[ scien isn't the type of person who lets himself be dragged around, and so there is still the slightest bit of resistance. his neck bared? like some kind of prey animal? the twist in his emotions is one where arrogance and amusement intermingle.
and because scien has a sense of humor, he allows it. it's a shame when he could benefit from a sense of self-preservation instead.
but he's not going to accept it so one-sidedly. the hand at lucas's back trails around his side, fingertips linger on every last centimeter of skin, until he reaches lucas's front and lets his fingertips splay hungrily against his lower abdomen. the hem of his shirt catches against scien's wrist, the fabric bunching with the motion as his curious hand only trails upward, intending to get his shirt off of him in no time at all.
ironically, his last thought in this moment is only: do your worst. ]
[THIS IS SUCH A SCARY TAG. LUCAS WHERE IS YOUR CATHOLICISM
It's not here right now!! That's for fucking sure!! Because he's distracted by the strength of the urge pushing him forward. The arrogant amusement just makes him smile, and that's sharp, too. He allows the hand skirting along his skin to make its journey, he lets it lift up his shirt as it trails under, he makes no move to stop any of the progress because he wants what Scien wants, and their want together only doubles.
He moves back just a little - just enough to re-situate himself on Scien's lap, and there's a little thrill as he does. He wants to give himself the room to lean down, to rest his lips against the bared expanse of his throat, to run his tongue along the skin there, to taste and explore something new.]
[But things change so quickly that it may even be disorienting to feel secondhand.
Lucas leans back and his eyes fall on the sprawling floral pattern of a Reliver tattoo - the Reliver tattoo of the very first Reliver. A mark he's too familiar with. One that finds him in a moment of weakness and want; a finger putting just enough pressure on a mousetrap pad to send the bar snapping down like a guillotine's blade.
The sharp edge of his hunger bursts into the forefront so violently that it's like an explosion, and the want flips on its head into a feeling of purely malicious violence. Scien's experienced it before in the lurking shadow within him, or in the projected internal voice that isn't Lucas's own telling him suffer and die, though never this strongly.
This time, it drives Lucas forward in a bare beat of a heart. He moves with the same lithe, viperous speed, but it's bloodthirst that overrides his sense and sensibility instead of vexing want for a man he still struggles to understand. The hand tangled in Scien's hair pulls sharply at the same time that he's made it close enough to open his mouth, not to pour his affection over the soft skin there with harmless lips, but to sink his sharp teeth into the column of his throat like a true vicious beast, with crushing killing intent and a desire to tear its prey to shreds.]
cw for violence for the rest of the thread (closes eyes)
it's probably a bit ironic, given the way that everyone who wants to kill scien has to work for it. get through the multiple barriers of the institute. defeat him in a fight when his own kicks can break through wall. drag god down to the mortal realm and remove him from earth's plane, at least until his reliver backup kicks in yet again.
scien hasn't needed a reliver in a long time. he hasn't built a system of backups here. even when those fangs dig into flesh for the first, blindingly painful moment, he has just enough mental capacity to think about how if this place didn't refuse to let them all die—this would be scien brofiise's last moments.
and he would've welcomed it, guided it to himself even, with open arms.
shock colors his feelings first. a twist of annoyance, somehow. an utter lack of fear or anger.
sometimes dogs bite.
well he's not about to be a hypocrite and hold it against lucas. but he's also harder to kill than just that, and that genius mind is already thinking about how quickly he'll have to act to save his own life. though the first thing he'll need to do is answer to the threat that's nestled so sweetly in his lap. the hand that was just exploring lucas's body trembles slightly—more out of shock and recoil than anything else—as it reaches to the collection of vials that scien keeps at his belt.
but that's scien's other great mistake.
he'd told lucas ages ago exactly the steps he'd take to incapacitate him before. the signaling is clumsy and obvious in this moment, and scien already knows that his reach will not happen nearly soon enough. even if he doesn't stop trying. not for himself, but because he knows—lucas will regret this later. ]
As Scien reaches toward the vials, Lucas reacts faster still, not even the tiniest trace of a tremor in his hand as it snatches Scien's up and then twists hard enough to break bone. A far cry from the tenderness and affection he'd allowed his hands to be held with before, and the warmth and want and hunger that had grown in the shadow of that softness.
