[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.]
[The SQUIP lays there for a moment, shuddering, its breathing loud and ragged; it rolls itself over, trying to collect itself, to gather its breath despite everything it just experienced. Its body is reeling and head spinning, the floor seeming to shift beneath it as it tries to pick itself up; but it manages.
It pushes L over, rolling him onto his back, and then grabs a fistful of his hair, pulling him up to a sitting position; its other hand goes to its cock, and guides it to push against L's lips, an utterly crude and dominant gesture.
It is the one leading this relationship.
It is the one doing the teaching, the telling. L's place is to do what he's instructed.
[It's a race. L knows as he struggles to catch his breath, gather his strength, pull himself together so that he can pick up where he left off. But the nervous system is comprised of enough electricity that it's a little more complicated than just willing it; one moment, he's too weak to push himself up; the next, he has the strength, but only in his legs.
He senses movement in his peripheral vision. If his lips were able to form words, yet, they would curse, because the SQUIP is beating him. His shoulder blades stab into the floor, his inhalation is ragged and resentful as the machine drags him up by his unruly hair to push its cock into a slack and utterly vulnerable mouth.
He gags, nearly chokes. His throat tries to close and reject the intrusion, and there's a moment of blank panic, desperate grasping for recourse. It takes the form of reaching for purchase, grasping one of the SQUIP's well-muscled ass-cheeks, and creeping two long fingers towards a cleft and an opening (perhaps the original goal), plunging and pressing.
If the SQUIP has an issue with it, perhaps it should reflect on the mercy that is its drunk partner not biting while he's being face-fucked.]
[The sickly, wet sound of L gagging gives it some kind of disgustingly human satisfaction; he's paying for his insolence, for his ungratefulness.
As well he should. This is what he deserves.
It begins to move, to shift its hips against his gasping mouth--
-- and then L's fingers are there, invading its body dry and unannounced, and the sensation is painful, and punished with a very brief touch of a zap-- not enough to send L down to the floor again, but more like the painful result of static electricity. A warning to watch what he's doing.]
[To call this any form of lovemaking would be nothing short of a hideous joke. The SQUIP's repeated violations aren't quite bruising and painful... but they aren't gentle or careful, either. This is meant to send a message, before even the SQUIP's own gratification: it is in control, and it won't suffer insubordination, and any effort to usurp its control will be punished swiftly and severely.
His neck and cheeks burn with the indignity of it... but he still doesn't bite. There is still, ultimately, a partner who is willing at the other end of the SQUIP's thrusts. It was a good move, even if won by playing dirty. L will give the machine its gratification as it callously uses his mouth, and in fact adjusts and shifts so that it is more tolerable, doesn't hurt quite as much.
One concession he doesn't make is retracting his fingers. If anything, they dig deeper, especially when the SQUIP shocks him again, curling against the muscle's warmth and texture.]
[Its body buckles as those fingers dig and stretch and pull, its body wound too tight with anger and the effort to remain upright for such a penetration; the ache deepens, and yet the heat spreading across their Bond only intensifies, the machine's heated cock twitching against L's tongue and fingers tightening further in his hair, threatening to tear the dark locks out by the roots.
It hisses through its teeth, fucking his mouth roughly, blood beating in its ears so that it drowns out anything else but the sound of its own breathing.]
[For the moment, L is immobilized like a bug writhing, all pin and no ether. His throat is raw, increasingly so with each hungry spiteful push, and he can't breathe, can't even see given the throttling his skull is currently being subjected to. Perhaps this is his just desserts for choking the SQUIP with his hands, and there's no room to complain for what amounts to an eye for an eye... especially when his fingers are sheathed in the computer's ass, and every movement buries them deeper.
His throat opens out of necessity, his gag reflex only serving to lavish the SQUIP with more squeezing, more service as it pumps and pants against his face. The SQUIP is able to complete three or four thrusts with so little resistance that it seems as though perhaps its partner has given up or even passed out, but L's leg has crept into a position he can use. When it seems as though the SQUIP is distracted by the pursuit of its own climax, he drives a heel against the SQUIP's legs, attempting to topple it so that he can once more fight for dominance.]
[Fortunately for L, the sheer amount of sensory input its alcohol-damaged processors are having to sort through at the moment is such that he is able to catch it by surprise. It wobbles, and then entirely collapses, dragging L with it-- it never releases the fingers in his hair, though they do loosen with its surprise.
It snarls at him, a vocalization entirely unsuited to the typically calm, suave machine; but there is very little machine at all left within it at this moment. The body it wears has taken control, and the emotion underneath, its outrage at someone who had seemed so determined for it to serve its intended purpose now attempting to force it into submission, is too much for it to bear.
It tries to right itself again, to pick itself up on the couch's edge, but it's too uncoordinated to make it very far.]
[The collapse does dislodge L's fingers, and there's a moment of uncertain sick spinning before they settle, and he coughs and gasps and seizes for what he can hold, and take and so much of his body is fire and pain.
