egrets-not-regrets

[egrets-not-regrets]

The concept of a seeing eye Lucius makes me giggle a little bit. I’m imaging him being perfect at his job no issues whatsoever, but as soon as he goes on break he immediately tries to duel the nearest being capable of holding a sword. (Maybe he gets to go to the local fencing club as a form of enrichment)

Kanthal takes him down to the local fencing club and also the local EC owners meet, which Lucius seems to enjoy. He tells Lucius he fought well even though Kanthal can't tell if he did or not.

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Oh my heart! 😭

Mother

Part 1

You died. To the Primarchs you were like a mother. They came to say their last goodbyes to you. Angst.

@ghrgrsfdesfrfg @w-40-k

Lion El'Jonson

The Lion knelt besides you with perfect knightly grace, his head bowed in respect. His hands, those weapons of war, trembled as he reached out to touch your folded fingers.

"Mother" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I came as soon as I could. I know... I know I'm too late but I had to tell you."

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

"I brought you something. A flower from Caliban, from the grove where you said you wanted to walk someday. I know it's just a simple thing but you always said the simplest gifts carried the most love."

He placed the white bloom in your other hand, his fingers lingering on yours.

"I was your knight, Mother. I was supposed to protect you, to come when you called. I was too far away, fighting battles that don't matter now. Forgive me. Please forgive your failed knight."

A single tear fell onto your joined hands.

"I love you, Mother. I should have said it more. I should have said it every day."

Fulgrim

Fulgrim approached with a canvas in his hands, his features streaked with tears he made no attempt to hide.

"I finished it" he said, holding up the painting, your portrait, now complete despite the scar his chisel had left which fell from his hands when he heard the news of your death. "I know it's not perfect but you always said my imperfections made my art more beautiful."

He set the painting where you could see it... if you could still see.

"You were my muse, Mother. Every beautiful thing I ever created was because I was trying to capture even a fraction of the beauty I saw in you. Not just your face, though you were lovely, but your soul. The way you saw wonder in everything."

His voice broke.

"I wanted to paint you forever. I wanted to spend eternity trying to show the galaxy what real beauty looked like. But I can't... I can't paint you anymore. How do I create beauty in a world that doesn't have you in it?"

He touched your cheek with infinite gentleness.

"Thank you for teaching me that love was the greatest art of all. I'll try to remember that even when the world feels ugly without you."

Perturabo

Perturabo stood besides you with his hands full of blueprints, dozens of them, architectural plans that represented years of work.

"I brought you the designs" he said, his voice rough with emotion. "All of them. The gardens you wanted to see, the palaces I designed with rooms full of light, the cities where children could play safely in the streets."

He spread them out around you, a paper ocean of dreams made manifest.

"You were the only one who understood what I was trying to build. Everyone else saw weapons and fortifications but you... you saw homes. You saw beauty. You saw the future I was trying to create."

His massive hands clenched into fists.

"I wanted to build you a garden, Mother. A place where you could walk among growing things and know that they were protected by walls that would never fall. I wanted to give you peace made manifest in stone and steel."

He knelt besides you, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I don't know how to build without you to build for. What's the point of creating something beautiful if the most beautiful thing in the galaxy is gone?"

He pressed his forehead to your hand.

"I love you, Mother. You made me feel like an architect instead of just a destroyer. Thank you for seeing the dreams in my blueprints."

Jaghatai Khan

The Khan came to your side with wind-tousled hair and dust on his boots as if he had ridden hard to reach you.

"I'm sorry I'm late" he said, sinking to one knee beside hs you. "I was riding when the news came and I... I couldn't stop. I rode for three days straight, hoping that if I was fast enough I could somehow outrun this reality."

He took your hand in both of his.

"You understood why I had to ride, didn't you? You never asked me to stay, never tried to cage me like the others did. You knew that the hunt was part of who I was and you loved me anyway."

His voice grew thick with emotion.

"But I should have stayed more often. I should have sat with you in the gardens and let you braid flowers in my hair. I should have told you about the sunsets I saw on distant worlds, should have brought you stories from the wind roads."

He lifted your hand to his cheek.

"You were my anchor, Mother. The fixed point that let me range so far because I always knew I could return. Now I'm lost in a way I've never been before and I don't know how to find my way home."

He took a shuddering breath.

"Ride with me in spirit, Mother. When I race across distant worlds be the wind at my back. That's how I'll carry you with me, in the freedom you gave me to be who I was meant to be."

