Outlast Angel

Hiatus.

[reverieveil]

My new alt will be @outlastangel!

I’ll post generally the same stuff, but it will be more organized than this, and will include more Outlast in its content, rather than being a 40K focused blog :)

Plus, I going to make an actual masterlist. But, this blog won't be deleted!

[outlastangel]

Cradle the Night.

Characters/Mentions;

Fydor Jun Kar, First Talon of the Night Lords 18th Claw, Serration.

Danika, a 12-year-old serf girl, unofficial daughter to the Talon.

Synopsis; To the normal men of the Imperium, Fydor Jun Kar is a name that falls from cold lips. To Danika, he’s simply Pa.

Warnings; None other than ritualistic scarring and Night Lord weirdness. Also like, illusions of child abuse.

___

The hum of the Nightfall has become comforting to Danika.

It’s a calm song, a dull lullaby that she’s been raised on. The halls rarely echo with anything other than the crying pleas of a serf who stepped in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, in the underdecks, past the tombs and cobwebs and cells and stasis coffins, it’s silent. In her own little room, it’s warm and silent.

A young girl, with chub still on her cheeks and a gap between her teeth, sits cross-legged on the floor. A worn bird plush sits in her lap, its threads are frayed and it’s missing an eye and wing. In the girl's hand, she threads a string through the eye of a needle, her tongue sticking out as she focuses.

Across the girl, a pale beast with grey skin sits on a crate, bare of his armor and helm, with spiderwebs of pale scars marking every inch of visible skin. His stark black eyes trail over his skin in the cracked glass of her mirror, and he holds his flaying knife to his cheek. With unnerving stillness, he drags the knife over a curved scar under his eye—and a crimson tear follows after.

He was painting. The flick of the knife cuts the skin that has healed over. With the hand of an artist, he makes himself beautiful.

The girl, Danika, looks up from her project. She watches as the man carves his skin as she brushes curly ginger hair out of her face and her bright green eyes narrow.

She watches without flinching.

She never flinces.

“Pa,” she calls out, ceasing her sewing. “You did that one last week.”

Fydor ceases his carving for a moment. He doesn't say anything for a moment, considering his reflection before speaking, pulling the knife away from the old scar.

“Aye,” he responds, voice hoarse and worn from years of disuse. He’s seen grown men shudder from his voice. But not her. “But it has faded.”

Danika tilts her head, ginger curls falling over her brow as a pout forms on her lips.

She rises to her knees, the plush bird, Cheep, clutched in one arm, and walks across the rusted decking with bare feet. She’s careful to step over the crack that oozes some slow, dark fluid—she knows which cracks to avoid by now. The Nightfall has been her home longer than any cradle, longer than any sunlit world she doesn’t remember.

Danika stops beside Fydor, her tiny form dwarfed by the bulk of him, even stripped of his ceramite. She crawls on the crate before lying across his lap, sprawled out like a needy kitten.

Fydor doesn’t move, not at first. The flaying knife stays poised in his hand, still glistening with that single tear of blood. He looks down at her—his black eyes like deep oil pools, unreadable, unreflective. He could flinch her off. Toss her aside like a spent charge pack.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts his free arm, the one not holding the blade, and wraps it around her middle in a strangely gentle embrace. Massive, scarred fingers curl over her small ribs. She breathes slow, cheek pressed to the cold skin of his belly. His scars pressed against her hands, and she let out a content sigh.

Fydor Jun Kar, First Talon of the 18th Claw of Serration, heir to a thousand years of terror and atrocity, the doorbreaker of the Abyssal Cradle, lets his hand rest on top of her ginger curls. Ever so softly, he brushes her scalp, careful of the strength difference between him and the little girl.

He sighs, and a soft giggle leaves her.

It’s light—softer than static, sweet as the rare snacks and sweets he’s stolen from governors and fat cats in power. It fades in the air, and Fydor stills. For two heartbeats, the world seems still, and he finds himself lowering his knife. He slides his hands under her armpits, pulling her up and holding her like a small animal, letting her tiny feet stand on his knees.

“You find that funny, girl?” he asks, though there's no hostility behind it.

