#ezekyle abbadon

[ms--lobotomy]

I heard some of you were looking for Kyle. Who am I if not a provider?

Summary: Abbadon wants a companion for the night.

Word Count: 1461

Content Warnings: General 40kness, smut, once my Catholic guilt arc is over it’s over for all of you

Image Credit: @squishyowl

You looked out of the window of your cell. It was the one comfort you had here, and the view was almost beautiful. Silent columns of lightning stretched out between magenta clouds, churning away faster than they ever could on any planet. Iron bars marred the view somewhat, but you had to take what you could get in this strange land. The rest of your cell was pitifully dreary, with a curtain closing off what resembled a restroom and a slab of… something that resembled a bed. You chose not to look at those parts. At least, not now.

You heard footsteps coming down the hall. They were heavy and loud, announcing the presence of maybe two or three members of the Black Legion. You barely turned your head from the window before they fiddled with the keys to your cell, almost ripping the bars off of each other. You recognized one’s speech in Low Gothic, but it took you a few moments to really process it.

“The Despoiler wants a word with you.”

You tensed up. They surely couldn’t mean… No matter. You put one foot in front of the other and joined the three hulking men outside your cell. One of them started to walk off, and another prodded you with his chainsword.

“Move.”

You had no choice but to follow these strange men through the halls of the base. You lost track of where you were early on, going into new and uncharted areas of the base. Granted, you’d only ever seen the prison, so this was not a failing of your navigational skills. You hadn’t time to marvel at the interior despite being confined to your cell for what felt like weeks, you and your captors were walking too fast. You had to slightly jog to keep up with them.

Soon enough, you were upon a large door. You ran your fingers along the intricate woodwork, not having felt varnished wood in ages. Two of those strange men looked down at you as you lowered your hand. Another one turned on his vox machine.

“She’s here,” he said, stepping back from the door. The others did so as well, prompting you to do the same.

After a few moments, the door clicked open. You beheld a man taller than the three around you, the first without a helmet that you’d seen in a long while. He had a long top knot at the top of his head, and his eyes bored into you, unreadable. You immediately looked away, trying not to shake in your poorly put together shoes.

“Leave,” he said as the three behind you turned tail and left, muttering to one another.

He watched them as they left before turning his gaze back to you. “You can come in, you know.”

You looked up at him and slowly walked into the room. It must be his private chambers; it was filled with ornate things that you couldn’t have even dreamed of while in your cell. Your eyes darted from the paintings on the wall to the table and chairs built for someone his size. He walked towards the bed, sitting on it as it slightly gave way underneath him. “Come,” he said, scooting over slightly.

“Why do you bring me here?” you asked, rubbing your upper arm with your hand.

He smirked. “I just wanted a bit of company tonight.” He called your name. It was a bit strange on his lips, but it was the first time someone had referred to you by name instead of number.

Was it night? It was impossibly hard to tell in this space between space. You found yourself walking towards the bed and sitting on it next to him as he took his gauntlets off, then his pauldrons, then the rest of the armor adorning his arms. You couldn’t help but notice rippling muscles as your heart beat quicker in your chest.

“Not like I have a choice in the matter,” you said after a moment.

He chuckled. “If you do not wish to be here, I could grab another.”

“No-“ you interjected before you could stop yourself.

He continued taking off his armor, pulling his breastplate over his head before casting it aside. “Good,” he said. He wrapped an arm around your waist, and you tensed up yet again.

“I will not hurt you, unless that is something you desire.”

You looked up at him. He was looking down at you with… reverence, almost. You felt your face go warm as he took your chin in his hand. His grip was firm, but you could tell that he was holding back.

He let go and leaned down to take off his lower armor, and you watched intently as pieces fell to the floor, softly clanking against other pieces. He looked down at you and smirked once he was finished. It was then when he leaned in for a kiss, pressing against soft skin. You were taken aback for a minute before you reciprocated. He grabbed your hips and turned the rest of you to face him, your legs resting against his waist.

He brushed the sides of your shirt up, fabric gathering underneath his hands. You let out a soft moan before freezing, and he pulled away.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

You slowly nodded. He went in for a kiss again, this time biting your bottom lip. You squeaked, grasping for his body glove. You felt him chuckle against you, hands moving underneath your shirt up your back. He pulled away again, his hands moving to your thigh.

