#cw night lords

[nereidof40k]

This is Chapter 1 of the sequel to the Abyssal Edge interview rewrite, tentatively titled “The First Captain’s Dilemma”, which is a nod to one of my favorite Star Wars fics, “How A Romance Novel Saved The Galaxy.”

Now, there’s a plot twist here. Do you get a cookie if you guessed the twist?

Nope, you get a cookie either way. You’re not here to perform for my entertainment.

This contains Night Lords, a dead body and Sevatar being Sevatar. Do feel free to critique my characterization, I’m running on the understanding he isn’t very good at understanding people and how they think.

@beckyninja , @justanothermemestrider , @yanagikou , hope you like. Had to stop writing because my hand was hurting too bad to continue, but I have more planned.

The massive chainglaive stopped less than an inch from her shoulder, she was certain she could feel the teeth against her skin.

Sevatar tilted his head, looking at her with an expression so familiar it made her brain itch.

“Say that again.” She repeated her statement, feeling as if she was almost but not quite remembering something very important. Looking up at the towering Space Marine looming over her, she slipped her hand into her skirts, retrieving the knife she always wore strapped to her thigh.

At the sight of the knife in her slim hand, Jago froze, a long buried memory dragging itself from the lowest depths of his mind.

He was back on Nostramo, standing in a back alley on the edges of the city. A shiny, sharp bone handled knife in his hand.

In front of him was a young woman, smiling brightly at him, looking up at him with clear admiration.

“Father says I shouldn’t muck around with knives.” She sighed.

“He’s an idiot. You, of all people, need to be able to defend yourself, little vixen.” She chuckled softly in response.

“Thank you, Jago. I love it.” She clutched the knife as he laid it in her soft hand, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He turned his head as she did, catching her lips with his own. It was all too brief, but he couldn’t resist. Neither did she, leaning into it.

She smiled. “Stay safe, my dear.” Straightening, knowing she couldn’t remain. Pulling her shawl over her pale blonde hair, wary of discovery. “Do Svidanya, Jago Sevatarion.” It seemed almost too formal, too final.

“You too, Lenore.” He wanted to hold her back. This was the last time he saw his little Vixen. It was like she had ceased to exist. And then the reeducation process Astartes went through made him forget.

As the chainglaive was resting on her shoulder, it had ripped her robes slightly, uncovering a lopsided birthmark on her pale shoulder. He knew that mark.

Two children were standing on the edge of a small pond, wringing water out of their hair and clothes.

“Only way that looks like a bat is if you smashed the bat with a hammer.” The boy grinned teasingly.

The girl laughed and swatted him. “Jago! You’re impossible.”

”And you love it, Vixen.”

She was the only one he ever let call him Jago. He hated his name, but somehow it sounded good in her voice.

Dropping the glaive, he picked her up, looking at her very intently.

Under the scars, he knew that face. It pained him to see the long line across her throat, but yet, it was a miracle.

“Vixen.” He murmured. “You kept my knife?”

Those lovely dark eyes widened in recognition at last. “Jago? My Jago?” Her arms went around his thick neck as far as they would go.

“I thought you were dead.” That wry smile on her face at his words was a welcome sight.

“I almost was.” She buried her face in his neck, shuddering. “The Count discovered I was sneaking out.”

Sevatar snarled. This was the first time he had heard her refer to her father by title. Which, knowing her loyalty to family, said a lot.

“What. Did. He. Do?”

“Tried to make me forget about you. Went as far as getting a Drukhari ‘friend’ of his to wipe my memories of you.”

That explained a lot. If he gritted his teeth any harder he might break his jaw. But he wasn’t going to draw attention to what was going on. Plan. He needed a plan. His Lenore must live.

“Talos.” He voxed his friend. Talos would help.

“Sevatar?” Surprise evident in his voice.

“Get me a corpse from somewhere and meet me in the archivist’s room. As similar to her as possible.” To his credit Talos didn’t argue.

He put a finger on her lips as he ended the call. “We’re faking your death. I’m keeping you here with me.”

She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. “I wouldn’t want to leave. Not when I can remember you again.”

Sevatar put her back down carefully. “Anything you really can’t replace, grab it.”

It was odd seeing her so serious. And the pitiful pile of little trinkets she piled on the table was painful.

As she grabbed the blanket from the bed, a blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

Jago plucked the rolled up poster from her other hand, unrolling it. Smiling to see one of those damned propaganda posters. He hated posing for them, but it was cute how she was apparently drawn to him even without conscious memories of him. “Got a pen?”

Of course Talos had to arrive just as he presented Lenore the signed poster.

Dropping the fresh corpse on the carpet, the apotechary waved his scanner over Sev’s head. “Your head is no more messed up than usual. Now will someone please explain what is going on?”

Lenore just chuckled.