Danika giggles again, bringing her knees up as her hands disappear underneath her cloak sleeves. “You sighed. You only sigh when I’m not annoying you.”

Her hands reach out, and she gently grabs the ends of his hair, tied together with wires she stole from Razlin’s vox-communicator. “You just growl—or snarl.”

Fydor grunts, a baritone noise that seems to echo through the warm room.

“I don’t growl,” he muttered. “And I’m never mad. I’m composed.”

“You nearly broke Ivan’s jaw because he tried to grab me.” Danika reminds him, idly picking at a scar near his navel with one small finger. “Then, you kicked his knee in backwards. You were mad.”

Fydor doesn't respond immediately—though he knows of the incident she talks about. Ivan, an older Serf of Milton, the Lower Claw under him. He was old enough to know what was sacred, and what could be broken. But he hadn’t cared enough to respect it while the Astartes had their backs turned.

He had heard Danika scream in the hallways. Not the sharp, high-pitched wail of a child throwing a tantrum—but something else. A sound wrong for her throat, warbling at the edges, too panicked to be theatrical.

Ivan was scolding her, his hand squeezing her jaw and his hand raised in an attempt to strike her.

His hand never got to make the descent.

Fydor had pulled Danika away and kicked Ivan’s knee in before his fellow claws could grab him. The crunch of Ivan’s knee was like a twig under the Astartes boot, shattering with little resistance. Fydor had shoved two of his fingers into Ivan’s maw, and squeezed—before two of his clawmates pulled him off, scolding and hissing at his outburst.

It was only when Danika was safe in his shadow once more, that Fydor let his shoulders fall, and regained his composure.

Even now, the memory claws at his chest like a blade.

“I was composed,” he lies, voice low. “I simply corrected a mistake.”

Danika hums. The sound is full of the smugness only a child could carry so confidently. “You were mad. ‘Cause you love me.”

Fydor freezes, then drops her, letting her land on her bottom with an “oomph.”

Danika pouts and rises, then kicks his shin with a cheeky grin.

Fydor doesn't react. He only picks up his knife once more and pulls his eyelid down, carving the scar underneath it. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to!” Danika exclaims, crawling back up on the crate. “I can tell. I’ve got a good eye for these things, you know?”

Fydor only closes his eyes and sets the blade down. With a sigh, he looks at her, silently demanding that the girl explain.

Danika doesn't flinch when she meets his gaze. She only smiles—and there's something so eerie about it. He’s seen grown men—men the size of men who would’ve choked him and stolen everything he had avert their gazes from his. But her, the scrawny 12-year-old runt that clings to the chains of his armor like a jungle gym looks up at him like he’s something holy.

“You keep me close. You let me sew in here. You don’t let the others take me to the pens.” Danika tucks her legs beneath her again, Cheep returned to her arms. “You let me call you Pa.”

Fydor doesn't respond right away. He sighs and looks away, wiping away the small dribble of blood that slides to his jaw.

His face is unreadable, caught somewhere between wariness and that hollow, ancient silence that all Astartes wear when memory takes hold of them. The Night Lords wear silence the way others wear honor. Cold, heavy, and always stained with something the normal people never want to name.

She continues, curling up to his side as she speaks. “You sneak me candy. You make sure Valeos and Milton don’t skin me. And you don’t make me do serf tasks.”

Fydor doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t grunt or grumble or deny the things she lists—because they’re all true. Every single one. And worse still, some part of him is proud that she’s kept count.

His hand rests beside her, stained in the blood from his own carving, still warm from the work. She leans against that arm anyway, cheek pressed to the ridges of old scar tissue, and he lets her.

He lets her.

Twelve years ago, if someone had told him that a mortal child would one day call him “Pa,” he’d have laughed. Or killed them. Likely both. He had once skinned a traitor alive for suggesting they take a child slave along on a raid—a hostage. And yet here she was: not a hostage, not even a prisoner.

His.

The willing babe who reached out for him, crying her tiny little lungs out next to the rotting corpses of Nostromian parents.

Barely old enough to lift her head, yet she reached out all the same. Even when blood soaked her swaddle and the maggots from her mother's corpse threatened to touch her, she reached out.

