ngồi sau ghế lái nghịch dái shipper

I created this account mainly to post my… less-than-innocent ideas. Sometimes I write platonic, sometimes charxreader, sometimes charxchar.

I kinda into primarchcest and yandere stuff, I’m fine with NSFW, and you’re absolutely welcome to come to me with your wildest ideas.

We should all be responsible parents with communication skills of normal human beings, so we don't end up sitting on a golden toilet like the Emperor. 😔👍

We returned right around the time Horus was about to reach his insanity by Chaos.

We, a ghost from the past, returned without a word of warning, leaving the Primarchs confused about her identity—except, of course, Horus.

And, well, the Emperor breaks down in private.

Let's just say, Horus overheard a conversation between the Emperor and her.

About how disappointed she was, how she despised him for failing to keep his promise to her before she left to "deal with" the Warp. About him, how he failed their children, failed her, who he lost in the warp.

The children she had made him promise to raise with love and must know nothing but love until they were ready to wield a sword, now nothing in his eyes but weapons in human form.

Would Horus change his view of her when he at least knew that one of their creators truly wanted them to live as human beings, as children, capable of love, and not just as weapons to conquer planets and star systems for their father's will?

Took you long enough to ask.🤡

Anyway, this is pretty damn suck because I had to write it in a rush while studying for the finals exam. The part where momma expresses her disappointment is especially terrible, so I might rewrite this someday.

—

Reader as the mother of the Primarchs.

Part 3

The Imperial Palace had always felt cold to Horus.

Beautiful, yes.

Magnificent beyond mortal comprehension.

But cold.

Not physically—Terra’s climate systems ensured perfection everywhere within the Palace walls. No, the coldness came from something else. Something woven into the marble corridors and golden halls themselves.

Everything in the Palace existed for a reason. Every servant, every Custodian, every chamber. Even the Primarchs.

Especially the Primarchs.

Horus had spent decades convincing himself he did not mind.

Because he was the favored son, wasn’t he?

The Warmaster. The first found. The one who stood closest to the Emperor’s side.

That should have been enough.

And yet.

Sometimes, during quiet moments between campaigns, Horus would find himself wondering why every interaction with his father felt like standing before a monument rather than a parent.

Admiration existed there. Pride existed there.

But not warmth.

Never warmth.

—

Then she returned.

Without warning.

No glorious announcement, no psychic storm splitting Terra’s skies, no armies kneeling before a returned consort.

One day, the Palace was as it had always been, and the next, there was suddenly a woman walking through its halls as though she belonged there more than the Emperor Himself.

Horus remembered that moment vividly afterward.

The Emperor seems… odd.

Subtly, perhaps. No mortal would notice it.

But Horus had stood beside his father for decades. He knew every shift in tone, every flicker of expression, every carefully controlled emotion hidden beneath divine stillness.

And now suddenly there were cracks.

Even Malcador, the wise man who had stood by the Emperor since the very beginnings of humanity, a man who should have been unsurprised by anything, dropped his staff.

The woman entered silently.

And the room was frozen around her.

Confusion. Suspicion. Shock.

But Horus already knew.

Some instinct older than reason clawed up his spine the moment he saw her.

Mother.

The word arrived violently inside him.

There's no logic to how that word popped into his mind; he saw her, and simply… recognized her.

As she stepped into the room, her gaze settled on Valdor; the calm expression on her face stiffened slightly, as though she had seen something she had long expected, yet sadly, was unable to fully accept.

Then her eyes moved to the Primarchs, and that fragile composure almost shattered in the way her pupils contracted. If one looked closely enough, they might even catch something breaking apart—something pained—in her eyes during those fleeting moments. Yet she skillfully concealed it again, returning to the same calm expression she had worn upon entering. Unfortunately for her, the room was filled with demi-gods; none of those subtle changes escaped their notice, and each of them formed their own thoughts in silence.

From the corner of his eye, Horus noticed Valdor tightening his grip on the shaft of his spear. The Warmaster then shifted his attention back to the woman; from the moment she had entered the room until now, her eyes had never once rested upon the Emperor.

And then her expression made Horus wonder, why, why in those fleeting expressions of anguish as she looked at them, the Primarchs…

It's like she had been searching for them across eternity and finally found her way home.

Then Neoth spoke.

Not the Emperor.

Neoth.

His voice sounded raw.

"You came back."

And for the first time in Horus’ existence, his father sounded small.

She looked at Him for a very long time.

Then quietly:

"I promised I would."

The Emperor watched her constantly.

Like a starving man watching water. Like someone terrified she might vanish if He blinked too long.

Horus did not understand why.

Not yet.

—

The Palace changed after her return.

Not visibly.

Subtly.

The Emperor appeared distracted during councils. Watching her when He thought no one saw. Following the sound of her laughter with Malcador through corridors, unconsciously, like a starving man scenting food.

