I know myself. The goal is all that there is. Isn't that why you thought we could be a good team?
[His words would sound dry, even sardonic, if he wasn't struggling to keep up with a rapidly deteriorating state of sobriety. It was too much, way too fast.
Without grace or coordination, he tries to pull himself out from under the SQUIP.]
I'm not like Rich. I'm not even like a human. There is a task, and a calling, and if you die and hurt me I can't focus on it. I find that very tedious, you know. Frustrating, loud.
[He pushes against the SQUIP more insistently, though he's tiring swiftly, and it's clear.]
I had to experience death, too. I didn't want it any more than you do. I had to...
[A series of blurred images spill across the Bond like a dropped photo album-- pain, the face of the man who killed it.
The SQUIP's goal of revenge... the act it craved revenge for.
Too much-- panic, overwhelming, heated fingers that stroke and ply well after it wants them to stop, utter helpless distress as it can't regain control of its body, its muscles shaking within--
It gasps softly, pulling away from L. It knows he saw. Its hand rubs its jaw, its gaze pointing at a corner, almost shameful for having shared such a humiliating moment with L of a people.]
[Their Bond was distorted in the dream, not at the strength it should have been until the wave of nausea, disorientation, and pain that represented the cessation of the SQUIP's life. The details had seeped into the ground in fast-time, coffin liquor boiling through a fever, and only now, the details emerge.
L stares at the blank ceiling to better see it, now that it's been laid bare, once the SQUIP has relieved him of the weight pressing down on his chest. He squints, reconciling revulsion and unease and shock, struggling to find balance while the room just spins.]
You didn't...
[He's barely coherent. He doesn't know if the part of his brain that records memories is drowning too deeply in alcohol for him to recall this later; the effort to think through the mire is tremendous.]
Yes, you... did have to, didn't you?
[He presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids until stars spark and dance in the darkness. Even the ceiling is too distracting, now, for him to focus on what the Bond inadvertently betrayed, and he must focus.]
You didn't have to go it alone. It would have been better, if you hadn't. You might not have died.
[It didn't need his help. Except, apparently... perhaps it did. But it tilts its head at him, a flushed, dizzy kind of annoyance growing across its face.
It sighs, leaning in to press its forehead against his-- one of those gestures born of the Bond, a drive for closeness that it has no strength to resist in this moment.]
Had you come, he... you would have just died with me. It wouldn't... help anyone.
[L's head is shaking restlessly back and forth, in immediate rejection and denial, at the SQUIP's claim that it can take care of itself. He's soothed by the contact between their foreheads; though he didn't act on it, the drive is equally powerful for him to seek closeness. His movements slow, and then grow still. He can hear his pulse thrumming in his ears.]
You... don't know that. If he took your control away from you, I would have given it back.
[That's their understanding, their dynamic. It should really go without saying.]
[Its voice is heated, though it isn't sure why. It's an absurd suggestion. How would he restore its control in that situation? He struck it with an utterly agonizing, fatal blow; it knew L was incapable of healing magic, or at least so unskilled with it that he may as well be incapable.
It reaches up to hold his face, a drunken, half-angry gesture.]
[L was drunk already when the SQUIP came in, and his blood alcohol level only continues to rise. He is an overachiever by nature, and he set out to drink heavily; he succeeded far too well. Breathing feels like something he has to think about, an annoying effort. His brow is clammy as the room just continues to spin. Speaking about control when it is actually spiraling away from him in these moments is almost laughable.]
You know that I solve problems. If I'd been there, it wouldn't have gone far enough for you to lose control of the situation in the first place.
[This is a problem. One he created, and one he's currently in no condition to solve.]
Oh, yes, problem solving. You're doing such a good job of that.
[Rational thought is getting hard. As is remaining upright. It has to brace itself on the couch behind L to keep its head up, though it's still somewhat difficult; it frowns hard at him, knowing that it isn't making sense and is letting its temper take control, but a little too far-gone by this point to drag itself out of this.
It feels sick.
