#CW: DV

[lemon-russ]

Okay so. I have no defense for this. Sometimes you just wanna be mistreated by seemingly kind, giant men. For the love of the emperor please mind the warnings.

A Wife's Duty

Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

Ao3 link

CW: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, referenced Abuse and DV, No sex, no comfort, unreliable narrator, manipulation, love bombing, DDDNE

Tags: (for the love of god read the warnings) @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @artemisareia

"My Lady?"

The voice of your Victrix Guard spoke through your closed chamber door, uncharacteristically timid.

"The Lord Reagent says you are free to roam now, and that he will see you in his study whenever you are ready…"

Rasmus was a good Ultramarine. He had been assigned to guard you by Roboute when you had started officially courting. His duties were to protect you, but also to serve as a chaperon when you were out of Roboute's sight. This wasn't his fault, and you always felt a little guilty whenever you grew irritated by his constant presence. 

Usually Rasmus wasn't allowed to be apart from you. The few exceptions were when you were with Roboute, and in times like now when you were given anything you asked for without question. So it was that you had a brief chance to dismiss Rasmus today, which seemed to leave him unusually anxious. His Primarch had ordered he never leave your side, and you were essentially out-ranking Lord Guilliman by ordering him away. 

You rolled over in your bed, wincing at the ache in your shoulder and pulling up your blankets to your chin. "Thank you, Rasmus." You called out, voice raspy. 

He stood outside the door a moment in silence. 

"Are you… going to speak to Lord Guilliman, then, My Lady…?"

You took a moment to answer. "Later. You are dismissed."

You heard the scraping of ceremite on metal as Rasmus anxiously shuffled outside your door, but ultimately he relented and left. 

You would go see your husband today, of course. You just needed time to think of what to say. You had apologized in the moment, and during, and after last nights events. You worried about seeming insincere if you showed up with more empty words at his office. He deserved more than "sorry".

You were sorry, but sorry doesn't help. You had to explain how you would do better from now on. Your hand gingerly pressed to your cheek, and you winced at the sting it brought. It was good you had turned down all the mirrors so you didn't have to see the reminders of your failure, but you also knew it would upset Roboute to see them as well.

Reluctantly, you pushed down your blankets and pulled yourself out of bed with some effort, favoring your left side and being careful not to stress your sore knee. You shuffled your way to your vanity and started pulling out your makeups, powders and paints. 

You braced yourself, but still flinched when you turned the mirror back to its correct position. It seemed like most of the markings at least were around your throat, easily coverable with a high necked gown. Your left cheek was a mottled purple, though. A difficult color to blend. Your frown made the bruise ache again as you started pulling out color correcting creams. 

After some trial and error, the skin on your face now mostly matched the uninjured side, if not looking more swollen. Paired with one of the new gifts from your husband- a new gown- your efforts were finished. The collar of the neckline ended under your chin, and the sleeves ended beyond your hands. It was soft and beautiful, embroidered with the Ultramarine Omega symbol on your shoulder. 

Touching the insignia made your stomach twist. A mark simultaneously claiming you as part of the legion, Legion Mother of the Ultramarines, Lady of the Lord reagent- but also a scarlet letter. You were another source of stress for Roboute. What right did you have to wear his mark? 

You dabbed tears from your eyes, composing yourself again. Roboute was waiting for you, and to keep him waiting after everything was untenable. 

-------------------------------------------------------

Roboute Guilliman was at the best of times, a very stressed man. The weight of the Imperium, the survival of humanity itself, rest on his broad shoulders. Juggling religious zealotry, tense alliances with Xenos, and the tedium of day to day rulership chipped away at the Lord Reagent. He was tired. His body ached in ways it was never meant to, his neck scar itched and twinged when he moved wrong, he felt bone deep fatigue that would crush a mortal man's spirit in seconds. 

So he could be excused if he lost his temper once in a while. 

It was not becoming of him, of course. And he did feel deep remorse when it happened. He was not his once-brother Angron, He was very composed 99% of the time. It was only occasionally, a little, when his guard was down and his emotions unmasked. 

Unfortunately, that was usually when his beloved little wife was nearby. She was his balm, normally. His closest confidant and his sweetest comfort. She made him feel not like a Primarch, but a Man. With her he was not putting up his guards or lying about how hard things were. He was just him, a Husband deeply in love and deeply tired.

She soothed him when he was agitated, praised him when he felt low, loved him at his worst. And last night was indeed, one of his worst. 

He sighed, putting his datapad down and leaning back in his seat, scrubbing his hand over his sallow face. He hadn't slept, of course, how could he rest? The guilt gnawed his ribs and churned his stomach. She would forgive him, as she always did, and he would do his best to erase the memory for her with gifts and love and freedoms. But he suffered an Idedic memory, and always remembered what happened when he lost his temper at his sweet, fragile wife. If only he could be mortal and forgetful like her. 

