wxnheart

[wxnheart]

Short one for you.

Morgott and Mogh each reacting to a Tarnished who has a healing kiss (as in they kiss an injury and that heals and/or soothes it)?

Please?

Morgott

Is equal parts skeptical and intrigued, if only because his foul little Tarnished uses it as a flirting tactic.

So when he actually does get hurt, he thinks nothing of it for the injury is only minor (it’s a scar on his forearm). The Tarnished disagrees and offers to heal him despite his reservations—might I add that said reservations are because he feels as if he undeserving of such a thing.

Tarnished calls bullshit, tells him to sit still (because both parties are stubborn), kisses the scar on his forearm, and oh…

Morgott’s body tingles all over. Has goosebumps and his tail may or may not be curled in pleasure (read: it absolutely is).

Yes, he’s avoiding your smirk and no, his face absolutely is not hot, Tarnished.

Mohg

Interested like no one’s business.

Oh, so that is what you are capable of, hm? Well, why not put that to the test, beloved Tarnished?

Mohg is the one who absolutely will take advantage of this power because he enjoys the Tarnished’s kisses.

Sometimes (read: most of the times), there’s not even a wound there to kiss. Mohg just wants kisses and affection.

Said “wound” is almost always on the same cheek. Or near his mouth. Or on his mouth. What a coincidence.

[wxnheart]

That awkward moment when rarika’s consort meets rennala…

It’ll be awkward as hell, especially because she’s such an endearing person that the Golden Consort can’t help but feel sorry and guilty for her circumstances.

GC can’t help but wonder if Radagon even has a tinge of remorse for discarding Rennala so easily.

….If only they had the courage to ask.

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus (Interlude): "Peace Be With You."

There is something... fearsome... about being loved by a Primarch. It is new ground you're standing on, new territory being charted and navigated—history being made.

No creed could reassure you. No power could help.

It was only you, alone with your yearning. Alone with his.

And he was a mystery no longer.

You didn't think others could see it, the longing in his eyes, and if they did, they said nothing. You could only hold his gaze but for so long, the need of ten thousand years leaving you naked and vulnerable. You would have fled if you weren't rooted on the spot.

But where would you go if not to his arms?

You had rationalized that your passion for him was just as fearsome and, perhaps, forbidden, something to be questioned, maybe even condemned, but how could you explain to men the ardor of the divine? What would they say in return?

Heresy.

The word echoes through your mind, creating new ripples of terror. Your work did not matter. You fled.

Scurried would be more appropriate; it was a miracle you did not trip over your robes. You hoped you hadn't piqued the interest of the many passersby on your way—where were you going?

Yes. Of course. To him.

Once when the night had settled and the Imperium was tomorrow's burden, your love—your face warms at the endearment now—spoke plainly about the joys of solitude, the four walls of his quarters bearing witness to his fears, regrets, and loneliness. To his affection. And he turned to you, hallowed gaze burning bright, and if you weren't convinced before that what simmered between you two was worthy of record, you were then.

So yes, of course, you'd scurry to him. The joy of his solitude had since become yours.

And you find him there, placidly shouldering the burdens of the day. Perhaps the High Lords had found cause to invoke his ire yet again and he would not dignify them with a response, but there he was, stoic and working.

Resplendent.

It did not take much for him to be alerted to your presence and when your love—your face is heating up again—looks up, his eyes soften, and there you are, alone with the desire of ten thousand years.

No creed can reassure you. No power can help you.

Heresy.

Call it what you will but none could deny the ardor of the divine.

He sets his work aside and readily, you go into his embrace. His burdens cease for the time being, and your fears are abated.

And you call it peace.

— Roboute Guilliman.

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus: Fields of Nothingness and Glory.

His pursuit of perfection yielded nothingness in a field of glory. There was no heart, no spirit, only perfection for perfection’s sake, the desire for approval if only for a fleeting moment. He who was made in his Father’s image wilted at the idea of being seen as anything but.

It was different when he first dreamt of you.

He did not know where you came from. He just knew to engrave your likeness forever.