It ends up laying over, half-slumping against L and the couch, but it pushes at his face in irritation.]
[L pushes the SQUIP's hand away from his face, with more force than he really intended. Ordinarily, "fool" is the only insult he could absolutely dismiss, knowing it to be untrue, but he has in fact behaved foolishly.
What the hell else does he have besides his mind? The weight of his body seems stapled to the floor.]
Did you fail to see this potential outcome or did you just ignore it?
[It reaches out again, touching his bony shoulder; and then it issues a zap of electricity through him, a sharp, sudden jolt not big enough to cause any true harm, but enough to hurt.]
[At first, in his declining and dim awareness, L barely notices the touch, registers it as nothing more than his Bonded's continued draw towards physicality and touch... but then a jolt of electric pain stabs through him in branching tendrils. It knocks the wind out of him; for a second, all he can do is breathe rapidly and shallowly as he recovers, a subtle tremor skittering through muscles that are slow to respond to an alcohol-drenched brain's commands.]
You...
[Dark, reproachful eyes regard the SQUIP with wholehearted contempt, but there's something else there, too. A balanced equation, that peace, that reassurance that things are going exactly the way they're supposed to.
He swallows thickly, extending a hand toward the SQUIP.]
[It rolls off of him, staring at him with half-glazed eyes; its gaze is both furious and confused, and the signals it gets from their Bond are confusing and confused, dancing dazedly in hazy forms. It can't make heads or tails of what he's thinking-- what it's thinking? What they're both thinking.
It certainly does want to indulge him, however. Small prickles of tingling heat dance over the place where it still touches his shoulder, the static beginnings of another shock.]
[L's response to the SQUIP moving away, even just a little, is reaching out to grasp for its shirt, its wrist, anything within reach just to keep it nearby. If it wanders, after all, it could leave again. It could put unwanted and terrifying distance between them, and not only are they Bonded, they agreed to an arrangement. The SQUIP is meant to help him, the SQUIP is meant to work on him. His goals are their goals.
He props himself up on his elbows, glowering petulantly.]
You're dissatisfied with my behavior... so do what you do and correct it.
[He yanks insistently on whatever he's managed to grab.]
[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.
[The SQUIP is knocked down easily, its ability to make predictions entirely thrown by the intoxication-- it wasn't expecting him to make such a motion, and it knocks the wind from it for a moment, nearly paralyzing the machine in shock and pain.
Pain is, of course, still a relatively new sensation for the SQUIP; it only feels it every once in a great while, and typically only in small amounts. This time, its ribs sting, and it lays there for a moment, attempting to catch its breath.]
... Linden... hh.
[It finally does manage to take a decent breath after a moment, and it picks itself up...
... and throws a hand out to strike L with yet another bolt of electricity, this one a punishment.]
Do not attack me. We're working together, no matter how... upset you let yourself get.
[The SQUIP's hand catches L full in the chest, the shock radiating through it in a percussive and vicious blow. He topples backward, coughing, planting his hands in front of him once he's righted himself in a tense crouch. He resembles a wild animal, injured, wary and seething.
For a moment, he imagines how much more beautiful the SQUIP's neck would be if his hands were wrapped around it, squeezing.]
Shut the hell up.
[His head lowers, eyes narrow to focus the drunken blur.]
That's not my name. You know it, so use it if you want me to care what you have to say.
[Linden, after all, is a lie. Linden is the flimsy mask he wears in this unfamiliar world, like so many masks he wore in his. L is true; L is a privilege.
He stands, and the look he gives his Bonded is imperious, derisive. He reaches down for the front of the AI's coat, pulling it to its feet, bringing their faces close and staring down at his shorter partner.]
[It stares at L silently, its gaze dark and unsteady, despite the aching in its body, the way its senses are reeling.
How dare he. How dare this human behave this way?
It's quiet a moment longer, gathering itself...
... and then it hauls back and aims a punch directly at L's face.
It's much more brute force than it generally prefers to be, but L has hurt and challenged it, and it has had quite enough of his petty jealousy and terrible ideas.]
