I need someone to write this into existence. I need the Primarch’s reacting to their concert picking up a trades Legion and using them like a wiffle ball bat specifically this motherfucker because essentially with how dangerous he is, it makes it even more funny.
Hello! Ive been reading your work with the kid confusing them for their father and then going on a breeding bender. Omfg, the intense feeling of their pain! Wanting so desperately for a child and knowing they cant have it 🥲
BUT! What happens if by some weird miracle they spouse does become pregnant?
Maybe the primarchs could find out after their partner faints, have morning sickness or some other symptom but way more intense? Cuz c'mon, their demigods lol
Possibly the partner gives birth and the little one is the Primarch's doppelganger?
How do you think they would react to that? I think it would make them beyond happy and excited at becoming fathers themselves, because they genuinely didn't think it would be possible for them.
Sorry if this is the correct format to make a request or if I've worded it strangly. Im new to requests haha.
Don’t worry about the format, there aren’t really rules for how to make an ask! I totally get the uncertainty, though. I’ve only sent two or three asks myself so far (I’m way too shy and anxious to just go for it 😭) and I was so anxious about how to word them that it almost became ridiculous. So honestly, thank you for asking!
Here is part of the the answer: their partner did become pregnant.
The symptoms were intense. Like, really intense. There's a post about it but I'll talk a bit more about it here at the beginning of this short story before getting to the birth and everything else. It will be probably long.
And I'll include another ask (or two) that fits here perfectly (down below)!
The morning sickness isn't limited to mornings, it's an all day affliction that leaves you unable to keep down most foods. The exhaustion is overwhelming to the point where even walking across a room feels like running a marathon. The hormonal shifts are dramatic enough that you swing between emotional extremes with a speed that would be concerning if it weren't directly attributable to the pregnancy. Your Primarch watches all of this with increasing concern, consulting with medicae who can only shrug helplessly and admit they have no idea what's normal when a baseline human is carrying a Primarch's child.
"Is this level of symptoms normal?" he demands of the medical staff, his fear barely contained beneath his authoritative tone.
The chief medicae looks uncomfortable delivering uncertain news to a Primarch. "For a baseline human carrying a Primarch's child? My lord, we have absolutely no prior cases to reference. This is entirely unprecedented. But based on the increased metabolic demands and genetic complications... probably? We're doing everything we can to monitor both the mother and the developing fetus."
Your Primarch stays with you constantly after that conversation, abandoning his usual duties to his most trusted subordinates so he can be present for whatever you need. He brings you anything that might help with the nausea, holds your hair back when you're sick, carries you when you're too exhausted to walk and generally provides support in every way he can think of. The guilt in his eyes is visible every time you suffer another bout of sickness or pain.
"I did this to you" he says quietly one evening while watching you struggle with another wave of nausea. "This is my fault. My genetics causing you this suffering."
"We did this together" you correct him firmly, reaching for his hand despite your discomfort. "And it's worth it. Every moment of this is worth it for our child."
"Is it really?" he asks, his voice raw with doubt and fear. "You're suffering because of me, because of what I am."
You take his much larger hand and place it on your belly, where the first small signs of swelling are becoming apparent. "Yes" you tell him with absolute certainty. "It's worth it."
The pregnancy progresses with continued intensity, each stage bringing new challenges and symptoms that push your body to its limits. Your Primarch documents everything obsessively, partially out of genuine concern and partially because this information might help if this ever happens again to one of his brothers. The medical staff watches in fascination and concern as your body adapts to meet the demands of the growing child, and everyone involved knows that the birth itself will be the greatest challenge yet.
When labor finally begins, it's immediately clear that this will be harder than anyone anticipated. The contractions are more intense, more frequent, and more painful than standard human labor, and the medical staff scrambles to provide adequate support. Your Primarch wants desperately to be in the delivery room but after he accidentally breaks two medical carts and a reinforced table due to stress induced loss of control, the medicae firmly but politely insists he wait outside.
He paces the corridor for hours and his sons who are stationed nearby have never seen their Primarch in such a state. Every scream from the delivery room makes him flinch, every long silence makes him want to break down the door and the waiting feels more difficult than any battle he's ever fought. When a medicae finally emerges and begins to speak, he's already moving past them before they can finish their sentence.
He finds you in the recovery bed, exhausted beyond measure but alive and in your arms is a tiny baby who looks exactly like him. The same eyes stare out from that small face, the same features are miniaturized on that infant countenance, creating a perfect tiny copy that's undeniably his genetic legacy.
"Hello" you whisper with a tired smile, your voice hoarse from hours of labor.
He can't find words for a long moment, just staring at his child, HIS child! who looks like him in every measurable way. This is proof beyond any possible doubt that this baby is his, that against all probability and design, he's created new life that carries his genetic material forward into the future.
