this meal, made by someone whose duty was to serve him, made his heartache? Surely if you were not his serf you wouldn't be this caring. If he wasn't what he was...

No, he refused to believe that. He'd seen you fixing socks and scolding his men, mothering them, some grumbled, but he could tell they enjoyed it. Someone looking out for them in a gentler manner.

"Hope you like it. It's something my momma used to make. Generally, it's for supper, but you need more meat on you. Can't find a Mister or Missus Guilliman looking half corpse half god."

Roboute felt his cheeks flare up, and his throat get tangled with the air in it. There was so much in that comment he wanted to unpack and he didn't know where to start. A rarity for the primarch.

"Mister or Missus'?" he asked with far more inflection of shock than he would have liked.

You nodded, "Yes, Momma always said we love who we love. Maybe you aren't so big on the ladies, maybe you are, Maybe you like both? Not my place to judge."

Guilliman felt genuine shock. So casually talking about him marrying like he was just another man. That such simple aspects of life were his to have. Even if marrying was something he thought on, and found himself wanting, he couldn't. Not in the current state of things. He was viewed basically as a god; a son of a god. No marriage would be from love, but pure disgusting lust and fantastical eroticism. It made him ill thinking about it.

"No, I mean think you for your openness, but I mean just the married part. How would I find someone who doesn't see me as.." a tool, a stepping stone, a thing, "well as anything but the son of a god?"

You shrug, "Well, that I don't right know, just a serf after all. But I am sure we could find someone with that big brain of yours and my baseline human charm!"

What if he didn't want someone else, he thought suddenly. He had you. You joked with him, talked to him about boring dull things like weather. You asked if he had hobbies outside governing. Fed him food, real food! Not just that, food your mother made! You shared basic things all took for granted or didn't see the importance of.

Why did he need anyone else?

He let out a small chuckle, not wanting to focus on the thoughts that just came to him. They were terrifying.

"I am sure you're right."

You patted his arm, "Well, I must be off Mister Guilliman. I have work to do, I am afraid I cannot sit and chat while you eat."

Roboute frowned. That was the other reason these extra meal breaks meant so much to him. You would sit and chat with him, about things not world-ending. What was so important you couldn't stay and talk to him?

"What work? Did I give you orders while half asleep last night? If so disregard them." Roboute replied before tearing into the bread.

Throne, it was warm and soft with a harder exterior, and clearly made this morning. You spoiled him, and he wish he didn't like it.

"Oh no! It is a little surprise I am working on. No worries Mister Guilliman you will be the first to see it when I am done. It is a surprise for you after all." You reply happily.

Something for him? He didn't like surprises. Hated them some might say. He couldn't work theoreticals and practicals when he wasn't aware of what something was. Couldn't plan for what he didn't know. But you looked so happy about this little secret! And you should be, as he had no idea you were working on anything.

Perhaps this surprise he would allow. He trusted you. Even if he was feeling moody over you not spending this break with him.

"Very well," he did his best to not look like he was pouting. Thorne was he pouting?! Roboute Guilliman did not pout! "I do hope dinner will be as normal?"

You perk up and smile, "Of course! I found a baby bird I wish to tell you about! Oh and we need to talk about your sons bathing! They stink!"

Guilliman snorted between large bites of food. Food this good would be considered heretical by the Inquisition he was sure. Mostly because he figured they thought all things good were heresy.

Satisfied he would have your ear tonight, and you his, you made your way out of the office and moved through the corridors. The fortress was in the cold mountains, and not ideal conditions for things to grow, but he was seldom down in the Capital. He was either in Hera or on Terra. It wasn't easy she convinced some of his sons to help her make this gift. There outside the fortress a small greenhouse. Well, small to Astartes and Primarchs. It had been so hard to keep this from Guilliman, and the strings pulled, but it would be worth it.

It was no Agi world Iax, where you overheard Guilliman talking to Lion about how he really did wish he could have retired there to farm, but perhaps a nice little garden would suffice.

[toto-the-cactus]

Thoughts about Guilimans daughter (who I have named Olyssia Guiliman) being the little baby sister to the ultramarine. Adorable. Now picture adult Olyssia, the Lady of Macragge being the elder sister. Olyssia seeing Ultramarines, so long lives to the baselines, but still so quickly gone to she who has lived millenia.

I'll be frank here, I pulled this short thing out of my ass at 3am so hope this actually gives you some fun when comparing old astartes regarding Roboute's daughter vs 40k astartes regarding Roboute's daughter. Not a lot, but I had fun writing it.

-°-

Titus had heard about the Lady of Macragge during his years as a Neophyte.

Most astartes do after undergoing the gene-seed implantation, but it was usually mentioned in reverence the same way one did with a Primarch’s name during the preachings. Before any of that, the primaris had never even seen a sculpture or portrait of the Lady.

To see her in person alongside her father, their Father, was quite an experience he had yet to express properly; mind still unable to believe that he is in their presence while inside the one place in the Macragge’s Honour that just a handful of firstborn astartes were allowed into: The Resting Home of the Legion Mother.

The fact that he had been brought here by Calgar himself was the one thing that kept Titus in check to not kneel rushedly in front of his Primarch and trueborn like just some initiated marine; this was a place of peace and quiet that needed to be respected and more specially when both husband and daughter mourned the prone body of the woman inside the stasis field that kept her life in a limbo.

“My Lord” saluted Calgar but once his eye strayed to the Lady, his expression softened in a way that caught Demetrius by surprise. “Hello, little one” he said this time with a tender influx. Nothing like the hardened Chapter Master that the primaris had come to know.

“Hi, Calgar” answered the young woman with obvious strain in her tone and a few traces of tears on her face.

It had been said in the past that when the Lady of Macragge always visited her mother’s sleeping form, crying could be heard from the outside. One thing was hearing the serfs mentioning such a fact but another abysmal thing to see it become true. He had heard the fates this woman, the granddaughter of the Emperor, had achieved during her years leading the Ultramarines after the Heresy.

To see her reduced like this by the grief was… humbling and strange.

“To what I own this interruption, Calgar?” asked the Primarch impatiently. Eyes never leaving the face of his wife as if he hoped to see a change in her peaceful expression.

With that question, both Guilliman and Marneus went a bit far to speak privately from them. Leaving Titus and the Lady alone.

This couldn’t be more awkward.

Demetrian still had to wrap his head around how the Chapter Master simply greeted the young woman with a familiarity that floored him. As if her status as trueborn was merely a decoration extending from her.

“You’re Demetrian Titus, right?”