He could—would—not bear to consider otherwise, but his thoughts—such masterpieces—were consumed by you. And so he created. He created and sculpted. He created and painted. He created and commissioned and still, perfection seemed fleeting. Every line, stroke of the brush, and swatch of color paled in comparison to his thoughts and visions of you—what works of glory.

Pathetic.

He cast it all aside with a graceful flick of his wrist. Or sword.

Inadequate.

He who was made in his Father’s image wilted.

Wretched.

Because he became anything but.

He observes the sea of opulence, a symphony of empty platitudes surrounding him. Quietly lamenting, he’d almost had his fill of it all until he—you. It was you. Perfection in the flesh. He blinked, face stoic, demeanor incomprehensible to his sons, but you…

You…

Look at him.

And perhaps now he realizes it was all for naught, his fruitless pursuit. Perhaps not. The flick of the brush and the swatches of color, it did not compare to reality of your presence, surrounded by luxury, and when you finally locked eyes—glorious—perfection was fleeting no longer for he had obtained it.

And he engraved your likeness. Forever.

— Fulgrim.

[wxnheart]

Do you still do rarika asks? If so, could you do jealousy headcanons or fighting head canons (fighting over s/o)

Jealous Rarika headcanons.

Whereas Marika is straight-forward, Radagon leans towards subtlety and, at times, passive-aggressiveness, if only because he knows it angers Marika.

In Radagon’s mind, while you may have sworn your fealty and the rest of your days to Marika, your nights, your body, and your heart are his.

Marika’s strict governance of the Lands Between means that her time is mostly invested in just that; Radagon takes full advantage of this whenever he can and keeps your bed warm. Marika has her ways, though, and more often than not, you’ve found your days AND nights taken over by Marika and her… governance.

Her gaze is hard by nature, but Radagon knows the God Queen. You may not catch it, but he does, the way Marika narrows her eyes ever so slightly when he takes his rightful place by your side during public-facing events.

Marika knows how her consort moves, too. She’s not an overly affectionate person by nature, but for you, she’d do anything. Radagon sees this, too, and she cannot help but to smile ever so slightly at the dark shadow that crosses his eyes every time she showers you in accolades and gifts befitting your status. She’s an expert at ignoring the glares he throws her way.

Ah, but two can play at that game, Marika. You are cold, yes, but not unfeeling, and what Radagon cannot demonstrate through action, he most certainly can with words. There’s something about the way Radagon addresses you, deep and soft, an affectionate, teasing lilt in his voice that makes your cheeks hot and has you leaning towards him as if to hear more. “Milord…” is what he murmurs with such desire, such comfort, and it makes the God Queen sick.

Marika and Radagon, two sides of the same coin, who uses your body as a battleground. Neither side will yield and you’re caught in the middle, hot and trembling, covered in the fruits of their desires and yours, marked eternally, and from your lips does their names fall like a sin—“Marika…” “Radagon…”

Marika and Radagon, two sides of the same coin, caught up in a tempest of desire, will NEVER surrender you to the other. You have them, mind, body, and spirit do you have them, but they will never have you. Not completely. Not if the other has anything to say about it.

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus (Interlude): "The passion of my soul's desire..."

His end drew near. He felt it, dreamt it, and was torn by its horrors and the wonders of you.

Destiny rent his mind. You made it whole again.

The madness crept nearer, day by day, with every swing of his sword, with every chant of praise, whenever he took flight.

All for his Father's sake.

All for Man's sake.

And it rent his mind in two.

It reaches its peak one day, his foolishness, and the weight of his sword is instead traded for the firmness of your body, ensconced in his arms, shielded from his pain.

His kiss is frenzied. It stirs you to passion.

He tastes freedom on your lips and yearns.

You taste doom on his and mourn.

And still, you two are made whole once more.

— Sanguinius.

[wxnheart]

Hey, Happy New Year 🎆🎊❤️ Wishing you the best.

Wishing you a Happy New Year, too, nonnie. ❤️

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus: "...His love endures forever."

He never worshipped for worship's sake.