“Take it off,” he barked.

Without hesitation, you pulled your shirt over your head. He looked down at you for a moment, running a hand over your body.

“Good girl,” he said, pressing you down onto the bed before planting his teeth on your collarbone. It wasn’t enough to draw blood, but it was going to leave a mark. You let out another high-pitched squeak, and he made another mark even lower. When he had his fill, he went down to your breast and took your nipple in his teeth.

“Abbadon…” you moaned as he bit you there. That was also going to leave a mark.

“What is it?” he asked before moving to your other side to do the same thing. You yelped, your fingers pressing into his back as he trailed lower. He was kneeling before you when he made his way between your legs, pulling your shoes and pants off and parting your legs with ease. He began to feast, eliciting soft cries from you. He reached places you thought someone could never reach, and before long, you came hard on him.

He pulled away, fiddling with the zipper on his body glove before taking it all off. You looked at him in awe before he pinned you down again, your fingers interlocking with his. He planted a quick kiss to your lips before he rubbed himself against you and you looked up at him, pleading.

“You will have to beg for it,” he said, grazing himself against you.

“Please…” you murmured. “Please put yourself in me. I want you.”

“More than anything you’ve ever wanted?”

“More than anything I’ve ever wanted.”

He put himself in, and you cried out. “You are taking me so well,” he said as he slid in further. You couldn’t form any cohesive sentences in response, so you let yourself cry out. He slid himself in to the hilt and stayed there for a minute, watching your face scrunch up and listening to your little yelps before he pulled himself out to do it all again. He started to go faster, and you felt your eyes rolling back. Here you were, stark naked, stretched out over him.

You came a second time, much more loudly and violently than the first. Abbadon smirked above you, victorious. His hands moved to your wrists as he kept going, and soon you realized how much stamina was granted to an Astartes. He kept you up long into the night before he started to speed up one last time. You were loud, and he stuck a few fingers in your mouth. He grunted something in his Cthonian tongue before he shot his load into you, once, twice, then a third time.

Liquid leaked out of you as he pulled himself out of you for the last time and shifted you fully onto the bed. He held you close to him. You relaxed into his hold as he ran a hand through your hair.

“You will not have to spend another day rotting in that cell,” he said.

You closed your eyes and sleep soon took hold of you. You slept better than you had in weeks.

@kit-williams

[yanandreckless]

Everybody Likes Kyle 3

Imagine meeting a super hot guy. Like, scaldingly, world-explodingly, chaotically hot. Champion of all hotness. And then imagine that guy invites you over for a homemade dinner the first time you meet. You’re at his place before his TV is even there! He’s rummaging through boxes looking for the spices for those steaks! He ran to a nearby bakery to buy you cheesecake!

And then nothing.

You kept doing that thing cool girls never do, the thing where you replay every single moment of your interaction in your mind looking for things you did wrong. And you found so many, but also none.

Was it the ratty T-shirt and your nest of a messy bun and your bare face? Why would it be that, he saw all that and invited you over anyway. Was it your jokes? The one about a philosopher and a sneeze was always a smash hit everywhere and he did laugh. Was it something else you said? For the love of you, you couldn’t remember that you said anything egregious… because you didn’t remember much of what either of you said at all, because this man has THE biggest biceps you’d ever seen… Cutlery looks like toys in his hands, his thighs are literal tree trunks, he’s…

Well maybe it’s that. Maybe you made him uncomfortable with your staring and thirsting.

The next few days you moped. You didn’t see Kyle but that was because you tried to actively avoid him. He wasn’t a very quiet walker or door shutter so you could hear him leaving his apartment or returning to it, and you mostly worked from home so it wasn’t all that hard to forget how shoes are put on and what trees looked like.

By the time day 12 rolled around (but who’s counting), you ran out of groceries and started feeling like your wallpaper is making your nails itch so you decided to actually go out of your house and shop instead of ordering like you got in the habit of doing.

Your older sister called that morning too, with all her well-meaning but poorly-worded comments:

“Will you have grown another dress size the next time I see you?”

“How do you think you’ll find a social life if all you do is stay at home?”

