[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...]
[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.
[The sticky-hot blood may, temporarily, ease the motion within it, but it does very little to dull the pain of being torn in such a way, held down and fucked like it was an execution. Despite it all, the heat within the machine's body has tightened nearly to the breaking point, its self-control a rubber band twisted and stretched beyond any reasonable threshold.
It tries to brace itself atop him, tries to shift its weight to gain leverage, but its body feels heavy and hot and distant, its nerves aching and numb at once; the muscles in its legs and stomach are on fire, its body trembling with exertion and abuse.
It shifts back, leans against the couch to try and pick itself up...
... but it was a poor strategic choice. The angle forces each violent, trembling thrust upward, forward, the intense and constant abuse now focused on that seat of sensitivity within it, and it's as though a seizure overtakes it. Its voice rises sharply in something that could be agony as its muscles clench and buckle, its body doubling over as its cock jerks visibly between them, spilling heat over L's pale, thin stomach.]
[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.]
[The machine feels like its body is drifting-- like the human suit it's forced to wear is too light, the muscles replaced with cotton batting and air. Its head is hot and dark and heavy on the inside as it drapes over L, its breathing weak and shuddering in its chest.
Fine. L won. It's forced to concede this victory, as there doesn't seem to be any strength left in it to fight. It's only dimly aware of L's hands on its shoulders...
... until he pushes it off.
And then it's being moved, pushed over, and it tries to do anything, to swat at him, but its arms don't want to lift anymore. It's forced to accept this, L's victory lap around its destroyed body, as he pushes into it all at once, sending a new spike of pain up its spine, the new position only worsening the friction. It can't even raise its voice to curse at him; it just gives a weak sound, and then turns its face against the carpet in humiliation as L uses it, feeling his own pleasure rise to a peak over the Bond.
And then he's done-- all at once, throbbing within the SQUIP somewhere beneath the layers and layers of agony, and it feels his consciousness slip away, his body sag.
All it can do before its own follows after is roll itself to its side... and then darkness, blissful numbness sweeps over it.]
[Oblivion is sweet. It's soft and warm, and L is buried deep and nestled in its flank for hours. How many, he's too far gone to tell, but morning brings a fresh hell down on his aching head, his tender eyes, a cheekbone that isn't broken but a bruised and swollen mass of pain. Curled on his side with his pants bunched around one ankle, stinking of liquor, sweat and sex, flashes and flickers and sneering shadows of the night prior assault his beleaguered brain. He doesn't want any of it... but even if he could remember even less than he readily admits to, the physical proof isn't exactly something he can merely brush aside and ignore.
They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]
[The SQUIP is both slower and much faster to wake; the SQUIP unit itself was the first thing to recover as L's body worked its way through the alcohol, reawakening to a darkened, resting body with a very odd mix of chemicals dancing through its brain.
Of course, the SQUIP remembered what happened. It could recall every detail in high definition, whether it wanted to or not... and it most certainly did not.
It remembered anger, confusion. It remembered administering a punishment, leading to a fight...
... it remembered hands around its throat.
The mark of L's thin fingers still lingered at its throat, bruises beginning to blossom there... and along its thighs, as well. But the first thing the SQUIP becomes aware of when its outer body awakens and begins to feel is pain. Even just laying there and breathing is enough to make its entire abdomen burn, from the top of its ribcage down to between its legs, and even its thighs feel abused and weak.
It shivers, a hand lifting to press at its aching stomach, and it curls in on itself, not even attempting to pick itself up. Besides the ache of the abuse its supposed lover inflicted on it, there is also the echo of said lover's hangover, and current illness, which is making its head reel and ache sickeningly, its stomach churning.
L will feel a powerful stab of heated anger over their Bond. It does not like feeling this way.
At least it can try to fix... whatever it is he did to its guts. The hand pressed at its stomach flattens over the surface, and it tries to focus, to channel some of their store of energy into repairing the damage done. Gradually, the pain begins to ease.]
[L's current world is misery, the distinct feeling that he is actually dying as he coughs and spits and reaches a trembling hand up to hold back his shaggy hair. The output is more painful than productive; his electrolytes are already unbalanced, his body dehydrated, and the result is largely an acidic bout of dry heaving that crushes his ribs and brings back vague, unpleasant memories of bruising, repetitive force against the back of his throat.
