Ranboo's hand surprises him, and he stills. His muscles--slack from exertion, but still holding a strain of tension from the conversion, from holding his legs apart just so, from the heat of his cunt and the mess of his hole and his thighs, from emotion he's carrying in secret under his skin--slowly release some of their hold on his shape. He relents, just a little.

"Was that bad?" Dirk asks, in the pause. There's a hard edge to it. But he lowers his voice and continues, quieter. Softer. Like he's sharing something intimate between them. And in the moment, maybe he is.

"You forget that we have the same genetics. I could have become a screaming lunatic. I could have died. I could have killed myself. I could be a weeping, trembling waste of space. But I didn't. I adapted fine. Because--what is that look for."

Ranboo's question blindsides him, and there's a change. Not just in his mind, but in his breathing. Not to something fearful, not a panic attack. Nothing like that. It's different. Sharper, fast inhales, but long, slow exhales that empty his lungs to the bottom. A pre- fight-or-fuck reflex he doesn't notice he has. The prepatory instinct before exertion, before change. Physical, mental, emotional.

The anxiety grows again--congealing into some dark shape inside of him, a throb in his groin and his guts where Ranboo has filled him with a now-cooling load. He searches their face. Those green eyes are so piercing. The shape of them is naturally narrowed; his brows are so strong, long and arched in a way that gives him a penetrating stare even when neutral. Even when he's distant, or thinking, or tentative. Even now. It's a different kind of natural severity than Dirk's own, but it's also a big point of attraction--and connection. He can understand what's happening in the shape of them, even if not what's going on behind them.

".... what? Is that a trick question?"