It disturbed Horus deeply.

Because he had never seen the Emperor want anything before.

Then came the argument.

Horus had not meant to overhear it.

Truly.

He had been searching for his father after Erebus planted another whisper in his ear, another poisonous seed of doubt regarding the Imperium, regarding purpose, regarding love.

The Warmaster’s soul was already fraying at the edges by then.

Chaos waited patiently in those cracks.

And then he heard shouting.

Not the Emperor’s commanding voice.

Something infinitely worse.

Pain.

Horus stopped outside the private chamber instinctively.

Inside, his father sounded shattered.

"I did everything I could."

Her laugh cut through the room sharp as broken glass.

"No."

Silence.

Then:

"You did what was efficient."

Horus froze.

The psychic pressure radiating through the doors was unbearable now. Not violence.

Grief.

Ten thousand years of grief compressed into words.

"They were scattered!" The Emperor snapped suddenly, voice cracking with something dangerously close to desperation. "I searched for them. I reclaimed them. I built an empire for them—"

"You built an empire to use them!"

The words landed like executions.

Horus felt sick.

Inside the chamber, something shattered.

Glass perhaps. Or composure.

Her voice trembled now—not with fear.

Rage.

"Do you remember what you promised me...?"

Silence.

The Emperor said nothing.

And suddenly Horus realized, with dawning horror, that His silence was answer enough.

When she spoke again, her voice had become unbearably soft.

That softness hurt worse than shouting ever could.

"I asked for one thing, Neoth. One. Simple. Thing"

The Emperor made a sound Horus had never heard before.

Not anger. Not authority.

Guilt.

Pure guilt.

“I only asked you to love them in my stead…”

Horus’ breath stopped.

Inside the room, she continued quietly:

"You promised me they would know nothing but love until they were grown enough to bear weapons!"

Another silence.

Then, brutally:

"Tell me honestly—when you looked at Angron, did you see a wounded child or a broken tool…?"

No answer.

"Look at Mortarion and answer me, Neoth — is this what you promised me?!”

Still nothing.

She inhaled sharply like He had struck her.

And suddenly Horus understood the trap hidden inside those words.

Not beloved.

Not Sons.

Not gentle.

Loyal.

Tools

Useful.

His stomach turned violently.

Then, maybe the Emperor whispered something too quiet for Horus to catch.

Her answer came sharp and devastating:

"No. Do not tell me this was necessary."

A long silence followed.

When she spoke again, she sounded exhausted beyond language.

"I left to protect them."

Horus pressed a hand against the wall, suddenly dizzy.

"I walked into the Warp alone for them."

Another pause.

Then the final blow.

"And I came back to find my children so starved for affection that they mistake scraps of approval for love!"

Horus stopped breathing.

Because suddenly everything hurt.

The endless need to please their father. The desperate hunger beneath every achievement. The way praise from the Emperor felt like sunlight to starving skin.

Inside the chamber, the Emperor finally spoke again, voice frighteningly quiet.

"I loved them."

Oh, how pathetically hollow those words sound now… Horus slowly stepped away from that door, his body moving on its own until he finally came to a stop at one of the palace balconies.

Inside the chamber, his parents continued breaking each other apart quietly.

But the Warmaster could no longer bear listening.

Because for the first time in his life, the whispers of Chaos sounded smaller than the grief inside him.

And later, much later, when she found him alone staring out across Terra’s endless lights, she did not speak immediately.

She stood beside him silently.

Waiting.

Giving him the choice.

Horus hated how much that kindness hurt.

Finally, without looking at her, he asked the question destroying him from the inside out.

"Did you really want us?"

The silence afterward nearly killed her.

When he finally looked up, tears stood openly in her eyes.

Not just sadness.

Devastation.

She stepped toward him carefully like approaching something wounded.

Then cupped his face between trembling hands.

"Horus," she whispered, voice breaking completely, “I clawed my way through hell itself to return to my children, so please… even if only a little, do not doubt me… no matter how much of a failure your mother may be...”

The Warmaster shattered.

Part 2

The woman stared back at him from the canvas.

Not exactly him. but…

The same eyes, the same curve of mouth, the same sharpness in the brow that remembrancers always praised when they tried to capture the Warmaster's face.

But softened.

Human.

Alive in a way Horus had never seen in himself.

For a very long time, he simply stared.

Then quietly:

“Who are you?”

No answer came.

Of course not.

—

“You shouldn't be here.”

Malcador's voice rasped through the chamber like dry parchment.

Horus did not turn. This was the several hundredth time he had stood in this spot since the day he found the portrait.

“Who is she?”

Silence. Long, angony silence.

Horus finally looked back over his shoulder. “You know.”

“I know many things.”

“Don't. Do.That.” Horus's tone sharpened. “Not now.”