“We’re going to fake her death. I’m not letting the first woman I ever cared for go.”

“This is insane even for you, Sev. “ Talos rubbed his forehead with a grimace. “But let’s do this.”

Sevatar turned to Lenore with that grin. Obviously up to something.

“First off, get those clothes off.”

She stepped back, eyebrow raised and arms crossed, until he elaborated. “We need to dress the corpse like you.”

Grabbing the blanket, she wrapped it around herself, keeping herself completely covered while removing her robes.

Talos, that traitor, just laughed at Jago’s face. No, him looking like Sanguinalia had been cancelled wasn’t that funny, was it?

Lenore eyed the corpse while they worked. “Anyone you don’t like we can blame for my death while we’re at it?”

The two Astartes looked at each other, with matching grins. “Nikolai. Had another injured serf this morning. He needs to stop crippling serfs.” Talos suggested.

“Perfect. He’s an arrogant, self absorbed shitboot. He was about to have an ‘accident’, but getting Curze on his case is much better.”

Once the stage was set, Jago picked up the blanket bundle containing his girl and her things.

“Don’t worry, nobody is going to question me walking around with a mysterious bundle.” He smirked.

“Just like home.” Good, she sounded amused. “Just remember, Jago Sevatarion, I have a knife.” Definitely feeling better then.

Nobody was outside the room, so Sevatar headed for his quarters, smiling to himself, while Talos went for Operation Framing the Idiot.

On his way Sevatar saw several of his least favorite Astartes. Letting out a laugh sent them scattering, evidently convinced the world was ending. Which only made him laugh harder.

Arriving at his quarters he locked the door behind him before depositing his Vixen on the bed.

“Welcome to my humble quarters, my dear.” He bowed theatrically as she poked her head out of the blanket.

[theaceofskulls]

This upcoming week's preorders for warhammer are the funniest combination they could think of.

For Kill Team, 40k's small scale game where you play as a single squad of dudes, you have the Chaos Space Marine Night Lords vs Druhkari Mandrakes.

To quickly sum that up, you have a terror troop that makes the "normal" space hell-infused supersoldier barbarians look nice. These are the people that skin their victims, broadcast screams to their friends, and generally are the most edgy of the edgy faction in general. You can see them below with all sorts of skin hanging off them, swords made of bone, and a whole ass banner made of a partial dead supersoldier.

Opposing them are the shadow demons of the torture elf faction. These are the guys that lurk in the shadows of Edgy Shadow Murder Elf City that scare even the people who live there. They also skin people and wear them as their clothes too. And they wield edgy dark magics that they throw to burn people alive (and possibly their souls as well).

Then you have the War Cry box, the Age of Sigmar Fantasy skirmish game which has Lumineth vs Nighthaunt.

The Nighthaunt are cursed spirits that the god of the dead personally has constructed ironic punishments for. These ones in particular are eternally burning ghosts that used to be healers, alchemists, and priests who attempted to use sacred fires or potions to burn away death or purify areas of the undead who now spend their afterlives aflame or having to keep the awful flames of Nagash's realm alight upon pain of worse fates.

So that leaves us with the elves who are the exception right? Well they're nicer than the above, being monk/druid/paladins who are trying to save the realms. However, anyone familiar with Lumineth or with the trope of "too good makes an evil paladin" kind of tropes, you can figure out that they're not always the good guys in the stories. Still they're mostly good, but let's hope they don't run out of villains to fight

They're also dropping the dark fantasy human hunters alongside the eternally starving ogres who are mutating teeth and tusks out of their body (they previously were for sale together but they're now splitting the box).

So these opposed and themed boxes are dropping soon alongside... gnomes.

The whiplash between these products feels like being hit with a truck

[bittasol]

had this idea that an iruma who could pull out a puppy face would be pretty lethal against the snack patrol; irumas constant sneaky snacking between meals reminds me of dogs begging/eating random floor finds

more welcome to demon training school! iruma kun

[marlenacantswim]

David Tennant Smoking in Fright Night (2011)

bonus:

get it bc he's smoking hahahaaahaha

[j0celynh0rr0r]

[the-liars-art]

Terminus

Night Haunter/Jago Sevatarion. CW: a bit of gore, character death (hasn’t actually happened)

In the dream Sevatar held something in his arms. It was heavy, heavier than anything he’d lifted and held before, pulling him back to the snare of wet stone floorings that shone in distant candlelight. No thought occupied his strained, burning mind except to take the thing away from wherever he was. To keep it guarded and treasured forever. He didn’t remember holding onto material treasure this great, this horribly adored. In his dream his vision was clear in the dark, yet he dared not look down. The thing was warm between his bare hands and chest, the wet hair covering it tangled with his fingers like chains and nooses, but they had no power to hold themselves onto him. They clung in vain. Muscles and joints of his superhuman arms were sore and creaking, but he couldn’t recall anything aside from the desperation of hugging the thing so tightly to himself. It was definite, and so, so heavy.

