#and now…

[nullmaidens]

WIP: drink your fill

18+ || ezekyle abaddon x reader || step-mother/son fauxcest. pre-heresy, set-up to adultery, guilty masturbation (kinda), pregnancy as body horror.

THIS IS A WIP!! the final product will have explicit content and abaddon with lactophilia. please bear this in mind!!

he’s a boob guy who wants to be his mother’s favourite just as much as he wants to be his father’s, and i can see him getting rather jealous of a new arrival that takes up too much of her time for his liking.

Hell exists, and the Imperial Truth should be damned to it. Hell exists, and Ezekyle knows, because he’s been enduring it for months.

It comes to the Vengeful Spirit after a long gestation, growing in a dark, dank place, left alone too long to get rid of. It buries its way inside, making itself a home out of nothing, siphoning their hard-won supplies without permission and, to add insult to injury, without reproach. They’d reinforced the ship against it — a new door here, an insulated wall there, increasingly strict safety protocols, and locks. More locks than he had ever seen, one on every compartment, every cupboard, even in the most distant recesses of the menial decks, as if the Warmaster was expecting a break-in.

What he was really readying them for, however, was the breakout.

The Legion Mother had screamed for hours, and he thought could hear it clearly despite your being in the infirmary and himself being locked away in the training cages. It was haunting, and Ezekyle wanted nothing to do with it. He could almost feel the heavy thuds of the Warmaster’s footsteps pacing up and down the corridor outside the room you’d been placed in, nearly hear Tarik’s lighthearted voice try to comfort him, or Luc’s stern assertions try to ease his mind. She’ll be fine, he’d say, she is strong. It’s why you chose her, and it’s why we love her.

The cages were empty when he arrived, everyone else preoccupied, duties cut short and shifts left unfinished when the news had broken that you had finally gone under the knife. His knuckles are bloody from being beaten against battle servitors, six— no, seven— of them in pieces at his feet. Huge, hulking, once-human things torn apart, split at the seams, their bodies broken almost beyond repair, and while he knew the Martians would fix them, they’d never quite operate the same. That thought stung. Your body, too, had changed, under occupation. You became gaunt, stretched out, both thin and bulging, the mortal human body utterly weak and incapable of handling the burden of such a parasite.

You’d wasted away in front of them and they had done nothing. The nausea that left you starving almost to the point of emaciation was blamed on warp sickness, initially, but the Luna Wolves weren’t stupid enough to be so easily deceived. The preternatural beauty and fullness that came in the weeks that followed was merely a reflection in him of the Warmaster’s love for you, one that disguised the way your skin warped around the growth. To his great shame, Ezekyle took himself in hand for the first time in decades when you looked like that. You even smelled different, lingering in the air around him for hours after you’d retired to his father’s chambers, the sickly sweet scent of you clinging to him even beneath a blisteringly hot shower. The water scalded his back as he’d stood hunched over, braced against the tiled wall in front of him, and he cursed when he thought of how much more lustrous your hair had become, and how your clothes had started to stretch across your belly, and how the already perfect swell of your chest was—

He made himself spend another fifteen minutes scrubbing his guilt from where it dripped down the grouting.

When the more slender parts of your body grew gaunt again, when you were tired, and slow, and it seemed that he alone could see it in your eyes that you were putting on a brave face for them, Ezekyle had gone to your bedside and asked you why you had wasted so much time in waiting to take it out.

“I don’t know,” was your answer, and you had squeezed his hand. He saw red just thinking about the way the oximeter dug into your finger, the plastic cold against his skin, and the dullness in your eyes, once so full of life. He punched the servitor in front of him hard, its inner and outer machinations stuttering at the impact before whirring back to life. “It will happen when it happens. The chirurgeons and the apothecaries know what they are doing.” You’d brought his hand up to your lips, then. They were cracked and dry, devoid of their usual softness, but they had still been so gentle against his knuckle when you tried to comfort him.

When an illness takes root, it ought to be cured. When a tumour grows, removed. The surgery should fix you. It would make you better, and happier, and things would be just as they were before. Now again, harder, that same fist pummelled into its gut until he felt bone break, lubricants spilling onto the mat, each strike a wish that the ache would dull and fade into the oblivion from whence it came. This was a momentous occasion, one he’d regret missing, but the thought of smelling the stench of your blood from the other side of a closed door was nauseating. He should be there, with his brothers. With his father who he knows needs him now possibly more than ever, to share in his strife and his delight.

And yet, after a painstakingly long half-cycle spent drenched in sweat, Ezekyle punches straight through the servitor’s skull and bellows in frustration when roars of joy fill every deck of the ship. Lady Lupercal is alive. The Warmaster has another son.

“Must he parade it around?” he asked under his breath as the Mournival stood by, watching from a stage as the Primarch showed the swaddled cloth in his arms to each company, one at a time. It was a miracle it hadn’t started that insufferable wailing again at the sound of ceramite sabatons thumping against plasteel flooring, each and every Luna Wolf in his immaculately cleaned armour, and only Horus going without. He was determined to maintain skin to skin contact with the thing they’d torn from the Legion Mother, as if that would make all the difference, and have it recognise him as its father all the quicker. Ezekyle bristled at the thought, though it wasn’t a new one. In the days since the arrival, the Warmaster had doted on it, and something dark and strange and sad had coiled up in his heart whenever he saw the way he held it close to his chest.