Leman Russ

Russ approached with something clutched in his massive fist. When he opened it, it revealed a small carved wolf, no bigger than his thumb, crude but heartfelt.

"I made this for you" he said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. "I know it's not much. I'm not... I'm not good with the gentle things like Fulgrim or Vulkan. But I wanted you to have something."

He placed the tiny wolf in your palm, closing your fingers around it.

"You were the only one who wasn't afraid of me, Mother. When I was young and the wolf was strong, when I could barely control the beast in my blood, you would run your fingers through my hair and tell me stories until I was calm again."

His voice broke.

"You called me your wolf-son and you meant it as a loving thing. Not as something to be ashamed of but as something precious. You made me feel like the wolf and the man could exist together, that I didn't have to choose."

He rested his forehead against the edge of your bier.

"I howled for you, Mother. All the way from Fenris to Terra, I howled. And for the first time in my life the howl felt empty because you weren't there to answer."

His tears fell freely now.

"Pack bonds are forever, Mother. Death doesn't break them. You'll always be part of my pack, the heart of it. I love you. My pack loves you. Forever."

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@kit-williams

Sanguinius begging fic time! Brainstormed with @my-wildflowergirl He fondles you sort of not sexually be warned you don’t really give consent chest (nondescript) mentioned once because I want him to fondle mine

———

“My love, please!”

The large angel was on his knees, not touching you, but grasping at your robes, his large wings fluffed up around you.

“Please.. I promise I won’t keep you away from others anymore. Just- you can’t say these things! Think it over, please.”

You sigh sadly, before placing your hand under his chin, tilting his face up.

“Sanguinius… you know I adore you. But we both know the truth. You won’t let up. You’ll keep me on an even shorter leash, and I cannot live like that.”

He gasps, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Love, please don’t do this.” His hand grasps yours, kissing up your arm. The tears start to flow, dripping onto your skin. “Please, love.. pleaseplease IswearIwontdoitagainpleaselove- PLEASE!” He goes from gently holding your arm to yanking you down in a bruising grip, caging you in his arms.

He simply couldn’t have you leaving, the only one who did not see a weapon, savior, an object of worship. You can’t leave him alone, surrounded by those oh so close yet so far you can’t leave don’t do this to him he needs you

His hands begin to rub circles into your flesh in attempt to calm you, all while sobbing and huffing hysterically in your ear. You try to ease him off you, but he remains steadfast, blubbering in your ear about how he needs and adores you.

One hand moves up to your chest, rubbing over and over in circles, as his other hand holds you steadfast in his grip. You try to push him off, but he meets it with a whimper, begging you not to push him away anymore.

Your heart fills with warring emotions, each shifting. Love for the man before you, but gnawing fear at the horrific obsession he’s grown for you. All you can do now is give in and hope for the best.

So you do. You turn in his grip, and lock your lips against his shuddering, wet lips. Its electrifying, and you can feel him physically relax and lean in, his hands slowing. You two sit there and continue to kiss, as his sobs slow into whimpers.

You’ll figure something out later.

———

This was so ass i was watching a fire movie called Lou and got distracted

Pls don’t ask for nsfw you can write it but I will not write nsfw 🌷

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Awww That is so sweet. Rogal is more action than words kind of guy.

I remember this sending some time ago a variation of this fic to a Warhammer fic blog but I don't actually remember which. But I guess since I love your writing I would send it here too!!

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were allegedly build by the Neo-Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar II for his Median wife, Queen Amytis, because she missed the green hills and valleys of her homeland. Even though it is probably a legend, I believe this is one of the greatest acts of love that ever existed! Now let's imagine this with sweet little baby boy Rogal Dorn. There has been already some time since he became the Praetorian of Terra and his beloved wife is desperately missing their homeworld, Inwit. It was a harsh place, with unyielding winters and deadly temperatures, but it was still home. Due to his love for his wife, Dorn builds a place just for herself, where she could practically live in the home where she grew up.

The Emperor, in the background, asks himself how could his generals, especially the one who's personality is that he has no personality, could be so emotional 😭🙏

Author's note: A very short thing, but this idea is cute and it's Dorn so <3 Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader Warnings: None

Dorn considers most verbal promises and declarations or fealty meaningless.

It was easy to say something, to promise loyalty and adoration. To act upon it and prove it was another thing entirely; What he abides by. He will never say he loves you in a million different saccharine ways- simply because why would he say it, when he could do it.