At the same time, he twists his head to the side and pulls away again in a rough motion. The only warmth now is the spray of blood and the wetness of tissue and gore that he spits out of his mouth with an airy, gasping laugh, all madness, all salt and iron. It all happens like lightning, just bursts of violence and sharp, decisive movements - the body of a weapon honed to the sharpest edge, carrying out the purpose for which it was created.
But somewhere below it all, something flutters like a bird's broken wing. Something presses against the cage that is Bourreau, wailing as it had done all those years ago, when he first spilled blood and hated himself for it. It's not quite like being possessed, having that full clarity of mind while being pressed into the backseat of his own body - but it's a bit similar. These destructive desires feel so very much like his own, and the compulsion to kill, kill, kill, kill is so deeply ingrained that it feels inseparable from him, and yet... there's a sense of horror creeping up alongside the bloodthirst. A shrill, terrified feeling as his hands fly up to hold the sides of Scien's head in a punishing grip.
It's the dichotomy of Lucas Proust. The bloodied grin of the hostile predator, and the wet blue eyes of the helpless prey.
He leans forward, his heart spilling out its malice and revulsion, its ache and its fright.]
Die, Scien Brofiise.
[And his hands move; a single, quick twist, fast enough to snap that lovely neck as it bleeds and bleeds.]
people had asked scien here if he is a cyborg, made of metal and wiring the way that boothill is. however, even for all the parts of him that are made of those twists of steel and circuitry, he never wanted to stray from being a human. a pitiful, breakable, fragile human under the hands of bourreau.
an executioner finally fulfilling his mission.
the great irony is that even until the moment that lucas's hands came up to scien's head, scien did not pull away from their interlaced fingers.
the mark of the first reliver bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until the sharp motion of lucas's hands severs all thought. scien's abnormally bright pupils dull ever so slightly. god's visit to the mortal plane, consumed by want and desire, ends in his demise.
[A god is dead, and for several long moments, everything in the room is still alongside him, save the breath of its last living occupant.
Then, Lucas moves. It's slow and staccato, compared to the fluid quickness with which he'd taken Scien's life. He moves like a pocket watch ticking back and forward without going anywhere, or a wind-up toy in its last broken run. He eases his hands away from Scien's head and watches as his body slumps forward, as empty as his eyes. It's a sight that should bring the fading forefront of his most vicious self some sort of twisted joy. But in the slip of it all, in the taste of blood on his tongue and the fading warmth he had been surrounded by, he's just left feeling... empty. Lost, yet again. Disoriented, furious, petrified.
It's only now that his sure hands start to tremble as they pull away from Scien and toward himself. He tugs at his hair in his growing agitation, smearing blood through it. Pressure wells up in his chest, spilling out of his mouth in soft, almost confused-sounding noises that crest and grow until he's left sitting on a dead man's lap, screaming and screaming, yanking his hair, covering his ears.
Again, some distant part of him mourns. Again, again - these hands that do nothing but kill have killed yet again. That delicate flower grown deep in the cradle of himself shrieks with the agony of self-inflicted loss, cries for the fool who could do such a thing. He can't stand it. Can't stand to look at Scien's lovely face, at the pool of blood, the mess of his throat, his unmoving body. Can't stand to recall the brush of his hands and lips, the way their fingers had remain intertwined until the very last moment.
He stumbles up somewhere in the mess of everything, no longer consciously present even as the biting blade of Bourreau. He's only aware enough to know that he has to go. He turns to what he always does when his mind isn't working and his heart is in despair: to the cold and ruthless god who has never done anything for him. He leaves streaks of blood along the couch and wall as he staggers to the door and tumbles out into the hall, gasping like he's drowning, driven to seek out the cross that represents a forgiveness he can't grant himself and won't be granted.