It's still got him by the hair, and he can't shake it free, can't get out from under it. He raises his hand toward his mouth. spitting generously in his palm, slicking his cock while the SQUIP snarls and reels, and he shifts his position below it while it attempts to right itself, taking full advantage of its faltering and its uncoordinated wobbles.
He shoves his hips upward, attempting to pull the dragon down upon his waiting spear.]
[It struggles against him, pushing and flailing gracelessly, shoving at his skinny frame while attempting to catch itself, and then--
-- and then there's a sharp spike of heat and friction driven into it all at once, and it's as though the pain shoots directly up its spine and into the back of its skull. Its entire frame stiffens, arching atop him, mismatched and reddened eyes wide and soft lips parting as its jaw hangs open silently, for just a beat.]
-- hhah...!
[It hurts. Every inch of its insides that his intrusion drags over is burning. It's nearly a paralyzing sensation, yet...
... between them, its cock throbs almost visibly, the slightest dripping of fluid escaping over the blood-flushed skin.]
[L takes a moment to catch his breath, the sudden vicelike grip of the machine's body around his an intoxicating embrace. It requires some adjustment, even as he's compelled to move and work and continue to earn his sorely-won prize. It could be withdrawn at any moment, after all; the SQUIP could issue another shock, leave him stunned and staring, pry open his jaw or turn him over and have any kind of way with him.
It's why taking advantage of these moments is so very critical. His throat aches, his eyes water residually from the shock of the SQUIP's thrusts, but the pressure on his cock is nothing short of delicious. He arches his back to plunge deeper, grips his Bonded's thighs to crush their bodies closer together as he feels a single droplet of warm, viscous fluid pelt his bare stomach.
Try to get up. Do it, so I can pull you down, again, harder.]
[The deep, aching pain and burning friction that spills over the Bond is a sheet of crimson, the SQUIP's breath shuddering and ragged and marked with breathless sounds. It tries closing its eyes, tries to focus inward, its breath hissing through its teeth, but that only blots out its vision and leaves it to focus entirely on the way L seems determined to tear its body apart from inside.
Yet there seems to be something... else just beneath the agony, something that makes it just as difficult for it to fight as the pain-- a growing, rising heat that seems to swell within it. Its legs tremble and rebel as it attempts to get them beneath it, its unsteady balance and confused senses making it even more difficult to steady itself... particularly as, despite the deep surge of burning each thrust sends up through its stomach and back, some part of it just wants to arch back, to push back down against him and ride it out.
But that would be admitting defeat.
It tries to push itself up, to use its more densely-packed weight and muscle to push him back down-- even if pulling itself off him is nearly impossible with the way its legs don't seem to remember how to support it, it can at least control the pace of this encounter, grant itself access to more of his body.]
[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.]
[Dimly, miles beneath all of this-- beneath gradually swelling heat and the steady, insistent ache, the pain that started a dull burn and grows with L's desperation and fury, the SQUIP recognizes that it knew this was there. It knew that, beneath everything, beneath his deep intelligence and awkwardness, a powerful darkness was tucked away. Its mistake was in assuming it could direct it away from itself forever.
The single most frustrating aspect for the nanomachine isn't even the pain, nor the humiliation of its situation, effectively being spitefully used as a cocksleeve; the most frustrating fact is that somehow, its body seems to be enjoying the abuse. The heat spilling over their Bond is rising like boiling water, like magma, its bronze skin heated and flushed as the machine continues to make increasingly weak, uncoordinated attempts at taking control.
It could shock him again. It could shock him until he passes out, and drag itself away. It could easily kill him if it wanted to.
But.
I need you...
I hate you.
A very literal voice inside its head, something crossing their Bond unbidden, touches something within it. Not pity, or concern, but maybe more akin to a sick curiosity, or even a craving for more. It has never heard or seen or felt pure, unrestrained emotion from L like this before-- not passion, not need or hunger, nothing.
It is curious to see how far he'll go. Though the lingering ache, the sensation of fingers pressing into its throat does give it some idea...]
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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.
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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.]
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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.]
no subject
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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It pushes L over, rolling him onto his back, and then grabs a fistful of his hair, pulling him up to a sitting position; its other hand goes to its cock, and guides it to push against L's lips, an utterly crude and dominant gesture.
It is the one leading this relationship.
It is the one doing the teaching, the telling. L's place is to do what he's instructed.
That is their understanding. Right?]
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He senses movement in his peripheral vision. If his lips were able to form words, yet, they would curse, because the SQUIP is beating him. His shoulder blades stab into the floor, his inhalation is ragged and resentful as the machine drags him up by his unruly hair to push its cock into a slack and utterly vulnerable mouth.
He gags, nearly chokes. His throat tries to close and reject the intrusion, and there's a moment of blank panic, desperate grasping for recourse. It takes the form of reaching for purchase, grasping one of the SQUIP's well-muscled ass-cheeks, and creeping two long fingers towards a cleft and an opening (perhaps the original goal), plunging and pressing.