Finally he finds his voice, though it's rough with emotion. "They're perfect. You're perfect. I... I don't have words for what I'm feeling right now."
Unable to articulate the overwhelming rush of love, pride, terror, and joy, he carefully climbs onto the recovery bed and positions himself so he can hold both of you. His family. His miracle. His everything. Nothing in his entire existence has prepared him for the intensity of what he feels holding his partner and his child, and he knows with absolute certainty that he would burn down anything, even the entire galaxy to protect them.
This is a second ask that felt too related not to include. It might be slightly unusual for me to do it this way but these asks were too closely connected not to handle them together. So, here we are. ^^
I love the idea of these men being able to have a real family. I want to give them all the joy and happiness they deserve... and so much more.
The birth was harder than anyone expected, pushing your body to its absolute limits as you brought new life into the universe. Now you're unconscious in the medical bay, recovering under the watchful eyes of the medicae staff who won't let him anywhere near you yet. They insist you need rest, undisturbed rest which means he's left alone with the one thing that terrifies him more than any battlefield: his child.
His infant child who won't stop crying.
He stands in the doorway of the medical bay, staring at the cot where a tiny, fragile thing, his thing, his child wails with surprising volume. This small, crying infant fills him with a fear he's never experienced before.
He's nine to twelve feet tall depending on his genetics, with hands capable of crushing ceramite armor like parchment and strength sufficient to tear apart tanks with his bare hands. And there's his baby in that cot crying desperately for comfort he's terrified to provide.
The thoughts spiral through his enhanced mind: What if I hurt them? What if I'm too rough, too strong, too clumsy with something so delicate? What if my hands, these weapons I've used for decades, are simply too dangerous?
The crying escalates in volume and desperation and one of the medicae attending the room looks at him with thinly veiled impatience. "My lord, the child needs to be held. They're distressed and-"
"I know what they need" he cuts them off perhaps more sharply than intended, his own fear making his voice harsh.
He forces himself to approach the cot, each step feeling like he's walking into a battle where he doesn't know the enemy or the terrain. When he finally looks down into the small bassinet, his breath catches despite his enhanced physiology not requiring such reactions. The baby is so impossibly small, with a red face scrunched up in misery, tiny fists clenched as if ready to fight the world, crying with lungs that seem far too powerful for something so fragile.
My child he thinks with a mixture of wonder and terror. I made this. We made this together.
He reaches down with hands that have killed thousands, that have broken bones and crushed skulls and torn through armor and he moves with a care he's never had to exercise before. Every movement is calculated, every muscle controlled with precision that would impress even his most skilled warriors. He slides his hands under the small, warm body and lifts the baby with the same caution he might use handling an unexploded plasma charge.
They're so light in his arms, weighing almost nothing compared to the weapons and armor he's accustomed to carrying. The baby is fragile and warm and still crying, the sound cutting through him in ways that bolter fire never has. He holds the infant against his broad chest, feeling awkward and uncertain, every instinct screaming that he's doing this wrong.
"Shh" he tries but his voice is too deep, too loud, reverberating in his chest in a way that seems to startle the baby rather than soothe them.
The baby cries harder and his hearts sink with the certainty that he's failing at the first real test of fatherhood.
I'm doing this wrong. I'm too big, too rough, too much of a weapon to be any good at this.
And then something miraculous happens.
Impossibly small and delicate tiny fingers wrap around one of his much larger ones. The baby's hand can't even encircle his finger fully but the grip is there, unmistakable and surprisingly strong. It's not the weak, trembling hold he expected from something so fragile but a genuine grip with purpose and strength behind it.
The crying stops almost immediately, transitioning from desperate wails to hiccuping silence. The baby looks up at him with eyes that are unmistakably his own eyes and maintains that surprisingly firm grip on his finger.
The realization hits him with the sudden realization. It's real. This is his child. Not some fragile thing that will break at the slightest pressure but a small person with their own strength, their own will, their own resilience. Strong like him. Strong like you. Perfect in ways he didn't know to hope for.
"Hello" he whispers and his voice cracks with emotion he didn't know he was capable of expressing. "I'm... I'm your father."
The baby makes a small noise in response, it's not crying, just acknowledging his presence with a sound that seems almost conversational. His other hand comes up carefully, supporting the small head with its covering of fine hair and he marvels at how something so tiny can feel so substantial in his arms.
"You're so small" he continues in that same whisper, afraid to break the moment. "But you're strong. I can feel it in your grip. You're definitely mine, aren't you?"
The baby's fingers tighten slightly around his as if answering his question, and he laughs with pure, uncomplicated joy. "Yes. You're definitely mine. No question about that."
He moves slowly and carefully to the chair beside your recovery bed, sitting down with the kind of caution usually reserved for defusing ancient technology. The baby remains calm in his arms.
