conspecifics | inbox+overflow.

inbox+overflow.

@dogboy*

▶ TEXT (?)

▶ AUDIO

▶ VIDEO

▶ ACTION

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

ENERGY73%
introverted
MIND76%
observant
NATURE66%
feeling
TACTICS54%
prospecting
IDENTITY75%
assertive

personality test. art credit.

hover for rating.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

We don’t have to.

( it’s not hard to figure out what “plan b” is, in this situation. the ominous shape of the knife in his hand doesn’t help. unconsciously, kirma shuffles a step backwards, his ears flattening against his skull. )

Really— it doesn’t matter. ( little does, here. by that token, neither does his hand, but he still finds he prefers the idea of it attached. generally spaking. ) Status, these rooms, none of it means anything.

( of course, it’s easy to say as much when you’re not the one inconvenienced. even if their positions were swapped, he’d feel the same; perhaps that’s why they’ve ended up how they have. )

Being stuck here does. I don't have my journal, or any of the usual resources.

( It's making him antsy. For once, he sounds fairly honest in how serious he speaks there, like he's opening a part of himself to Kirma. Of course he would in a moment like this.

He holds out his free right hand, looking for Kirma to offer his own left. )

We can sit, if you'd prefer. You wouldn't allow me to do it to myself, right?

( ... ugh. this moment is a crossroads, one they have yet to broach in this lifetime. at the same time— it feels not unlike staring down the barrel of a gun he's stared down a hundred times before, an imevitable catalyst he is all too familiar with accepting the import of.

and that's why, after a long and silent pause, he lays his hand within esi's. with this link between them established, he also walks them both towards the bed, expecting esi to follow. it seems the most comfortable venue for what's about to be a very uncomfortable situation, though every heavy step may as well be towards the grave.

on the edge of the mattress, he sits. looking up at esi from here, he recalls their time the gardens, and it only makes the leaden weight in his chest sink further. )

Do you really think this will accomplish anything?

( an appeal to reason that he isn't sure exists at all. not when esi has that look in his eye, even though it's not one he's ever seen before. the memory that comes to mind is a mystery that will have to wait. )

I do.

( His words are genuine, despite the unhinged way he's going about things. Esikko's heart is beating faster, but it's not out of any sort of guilt or worry— he doesn't recognize that he should have those feelings in the first place. What he feels instead is a rush of excitement, hope that he'll learn something new, joy that someone is trusting him enough to do this. He doesn't think of Kirma as someone who could die from this alone. He doesn't think of consequences so far away. There's a clinic here, one he's heard is capable of plenty of miraculous things, and even if they can't reattach a hand, it's his nondominant...

He doesn't even have to make those excuses for himself in his mind, though they'd come up if pressed. All he can see is the end goal. Knowledge, a path forward, new ideas. And maybe, there's some sort of a rush at seeing blood, at being powerful enough to inflict such damage on someone, on being trusted enough to do it in this calm setting.

This is where he's the kindest, in moments like this. As they sit on the bed, he curls his fingers into Kirma's hand briefly, leaning in to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek, a charming smile. )

Would you prefer if I counted down, or did it without warning? You can look away, if you'd like, but you should try to relax.

( neither sound particularly appealing. kirma doesn’t say as much, but his ears do sink a little lower. try to relax, he says, as if it were so easy; he’s sure if their positions were reversed, for whatever reason, esi would be shrieking and fighting the whole way, kiss or no kiss. )

Just get it over with.

( if anything’s going to do him in tonight, it’s the anticipation. kirma is no stranger to suffering, nor the bad luck that leads him there. enduring it is easy… once he’s no longer waiting for the shoe to drop. (or the knife, as it were.) his hand clenches into a fist briefly, gripping esi’s fingers tight, before letting go. a signal of sorts. he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

he finds himself unable to meet the sparkle in esi’s gaze, and stares dully at the floor, instead. a man awaiting his execution. )

( At the squeeze, Esikko focuses his attention down at the target, lining the thin edge of the sharp knife to Kirma's skin. The first slice of the knife is almost too delicate. It draws blood immediately, but the resistance is too small for it to have been anything significant in this task. His breath catches as he watches the red spill down the edges of the knife, feels the tensing of Kirma's muscles, and he grips back.

The second slice is a little too adventurous, and the blade nearly slips in his hold. He catches it, lowering Kirma's held hand to his own lap for stability, and working to situate them better with each cut. But he can't stop, he can't pause for too long to figure this out— at the very least he's aware of that.