And Fydor hesitated.

And Fydor never hesitated.

Not when the doors blew open under his talon’s siege charges, not when the screams started, not when he gutted a nobleman through the mouth, not when he bashed his own father's skull in—finally tired of the beatings he received.

Hesitation was death, weakness, the soft rot of the Imperium’s illusion of kindness. But then—

That day.

That swaddle. That hand.

That cry that cut through the static of his helm’s filters like a whispered “Help me.”

And he—who had been born in shadow, raised in darkness, molded by war—paused.

Long enough to step past the corpse of the girl’s father, slumped against the nursery door. Long enough to brush aside the shattered crib with his boot. Long enough to look.

That was all it took.

Those damned green eyes, overflowing with fat tears.

Twelve years gone, and he was both monster and man. The hand that could rip the skin off a criminal was the same hand that brushed and braided thick curls, no matter how clumsy his hands were. The mouth that once mocked the dying praised the girl whenever she got something done.

And he’d do it again. He’d live the same life—so long as she was in it.

Danika yawned as she curled closer to him, resting her head against his ribs as her breathing evened out, the cadence slow and soft, lulled by the rhythm of his twin hearts.

Fydor did not move.

He did not speak.

He only let her rest there, nestled against the meat and memory of a monster. Her breath warmed a patch of his scarred flesh, and with each exhale, the ancient anger in his bones—something that had once driven his every thought, every kill, every moment of violence—dulled into something else entirely.

He couldn’t name it.

Astartes weren’t supposed to have names for feelings like this.

But, damned Fydor—perhaps by flaw, or divine intervention, felt it.

He watched her tiny hand twitch as sleep took her—one curled finger still clutching Cheep’s fraying wing.

She dreamed like a child who had never seen blood. Who didn’t know the taste of fear or the way screams echoed through the steel belly of a murder-ship. Fydor knew that wasn’t true—he knew—but still, she dreamed like it was.

Like she was safe.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where his armor rested on its rack like the corpse of a titan. Blue and black, chipped and battered from decades of slaughter, its bat-winged helm watched him like a sentinel, as though it disapproved of what he had become. As though Konrad watched from the grave, whispering that this was weakness, this was softness, this was the cancer of the Imperium that turned sons into fathers and monsters into guardians.

Quietly, he scoffed.

The Haunter could judge him all he wanted.

Fydor had more love for something that was not his own—more than what the Primarch had for his gene-sons.

Let the bones of Nostramo rattle in their tombs. Let the shadows of their gene-father hiss and spit and judge.

Let them see.

Let them see him, not kneeling in a chapel, not blood-drunk in a martyr’s ruin, not flaying a vagabond's back or carving dread into the walls of a burning hive.

No.

Let them see this. Let them see the death-born, the Night Lord, as he cradled something fragile—not mock it. Not to break it.

But to keep it warm.

A sound hissed above them, and Fydor’s ear twitched on instinct. He chuffed, instinctively reaching out for the knife by his side. Then, he stopped.

He shouldn't wake her.

Not unless he had to.

The automatic hiss of a bulkhead shifted in the distance. A patrol. Perhaps Valeos. Perhaps one of the other Talons, circling like carrion birds. Looking. Watching. Wondering if the First Talon had grown too quiet. Wondering where he disappeared to in the middle of the night.

Danika mumbled in her sleep, breath hitching softly. Her fingers flexed, as though reaching for him even in dreams.

And he gave her his hand.

Fydor, with the same hand he had once used to slam a pipe against his fathers skull, let her hold his thick fingers like they were a blanket. Like they were safe. She curled around them and breathed deep, pressing her face into the curve of his side as though she didn’t live among monsters. As though his scars were simply blemishes, and not webs of promise.

Fydor sat back against the wall, his carved face unreadable in the low light of the underdecks. He shifted, pulling her more onto his lap and curling around her tiny body, protecting her with his larger frame.

With his daughter in his lap and the hum of the Nightfall overhead like a lullaby, Fydor Jun Kar—monster of Serration, butcher of Tor IV, scourge of the Abyssal Cradle—closed his eyes.

And let the dark hold them both.

Small. Silent. Safe.

