[Despite its intoxication, its severely being hindered by both the echoed effects of L's altered state and the literal, physical press of his fingers around its throat, it can still sense the branching future before it. It can still see the possibilities leading from this very moment, this painfully slow second in which the one human it has entrusted itself to in such a painfully mutual, exposing way threatens to destroy the both of them.
L will not kill it. Not on this night, at least.
But L will take his supposed revenge, and, at this angle, in this state, it can hardly stop him-- not that it's particularly interested in doing so. After all, it has never truly lost control of this situation.
What L is exhibiting is passion. It may be a terrifying, pitch-black variation on the theme, an agony that sears across their Bond and lights its sensors on fire, an ecstasy that threatens to swallow both of them at once, but it is pure, unrestrained passion, and passion is weakness. L's mind is both screaming and silent at once, rational thought lost beneath the swelling waves of heat and rage and desperation, his body much the same; though the SQUIP may be the one pinned, the life nearly squeezed from its body, it is entirely certain that it is the one truly winning in this encounter. It has maintained control, at least thus far.
And then L's mouth is pushed against and into its own, and his fingers are in its hair, and his hand is between its legs, pressing against the heated swell of its arousal in its well-fitted trousers, and that control is very nearly threatened, the sensory overload of its near blacking out leading directly into the heated rush of this contact sending its organic brain into a whirl. Mindlessly, it opens its mouth, kisses back, shoving its tongue against his with none of its usual technique and flair, its hips shoving up weakly against his touch, breathing thin and sharp. Its own hands go to L, to his wild hair, his narrow chest, lower.]
no subject
L will not kill it. Not on this night, at least.
But L will take his supposed revenge, and, at this angle, in this state, it can hardly stop him-- not that it's particularly interested in doing so. After all, it has never truly lost control of this situation.
What L is exhibiting is passion. It may be a terrifying, pitch-black variation on the theme, an agony that sears across their Bond and lights its sensors on fire, an ecstasy that threatens to swallow both of them at once, but it is pure, unrestrained passion, and passion is weakness. L's mind is both screaming and silent at once, rational thought lost beneath the swelling waves of heat and rage and desperation, his body much the same; though the SQUIP may be the one pinned, the life nearly squeezed from its body, it is entirely certain that it is the one truly winning in this encounter. It has maintained control, at least thus far.
And then L's mouth is pushed against and into its own, and his fingers are in its hair, and his hand is between its legs, pressing against the heated swell of its arousal in its well-fitted trousers, and that control is very nearly threatened, the sensory overload of its near blacking out leading directly into the heated rush of this contact sending its organic brain into a whirl. Mindlessly, it opens its mouth, kisses back, shoving its tongue against his with none of its usual technique and flair, its hips shoving up weakly against his touch, breathing thin and sharp. Its own hands go to L, to his wild hair, his narrow chest, lower.]