As his breath finally slips out in something close to a gasp, his eyes dart up after yet another cut to view Kirma's face. Curious about how it feels, but too afraid to ever try it on himself, he wants to live through his reactions. To feel it through the clenching of his fingers, or the slight movement on the bed. )

( the first cut gives nothing but a feather-light sting, and his shoulders seize up all the same. he had been expecting— more, it seems, from the breath that comes out in a slow exhale. the moment is short-lived. there’s no grace in esi’s touch, as he’s moved and rearranged and sawn through, the red of his blood dripping onto the green of the sheets and mingling until he cannot tell the difference anymore. to his credit, perhaps, kirma does not scream; he does lean forward, body starting to double over on itself, though his arm stays extended for esi’s sake.

why is he doing anything here, for esi’s sake. )

You— ( he chokes out, finally, sometime in the midst of things. it feels as though it’s been an eternity and yet, it can’t have been long at all, from how little progress has been made. of course, there are multiple reasons for that; his free hand reaches out, trembling, finally seizing esi’s wrist in a grip that takes all of his strength.

there’s a moment here in which he realizes how easily he could put a stop to this, but he pushes that aside. regardless of how it might seem, that isn’t why he’s making a move, now. )

The blade— is edged.

( it’s such a simple detail, one easily missed by those who care less for the mundane. not all knives are meant to be used in either hand. in the kitchen, certain assumptions are made; his knuckles are white with strain as he rotates esi’s hand, angling the trajectory of the knife. it’s a subtle difference, and one that hardly makes up for all the shortcomings of the situation, but in theory… well.

everything counts, right now. )

Oh—

( This may be the only sort of moment that Esikko takes constructive criticism (or anything close to it) without a complaint or contradiction. He shifts the angle along with guidance, eyes narrowing a little further to focus on the difference before he attempts the next cut.

As expected, it does help. Unfortunately, the help isn't significant— and it's a more uncomfortable grip, one that has him having to pause to adjust it every few goes. Still, if there's one thing, it's that Esi is trying to do this quickly.

At the same time, each cut takes more effort, more strength, and Esi isn't built for strength. Or stamina. It's pure thrill that's pushing him forward, leaving his breath short but his actions firm. Something about Kirma's choked words, even, was so enchanting. )

Is this better?

( Not only did he accept guidance, but he's asking to make sure he's continuing to do it right? Well, it seems the only way to get this out of him is to put yourself in harm's way. )

( better? in some distant, relative sense, maybe. one that’s past articulation, as his hand slips away from esi’s wrist, unable or unwilling to maintain its hold. sweat beads on his forehead, the room spins at the edges of his vision. though there was a brief moment, earlier, where he’d thought about offering to do this himself, if that’s what it was coming to— it’s clear now that he wouldn’t have been able to make it this far, let alone through. bro is not escaping the saw trap

still— he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy trying to relax, you see. relaxation looks something like holding his own arm, above the cut, as if the halfhearted pressure he exerts can do anything to stymie the flow of blood; it looks like his head coming to rest on esi’s right shoulder, despite all the movement and jostling, for some sort of extra anchor, a tether to remind him that other sensation exists in the world beyond what’s being enacted upon him. his face turns into esi’s neck, and the erratic pulse he feels inspires an entirely new wave of dread and nausea.

kirma keeps it all down, of course. he is nothing if not practiced at suffering, though he can’t say it’s ever been quite so bad— golden peacock is a realm full of new experiences, isn’t it.

he remains silent, mostly, save for the harsh and ragged breaths he takes, until esi saws through to the core of his arm. the feeling of metal glancing off bone earns esi a gasping cry right in the hollow of his neck, as the vibration of it shoots up all the way to kirma’s shoulder. the strange sensation isn’t necessarily any more painful, but it does speak to a certain amount of progress and finality. doesn’t it? but more than that— )

You’re going to ruin my knife.

( funny, what the mind chooses to focus on, in a dire situation. the words come out in a pained moan, but he’s being entirely sincere with them. doesn’t he know how hard it is, to come by anything remotely weaponlike in the no-weapons casino? )

( This is hard work.

Hard work he may have given up on if the circumstances were just a little different. But he can't exactly back out now, and even if he's the type of person to cut off his bodyguard's hand, he's somehow not the type to only half cut it off. It's strange, how Kirma's guttural cry sends something close to a shiver up his spine. He can't shudder while working so hard at sawing through bone, and he doubts it would help, anyway— the more this goes on, the more heat pools in the pit of his stomach and spreads down, excitement showing itself with a growing strain in his pants.

Not that he expects Kirma to pick up on this, with what he's dealing with right now. It's dizzying, and he can't quite put his finger on what it is about this— the trust? The intimacy? It's everything all at once, and the comment is enough to get Esi to release some of his tension with a soft laugh, almost tender in tone. )

Worry more about yourself, right now. The knife can be replaced.

( You can't, is the underlying message there, which is a rare thing for Esi to hint at or admit in any form. But there's fondness in his eyes that's rarely seen, and as he pulls the knife down through layers of bone and hits hollow marrow, he breathes heavier, leaning in to grant Kirma with one more kiss.

