[It's just as painful, but it's expected, this time. L doesn't take pleasure in it, precisely, that's the wrong word... but it leaves him feeling cleaner, somehow. Everything that comes after, the absence of pain as the room continues to tilt and he drinks in the now-familiar scent of a partner with goals of its own, is clearer than clean water. Everything from breathing to thinking straight takes less effort.

The arm that had grasped the SQUIP still tingles numbly from the shock's memory. Some would withdraw, put distance between themselves and the source of the pain, but L's eyes are steely and the set of his jaw harsh as he moves with surprising speed for someone in his state of inebriation. He's a martial artist, even if he's a very drunk one, and he's had moments of more agility and grace... but he rolls to sit up and then further to the balls of his feet, planting a sharp knee against the SQUIP's chest and shoving him to the ground.

L's light, and even now he feels fragile... but as inebriated and breathless as he is, he knows just how to lean every ounce of his slight weight into pure concentrated digging pressure.]

You... want to finish what you start. When you start something with me. You can't just throw me away, it doesn't work like that. Love has nothing to do with it; our task comes first, and your copulatory impulses come second.