[reverieveil]

Potentially, I may move this blog to a more coherent one. Kid!konrad will be moved, alongside the other fics that were quite popular.

[reverieveil]

Guess who's back from the dead

[caedriitte]

Outlast poster! It was both a christmas gift (posting it kinda late oops) and a redraw from the beggining of 2025 (second picture)

[reverieveil]

Child!Angron - II. Between the Lash.

Characters/Mentions;

Angron, Child Primarch of the Twelveth Legion, the War Hounds/World Eaters.

You, an Eldar Farseer, trapped in the pits of Nuceria.

Synopsis; You and Angron finally talk.

POV: Second Person.

Warnings; Child Abuse, abuse toward Reader, violence against children, violence against others, blood, gore, and slavery.

Taglist: @danart501 , @missmannequin , @randomlyappearingartist

____

Sleep does not come.

Not for him.

And not for you.

You know without looking. You can feel him lying across the sand, but his breath remains fast, falling and rising with one-two intervals. His feet drag through the dirt, and it causes your ears to flick. He shifts every few seconds, and you run your tounge over your fangs as the sand nips your connection to every living thing.

His eyes stay trained on your back—as if expecting you to vanish—or attack. As far as he knows, either is possible.

Eventually, you slump against the sand, flicking your ears before forcing yourself up to look back at him.

He looks surprised when your cold gaze meets his curious one over your shoulder, then swiftly covers it with brash defiance.

“Go to sleep,” you grunt. “I don’t have the patience to deal with you, mon-keigh.”

He’s silent.

And you throw your head back, forcing yourself to relax before sleep decides to mercifully brush you this night.

The sand shifts. You hear the soft clink of shackles. His bare feet drag against the dirt. He’s moving—closer. Just a few inches until he can grasp the bar of his kennel. He’s close enough to feel the psychic hum from your body.

You can feel it too.

You don’t need to turn. You can feel the fear under his skin, like bones rattling in a cage.

Fear—especially children’s fear—should be loud.

His is silent. A death shroud.

Your hand curls into the ground unconsciously, and you sigh, sensing the ember of his spirit in the dark burn brighter.

Ash.

That’s what it feels like.

Ash.

Ash. Cinders. A smoldering heat that refuses to die.

You breathe out slowly through your nose.

“You’re not sleeping either,” he finally mutters.

His voice is small and hoarse, weakened through screaming and fighting. He looks at your back when he speaks—you can feel his beady pupils staring at the curve of your spine. When you shift, his eyes fall—you assume his feet, or the iron cuff biting into his wrist.

“You said to,” he adds, quieter than before. “But I can’t.”

Irritation crawls up your scarred spine at the mon-kiegh’s neediness. At his prescence. At this entire infuriating planet. But, mostly, the way he refuses to kneel and break.

“You humans are unbearably stubborn.” you grumble through clenched teeth. “That’s not my problem.”

He doesn't respond. But he bristles. A tiny flame roars into a fire before settling once more. Angry, but too exhausted to fight.

A moment pauses—then—

“Why haven’t you killed me?” he asks.

Your eyes open.

Slowly, you turn your head and look over your shoulder. His expression is unreadable, an angry mask carved into stone. But, his little fingers twitch, betraying him.

You raise a brow ridge.

“Do you want me to?”

His breath catches—only slightly, but enough for your mind to brush against it and taste the metallic tang of primal fear. He shakes his head once.

You sigh.

“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the awnser to.”

He flinches. Not visibly. Not in a way any human would notice. But you are Eldar. You feel the shift in his spirit and mind—whimpering and pulling back like a wounded animal.

You sigh again, this time through your teeth.

Children. You never liked them. They were needy. Fragile. Loud. Unpredictable. And yet, this..Angron, a filthy mon-kiegh pup, a reflection of their primal wars, lies awake with his forehead against rushed spires and an iron collar notched into his throat.

And still, he refuses to break.

He shifts again. His chains scrape.

“Does it…hurt you?” he asks.

You blink.

“What?”

He gestures vaugly to your temple, where the Tear of Isha rests. “The glowy thing you do.. Like...you make the air heavy..”

It takes you a moment before you understand.