A small knock on his office door drew him from his contemplation. "Enter." He commanded, sitting prim and collecting himself. 

---------------------------------------------------------

You braced yourself as the doors to your husband's office slid open. He looked as regal as always, of course, datapads and parchments strewn about his desk. 

His face relaxed when he saw you, and he beckoned you in with a wave. "Ah, my love, good, I was waiting for you." He said, voice tired but warm. Non-threatening.

You stepped inside and gracefully strode to the front of his desk, purposefully ignoring the still unpainted patched wall near the door. 

You gave a traditional curtsy, which made Roboute sigh softly. 

"Such formality, my sweet. Come, it is only us." He said, smiling and patting his thigh. 

His brother may have been the one named The Lion, but you could think of no other comparison for how you felt in that moment but that a calm, happy predator was inviting you to put your head in its maw. Of course, being a loyal and behaved wife, you did so, trusting that this not-quite-human murder machine would not harm you right then. Because this was the soft phase. He was always soft and kind and warm right after. 

You gave a practiced smile and went to his side, letting him lift you gently onto his lap. You held in a hiss of pain as he agitated your injuries- because he did not like to be reminded that he had made them. 

"You are well, I hope?" He murmured into your hair as he pulled you closer. You nod. Words failed you. 

He sighed and rubbed your back, a gesture meant to soothe, though it irritated your bruises. "Good, good. I am glad our little spat is behind us." He sighed against your hair, warm breath tussling it. 

You wished you could be comforted. You wished you felt the flutter in your chest as he pressed his lips to your sore skull. But at the moment, all you felt was the single mindedness of a prey animal. Your lion was happy and satiated for now, but you didn't chance it. 

You would make him forget- or in lieu of that, forgive and move on. If you were sweeter and kinder and better, he would overlook last night's carelessness. 

---------------------------------------------------------

You'd been checking in on him, mug of recaffe in hand. He had been short that morning, and his responses were cut and tired. You knew your husband, perhaps better than any mortal had, you could tell when he wrote a little harder, frowned a little more often. He was stressed, and needed you to soothe him as you always would. A cup of recaffe and resting his head on your chest while you played with his hair and told him he was doing a good job would lift his spirits. 

And he was happy to see you, smiling at the mug in your hand and the pretty low cut dress you'd worn for him. The tension almost immediately started to ease. 

Until you tripped. 

You had only a second to process the recaffe stained parchments that fell to the floor in front of you. The panic that jolted through you didn't even let you notice the shards of broken mug you'd fallen into had cut your palms. You only had time to look up at the furious face of a demi-god and squeak out like a wounded rabbit, "Robu I'm sor-"

---------------------------------------------------------

The recaffe stain was still in the carpet, you noted, as Roboute continued to mutter sweet things into your ringing ear. 

"And of course you know, I do not mean what I say in the heat of the moment," he soothed, rubbing circles on your good shoulder with his thumb. "How do I deserve such a forgiving, loving woman as you, my love?"

You smiled and nuzzled to his chest in response, playing demure as he poured affection on you. But your mind was elsewhere. How loud was a Primarch's voice when they yelled? The tinnitus in your ears suggested very. Though it was less and less each time. You couldn't quite here high pitches anymore- some alarms on machinery now completely silent to you- but at least you didn't yell on accident for days like the first time. 

He was placated by now, and soothing himself with you. This meant your part to play was now just be cute and don't upset him, and to hide your pains. Your shoulder screamed at you as he squeezed you gently to his chest, but it's protestations were not as strong as your self preservation, so you simply giggled at his praises and kisses. 

The apothecary would be waiting for you in your chambers, still, as you hadn't completely masked your limp on the way in, but it was easier for you both to ignore it now. 

Your lion was feeling sorry and affectionate for now. It was much better to lay with him and let him be than to give him a reason to chase you down by distancing yourself. 

Next time, you would have a servant bring the recaffe in. You would learn, and improve, and love him harder as you always did. Eventually, he would run out of reasons to bat at his little mouse in anger. 

You Just had to be better. 

[arlerts-angel]

REMEMBERING SUNDAY — k. hanemiya

determined to show kazutora what love really is, the two of you become surprisingly close... but one day, kazutora disappears without a word.