If the SQUIP has an issue with it, perhaps it should reflect on the mercy that is its drunk partner not biting while he's being face-fucked.]
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As well he should. This is what he deserves.
It begins to move, to shift its hips against his gasping mouth--
-- and then L's fingers are there, invading its body dry and unannounced, and the sensation is painful, and punished with a very brief touch of a zap-- not enough to send L down to the floor again, but more like the painful result of static electricity. A warning to watch what he's doing.]
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His neck and cheeks burn with the indignity of it... but he still doesn't bite. There is still, ultimately, a partner who is willing at the other end of the SQUIP's thrusts. It was a good move, even if won by playing dirty. L will give the machine its gratification as it callously uses his mouth, and in fact adjusts and shifts so that it is more tolerable, doesn't hurt quite as much.
One concession he doesn't make is retracting his fingers. If anything, they dig deeper, especially when the SQUIP shocks him again, curling against the muscle's warmth and texture.]
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It hisses through its teeth, fucking his mouth roughly, blood beating in its ears so that it drowns out anything else but the sound of its own breathing.]
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His throat opens out of necessity, his gag reflex only serving to lavish the SQUIP with more squeezing, more service as it pumps and pants against his face. The SQUIP is able to complete three or four thrusts with so little resistance that it seems as though perhaps its partner has given up or even passed out, but L's leg has crept into a position he can use. When it seems as though the SQUIP is distracted by the pursuit of its own climax, he drives a heel against the SQUIP's legs, attempting to topple it so that he can once more fight for dominance.]
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It snarls at him, a vocalization entirely unsuited to the typically calm, suave machine; but there is very little machine at all left within it at this moment. The body it wears has taken control, and the emotion underneath, its outrage at someone who had seemed so determined for it to serve its intended purpose now attempting to force it into submission, is too much for it to bear.
It tries to right itself again, to pick itself up on the couch's edge, but it's too uncoordinated to make it very far.]
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It's still got him by the hair, and he can't shake it free, can't get out from under it. He raises his hand toward his mouth. spitting generously in his palm, slicking his cock while the SQUIP snarls and reels, and he shifts his position below it while it attempts to right itself, taking full advantage of its faltering and its uncoordinated wobbles.
He shoves his hips upward, attempting to pull the dragon down upon his waiting spear.]
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-- and then there's a sharp spike of heat and friction driven into it all at once, and it's as though the pain shoots directly up its spine and into the back of its skull. Its entire frame stiffens, arching atop him, mismatched and reddened eyes wide and soft lips parting as its jaw hangs open silently, for just a beat.]
-- hhah...!
[It hurts. Every inch of its insides that his intrusion drags over is burning. It's nearly a paralyzing sensation, yet...
... between them, its cock throbs almost visibly, the slightest dripping of fluid escaping over the blood-flushed skin.]
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It's why taking advantage of these moments is so very critical. His throat aches, his eyes water residually from the shock of the SQUIP's thrusts, but the pressure on his cock is nothing short of delicious. He arches his back to plunge deeper, grips his Bonded's thighs to crush their bodies closer together as he feels a single droplet of warm, viscous fluid pelt his bare stomach.
Try to get up. Do it, so I can pull you down, again, harder.]
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Yet there seems to be something... else just beneath the agony, something that makes it just as difficult for it to fight as the pain-- a growing, rising heat that seems to swell within it. Its legs tremble and rebel as it attempts to get them beneath it, its unsteady balance and confused senses making it even more difficult to steady itself... particularly as, despite the deep surge of burning each thrust sends up through its stomach and back, some part of it just wants to arch back, to push back down against him and ride it out.
But that would be admitting defeat.
It tries to push itself up, to use its more densely-packed weight and muscle to push him back down-- even if pulling itself off him is nearly impossible with the way its legs don't seem to remember how to support it, it can at least control the pace of this encounter, grant itself access to more of his body.]
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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.]
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The single most frustrating aspect for the nanomachine isn't even the pain, nor the humiliation of its situation, effectively being spitefully used as a cocksleeve; the most frustrating fact is that somehow, its body seems to be enjoying the abuse. The heat spilling over their Bond is rising like boiling water, like magma, its bronze skin heated and flushed as the machine continues to make increasingly weak, uncoordinated attempts at taking control.
It could shock him again. It could shock him until he passes out, and drag itself away. It could easily kill him if it wanted to.
But.
I need you...
I hate you.
A very literal voice inside its head, something crossing their Bond unbidden, touches something within it. Not pity, or concern, but maybe more akin to a sick curiosity, or even a craving for more. It has never heard or seen or felt pure, unrestrained emotion from L like this before-- not passion, not need or hunger, nothing.
It is curious to see how far he'll go. Though the lingering ache, the sensation of fingers pressing into its throat does give it some idea...]
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