While it hadn't been intended, The Phalanx had become your home as the Crusade progressed. Dorn had little desire to have his wife so far away, even if he was far too busy to actually spend much time with you at all. To simply know you were close at hand and safe behind his stalwart walls and men was adequate enough for his peace of mind. His showing of love was assuring your safety.

However, you missed Inwit.

The cold brick of Inwit's main hold had been your home for some time now, and while the Phalanx was also quite cold, there was no wind whipping and slipping between the bricks, no constant snowfall, and no fire to sit by.

The unfamiliarity of the Phalanx had dampened your mood considerably over time. Even his men had noticed, oddly enough.

"Lady Dorn seems, forlorn. Has something been amiss?"

Dorn had, in the few moments he could catch for himself, begun to plan something for you. The Phalanx was massive, it would be easy enough to take one of it's many rooms and repurpose it for his needs. If his wife was dissatisfied, it was simply his duty to fix it.

He never mentioned it to you, in the time you had together he preferred to listen and enjoy said time rather than go on and on about his blueprints and his plans.

And perhaps, the idea of it being a bit of a surprise was appealing to him. A gift for the Lady of the Imperial Fists.

Upon letting you in, you were instantly greeted with the familiar smell of firewood. The crackle of pieces breaking, the ever so slight burn of smoke. It complimented the sight of so many things you found familiar; The bookshelves, the chaise, the fur pelts, it felt like home.

His secret project was finished after a few Terran months; It had unfortunately taken more time that he anticipated. Being unimportant in the grand scheme meant much else came before it. The next private moment he had with you he was quick to inform you he had something to share, and walked with the expectation you would follow. After only a short walk from your shared quarters he lead you to what would be the most complicated thing he had made for you yet.

Yet, being a key word for Dorn.

You could tell something was off about him right away, smart as you were. Even in his stoicism you kept looking up at him cautiously, trying to sniff out what was different. You knew him far better than he might like to say, if asked. No one could ever say that Lady Dorn didn't know her husband well.

Dorn never said a word the entire time- only watched as you touched every little thing. Your approval was immediate, sitting on the chaise and wrapping yourself in one of the pelts. The fur was soft against your skin and encircled your body with a comfortable heaviness. Dorn came over, and keeled in front of you.

While it was almost blasé sounding, Dorn's declaration of such an expected thing revealed a bit more of him than one might assume.

"Why did you do all this?" His answer was stereotypically muted and neutral.

"You missed Inwit."

To go through so much effort to recreate something down to the scent, simply because his wife was homesick. You've only heard him say the word love no more than three or more times, but each day he proved that he would move moons and stars simply to appease his lady.

You leaned forward, and your lips chastely pressed against his for a moment.

"Thank you, Rogal."

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This video is about 8 minutes because 18 is a lot to get through

My last one was too long and was just me freaking out over Rogal so. I am too brain rotted by fanfiction I should do this again after a year when I've learned more about them all my opinions will probably change

I will happily have my mind changed and debate this!!!!

Edit: People are sharing this without tags or opinions I cannot be the only freak on main PLEASE

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I got pummeled on twitter for this pretty good

my favorite

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Happy Father’s Day! Here’s a very real, canon image of Kanan Jarrus with baby Jacen because nothing bad ever happened to him ever.

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Still as funny as when I first saw it.

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Mr bobo is that guy who says he doesn't like you and fucks you harder. NSFW. Toxic,... maybe?

He doesn’t like you. He’s made that very clear.

He tells you with every sneer, every withering glance, every time he cuts you off mid-sentence with a gruff, "Silence." Every time you’re dismissed with a sharp gesture or a cold command, like you’re just another tool in his war machine. An asset. A servant. Not a person.

But every time he’s inside you, it tells a different story.

Right now, for instance—his weight crushes you against the cold metal wall of his private forge, one gloved hand wrapped firmly around your throat as his hips slam into yours with the precision of a siege cannon. Every thrust makes the reinforced wall behind you groan. Your palms brace against the steel, but it’s not for leverage. You’re not in control.

He is.

"Don't flatter yourself," he growls into your ear, voice low, vibrating with something that feels dangerously close to hunger. "You’re not special."

Your thighs are shaking. He hasn't let you come yet, hasn’t even let you move unless he pushes you first. Your body’s pressed so tightly against the wall you can feel the temperature difference of your skin compared to the cold surface, the spread of sweat down your back, the way your nipples stiffen at the contrast.

You breathe out his name, just a whisper, not even a plea, and that’s enough for him to tighten his grip on your throat until your breath stutters.

He leans close, breath hot at your ear. “Don't say my name like that.”

"Like what?" you rasp, dazed and needy.

