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[conspecifics]

@dogboy*

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open season.

OPEN SEASON

@dogboy
24 / m / straight / 2♠️*

About Photos Questions Personality Compatibility

Details

My Self-Summary

His name is Kirma and he’s illiterate. I’m helping him fill this out, but honestly speaking, it’s a complete waste. Besides that, don’t you think his rank is unfairly high? Even though it’s still in the single digits, it’s not as if he wouldn’t be at home in the basement levels. If someone could send my complaints along to the house, I’d appreciate it.

My Future Plans

Surviving?

My Talents

Chasing sticks. Eating absurd quantities of garbage. Fouling up perfectly nice beds. Trampling flowers.

Favorite Books, Movies, Music, and Food

Meat.

My Ideal Partner

Someone skilled at training dogs.

Height 169cm / ~5’7 Body Type fine Smokes apparently Drinks i think so Drugs maybe Sign ? Education laughable Occupation unemployed Income unpaid Children none? Pets he is one Hobbies cooking

art credit: one. two. three. four. five.

01. WINE OR BEER

BEER

.02 CLOWNS OR MIMES

“WHAT'S A MIME”

.03 SHOWER OR BATH

NEITHER

.04 PIRATES OR NINJAS

PIRATES? WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THESE

.05 TITS OR ASS

.06 COFFEE OR TEA

.07 SPICY OR SWEET

.08 SUMMER OR WINTER

.09 LEATHER OR LACE

10. ROUGH SEX OR GENTLE SEX

Personality Type
ISFP-A

ENERGY

73%

introverted

MIND

76%

observant

NATURE

66%

feeling

TACTICS

54%

prospecting

IDENTITY

75%

assertive

personality test. art credit.

hover for rating.

Comments

[conspecifics]

It isn’t.

( there’s not really any point of pretense, this deep into the game— yet here he is, following along. the second bottle he brings in gets thunked down onto the counter right next to the first, for lack of anywhere better to put it. there’s a moment, where his hand lingers, as if loathe to part with such a prize. in the end, he relents.

his attention turns towards the rest of the room, considering the differences. there’s no minibar in his version of a 10 suite, for one. perhaps in knowing kirma would be satisfied with less, that’s what he receives. perhaps in showing him he has less, it’s meant to make him want more. there is a certain irritation in it, to know that there is disparity among points that are meant to be “equal,” as much as that concept even exists in the heavily stratified structure of the peacock. when he rolls his eyes, they land on the corkscrew; there’s no direction given, but he picks it up all the same, out of assumption. )

It’s your house ( kinda. ), not mine.

( what does a dog care about cooties, anyway. there’s some struggle with the mechanism of the corkscrew, another moment of inexperience shining through, but it otherwise pops off with minimal effort.

finally his gaze slinks back to dabi, one ear twisted out to face him, as well: ) You first. ( as the person this was for. )

[skinstitch]

Wouldn't call it a house.

( a soft mutter, less of a correction and more of an agreement, despite the difference. it's not like there's much in the suite that's personable, nothing that's quite like the personal touches he's seen in other rooms; the walls are dark, the furniture is dark, the bar is well-stocked, and that's about it in terms of things that suit his temperament. no books, no pictures, no trinkets collected here and there: he keeps mostly to the one bedroom, tucked into one side of the bed, and leaves here every day with the expectation that it won't exist when he comes back to it.

watching kirma fuss with the corkscrew reminds him. both of his hands disappear behind the bar, but only so that he can clatter an ashtray onto it, next to the bottles.

then there's two boxes of cigarettes, one already opened, and a lighter: not that he needs it, but maybe kirma would be more comfortable if he didn't use his quirk, here. )

Poisoned it? ( with a wry grin, teasing, but he reaches for the bottle anyways--without a second thought, he brings it to his lips, swallows down a chug of it, clanks it back to the counter. ) ...Yeah, definitely poisoned it.

( a pointed nudge, the bottle skidding on the counter. ) Now you. We could play a game, if you want. We liked that first game we played, huh?