At her soft voice, the primaris finally dared to look at the Lady to her eyes. She was practically a carbon copy of the Primarch, but her baseline genetics did a good job to smooth the rough edges.

“That is correct, my Lady” he answered the same he would when regarded by a superior. “It’s an honor to even be let inside this sacred room, my Lady. I feel humbled that you know my name too”

“It’s the minimum I can do as my father’s daughter… I always try to remember the names of the astartes that Big Brother Calgar always mentions more than once”

Titus, again, has to do a double take at the familiarity the Lady refers to someone like the Chapter Master.

Where he looks up at her in both reverence and curiosity, those that have lived before the Heresy had known the Lady of Macragge when still a child of bright eyes.

-°-

Titus when Olyssia knew his name the very first time they met:

[ahrianee]

[⚜️] Welcome to this "family reunion"

{Canon x Oc}

[Roboute Guilliman x Rena Caeruleun]

[Mini Comic]

A family dinner between the primarchs and the emperor, which surprisingly did not go well at all.

Roboute Guilliman thought it was a good idea to bring his fiancée and astropath.

Roboute Guilliman regretted bringing his fiancée. . .

Fulgrim is making eyes at Roboute Guilliman's fiancée

If this is my oc, and I'm a little embarrassed to show her with a colored sketch, talking a little about her, she got engaged at an early age to Roboute, knowing each other from an early age, but in the end they never ended up getting married, although they are still engaged, She is the daughter of a noble family from the Ultramar region, Tarasha liked her at first, compared to the other young girls they had seen, she at least did not look so pretentious and forced.

If you want to know a little more about her, I will gradually upload some drawings of her as well.

I hope you liked it, you know you can reblog, like and follow me if you want to keep seeing my silly drawings ✨💕

[aggresivemenace]

All Primarchs have a keen sense of smell, that’s obvious. But Leman Russ's is better than all of theirs combined.

Due to his wild nature, he often makes rather inappropriate comments, embarrassing his brothers.

Like:

Suddenly he starts sniffing the air very carefully.

— Roboute?

— Hm?

— Did you know your wife is ovulating?

A wide, toothy grin spreads across his face, while Roboute turns as red as Khorne himself.

— Father will be pleased with grandchildren - Leman adds, glancing at you as you stand somewhere near Fulgrim, obviously gossiping.

Leman isn’t exactly welcome on Macragge. Wonder why?

[beckyninja]

Hope

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: So. Much. Angst.

Description: Guilliman mourns his beloved's "death".

Oof, this was a rough one to write, even though it's short. I've really put this poor blueberry through the wringer.

(This is a continuation of my Guilliman x Reader series. To find the previous chapters, check out my Masterlist.)

Guilliman observed the rage in Captain Takahashi’s black eyes as if from a great distance. Dimly, he registered her voice as she bent over the holographic star map.

“We will come to the beginning of the Wards in a few standard hours’ time.” She gestured with her left arm, the right ending in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. “I’ll need a moment to observe the maelstrom and discern the patterns, before I can begin imparting instructions.”

The Chief Navigator stood at her elbow, double-jointed fingers steepled before his gray lips. “These ‘Wards’, you say? They are a… maze, in the Warp?”

“And out of it.”

“How is this possible?”

Guilliman let his gaze drift between the two.

The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the map. “You’d call it, Archeotech. The secrets of its creation have been lost to time though, thank the Light, TerraNova’s original colonists preserved the knowledge of its maintenance. I am no engineer, but every school child learns how our forebears scattered mechanical ‘beacons’ of a sort behind them as they fled the Machine War.” 

Pressing her remaining hand to her lips, she gave a single, tearing cough. A medica in a charred uniform, half her face bandaged, stepped forward.

“Captain, you should return to the infirmary for your next round of anti-rads.”

Captain Takahashi waved her away. “In a moment, Lieutenant.” She returned to the star map. “As I was saying, these ‘beacons’ emit frequencies that twist both the Warp and Realspace, bending reality and unreality into a knot of ever-shifting pathways. The Wards.”

The Navigator’s white eyes widened. “As a child I heard rumors… stories of Navigators caught in such knots… driven mad….” His head jerked toward the Captain. “How do your people pass through such insanity?”

“Few ever do.” The Captain’s lips tightened. “But for those who must, we are taught to recognize the patterns in the maelstrom, our reflexes sharpened to make split-second navigational corrections. It is a brutal process, and in the last few decades has mostly been delegated to new navigational computers.” A sharp snort. “Mine, which now happens to be charred debris in the void.”

Something rose inside Guilliman, clawing at his shield of detachment. “You made promises, Captain Takahashi.”

Every soul in the room, even his Ultramarines, flinched. The TerraNovan Lieutenant cowered back against a wall. 

The Captain trembled a moment, then turned to face him. “I did. And I will keep them, Lord Guilliman.” Her eyes rose to his face, but did not meet his gaze. “I am of the last generation of naval officers trained to manually navigate the Wards. I will see your fleet through.”

“Some would call your actions treasonous.”

Her eyes managed to meet his. “All those to whom I swore oaths of service betrayed me, Lord Guilliman. Because of them, hundreds of my crew are dead. Not just proud voidsmen and women of our Navy, but the families who sailed with them. Children. The ship we called our home lies a broken corpse.”

Her eyes dropped away. “I failed them. And I failed the only one of our royal family for whom I felt any true loyalty. Let them call it treason.” She clenched her one fist.

“I call it vengeance.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of understanding passed between them. Primarch and Captain. He felt himself nod before turning away and exiting the room.

He moved without conscious thought, feet following patterns drilled into him long before his ten thousand year stasis. Corridors, doors, people all passed in a blur. The cacophony of the ship morphed into a meaningless babble. Vaguely, he registered the heavy tramp of ceramite boots behind him.

Too late did he realize his destination.

The door to your quarters stood before him.

No….

His hand reached for the control panel.

No…!

He watched himself enter the code, heard the hiss of sliding metal as the portal opened into darkness.

Stop….

But his body refused to obey. Or, perhaps, it obeyed some urge far more powerful than conscious will. He heard himself ordering his guard to remain outside, and stepped through the door…

…into memory.

Your scent rose all around him, overwhelming, choking. It shattered the frigid defenses he’d erected around his mind and hearts. It stabbed. It soothed. He loved it. He hated it.

He stumbled forward, hands pawing blindly until they met the bed. His knees buckled. He crashed to the floor, hands still tangled in the sheets that smelled achingly of you. 

You…you…you…you….