The Sigillite looked tired, the kind carved into his soul.

“She mattered to Him,” Horus said quietly, not a question, a statement.

Malcador closed his eyes.

And in that single motion, Horus felt the first true flicker of dread.

Because Malcador looked grieving.

After all these centuries.

“…..She is not your concern,” the Sigillite said at last.

Horus laughed once.

A short, ugly sound.

“She has my face.”

“No,” Malcador replied.

“You have her face.”

—

That sentence poisoned everything. Horus could not let it go after that.

He searched archives.

Opened sealed repositories beneath the Himalazian vaults.

The deeper he dug, the less coherent the truth became.

Some records claimed she had walked beside the Emperor before Old Night.

Others implied she had emerged during the Unification Wars.

One fragment described her as mortal.

Another called her perpetual.

Everything is so vague. Yet every surviving fragment bent around the same answer:

She had been close to the Emperor.

Closer than almost anyone.

Then came the second horror.

The contradictions were intentional.

Not decay. Not time.

Curation.

Entire sections of data had been edited generations apart by different hands — all bearing authorization codes that led back, eventually, inevitably, to Terra.

To the Emperor.

Horus sat alone in the dark of his strategium for nearly an hour after realizing it.

Father buried her.

Trimmed carefully, precisely, like a man afraid of bleeding too openly, like grief itself had become classified.

That should have frightened Horus.

Instead, it obsessed him.

Because if the Emperor had hidden her, then she mattered.

And if she mattered…

Why had Horus never been told?

—

After that, Horus started noticing things he should never have noticed.

The Emperor never looked at him first.

Not truly.

He lingered. Studied.

As though comparing memory against reality.

And once the thought existed, Horus could not kill it.

During councils, he would catch the Emperor watching him with an expression so brief it barely existed at all.

Not pride or calculation.

Something sadder.

Once, during the Ullanor celebrations, Horus laughed at something Fulgrim had said.

The Emperor froze.

Just for an instant.

A tiny stillness.

But Horus saw it.

Saw the way the Emperor's face hollowed with sudden remembrance.

As if another laugh had echoed beneath his own.

That was the moment resentment first took root.

Small.

Cancerous.

Alive.

—

“What was she to you?”

The question finally came years later in a private chamber aboard the Vengeful Spirit.

The Emperor stood beside the observation deck, Terra burning gold in the distance beyond the void.

For once, no Custodes remained nearby.

No attendants.

Only father and son.

The Emperor did not answer immediately.

Horus hated Him for that pause.

“She was important.”

Important.

Not beloved.

Not cherished.

Important.

Like a weapon.

Like a resource.

Rage flashed hot beneath Horus's skin.

“If she was important, why did you never tell me anything about her?”

Silence.

Horus swallowed.

“Did you love her?”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

And when the Emperor finally spoke, His voice sounded impossibly distant.

“Yes.”

Horus wished He had lied.

Because now the grief in that single syllable became undeniable.

Real.

Ancient.

Still bleeding after centuries.

Something inside Horus twisted violently.

“Did you make us· because you missed her?”

The Emperor looked at him then.

Truly looked at him.

And for one horrible instant, Horus saw it.

Not the Master of Mankind.

Not the god.

Just a man who looked unbearably tired.

“You were my son,” the Emperor said quietly.

Not are.

Were.

Horus felt cold.

“That isn't an answer.”

“No,” the Emperor admitted.

“It is the only one I can give you.”

—

Chaos found him raw after that.

And the gods did not need lies.

Only pressure.

Only truth sharpened into cruelty.

He could not save her.

So He built you.

Look at yourself.

Her eyes. Her smile.

You are not a son.

You are grief-given flesh.

The whispers nested inside him because they fit too cleanly against fears already living there.

Every triumph began tasting rotten.

Every accolade became suspect.

Warmaster.

Favored son.

Why him?

Why always him?

Because he was Horus?

Or because somewhere beneath all the Emperor's impossible restraint lived a grieving thing that looked at Horus and saw a ghost smiling back?

And the ugliest realization of all came later.

Jealousy toward her.

A dead woman.

A memory.

A shadow.

Because Horus slowly realized he could never compete with perfection embalmed by grief.

The dead never disappointed anyone.

The dead never failed.

The dead remained perfect forever.

But Horus? No matter what he conquered, what he did, whenever the Emperor looked at him, in his eyes, it would never be Horus hìmself.

—

The recording was hidden beneath six layers of forbidden encryption.

Ancient, damaged, almost lost.

Horus activated it alone.

Static crackled softly through the chamber.

In the background, faintly, a man's voice spoke.

“Are you recording again?”

Low.

Measured.

The Emperor.

But different.

Softer, somehow warm with amusement.

Horus stopped breathing.

Then someone answered.

A woman's voice.

