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cdragons · 3 months

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Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Next Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #saltburn crack #saltburn au #felix catton x reader #farleigh catton #farleigh start #venetia catton #oliver quick #michael gavey #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie #michael gavey x reader

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sculptorofcrimson · 18 days

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Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love.

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again.

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half?

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood.

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die.

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished.

He loved the Emperor.

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh.

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest.

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones.

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago.

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession.

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall.

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him.

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again.

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior.

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields.

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself.

No one will protect you more than I, my liege.

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor.

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant.

No one will protect you more than I, my liege.

He will protect you.

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor.

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

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thewertsearch · 7 months

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Damn, I never noticed these parallels!

It's honestly hard to tell whether they're due to the character's Title, though. Most of these characteristics aren't really unique to the Class they're assigned to here, with one exception.

Yes, the two Knights grew up vigilant - but Vriska's childhood made her jumpy, too, and Jade was explicitly encouraged by her grandfather to be on guard. Plus, all Alternian trolls need to be ready to fight - their planet has a million ways to kill them, from highbloods to FLARPers to cullings to undead.

It's true that Rose never understood her mother, but her peers aren't any better. Dave's still half-convinced the puppet porn is ironic, and John spent his entire life believing his father was a circus clown. Evidently, there's not a lot of straightforward communication going on in any of these families.

Both Witches have a duty they've long been aware of - but so have Kanaya and Aradia. However, there might indeed be something to what you said about their Guardians.

It's hard to dispute that Jade and Feferi have the strangest custodians in their respective parties - two eldritch monsters with unclear motivations and world-ending capabilities.

I've never had much luck analyzing the Witches, but maybe I should start with their unusual familiars. Perhaps the Witch is Sburb's answer to a Druid or Ranger - a class designed to interface with the natural environment and its inhabitants.

You run your whole palace as a sort of WILDLIFE ADOPTION FACILITY, even if the wildlife's need for care is dubious at best, and the practice really just amounts to an elaborate ROLE PLAYING SCENARIO.

If you squint, it certainly seems to fit. Jade's furaffinity for nature is well-documented, and Feferi's most valuable contribution to the party is the alliance she's formed with an alien species.

The main issue is that, again, these aren't the only characters with an affinity for the natural world, so I'd need to see a lot more evidence before I'm 100% sold on this take. We'll see if it holds up, going forward.

#asks #full liveblog #act 5.2 #homestuck liveblog #theories #classpect

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redzonerandr · 2 months

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Week #10: The Imperium VS. Chaos!!!

Took a break from painting this week since I was getting kind of tired of it. While taking time off painting my wife and I played some more games of Kill Team. This time I made sure to take pictures. This was from a match earlier today. My wife is still learning the mechanics of the game so we haven't been using things like Strategems or Equipment. I've been able to play a few more games than her over last weekend at my local Warhammer store.

My wife has beat me every single time. Custodes are really hard to play against when you don't have all of your tools available to you. I also wish I had some better terrain. Being able to utilize vantage points would be nice. Since I run the Warhammer club at my school I only have the Ultimate Starter Set terrain. It works, but it's not the best for Kill Team. I'll either have to get some terrain printed or buy some of the Kill Team specific terrain in the future.

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imperialpalacearchives · 1 year

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“The three of them charged forward, taking the Iron Warriors off guard. Close assault with shields by the Adeptus Astartes in either voidship or fortress would have been conducted step by step with return of fire, as dictated by Roboute Guilliman’s great codex, only followed by a charge when the enemy line was disrupted.

They were not Space Marines.

The Custodians hit the Iron Warriors with the Emperor’s own wrath, swords wielded with practised economy. Despite the close confines of the tunnel, not once did the three Custodians collide with each other. Not once did their blades nick the tunnel wall. They fought around each other, their individual styles making a complex dance. Their armour flashed gold, their plumes streamed behind them, and the Iron Warriors died.

Genetically altered to be physically superior to all men, with thousands of years of experience and granted strength by the Ruinous Powers, the Traitor Space Marines were among the most fearsome warriors ever known.

The Adeptus Custodes were better.

Faces flashed before Achallor. Horned helms, fanged maws, angled faceplates. All fell. Armour dating from the dawn of the Imperium split at last, cleaved by Prosektis. They fired at him from point-blank range, filling the combat space with blizzards of micro shrapnel. Few bolts got past his shield. Those that did detonated on his superior armour.

They pushed through the traitors, knocking them down. Varsillian took the only serious hit, his shield pincered in half by a champion wielding a power claw. Neither Achallor nor Vychellan took a scratch. Amalth-Amat and Aswadi fired between the comrades, each shot timed perfectly to pass between their bodies and strike down their foes. Achallor brought Prosektis around to finish one of the last, but the Iron Warrior’s chestplate erupted in white sparks and fire before the blade could bite, blood spraying after as he fell down into the deepening flood on the floor...”