You, standing before him for the first time, single heartbeat fluttering like a bird in his ears.

You, face earnest as you advocate for the home and people you care for.

You, giggling at one of his ill-timed, foolish jests.

You, laid out beneath him, eyes shining as you tell him you love-

“No…,” Guilliman groaned, “stop. Please….”

The memories ceased, replaced by something far, far worse.

You, dressed in purest white, standing before him at the altar, pledging love and faithfulness for the rest of your days.

You, blushing fiercely, as he presents their new Lady to the cheering crowds of Macragge.

You, panting his name as he worships your perfect body.

“No, no, no!” He buried his face in your sheets, only for the concentrated fragrance they carried to unlock his most searing fantasy.

You, glowing with joy as you bounce a golden-haired child on your hip, your belly growing round yet again.

“Pater! Pater!”

“Come, Roboute! Work will wait. Come spend time with your family, my love!”

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, wept.

He did not weep as he had as a young man when Konor Guilliman, his true father, lay dying before him. He did not weep as he had when, after his reawakening, he discovered the memorial to Tarasha Euten deep within the Fortress of Hera.

Even in those times, he’d known there to be a future beyond his pain.

But now….

Fabric tore as his fists clenched around the sheets. He raised his eyes to find one of the innumerable skulls carved into every surface upon the ship. A grisly symbol of the deity supposedly watching over them all.

“Why?” His voice felt ripped from the bleeding center of his being. “If you have the power people say, why do you use it to torment me?” 

He staggered to his feet, still clasping the torn sheets. “Have I not given enough? Did you find me undeserving of even the smallest modicum of happiness? Why, then, did you let me feel it, only to rip it away?”

His next words came as an agonized roar. “Why did you give me hope?!”

The very cruelest of punishments.

Guilliman looked down at the shreds of fabric in his hand. “What did she do to deserve your ire?”

But, deep within, he knew the truth. The Emperor had not doomed you. He had. His love was a poison worse than any follower of Nurgle could concoct.

Hadn’t everyone he ever cared for died?

“I am sorry. Oh Throne, I am so sorry, my love.” Once again, he buried his face in your fragrance. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

He knew he tortured himself. He also knew he deserved it.

Vengeance and rage could only light his steps for so long. He would destroy all who had taken you from him. And then their fire would flicker out, leaving him with nothing but a cold, lonely trudge into the gray of the future.

At the thought, all strength left him. 

Roboute Guilliman curled onto the floor, knees tucked to his chest, whimpering like a child left alone in the dark.

…ping….

His eyes snapped open.

…ping…ping….

He clawed to his feet, chest heaving in great gasps. 

…ping….

Guilliman hurtled from the room, nearly bowling over Cato Sicarius. The Commander’s queries went unheeded as he crashed through the great gilded doors at the end of the corridor and into his personal office.

ping…ping…ping…

There, on his desk, lay a small vox receiver, gifted to him by Captain Takahashi. The unfamiliar device was set to receive one specific frequency from one specific source: a miniaturized beacon set into a band of gold and sapphire.

A band he’d placed upon your finger minutes before you left the Macragge’s Honor.

“If you need me, press the largest gem in the ring. A beacon will activate.” He’d grasped your chin, ensuring you looked into his eyes. “And I will come for you.”

Ping!

The receiver lit with a pulsing, golden light.

And hope, that cruelest and most enduring of flames, ignited in Guilliman’s hearts once more.

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Please comment if you'd like to be added/removed from the Taglist.

[thevoidscreams]

I noticed there are a few days of March you don't already have a prompt for. May I be so bold as to suggest one?

I'd love a sequel to your Guilliman fic. This time, where his wife is pregnant and he is struggling. If it isn't the unreasonable protectiveness/possessiveness he's begun to feel, it's the crippling lust for his wife's changing body. Just a breeding kink in full swing.

Love your writing so much! Thanks!

I love a man who loves his wife. (And gets her hella knocked up)

Day 31 Year 2:

Warnings: Oral, a bit of teasing, (this man plans to keep you knocked up. Watch out)

Word count:3706

Roboute was restless, his hands twitching as he glanced at the time again, it was as if every minute of this Throne forsaken meeting was five and he needed to get out. He had to find you and check on you.

Your feet had been sore today, what if your feet hurt so badly that you tripped? Or your leg gave out and you fell and.. He didn’t want to continue that line of thought. He tried to tune back into the meeting at hand. The one he’d written up the dossier for. “Yes, if we deploy troops here and here-”

His mind tuned it out. The mental image of you in bed this morning springing to mind.

His hands twitched again as he imagined running them over the swell of your stomach as he drew them down to your thighs, lifting your leg up so he could slide in and- He swallowed hard and clenched his fists, prying his mind from the gutter with force.

‘Focus!’ He scolded himself with force, he could find you later. You were with his very best astartes, you were safe.

You would be far less so if this new threat that cropped up with those damned bugs wasn’t handled.

‘Theoretical. If I do not focus I will not be able to make the most strategically sound movements and there will be far greater losses.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Practical, I will be able to see my wife sooner if I get this done by focusing and making the decisions that need to be made.’

He tuned into the conversation again and added his insight making choices that most men would quail at having to make. For the good of the imperium, and for the safety of the love of his life.

As soon as it was done he was up and out the door. Leaving the rest of the group to their confusion at his unusual behavior over the past weeks.

You were sitting with Cato, the tea in your mug warm and the plate of finger foods meeting your cravings perfectly. Vinegary pickle spears, fresh berries and chocolates with a small handful of fried potato wedges. The most recent strange combination of foods that you had requested. Cato had watched you pick at the plate, nibbling at things as you held your stomach with one hand.

He had found it odd and off putting at first how your body had begun to change as it had, but now he found a certain kind of charm to it. You were not the first pregnant woman he’d ever met, but he’d never watched the process of it up close. Not until his father put him on guard over you.

Cato also couldn't deny just how happy you made his gene-sire. To the point that the rigid and overly formal legion had even softened to your presence. He himself was one of those individuals. But never had he been one to question the primarch's decision, not openly, he'd wondered if perhaps you had been some kind of witch who'd put a spell on him. Now however he knew you were just a woman. A human with a heart and spirit who Roboute Guilliman had fallen so deeply in love with. The affection had even seemed to rub off on him to an extent. A fondness he usually only felt for the primarch had taken root in his duel hearts as he looked over you, nibbling a bit of fruit as you stared off into space, clearly deep in thought.