“Do you want to go to yet another school reunion and say there’s no boyfriend in sight?”

Your sister, dear everyone at home, suffered from a condition you liked to call ass whoop deficiency. She’d say things that should have gotten her a smack or two to people, and never get that smack or two. Not even from you, not since middle school at least.

And it seems that she got even more courageous over the phone; luckily she didn’t call too much, busy with her husband and children.

You wanted to have greasy hair and ketchup stains on your T-shirt on your own terms, not because you were too busy to clean yourself because you had two toddlers. But all that was beside the point.

What totally was the point was the dreaded school reunion. You hated those, you had been to a couple and the last one was already hard, it seemed like almost everyone around you dutifully partnered up and procreated in the looming shadow of the number 30 on their birthday cakes. And now, five years later… it will be so much worse. The occasional pitiful gaze sent your way when you say you’re single will now no longer be occasional. Everyone would be looking at you like you’re some poor specimen with a factory error of some sort. They’d all pull out photos of their kids and not even the fact that the kids were much uglier than their parents believed was comforting to you.

You needed something to say that will get you off the hook. Or you needed to not show up. Maybe invent a business trip you had to go to. After all, you did have your job going for you, it was great, you worked hard to get where you were, and now you had cushy savings well on your way to being enough for a down payment for a house.

But if you didn’t show up, will they all be suspicious? What if everyone else showed up and then only you didn’t, will they realize you lied?

But if you did show up, what could you say? Aside from your career, nothing changed for you, and last time, they didn’t really seem to care about careers, even though universities and jobs had been all the rage to talk about at the reunion prior to that one.

The familiar thump of steps in the hallway makes a lightbulb above your head turn on. He’s far from the perfect husband candidate, you’d be better off asking a neat, powder-blue button-down-wearing average-looking accountant at your company, of which there were many (you sometimes wondered if there was a store producing average-looking accountants companies bought from wholesale); but you didn’t want average… and truth be told, you didn’t want to forget which guy was yours and mistakenly grab someone else’s average dude when it was time to leave. So, before you have the chance to change your mind, you’re knocking on Kyle’s door.

He opens it in a compression shirt and you nearly have a heart attack. Every single muscle outlined beneath that black fabric, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, huge chest heaving slightly as he wipes his face with a burgundy towel: “Hey neighbor!” He greets you pleasantly and is patient enough to wait until you pick up your ovaries (or was it jaw?) off the floor. If he notices or if it amuses him, he doesn’t show it. “Hey Kyle, uh… can I come in?” He steps aside silently and you inch into the apartment. He has finished moving in and now it’s boasting his signature macabre decor, all black and gold, with blood red accents. 

There’s a suit of armor that looks like it fits him in the corner and he sees you looking at it and grins: “Do you like it?” “Why do you have a suit of armor?” You sputter before you get the chance to wrap it in a more polite sentence. “Because fur suits are so 2010.” You turn around to look at him in bewilderment, and he chuckles, it’s a deep, yet slightly hissing sound, almost dorky: “I wear it to conventions. Bunch of us do, it’s a hobby.” “Uh… so you have your… armorsona?” He nods, perfectly serious: “The Despoiler, yes.” He points at the huge sword with a bunch of impractical-looking spikes on it and at the even bigger and even less practical… claw-glove on another shelf: “These are his weapons.” You blink, taking it all in, when you notice skulls on spikes protruding from the back of the armor and you point silently, eyebrows raised. “Skulls of my enemies. They’re interchangeable, look.” Kyle bends over (cake cake cake!) and flips open a wooden trunk. He pulls out a few skulls, some of which look non-human. “So they’re fake.” You state dumbly and Kyle looks at you with poorly-concealed amusement: “No, of course this tyranid skull is completely real, what are you accusing the Despoiler of?” He thrusts what looks like a dinosaur skull toward you: “A dinosaur?” Kyle blinks slowly, like he can’t believe what you just said: “My sweet summer child.” He puts the skulls back and closes the trunk, still smiling to himself: “Anyway, would you like anything to drink?” “Do you drink the blood of your enemies, Despoiler?” “I can. Or eat their flesh, but that’s only to see their memories.” “You really thought this through, didn’t you?” You laugh and he tilts his head as he looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. His gaze is oddly warm and it oddly makes you want to fidget and hide and squeal. You can’t remember a man looking at you like that in a long time, if ever. So you clear your throat and opt to look at a painting in a gilded golden frame, depicting what looks like… a galaxy? With a pink, ocular-looking center: “I actually came to ask you if you’d like to attend my high school reunion with me.” “In the armor?” “No, of course not!” You spit out and Kyle’s laughter clues you into the fact that he was joking. “Alright, I’m in.” “Just like that?” You turn to look at him, your bun bobbing in its ratty hair band. “Just like that. Are we married? Expecting? Can I pet your belly as I talk about the ultrasound appointment?” You balk, your mouth gaping and Kyle bends over in laughter. You love his laugh, booming, with an occasional snort and that hissing tea kettle sound when he tries to calm down: “You wouldn’t be asking me if you didn’t want me to play a role. You’d be bringing an actual boyfriend or husband.” Ok, that makes sense. So you decide to lay all your cards on the table: “Husband would be too suspicious because how did we get married without anyone knowing?” “We eloped.” “And how were we in a relationship before that without anyone knowing?” “We met two months ago on a cruise where our ship went through a sea storm and you rescued me… no, I rescued you, and we instantly fell in love. It was fate! We knew we were meant to be together and decided, why wait!” Your shock quickly morphs into enthusiastic amusement. This is fun. 