💛 note: heed the warnings. it is not my intention to romanticize dv in any way, shape, or form. if this is triggering for you - skip this one and i'll see you next time <3 this fic is my first contribution to the fics for gaza initiative! thank you @reiners-milkbiddies for the donation and i hope you love it. 🫶 @ficsforgaza

⚠️ warnings: dark content. allusions to dv (kazutora's dad) | brief mention of murder x2 | hurt no comfort | canon-adjacent | gender neutral + physically ambiguous reader

if you asked kazutora what love was a couple of years ago, his answer would've been his fist in your face.

that's what he learned from his father.

you were determined to show his broken soul what real, true love was.

every day.

you pissed him off every day in the first year. so much so, that you learned how to take a punch.

slowly, but surely, kazutora started feeling remorse for his actions. he realized he didn't like hurting you when all you did was show him compassion.

it was a hard realization for him; that you were a lot like his mother, who only ever loved him, and his father, even when it hurt her.

you quickly became his solace. kazutora would start using different coping mechanisms until he learned not to be violent in the name of love.

some days were harder for kazutora, and he'd need some time alone. "healing isn't linear," you told him, "i'm here when you're ready."

he started going to your house instead of his every day - it became his home away from hell.

he'd tell you all about this new gang he founded with a few of his buddies. he knew you didn't like it, but always assured you that it was good, and it was good for him.

a couple years passed and the two of you grew together, as did your feelings. you never addressed it. the way your relationship was, there was no need to. you were happy. he was happy. "if it's not broke, don't fix it" type of thing.

he held your hand every day to and from school. he'd walk you home even if he had a meeting with the gang.

he'd go over to your house and stay as long as he could on sunday's until your parents said it was time for him to go home. he'd kiss your forehead in secret and say "i'll see you in the morning".

but one monday morning, kazutora didn't show up to your house.

he didn't walk you to school and he didn't walk you home.

you heard through the grapevine all day that he went to juvie for third degree murder.

your parents explained to you what they saw on the news. kazutora had, in fact, been sent to juvenile detention for killing his friend's brother.

kazutora...? no... not my 'tora.

the only people allowed to call or visit were his immediate family.

you didn't see him for two years.

you didn't hear from him for two years.

two agonizing years.

at your locker, you heard a jingle. soft, yet loud enough to grab your attention. it came from someone's earring. he had a thousand-yard stare, as if he'd been through the trenches. his face seemed familiar.

kazutora?

he looked at you only for a second, and in that second you swore the life returned to his eyes.

maybe he didn't forget...

he blinked, and his eyes were lifeless again. he muttered to himself and carried on - he never looked back.

kazutora wanted nothing more than to hold you and cry. it pained him to walk away from you, deep down.

i don't have time... must kill mikey...

banner + dividers by cafekitsune

taglist: @milky-aeons @lees-chaotic-brain @katkusuo @tetta-kissaki @priv-rose

@toji-girl-main @blueberrisdove @darkstarlight82 @kodzukein @trevengersprincess

@little-miss-chaoss @i-literally-cant-with-this @ravereina

[dizzy-izzy-in-a-tizzy]

Ned gets the urge to sail away in the night; to take one last choice from Izzy. But he fails to convince himself, drifting off before he can make the order.

Izzy is gone by first sunlight, as Ned knew he would be.

. . .

Art: @adhdedteach.bsky.social on Bluesky.

[writingwisterias]

If re2 Leon (he's my favourite) accidentally laid a hand on us during an argument, he didn't mean it (he would never purposely hit us) what do you think his reaction will be

I do have an eras request on this! I've just taken a mini break from them because I had a lot going on and they take a lot of thinking power and Re2 is one of my favorites too!!

Cw: Abuse, DV

The only way with him that I think it would happen is after Raccoon City and more of a flinch/defensive way. Maybe you approached him too fast or something..

When he does it, he pulls away, apologizes but won't touch you. Infact he'll probably just leave needing/wanting the space to cool down. He will come back to apologize, trying everything he can to make it up to you in someway. Will probably be off for a few days out of guilt, especially if he left a mark

[wastheheart-arc]

EEAAO Starters

@feltferal asked: ❛ you didn’t have to. it’s the way you look at me. ❜ (thank you!)

The door is behind Jasper. A stupid, rookie mistake on her part, but it had been years since she had to remember. Instead she examines the grains of the oak-made table, unable to meet Jasper's gaze. She does not want him to see her guilt, but more importantly she does not want to see him.

His words are familiar, too. It reminds her of the days she would come home and smell alcohol on Charles' breath. She would suggest that perhaps he bathe and he would accuse her of branding him a drunkard. Of course it was something she vehemently denied, but the damage had already been done. She could still hear him counting down now, see that smile curling the corners of his lips—

Her eyes fall tightly shut and a hand comes to grip around the edge of the table. She does not mean to damage furniture, but fingers splinter through wood to curl into her palm instead.

"I'm sorry," she manages to eventually choke out... "I know it must seem the case, but it truly isn't you." Esme can't help the way her voice trembles. "I swear it."

[indierokkers2005]

Xavier was hitting that bunny but I wish he was hitting me instead

[swordluck]

⚘  @culltist // cont.