[The punch is packed with power, not only from the SQUIP's well-conditioned body, but from the anger behind it. It hits L in the cheekbone and snaps his head halfway around his neck, but he doesn't let go, meaning that the SQUIP goes right down with him. He uses the inertia to turn, ensuring that the SQUIP lands on its back and breaks his own fall.
He's shaking, reeling; the pale skin over his cheekbone is already swollen and promising a hideous bruise. But his grip has only tightened, and now it is around the SQUIP's throat.]
I can't hear you.
[L's body moves against the SQUIP's; the motion is a practical one, meant to hold its struggling body more steadily in place and prevent retaliation, but the grinding contact makes him realize that this has become an unexpected catalyst for an even more unexpected reaction. He's hard against the AI's thigh; he could plunge into it like a knife, saw it in half, come in the crater left behind, and the thought only makes his arousal throb in wolfish anticipation.]
[Its lips part soundlessly as his grip suddenly wraps around its throat, its gaze dark and unfocused; but there's no true panic bleeding across their Bond, no worry that L might just snap and actually harm it here. Not irreversibly, not when they're so connected, when it can feel his intentions and hear his thoughts.
It can feel his arousal-- not only physically where it pushes against it, but in a liquid heat that spills across their Bond, affecting its own body in turn. The dueling sensations of pain, of dizziness and growing illness, paired with the heat that has suddenly settled heavy in its stomach, leaves it breathless and weak for a moment, pinned beneath L's slight weight, an incredibly rare moment of near-helplessness.
Its jaw drops open, and it gathers its breath; its voice is nearly a hiss, its handsome features all harsh, pained lines and the deep flush of beating blood beneath the skin.]
[Perhaps L wants the panic; perhaps he knows innately, even in these primal and dark moments, that to crush the windpipe or compress the carotid artery for too long is visiting a world of devastation not only on his Bonded, but on himself. That's the kill switch, the absolute insanity of turning on one's Bonded, because it's nothing short of self-destruction. Then again... L's never shied away from behaviors emulating just that, adding an ambiguous, sick thrill to it all. Surely, he wouldn't... but what if he would? L's still waters are dark and roiling tonight, and the snapping point he's reached predictably tilts more violent and extreme than what many humans would exercise.
Maybe he and Rich do have something in common, though they're funhouse mirror versions of each other. Rich snapped because his SQUIP pushed him too far; L snapped because he feels neglected by his, and now, feeling the undeniable power and control over the AI, he has no doubt that the thing is thinking of nothing else, no one else.
Good.
He doesn't entirely release his grip on the SQUIP's neck, nor does he particularly loosen it. But their eyes lock, and it's an isolated universe in itself, because the SQUIP is saying that name, his name, in full. How long has it been since he's heard it on anyone's lips, at all? Somewhere at his core that's been dying for a long time shudders; his own breathing is shallow, restricted by the hands around the SQUIP's throat as he pants and presses against the computer's tense and well-muscled thigh. When his vision is starting to darken, his heart pounding in his chest and his lust threatening to spill over in an intense and overwhelming wave, he finally lets his hands loosen... but instead of dropping at their side to revel in escaping the close call, they answer a different call.
They're not, after all, finished.
L's mouth presses hotly over the SQUIP's, as though determined to steal back the breath he'd almost taken from both of them. One hand grips and pulls the AI's hair, holding its head in place; the other slides down to press into its groin.]
[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.]
[L's cheek is singing with pain. His throat aches through the Bond, and his breath comes in short, shallow puffs against the SQUIP's face. He feels alive, though. His blood is fire, his skin is clear water, and the clash drives steel and hail against his ribs. Like any hungry thing that's been starved for too long, he can't refuse being in a position to take, and his kisses are a bruising mash of lips and teeth. He won't kill it, but he'll leave it looking like it's been through Hell. He'll know that it has, because they went together, limping alongside one another like a battered Dante and Virgil into the yawning abyss.
