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"So..." Lumen drawls.

She's pushed closer to Abelard, petite yet commanding, the instant the carpeted stillness of her private chambers closed its embrace around them.

Here, now, they are fully cut off from the raucous crowd on the bridge below, as if by their very own tiny Maw. The entire bulk of the voidship has shrunk down to the water glass’s worth of air between them; warm and heady with the perfume the ever—elegant Lord Captain doused herself in before coming out to meet the crew.

"You had opinions about manhandling?"

Abelard swallows. Lumen's metal-capped fingers dance a little carefree waltz up his trusty breastplate, stopping to circle the sockets and cheekbones of the skull emblem just below his throat — yet he does not follow that dance. His eyes remain locked with hers.

"I was merely concerned for your safety, Lord Captain," he says, even as his hand twitches, fingers pointing, as if despite his conscious will, towards the curve of Lumen's bodice. Poised to rest there, at any moment now, by Her Ladyship's leave.

"Being carried by the Emperor's Angel is one thing, but a stunt like that —"

"Oh, look at you, darling!"

Abelard is not exactly a giant man (and downright tiny compared to the Emperor’s Angel Ulfar, even to the Lady Navigator); but Lumen would have struggled to reach his cheek, even in heels. Thus he graciously accommodates her, dipping his head down so she can caress his weathered skin.

"Look at Imperium's most concerned citizen! Whatever will ease your worries?"

She shifts her foot slightly so that their ankles press against each other. That is the signal Abelard has been waiting for: he cups his hand over Lumen's soft waistline; stirred by this motion, his coat flops off his shoulders and pools at his feet.

"I swear on the Golden Throne," he murmurs, his half-open mouth drinking in the last of that perfumed air, his beard scratching Lumen's cheek.

"Every single von Valancius was put in this galaxy to torment me, specifically."

Whatever clever response Lumen may have had to that — perhaps a callback to his longing for a quiet post at a magnetic coil warehouse; she found that endlessly entertaining — he reads it, unspoken, off the tip of her tongue.

The kiss lifts them up, weightless like pollen in the early days of Janusian summer, and carries them off into a spinning dance, deeper and deeper into the bedroom. They stop only when Lumen begins to struggle with the straps holding Abelard's breastplate in place. As clever as her fingers are, quick to crack any lock or rally any uncooperative machine spirit with just a few key presses, some of that cleverness seems to have melted in the heat of Abelard's mouth — against hers, then over the pulse in her throat, then back upon her lips again. Her motions turn sloppy, guided more by greed and impatience than precision; his roaming hands have to leave her bodice and help her unfasten the buckles. It is a slow process, as the sheer sensation of his touch distracts her: she weaves her fingers tighter through his, and her breath hitches, each exhale a whimper. Still, she tries to labor on.

Once she is done, the air around her momentarily ripples, and ribbons of purple light wrap flickering over her wrists. With a shove of telekinetic force, she sends Abelard's armor rocketing across the bedroom. It thunks against a chest of drawers and drops somewhere out of view. A prop, no longer needed on their little heretical stage.

There is a clattering noise in the distance. Abelard looks up, sobered by concern, but clearly, his Lord Captain is the only one allowed to get distracted.

She tugs at his sleeve so that he leans in again, and places his hand on the side of her chest, where her bodice is covered by the mantua: the flowing golden overgown embossed with an endless wreath of intertwining peach branches, somehow both in full bloom and heavy with fruit at the same time.

"My turn now, dear Seneschal," Lumen announces breathlessly. "You can even rip it off; I'll just donate the fabric to some deserving voidswoman. Let her sew something pretty for her planet leave."

Abelard stares — but does not move his hand away.

"Lord Captain! I couldn't possibly!"

Her eyes measure him up and down; a silent, smiling challenge.

'Surely, a little piece of harmless satin is not a more frightening foe than a warp horror, hmm my sweet?" she coos, before kissing him.

