The rapidly-fading flutter of life galvanises something in Dirk--something basic and needy, something hungry and cruel. He rolls his hips against Ranboo's body, seeking pressure--from their cock or from their pelvic bone or simply from flesh bolstered by stiff denim, he doesn't really care which. Heat throbs inside of him and across the hidden secret of his cunt, demanding weight and movement and touch. And for the first time in weeks, he can not only have it as a burden to endure, stoically and silently, but he can chase it. He can pursue it relentlessly and shamelessly and--if he's good, if he's fast--actually take his pleasure and finally, finally relieve himself with release.
In other wwords: Dirk is desperate, and he's in it to cum.
As for whether he'd be relieved or disappointed--well, it's a bit of both. To some extent, it's the not knowing that really drives him. The tension of that passageway not just between death and life, but between sensate and inert. The spaces left along those boundaries, and the fact that no matter what he does, he will never know it so long as he continues to actually live. He can be its arbiter, its custodian, and even its connoisseur--but the actual experience lies just beyond the tips of his fingers, so easy to obtain... and yet he balks every time.
Not so Hal, and not so Ranboo--
This is part of it, really. That incendiary spark. The compulsion. Why does Hal get to have this--why can Ranboo--but not him? What is it about him that denies itself what he craves to know--and un-know? What is it about him that enables others to take it and leave him?
His breath comes in short, heavy, hot bursts, his fingertips chasing every last flicker of pulse, eyes seeking the faintest movement to bear witness--to see the final second as Ranboo, the person, ceases. The moment of true death, when a body ceases to contain and only lies worthless except as meat.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-09-01 12:49 pm (UTC)In other wwords: Dirk is desperate, and he's in it to cum.
As for whether he'd be relieved or disappointed--well, it's a bit of both. To some extent, it's the not knowing that really drives him. The tension of that passageway not just between death and life, but between sensate and inert. The spaces left along those boundaries, and the fact that no matter what he does, he will never know it so long as he continues to actually live. He can be its arbiter, its custodian, and even its connoisseur--but the actual experience lies just beyond the tips of his fingers, so easy to obtain... and yet he balks every time.
Not so Hal, and not so Ranboo--
This is part of it, really. That incendiary spark. The compulsion. Why does Hal get to have this--why can Ranboo--but not him? What is it about him that denies itself what he craves to know--and un-know? What is it about him that enables others to take it and leave him?
His breath comes in short, heavy, hot bursts, his fingertips chasing every last flicker of pulse, eyes seeking the faintest movement to bear witness--to see the final second as Ranboo, the person, ceases. The moment of true death, when a body ceases to contain and only lies worthless except as meat.