In the dream he walked still, dragging each step across the floor while his arms almost gave out with their effort. All else mattered not. Eventually his knees bent to the weight first, falling in a coagulated puddle before him. The thing slipped from his embrace onto the floor beneath, but instinctively his drenched fingers caught strands of its ragged hair, so it did not roll away. Relieved that he did not lose it to the darkness, he gained one more ounce of strength to finally set his teeth through the formless pain and look down over his gripped hands.

All sounds ceased and emptied from his ears, and his hearts stopped beating all at once. The severed head, wrapped in its own hair, greeted him in silence like the reflection of a pearly moon in still water. Night Haunter’s visage had never been as genuine, satisfied, at peace. Though as bloodless as they were alive, those thin lips no longer twist and sneer in bitter rage or agony. The brows and closed eyes rested, like the most gentle touches of a portrait on oil-smooth canvas. A dark spill of blood stained the jaw, the chin, and across what remained of the cleanly severed neck. Some more were smudged over the scarred face by the hurried handling in encumbered arms. All he could do was to fall on his hands and knees as the dull pain in his own skull sharpened into screams, then the crimson at the corner of his father’s mouth spread and swallowed his vision like a second nightfall.

Sevatar awoke shrouded in a different darkness, eyes sore as if he was going to cry for the first time in decades, but no tears came. He was curled up and comfortably warm as his senses returned from the nightmare, of which details were escaping his eidetic memory. He could recall blood, a painful effort, losing something that left him weak, nothing more. He tried to move but he was held back by arms as unmoving as veins and ridges of adamantine under the hive cities of Nostramo.

He could hear the beat of his lord Night Haunter’s primary heart, deep and much slower than his own, and the steady breathing in contrast to his shallow nightmare-ridden gasps. Good. At least he remembered why he had been asleep in the first place. The memory of his nightmare was slipping away even faster now, but he did not care the slightest. Sevatar was simply pleased that he did not wake up screaming again, or he would have disturbed his lord’s precious rest. He closed his eyes, and all the troubled thoughts cleared again.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Autopsy

Author’s Note: This is the next part in Cedric’s adventures in the Astartes Husbandry AU, and specifically the Introducing New Primaris Black Templars arc. For other adventures click here and here. First. Previous. Next.  A big thank you to @kit-williams for allowing me to borrow her OC Anrir, and with helping me make sure I wrote Anrir well. 

Tagged:  @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

Warnings: autopsy (mention), poor coping skills, physical violence, grief, 

Summary: Cedric and two other Apothecaries in training are putting medical supplies away near where Malachai’s and Lestras’ bodies are being studied. This is fine. He’s fine.

"What... Why would they place that organ there? It makes no sense whatsoever." One of the visiting apothecaries muttered.

"I was told that the mechanicus were in charge of the creation of the Primaris Marines. In the ensuing ten-thousand years after the Heresy, this is what they have come up with." Melinth stated, his voice steady if lilting a little with amusement.

Cedric couldn't quite tell, as their voices were muffled by the wall that separated himself and the two other apothecaries in training from where Lestra’s and Malachai’s bodies were being autopsied. But their voices felt full of mockery and derision to him. He gritted his teeth, continuing to perform the task he had been assigned.

"These organs placements are shit." A third Apothecary spotted "I may still be a traitor in M42, but this... This is utter shit. I can see a glimmer of advancement in the organs themselves... But oh..." He laughed, cruel and vicious.

"Care to share the joke with the rest of us, Anrir?" The first Apothecary prompted, sounding curious.

Cedric willed his hearts to stop pounding in his ears as he tried to breathe out the fury coiling in his chest, ready to strike. He was furious at the fact that one of those callous bastards were laughing at his brothers' bodies.

"It's just... If I informed the Emperor of the advancements that the Mechanicum believes they made to his Astartes' design... His reaction would be hilarious!" Anrir chortled.

Cedric could not take the callous disrespect and mockery that these firstborn bastards were making of his dead brothers. The sound of that fucker’s laughter rang in his head, reminding him of - 

No. He would not allow his mind to wallow in miserable memories that would only make him even more upset. Cedric and two other apprentice Apothecaries had been tasked with restocking this medical supply room as a group. In the past few months, more supplies have been mysteriously vanishing, and one way to try and decrease the possible vanishing supplies problems. He hisses a soft “Bastard!” In response to the continued laughter.

The restless Night Lord Apothecary turned toward him, having clearly heard his words “What was that? I’m pretty sure that box of gauze isn’t an Ork in need of strangling. You can just put it down like a normal person.”

Cedric glared at the Night Lord, a low growl in his voice “Shut up. I can hear them talking about the Brothers they are dissecting.”