“And now I’m pregnant?” 

“What do you think people do all night when they’re in a whirlwind of devastating love?” Kyle places one dramatic hand on his chest and the back of the other on his forehead, wiggling his eyebrows too quickly for it to not be funny.

“That’s an insane story. Will anyone buy it?” 

“How would you ever have faked an insane story like that? What, you found some crazy guy to play along?” 

He does have a point. How many people are insane enough to lie about something like that? 

“Alright, let’s do it. We’d have to sync our stories.” You say, realizing that this will be an opportunity to spend time with Kyle.

“And our outfits. What kind of dress will you wear?”

“What makes you think I’ll wear a dress?”

“My gorgeous wife, the moon that guides my sanity and the sun that lights my path, she’d wear dresses. And probably no underwear, but that’s too much to ask of a fake wife, I understand.” 

You don’t regret skipping all the boring accountants one bit. 

[yanandreckless]

The entirety of My Immortal rewritten like this would be *chef's kiss*

Hi my name is Ezekyle Dark’ness Despoiler Abaddon and I have long ebony black hair in a topknot (that’s how I got my name) with red streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and cold grey eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Horus Lupercal (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Kharn but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m an Astartes but my armor is black and spiky. I have pale white skin. I’m also a Chaos worshipper, and I go to a magic murderfest called the Warp in space where I’m on the 13th Black Crusade (I’m important). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hottus Topicus and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing black power armor with matching spikes around it and a black leather hair-tie, white skulls and my father's power claw. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside the Warp. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of loyalists stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

[heuldoch7b]

sorry i yassified your abbadon

[dese-o]

I wonder why Games Workshop hasn’t let the cousins meet yet…

[ezekiel13]

I think it’s very cool of me that I named myself after a fictional character and managed to spell that guy’s name wrong.

Like I was 100% convinced his name was spelt ‘Ezekiel’ and I was horrified when I checked in the book. But like I was too deep at that point. And I dislike the spelling ‘Ezekyle’.

But it’s impressive that I accidentally gave myself the biblical spelling of a name rather than the name of a guy literally called “the Despoiler”

[yanandreckless]

This is gorgeous! <3

Stop the show

My entry for #WarpGala40k on twitter with Abaddon. I had this idea for his Gala set to be the Galaxy itself, torn apart by the Great Rift, into a half that is completely cut from the Emperor's golden light (to be made of vantablack fabric), and the rest is still lit up by it, but not for long - the gold drops coming from Terra and his hands show how he wants to tear it all apart and make it bleed.

And Chaos is creeping in. And I had to include Horus and the Mournival with the background colours, the Eye, the Moon phases, and a cinquefoil. His roots are always there.