There was always a reason, conviction at the forefront of his mind, and his many treatises, reverence made material, paled compared to the visions of splendor that blessed his mind.

Those visions of splendor... the many wonders of you...

Beautiful.

His worship, once of the Father, had shifted. His words, reverence made material, rejoiced in honor of these dreams. The love that filled his heart in the aftermath was all-consuming, powerful, and he wished, oh did he wish...

Ecstacy. His body hummed with it.

He did not know exactly when and did not know exactly where, but he knew his meeting with you was imminent. And as he prepared, so, too, did he worship. So, too, were his treatises filled with your praises, and he supposes a love like this would last forever.

When your paths finally crossed, those marvelous dreams did you no justice. You were divine, heaven-sent, and it brought him to his knees in supplication. He took your hands in his, bowed his head gracefully, and kissed them adoringly, agony and ecstasy piercing his heart.

He never worshipped for worship's sake, and here he was, entranced by the many wonders of you.

And his love would endure forever.

— Lorgar Aurelian.

[wxnheart]

Domestic Radahn headcanons! How he is with his partner! What he does in his personal downtime! ANYTHING! 😳🫣

Starscourge Radahn, Domestic Headcanons:

Despite his immense popularity, Radahn is very selective about his inner circle and doubly so about his potential consort.

He is not one for dalliances. His relationship is meant for the long haul. To Radahn, marriage isn't a suggestion, it's an expectation.

Once Radahn finds his other half, however, he's absolutely obsessed with them.

Is the demigod who is almost always under his consort. If Radahn doesn't have other obligations to attend to, you two are inseparable.

He's very much a scholar at heart, too. It's not out of the ordinary to find you two in the personal study or library together, you busy with your devices and his nose in a scroll or book.

Of course, he also likes to keep you occupied in... other places, too. 👀

He's incredibly protective of you, too. Rennala and his siblings were the first to meet you. It was some time before you met the rest of the demigods. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've even stepped foot on Leyndell.

A hopeless romantic through and through. Once, when you two were watching the stars, he always told you to look to them whenever he's away because he'll be doing the same, looking to the sky and thinking of you.

Your first kiss happened under the stars as well.

He enlisted the help of the Redmanes to help propose marriage to you. Jerren officiated your wedding. It wasn't a large affair, just enough that all present could celebrate your love.

Your transition to married life with Radahn is pretty damn smooth (one of the smoothest among the demigods actually). Nothing really changes other than the titles you inherit and Radahn's increasing pride in the fact that he's your husband now.

An aside, but Radahn thinks you're cute when you're angry. You could be arguing your little head off and your giant of a husband is looking down, a serene smile on his face because he's absolutely besotted with his little firecracker consort. Has also kissed you mid-argument, too, because, again, you're so cute.

[wxnheart]

"the thought of a blushing Konrad is more terrifying than his Batman Who Kills schtick."

Jokes on you, the "hung" Konrad ask you called wholesome and every soft Konrad thing I've said he was intended to be blushing.

He's so pale, you just know it shows up clearly. And I want the reader insert to tell him this to his fucking face.

Wait this blog stanned blushing Dorn. So blushing Dorn is cute but blushing Konrad is unnerving? LMFAO.

Okay, yeah. Write it all out.

Konrad and Dorn are like apples and oranges, though, and Konrad's level of unpredictability varies, so a blushing Konrad would throw me off more than The Batman Who Curzed. Doesn't mean it would objectively be unappealing.

[wxnheart]

As horrifying as it is to think about Godwyn being aware in such a state, it’s also terribly fascinating and has that BB style of terrifying care. Do you think he can see through the Prince of Death talismans PC/Consort can pick up? Does it comfort him to have them hold even this broken, terrible fragment of himself? And do you think he cries if the PC/Consort leaves the Depths?

(Giving myself nightmares of how bad this could go, him roused to being “awake” with them going to leave, but you have me Hooked.)

Regarding the Talisman, that's rather wholesome in a terrifying way. What if he could? 👀

And if his consort were to leave, I can envision more Godwyns popping up throughout the Lands at an increasingly alarming rate. What if having the Talisman in his beloved's possession is what's making this happen more often?