The other apothecary in training - a Renegade Space Wolf spoke up “I can hear them too. It sucks that they won’t let any of us even see the bodies to learn the differences between us normal marines and Primaris, but that’s life. ‘Sides, I’ve figured out one difference between Primaris marines and normal marines already.”

“Oh? And what difference would that be?” The Night Lord asked curiously, head titling a little.

“They die like little bitches. LIke, there are what a dozen Primaris marines on ancient terra? And between the two found near this base and the six found dead across Ancient Terra in the past year or so, it doesn’t speak to how well they’re able to survive. Like. It’s really fucking hard to die on Ancient Terra unless you’re doing something stupid.”

… Six other dead Primaris marines? This was the first that Cedric had heard of more dead Primaris marines. Then the rest of the drivel that the Space Wolf had said registered in the Black Templar’s mind. The fury that he’d been struggling to contain boiled over and a red haze filled his vision. 

Cedric blinked once, finding that he’d moved positions from one moment to the next. He had pinned Algret to the floor, his knees on the bastard’s chest, his hands wrapped around the other’s neck as his mouth screamed into the other;s bloodied face and broken nose. Cedric felt his chest heave with the effort of pinning and choking this miserable bastard as his mouth screamed ‘- FUCKING CALLOUS, KIN-KILLING BASTARDS! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL OF YOU! YOU SNEER AND LOOK DOWN ON US! USE US AS CANNON FODDER WHILE SPITTING ON OUR EFFORTS AND CALLING US ABOMINATIONS!” He managed to wrest control of his vocal chords from whatever was screaming through him. His voice was much quieter now but no less furious “See how you like it when you are the one being beaten and tormented over and over again.”

“He-ghk!” Algret called out, struggling futilely beneath him.

Cedric did not see the Night Lord Apothecary, but they were all cowardly ambush predators who fled before a more powerful opponent. His breathing was harsh and fast. HIs hands were still squeezing Algret’s neck hard enough to make breathing difficult for the mouthy bastard. “... You’re not worth the paperwork they’d bury me under to kill you.” With tremendous effort he forced his hands away from the Space Wolf’s neck. He got off of the Space Wolf as well, taking a couple of steps back.

Algret growled back as he heaved himself back up onto his feet, settling into a defensive stance “You want to fight, you unstable piece of shite? You’re on! You’re not going to overcome me nearly so easily, now that I’m aware you’re going to attack me.”

Cedric growled wordlessly, shifting into a defensive stance of his own, about to accept the challenge issued to him.

"And just what do you two think you are doing?" A low and deeply unimpressed voice demanded from the doorway, interrupting the brewing fight.

Cedric swallowed hard, before he turned and saw -

Fuck.

One of the Apothecaries who had been brought in to cut into his dead Brothers, to study the differences between Primaris Marines and Firstborn. He was a Terran-born Night Lord, from the pattern and coloration of his armor.

"I was talking about the dead Primaris Marines, and that it sucked I couldn't get hands-on study of either one of them when this lunatic  attacked me!" Algret whined, glaring at Cedric as he spoke. "He also was screaming about how much he hates firstborn Marines. Whatever the fuck those are."

“... I see.” The Night Lord Apothecary answered, a neutral expression on his face, though it may be a mask. “If firstborn Marines are bad… Surely I am something much worse. After all, I am Terran Born, among part of the first successfully created batches.” He stalked into the room with predatory grace.

Cedric could see the younger Night Lord Apothecary hovering in the hallway outside, but most of his focus was on the laughing bastard in front of him. His phone chirped, and he kept one eye on the advancing Night Lord, as he read through the text that Ramiel sent him. A small, vicious smirk appeared on his face. The other older apothecaries were also in the hallway and could clearly hear him. He rolled his shoulders back and stated “As the highest ranking Black Templar Apothecary within a hundred miles of this base, I am formally revoking your to do anything with the dead bodies of the two Black Templars currently on the surgery tables of this base. I revoke everyone’s privilege to do so, not just yours, Apothecary Anrir.” Cedric paused for a moment, letting this edict sink in before continuing “If any non-Black Templar Apothecary does anything other than stitch their bodies up, it will be a severe violation of the treaty for each of you, with each cut of the scalpel, or adjustment of the retractors. This decision is effective as of now, and will not be overturned. Stitch up their bodies and hand them over to me.”

“YOu gave permission to allow us to autopsy them earlier.” Melinth countered “Additionally, you are merely an Apothecary in training and do not have the ability to order such things to us.”

