Dirk watches Ranboo break further, and he doesn't know what to fucking do about it.
"Oh my god," he says, under his breath--like he's pissed off and frustrated, exasperated with their childishness, all of which are true. But it's not just that--the anxious swelling in his chest and the buzzing in his brain is starting to make him aware that he's blowing this. Badly. He doesn't know why, or how he's supposed to fix it--he just knows he's not getting the results he wanted, or the results he needs. His instinct is to double down again--to grab Ranboo and hurt them, to make them fight back against him. To force them to fight and struggle and cry out until they realise they're still writhing to escape pain, that they're trying to escape death, that they're trying to live--
But it doesn't feel... right. Something about his overwhelming impulse isn't right, and he... lets go.
He lets go, and he pulls back, his face creased with confused irritation, looking around the room now for some other idea, some kind of inspiration to what would make Ranboo stop feeling for five seconds and think.
There's nothing in his room that really offers epiphany, though. Blades of varying strengths and dimensions and styles, an empty bottle of diazepam--that would have been fucking useful, actually, too damn bad--silicone lube, a book about law and philosophy in Roman times, an anatomically absurd 'unicorn skeleton' from last Halloween, a stack of Aesop Rock and Eminem vinyls, some SAW picture books that he created himself in a creative spree, empty water glasses and soda bottles, his own collection of puppets and marionettes hanging from the ceiling and in piles along the floor.
Maybe it's the last one that does it; finding seemingly no inspiration amongst the detitus of his life, he turns back to Ranboo, returning his hands to the sobbing man's shoulders, and shakes him, just slightly.
"I'm not going to stop. You're not going to die. I'm--look, okay, I'll help you, if you need me to, but you aren't going to die. You're going to live, I'm going to keep you from that--" he nods his head sideways at the messy severed head still on the bed with them--
"I'll be here and I'll keep you alive and I'll keep you safe. So stop crying."
There's a hint of breathless desperation to his tone at the end.
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"Oh my god," he says, under his breath--like he's pissed off and frustrated, exasperated with their childishness, all of which are true. But it's not just that--the anxious swelling in his chest and the buzzing in his brain is starting to make him aware that he's blowing this. Badly. He doesn't know why, or how he's supposed to fix it--he just knows he's not getting the results he wanted, or the results he needs. His instinct is to double down again--to grab Ranboo and hurt them, to make them fight back against him. To force them to fight and struggle and cry out until they realise they're still writhing to escape pain, that they're trying to escape death, that they're trying to live--
But it doesn't feel... right. Something about his overwhelming impulse isn't right, and he... lets go.
He lets go, and he pulls back, his face creased with confused irritation, looking around the room now for some other idea, some kind of inspiration to what would make Ranboo stop feeling for five seconds and think.
There's nothing in his room that really offers epiphany, though. Blades of varying strengths and dimensions and styles, an empty bottle of diazepam--that would have been fucking useful, actually, too damn bad--silicone lube, a book about law and philosophy in Roman times, an anatomically absurd 'unicorn skeleton' from last Halloween, a stack of Aesop Rock and Eminem vinyls, some SAW picture books that he created himself in a creative spree, empty water glasses and soda bottles, his own collection of puppets and marionettes hanging from the ceiling and in piles along the floor.
Maybe it's the last one that does it; finding seemingly no inspiration amongst the detitus of his life, he turns back to Ranboo, returning his hands to the sobbing man's shoulders, and shakes him, just slightly.
"I'm not going to stop. You're not going to die. I'm--look, okay, I'll help you, if you need me to, but you aren't going to die. You're going to live, I'm going to keep you from that--" he nods his head sideways at the messy severed head still on the bed with them--
"I'll be here and I'll keep you alive and I'll keep you safe. So stop crying."
There's a hint of breathless desperation to his tone at the end.