[ It's just utter agony, down on the ground and suffering the tangible weight of that cock bearing down on him, the pressure so inconsolable that he's struggling not to lock up under it. These contradictions are whirling around in his head, except Diluc's closing him shut in them, and Tartaglia's no longer lunging to get away but to get closer. It hurts a lot less when the shaft of Diluc's dick is buried inside, raw and chafing but not so unbearable that he can't clench up around it. Nothing else to think about when the claustrophobia is only oppressive; getting railed into is the worst of it, white-knuckled when he's unable to deal with it well.
Sawed into, Tartaglia's attention is fragile, like something about to fall, only somewhat divorced from this moment. His thoughts aren't that dissimilar from his view from below, blurry and out-of-focus, save for the pain. That sensation breaks through his concentration, ringing like Tartaglia's just a chord to be struck, so vivid as to be piercing. Should it have been this way? If it's agony for him, then there's no way that Diluc hasn't been cursed for it, robbed of any consolation.
Some noises are ebbing out of him, but it's mostly just swears. The ache burning him is so dry and harsh that Tartaglia's largely preoccupied on his unwillingness to scream. ]
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Sawed into, Tartaglia's attention is fragile, like something about to fall, only somewhat divorced from this moment. His thoughts aren't that dissimilar from his view from below, blurry and out-of-focus, save for the pain. That sensation breaks through his concentration, ringing like Tartaglia's just a chord to be struck, so vivid as to be piercing. Should it have been this way? If it's agony for him, then there's no way that Diluc hasn't been cursed for it, robbed of any consolation.
Some noises are ebbing out of him, but it's mostly just swears. The ache burning him is so dry and harsh that Tartaglia's largely preoccupied on his unwillingness to scream. ]