[axiseart]

'If at first you don't succeed, fix your ponytail and start again.' -Unknown

[couldtransitionsaveher]

also think my ask got eaten/buried. any warhammer characters in queue (besides fulgrim, who you mentioned)? been wanting to submit one but I'm not sure if she's been

So, Warhammer 40k has steadily entered the top 10 most submitted fandoms this blog has seen. Here's all the characters that are in the queue:

Corvus Corax (April 4th, 12:00 PM)

Magnus the Red (April 6th, 8:00 PM)

Lucius (April 6th, 8:00 PM)

Lorgar Aurelian (April 6th, 8:00 PM)

Trazyn the Infinite (April 22nd, 12:00 PM)

And here are all of the characters we've done before:

Roboute Guillman

Leeman Russ

Horus Lupercal

Rogal Dorn

All "Men" in the Adeptus Mechanicus Faction

Ezekyle Abbadon

Perturabo

Sanguinus

Konrad Curze

[cultofthewyrm]

JoyToy Warhammer 40k Ezekyle Abbadon

[the-liars-art]

Speaking of force-of-nature Abby, I think it’s time to reread this beautiful Reddit comment from ADB himself:

(Original discussion is about whether Abbadon is a Horus clone, then ADB just dropped by and threw this bomb and left. Absolute legend)

It's SO GOOD to see him out there letting off some steam and being a fucking force of nature and murdering the shit out of some people

[ms--lobotomy]

WH40K MASTERLIST

PRIMARCH LISTS "Would you still love me if I were a worm," [gn] First Kiss [gn] How many geese do you think I can take in a fight? [gn] Bear Prep Time [gn] Primarchs and Praise Kinks (NSFW) [f] Are y'all down for some heresy? (NSFW) [f] PRIMARCH COCK (NSFW) [gn]

EMPEROR OF MANKIND Perpetuals [f]

MALCADOR THE SIGILITE Girldad (Platonic) [f]

LION EL'JONSON Building a Family (NSFW) [f] He's Old Now, That's Pretty Cool [f]

FULGRIM Insecure [gn] - [x] [x] Daemon (NSFW) [f] How to Handle Someone from the 3rd Millenium? (feat. Guilliman) (NSFW) [f] Fulgrim Fucks You On Both Cocks And Then Takes You To His Place (NSFW) [f]

PERTURABO Caught Princess [f]- [x] [x] Slice of Life [gn] A Gift (NSFW) [f] Legion Mother (NSFW) [f]

JAGHATAI KHAN Riding (NSFW) [f]

LEMAN RUSS The Thing You Told Me Not To [f] Wife Guy Leman Russ (NSFW) [f] Sandwich (ft. Magnus, NSFW) [gn] Sleepy (Drabble) [gn]

ROGAL DORN Falling Asleep [f] Fertile (NSFW) [f]

KONRAD CURZE Follow Me [gn] Y'ALL FUCK (NSFW) [f] Under the Weather [gn] First With a Partner [gn] Finger [gn]

SANGUINIUS "I have done nothing wrong in my life," [gn] Bleed [gn] Egg (NSFW) [f] Get Bent Bald Boy (ft. Horus) [gn]

FERRUS MANUS Nightmares (NSFW) [f] Episode [x] [x] [gn] Eurydice [gn, they pronoun used] Under the Table (NSFW) [f?]

ANGRON You Smoke Angron Out And Then He Eats You Out (And More) (NSFW) [f] First Night (Post Nails) [gn]

ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN Painfully Hard in Public (NSFW) [f] How to Handle Someone from the 3rd Millenium? (feat. Fulgrim) (NSFW) [f]

MORTARION The Merman [gn, afab body]- [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8 (NSFW)] [9 (NSFW)] Aftercare (NSFW) [gn] Meeting (NSFW) [f]

MAGNUS THE RED Sandwich (ft. Leman, NSFW) [gn] Pounding Magnus the Red in the Butt (NSFW) [m] Sick [m]

HORUS LUPERCAL Warmaster (NSFW) [f] Belt Loops [m] Songbird (NSFW) [f] Get Bent Bald Boy (ft. Sanguinius) [gn] Hope You Don't Have Tokophobia For This One [f]

LORGAR AURELIAN Ancient Lullaby [gn]

VULKAN "IMMA BEAT YOUR ASS UP" [f] Sleeping In (NSFW) [m]