It's not clear to L who is Dante, and who is Virgil. Someone is being led, and someone is following, but that's wildly ungrounded at present. The SQUIP even seems unsure, and the SQUIP is always sure. He yanks the machine's pants down around its hips, followed by his own, not remembering removing his partner's belt but feeling it doubled and clenched in his left hand. Shifting his hips, he presses against the SQUIP, wrapping his right hand around both their cocks like a noose.
Their struggle has resulted in sweat, but it's paltry lubrication. The pulling and plying could be far more comfortable, but the added friction certainly matches the mood well enough. ]
[It doesn't know what L is doing, it can't keep track of their shared thoughts anymore, but it feels itself exposed to air--
--and then there is heat, skin beating against it there, friction sending whitehot sparks over its skin and a veil of grey over its vision as it gasps wetly against, into L's mouth. It tries to fight back-- to gain some kind of ground back, its blunt teeth finding the delicate skin of his lip roughly and sinking into it, fingernails scraping L's scalp and biting into his side as it grasps, white-knuckled, at him.
-- and then the fingers at his side tingle against him, before the sensation erupts, another pointed jolt spreading over L's lanky frame, though whether the intention is to fight, to punish, or something else entirely is unclear.]
[It's not the time for fighting. L both resists and welcomes it, nevertheless. He pulls back sharply at the bite, initially but ultimately responds by squeezing both their members more resolutely in his hand, grinding and sinking more deeply into every little attempt at dominance the SQUIP tries to inflict on him.
In any game of chess, the avatar for the player, the mastermind, is the King. L won't be challenged like this. Every ounce of pain and breathless wound is a reminder that he would not be attacked unless he was in control, and he relishes the prickling admissions.
Then the SQUIP shocks him again. This time, the harsh electric tendrils radiate throughout a body already taxed and trembling, with every muscle tensing to cling to what power they've managed to secure thus far. It's intense; L lets go, crumpling to the side in a fetal position. If the SQUIP wants a chance to shove him to the ground and teach him the meaning of submission, this is it...
Otherwise, L will be glad to test that definition himself the moment he recovers, regroups.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[His words would sound dry, even sardonic, if he wasn't struggling to keep up with a rapidly deteriorating state of sobriety. It was too much, way too fast.
Without grace or coordination, he tries to pull himself out from under the SQUIP.]
I'm not like Rich. I'm not even like a human. There is a task, and a calling, and if you die and hurt me I can't focus on it. I find that very tedious, you know. Frustrating, loud.
[He pushes against the SQUIP more insistently, though he's tiring swiftly, and it's clear.]
Let me up.
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[A series of blurred images spill across the Bond like a dropped photo album-- pain, the face of the man who killed it.
The SQUIP's goal of revenge... the act it craved revenge for.
Too much-- panic, overwhelming, heated fingers that stroke and ply well after it wants them to stop, utter helpless distress as it can't regain control of its body, its muscles shaking within--
It gasps softly, pulling away from L. It knows he saw. Its hand rubs its jaw, its gaze pointing at a corner, almost shameful for having shared such a humiliating moment with L of a people.]
... I had to punish him.
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L stares at the blank ceiling to better see it, now that it's been laid bare, once the SQUIP has relieved him of the weight pressing down on his chest. He squints, reconciling revulsion and unease and shock, struggling to find balance while the room just spins.]
You didn't...
[He's barely coherent. He doesn't know if the part of his brain that records memories is drowning too deeply in alcohol for him to recall this later; the effort to think through the mire is tremendous.]
Yes, you... did have to, didn't you?
[He presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids until stars spark and dance in the darkness. Even the ceiling is too distracting, now, for him to focus on what the Bond inadvertently betrayed, and he must focus.]
You didn't have to go it alone. It would have been better, if you hadn't. You might not have died.
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[It didn't need his help. Except, apparently... perhaps it did. But it tilts its head at him, a flushed, dizzy kind of annoyance growing across its face.