He melts into her, malleable, almost feverish. The dance resumes, growing ever faster, as the once-steadfast Seneschal grows ever dizzier. His grip on his Lord Captain tightens, fingers curling into claws; and at last, the call of something primal, something hungry, resonates within his ageing body, like it must have done in his youth... And he dares answer.

The old voidfarer's hands, callused by the chainsword's grip, rend the delicate satin apart, quick and merciless, dismantling the first of... multiple obstacles on the way to the prize. The bodice, with its embroidered, bow-adorned stomacher, is still there, complete with twin side hoops that would add extravagant volume to Her Ladyship's skirt; as the airy meringue of her undershirt; and the rustling, layered heap of her petticoats. But the mantua is gone, tossed aside, its intricate pattern disrupted by a zigzagging gash.

Clumsily unsealing the kiss, with a thin chain of saliva still glinting between her and her faithful vanguard, the Lord Captain moans softly, pleased with his handiwork. But before she can ravish his lips again, or before he can scorch her skin with more raw red marks along her neck or over her clavicle, the slippery fabric of what was once her overgown gathers up under her heel... She stumbles out of Abelard's grasp, tripping backwards into a most bothersome stray armchair, her gilded shoes flying off in polar directions.

He exclaims in alarm and, on sheer instinct — Protect, protect the Lord Captain! Everything else is irrelevant, inconsequential! — manages to grasp at her before her head makes painful contact with the floor. But still, the armchair lies on its side now, and she has draped herself over it, legs pointing outwards.

"Lord Captain! Are you all right?!"

She sighs with the affectation of a guardsman dying in service of the Imperium... in an amateur drama painstakingly cobbled together by Schola Progenita first—graders.

"Oh, I am terribly distressed, my darling! Look at all these skirts! However will I get up with them in the way!"

Abelard sighs, half-relieved, half-amused.

"Well, I dare say, Lord Captain... Perhaps it will do you some good to remain laying down for a while."

Lumen bites her lip, eyes alight with gleeful curiosity.

Abelard, now past having reservations, tears off the first of the petticoats, which would still have been visible under the overgown. The pleated bell of dark orange rains a chattering hail of tiny pearls all over the floor when he casts it off. Lumen makes a little trill at the back of her throat, and for a few seconds, snaps her thighs together, rubbing them up and down.

There are still numerous, frilly lower layers in the way, but they are, as so much else, inconsequential. Abelard plunges his hand deep into the froth of fabric, lifting up the next petticoat and the undershirt to clear the path to the treasure he was after: Her Ladyship's smallclothes. Not visibly soaked-through just yet, but the Seneschal will not stop until his battle stratagem is fully executed.

It is at this point that he suddenly decides to be reverent towards pieces of fabric once again. His fingers smooth over the broad golden ribbon fastened round one of Lumen's stockings; then, they flick idly at the pretty bow, as if in practice; then, move on to slowly, painstakingly, caress and knead her pillowy thigh.

Golden fingers sink into the plush upholstery of the capsized armchair, anchoring an arching body. A wet spot blooms on the pristine white undergarment.

"Who's tormenting who now, you impossible man!" the indignant Lord Captain hisses through her teeth.

The Seneschal only quirks an eyebrow over his living eye, as he would when making some dryly sardonic remark about whichever new disaster of the week the retinue would stumble on. But composure slowly melts from his face when he pushes the smallclothes down, and makes his way within, first one finger, then two, pressed together in a sign of unholy prayer.

Like a star's glorious blaze is reflected off more modest rocky celestial bodies, scarred by asteroids and endless galactic warfare, creating moonlight, so do the burning waves of Her Ladyship's pleasure reach Abelard and ignite a fire under his own skin, a richer pink with every moan, every aria of gasps coaxed from her quivering mouth by his circling caresses. Soon, he begins to rub against the armchair in time with her voice, his remaining clothes too tight, too heavy.