All around them were the trappings of sparse domesticity, of a shared life. Flowering weeds wilting in their chipped vase, two glass tumblers racked and drying by the sink, a half-read book spread face-down on the kitchen table, lace-strewn boots stacked by the back door. Works of fantasy, Anri understood now. Sedatives. Distractions. Mirages.

Their home had been lined with teeth all this time, a feather-lined nest lovingly built on the trigger plate of a bear trap. Steel jaws snapped around her wrist, Beraiah grasping hard enough to bruise, staining her with the blood that spoiled his work-worn hands.

“You’re h–”

Her protest was shot dead before it could leave her throat. Beraiah loomed and snarled and listed her shortcomings, heaping bodies at her feet. Bad wife, bad woman, bad congregant. Violent waves of guilt struck her as she was berated, beaten without her husband ever once raising his hand. Still his grip tightened as he shook her by the shackle, a terrier with a pebble-eyed rabbit.

All illusion of safety shattered as glass against the rolling boil. At last, Anri realised the danger she was in. There was a version of this story that ended with her body bloating and baking under the all-seeing eye of the desert sun. This man would split her like a pomegranate or strangle her with her own apron strings if it was deemed necessary – and if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you !

It was a relief when her vision blurred, cornflower-blue eyes burning as they brimmed with tears. Mercifully, they saved her from the sight of her husband’s face, the unholy dark of his gaze, that murderous expression overflowing with contempt. There might have been hurt bubbling beneath his anger, but Anri could not see beyond her own pain and fear and guilt.

The reek of smoke clung to everything, rendering the very air abrasive and sour. It scraped her throat, now swollen shut by the sob that lodged there like a stone or a boatman’s penny. Face scrunched with grief, Anri could only nod frantically, mutely, as if to say she had heard him, that he had made himself perfectly clear.

[currentfications]

(TBOSAS spoilers, mention of DV below)

Tbh this. On one hand, I get it- it’s fiction, and I need to stop taking things too seriously sometimes. But with that being said, orange flags save lives: it’s better to leave a questionable situation than stay until it becomes an actual threat.

As someone who went through a tad of DV in the last few years, I wish I had left. I wish I was told that it is absolutely okay to run at an orange flag- that it’s better to overreact than be stuck in an unsafe situation.

With that being said, if your partner blamed Lucy Grey for Snow’s action: RUN. Run and don’t look back. They did not just misunderstood the message, they think possession is love. And it’s not.

Take care of yourself peeps 🙆🏻‍♀️

I’ve seen a lot of people say that without the book’s inner dialogue of Snow they can’t tell that movie snow is bad, just misunderstood.

I think we need to teach people how to read red flags better cuz the sign of the first orange one Lucy ran, didn’t matter how attractive he was. She didn’t need his inner thoughts to go.

[tiredsn0w]

"I want to be nonverbal so that people are more understanding/patient with me" but someone wants you to speak to them, and you can't, so they start yelling at you, demanding you not ignore them, calling you rude, ungrateful, and so on, perhaps threatening to take away your autonomy (further!) if in a position to do so, and all you can do is look at them and fail to say anything, hoping they don't escalate to physical violence just to try and get you to make a sound.

[imembarressedsohere]

Claudia (+Louis and Lestat) Angst Edit.

[strangenewwords]

Marauders #22 (2019)

So in an INSTANT I knew a woman did not write this. what. the fuck. marvel. this whooooooole set up was unbelievable amounts of fucked up. this whole issue. they could have made it so anything but this. Omg.

[iamgodsoopsie]

Astarion Headcanons (that you probably won't like) Pt. 1:

Part 2 link

BG3 does an excellent job at depicting SA trauma and the beginning of the healing process/journey. Many of the headcanons I've seen floating around (intentionally or unintentionally) gloss over the uglier side of healing from (prolonged) trauma. I'm not judging anyone for magically healing him, he's fictional after all, but I'd like to make some more ...realistic... headcanons.

Disclaimer: Everyone's healing process looks different, but they tend share commonalities. These headcanons are based on my own experiences. Not everyone who is healing from their trauma will experience what I have or have experienced it like I have.

[Please don't message me with explicit details about your trauma. I am at the point in my healing journey where I can share my experiences, and commiserate with other's similar experiences, but I am unable to support others in a more personal manner at this time. I wish you the best of luck in your healing process/ journey.]

Spoiler warning

Mental illness, SA, & DV Trigger Warnings

These headcanons are based on an Astarion who is still a spawn and romantically involved with a Tav who honestly loves him and isn't abusive or manipulative. Also Cazador is dead and Astarion got to stab him. They also assume that he himself does not turn into Cazador 2.0 or Wish.com Cazador.

He needs a LOT of love and patience. Which, frankly, many people don't have.

He's messy af. If "Damn bitch, you live like this?" was a person it'd be him. C-PTSD is a hell of a drug. I think he wants to be more organized and clean than he is, it's just going to be a looong process for his inside appearance to match his outside appearance. (His appearance may stay mostly the same or drastically change).