It sighs, leaning in to press its forehead against his-- one of those gestures born of the Bond, a drive for closeness that it has no strength to resist in this moment.]
Had you come, he... you would have just died with me. It wouldn't... help anyone.
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You... don't know that. If he took your control away from you, I would have given it back.
[That's their understanding, their dynamic. It should really go without saying.]
It would have helped.
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[Its voice is heated, though it isn't sure why. It's an absurd suggestion. How would he restore its control in that situation? He struck it with an utterly agonizing, fatal blow; it knew L was incapable of healing magic, or at least so unskilled with it that he may as well be incapable.
It reaches up to hold his face, a drunken, half-angry gesture.]
You couldn't.
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You know that I solve problems. If I'd been there, it wouldn't have gone far enough for you to lose control of the situation in the first place.
[This is a problem. One he created, and one he's currently in no condition to solve.]
no subject
[Rational thought is getting hard. As is remaining upright. It has to brace itself on the couch behind L to keep its head up, though it's still somewhat difficult; it frowns hard at him, knowing that it isn't making sense and is letting its temper take control, but a little too far-gone by this point to drag itself out of this.
It feels sick.
It ends up laying over, half-slumping against L and the couch, but it pushes at his face in irritation.]
Fool.
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What the hell else does he have besides his mind? The weight of his body seems stapled to the floor.]
Did you fail to see this potential outcome or did you just ignore it?
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[It reaches out again, touching his bony shoulder; and then it issues a zap of electricity through him, a sharp, sudden jolt not big enough to cause any true harm, but enough to hurt.]
no subject
You...
[Dark, reproachful eyes regard the SQUIP with wholehearted contempt, but there's something else there, too. A balanced equation, that peace, that reassurance that things are going exactly the way they're supposed to.
He swallows thickly, extending a hand toward the SQUIP.]
You were wrong.
Do it again.
no subject
[It rolls off of him, staring at him with half-glazed eyes; its gaze is both furious and confused, and the signals it gets from their Bond are confusing and confused, dancing dazedly in hazy forms. It can't make heads or tails of what he's thinking-- what it's thinking? What they're both thinking.
It certainly does want to indulge him, however. Small prickles of tingling heat dance over the place where it still touches his shoulder, the static beginnings of another shock.]
no subject
He props himself up on his elbows, glowering petulantly.]
You're dissatisfied with my behavior... so do what you do and correct it.
[He yanks insistently on whatever he's managed to grab.]
Improve me. Or you're no use to me.
no subject
As you wish.
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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.
no subject
Pain is, of course, still a relatively new sensation for the SQUIP; it only feels it every once in a great while, and typically only in small amounts. This time, its ribs sting, and it lays there for a moment, attempting to catch its breath.]
... Linden... hh.
[It finally does manage to take a decent breath after a moment, and it picks itself up...
... and throws a hand out to strike L with yet another bolt of electricity, this one a punishment.]
Do not attack me. We're working together, no matter how... upset you let yourself get.
no subject
For a moment, he imagines how much more beautiful the SQUIP's neck would be if his hands were wrapped around it, squeezing.]
Shut the hell up.
[His head lowers, eyes narrow to focus the drunken blur.]
That's not my name. You know it, so use it if you want me to care what you have to say.
[Linden, after all, is a lie. Linden is the flimsy mask he wears in this unfamiliar world, like so many masks he wore in his. L is true; L is a privilege.
He stands, and the look he gives his Bonded is imperious, derisive. He reaches down for the front of the AI's coat, pulling it to its feet, bringing their faces close and staring down at his shorter partner.]
Do you want to remind me why I care?
no subject
How dare he. How dare this human behave this way?
It's quiet a moment longer, gathering itself...
... and then it hauls back and aims a punch directly at L's face.
It's much more brute force than it generally prefers to be, but L has hurt and challenged it, and it has had quite enough of his petty jealousy and terrible ideas.]
L.
[The name, the letter, is very nearly spat.]
no subject
He's shaking, reeling; the pale skin over his cheekbone is already swollen and promising a hideous bruise. But his grip has only tightened, and now it is around the SQUIP's throat.]