"Of course I am, what if I can't get back in time when the babies are out?" She seemed to turn her face away from the micro; her voice sounded rather low. "The babes need something to remind them of their mother!"

Then her voice became clearer again.

“Hello there, babies. I’m not sure if Neoth is capable of keeping this recording safe until you’re out—”

Her voice was cut off by their father's.

“Hey, I heard that. Don't slander me like that.”

And in response came her soft, lilting laughter, gentle as wind chimes.

“Ignore your father, darlings."

"You will never imagine how eager and happy I was, waiting for the day you all could finally emerge from your gestation capsules."

A pause.

And suddenly her voice turned unbearably tender.

"Momma is about to leave on a long journey... go pretty far, you know? and I just want you to know that I love you all a lot, more than I can put into words.”

“You’re saying that as if you’re not coming back.”

“Neoth, are you trying to jinx me?”

Their conversation and laughter slowly faded deeper into the recording until Horus could no longer hear anything at all.

"You must promise the kids will hear my voice first," she said—but none of them ever got that chance, even until now.

Horus sat motionless in the dark.

Because for a moment, Horus understands why the Emperor mourned her.

Because she may have been the only person who ever made Him seem less like a god…

and more like a man.

Which means Horus is left with something unbearable:

The certainty that the version of the Emperor who could have truly loved him, loved them, his sons, died with her long before the Great Crusade ever began.

Summary: Horus Lupercal founds, in a hidden corridor of the Emperor's chambers, a large, wall-sized portrait of a woman whose face was the same features he saw every day in his reflection.

Later, he somehow learned that this woman was, basically, his biological mother and that the Warmaster carried a portion of her DNA. Unfortunately, he couldn't get much information about her from the Emperor, as he seemed to avoid talking about her, whether she was dead, lost, or had fallen. Horus soon realized that part of his father's favoritism towards him over his brothers stemmed from the fact that he bore the face of a deceased person. The idea of ​​writing from Horus's perspective came from my friend: @naohetmesupernaturalthidoiten

At first, Horus would deny that it mattered.

He would stand before that portrait in silence — in one of those impossibly cold hidden galleries beneath the Imperial Palace, where dust never settled, and even the air felt embalmed — and stare at the woman with his own eyes. His own smile. The exact feature he saw reflected in the mirror every morning.

Not just similar features, but cast from the same mold.

And the Emperor, for once, would not have an answer.

Or worse: He would have too few.

A name, perhaps. A confirmation. A clipped statement that she was "important." That she had "disappeared long ago." That Horus had inherited "certain traits."

Nothing more.

Nothing human.

And that absence would rot inside Horus like a parasite.

Because Horus already based enormous portions of his self-worth on being chosen. The favored son. The first found. The one who stood at his father's side while the others circled the edges of that terrible golden light, starving for warmth.

He endured burdens none of them understood because he believed the love was real.

Not unconditional — the Emperor was never gentle enough for that — but real.

Then suddenly the foundation shifts beneath him.

What if Father looked at me and saw her?

Not Horus.

Not his victories. Not his loyalty. Not the empire he built at his father's feet.

Just a ghost wearing a son's skin.

And the worst part is that Horus would not know whether to feel loved or violated. Because imagine the implications crashing into him all at once: -Was he favored because he excelled?

-Or because every time the Emperor looked at him, He saw the dead woman He could not bring back?

-Did the Emperor linger around him because Horus reminded Him of someone He mourned?

-Did he name him Warmaster because of trust… Or because grief made Him weak?

He starts reinterpreting everything.

Every glance from the Emperor. Every rare moment of approval. Every instance where his brothers accused him of favoritism.

Suddenly those accusations stop sounding jealous.

They sound true.

"You were always His favorite."

Not because Horus was best.

Because Horus looked like someone the Emperor failed to save.

That realization would humiliate him.

Deeply.

Horus is proud. He needs to believe his father's approval was earned through merit, charisma, brilliance, or conquest. The idea that some part of the Emperor's affection came from bereavement would make him feel counterfeit.

But a small, broken piece of Horus would still cling to it anyway.

Because at least they were created out of love, or at least partly out of love.

He hates himself for that.

He hates that part of him, desperately trying to preserve the illusion:

No, Father loved me for me. It wasn't just her face. It wasn't.

But then he would remember every moment the Emperor looked at him strangely quietly. Every pause. Every unreadable expression. Every rare softness He never gave the others.

And Horus — brilliant, intuitive Horus — would begin noticing patterns he previously mistook for affection.

The grief underneath them.

That is the kind of revelation that could shatter the last stable thing in him before Chaos ever touched his soul.

Not because Horus discovered he had a mother.

But because he discovered that even the Emperor's love might have been haunted.

And Horus, above all people, could never endure the idea that he was loved as a replacement instead of a person.