Then it's back to focusing, his grip readjusting on Kirma's hand and his body moving to put more force into the cuts. He wants to hurry up and be done— not for Kirma's sake, but for his own restlessness. )

( any further protest dies in his throat. the kiss— he wishes it would’ve been longer. he wishes there would’ve been more. it’s enough to make him grab at esi again, his useful fingers still bloodied from proximity, smearing it across esi’s shirt. his pulls are as desperate as they are weakened, but he doesn’t need strength to convey his desires: come back, i need you. even such meager attentions are more than enough, when directed at a useless creature like him; perhaps it’s greedy of him to demand any more than what he’s gotten, but surely, his hand could be worth the trade?

at least— they’re more than halfway through, though the fragmented state of kirma’s mind can barely grasp all the implications that come along with that. there’s a blinding pain from his arm, but it seems to end sooner than it should; the scrabbling at esi’s chest only grows more frantic, the closer he gets to breaking through. his tail begins to thump against the bed in an erratic rhythm to accentuate things, a representation less of fondness or excitement and more the intensity of the conflicting surge of emotions within him. he wants it to stop— he wants this moment to last forever. as long as esi stays here, and as long as this is something he needs from him— that’s enough. )

Please, can you—

( kiss him again? can he be forward enough to ask that? the rest of the question, request dies off as a whimper. )

( He's nearly through the bone, but Kirma's pleading pulls him from his concentration briefly. He hesitates before the next sawing of the blade, but he doesn't ignore Kirma's request— he adjusts his position so that he continue to cut Kirma's hand even as he presses himself closer. Side saddle, almost, his lips meeting the bodyguard's in the softest kiss he's ever given.

It's shaky, almost, heavy breathed, and much deeper. This time, there's no recognition of whatever foul taste might be lingering in Kirma's mouth. The smell of blood in the air has invaded all of his senses, so even his tongue feels like the wet warmth of it now.

Like this, cutting slows, but he's nearly through bone anyway. After that, flesh will be so much easier, again. In between the kiss, he whispers softly. )

I'm here.

( no, this is it. this is exactly what he wanted. affection he craces yet doesn't deserve, and a rush of nostalgia—

because this, too, is a memory. it isn't always his hand. there was his eye, once, at the very beginning, and that bad been a compromise, for esi had wanted both. blood, always given freely. ribs. fingers. teeth. kirma has never been anything but a collection of parts to split and parcel out, and esi merely saw fit to claim them all— an arrangement that is mutually beneficial, in the end. the recollection makes him shiver, whispering something into the kiss he can't quite hear over the pounding thrum of his pulse beating against his eardrums.

there is a part of his mind that stays wandering these halls of memory. does esi know the selfishness that underscores everything he's ever given him, he wonders. if he does, does it matter? he'd still been happy to take anything from him despite it; and by that same token, he would be nothing without him, son of a nobody, failed experiment, worthless tool—

kirma's lips curve up into a genuine smile. perhaps it's the blood loss, but the agony is no longer without its gratification, a twisted sort of almost delight that has him gasping into the kiss with a needier bent than he'd anticipated. for each spasm of pain, he rocks forward, chasing esi's tongue with his own; his hand makes it up to esi's cheek, and the smear it leaves matches the color of the marks under his eyes exactly, and he remembers, another detail.

neither makeup nor a tattoo, but something with far worse implications than either. oh. but then... even that chilling revelation isn't enough to pull him out of this bloodsoaked reverie, and he grabs esi to hold him close with a renewed vigor. )

Finish it already.

( it's meant to be something forceful, a command, almost, but there's a sharp whine in his words, plaintive, desperate. he may as well have said please again. )

( The next moments are both an eternity and a flash. Esikko is being flooded with his own memories, though he can't recognize them as such. They feel like vivid hallucinations of what could have been. Blood, time and time again, and Kirma's tired face. The contrast of colors excites him each time, but each time, he's left empty. He doesn't want to feel this emptiness right now.

With added exertion, he's able to slice through the last of flesh and bone. The hand falls to the ground with a horrifying thump, and Esikko drops the knife along with it, pressing himself immediately into Kirma's arms. Their bodies are both hot, though Kirma's threatens to lose heat the more he fades, and so Esi kisses him hard, his bloodied hands moving to tear at the cloth blocking his way and find Kirma's length. He's not sure how hard he can make him like this, if it's even possible— but he strokes him all the same, his breath labored as he kisses harder, deeper, his own hips thrusting forward for the hope of some sort of friction.

