Lucius belongs to Games Workshop. My portrayal is mostly faithful to canon with some self-indulgent revisions & additions, effectively an OC in non-40k verses.
Art and writing posted / used belong solely to me (with exception of current icon; a Games Workshop transfer I edited) and have not involved any use of AI. I do not consent to the redistribution of my work in any part for any reason.
I'd like to know if there's a best way for me to approach each of you, so that we can have a more enjoyable time writing together. I've known a couple of you for years, but times and tastes change.
This is also an opening for you to come to me directly and tell me if you prefer long-term threads over short-term ones, longer or shorter posts overall, and if there's anything that would make writing with me more engaging.
Thanks!
This will be reblogged through my queue a few times over the coming days to try and catch everyone, if it gets annoying blacklist #ruckpoll.
The more I explore neurosis the more I become aware that it is a modern form of romanticism. It stems from the same source, a hunger for perfection, an obsession with living out what one has imagined, and if it is found to be illusory, a rejection of reality, the power to imagine and not to sustain one's endurance, and then the creative force turned into destruction. Many of the romantics destroyed themselves because they could not attain the absolute, in love or creation. They could not attain it because it was invented. It was a myth. The neurotic acts in the same way. He sets himself impossible goals, imaginary goals. He will win the respect and admiration of a parent who is not even alive any more (appealing to his substitutes). He will gain the love of the world by giving the world something it may not want. He will seek union with opposites, perverse contrary relationships with those who turn away. He will seek to conquer the unconquerable.
There had been a time when it was exciting to have a vast legion of soldiers both mirroring his ravishing looks and cunning wit. Anymore it was a tired artifact from a bygone age; an old, tired joke. When Lucius spins the plate between them back towards his gene-sire, sweet poison laced within the poriferous meat, Fulgrim remains astute — smiling, but no less unenthused.
" You answered your own question, " said the Phoenician, drawn out in a waning sigh, exhaling out what humor remained in his voice," if I had known you any less, you'd be wiser to question the danged illusion set before you. "
Chattering chains echo in the distance as graveled rumbling crescendos between them; a body shifting && twisting as it adjusts over the marbled plinth. Candle flame sputter and flick erratically at their lordship's discomfort until the bellows of these cavernous depths hollow out into tinny resonations on the far side of Lucius.
Hands, weathered by war and time, dare near perfection. Course skin mired by unimaginable feats and christened by the bloodshed of aimless war caress over iridescent scales cornering the sharp contours of the Prince's fair face. He allows it, only for the passing moment. " You have already signed over your chance for victory to your foes by naming them ' worthy', dear Eternal, " one voice said while another laughed rampageously," how do you have any hope of glimpsing your rightful throne if you linger over every skull you step on? "
Fulgrim's laugh doubles with the chorus of his layered voice, yet his face did not move from the restful smile it wore. One could almost call it a proud look, if there were anything to be proud about. To the Phoenician's standards, that is.
Long ivory fangs click over each other, tongue darting between with a rattling hiss. Amusement twists the Prince's features into a loathsome smirk, as if he withheld a jealously guarded secret ( an answer to the abiding riddle ) while the Eternal stabs at every wrong answer on his way to the correct conclusion.
" Is it the Gods in which you cast your ire, dear scion? Or; is it yourself that is causing you grief? " he asked amidst the laughter and the dramatic sighing sobs of another," do you not meet your own standards? Of all you have done, was it for naught? What great mystery it is to know where to cast the blame, hm. "
No part of Lucius is willing to entertain the notion that he himself is the problem. He bears a gift that was unasked for, one that keeps him starved of what he truly desires and nullifies the fruit of unending gratification it should have bore. But what gets under his skin is the way his father dismisses his heart, for surely he must know it. This has never been hidden away.
His hands are at his sides again, nails digging into his palms. Ghostly echoes are thrown about him throughout the words spoken, reflecting the theatrical dance of Fulgrim's emotions and madness throughout time. They violate his captive souls, churning all their immaterial noise together into discordant music. Suddenly, he feels a rush of light-headed euphoria. Seethe turns to simmer, and the Eternal breathes deep.
"Well, was it? Is that what you're telling me? That I should cast my one true love aside? I have honed my skills with the blade since I could hold one. There is nothing I crave more than the game, I cannot lose and remain lost."