“Do you think he'll be back soon?” You asked Cato, who thought for a minute and opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the door opening suddenly and his primarch lunging in. Hands finding your smaller body and lifting you with practiced carefulness as he cradled you in his arms and left the room all in one swift motion. You hadn't even had time to cry out before you were gone.

Cato had been tasked with keeping you safe and keeping you there. He wasn't sure if that applied to his own primarch, but he followed behind anyhow.

Roboute hadn't even noticed that his son was following until you managed to wiggle up and look over his shoulder. “Guess that answers my question.” You chuckled. Roboute slowed and looked at you, then over his shoulder to his gene-son. “What is it Sicarius?” He pressed and the astartes snapped to attention. “I am performing my duty as you commanded.” He spoke, his voice formal and serious.

“You have done so.”

“My Lord?” Cato looked confused.

“How is it you are confused?” Roboute responded.

“You ordered me to guard Lady Guilliman until you informed me otherwise. You have not given me leave to cease guarding her. So it is still imperative that I continue.” He explained.

Roboute closed his eyes and took a deep breath. You only laughed and pressed your face into your husband's shoulder.

“Cato,” Roboute began again, “if I myself am now in possession of my own wife, do you believe it is necessary that you continue to guard her?”

Cato seemed to shrink a bit. “I would never question my Lord's ability to safeguard his own wife, but you were very specific in your wording that I must until you told me otherwise.”

Roboute sighed and you petted his cheek. “Be nice to him Robu, he's done a very good job today.”

The primarch looked down at his gene-son and nodded. “You are dismissed, please return to what other duties you are required for.”

Cato nodded. “Yes, my Lord.” He saluted with the clash of ceramite on ceramite where his fist met his chest plate and he turned to take his leave.

You couldn't stop giggling. “Oh hush.” Your husband murmured and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“He really was being so good to me.” You spoke and Roboute nodded. “He is good at following orders, but I wish he would think more for himself while doing it.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and he sighed happily.

Your personal quarters were a frequent sight as of late, with your feet hurting and all you'd been getting a lot of rest. Often with the company of his gene sons. Hormones had dictated that being alone was unacceptable.

It was also to ease his mind that you were safe. Leaving you made something in him feel hollow. But his work was demanding, and the greater imperium needed him.

Still when there was but a moment of quiet he'd come back to you, breath and reset. You gave him a peace nothing else could. He sat you on the bed, kneeling to remove your shoes. He looked them over from heel to toe and up to the ankle.

“They're a bit sore.” You told him, knowing already that he was going to ask.

He raised your leg kissing the front of your shin and sighing. “Stay, I'll be back.”

He left you for only a minute and not a second longer, returning with an amphora of oil.

He knelt in front of you again. Lifting your leg and pouring a line of oil over your skin. His hands, inhumanly warm, felt good on your cold feet. “My poor wife,” he sighed, a hint of humor in his tone. “Besieged on all sides by discomforts. Allow me to warm and comfort you.”

He massaged the limb with unbelievable tenderness, his thumbs working their magic to make all the aches disappear. You groaned as the persistent soreness finally abated and you layed back to relax into the new mattress the primarch had brought to aid with your hip and back pain. Which was more than sweet to you, since he had those pains finally vanished and you awoke with more energy and feeling much better about the whole ordeal.

As he pressed a particularly stiff muscle in your calf you couldn't hold back a pleased moan. Roboute smiled at that but it was making his earlier imagined scenarios come back with full force.

He held off, even if he wanted nothing more than to jump you and take you.

He finished your first leg and pressed a line of warming kisses up the length, stopping just before the spot he really wanted to kiss. He grabbed the amphora and began on your second leg. Fingers pressing into the soft arch of your foot making sure he got every inch of it a few times over.

“How does that feel?”

You moaned again in answer and he smirked. A rare expression for him.

“I haven't felt this good since this morning.” You smiled and his stomach fluttered with butterflies at the tone of your voice.

Throne, you were the most magnificent thing he'd ever had the pleasure of touching. “Good.”

He took his time rubbing the oil in, fingers loosing tight muscles and easing the strain of the day.

When he was done he lifted your dress higher and poured a portion of oil into his palm, setting aside the amphora he spread it between his hands, warming it. His massive hands cupped either side of your belly and began to spread the oil over the new stretch marks you'd groaned about. He couldn't get enough of them. Of all the things your body was doing, really. He felt a small thump against his palm and he choked on his breath. “He moved!” Roboute grinned, stopping the movement of his hand so he could better feel the tiny jostles of his son within.

The baby kicked again and you groaned at the strength of it. “He's been doing that all day.” You huffed affectionately. “Especially when he hears your voice.”

Roboute couldn't suppress his absolute delight and pressed his lips to your stomach. “Hello.” He muffled against your belly and you giggled until the tiny boy within seemed to do a whole flip to try and get closer.

Roboute pulled his face away and continued to rub, stopping every few moments to feel the movement of the baby.

“I love him.” Roboute sighed, content in that moment.

“As do I. He'll be here sooner than we think, according to the midwives that is.”

The primarch just knelt there in awe. You were giving him a biological son. Growing him within your own body. It was just an aspect of nature but he was amazed by it all the same. You struggled to a sitting position to look at him.

“Thank you.” Roboute whispered, warm tears burning his eyes.

“Roboute? What's wrong?” Your hands went to his face, holding him with desperation, trying to soothe him.

He shook his head and smiled. “I am not sad.” He clarified, eyes still brimming. “It is just,” he swallowed and took a moment to gather himself. “The universe is tearing itself apart, we are surrounded by terrors of unimaginable magnitude. The governing powers of Terra have conspiracy after conspiracy against myself and so many others… and yet.. I have you.” He pressed his face into your chest. “And you are giving me a gift so wonderful that nothing else in the universe could hope to compare.”

He kissed your chest, a silent act of affection.

“I am happier than I can remember ever being. And it is because of you my dearest one.”

You hugged him, eyes also filled with sympathetic tears.

“All I did was get pregnant.” Your chuckle watery as you kissed the top of his head.

“And in doing this you have given me new hope for a future I had begun to lose hope in.”

He looked up and kissed you, softly at first, but as your hands carded through his hair it grew deeper, more passionate.

You moved back onto the bed and Roboute crawled up and over you. His mouth pressing kissed over your face, neck and chest.

“My wife,” he breathed, “my beautiful, magnificent wife.”

He kissed lower, stopping at your belly once more to place more kisses, then down further, only stopping between your legs. His fingers dipped into the band of your panties and pulled them down. You shivered at the knowledge of what he was about to do.