“I am the highest ranking Black Templar apothecary you can contact easily. If you want to escalate this issue, I will inform the highest ranking Black Templar in residence and you can talk it out with him. The Emperor’s Champion. I will inform him that you are refusing to follow some of the mandates of treaty that has been set forth. I will also inform him that your refusal to release the bodies of both Black Templars, one of whom had been a patient of yours in critical condition, and that he died while in your care.” Cedric growled, stalking towards Melinth. He was keenly aware of what he was unsubtly accusing the other of in public, but he did not care. It was completely within character of Firstborn Marines of M42 to pull shit like this on purpose. Why would they not do the same in M3 if they thought they could get away with it?  “Care that you did not allow me or another Black Templar to monitor while a brother was in such a fragile and vulnerable state. That after you pronounced him dead, while his body was still warm, you demanded I give you permission to cut him apart to satisfy your own curiosity.”

“Are you accusing me of allowing a patient under my care to die to satisfy my own scientific inquisitiveness about how his body worked?” Melinth demanded, actually sounding and looking mildly upset now.

Cedric figured that Melinth was upset most by the potential hit to his reputation Cedric’s accusations may cause, considering the fact that the six visiting Apothecaries were from differing factions and had some influence amongst their chapters/legions. “You’ve said before that you wished that you could take a Primaris Marine’s body apart, to see what the differences are for yourself. It would not surprise me if you… Arranged for that to happen, as you were handed an opportunity to ensure a Primaris Body landed in your morgue.”

“Oh… So the abuse that the both of them suffered is a common thing amongst loyalists in M-42, then. You wouldn’t be accusing another Apothecary of such a crime with such certainty and conviction if you haven’t seen that happen in M42 personally.” Anrir called out, an inscrutable expression on the Night Lord’s face.

His words halted Cedric in his tracks. The emotional impact of his words hit him with the force of an out of control Thunderhawk slamming into the side of a mountain. His gaze switched from Melinth - who was more visibly emotional now (What those emotions might be, Cedric couldn’t begin to guess. Nor was he going to spend the effort to try) - to Anrir. His eyes were burning fiercely and he hated the way he echoed “A… Abuse?” back at the older apothecary. A yawning abyss of horror had opened up within Cedric and had swallowed all of the righteous wrath that had been searing it’s way through his veins.

“Yes. Abuse. The Emperor would be furious about the utter misery that the Mechanicus put you Primaris marines through. You’re some of the most traumatized young marines I’ve ever met. And I’ve worked with Lamenters before. Get over here.” Anrir ordered, his voice going gravelly and commanding - but not in a distressing way, somehow?

Cedric’s idiot, treacherous body obeyed before his mind could halt himself, as he came over to the Night Lord’s side. He stares down at the shorter marine, just barely able to resist the temptation to shuffle backwards and cross his arms defensively over his chest. “What do you want?” Cedric snapped, eyes narrowing.

“I’m going to hug you now. Do not resist, you need one.” Anrir answered, closing the distance between the two of them and wrapping his arms around Cedric, holding him in a moderately restraining embrace. 

Half of Cedric wanted to melt into the embrace and start bawling. The rest of him protested very loudly at such a show of weakness in front of strange firstborn marines, so an angry response it was. He hisses down at the older marine, leaning away from him “How dare you just grab me like this?! Let me go at once you… You-” now was not the time to lose his words, but here he was. Unable to come up with something to say.

Also, Cedric could feel his body start to shake and tremble at the continued gentle touch. His eyes were stinging more fiercely now and he needed to escape if he was to not be seen or heard crying by these fuckwits. He blinked rapidly before the first treacherous tear started to fall, followed by more. SInce the stupid bastard wasn’t letting go, Cedric hid his face in one of the other’s shoulders, his body’s shaking getting worse.

Anrir heaved a dramatic sigh as he hugged Cedric closer, one hand coming up to gently pat his head “Honestly! You’re just as bad as Claude is. I wasn’t laughing at your dead brothers, by the way. I was laughing at the fury that the Emperor would unleash on those machine-worshippers if he learned of what he’s done to all of you. The organ placement within the two Primaris Marines would very likely have shortened their life-spans significantly, had the physical abuse that killed them not taken them then.”

There was one piece of information that was most important to Cedric. The lifespans thing wasn’t something he could deal with, but - “You… You know Claude? You’ve… You’ve seen him cry?” If Claude felt safe enough to cry around Apothecary Anrir… Then Cedric would choose to trust that his brother-cousin was willing to trust Anrir.

The Night Lord sighed again, patting his head once more, still giving him a one-armed hug “Yes, I know Claude.”

“Oh… You must be one of the older brothers he trusts, then.” Claude was one of the most emotionally reserved of all of them for reasons that Cedric was not going to think about right now, as he was trying to calm down. He wiped the tears in his eyes and tried that breathing trick that Miss Angela taught him… Which was startlingly effective. He lets go of the Night Lord, shame burning through him as he took a step away from the other. “I… Thank you, for helping me calm down.”