CORVUS CORAX

ALPHARIUS

EZEKYLE ABBADON Companion (NSFW) [f]

CALLADAYCE TAUROVALIA KESH Go get Him, Cal! [gn] gay sex (NSFW) [f]

CATO SICARIUS I don't even know. It's smut. Have fun. (NSFW) [f] Peg That Blue Boy (NSFW) [gn]

TYPHUS THE TRAVELER Lab Rat (NSFW) [f]

OCS Hutri (Iron Hands, quasi-husbandry?)- First Minis- [x]

Aion (Alpha Legion)- [x]

...and more to come! remind me to pretty up my list i have no idea how to do that on mobile

[yanandreckless]

Everybody Likes Kyle 2

16B turns out to be a bigger unit than your own, 16A, but the tall ceilings and triple windows in the living area were the same, the building having been a commercially failed attempt at a 1920s architectural style during the 1980s. At least this meant that the rent was cheap, even if the plumbing was finicky and the AC was a luxury that only came portable out of your own pocket. The walls were also most likely way thicker in an authentic 1920s building. Kyle leads you into the living room area, pushing aside various bags and boxes, his boots rumbling like mini thunder against the hardwood floor. He pulls a duffel bag off an armchair that matches the sofa in the hallway and gestures for you to sit: “The kitchen is obviously still an inanimate Frankenstein, but I do have some Red Bull.” “Sugar free?” You blurt out hopefully and Kyle snorts again, amused: “As a matter of fact, yes.” The can looks almost like a thimble in his gigantic paw as he hands it to you and you look around the room as he continues pulling in furniture. 

There is black wallpaper with charcoal ornate flowers on three of the walls, the one opposite the gigantic windows still white and that is when you notice cans of paint and some plastic tarp in the corner. The huge treasure chest clanking with metal raises a little cloud of dust when Kyle dumps it next to you. “Are you about to paint this wall?” You ask him and he shakes his head, looking down on you with the corner of his lip quivering: “Nah, that’s what I use as body lotion.” Not one to be outbantered (According to an aunt you inherited this trait from, this was why you were single. Irony had a tendency to miss members of your family), you smile gleefully: “Oh sweet! Does it come in a vanilla scent?” Kyle is already bent over as he lifts a box full of books to relocate it as he gives you another snort and a view of a rather glorious bakery if you do say so yourself: “I’m not one for vanilla.” Your glee only amplifies as you excitedly tuck your feet underneath yourself, ready to unpack this tidbit of information, but there’s a booming knock on the door interrupting you. The first thing you notice tightening in surprise on Kyle is his abovementioned bakery. One cheek looks the size of a watermelon and you wonder if you could even dent the flesh by squeezing it, with how stony firm it appears. The next thing is the large muscles making up his neck and shoulders as he straightens up. The next- Well, the next thing you notice is unfortunately not any of your new neighbor’s more than impressive physique, but the rhythm of the knock itself. You’d recognize that knock anywhere. And you belatedly wonder how come it took him this long. Probably just takes time to get an ugly bald noggin out of an ugly old ass. The knock comes in a distinct rhythm that has always somehow managed to sound like the beginning of some 70s porno jazz number. It gives you the creeps. Kyle notices your frown as his gigantic feet eat the distance toward the front door: “Take it this isn’t a friend of yours?” 