I can't hear you.
[L's body moves against the SQUIP's; the motion is a practical one, meant to hold its struggling body more steadily in place and prevent retaliation, but the grinding contact makes him realize that this has become an unexpected catalyst for an even more unexpected reaction. He's hard against the AI's thigh; he could plunge into it like a knife, saw it in half, come in the crater left behind, and the thought only makes his arousal throb in wolfish anticipation.]
no subject
It can feel his arousal-- not only physically where it pushes against it, but in a liquid heat that spills across their Bond, affecting its own body in turn. The dueling sensations of pain, of dizziness and growing illness, paired with the heat that has suddenly settled heavy in its stomach, leaves it breathless and weak for a moment, pinned beneath L's slight weight, an incredibly rare moment of near-helplessness.
Its jaw drops open, and it gathers its breath; its voice is nearly a hiss, its handsome features all harsh, pained lines and the deep flush of beating blood beneath the skin.]
L. Lawliet.
no subject
Maybe he and Rich do have something in common, though they're funhouse mirror versions of each other. Rich snapped because his SQUIP pushed him too far; L snapped because he feels neglected by his, and now, feeling the undeniable power and control over the AI, he has no doubt that the thing is thinking of nothing else, no one else.
Good.
He doesn't entirely release his grip on the SQUIP's neck, nor does he particularly loosen it. But their eyes lock, and it's an isolated universe in itself, because the SQUIP is saying that name, his name, in full. How long has it been since he's heard it on anyone's lips, at all? Somewhere at his core that's been dying for a long time shudders; his own breathing is shallow, restricted by the hands around the SQUIP's throat as he pants and presses against the computer's tense and well-muscled thigh. When his vision is starting to darken, his heart pounding in his chest and his lust threatening to spill over in an intense and overwhelming wave, he finally lets his hands loosen... but instead of dropping at their side to revel in escaping the close call, they answer a different call.
They're not, after all, finished.
L's mouth presses hotly over the SQUIP's, as though determined to steal back the breath he'd almost taken from both of them. One hand grips and pulls the AI's hair, holding its head in place; the other slides down to press into its groin.]
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.]
no subject
It's not clear to L who is Dante, and who is Virgil. Someone is being led, and someone is following, but that's wildly ungrounded at present. The SQUIP even seems unsure, and the SQUIP is always sure. He yanks the machine's pants down around its hips, followed by his own, not remembering removing his partner's belt but feeling it doubled and clenched in his left hand. Shifting his hips, he presses against the SQUIP, wrapping his right hand around both their cocks like a noose.
Their struggle has resulted in sweat, but it's paltry lubrication. The pulling and plying could be far more comfortable, but the added friction certainly matches the mood well enough. ]
no subject
--and then there is heat, skin beating against it there, friction sending whitehot sparks over its skin and a veil of grey over its vision as it gasps wetly against, into L's mouth. It tries to fight back-- to gain some kind of ground back, its blunt teeth finding the delicate skin of his lip roughly and sinking into it, fingernails scraping L's scalp and biting into his side as it grasps, white-knuckled, at him.
-- and then the fingers at his side tingle against him, before the sensation erupts, another pointed jolt spreading over L's lanky frame, though whether the intention is to fight, to punish, or something else entirely is unclear.]
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In any game of chess, the avatar for the player, the mastermind, is the King. L won't be challenged like this. Every ounce of pain and breathless wound is a reminder that he would not be attacked unless he was in control, and he relishes the prickling admissions.
Then the SQUIP shocks him again. This time, the harsh electric tendrils radiate throughout a body already taxed and trembling, with every muscle tensing to cling to what power they've managed to secure thus far. It's intense; L lets go, crumpling to the side in a fetal position. If the SQUIP wants a chance to shove him to the ground and teach him the meaning of submission, this is it...
Otherwise, L will be glad to test that definition himself the moment he recovers, regroups.]
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