By the time he extends a third finger, gentle strokes growing vigorous and then slowing down again, and his Lord Captain shudders, wet and warm and needy around his hand — the fire has already overtaken him fully, casting a glazed delirious pall over his eye. As Lumen tosses her head back, incoherent with bliss, staring at but not really seeing her chamber's ornate ceiling, Abelard raises his hand to his mouth. His fingers glint with her release, but in his fever, a mere dab of sex against his parched lips is not enough.

"Lord Captain," he slurs huskily, "I request a deeper taste."

The request is granted with a lazy "mhm", and he lifts her up against his heaving, cloth-trapped chest, shedding her second petticoat, and the sidehoops, and the stockings like wilted white petals on the way to the bed.

After the silly little armchair detour, her lays her down where she ought to rest, as befits the Rogue Trader: upon a throne of pillows, under the heavy canopy of red velvet. A beautiful, decadent thing of sweetest, most sinful pre-sunrise dreams. Her voluptuous chest rises and falls over the lone remaining stomacher, and the lovely pouch of her stomach is on full display... It still bears the jagged reminder of Kunrad's treachery, and it has gotten smaller after the hardships of Commorragh. But she is home now, she is safe, she will be taken care of.

Abelard spends a few moments in quiet contemplation, with one knee placed on the mattress' edge, allowing Lumen to catch a breath before her perfect body is played with again — and himself, to bask in the sight of her. Eventually, he starts to unbutton his uniform, which has long since become a burden. But Lumen's eyes flash: she does not approve.

"Let me do that, darling!" she demands, pushing herself up her pillow throne's slope.

He obliges. With a rather inelegant grunt of effort (which makes Lumen giggle, endeared to his old—man clumsiness), he climbs onto the bed's enormous springy raft. Everything around them may be padded with the down of rare birds, light as whipped cream — but she is still upon her throne, and he is still kneeling in front of her. Serving, as a Seneschal must, at her pleasure.

Perhaps still languid in her climax's aftermath, perhaps wanting to do better than with the armor, perhaps exacting her wicked revenge on Abelard for toying with her garters far too long, Lumen takes her time with each button. Each little skull needs to be admired and tapped at before she deigns release it.

A low growl brews within Abelard's chest.

"If it were not for the safety hazard, I would have asked you to just burn the blasted thing off me... Lord Captain."

She erupts into delighted laughter.

"Of course, we all know that the Inquisition sanctioned me precisely for this! But no, darling, I prefer to set you on fire in other ways... You can have a bit more telekinesis, though: as a treat."

He nods, and with a flick of her wrist, she unleashes the remaining buttons in a gunfire burst of flying brass. The skulls zoom off, ricocheting off distant furniture with a series of clangs. Something else comes crashing down. Inconsequential.

Having peeled back the rest of Abelard's uniform with ease, Lumen freezes, wide-eyed, studying the galactic map of scars that run across his torso, cutting through the glinting silvery nebulae of hair, which swirl the thickest on his broad chest and at the bottom of his stomach.

The lustful red mist that's engulfed his face and throat suddenly turns into a schoolboy's blush.

"I, uh, am a practical man, Lord Captain," he half-whispers apologetically. "There are rejuvenation surgeries that smoothen the skin in addition to extending the life span, but I never, hm, opted for the bonus service. It would have no bearing on my duties, and I thought — "

"Shush, my heart! If you thought my scars were not appalling, allow me to admire yours!"

Her fingers follow where her eyes journeyed just now. What were initially simple metal caps, in place of the fingerprints she'd sliced off during her smuggling days, were upgraded to more advanced augments, the best a Rogue Trader's thrones can buy. Through the gilded tips, she is able to feel some semblance of texture, as she would in a sheer glove. No ridge of raised pale tissue is left unexplored, and her wistful smile is imprinted deeper and deeper into her lips with each trail she follows across his body's map.

Abelard allows himself to close his eye and power down his implant, sinking into the darkness like into a warm bath. His lips still crack with thirst, and he flicks his tongue across them, yearning for Her Ladyship's rich musk to flood his mouth... But she needs to finish her journey first.

The grey and red flare to life again at the sound of Lumen's voice.