“Roboute-” He placed his hands on either side of your hips and held you still as he dug in, lapping his tongue over your lower folds.

Your sudden sharp gasp of pleasure only drove him on, his mouth lavished your cunt with long hot strokes savoring the flavor of you. You tasted different since becoming pregnant, almost sweeter in a way, he knew it was due to the change in hormones but still he couldn't get enough.

Your nails scratched over his scalp as your fingers buried themselves in his hair.

“Roboute, throne that's good, don't stop.” you moaned and he obliged. His tongue pushed deeper and as gathered your sweetness on his tongue, drinking it in with a please hum.

Your back couldn't quite bow with the weight of the baby but he could feel you shifting, pushing more of yourself into his mouth. Good, he wanted you to have all the pleasure you could. It was the least he felt he could do for what you were giving him.

You tugged at him, fingers grasped tight in his hair. He hissed as he looked up to see what it was that you needed. You were panting, red in the face and there was a familiar gleam in your eyes.

“Love, I need you.”

The primarch didn't hesitate raising up to your level again, only stopping to give you a kiss.

He grabbed your tummy pillow, a soft wedge that he placed at your side and another under your head as you rolled to your side. He stayed there for the long minute it took you to get comfortable before he stood to disrobe.

“Is there anything I can get you before to make you more comfortable?” He asked kneeling on the edge of the bed and carefully pulling the dress up more to so that he could more easily access lower half.

“No my dearest, just you.”

He nodded and laid down behind you. Even down on his side his body was much longer and it gave him some measurements of anxiety that he might squish you or hurt you by accident.

The one time he'd rolled over onto you in his sleep he'd been woke by you patting his face and he'd slept on his back or stomach ever since.

He thrilled as you snuggled back into him. His cock pressed against your thighs as you adjusted into place. His hand began at your hip, massaging as he trailed lower.

“I love you beyond my ability to express.” He hummed and you leaned your head back to look up at him.

“I feel the same.” You blushed, feeling just as giddy to make love to him now as you did the first time. It would never not be a special occasion to either of you.

Finally h stopped at your knees, scooping his hand under it and lifting it gently. His cock slid between yojr thighs and he brushed it over your entrance, preparing it to enter.

“Ready?” He asked softly.

You nodded. “I am.”

With your verbal assent he angled his hips and pressed in, slowly and carefully. He let out a low long groan. Void take him it was perfect, how warm and tight you always seemed to be for him.

Even after having you once earlier he was ready to go again, as were you. The pregnancy had made you seem insatiable, especially the farther along you got. Roboute had breached the idea of getting you some toys, but you only wanted him, stating that in this state he was the only thing that could actually give you any relief. Which he had silently allowed to stroke his ego.

His cock slid in another few inches until he had as much of himself inside you as could comfortably be managed. You exhaled a long breath and he looked down, watching closely for any discomfort.

“Good?” He asked, rubbing your knee idly with his thumb.

“Yes, it just feels good.” You smiled and laced your fingers with that of his free hand and he held your hand back gently. “Alright, I am going to begin then.”

His hips drew back a few inches, till he was half way out before pressing back in. It was a slow, easy pace. A careful and steady roll that allowed him to feel every inch inside you, much to his delight and your soft grumbled frustration. You wanted it harder and faster, but he wouldn't rut into you since you started showing, expectedly concerned about the welfare of the babe growing inside you.

You whined his name, needing him to speed up a bit, his show pace was blissful torture.

“Yes, my love?” He asked, voice teasing as he drew back again and lifted the hand he was holding to kiss the back of it.

“Robuuuu!~” you whined again and he smiled. “You wish to moan for me? Is that all?” You chafed at his cruelty, as he gave you only the slowest thrusts.

“Faster, please. I need you to go faster.” You gripe, and Roboute kisses your hand again. “I see… Theoretical, I will continue to enjoy this slow pace for a while longer.”

You glared up at him as best you could. “Practical, I roll off this bed and finish myself in the bathroom.”

Roboute laughed and hooked your leg over his and with his bow free hand tilted your face up to look at him.

“Alternative Practical. You know you cannot; you told me yourself that you can't get off without me.” He rumbled, voice husky and deep with his lust.

He was right of course but it only frustrated you further. Your eyes went a bit glassy as they filled with the unshed tears and you put on your most pitiful expression.

“Please Roboute… please.” You pleaded and his expression softened.

“Oh very well.” He brushed your cheek with his thumb and withdrew slowly one last time, just because and then picked up his pace to give you what you so desperately craved.

The first proper moan was long and tremulous. The soft slap of skin on skin louder, and you could feel his hefty sack drag over your lower thigh. You reached down to cup them and Roboute groaned. “Enjoying your balls?”

You smiled. “Yes, it is only proper I give them my thanks whenever I am able.” You gave them a loving squeeze and let them go. The primarch groaned so loud it shook your body.

His free arm wrapped around your chest as he hugged you closer. His pace picked up slightly and your head fell back against his chest.

“Throne that's good, just like that.” You moved your hips as best as you could to meet his thrusts.

Roboute grinned ear to ear as he watched you get off on his cock. He loved the way you startled him, the way you needed him. As if it proved he was good enough. It also got him off to know you were enjoying yourself. He kept the pace, knowing it would be enough unless you told him otherwise and he would gasped more easily if you came first.

Your movements became more needy, pushing back with more force, he increased his force but kept the pace. “Is my wife going to cum for me?” He asked and you nodded, your eyes going a bit hazy and half lidded. “Words.” He ordered softly and you moaned as your fingers tightened around his. “I'm,” you moaned again as his cock pressed into the sponge bit of your inner wall and your walls clamped down on his cock. “I'm going to cum. Roboute Im going to cum, don't stop.”

He kept on as he felt your pussy clench, his own guts tightening with the telltale sigh he was going to cum as well.

“Good, cum for me, come for your husband. For your primarch.” He growled, and you did, with a gasp and the clenching of your hand and body.

He came just a few thrusts later. And even if this seed would not fertilize you as you were already full of life he knew that in a few weeks, after the birth of his son, you would be at peak fertility again and it made his cock harder once more.

You looked up at him and touched his cheek.

“Round two?”

He nodded, you didnt even need to ask.

The next morning he was back for another meeting, and his mind felt numb. All he could see was your sweet smile, your beautiful eyes and the way you looked, cumming for him.

He needed to touch you.

The chatter at the table came to a standstill and he looked up from holofeeds to see why.

Your soft, well rounded form came waddling through the door. A very stressed Cato came in after eyes wide as he watched you waddle away with more enthusiasm. “My Lady please!” he urged quietly.