“Ewww, no.” You shudder and Kyle decides to see for yourself. You can only see a bit of his side profile from your spot in the armchair, but you don’t miss a shocked slow blink at the newcomer. The ugly old geezer deserves it. Fabius’ isn’t ugly because of any specific feature. Plenty of bald men are attractive. Plenty of old men are attractive, even. Plenty of tall, willowy, talon-fingered men who have gone through twink death during the Nixon administration are attractive, if an acquired taste. But Fabius… Fabius is repulsive. It’s the combination of his joints outlined in sharp angles through all of his expensive silken shirts and finely pressed pants, all in shades of purple and gold like he’s an aging pimp. It’s his overly large, slightly yellowed dentures with golden back teeth. Yes, multiple golden teeth. It’s the multitude of jewels on his sickly, unnaturally long, talon-like digits with long, sharp nails. It’s the long, white hair on the sides of his head he stubbornly sticks to even though his dome has looked like a cue ball for probably decades. It’s his grating voice and his incessant complaints and the fact that you have personally seen him pierce through a stray ball that some kids accidentally kicked into his weird carnivorous plants and ivy garden. You’re pretty sure he puts poison around the neighborhood for cats and dogs, too. There is some satisfaction in you when you see that Fabius, impressively tall himself, has to look up to speak with Kyle eye to eye: “This is outrageous!” Dramatic hand gesture, weight shift to a hip, narrowed beady little eyes. Classic Fabius opening move. “I know this place hasn’t lived up to the original glory its architects had in mind for it, the tenants are not exactly creme de la creme of our society, but some manners should still be maintained, lest we all are to become ANIMALS!” Index finger jabbing at the air pointedly, flared nostrils, and then a slow up and down once-over. Tried and true tactics for the old Karen. Kyle leans into his doorway leisurely, crossing tree trunk arms over his chest and looking down at the old man: “You already remarkably resemble a rat, go figure.” Fabius lets out a sound that should be a gasp of shock, but is somewhat ruined by decades of smoking his stupid fancy slim cigarettes in golden paper. He places a withered hand on his chest: “Well, I’ll say! Young man, do you know whom you’re speaking to? I’ll have you know that I possess considerable influence in this community and could, if I wanted to-”

Fabius then abruptly stops, his rodent-like muted gray eyes narrowing up at Kyle. He purses his lips for a moment and then finally speaks, his voice suspiciously low and self-satisfied, back from his grating angry shriek: “You look familiar, boy. Remind me of an old friend back from the war.” Kyle’s entire body visibly stiffens. Fabius, like a vicious shark smelling blood, grins, sharp oversized dentures glimmering: “Yes, he was a general in the-” You don’t know what exactly prompts you to hop out of the armchair and join Kyle at the door. Perhaps it’s the white-knuckled grip he has on the doorknob, you’re pretty sure he could crush it if he really put his mind to it. Perhaps it’s the fact that you hate Fabius with a passion only a Karen neighbor can induce in a person. Or perhaps you just want to go back to staring at Kyle’s bakery in peace, without the old snake rattling about. “Uncle Fab, how Fabulous of you to come greet our new neighbor!” You beam at the old fart, who blinks at you in offense and curls his mouth in distaste, as he does every time you call him Uncle Fab. Which is why you do it as often as you possibly can. “Awww, but you didn’t even bring a welcome gift! I’d expect a baked good of some sort, it’s only good manners, wouldn’t you say?” Fabius blinks a few times rapidly, his head jerking back in abject shock. He never expects to be checked when it comes to Mean Girl behavior so he is always like a fish out of water: “I was merely attempting to warn the young man here about all the noise he was making, not to mention the clutter in the hallway, which is, if I have to remind you, a communal space! I will refrain from commenting on his taste in interior decorating, if you really want to see an exhibition of good manners.” “Close, but no cigar, Uncle Fab, you gotta work on that. Kyle, d’ya like blueberry pie? Or maybe Lamingtons? Uncle Fab makes really good sweets and he’ll be happy to lead by example on what a great neighbor looks like, won’t you, Uncle Fab? By the way, you haven't seen my Sephora package, have you? This is the third one that’s disappeared over the last 6 months.” You had a strong suspicion Fabius had been stealing your packages and the way he tightens his wrinkled mouth and averts his gaze only seems to confirm it. “I have a feeling we’ll be chatting about your lifestyle a lot, young man. As for you…” Fabius fixes you with a gaze that would probably turn you into stone if he were a Gorgon. He jabs a gnarly index finger at the air in your direction:

“I don’t appreciate the way you speak to me.” “I don’t appreciate the fact you’re here, but hey, life’s not fair.” Kyle interjects, grinning at Fabius that shit-eating way that looks unfairly good on hot guys. With a huff and a bunch of quiet muttering that sounds suspiciously like either a bunch of Italian curse words or a warlock spell, Fabius climbs the stairs back to his own apartment, his soft white leather shoes inaudible. Kyle deliberately lets the door close itself loudly, reveling in the squeal of unoiled hinges: “What’s up with this geezer?” You walk back into the apartment and take your previous spot at the armchair: “Oh that’s just old cuckoo Fabius. He’s a retired… I wanna say chemist? Pharmacist? Something or other. Way too rich, you’ll see him casually wearing Dior on a Tuesday morning. I don’t even know why he lives in this dump, no offense.” “None taken.” “Rumor is, he cooks meth in his tub or deals coke or something. If that’s the case, it’s kinda stupid of him to always be in everybody’s business. I’d lay low and not attract attention or make people mad for no reason.” Kyle purses his lips for a moment, his arm flexing as he leans into the doorway, looking pensively into the distance for a moment: “Say, I know I promised you steak, and I will deliver, but I also want to go out and buy dessert. I saw a bakery nearby, what would you like?” It comes out before you have a chance to think: “I’m only interested in your bakery.” “What?” Kyle blinks. “What?” You shoot back. 

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Part 2: TRAITORS

See the loyalist poll here

[askrobouteguilliman40k]

So I have a few questions, pertaining to comparing characters from both 40k and fantasy. My first question is, who do you feel seems to make a better leader of the champions of chaos, be it in power, strength, and over all effectiveness as leaders? Archaon the Ever Chosen, and Three Eyed King, and Exalted Grand Marshial of the Apocalypse? Or Ezekyle Abbadon the Despoiler, and Surpeme Warmaster of Chaos Undivided and the Imperium Nihilus? I'll be honest, I know a bit more about Archaon than Abbadon. So I'm curious what someone who knows a lot more on the subject thinks, and hope we can maybe discuss this in a mature matter, as that is hard to find.

Deep breath.

Both are suited for their roles and have at least a decade of lore to back them up.

There is nothing more to be said with out bringing up cringe memes.

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

That's ok because it's misspelled in English, too.

Yechezqiel (יְחֶזְקֵאל) is based on the ch-z-q root, "strength." So, "strength of God," or possibly "God is strong." In addition to ending in -el, it also starts with a yud, which is another way to put God into Hebrew names. So the name literally starts and ends with God. I guess it's extra holy?

Yechezqiel is actually a prophet, not an angel; you can find his prophecies in the Book of Ezekiel in the Tanakh/Old Testament. He starts the book by noting the time (30 years), the location (by the Euphrates in captivity/exile), and his background (the son of Buzi, a priest) before diving into some hella trippy angel imagery. Good times. Well, maybe not for Yechezqiel, being in exile and all.

BUT! This post is about angels, not prophets. Therefore I propose that Mr. Ezekyle is the double-holy Angel of Buffness.

B-B-BONUS ROUND!

I looked up "Abaddon" on Wikipedia and found some good shit:

According to the Brown–Driver–Briggs lexicon, the Hebrew אבדון ’ăḇadōn is an intensive form of the Semitic root and verb stem אָבַד ’ăḇāḏ "perish", transitive "destroy", which occurs 184 times in the Hebrew Bible.

In the Tanakh, the word frequently appears in conjunction with Sheol, the Biblical afterlife (it's more similar to Hades than modern concepts of Heaven/Hell, which didn't emerge until the Second Temple Era). In the New Testament Abaddon is the name of the angel of the bottomless pit, who is the king of this incredibly metal-sounding army of locusts:

7 And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. 8 And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions. 9 And they had breastplates, as it were breastplates of iron; and the sound of their wings was as the sound of chariots of many horses running to battle. 10 And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails: and their power was to hurt men five months.

I didn't plan on quoting religious text at people but it was so cool that had to share.

ANYWAYS!

This addition leads me to conclude that Mr. Ezekyle Abaddon, Esq. is not only the double-holy Angel of Buffness, he is specifically the Angel of Buffness Used For Destruction. You know that li'l comic with the gymbro thinking, "I'm gonna to be so good at hugging"?

Abbadon is the polar opposite of that, angelically. Also he commands an army of androgynous locusts with breastplates and scorpion tails. I'm gonna put my foot down here.

Send me 40k characters with -el names and I'll give you the shitty Hebrew translation

Ever wonder what all those Blood Angels and Dark Angels and Sparkle Angels and Whatever Angels are angels of? Y'know, aside from murderizing things? Now's your chance!