---Don't believe me? Just look at the outside of his tent: it's mostly organized and sophisticated, but the inside is messy and he sleeps on a plank of wood with a threadbare stained blanket.

He'll struggle with control issues rooted in his anxiety until he finds a way to channel that energy in to something productive and/or healthy.

---He'll veer between controlling micromanager (aggressive) and door mat (people pleasing/ passive) until he finds his (assertive) middle ground.

Anger issues ahoy! He went through "200 years of shit. PURE SHIT!" and had to dissociate/repress his feelings to 'survive'.

---Stabbing Cazador was cathartic, but it only released the surface level of his repressed rage.

-----An interesting line from the game that I haven't seen enough people talk about: When you tell Astarion to keep his cool when Cazador is goading him, Cazador scoffs and sarcastically asks Tav if they've witnessed his "fits of rage". (Of course a "fit of rage" to Cazador is probably Astaion having a slight frown when Cazador wants him to smile and be a pretty toy to show off.)

He will try to push you away and 'test' you to see if you stay consistent in respecting him and his boundaries. He needs to make sure you don't turn into a Cazador when you two are in an argument. He needs to be sure that his "No" is respected when in a steamy moment after a dry spell.

---This probably won't be as intense as it otherwise would've been because of what you two went through together, but he'll still do it.

-----He probably doesn't realize what he's doing, and when he does he'll shame spiral.

I hope you are prepared to patiently give lots of reassurance and affirmation about the same things over and over again.

---It'll sometimes seem as though he is seeking permission, but if you ever act as though you are giving him permission instead of affirmation/ reassurance he will become very defensive.

He's indecisive but unwilling to listen to your input.

---He went from 200 years of having no control or ability to make his own decisions to suddenly being free, he's going to feel overwhelmed.

-----He'll eventually realize that you have his best interest at heart and that you are not telling him what to do, you're offering suggestions to help him make an informed decision.

There's so much more but I'm tired. He'll eventually heal and live a happy and healthy life, but it'll be a bumpy road to get there.

[mettamorph]

The sexuality headcanon

Most of this is actual canon but I’m going to expand on the gravity of the situation because the abuse IS the ENTIRE reason that RE6 happens.

Cw: sex abuse, grooming, marital abuse, domestic abuse, forced pregnancy

The purpose of Project Ada was to design a perfect subjugate and partner for a sexual predator and sadist who intended to continue his prestigious patrilineal family line with said partner. Simmons molded Carla into shape for this role, intending to sit with her atop the entire world in terms of power.

Simmons groomed her from childhood, Simmons put her on her biomed track, and Simmons murdered her.

Her training as Ada Wong and brainwashing left her to consider herself a willing subordinate and whim of Simmons, and convinced her that she loved him despite the abuse she was enduring. He was the type of person to control her life completely, and then lose his mind when she didn’t conform to his whims or ideas of who and what she needed to be. He was physically and emotionally violent to her in response to deviations, and he pinned these outbursts on her inability to “be herself”. This extended to perfect diction, her speech patterns, dietary restrictions, schedules, and emotional expressions. Keep in mind, this guy married her to put her into this position and “bring her to heel”. 

That kind of control broke when she found a “letter to her future self” written in her own handwriting. She started rebelling against him in escalating ways. She slept around (he killed these people when he found out), and took the man that would come to be known as Glenn Arias, Derek’s former friend, as one of her extremely clandestine lovers.

This setup afforded her a kind of manic rebellion against Simmons, particularly when he started prepping her to have his children (it wasn’t a choice). Sex was very purposeful with this guy, and usually intense in a violating way. 

Ultimately, she has things she needs to work through because of sexual misconduct by Derek Simmons, domestic abuse, and brainwashing. However, she hasn’t made the choice to stop having sex because of it.

She doesn’t have language for it that isn’t strictly scientific, but she is definitely a nonbinary person, with bisexual interests. Her sex life is a pendulum swing between anhedonia and hypersexuality, and she doesn’t stick with a single partner at all. She has no interest in commitment to singular partners, but she favors the people she lathers attention on. Her tastes skew towards anyone that perks her interest, anyone weird, anyone that’s like two heads taller than her, and anybody who tends to treat her like what her J’avo call “Commander”. She’ll also sleep around for political purposes, seduce and destroy reasons, and blackmail reasons.

A lot of her sexuality is her reclaiming that part of herself, and actually enjoying herself, and long-term relationships as an end goal for affections are never actually on her mind. Actually, I do think she’d find the idea too close to her own situation, and be kind of disgusted with it.

[tiredsn0w]

Does second base feel how you thought it would?

