#but it is kind of warhammer

[ladymirdan]

I have completly lost my mind playing No mans sky. Next project; an insane Nipnip farm 😌

[moociaoafterdark]

Fulgrim: My hair is the best among all my brothers!

Sanguinius: Are you sure about that? I'm the one being compared to an angel, you know!

Meanwhile Konrad, if he actually bothered to take care of his hair (he was the one to inherit the Emperor's hair gene):

[sebille]

the great angel

[magistralucis]

flayed ones in mechanicus come in 3 flavours: crab, demure, and gopnik

[chemos-factories]

i had a vision

[owlsaid]

sketch……

[inquisitor-gayfax]

fuck it Atlacoya appreciation post (1 / no doubt many)

The Tithes, Episode 2: Harvest

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

God imagine Sanguinuis just being happy with his favourite person, he's making a low clicking sound that's coming from his throat, and his pupils are pinning due to how happy he is that he's with them, and his wings are just fluffed up to the point they look even more massive then they usually are. Him not wanting to feed from his person lest he begin associating them with prey but gives loving bites in much the same manner a cat may affectionately nip. Him getting possessive over his favourite person, and flaring his feathers, or growling lowly at the offending individual that dares to flirt with his lover, having to force himself to calm down when their touched by another, to not react when he smells something he doesn't like.

Him getting riled up when their around other primarchs because even though he innately knows nothing will happen, a part of him can't refrain from showing the sides of him that he usually oh so carefully hides from his brothers. Accidentally revealing that he's not as pure as he tries to be. That he's something far worse, something incredibly dangerous, to the point that some of his brothers no longer see him as pure, but as something that if allowed to let hunt as it pleased, would likely destroy an entire city or town, draining it of blood and flesh. Held back only by his own sheer will power and the fact he shoves it so far down he rarely feels it. Only for that to change around his favourite person because he allows himself to just be himself in all of his uncanny and predatorial glory.

[tagedeszorns]

Games Workshop should stop bringing back Primarchs to 40k.

The pros of having a towering, impressive model on the table and the warm and fuzzy feeling that your boys have their daddy again are by far outweighed by the cons.

Firstly, of course, the obvious problem of injustice. A few of them are deader than the dodo and can't just be pulled out of a hat. (Except by Fabius, of course, but that would take a lot of arm-twisting for his character to get him to clone them all again)

Then there's the return of such mythical beings, who in the completely over-the-top religiosity of the 40k world had the status of archangels or suchlike aloof creatures, and whose nimbus is now completely disenchanted - because they're just standing over there picking their noses and being their bickering selves again. Uncool.

Quite a few of the older 40k novels (and the newer ones too - see the near-war over Heresy writings in Titanicus) would be absolutely devalued and their protagonists practically ridiculed. Take Ragnar, for example, who was banished for something Russ would laugh out loud and heartily at.

And then, of course, the great heroes of 40k would suddenly be demoted to middle management. See Calgar. Who got to make a nice appearance in Space Marines 2, but is only half the hero he was before Bob's return. All the Chapter Masters who have stood out for their deeds so far. The sacrifices made by men like Forgefather He'Stan - all just preparation for Daddy? (He'Stan is a bad example in some ways, but then take Tu'Shan and the rest of the understrength Salamanders fighting for survival)

Especially with the Chaos Legions, it shifts everything. Fulgrim's return to lead the Emperor's Children is as good as a foregone conclusion. Which means that Eidolon is now slipping into Kaesoron's 30k role: he's just there, but hardly anyone will notice him anymore. The struggle to find themselves, to practically grow up - that is taken away from the Emperor's Children. They become simple weapons in the hands of their father again. And they don't deserve that.

Or just imagine: Lorgar comes out of the Cathedral, muzzles Erebus and Kor Phaeron, and the whole fascinating political landscape the two of them have built up is swept away in one fell swoop.

At least there's a chance that Abaddon as the current Undivided-Champion will just bash cloned-daddy's head in. Again.

But first and foremost: The story of the Primarchs is told. They had their over 60 book arc of greatness and fall and I loved all of it. But it's over. They created the foundation of the world we know in 40k, but they should not be part of it. They are larger than life and that ship has sailed. 40k has a radically different aesthetics than 30k and bleeding one into the other is just tearing down a carefully built world.

It will happen, that's for sure. And maybe the great authors of Black Library will surprise me and everything will be peachy.

One can hope.

[archtemperedtemplar]

Demetrian Titus, my beloved. Anyway, y'all seen Space Marine 2? Fantastic game, they made Titus look even better. He's my little cutie patootie.

[wolf-feathers12]

I feel like I could write an essay on the topic of warhammer fans ect but I didn't sleep well so I'm too tired U_U

But this is interesting non the less. I don't find warhammer offensive even though I consider myself on the more "woke" side of the political spectrum and I've yet to find someone within warhammer tumblr that wants a huge change to the themes or make it drastically less grimdark.

Thinking back to @moociaoafterdark and @robot-roadtrip-rants post about the tau and aeldari factions and how hard it is for other members of the wider community to take them seriously.

There seems to be a theme hmmmm

One thing I will say is that I really really REALLY don't want the grimdarkness and horror of warhammer to be made more marketable if that makes sense. :P

[heuldoch7b]

i started a new medication (duloxetine) and its been ok for my mood and pain but its made it really hard to do art and recall words/put sentences together. will see if this continues but otherwise i may be kindove quiet/absent. heres a piece i was working on but cant get myself to finish

[nullmaidens]

WIP: drink your fill

18+ || ezekyle abaddon x reader || step-mother/son fauxcest. pre-heresy, set-up to adultery, guilty masturbation (kinda), pregnancy as body horror.

THIS IS A WIP!! the final product will have explicit content and abaddon with lactophilia. please bear this in mind!!

he’s a boob guy who wants to be his mother’s favourite just as much as he wants to be his father’s, and i can see him getting rather jealous of a new arrival that takes up too much of her time for his liking.

Hell exists, and the Imperial Truth should be damned to it. Hell exists, and Ezekyle knows, because he’s been enduring it for months.

It comes to the Vengeful Spirit after a long gestation, growing in a dark, dank place, left alone too long to get rid of. It buries its way inside, making itself a home out of nothing, siphoning their hard-won supplies without permission and, to add insult to injury, without reproach. They’d reinforced the ship against it — a new door here, an insulated wall there, increasingly strict safety protocols, and locks. More locks than he had ever seen, one on every compartment, every cupboard, even in the most distant recesses of the menial decks, as if the Warmaster was expecting a break-in.

What he was really readying them for, however, was the breakout.

The Legion Mother had screamed for hours, and he thought could hear it clearly despite your being in the infirmary and himself being locked away in the training cages. It was haunting, and Ezekyle wanted nothing to do with it. He could almost feel the heavy thuds of the Warmaster’s footsteps pacing up and down the corridor outside the room you’d been placed in, nearly hear Tarik’s lighthearted voice try to comfort him, or Luc’s stern assertions try to ease his mind. She’ll be fine, he’d say, she is strong. It’s why you chose her, and it’s why we love her.

The cages were empty when he arrived, everyone else preoccupied, duties cut short and shifts left unfinished when the news had broken that you had finally gone under the knife. His knuckles are bloody from being beaten against battle servitors, six— no, seven— of them in pieces at his feet. Huge, hulking, once-human things torn apart, split at the seams, their bodies broken almost beyond repair, and while he knew the Martians would fix them, they’d never quite operate the same. That thought stung. Your body, too, had changed, under occupation. You became gaunt, stretched out, both thin and bulging, the mortal human body utterly weak and incapable of handling the burden of such a parasite.

You’d wasted away in front of them and they had done nothing. The nausea that left you starving almost to the point of emaciation was blamed on warp sickness, initially, but the Luna Wolves weren’t stupid enough to be so easily deceived. The preternatural beauty and fullness that came in the weeks that followed was merely a reflection in him of the Warmaster’s love for you, one that disguised the way your skin warped around the growth. To his great shame, Ezekyle took himself in hand for the first time in decades when you looked like that. You even smelled different, lingering in the air around him for hours after you’d retired to his father’s chambers, the sickly sweet scent of you clinging to him even beneath a blisteringly hot shower. The water scalded his back as he’d stood hunched over, braced against the tiled wall in front of him, and he cursed when he thought of how much more lustrous your hair had become, and how your clothes had started to stretch across your belly, and how the already perfect swell of your chest was—

He made himself spend another fifteen minutes scrubbing his guilt from where it dripped down the grouting.

When the more slender parts of your body grew gaunt again, when you were tired, and slow, and it seemed that he alone could see it in your eyes that you were putting on a brave face for them, Ezekyle had gone to your bedside and asked you why you had wasted so much time in waiting to take it out.

“I don’t know,” was your answer, and you had squeezed his hand. He saw red just thinking about the way the oximeter dug into your finger, the plastic cold against his skin, and the dullness in your eyes, once so full of life. He punched the servitor in front of him hard, its inner and outer machinations stuttering at the impact before whirring back to life. “It will happen when it happens. The chirurgeons and the apothecaries know what they are doing.” You’d brought his hand up to your lips, then. They were cracked and dry, devoid of their usual softness, but they had still been so gentle against his knuckle when you tried to comfort him.

When an illness takes root, it ought to be cured. When a tumour grows, removed. The surgery should fix you. It would make you better, and happier, and things would be just as they were before. Now again, harder, that same fist pummelled into its gut until he felt bone break, lubricants spilling onto the mat, each strike a wish that the ache would dull and fade into the oblivion from whence it came. This was a momentous occasion, one he’d regret missing, but the thought of smelling the stench of your blood from the other side of a closed door was nauseating. He should be there, with his brothers. With his father who he knows needs him now possibly more than ever, to share in his strife and his delight.

And yet, after a painstakingly long half-cycle spent drenched in sweat, Ezekyle punches straight through the servitor’s skull and bellows in frustration when roars of joy fill every deck of the ship. Lady Lupercal is alive. The Warmaster has another son.

“Must he parade it around?” he asked under his breath as the Mournival stood by, watching from a stage as the Primarch showed the swaddled cloth in his arms to each company, one at a time. It was a miracle it hadn’t started that insufferable wailing again at the sound of ceramite sabatons thumping against plasteel flooring, each and every Luna Wolf in his immaculately cleaned armour, and only Horus going without. He was determined to maintain skin to skin contact with the thing they’d torn from the Legion Mother, as if that would make all the difference, and have it recognise him as its father all the quicker. Ezekyle bristled at the thought, though it wasn’t a new one. In the days since the arrival, the Warmaster had doted on it, and something dark and strange and sad had coiled up in his heart whenever he saw the way he held it close to his chest.

The Legion Mother had barely been able to walk when the men were called up to the debarkation deck, and he’d played the role of the dutiful, anxious son in the absence of any other volunteers. You clung to his arm, shivering from the effort of standing, but you smiled anyway. It was pained, and it was like only he could tell. “He is your father’s pride,” you whispered back, your eyes fixed not on your husband, but on the bundle in his care. “He thinks it’ll be good for all of you to know him, and I agree. He’s just another brother to care for, Ezekyle. Smaller, perhaps, than what you’re used to,” a weak laugh rattled through you, and he could almost feel the way your fingers tightened around the thick plate of his gauntlet, “but a brother all the same.”

thank u for making it this far <3 hopefully i ACTUALLY FINISH THIS

divider by @strangergraphics !!

[vveltergeist]

Always thinking about Titus and his little reliquary strapped to his waist with bones. What a rad fucking embellishment to his personal livery. My guy is just rocking up with a box o' bones to the function. Sick as hell.

My personal HC is that they're Sidonus' btw. Like straight up "taking my bestie to kill heretics! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝̸̱͂▄︻デ══━一 death can't stop the power of friendship HONOR BOUND BROTHERHOOD"

[chemos-factories]

“Ferrus!” Fulgrim burst into the forge, not in a great swirl of skirts and loose hair, because that would be a fire hazard. He burst in with a purposeful stride and appropriately tied-back hair and closed-toe shoes, and slammed something down on the anvil in front of Ferrus. “I need your help with this.”

Ferrus looked down at the object he’d been presented with blankly. “What is it?”

“A waffle iron.”

“A…” Ferrus blinked. “A waffle iron.”

“Yes,” Fulgrim said, “it makes waffles. It’s self-heating; you pour the batter in the lower half, and close it, and it cooks both sides. You like waffles.”

Ferrus did like waffles. He’d been known, on occasion, after spending so long in the forge on a project that he forgot what day it was, to grab some of those conveniently-frozen ones in his heated metal hands so they melted/cooked in one go and shove them in his mouth dry. Easy carbs.

“I want to put glass in it,” Fulgrim continued.

Ferrus frowned. “Glass.”

“Yes.”

“In a waffle iron.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Art isn’t about ‘why’!” Fulgrim exclaimed. “It’s about ‘why not’! Anyway, I don’t think the metal grilles can handle molten glass at the moment, so I need you to replace them with something that can. Please?”

Ferrus looked at the waffle iron on his anvil, then up at Fulgrim’s face, arranged in the sweetly-pleading expression Fulgrim knew always worked on him. He was acutely aware that several of his sons, and Adeptus Mechanicus members, had stopped in their own work to witness this momentous diplomatic meeting of demi-gods.

“Alright,” Ferrus said.

Fulgrim’s face broke into a wide grin, and he leaned across the anvil to kiss Ferrus on the cheek, and Ferrus did not go pink in the face and answer with his own stupid smile.

[madame-helen]