Her voice lifts and lilts, sweetly approximating the melody of humor. Her strange companion and his strange ways are, if naught else, a testament to the human nature, its twisting turns in the dark. They grew out of sight and away from the light, so they grew into shameless shivering creatures that take a breath and then fall away. Lucius, despite all ambition, is still on the inhale.
Miriam extends her fingers to caress a spiderleg-petaled flower that glows at her from the strangling vines. "I've known many corpses that have had much of an opinion on the matter of their resting place. In such times we ought not disregard their sensibilities."
The cleric smoothes down her veil, her unvain pale robes. She studies the moss-laden root that gnarls upward and blocks their path as decidedly as a tree trunk would.
"Do you believe we are so unequal in life, Lucius? Are you my better?" She asks as she opens her palm to him, the quiet signal that he ought assist her in overcoming this hurdle for propriety's sake.
The knight's eyes slide towards her, unimpressed with the curt dismissal. But it is half-hearted. He allows her amusement, proceeding to explain, "It is important that I mark all I touch and tread. I will know, even should the path not, as all things unconscious won't."
Her hand is taken into his own, firm but not unkind, and he steps up onto the exposed guts of the garden. There are more ahead, knotting and weaving together in a display of natural chaos that makes him wonder if their appetite for light has triumphed any need for moisture. It is an uneasy thought.
An arm quickly hooks under one of Miriam's before she has the chance to protest, and he hauls her up onto the sturdy arch with him.
"All life is equal." Lucius says, simply. He places her down beside him, then peers over the veritable obstacle course laid out before them to ascertain a comfortable route. "In that it exists, therefore it is. Everything has the capacity to create and destroy, but to do that in equal measure is... improbable."
A smile adorns his lips as he looks down at her.
"I am better. But only in all the ways that you are not, and I suspect that your lust for violence pales in comparison to mine."
The stink of the Warp permeated the entire ship. Despite what many would assume of Malphas' nature, he was not of the realm that the daemons of this place were. Gellar fields were not an issue for him though loyalties were a different matter. He could feel the influence of various deities all vying for control in just about every aspect of this place- one bright and noble, several much less so. He didn't judge how gods preferred to conduct themselves. He had his own ways after all- the correct ones as far as he was concerned.
But these Chaos adjacent warbands were always so eager to do business. How could he not encroach on these various gods' territory? Besides this wasn't their realm either so they couldn't exactly complain.
"If?" he said as if amused by the thought. "I am always open to further dealings."
Souls were a tricky matter. But when they were so freely wrenched from their owners and unspoken for as they were in this realm it was a trifle for somebody of Malphas' capabilities. Not that he would fully reveal something like that. "If you believe yourself able to make an offer worthy of a second soul then I am sure we can come to some sort of arrangement."
Malphas loomed over the Chaos Marine. "Just what exactly is it you would like to be done with this soul?"
Lucius quickly stilled his innate drive to prove any sort of worth to Malphas, feeling it rise through him like a possessing entity. It should have been obvious to anyone that knew of him that he was a formidable ally as well as an opponent, but competing with extradimensional beings, and those that ancient Terra would have named fiend or fae, was either an exercise in futility or infuriation. Being who he was, that had begun to sound more and more like a challenge.
And what wouldn't he sacrifice for this, that which Slaanesh dangled in front of him for time unknowable? There would either be change influenced by his own actions, or there would be none.
He jabbed a finger at his breastplate like a dagger, causing the roiling masks to squirm even more in objection.
"A return to physicality, in which it is obliterated by my hand in a final duel. Lex talionis, to reassert myself." Disgust crept over the Eternal's features, tongue aching to let this bad blood. But it did not, held by the knowledge that he was already handing Malphas a certain level of power through this exchange as it already stood. "One less scream in my head when all is said and done. If you can manage that."
it is a hulking beast that tumbles towards them. one of grotesque proportions and a radiating malice. its protruding body is covered in cuirass which generously extended downwards to offer protection to its precariously dangling bits. had this been any other mark upon the surface, well outside the range of the prison and its maddening effects, gawain would have given the appendage little more than a disgusted glance. the sight of it now however seems to chill his blood in a way that is foreign to him.
