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Demise of The Great Angel, portrayed by a unknown remembrancer

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Watching videos on Julius Ceasar and I'm reminded that the Roman's had rules about who topped and who bottomed. The higher ranked topped and it got muddy when the ranks were close.

Guilliman is not a man to invite scandal even if it would only be on Macragge. So the only opportunity that he has to be the bottom is to the other primarchs and the Emperor. If this gives anyone an idea that they had won anything that would be their mistake.

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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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Character requests 1/9

angrymans.jpg

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When I fucking get horus I swear to the emperor

@asksanguinius40k, this one of yours?

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I have this reoccurring thought of black Templar neophytes and scouts making it a challenge to throw cheese at the bald spots their brothers have bc of the mandated tonsure haircut for the youngins.

One of the scouts kicks it up a notch and ends up cheesing the high marshal from a balcony pew during Mass. Perfect arc and the slice of cheese slaps that bald dome of his during a battle homily. And it’s CRISP.

Instead of being servitorized or squashed into paste right then and there he is (rightfully) scolded and promptly moved to receive sniper training because holy fuck he aimed that perfectly.

From that point on chaplains and scout sergeants take great care to pat down any troublesome or mischievous young ones to avoid having a repeat of the Great Cheesing.

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i drew us.... 🥺🥺🥺

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it's genuinely hilarious that a lot of the primarchs want to kick their legions in the head until they die. and who could blame them! they didn't want to be father but now they've got upwards of 1,000 genesons (whatever that means) who worship this fuckign weirdo claiming to be their dad AND WORSHIP THEM

if given the opportunity i would hit every iron warrior in the head with hammers

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(Btw, i haven't forgotten about the things you tagged me in and i do still very much intend to go back and comment on them, I've just kind of been sucked into a thing and it has me in a chokehold [positive])

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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I love Boots, and I see you guys love him too ❤️

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@diabolicalevil some food for thoughts (not to say we'd need to go the asexual route, though it's nonetheless fascinating to consider the canon)

Is sex or sexual thoughts (of the straight or queer variety) actually viewed as heretical for space marines in 40k or is it one of those things the fanon has just repeated a lot since the idea is up to interpretation ?

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Listen. I know the primarch to normal human height difference is so insane, but that doesn't stop my feral urge to just curl around them.

Like I don't care if it looks funky, I'd big spoon their heads, curled around them like a cat. They cannot escape.

And you know what tbh, most of them need the emotional comfort of someone at least attempt to big spoon them if not cuddle them at all.

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Rogue trader designs! These are just stock henchmen people, but I've got some chars in mind for later

Now that I have these guys designed vaguely though, I'm going to start practicing for some proper and fancy renders of the guard and stuff I drew.

Will have to balance it with other stuff since I also want to draw some twinks but we'll see soons

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So funny idea, MC has thousand year old (maybe 10k year old) pickle jar. Just, imagine saying that to one of the Primarch that this one is older than you.

Just, want MC to go into a fermentation spree like makes their own fish sauce, soy sauce. Many preservation methods. Some of them is going to smelly.

Also, don't know which Legion is based on Ancient Rome, but MC is going to make Roman Garum. Similar process to making fish sauce.

https://youtube.com/shorts/JJHbDQbVN0I?si=lmximipivKFMBExO

Imagine, MC gives Big E some food. Like how they used to.

You won’t believe this but my old Latin teacher from middle school used to make garum and the last assignment he gave us was to make Roman food…

Here are some picture actually

Dug through years of photos for this🥀 I made the fried parsnips… honestly should make those again parsnips are really good

Also ya MC has a pickle jar older than the primarchs 🥀

The Ultramarines are the Roman Legion! So they are eating doormice! (The chicken leg is supposed to be a door mouse but you can’t exactly serve that in a public school)

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Sometimes, they manage to be together, they manage to be happy.

Chu, who has no Tumblr, has allowed me to share this image of Corvus, Kasati and Six. She drew it year(s?) ago, but I am sharing it now because I have decided to collect and share images of my OCs.

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Can we see the interaction between Clonegrim (from Ember Phoenix comics) and the High Consort during their first meeting?