[wxnheart]

You know what I've been thinking about, Morgott or Mogh being challenged by a tarnished but after receiving a heavy blow their helmet falls to the floor revealing that they were someone that would sneak into the sewers centuries ago just to check if Mogh and Morgott were alright.

(apologies for the English, it isn't my main language)

— 🐀

Wait, this reminds me of the found family ask I got some time ago.

What if each of the twins carried a memento of their Tarnished caretaker?

[wxnheart]

Feels like everyone on tumblr likes Konrad for the yandere horror stuff meanwhile I'm a sap desperately craving this mans relationship being one long hurt/comfort fic with a person who comforts and doms him with him also also displaying geniune care for them to show that it is not one sided, followed by loving sex with a blushing virgin Konrad.

Rip.

-🟩

Well, why don't you write it? Be the change you wish to see.

[wxnheart]

Now that you're back from your long hiatus/password loss there are two lines I've been wanting to ask for clarification on in your old writing.

In that Lorgar list where he looks down and sees his "shame made manifest" does he just have an erection or did he actually come?In that primarch hairdresser ask with Konrad "He refused to let you trim it. It actually needed to be cut" This might be a stupid question, but do trim and cut mean the same thing here? Like "he refused to let you cut it even though it needed to be cut" or "he refused to let you trim it a little bit like normal, but it was such a birds nest you had to cut large chunks out like a matted dog". And was it only sevatar who actually benifitted from this or did it help Konrad emotionaly a little bit too?

Tbh I think Konrads real fitting punishment for all he's done is going to be finding a loving home, but they have to brush out his hair in one setting….

-🟩

To answer your questions:

Whatever you think it is, it is.

Nope, trim and cut are two very different things.

[wxnheart]

I always was curious what Smasher be like if he found out his potential interest had a baby, not his obvs, but from an ex or whatever. How that might change his attraction to them

Even though Smasher ain’t kid friendly in the slightest, it wouldn’t really change his attraction. It takes some getting used to the kid, though.

Of course, said kid thinks Adam looks cool as shit and climbs all over him.

And Adam, surprisingly, sits there and lets it happen.

His head is not a fucking bongo to play on, though. Still, he lets it happen.

[wxnheart]

Hi! Hope your doing well, Sorry if my question botters you but I recently read amaré divinitatus and im a little lost could you explain a little the fic? Is the same reader or in every part is a different one? It's ok if you ignore this :3

Hey and no, your question doesn't bother me at all. I'm happy to clarify.

Simply put, the premise of the Amāre Divinitatus AU is that the Emperor of Mankind had visions of and found his soulmate long before the Imperium's inception. When the Primarchs were created, this psychic phenomenon was something they inherited from their father.

And to answer your second question, it's a different reader in every part.

[wxnheart]

Amāre Divinitatus: Iron Heart, Iron Hands.

These hands that have destroyed, forged, and destroyed again yearn for something else entirely.

They are a blessing and a curse, symbolic of his ruthlessness, the excitement of war simmering beneath his skin, and under normal circumstances, he would have gladly welcomed it.

You, however, are no such thing.

The metal coating his arms gurgles with the thrill of your defiance. You excite him in ways that past dissidents could not. You challenge him when others would not even dare, and if this were anyone else, he would have crushed them long ago.

But no... no... Not you.

It will never be you.

And so his hands, the architects of his success, hands that have destroyed, forged, and destroyed again yearn for the simplicity of holding and being held, of molding and enmeshment, of touching and being touched, the honor of carrying your iron heart, and brandishing the hammer of your defiance.

He had known long ago that something fated awaited him, had felt it even as he forged his homeworld into his own likeness, and as it stands bravely before him, the metal of his arms bubbling with excitement and thinly veiled wrath at your noncompliance, he wonders how it would feel to carry the weight of your heart in his hands.

He wonders how it would feel to mold the stoutness of it in his likeness.

— Ferrus Manus.