of all the gruesome scenes the hunter had previously been beholden to, he had never faltered in his duties. & yet now, as the hulking figure comes barreling, gawain felt a panic blossom in his the pit of his stomach. it isn't enough to take hold of him, to grow roots and ground him where he stands - but it is disconcerting all the same. the brute swung first at lucius and the man answers with a swing of his own. morning star barely misses its mark as scavenged blade scrapes against armor. the sounds seem to break gawain of his momentary stupor and the hunter swaps lantern for whip.
he's quick on his feet and gives the beast little quarter. the tip of his whip may not hold the same exacting cuts as a blade, but it slices all the same. a consecrated weapon, as was the clairmont way; it's string brought with it the wrath of preserved knowledge built upon centuries of monster slaying. soon, gawain has knocked the morning star from the creature's heavy hand. it makes due with the sword in the other, but gawain is keen on unarming that as well. while he chips away at the beast from afar, he leaves ample room for lucius to contend with it up close; working in tandem with the pariah.
An ear-piercing, clanking tumble announces the defeat of just one weapon. Lucius is encouraged by it nonetheless and braces himself before springing back into the guard, clashing its blade with his own.
While his skill is still irrefutably expert, the sheer strength of abhuman muscle to contend with here is maddening. The swords lock momentarily at the crossguards, straining with twitching movements between them. As he wrestles to free himself, teeth gritting together, he clocks an incoming fist just in time. The threat of his skull being caved in floods his body with even more adrenaline and sets the world into a sharp focus.
Lucius ducks, swivels to follow the guard's trajectory, and rises with his sword gouging upwards into the hideous thing's armpit and through its shoulder. A deep, guttural howl is unleashed in response as the blade twists and then withdraws in a single clean stroke that paints the floor. While blood begins to pump plentifully down its side, the beast's rage fuels it. It lunges for him now, with a lucid ferocity that begins to weave feelings of uncertainty up Lucius' spine.
He glances towards Gawain, gaze wide and wild, and is but a second too late to evade the slash that comes next -- it tears his skin open in a streak from collar to hip. He snarls as pain courses along the bloody river, but instead of stepping out of harm's way he aims for the guard's exposed gut and plunges into it. As soon as his blade sinks into flesh, it is no longer a swordfight. Or any fight at all. It becomes a rabid man stabbing, over and over, to mutilate a long-needed piece of butcher's meat. The thing swings its hand down even as its sanguine sprays the assailant, to either grab or knock him aside, but this time Lucius is wholly seduced by destruction.
Люций для челленджа! Решила нарисовать Люция в ранние годы, что то вроде сцены перед предстоящим боем, мандраж и ожидание!
Lucius the Eternal for the challenge! I decided to draw Lucius in his early years, kind of like a scene before an upcoming fight, all the nerves and anticipation!
( Remaster of a short fic from around 2023, featuring: graphic depictions of unsafe & insane sex, blood & bodily harm, power imbalance. Vispyrtilo and Lucius. )
What is lost, what is still had, and what might yet become of it. An erotic and moody meditation.
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There was nary a sound on the deck, save for the deep humming of the Diadem's contemplative systems. By his ears, the flesh-feathers of Vispyrtilo's cloak rustled with the minute sway of his body. He hung over the narrow utility corridor, nestled within himself. Alone. For an unknowable length of time, the last of the Eagle Kings -- and the last of the Rypax -- had withdrawn to hibernation. Were it that Vispyrtilo could speak for the dagger of ice that had sunk into his core, he would have said that only half a victory was had by the warband. The Faultless, as Lucius named them now. Was it enough to return them to Slaanesh's wanton graces?
Even the consideration of this had raised bile; to deny his master's success was at best a challenge and at worst an insult. Better that he isolated himself from such thoughts and from those they concerned.
In the darkness of the secluded corridor, the Raptor's enhanced senses made him the perfect predator. Every breath and pump of valves, chink of pipes deep within the age-old strike cruiser from its heart to its superstructure, was known to Vispyrtilo. His mind was roused from halfsleep when a pattern of metallic thunks diverted from the rest, growing steadily louder. What else prowled these passageways? The mutants did not venture this far up from their ongoing squabbles unless they were called to arms. His head tilted, trying to follow the sound.
Those were not the impatient hooves of resident lesser daemons stomping around in search of a fight. They were deliberate, calculated and sure. The sound of a leisurely stroll, or the closest approximation of one -- the concept alone felt alien to Vispyrtilo, whose taloned boots only paved the way for sport in the form of violence. Other pleasures woven of sound and vibrance appealed to him. These things could not be attained by merely wandering in the dark. He listened closer still, a low hiss issuing from between his teeth to warn the presence of his own.
