Dirk is caught almost off guard by Ranboo's incompletion, or at least his corresponding persistence. Almost. Almost, almost--because he did expect it; he knows the ins and outs of sexual masculinity and masculinity in sex in ways Ranboo has never conceived of. He learned early, and he learned fast, and this, specifically: not the long, hard, difficult road to repeated orgasm, but the ordeal of being loved like this, like a thing. Of being used and abused to sate appetites besides his own. Of being spent--either because of achieving his own rarefied, longed-for climax, or in spite of never reaching it--but either way, of being spent, and not being done yet.
It's excruciating. It's exhilarating.
And he rides it out, wrapping his strong legs around Ranboo's hips and curling a fist in their soft, wild hair; his other hand closes over the back of Ranboo's neck, a tight hold to keep his pace, because now even Dirk struggles with keeping control of his body, of enduring and sustaining through the agony and ecstasy of overstimulation and oversensitivity. Tightening his muscles when he even can, stiffening and arching and straining when he can’t. His brain has almost completely disconnected from his consciousness. He's only his body now: his suffering, savaged flesh; his stripped and scorched nerve endings; his sweat and slick soaked skin. And his insides. God, there are no words for it, the inside-outside affliction of too much and too long and too hard and too deep and how all of it combines inside of him, not only in his guts but in his muscles and inside his chest, where it feels like his heart could give out or his voice could finally break and he might actually cry out, although he never fully does. He's far from silent, though.
And finally--finally--Ranboo comes. Into him, inside of him. His mouth and throat are raw and dry as he gasps beneath them, desperate.... and collapses, every bit as boneless and depleted as Ranboo himself.
For once, Dirk Strider is left with nothing to say.
Or at least has no capacity left for speech to say it.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-06-21 03:32 pm (UTC)It's excruciating. It's exhilarating.
And he rides it out, wrapping his strong legs around Ranboo's hips and curling a fist in their soft, wild hair; his other hand closes over the back of Ranboo's neck, a tight hold to keep his pace, because now even Dirk struggles with keeping control of his body, of enduring and sustaining through the agony and ecstasy of overstimulation and oversensitivity. Tightening his muscles when he even can, stiffening and arching and straining when he can’t. His brain has almost completely disconnected from his consciousness. He's only his body now: his suffering, savaged flesh; his stripped and scorched nerve endings; his sweat and slick soaked skin. And his insides. God, there are no words for it, the inside-outside affliction of too much and too long and too hard and too deep and how all of it combines inside of him, not only in his guts but in his muscles and inside his chest, where it feels like his heart could give out or his voice could finally break and he might actually cry out, although he never fully does. He's far from silent, though.
And finally--finally--Ranboo comes. Into him, inside of him. His mouth and throat are raw and dry as he gasps beneath them, desperate.... and collapses, every bit as boneless and depleted as Ranboo himself.
For once, Dirk Strider is left with nothing to say.
Or at least has no capacity left for speech to say it.