"Your mother is resting" he explains quietly as if the baby can understand his words. "She was incredibly brave during your birth. You were difficult, apparently quite difficult according to the medicae but absolutely worth every moment of pain and fear. She'll want to see you when she wakes but for now it's just us."
The baby yawns, a tiny expression that reveals toothless gums and makes his hearts clench with protective tenderness. Those small eyes start to droop, heavy with the exhaustion that comes with being newly born but the grip on his finger remains constant.
"I was afraid to hold you" he admits to this tiny person who's already changed his entire existence. "Afraid I'd hurt you with these hands that have only ever known war and violence. But you're stronger than I thought possible. You're perfect. And I'm going to protect you, both of you. Always. No matter what the Emperor says about this, no matter what my brothers think or how impossible this was supposed to be. You're mine. My family. And I'll burn the galaxy before I let anyone take that away from us."
The baby's eyes finally close, sliding into sleep while still maintaining that grip on his finger and he sits there in the quiet medical bay. He was designed for conquest and destruction and now he was holding his tiny child with infinite care, feeling more complete and purposeful than he ever has in his entire existence.
It was expected that Big E would find it out sooner or later. It’s probably impossible to truly keep something, or in this case someone, secret. Especially not forever. He might choose to let them keep some of their secrets but not this one.
I agree there’s a lot of angst potential here but I might make a separate post about the scenario where the Emperor takes the baby. (Would anyone want that much angst? I’m pretty sure of the answer but it’s worth asking.)
Despite every precaution they took, every security measure and carefully constructed lie, the Emperor discovered the truth about the child's existence. Perhaps someone in the inner circle talked despite oaths of silence or maybe the Emperor's formidable psychic senses detected the new life force that carried genetic markers unmistakably linked to his son. It's even possible that Malcador let something slip during one of their many conversations, though the Sigillite would deny it vehemently if accused. Regardless of how it happened the Emperor knows about the baby and now he's coming to see for himself.
The Primarch stands in the doorway of your private quarters, his massive frame blocking the entrance completely as he positions himself between his father and his family. You're behind him, holding the baby protectively against your chest and the terror in your eyes mirrors the cold fury in his. This is the confrontation he's been dreading since the moment he learned you were pregnant, the moment when he might have to choose between his father and his family.
"Father" he says carefully, his voice is carefully controlled but every muscle in his body is coiled and ready for war if it comes to that.
"You kept this from me" the Emperor states and his tone is observational rather than accusatory which somehow makes it worse because it's harder to predict what he's thinking.
"Yes, I did" the Primarch confirms without apology or explanation, his stance unwavering.
"Why would you hide such a thing from me?" The Emperor's question seems genuine as if he truly doesn't understand the fear that drove the secrecy.
"Because I didn't know if you would see my child as a miracle worth celebrating or a malfunction in your design that needed to be corrected, studied or eliminated" the Primarch says bluntly, he's past the point of diplomatic language. "I couldn't risk you seeing them as anything other than my child, my family, something precious beyond measure."
The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken tensions and possibilities. The Emperor looks past his son's defensive stance, his ancient and unfathomable gaze focusing on you and the small bundle you're holding. The Primarch tenses further, every instinct screaming at him to attack if his father makes even the slightest threatening move toward his family.
"May I see them?" the Emperor asks and his voice is softer than expected.
The Primarch's entire world tilts on its axis at those words. "What?"
"My grandchild" the Emperor clarifies as if it should be obvious. "May I see them?"
The Primarch and you exchange confused, uncertain looks, neither of you prepared for this response. Every scenario you'd planned for involved conflict, argument, demands for study or separation but not this calm request.
"I... yes?" the Primarch finally answers, though it comes out more like a question than permission.
The Emperor approaches slowly and despite his measured pace, the Primarch's body remains tense and ready to intervene at the slightest provocation. The Emperor stops a respectful distance away and looks down at the baby in your arms with an expression that's difficult to read on features usually so controlled and distant.
The baby, somehow sensing the immense power standing before them in ways that normal human infants never could, looks back at the Emperor with those knowing eyes. "Impossible" the Emperor murmurs but there's wonder in his voice rather than rejection. "And yet here they are, proof that even my designs cannot account for every variable."
He reaches out carefully, extending one finger toward the child and the baby's small hand immediately wraps around it with that same surprisingly strong grip. The Emperor's expression softens in a way that the Primarch has never witnessed in all his years of service, a grandfatherly warmth that seems almost alien on those ancient features.
"Strong grip" the Emperor notes with what might actually be approval. "That's good. That's very good indeed."
He looks at his son directly and there's something in his eyes that might be understanding or regret. "You thought I would disapprove of this child's existence."