He was alone. His packmates were long gone. This was a trial he had to complete to embrace his newfound solitude lest he dressed himself in cowardice, ripe for culling.
The hiss came with additional force when his colourless eyes, shot with blood and mania, locked onto the figure at the far end of the passage, filling the opening with its immensity. Only did it cease with the snap of his jaw when it stepped closer, allowing him the Eternal One's image in all his warped majesty. Vispyrtilo berated himself for these glacial feelings so determined to pass through him, but they would not so easily be shifted when his pack had all but blinked out of reality before his very eyes. He had to ponder their fate. Had they been reduced to nothing and transmogrified into the howling aurora of the Immaterium? Had some primordial daemon devoured their bodies first, sending their souls straight to Slaanesh's bosom? Whatever the case, it had not been a fair death. They had all been thieved in this affair and he loathed it.
The Eternal's hooves scraped and clunked slower in his approach, until finally he stood not an arm's length away. His expression was neutral save for the common twitching, his lip tugging back as though to bare his teeth at some unseen farce.
"Is this where you've been, hm?" Lucius broke the silence gently, eyes peering into those of the Raptor. He had the voice of a warm, melted confection, that he knew well could so viciously be revealed as poisoned.
His master's expression was even, relaxing the crosshatch scars that traversed his features. In the low light, he resembled a desecrated statue of marble. It was a likeness they shared, though one borne of devotion to self and the other devotion to master.
Vispyrtilo's face was an uneven mottled mask, set with drips of platinum that impeded the features of his face and had split at their edges into stretched lesions like porcelain cracked. His hair, bedraggled and silver, ghosted against the grating of the floor. To Lucius, he was a work of fine art, and the warlord never did hide his luxuriously wandering gaze, which drank every inch of him in yet always returned for more of the sight. The shape of him, and its permanent violations.
A low, hoarse noise parted Vispyrtilo's lips. He did so wish to speak properly with the warlord. His voice, thoroughly abused as a weapon, was no longer fit for such purposes. It served far better functions. Yet still he wanted, for perhaps simplicity itself was so rare that it had been made precious in their time married to extremity. Perhaps.
"Yes, master. Away."
Lucius, also, yearned to hear its sound before corrosion again. The Eternal had made this known to him in the softest suggestions, bordering on the conspiratorial, and Vispyrtilo did not quite know what to make of them. He knew that they stirred something ancient in him, and that it fertilised the shrivelled pulp of his depths. He felt the same thing now, as those eyes of emerald held onto him in their privacy. They made him think of how his veins sang to be in his service, to be of near equal footing with a champion of Slaanesh. The bloodbaths they had shared in, divine sensations in all manners, the excess of course, the splendour of their carnage. And not once had he faced the distaste of his lord, for to Lucius he must have been truly worthy of their new title. Faultless. He had to continue to be as faultless as his lord. Hiding himself away like this was… well, it became neither of them, and it was tantamount to insult.
Trial be damned, for he revered Lucius as an aspect of the Youngest God himself. Vispyrtilo flinched from shame, reflecting on the thinking that had led him here, struggling still to break free of those feelings. They had swept him away from his master and had him restrained by unseen force in this dismal network of passages. The Rypax had been his own responsibility, and the loss was entirely his own blame to bear. They should never have been caught unawares, and he should not be licking his wounds in the dark like a whelp.
He could not meet the Eternal's gaze. Though no wrath came. Only silk carried Lucius' words and manner.
This new flavour of tension that grasped those sharp features was a curious sight for Lucius to behold.
"You will look at me, Vispyrtilo."
And he did, with a hesitance that appeared painful to overcome.
Clawed gauntlets reached for the Raptor's face, bringing fingers to ghost along his cheekbones and the tips to scrape along his scar tissue. The contact alone did not suffice to earn a reaction, with nerve endings so worn as to receive only the most acute pain. It was the closeness of the Eternal that did, his heady presence beginning to engulf the passageway as the view of it was occluded behind him. The way he spoke now with teeth and tongue but a fine hair's breadth from his skin.
