[L feels the heavy, sharp stab of his own cock through the Bond, from the SQUIP's anguished perspective. It only fuels him, his desire just as masochistic as it could be sadistic. It idles in the middle, blind and thrashing, not actually bringing him closer to satisfaction.
Can anything...? Well, yes. The coffin wants a body. The coffin wants two.
His heart pounds; his limbs will be sore and stiff tomorrow, muscles fatigued beyond a reasonable strain. As he continues to grapple, attempt to keep the SQUIP's body joined to his in a greedy mad frenzy, something shifts as the SQUIP attempts to move, and suddenly, his thrusts are having a very different effect on the computer. Suddenly, it isn't just pain; there are tendrils and sparks of pleasure that start as pinpricks and then ramp up to a forceful deluge, and the SQUIP comes violently and, even to its Bonded, unexpectedly. The fit that grips it is startling and fascinating to watch, and L's fingers clutch more tightly at an unearthly vocalization, and he can only wonder if he has actually slain the beast.
There's a hazy, dim pause as the SQUIP slumps over him, sweat and cum gripping at their hips and stomachs and thighs. L draws his hands back up, bracing against the SQUIP's shoulders, straining to shove the other body off of his and pulling away... but a hissed reminder grips at his brain stem. They're not finished. He might be tired, the SQUIP might be spent, he might have technically won this, but it doesn't seem like it'll quite be done until he has successfully added insult to injury.
God he wants to. He pulls himself toward the SQUIP again, climbing atop its facedown form, bracing a wrist against the back of its neck. He's utterly silent, save for the shallow, winded chuffs of breath, as he guides himself with his other hand, sheaths himself wholly, moves with the careful, practiced deliberation of someone who might as well be using his own hand in complete privacy. L is not a masturbator, ordinarily, but now, he absolutely uses his partner's spent body as a cocksleeve, panting and pushing against the toned ass and feeling the way his preferred pace strokes him to a building crescendo. L's most attuned to his own gratification when an opponent has been felled, and he knows his climax, feels it coming as something crafted and formed and planned for. He tenses and groans as he fills the coffin, finally, and when his senses fade and he pitches into darkness, it's actually something like peace.]
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Can anything...? Well, yes. The coffin wants a body. The coffin wants two.
His heart pounds; his limbs will be sore and stiff tomorrow, muscles fatigued beyond a reasonable strain. As he continues to grapple, attempt to keep the SQUIP's body joined to his in a greedy mad frenzy, something shifts as the SQUIP attempts to move, and suddenly, his thrusts are having a very different effect on the computer. Suddenly, it isn't just pain; there are tendrils and sparks of pleasure that start as pinpricks and then ramp up to a forceful deluge, and the SQUIP comes violently and, even to its Bonded, unexpectedly. The fit that grips it is startling and fascinating to watch, and L's fingers clutch more tightly at an unearthly vocalization, and he can only wonder if he has actually slain the beast.
There's a hazy, dim pause as the SQUIP slumps over him, sweat and cum gripping at their hips and stomachs and thighs. L draws his hands back up, bracing against the SQUIP's shoulders, straining to shove the other body off of his and pulling away... but a hissed reminder grips at his brain stem. They're not finished. He might be tired, the SQUIP might be spent, he might have technically won this, but it doesn't seem like it'll quite be done until he has successfully added insult to injury.
God he wants to. He pulls himself toward the SQUIP again, climbing atop its facedown form, bracing a wrist against the back of its neck. He's utterly silent, save for the shallow, winded chuffs of breath, as he guides himself with his other hand, sheaths himself wholly, moves with the careful, practiced deliberation of someone who might as well be using his own hand in complete privacy. L is not a masturbator, ordinarily, but now, he absolutely uses his partner's spent body as a cocksleeve, panting and pushing against the toned ass and feeling the way his preferred pace strokes him to a building crescendo. L's most attuned to his own gratification when an opponent has been felled, and he knows his climax, feels it coming as something crafted and formed and planned for. He tenses and groans as he fills the coffin, finally, and when his senses fade and he pitches into darkness, it's actually something like peace.]