Roboute sighed deeply. “Cato?” He asked. “I'm so sorry my Lord, she wouldn't listen.” The promarch held back his laughter as you came to his side of the table and crawled up into his lap.

“You didn't think to stop her?”

“You never told me how I should.” he seemed a bit panicked. “And she has not done this before!”

The primarch just shook his head. “You may go Sicarious.” He gestured to the door. His son looked crushed to have failed his father.

“You're not in trouble Cato.” He called after him and his gene-son nodded before he went.

Calgar went back to his previous business. And the primarch looked down at you. “You are incorrigible.”

You leaned up and kissed his chin. “Indeed.” You smiled and he placed a kiss on your forehead, turning his attention back to the strategy at hand, finding his focus much less divided as you snuggled into his chest.

He held you close. His tiny wife. His tiny, amazing and magnificent wife.

[diabolicalevil]

me and my warhammer faves moodboard

[beckyninja]

Deciding to go back and reblog some of my favorite older Warhammer fics. (Not mine.)

Why? Because more people need to see them!

I give you bittersweet soon-to-be Dad Guilliman by the incomparable @moodymisty.

(I cannot wait to progress to a point in my Guilliman story where I can show him being a dad.)

Hello, I hope you are doing well. And summer ends on a joyful note✨

Roboute Guilliman/reader-eternal(can she be related to Malcador?👀) Maybe NSFW?🤭I'm sure most primarchs have a breeding and pregnancy kink🤔 But Roboute is a special case: he had a good family and loving parents. He himself wants to be the same as Conor. He has a legacy to pass on. And if these inclinations of his had previously subsided, then now that he has a reader who can endure, nothing stops him. How would his Astartes react to the possibility of their primarch having a child of his own? How do they treat the reader?

Author's note: There's a lot here, so I thought it would be best to format my thoughts in my usual headcanons with a small drabble at the end way to make sure I could speak all my thoughts. I hope that's acceptable to you ;3 This one ended up not having any overt sauce because I got so distracted by sweet Guilliman, but if you desire the full NSFW, you're always welcome to send in another request because I'm a dolt xD

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions to NSFW things but nothing overt, Tokophobia/Pregnancy mentions, Typical 40kness

I'd agree that a good amount of the Primarch's have that sort of kink, but it manifests in very different ways depending on which Primarch it is.

Lorgar wanting to corrupt purity or fall victim to primal temptations, Vulkan's desire for family, Magnus wanting to share his teachings; Guilliman's is more of the traditional sense.

For as long as he can remember, he's tossed away the idea of ever having a family. Given his lot in life, his duty to humanity, that isn't a thing he can indulge in. He has no time for such selfishness.

He's resigned himself to fighting for others to have that gift, not himself.

When you arrive in his life, Guilliman suddenly remembers how hard it had been to push and keep those thoughts down, now that you serve to constantly remind him.

He has many fond memories of training or hunting with his adoptive father, and one day he would like to have the same with his own child, if the galaxy would let him be so selfish.

When you do tell him you're with child he's an absolute mess though. You're both treading into unknown waters, after all. No matter how strong you are he still worries about your health.

The Ultramarines definitely have their qualms about it though.

Keep in mind they were raised from kids to be stalwart killing machines, so the kind of thoughts and dreams their Primarch is having are... weird to them.

They have more interaction with baseline humans that say the Dark Angels however, so they aren't totally out of touch.

You did disturb one of Guilliman's men when you keeled over in pain and he attempted to make sure you didn't fall, and he felt your child kick his palm. His disturbed face is forever seared in your memory as one of the funniest things you've ever seen. You're pretty sure the marine's squad still beats him up about the whole thing.

Mostly so, his captains and commanders worry. They know that you serve as a weakness (speaking in a logistical sense) to Guilliman that can be taken advantage of.

He's exactly where you expected him to be.

The green haze of the hologram map shines against his skin, having been growing palid over the past weeks. Guilliman often times works himself into an awful state, pushing himself to the mental limit before finally taking respite.

You can't stop him from doing it. So the least you can do is enjoy a few moments of time with him alone before he goes back to the bridge of the Macragge's Honor to hear any updates from his commanders.

When he notices you in the doorway, his face perks up considerably.

"You should be resting." He instantly comes at you with, and you can't help but sigh.

"Not even a hello?" You come closer, and it's his turn to sigh. You walked all the way here, it's the least you can get from him. He puts a hand on your shoulder and presses his lips to the top of your head.

"Hello. You should be resting." There's papers, scrolls and plastic flimsies spread across the edges of the hologram table, clearly a mess done by him.

"I just wanted a few minutes alone with you, is that so wrong?" He sees the small hint of a smirk on your face, as he pulls away to lean on his hands pressed against the holotable. He takes a glance towards your belly.

"How are they?" You're well past showing at this point, and it will only be a few months until you're finally face to face with your child.

"Finally asleep, it seems. They stopped kicking my stomach."

He lets the smallest smile on his face.

"Yearning to fight, even bef-"

The door suddenly opens, revealing an unfamilar to you Ultramarine captain. A hand rests on the pommel of his chainblade, helmet tucked into his elbow. He also has the worst timing in the known galaxy, interrupting your private moment before it even had a chance to truly begin.

"Lord Primarch, You have a vox. Legion Captain Hektor holds news of a new world." The captain looks in your direction and nods his head.

"Apologies, Legion Mother."

You'll never get used to that title. One of many you had thrust upon you when you'd entered into a relationship with Roboute, even if they technically were not official. You were not bound by law as of yet, but the Chapter had taken to calling you Legion Mother none the less. It becoming official was less so a possibility, and more so an inevitability. The Captain bows and takes his leave, and the both of you are alone once again.

"Will I be attending this diplomacy meeting as well?" You joke, looking up to the Primarch.

"If you can do so without straining yourself, then possibly." Guilliman won't deny that you have a knack for diplomacy, no matter how much you might say otherwise. He wishes for worlds to surrender peacefully; He also wishes for you to remain in good health.

"Now go rest. The both of you."

You feel an armored hand gently press against your aching belly. Carrying a Primarch's child hasn't be easy on your body in the slightest; Even more so than a normal human child. You'll happily indulge in the rest, with one exception.

"As long as you come and join me once you're finished. Please?"

Even if you can get him to take a few minutes of respite, you'll consider it a victory. Roboute sighs as he looks downward.

"I will try." You just barely hear him mumble underneath his breath, as his hand still on your stomach. It moves slightly as he kneels.