"You know where you belong. Do not dishonour yourself in this way." It was as Lucius pressed his chiselled lips to the pallid throat of his beloved Raptor that he felt Vispyrtilo's breath catch and his body still for a moment, only twitching as his lord continued. "Return to me. You are perfect. I will show you."
To the Raptor's keen ears, it sounded as though Lucius was trying to convince himself of his own words more than anyone else. But who was he to reject the sensual succour of the Eternal?
He shivered from the attention, and then his lord brushed on by and continued through the corridor to return to less dour surroundings, leaving Vispyrtilo to consider new and intriguing glimmers of possibility.
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Broken sighs and tearful whispers of bliss echoed around him, and against the drone of his captive souls it served as the mildest distraction. So loud were they in his dormant state that Lucius often fantasised of endless indulgences if only to cease their wailing just for the moment. Most of the time it was a persistent white noise he had grown accustomed to. They had their moments of protest, which would become worse in his restlessness yet had lessened in the past few months since his return from Commorragh. He felt suspicious of their newfound moderation. It must have been this new… presence, subduing them with its malice. Lucius fancied it some sort of daemon, or a deeper part of himself awakened. It kept his mind-slaves in line, allowed him room to think. And the problem had become the thinking.
There was a hole. A gaping wound that needed filling, yawning wider the more he stole glimpses into it. It was the same insatiable maw as before, driving him to sensory greed, yet it had evolved into something with a nebulous sense of form.
He watched bodies toil away at each other before his chair, others roll and squirm slowly in rapture as they fed upon another's lust and succumbed to the smothering hands of their own. The maw in him growled terribly and yet he desired none of them. Their tastes were… too bland. None had done anything of worth to draw his attention.
It was to their immense pleasure that he watched them still, running his hand slowly from his chest and down over the twisted skin of his abdomen until finally he reached his groin. On the whims of experimentation he squeezed at the base of his cock, the heavy organ limp betwixt his thighs. Pulled back his foreskin and moved it slowly, almost curiously. He knew that it was a vain effort. The tangled members of his debauched crew -- warriors and serfs alike -- were more moved by the act of his masturbation than Lucius himself. Their delight in it was at least enough to make him bare his teeth and smile, feeling their reverence flooding over him in waves of overwhelmed moans. He rolled his wrist, pumping it harder -- grasped it with his opposite hand so that both were squeezing and stroking at his length in equal measure to play to his audience.
Sighs became groans, whispers shifted and bled into his name on their tongues to encourage and beg their lord for any part of him to share in their sweat-slick orgy.
Their unreciprocated appetite for him was of incredible proportions, and even still their fear of him kept them at bay. His enjoyment of them in this way would yet not suffice to fill his loins, and after he had played with them for a while longer he slowed to a lazy stop and let his flesh hang unattended once more. Firm patrician jaw set and lip curled, his manner switched in a mere second and he growled at the patrons occupying his stateroom.
"Leave."
In an instant, the congregation froze to process the word then obeyed. The drove of hedonists left in funereal silence, shuffling away on talons, bare feet and hooves to grant Lucius his privacy and his eyes bored through their backs in disinterest. Ivory and sanguine smeared in their wake -- yet another task for some pitiful servitor to tend to. His doors were pulled shut by the last of them, and his chest deflated with a long breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
Lucius cast his gaze upward and pored over the ornate structures of his chamber. Its arches were beautiful displays of artistic prowess, intertwining with one another along the curves of various murals in a lattice. The depictions ranged from interpretations of his first rebirth as an extension of Slaanesh, to keen observations of the physical form and bodily organs all rendered in fantastic colours that warmed in the dim glow of the candles around him. As he studied his own ascension, Lucius felt his choler begin to rise and the boredom that his followers had instilled in him became envy.
His hands tensed, grasping hard on the silver arms of his seat. So powerful a gift as immortality, and Slaanesh could not spare him immortal pleasure to suit it. Yet these neophytes and mortals were steeped in it to no end, as he once was. The indignity of it shook him to his core, and there came a sudden clarity in his mind that moved him to a different place and time. His skull was filled with rotted memories, tattered and strewn carelessly together, but some remained untarnished. One of them was the weight of Vardus Praal's head hanging from his grasp, as he bathed in a shower of the baron's blood overcome with ecstasy. It had been a grisly and hard-fought triumph. Not one of his battle brothers had shared in it, had not honoured him in the fine hour that it was. Only he would ever remember it, taking one final victory for the Emperor to the end of time alone. Lucius snarled at everything and nothing, projecting cacophonous noise throughout the stateroom.