"Oh my, and you have tattoos as well! What a secret to hide from your Lord Captain, officer!"

Her hand is on his bicep, treading along the sword-sharp quills of the old Aquila, pausing over the ribbon with the High Gothic motto that encircles his forearm like a bracelet:

IMPERATOR GALAXIAE DOMINUS EST, SED NAVARCHUS NAVIS SUAE.

Then off the little explorator hand flits, butterfly-like, to his other arm, adorned with the I and ship's wheel of the Navis Imperialis.

Lumen smirks when she glances down at the skull on Abelard’s lower abdomen, but sighs in sympathy when she notices that the patch of inked skin has been mangled by a wound from an Ork's "choppa", and that the top of the skull has gotten chipped by scar tissue. After giving the skull a little pet, as if in comfort — which makes Abelard inhale sharply, suddenly painfully, chafingly aware that his pants are still on — and focuses on discerning the half-faded coils of warp monsters. Copied from the grotesque marginalia of archival maps, they once writhed, starkly black in fresh ink, all over Abelard's stomach, where a small cushion of fat protects the muscles, hardened over centuries of service.

And then there is the tattoo over his heart. Pale now, nigh lost in the cloud of hair, under a lattice of so many stab slashes and pock marks from bullets that nearly ended his life, but missed. But still visible to an eye as keen as Her Ladyship's. A lily blossom, held up by a curving stem with several twisting leaves that, when overlayed together, form the letter Q.

Abelard looks away, all playful warmth suddenly draining from him.

"Lord Captain, I apologize... This... This is not something you would wish to see... Not like this..."

"It's all right, darling. I understand," she murmurs tenderly, and raises her hand to the Aquila half-mask, which still adorns her brow, hiding the very scars that she showed Abelard, not too long ago.

"There was a girl, once... The sidekick on my very first heists, back on our hive world. She'd follow me everywhere, suffer through my wildest schemes — much like you, I suppose. We had such grand plans, her and I, of escaping the hive hand in hand, and being fearsome pirate queens together. Neither of us had names back then, not real human ones, just registration codes and nicknames that stuck."

She gathers the blankets around her, to hide from encroaching cold.

"I called her Birdie, because when I was not seducing her into a life of crime, she worked an honest job at an assembly line for Aquila molds. She's... gone now, but a part of her is always with me, in so many forms: on this mask, on my sword hilt, even on my keyring... Wherever there's an Aquila, there's Birdie. It's... painful to think about, sometimes — but I am also grateful to have had her. And I am grateful to have you, now."

"As am I," Abelard says, pressing his lips against her inner wrist.

His kiss seems to quicken her blood again, to bring back the warmth to them both.

"Frankly, Lord Captain, if you'd started teasing me in front of Quatharina, she would have taken your side," Abelard ponders, with a wistful chuckle. "You would have teamed up against me and I would have lost miserably."

"Truly, not only the Imperium's most concerned citizen, but most put-upon too!" Lumen clicks her tongue, as her tense pose relaxes, and the protective covers fall back, her half-nude body once again soft and inviting.

"Come here.''

The embrace that they share appears almost chaste, at first: two lost, lonely people, each clinging on to someone they found in the indifferent wasteland of outer space... But before long, their lips meet again, and much like when they bared their hearts to each other on Janus, one of Lumen's breasts spills over the stomacher, and Abelard sinks his fingertips into the pliant softness, kneading it until she whines and tugs its twin free. He falls upon it with a thirsty moan, as if it would feed him the finest vintage amasec.

Lumen jolts under his body, eyelids fluttering and jaw going slack. After a few long, parting half-kisses, half-bites all over her breast, Abelard moves on further and further down, loosening the ribbon that yet holds together the final bastion of her outfit, and devouring whatever bare flesh he can reach. All the while, he keeps his head slightly tilted to the side to that the metal frame of his implant does not cut into her; at one point, the complex tubing gets tangled up in her bodice's fastenings, and when Abelard jerks his head free, he has a ribbon dangling off the side of his face... The only response either of them has to this is a half-drunken laugh.