"Be easy on your mother. She wasn't meant to carry someone like you."

His sentence makes you think for a moment, before he pulls away and lets you leave.

Guilliman did technically join you; But it was only after you'd already fallen asleep. He stepped into the room and gently sat down onto the massive bed, still in his armor. He didn't want to wake you and simply watched, hand sitting close to your leg. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment and his lips parted as he took a few deep breaths, and then took one more look at you- both of you, before standing and leaving again.

[saintsylestine]

Guilliman x f!reader

First chapter here

A/N: I warned yall this man is gonna make you work.... accurate portrayal imo (which is kinda what I'm trying to do with this series ehe)

Cw: none! Just some plot building

A Model of Order pt 2

Preparation

21:17.

You haven’t moved in twenty-three minutes.

You sit at your desk, upright. Unblinking. Hands folded. Slate off. Vox silenced.

Your room is clean. Your uniform laid out like ritual: tunic, gloves, belt, collar clasp, boots polished so hard you can see the tremor in your chest reflected if you stare too long.

You haven't put it on yet.

Not because you're afraid.

Because you're calculating the exact moment to begin.

He told you 22:00.

No earlier.

No later.

That means something.

You stand.

Strip. Wash again. Not because you're unclean—because your skin still remembers last time. The silence. The weight. The heat between your legs when he didn't touch you, didn't speak, just looked.

You towel off.

Put the uniform on in precise order. Tunic. Gloves. High collar fastened so tightly it presses against your pulse. Boots locked in, soles silent. Vox bead inserted.

You don’t look in the mirror.

Not tonight.

You know what you’ll see.

21:42.

You allow yourself the walk.

Slow. Controlled.

Sublevel Red is nine corridors and four security gates down. Normally requires a primarch-level key. Tonight, it will recognize you.

Your boots echo softly in the quiet.

No one else is here. Of course not.

You haven’t seen another soul since 20:00. You think—no, you know—he arranged that.

You descend.

At the final security gate, you hesitate. Just for a breath.

It opens the moment your hand lifts.

No scan.

No password.

He’s already watching.

You take the final steps down.

Sublevel Red is before you.

The door is simple. Black stone. Seamless. Unmarked.

No signage. No panels. No reason it should be here at all.

You stand before it, breath even, heart a quiet drumbeat inside your ribs.

Your slate buzzes once in your pocket.

You don’t check it.

You know what it is.

Permission.

You lift your hand.

Touch the door.

It’s warm.

It opens.

And you step inside.

The door seals behind you with a hiss too soft for how heavy it feels.

This is not a meeting room.

It’s a tomb.

No sigils. No guards. No banners. Just you. The dark. And a single hololithic table humming cold-blue light across polished obsidian.

You’re not alone.

He’s already there.

Standing beside the projection with hands folded behind his back. Posture perfect. Still as judgment.

Roboute Guilliman.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t look at you.

You bow anyway.

He waits one breath. Two. Then—

“You’re late.”

You’re not.

You glance at your inner chronometer. 21:59.

“I arrived precisely on time, my lord.”

He turns. Slowly.

The movement is too precise for human.

His gaze lands on you like weight dropped from orbit.

“No,” he says. “You arrived on your schedule. I summoned you to mine.”

Your pulse jumps.

You don’t flinch.

He gestures to the hololith.

The table blooms to life—data fragments, intercepted vox clips, corrupted logs, blurred pict-feeds of burning cities and grinning commanders. A dossier opens in the center.

Inquisitor Tharell Gant.

Decorated.

Now purged.

“This man killed millions.”

His voice isn’t angry.

It’s restrained. Heavy with consequence.

“Over fourteen months, he falsified tactical projections, manipulated Ecclesiarchal policy, and sterilized three hives.”

The images change—ash drifting like snow. Towers reduced to blackened ribs. Children’s shoes left where feet once were.

“The Inquisition deems him rogue. I call that laziness.”

You step closer. The table’s light reflects off your gloves, your collar, your throat.

The data’s incomplete. Deliberately.

Half-truths, redactions like knife wounds. You’re being watched, not for your logic—but for what you do with insufficient truth.

“I want to know why,” he says.

“You have one hour.”

You glance up.

“With respect, this isn’t enough—”

It’s all you get.”

That stops you.

You inhale once.

Then you step into the light.

And begin.

---

For fifty-eight minutes, you disappear.

But not into silence.

Into him.

Into the weight of his presence, not felt through sound, but through stillness. Guilliman does not move. You are certain of this—not because you watch him, but because you feel him. Behind you. Unblinking. Like the edge of a blade waiting to be noticed.

You stand at the console.

The hololith breathes in broken information.

It is not a clean briefing.

It is not truth.

It is fragments, deliberately warped.

Scrambled vox recordings. Filtered auspex logs. Redacted Ecclesiarchal decrees with missing datestamps.

Gant’s name repeats across sectors like a virus.

But the narrative?

It refuses to be clear.

This is not an investigation.

This is absolution by autopsy.

You are being asked to carve motive out of rot.

You begin with the audio logs.

Crackling orders. Panic in the background. Children screaming. Prayers. Then silence.

You tag the voice signatures. Trace the command tone. Listen to Gant’s intonations. He doesn’t sound afraid. He sounds committed.

You cross-reference troop movements. Supply delays. Civilian detainment patterns. Where one would expect random cruelty, you find… structure.

There is a pattern to the sterilizations.

Not random heresy-cleansing.

Targeted isolation of religious drift.

You freeze. Just for a second.

He wasn’t punishing defiance.

He was eradicating instability before it could infect others.

You realize:

He was performing a kind of ideological quarantine.

Not a madman.

Not a traitor.

A surgeon. Cutting too deep.

And believing it was the only way to save the body.

Your throat tightens.

You scroll faster. Your gloves leave faint prints on the interface.

You don’t hear Guilliman move—but somehow, his presence feels closer.

The air behind you has changed.

Not warmer. Not colder.

Just... weighted.

You know he’s watching. Not for results.

But for how you breathe.

How you choose.

How your shoulders react when you realize:

You agree with Gant.

In part.

In theory.

You shouldn’t.

You do.

Not because you’re weak.

Because the math is sound.

At the fifty-eight minute mark, you isolate the core pattern:

He struck only where devotional compliance had failed to produce material loyalty.

Where faith had become pageantry.

And in that moment, you understand something worse.

He wasn’t a monster.

He was afraid of monsters who hid behind the Emperor’s name.

He thought this was mercy.

