[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.]
[L senses everything from the SQUIP's efforts to heal itself to its eventual rise and approach. His pulse quickens, but rather than shrinking in fear, there's almost a sense of despondent resignation to any possible retaliation from the supercomputer. He knows, based on the increasingly clearer play-by-play, that neither of them were kind, or gentle, or rational, but the lion's share of the culpability rests with him. It would have to. When things go too far, and L is involved, the result is often incomprehensibly fucked-up.
Does he regret it? Is he sorry? It's difficult to tell when his core is dense, numb, colder than the water pouring out of the tap. He owes it to the SQUIP to at least look at it; after all, it's damage he caused. The computer's typically impeccable appearance is disturbed and disheveled because of him.
He pauses in the rhythmic and oddly soothing striking of his skull against tile, swiveling his dark gaze toward the SQUIP, his bruised cheek standing out vividly against his pale skin.]
[The machine makes its way over to him-- something of its usual grace has managed to return, but it's very clear that its muscles still ache and tremble, struggling to support it at certain angles.
It eases its way to the edge of the tub beside L, and turns to adjust the water, taking the edge off the icy temperature; and then it turns that vivid gaze onto L's own, and there is a tightness within its frame that goes deeper than muscle, than bone, its posture hard lines and chin held sharply back to stare at him down its nose.]
I understand that you were upset. But, L. If you and I are going to be a team, I need you to know something.
[It reaches out to grab his chin roughly in its fingers, to ensure it holds his gaze.]
If you ever behave that way towards me again, I won't hesitate to do everything in my power to make you regret it. Do you understand?
[As though it's just given him a formal user agreement, its tone disturbingly even despite the clear threat in its words.]
[There's something absurdly, darkly hilarious about describing the root of what happened as L being "upset." It's an oversimplification, in short, of something that had snowballed into what L isn't sure he could have controlled once it was set in motion even now. There's a paralyzing helplessness to the thought; should he be allowed to associate with humans at all, knowing that something like this can happen?
He tries to think back, to really analyze and consider how much of it was truly premeditated and deliberate, how much of it was in direct retaliation. The answers are confusing and contradictory, swirling ambiguously around his dripping body along with the warming steam that begins to surround him as the SQUIP adjusts the tap's temperature.]
Whether or not we continue to be a team, after this...
[He sounds like he absolutely doesn't expect it. What kind of team contains this kind of dynamic.]
There are generally accepted rules for how to deal with rabid dogs. I would hope that they would be a helpful template, for your future reference.
But you're not a dog. You're an intelligent creature, with the capability for higher reasoning, who consciously chose to engage in behaviors that you knew would hurt not only yourself, but me as well.
[Do not try and act as though you have no responsibility for your actions. A dog behaves on instinct.
Its hand drops from his chin... and then lower, its fingers gently wrapping around his throat. It applies no pressure-- it's a recognition, a refusal to pretend that moment didn't take place. It feels his anxious pulse dance beneath its fingertips, its thumb brushing over his windpipe.]
You were using my body to punish yourself. If you wanted punishment, all you had to do was ask.
[The analysis is depressing, and might actually be accurate. The fact that L doesn't immediately and instinctively resist the hand around his throat is a strong indicator that self-destruction was a source, at least. His eyes don't leave the SQUIP's face at the contact; maybe he welcomes it, maybe he would even dare it if he could identify the hollow emotion he feels as anger. But everything that was alive and white-hot and furious last night has returned to a languid lacquer, far more typical for the unexpressive and distant detective.
But his pulse still goes like a rabbit's under the loose but significant placement of the SQUIP's fingers.]
I don't know what I wanted. I know what I didn't, and that's what happened.
[Somehow. He was in control of some actions, specifically choosing to maliciously drink so much, but his intelligence and arrogance caused him to dramatically overestimate his tolerance and the effects it might have on him. In truth, L believed while he was recklessly imbibing that at worst, he would go home, say some cruel and unfair things, and then fall asleep, not...
[It's quiet for a long moment; it lets that touch linger, its gaze searching L's face, his round, black eyes, their expression sitting somewhere between owlish and childish. It shifts its grasp at his throat-- not tightening, not exactly, simply ensuring L is aware of the touch.
It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
[If the SQUIP is looking for a lie, something more devious or deceptive than what L immediately presents, it won't find it. "Owlish" and "childish," aren't off the mark; neither is "hopeless." In vino, veritas, and it was such an ugly truth. L kept it closed for such a long time, nearly forgot about that black box... but last night everything came flooding out. His eyes slip closed as the SQUIP's hands tighten only slightly around his neck, and maybe a thought slips across the Bond that the SQUIP could pick up on.
It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
[... the SQUIP looks at him for a long moment, the agony that drifts across their Bond sinking its still-aching stomach down into a cold pit, watching L's dark, lifeless eyes.
Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.
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no subject
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.]
no subject
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...]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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Does he regret it? Is he sorry? It's difficult to tell when his core is dense, numb, colder than the water pouring out of the tap. He owes it to the SQUIP to at least look at it; after all, it's damage he caused. The computer's typically impeccable appearance is disturbed and disheveled because of him.
He pauses in the rhythmic and oddly soothing striking of his skull against tile, swiveling his dark gaze toward the SQUIP, his bruised cheek standing out vividly against his pale skin.]
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It eases its way to the edge of the tub beside L, and turns to adjust the water, taking the edge off the icy temperature; and then it turns that vivid gaze onto L's own, and there is a tightness within its frame that goes deeper than muscle, than bone, its posture hard lines and chin held sharply back to stare at him down its nose.]
I understand that you were upset. But, L. If you and I are going to be a team, I need you to know something.
[It reaches out to grab his chin roughly in its fingers, to ensure it holds his gaze.]
If you ever behave that way towards me again, I won't hesitate to do everything in my power to make you regret it. Do you understand?
[As though it's just given him a formal user agreement, its tone disturbingly even despite the clear threat in its words.]
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He tries to think back, to really analyze and consider how much of it was truly premeditated and deliberate, how much of it was in direct retaliation. The answers are confusing and contradictory, swirling ambiguously around his dripping body along with the warming steam that begins to surround him as the SQUIP adjusts the tap's temperature.]
Whether or not we continue to be a team, after this...
[He sounds like he absolutely doesn't expect it. What kind of team contains this kind of dynamic.]
There are generally accepted rules for how to deal with rabid dogs. I would hope that they would be a helpful template, for your future reference.
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[Do not try and act as though you have no responsibility for your actions. A dog behaves on instinct.
Its hand drops from his chin... and then lower, its fingers gently wrapping around his throat. It applies no pressure-- it's a recognition, a refusal to pretend that moment didn't take place. It feels his anxious pulse dance beneath its fingertips, its thumb brushing over his windpipe.]
You were using my body to punish yourself. If you wanted punishment, all you had to do was ask.
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But his pulse still goes like a rabbit's under the loose but significant placement of the SQUIP's fingers.]
I don't know what I wanted. I know what I didn't, and that's what happened.
[Somehow. He was in control of some actions, specifically choosing to maliciously drink so much, but his intelligence and arrogance caused him to dramatically overestimate his tolerance and the effects it might have on him. In truth, L believed while he was recklessly imbibing that at worst, he would go home, say some cruel and unfair things, and then fall asleep, not...
...that.]
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It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
L... you're not going to drink like that again.
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It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
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Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
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I don't want to kill you. That'd be really crazy, and...
[He trails off. There's one thing in the world he knows he's not. It would end his world, if he was.]
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[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.