At last, he returns to those waiting folds, where her scent is building up again. He draws her legs apart, kissing both thighs in turn as appreciation for his Lord Captain's... cooperation, and feasts.

There is much work to be done; meticulous, thorough work — and his tongue is as diligent in the Lord Captain's service as his sword hand. He laps against her inner walls like he is sucking the last dregs of juice-soaked pulp off a peach pit, and then goes looking for more precious sweet droplets in its crevices. The finest tremor rocks through Lumen's thighs; her toes curl inward, and a new high-pitched song of pleasure soars from her throat.

And as before, he is her moon, turning her wild sunfire into a glow of his own. His crotch bulges, and while with one hand, he is grabbing hold of Lumen's plump buttocks, he fumbles blindly with the other to pull down his pants and release his straining flesh.

Lumen cranes her neck, struggling to assemble her half-melted body into something sentient. And whatever conscious reasoning she can muster, is definitely most interested in the outlines of the blood-gorged vein that runs along Abelard's thick, robust shaft, and the first clear droplets that swell upon the tip.

"Darling..." she croaks softly. "Darling, please... Go inside me."

Abelard emerges, his beard drenched, and huffs a low breath.

"I... Thank you for the honor, Lord Captain."

Carefully, he shifts her legs to be level with his hips, settles between her knees, and takes his length into his hand, trailing a wet, teasing circle around her peach-ripe entrance, absorbing every note in her voice as she pants impatiently... Then, and only then, does he make his first thrust. Followed by another, and another, hammering up an intense, beating speed, for such is the will of his Lord Captain.

"Oh, fuck, Abelard! Harder! Harder!"

Sweat runs down his neck; his sighted eye clouds over, his nostrils flare, and his teeth dig desperately into his lower lip.

"Lrdcap..." he attempts to say, but this close to apex, his words fail him; he gets tangled in them, and trips over his own heavy tongue like Her Ladyship tripped over her dress. So he mouths the word that is much easier to enunciate: her name. The nickname from the distant, long-purged hive, which became real. As real as the person it belongs to, a beautiful creature of flesh and blood held firmly in Abelard's arms, fragrant with arousal and traces of perfume.

"Lumen."

He comes shortly after she does, rocked by his rhythmic pounding into a disheveled trance much like his own. He comes with his mouth full of her: still tasting her sex, still shaping her name.

She reaches to kiss him, humming in soft contentment, and they both roll to the side, in a mess of twining limbs; lost amid the pillow sea.

"Lord Captain, I must clean both of us off..."

"And when you are done, will you stay?" Lumen asks, in no rush to raise her hand from there she rested it — on the right side of his chest, opposite the letter Q. Both of them with him now; and forever.

"Will you lay with me for the rest of the night, darling?"

"The bridge — " Abelard begins, but her golden eyes are huge and pleading.

"The bridge is probably finishing off the last of Danrok's prized amasec. If you came down there and asked those voidsmen what our names were, they'd just blink and say 'huh?'."

Abelard frowns.

"After all the disciplining I have to do around here!... Though I suppose that I am not the one to talk!"

"Talk to me," she purrs, laying his hand over hers.

"Tell me everything you wanted to tell me but thought you couldn't, because it was beneath me to care or some such. The planets you visited with Theodora. Funny stories about your children when they were little. What you got up to with the boys as a young officer. And I can tell you about my best heists. Or how I'd tried to get on the Inquisition agents' nerves when I became a psyker, and still kept my head. You know, more of the little things we'd get started with in between missions, before you'd clam up and I-apologize-Lord-Captain me away."

Abelard, who did slip away from under her touch, intending to fetch a wash cloth, clears his throat sheepishly... No doubt haunted by the image of himself starting a ramble about how proud he was of Clementia when she returned to Dargonus a decorated war hero, and then snapping his mouth shut... Because truly, what business was it of the Lord Captain's?

"Just for tonight," he concedes — but does nothing to hide the light of his affectionate smile.

#this is one of my faves ngl

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