— A trio of Custodians face the might of the Iron Warriors. Excerpt from “The Gate of Bones” by Andy Clark.

#adeptus custodes #warhammer 40k #40k lore #40k #grimdark #wh40k #wh40k art #custodes #chaos space marines #iron warriors #black library #heretic astartes #traitor legions #adeptus astartes #space marines #custodian guard #custodian

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blackhistorystoryteller · 4 months

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Africa has been very rich even before colonialism

The truth you should know about African

Blacks know your history and divinity

They gave us the Bible and stole our natural resources

Community and Social Cohesion: Traditional African religions often emphasized communal values, fostering a sense of belonging and mutual support within the community. Rituals and ceremonies were communal events that strengthened social ties.

Respect for Nature: Many African traditional religions were deeply connected to nature, promoting a harmonious relationship with the environment. This connection often led to sustainable practices and a respect for the natural world.

Ethical Guidelines: These religions often included moral and ethical guidelines that governed interpersonal relationships. Concepts such as honesty, hospitality, and respect for elders were commonly emphasized.

Cultural Identity: Traditional African religions played a crucial role in shaping cultural identity. They provided a framework for understanding the world, explaining origins, and passing down cultural practices through rituals, myths, and oral traditions.

Islam reached Nigeria through a combination of trade, migration, and cultural interactions. The trans-Saharan trade routes were crucial in bringing Islam to the region. Muslim traders from North Africa and the Middle East ventured into West Africa, establishing economic ties and introducing Islam to local communities.

The city-states along the trade routes, such as Kano and Katsina, became significant centers for Islamic influence. Merchants not only engaged in commercial activities but also played a role in spreading Islamic teachings. Over time, rulers and elites in these city-states embraced Islam, contributing to its gradual acceptance.

Additionally, the spread of Islam in Nigeria was facilitated by the activities of Islamic scholars and missionaries. Scholars known as clerics or Mallams played a key role in teaching Islamic principles and converting people to Islam. They often established Quranic schools and engaged in educational activities that promoted the understanding of Islamic teachings.

Military conquests also played a part in the expansion of Islam in Nigeria. Islamic empires, such as the Sokoto Caliphate in the 19th century, emerged through conquest and warfare, bringing Islam to new territories. The Sokoto Caliphate, led by Usman dan Fodio, sought to establish a strict Islamic state based on Sharia law.

Overall, the spread of Islam in Nigeria was a gradual process influenced by trade networks, migration, the activities of scholars, and, at times, military expansion. The interplay of these factors contributed to the integration of Islam into Nigerian society, shaping its cultural and religious landscape.

In the vast tapestry of Africa's rich cultural heritage, herbal traditional healing stands out as a profound and time-honored practice. African herbal traditional healers, often known as traditional or indigenous healers, play a vital role in the healthcare systems of many communities across the continent. Their practices are deeply rooted in the natural world, drawing on centuries-old wisdom and an intimate understanding of local flora.

African herbal traditional healers are custodians of ancient knowledge, passing down their expertise through generations. They serve as primary healthcare providers in many communities, addressing a wide range of physical, mental, and spiritual ailments. The healing process involves a holistic approach, considering the interconnectedness of the individual with their community and environment.

One of the hallmark features of African herbal traditional healers is their profound knowledge of medicinal plants. These healers have an intricate understanding of the properties, uses, and combinations of various herbs. Passed down through oral traditions, this knowledge is often a well-guarded family secret or shared within the apprentice-master relationship.

The methods employed by herbal traditional healers encompass diverse approaches. Herbal remedies, administered as infusions, decoctions, or ointments, form a significant part of their treatment. These remedies are carefully crafted based on the healer's understanding of the patient's symptoms, lifestyle, and spiritual condition. Additionally, rituals, ceremonies, and prayers are often incorporated into the healing process, acknowledging the interconnectedness of physical and spiritual well-being.

African herbal traditional healers frequently integrate spiritual elements into their practice. They believe that illness can be a manifestation of spiritual imbalances or disharmony. Through rituals and consultations with ancestors or spirits, healers seek to restore balance and harmony within the individual and the community.

Herbal traditional healers are integral to the social fabric of their communities. They often serve not only as healers but also as counselors, mediators, and keepers of cultural traditions. Their practices are deeply intertwined with community life, contributing to the resilience and cohesion of African societies.

While herbal traditional healing holds immense value, it faces challenges in the modern era. The encroachment of Western medicine, issues related to regulation and standardization, and the potential exploitation of traditional knowledge pose threats to this practice. However, there is also a growing recognition of the importance of integrating traditional healing into mainstream healthcare systems, leading to collaborative efforts to preserve and promote this valuable heritage.