[conspecifics]

( the lighter is what he goes for first. it takes examination, consideration; he turns it over in his hands, eyes narrowed in a sort of concentration, thumbing the switch and wrinkling his nose at the smell of butane. the rest is easily grasped, from there, even if the shape of the thing differs. so then, a light; a drag; and a slow turn of his gaze to the bottle, as he does not blow the smoke out as much as simply let it curl in a lazy rise up towards the ceiling. poisoned, huh. )

You can tell from the taste, is that it?

( just a bit of banter, eh. kirma also has little hesitation in lifting the bottle for himself, cigarette pinched between two fingers as he picks it up, only glancing back to meet dabi’s eyes for a brief moment before taking a swig. he sets it down with a small grimace, the corner of his mouth pulled to the side in mild displeasure. it could be worse.

it could be better.

not all vices are equal. this is something he’s learned, in being here; it isn’t as though he had much opportunity for anything resembling them back home. games certainly fall into this category, as well. everything has to be a gamble in a casino. even small interactions like these, the push and pull that comes with meeting someone halfway, or just past it— a fact that grates at him, a person who’s never been lucky. maybe more accurately: a person who’s never been lucky in the right ways. alas, he is but a guest, for this interaction. that’s why his response has to be to tilt his head, even as his attention focuses more on the ashtrays before them, his lips finding more comfort in the shape of a cigarette than moving to speak. )

Did we. ( a hum. that’s one way of putting it. ) And what did you have in mind, for today’s.

[skinstitch]

( faced with the option, he's not sure what he should go for. something that will take advantage of the feigned kindness, maybe, or the fact that kirma is even here at all; something that will make him regret being so kind, in the future. it's not as though he thinks it's a lesson that he has to teach him, necessarily, but maybe it's one that needs a reminder--for as nice as some of the people are, here, and perhaps even the majority, there are plenty of people just as shitty as the rest of the world, back home, in whoever's home. people who will take advantage of someone who goes so far as to sniff out a particular wine bottle, or obtain a cup of sugar for someone they hate otherwise. people who will weaponize that kind of loyalty, however short-served it is. and if he has to be one of those people, then whatever. he's been worse.

with a slow sigh, considering, he takes a cigarette himself, moving around the bar. his fingertips dance there, a small little lift to each, tufts of blue flame that start and stop before ending, once he's brought his hand to his mouth, to start the end of the cigarette; then, moving past kirma, he braces his hands on the bar counter and hauls himself up so that he can sit there, next to him but not next to him.

the bottles stay between them, at least. )

How about... the 'are you nervous' game. That's a good one.

( a small exhale of smoke, his gaze turned up towards the ceiling. )

You get between my legs, and you move your mouth up, asking me if I'm nervous every little bit. If I get nervous, I lose. If I don't, you have to keep going.

[conspecifics]

( easiest to contemplate the bar surface, still, as dabi maneuvers around him, both physically and with the implications of such a game. and if he thinks about the end goal in such a move— dabi hardly seems to be the nervous type, to him. kirma lets out a noise approaching something like a chuckle, tinged with smoke and wine. )

At that rate, we might as well just skip to the end.

( it is amusement that continues to color his voice, not opposition. not irritation. in terms of game that neither of them are particularly playing, isn't it also the smartest move? a quick exchange of cards and a hasty retreat to a safer side of the hallway? maybe. ash taps out from the cigarette, and there's a slow laziness in the movement to angle it into the ashtray that leaves a small sprinkling of dust along the countertop. no, it's a cheap thing to be considering. if that was all there was to it, they could've managed it at the tables in the gilded cage and been done with each other, by now.

it's that point that he finally glances back to dabi— and up, following his gaze, in case there's some revelation to be had amongst the patterns of the ceiling above them. )

Unless you're the type that enjoys being teased?

( a squint follows the thought; genuinely, he isn't sure one way or the other. ) I've already indulged you this much. Either option is fine by me.