“My psychic aura.” you elaborate.

He stares blankly.

You exhale. “No. It doesn't hurt me. It hurts others.”

You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. He perks up like a dog, looking more attentive.

“So..you could kill everyone here?” he asks.

A huff of pride leaves you.

“Yes.”

A beat passes.

“Even the masters?”

You grin.

“Especially the masters.”

The ember inside him flares again. Bright gold this time. Hope, small brittle, and desperate. You feel it like a warm kiss from the sand.

“Then why haven't you?” he asks.

You shift, finally laying on your side to stare at him.

You could tell him the skein is clouded and tangled. That this planet gnaws at your very foresight. That every future falls into snow and blood and mountains and gore. Thay killing the masters would only invite worse fates.

You could tell him the truth—you don’t know.

Instead, you close your eyes.

“Sleep, Mon-keigh.”

His fingers curl into the kennel bars until they creak. He has so many questions, and knows that he may not be alive to have you awnser them. He speaks the ones that cling to him—like abuse sticks to a beaten mutt.

“Do you know why they took you?”

“Sleep.” you order again, gritting your teeth.

“I can't,” he whispers. “Every time I do, I can see the chains and whips. I hear the guards and I feel them spitting on me..I—”

Footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Filled with self-righteousness.

Your ears snap up.

Two guards. The big ones. Thick-necked, reeking of alcohol and blood. They round the corner, muttering to each other before they hear Angron’s voice, suddenly snapping them into a wicked, plotting quietness.

The boy realizes too late, only midway still through his sentence.

You feel his fear punch through him. The ember suddenly dying. Snuffed out by a rubber sole.

“Oi!” the stout one barks. “Little mongrels still awake, huh?”

Angron recoils, but he has nowhere to go. He doesn't make it far.

“Didn't we tell you doggies not to yap after dark?” the taller one sneers. He starts fumbling with the gate lock. “Right then. Out. Time to teach you what silence means.”

Angron scrambles back, chains rattling loudly as his heart pounds beneath his chest. He swallows and shakes his head, breath speeding up as he clenches his teeth, refusing to make a sound.

You rise before you think.

Your chains rattle loudly.

“Of course,” you sneer. “The primal mon-kiegh have to abuse their young too feel important.”

The guards heads snap toward you. The stout one growls.

“What’re you talkin’ about knife-ears?”

You tilt your head, expression flat, and almost bored.

“I said,” you drawl, voice laced with venomous silk. “That only the weakest of your barbaric kind need to beat children to feel like men.”

You bare your teeth, flashing them your fangs as you continue.

“Tell me, does it stir power in you? Beating those weaker than you? Do your shriveled loins feel rejuvenated and strong when you kick down a helpless woman? Or is it only way you can sleep at night, knowing you’re nothing without your chains, or whips, or bars?”

Angron’s eyes flicker—first, confusion. Then, horror and warning, pleading for you to stop.

The taller guards face purples, veins bulging at his neck. The stout one spits at your feet, already turning his attention to your kennel and fiddling with his keys.

“Filthy, fuckin’ xenos,” the tall one snarls, grabbing your hair and dragging you out of your cage once the door is wide enough.

His eyes are hungry, eager to break something that isn't small and already half shattered. “Couldn’t keep yourself quiet tonight huh?”

The fat one grabs your arms, pushing you as the other continues to curl his grasp in the strands of your scalp. Calloused leather gloves drag you past the kennels.

You don’t look down at Angrom as they march you.

You ignore the jeers from other gladiators and guards, awaiting your misery.

Even as they march you down, you can feel the ember of Angron through the halls.

The flame grows. It ignites, sparks, and roars. It licks the sides of his soul, burning and melting the confines of his trapped soul.

The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you whole is the harsh, shaken release Angron lets out.

And then, there is only pain.

[reverieveil]

Child!Angron - II. Between the Lash.

Characters/Mentions;

Angron, Child Primarch of the Twelveth Legion, the War Hounds/World Eaters.

You, an Eldar Farseer, trapped in the pits of Nuceria.

Synopsis; You and Angron finally talk.

POV: Second Person.

