[ In the moment that pleading hand seeks his own, thoughts of Fulgrim rise unbidden in Lucius' mind. Never before has Lucius ruled over a man with love—but that is precisely how the primarch of the Emperor's Children had presided over them, he and his brothers crushed beneath the tyranny of their own adoration. Their father wielded it as a virtuoso violinist wields his instrument, love given as swiftly as it might be snatched from the eyes of a man proven unworthy—and there were always men to be rendered unworthy in the light of his brothers' accomplishments.
Lucius' clawed fingers wrap around a hand rendered small by his current skin, and as they reach the doorway to their shared bedroom, Lucius spins Eridanus through its arch with that grip. Love feels more like a cudgel in his grip than the keen-edged dagger Fulgrim had made it seem to be—an imperfection that his father, of course, lacked. ]
Only once.
[ With that declaration, his hands find the remnants of Eridanus' suit. The top half is dirty and torn, and seeing as there's little point in treating an already ruined garment gently, he divests Eridanus of it with a simple tear down its middle. Sharp eyes rake his consort's bare flesh as he pushes the cloth from his shoulders, and as they linger over scars carved into his body by Lucius' own blade—old and new, rendered again in the glittering lines that suit the significance they bear—his tongue dances between his lips as if it were a serpent posed to strike.
He has to lower himself for the bottom half, and so he drops into a crouch possessed less of the air of a man taking a knee and more of one doing what he wishes with what belongs to him. The belt, at least, is intact, and so it receives somewhat more respectful treatment than the top half had. ]
no subject
Lucius' clawed fingers wrap around a hand rendered small by his current skin, and as they reach the doorway to their shared bedroom, Lucius spins Eridanus through its arch with that grip. Love feels more like a cudgel in his grip than the keen-edged dagger Fulgrim had made it seem to be—an imperfection that his father, of course, lacked. ]
Only once.
[ With that declaration, his hands find the remnants of Eridanus' suit. The top half is dirty and torn, and seeing as there's little point in treating an already ruined garment gently, he divests Eridanus of it with a simple tear down its middle. Sharp eyes rake his consort's bare flesh as he pushes the cloth from his shoulders, and as they linger over scars carved into his body by Lucius' own blade—old and new, rendered again in the glittering lines that suit the significance they bear—his tongue dances between his lips as if it were a serpent posed to strike.
He has to lower himself for the bottom half, and so he drops into a crouch possessed less of the air of a man taking a knee and more of one doing what he wishes with what belongs to him. The belt, at least, is intact, and so it receives somewhat more respectful treatment than the top half had. ]