African herbal traditional healers are bearers of an ancient legacy, embodying a profound connection between humanity and the natural world. Their healing practices, rooted in herbal wisdom and spiritual insights, offer a unique perspective on healthcare that complements modern medical approaches. Preserving and respecting the knowledge of these healers is not only crucial for the well-being of local communities but also for the broader appreciation of the diverse cultural tapestry that defines Africa.

#life #animals #culture #aesthetic #black history #history #blm blacklivesmatter #anime and manga #architecture #black community

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lulublack90 · 9 hours

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Prompt 29 - Bodyguard AU

@wolfstarmicrofic April 29, word count 490

James had been Sirius’s bodyguard for years. They’d long ago turned from guard and principal to friends. Sirius didn’t take risks without telling James and James was a bit more relaxed about the strict rules he’d been given by the custodians of the House of Black. They had to hide their friendship, of course, if any of those old bats were around, but all in all, Sirius had quite a pleasant life.

Out of the blue, his brother, Regulus, requested James’s services on a trip to Paris. Sirius had argued but, in the end, relented when his old friend asked him for permission as it was an extended trip and he’d feel better knowing Regulus had someone competent with him and not like the last one who’d gotten distracted by a beauty in a red dress and lost sight of Regulus.

“I’ve got an old buddy from my unit who’s said he can cover me here.” James had told him once he’d agreed. Sirius didn't see any problem with this as James had never steered him wrong.

He appraised the lanky man before him.

“Is this some sort of joke? How exactly are you meant to protect me?” He scoffed when Remus had entered the lounge area on his first day.

Quick as the wind, Remus was behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and throat, pinning him against his chest, a small blade pressed into his throat. He let Sirius go almost as quickly as he’d captured him. The furious wildness that roared from his face and eyes nearly made Sirius swoon. He gasped as he realised he’d stopped breathing.

He was so much stronger than he looked. That hideous knitted jumper hid wiry muscles. Muscles grown from use and not just for vanity.

Remus straitened from his broad stance and left without a word. Sirius tried to chase after him to apologise. He opened the door and ran face-first into Remus’s back. He’d already stationed himself in front of the door. Sirius bounced off him and landed on the soft carpet, dazed.

He had to blink a few times to clear his head and when he did, the sight that beheld him nearly sent him back into that stupor. Remus was towering over him, a look of concern on his face.

“Are you alright?” Remus asked, grasping Sirius by the arms and hauling him to his feet. Sirius stumbled slightly and braced his hands against Remus’s chest. He swallowed hard as his eyes met Remus’s honey-coloured ones. Remus blinked a few times, his breath hitching once before he carefully extracted himself from Sirius and returned to his post.

This was going to be a hard two months if their first meeting had Sirius ready to jump him. He went and took a very long, very cold shower, trying his hardest to ignore the images of those molten honey eyes staring into his soul, flickering through his mind.

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kit-williams · 24 days

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The Golden Palace of the Dead

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog @thevoidscreams @barn-anon & @sculptorofcrimson

sooo this idea comes from a homebrew culture my husband and I made and they do ancestor worship. I thought it would fit nicely for the brain worms sculptor has given me

The Custodian Pyrrhus was experiencing heartbreak. The white cloth looked so small in his arms as he went into the depth of the palace to prepare her for her resting place. He was there for the final breath that slipped between her lips as her heart gave out one final time. Some of his brothers were greedy with their time with their obsessions but Pyrrhus knew that you can only prolonged the human body for so long.

Aristotle looked up at him as Pyrrhus made his way down... at least he would have company as he prepared the gruesome task of preparing her body. Cold and lifeless he could not stop himself from leaving a final kiss upon her forehead. His eyes grew cold as he began the delicate task of removing flesh and muscle from bone...leaving the pink bones upon a table and a container full of gore to be buried under one of the few trees in the gardens of the imperial palace.

He could still see her face like a ghostly impression around that skull of hers. Aristotle was getting the gold and resin ready for her arrangement. Metal in the shape of parchment with her name engraved upon it was placed upon a table along with a few other items Pyrrhus had requested. A macabre art piece.

"Do you know where you're going to put her?" Aristotle asked.

"Room 67sc near garden 7. Right at the angle that she loved to look down into the gardens at."

Aristotle just rumbled in agreement as one of his own, Sarah, was on the opposite wall of where Pyrrhus' recently deceased would go. He watched as the bones were cleaned... they talked as they dried as and as Pyrrhus began to set her bones lovingly in place he was silent. It was an honor for these thousands of mortals would receive to be remembered... to be preserved... to rest in the same great Mausoleum as their beloved Emperor.