[egrets-not-regrets]

This is well-written. And really highlights how terrible of a scenario Guilliman’s wife is in. Also shows the more inhuman side of Guilliman. Like he wants to love but knows he is treating her in all the wrong ways. And the wife’s constant thoughts on ways to avoid being abused, not even a thought of love anymore; it’s all trying to think of ways to calm the beast that is Guilliman. That’s so sad.

Okay so. I have no defense for this. Sometimes you just wanna be mistreated by seemingly kind, giant men. For the love of the emperor please mind the warnings.

A Wife's Duty

Roboute Guilliman x F!Reader

Ao3 link

CW: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, referenced Abuse and DV, No sex, no comfort, unreliable narrator, manipulation, love bombing, DDDNE

Tags: (for the love of god read the warnings) @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @artemisareia

"My Lady?"

The voice of your Victrix Guard spoke through your closed chamber door, uncharacteristically timid.

"The Lord Reagent says you are free to roam now, and that he will see you in his study whenever you are ready…"

Rasmus was a good Ultramarine. He had been assigned to guard you by Roboute when you had started officially courting. His duties were to protect you, but also to serve as a chaperon when you were out of Roboute's sight. This wasn't his fault, and you always felt a little guilty whenever you grew irritated by his constant presence. 

Usually Rasmus wasn't allowed to be apart from you. The few exceptions were when you were with Roboute, and in times like now when you were given anything you asked for without question. So it was that you had a brief chance to dismiss Rasmus today, which seemed to leave him unusually anxious. His Primarch had ordered he never leave your side, and you were essentially out-ranking Lord Guilliman by ordering him away. 

You rolled over in your bed, wincing at the ache in your shoulder and pulling up your blankets to your chin. "Thank you, Rasmus." You called out, voice raspy. 

He stood outside the door a moment in silence. 

"Are you… going to speak to Lord Guilliman, then, My Lady…?"

You took a moment to answer. "Later. You are dismissed."

You heard the scraping of ceremite on metal as Rasmus anxiously shuffled outside your door, but ultimately he relented and left. 

You would go see your husband today, of course. You just needed time to think of what to say. You had apologized in the moment, and during, and after last nights events. You worried about seeming insincere if you showed up with more empty words at his office. He deserved more than "sorry".

You were sorry, but sorry doesn't help. You had to explain how you would do better from now on. Your hand gingerly pressed to your cheek, and you winced at the sting it brought. It was good you had turned down all the mirrors so you didn't have to see the reminders of your failure, but you also knew it would upset Roboute to see them as well.

Reluctantly, you pushed down your blankets and pulled yourself out of bed with some effort, favoring your left side and being careful not to stress your sore knee. You shuffled your way to your vanity and started pulling out your makeups, powders and paints. 

You braced yourself, but still flinched when you turned the mirror back to its correct position. It seemed like most of the markings at least were around your throat, easily coverable with a high necked gown. Your left cheek was a mottled purple, though. A difficult color to blend. Your frown made the bruise ache again as you started pulling out color correcting creams. 

After some trial and error, the skin on your face now mostly matched the uninjured side, if not looking more swollen. Paired with one of the new gifts from your husband- a new gown- your efforts were finished. The collar of the neckline ended under your chin, and the sleeves ended beyond your hands. It was soft and beautiful, embroidered with the Ultramarine Omega symbol on your shoulder. 

Touching the insignia made your stomach twist. A mark simultaneously claiming you as part of the legion, Legion Mother of the Ultramarines, Lady of the Lord reagent- but also a scarlet letter. You were another source of stress for Roboute. What right did you have to wear his mark? 

You dabbed tears from your eyes, composing yourself again. Roboute was waiting for you, and to keep him waiting after everything was untenable. 

-------------------------------------------------------

Roboute Guilliman was at the best of times, a very stressed man. The weight of the Imperium, the survival of humanity itself, rest on his broad shoulders. Juggling religious zealotry, tense alliances with Xenos, and the tedium of day to day rulership chipped away at the Lord Reagent. He was tired. His body ached in ways it was never meant to, his neck scar itched and twinged when he moved wrong, he felt bone deep fatigue that would crush a mortal man's spirit in seconds. 

So he could be excused if he lost his temper once in a while. 

It was not becoming of him, of course. And he did feel deep remorse when it happened. He was not his once-brother Angron, He was very composed 99% of the time. It was only occasionally, a little, when his guard was down and his emotions unmasked. 

Unfortunately, that was usually when his beloved little wife was nearby. She was his balm, normally. His closest confidant and his sweetest comfort. She made him feel not like a Primarch, but a Man. With her he was not putting up his guards or lying about how hard things were. He was just him, a Husband deeply in love and deeply tired.

She soothed him when he was agitated, praised him when he felt low, loved him at his worst. And last night was indeed, one of his worst. 