[skinstitch]

( to his benefit, or his demise, maybe, he considers it like it's a real question, a real observation. does he like being teased? when it comes down to it, he can see it being true in the way that he likes for things to be drawn out, to play the long game, to find some kind of pleasure in achieving little bits and pieces along the way. it's like putting together a puzzle that someone's thrown out into the ocean; dragging the pieces back, drying them off, rubbing them clean of salt and sand to create some stupid picture on an old ratty box. he'd always wanted the recognition from his father, and that had only come in tiny little segments, disjointed, ripped from him all the same.

there's a long drag of the cigarette, considering, letting the smoke out slowly, measuredly. seems kind of backwards for a guy that doesn't like him all that much to even be proposing something like this. to be just in it for the card is one thing, or maybe to be after some measure of humiliation would be another. but it feels like they're landing in some absurd grey area in the middle, and if he has to swim in it, at least he knows he won't drown.

one hand reaches to lift up the wine bottles, one after the other: he tucks them on the other side of the counter, away from the both of them, and then slides to plant himself in front of kirma, the dangle of his legs and the hard shelf of his knees keeping space between them. )

Are you the type that wants to be told 'good boy' like some pet on a chain?

( mildly, amused, a lift of his brow against another drag of the cigarette--breath out, smoke out, he spreads his thighs apart, but only so that he can bend a leg up, press his foot into kirma's shoulder, balanced there like he might sling it over or push him back all the same. )

If you want to cut out all the bullshit, that's fine with me. You want the card, or you want me?

( as if it's the new game, now--something that will determine how this plays out, where his leg goes, where his mood goes. )

[conspecifics]

I don't want— anything.

( so he says, in the end, but there were plenty of little things to say otherwise. the way the words good boy evoke an involuntary twitch of the tail, immediately followed by a narrowing of the eyes as he retreats back into his cigarette as a shield, for instance. who wouldn't want praise or validation for their actions, right? but he doesn't even bother with some sort of flimsy excuse like that, no; just a resolute denial, hissed with sharp teeth and a sliver of doubt.

he doesn't flinch at dabi's foot at his shoulder, but does grab his ankle with his free hand, on reflex. his fingers slide up his pant leg, a little less on reflex, and he's more surprised than he should be to find withered skin. does it feel strange to dabi, he wonders; does he feel it at all? if not the pads of his fingers themselves, then maybe the pressure of them, pushing down into the muscle below? it's far from enough to even bruise, but kirma has never been praised for a delicate touch. )

Aren't you changing the subject? None of this has been about my wants.

( not the fetch quest, not his entry. the corollary to this, that it means dabi can do as he pleases is perhaps better left unspoken.

with some reluctance, he will at least grant the smallest inch of: ) I'm not interested in cards.

( any other conclusions that he wants to draw from that are fine. )

[skinstitch]

Not interested in cards, huh?

( he repeats it almost like he hadn't heard it right--almost like that just means a default decision to the only option left, then.

but he knows it's not that, and his ego has nothing to do with it; he knows that it's not like kirma's been across the hall pining for him, worrying over his absences or even his bizarre requests of a little sugar here, a little milk, a little wine, hell, maybe even a little blood, next. there's an escalation to be made here that puts kirma in a severe disadvantage, and by his words, it's not one that he cares about, either. he's not ignorant to the movement of his body, either--the shift of a tail, the way that hand grips at his ankle, first, then slides up along his calf. maybe praise is the thing they have in common, though his whole body isn't so keen on it that it betrays his calculations not to show it.

to not want for anything? that doesn't seem true. even as he considers it over another puff of smoke, another flick of ash: if kirma didn't want anything, then trapping esikko in that room wouldn't have happened, right?

with a curl of a smile, bemused, he reaches, snubs his cigarette out into one of the ash trays on the bar counter. )

Then what interests you? Being a good neighbor? Helping others, like some fucking hero?

( the acid in his voice isn't for kirma, but it's there all the same, as his foot shifts, as his leg slides over kirma's shoulder like he's going to kick him in closer. )

Be a good boy and save me from myself, then. Hands are boring, use your mouth.