Pyrrhus placed a final funerary kiss upon the skull before that golden resin slowly filled the mold that her bones and trinkets placed with her got covered. He stayed there guarding her once more an unmoving guardian... to protect her as the resin was cured and by hand he shaped it and polished it to its final form.

Pyrrhus walked with Aristotle to the room as he hung it up his eyes looking over the piece as it melded in with the rest of the minor directions on the walls and other details allows her to become one with the rest of this palace of death.

"Thank you Aristotle." Pyrrhus says softly taking a step back from where she hangs as those tiny pink flowers she liked would be blooming soon.

The two demi gods left as another body was added to the palace of bones. Tended to lovingly by its caretakers.

#warhammer 40k #yandere space marine #yandere adeptus custodes #yandere custodes #adeptus custodes #tw: death #funeral services #bones being displayed

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minweber · 6 days

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Musings on Custodes: Aging and Generational Divide

How many living custodians who remember the Emperor in the flesh are there? The precise answer doesn't matter quite as much as the existence of the question.

Custodians got their shit rocked pretty hard during the War Within the Webway at the end of the Horus Heresy. As traditional for warhammer there is some numbers fuckery going on: it is unclear how many custodians there even was initially, the famous monicker of "The Ten Thousand" possibly being intentionally misleading, and there is no precise information about how many of them were committed to the Webway, and therefore what percentage of the total number did their losses there make, and what then were their losses during the Siege of Terra... But once again, the specifics aren't that important here. What's important is the idea that after the dust had settled, Horus lay slain and the Emperor entombed - Custodes stood as a pale shadow of their former might, their numbers seemingly reduced to a fraction of the original.

What became of these veterans then? It is presumed that by the 42nd millennium Custodes numbers were generally replenished (just in time to get their teeth massively kicked in at the Battle of the Lion's Gate) - though we also don't know to what extent. Do those few-hundreds-to-a-thousand original Custodians still stand among them? Custodians supposedly don't age, and no upper limit to their natural lifespans is known, but there is the whole The Eyes of the Emperor retirement plan for them. Custodians who have, after aeons of service, their reflexes slow down even by a ridiculous degree of a millisecond, supposedly lay down their armor and go out into the galaxy to play spies. So time does affect them? Or is it something else that eventually slows down their bodies? Just how universal is this process for them? Because surely if it's caused by passage of time and at least one of them has gone this road over the last ten thousand years, then most, if not all, of the old guard must either have done so too or be on their way out?

Whatever the answer, the implications for Adeptus Custodes dynamics as a group and organization are fascinating. Because what does it even mean to become a Custodian after the Emperor's "death"? The shame of the failure you never partook in? The hole where the maypole of your entire identity should be? The expectation of being one of humanity's last links to some glorious past which was over thousands of years before you were even born? The Emperor sought counsel of his custodians from time to time, and supposedly made them specifically so that they would be able to give it - do the "young ones" feel the pull of this duty they can never fulfill?

And there are different potential flavors of delicious tragedy here.

If there are none or next to none original guardians left, then it kinda uproots the whole image of Adeptus Custodes, doesn’t it? The mysterious golden demigods are just as lost as anyone else. They may be thousands of years old, but none of them were there. None of them spoke to him, none of them bear any sacral foundational truths of humanity, or even of just the Imperium. All of their deeds and even they themselves are a desperate attempt to recapture something lost, not a defiant effort to carry something forward.

And if the old guard remains as a sizeable minority, then there must be an unseen divide between them and the new generations, right? With the Emperor being so integral to their identity and purpose, surely there was something important that they gained from interacting with him? Can they now pass this something down? Is it even physically possible? Can you truly be a custodian without it? Imagine looking at the new generation of, essentially, your people and realizing that there is a critical piece of your group's identity that they, through no fault of their own, will always be missing. That something important has been irrevocably lost, and they will never even truly now that it had been there? That's chilling stuff. Any real-world analogies for it that I can think of feel like they would be in poor taste to bring up in a rant about warhammer lore. Do they - consciously or not - hold it against them? Do they separate themselves physically and organizationally? Can one who has never seen the living light of the Emperor lead those who have? Are there enough heroic deeds in the galaxy to make up for not being there in time?

The theme of degradation and things being lost to the passage of time is very prominent in warhammer lore. In 40k, the small cadre of characters who physically bridge the divide between 31st and 42nd millennium have always been awarded with a certain aura of awe, but Custodes get to enjoy this situation from the position of someone for whom time itself should never have been a problem. It doesn't really matter how many of the "original" custodians are left - what will forever hang above them is that there even are the "original" ones.

#musings on custodes #adeptus custodes #warhammer 40000

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