Warnings; Child Abuse, abuse toward Reader, violence against children, violence against others, blood, gore, and slavery.

Taglist: @danart501 , @missmannequin , @randomlyappearingartist

____

Sleep does not come.

Not for him.

And not for you.

You know without looking. You can feel him lying across the sand, but his breath remains fast, falling and rising with one-two intervals. His feet drag through the dirt, and it causes your ears to flick. He shifts every few seconds, and you run your tounge over your fangs as the sand nips your connection to every living thing.

His eyes stay trained on your back—as if expecting you to vanish—or attack. As far as he knows, either is possible.

Eventually, you slump against the sand, flicking your ears before forcing yourself up to look back at him.

He looks surprised when your cold gaze meets his curious one over your shoulder, then swiftly covers it with brash defiance.

“Go to sleep,” you grunt. “I don’t have the patience to deal with you, mon-keigh.”

He’s silent.

And you throw your head back, forcing yourself to relax before sleep decides to mercifully brush you this night.

The sand shifts. You hear the soft clink of shackles. His bare feet drag against the dirt. He’s moving—closer. Just a few inches until he can grasp the bar of his kennel. He’s close enough to feel the psychic hum from your body.

You can feel it too.

You don’t need to turn. You can feel the fear under his skin, like bones rattling in a cage.

Fear—especially children’s fear—should be loud.

His is silent. A death shroud.

Your hand curls into the ground unconsciously, and you sigh, sensing the ember of his spirit in the dark burn brighter.

Ash.

That’s what it feels like.

Ash.

Ash. Cinders. A smoldering heat that refuses to die.

You breathe out slowly through your nose.

“You’re not sleeping either,” he finally mutters.

His voice is small and hoarse, weakened through screaming and fighting. He looks at your back when he speaks—you can feel his beady pupils staring at the curve of your spine. When you shift, his eyes fall—you assume his feet, or the iron cuff biting into his wrist.

“You said to,” he adds, quieter than before. “But I can’t.”

Irritation crawls up your scarred spine at the mon-kiegh’s neediness. At his prescence. At this entire infuriating planet. But, mostly, the way he refuses to kneel and break.

“You humans are unbearably stubborn.” you grumble through clenched teeth. “That’s not my problem.”

He doesn't respond. But he bristles. A tiny flame roars into a fire before settling once more. Angry, but too exhausted to fight.

A moment pauses—then—

“Why haven’t you killed me?” he asks.

Your eyes open.

Slowly, you turn your head and look over your shoulder. His expression is unreadable, an angry mask carved into stone. But, his little fingers twitch, betraying him.

You raise a brow ridge.

“Do you want me to?”

His breath catches—only slightly, but enough for your mind to brush against it and taste the metallic tang of primal fear. He shakes his head once.

You sigh.

“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the awnser to.”

He flinches. Not visibly. Not in a way any human would notice. But you are Eldar. You feel the shift in his spirit and mind—whimpering and pulling back like a wounded animal.

You sigh again, this time through your teeth.

Children. You never liked them. They were needy. Fragile. Loud. Unpredictable. And yet, this..Angron, a filthy mon-kiegh pup, a reflection of their primal wars, lies awake with his forehead against rushed spires and an iron collar notched into his throat.

And still, he refuses to break.

He shifts again. His chains scrape.

“Does it…hurt you?” he asks.

You blink.

“What?”

He gestures vaugly to your temple, where the Tear of Isha rests. “The glowy thing you do.. Like...you make the air heavy..”

It takes you a moment before you understand.

“My psychic aura.” you elaborate.

He stares blankly.

You exhale. “No. It doesn't hurt me. It hurts others.”

You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. He perks up like a dog, looking more attentive.

“So..you could kill everyone here?” he asks.

A huff of pride leaves you.

“Yes.”

A beat passes.

“Even the masters?”

You grin.

“Especially the masters.”

The ember inside him flares again. Bright gold this time. Hope, small brittle, and desperate. You feel it like a warm kiss from the sand.

“Then why haven't you?” he asks.

You shift, finally laying on your side to stare at him.

You could tell him the skein is clouded and tangled. That this planet gnaws at your very foresight. That every future falls into snow and blood and mountains and gore. Thay killing the masters would only invite worse fates.