"Yes" the Primarch admits tersely, still not lowering his guard despite the apparent acceptance.
"I designed you and your brothers to be sterile as a precaution against exactly this kind of genetic expression" the Emperor explains with the clinical detachment of a scientist discussing his work. "It was meant as a safety measure, not an absolute certainty. If the genetic material I used in your creation has allowed for this..." He looks back at the baby with that same softening expression. "Then this is fascinating from a biological standpoint."
"Fascinating?" The Primarch's voice takes on a dangerous edge because his child is not a research subject or a curiosity to be studied.
"And wonderful" the Emperor adds quickly, looking back at his son with what might be an attempt at reassurance. "You're a father now. My son has become a father himself. That's unexpected, yes but not unwelcome by any means. This child represents possibilities I hadn't considered."
Malcador chooses that moment to appear in the doorway and when he takes in the scene before him, face goes through several expressions in rapid succession before settling on resigned concern.
"My lord" Malcador says carefully, his voice carrying the weight of thousands of years of trying to manage the Emperor's more complicated decisions. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Meeting my grandchild" the Emperor replies with complete simplicity as if there's nothing unusual about the Master of Mankind cooing over a baby.
Malcador closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. "Your... oh no. Oh no, this is going to complicate everything."
What follows over the next weeks is something none of them were prepared for: the Emperor becoming genuinely interested in his grandchild, not just as a scientific curiosity but as actual family. He brings gifts that range from practical to absurd like ancient artifacts of immense power, comprehensive educational materials for someone who's only weeks old and baby clothes that are somehow psychically shielded against threats that won't be relevant for years.
"They'll need proper education from the earliest possible age" the Emperor declares during one visit, presenting what appears to be a data slate containing the entirety of human knowledge. "I'll arrange for the finest tutors in the Imperium."
"Father, they're two weeks old" the Primarch protests, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "They can barely focus their eyes, let alone process complex information."
"It's never too early to begin intellectual development" the Emperor insists with complete seriousness. "Neurological pathways established in infancy can affect cognitive capability for an entire lifetime."
He even suggests that you and your spouse should take some time away for yourselves, offering to watch the baby during your absence. The simultaneous "ABSOLUTELY NOT" from both Malcador and the Primarch is immediate and emphatic.
The Emperor actually looks offended by their rejection. "I successfully made twenty Primarchs, each of them grew to adulthood successfully. I'm perfectly capable of caring for one infant."
"You made twenty Primarchs in gestation tubes under controlled laboratory conditions" Malcador reminds him with barely suppressed horror at the idea of leaving a normal baby in the Emperor's care. "That's significantly different from actually parenting an infant with normal human needs."
"The principles are fundamentally similar" the Emperor argues. "Nutrition, protection, developmental monitoring-"
"Please stop talking" the Primarch interrupts, holding his child a bit more protectively. "You're not babysitting. End of discussion."
Malcador pulls the Primarch aside later and the Sigillite looks exhausted. "Congratulations on your child" he says sincerely. "And congratulations on accidentally making the Emperor almost human again. I've been trying to accomplish that for millennia with limited success."
"I genuinely don't know if that's a good thing or a terrible thing" the Primarch admits, watching his father examine a baby toy with the same intensity he usually reserves for strategic planning.
"Neither do I" Malcador confesses. "But he's smiling, he's engaged with something other than galactic conquest and he's showing genuine emotional connection to another being. So for now let's consider this a cautious victory and see what happens next. Just... please don't let him actually babysit unsupervised. I'm begging you."
There’s more to it, including Primarchs babysitting their brother’s baby but it grew so long that I decided to put it in a separate post. I didn’t want any of these asks to get drowned out or become endless.
I’ll finish it and it should be ready in a few hours. Today’s my free day and aside from the usual 4–5+ hours of travelling I have nothing better to do than write. And that I shall do all day long! <3
OK, I just thought of this. The one time the Emperor does have full permission to babysit the child. He does the most Grandpa thing on wearing a baby harness during official meetings letting him or her play with his hair, doing all sorts of things drool on him he does not care but the genuine love that he has for this grandchild. It gets people, salty. And if one of his sons bring it up, he immediately brags about said son giving him his first grandchild and then proceeds to leave the meeting and go spend ‘Grandpa bonding time with said child.’
have fun fetishizing the shit out of *real life* celebrities. it actually makes the people who sexualize the shit out of children’s cartoons seem normal.
primarchs in stockings.... fulgrim in stockings........ rogal dorn in stockings......... horus in stockings............. guilliman...................... girls I need a medic
How would they react to seeing their partner walking around in just stockings? Like whatever stockings that they’re wearing, that’s their favorite lingerie that they want to see on their partner. But also, I’m a need some fast art of those men in those goddamn tights. Someone needs to do some that aren’t real quick.
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