"Look at me!" He bellowed toward the ceiling, gaze stabbing into the indifferent image of Slaanesh. "Look at me!"
His own voice rang in his ears now that a space empty of all but filth was left before his dais. The Eternal hurled himself from it in his rage, swiping away crystal glasses and platters from serving tables, casting wrought iron candle holders across the room. His blitz blinded him to anything but a burning need to claw outside of his own body and tear everything around him apart like a storm. Marble cracked with the impact of miscellaneous projectiles, until finally he would whirl around and stop dead. He huffed hot breath between his teeth, processing the sight of someone else in the room with him. Lucius prepared to lunge before he was struck by recognition.
Several candles had extinguished, and in their place the tall narrow windows of the furthest wall illuminated the chamber with the shifting light of Eyespace. It danced upon the Raptor's features, filling his ashen skin with colour. The shadows sculpted the striking composition of his skull, stealing all words and wants away from Lucius as his wrath simmered and drew back as water into an ocean. Still, soothed, the souls swirling in his mind were reduced to whispers, for here was something to grasp onto and steady himself. The wait had been far too long.
The absence of Vispyrtilo's immediate beck and call was a form of torture that did not sit comfortably with him. In the time he had spent beyond arm's reach, the Eternal had almost convinced himself that the Rypax leader had been torn from reality with his cohorts and that he had spent all this time chasing wishful hallucinations. Silly little Raptor.
"You were summoned quite some time ago." Lucius swallowed, adjusting to a measured volume as he drew his shoulders back and peered down his nose at Vispyrtilo. "I'm afraid you've just missed the festivities."
Vispyrtilo returned his lord's gaze with the kind of composure that would have had just about anyone else flayed open. Then he stepped forward and bent his knee, cloak and armour rasping against each other, and pressed his face to his lord's bare thigh. His brow furrowed down over closed eyes as he awaited some form of order, even his own punishment. Fingers slid into his hair instead, dug nails against his scalp. Eased down towards his nape only to start over again. The Eternal's hand brushed away his doubt and bathed him in warmth, inviting him to intimacy. He pressed his ghostly lips to the scarred skin of the Eternal's thigh and dabbed over it with his tongue, to which his lord conceded. Somewhere inside him, Lucius felt the ravenous maw spasm.
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The exquisite penetration of the neuronic plugs had brought the Eternal's lips to part as they locked inside his flesh through several of the ports over his torso. From them ran cables that snaked overhead and behind the long, ribbed plinth that served as the machine's seat and base. It extended from between Lucius' thighs, keeping them comfortably spread open, and bevelled out at the bottom to support one's lower legs and encase its humming layers of circuits and mechanisms.
At his back, into the meat where the machine was not directly interfacing with the black carapace deep under his skin, plasteel spikes impaled his body and kept it snug to the form of its seat. They served no other purpose than to inflict gratuitous, ongoing pain; the lewd feeling of his flesh being forced open around them made his hearts quicken. Every movement evolved it, and when he caressed Vispyrtilo's body draped upon his own he was punished for it deliciously.
Several times a new cascade of blood joined with the others because of his greedy hands in their venture to feel every curve and bump of his beloved's body. In some places, the thick lengths shifted inside of him. It glistened upon their bodies like oil spill.
The Raptor was connected from above, cables rising from his back like skeletal wings to their housing in the hood of the pleasure throne. As one, the two of them writhed upon its pedestal tongue like morsels in the jaws of a beast, sliding cocks together, crushing lips and splitting them between teeth.
Vispyrtilo's growling was an ungodly, guttural sound that ebbed and flowed with each of their bastardised kisses. His intense desire for Lucius in this manner had only been fully realised in his meditations, roosting in the recesses of the ship, and when it was clear that Lucius would gladly receive him it was all he could do to try and not mount him in a fit of need. But self control was one of many things that separated them from animals. The comprehension of synaptic overload was another. What could kill a mortal specimen was their recreation.