You could tell him the truth—you don’t know.

Instead, you close your eyes.

“Sleep, Mon-keigh.”

His fingers curl into the kennel bars until they creak. He has so many questions, and knows that he may not be alive to have you awnser them. He speaks the ones that cling to him—like abuse sticks to a beaten mutt.

“Do you know why they took you?”

“Sleep.” you order again, gritting your teeth.

“I can't,” he whispers. “Every time I do, I can see the chains and whips. I hear the guards and I feel them spitting on me..I—”

Footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Filled with self-righteousness.

Your ears snap up.

Two guards. The big ones. Thick-necked, reeking of alcohol and blood. They round the corner, muttering to each other before they hear Angron’s voice, suddenly snapping them into a wicked, plotting quietness.

The boy realizes too late, only midway still through his sentence.

You feel his fear punch through him. The ember suddenly dying. Snuffed out by a rubber sole.

“Oi!” the stout one barks. “Little mongrels still awake, huh?”

Angron recoils, but he has nowhere to go. He doesn't make it far.

“Didn't we tell you doggies not to yap after dark?” the taller one sneers. He starts fumbling with the gate lock. “Right then. Out. Time to teach you what silence means.”

Angron scrambles back, chains rattling loudly as his heart pounds beneath his chest. He swallows and shakes his head, breath speeding up as he clenches his teeth, refusing to make a sound.

You rise before you think.

Your chains rattle loudly.

“Of course,” you sneer. “The primal mon-kiegh have to abuse their young too feel important.”

The guards heads snap toward you. The stout one growls.

“What’re you talkin’ about knife-ears?”

You tilt your head, expression flat, and almost bored.

“I said,” you drawl, voice laced with venomous silk. “That only the weakest of your barbaric kind need to beat children to feel like men.”

You bare your teeth, flashing them your fangs as you continue.

“Tell me, does it stir power in you? Beating those weaker than you? Do your shriveled loins feel rejuvenated and strong when you kick down a helpless woman? Or is it only way you can sleep at night, knowing you’re nothing without your chains, or whips, or bars?”

Angron’s eyes flicker—first, confusion. Then, horror and warning, pleading for you to stop.

The taller guards face purples, veins bulging at his neck. The stout one spits at your feet, already turning his attention to your kennel and fiddling with his keys.

“Filthy, fuckin’ xenos,” the tall one snarls, grabbing your hair and dragging you out of your cage once the door is wide enough.

His eyes are hungry, eager to break something that isn't small and already half shattered. “Couldn’t keep yourself quiet tonight huh?”

The fat one grabs your arms, pushing you as the other continues to curl his grasp in the strands of your scalp. Calloused leather gloves drag you past the kennels.

You don’t look down at Angrom as they march you.

You ignore the jeers from other gladiators and guards, awaiting your misery.

Even as they march you down, you can feel the ember of Angron through the halls.

The flame grows. It ignites, sparks, and roars. It licks the sides of his soul, burning and melting the confines of his trapped soul.

The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you whole is the harsh, shaken release Angron lets out.

And then, there is only pain.

[jostonio]

i like when waylon park kisses men

[sunskaiis]

got kinda sad after seeing outlast 2’s ending T-T needed to draw something stupid

[panpan203]

The parks!

[raines-here-lol]

THEY ARE REDRAWING BOTH THE COMICS!!! I'M ABOUT TO BLOW UP!!!

[brutaliser-114]

trying the "dispatch trend" a little different here with outlast

[eggsandbeer]

first liliya trial went about as well for me as i thought it would 🥹

[3161106705]

[hopefully-grimderp]

Thank you, @vspin for the tag!!

Alrighty, let me see if I am doing this right….

Last book: Horus Rising (re-read this one for a fic I'm currently writing. If you know, you know!)

Last song: Season of Love - Gamma Skies, Victor Lundberg

Last film: It's been so long since I've seen a movie that I can't rememeber what it was… I think it was "Ponniyin Selvan: Part 2"

Last series: EVIL (I love this show so much!!)

Sweet or salty: Actually, sour… I know, quite the rebel we've got here!