The Legion Mother had barely been able to walk when the men were called up to the debarkation deck, and he’d played the role of the dutiful, anxious son in the absence of any other volunteers. You clung to his arm, shivering from the effort of standing, but you smiled anyway. It was pained, and it was like only he could tell. “He is your father’s pride,” you whispered back, your eyes fixed not on your husband, but on the bundle in his care. “He thinks it’ll be good for all of you to know him, and I agree. He’s just another brother to care for, Ezekyle. Smaller, perhaps, than what you’re used to,” a weak laugh rattled through you, and he could almost feel the way your fingers tightened around the thick plate of his gauntlet, “but a brother all the same.”

thank u for making it this far <3 hopefully i ACTUALLY FINISH THIS

divider by @strangergraphics !!

[suggers-got-dingled]

Mood

[bookwyrminspiration]

can you believe just last week they didn’t even know each other? half of them didn’t even believe in vampires yet

[spiceberrie]

i fear i’m getting a little too emotional over the edmonton oilers which is just not the vibe. i was banking on nonchalance and a devil may care attitude but i am a bit chalant rn…

[probablygayattorneys]

I was going to make a comment about how that’s another in the books but then I realized… it’s not a just another in the books. It’s the final chapter. I read the last page. I’ve now played every single canon Layton game including his children’s spin-off, watched the movie, watched Kat’s anime… the book is over.

Her and I both need to find something new.

[misc-magic]

I think… I might… finally… be able to buy… a piano…

A real one. Not a keyboard. Not a digital.

The universe conspired to bestow unexpected funds upon me.

And now a used upright is within my sights.

I have to wait a little longer. Like a couple months. Then I’m making the trip into the big city to check out a used piano store.

I am trying to contain my feelings about it. Don’t want to get my hopes up yet.

It’s just been over 10 years since I’ve had a real piano. And I miss it so much it’s almost painful. I get by on my used $100 bought off Facebook keyboard that doesn’t even have all 88 keys. But yeah it’s not the same.

This is what I get for having such an expensive hobby I guess. Like I bought a brand new ukulele and a brand new guitar each for a couple hundred bucks. And yeah they’re not top of the line but they’re new.

Decent used pianos are thousands of dollars.

New pianos are tens of thousands.

And then there’s the cost of having it moved.

You can’t send that motherfucker through FedEx.

Just the cost of moving a piano is like three times what I paid for my guitar. And that’s if it’s nearby.

Anyway I just needed to get this out of my system so I can focus on work again. I’ve been waiting 10 years what’s a couple more months right??

[nintengoat]

Don't say that you've got blue balls it makes me want to tease you - 🐝

It’s true tho!! Even worse is that I’m at work 😭

[abby420]

love being an older sister sometimes bc like i get to be like omg i am going to fill your lives with so much joy and great memories

[livingasaghost]

i know it’s not that bad but genuinely i have felt the most intense anxiety for like four days and it makes me wanna puke and cry and hide and i literally cannot resolve it until possibly tomorrow and even then i’m not confident i will resolve it! i just feel anxious!

[flob0t]

well that’s extremely upsetting. it really sucks but it happens all the time.

[bougiebutchbinch]

ranking the best things I have heard surgeons say mid-surgery:

1. "Five second rule!" while scrubbed, after dropping a sterile scalpel on the floor (no they did NOT pick it up again but I swear everyone's buttholes puckered)

2. (spoken during the closing of a particularly long and difficult case) "Nurse - my tunes." :heavy metal starts blasting:

3. Gently to a fretful patient, pre-anaesthesia: "It's going to be okay. I promise, I've dealt with worse." As soon as the patient is unconscious: "This is literally the worst thing I've ever seen."

4. [okay this one was a med student] "Wowwww, that's so gross!!" Reg: "Please remember that [patient] is awake for this procedure." Student to patient: "Oh my god. I am so sorry, that was really unprofessional - " Patient, cheerfully, also engrossed with what's happening inside them on the screen: "Nah - it's, like, super gross, right?"

5. [another procedure where the patient couldn't be put under GA] Patient: *starts singing country roads midway through the procedure* Surgeon: *shrugs and joins in with surprisingly good harmony*

[penumbraphantasm]

ordering a pup cup for my chikorita in lumiose

[beaft]

platonic third base: when you get to know someone well enough that they start making mortifyingly specific observations about you

[nightmare-from-heaven]

Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.

If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.

Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.

That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.

Give your brain a Daily Dose Of De-Frag.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

Forget about torturing your blorbos, putting them through the wringer. I'm putting my blorbo in perfectly ordinary, pleasant situations. Their tortured personality will cause them anguish anyway, making an absolutely mundane scene into the most dramatic, agony filled affair as though the world is ending and it's all their fault