When the clone enters the chamber, the High Consort almost feel like they have been thrown back in time. He looks like the Fulgrim they remember when they close their eyes. Not the warped being he's since become but the person he was before he fell to Chaos. It's nostalgic.

The clone does not take a single step further into the chamber, standing with his back merely a foot against the door that shuts and locks behind him. The custodes watch him like a hawk, waiting for any excuse to cut him down where he stands. His genetic template would not be granted the same patience.

He opens his mouth to say something but then he meets their gaze and his mouth slams shut as he looks down, staring at the floor with such intensity that it might just catch ablaze.

The High Consort finds that they don't mind the impoliteness of the gesture as even the brief glimpse of his eyes makes them reminiscence once more upon what once was. Because even the look in his eyes are the same as the one the third son had, all those years ago when they first met. He was so young back then. Stronger and wiser than most but still a just a boy in their eyes. He had approached them, eyes, filled with a mixture of hope, pride, joy... and a deeprooted anxiety. The fear of being rejected.

Back then, Fulgrim had been so worried about not being enough, even if he had done his best to hide it behind a veil of confidence and bravado. He never managed to quite let go of this insecurity of his, no matter how hard the High Consort tried.

This one, however, fears being rejected for a completely different reason. He has the same face, voice, even memories of the original. Physically, they are identical, to the last blood cell. A perfect copy.

And that's the problem, isn't it? This isn't Fulgrim, not really. That child is still dancing to Slaanesh's tune, growing more and more depraved with each day that passes.

(And yet, the High Consort can't help but wonder if they would not forgive him in a heartbeat, if he made an attempt to turn his life around. The thought is maddening.)

Finally, the High Consort grows tired of the silence and issues a single command. "Come closer."

The clone of Fulgrim flinches like he's been shot but despite his obvious fear, he treads closer and closer still when the High Consort does not tell him to stop. It's only when he stands right in front of them, an arm's length away, that he comes to a halt. Still, he dares not to look them in the eyes.

Again, the High Consort finds that they do not mind his lack of manners. Instead, they take the opportunity to study him up close.

Visually, he looks identical to Fulgrim, not a mole out of line. But looking at him like this, there are signs that they can not ignore.

Fulgrim favored his hair kept loose and down to his upper back. The clone, however, appears to have chosen to have his hair tucked behind his ears and cut so that it ends just above his shoulders. Then there's the way they carry themselves. Both stand tall, backs straight and dignified but the clone appears more withdrawn, like he would rather stand at the back of the room rather than in the center. Fulgrim never hesitated to take up as much space as he could, to be the center of attention.

And as similar as their eyes are, there's something unfamiliar about the one that stands in front of the High Consort. A light. Not necessarily wrong, just... different.

Clinically, they slide their fingers underneath the clone's chin and tilt it up, forcing him to finally meet their gaze. Like this, the worry and fear he feels is even more evident and the High Consort forces themself to ignore the way their heart aches with sympathy to focus on the truth in front of them.

Ah. So that's it. This is not Fulgrim but nonetheless, it is their son.

The hand they used to raise his chin moves to gently cup his face instead and their face changes from cold and analytical into a smile that they only reserve for a select few.

"You must be weary from your travels. Why don't we sit down and have a talk?"

The clone- they really need to think of a name for him- blinks once, twice in confusion before realization and recognition dawns on them, for those were the exact words the High Consort said to his template when he first arrived on Terra. And just like that, all the fear melts away and is replaced with an expression of heart-aching relief. With shaking legs, they take a step forward before all but collapsing at their feet, burying his face against them.

The High Consort raises a hand to stop the custodes from reaching for their weapons before lowering it to tuck the clone's hair back behind his ear, the way he prefers it. He shudders, a shaky inhale as he tries to keep himself from weeping. Despite this, the High Consort can still feel a few tears dampening their clothes. But that's alright. A child should always feel free to weep in the arms of their parent.

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Some snippets from various chapters of the Ultramarine/Night Lord Serf!Reader fic! I'm very excited to post this and I really hope you guys enjoy it! These are all works in progress, keep that in mind.