“Like I belong to you,” he snarls, voice cracking. “I don’t. I won’t.”

But his cock pulses deeper into you the moment he says it, hips jerking involuntarily, like he hates himself for enjoying how tight and wet you are around him. His teeth clench hard enough to crack a stone.

He’s lying.

You know it. And he knows you know it.

—

This started the first time you pushed back. The first time you dared to speak your mind, challenge his decisions, call out his callousness. Everyone else feared his wrath, his legendary cruelty, his intellect honed to a razor’s edge, but you, you didn’t give him the submission he expected.

And he hated you for it.

Or so you thought, right until the night he cornered you in the strategy chamber, slammed your back against the edge of a table, and stripped you down with a fury so controlled it made your skin burn.

He said it was just stress relief.

He said it wouldn’t happen again.

He said he felt nothing for you.

He’s been inside you a dozen times since.

—

Now, he growls low in his throat, voice vibrating with contained frustration. “Look at you,” he snarls. “Fucking dripping, and I’ve barely touched you.”

You have been touched. You've been pinned, shoved, choked, ground against—your legs are shaking, your body aching. But to Perturabo, this isn't touching. Not the way he wants to. Not the way he denies himself every time.

You manage a breathless smile, even as his grip tightens around your neck. “You say you don’t like me,” you whisper, “but you keep coming back.”

His hips jerk forward hard enough to rattle your teeth. You cry out.

“Don’t confuse my desire with affection,” he hisses. “You’re convenient.”

But the hand not wrapped around your neck is cupping your thigh now, dragging it higher up his hip, forcing you open. His fingers are digging into your flesh like he wants to bruise you, like he needs proof that this happened, that you gave in again.

That he did.

You pant against his shoulder, mouth brushing aganst his bare skin. His blacksmith’s gloves are still on. The leather bites at your skin as he shoves your hips into position.

“Beg,” he demands suddenly, voice low and sharp. “Beg me for it.”

You don’t. You never do. And that’s what makes him snap.

He growls something harsh in Olympia’s language and slams your back against the forge wall again, bending you slightly at the waist. The next thrust is brutal, tearing a moan from your throat that he drinks, face buried against your temple like he’s trying to erase himself inside your body.

You want to scream at him. Say it. Say you want me. Admit you care. Admit it hurts when I don’t call you back.

But you know better. He’s a fortress built of grief and pride and cold rationality, and he’d rather die than admit he needs something soft.

Still, when he comes, grinding against you so deep it feels like he’s trying to brand you from the inside, his voice breaks with something that sounds suspiciously like your name.

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Random contestant just enjoying the chance to relax and have fun, wanders off and just starts digging a massive hole/trench/canal so they make a cubby/hideout/secret tunnel system because why not?

Primarch wgoes for a walk, stumbles (possibly literally) upon Contestant.

Primarch: What are you doing?

Contestant: Making an underground hideout.

Primarch: Why?

Contestant: Fun.

Primarch: Ah.

Contestant: *digging*

Primarch: ...

Contestant: *digging some more*

Primarch: Shouldn't you be with the other contestants?

Contestant, slowly pops their head out of the hole they're in: Shouldn't you be looking for a wife?

Primarch: ...Touchè.

Rogal goes around, interviewing all the contestants one by one to find the one who's most suitable to be his spouse. Well, he did do this until he met this contestant and then he grabbed a shovel on his own and started digging with them. He completely forgets about marriage and just has fun digging an underground hideout.

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Noooooo! 😭

Obsessed with Astartes touching helmets as a sign of affection

Seeing your battle brother after a long time? *Bonk*

You’re both heading into a battle and you’re not sure if you’ll both return? *Thunk*

Celebrating a victory and your buddy finally joined the party? *Clang*

Your closest friend wounded in the apothecary? *Bop*

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Hey you! The Emperor isn't finished with you yet!

My favorite princesses Primarch 💙🖤

Konrad Curze by Me

Mortarion - @masacrescent

Sanguinius - Tilia

Leman Russ - Wolfhound

Jaghatai Khan - Yoshi

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Trazyn is one of those wife guys who never misses a chance to let you know about his lovely wife (don't mind Cawl he's is a bit jealous)

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Facts and Fantasy: Illustrations of the Natural World, Hirsch Library, The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, TX, April 23 – August 23, 2025

(image: David Landsborough and Walter Hood Fitch, A Popular History of British Sea-weeds, Reeve, Benham and Reeve, London, 1849. Hirsch Library, Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, TX)