Every shift of frayed and oozing muscle around the spikes resonated from Lucius and through Vispyrtilo, creating sensate echoes that pushed back and forth between them in waves until each diminished. The next thrum of pain and pleasure would only replace it, and Lucius could feel his nerves singing as they were given no respite. He throbbed incessantly, hard against Vispyrtilo's own dribbling member that sought to grind furiously down against him. It left wet kisses beneath his navel and jumped with excitement when his master's hot breath carried over his neck and sent loving whispers into his ear. What fury had possessed Lucius not an hour prior had been replaced with maddening lust that quaked his extremities as he ravaged them with endless sensation.
With a modicum of effort more, the warlord arched his back and pressed harder upon the metal eating at either side of his spine. It was a slow descent, making him sweat and grip onto the Raptor's hips. He pressed upon them as well, curling his fingers around the smooth domes of his rear so their lengths were snug between them with immense pressure. When finally more of the metal forced through, every point plunged out of him and into Vispyrtilo. The punch of them was almost enough to send the Raptor over a rapidly deteriorating edge but he steadied himself, unwilling to let this gift end so soon. His eyes rolled back in his head as it flooded with feedback, and he choked on his own growl of approval. Emotion could rarely be elicited from him, and within this carnal gratification he was so deeply moved to join with Lucius in body and mind. It was not to be squandered. He felt the warm embrace of Slaanesh envelope him with mind-bending pleasure, accepted it into his very soul. In this moment, he was elevated to a higher state of being at the behest of his lord. The kisses he next gave were as attentive and gentle as a creature like him could muster, tending gratefully to his mouth.
"My sweetest terror." Lucius slurred, straining to wrap his arms around Vispyrtilo's waist. Rocking upwards slowly now, every brush of contact felt electric. The slick of their mingling blood added a stickiness to the churning pot of feeling. It was a detail that the Eternal noted somewhere in the periphery of his mind, otherwise ensnared by its collective vortex and unable to discern the parts as his body hummed with it all. He moaned into Vispyrtilo's hungry mouth, grasping and clawing at the skin of his back through the forest of cables and dripping spires.
There was no greater need in Lucius than to drop from this precipice they had built, to come screaming down like twin stars and shatter to pieces. So attuned was his Raptor that his urge was mirrored instantly. Vispyrtilo spoke only in the serpentine motions of his body in response, as he drew himself up from the plasteel teeth and allowed his blood to pass forth and down the lean muscles of his abdomen. He was poised like an aquiline beast, wreathed in the effervescent glow from the rifted space outside, as he sat on his haunches to impale himself upon the Eternal's hot and ravenous flesh. Sinking down upon it brought his tongue swiping over his lips, eyes unfocusing against his will. It was the final course of their feast and it was a filling that made him feel truly whole.
"Just… right…"
"Is it?" Lucius growled, spurring him. "Just so, for my darling Raptor?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
He grasped onto a cable at either side of him for leverage and settled on Lucius' hips. He relished the feeling of his rigid shaft, swollen and pulsing within his core before he moved, kept his lord deep inside there as his hips ground down harder and harder. It melted everything away from within. Lucius rocked with him in synchrony, hips sliding his flesh up and down the lowermost spikes, eyes locked as they chased the very ends of themselves. They were stuck with jaws agape, caught in waves of stupefying bliss. All sense of direction was lost in a loop of feedback. The machine fucked them into an oblivion of their own creation. Not once did Vispyrtilo look anywhere but to his master.
Their shared climax was as powerful as it was exerting, and they spilt over and into each other liberally with spines curved and digits clenching. In the heat of it, Lucius could hear himself panting in fitful bursts and Vispyrtilo snarling over him as he would to announce a glorious kill. There was no thinking. Lucius might have said that, briefly, he did not feel so much as a need for anything but the ensuing capsule of tranquil time.
For now, he existed on a plane of absolute calm and satisfaction. He was seen by the eyes of terror itself and beheld with adoration. Lucius peered back into them gladly, sheathed inside of a fallen angel.
Pre-Heresy tag / title has been settled as one of the greatest songs ever conceived in human history. The lens being as if past events are actively being reviewed by his present self.