The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]
It's dry and sticky on the SQUIP, marking its inner legs, smeared along its skin in fingerprints and where skin pressed desperately against skin. It gets a good, clear look once it's managed to heal itself well enough to allow it to sit up, to look down at the mess from the previous night. Idly, a hand wanders to its throat, and then quickly pulls away, the skin and muscle still tender.
It pulls its own shirt off over its head, and then lifts itself, swaying slightly still with its dizziness and the stirring illness in its stomach, to follow the same path its partner did prior, hearing the shower run.
It needs to talk to him. Besides that it also needs a bath.
When L's partner appears in the doorway, it stares down at the curled, broken frame in the shower; it's bruised and bloodied, its typically carefully-styled hair a wild mess, dark curls stirred and fraying about. Its mismatched gaze is laser-guided, however, as it stares down at him, quietly, coolly furious.]
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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.]
no subject
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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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.]
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It tries to brace itself atop him, tries to shift its weight to gain leverage, but its body feels heavy and hot and distant, its nerves aching and numb at once; the muscles in its legs and stomach are on fire, its body trembling with exertion and abuse.
It shifts back, leans against the couch to try and pick itself up...
... but it was a poor strategic choice. The angle forces each violent, trembling thrust upward, forward, the intense and constant abuse now focused on that seat of sensitivity within it, and it's as though a seizure overtakes it. Its voice rises sharply in something that could be agony as its muscles clench and buckle, its body doubling over as its cock jerks visibly between them, spilling heat over L's pale, thin stomach.]
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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.]
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Fine. L won. It's forced to concede this victory, as there doesn't seem to be any strength left in it to fight. It's only dimly aware of L's hands on its shoulders...
... until he pushes it off.
And then it's being moved, pushed over, and it tries to do anything, to swat at him, but its arms don't want to lift anymore. It's forced to accept this, L's victory lap around its destroyed body, as he pushes into it all at once, sending a new spike of pain up its spine, the new position only worsening the friction. It can't even raise its voice to curse at him; it just gives a weak sound, and then turns its face against the carpet in humiliation as L uses it, feeling his own pleasure rise to a peak over the Bond.
And then he's done-- all at once, throbbing within the SQUIP somewhere beneath the layers and layers of agony, and it feels his consciousness slip away, his body sag.
All it can do before its own follows after is roll itself to its side... and then darkness, blissful numbness sweeps over it.]
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They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]
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Of course, the SQUIP remembered what happened. It could recall every detail in high definition, whether it wanted to or not... and it most certainly did not.
It remembered anger, confusion. It remembered administering a punishment, leading to a fight...
... it remembered hands around its throat.
The mark of L's thin fingers still lingered at its throat, bruises beginning to blossom there... and along its thighs, as well. But the first thing the SQUIP becomes aware of when its outer body awakens and begins to feel is pain. Even just laying there and breathing is enough to make its entire abdomen burn, from the top of its ribcage down to between its legs, and even its thighs feel abused and weak.
It shivers, a hand lifting to press at its aching stomach, and it curls in on itself, not even attempting to pick itself up. Besides the ache of the abuse its supposed lover inflicted on it, there is also the echo of said lover's hangover, and current illness, which is making its head reel and ache sickeningly, its stomach churning.
L will feel a powerful stab of heated anger over their Bond. It does not like feeling this way.
At least it can try to fix... whatever it is he did to its guts. The hand pressed at its stomach flattens over the surface, and it tries to focus, to channel some of their store of energy into repairing the damage done. Gradually, the pain begins to ease.]
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The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]
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It's dry and sticky on the SQUIP, marking its inner legs, smeared along its skin in fingerprints and where skin pressed desperately against skin. It gets a good, clear look once it's managed to heal itself well enough to allow it to sit up, to look down at the mess from the previous night. Idly, a hand wanders to its throat, and then quickly pulls away, the skin and muscle still tender.
It pulls its own shirt off over its head, and then lifts itself, swaying slightly still with its dizziness and the stirring illness in its stomach, to follow the same path its partner did prior, hearing the shower run.
It needs to talk to him. Besides that it also needs a bath.
When L's partner appears in the doorway, it stares down at the curled, broken frame in the shower; it's bruised and bloodied, its typically carefully-styled hair a wild mess, dark curls stirred and fraying about. Its mismatched gaze is laser-guided, however, as it stares down at him, quietly, coolly furious.]
L.
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