Coffee or tea: Tea (Masala Chai to be precise)

Working on:

quite a handful of fics (I've a schedule and all that jazz because otherwise I will NOT finish anything!)

packing for a visit back home!

decluttering my wardrobe and makeup stash

Tagging: @beckyninja @owltxt @godzo @mehiwilldoitlater @twentyplusinterestsinatrenchcoat @gravedwe11er @gh0st-nebulae @myresin (and anyone else who would want to participate!)

[beckyninja]

Ooo, these are fun! Thanks for the tag!

Last Book: The Bone Labyrinth, by James Rollins. I love a good thriller, especially one that mixes history with scifi.

Last Film: The second Now You See Me movie. Definitely not as good as the first one.

Last Series: Currently making my way through Person of Interest. I love Jim Caviezel.

Sweet or Salty: I alternate between the two.

Coffee or Tea: Absolutely tea, hot or iced. Coffee just always tastes burnt to me.

Working on: Three different Warhammer 40k series. 😅 And maybe more to come in the future.

Tagging: @omies-odd-writing-spot @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @reverieveil

[reverieveil]

Aahhh!! Thank you for the tag!! I love these!

Last Book: I’m rereading Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter by Guy Haley because it’s such a good book.

Last Film: It’s been so long since I’ve actually watched a movie that I don’t remember 😭 the closest one I remember is Dredd with Karl Urban.

Last Series: Shameless U.S. It’s so bad but I can’t help being ensnared by the stupid drama.

Sweet or Salty: I like salty things more, but only if they’re sour or spicy as well.

Coffee or Tea: Coffee. 100%. I need to feel the caffeine stutter my heart.

Working on: The rest of Painbearer’s play headcanon. 2 different Primarch Children parts. Fleshtaker’s Primarch headcanon’s. And part 3 of Accursed Infatuation.

Tagging: @nihlus, @tani-rani, @celestia0473, and @azures-grace!!

[adeptus-arbites-official]

Good news from the dancing arbite!

I found my nuncio aquilla!

Bad news!

My Superior Officer Erith yelled at me for 3 hours :(

(IM SORRY IF THE SKETCH IS WHACK I WAS BUSY)

Was I not clear? You are on probation and confined to quarters until further notice. Judge Erith should have been informed of this.

Judge Drogail attempted to inform me that you failed to report to her, but as I have been on the front lines of this war in Tertium, I have had little time to check my inbox.

The investigation must continue, and so will your probationary status. All of your equipment shall be seized as evidence. You are not to leave your quarters without first receiving approval directly from Judge Drogail, and even if you have approval, you shall be kept under armed guard.

We already have one reject, a liability, who has admitted to being a co-conspirator of yours, just so you know.

[wingscanspeak]

I am going to eat this entire candy cane.

[nightowlsupreme]

You’re going to get a cavity

[wingscanspeak]

good

[wingscanspeak]

30 min later, not much progress. 

[wingscanspeak]

Its been an hour. I bit my tongue, my teeth hurts and I’m almost halfway done…

[casualfanboy]

One hour and half done. That’s impressive That takes real skill and perseverance

[wingscanspeak]

an hour and a half. my grandma called and I didnt take it so i could eat this… i hate everything

[wingscanspeak]

i’d rather be eating anything but this

[wingscanspeak]

two and a half hours…. my mouth will never taste normal again

[wingscanspeak]

3 fucking hours

I’ve tasted Satans asshole and it tastes like 3 hours of mint. 

[wingscanspeak]

Please. Please don’t bring this back.

[butchercat]

‘Tis the season.

[clausy4life-deactivated20190624]

It’s November

[killjoygem]

TO BE JOLLY

[taiscerayne2426]

I’ve tasted Satan’s asshole and it tasted like 3 hours of mint

[wingscanspeak]

Y’all can’t forget this for like one year can you

[imsomeguy1]

fuck no

[sleepinginmygrave]

@hellsite-hall-of-fame

[willisiam-woodiam]

@theshitpostcalligrapher can you do satan’s asshole tasting like mint pls

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

oh my god this is one of the ANCIENT texts, i remember first seeing post like ten years ago

ink: diamine firestorm