@scindo-iii // 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 … ( accepting )
「 HOLD 」 : for sender to hold receivers throat
" you are ignorant, ignoble and incompetent. you are a liability."
the great boar's growling comes with a hiss of steam, the fire-hot puffs of electrochemical toxin radiating from his armor's vent ports caustic to a human's touch. gorgon plate — a jewel amongst many of ferrus manus' crowning achievements; indomitable, it made them, but the sacrifices required to operate two thousand pounds of radioactive tactical dreadnought armor were a plenty. it was as much apart of him as own flesh, laced into the architecture of his body as surely as muscle binds with bone. it enables its bearer incredible strength and uncanny focus. mostafa is a captain, a champion and a warrior among warriors. he's courted his father's favor over decades and and and — and none of it matters here.
for all his posturing and all his strength and all the ways in which sheer size should have dictated victory this day ( the terminator towers three feet taller ), none of it matters when matched against lucius' sword arm.
his own blade lies lifeless on the ground, taken from his hand not thirty seconds before the astartes had come to blows. a strategic disagreement; simple diplomacy. now he stands, their bodies encased in ceramite wound tight, lucius sword pressed tighter to the gap in mostafa's breastplate, right at the underside of his ribs. oh but his hand — his hand has come up to close around mostafa's throat. he grips tight, beneath the tusked helmet, what sliver of his neck remains visible underneath the massive gorget which surrounds his head. it would be nothing to throw fulgrim's preening peacock across the room or slam him into the metal wall behind. the bladesman's sword bites an inch deeper, though in anticipation for what retaliatory violence might come. it doesn't. the chemical mutilation of his nervous system screams at him to fight. he does not.
he does, however, feel an uncomfortable heat crawl up his face.
All those things the 13th captain has been called and more. Though incompetence is without any merit whatsoever and, were it not for the thorough demonstration of the contrary that he has just performed, Lucius' mood may have soured further from the insult.
He is breathless by the time he has the Medusan warrior disarmed, and his grip on Mostafa is partly informed by a need to regain it. Partly. He digs Nineteen into him just hard enough to draw blood, squeezes the brute's throat firmly in a display that is unequivocally sadistic -- there are rumours, all of them true.
The remarkable craftsmanship of Mostafa's armour had not been lost on Lucius before, but really feeling what it is capable of on the receiving end does much to cement his first impressions of the Phoenician's favoured nephews. That they are masters of engineering he can easily admit, and approve of them greatly for it. But they stray too closely to dependence upon creations that can be exploited. One must always have their guard up and a fallback in case that guard becomes fit for purpose no longer.
"This 'foolishness' is wrought by your hands." Lucius retorts, his voice not quite as cutting as it had been before they became locked in a spontaneous duel. "I am a liability? Your armour will be your casket should you not master it."
While it is clear the short-lived fight is won, Lucius doesn't understand why Mostafa relents. He puffs over the terminator, waiting for an opportune smack of ceramite bulk to hit him. But it doesn't. He frowns, even as he withdraws his blade.
"Strike me."
Lucius is unsure if his own words pose a challenge or a request.
It was a time of renaissance for the warband. The ship bustled with life and lustmord, fresh serfs and crew. Better still, the ranks of his warriors were replenished and expanded. There was an invigorating warmth in the atmosphere that made him feel hopeful in the most unwholesome ways that any being, mortal or otherwise, could be, as their success would mean the creation of only more horrors. Splendid nightmarish horrors for all those that would not bask in pleasure and pain alongside them.
But any that assumed Lucius could ever truly be satisfied... would find themselves gravely mistaken, and poorly read. For it was that diabolical ambition of his that had gotten him this far. It had now made him the affair of yet another daemon. To what extent? That was being arranged.
"Just one. For now." Lucius added curtly, his back to the imposing form of Malphas.
In truth, he was not even certain that it was a daemon in his midst. He would have presumed khornate in origin, were it not for the salacious element of his personality. But it was the manner of how he came to be on board that convinced him of other, presently nebulous answers. It had been entirely asymptomatic and unannounced. That bothered him. He would not let it be known, but this contract felt almost obligatory.
With the decision made, he returned to Malphas briskly. He'd been pacing the secluded corridor as they formulated an agreement, restless as the voices of caution and doubt made debate in his head. He shook it, dismissing them with a growl, and addressed his uninvited guest once more. "And then, if I am pleased, I may request another soul?"
It is interesting how not all pain is pleasurable to Lucius. It all has the potential, but certain flavours of pain are too loud or textured in a way he dislikes. His palate is suited to splitting, puncturing and tearing. He usually doesn't like blunt force trauma at its extreme. Sometimes it's a mood and contextual thing too.
