Dirk was prepared for a lot. He was prepared for mess, for smells. For the feeling of human skin under his hands, and muscle and blood and organs. For the way a body hung slack when lifted, for the long, trailing drape of her hair.
He was even prepared for a little movement--for the seeming sigh as the last remaining oxygen was expelled from the lungs, for the way a limp body's weight or its tendons might pull a limb 'back' or flop unexpectedly.
He was not prepared for--for animation.
"Holy shit!" He drops her, too--jumps back to land in a ready crouch, one hand braced on the floor by his fingers, mouth slightly open (he tastes blood, but he's not sure if it's really in his mouth or just from the smell) in disbelief as she not only sits up but then staggers upright. He doesn't get to see her face, but he doesn't need to. Now his heart is racing. Now heat floods his body, burning him with the adrenaline hit that might have come from the first words exchanged between the two of them, or when he made the split-second decision to kill what came for Ranboo and followed through on instinct. Sweat, which he will feel only later, has been beading on his neck and back and along his hairline, the fabric of his shirt sticking to him as he snatches up his katana--
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-07-17 02:09 pm (UTC)He was even prepared for a little movement--for the seeming sigh as the last remaining oxygen was expelled from the lungs, for the way a limp body's weight or its tendons might pull a limb 'back' or flop unexpectedly.
He was not prepared for--for animation.
"Holy shit!" He drops her, too--jumps back to land in a ready crouch, one hand braced on the floor by his fingers, mouth slightly open (he tastes blood, but he's not sure if it's really in his mouth or just from the smell) in disbelief as she not only sits up but then staggers upright. He doesn't get to see her face, but he doesn't need to. Now his heart is racing. Now heat floods his body, burning him with the adrenaline hit that might have come from the first words exchanged between the two of them, or when he made the split-second decision to kill what came for Ranboo and followed through on instinct. Sweat, which he will feel only later, has been beading on his neck and back and along his hairline, the fabric of his shirt sticking to him as he snatches up his katana--
And springs.