You step back from the console.

Hands cold. Spine straight.

He has not moved.

“Report,” he says.

You speak, voice low.

“He was isolating ideological contamination points—preemptively striking at systems that failed to maintain devotional compliance. He saw instability not as disobedience, but as infection.”

“He wasn’t serving Chaos.”

You hesitate.

Then you say it.

“He thought this was mercy.”

The room holds still.

Then, slowly, he steps toward you.

The space between you shrinks to almost-nothing.

He towers over you. Not hostile. Not cruel. Studying.

“You see the shape of him,” he murmurs.

You can feel the air change. Thicker. Slower. Charged.

"You understand him.”

A pause.

His voice drops.

“The question is… how far are you from becoming him?”

The silence that follows slices deeper than the words.

You don’t answer.

You don’t breathe.

He watches you for one moment longer than protocol allows.

And then—he steps back.

“You may go.”

That’s all.

No praise.

No rebuke.

No analysis.

Just dismissal.

The door opens behind you.

You leave.

You do not look back.

But his words follow you like a shadow that never blinks.

---Aftermath (you)---

You walk out of Sublevel Red like you’ve just returned from war.

Not externally.

Your posture holds.

Your boots click in even rhythm.

You even nod to the servitor posted by the turbolift, as if your spine weren’t still locked in the shape of his voice.

But inside?

Your breath feels wrong.

Too measured.

Like something behind your ribs is still being held in place by command tone and inertia.

You enter your quarters.

You don’t sit.

You don’t pace.

You simply stand in the center of the room, arms at your sides, like you're still waiting to be addressed.

There is no silence here.

Not really.

The hum of the ventilation system. The low pulse of systems on standby. The residual tension in your body that keeps replaying one line over and over:

“The question is… how far are you from becoming him?”

You want to say it doesn’t matter.

You want to believe it was just a test.

But that’s the problem.

It wasn’t.

He didn’t ask because he wanted an answer.

He asked because he already saw something in you that made him wonder.

You move to the sink to wash your hands. Not because they’re dirty.

Because they’re cold.

You stare at them.

Flex your fingers.

No tremor.

That should comfort you.

It doesn’t.

You realize you haven’t taken your gloves off since the test began.

You peel them off slowly. One finger at a time.

There’s ink residue at the edges of your cuticles—transfer from the console’s age-worn edge. It’s minor. Faint.

You shouldn’t notice it.

But you do.

Because it’s evidence.

Of how long you stood there.

Of how deeply you reached into Gant’s mind.

Of how closely you mirrored him.

You think about reporting your findings.

You don’t.

You think about showering.

You don’t.

You just stand there, hands bare, watching ink dry into your skin like a brand no one else can see.

And beneath the silence, a new thought starts to pulse—

He didn’t praise you.

He didn’t reprimand you.

And somehow… that feels like permission.

You are not afraid.

You are ready.

---Aftermath (him)---

Sublevel Red

22:59

He does not move.

The chamber is empty now—your footsteps long faded, your scent already gone from the air, your silence still burning behind him.

The hololith still glows.

He doesn’t look at it.

He could replay the footage.

He doesn’t need to.

Every movement, every hesitation, every breath you took is already filed behind his eyes. Your voice is timestamped. Your analysis, memorized. The moment your posture shifted from uncertain to resolved—marked.

She didn’t falter.

She didn’t plead.

She understood.

Not just the logic.

Not just the numbers.

The man.

Gant had been a tool, refined by fear and sharpened by mercy. Guilliman recognized the shape of him because it was his own reflection, cracked and discarded.

You saw it, too.

And you didn’t flinch.

That disturbed him more than he would ever admit.

He stood perfectly still—posture locked, jaw tight, arms folded behind his back in the formal grip of command. But his shoulders were too rigid. His eyes fixed not on the hololith, but through it—searching for your echo in the space you'd left behind.

She didn’t look back.

Of course you didn’t.

---

He meditated.

Not with silence.

With structure.

Streams of data. Resource calculus. Sector failures. The slow death of a galaxy quantified in rolling red. His breath was even. His eyes unfocused—but not empty.

This was the only way he ever found peace.

By parsing collapse into columns.

By containing madness in sequence.

Until lately.

Until her.

She did not intrude like a temptation.

She inserted like an algorithm.

Not in his skin.

In his process.

He would be mid-sentence—dictating orders, recalibrating fleet schedules—and catch himself asking:

What would she correct here?

Not because he needed her answers.

Because he wanted to know if she saw the same fractures he did.

If she saw him.

And not as the son of the Emperor.

Not as the reborn Archstrategist of the Imperium.

But as a man two steps from ruin, holding the line because there’s nothing else left to be.

The last time he’d felt this kind of pressure, he was bleeding in a stasis-field on the edge of death.

This was worse.

Because it didn’t come with agony. It came with possibility.

He hadn’t asked for her by name.

Not aloud.

But her assignments changed. Slowly. Subtly.

High-clearance. Frontline intelligence. Solo.

He rewrote her orders. Silently.

Moved her closer.

Not because she was needed.

Because she was resonant.

---

Macragge. Deep Vault. Night Cycle.

He entered the sealed reliquary alone.

One gloved hand against the palm scanner. The chamber hissed open. Not with reverence. With ritual.

Inside: things he should have destroyed.

Things no one else knew he kept.

A shred of cursed scripture. A lock of braided hair. A broken blade etched with heretical code.

And the letter.

Lorgar’s writing.

Still preserved. Still potent.

He unrolled it without gloves. He wanted to feel it.

Even you, Roboute, will kneel. The moment will come not with rage, but with need. And when it does—you will call it reason. That is how you will lie to yourself.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then whispered—

“You were always wrong.”

But he said it too quickly.

Too automatically.

Because he wasn’t thinking of Lorgar.

He was thinking of her.

Of how she had stared into the cruelty of Tharell Gant’s mercy and didn’t look away.

Of how she had not spoken, even when she should have.

Of how he had watched her hold power, and hadn’t stopped her.

Not because he trusted her.

But because he needed to see what she would do.

And that need was growing.

Becoming architecture.

Threading itself through his routine.

And for the first time since his return from the edge of death, Roboute Guilliman did not feel like a reformer.

Or a tactician.

Or a son.

He felt...

Compromised.

And worse—interested.

-----------------------to be continued--------------

Ty for reading!!!! Would love to hear your thoughts (is it too slow??)

(∩∀`*)

Tagged (lmk if you'd like to be tagged in anything ever! And pls remind me if I forget tysm): @incrediblethirst