He leaves the corpse of a man he'd thought of coming to love just moments ago sitting on the couch in a sterile room, alone.]
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no subject
and because scien has a sense of humor, he allows it. it's a shame when he could benefit from a sense of self-preservation instead.
but he's not going to accept it so one-sidedly. the hand at lucas's back trails around his side, fingertips linger on every last centimeter of skin, until he reaches lucas's front and lets his fingertips splay hungrily against his lower abdomen. the hem of his shirt catches against scien's wrist, the fabric bunching with the motion as his curious hand only trails upward, intending to get his shirt off of him in no time at all.
ironically, his last thought in this moment is only: do your worst. ]
1/2 my god
It's not here right now!! That's for fucking sure!! Because he's distracted by the strength of the urge pushing him forward. The arrogant amusement just makes him smile, and that's sharp, too. He allows the hand skirting along his skin to make its journey, he lets it lift up his shirt as it trails under, he makes no move to stop any of the progress because he wants what Scien wants, and their want together only doubles.
He moves back just a little - just enough to re-situate himself on Scien's lap, and there's a little thrill as he does. He wants to give himself the room to lean down, to rest his lips against the bared expanse of his throat, to run his tongue along the skin there, to taste and explore something new.]
cw throat biting the not sexy kind wipes tears
Lucas leans back and his eyes fall on the sprawling floral pattern of a Reliver tattoo - the Reliver tattoo of the very first Reliver. A mark he's too familiar with. One that finds him in a moment of weakness and want; a finger putting just enough pressure on a mousetrap pad to send the bar snapping down like a guillotine's blade.
The sharp edge of his hunger bursts into the forefront so violently that it's like an explosion, and the want flips on its head into a feeling of purely malicious violence. Scien's experienced it before in the lurking shadow within him, or in the projected internal voice that isn't Lucas's own telling him suffer and die, though never this strongly.
This time, it drives Lucas forward in a bare beat of a heart. He moves with the same lithe, viperous speed, but it's bloodthirst that overrides his sense and sensibility instead of vexing want for a man he still struggles to understand. The hand tangled in Scien's hair pulls sharply at the same time that he's made it close enough to open his mouth, not to pour his affection over the soft skin there with harmless lips, but to sink his sharp teeth into the column of his throat like a true vicious beast, with crushing killing intent and a desire to tear its prey to shreds.]
cw for violence for the rest of the thread (closes eyes)
it's probably a bit ironic, given the way that everyone who wants to kill scien has to work for it. get through the multiple barriers of the institute. defeat him in a fight when his own kicks can break through wall. drag god down to the mortal realm and remove him from earth's plane, at least until his reliver backup kicks in yet again.
scien hasn't needed a reliver in a long time. he hasn't built a system of backups here. even when those fangs dig into flesh for the first, blindingly painful moment, he has just enough mental capacity to think about how if this place didn't refuse to let them all die—this would be scien brofiise's last moments.
and he would've welcomed it, guided it to himself even, with open arms.
shock colors his feelings first. a twist of annoyance, somehow. an utter lack of fear or anger.
sometimes dogs bite.
well he's not about to be a hypocrite and hold it against lucas. but he's also harder to kill than just that, and that genius mind is already thinking about how quickly he'll have to act to save his own life. though the first thing he'll need to do is answer to the threat that's nestled so sweetly in his lap. the hand that was just exploring lucas's body trembles slightly—more out of shock and recoil than anything else—as it reaches to the collection of vials that scien keeps at his belt.
but that's scien's other great mistake.
he'd told lucas ages ago exactly the steps he'd take to incapacitate him before. the signaling is clumsy and obvious in this moment, and scien already knows that his reach will not happen nearly soon enough. even if he doesn't stop trying. not for himself, but because he knows—lucas will regret this later. ]
this is for you yuul apparently
As Scien reaches toward the vials, Lucas reacts faster still, not even the tiniest trace of a tremor in his hand as it snatches Scien's up and then twists hard enough to break bone. A far cry from the tenderness and affection he'd allowed his hands to be held with before, and the warmth and want and hunger that had grown in the shadow of that softness.