Anrir hummed a little in response “You scouts have been deeply traumatized. Emotional dysregulation is very common.” He turned and  glared at his fellow experienced Apothecaries “Is there a particular reason why you are gawking? The Scout told you he doesn’t want us messing about in the insides of his dead brothers, which I feel is more than reasonable.”

The other apothecaries grumbled, but all of them left the hallway, except for Melinth, who stared at Cedric for several long seconds before slowly turning and leaving.

Anrir left a moment or two after Melinth did, and called out to the others “Between the seven of us, and what we were able to study, we have plenty of notes. Besides, you all saw the muscle cording. The mechanicus succeeded in making the Primaris marines physically stronger. The young one was gracious enough to allow us some time to study a couple of his dead brothers. He could have refused us entirely.”

Melinth groused back “You weren’t the one who got accused of letting a patient die on your table on purpose, Anrir.”

“I suspect that is the grief doing the speaking for him, rather than good sense. Besides, wouldn’t you be a little suspicious, were your position and his reversed? Especially as it is abundantly clear - at least to me - that none of the Primaris Marines have been treated very well by their older brothers in M-42. His wariness and caution is understandable if likely unneeded in this time. Such behaviors are difficult to unlearn.” Anrir countered. 

Cedric pointedly did not look at either of the two firstborn Apothecaries in training as he completed the task that he had been assigned. He did pause part way through putting away the medical supplies to send Ramiel a message, asking him to start gathering what he needed to properly send off Malachai and Lestra… He also planned on speaking with a certain Word Bearer to see if he was willing to let them borrow a hallowed space for the funerals.

… He should also probably talk to Arnualt and Roland as well to see if they wanted to attend the funerals as well. A sigh left Cedric as he placed the vinyl box of gauze on its assigned shelf before leaving the medical stockroom, locking the door behind him as both Belek and Algrets had already left the room. 

[g1ngerbeer]

the only fnaf thing ive seen is the movie and i was asleep for half of it and i refuse to learn anything more about fnaf ever in my life. i dont know whats going on here either

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

Moulting

(In which Mircalla comes across Lilith moulting after not seeing her for awhile and getting worried)

Tags: Night Lords being poetic, Lilith having a bad moult, biting, and feeding on blood. The Emperor being the Emperor, Night Lord x Blood Angel

@jaghatai-khock

"You look like shit, Uthullia, why have you not called for me?" Came the melodic voice of Mircalla, as she slipped inside her lover's chambers. There is a look of worry upon her brow, as the Night Lord approaches "You know you can feed upon if you need to. My veins are always open to you."

Lilith sighs as Mircalla approaches and responds "Mircalla, I'm fine, I swear it. It's...just a bad moult nothing more, there's no reason for me to feed. How did you get past the custodes? I didn't realize Curze allowed Night Lords onto Terra."

"Curze cannot stop me from seeing you, nor can the custodes. You are my reason for being, my life given form." The night lord responds "Now tell me, what bothers you? Your moults have never stopped you before; clearly something is wrong, no?"

"It is nothing" Lilith insisted, her wings ruffling in displeasure at Mircalla's pushing. She was right of course, Lilith wasn't well, she was sick from a lack of blood. She'd been unable to feed as of late, and the Karash, for some reason it wasn't doing anything for her. The Emperor had said that he was making something to help, but the way he looked at her, had suggested otherwise.

Mircalla, on her part merely approaches closer, and reaches out to pet Lilith's wings. In response, Lilith hisses, pulling away from her. She moves closer and begins to gently comb through her lover's feathers, removing loose feathers and slowly trying to get Lilith to calm. "What is the Emperor trying to do to you now? Is the Karash not enough for you? It is fine enough for the others" Mircalla says plainly "Or is He simply trying to gain control over the one thing he did not make?"

Lilith growls at that "He's just trying to help me, Mircalla. Nothing less, nothing more. It's just...not working right" She's largely unable to keep her voice from cracking at the last sentence, her words even to herself sounding false, causing Mircalla to cuddle closer to Lilith, despite the rather large difference in size between the two.

"You are a predator, the creature that Night Lords wish to be, Uthullia, even if you are brighter then the night, you are still the thing we emulate upon becoming clad in midnight" Mircalla tells her taking Lilith's face gently into her hands, looking at her pallid face and unusually dull eyes, "You are hungry. Come, feed and allow my strength to become yours"

"Mir, I-"

Before Lilith can say much more, Mircalla had tilted her head back, bearing her throat and had used a knife to cause a small cut near her jugular to bleed a thin line of crimson, "Feed, my love, for I am  uthullun without you. You are no good to anyone starved"

At those words, Lilith gently took her in her arms, and bit down over the cut, Mircalla's breath hitching as fangs pierced her flesh. It never got old this feeling, the way she could tell Lilith was avoiding any nerves, the sting of pain that quickly faded to a pleasurable pressure. She admired her lover's restraint for she knew how hungry Lilith was. She could feel how Lilith was tentative at first, afraid of hurting, before it strengthens and Mircalla can feel the blood leaving her body.