He sighed, putting his datapad down and leaning back in his seat, scrubbing his hand over his sallow face. He hadn't slept, of course, how could he rest? The guilt gnawed his ribs and churned his stomach. She would forgive him, as she always did, and he would do his best to erase the memory for her with gifts and love and freedoms. But he suffered an Idedic memory, and always remembered what happened when he lost his temper at his sweet, fragile wife. If only he could be mortal and forgetful like her. 

A small knock on his office door drew him from his contemplation. "Enter." He commanded, sitting prim and collecting himself. 

---------------------------------------------------------

You braced yourself as the doors to your husband's office slid open. He looked as regal as always, of course, datapads and parchments strewn about his desk. 

His face relaxed when he saw you, and he beckoned you in with a wave. "Ah, my love, good, I was waiting for you." He said, voice tired but warm. Non-threatening.

You stepped inside and gracefully strode to the front of his desk, purposefully ignoring the still unpainted patched wall near the door. 

You gave a traditional curtsy, which made Roboute sigh softly. 

"Such formality, my sweet. Come, it is only us." He said, smiling and patting his thigh. 

His brother may have been the one named The Lion, but you could think of no other comparison for how you felt in that moment but that a calm, happy predator was inviting you to put your head in its maw. Of course, being a loyal and behaved wife, you did so, trusting that this not-quite-human murder machine would not harm you right then. Because this was the soft phase. He was always soft and kind and warm right after. 

You gave a practiced smile and went to his side, letting him lift you gently onto his lap. You held in a hiss of pain as he agitated your injuries- because he did not like to be reminded that he had made them. 

"You are well, I hope?" He murmured into your hair as he pulled you closer. You nod. Words failed you. 

He sighed and rubbed your back, a gesture meant to soothe, though it irritated your bruises. "Good, good. I am glad our little spat is behind us." He sighed against your hair, warm breath tussling it. 

You wished you could be comforted. You wished you felt the flutter in your chest as he pressed his lips to your sore skull. But at the moment, all you felt was the single mindedness of a prey animal. Your lion was happy and satiated for now, but you didn't chance it. 

You would make him forget- or in lieu of that, forgive and move on. If you were sweeter and kinder and better, he would overlook last night's carelessness. 

---------------------------------------------------------

You'd been checking in on him, mug of recaffe in hand. He had been short that morning, and his responses were cut and tired. You knew your husband, perhaps better than any mortal had, you could tell when he wrote a little harder, frowned a little more often. He was stressed, and needed you to soothe him as you always would. A cup of recaffe and resting his head on your chest while you played with his hair and told him he was doing a good job would lift his spirits. 

And he was happy to see you, smiling at the mug in your hand and the pretty low cut dress you'd worn for him. The tension almost immediately started to ease. 

Until you tripped. 

You had only a second to process the recaffe stained parchments that fell to the floor in front of you. The panic that jolted through you didn't even let you notice the shards of broken mug you'd fallen into had cut your palms. You only had time to look up at the furious face of a demi-god and squeak out like a wounded rabbit, "Robu I'm sor-"

---------------------------------------------------------

The recaffe stain was still in the carpet, you noted, as Roboute continued to mutter sweet things into your ringing ear. 

"And of course you know, I do not mean what I say in the heat of the moment," he soothed, rubbing circles on your good shoulder with his thumb. "How do I deserve such a forgiving, loving woman as you, my love?"

You smiled and nuzzled to his chest in response, playing demure as he poured affection on you. But your mind was elsewhere. How loud was a Primarch's voice when they yelled? The tinnitus in your ears suggested very. Though it was less and less each time. You couldn't quite here high pitches anymore- some alarms on machinery now completely silent to you- but at least you didn't yell on accident for days like the first time. 

He was placated by now, and soothing himself with you. This meant your part to play was now just be cute and don't upset him, and to hide your pains. Your shoulder screamed at you as he squeezed you gently to his chest, but it's protestations were not as strong as your self preservation, so you simply giggled at his praises and kisses. 

The apothecary would be waiting for you in your chambers, still, as you hadn't completely masked your limp on the way in, but it was easier for you both to ignore it now. 

Your lion was feeling sorry and affectionate for now. It was much better to lay with him and let him be than to give him a reason to chase you down by distancing yourself. 

Next time, you would have a servant bring the recaffe in. You would learn, and improve, and love him harder as you always did. Eventually, he would run out of reasons to bat at his little mouse in anger. 

You Just had to be better. 

[dyingroses]

The Owling pt9

One of Zeus's hands covered Hera's mouth the other clenched her neck. Lightning flashed in his eyes as he held her up against the wall .

"You mention Metis to anyone," Zeus threatened, squeezing Hera's neck a little tighter "and I will end you before you can even think to tattle."