At the same time, he twists his head to the side and pulls away again in a rough motion. The only warmth now is the spray of blood and the wetness of tissue and gore that he spits out of his mouth with an airy, gasping laugh, all madness, all salt and iron. It all happens like lightning, just bursts of violence and sharp, decisive movements - the body of a weapon honed to the sharpest edge, carrying out the purpose for which it was created.
But somewhere below it all, something flutters like a bird's broken wing. Something presses against the cage that is Bourreau, wailing as it had done all those years ago, when he first spilled blood and hated himself for it. It's not quite like being possessed, having that full clarity of mind while being pressed into the backseat of his own body - but it's a bit similar. These destructive desires feel so very much like his own, and the compulsion to kill, kill, kill, kill is so deeply ingrained that it feels inseparable from him, and yet... there's a sense of horror creeping up alongside the bloodthirst. A shrill, terrified feeling as his hands fly up to hold the sides of Scien's head in a punishing grip.
It's the dichotomy of Lucas Proust. The bloodied grin of the hostile predator, and the wet blue eyes of the helpless prey.
He leans forward, his heart spilling out its malice and revulsion, its ache and its fright.]
Die, Scien Brofiise.
[And his hands move; a single, quick twist, fast enough to snap that lovely neck as it bleeds and bleeds.]
no subject
people had asked scien here if he is a cyborg, made of metal and wiring the way that boothill is. however, even for all the parts of him that are made of those twists of steel and circuitry, he never wanted to stray from being a human. a pitiful, breakable, fragile human under the hands of bourreau.
an executioner finally fulfilling his mission.
the great irony is that even until the moment that lucas's hands came up to scien's head, scien did not pull away from their interlaced fingers.
the mark of the first reliver bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until the sharp motion of lucas's hands severs all thought. scien's abnormally bright pupils dull ever so slightly. god's visit to the mortal plane, consumed by want and desire, ends in his demise.
scien brofiise is dead. ]
no subject
Then, Lucas moves. It's slow and staccato, compared to the fluid quickness with which he'd taken Scien's life. He moves like a pocket watch ticking back and forward without going anywhere, or a wind-up toy in its last broken run. He eases his hands away from Scien's head and watches as his body slumps forward, as empty as his eyes. It's a sight that should bring the fading forefront of his most vicious self some sort of twisted joy. But in the slip of it all, in the taste of blood on his tongue and the fading warmth he had been surrounded by, he's just left feeling... empty. Lost, yet again. Disoriented, furious, petrified.
It's only now that his sure hands start to tremble as they pull away from Scien and toward himself. He tugs at his hair in his growing agitation, smearing blood through it. Pressure wells up in his chest, spilling out of his mouth in soft, almost confused-sounding noises that crest and grow until he's left sitting on a dead man's lap, screaming and screaming, yanking his hair, covering his ears.
Again, some distant part of him mourns. Again, again - these hands that do nothing but kill have killed yet again. That delicate flower grown deep in the cradle of himself shrieks with the agony of self-inflicted loss, cries for the fool who could do such a thing. He can't stand it. Can't stand to look at Scien's lovely face, at the pool of blood, the mess of his throat, his unmoving body. Can't stand to recall the brush of his hands and lips, the way their fingers had remain intertwined until the very last moment.
He stumbles up somewhere in the mess of everything, no longer consciously present even as the biting blade of Bourreau. He's only aware enough to know that he has to go. He turns to what he always does when his mind isn't working and his heart is in despair: to the cold and ruthless god who has never done anything for him. He leaves streaks of blood along the couch and wall as he staggers to the door and tumbles out into the hall, gasping like he's drowning, driven to seek out the cross that represents a forgiveness he can't grant himself and won't be granted.
He leaves the corpse of a man he'd thought of coming to love just moments ago sitting on the couch in a sterile room, alone.]