Dirk's experience has been that a lot can happen in thirty minutes--but killing that much time with nothing at stake hardly makes a difference to the course of even a day. This is neither of the two, though, and the intimacy of his position between the two of them is... overwhelmingly addictive. Or maybe that's addictively overwhelming. It's just a lot, emotionally and physically. It's not just the size of him, but the strength--Dirk doesn't want to hope too hard that the degree of himself that Hythlodaeus applies to the act of fucking him speechless reflects some degree of actual feeling for him, but between him and Emet, the feeling of being... wanted between them.... is still real enough to be convincing.
At least it wasn't Hythlodaeus' ear he was making those sounds into this time. Half of them, at least, were words.
In contrast, the sound that he makes when Hythlo presses a damp washcloth to his ass is more like his brain's attempt to produce a keysmash through his mouth than it is any intelligible sound or sentiment.
"I can take care of myself," Dirk's tone is a bit taut, and he relieves him of the warm, wet terrycloth in short order, trying not to sound sore--literally sore--though he already is. Something under his actual back hurts; he knows it's probably muscle, but it's hard to tell when the rest of him is so... well, he didn't take the whole thing but it sure feels like Hythlodaeus tried. Maybe some day he will and Dirk will literally die impaled on that giant cock. Wouldn't that be some kind of karma.
He takes the shades from Emet, too, but now he has two conflicting tasks here and he actually just hands them back after a second of trying and failing to mentally run both processes at once. The speed with which this went from 'slow but self-motivated initiative' to 'entirely too much stimulation and cross-talk'... if he could skip back like two entire minutes to the part where he was laid out on Emet's chest, feeling his own still-racing heartbeat as the rhythm of their breathing mingled and competed, both of them messy with--
"This wouldn't be an issue if you didn't raw me every time."
He is not making eye contact with anyone right now, thank you.
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At least it wasn't Hythlodaeus' ear he was making those sounds into this time. Half of them, at least, were words.
In contrast, the sound that he makes when Hythlo presses a damp washcloth to his ass is more like his brain's attempt to produce a keysmash through his mouth than it is any intelligible sound or sentiment.
"I can take care of myself," Dirk's tone is a bit taut, and he relieves him of the warm, wet terrycloth in short order, trying not to sound sore--literally sore--though he already is. Something under his actual back hurts; he knows it's probably muscle, but it's hard to tell when the rest of him is so... well, he didn't take the whole thing but it sure feels like Hythlodaeus tried. Maybe some day he will and Dirk will literally die impaled on that giant cock. Wouldn't that be some kind of karma.
He takes the shades from Emet, too, but now he has two conflicting tasks here and he actually just hands them back after a second of trying and failing to mentally run both processes at once. The speed with which this went from 'slow but self-motivated initiative' to 'entirely too much stimulation and cross-talk'... if he could skip back like two entire minutes to the part where he was laid out on Emet's chest, feeling his own still-racing heartbeat as the rhythm of their breathing mingled and competed, both of them messy with--
"This wouldn't be an issue if you didn't raw me every time."
He is not making eye contact with anyone right now, thank you.