Desperation is matched in his free hand now clamping over the bloodied stump of Kirma's arm, half an attempt to stop the flow, and half just to appreciate the feeling of it. Raw, wet, warm. )

( whatever feels he might have about the finality of the severance are overridden by their bodies clashing; all his groans of agony are directed into and swallowed up by esi’s mouth, and there’s hardly a point in keeping his eyes open when he can barely see anything through the stinging tears brought forth by the pain. he’s dimly aware of esi’s attempts to stimulate him, and it’s not an effort totally gone to waste, even if part of him thinks: right now?

but there’s a bigger, more worrying part of him that thinks: it’s nice, though. there’s an intimacy, it seems, to having your hand sawed off. his tongue seeks out esi’s, and his hips lift to meet the pressure coming down on them, and while the force of his hand over the stump of his wrist is likely enough to leave bruises, in contrast to the rest of the wound feels like, it may as well be a lover’s gentle caress.

his free hand— only hand— rakes through esi’s hair, clinging, as if he might suddenly change his mind and pull away. it wouldn’t— it wouldn’t be the first time, he realizes, and that’s where the fear comes from. leaving him to die, or worse— )

Don’t go, ( slips out in a whisper, somewhere in the frenzy of their kissing. the plea of a cut far deeper than anything esi could manage with a knife. you can do anything you want to me— as long as you don’t go. )

( There are flashes of his own memories in the intensity of this moment, though he doesn't recognize them as such. Blood, the warmth of it over his own skin, the look in Kirma's eyes— they're all flashes, sprouting quickly between the rush of adrenaline and arousal pushing him forward now. Each kiss, more passionate and yet more one-sided than the last due to Kirma's growing exhaustion, seems to bring its own flash of feeling. Feelings he doesn't fully recognize.

Feelings that feel layered over themselves, again and again, always stabbing directly through his own heart. The heart-shaped mark on his shoulder aches with it, this time, but he doesn't even register. Right now, he's busy with frenzied kisses at Kirma's lips, open mouthed and littered with heavy gasps. It seems like only moments before his hand, slick with blood, is not just stroking at Kirma's arousal, but his own. He presses their cocks together, sloppy, slipping strokes bringing him closer and closer to a peak. )

Kirma.

( He doesn't usually speak anyone's name like that, but it feels right to have it slip out like that. Half a whisper, half a groan, he drags his tongue along the corner of Kirma's mouth where some blood has splattered. He's not leaving. Not here, not now. )

( more than any friction or stimulation, the sound of his name makes him shudder, grasping tighter, his consciousness only sustained by those two syllables from esi's mouth. he wishes— well, most honestly, he wishes that he still had both hands, to be able to draw him close; but then, they wouldn't have ended up here, would they?

he makes himself content with what he has, hips weakly lifting a moment to answer esi's hand before falling back— it's just not sustainable, with the state he's in. he's given up on any sensation he cannot directly feel, blindly turning to follow esi's mouth as he moves.

kirma's breaths start to draw shallow, and not from any impending climax; blood pools on the sheets, drips and soaks into the carpet, stains what clothes they still have on. dimly, he thinks, he should apologize to the housekeeping staff the next time he sees them. if there's a next time— and if he does here instead, then— when his mouth moves again, no sound escapes it. )

( When Esikko comes, it's alone. Still, he strokes Kirma a few more times, a selfish and largely aimless action as he rides his own peak out, gasping softly against Kirma's mouth. For just a few moments, he enjoys the stillness in the air after that, the sluggishness of Kirma's body beneath him, the warmth of pooling blood.

But then he exhales smoothly, pulling himself back with a little more urgency. Still, he imagines if Kirma were more aware he'd be a bit alarmed by the pace he's taking. He's moving quicker, but he's not panicked, pulling his baji up more properly, straightening his clothes to be presentable. He even reaches over to help Kirma with his, as much as needed, before ducking down to pick the discarded hand up from the floor.

Coming back up from that, he leans to kiss Kirma once more, his words pressed against cold lips. )

Stay awake. We're going to the clinic.

( Finally. At the very least, it seems that Esikko isn't prepared to leave Kirma to die here. When he stands, feeling as refreshed as ever, he even shifts to take Kirma's arm around him, to help him up. He has to do it around his own waist, rather than his shoulders, though— he doesn't have the strength to carry this man, even as short as he is. Even missing one hand. )

Lean into me.

( This is the gentlest he will ever be. And Kirma can enjoy it for the length of the clinic visit, as he brings him there, sets his dismembered hand on the counter, and requests a fix. )

( THE THINGS WE DO FOR MEDIOCRE DICK FROM A WHITE TWINK )

( WHO ARE YOU CALLING MID MR WASTED BIG COCK )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

inbox+overflow.

Details

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

oh super cw begins here with the dismemberment and gore

all this for mediocre dick from a twink

excuse you, fat schlong waster

never say those words in that order to me ever again

:)?

:/

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject