Fell down the hole | Lapsus, He/Him | Sideblog for Warhammer | Often dead dove content and other dark stuff, proceed with caution | Adult | Yes, said pfp is my own drawing.
I’m Lapsus and slipped down the rabbit hole, decided to bite it and make an sideblog for my screwed up little thoughts (especially about primarchs)
What you can expect from me:
AU stuff, whether that be a prompt or something.
Primarch x Primarch, might do a little x reader but who knows. I enjoy almost any and all fandom content.
On that note; there will be generally weird shipping and probably unsettling content as well, it will be tagged as well I can remember so don’t be afraid to ask me to tag something.
More or less incoherent thoughts about Warhammer overall.
biased towards a certain moth, Mortarion my fav little guy.
DMs and Asks are open to be silly in.
This is an often NFSW blog; so just be a adult
Various tags for organization:
Because I crave order and that sweet sweet serotonin.
lapsus’ warsouls au (any dark souls/ or other souls-like crossovers with warhammer)
lapsus’ reblogs (reblogs, so I can go through them and gush over it all again)
I’m still alive, just life getting in the way and other games dragging me by the ankles
But consider Emps OG boy (Angel of Destruction) finally waking up out of its box only to find that it now has siblings, creator is dead af, half of the siblings turned to chaos, the other half gone.
At least AoD will have a great ‘I told you so moment’
I wonder how the daedric princes would do if dropped into 40k. some of them like Peryite and Hermaeus Mora already have their niches covered but Sheogorath would probably have FUN
daedric princes roadtrip in 40k, Azura is driving while Clavius Vile is giving wrong directions, Hermaeus Mora is correcting him, Meridia and Molag Bal are of course catching hands in the back, Jyggalag is having a migraine because of the tomfoolery (I can totally see Jyggalag beating Emps with a slipper because ‘WHY WOULD YOU DISRUPT THE ORDER OF EXISTENCE???’)
Lore ramblings about Geswelge’s Legion, Vacuiters
Walking into a Vacuiter ship would be terrifying, as they are all varying degrees of blanks/nulls, and with Emps demanding blanks be silenced for reasons (I’m going to beat him with a sickle), and probably are even less reactive than other astartes, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love stuff in their own way.
They are just little guys, also universally the vacuiters like coffee, or the equivalent, those that don’t pass the aspirant trials or failed midway through the implantation are kept around, those that failed become crewmembers and the like, while the ones who failed implantation tend to take on manager roles on the many floors within the ships. This is partly from (my understanding of the lore, so I might be wrong) that blanks are not tolerated publicly and work strictly under commands.
And since Geswelge’s home is a story for another time, they take recruits from basically anywhere, which unfortunately means once you get into the legion, there’s almost zero chance of seeing your homeplanet again. Definitely hard on many, some try to bring parts of their life from before, some simply decide to repress everything. Coffee (or a coffee-like plant I’ve yet to worldbuild), and a fungus that loves eating radiation are staples within the legion; both were introduced from recruits who brought parts of their former lives with them, vacuiters tend to bond really closely within their teams and often that becomes their family unit, and will usually eat together.
Most of the legion’s time is spent fighting after the event that damned them/redacted them from history. Even astartes biology fails eventually, so vacuiters tend to be more fatigued than most. Also! Their love language most of the time is just being in the same room, even if it’s just sitting side by side, they don’t even need to communicate via their own language, just spending time together is enough.
Lmao first time dropping my fanfic snippets, I am not good at it by any means.
Features: Geswelge’s last moments before his ‘end’, unreliable narrator, stream of consciousness, me fucking winging it
He tastes the blood pooling in his mouth, tongue cut into a pulpy stump, long scarred cords with precision.
The warp hates his ilk, howling in pus ridden hues, his right and left hands on either side, fell thirty, come back hundred. A never ending hell, and judgement casted by a golden god who denies it in name, nothing devours thought, emotion sways void. Down he goes into the darkness, shunned from light, pulsing stars of so-called family flicker against expanses.
A man and legion damned to altars of greed and corruption, the sun burns his eyes and voice, it always had, those hands upon his throat hold him down, tears in his eyes as the creator silenced him, nary to met the batch.
Thus his fate was sealed, chained to a gateway, a barrier to the horrors beyond. Are they really horrors or just the reflection of the self? He’s never been able to turn his thoughts into words, he sees the warp in a mirrored light, the things that weep and crawl, balking at his blank steps, reflections of fear of the masses, the four; coalescences of concept and emotion, forever feeding off a golden godlord and His empire, but the sun does not see it that way, His is the right way, the only one. For the idea he’s making His enemy stronger is unthinkable, but he sees the aura stripped bare, revealing that the dream was always rotten.
Should he haven’t existed in first place?
One step, two step, three step, four. Long hilted blade slams into a horned skull, the figure fizzles into clouds and incandescent shadows, each blast of null sends many staggering back. Is this punishment? A nonstop assault? Is it his fault? He does not know.
It ends as it begins, in flashes of mindbending colors, the crack of eggshells, hairline fractures in reality.
He does not see the crimson face talking to gold.
His mind barely comprehends the blast, each son drops and shatters, an yawning gape between the mind and body, mentality and material, the gate and the nebula beyond. His limbs break into shards, blood freezing, the stump of a tongue burns akin to when it felt when He cut it off, the cauterization in searing sol, under a knife’s edge.
Is he falling? Bones ground in paste, where is his blade? Who is he? He can no longer see, no longer feel, he is nothing, alive or dead; he does not know, is it thoughts or last words of a dead man? his sons bear the same fate, voiceless and mourning.
The voiddancer, does not wake again.
 A tall man in the deepest oynx, a legion of silence, falls between the cracks.
Lmao first time dropping my fanfic snippets, I am not good at it by any means.
Features: Geswelge’s last moments before his ‘end’, unreliable narrator, stream of consciousness, me fucking winging it
He tastes the blood pooling in his mouth, tongue cut into a pulpy stump, long scarred cords with precision.
The warp hates his ilk, howling in pus ridden hues, his right and left hands on either side, fell thirty, come back hundred. A never ending hell, and judgement casted by a golden god who denies it in name, nothing devours thought, emotion sways void. Down he goes into the darkness, shunned from light, pulsing stars of so-called family flicker against expanses.
A man and legion damned to altars of greed and corruption, the sun burns his eyes and voice, it always had, those hands upon his throat hold him down, tears in his eyes as the creator silenced him, nary to met the batch.
Thus his fate was sealed, chained to a gateway, a barrier to the horrors beyond. Are they really horrors or just the reflection of the self? He’s never been able to turn his thoughts into words, he sees the warp in a mirrored light, the things that weep and crawl, balking at his blank steps, reflections of fear of the masses, the four; coalescences of concept and emotion, forever feeding off a golden godlord and His empire, but the sun does not see it that way, His is the right way, the only one. For the idea he’s making His enemy stronger is unthinkable, but he sees the aura stripped bare, revealing that the dream was always rotten.
Should he haven’t existed in first place?
One step, two step, three step, four. Long hilted blade slams into a horned skull, the figure fizzles into clouds and incandescent shadows, each blast of null sends many staggering back. Is this punishment? A nonstop assault? Is it his fault? He does not know.
It ends as it begins, in flashes of mindbending colors, the crack of eggshells, hairline fractures in reality.
He does not see the crimson face talking to gold.
His mind barely comprehends the blast, each son drops and shatters, an yawning gape between the mind and body, mentality and material, the gate and the nebula beyond. His limbs break into shards, blood freezing, the stump of a tongue burns akin to when it felt when He cut it off, the cauterization in searing sol, under a knife’s edge.
Is he falling? Bones ground in paste, where is his blade? Who is he? He can no longer see, no longer feel, he is nothing, alive or dead; he does not know, is it thoughts or last words of a dead man? his sons bear the same fate, voiceless and mourning.
The voiddancer, does not wake again.
 A tall man in the deepest oynx, a legion of silence, falls between the cracks.
I would actually like to digitally paint but my former device I’ve been using broke like over a year ago, and I’m consumed by the urge to remake my goop primarch to match up with what he looks like now
Been drawing a few sketches of Geswelge but not happy with how they turned out.
Also going to nsfw post about my oc, Geswelge
I never described Geswelge’ bits, so he could go either way down there. As my ocs tend to flip flop on what they have depending on my mood.
Geswelge has never had romantic or sex before, him looking down on whoever is going to town on him, he’s making breathy little gasps and soaking wet. He’s blushing so hard, probably holding a pillow, he’s very sensitive from just not being touched. His hair is all a mess from someone pulling. Shove this guy down and make him writhe.
I think I finally settled on some names for my boys
Geswelge’s Leigon are the Vacuiters/Nihiltors, both deriving from ‘empty of thoughts’ aka vacuity, and the good old nihility. Haven’t decided between the two yet.
My flesh goop primarch, the name Fulian is starting to grow on me for him. Their legion are Glialancers, derived from the anatomical cells under the glial family, which was inspired by astroglial cells which regulate stuff and deal with scarring tissue, and the word lancers.