Zeus released his hold on her and she fell to the floor. She wanted to fight back but she couldn't risk making too much noise and Rhea or worse Athena finding out. Hera wiped her eyes and slowed her breath. She looked at her reflection in the marble and adjusted her cowl and necklace.

Hera didn't want to make her mother choose between her children. Or between her daughter and the God King's wrath. And she didn't want to find out that her mother would choose her brother or cower before the god king. She knew she couldn't really blame her if she did the later. Zeus was way stronger than her and could lock her in some dungeon away from all six of her children. It was basic mathematics. But still the thought haunted her. As long as her mother never found out she could pretend her mother would fight for her and be able to defeat Zeus and all her siblings would support her.

And if Rhea never knew, then there were less ways Athena could find out.

Rhea ran her hands through her granddaughter's hair. She had such nice dark waves. She also couldn't resist touching her chubby cheeks. She was a very pretty child. Where have you been, little one, She thought to herself.

The girl's eyes opened. Gold, like her father's, Rhea thought. Athena blinked and squinted. Rhea moved the lamp she had been using to look at the girls wounds.

"Hello, love," Rhea asked softly, stroking Athena's cheek, "Are you in any pain?"

"Where am I?" Athena asked the gentle woman, who she assumed was Hera.

"Your in the palace infirmary. You fell off one of the obstacles and hit your head. Does it hurt?"

"No," Athena said, realizing it was not Hera and trying to sit up.

"Careful, love" Rhea said steadying the girl's shoulders, "You have a concussion. It should heal pretty quickly but I want you to stay in bed for the rest of the day."

"But I -," Athena tried to argue but a yawn betrayed her.

Rhea began rubbing circles on the girls back. She made Athena's eyes close as she stroked her grandbaby's face from her forehead to the tip of her cute little nose.

"I'll tell your parents you woke up, but it's still nighttime, love" Rhea said, lowering her granddaughter back to her pillow, "You need to sleep. I'll stay here in case there are any bad dreams."

"My - my parents?" Athena asked sleepily. As Athena's eyes grew heavy she noticed how much woman's face reminded her of the god king's, except she never seen such kindness in his.

"Yes, love. Now go to sleep," Rhea said placing a kiss on her granddaughters forehead. That seemed to the trick. What a sweet little cherub, Rhea thought as her granddaughter drifted off to sleep.

Rhea stepped into the hall and told her son and daughter that the girl had woken up but was exhausted and it being the middle of the night she made her go to sleep.

"She told me she was not in any pain," Rhea reported, "She seems like quite determined little thing."

"She is," Zeus and Hera both said in unison. Rhea couldn't help but smile. She could hear the fondness in her children's voices, it made her heart flutter seeing how her children were experiencing that same powerful love a parent has for their children.

"I'll stay here in case she has a nightmare, concussions can result in weird dreams," Rhea told her children.

"Thank you, mother," Zeus replied, placing his arm on his mom's shoulder.

Hera hesitated at the door of the infirmary. Based on what the messenger said about "the god king's daughter" and the girl's surprise at hearing the word "parents" and the fact that Rhea never met this child who was already walking and talking, she had some suspicions.

"Would you have someone bring me a hairbrush and a new chiton for her," Rhea asked her daughter, "I'll brush her hair while she sleeps and I don't want her getting out of bed too much tomorrow."

"Of course," Hera replied.

Hera returned and gave her mother the brush. She hesitated as to whether to leave or stay.

"Will you keep me company, love?" Rhea asked her daughter.

"Of course, mother," Hera replied

"You seem very worried about the girl."

"I am."

"It's terrifying when your children get hurt, even if they are immortal."

Hera winced a little at the comment. Not escaping Rhea's notice.

"Oh, my love," Rhea cooed stroking her daughters hair, "Just say it."

"I - I'm . . . I'm not her mother," she said with a sob, allowing her mother to pull her head onto her lap and stroke her hair.

"Just because you didn't give birth to her doesn't mean you can't be her mother."

"But she already had a mother. A mother that she still misses. A mother that she loved so much and loved her for 4 years."

"Baby girl, you didn't meet me until you were 22 years old."

"Yeah, but I never had another mom."

"No," Rhea said slowly, "but you had Hestia, and then after a long time with someone else playing the maternal figure we finally met."

"Yeah, but still it's not quite the same, mom. You were always there in a way."

"Not as much as I should have been," Rhea replied with a sad smile.

Hera sat up looking her mother in the eyes, "You got almost no sleep for more than 2 decades so you could talk to us at night while Cronus was sleeping! And we treasured that time, mom."

"I did what I could in a bad situation," Rhea replied cupping her daughter's cheek, "That's what you're doing. That's what motherhood is."

"I'll love her regardless, I swear, but . . . is it selfish that . . that I want her to love me too?" Hera asked, Zeus's words about her "playing house" repeating in her mind.

"No, love. It's not"