Eventually, just when Mircalla feared she may have to visit the Apothecary, Lilith pulls back and she's staring into those beautiful blood red irises once more, "There's my Uthullia" Mircalla murmers as she takes Lilith's lips in a stinging kiss, tasting the sweet notes of her own blood upon the Angel's lips. Perhaps her Uthullia would come to her sooner next she needed a drink...

Translator notes for Nostraman:

Uthullun = Cold, Sunless

Uthullia = Sun that warms, warmth

Decided to play with the fact that Nostraman is a very flowery language and considering Mircalla was once a Nostramo Noble, she'd likely be very poetic with her words and how she refers to Lilith.

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Full post of Foxy.exe

[nereidof40k]

You don’t need context, lol. Text under cut. This is Night Lord stuff.

Heh, I guess Sev was being so cute he overrode the horror of finding out she has a necron tech chip in her brain. Which was sort of me putting a chip, a psychic dampener and the butcher’s nails in a blender. And apparently there was an incident of some kind caused by the chip.

Jago Sevatarion, sappiest Night Lord alive. Probably makes art for his wife out of the skin he flays off people. She likes seeing how long strips he can flay from people, like peeling an apple, lol.

If I remember correctly it’s canon that he can peel off surprisingly long strips with a chainglaive. His wife is always duly impressed.

[angryeleanor]

WARNING!!!- GORE, BLOOD, THE BREAKING WHEEL SPOILERS!

Julius WIP 4 Halloween…

O-O

I just finished his shading and I have died five times aug

[masquenoire]

Picrew here! Stolen from: @ratwhsprs (♡)

[sleepyfan-blog]

Netted

Author’s Note:this is mer-nadesir’s debut! I hope you enjoy the fic :D

Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel 

Warnings: injuries, blood mention, poor fishing practices

Summary: You find an astartes caught up in a hooked fishing net, and help him get free.

You hear a low, warning hiss from the tangled mass of netting and hooks that washed up on your favorite beach. Something large and upset struggled within the taut metal cording and was bleeding red blood, the hissing intensifying as the wickedly sharp hooks bit into midnight blue flesh. Was it smart for you to approach this frantic, injured creature as it struggled? Probably not, but there was something very human sounding in the pained sounds that left the being.

“Woah… Hey… Just stay still and I'll get you out of this.” You call out to the being, hoping that your soothing tone of voice would help convey your intentions, if whatever this is didn't understand English.

A large eye the color of a moonless and starless night glares at you suspiciously from a gap in the netting as dagger-sharp teeth gnawed at of the entangling knots as his large head whipped sharply from one side to the other, desperately trying to get himself free “Why help? Strangers.” the astartes growled out.

“Because you need help and are in pain. Will you let me come closer to help you out of the net? Or is there someone I can contact who you do trust to get you out of this?” You asked, keeping your voice even and calm, making sure not to make any sudden movements, so as to not further distress the trapped astartes.

The large mer struggled in the net as a low and pained growl rumbled in his chest. “... My shiver is far from here. I am… Was scouting when this happened.” He stares hard at you, midnight black eyes trying to pierce through your soul. “... If you deliberately hurt me, I will come for you. There is nowhere in this world, or in any other, that I won't be able to track you down and bring you to swift and bloody vengeance.”

This was far from the first time you’d been threatened by an injured and likely anxious astartes, and it was unlikely to be the last, considering the fact that you worked in emergency medicine. “I will do my best not to hurt you on purpose without warning. If I am moving something that is likely to cause you pain, like removing the hooks imbedded into your skin and muscle, I will warn you beforehand. Deal?” You knew better than to say so that he could brace for pain - nor did you have any pain reliever on hand that would work fast enough that wouldn’t be flushed from the Astartes’ system before it could hope to have any effect on him. You’d intended on going for a moonlit stroll down your favorite beach and hadn’t anticipated meeting an astartes in physical and medical distress.

The large, midnight blue astartes stared at you for several long moments before accepting with a rough “Reasonable. I agree.”

You nod, making careful and deliberate movements toward him, telegraphing what you were doing, so as to reduce the likelihood of accidentally startling the mer. Once you reach his side you look up at him, knife in hand, waiting for his agreement for you to start cutting through the netting.

“... Begin.” He huffed after several seconds, though there was a tiny smile lifting the corners of his lips. He seemed to be grateful that you were being so careful of his potential boundaries.

You nod and carefully begin to cut away at the netting binding him in place. Every so often you give him a moment or two of warning before carefully unhooking and pulling out the metal hooks imbedded into his flesh.Once you have his arms free, you offer the knife to him hilt first, silently offering to let him continue to free himself. 

