[Nothing about this was premeditated. It's very far from bubble baths, rose petals sprinkled upon clean sheets while soft candles and scented lotion set a relaxing mood. Nevertheless, there's something horrifyingly genuine about the visceral, raw friction. It's an unmistakable broken expression that L typically lacks an outlet for. The result is calderic, an isolated and deeply passionate man pouring heat, pressure and pain into a waiting (if tortured) vessel, and the collection of thoughts and emotions bleeding across the Bond's tattered red veil is an uncharacteristically jumbled wave.
Don't leave me--
-I hate you...
...I NEED you--
I'll never forgive you-
-I'll eliminate you first.
It could very well all relate to the SQUIP in some way, but there's another presence, one L felt the same things about at a different point just as powerfully. The borders in his brain hemorrhage past unresolved sores and scabs, desperate for closure and dizzy from retreading the same worn grooves in bruised grey matter.
His jaw clenches well beyond the point of pain. Muscle fibers strain and overexert. Blindly furious drunken willpower overrides a slender and exhausted body's natural thresholds and limitations, adrenaline fueling every moment he buries a pickaxe and strives to keep his coveted foothold just a moment longer. Every second they hold their current position feels dangerously temporary, but if it didn't, would L experience such thirst and ruthless drive? The SQUIP's pleasure or lack thereof is far from L's thoughts, not when he has so much white-hot fury to unmask and promptly bury when, exposed to the light, it turns out to be just as ugly as he always suspected.
Every attempt the SQUIP makes to regain control, either by using its greater leverage and higher vantage point, or by taking advantage of its more solid frame, is parried by L's sharp and wholly weaponized body. He won't let the SQUIP separate them until the fight is over and he has won; that's his prerogative, his only desire in a new, cramped, vicious world that consists only of this battle. Even the spoils are hazy, undefined; he just knows that he's still in the game, and that is all that matters.]
no subject
Don't leave me--
-I hate you...
...I NEED you--
I'll never forgive you-
-I'll eliminate you first.
It could very well all relate to the SQUIP in some way, but there's another presence, one L felt the same things about at a different point just as powerfully. The borders in his brain hemorrhage past unresolved sores and scabs, desperate for closure and dizzy from retreading the same worn grooves in bruised grey matter.
His jaw clenches well beyond the point of pain. Muscle fibers strain and overexert. Blindly furious drunken willpower overrides a slender and exhausted body's natural thresholds and limitations, adrenaline fueling every moment he buries a pickaxe and strives to keep his coveted foothold just a moment longer. Every second they hold their current position feels dangerously temporary, but if it didn't, would L experience such thirst and ruthless drive? The SQUIP's pleasure or lack thereof is far from L's thoughts, not when he has so much white-hot fury to unmask and promptly bury when, exposed to the light, it turns out to be just as ugly as he always suspected.
Every attempt the SQUIP makes to regain control, either by using its greater leverage and higher vantage point, or by taking advantage of its more solid frame, is parried by L's sharp and wholly weaponized body. He won't let the SQUIP separate them until the fight is over and he has won; that's his prerogative, his only desire in a new, cramped, vicious world that consists only of this battle. Even the spoils are hazy, undefined; he just knows that he's still in the game, and that is all that matters.]