Every second, every detail of Ranboo's death filters into Dirk's consciousness through a strange sieve. He's in a kind of desperation fugue state, and every bit of it fuels him, his hips rocking him against Ranboo's body, his cunt getting wetter until the entirety of his crotch is slimy and hot, the material of his boxer briefs no longer sticking to him so much as it's just sticky.
He's running hot, but he doesn't feel hot. His mouth is open, his breathing coming in short, ragged puffs as his eyes search Ranboo's stilling body until there really is nothing else to catch--and he can feel that, the emptiness in that form. It's not just the lack of breath and pulse, the vacancy in the slack face and dropped eyelids. There's an inert quality to dead bodies, Dirk knows, that isn't in the living. Stunned or unconscious animals are only indistinguishable from dead ones to a certain point--the absence of life leaves them dead in a way the absence of consciousness does not. Ranboo isn't simply sleeping under him--he's dead, that last speck and final flicker of living completely gone. And it burns Dirk up inside--the ravenousness of it eats him, and the pressure builds in a way he's ached for.
In a body sense, he's so in the moment that he can't feel anything but that--that and, of course, the lances of raw, animal pleasure that race up his cunt and smother his clit and rise into his spine and into his bladder and it feels, quite frankly, like he's going to piss himself.
Right up until he doesn't--and instead (with a cry that sounds almost like a sob, and is truly more pathetic and more gutteral than he would ever allow anyone living to hear): he cums.
no subject
He's running hot, but he doesn't feel hot. His mouth is open, his breathing coming in short, ragged puffs as his eyes search Ranboo's stilling body until there really is nothing else to catch--and he can feel that, the emptiness in that form. It's not just the lack of breath and pulse, the vacancy in the slack face and dropped eyelids. There's an inert quality to dead bodies, Dirk knows, that isn't in the living. Stunned or unconscious animals are only indistinguishable from dead ones to a certain point--the absence of life leaves them dead in a way the absence of consciousness does not. Ranboo isn't simply sleeping under him--he's dead, that last speck and final flicker of living completely gone. And it burns Dirk up inside--the ravenousness of it eats him, and the pressure builds in a way he's ached for.
In a body sense, he's so in the moment that he can't feel anything but that--that and, of course, the lances of raw, animal pleasure that race up his cunt and smother his clit and rise into his spine and into his bladder and it feels, quite frankly, like he's going to piss himself.
Right up until he doesn't--and instead (with a cry that sounds almost like a sob, and is truly more pathetic and more gutteral than he would ever allow anyone living to hear): he cums.