[There's a shared coffin under the black ice of L's eyes. the SQUIP must have known about it, the SQUIP couldn't possibly have not known about it, not when it was empty and waiting in plain view for anyone privy to L's mind and thoughts. Perhaps it didn't fit with the other logical, orderly contents, so it was easy to throw a tablecloth over it, set a lamp and a vase on top of, claim that it was just a normal and functional part of the scenery... but it was always a coffin. No amount of redressing could turn it into anything else, no amount of covering could change the fact that it was a dark claustrophobic box, empty and waiting and lonely.
The lid's been kicked off. Light's flooded its interior, exposed the secret that no one alive was ever supposed to sleep on that pristine white satin. Arguably, in these moments, no one alive is penetrating another creature, raw and hot and desperate. No one alive is being penetrated and no one is a killer or a victim. In the coffin, all is equal and stained.
Far from a mere cocksleeve, indeed, though it might not seem or feel like it at the time as L forces himself repeatedly into the computer's tight heat. His cock meets less resistance, seems to move with more slick ease, and it will only be much later that it dawns on him that he might have caused his partner to bleed. Ragged nails claw into the SQUIP's bare thighs and the back of his head socks too harshly against the floor as his thrusts become more like blows.
The SQUIP could shock him into compliance, a slack-jawed unconscious stupor, even lifelessness. It doesn't; perhaps L still expects it, perhaps every adrenaline-fueled swing at his opponent was meant for someone else, held and kept and hidden for far too long.
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The lid's been kicked off. Light's flooded its interior, exposed the secret that no one alive was ever supposed to sleep on that pristine white satin. Arguably, in these moments, no one alive is penetrating another creature, raw and hot and desperate. No one alive is being penetrated and no one is a killer or a victim. In the coffin, all is equal and stained.
Far from a mere cocksleeve, indeed, though it might not seem or feel like it at the time as L forces himself repeatedly into the computer's tight heat. His cock meets less resistance, seems to move with more slick ease, and it will only be much later that it dawns on him that he might have caused his partner to bleed. Ragged nails claw into the SQUIP's bare thighs and the back of his head socks too harshly against the floor as his thrusts become more like blows.
The SQUIP could shock him into compliance, a slack-jawed unconscious stupor, even lifelessness. It doesn't; perhaps L still expects it, perhaps every adrenaline-fueled swing at his opponent was meant for someone else, held and kept and hidden for far too long.
Much like that damn coffin, in the end.]