To your surprise the midnight blue astartes shakes his head and says “Continue. Your hands smaller. Better able to get hooks and knots… Doing well.”

You smile a little at his praise and continue to work on freeing the trapped astartes. All told it took you a couple of hours to ensure that every bit of rope and hook was out. You’re grateful for your medical training, which allows you to switch off the part of your brain that is absolutely delighted at the thought of being able to touch an astartes this much. Many of them large, well-muscled and handsome, and this midnight blue and dark red astartes is strikingly handsome, even bloodied and clearly exhausted. “Do you feel any lingering pain anywhere?” You ask as you resist the temptation to run your hands along his chest and tail - for purely professional reasons - some of the hooks were small. 

“Some, but I am healing… Thank you, for helping me.” The Night lord rumbled, cupping you chin with one of his large hands, pitch black eyes shining with mischief. He tilts your chin up and kisses you, his lips chapped but warm.

[ssolessurvivor]

“Against The Wall” (( ps I hope your wedding and honeymoon were amazing!!! congrats again! <3 ))

memes - always accepting! - @paramounticebound ((omg thank you so much it was wonderful! still feels amazing <3 <3))

It's almost like they had decided to taunt him over his scars. At least, the rest of them: Khan was always on the outer edge of the conversations, the jeering. They saw him as hopelessly flawed with his stories tainting his skin, besides the fact he's human.

Yet every time he glances at himself in darkened windows, in mirrors, in reflective surfaces, his scars give him a power he's not accustomed to. He's been changing since he's been here, granted a life in exchange for services rendered. He's aught to let Khan die a few times now, or at least be severely wounded, but he hasn't. His body has been trained too well to let anything hurt the Captain. Fucking instincts woven into his genetics like he was born to be here.

To protect him. Even when he boiled when he saw Khan.

He just manifests in the shadows, that one. The commander, the villain, the beast. They're always alone, the tension able to be cut straight in half whenever they're near. Khan's hand reaches up and grasps Logan's chin, lifting slightly to peek at his scars. The electricity there under his fingertips...Logan hopes to god he can't feel his pulse skyrocket, the way his stomach erupts with butterflies. Had he truly been craving this? Had he been waiting for an opportunity, even when he knew he wouldn't be the one to jump first?

Holding the gaze of those eyes that seem to reflect the very depths of frozen oceans, Logan lifts his chin out of Khan's grasp, the soft glare speaking volumes and also...not hiding anything.

The blonde only gets a few steps before the vulture descends: a hand on his shoulder, Logan gearing up for a fight when he knows their lips collide just as they usually do. His body deceives him as he's pushed against the nearest wall, their beings cloaked in semi-darkness so their timid moans lift into the shadows. Hands try and find purchase on that marbled body, but he's thwarted as Khan lifts and pins Logan's hands against the wall. Their hunger turns primal, Logan's body arches into Khan's and their kisses devolve into desperation and a little nipping of lips in between teeth.

He's losing this battle so badly. His body acts on that passion he's been waiting for from Khan, all the little words of praise spoken the last few weeks leading up to this and his resolve is melting. Khan's lips rip from his and trail down his neck, that iron clad body pressing him into the wall: the moan escaping Logan's lips could be considered more of a whimper, trying desperately to free his hands but it's a futile effort. He can't take this anymore, this game they play. It's carnal now. A pure bodily need, nothing more.

Or so that's what he tells himself as he tries to see through the haze, Khan's still kissing his neck, driving him mad. Once Logan's mouth settles at Khan's ear, he finds his voice is reduced to a whisper. "Fuck me." Eyes roll back into his head as another wave hits him, breath hitching as his body begs for more. "Take me."

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

The temptation to name my Night Lord female astartes Mircalla is strong, but I am trying to find something more original then naming her after my favourite lesbian vampire.

The idea is that she got thrown in as a result of being married at a very young age as a child bride, but ended up getting recruited because she ended up killing her 'husband' when he tried to have his way with her. She notably has no remorse for this, and fucking hated her 'brothers' who were rapists, or otherwise made light of it.

Also killed one of her 'brothers' after he attempted to take advantage. His skull serves as a trophy hanging off her hip and she notably wears his finger bones as a necklace, and left his flayed carcass pinned to a wall. Never had a problem after that as she very much left a strong message that she was not to be touched. Konrad was impressed and mildly disturbed.

Absolutely adores and loves Lilith, they met shortly after the incident and at first they didn't get along, with her assuming that Lilith was born into luxury and knew nothing of hardship. Also strongly believed that Lilith was the result of nepotism and not actual skill. She got an equally strong wake up call when she witnessed Lilith practicing with a blade and asked to spar. The resulting fight both resulted in a trip to the apothecary and she falling incredibly hard for Lilith. When the Night Lords went rouge, she notably left and went to be by Lilith's side as her shadow.